If there’s one thing awesome about being crammed in a metal tube, hurtling through time and space with a bunch of mouth-breathing strangers, it’s this: SkyMall. Here’s what I’ll be buying myself for Christmas, or Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, or whatever holiday comes next.

Who WOULDN’T want an attic lady popping randomly into your attic? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO. Rather than wait for the bitchy old lady who owned my house to come over and demand money again, I’m going to buy myself a lady! Who can pop in and out of my house! She’s an instant party – or instant sea hag – for sure.

So what if the pool I have is 8 feet by 8 feet with a depth of three inches? No, seriously, SO WHAT?

I want a musical light show while I soak in my wee pool. Hell, EVERYONE will want to come over for a pool party then! Won’t they be surprised when my “pool” is really a “puddle.” A puddle with motherfucking music and LIGHTS.

I can hear the clamoring of my neighbors already.

I genuinely do not know how I do not own this yet. No, I mean it, I need this AND a pack of Old Milwaukee. Because while he SAYS he’s from Texas, I’m in Chicago, and there’s nothing trashier than things from Milwaukee. Like their shit-ass beer.

I require this above all else. He will go in my china cabinet, with my six-pack of Spam with Bacon. And he will reek of style and sophistication.

Originally, I thought this was a singing toilet, which is like a dream come true. I’ve always wanted a toilet that sang for me while I pooed, cheered for me after I flushed, and then did a nice jaunty you-just-peed number (perhaps a nice Gershwin piece or the theme from Sanford and Son) as I exited the bathroom.

I was a little disappointed to learn that no, in fact, this toilet didn’t sing to me. It will, however, prevent me from dunking in the toilet at three AM like an overly-large kicky-haired tea-bag. Which is minorly awesome.

I still want the singing toilet, dammit.

So last time I shopped at SkyMall, I decided the statue of the little boy peeing would be what went above my grave. Along with the gigantic angel statues and weeping out-of-work actors. But I’d never given any thought as to what I wanted BELOW my grave. Besides the towers of flowers.

This, Pranksters, is what I want coming out of my grave.

I can think of no better way to “honor” me than a frightening zombie with a little boy peeing on it.

And oh holy fuck, do you need to see this video. There are no words. Only awesome (it’s totally safe for work):

Oh yeah, who uses social network to do good (AND talk about my vagina)?

I DO.

Props to each of you who has contributed posts, lurked, and given love to each of our posts on Band Back Together.

(also, I am sitting awkwardly, which is why I look SORTA like a beached whale).

I’m no huge fan of blogging conferences, if I haven’t made that clear, and it’s in part because they keep me away from my beloved Pranksters. The internet in my hotel, even WITH my internet-in-a-box was a hot pile of bullshit. Every time I went to post this is what happened:

Me: “Man, what WILL the Internet do without me for four days? They might not hear of my stupidest exploits or the hilarious, wacky adventures of my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles! I should post something.”

The Internet: “We are connected to your wifi card.”

Me: “Oh YIPPEE! I can tell the world that I paid 13 bucks for a pitcher of coffee!”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well, the Internet TELLS me it’s connected. It must be user error. I am not very smart. Which I need to tell the Internet.”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well. That’s rather unfriendly of you, my zillion dollar laptop. Certainly, you’d treat me better than that. I must update The Twitter!”

The Internet: “Hahahaha! You’re an asshole.”

Me: “That really hurt, The Internet, that really hurt. Now can I please just get online for ten minutes?”

The Internet: “Nope.”

Me: “What will The Facebook do without me?”

The Internet: “Facebook hates you. So do I.”

Me: “WELL, I NEVER.”

The Internet: “Guess you should’ve gone with a cheaper laptop.”

Me: “I’m going to replace you with a Dell, asswipe.”

The Internet: “You go ahead and you try. You know you cannot live without my luscious screen.”

Me: “Oooh! These windows open JUST ENOUGH so that I can throw waterballoons out.”

The Internet: “You’re such a mindless blathering moron.”

Me (yells out the window): “LOOKOUT BELOW MOTHERFUCKERS.”

The Internet: “This is why I don’t bother to let you online.”

Me: “I win.”

The Internet: “No, you’re just pretending you win to make yourself feel better. You actually lose.”

Me: “Oh.”

The Internet: “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t toss me out of the open hotel window. What are you doing?”

Me: “Winning.”

—————-

So, what did you do while I was gone, Pranksters? Did you go to VaginaStock (BlogHer)? Did you have fun?

————–

I have two columns up at The Stir: Why Yes I Let My Boy Dress Up In Girls Clothes and 8 More Things You Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer.

You should read them, like them, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky all about your weekend.

As we all know, Your Aunt Becky is absolutely not a leading authority on anything…except traveling. Not because I am very good at it – no – but because I am very bad at it.

1) Whenever possible, do NOT pack dismembered human remains in your suitcase. And if you do, make certain that you check that bag. The TSA will certainly have a problem with dismembered body parts in your carry-on (like they’re going to DO anything now that they’re dead)

8 ) Do not bother paying extra money for the “extra space” or “premium seating.” Instead, loudly discuss your bowel movements – in chronologic order – with your seatmates. They will be clamoring to change seats within five minutes.

27) Get fully intoxicated before you get on the plane to avoid paying the exorbitant costs of those wee bottles of liquor.

64) Once entirely wasted and in the air, start a dance party with your fellow cabinmates. Winner gets your extra bag of dinky pretzels.

125) If your seatmates haven’t left after you’ve loudly discussed your poo, begin to regale them with stories of your fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles.

216) Eat as much garlic as possible at Sbarros before boarding the plane. The rest of the cabin will REALLY appreciate the smell of garlic as it wafts out of all of your orifices.

343) Wear particularly loose pants, so when you have to take off your belt at the TSA line, they fall down, exposing your glitter thong that reads “JUICY” on the back.

512) Ask to see the cockpit and when they show you the cabin, ask where the pit is with all the cocks.

729) Sing along with your iPod as loudly. Especially if you’re tone deaf. If you don’t know the words, simply hum them loudly. When the flight attendant asks you to keep it down, tell her that singing is part of your religion.

1000) When you’ve finally reached your destination, block the aisle and rearrange your luggage, saying, “I KNOW THAT DEAD CAT IS IN HERE SOMEWHERE.”

1331) If you should board a plane with screaming babies or crying children, make sure to go up to the parents and stare at them while they try to soothe the child. They’ll appreciate that. It’ll help ’em know you care.

1728) Whenever you use the bathroom, make sure to come out and exclaim loudly, “I never knew corn could look so beautiful!” alternately “Anyone have a camera? This poo looked like Abraham Lincoln!”

2197) Do not shower for many days prior to departure. The extra layer of skin will help protect you from the stanky germs living on the seats.

2744) If anyone asks you to do anything you disagree with, simply tell them you cannot because it’s “part of your religion.”

3375) If your seatmates are still not put off by the discussion of your poo or your fake dead cat, begin weeping. Loudly. Refuse to talk about it. It may get you bumped up to first class!

4096) Wear a strap-on through security. If flashing your fellow passengers isn’t awesome enough, now you’ll confuse them. Forever. Plus, the TSA will be scared and let you through the line as quickly as possible.

4913) Tell the TSA agent that you’re really looking forward to some “hot TSA action today.” That should both perplex and horrify them.

5832) “If you’re roadtripping to your destination, it’s always best to bring a friend. They won’t take over driving when you get tired, but since they’re asleep, you can keep shaking them awake periodically and telling them it’s their turn to pay for gas. Again. Cheap road trips are worth sleep deprivation

During a game of drunken Truth or Dare in college, my friends and I decided that the best course of action was to go around the room talking about our sexual fantasies. By the time it was my turn, we’d already heard from everyone including Matt, my friend Matthias’s roommate. He’d spun some elaborate tale I hadn’t followed involving some older woman that he’d screwed in the pool room of the hotel he’d worked, but he had shifty eyes so I totally didn’t believe him. I was beyond loaded, so I couldn’t figure out why the room was looking at me expectantly.

When they nudged me to speak, I slurred out, “I…dunnooo…I just….like…sex?” In hindsight, I should have kept my whore mouth firmly shut.

Whether it was that drunken proclamation, punctuated by stabbing myself in the leg with a lit cigarette or that I’d said “hello” to him when I walked into the apartment, I can’t be sure, but I made a grave error in judgement. While the rest of the room rolled their eyes and laughed at me being a drunk asshole, Matt fell deep into..something with me.

I must have made quite the impression that night, because the following weekend when we were both in our hometown I got a phone call from him. It seemed that he wanted to meet up that evening for dinner. Being that I was in town to see my family, I politely declined and he hung up on me angrily. What I didn’t realize was that I was about to unleash an unholy shit storm neatly atop my own oblivious head.

I’ve since gotten better about reading people, but at the time, I was pretty naive and mistook his shifty eyes for “needing to replace his contacts” not “being a fucking psychopath.” Bad move, Aunt Becky, bad move. By the time I crawled back to my shoebox of a dorm on Sunday night, my roommate looked at me somewhat wide-eyed and said, “Someone named ‘Matt’ has been calling you every ten minutes for the past three hours. He won’t leave a message but he’s kinda creeping me out because he gets mad every time I tell him you’re not here.” Well, fuck.

The following week, I began to receive reports of Matt hanging around our dorm and the phone calls continued unrelentingly. Finally the following week, I stumbled blearily out of the dooms with the throngs of other students making their way to 9AM classes, when I saw Matt hanging out by the gigantic fountain that we called The Ashtray. He was scanning the crowd intently, clearly looking for someone and I kept my head down and managed to walk right past him without him noticing me. When I returned from class, I saw him there again. He caught my eye and trapped in his line of sight, I walked up to him. He asked if I wanted to get lunch, and I told him the truth, I had other plans, and rather than accept that gracefully, he stomped away, angry.

I stood there for a couple of moments, dumbfounded. Certainly, I wasn’t going to date him, but I would have been his friend, jagged edges and all, before that little tantrum. After that stunt, however, absolutely not. I found out that he’d harassed all of the people that had been at the party about what a horrible bitch I was.

A couple of nights later, I called over to Matthias’s apartment in search of Matthias, and Matt answered the phone. Rather than call him out on his bad behavior, I figured it was best to pretend that the entire situation hadn’t happened, so I simply asked if Matthias was home. Recognizing my voice, he growled, “NO!” into the phone and hung it up without so much as asking if he could take a message.

Well, then. I’d had enough. I turned to the dorm room which was full of my friends and said, “Fucker just hung up on me.”

Outraged, and knowing that Matt had been a jackass to both Matthias—who wouldn’t hurt a fly—and me, who really didn’t deserve the anger, we hatched a plan. We didn’t get mad, we got even. My friend Pashmina acted first.

She grabbed the phone, dialed the number and when Matt answered, she said very sweetly, “Hi Matt, it’s Pashmina, you know, Matthias’s friend? Well, I was calling to see if Matthias was home. We were going out and wanted to see if he could come with us to the coffee shop…” On and on she droned about her boring plans. Eventually, she hung up the phone and handed it to James, who dialed the number.

“Hi, this is James. Is Matthias there? I was calling to invite him to study with me in the library for our history midterm and I know he likes to study with a partner…” on and on James went about his plans for the evening. Eventually he hung up, passing the phone to Pashmina’s roommate, Marcy. This continued no less than eight times. Each of us, calling with some long-winded, rambling story about why we needed to see Matthias and what we were doing and blah, blah, blah. It must have been excruciating for him to listen to.

What can I say? My friends love me. More importantly, my friends also know a good time when they see it.

After we all had made our calls to Matt, we sat around smoking our cigarettes and nursing our tall rum and Cokes looking at each other and laughing at our ingeniousness. There was no way Matt would be bothering any of us again because we were too fucking annoying. If he was childish, we could beat him at that game.

About half an hour after the last phone call, one by one, we all called Matt back, telling him not to have Matthias call us, after all, because, wouldn’t you know it? PLANS HAD CHANGED. I think after the third or fourth phone call, he finally took the phone off the hook. I can’t believe it took him that long.

After that, though, we all noticed that Matt would deliberately go out of his way to avoid all of us when we’d cross paths on campus. If he’d spy me walking his way, he’d walk across the quad so as not to accidentally sideswipe me.

I’d suddenly gone from hot ticket to plague-bearer and I couldn’t have been happier.

I was among the horrified masses when Kotex launched their “Have A Happy Period” campaign. It had clearly been thought up by dudes, because I don’t know a single chick who would be, “man, my period is SO MUCH HAPPIER.” Periods just ARE.

Anyway, over the one thing responsible for keeping my room at sub-arctic temperatures – the only way I can sleep – my window A/C unit – decided to start leaking. I, being the brilliant specimen of humanity that I am, didn’t realize it until I walked into my bedroom to put on a bra and was all, *sniff, sniff* “WHYZ IT SMELL MUSTY? IZ IT FUCKING GNOMES AGAIN?”

I turned on the overhead light and saw, much to my horror, that my brilliant, treasured and adored window A/C unit was leaking. It was motherfucking leaking onto my motherfucking carpet.

After I stopped wringing my hands and gnashing my teeth and throwing myself onto my bed dramatically saying, “WHY ME GOD, WHY ME?” I got up to assess the damage.

Okay. A couple of things got soaked, I could handle that. I threw them in the wash and lugged out my trusty steam cleaner. I’m going to insist they bury me with it because it is so full of the awesome.

Before I started steam-cleaning my way to heaven, I had to move a couple of things out of the way to allow proper access to the Wet Spot (very unlike the OTHER Wet Spot). Including half of my clothes from Type-A Parent. I’m an excellent bedroom-cleaner, OBVS.

Well, in that stash of crap were a couple of maxi-pads. I’d figured I’d just be shoving them into the BlogHer bag when I got around to packing this week, so I never bothered to put ’em away.

I grabbed ’em, snorting at the “Have a Happy Period” crap when I realized that the maxi pads had finally given me a reason to smile.

They’d absorbed a bunch of the water from my leaky *sobs* A/C unit.

Now THAT is a motherfucking happy period.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Just a quick one… can I block a site from looking me up.  I was checking out my stats (well… my blog stats) and found, much to my utter horror, that some porn site in Russia is sending quite a bit of traffic my way.

Now I’m all for traffic but I don’t know if I want some porno Russian reading up on my life… how do I do the Internet Protect thing?

It’s my NAME! I’m Working Mom… BUT NOT THAT KIND OF WORKING MOM, you Russian Nit!  I’m a Mom that works… at a job… full time… Maybe I should just change my name… But I’ve always been Working Mom…

Wails…

Oh, Dear Prankster, do I feel your plight. Here, let me show you:

You may have to click that to make it a bit bigger.

But this, this is taken from the Band Back Together stats thingy I use and there’s a zillion more like it. Now, Mommy Wants Vodka? Perhaps that would make sense. But Band Back Together is like, um, GOOD shit, and my blog, well, let’s be honest with ourselves here.

ANYWAY.

Now, I don’t ever block IP addresses. And if I did, it would require much hand-wringing and teeth-gnashing before I gave it over to The Daver.

But I’m going to do my best to help you. I will assume you run Windows Vista Firewall or Norton Anti-Virus Firewall. Let’s start with Norton, because I like the name better.

How To Block an IP Address if You Run Norton Internet Security:

1. Open Norton Internet Security and hit, “settings, under the field “internet.”
2. Hit, “advanced settings: configure” under “smart firewall. “
3. Hit “general rules: configure,” and the button, “add.”
4. Choose button, “block” and hit “next.”
5. Choose, “connections to and from other computers,” and hit “next.”
6. Choose, “only computers and sites listed below.”
7. Hit, “add” and type the IP address you’re blocking in the space.” Hit “okay” then “next.”
8. Hit “next” two times as the default settings are fine.
9. Give this firewall a nice name, like, “Russian porn,” and hit, “next” then “finish” to block this IP Address from stalking you again.

Then buy Aunt Becky a nice cup of coffee (read: vodka).

Blocking IP Addresses From Windows Vista:

1. Login to the admin account in Windows vista and hit “start.”
2. Type in “firewall,” and hit, “windows firewall with advanced security” located under “programs.”
3. Choose “inbound rules” on the left side of the firewall window.
4. Choose “custom” then hit “next.”
5. Choose “all programs” and hit “next.” And hit “next” again.
6. Choose “these IP addresses” in the area, “remote IP addresses.”
7. Hit “add” and type your Russian Porno site’s IP address in that area.
8. Hit “OK” then “next.”
9. Choose “block the connection” then hit “next.”
10. Type in a nice descriptive name for this firewall rule (Russian Porno Site) and hit “next,” then “finish” to block ’em.
11. Choose “outbound rules” on the left side of the firewall window and repeat steps four through ten.

Then buy Aunt Becky thirty cups of coffee or at least one.

Good luck, Prankster. And if it’s any consolation, they’re probably NOT reading your archives.

Dear Aunt Becky,

How come in your new schmantzy pants website you no longer link to We Know Awesome? Also, what on earth are schmantzy pants?  I think I made up a word. By pants I mean underwear as I am English btw!

Ah, Prankster, I’m glad as hell you pointed it out. I’d thought there WAS a button up for We Know Awesome and seeing that it’s not sent me into a “THAT’S BULLSHIT,” rage. Having my designer work something up so we can fix this.

Thank you for letting me know!

Dear Awesomest Aunt Becky;

I have been dating a man for 4 years, after being divorced for 1.  Every 6 months or so he decides that he has “loving feelings” towards me but he doesn’t have desire for me physically.  So we break up, during which time we fuck like bunnies.

So we admit that we are really still together and go back to being BF/GF.  So we are in yet another “slump” and I’m not sure what to do.  Do I tell him that I am done with this even though I love him to death as does my 6 y/o son?  Or do I wait it out knowing he’ll swing back the other way soon enough?

Thanks for your advice!
Lisa

Oh Lisa, I’ve been with That Guy before and he kinda sucks. But he’s kinda awesome, too.

So here’s my advice: do you like this limbo? Do you like not knowing whether you’re going to be dating or not? Can you handle the back and forth of it all? Is it worth it?

Because if the answer to any of those is, “no,” I’d suggest moving on. Love or not, you deserve someone who loves and desires you all of the time, not someone who keeps you in limbo.

That’s just my two cents. Which probably make zero sense.

Pranksters?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Wanted to know where my shirt was! I ordered one of your awesome shirts and it hasn’t arrived! HALP!

Oh Prankster, you made my day. I love it when you guys buy my shirts. Because I think they’re full of the awesome.

I spoke with my shirt guy (who currently stocks my stuff) and he’s mailing out a number of the shirts on Monday. They screen print the shirts and I know they’re done now, so, you know, thanks for your patience.

Email me at becky.harks@gmail.com if you don’t get it by Wednesday of this week (or so).

And send me a picture of yourself wearing it for my Gallery of Awesome Shirts! Doing something wacky, you know? I like wacky. And if you have a blog, send me the URL so I can add it.

Dear Pranksters,

What do you think of a “Mommy Drinks Because You Cry” shirt?

Love,

Aunt Becky

—————

As always, Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments! And tell us your creepiest stalker IP addresses.

OH and stalker stories. I love stalker stories.

I started blogging in 2004 when Moses was my classmate and I wrote a wee dinosaur to school. A Mushroom Print – for those not in the know – is a dick-smack, and that was precisely what my co-blogger Pashmina and I fully intended our blog to be. A verbal dick-smack.

It was.

My first post was something about a) pubic hair or 2) my vagina, something I know because that was generally what we wrote about. You take two youngish-twenty-somethings and you put them together, and you’d expect to hear about how we were trying to be Carrie Bradshaw or something.

Not so, Little Grasshopper, not so. We deliberately wrote about things no hot young thang would, in her right mind, put out there.

Some of the stuff has made it’s way over here, the rest was deleted when I reinvented Mushroom Printing as a snarky group blog for us Pranksters.

In 2007, I started Mommy Wants Vodka*, my less-snarky site. It was here that I wrote my heart out. Turns out, those who want to read about your vagina may NOT want to read about your colicky baby. The name was a deliberate poke at the other mom blogs who seemed to exist in a dream world, where everything was perfect all the time.

Because I am many things, Pranksters, but I am most decidedly NOT perfect. None of us are. Okay, maybe you are. But I’m sure as shit not.

It took me ages to write about the really hard shit. Sure, my kid was colicky and yeah, I never slept, but the first post I recall writing about something a) deep or 2) meaningful was when I wrote about how much I hated Mother’s Day. I wrote my heart out.

It was probably not good, but it was real and it was mine. Which is the only thing I’d tell anyone who “wants to increase their blog traffic.” Write honestly and from the heart and for god’s sake, do it in your own way.

ANYWAY. I digress.

Rather than eschew me for being unfunny that day, I had a number of people who spoke up and said, “you know what? ME TOO. Here’s why:” and they told their stories.

That was the moment that I realized we all had stories.

When Stef died, I wrote about my grief, albeit badly. I’ve never been properly able to write about her, although not for lack of trying. I’ve deleted thousands of words because they weren’t enough.

But once again, my Pranksters spoke up and told me their stories. In comments, in emails, in other posts, I read about how you, too, had lost someone you loved and how it changed you. Your stories made me laugh, they made me cry, and they sparked an idea in the back of my very tiny head.

Then my daughter was born, and she was so, so ill. You’ve all prayed with me, you’ve watched her grow from a very sick girl to Amelia, Princess of the Motherfucking Bells. You’ve told me your stories in emails, blog posts, comments and phone calls. I have an email folder specifically for your stories, did you know that? I read them sometimes and am reminded of how lucky I truly am.

Because I know you all. My Pranksters, I am so fucking lucky to know you.

I launched Band Back Together in September, a place that I envisioned like a library of stories, complete with resources to accompany them. I knew in time, we could fill all those empty shelves and we have. And more.

Yesterday, National CASA posted about Band Back Together. If you don’t know CASA, you should.

I was reminded of the immense power we have. Blogging has turned from a “hobby” into something that means something. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: our words have power. The power to connect, the power to unify, the power to change.

Alone, we may be small blogs, letting others into our lives, glimpse by glimpse, but when we unite, we have the power to change. I’ve learned so much from you, my Pranksters. Stories I’d never have been told on the street, things no one else may know about you, but things I do. Because you were brave enough to sit down in front of a computer screen and type out your words.

That is an act of bravery, you know. Every time you sit down in front of a computer and type out your words, that is brave. No. Let’s try that again, this time for Stef: it’s MOTHERFUCKING brave.

So I, once again, invite you into Band Back Together, a site I run, but a site that is owned by many, to share your stories, let others into your world and tell your truth. To commit an act of bravery.

If we can unite, tell the world we exist, put our stories together and demand change, we can achieve it. That’s not a question.

I look forward to your stories.

Each and every one of them.

And I hope that we can work with other organizations, like CASA**, to show the world that we are unafraid, that our stories matter, that we matter.

Because we do. From the biggest blogger to the person who’s never written a single word, we all matter.

So let’s act like it.

*The original concept was “Mommy Wants Bourbon” but it didn’t roll off the tongue the same way “Mommy Wants Vodka” does.

**if you work with a site like CASA or another blog doing Good in the blog world, we’d love to work with you on The Band. Email me at becky (dot) harks (at) gmail.com and we’ll chat.

***or, if you’d like to work behind the scenes with us at The Band, we’d also love you to do so. Email me. We’ll chatty-chat.

I didn’t know Amy Winehouse.

I never called her on the phone and said, “What’s up SLUT?” like I do my best friends. I’d never been to see her play in concert and I never said the one thing I always wanted to: “eat a fucking sandwich.” These are all things I’d lovingly say to my bestest of friends.

I never knew Corey Haim, either.

I’m barely up on whatever Hollywood is doing this week, if it doesn’t involve my television husbands, Dexter or Dr. House. And even those two, I couldn’t tell you where they lunch or who they’re dating (besides me obvs) because I don’t much care. I was a strict Corey Feldman fan myself – if I had to choose – and the only reason I knew much about him was through his television show, The Two Coreys.

And yet, when they died, I was gutted. On the floor and weeping like they were my very closest friends.

But I knew those two had once had something special: a sparkle. A shine. Something that set them apart from the rest of us shmos, trudging along in the dirt, eking out a living.

And I also know someone else who died who bore the very same sparkle like a noose around her neck. Someone who I’d watched drown that sparkle in the bottle, unable to find her happyiness in this world. Someone else found dead in her bed. Another star snuffed out.

Stef.

Now, I know addicts. My parents are in recovery now, but I grew up like so many of us did, in the shadow of that bottle. I know the hunger, the itching deep within the bones only tamed by the bottle or the pill. I understand.

Perhaps it is because of this that I never blamed myself for her death. I knew better. An addict is an addict and sobriety is a choice. Not the kind of choice that someone else can make for you. But that doesn’t stop me from weeping into my coffee cup, gutted by the loss of someone that sparkled. It hits too close to home, perhaps, or maybe I’m just getting soft in my old age.

If I’ve learned nothing of addiction beyond a jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack, I’ve learned this: those whom you love – those who love you back – they are a part of you. Always. And however corny it may sound, life is precious. No, that’s not right. Life is FUCKING precious. Wait, let me try that again, just for Stef: Life is MOTHERFUCKING precious.

Much better.

I’ve also learned this: born of tragedy, sometimes that too, can be magical.

On Monday, the UPS guy came to my house. Generally, that signifies something a) FULL of the awesome or b) mind-numbingly boring, but this week, I hadn’t ordered anything. So I figured it was probably the dyslexic UPS guy delivering something for my neighbor. Which is option three, I guess.

However, the package was addressed to me and it weighed approximately 600 pounds. That had to be good, right?

(I learned one year, after my brother wrapped up a small book in a large television box that size really doesn’t matter)

But heaviness? WIN.

Eagerly I tore into it, confused as to who had sent me anything – forgetting it had just been my birthday – and came to a nicely wrapped box from my friend Crystal.

In it, I found this:

Six motherfucking cans of Spam.

While I do admit to an unnatural love of encased meat products, my love does not and has never involved Spam. Especially Spam with bacon. There’s just something so terribly wrong with this.

I gagged as I neatly placed them in my china cabinet, next to the Cock Soup another Prankster sent me, and realized precisely what this Spam needed.

Fucking cats with fucking laser beams coming out of their heads.

I have the best Pranksters ever.