After my Ben was born while I was still in college, I had to reexamine the whole, “I’m gonna be a doctor” dream that I’d been nursing for as long as I could walk and talk (to be fair, however, I should point out that it wasn’t bloody likely that I was going to get into med school anyway.). So I had a choice: teaching or nursing. The only two professions I was likely to make any scratch at upon graduation.

(okay, hindsight being what it is, I should have broadened my horizons somewhat. I hear there’s a huge need for Underwater Basket Weavers these days.)

I settled on nursing, knowing that I *probably* wasn’t going to like it. My family wasn’t entirely supportive of my choice, and to be completely honest, I really didn’t know what nurses did. Besides get HUM-VEE’s as a sign-on bonus at hospitals.

I’ll give you a second to laugh.

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Okay, done?

But the moment that I walked into my first nursing class, I knew I’d made a mistake. I was NEVER going to like it. I spent the first day (no seriously) learning how to properly wipe a patient’s ass. Important, yes, but did we REALLY need the power points?

I’d already done a year of pre-reqs and I knew that if I brought my sorry butt back to my parents (where Ben and I lived) and begged to change majors, it would be another tick mark in the Becky Sucks A Lot category. Which was already steadily outpacing the Becky Might Not Suck Quite So Much category.

So I sucked it up, thinking that I could do anything for awhile. I’d just go back to school when Ben was older for something I really wanted (I knew then that Medical School was out, but microbiology was in. Kind of like skinny jeans except not). I’d get by. Whatever.

I graduated 2 years later, my BSN neatly in my back pocket and still completely aware that I hated the profession I was about to enter into. So what? Plenty of people went to their 9-5 hating every second of it, right?

About 2 months before my wedding (which, as any bride knows, is when things start to go apeshit), I made the gravest of errors. I’d gone in to interview for an ICU position at a local hospital, and I let the HR person talk me from the ICU position (the only position I swore I would do in a hospital) to a Cardiac Floor.

Floor nurses, I should add, lest anyone think I hate NURSES which I do not, deserve a special place in heaven. Really, they do. Hospitals are run by them and they’re notoriously used an abused by pretty much every single staff member. It’s hard work. And it’s NOT the sort of job one can fake it ’til they make it.

Any job that comes with a Do This The Right Way So You Don’t Get Your Ass Sued Off disclaimer is a job that you need to LOVE. Otherwise, in this litigious-happy society, do you really want to bet your own house that you gave the patient the right meds?

I didn’t last 6 ever-loving weeks on the floor I later learned was a Bad Floor. Bad management trickled down into a bunch of unhappy employees who constantly undercut each other. No wonder HR wanted me there: they had a ton of vacant positions.

After 6 weeks, at the not-so-delicate urging of my soon-to-be husband The Daver, we decided that I was going to stay home with Ben for once. Which I did, nearly at the cost of my own sanity, for a couple of months until we moved back to St. Charles and the prospect of dueling mortgages left me once again looking for work.

And then I found my perfect job…

Part II will air tomorrow. I know, I know, I’m an asshole for the cliffhangers, I’m sorry.

So, The Internet, have you ever had a job that you absolutely hated? I don’t mean “disliked” or even “really disliked” I mean HATED so much it that thinking about having to go into work left you sick to your stomach.

Like you, I have plenty of ideas as to what makes a Good Blog. I don’t care for the sidebars of stuff that make my computer take forever to load, I think that music on blogs should be banned (because it scares the ever-loving shit out of me when I click on the blog), and I get a little skeeved when the owner is always begging for money.

Having a best friend in marketing, though, has made me notice things I’d have previously ignored. See, when I first started blogging–back when Jesus was my classmate–I had no idea that blogs could be used as a marketing tool. I couldn’t IMAGINE being asked to review something, much less have my audience want to read what I thought about the newest plastic wrap.

But after I started to read OTHER blogs, I noticed that some of the bigger bloggers ran review sites. Curious, I clicked over. It was just what you thought it would be: random blogger giving their (glowing) opinion on something or another. The reviews were unfailingly positive and often kind of dull. It wasn’t the bloggers fault, no, but how do non-marketing folks make the newest brand of paper towel sound interesting?

I mean, shit, I ignore the television commercials, and those cost a fucking ton of cash to professionally produce.

But print media as we know it is (sadly) going the way of the dodo bird, and advertisers have found the next media: The Internet. Especially blogs. Have a problem with a company and have a trafficked enough blog? Send the CEO a link to your scathing review and watch how quickly the situation is resolved. That’s some pretty powerful shit.

It might shock you to learn that I’m frequently contacted by companies asking me to review something or another for their company. I know, I’m just as amazed as you undoubtably are. I can’t believe that someone would want MY seal of approval or be associated with me.

Because I am no doubt VERY MATURE, I do the RIGHT THING and ignore these emails. I just haven’t decided if I should start a review blog. On the one hand, it’s immensely flattering that I’m asked but on the other, I feel enough like a sell-out simply having ads on my blog. I’m not a corporate writer or advertiser, I can’t sell stuff to save my own neck, and more than anything else: I have great pride in my blog and I don’t want to change what I say to conform to The Man.

And, as my friend Trish asked HER blog readers (she was talking about book reviews), because a company gives you a product to review, do you need to give that product a good review? I don’t think that I could. Honesty is more important than hurt feelings and bad press.

So here’s where I pose it to you, Internet (did I tell you that you look fucking hot in those jeans?): what do you think about review blogs? Should your Aunt Becky start one (because of my aforementioned ads, I cannot review stuff here) or would that make me too much of a sell-out? I genuinely cannot decide what to do.

And more importantly what annoys you about blog designs? I’m getting a redesign because I’m noticing a surge of this particular template around The Internet so I’m-a-goin’ custom.

When Amelia gets Hulk SMASH! Baby she has developed an incredible way of getting what she wants. She lets loose a fart or two that literally blinds me with it’s suffocating garbage-dump-like smell. Then she smiles broadly as I hand her the keys to my car and my Amex Gold Card.

Clever kid.

What is your superpower?

Today was one of the rare days where I had someone to watch the kidlets so that I could go to the store without someone trying to scratch my eyes out (Alex), scream their head off (Amelia) or pout when I won’t throw some cash down for Spiderman Froot Snaks (Me).

First stop was the pharmacy to both make sure that I won’t have any more babies and undo some of the damage my previous two pregnancies have done to my husband’s cholesterol. And while I was at it, I figured I’d pick up a heating pad for my sad, sad back. I’m gonna horde the SHIT out of that Vicodin.

This is what I came across:

It has both the words “deluxe” and “auto-shut off” on the front. Since I have a habit of starting random fires by complete accident and because my brain has turned into swiss cheese, I require appliances that will shut the fuck OFF when I leave them on.

And who doesn’t like DELUXE stuff. If it SAYS it, it must be. Packaging NEVER lies.

How could I go wrong? But wait a galdarn second here…What the…

DUDE. DUDE. DUDE.

Bwahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Bwahahahaha!

Look at the look on that guys face!

Doesn’t he look like he’s enjoying that heating pad A LITTLE TOO MUCH? He looks like he’s about to make sweet, sweet love to it.

Which?

Bwahahahaha!

Then I ran back and forth along the aisles looking like a complete nutter as I’d forget, then remember, then forget again things that I needed. What? I never claimed to be smart.

So then, after making a brief detour to get some sympathy cards (you know you’ve bought too many sympathy cards when you can actually tell when new stock has come in), I continued to my final stop: The book section.

See, my friend Marinka is doing some kind of reading of Ulysses or something. She’s trying to better myself and well, I’m just here. I tried to read Ulysses for about 5 minutes while I was going through an I’m Deep phase and it made almost no sense to me. And since these days, People Magazine is starting to make no sense to me, I’m thinking that Ulysses might be a stretch.

But no worries, I will flex my literary muscle in OTHER ways. I’ll show HER.

Like with this!

There are a bunch of words in the title, right? And they don’t make much sense either, right? (also, the blurriness was because an employee was watching me crack up at the romance novels and I was trying to be all stealthy)

AWESOME.

But then…I was overtaken by THIS:

I simply couldn’t go wrong. This book is sure to be full of “throbbing manhoods” and “oiled pistons.”

I can hardly wait.

I’ll show Marinka whose all literary and shit! Aunt Becky. That’s who.

At 20-odd weeks pregnant, pretty sure that I wasn’t going to miscarry anymore, I finally bit the bullet and signed up at all of the formula companies websites. Having had a breastfed one and a bottle-fed one, I figured it was safest to err on the side of caution. Plus! Bonus coupons!

A couple of weeks after Amelia was born, Similac began to descend upon our house. I got a couple of freebee cans in the mail (hooray!) and was signed up for their new program crap they mail me. Obviously, I read it VERY closely. But, along with some $5 off coupons (bonus!) were some printed sheets of colorful circles. The sort of shit that babies are supposed to see and love. I’d not bought into that craze, so I didn’t know one way or another.

Figuring, what the hell, I threw them up on the wall by her changing table. As long as my cheap ass didn’t have to shell out for them, why the hell not?

Well, those circles are Amelia’s best friend on the planet. She coos to them, beams her million-dollar smile at them, carries on regular conversations with them, and would probably lay there, kicking and squacking happily if I didn’t have to do such things as 1) care for her brothers or 2) occasionally pee.

Well played, Similac, well played indeed.

But I can’t help but wonder, what the hell is it that she sees when she looks at them? Nancy Regan? The remains of Elvis? A treasure map to a pot of gold coins at the end of a rainbow? Children in general mystify me completely, but babies even more so. What I wouldn’t give for a moment inside their head.

Then I might know what they’re thinking when they do things smear their walls with toothpaste so that they can wake up in the middle of the night and lick them. Or what makes Amelia giggle when she sleeps. Or even why Auggie has adopted some of the wee Beanie Babies Amelia was given in the PICU as his very own babies.

Wait, Auggie is my dog and he often eats poo for sport. I don’t care why he does what he does. Just so long as he doesn’t bathe any of us with his Tongue of Doom.

I read somewhere on one of the blogs I frequent (okay, sorry I can’t give credit. I am both high and sleep deprived) that when babies smile in their sleep when they’re playing with the angels. Considering how many I know who have lost so much, I like that idea best.

Girlfriend is thinking about her circles.

I know, I know, the angle of this is all wrong because you cannot see the rapture in her eyes. Here’s where I confess to you, Internet, that I am short. Not abnormally so, but I’m not a gangly one (hehe. Say that out loud. It sounds like “ganglion.” hehe) (What? I’m easily amused!). Sadly. If I were taller, I’d have been able to take a better shot.

Perhaps I’ll buy some lifts for my shoes. How hot would THAT be?

Last year, ’bout this time, in between Miscarriage #1 and #2, The Daver sat me down and said something to the effect of, “blah, blah, blah..You need to get a hobby…blah, blah, blah.” At least I think he said that. I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy lobbing a lamp at his head.

He wasn’t trying to be unkind in anyway; he’s a lot of things (patient, kind, infinitely tolerant of His Old Ball And Chain) but never unkind. He was merely trying to get me to “expand my horizons” and “do something for myself.” Come to think of it, he sounded a hell of a lot like my High School Guidance Counsellor. All he needed to add in there was an “apply yourself” to make the comparison fail safe.

But telling someone that hasn’t slept for more than 1-3 hours at a stretch in close to two years (a very hearty thank you to my youngest son and my predisposition to that old bitch Insomnia) or taken a shit without the watchful eyes of half of the family in as long isn’t really a wise idea. Of COURSE I needed to do something for myself, who doesn’t?

Problem is, and always has been, my decided lack of free time. Well, that and the fact that I’ve been pregnant and/or nursing for the past 3 years, both of which obscure my normally sunny disposition (shut UP.).

I mean, yeah, I’m home with my kids and all that stuff and I do have the time to occasionally sit down and plop out a blog post, but I normally have a kid on my lap while I do it. See I can’t very well open a bag of Cheetos and turn on Lifetime and leave the kids alone. For one, Cheetos stain like a mother-fucker and for Part B, no one, not even the baby likes Lifetime. Not that I would know or anything.

My God-Almighty Plan has always been that I would go back to school once my youngest was in school herself. It’s been indelicately suggested that I try and go back sooner but honestly, I juggled the school/work/child thing when I had Ben and it was gruesome. I won’t do it again unless I have to.

See, I got my degree in nursing not because I am a Caring People Person(tm) (stop snorting. I can hear you laughing at me!) but because I was a slave to the almighty dollar. Single parenthood and undergraduate degrees in Biology don’t exactly scream I’ll Be Able To Support Us, Honey, And We Can Move Out Of Grandma’s, now do they?

And while I strongly considered becoming a Trophy Wife, I didn’t think that my child would really sweeten the deal for someone who likes silicone and bleach blonde hair.

The compromise always was (to myself and later to The Daver) that I would eventually go back to school and pursue my PhD in microbiology. No, seriously. I’ve been lucky enough to know what I really, really love and what I’ll really, really be good at. I know this doesn’t happen for everyone.

But I’ve got some time before this Plan Of Action will Come To Fruition. Time that I desperately need to fill with something. Anything.

I write here and sometimes elsewhere and I do it because I don’t know how not to anymore. It’s weird to me because I never was A Writer. I tried in the 3rd grade to keep a diary and it ended up sounding so incredibly stupid when I read it back to myself that even back then I knew it sucked.

I can’t write a fictional story to save my life unless the main characters name is E-Becky and she has three kids: E-Ben, E-Alex, and E-Amelia. I’m not creative like that. But now I write because I have to. I just have to.

So from now until I’m able to rejoin the ranks of smelly stoned college students once again, I’m afraid that my only outlet and project is to write. Here, there, everywhere (okay, so mostly here. Where else?).

Any other suggestions for things to do for myself? What do you do just for you?

…or perhaps not. I am honored to be posting here today, over at DD’s place.

It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To

Yesterday marked the eleventy-hundreth time (approximately) I’ve thrown a party for one of my kids. It started with a kegger when Ben turned one (what?!? That is SO not trashy!) and persisted until he was ready to have a Kids Only party for himself. This is where I bow gracefully out of hosting and pay someone insane wads-o-cash to host the 10 kids somewhere OTHER than my house. Kids scare me.

Thankfully, by that time, Alex was ramping up to have a birthday party of his own for me to publicly express both my fetish for cakes and my fetish for encased meats.

And yesterday, in all it’s magnificent non-barbeque friendly weather was one of the best I’ve hosted yet. Especially since I didn’t have to stand shivering over the grill while it rained on my head. But whatever.

I don’t know if it’s the isolation factor of having a small baby–especially one that screams her head off in the car–or the fact that I’ve felt so unwell in the past year or so, or maybe because I’ve been dying to have something to celebrate without a …but… after it, but yesterday seemed especially full of The Awesome. The perfect mix of people, food and, of course, prescriptions.

Here is Amelia, in her fresh party outfit with her Uncle Paul:

Here is what Amelia thought of her dress:

You can practically hear her yell “MOOOOMMM, I look STOOOOPPID!” And then I took the dress OFF her.

Easter Dress: 1

Becky: 0

And the moment I waited all week for:

The cake. The glorious cake. It was as tasty as it was classy. It also wasn’t as cool as last years cake, but they wouldn’t do the tiered cake order over the phone. And since said baby sucks to take in the car, I was not huffing my fat butt out there.

Oh well. Even if it didn’t have drug paraphernalia, at least it was classy.

Now for Part II of my II Part Post (doesn’t that look like it should be an alliteration?)

My Humps

After Ben’s sensory issues wouldn’t allow me to nurse him, I developed a major complex about breastfeeding. Specifically, that it was something that I’d failed mightily at. I didn’t, of course, take into consideration that my CHILD might be the problem, which, of course, he was.

So Alex was born with hair on his back but I was the one with a chip on my shoulder. I was Going To Breastfeed Him, Dammit, At Any Cost. And I did. I got up every 1-3 hours every single night with him to nurse him. For a year. I nursed him at least once an hour every hour until he was one.

Despite my initial delight at HIS delight at my boobs, I had really mixed feelings about breastfeeding. On the one hand, I was very proud of myself that I was able to do something I’d been previously unable to do. On the other, though, I didn’t find the joy that others seemed to associate with it.

I’m not a touchy-feely person and although I like cuddling my kids, I did occasionally want my own personal space. And I longed for the day when I could wear scoop-necked shirts and not v-necked ones. I also longed for the day when I didn’t have to let my nipples hang out in the breeze constantly. I’m not modest, but damn, it got old.

So when I got pregnant with Amelia and finally figured out it might stick, I figured I’d breastfeed again, but not exclusively, and that I wouldn’t give myself a hard time if

1) She couldn’t do it

or

2) She occasionally got formula.

And, well, I guess the inevitable happened: she decided that nursing was too much work, just like Dr. Sears warned me about! I’d call this a Nursing Strike, but I think she’s just done with the boob. And I don’t have the luxury of time to pump. Or should I say properly, I don’t want to make the time to pump exclusively.

I sit here and try to remind myself of the positives: I can lose weight more easily, I can finally wear shirts that don’t expose my chesticles, I can wear bras that don’t snap open and shut, and I won’t smell like a milk factory constantly. My body will be my own for the first time in 3 years. These are all true.

But she is my last baby. This is the last time I’ll nurse anyone. And I am conflicted. I wasn’t ready to have her grow up so soon. I’m not ready to put away her tiny newborn clothes, pack them up for the NICU I’m donating them to, knowing that this is the last time one of my flesh and blood will inhabit them.

I hate endings, no matter how happy they are. Even if it means new beginnings.

For today, my heart, it is wearing a frowny-sad-face.

There was a movie that came out when I was in high school. It had Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jamie Lee Curtis (?), I think. I don’t know really. It obviously wasn’t Oscar-worthy. But it was about this daughter-mother duo who would go from place to place being, well, grifters.

They’d con free dinners, free hotel stays, free cars by pretending to find a bunch of glass in their dinner, or slipping on a “wet” floor in the lobby. The movie wasn’t all that exciting, truth be told and I’ll not be sad if I never see it again.

I worked in the restaurant industry for many years, first as a hostess, then as a waitress and occasionally bartender, and I saw this happen infrequently. But it did happen.

I used to work Sunday afternoons at a pizza joint while I was in college. The money was never stellar but since most of my friends were sleeping off hangovers, and baby Ben was with his father, I didn’t have anything to do but sit at home. And working would at least give me an extra $50-70 dollars (yeah, it was shit money for serving) to tide me through the week.

Sundays are a notoriously bad day to work in the restaurant industry, any server knows this. In a diner, you might turn a number of tables more than normal, but the people you’d serve were often religious folks or older people, or both. In lieu of a tip you’d occasionally get a pamphlet about God, telling you to renounce your sins (as an aside, how did they know that I hadn’t?) and that you would go to hell if you didn’t. Sometimes you’d get a verbal “you’re the best waitress EVER” tip, and sometimes you’d get nothing.

And at the pizza place where I worked, we were usually slow as hell. While this was boring, it meant that I could get paid (something) do my homework, and, like I said, it beat the shit out of sitting at home under my parent’s disapproving eye.

About 2 PM on one Sunday, I got seated a two-top of old people. I popped over to get their drink order and they ordered immediately: a large pizza, two salads and a couple of Cokes. They were typical Sunday diners: rude, entitled, and unpleasant.

I called these sort of people The Crusties.

I imagined my $3.00 tip as I rang in their food and got their sodas. Lacking anything else to do, I strolled back to the kitchen to get their 2 salads. I dropped them off and they grunted a monosyllabic “uh” rather than say thank you. It was all I’d expected from them, so I loudly said in my saccharine sweetest voice “You’re welcome.” It was my passive aggressive way of reminding them that I wasn’t a servant, and I’d perfected it so it sounded completely sincere.

(and yes, I’m aware that this didn’t do anything to affect anyone’s attitude. It just made me feel better.)

A couple minutes later, as I was checking on my other tables, the Female Crusty beckoned me over with a couple of finger snaps and a wave. Just like I was a dog. I put up my first finger, signaling that I’d be there in a moment yet she continued snapping. This only made me move more slowly.

I finally made my way back to their table and inexplicably the old bag ordered a bottle of light beer. I walked back behind the bar to grab the beer and as I’m standing there, talking to my manager Old Man Crusty storms up to us. When my manager asked if he could help him, the old man opened up his palm and showed us a large crescent of a fingernail.

“This,” he said accusatorially, “THIS was in my salad.”

My manager fell all over himself apologizing, promising free meals and free desserts and shoving his face so far up the old guy’s ass that I rolled my eyes.

The salads were pre-made every morning by the line cooks, and although I frequently told them that they had “poquito huevos” (small balls) after they’d catcall me, they weren’t unsanitary. I couldn’t imagine that these dudes, who routinely worked 80+ hour weeks to support their families in Mexico would cut their fingernails into the salads. I’d worked with these guys for years and although I could see a staple accidently falling into the salad mix, the fingernail made no sense.

Anything that made it’s way into the food at any of the places I’d served was usually put there by servers or by accident. While I never spit into food, I will tell you that I may have accidentally on purpose added some hot pepper to the sauce. Maybe.

What made me increasingly suspect of the motives of these Old Bags was when their attitude shifted 180 degrees. Knowing they’d get anything comped they could think of, they began ordering multiple drinks, extra appetizers, and eventually desert. And now, rather than treat me like the piece of scum on the bottom of their shoe, they were unfailingly kind, gracious, and overall pleasant as hell. They now asked after my son (his picture was on my server book), made jokes with me, and smiled when I spoke.

Not normal unless you’re mentally ill.

Of course, after they left without having to pay a cent for their meal, to-go bags brimming with unfinished food, I knew my fate before I walked over to the table. They’d left me exactly nothing. Zero dollars and zero cents. I’d run my ass around for nothing. Less than nothing, if you want the truth. I lost money waiting on them.

The government, you see, looks at the gross amount of money a server sells and takes a certain percentage of that as assumed tips. They then tax the shit out of it. So, for the whopping $3.19 I got an hour, I saw maybe 10 cents of that. Less if I’d had high sales. So the government was taxing me on money I hadn’t made. My paychecks ranged from $0.00 (they totally wasted money printing me this check. I always meant to frame one of these) to maybe $3 or $4 a week.

I just sighed as I bussed the table. Nothing more to do. They’d eventually get what they deserved.

Karma, after all, is a total bitch.

I do almost all of the manual labor around my house. (Some might argue it’s because I’m really a man, but that’s neither here nor there. But rest assured that if I had a penis, The Internet would be the first I’d tell. And then I’d write my name in pee in the snow. Because, hello, AWESOME!)

It’s not a judgement statement and I’m not all “OhMyGOD, I do EVERYTHING around the house” *flings hand to forehead dramatically* because I don’t care much. Or I should say, I’m used to it.

(TOTAL aside time, here’s what a man I am: a couple of years ago, some creature got into our garage at night. And when I realized it, I ran out there brandishing a broom while Dave and Ben watched from the door, eyes wide as saucers. I think I grew some chest hair that night.)

Problem with this division of labor is the fact that I am a total klutz. I am so ungraceful that I make (insert another word for klutz here) look downright normal. I’ve broken a toe making a sandwich, broke the front door by falling through it (completely sober, I should add) and successfully done the splits for the first time while 36 weeks pregnant after washing the kitchen floor.

So it comes as no real surprise that I hurt myself a couple of weeks ago while taking out the garbage. I’m not even going to lie to you and tell you that it was a heavy bag, bursting at the seams, nor did I do so to save Little Timmy from a burning building. Hell, I didn’t even rescue some adorable kittens from a tree while I did so.

No, during a perfectly ordinary garbage-bag-throwing-into-the-big-container- sexy-fun-time (I am totally kidding about the sexy fun time), I managed to throw out my back. The lower part, you know, by the coccyx? After several days where I crankily moped about the house having to ask my willing reluctant husband to do such things as “bring me the baby” or “take out the garbage” while he rolled his eyes at me, it miraculously got better.

It was a friggin’ Easter Miracle.

So, it was NOT The Awesome to wake up a couple of days ago with the flaming pain making me whimper when I moved my foot or rotated my body in any way. Of course, this is while Dave is lying about the house, sick as a dog with The Rota. Made me feel almost bad to require his germy, pathetic help.

But finally, after hobbling about my house like an old woman, I called the damn doctor (his real title! The Damn Doctor). And now, let’s just say, Internet, I won’t be complaining about going back to visit him.

Not after he gave me a script for some muscle relaxers and, wait for it, wait for it…

Delicious, sweet, nectar of the Gods, VICODIN.

And let’s just say, Internet, that I am now stoned out of my gourd (Dave is home with me so don’t worry, sweet Internet, I am not in charge of my kidlets alone and high as a kite). I don’t really know where this post started or where it went. It probably made very little sense, but hey, I know I’m not raging against the machine. Which probably would be more entertaining. Because who DOESN’T like Internet Rubbernecking?

Oh, and to those of you who will be coming over this weekend for The Big Party? I am TOTALLY not sharing my pills. And Aoxomoxoa is TOTALLY wicked when you’re high. Also: very hard to spell.

So, what’s on YOUR mind today, Internet? I promise to be highly entertained by anything you say. Or what do YOU want me to tell you about knowing that my internal filter is completely off?