We live in interesting times.

“There’s a study,” Ben said, “that shows that people who watch Fox News are less informed than those who watch no news at all.”

I laughed. Mostly because I can’t imagine why a DANGER FEAR SEGMENT story about escalators “STAIRWAY TO DANGER!” or a story about applesauce “AN APPLE A DAY MAKES THE CORONERS DAY!” would be considered news by anyone anywhere. But the world needs ditch-diggers too, so I try not to think about it.

I get my news primarily by The Twitter. Crowd-sourcing seems to be the best way to manage news that’s important to me. If that means it’s news about the hats at the Royal Wedding, so be it.

Last year, during The NotoriousSNOMG, I sat at my computer as the wind was a-howling and the snow was outrageous. Roads were blocked, the power threatened us, lights flickering, the occasionally brown-out making me wonder when we’d have to huddle in the basement for warmth. They shut down Lake Shore Drive (arguably my favorite road), The Twitter told me, and I realized how fucking serious the situation was.

My friends all over the Chicagoland area tweeted back and forth about what they were experiencing, which helped me see what I was in for. Also: made me shit myself, but that’s neither here nor there.

Months later, on September 11, we ran a blog carnival on Band Back Together to share stories about that day. I sat on Skype with various members of the board from the moment I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and onto the computer. I was on until well after midnight that day, editing, scheduling, and posting stories – our stories – about where we were that day.

We ended up with fifty different perspectives.

It was FASCINATING.

Not so much that people would want to share their “Where Were You” stories, but because we, as a community blog, we able to see perspectives from people who were actually there, people who lived overseas, people who lived nowhere near the Twin Towers, and those who were children (now adults) at the time.

Every other story I’d read, every magazine I’d poured through, they only posted a few random stories – and while they were interesting, they didn’t offer the variety of perspectives that The Band did. They weren’t glossed over, our stories, they weren’t edited to be more or less exciting, they simply WERE. Because we WERE.

When the Twin Towers were attacked in 2001, I was not a blogger. I had a single email address: sex_kitten23@hotmail.com and no chat service. I’d never figured out why I should go into a chat room, besides pretending to have fake cyber sex with someone, and barely used the computer for anything beyond writing research papers.

Now, I’ve been blogging for longer than I care to admit. If there’s a social media outlet, I’m probably on it. I’ve learned what works and what doesn’t.

Being able to use social media for things other than telling the world that, “Anxiety can eat a hot bag of dicks,” well, that’s incredible. And that’s what we saw when we ran our September 11 carnival. It’s the premise of Band Back Together – a group site where you can read a variety of stories about any one topic to feel less alone.

It’s why I trust the unfiltered tweets of my friends over Fox News. It’s why I believe you when you write on your blogs. It’s why what we do here, in this virtual space, is so much more than any one of us could have predicted. It is why we must continue to do what we do – whether we have five readers or fifty. What we do, it all matters.

It’s a brave new world out there, Pranksters.

And I, for one, am fucking proud to be a part of it.

I’d been off and on The Twitter all day on Friday, rather than out and about pepper-spraying people to get a wicked deal on a TV set or some diamond earrings thanks to a particularly bad gravy hangover (Xanax Gravy, you should try it!). Whenever I’m on The Twitter, I pay a little bit of attention to the Trending Topics on the sidebar. Mostly because I want to know if the Zombie Apocalypse is starting but also because The Twitter feeds me my news.

Well, I saw that Nickelback was trending.

Fine, I said, as I trundled off to get buffalo wings with The Daver. Whatever. Prolly a new album or something.

Over dinner, we began talking about (oddly) Nickelback, who happened to be playing at the Lions versus Packers football game. I figured that was reason enough for their appearance upon the Twitter, but no.

“It turns out,” Daver said, “That Nickelback is getting a fuckton of backlash for their appearance at the game.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows as I slowly devoured buffalo wings, which are proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

“Yeah,” he replied. “So their record company released a statement saying that they’d sold 5 million copies of their latest album and we should all shut our whore mouths.”

This got me thinking (a semi-dangerous pursuit, as we all know).

5 million albums.

Presumably bought by 5 million people.

So I promptly threw out a tweet asking about it:

I wasn’t being glib – I was genuinely curious.

Because even as I said it, I realized I didn’t know a SINGLE Nickelback song. Not one. I got on my i(can’t)Phone and popped onto YouTube (we SO live in the future, y’all). I simply threw “Nickelback” into the search box, figuring their biggest hits would pop up first and I could be all OH so it’s THOSE guys. Got it. The ire, I get! Or, people should shut their fucking whore mouths, this song rules!

Didn’t find a single song I recognized.

So I decided iTunes would never let me down and clicked over there through my i(suck at making calls from my)Phone.

Nada.

Zilch.

Zip.

Not a fucking thing I recognized. All I was able to ascertain was this:

1) Nickelback songs sound the same.

B) They’re Canadians.

So I waited for The Twitter to enlighten me.

Hrms. She’s Canadian. Okay, fair enough.

Now THAT is a fucking good point!

(Altho, my mom would NEVER buy 5 million copies of anything I sang. Which is fair)

AH-HA! My arch-nemesis! John C. Mayer would do ANYTHING to fuck mah shit up.

The Twitter’s consensus was that Canadians and Nickelback’s Moms bought all of the CD’s. But not ALL Canadians (I think I got unfollowed by 30 or so Canadians for using that blanket statement), I quickly learned.

That leaves wondering: who DOES buy Nickelback CD’s?

This is where you get to help me, Pranksters. Survey below should clear it up. Also: results are anonymous, so I won’t laugh and point if you say you have bought the CD’s.

Mostly.

[poll id=”7″]

Dear Aunt Becky,

I drop in on your site from time to time, but usually from an aggregate site that has become toywithme.com. Anyway, my question is, what happened to the blogger whose picture showed her in old-fashioned curlers? I can’t remember her name and for some reason this is driving me crazy.

Thanks for your help and for your exquisite sense of humor.

Well, Prankster, thank YOU for the kind words! They’re much appreciated!

The blogger I think you’re thinking of is my good friend Jenny, The Bloggess. She’s full of the awesome.

Evening Aunt Becky!

While checking out the questions and comments on BnB to comfort and convince myself that I’m not the only one who doesn’t always really get motherhood it popped up with a link to your blog in the side bar! I was pleased to see it as I’ve been enjoying your blog for ages and hope others have been clicking through.

Laura

Dear Prankster Laura,

While I thank you kindly for your kind words and the referrer, I’m afraid that I have no idea what BnB is. In fact, I’ve spent a good deal of time trying to figure it out. And yes, yes, I AM compulsive.

Does it mean?

Bed and Breakfast?

Bread and Butter?

Banana Nut Bread?

Black and Blue?

or

Bad News Bears?

I simply do not know. So, Prankster Laura (or others), what, pray tell, does BnB mean?

P.S. I like to imagine it to mean “Black and Blue.”

Dear Aunt Becky,

I have no question but go have a look at what I found. Bob Ross finger Puppets  😀

..tonya cinnamon

Dear Prankster Tonya,

O.M.G. How have I not SEEN these before? I feel like my whole life has been a lie!

P.S. I require these for Christmas to be happy.

Hello, Aunt Becky!

Here’s a faithful viewer of your awesomesauce blog, asking for advice. I’m an 18-year-old girl, and I have a mother who’s been through a helluva though life. Born to a poor family, many of her best friends dying when they were just teens, two stillborn children and a divorce, just to name a few. She’s ultimately the strongest woman I’ve ever known. However, she never talks about those happenings in her past – only offhand mentions and some things I remember her telling me when I was just a tiny crotch parasite, asking everything about my mommy that could ever enter my tiny mind.

I would like to be as open with her as possible – after the divorce, the two of us lived together for 8 years, and despite living in different cities these days, we’re really really close – and would also like her to be able to talk about her past with me. Even though we’re so close, I sometimes get the feeling that I don’t know my mother at all – all we talk about is my life, my tiny problems. I’m not sure what I’m actually even asking for, just maybe some advice, on how to deal with her? How to bring up difficult subjects? Or should I never mention them at all?

Ever so thankful,
Elisa

Dearest Elisa,

I hope that my daughter will grow to be as wonderful a woman as you. Your mother is beyond lucky to have such a lovely daughter as you. I just had to say that to start off with, or I might burst from your awesomeness.

Honestly, I’m getting teary.

Anyway, enough about my hormones. I’d simply go ahead and ASK your mother about those subjects. Tell her what you just told me: that you’d like to know more about her and feel like you’re as awesome a daughter as you (obviously) are. I’m sure that even if she doesn’t wish to talk about it, she’ll appreciate knowing that her daughter remembered her stories. That way the door is open for her to talk about herself, too.

See, Moms, well, we’re used to NOT talking about ourselves very candidly to our children. We can’t be effective parents if we’re always whining about our own shit. It’s not that I don’t want my kids to know me – even the ugly bits – but I think it’s easy to be caught in the rut of “my child is more important than I am.” Because that’s what parenthood is – putting someone else ahead of your needs most of the time.

But I think if you tell her what you told me, she’ll not only be touched, but know what an amazing job she’s done as a parent. Because she has.

Love to you,

Aunt Becky

————

Pranksters, please fill in wherever I left off. Especially the part about “BnB.” Seriously, I’ve been up all night long (alll niiiiiggghhhht longggggg) trying to figure it out.

It’s been a weird year. Probably weirder than I’ve been able to properly impart upon you, my Pranksters, because, well, some things are not for Internet Consumption (until they are, of course).

It’s been a year of loss.

I’ve lost two beloved family members to the great big gig in the sky. I’ve lost a relationship with another. Countless friendships have been disbanded.

Some of these things are my fault. Not, of course, the dead people. I leave the killing to my Television Husband Dexter. And I SWEAR I have an alibi – just ask The Twitter.

(sidebar: you know you have good friends when they’ll tell the world that OF COURSE they were with you that one night).

But in the midst of the chaos and sadness surrounding the losses, The Universe has reminded me time and time again that from struggles come redemption. And from redemption comes new beginnings – a new life.

Perhaps I will not walk out of this year the same person who walked in, but, let’s be honest, why would I want to?

So today, on American Thanksgiving, instead of bemoaning what no longer is, I am thanksful for what has become. If we can only exist in this moment, well, this moment is pretty fucking beautiful.

Instead of stuffing myself with turkey and green bean casserole with the kids, I will instead put up the Christmas lights, warble Christmas carols, and, most of all, count my blessings.

One by motherfucking one.

0) I am thankful I do not own a Team Edward or Team Jacob shirt.

1) Likewise, I’m thankful (and slightly superior) that I’ve never seen, read, or been in the same room with one of the Twilight series.

1) I’m thankful for Strawberry Slim Fast and Uncrustables, without which I would’ve gone hungry. Or gotten scurvy. Or both.

2) I’m thankful that Britney’s new album is (quite possibly) her best. Also: she follows me on The Twitter. Along with 80,000 other people. I just KNOW she’s reading my tweets!

3) My kids, who remind me that one should never, ever take life too seriously, and that I’m never too old for a good poo joke.

5) My friends, my Pranksters, who remind me that it’s okay to be weak sometimes. Who remind me that – no matter what – they will catch me when I fall. Even if I fall hard.

8) I’m thankful that I’ve been able to write – and freelance – every single day of the year. Maybe it’s not a book (turns out, I’m kinda chickenshit about the whole book thing) , but maybe that doesn’t matter.

13) I’m thankful that I had the opportunity to know and love those who I have lost. They have each taught me something, and for that I am grateful.

21) I’m thankful to have imported someone to make me coffee. Because it’s kinda pathetic to admit to the world that you cannot make a cup of coffee. It’s much easier to take credit for someone else’s work.

34) Most of all, I’m thankful for this picture:

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, Pranksters.

P.S. What are you thankful for?

I wrote this on Band Back Together.

Please read it.

I love you all, my Pranksters.

I get a handful of those address labels throughout the year. Not ones that I order or anything, but the ones that various charities send to me to elicit me to send them cash. (if I ordered them, they’d probably have anatomical parts or the three wolf moon on them or something)

They’re usually corny things, ladybugs and smiling faces and shit. So normally, I toss them into the recycling bin, knowing I don’t exactly want to say that my name is “Mrs. David Harks” or anything. Because believe it or not, when I got married, I KEPT A NAME OF MY OWN.

Anyway. Not a huge fan of those charitable stickers.

Don’t get me wrong – I donate to a couple of charities religiously: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and March of Dimes (soon enough Band Back Together!), but I don’t have the fundage to donate to every stinking thing that wants my cash.

Yeah, I’m looking at you, Jimmy Motherfucking Wales.

That’s why, when the Sarah McLaughlin “Angel” song pipes up on one of those ASPCA commercials, I have to turn the channel before I start throwing wads of cash at the television screen. I mean, could they GET any more tear-jerking? I think not.

(dramatic foreshadowing) Rather, I THOUGHT not.

So quickly, I change the channel and pretend that I’m not weeping into my Diet Coke. Because Lord knows, I cannot afford to pay off yet ANOTHER person to prevent them from telling the world that I do, in fact, have feelings.

But last night, I saw that I got yet ANOTHER set of address labels. Addressed to me: Ms. Becky S. Harks. Finally, my ACTUAL name. I could USE those for the Christmas Cards I’ll forget to send!

“No,” Ben and Daver both chimed as I opened it. “YOU DON’T NEED TO SEND THEM MONIES.”

My resolve strong, I was all, “I’m too GOOD for charitable tactics. I can TOTALLY use these stickers WITHOUT forking over wads of cash. I CAN FUCKING DO IT. EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER!”

And then I saw it. The letter.

Yeah.

You got my formerly sick kid’s NAME on top of your letterhead. Nice job. Now I HAVE to give you money.

Jesus, could you stick the knife in any deeper?

“Guys,” I said, tears pouring, “I have to send them mah monies.”

“NO,” they said, almost in unison. “Becky, c’mon!”

“LOOK.” I thrust the paper into Ben’s hand. Immediately, his face crumpled, his eyes just a little moist (he clearly never paid me off to tell the world he doesn’t have feelers).

Then I handed it to Daver, whose face did a similar crumple.

“Okay,” they agreed. “You do.”

It looks like you’ve won this round, St. Judes.

Jimmy Motherfucking Wales? You can blow me. Hard. In fact, I sorta wanna to pull a John C. Mayer on you now. WATCH OUT JIMMY FUCKING WALES. I’M ON TO YOU.

After we’d taken the kids out – against my better judgement – for buffalo wings, I was ready for Mommy’s Time Where She Tongues A Bottle of Xanax.

So I took a bath.

No, Pranksters, I am not 91 years old. I just happen to like baths. Especially because I can hide in them without having errant crotch parasites popping in and out demanding things.

So there I was, happily scrub-a-dubbing my hairs, getting ready to hack the hairs off my legs, when it happened.

Sniff-sniff, went my nose.

Rub-rub, went my hand, figuring I’d somehow gotten shampoo UP my nostril. (it wouldn’t be the first time)

Bad move, Aunt Becky. Bad, BAD move.

The next thing I knew, a faucet had been switched on and my nose began to pour blood, all over me, my vagina and everything.

Fuck.

I’ve gotten bloody noses since I was a toddler (don’t do cocaine, kids!) so I know the types of bloody noses I get.

1) Mildly irritating, yet goes away in approximately three minutes

B) Should probably require a blood transfusion.

This was the latter of the two.

And I knew that I was stuck – rooted in place. If I dared make a move, I was going to spew blood all over the bathroom, my clean clothes, EVERYTHING. It would be a massacre.

So I sat there, trying to figure out what I could do. I had at my disposal 1 old washcloth and 1 plastic cup (from the kids washing their hairs).

First, I tried to staunch the flow with the washcloth. No way in HELL I wanted to sit in Shark Week water. Within 30 seconds, the cloth was soaked and I was freaking out.

Could I call someone? I was in the bathroom at the very back of the house and the likelihood of someone hearing me was about as great as the likelihood that I will, one day, win a Grammy for my mash-up of “Whoomp, There It Is” and “It’s My Party.” Besides, I knew that hollering would only increase the blood flowing freely from my nose.

I began thrashing around, upset at the unfairness of it all, perhaps pulling a WHY ME, GOD, WHY MEEEEEEE? as I splished and splashed, all histrionic-style. I gave up pretty quickly, because there was no one around to notice my plight.

I was already drenched in my own blood, trying to drain the bathwater as quickly as I could. Frantically, I looked around, spying the cup. Fuck, I thought. FUCK. That’s what I got to work with.

So I put the cup under my nose, tilted my head forward, and tried to breathe through my mouth. I could ride this out. I could do this. I was the brave fucking toaster without the toast or the er.

I don’t know how long I sat there, my blood pooling in the sad cup, but it had to have been awhile. Soon, my bathwater drained and there I sat, shivering, and wet, covered in blood, while my nose continued to do it’s best faucet impression.

Eventually, my nose decided that HEY! Clotting is REALLY cool! and I was able to rinse the blood off myself and exit the shower, a little light-headed, but fine.

I considered donating the blood to some wanna-be vampire (Breaking Cherries Dawn opened this weekend, right?), but decided that I didn’t know enough wanna-be vampires.

Which is sad, really. I could’ve gotten some pretty good cash for it.

Hi Aunt Becky!

Is there a way to subscribe to your blog via email?  I didn’t see it, but thought I’d ask on the off chance I missed it.

Best,
Lisa

Dear Lisa,

Thank you for pointing that issue out. Like my blogroll, which has gone missing, I think the email subscription is now back in black. Er…no. But it’s back. Go to the bottom of my sidebar and you’ll see it.

See?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Lately my best friend has been analyzing my relationship with my boyfriend and has deemed him unworthy of my time. I strongly disagree with her as I know for a fact that her idea of a relationship is vastly different than mine and that I am QUITE happy in my relationship.

See, I believe a relationship is a two-way street, we both give and we both take. My boyfriend is wonderful and always gives more than takes.

Her view of a relationship is that the female (aka herself) is the end all be all and if it isn’t her way, then it’s the highway. Her current boyfriend has bought her a car, paid for her school’s tuition, let her room in his house for 8 months without doing anything for the household and currently buys her and her family food. I cannot think of one thing that she has given him besides her time.

Because my boyfriend does not do all of this for me (heaven forbid that he works and makes money that he saves so that we can own a house one day!) she believes I am unhappy.

She’s so convinced that I need a new bf who will do this for me that a few weeks ago she told me about a guy who wants to take me out for coffee and she told me I should do it – while I’m still with my bf!

Now, I know our ideas of relationships are different, and I know she is looking out for the best of me but how do I tell her that I value our friendship but I want her to back the fuck off of me so that I can be happy with my bf?

Dear Prankster,

I would tell your best friend exactly what you think, since she seems to have no trouble telling you what she thinks. There are no two relationships that are exactly the same – nor should they be. That’d be like expecting that every brunette is brilliant or every blond is ditzy.

If you’re not unhappy in your relationship – which it sounds like you’re not – tell her so and if she insists that you are, ask her politely to drop the matter. There’s no reason to debate this. You’re not unhappy. Period. Back off. Period.

You don’t have to be a bitch about it, just tell her the truth.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Let me start by saying that I love my husband.  

We’ve been married for almost 15 years and have 4 kids.  He is my best friend.  Truly.  But.  There’s always a but, right?  I have had this on and off contact  (via mail or email only – no phone, no face to face ever) with my high school boyfriend for oh, the last 20 years.  This isn’t a “reconnected on facebook now want to dump my husband” thing.  This is an, “I have loved this guy for over half of my life, what do I do now” thing.  

I have always been a very private person. I have always kept a lot to myself.  My husband was aware of the deep connection I had with my HS BF, even knew that we kept in touch for several years into our marriage.  He was not threatened by this, as the HS BF lives about 2000 miles away.  There have been times when we wouldn’t be in touch for a couple of years, but then, with a random email or a text – we pick right back up where we left off.  I have never physically been unfaithful to my husband.

This feels unfaithful though, and I am horrified.  I feel like within the past year, the (virtual) relationship with the HS BF has taken a turn, and we’ve become much closer.  

He wants to see me.  

Can you be in love with two people?  I know you are going to say I am a terrible wife, mother, friend.  I know you are going to say that there is a reason we broke up in the first place, I KNOW all of that in my heart.  But I cannot seem to let this guy go!  What is wrong with me??  I KNOW that seeing him can only hurt someone that I honest to God love deeply, my best friend, my husband.  And my kids.  I’m so lost.  I feel so selfish.  I think about my HS BF constantly.  We chat (virtually) every day.  It’s like I have compartmentalized these two relationships, and I am afraid to make any decisions. I do not want to lose my HS BF.  Please, please just be mean to me and tell me I’m scum.  I’m so ashamed.  But I can’t walk away from either of them.

I don’t know what to do…

Dear Prankster,

I don’t think you’re scum. I don’t even think you’re mean – I think you’re confused. And understandably so.

However, you need to take stock of your virtual relationship with your high school boyfriend and decide what it is, really, that you’re getting out of it. Is it an escape? A friendship? Someone who makes you feel special?

Once you do some deep soul-searching, I think you need to come clean to each of them. Yeah, I know, it sounds scary as fuck, but you don’t have much of a choice. Let me tell you that living a life of duplicity isn’t exactly easy or fun. So stop doing it.

Take some time off to just think. Don’t contact your high school boyfriend, take a weekend away to a nice hotel WITHOUT HIM IN IT and just THINK. What is it that you want? What will make you happy? What do you need?

Once you can answer these questions, I think you’ll be able to see what it is you must do next.

There I was, sitting in my homeroom, trying to see how quickly I could write “Becky Rules” on my desk without being caught, when the teacher said, “Now kids, it’s time for us to meet our new teacher. It’s Officer Malone!”

We were enchanted. A real cop. In OUR presence! Not arresting us or even asking who had spray painted “STC Suckz!” on the playground (it was Jimmy).

He spoke.

“Welcome to DARE!”

(cool, I thought, DARE sounds awfully kicky! Like a superhero or something)

“Do you know what DARE stands for?” he continued.

(no, no I didn’t.)

“Drug Abuse Resistance Education!”

(well, I thought. That sounds RIDICULOUS. That barely even makes sense)

I opened my mouth to tell him so when I realized he could probably arrest me for insubordination. I shut my mouth and tried not to roll my eyes.

“From now on, we’ll have this box,” he gestured to a box in front of him. “To allow you to anonymously report any suspicious activity you’ve seen.”

(Wait a minute, I thought. Now we’re narcs?*)

We went on to learn about drugs. I was, for the first time in years, fascinated. You mean these drugs CAN MAKE ME SEE SHIT THAT’S NOT THERE? COLOR ME IN!

Week after blissful week, we learned about drugs and their effects. For the first time ever, I took judicious notes.

I can successfully attribute DARE to what I like to call “The Lost Girl Years.” Because who DOESN’T want to see shit that’s not there? Or feel blissfully happy? Or SEE SHIT THAT’S NOT THERE? Jesus wept.

I learned later that they disbanded DARE because a) it didn’t work and 2) it made a fuckton of kids (including Your Aunt Becky) WANT to do drugs.

This is why I was surprised when my son brought home paperwork from The New DARE which is called something like, “We’re Not DARE,” or “DARE V2.o,” or “We’re SO Not DARE, Please Don’t Cut Our Funding.”

I wonder how long The New Dare will be a part of the curriculum before it’s proved to cause a new generation of kids to snort toilet bowl cleaner or linked to zoophilia or something.

And I can only hope that my kid doesn’t try to turn me in for gratuitous overuse of the word “fuck.” Because I would be SO busted. Because really, who wants their kid to become a narc?

Answer: NOT ME.

*My parents were hippies. I knew what a narc was before I could shit in the toilet.

It may shock and sadden you, Pranksters, that I was once neither Your Aunt Becky nor a mother. It’s hard to believe, so I understand if you need a couple of minutes to compose yourself.

….

….

….

Done? Okay.

Approximately 383 sesquillion years ago, the girl who will be known as Your Aunt Becky went away to college. She packed all of her stuff into the back of her friend Scottie’s hot purple Neon and trundled off (very quickly) to college in the city. Loyola University Chicago, for those in the un-know.

Well, Loyola made a very, VERY grave error in judgement. They paired me with someone who I was so utterly unlike that it was a hot mess from the get go.

The first time I met my college roommate, she smelled like meat (she worked in a deli) which wasn’t too bad. What was too bad is that she was the most over-prepared person I’d met. If you know me, Pranksters, you know that I’m not exactly…*ahem* PREPARED. I’m not going to say that I fly by the seat of my pants because that’s not quite true, but I’m a definite Type B.

Sometimes (like in the case of Crys, Ben and Jana, my counterparts on Band Back Together), it works well. They can Type A me into submission whereas I can remind them that color-coding properly isn’t exactly a worthwhile investment of time.

*ducks*

But the true horror of my college roommate came to light when Scottie and I – both very drunk on vodka (which we were hilariously pronouncing with a very bad Russian accent) – moved my piles of crap into my room.

The door shut behind me, I looked at it to see that my roommate had decorated it. The quotes and the like weren’t exactly awful (albeit a little cornball). And there, in the middle of the door, it sat.

Three Family Circus cartoons.

There’s NOTHING I hate more, Pranksters, than Family Circus cartoons, with the exception of Precious Moments figurines, and GAH! next to those, were a couple of Precious Moment cartoons.

I died.

I literally died on the floor, laughing and crying. I mean, just, NO. We were 19, not 69. How was I gonna get laid with Grandma’s cartoons staring at me creepily?

It turned out, of course, that our relationship was not meant to be. She was too control-freak and I, well, I got knocked up and had to go home to pop out a crotch parasite. She meant well and all, but I couldn’t overlook the Family Circus crap. Could you?

(the answer should be a resounding no)(possibly a FUCK NO)

So thanks, Jason, for the flashbacks.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to vomit up what’s left of my breakfast.

Dish, Pranksters. Do you have any awesome roommate stories for Your Aunt Becky?