Hi Aunt Becky,

I was in a long relationship that ended last September. When it ended, I had a lot of support from one of my best male friends (someone I’ve known for six years from university, who has always been someone I talk to a lot and share very honest things with).

Naturally, as these things do happen, I started having more-than-just-friends feelings for him.  He is a wonderful person (I’ve always thought so), we have TONS in common, we talk daily (sometimes for hours, and we’ve done this for awhile).  Last week he and I sort of admitted that we have feelings for each other.

It’s good, and I’m happy.  If we were to be together, I think it would be one of the easiest relationships ever (we already have the same social group, like the same things, have families that already like each of us, go to the same major social events, etc).  There’s one thing though, that makes me feel slightly bad and guilty.

Three years ago, he was in a relationship with my childhood best friend (who is not in our university group of friends).  They had met at a party that I had invited her to, they dated for a few months and then called it off.. and then seven or eight months after that they were back together, and lasted for a whole year.  It’s now been another full year since they’ve broken up for good.  She and I used to be very close, but we have gone in slightly different directions so I don’t see her that often, and only talk to her occasionally these days.  We have a long history together, though.

I didn’t want to lie, so I sent her an email explaining that… “as much as I know it’s awkward, I’m having feelings for her ex-boyfriend.”  Her reply was that “she knows she can’t stop me, but that she finds it hurtful and weird.”

I like him… A LOT.  I’m just feeling bad that he has a history with her.

Do you have thoughts or advice for situations like this?  Right now I’m leaning towards moving the relationship forward, despite her, because I really believe he and I can be good together… does that make me a horrible person?

Signed,
Worst Best Friend Ever

Well, Prankster, I don’t think this makes you a horrible person. I can see both sides of the situation and I’m willing that the other Pranksters will be polarized in their advice to you.

The bottom line is this: are you willing to write off her friendship? Because that’s the worst case scenario: you lose her and you lose any mutual friends who may choose to side with her.

You can’t help what your heart wants and she can’t help how she feels about what your heart wants. Which can you live with?

I wish you luck, Prankster. That is certainly a tricky situation.

Greetings Aunt Becky!

I’m looking for your sage advice or at the least a smart ass remark.

Recently, I was in Dominican Republic on holiday.  Met a kind man from Amsterdam.  We had many drinks.  I facetiously said I would come to Amsterdam over Christmas to hang out.  For the sake of having fun in another country and having a cool tour guide.  He agreed we would have fun.

Not wanting to be alone over the holiday, I booked a ticket and room.  I mean, only live once and I was planning on a trip anyways, just hadn’t figured where. I informed him and he said his heart is filled with joy. He is now ending emails with the L Bomb.

Should I be freaked out?

Oh Prankster, I’m so sorry that your email was stuffed unceremoniously into the wrong folder, blocking it from my sight and rendering me incapable of answering you in a timely manner. HOW DARE MY EMAIL KEEP US APART!

I’m not, perhaps, the most romantic person, but I have been known to end emails with “Much Love,” or, “Love Always,” or “xoxo,” because I hate the way “Sincerely,” looks. “Sincerely,” looks, well, kinda insincere, doesn’t it?

That said, I’ve got a story of a good creepers that I dated to regale you with tomorrow.

Guys who drop the L-Bomb right away creep me the fuck out. But I’m as romantic as a booger, so there’s that. If I were you (be glad – very glad – I am not you), I’d probably be a little squiggly and all PROCEED WITH CAUTION from here on out.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Yesterday I broke up with my boyfriend of a year and a half. I feel like it was the right thing to do since we were constantly fighting and growing unhappier with each other every day.

If it was the right thing to do, then why the hell does it have to hurt so much? I feel so lost and alone without him and can’t help thinking about the good times we’d had in the beginning before everything went downhill. I would give anything to have us back at the point when we were happy. But I know that that’s not probable or likely at all.

Is it going to suck this hard forever? And if it was the right thing to do, why do I feel like a huge pile of shit?

Love is an asshole. I’d punch it in the throat if I could.

The short story is that it does get better…eventually. The long story is, of course, that it takes a long fucking time and while you’re getting better, it hurts like hell.

The worse the breakup (for me), the better the relationship had once been. That doesn’t help much, though, does it? Platitudes are fucking bullshit. (so are pants)

I’m sorry as hell you’re hurting and I wish that I could make it better. If you were closer, I’d invite you over for some slasher flicks and popcorn (I hate girly flicks) and maybe even some chocolate ice cream.

Sending you a big, fat, awkward-lasts-too-long-kind of hug right now.

Lots of love.

——————–

All right Pranksters, time to answer with smarter things, the kind I have egregiously overlooked because I was too busy thinking about how much I needed a real, live dancing cactus. Because I really, really do.

——————-

There’s all kinds of blogging discussions to be had all over at my other two blogs. Band Back Together has two and Mushroom Printing has one.

(bloggies)

I met Pashmina in college. She’s one of the few friends that I’ve written about here (Butt Sex Check ring any bells?), mostly because she was my old co-blogger back when Mushroom Printing was a personal blog where we talked about our vaginas and not the stunningly amazing group blog it is today.

I met her when I’d wandered into her dorm room to avoid my roommate, It Means Butterfly, who was probably composing sonnets to her boyfriend (Dave) and, upon spying an ashtray, plopped my ass down and lit a cigarette. We’ve been friends ever since.

While we met Loyola University Chicago, (she was an English major, I was pre-med) I popped a crotch parasite out of my delicate girl bits, she did not. I moved home. Figured my dorm had enough problems with 3AM fire drills; they didn’t need 3AM diaper changes, too. Pashmina stayed at LUC and I enrolled in the nursing program at Elmhurst College.

It was during this time that Pashmina met Dave.

(Dave must have been an extremely popular name from 1975-1985 because there are more Dave’s in my life than any other name)

Dave is not to be confused with The Daver, although, since Pashmina did introduce me to The Daver, initially, I confused the two.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Dave. I was up to my eyeballs in poopy diapers and colic while Pashmina was off gallivanting with her new boyfriend, Dave.

By the time I saw Pashmina again, Ben was a toddler and Dave was no longer Her Boyfriend. I’d taken the train up to her place in the city and as we sat on her couch with our Gay Friend James, overlooking the lake, she mentioned her old boyfriend, Dave. I was instantly riveted.

See, I play War with crappy ex-boyfriends. Like, “So-and-so beats your ex because he did this.” It’s tremendous fun, really. Especially if you’ve had a number of lousy boyfriends (or girlfriends, really), like I have.

So, I perked up. A crappy ex, you don’t say. TELL ME MORE.

James began to laugh. Pashmina joined in. I stared on, perplexed.

“Well,” she said, once she could breathe again. “He wrote me these love letters. And Becky, they were terrible. They were so terrible THAT I SAVED THEM.” She pulled them from a box in the living room.

She wasn’t kidding.

“Read them out loud,” she begged, knowing that acting out melodramatic garbage is something I excel at. She and James were practically pissing themselves.

I stood up, cleared my throat, and began in a voice that any dinner-theatre acting troupe would have admired.

“My Deeearest Pashmina,

I write to you today, my darling, from the train. Oh! (I flung my hand to my forehead to punctuate the emotion) The train is crowded. (I exhaled, dramatically). I thought of you, oh! love of my life! When I was standing in line to get coffee (I paused, to let the emotion roll over me) there was an asshole who cut in front of me! (I pointed my finger at the air, angrily) HOW DARE HE CUT IN FRONT OF ME. (I punched the air with every word)

I love you, my love of my life, oh! (more hand wringing) love of my life.

Dave

P.S. My cat box, OOOOOOOH! (I dragged that out for at least ten seconds) it smells.”

I threw myself back onto the couch in mock-anguish. Pashmina and James had tears coursing down their cheeks.

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” she choked out. “For Christmas,” she giggled, “he made me a calendar.”

Well, I thought, that was kind of lame. But the two of them were carrying on like it was the funniest thing ever. She went to her bedroom and brought it back out.

“He made me a calendar out of DUCT TAPE and COMPUTER PAPER and the FONT was THESE NAKED PEOPLE HAVING SEX, Becky,” she started laughing again. “Each day was something he loved about me.”

“Holy fuckballs,” I chortled, “that’s SO fucking stupid.” Pashmina wasn’t exactly the “I love you because…” kind of person.

“TELL HER THE BEST PART,” James chimed in.

“THE BEST PART IS,” she broke off, overtaken by laughter, “IT ONLY WENT UP TO FEBRUARY 8.”

“BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT’S….that’s so awesomely bad. ‘I only love you 38 days of the year, honey. The rest, you’re SOL,'” I was dying.

“AND,” she gasped, “most of those were repeats!” HE COULDN’T EVEN THINK OF 38 THINGS HE LOVED ABOUT ME.”

“That wins. YOU WIN. OH MY GOD. YOU WIN. I cannot top this,” my sides hurt from laughing so hard.

I’ve been asking her for a copy of this calendar for years now and I still haven’t gotten one, which means that I probably never will. I guess I’ll just have to make one for myself. And shit, to be fair to Dave, I can’t think of 38 things I love about anyone. Then again, I’d never want to make a cheesy calendar about it, either.

Pashmina still makes me perform impassioned readings of her old Love Letters whenever I see her. Some day, maybe I’ll vlog it for you, Pranksters. I never got Love Letters OR Love Calendars, probably because no one loved me enough. Or, more likely, because they knew I’d be unable to handle such grand gestures.

So, who wants to make me a Love Calendar for VD-Day?

YOUR TURN, PRANKSTERS. I want to hear your worst relationship stories.

Bloggies, yo.

———-

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’ll give away a “Shut Your Whore Mouth” shirt to one of you.

For one entry, leave a comment with a relationship story.

For a second entry, add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll (leave a comment letting me know that you did so).

If all goes well, and I don’t freeze to death like an overly-bedazzled, extra-large Popsicle, I’m planning to go downtown* for the Chicago Auto Show. You’re probably scratching your head, possibly throwing things around your living room a la Jerry Springer to express your outrage, because that simply does not sound like something Your Aunt Becky would like to do. And that is where you would be wrong.

I’ve been going to the Chicago Auto Show since I was a wee lass. It’s a Sherrick Family Tradition, begun many years before Your Aunt Becky descended upon this world, smoking cigars and barking out orders (that is how, Pranksters, my mother describes me). Somewhere, I have pictures of me as a baby – carefully held by one of the models that the car companies used to have by the cars – a muppet with curls toddling around in my fancy dresses, a preteen, a sullen teenager with my earphones on, glaring at the camera, and even pictures of me as an adult.

Between school and squalling babies, I’ve been a little busy and I haven’t managed to go in a couple of years.

When Toyota invited me to the first-ever social media preview of the Auto Show, I was gobsmacked.

You’re probably thinking, “oh, well, you’re a BLOBBER, people INVITE YOU TO THINGS,” and you’d be totally wrong. I’m the WRONG KIND of blobber, Pranksters. The only people who like me are the Car People because they don’t give a shit if I swear and that is fine by me.

That is also a conversation I’d love to have another day because I’m totally interested in what you have to say about it. ANYWAY.

So, I’m nervous.

I love cars. You know that. I’ve worked with Ford before for the What Women Want Series over the summer. Cars = rad. I’m not nervous or bored or apprehensive about going to spend the afternoon looking at them.

I’m picturing a claymation non-celebrity Death Match between:

Social Media (blobbers, The Twitterers, Facebook, Tumblr)

versus

Traditional Media (Newspapers, Magazines, Television)

There’s sort of a war going on between them. The rise of self-publishing platforms (WordPress, Blogger, Tumblr, Twitter) has really really REALLY hurt traditional print media (also: the recording industry). They haven’t been able to figure out a way to keep up with the times and stay relevant when people can pop onto Twitter and watch news as it unfolds. How can they compete with that?

Twitter, is free. Blogging, well, it’s (mostly) free**. Advertisers aren’t paying the big bucks to advertise and that’s where traditional print media makes their money.

(advertisers should really pull their heads out of their asses and realize that ALL of our blogs are, indeed, a good place to advertise.)

Traditional media is grappling with ways to offer something that’s different and more lucrative than social media. Traditional media has been reluctant to change. Traditional media has also considered social media it’s bumbling redneck cousin.

Traditional media has a point.

The crux of social media is also it’s beauty: it’s unfiltered.

There are rarely teams of editors fact-checking blogs and Twitter accounts for accuracy. For many things, that’s great: it gives you that extra emotional connection to the writer that may otherwise be missing. But it also allows speculation, rumors and outright lies to be spread without consequence. Sure, a “troll***” might come along and say, “hey, that’s not true, yo,” but one deletable voice in a sea of thousands?

Not that it doesn’t happen in traditional media too, but at least there, the fall from grace is much more pronounced. A blogger can just close up shop and eventually, we forget they existed. Or we don’t and they serve as a warning: “don’t pull a xxx.”

So that means that if I can shake this migraine (I have a double ear infection, adding insult to my toothless injury) I’m nervous of the reception I’ll get. Should I just show up wearing my Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt and a crummy old pair of boxers with a pork rib hanging out of my mouth?

Also: in Claymation Death Match, will they capture my Super-Villain hair properly?

So, what do you think about it all?

*downtown = Chicago.

**I pay a bit for hosting services and a couple of servers because I run Mommy Wants Vodka, Mushroom Printing, We Know Awesome and Band Back Together.

***there are many who consider people who disagree with them “trolls.” Generally, I do not.

—————-

Bloggies?

My first waking thought yesterday was, “and THAT is why I’ll never do meth.” Must have been a hell of a dream.

I padded down the stairs and blearily poured myself a bucket of coffee. I was out of Redbull, so I made it with water. No wings for me, I thought sadly, as I started to try and piece together something to be offended by. Motrin Moms was so last year. Groupon was too easy. We are PRANKSTERS. We needed something like John C. Mayer, but better, I thought as I rubbed my tongue across my teeth.

Furious George had merit. Furious George Takes Over The Internet. Furious George Cuts Bob Ross. Furious George...wait…what the hell?

My tongue encountered something unexpected. Sharp, even. A popcorn kernel? That wily bastard!

I stumbled to the bathroom to floss (not remembering, of course, that it had been awhile since I’d had popcorn) and looked in the mirror.

What.

The.

Shit?

My tooth was missing.

Or, I should say, a big chunk of it.

I had somehow managed to crack a tooth while sleeping.

I’m notorious for ridiculous injuries. I broke a toe making a sandwich (it wasn’t even FOR ME). I broke a door carrying a diet Coke (24 ounces of swinging death, baby). I jammed up my ankle walking down the stairs (not even saving a basket of cuddly puppies from a house fire). I cut my eyeball at a wedding on my birthday (I can’t begin to explain this one). I don’t know how Lassie makes this shit look glamorous because I sure as hell don’t.

But my tooth. Broken. While sleeping. This takes fucked-up to a whole new level of awesomely dumb.

I got it fixed, of course. I can’t be a toothless blogger. Lord knows someone might actually see me someday.

So if anyone asks, I broke my tooth chewing the bones of my sworn enemies. Like John C. Mayer. And Mark Zuckerberg.

This will be our little secret, Pranksters. Just you and me and the Internet.

Also, uh, don’t do meth.

————–

What’s the stupidest injury you’ve ever gotten, Pranksters?

————–

Blah-blah-bloggies. I’ll do something humiliating for you guys if I win. YOUR CHOICE.

I spent a good deal of time yesterday trying desperately to be offended, Pranksters. I looked everywhere. We needed a CAUSE. A pet cause! Something to be Furious George about. Everywhere I looked, Bloggers were angry – really mad – about things.

We had nothing. HM. Maybe that’s a good cause.

(I’m still thinking. Maybe a Furious George Campaign? Fists of Fury? Something SUPER AWESOME that we can all link up together like the John C. Mayer thing)(Holler if you think of something)

Well, I had this, a memory I’d long repressed, thanks to years of painful flashbacks. Another example of how stupid I used to be before I simply shut my own whore mouth and kept my opinions to myself.

Scene: Movado jewelry store, circa 2005. Movado, if you don’t know it, is a fairly fancy watch maker, who also makes modernish, interesting jewelry. It’s like Tiffany & Co, but way better.

I’d gone in with a friend of mine to buy something ridiculously expensive. My taste in jewelry runs from the stuff you have to ensure to this, which I wear most days:

It’s hit or miss.

But that day, I was buying something fancy-pants. I was chatting with the salesperson, who was my age (25) and relatively hip. She brought up engagement rings, something I cannot speak with any authority on, unless you want to talk metal (platinum) or size (big). The minute you start going on about clarity and grading, my eyes glass over. But she and my friend were having a grand old time. They pulled out engagement rings (much to my dismay) and started trying them on, cooing over each of them.

I was bored shitless so I opened my stupid trap.

“Phew, at least you don’t have any HEART-SHAPED DIAMONDS. THOSE THINGS ARE FUG.”*

Now, I love hearts. Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday because I love hearts so much. Hearts = rad.

But for my engagement ring, something I’m (presumably) supposed to wear every single day? Not so much. I like those uh, circle diamond ones. Whatever they’re called.

(I just got my vagina-license revoked)

Anyway, back at Movado, Girlfriend cast a WITHERING look at me.

She snapped the engagement rings back from my friend as she sputtered out, “MY MOTHER HAS A HEART-SHAPED DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING.”

Then she flounced off.

I’d found and managed to offend the only 25-year old in Oak Brook who loved and planned upon owning a heart-shaped diamond.

THAT took talent.

————

Okay, it’s your turn, Pranksters. I need some embarrassing stories from you guys now. I’M STILL UPSET ABOUT THIS ONE. I hate hurting people’s feelers.

————

Bloggies? Vote? PLEASE? If I win, I promise to do something incredibly embarrassing.

*I wear a necklace with my name on it. NO one should be offended by my taste in ANYTHING.

I am notoriously dense.

Okay, that came out wrong, because you’re thinking of me like I’m a piece of particle board or something, which I am most certainly not. I am much more glamorous than particle board, Pranksters. But I’m not always very smart when it comes to things that will deeply, mortally wound others. That’s why I was really hesitant to post the question from Prankster #1 yesterday.

The first time I really wounded someone unintentionally, I was in high school. It was Christmas time. I’d just gone shopping for my friends, and if you know me, I’m a great gift-buyer…so long as you don’t expect anything you want or anything useful. A light-up shower head, perhaps, or a toilet seat that sings “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” when you sit on it. These are things on my own want list, so you can imagine what I’d have picked out at 17, when my budget was a little tighter.

I’d bought one of my friends some sparkly Crayola* bath soap and another some Jack Daniels flavored coffee. The one that I deeply wounded, I’d bought some lotion.

It was called “Udderly Smooth.”

Now, I found this uproariously funny. The lotion, that is. It’s lotion, that’s all, “I’m for udders, motherfucker!” I really couldn’t see anything not awesomely hilarious about this. I was certain that my friend, who loved a joke as much as I did, would love it.

This was not what I expected to have happen. I’ve added some pictures so that you can better feel like you were there.

Aunt Becky: “Merry Christmas, yo! Sorry I didn’t wrap it. Wrapping is bullshit.”

My Friend: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

Aunt Becky: *giggles* “Isn’t it awesome? It’s like it’s for COWS but it’s NOT. It’s fucking WHIMSICAL. I FUCKING LOVE WHIMSICAL SHIT.”

My Friend: “How could you DO this do me?”

Aunt Becky (thinking that she’s joking): “….”

My Friend: “THIS IS NOT OKAY.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

My Friend: “I thought YOU WERE MY FRIEND.”

Aunt Becky: “….”

My Friend: “We are NOT on SPEAKING TERMS. (flounces away)”

Aunt Becky: “Uh….”

It took her flouncing away for me to understand that the lotion had offended her. I, of course, was baffled. It was LOTION that was HILARIOUSLY HILARIOUS. I crawled back into the hot tub with my boyfriend who tried to comfort me with his penis.

I spent more time knocking my three brain cells around my skull trying to figure out what the problem with the lotion was than I’d spent trying to logicate who had the better version of “Hair of the Dog.” (the jury in my head is still out) I think I finally got it.

She thought I was calling her fat.

I wasn’t, of course. I’m not oblique or shy and if I have something to say, I’m not about to say it through a toilet seat or a bottle of lotion. And, quite frankly, the day that I end up caring about someone else’s weight is the day that I have entirely too much time on my hands.

Anyway, it was good preparation for blogging. Because you can’t say ANYTHING without pissing someone off. Or mortally offending them. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so annoying.

Like this:

Me: “Mayo is bullshit.”

Response: “My great grandfather invented Miracle Whip, you know, and it cures diseases. So I’d appreciate it if you never talked badly about it again.”

Response: “Mayo is my religion and we pray to it every night. Are you, Aunt Becky a blasphemer? *THROWS STONES* I SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH, SINNER!”

Response: “I cannot be friends with someone who hates mayo.”

Response: “U R a bitter asshole. Why can’t you be happy for other people who LOVE mayo? Why do you have to be MEAN to people who hate mayo?”

Well, I’m tired of being the person who isn’t offended by things. I’m SO tired of letting minor irritations pass me by unaware, each tiny infraction not complained about, not picked apart piece by ever-loving piece. I, too, can be outraged! I, too, have wells of untapped anger that I want to unleash on the world!

I want a Twibbon and a snappy blog campaign full of righteous indignation! Maybe I can even turn my avatar a different color to support my cause! I want to set a Google alert and troll blogs of people with the opposite viewpoint! I WANT A BUTTON, DAMMIT.

Now, I just need a cause. My broken fingernail? Black socks? Thousand Island dressing? …powdered gravy? These ideas all have merit.

Pranksters, I think that the time for Pranking is afoot. We need a fake campaign of indignation that sounds real.

Suggestions?

*not paid endorsement.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Hypothetically, let’s say you have an obese ‘friend’ (more than acquaintance, not BFF’s). You see something that you think would interest them because of their size, like a show or a blog. Do you tell them about it knowing they’ll make the connection to their size? Or just keep it to yourself?

*whistles* Oh Prankster, this question seems positively fraught with peril.

My dad gave me two pieces of advice (he’s given me WAY more than that):

1) “Put on some goddamned pants, Rebecca.”

3) Don’t ever talk shit about the in-laws, ask if someone is pregnant unless the baby is hanging out of their vagina, or bring up weight.

Recently, I got a PR pitch, something that rarely happens to me because I swear a lot (because swearing = awesome), so I was a little flattered. This company was offering me free plus-sized clothes.

Awkward.

I’m not plus-sized. I don’t know that you’d know what I weigh or what size I wear by reading my blog or anything, but this was a little…awkward. It didn’t hurt my feelings or anything. I mean, I’m more offended when someone expects me to jump up and down for a $5 box of chocolates, but if I’d gotten the pitch when I still losing the baby weight? I might not have liked it. No, scratch that, I’d have cried. I was really sensitive about it.

So, I don’t know that I can tell you what you should do since I don’t know you or her or your relationship to her, but I’ll tell you that I ignored my dad’s first rule (pants are bullshit, after all), but I do try and follow number two. Unless she’s asking you for referral, I think this is better left alone. Hurt feelings aren’t easily mended.

Pranksters? Advice?

Dear Aunt Becky,

The night I was born, my mother called my father at 1am in the morning saying “This baby will not go to sleep!” And I basically haven’t slept ever since.

Quite literally from the day I was born, I’ve been an insomniac. Actually, even worse than an insomniac, I’ve been a nocturnal insomniac. A term I’m 20% certain I made up, meaning I’m about 99% more likely to have luck falling asleep during the day than at night. No matter how exhausted I feel during the day, the sun goes down and suddenly I’m wide awake. I’m not sure if I’m a vampire or an opossum, but either way, it’s ANNOYING!

I’m 20 1/2 years old and this thing has been messing up my life my. whole. life. I would rather like to NOT go through the remainder of my life feeling like a zombie. As I have everyday of my life thus far. And sleeping pills are NOT the answer! So speaking to a fellow insomniac and fellow merry pranksters, are there any magic tricks I can try or voodoo people I can see? Because my internal clock really needs to be reset.

Sincerely,

Sleepless In A City Other Than Seattle

Oh Prankster, my Prankster, I’d love to churn out something flip and witty and coy about insomnia, but I can’t because I haven’t slept properly in weeks.

Like you, I’m nocturnal. I’ve spent thirty years trying to reverse this. Thirty years trying to fit into a world that doesn’t operate on my schedule. And you know what I’ve learned? I can’t.

I also go through cycles where sleep doesn’t come no matter what I do. Insomnia is a wily bastard. I have no doubt that someone like Heath Leger, who reportedly suffered insomnia, was just trying to get some freaking sleep.

As for curing your insomnia, I wish like hell I had anything of substance to offer you. I write (in my head) when I can’t sleep. I take sleep aids. I’ve tried a bedtime routine and chamomile tea and candles and visualization and meditation and relaxation and exercise and sex and melatonin there’s nothing that’s much helped me. I’m a shitty sleeper.

Tonight I’m certain I’ll be up with some catchy commercial jingle in my head because it’s not bad enough that I can’t sleep – I have to hear the Turn The (fucking) Tub Around song while I lay in bed watching the minutes tick by growing more and more irritated with each passing second.

Maybe I’ll catch you on IM sometime.

Pranksters? Any advice for Sleepless and Your Aunt Becky?

So, Pranksters, I have a Go Ask Aunt Becky question up over here and it’s about cosmetic surgery. As in: what would you tell your daughter if you were going to be getting a boob job? I haven’t been able to look at the comments because I’m terrified that I’m being shredded in them. Plastic surgery, it seems, is one of those things that people get very up in arms about.

And, as always, please feel free to pick up where I left off in the comments. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say in response to all of these questions. Because, obviously.

Blah, blah, blah, BLOGGIES.

When I got this shirt, several things happened:

We had the “Storm of the Century” in Chicago.

I got nominated for a Bloggie*.

My sex appeal increased by 9 million.

Everyone I know* stopped wanting to hang out with me.

The last of which, I know, is only because they couldn’t bear to be in the company of such epic greatness without feeling sadly inferior. I mean, it’s a PURPLE UNICORN SHIRT. How can you not feel like you are somehow not good enough? Even I can’t tell where the shirt ends and the awesome begins!

So after I strapped on this beautiful purple unicorn shirt, I got an email from my friend Cecily asking if I wanted to talk to a psychic. I’m sure she sensed the shift in the Earth’s Gravitational Pull and knew I needed to hear what my destiny held. Of course I agreed. I’m a big fan of Miss Cleo and her infomercials.

I’d never talked to a psychic before so I was slightly nervous. What would this brilliant seer into my soul say?

Well, it turns out, Pranksters, this will BE MY YEAR. Without giving away too much (are psychic readings like birthday wishes?), I’m going to be a very busy girl. I’ll finally manage to sell my books. PUBLISHERS, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO CALL ME.

The psychic was eerily accurate about a bunch of details about my life and I don’t know if it’s the Epic Unicorn Shirt or what, but I’m feeling downright giddy about what the future holds and that’s not even because I drank five cups of coffee that I made with Redbull instead of water. Let’s get this book-selling-career-starting-unicorn-shirt-wearing-show-on-the-road!

Pranksters, we’ve got a world to take over and an internet to take back from Mark Zuckerberg and Jimmy Wales. I’m not going anywhere without you guys. And my purple unicorn shirt. Naturally.

P.S. Weather Channel, CALL ME. This is the worst map yet:

Ah, that’s better.

*You should, um, vote for me if you want, and, um, stuff. I’m up for Best Humor (I think they meant “funniest looking”) and Best Writing. And Band Back Together is up for Best Kept Secret.

**3 people

Dear Amelia,

When you were two, you were a tiny Muppet of a girl, all curls and whirls and bounce and fire.

When you were two, you danced when you were happy; clapping your hands and snorting and giggling.

When you were two, you could also kick the ass of anyone who needed it with your fists of fury. Your fury is legendary.

When you were two, Hello Kitty was your best friend. You called it “Hi Kitty.”

When you were two, your laughter sounded like the tinkling of a thousand bells.

When you were two, your mother tried to make you a heart cuppity-cake. It looked like testicles.

When you were two, your mother bought herself a present to celebrate your birth.

When you were two, your house was filled with balloons and laughter and love and light.

And for a moment, on the day that you were two, my heart took flight.

Happy Birthday, My Princess of the Bells, Amelia Grace.

Yesterday, everyone freaked out as the Great Storm of 2011, SnOMG made it’s way towards the Midwest. I was reminded of the Great Hamdemic of Aught Niner. I was one of the lucky ones felled by the Swine Flu (I actually ended up SUING it at the People’s Court. I won. No, seriously. I did.) (I owe my victory to I Eat My Kids Snacks.)

I remember laying around in a sick, feverish haze, watching Dexter – hating Lila – drinking buckets of Delsym when I saw on the Panic! section of the news, they’d interviewed a cat. A fucking CAT. A cat that had the swine flu.

Now, that brings up so many more questions than it could ever answer.

7) Where did that cat come from?

13) Was the cat actually a dog?

19) Did that news anchor go home and cry because she hadn’t gotten straight A’s in Journalism School to live her life interviewing animals?

23) Why would anyone care?

And now I have one more question:

31) Where was that cat during SnoPocalypse 2011?

All week, all I heard was “put on some fucking pants,” (my family) and “ZOMG STORM ZOMG” (the Internet) and I couldn’t help but wonder: was this going to be another HamDemic?

Yesterday, I sat, waiting for SnoGasm2011 to turn me into a Popsicle*, I felt kinda…unprepared. I mean, I had some candles somewhere (probably) and a flashlight without batteries somewhere else, and I even had some bottles of water. I went as far as to charge my phone as the sky remained bright and clear. SnoPocolypse 2011 seemed…a bit dull.

But Twitter hit a fever pitch. I’m not even sure anyone on The Twitter was actually in any areas affected by SnoTorious BIG.

Begrudgingly, I checked the weather.

Well, that looked mighty impressive. Especially since I live in the middle of the two arrows.

Why, those arrows made me want to get some cardboard and write THE END IS NIGH and run around my neighborhood screaming about the end of days. Or, at the very least, maybe find something to eat. Arrows make me hungry.

After I looked at the arrows, then sadly at my microwave, and back at the arrows again (microwaving is an awful lot of work!), I got that old familiar DING sound. Had I just won another 10000000$ from a Nigerian Relative? COULD IT REALLY BE? OH HAPPY DAY!

Frantically, I checked my email.

Oh. No. Not money. It was an email from the school district (BOO) telling me that school was being let out 45 minutes early (DOUBLE BOO) and canceled for the following day (TRIPLE BOO).

Apparently, those arrows did not make other people hungry.

It took many hours for the snow to begin. When it did, I checked the weather again.

Oh. So. Now we had 50 MPH winds, snow, ice storms, blizzards, and floods? Where were the plagues of locusts and cats and dogs living together in total anarchy?

But wait. The End of Days may have been upon us, but I was more concerned about one thing: that map had no arrows! It was just a map with blue stuff on it. This was not a map befitting the Storm of the Century. I mean, we had ThunderSnow!

I had to step in.

Well that was a little better. The arrows added a little something to it. But it was snowing AND thundering AND flooding. This map did not do SnotoriousBIG 2011 justice!

PHEW. This map is a little more impressive. When you add a skull-and-crossbones to anything, it’s WAY more hardcore. Plus, DANGER and NO with a line through it? This map is practically OSCAR-worthy.

It was missing something.

But…what?

PERFECT. It’s now a FESTIVE LET’S! PANIC! map befitting the end of the world in the Great Blizzaster of 2011. This map was getting pretty awesome!

It’s only missing one adorable thing. My fake dead cat, Mr. Sprinkles!

Why, that crazy fake cat gets into everything in a wily, yet adorable way!

Screw blogging. I’m going to make MAPS. Festive ones that SCARE people in a decidedly ADORABLE way.

79) What flavor would I be? That question will keep me up all night.