Oooh you're from the states, yah?

You know, I haven't been culture shocked yet. I thought for sure just stepping off the plane and heading into Londontown I'd feel like MY LIFE HAS CHANGED FOREVER but it really hasn't. Thus far on my trip I've learned that English food is awesome provided you eat at the right places (and NO I have not had Indian food yet!), that it's a bunch of bologna that London is full of tiny cars. London is like New York City but like a million years old with quirkier people. It's like Central London is Manhattan and South London is like whatever the bad neighborhood of NYC is. Queens? Bronx? I dunno. Something I haven't visited since I was a kid and was clearly not impressed by it and decided to toss it out of my head. LOL.

So let's recap my trip thus far:

2/26:

Land at 1:00 pm at Heathrow. Instead of taking a cab we decided to take the tube from place to place because my dad said it was the way to go. Well, it turns out we were carrying luggage up and down gigantic flights of stairs (may I just add that my suitcase had a HEAVY tag on it and Dom had to do it for me) and I'm sure all the Londonites were laughing hysterically at the stupid Americans with all their fucking luggage and being lost and not knowing where to go. Finally, we all got sick of going from train to train because the subway system here is a fucking zoo so we got off and found ourselves a cab to take us back to the West Kensington Hotel.

Somehow my mom got this bright idea to book the room through American Express with the "American Express will never fail me" mentality. She booked the Kensington West. The West Kensington Hotel is actually not a hotel. It's more like a maze made for monkeys that you'd find in an animal testing lab. When we checked in they probably named us all "exhibit a, b, c & d" so forth and i would not be surprised if there were hidden cameras everywhere and being broadcasted live on the interwebz. First of all, you go up to go down to go to down, then through 50 doors to go up and then down again and each room has a front door then 1 foot away in front of it is a fire door. It makes for interesting ways of how to get inside the room itself. It's very reminiscent of MC Escher's "Relativity" (see pic at top). This place is a joke. A total fucking joke. The lift isn't really a lift. It's more a coffin that was purchased on clearance sale because your family doesn't love you and doesn't care where, how, or how well fit you are to your coffin. Fold you in half? Fine. Just get in. If the damn thing would have stopped for more than a minute I probably would have said my prayers because I don't think oxygen would last more than a minute in there. The room is the same size as my bedroom at home and the bathroom is no bigger than a phone booth. Honestly, I think I can shit better in a phone booth. The 1 foot by 1 foot shower is actually a phone booth style door which opens TOWARDS you so if you are fat you are not coming out. Come to think of it, I don't think my parents have showered yet. If you touch the water knob it's like a 10 degree difference and it circulates between boiling the skin and subzero temperatures so in essence it's torture. The room smells like fresh caca on a hot, humid day with a slight hint of musk. This "quad" room is really meant for four cats.... Four very thin, very poor cats. Granted the neighborhood is absolutely adorable and somehow this bed and breakfast place got good reviews so we didn't think it would be as terrible as it really is. Clearly the reviews were from people who live in a mud hut in Africa because this is not suitable for people. At least we are moving to a new hotel at Hyde Park tomorrow.

On the plus side, everything about this room has been a comedy show. I don't think my family and I have laughed as a whole this much since I was born. My mom doesn't stop complaining about everything, my dad is making my mom's life Hell, Dom's making jokes at both my dad and mom's expense and this is life here in London. It's fucking hilarious and awesome, in the most uncomfortable way ever.

So besides the fact that the Hotel is beyond rubbish, our first night we accomplished the hilarious. Somehow we strolled into a gay bar and ate dinner there. After getting to the what i am now calling the research facility, we took off for a walk and went to the first pub-looking thing we found. It is called Three Kings. It is a gay bar. We didn't know it was a gay bar. I mean, back in Los Angeles you go a gay bar and people are CLEARLY GAY. There is no football on tv, beer on draft or pub food. It's all about fashion, fruity martini's and dirty sex. Somehow this somewhat normal bar was a gay bar. But none of the men looked gay. or sounded gay. In some way this sort of depresses me because I love the gays and my dad gets uncomfortable WHICH IS AWESOME because he ends up babbling and embarrassing my mom. The poor waitress tried to warn us by saying this "isn't a normal restaurant" and my dad was like, "yeah, it's a pub!" and she she was like, "yeaaaaaaahhh... kind of like a pub..." I think we should have gotten the hint but I guess jetlag got the best of us. Dom got a couple of winkies and his good looks and charm should have gotten us free food and it didn't. For my first dinner in London I was disappointed because I ordered fish & chips and it was mush and crap and the peas were over cooked but I did discover this shit called HP sauce and it sort of makes my life. I will need to bring some home. After the gay "pub" we tooled around in the subway system where my dad decided to lead us to every single wrong station possible. It is there
that my mom almost had a mental breakdown and started crying and calling my dad a stupid man. I guess she is right that he is stupid but in some way I am happy she was the first to cry. I TOTALLY thought it would be me.

After fighting the subway systems we had this brilliant idea to take a double decker to Picadilly and Dom and I slept through the whole ride. What's interesting is that my dad normally sleeps like 20 hours in a day but being the Jew that he is, he figures if he's paying for it he will absorb as much of it as possible which means zero sleep for the weary. My dad does well in zombie-land I guess. I also discovered that the man does not stop drinking and wakes up at random hours to drink a tall can of carlsberg beer he keeps next to his bed.

Anyway, I think this blog is long enough. I will post about 2/27 when I wake up since it's 3 something am and i'm taking a break from sleeping.

BYE!

I'm leaving in a little bit to go to London for the next few days. I'll post once I'm in Londontown.

10.5 hours on a plane, yikes!

peace ya'll.

la birra.

Well, I've done the impossible. I have temporarily cured my plane anxiety without the use of drugs, alcohol, therapy, church, magic or witchcraft. I still have 1892734198247198274 pills of xanax just in case I pull a Marge Simpson on the plane but for now I'm running on pure excitement for my European adventure.Dom, on the other hand, is freaking out over the 10.5 hours until we land at Heathrow and how he "will not survive the flight because of my ADD." I guess in order to make my flight more comfortable, I will have to kill him. It sort of sucks but at least I'll have his brand new awesome camera, all his cash, his credit card and then I'll find myself a nice English boy when I'm in London. I'm hoping I'll find one with Cuban fever that'll appreciate a big round ass, because if I need to buy one I'll be pissed. The exchange rate sucks.

K. Fat & Monkey-Eyes.

Dom and I saw these two sacks of shit today at the Target in Woodland Hills while we were on a hunt for thermals. Kevin Federline and Victoria Prince or whateverthefuckhernameis walked right by us and Dom didn't even notice. I pulled him in and I was like, "Did you see that was Kevin Federline?" - and before he could even answer me he grabbed my arm, jammed me around the corner and we were basically eye to eye with them. Actually, because they are both a million feet tall and Dom and I aren't the tallest of peoples, I think I met Victoria at her pussy line and Dom was somewhere where her tits should be. I think out of all the celebrities I've seen (or pseudo-celebrities in this case), they are very different in person that I would have thought.

First and foremost, since when has Kevin Federline been tall? Did he take HGH or something? I know his bitch is like the size of a Sequoia, but since when is he just as tall as she is? I always thought he would be the type to stuff inserts into his shoes, stand on his tippy toes for photo-ops, or make her hunch over so they would appear to be the same height. Chubb-o is actually a tall man. I didn't know tall men made for good dancers (which - clearly by belt size, he hasn't done since he hit the jackpot by impregnating Britney with his dirty fat seed). Shows what I know. Us lollipop guild people have a skewed vision of the world. Secondly, holy shit the man is fucking fat. FAT. Not like "I wear big t-shirts because I wanna pretend I'm a gangster" fat but "I wear big t-shirts because I am a fucking fat ass" fat. Holy for sale by pound cow, he is huge. Gossip blogs, you have failed me in letting me know how fat he really is. I hope he and Eminem will soon find each other on a celebrity edition of The Biggest Loser.

I guess the most noticeable thing for me about Victoria prince is not that she looks like something I should hang ornaments from, but it's her creepy eyes. Her eyes look like my dog's eyes. They are perfectly round, small and beady. My mom and I always say Sierra has monkey eyes. This bitch had Sierra's same fucking monkey eyes. It's cute on a little monkey, it's kinda creepy on a dog because the expression is either "i want attention" or "i wanna bite" and nothing in between, but on a human, it's just creepy. Her eyes were accompanied with giiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigantic DSL's which I somewhat expected. I guess if I were K-Fat I would forgive her for having the creepiest little monkey eyes in exchange to have full-time usage of her DSL's. She gives Jolie a good run for her money, especially since they don't have that injection-looking puff to it.

I guess the moral of this story doesn't exist - and I guess none of this shit I wrote even matters but it gave me something to write about before I went to bed. So now that talking about Kevin Fed'erfat has made me sleepy and somewhat nauseated, I guess I could wrap up this blog by saying fuck you all. And I still need thermals.

l'alcol.

I am not a normal person by any means. When someone tells me to go to sleep so I can get better it almost makes me want to go play in the non-existent snow. So knowing that my source of sickness comes from Dom's house, I go to Dom's house to get better. Tonight I was was pinned down to the ground while kicking and screaming and funnel forced a Hot Toddy like a goose for foie gras. I think Dom's mom is going to harvest my liver after tonight. I am surprisingly able to walk and talk, all while being very drunk and non-as-coughy-as-before at the same time, if that makes any sense. Whatever it is, I can breathe better than I could a few hours ago and it all started with something hot and horrible tasting. It was followed by some black pills that smelled like shit and black currant and who knows what else after that point. All I know is that I'm playing with holistic fire and I'm hoping that I don't burn down my insides. I came home and z-packed myself (which - I'm not exactly sure if i should be drinking and antibioticing - but i don't care) so if I don't get better well then shit, I should be studied because I might have created my own hybrid strain of HIV/SARS.

il supplemento.

It is pretty much a guarantee that every time I step into Dom's family's house, I will walk out with some sort of flesh eating bacteria or boiling the brain fever. I don't know how it's possible considering Dom's mom is not only a clean freak, but you can open any cupboard and I promise you that you will die from the tidal wave of vitamins and holistic products that will come crashing out all over the floor.

So, I have some weird bug. again. This is like the millionth and one time I've been sick this winter. I am going to blame my malfunctioning immune system on stress and anxiety. Fairly normal, right? At least I am not throwing up this time like what I got around New Years. That flu was gnar (24 hours straight of vomitose. AWESOME!)

Yesterday I went to the doctor and she gave me a Z-pack and cough syrup with codiene. I got like 108937019283109283091283 xanax pills too but that's for my 5 PLANES that I will be taking going to and from europe and the plane rides i will be taking from country to country since we don't have enough time to be dicking around on 20 hour train rides. ANYWAY. So Dom has been taking care of my sick ass which has been nice. He has been pumping me full of vitamins, tucking me into my WTF blanket, putting socks on my feet, rubbing my back, making me tea and making me food since I'm inept right now.

At some point last night I decided to be a smartie and OD myself on all my vitamins (I think it was 12 pills in total), cough syrup with codiene and my z-pack on an empty stomach. I'm not sure what happened, or why it happened, but shortly thereafter I started to get really fucking hot, i had anxiety attack after anxiety attack, closed eye hallucinations and my heart was racing. Poor Dom didn't sleep at all last night. He kept waking up and feeling my forehead, peeling off my clothing because i was too hot and then would change my shirts when I'd sweat in them, he kept taking my pulse and checking my temp all night. At one point he even went in the bathroom with me to pee because i was dizzy and he was worried, LOL. I bet if I would have told him I am too crippled to wipe he probably would have done that for me. My boyfriend > yours.

But let's talk about these closed eye hallucinations for a second. THIS WAS THE GNARLIEST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE. I kept closing my eyes and I was surrounded by Death. Literally, Death. Like - Death from The Simpsons and Family Guy. DEATH. Then I felt like I was going to Hell and there was fire and skulls and crossbones everywhere and blah blah. So if that's a forecast to the afterlife, I guess I'm screwed. I better learn to enjoy it now.

I woke up this morning feeling half back to normal. It's like the z-pack decided to attack everything in my system and KICK IT THE FUCK OUT last night when I thought I was on my way to Hell.

Anyway, my point is that I'm glad that I no longer have this excessive need to rip out my own lungs and scrub them with pinesol and clorox. My trip to Europe is 6 days away and I will be alllllllllllllllllllll bettttteeeerrrrrrrrrrr to take pictures of me humping and eating my way through Europe with Dom. Awesome!

Sexting.

If you have not pressed the little red X at the top right hand corner of your screen, then I thank you for being normal enough to live in the year 2009.

There have been several articles all over the internet about sexting; so many articles that Fox LA News had to do a 5 minute segment of it tonight on the 10 pm news.

For those that don't know, this is the definition of SEXTING from Urban Dictionary:

a term created by the media referring to sending sexually explicit text messages. the term is used by adults who are out of the loop, and not by the individuals actually sending the messages. "In other news, teens in Hicktown, PA were caught 'sexting' in class, and were promptly reported to local authorities as well as their parents."

See picture at top of page for an example of a "sext."

Some blue-eyed blonde "aspiring model" that fit her stupid stereotype to a T decided she wanted to be interviewed. She went on to say that she had to cancel text messaging from her phone because she received 189027384198273912873192873982173981279 explicit text messages on her phone from 'people she didn't know' and it's not appropriate because "children can see it."

Look stupid blondie. Let me level with you. The reason you get 192837129837129837129837129837891273 text messages to your phone is because you're an ASPIRING MODEL. You're probably still paying thousands of dollars to get your pictures taken by John Robert Powers and handing your phone out to any piece of penis out there that has "connections." It's simple. The more people that have your phone number, the more stupid text messages you get. For example, have you ever noticed that around the holidays you get spammed with impersonal text messages from people you have NO IDEA WHO THEY ARE that are like "HI!!! HAPPY X-MAS!!! XOXO!!! LUVLUVLUV!!!" The reason you do not know who that person is because:
a) they are creepy and stole it from your facebook;
b) you gave your number away at a bar/club/whatever to someone to "chill sometime";
c) you were too drugged to remember; and
d) you were planning on using this person for some reason.

Really, it's THAT simple. If you're too stupid to realized that if you're getting 289743129837129837129873 text messages from people you 'dont know' then maybe it's time to change your number. Look, it's not like you'll be missing much with a new number. If you still haven't gotten that modeling contract and you look like you're pushing your 30's , go try out for America's Next Top Model and hope they'll take your broken, busted face and leathered body.

I guess what's even more disturbing is that this "MODEL" said it's inappropriate because "children can see it." Question to the reader: How often do young children go through your phone, know specifically to go to your text messages, open your MMS messages and look at the photos? I don't even remember the last time a child held my phone, must less trying to use the damn thing. Plus, I thought the new way of raising children was to show them pornography at the youngest age possible? Shit, Dom's 9 year old sister has been watching porn since she was crowning. I plan on porn raising my children just like the bugs bunny raised me. Instead of watching furries, my kid will watch the real deal and not be surprised when she sees her first penis and it's not covered in soft gray hair.

The point is: if you have a serious problem with SEXTING text messages, maybe sit down and think about why you may have this issue. Change your number. It might help.

Food Spank.

To cure my anxiety about going to Europe, I started a new blog called FOOD SPANK. There's nothing on it yet, but oh oh ohhhh trust me, there will be. I will be bringing Dom's macbook and my dad will have his company laptop in Europe, so since I plan on doing nothing other than walking , eating, not sleeping and drugging myself throughout my European adventure, I will have a LOT to blog about. Hopefully I do not eat myself to death. But I guess dying of eating too much on vacation wouldn't be such a horrible death after all. It's better than being eaten alive by squirrels, like the way I think my dad will depart Earth. I just hope that if I die with a bucket of fish & chips stuck in my throat in a London pub, that Dom gets a picture of it and posts it at my funeral. He did get a new camera, might as well make good use of it, right?

Hearts & Gizmos.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Abbiamo rotto questo.

Today is my dad's birthday. I guess I will take a break from roasting my friends and roast my dad instead. It's not even a matter of needing to roast my dad, he has the uncanny ability to roast himself on a daily basis. I guess this will be like a mini biography of him, rather than something that you know is clearly a joke. Seriously people, when I talk about my dad I tend to not be joking. He's probably one of the most brilliant people I know, with the least amount of common sense a person could possibly possess. He is at the ripe old age of 51, which is good I guess considering he looks - um - average - for his age. He acts like he's 7, but sleeps like he's 80. I guess somewhere that meets in the middle at 51, right? He bitches like a woman experiencing her first wave of menopause, including the hot flashes, and sometimes throws HUGE hissy fits over the dishes not being done, very similar to the ones I'd have when I'd go to Toys R' Us as a kid and not get a new Polly Pocket. Sometimes he acts like a wimpy 1940's house wife, but let's not tell him that.

My dad is barely a grown up adult. Yes, he's a responsible man and goes to work. Somehow I'm still in disbelief that my dad is considered an "executive" now who's actually IMPORTANT in his corporation because when I look at my dad I look at a little boy who wants to play with his choo choos. He should permanently wear blue and white pin striped overalls with a matching locomotive engineer's hat. That would be the most appropriate attire for his personality. It's like you look at him you see that although he has a good life, he'd rather be working on a steam locomotive and he'd say nothing but "choo choo. choo choo. choo choo." I guess growing up my dad idolized classic children's story "The Little Engine That Could." In his case, it's "The Little Engine That Could Eat 33 Hostess Cherry Pies and 47 Carney's Hot Dogs." And no, it is by no coincidence that Carney's happens to be my dad's favorite restaurant EVER. It's NOT because of the hot dogs. It's because it's in a choo choo. Don't let him fool you otherwise. See, my mom learned her lesson last year. Last year we spent something in the thousands at Mastro's Steakhouse last year for my dad's 50th birthday when all he wanted was to eat at the choo choo. She has forever learned that the best way to make my dad happy (and to save money) is to take him to the big yellow choo choo in the valley. The joke of the house is that my dad has the palate of a 9 year old. In reality, it's not too far off base.

Again, my dad is brilliant. I don't care if you have your PhD in history, my dad WILL OWN YOU. He missed his calling like 120 years ago when he graduated high school. He should have gone to college to be a history professor. The man LOVES history. He could probably reenact all of WWII in the living room which would be hilarious since he was raised Jewish. I guess I could join him and play the role of Hitler. ICH BRENNE DICH! Which I guess translated to English means "I will burn you." I am so going to Hell after that one. Anyway, he has an extensive collection of creepy books that look older than time, that are absolutely irreplaceable since they are all autobiographies personally given to him by said person writing about his or her life. I know I keep repeating myself but he's really brilliant... Which is why it amazes me sometimes on how unbelievably stupid he can be.

I honestly do not have enough time in this day to write out all the stupid things he has done, but let's recap his top 5 best moments in RECENT years.

5) Sheet Metal Doesn't Make For Good Wall Paper:

A few years ago my mom really started to get on my dad about working on the house. I'm pretty sure she gave him a rather extensive list of things that needed to be cleaned/repaired/replaced blah blah. Instead of my dad trying to make his life easier and just listening to my mom, he decided to bring home scraps of sheet metal and mount them in the garage as wall paper. Not only did he get absolutely nothing accomplished from said list of things to do, the entire garage is like a gigantic mirror and when you open the door it sounds like a gong. Now every time someone comes over and hear that GONG noise we need to explain how my dad tried to turn the garage into a Buddhist Temple.


4) Elementary Arithmetic ALWAYS Applies:

I don't think I need to even explain this story. This is best written in a basic math problem to avoid my own embarrassment.

Young, extremely athletic personal trainer + jumping on work out ball = balance and skill.

Old, feeble and crippled man + jumping on work out ball = attempted suicide.

Spectrum called 9-1-1 thinking my dad killed himself. He broke more ribs. I don't think my dad ever went back to the gym after that. He was trying to act as cool as my mom's hot trainer. Need I elaborate? No. I'm sure you understand.

3) Ladders & Chainsaw Pie:

Sometime in 2005 my dad thought it would be a great idea to chop one of the trees in my backyard. Well, the problem with my backyard is that it's all dirt slope, and by that I mean, NOTHING is flat in my yard. My dad being the genius that he is takes an old ladder and lean it on the tree itself without the legs of the ladder being properly secure on the dirt. He then climbs up the tree with a chainsaw. He then started to cut the branch right above his head (which also happened to be the largest branch), and when the branch gave way - it gave way right on top of it...With the chainsaw on his hand...While on the ladder. My dad hit the ground like the 20th of May hit Cuba. Luckily he released the ON button from the chainsaw and it came to an immediate stop, but it was so hot from running it burned the inside of is leg and gave him a couple of cuts. Not only that, but he hit his head and probably bruised 99% of his body and narrowly escaped decapitation. He was crying on the ground in the backyard for 9-1-1, which I don't think we called this time. I think he broke some ribs too since this happens to be a pattern with him.


2) Horseback Riding is Difficult:

Back in 2004 or maybe it was 2005, my dad decided it would be a magnificent idea to get on my old horse, Sergeant. Instead of being the beginner rider that he is and properly tacking up the horse and taking all safety precautions, he wanted to summon the spirit of Wild Bill Hickok, jump on a horse with no saddle or bridle, try to trot around with a glass of wine in his hand and somehow was surprised to find himself laying on the ground shortly thereafter, with a shooting pain in his shoulder and ribs. The poor schmuck had to drive himself home with a broken shoulder and ribs because my mom was LIVID and didn't want to talk to him. Later that night when he finally had to go to the hospital, mom yelled at him the whole way there (my mom really isn't that nice of a person, if i had to rate her like a hotel, I'd give her 1-star). It turns out he shattered his shoulder, broke his rotator cuff and some ribs. Today my dad still does not have 100% mobility in his shoulder. He and John McCain can hang out. I am probably going to Hell for that, too.


1) Battle of the Bees:

Last year my dad once again attempted to do chores that were not on his list of things to do. My mom's newest excuse is that he's ADD. I just think he's retardati (which is "retarded" in Italian, it sounds nicer this way). Anyway, every other year or so we get a migratory swarm of bees that likes to make home in my mom's balcony. Every time this happens we usually call a bee exterminator. For one odd reason or another, he decided he wanted to clean the balcony when the bees were there. I'll never understand why - or how this idea got into my dad's head - but he grabbed the vacuum and thought it would be wise to take a vacuum up a swarm of bees as if they wouldn't get angry. Well, to all of our surprise he got stung multiple times. He then came in the house white as a ghost, hit the floor like D-Day and had a seizure or something of that nature that is not normal behavior for my mentally handicapped father. My mom started to scream that my dad was dying, I took control of the situation and called 9-1-1. While they were on their way my dad got up, fell apart once again and hit the floor. At this point I thought I was going to have to call 9-1-1 for my mom because I thought for sure she was going to die too. For a moment or two I saw myself being parentless and homeless as I am too worthless to support myself on my own. Anyway, so by the time the paramedics got here he was in some sort of "joker state" as I like to call it, as he kept tried to crack jokes that didn't make any sense and he kept telling me to go to work "because i needed the revenue" in his best English accent.

Awesome. Completely awesome.

Sometimes it's shocking to know that my dad hasn't made the Darwin Award list yet. I'm sure that when he does die, it will be something so stupid that it will be the winner of the Darwin Awards. I'm hoping it'll have something to do with a gang of rabid squirrels and electricity. I'm not sure whether I'll be sad or I'll just laugh at his funeral.

But hey, all in all, my dad is pretty awesomely retarded. He at least keeps everyone around him entertained at his expense. I guess that's what we all love about him.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I'm just a sweet transvestite... from transexual... transylvania... wha wha hey hey.

I figure since I'm slowly throwing away my friendships via my blog, Racheal is now up for roasting. I like to describe her as a vampiric transexual from Transylvania, with no relation to Tim Curry although sometimes she can look like him. No, really, when people ask me about Racheal I usually tell them that she's completely out of her mind and STAY FAR AWAY IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY. Racheal will probably suck you dry for all your cum and assets, and when she's done with you she'll throw you over a telephone wire like an old pair of shoes in a bad neighborhood. She'll take off in your brand new Benz with the top down, throw out any important documents you may have in the glove compartment all over the freeway, call your wife and tell her that he just got THE HIV and she should get tested, charge up all your credit cards with pornography and then crash your car - several times. All while you're hog tied at the Motel 6 in Newbury Park.

No, but really, she's brilliant. She's crafty and plots her evil doings very carefully. She will only fuck your boyfriend if you're passed out in the same room and she'll only do your drugs if they can be done off a hooker's ass. Otherwise, she's safe for the most part. I think. I don't really know that much about Racheal. I guess I've known her for like 4 years or something and all this time I just know she has gigantic tits that are as soft as a Snuggie. I suggest that if you get stuck with her for some reason or before she takes you for all you're worth, suck on them titties.

Lastly, and most importantly, Racheal does not know the difference between Native Americans and Indians from India. So do yourself a favor and DO NOT talk to her about curry or teepee's. She doesn't know the difference between the two.

London Bridge is Falling Down, Falling Down...

... and something something something about a fair lady but I don't know any fair lady's so let's just say London's mighty bridge is falling down.

Also, that song is my good friend Dani's ring tone. It reminds me of special children. Somehow that ties into how I feel about Dani. Anyway, now that I know she knows my blog exists and that our other friends read it I guess I can start publicly embarrassing her by letting the world know that she loves it when I eat corn and shit on her chest. She smears it all over her titties and like a monkey digging for mites, she picks off each corn kernel and eats it. This scat-fest goes way back, back to like the first week I met her however many years ago and realized she was just as completely fucking nutso as I am. I guess this is why we get along sometimes. The other times it's because we're being drama queens and complaining about how our Boo Boo's don't fuck us in public enough. Oh, and if I have not mentioned this: The Boo Boo has returned. "The Return of the Boo Boo" will be publicized later, feel free to come back and check that story. It's rather lengthy and semi-complicated but at least it's entertaining. It's like a mix of The Notebook and Wedding Crashers, if I had to sum up my love-life story into a movie plot.

Back to the origin of my post... I mentioned London because now somehow my trip to Europe is getting complicated and has now been extended an extra 3 days to spend in London. What's irritating is all I want is to sit in a cafe in Amsterdam and smoke a shitton of pot (and again, I don't know how to measure this - but in marijuana grams, I'd say it's A LOT) but that doesn't seem to be happening. At a minimum, this stupid trip will force me to get over my fucking plane anxiety because I have like 98123791287318972 planes to get on. I'm flying to London, to Madrid and to Milan - and possibly to either Munich or Frankfurt if we can extend the trip another few days. It's like I will be retardedly plane hopping throughout Europe, without rhyme or reason but I guess as an American traveling Europe during a recession I shouldn't really complain. All I can say is that I'm glad my money's in my vagina and not in the stock market or in real estate. At least my pussy has appreciated in value. Sometimes I wish I was a virgin so I could sell myself on Ebay for something in the millions like that one chick did and sold her virginity online and made The Sexy with some fat old European fucktwat who flew to some brothel in Vegas to play "who's bratwurst is in my puss?"

I guess for now I say, fuck you. Goodnight.

The Nate Phenomenon.

I had a quick conversation with a friend of mine on Facebook chat. We were talking about our mutual friend Nate - and how basically when a girl says that she wants to meet Nate, 99.9% of the time it's because they've been cyberstalking him and want to sit on his pecker.

I can honestly say - every. single. friend. of. mine. over the years that has been SINGLE (even some that are not) and has had any sort of interaction with Nate, they suddenly feel like he's the man of their dreams and he's so amazing and blah blah blah. The dude doesn't even have to lift a finger. Or better yet, he doesn't even need to say anything. Or look. Or wink. Or smile. He can be in a terrible mood, ignoring the world and girls still swoon and wet their panties. It's like Nate has magical powers over women that should be studied in a laboratory. With like, anal probes and stuff.

Anyway, my question is - what gives? At any given point in time I have an AIM window open with someone asking me about Nate. Look, I love Nate. He's a great friend. Honestly? He's a pain in the ass. Why? Because he will do absolutely nothing for you. He probably won't even acknowledge you - and somehow make YOU completely insane - to the point where a straitjacket would be necessary. Then, LUCKY ME, *I* have to hear about it. So, either just stop - or please don't make me listen to it.

To follow that - here are some more pictures of him.

If you can figure out the obsession, or have theories on it, please let me know in my comments.

Oh, and P.S. - He does really awesome tattoos. So like, if you're a dude and not looking at him in a sexy way - Contact me and I'll help you get a hold of him. :)

Oh, so that's how it's going to be?

Dear Robbers:

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you bring my Apple ipod touch back, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

I'll kill you - ALL OF YOU.

I think I should pirate Underworld: Rise of the Lycans and then watch it with the other two under my WTF blanket, while being elbow deep in a bag of Kettle's sea salt & vinegar chips . I feel like I'm long over due for an Underworld marathon before I go on my trip. I need a day of full pampering before I go. Too bad that would remove my funds for spending on vinegars and cheeses in Europe, so I better ask my dear friend for some edible greens. I think having a ridiculous body high and melting into my bed and pillows would be just as good as a massage. It's also about $150 cheaper. hahahaha. awesome.

So in all this excitement I've completely neglected my class. I have a midterm on Thursday and a final the following Thursday (I'm not sure how that works either, but whatever!). I need to BUCKLE DOWN already and get my reading done. I keep saying I'm going to work on it and then I get ADD and retarded and blahdi blahdi blahdi blah. Then I think about reading and voices come out of my mouth that sound similar to this:



In other words, tomorrow I am dedicating my day to nothing but reading. I am going to have to get my ass in gear, stop looking at lists of airplane crashes (which lucky for me, they're not making me panic as a majority of them have been on either old planes or airliners that aren't owned and operated under strict rules and regulations). Before I end up failing this class, I MUST MUST MUST get my ass in gear. I did semi-well on the quiz which was surprising considering I didn't finish my reading, but I'm forcing myself to ace this stupid twat quiz otherwise I am royally screwed.

Whatever. I AM GOING TO DO WELL ON THIS TEST AND MY PLANE IS NOT GOING TO CRASH. There. Because I said it it's going to happen.

The best thing about this whole trip is that it's forcing me to not go to Portland. I should visit because I miss my Matteo and I want to meet his new lovah, but it's making me rethink this whole I WANT THE FUCK OUT OF LA bullshit. Well, I still want out. I still want a lot of things. I want long, lean legs and big tits but hey, can't have it all. But what's awesome is when I see my Aunt Luchi in a few weeks in Madrid, I'll talk to her about maybe renting a room from her or something for a few months just to get this LEAVE ME ALONE I HATE YOU stuff out of my system. I'll have to take my Molester but I'll figure that out later.

I am absolutely getting over my fear of flying though. I'm forcing myself to take myself back to that place in my childhood when I used to LOVE planes. When I'd sit on my dad's shoulders and watch the blue angels, or the B2 bomber fly overhead at shows... I used to crawl in old WWII planes, sit in the cock pits of spitfire's and run around inside most of the WWII B series bombers. I even went to some airfield to see the only standing B-36 bomber in the US. My first plane ride was from Burbank to San Fran, I remember taking a Southwest 737 as a kid to visit my dad when he was temporarily living up there for work. I remember how excited I was (and how green my mother was looking) and how the trip was on a beautiful sunny day. When I was a kid I went on a plane ride to Catalina with a friend of my mom's in his plane and spent the day there... My mom was TERRIFIED of the runway since it's literally cliff ----- runway---- cliff... But we made it. Then there were the few private lessons my dad and I took and I remember getting to fly the plane over the valley myself. If *I* didn't crash a Cessna, I guess I have some faith in the airliners out there. Ahhh... I'm working on it. I will regain my love of planes again.

All in all, I've been REALLY happy lately. No complaints. And my fear of flying will go away. :)

I need my WTF blanket.

I was just talking to my super awesome cousin Eric about how I'm a fucking nutcase and how it really shows in my blogging and he reminded me that "crazy is good, normal is boring." So then I decided that since I'm on a mission to expel all my crazy before I get on a plane and freak out mid flight and run up and down the aisles screaming that I want to get off the plane, that I would blog a shit ton (literally, a ton of shit) before I take off to Italy.

I've mentioned before that normally when I open up my blog and go to post, I usually have no idea what the Hell I want to write about, or what the Hell I have on my mind. I guess being the ADD person that I am my mind bounces around a lot and I can't focus on much for very long.

In good news, I'm actually getting excited for this trip. What sucks is that I'm such a pessimist I'm like, WTF, I totally don't deserve this trip. Oh God, I am going to blow up, I'm going to get raped and killed, I'm going to crash in a car, blah blah. So - instead of focusing on shit that makes me anxious, I've been googling pictures of the places I will be visiting and getting stoked on it.


So, thus far - Our itinerary looks like this: Fly into Milan Feb 27th, drive up to Morbegno and stay there for 1.5 weeks. Since I'll be Northern Italy I doubt I'll hit Southern Italy which sucks. :[ But I'm going to go to Switzerland since I'm on the damn border. When in Italy, I'll be able to visit Milan, Lake Como (it's on the way to Morbegno), Venice, Parma, Modena, Florence and hopefully we can take the train to Rome for a day if we leave early in the morning. After Italy we're flying to Madrid, Spain for 3-4 days to visit family. After we spend a long weekend with them, we're flying home from Madrid. We're not going to stay very long since we're going back this summer for 2-3 weeks. I'm hoping to extend the trip and go to Portugal and France. But that's a good time away from now so if I survive this trip I'll start planning for the next. LOL.

It's when I google photos like this one above that remind me that I have to somehow make sure I do not ka-boom mid air and make it there. You know, maybe I'll have a freak out on the plane and will be forced to stay in Italy. I'll send for my dog and then I'll be happy. :)

So, to my dear readers (if any of you exist) - please deal with me for the next 3+ weeks as I just ramble on about planes and stupid shit. It makes me feel better.

There Are Methods To My Madness...

Over the past few days, my anxiety over getting on a stupid plane has been getting worse. It's now to the point where I'm looking up at every single damn plane in the sky or when a friend mentions a damn plane I start getting anxious and crying.

A few minutes ago I realized my stupidity. I was sitting in the bathtub when I had this revelation: planes really aren't that terrible. I went to see Taken tonight (in lieu of studying because I still need my ADD medication) - and I realized that it's not the airplanes that are scary. It's the scummy fucks that hang around the airports that are scary. I also made a note to myself: do not travel without big scary dudes (or just plain old crazy that will freak out anyone) and do not travel with a stupid whorey friend - or better yet - do not have any stupid whorey friends to get you in trouble - and all will be ok. So, stupid whorey friends that DO exsist in my life, I am officially going to have to dump you from my life because you know what, I am no prized ham. I will not go for 500 grand at auction and I do not have a dad that is a crazy ex spy to come save my ass. I would be royally screwed over by you, stupid whorey friend. As a matter of fact, I would be certified dirty, drugged, put in a hallway with a sheet as my deskspace with my legs tied apart as open door for all to come in for 2 Euros worth of the ole' in/out. And yes, I just made a Clockwork Orange reference there. That just happened.