Inspi(red) By The Bloggess And Her Red Dress

As long as this Christmas decoration I turned into a lamp fixture doesn't touch the lightbulb inside and set my bedroom on fire I won't have to buy renter's insurance.

This is a picture of me burning in hell. Stop applauding.

Nothing screams *unemployed* more than a person who paints their toes red, wears red pajamas, stands on a red rug and then takes a picture of it:

When I had my ankle surgery I had a red scooter and a red cast. And a full psych evaluation:

After reading Jenny's post on her red dress and leaving a comment about my favorite pants, red leather snakeskins, I decided to try them on today. Does leather shrink in the dryer I didn't put them in?

Forget the pants. I have a red leather skirt. Hmmmmmm. Oh I know what's going on here. WRONG SHOES:

Red shoes totally change the... oh fuck it:

I have some red tees that I know fit. If you're a whore:

Finally, something red that fits me perfectly:

All in all this was a very depressing post.

But if I can post pictures of myself wearing clothes I appear to be hoarding then you know that you can do anything in life if you believe in you.

And the power of antidepressants.

Does Anyone Have The Exact Date Of The Apocalypse?

Today I heard a huge Bang. Boom? It was incredibly loud. I was lying down watching TV and jumped straight out of my bed. I assumed it was an earthquake. Or the shuttle reentry. I went online, asked Twitter if they heard it, checked all the news stations. No earthquake, no shuttle reentry. No Nothing.

For the rest of the afternoon I thought it might be one of my usual visitations. My Neighbor and I had discussed odd things happening around our building lately. One guy had a visit from what he called a Harpie Ghost. My Neighbor said that 2 days ago he knew there was a presence hovering around his bed. After I reminded him of all the crazy stuff that goes on over here, he decided to research the noise I, and apparently no one else in my building, heard.

My Neighbor forwarded me this email he got from one of the experts who monitor these things. Whatever these *things* are.

"At about 16:20-16:30 MDT a large seismographic reading hit almost every station in the world. I called the USGS Alaska Science Center in Anchorage and spoke to one of the scientists. He wasn't aware of the event and I had to send him the actual seismograph website. He wasn't sure what in the world is going on and sent it to his superiors for further analysis."

I wish it had just been one of my ghosts. Them I understand.

Why I Can't Do Drugs

I am not a pothead.

My friend Phil is. Phil always had pot. I’m not sure he always had rent but he always had pot.

Back in the late 80’s David Byrne was appearing in Central Park. He had gone solo after being the lead singer of Talking Heads. He wanted to be Sting. After a few songs it was clear Byrne should have kept his day band.

Even without the Heads my friends and I were huge fans so we went to the Band Shell in the park to see him.

It was summer and the heat was so blistering that after a while my friends and I drifted off to a corner of the park where there was shade and seats.

Phil passed around a ceramic cigarette filled with weed. Those things looked real and a cop would have had to look though a magnifying glass to tell if it was fake or not. I took one hit. Because Peer Pressure is my middle name.

One hit and my shoulders fell off.

I took off my clip-on Chanel earrings and put them in my purse. I knew something was coming that was not going to be good for the House of Chanel.

I looked at my friends, all who had smoked with me and looked fine. Or maybe I'd gone blind?

“Phil, what’s in this pot?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t fuck with me, there’s something else in here, PCP maybe?”
“Nothing Soro, relax.”
“Heroin?”
“Nothing.”

I stood up and then sat back down immediately. I was so high God was seated on my left.

“Phil, I think I’m going to pass out.”

I was going to black out in Central Park. Where I would be tagged by graffiti artists, bashed on the head by homophobes and then raped by an Irish gang. Phil suddenly yanked me to my feet.

“You’re walking this off.”

In what alternate universe can you walk off marijuana? Going back and forth to the refrigerator, MAYBE. But suddenly I was in a conga line with my friends marching single file through the crowds in Central Park and feeling worse and worse.

“Phil, I’m going to black out.”
“Keep walking.”
“Seriously, Phil, I’m not going to make it.”
“Yes you are, just keep walking.”
“Look, there’s a cop, let’s stop him and ask for help. Oh shit, the cop just passed us and he could have helped me! He could have taken me to the hospital.”
“We’ll find another one.”
“Phil, everything’s turning yellow.”
“Soro, I’m Chinese, of course you’re seeing yellow.”

At the time that actually made sense to me.

“Oh my God, everything’s turning white; I’m going down.” And with that Phil jerked me forward and as quickly as the bad crazy thing had descended upon me, it cleared. I stopped walking. I was okay.

“Holy crap,” Phil said.
“Tell me about it.”
“How scary was that?”
“Very, very scary. I could have DIED.”
“Not that,” he said, “you wanted to stop a cop and ask him to help your stoned, sorry ass.”
“Yeah and you didn’t even listen to …….oh.”

Everyone started laughing. Fucking drug addict friends.

I blame David Byrne. Although he is totally my husband.

Why We Should Get Paid For Living And Making It Through Even An Hour Without Anti-Depressants

In the Why You Don't Always Get Compliments From Your Friends Department:

A lack of enthusiasm from a person is used to make this person appear to have an air of authority and render you insecure.


In the Gee I'm Glad They're Not Writing About Me Department:

Upon watching him lose his wife and his health and his golf game and now his swing coach ... Woods now faces a daunting and scary future as a potential golfing cripple.


In the Stop Trying To Control Your Life Department:

Though Jacki craved a KFC Double Down chicken sandwich, Gilbert wanted to stop at a Mexican restaurant as he drove home from jury duty in downtown Los Angeles. But he balked at the parking fee, so he ended up at a barbecue joint, where he also picked up 10 lottery tickets for good measure. He told KNBC that he picked the numbers (and won $266 million dollars) at random.


In the Maybe Socialism Is Better Than Capitalism After All Department:

My Sister And I Were Destined For Fame?

Our parents pimped us out at a very young age. In a newspaper. And people wonder how we both ended up in rehab, or as I like to refer to it, show business.

How did my mother get that roll of hair on my sister and why DID SHE GET ALL THE ATTENTION GROWING UP?

Thank God I was funny. And made a living off it. Did my sister make money off her curly FUCKING hair? NO.

What's Wrong With Carrie Underwood?

It looks like Carrie had a visit from The Boob Police. As you can see by the red markings, I have no idea how to write in Microsoft Paint no matter how much hate mail I get telling me THAT I'M DOING IT WRONG.

After barely concealed photos of boobs on Pamela Anderson, Dolly Parton and the newly inflated Heidi Montag, it seemed to me like Carrie was going in the opposite direction by covering hers up. This is no way to get famous, even though you're already famous. Much like vodka and cake, there can never be too much famous.

Were those brownish shadings too much for Carrie's reputation as The Only Good Girl Left In Show Business? Did someone who DOES know how to use Microsoft Paint crisscross black lines across those boobs so we couldn't see them? And if so, does anyone have their email so I can write them and ask them how to do it?

Then I did a little something a good writer calls *research*. I'm apparently not a good writer because I'd rather decorate the facts and speculate wildly. Does anyone else think Demi Moore and Bruce Willis named their first child Rumer in honor of their adventures in the tabloids? I can't even stay on topic in one paragraph. I'm pretty sure good writers know how do that.

So while doing extensive research in Google Images I found this photo. Some of you guessed that the picture was from the People's Choice Awards and you have no idea how happy I was to discover I'm not the only one sitting at home having a conversation with my remote control. Had I seen it first and realized it was just her dress this post would not have been written and you could get back the 5 minutes I sucked from your lives by reading it. What's interesting is that I think people actually spend 5 minutes on my blog. And that I still don't know how to use commas.

So what's wrong with Carrie Underwood's picture? Nothing.

What's wrong with my eyesight? Plenty.
Once again I've proved my parents right.

Fuck.

Carrie Underwood

Can you tell what's wrong with this picture?

And trust me, there is something wrong.

I Don't Think They Understood The Assignment

When someone gets one of my tee shirts I ask them to take a picture of themselves and send it to me so I can stick them on my sidebar for a month of free advertising.

Some people apparently don't understand what I mean when I say "picture of themselves." Like this person, although to be fair they may not have looked in a mirror recently.
So if you want to get a month's free advertising then buy a teeshirt! Although it's obviously not totally free advertising since the teeshirt cost $20.00 and you have to buy it. Unless you want to try and steal it then good luck with that.