Red Means Go

Blob Blog: Part IX

2012-05-29T21:52:00.000-04:00

The inevitable bridge that bears crossing at one point or another when it comes to major weight loss is that slippery and terrifying one called exercise. Countless times I've heard people say, "If you exercise, you can eat whatever the hell you want."

So there is a possibility that's the case for an 18 year old male, but not for a regular fattie with an undying love of coconut cupcakes like myself. It seems a myth exists among people who are either dreamers or believe every story they're fed (pun intended) on the benefits of exercise. I can only speak from personal experience and that of my friends, but I'm pretty sure the same applies to most homosapiens battling obesity or trying to lose weight.

At my skinniest, the only exercise I ever enjoyed was flipping through fashion magazines while sipping on wine coolers my friend's mom used to buy us. I also indulged in the occasional powerwalk but only because my cute next-door-neighbor seemed enthusiastic about them and I had to pretend I enjoyed 'em as well. After he went off to college and I decided working out wasn't necessary if you had good genes, I quit. Soon after I fell off the wagon and gradually gained 70 pounds.

In the end, I've come to terms with the unfortunate fact that good nutrition and exercising go hand in hand as it relates to weight loss. If I had to allocate a percentage to their importance I'd say 70%/30%. One can lose weight without working out, even if you end up flabby and looking like a soggy loaf of bread. Yet one definitely can't eat 5000 calories daily and expect greatness, even if you hit the gym every day for the rest of your existence.

The simplicity of math is what makes weight loss transparent: Burn more than you eat and you're golden. For some people, this works. For me, it took a bit more.

Since the beginning of this fiasco I tried mostly everything. Workout videos, personal trainers (I've never felt so fat), power walking, pilates on a mat that my dog took a liking to more than me.

Eventually I had to come to terms with the fact that some people have the capacity to repeat their gym routine every day and be content with it.

I am not one of those people.

I hate getting sweaty. I hate wearing tennis shoes and hair scrunchies. I hate the way my armpits smell afterwards. And I most certainly, hate, having to leave my couch to do any of the aforementioned. In order to overcome my disdain for exercising and keep the fitness wheel rolling, I switch up my workouts and maintain a chart. As long as I break a sweat five times a week for an hour or more the workout is irrelevant.

I walk. I dance. I hop on that elliptical and imagine I'm Catherine Zeta-Jones but replace Michael Douglas with Shemar Moore. I do whatever entertains my brain and keeps me active.

The point is, working out isn't fun but it's a necessary evil. Not only are its benefits visible after a month or two of dedication (goodbye cellulite), but it's good for my health. If you can afford a personal trainer and are into that sort of thing then I say go for it, especially if they're is cute. A little motivation goes a long way, after all. And mine comes from a picture of Josh Hartnett taped to my fridge and my face superinposed on Scarlett Johansson's body.

Will I ever be the kind of girl to hit the gym six times a week and follow a weight routine to target every muscle on my body? Not really. Will I attempt to work out regularly except on vacations and limit my cupcake intake from 10 to 2 a week? Most likely.

I confess to overeating this past month as a result of moving stress and guess how many pounds I've lost since the last blob blog?

It's a tough fight, guys. But it's also a fair one if I get off my ass and say no to chicken wings once in a while.

'Til next time,

Annah

Just What The World Needs... Another Acne Prone Lesbian.

2012-05-24T11:29:00.001-04:00

A rapid text convo between best friends yesterday morning.

Me: I swear to God if this birth control gives me one more pimple, I’m going to pose as a pepperoni pizza for Domino's.

Britt: That’s just your body getting used to it, care bear. Relax.

Me: Dude. NO RELAX. I haven’t had a face like this since I was in middle school. This is awful. What kind of a person would prescribe birth control to someone who isn’t even having sex?!

Britt: Your gynecologist. The woman who cares about regulating your periods so your body can be in sync.

Me: If this doesn’t stop I’m going to quit it soon. Regulations be damned.

Britt: Fine… But don’t be complaining later when you’re bleeding for eight days.

Me: I’d rather be bleeding for a month than go through this hell. Now I know why it’s called “birth control.” No one in their right mind would sleep with me with a face like this.

Britt: Christ, you’re dramatic. It kinda *does* feel like we’re in middle school. Anyway, what are you wearing to your magazine party tomorrow?

Me: I was thinking of going to Ross and buying a new dress.

Britt: So you’re going to buy a $10 dollar frock at Ross Dress 4 Less and all those other Brickell people are going to be rocking Armani and Prada. Stylish!

Me: Well I’m not a published writer yet, homie. Writers wear Prada. Bloggers wear Ross Dress 4 Less. Deal with it.

Britt: Works for me.

Me: ‘Sides… All I really want is to feel pussy tomorrow night.

Britt: Come again?

Me: I want to feel pussy! I want to look nice.

Britt: Damn… It really is worse than I thought. Your dry spell is turning you into a lesbian. Really?

Me: Oh my God this fucking auto correct. PRETTY. I want to feel PRETTY! Not pussy. Jeez.

Britt: Riiiight. Anyway. Good luck on your dress hunt. See you tomorrow night.

And so the night came and a certain young lady went to Ross and found a $10 dollar dress that hugged her down to an art. Here she is:

And tonight she will enjoy her little magazine feature milestone and indeed, feel nothing but pretty.

The Butter Dance

2012-05-21T10:46:00.001-04:00

One, this is so wrong in all the right ways.

Two, this woman is an ambassador for the arts and should be commended for her incredible dedication to her work (my God I love her).

Three, just have a little patience with this.

Happy Monday.

These Things Make Me Incredibly Nervous

2012-05-16T13:14:00.000-04:00

A while back I dreamt that my roommate took a job in China and left me all alone to fend for myself. Later in that dream I was living under a bridge with my four dogs but they had the faces of ex-boyfriends and were constantly trying to hump my legs.

My roommate did take a job in Chicago eventually and I'm presently not living under a bridge but instead moving to an old house which I love more than champagne flavored cookie dough here in the M.I.A. My move is scheduled for June and I've been slowly filling up boxes with clothing and shoes and plates and vibrators because really I don't want to leave any of that stuff behind.

Change...

It really makes me nervous. And moving is such a clusterfuck of an event for an already unsteady mind that I've surely begun to lose my marbles one by one with no possible return in sight.

This Monday I dreamt my apartment had burned to a crisp and the only things I'd taken with me were a book and my four dogs. The name of the book was Sex & The Shitty and oddly, I was the author. Last night as I was getting ready for bed my smoke alarm went off for no apparent reason and for sure I thought I was dreaming but two minutes later the alarm was still beeping and I had to fan it down with a book I found in one of my moving boxes.

I looked down to find Sex & The City in my hands and almost peed my pants in terror. I guess dreams really do come true but never in the way that you imagined.

I wonder what it all means...

And This Is Why We're All Single

2012-05-10T22:49:00.003-04:00

My friend Jen tells me the other day:

My friend's been seeing a cute guy she met at a Starbucks and seems pretty happy to me while we're out having brunch on a Saturday. The man's name is Glenn, and not only is he great on paper, but has a love for cats and the outdoors just like Jen.

I catch myself thinking while I'm sipping my mimosa, Man this could really be it for ol' Jen...

But then:

God save us.

Please Don't.

2012-05-08T23:25:00.005-04:00

If you’ve been reading this blog for a minute then you know Facebook and I have been sharing one of those love affairs for the ages.

If you’re *not* aware, click here. And here. And here as well.

Because I've recently moved out of the 90's and into the light of Android progressiveness, I’ve become well acquainted with a little thing called "The Facebook App."

Never one to sit in front of a computer and peruse people’s pages, The Facebook App has enabled me to stay up-to-date with my friends’ lives while I'm on the go (on the go = sitting on my couch.)

We all know if it isn't on Facebook it's not for realsies, but do I really need to see this?:

I swear on my four dogs and every bottle of vodka someone actually posted a picture of their newly-born in this state. Seriously, why not just post a picture of the baby coming out of your wife’s vagina and call it a day?

So many atrocities take place through Facebook on a daily basis I couldn't possibly begin to scratch the surface on 100 posts. Yet, if I had to pick one thing, just one little thing for ol' Zuckerberg to ban from the internets forever, it'd be the following:

There is nothing, I mean nothing, that says douche more than a man taking a picture of himself in front of a mirror with his mobile phone.

Perplexed? Here's why:

You seem like a self-absorbed dickwad.
You come across as having no friends (No one could've taken that picture for you?)
You look like a dumb ass.
You're never looking at the camera.
Which reinforces the fact you're in love with yourself.
Which highlights how much time you spend in front of the mirror. Posing. For Facebook.
You look like a dumb ass.
I already said that.
But you look like a dumb ass.

This is a picture I took the liberty of stealing from a Facebook friend's profile. I'm sure he'll never read this. Come to think of it, I wonder if he can read at all...

And maybe some of you are thinking, But Annah, girls take pictures of themselves all the time. Isn't that a double standard?

Um, no it isn't, Johnny. No it isn't.

Girls have vaginas. And they use lipstick and mascara and other things for their face you can't even pronounce in front of the mirror. What's the harm of taking a little picture while you're already there? None, I tell you.

But you... You on the other hand, you're a dude.

You build things with your hands. You scratch your privates and sniff them. You eat three-day-old pizza for dinner and beer for breakfast. You fart in public and your friends find it funny. You carry heavy things and sometimes have muscles. You pay for things. I hope. And you definitely don't cry during romantic comedies.

You sir, are a gentleman and a scholar. And you *don't* take pictures of yourself in front of mirrors because you're above that sort of behavior, damn it.

-------

Damage Control:

Delete all evidence.
Run to a friend's house (whether or not you're wearing a shirt is strictly personal preference).
If you are indeed, shirtless, email me the picture.
Ask friend to take a picture of you.
Upload to computer.
Immediately make it your default.
Done.

Now let's not speak of this ever again and let me go do my make-up. What's that, you say? Of course I'm not going to take a picture of myself in front of the mirror afterwards.

A Day In The Life

2012-05-02T21:36:00.004-04:00

LAST WEEK...

Me: Good morning. It's Thursday!

Ryan: Um. Yeah… So?

Me: Nothing. I’m happy.

Ryan: You are *never* happy in the mornings.

Me: 'Tis true. But today a little birdie told me my mug is going to be in Brickell Magazine, bitches!

Ryan: Your mug? What did you do?

Me: I killed someone.

Ryan: Well that’s newsworthy.

Me: Hello?

Ryan: Hi.

Me: I'm going to be in a magazine, dickwad. This is like, exciting stuff.

Ryan: @*#&)^$)@(#^@*&# Yay!!!!!!!!! @#*@$&^(*^$.

Me: You’re an idiot.

Ryan: So what’s the article called? "Young Decrepit Blogger Takes Over South Florida?"

Me: No. But it's in the Top 20 Under 40 issue, which is their most important of the year so take that!

Ryan: Top vodka guzzler, you are.

Me: Exactly. I keep having these recurring nightmares that my picture has a stain on my face and then it’ll look like I have a black cheek or a mustache or something. And then when they have the magazine’s issue party every one will look at me like “Oh, there’s that mustache girl. That “blogger.'”

Ryan: Of course. Kill you now? Or kill you later?

Me: Not now. I hear they have an open bar at the issue party.

-------

One week later I woke up in a tizzy and let the stalking of Brickell Magazine begin. Much to my delight the digital version of the issue had already been uploaded and there I was in all my blogging glory.

They titled the article "Cyber Star" and its writer, Lourdes Reigosa, said so many nice things about me I actually began believing them myself.

Sidenote: You can read the article by clicking here and then on the May/June issue (page 54).

I began celebrating my new foray into almost-famous territory by going into work, because tragically that's what aspiring writers without literary agents and book deals have to do. Following eight hours of conference calls and exciting meetings I went to the dentist for a root canal (I keep it wild, homies).

After the usual pleasantries between doctor and patient we got down to the business, commencing the festivities with three shots of novocaine to the face. My dentist likes to play oldies while he works so naturally, Elvis called me a hound dog for a greater part of the afternoon, while Dr. Thomas drilled me in ways no girl should be drilled. The problem with keeping your mouth open for so long during dental work is that you begin to sort of choke on your own spit and every time you attempt to swallow, you end up rubbing your tongue slowly and involuntarily against your dentist's fingers (awkward).

So the more I tried to keep my tongue away from him the more I panicked, causing an internal battle as I attempted not to ~~laugh~~ ~~fart~~ ~~cry~~ kill myself. Two hours later and Part I of my root canal was done. Dr. Thomas said I could celebrate the proper way tonight as long as I sip champagne through a straw and so I shall.

I headed on home to write this post and take a much deserved nap but not before capturing the joy that I'm feeling today.

Note to any potential literary agents reading this: I look a lot nicer when half my face isn't paralyzed.

Maybe Next Time You Will Live On The Moon

2012-04-30T21:29:00.003-04:00

I don't know if I told you guys but, I'm moving. After much deliberation and a few vodka tonics, I decided it's time to say goodbye to the ol' apartment and move to a house for the sake of my beasts.

(Walking four dogs three times a day when you live on the second floor is harder than holding in your gas after a trip to Taco Bell.)

Because I just returned from Paris, and because I signed a lease that required a sixteen hundred dollar deposit, it's safe to say my money well has run dry times a thousand, and my formerly fabulous self has been reduced to a life of TV dinners and cheesy romance novels. I was bored to bloody tears as I stalked myself online yesterday and changed my banner for the hundredth time when I ran into my traffic sources. Real people actually searched for the following and found my blog, much to their disappointment I'm sure.

After flushing my confusion down with a glass of pinot, I decided I wanted Chinese. I ordered chicken lo-mein and egg rolls from "Mr. Lee" and thirty minutes later it arrived. I don't know if it's because it didn't come from a box or I was beyond ravenous, but Mr. Lee can come over and cook for me anytime (delicioso!). I polished off my noodles in ten minutes and excitedly opened my fortune cookie. Its message was precisely the subject of this blog post.

Seriously. It couldn't have been any of the following?

No. This cookie was mocking the very essence of my present existence.

Maybe next time you'll live on the moon, loser. In the meantime there's no hope for you so just hang yourself and call it a day.

I promptly ripped my fortune in half and flushed it down the toilet, sitting down with my glass half full (of pinot) and turning on the television.

Fuck you, fortune cookie. Fuck you.

Autocorrect Is Ruining My Life

2012-04-26T21:03:00.001-04:00

Necessary disclaimer: My friend Mindy just broke up with her boyfriend and has been down in the dumps for about two weeks, playing Taylor Swift songs incessantly and texting me at three a.m. to talk about the loser.

-------

We are currently in the middle of transitioning to a new computer system at the office and two young men have come down from New York’s headquarters to train us. This morning, Dude #1 was complaining about not having seen much of Miami while being here and his disappointment about leaving tomorrow. Not one to ignore opportunities, I promptly offered my tour guide services and told him to text me tonight, to which he agreed.

(There isn’t really a downside to this situation. For one, I look like the awesome coworker nice enough to take out the IT guys and two, Dude # 1 is totally Mindy’s type.)

(I ween).

I get to the gym around seven and have yet to hear from either of the trainers so I hop on the treadmill and begin daydreaming of the shower and nap that would soon follow my workout. Half an hour later I receive a text from Dude #1 and here's what goes down:

Something tells me it’s going to be a very awkward day at the office tomorrow.

Wanted

2012-04-24T13:56:00.005-04:00

A haunting sense something important's been missing has been gnawing at my thoughts lately and refused to let go until the issue is resolved. In retrospect, I can admit a lot of significant changes have taken place in the past few months, yet this missing factor had nothing to do with all that.

Keeping in mind my compulsive tendencies to obsess over novelties, I got to thinking about it so much my brain knotted into a pretzel. As it turns out, hours of mulling it over in my free time delivered a realization when I least expected it.

What I needed. What my life was lacking. What I really really wanted, was a gay man.

The thought made me happy. Sort of like losing your cell phone and finding it in your dog's squeaky toy pile a few hours later.

I got to working on a plan to find the perfect homosexual friend. My best idea was to post an ad on craigslist.com much to the chagrin of my roommate, who's convinced all I'll find is my body chopped into pieces by our local serial killer sooner than later.

Undeterred, I came up with a gaystie campaign in hopes of striking gold:

YOU

I would also love if he enjoyed watching awards shows and critically acclaimed movies but it's certainly not a deal breaker. After all, finding a good gaystie in Miami is like finding a good man, all the good ones are either taken or gay.

(That made absolutely no sense whatsoever.)

I posted my ad yesterday and so far have received no calls. Who knows? Maybe they think *I'm* the serial killer. Still I maintain hopes that something will pop up in the form of a glitter bomb.

'Til then... I wait for explosions.

And This Is Why I'm Opposed To Valeting.

2012-04-17T11:20:00.005-04:00

I seriously just had to look up if "valeting" is a real word and the jury is still out but at least I'm not the only one who's researched this on Google.

This weekend I was getting ready to sleep it in when Britt dragged me to some place called Kyma Lounge at the very beautiful and expensive $18-dollars-for-a-vodkaseltzer EPIC hotel. Asides from the delicious music and an impromptu makeout session with a boy from California I'll likely never see again, there was this:

I really hope no one got hurt. But mostly, that it wasn't the valet boy who committed this abomination.

(Something tells me parking on top of the Maserati isn't conducive to keeping your job.)

:(

Update: My friend forwarded me this story and indeed, it was the valet guy. Poor bastard.

Up In The Air

2012-04-15T15:28:00.003-04:00

Ever since 9/11 and every consecutive year thereafter, I've been afflicted by a severe case of aerophobia not even the Pope can exorcise. There's an influx of emotions that attack me after wheels up and refuse to leave my side until we touch land once again (it's quite embarrassing, really).

As if flying wasn't hell and back enough for a woman tortured by death gripping fear, it gets worse.

With things such as...

These people (sorry for posting again).

There's something about those who can sleep with such abandon on planes that pisses me off. I'm green with envy, obviously... But still. Fuckers.

Gas: Right after take off and shortly after my ears pop and we begin to ascend into cloudy territory, my stomach begins to make the loudest, most obnoxious of noises. Usually these noises reach cacophonous levels if there's a cute male sitting on either side of me. Of course, there's only one way to release me from said anguish and that's by a fart festival in a bathroom smaller than my high school locker located at the end of the airplane. Aaaaand naturally, the person after me in line is the aforementioned cute guy.

Whatever.

A case of the bloats: My body engages in quite the metamorphosis throughout each flight I take, leaving me confused as to why no one else looks like they weigh 435 pounds.

The honeymooners: Um... Seriously? Every time I'm single and heart broken on a plane there's a couple (who goes to Toronto on their honey moon, anyway?) happy and in love.

Lastly, people getting up and rushing to get their suitcases before we've even reached our gate. The door is locked, asshole. You're not going anywhere. Stuff your bloated feet into your shoes and relax.

Now...

Who wants to make me a Xanax/Prozac cocktail for my next flight?

Blob Blog: Part VIII

2012-04-03T11:58:00.004-04:00

It's still a little ~~creepy~~ surreal when people I hardly know approach me in public venues and say, "Annah! Love your blog. I didn't know you were that funny/crazy/slutty/manic depressive."

Usually it's people from high school who feel the need to say things like this. Mostly when I run into them at a restaurant I frequent on occasion which shall not be named here but if you live in Miami shouldn't be that difficult to figure out.

It's clear I'm no celebrity by any extent of the word (still contemplating that sex tape), but when you expose yourself so intensely in a public forum people begin to think they know you. And by know you, I mean know you, know you. Like a friend you can share intimate secrets with who doesn't judge you as you blow snot into their sleeve.

One time -at the establishment in question- a middle school acquaintance approched me and was all, "Dude your blog is funny as hell. Do you think if I take penile enlargement pills they'll work?"

(True story.)

And there I was that same night, about to devour a piece of parmesan chicken when she rolls up.

Me: Hi…. Hello.

HS Girl: How are you? Long time no see.

Me: (sticks chicken in mouth quickly and makes muffled agreeable sound).

HS Girl: So I hear you’re trying to lose weight.

Me: Uh-huh. "Trying." Slowly coming along.

HS Girl: Well have you heard of Sensa? I’ve been using it and it’s awesome!

Me: Not sure what that is.

HS: Well it’s this powder that you sprinkle on your food before you eat it and basically it’s like magic!

Me: Magic, eh?

HS Girl: Yeah. Every meal you just grab it, throw it on top of your food, and you’ll start seeing results within the week. I have some in my purse right now! I take it everywhere.

It is at this juncture where this woman takes out a white container without preamble, pops it open, and sprinkles something that can only resemble cocaine on top of my chicken parm.

I could sense the couple next to me at the bar staring at my plate as I managed a smile in spite of my bewilderment. I cut off another piece of chicken and inserted it into my mouth slowly while waiting for my nausea to kick it.

It didn't.

High School Girl was so pleased at my ability to eat dusty chicken I think her nipples were hard. Or maybe it was her lack of a bra to cover her fake breasts.

I bid my farewells and ordered another drink, leaving the rest of my meal intact as I endured the pitiful looks of strangers across the bar. Who knows… Maybe Sensa does work, but I’d rather endure this fight the good old fashioned way: Gym, mild starvation, cheesecake on Sundays, and some more gym. Sweaty sex on occasion if a girl gets lucky also helps the cause.

For some odd reason after this encounter I came across ads like these all the time:

The universe was out to tell me something and I understood it perfectly: Never go back to that restaurant.

Because I'm halfway to my goal in losing 70 pounds, I've decided it’s time to post the first of three "before" pictures I took at the beginning of this journey. I am mortified. MORTIFIED, I tell you. But there’s no way I can move forward without acknowledging the past (philosophical *and* honest). <---- I amaze myself sometimes.

Here I am in all my 200 pounded splendor.

And presently:

There's a before picture of me wearing a bikini that I will have to take opium for in order to post but I promise I will, once I lose all the weight.

Thank you for your kind words of encouragement and to Anonymous for always taking the time to call me a whore (you are relentless in your quest for salvation aren't you, doll face?).

Hugs! Me.

I Want My Bed.

2012-03-29T23:01:00.002-04:00

One ten hour flight with zero sleep as a result of my aerophobia and I landed in Miami two days ago. Last night I had intentions of writing but first indulged in a nap that turned into fourteen hours of slumber and oversleeping for work the next morning. I wish I could say that was enough but frankly I feel like knocking out for a month then maybe waking up with enough money to buy myself chicken nuggets.

(Europe = Expensive as fuck).

In spite of all repercussions I'll disclose some of the things that took place in Madrid and Paris and let the rest fall into place as it should. In the meantime, I'd like to share some of my favorite pictures and wish your last weekend of March to be a lovely one full of liquor and irresponsible behavior.

It was all outstanding except for the part where I cracked the toilet seat of my hotel in Madrid and bled all over someone's Prada pants by mistake (not at the same time).

Vive la France, I guess...

Au Revoir, Paris.

2012-03-23T08:27:00.001-04:00

We've said goodbye to Paris for warmer lands in Madrid and men who actually speak our language.

But of course not before spending over two grand of rent money and breaking our backs walking forty hours in the span of three days and dropping my camera and cracking its screen and some french kissing and maxi crepes.

(Maxi crepe: A crepe made with eggs, cheese, ham slices, chopped hot dogs, french fries, and a creamy ketchup sauce).

I miss Miami and my dogs and my mummy and writing but this trip... Has put a lot into perspective. Sometimes we just need that.

We also need to make out with guys like this one:

See you sooner than later,

Annah

Okay, Fine. (You Don't Have To Twist My Arm).

2012-03-19T13:43:00.002-04:00

If there's ever a time you want me to do something I wouldn't be particularly inclined to accept on most days, make sure I've been drinking (threesomes don't count but nice try anyway). Last Sunday I was partaking in some innocent fun with friends when my buddy Roxy called me up.

Roxy: What are you doing?

Me: Day drinking.

Roxy: Of course you are. It's Sunday.

Me: That it is.

Roxy: Want to go on a cruise to The Bahamas?

Me: Right now?

Roxy: In June.

Me: Dude. I'm going to Paris next weekend. Broke much?

Roxy: Come on ... Pleeeease.

Me: Okay, fine.

One post-dated check for $400.00 in the mail the next day and Bahamas in June will happen. (Did I mention I hate cruises?)

-------

I was attempting feebly to pack my things for Europe the other day when Cassie rang.

Cassie: Let's go to that street festival for St. Patrick's Day this Saturday.

Me: I hate going out for drinking holidays.

Cassie: How's that even possible?

Me: Cinco de Mayo. Memorial Day. St. Patty's. They´re all the same. Lots of people. Expensive drinks. Sweaty guys. Ay, no!

Cassie: Don't be a party pooper, Annah.

Me: Okay, fine.

A few months ago...

Olivia: What do you want for your birthday? Because I have something in mind but I'm not sure.

Me: Shoes.

Olivia: I want to get you this vase that's traditionally broken before you go on a trip. But you have to stuff it with money first or something like that.

Me: I want shoes, damn it!

Olivia: You're getting the vase.

Me: Seriously? Okay, fine.

So the vase travelled all the way from London to Miami and landed on my hands last year on my birthday. The legend goes that you have to fill it with money and make a wish prior to breaking it and bla bla bla.

I crammed a bunch of singles in there and smashed the shit out of it while making a wish last night in Miami. This afternoon I write this from Spain while drinking an espresso that surely resembles crack. Waiting patiently for my wish to come true...

In the meantime, I'll be in Paris and Madrid for a week with Britt and Olivia. Don't miss me too much or be mad at me for the lack of posting. These things happen and I swear I'll make it up to you with something (semi-naked pictures or chocolate brownies or anything that's awesome).

Love,

Annah

Something Told Me Giving My Mom A House Key Was A Bad Idea.

2012-03-14T00:33:00.003-04:00

Have I professed my love to you for bearing with me as I tackled too much work in Tallahassee this past week and posted nothing?

This weekend was that of the glorious kind. Movies. An art exhibit. Mexican food. The Flamenco Festival with my friend Eduardo.

It was a sweet little weekend with none of the mischief. Hence, why the weekend before it must be discussed.

-------

On Thursday something got into my brain and I naturally shared with Ryan...

The next day I found myself here:

They made me pick the hair (virgin black for me), measured my head, and told me to be back in four hours. Upon my return I was handed a plastic bag with the locks inside. Locks, which my hairdresser proceeded to sew onto my head in less than an hour before I went to see Rob Delaney (comedian extraordinaire which you so have to follow on Twitter if you aren't already).

My black girlfriends say weave is the elephant in the room no one wants to talk about. You know it's there... You just don't mention it. "I love a good weave, girl," says one of them while running her fingers through my hair on Friday night. "You just gotta learn how to scratch it if it ever itches," she continues, patting her head inconspicuously.

(Have I ever mentioned how much I love black people?)

Saturday night we went to Kork with a K, a wine bar in a scary part of town with the best cheese and cabernet I've tried in light years.

Ryan, who's as cultured in wine as he is in weave, projectile vomitted around midnight on the first floor of the aforementioned establishment.

I sweetly asked the bartender if he had some paper towels for me to wipe the spew off the floor, knowing he'd never allow for such a thing. He promptly handed me a brand new roll and watched me clean my friend's digested wine and cheese on hands and knees in black dress and heels.

(Asshole.)

Everyone and their grandmas was wasted by the time we left at five o'clock in the morning. Britt drove Ryan home and left me carless at my place with my buddy Michael, whom I had to practically carry into bed (not an easy task I assure you). There's something about drunk people and wanting to take off their clothes because in the morning, Michael was shirtless and snoring, while I laid beside him in a bra, underwear, and tee.

"Wake up," I nudged his ribs with force.

"Whyyyyy? It's like, ten in the morning," he grunted.

(It was two.)

He finally got up half hour later and asked what I wanted to do with my existence that Sunday. I said I didn't care as long as we had some bloody mary's first. We proceeded to schlep it on over to my kitchen, where I sat by my bar as he made us the spiciest bloody mary's I've ever had. We sipped our drinks and tried to piece the night together, giggling uncontrollably at certain parts we actually recalled. Nothing weird about sitting at my bar half naked on a Sunday while killing a hangover with more liquor.

I'm still laughing at some joke when I hear the jingling of keys at my door. I didn't have enough time to realize my roommate was out of town and the only other person with keys to my place was of course, my mother.

I turned ten shades of red in the five seconds it took to register what was happening, the ability to speak completely deserting me.

"Hi, ma'am," said Michael while he extended a hand to my mom without skipping a beat, "I'm Annah's friend Michael."

My mom shook his hand as she eyed me suspiciously and introduced herself. "Nice to meet you, Michael."

She then mumbled something about coming by to bring me food, handing me a plate and bolting out the door with a forced smile. We decided telling my mom Michael was gay was a stellar idea and so I did that night (lies are a necessary evil in this life, guys).

Mortification is an understatement but...

Alcohol > Mortification.

My Week In A Nutshell.

2012-03-01T23:58:00.005-05:00

Me: Shaved all over with a small slickback situation on top, please.

Groomer: Okay, I know that hair style. Sixty seven dollars and pay at front register.

Four hours later:

God help me.

Why Is This Happening To Me?!

2012-02-28T20:37:00.002-05:00

Remember when I said I loved Miami? Remember?!?! I take it all back.

Look what I got in the mail today!

That, my friends, is a ticket. Or as they call it these days: "a violation." It didn't require a cop. No, sir, it did not. All it required was a camera installed on top of a light at an intersection. A light which they claim was red when I went through it. Like if red and yellow were all that different to each other on the color scale.

Seriously, Miami? Cameras at intersections? What's next? No texting and driving? The Interpol coming to America? Expecting me to stop at these?

Um. No. I'll be taking my sweet ass to court and I bet your camera isn't going to show up so there's always that to my advantage (pictures and videos be damned). Now... Who wants to buy drinks and cry a little with me?

Sex With Socks On

2012-02-22T20:47:00.002-05:00

I think I mentioned in passing that the company I work for had their Christmas party in New York this December and much to my surprise, I was invited. From all the ludicrous things that took place that weekend which I’ve yet to tell you about (I suck at keeping posts –and life – in chronological order), rushing through customs on the way there was possibly the most embarrassing.

I’d been out until the wee hours drinking with friends and arguing about politics to then land in Ethan’s bed and wake at eight in a foggy haze when I realized my flight was to depart at ten. I hardly remember rushing out of the house and high-tailing it to my place. Nor going up the stairs and changing into something more suitable for work and brushing my teeth. What I do remember -asides from feeling like spewing in Ethan's car when he took me to the airport- is taking off my boots in the customs line to find this:

*** Sidenote: It’s been brought to my attention more than once that I'm horrible at matching socks and this denotes a lack of structure. To that I reply: Socks are just fabric the cover my stinky feet and have nothing to do with structure, so shut up.

So there I was, a breathing ball of vodka fire going through the metal detector as the agent eyed my feet suspiciously and tried to hold back his disgusted confusion. I offered an It was a long night and picked up my suitcase in shame, quickly zipping up my boots and running away to Starbucks without so much as a glance back.

New York was balls to the wall postal. I made my flight. I sat next to an eight year old. She wouldn't speak to me. But made this for me in her fancy tablet:

I checked in at two. I ate a hot dog from a street vendor. He watched me scarf it down in three bites. He smiled and asked if I liked them big. I laughed and said yes. We walked the city. And saw the Christmas tree. I bought a toy for an underpriviledged child. I ate pastrami at Carnegie Deli. I did not like it. I wore a beautiful dress. Had a martini with a stranger who told me I reminded him of his wife. He was eighty. I attended my Christmas party. En Vogue performed live. If you don't know who they are, you're probably too young. I met up with Olivia at one in the morning. We partied 'til three. Then felt like singing. Karaoke bar it was. Locked ourselves in a room with our friend Kwa and sang until five thirty. Ran to the airport at six and made it to my flight by seven.

This time, I wasn't wearing socks.

Ethan and I crossed the friendship boundaries and finally slept together on a cold December night. As mentioned before, it was worth every complication that came with it (and God knows there were plenty), even if something really strange happened that night. While almost breaking the walls in shoving and pushing each other, we land on his bed in a race to find the golden ticket. We're kissing so hard I think my bottom lip falls off when suddenly, he pulls away abruptly and asks me a question.

"Alright. Socks on, or off?"

I open my eyes and push the hair out of my eyes. "Come again?"

"Socks on? Or off?" He repeats.

Me: What in the world are you talking about?

Ethan: Well... Haven't you ever noticed how taking off any article of clothing can be sexy?

Me: Uh-huh...

Ethan: Of course you have. The more clothes that come off the sooner things are going to happen, right?

Me: .... I'm not following.

Ethan: Except, haven't you realized you can't ever take your socks off without looking doofy?

Ethan: No. No. I'm serious. How, exactly, do you take off your socks without looking like a fool and simultaneously turning the person off?

Me: I have no idea, Ethan, the thought's never crossed my mind. Socks and sex are just not words that go in the same sentence. Is this really happening?!

Ethan: (sighs). Alright, so socks on or off?

Me: Off.

He slips them off while still on top of me, throwing each one across the room violently. He looks at me quizzically and laughs, "I told you that'd be awkward. Still want me?"

"Of course I do. What is wrong with you?"

Bringing down his face, he kisses me softly and finds his way inside without taking his hands off my face, "I don't think we have enough time to answer that question, Annah."

Then the only language spoken was that of the silent and best kind.

After twenty-four hours of no sleep I arrive back home to perfect weather and my bed. I sleep from noon 'til eight when my alarm jars me back to reality, telling me it's time to get ready for a friend's 30th birthday. I dress in a haze made possible by Red Bull and vodka, dress and boots and socks and a headband for my hair thrown together like a school lunch on a Monday. I think there was cake... And some beer... Chocolate icing on my dress and a cool breeze in my hair as we toast to thirty more years for my friend Sadick.

After the usual intoxication that happens when lifelong friends get together to celebrate, Ethan carries the birthday boy to his car and drives us home.

I'm thinking only of my bed when we finally arrive at my place. He is as well, just differently. Everything has come off a few moments later before we make love again. "Let's keep our socks on tonight," I joke, unzipping my boots off slowly in the most seductive manner I could muster.

"Are you sure about that?" He asks, a smug expression on his face as he glances at my feet. I look down to find this combination taking place.

"Well that's weird. Um, I was in a rush when I left the house..." I stammer. "Still want me?"

He holds still for a moment, looking down at me in silence. "Of course I do. What is wrong with you?"

Well... I don't think we have time to answer that question, Ethan.

Or do we?

The Greatest Player Alive

2012-02-21T00:35:00.003-05:00

This is Michael Jordan.

He is also presumed to be the greatest basketball player of all time.

-------

This is Britt Caroline.

She is also presumed to be the greatest romantic of all time.

-------

This is a story of when Britt Caroline and Michael Jordan collided for a few minutes in South Beach (not like that, you friggin' pervs).

...Because just when I think I need to get out of town and move somewhere brand spanking new, Miami reels me back in and totally redeems itself with promises of the unexpected.

-------

One of the greatest things about living in the Magic City asides from the endless rain (my favorite), is the probability of running into famous people at random. This was certainly the case last Thursday, when I was sweating grease by the buckets at the gym and my friend Veronique called to see what I was doing. Apparently there was a club at the Fontainebleau Hotel throwing a special party and she knew some people that knew some people that knew some people who could get us in.

"I don't really feel like going anywhere, Vee," I whined.

Three hours later, there I was.

As opposed to regular clubs where mere mortals wait in line to dance and pay for overpriced drinks, ArKadia offers free champagne for ladies until one, something we economically challenged adults did not take for granted.

Five champagnes and one $22 martini later, Britt had crossed over to the other side.

As we're dancing and sipping our free champi, the DJ suddenly yells "Give it up for Michael Jordan who's in the house tonight!" into the mic. Some people cheered and others clapped unenthusiastically, but Britt's eyes opened wider than moons during lunar eclipse night.

"Michael fucking Jordan! Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God. WHERE?!"

It only took her about two minutes to locate him and before we could even utter a reply, she was halfway there. I watched in slow motion as Britt approached Mr. Jordan, who was standing by a pool table stick in hand. She crossed the personal space boundary sooner than I could say Score! and to my surprise, no one stopped her. I saw Mikey Poo (I can call him that now that I've seen him in the flesh) bend down to Britt's face as she whispered something seductively. He seemed to hesitate and then laugh, gingerly grabbing her waist soon after and kissing her cheek. Britt turned around and almost floated away, bumping hard into a pole before a security guard caught her.

"No one saw that," she says once she approached us, breathless. "I cannot believe I get to speak to one of my idols and say something like that! Lord help me."

I raise an eyebrow as we all inch closer to hear better. "What exactly did you say to him?"

"Well I neared him rather quickly and had intended to tell him what a huge fan I was," she started. "But then I guess the proximity and his smell made me dizzy and I just sorta said the first that came to mind."

"Which was?" I ask, scared of the answer already.

She laughs hysterically and takes a swig off my champagne.

"Well... I waited for him to get closer to me and I say, 'So Michael, are you wearing your Hanes tonight?'"

Me: What the hell did he say to that?

Britt: He said, 'Excuse me?'

Me: Uh-huh...

Britt: And I'm like, 'You heard me. Are you wearing your Hanes?' Then he laughed and looked at me sort of funny and said, 'Yes. As a matter of fact I am.' Then laughed some more and gave me a kiss on the cheek. So I just turned around and tried to walk away all sexy-like but ran into that fucking pole instead. (She pauses for a second then giggles). I will never forget this, you guys. I swear it.

I have a feeling... That Britt isn't the only one not forgetting.

It's Not All Fun & Games, I Assure You...

2012-02-07T21:41:00.002-05:00

If I was a celebrity (or at least a reality star of some sort) I'd be checking into rehab every Monday for "exhaustion" as a result of my weekends and irresponsible behavior but alas, I am not.

Because the cumulative amount of sleep had within a regular weekend is usually less than ten hours, Mondays are spent vacillating between being productive at work and picking up the pieces while restoring order in this thing I call life. Yesterday my mom came over to walk my dogs while I was at work and sent me a text message: Left you a note on top of the stove. Please read.

I also got a simultaneous text from my roommate stating she'd bought donuts and hidden them in the microwave so I wouldn't be tempted (seeing I'm trying to diet and all).

When I arrive home, I find the famous note.

Here's its literal translation:

You're going to go to Europe looking beautiful if you keep eating donuts!
Did you throw away that feather duster I bought you?
Are you ever going to unclog your bathroom sink?
Also, you know you're supposed to clean those.
You didn't give the dogs their meds. Now Bruno and Kingstone (<--- spelled wrong) are still sick.
Could you please pick up your room?

THANKS!

Oh! Clean your balcony. And it's one can of food a day for the dogs. Not one and a half!

This is what I have to deal with every week, guys. A swift kick-to-the-face reminder that life isn't a party and there are higher ups to report to, even if you no longer live with them.

So maybe it isn't Monday and I'm not a celebrity, but after taking care of that list and hitting the gym tonight I'm checking myself into a little rehab I like to call bed.

Thank you. And goodnight.

Monday Blues

2012-02-06T14:40:00.011-05:00

It’s never been more evident that the more I confine life to a specific set of plans, the more it derails itself into a crash course way off its manic path.

Sometimes when I speak of weekends it seems life’s a party and my existence is comprised of a flurry of nightclubs and Irish car bombs (yum). I promise I am a productive and fruitful human being during certain times of my weekend. And that my existence doesn’t fully revolve around having a good time.

There are moments where I stop to read books and go to the gym and give myself a venue for reflecting by spending time in my favorite place of the apartment (the kitchen).

The other times. There’s this:

The weekend really started off on Thursday through a hilarious series of events that led Ethan to fight with my neighbor and urinate on his car at two o'clock in the morning.

But I'll leave that set of facts for another day (or maybe not).

Friday night was kicked off by a hockey game with my friends Miguel and Katie.

And even though there's this running joke that I'm terrible luck for home teams on games, the Panthers won.

Olivia surprised me by flying in from New York that night and after the game we headed to Spazio Nero, a club where drinks are way too expensive and the music isn't all that pleasant.

After we hit up Burgers & Beers for my two favorite things in the world, greasy burgers and Irish car bombs.

In retrospect I didn't do myself any favors with the dieting this weekend, but I enjoyed stuffing my face immensely anyway. After way too many spicy corndogs and a nap on top of Ryan, I mustered the energy to keep the party going and we ended up at Purdy (as we usually do).

We danced. We drank. We sucked on free lollipops. It was fucking grand. We then went through a deserted alley and got lost trying to find our car but made it out alive with a few pictures to prove it:

Got home at the reasonable hour of five and hit the sheets around six only to wake four hours later to the sound of loud pounding on my door. On the other side stood my three best friends.

The day was spent in a sea of vodka tonics and gossip and at the expense of sounding corny as hell, there's nothing better than having those women near me when I need them the most (hugging and weeping included).

That Saturday night I went to dinner with Ethan and had the pleasure of meeting his family which in turn made me realize where he's acquired his wicked sense of humor from. We then changed and headed to Wood Tavern, a hipster little bar in the design district where we possibly had one too many shots and argued over things two people riding the "friends with benefits" wave shouldn't argue about at all.

After that we ended up at Purdy again (surprise!) and tons of madness ensued yet the funniest thing was an exchange I had with a stranger while leaving and trying to walk to my car. My friends were ahead of me and into their own conversation, when I go around this guy who's standing in my way and he stops me.

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey, homie.

Him: Where you goin'?

Me: To my car.

Him: What are you doing now, though?

Me: What do you mean? Going to my car. Don't you see me walking?

Him: Do you want to get drinks at my place?

Me: (laughing hysterically). Have you seen this beautiful dress that I'm wearing? Does any of it say hooker to you?

Him: No. But you're beautiful. I'm hot. Why not?

Me: Dude, does this *ever* work for you?

Him: I'd say 9 times out of 10.

Me: That's awesome. Good luck on the other nine.

I walked to my car and as I'm reaching around to call a friend, this douchecanoe has apparently had a change of heart and is right behind me.

Him: Hey... Look, I'm sorry.

Me: My God. Who *are* you? Why are you still talking to me?

Him: I'm Jared.

Me: Okay Jared. Please go away. I'm not in the mood to talk right now.

Him: Come on... I came here to apologize.

Me: My boyfriend is going to kick your ass if he sees you here. I'm waiting on him right now.

Him: There is no boyfriend, you liar. If there was he'd be here right now.

Me: (Damn him). Maybe you're right. Or maybe you'll be getting a surprise ass kicking pretty soon. Want to take that chance?

Him: Okay, fine. I'll leave...

Me: Goodbye.

And that was the end of Saturday night/Sunday morning. I came home with the sun at seven after falling asleep for a little bit in a deserted parking lot.

Sunday's Superbowl was enjoyed with friends at a Dominican restaurant and I ate the hell out of some my favorite: mofongo with pork and sausage (so good).

My Britt bear was beyond elated that her Giants won (that and she bet a lot of money on the game so literally double the reason to be happy).

Once it was all over the restaurant turned up the music and the best dancers were definitely these children, who broke my heart ten times over with their cuteness and dancing skills.

I can't think of a better way to end a perfect weekend except one, yet sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to and there's nothing to be done except move forward...

Very well then. Watch me go.

I'm Kind Of Embarrassed By All This.

2012-02-02T00:26:00.010-05:00

-------

I think I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion my deep-rooted aversion to strangers. By this I don’t mean friends. I’m okay with new people invading my personal space and telling me things I most likely don’t want to hear.

What I’m leery of. I mean really scared of... Are strange men.

What are their intentions? Do they come from a good family? Do they like dogs? Why are they drinking wine from a straw? Do they have herpes or stuffed animals on their beds? These are all valid questions that plague me on those initial first dates so it’s only right that for the most part, I’ve been a “relationship girl” until the demise of my engagement two years ago. Not ever has it been more apparent to me that opening up to people is hard to do. Or that Vin was a really great guy any girl without a few missing screws like myself would be lucky to have. Or that there are so many douchecanoes in Miami that possibly the best outlet for a single girl verging thirty is lesbianity.

(I just totally had to look that up to ensure it was a real word, guys).

Keeping the aforementioned in mind, it’s safe to say I don’t "hook-up." I don’t accept drinks unless they’re from friends and even those may have roofies in them. I don’t ride in cars with boys I’ve known for less than two months. I don’t take dudes I've just met home (except that one time, Jesus, don’t you people forget anything?!). And I most certainly never, ever, make out with strangers in dark corners of night time establishments.

***The following happened a few months back and was told to me over lunch by someone who actually remembers it. If you've been following for a while then this may not surprise you but just in case, love me still.

-------

My long distance relationship with John had officially been over for months and I'd forgotten what kissing someone felt like, still that night I just wanted peace, a few martinis, and some sushi with girlfriends and Katie’s sweet muffin of a mom. That night I wasn’t looking for trouble or a funny story to tell over breakfast. That night I lusted deeply for my bed and pillows straight after dinner.

Dear God.

That night…

Following the consumption of sushi and martinis, Katie went back to her boyfriend and Muffin Mom went home to sleep. Yours truly headed over to a bar called Cinco which was full of old farts and people who looked like steak that’s been cooked too long, including a man of about ninety who screamed insults at me when I declined a drink he purchased me.

After Cinco we took the party train to a joint called The Bar, where we spotted a booth with a view to the dance floor and made fun of people while downing Irish car bombs and beers on draft.

Soon after things became hazy but we managed to make it to Club 50 in another part of town. I felt the eminent need to relieve myself of all the beer I’d recently consumed and excused myself for the bathroom. After a ten minute line I attempted to make my way back to my friends when someone grabbed my hand. Tipsy Annah would’ve immediately yanked it away and scowled at the person touching her. Drunk Annah cocked her head to one side and said:

To which he simply replied: Robert.

An hour later Robert and I were still dirty dancing in the dark when my friends found me to say we were leaving to a spot in South Beach. In no position to argue, I shrugged my shoulders and allowed myself to be led towards the door. Of course, not before pouncing on Robert like a teenage girl at her first dance and kissing him for a whole of thirty seconds.

DJ proclaims herself the designated driver and we make our way to Automatic Slims. As she drove slowly down a crowded street, I spotted three cute guys headed in the direction towards us.

“Slow it down there, Deej,” I told my friend, who shot me a puzzled look but did as she was told.

Ninja like, I stuck my head out of the driver’s side of the car and called out to one of the guys. “Hey you! Cute guy with the hair. Come over here!”

Hair seemed to find a strange girl hollering at him in the middle of the night from a moving vehicle normal, so he approached our car with a smile and said hello. I in turn replied: “You’re exotic looking, Hair Guy. What’s your name?”

Him: Juanas.

Me: Juan?

Him: No, Juanas.

Me: Juanes? Like the singer? I like that guy a lot.

Him. JUANAS! Like. J-U-A-N-A-S.

Me: What kind of a fuck name is that?

Him: It’s Portuguese. (Bewildered look on his face).

Me: Oooooh Portugueeeese. I like Portuguese. Good kissers, I hear. Come closer.

Juanas and I kissed for about three minutes through the driver window, which of course meant poor DJ was sitting about two inches from our faces as we made out while the world waited. When I finally pulled away, I looked at Juanas and said, “You are a good kisser," bidding my farewells and allowing DJ to continue the drive. No more than half a mile had been covered when I spotted another group of guys.

“Stop the car!” I tell DJ.

“Are you serious?” She says, half laughing.

But by this point I was already calling out to them. This group of boys didn’t have any exotic hair or strange names, just good ol’ American boys so obviously not from Miami (Charles, Johnny, and Kyle). I took a liking to Kyle and skipped over introductions and other nonsense. No time to waste when there's kissing to be done, apparently. And kissed I did until DJ got tired of Charles trying to drool on top of her while Kimmie made out with Johnny in the back, pulling away without preamble.

When we finally arrive at Automatics I had to urinate so badly I hid behind a bush and took care of the situation. Once I returned to the car Kimmie informs me the night has ended as it was already past five and the place was closed. I shrugged my shoulders violently, focusing my gaze on two guys a block away. I immediately looked at DJ imploringly and waited.

“Oh no, you’re not,” she says while waving a finger in my face.

“Come on… Don’t be a party pooper, DJ boo boo,” I pleaded. “I just want to have some fun fun.”

“First of all, stop talking like a drunk five year old,” she sighs and rolls up my window while pressing something on her side panel I can only presume to be the child lock. “Secondly, I just know you don’t want to make out with those guys, so let’s get this show on the road and put some food in your system.”

“Oh come on… Come ooooon,” I continued.

“Absolutely not,” she shrieks while suppressing her laughter.

"Please, DJ boo boo?"

It was then that she conceded and drove me closer to the two boys huddled in the corner. Of course as we neared them it became apparent why I would, in fact, not be making out with either of them that night.

Let's never speak of this again, shall we?

Monday Blues

2012-01-30T15:35:00.002-05:00

This weekend:

My old high school.
Late night basketball.
Flask of vodka.
Neon tights.

Bowling after.
Struck out miserably.

Consoled myself with beer.
And the company of friends.
Headed to the Hard Rock.
Drank too little.
Danced too much.
Not enough of either.
Found Bob Marley.
Documented it.

Headed home.
Tossed and turned.
Insomnia killed me.
Morning came.
Slept too little.
Cleaned my place.
Afternoon beers.
Evening nap.
Dinner at Mr. Chow's.
Holy fuck, expensive.
Took some pictures.

Lychee martinis.
Incredible food.
Incredible bill ($300!?!?!?).
Heart attack.
Almost drowned here.

Sunday came.
Loved my dogs.
A little much.

Saw my parents.
Then some friends.
And ~~their~~ my munchkin.

Drank a little.
Laughed a lot.
Ruined my makeup.
Half past midnight.
Headed home.
Feeling fine...

Red Means Go

Blob Blog: Part IX

Just What The World Needs... Another Acne Prone Lesbian.

The Butter Dance

These Things Make Me Incredibly Nervous

And This Is Why We're All Single

Please Don't.

A Day In The Life

Maybe Next Time You Will Live On The Moon

Autocorrect Is Ruining My Life

Wanted

And *This* Is Why I'm Opposed To Valeting.

Up In The Air

Blob Blog: Part VIII

I Want My Bed.

Au Revoir, Paris.

Okay, Fine. (You Don't Have To Twist My Arm).

Something Told Me Giving My Mom A House Key Was A Bad Idea.

My Week In A Nutshell.

Why Is This Happening To Me?!

Sex With Socks On

The Greatest Player Alive

It's Not All Fun & Games, I Assure You...

Monday Blues

I'm Kind Of Embarrassed By All This.

Monday Blues

And This Is Why I'm Opposed To Valeting.