I have threatened/planned to get a tattoo for years now. It has taken a long time to wear down my mother’s panic from a “next you’ll stop wearing a bra and get raped in a van by a carnie” fervor into a dulled “what will your children say”/“when you get fat it will look melty” throb. I am also very indecisive, and have occasional bursts of horrible taste. If I had gotten the tattoos I have wanted I would currently have a Mary Jane wrapper on my ankle, an E.T. tramp stamp, the word “Shameless” across my back, and — I assume - a job at a gas station.

But now I am older and wiser, and I figure the world is ending in 3 years anyway, so it’s time to tattoo it up! Here are the ideas I am considering:

• Kittens with bows and tiny machine guns
• Purple pieman holding the severed head of Strawberry Shortcake with the words “Sic Semper Tyranus” under it
• Seagulls all over my face
• The latitude and longitude of the birthplaces of Angelina Jolie’s children
• 01110011 01101100 01110101 01110100 (Binary code for “slut”)
• Cat eyes with dancers for pupils on my shoulder blades
• Screaming half-melted ice cream cone
• The Jem Glitter and Gold roadster I never fucking got for Christmas.
• The phrase “Remember, the enemy’s gate is down.” In Klingon.
• “Xavier Roberts” signature on my ass.
• E.T. tramp stamp

Of course, all of the above would say “Tyler Perry’s _____ tattoo” above them.

I’ll post a pic when I get it finished!

Jem Glitter and Gold Roadster.
It plays tapes! This would have been a sweet Christmas gift, seriously.

When I was a kid I decided that if I knew I was going to die I wanted to go one of two ways: sucked into a black hole, or eaten by a shark. Both of them are things that you can only experience in death. Now, sure, you could argue that ANY way you die is going to be something you could only experience by dying. But I was like, 7, ok? Plus, I don’t care to know how it feels to get shot in the face. I DO want to know what the inside of a black hole looks like, and I would like to get up close and personal with a shark.

I think the black hole thing makes universal sense. Who WOULDN’T want to get sucked into a black hole? I mean, sure, you’re probably going to get stretched and torn to pieces just on your way in. But, WHAT IF YOU DIDN’T?? Then you could at least get a minute or two of “HOLY SHIT!! This dimension is exactly the same except here ponies brush US! Numbers are sentient!!!” before the diabetes gets you.

The shark thing might be weirder. Sharks are fucking terrifying. They are real, live, murderous dinosaur monsters — they kill, they fuck, they die. That’s about it. No art projects, no dams or nests to build. Even bears take care of their young and like honey — that’s relate-able. Sharks will fucking cut a bitch. If you look into the eyes of a tiger, you feel something. Look into a shark’s eyes? Nothing. Blank. Total murder. Somehow, getting very close to something that powerfully threatening is fascinating. But you can’t just touch a shark — I mean a REAL shark, not one of those tiny ones — you have to be ready to go all-in.

Plus, for just that one moment while it’s eating you, you are the most important thing in the world to that shark. There is no other way to have a shark give a shit about you. Maaaaaybe if you and Roy Scheider spend days on a boat trying to kill it, MAYBE then. But for the most part they just don’t care about you.  You could say that their brains are too stupid and primitive to care about anything, or you be cool and romanticize it like I did above.

Now, my mother reads this blog — so I am trying avoid the comparisons to  swimming nightmare dicks. But come on, they are. I mean, look at that photo. That is super sexy. I mean “scary”!  WHATEVER. If sharks aren’t an answer to vagina dentata, I don’t know what is. Women often get a bad rap for being attracted to “bad boys” or “assholes”. That seems misguided — I think maybe what we all really want is a supportive relationship with a nice cute guy, and then to be eaten by a shark. Or to get sucked back into a cosmic vagina.

1. Want to hear a secret? The Mummy was CGI. Oh, you knew that? Ok. How about this? I smell like cedar and honey.
2. John Cena and I found an injured baby fawn, can your hold our shirts while we lift it out of my pick-up truck?
3. You’re Eliza Skinner? From Elizaskinner.net?! Holy Shit!
4. Yeah, I do all my stunts, except kissing. My kisses are too dangerous.
5. Can you hold this giant bag of money for me? I need to find someone hilarious and largely unknown to buy a movie from.
6. Ugh, some times I get so tired of shooting action movies every day - I really just want to read young-adult sci-fi novels, listen to hip hop, and bone.
7. One time I got so drunk I totally made out with Robert Downey Jr.  Just kidding, I wasn’t drunk.
8. I’d like you to meet my friend, J.J. Abrams.
9. “Why aren’t you dancing? You come to a club and you’re supposed to dance!” haha, just kidding. That’s you, right? I love Amy at the Club!
10. What’s up? I’m Brendan Fraser.

But wow, is it bad. One issue included a feature called Grab His Butt Like This. I am not even lying you guys. Someone went to college and got a journalism degree and now instructs androids, autistics, and Cosmo readers on how to properly touch their human boyfriend’s ass. There is also an article entitled How To Get Him To Tell The Truth, which I expected to be about waterboarding. Actually, it is all about how to manipulate your liar boyfriend into lying to you less often.

And worst of all, WORST OF ALL (I swear to god, go to a newsstand and check for yourself) there is an article actually listed as: When Your Hoo-ha’s Burning: Don’t Use This Common Cure! HOO. HA. Come on, ladies and gays of Cosmo — cut to the chase and entitle it “Nasty Pussy - Cranberry Juice Won’t Fix A Broken Snatch, Dummy!”

I just wish it was written by witches. Then all the advice might actually be effective, instead of impotent and manipulative.  Plus it would be more fun. Articles like 5 Risks That’ll Make You More In Love will be full of cool things like “Kill a virgin at midnight! Bleed into his cereal! Never wear panties/always wear a rat’s skull!” Gut Feelings You Should Never Ignore would have some entertaining “Your spell has been thwarted by a more powerful warlok”, “Your monkey is turning evil”, or “The undead have a score to settle with you” material. And Must Have Items would definitely not be a leather jacket, oversize tote and a tiered miniskirt. It would be a spooky hooded robe, extra eyeball, and a tiered miniskirt. Just because you’re a witch doesn’t mean you can’t slut it up some too.

Everyday another glimpse into the nasty mind of an adorable animal. You can check it out or follow it at NastyCute.com

“I am about to go so crazy on your ass, girl. It’s gonna start like I’m dancing, but then you’ll think maybe it’s martial arts, and then suddenly you’re realize how sexual you’re feeling about me. If you’ve got a diaphram or a dental dam or wrist guards or something, you should put it on now.

Mmm, girl, I am warming up to it in my mind right now. My brain is doing stretches to prepare — by that I mean math. I don’t need to stretch my body because I am in such top condition all the time. In the morning I leap out of bed and roundhouse kick to wake up. That is EVERY MORNING. So just imagine how crazy I am going to go on your ass.

You should probably back up. Haha, back that ass up! But really — back up, because I have to get a running start to get over this fence. Then, WOO! Watch out! But in a good/still dangerous way.

Girl, you are about to be so lucky. You’re welcome. Back up.”

My adorable charge.

Recently I’ve noticed myself classifying people into either dogs or cats. I don’t mean “dog people” or “cat people” — it’s not about preference, it’s disposition. For instance: I am clearly a cat. Robert Downey Jr — cat. Will Ferrell — dog. That lady comic that Oprah loves but we all hate — dog. What’s her name? Ali something? Whatever. You get what I’m saying. Cats are clever and reserved, dogs are energetic and optimistic. I haven’t worked the idea out into a whole book yet (but I should right? Chicks would buy that junk.) So far it’s mostly instinct and judgmental tendencies (such a cat!)

It’s not just people, either — it’s cities. New York is a cat, LA is a dog. New York sits inside looking out the window and down at the world, LA runs up to strangers and sticks it’s face in their crotch. New York sleeps all day and stays up all night, LA is really bummed when it doesn’t get to play frisbee bright and early. People tend to think New York is so cold and standoffish, and they think LA is just stupid.

Or maybe it just feels this way to me since I left my cat in New York and came to LA to dogsit for my first few weeks of transitioning out here. I have been spending more time with this dog than with humans. She’s a good time, and pretty adorable and brilliant as far as dogs go. I mean, she doesn’t know dick about math, but in 4 days I have taught her to dance on command (and that if she steals my underwear I will chase her, which she enjoys.) It’s relative, I guess.

We also spend a lot of time with other dogs, many of whom are hilarious. I met a poodle at the dogpark that screams like a human child if someone tries to take her ball. That was a good time. There was also an old deaf basset hound who hates balls and other dogs, but loves being chased by humans. She was pretty pushy with me, which was ridiculous. I mean, I’m not trying to brag, but if there was ever a dog I could easily catch on foot, it’s an old deaf basset hound.

The people here love dogs, too. At a party the other day I was talking to a man who seemed vaguely disappointed with me and decidely distracted, until I mentioned that I was dogsitting. He lit up! It was like I took my boobs out — suddenly we could have a real conversation. In fact, I’d say 70% of the conversations I have had or sneakily overheard (such a cat!) in the past week have been about dogs.

Maybe the alternative topics are too grim: “So how are you?” “Me? Well, I’m 40 and still doing PA work on porn shoots so I can pay off my jeep. Kind of want to tear my skin off, so I try to stay high all the time. Did you know that chicks aren’t really into jeeps anymore?”

Yeesh, right? So let’s go with: “So how’s your dog?” “Jesse? Great! I taught him to fetch and got him a t-shirt that says ‘Bad To The Bone’. Man he loves my jeep!”

Much better.

ALI WENTWORTH! That’s it! Ugh, we all hate her. Meow.

If you’re going to put a Thai Cobb Salad on the menu of your restaurant, please describe it with one of the following phrases:

• “The Georgia Peach” of salads.
• Created or equaled more major league records than any other salad.
• This salad might be horribly racist and violent, but its definitely tasty!
• Still holds the records for highest career batting average and most crispy noodle bits.
• Watch out! This salad punches minorities in the face with an unbridled rage that might easily turn homicidal.
• This salad’s father never got to see it play, since it was murdered by it’s mother — so it’s got something to prove to YOU. Yum!

If you dont — or WORSE, if you come to take my order and I say “Haha, I guess I gotta get the Thai Cobb Salad — it’s in the hall of fame, right?” and you look at me like I just said “Meow meow meow Cookiepuss!!” Well, then fuck you. You’re an idiot. I mean, come on!

Dan and his dog waited up for me to get home from the airport my first night. The next night Emily put me up on her stand-up show, where Jocelyn pep-talked me and helped me with a bit I’ve been working on. Friday, Baron dragged me out of bed to breakfast and then Greg spent 2 hours walking around Los Feliz looking for apartments with me. Thomas sent me apartment listings and talked me through leasing a car. Dave acted as designated-dad for some real estate tire kicking. I’m not going to fall.

I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do here, but for now I’m feeling really ok about it — happy to just be in Hollywood, watching TV with a small dog sleeping on my butt.