State of the Meg — October, 2011

- Shit went down, I decided to give up on writing, I watched an inspiring video on Facebook, I changed my mind, I'm back. GUNS BLAZING. I was actually supposed to be back Monday with guns blazing, but then I realized it was Columbus Day and no one would be in the office, and Tuesday my Internet was shut off for the majority of the day because I hadn't paid my bill in a month of Sundays. Specifically three months of Sundays, which Comcast has become increasingly less cool about. But! I paid my bill and now I have $9 left in my bank account to get me to next Tuesday. If you'd like to put a tip in the tip jar, that would be awesome. If not, I've got some yogurt in the fridge and a salmon fillet in the freezer leftover from the one time I held book club in 2010, so something tells me I'll be fine.

- AHH, WAIT! BEFORE ANYTHING ELSE HAPPENS AND/OR I FORGET TO TELL YOU FOR THE 6,000TH TIME...our book, The Misanthrope's Guide to Life, is now available for The Kindle. So go download it, or upload it, or interface with it, or however that witchcraft and wizardry works.

- Re: yesterday's post:

IT WAS SO BAD, KYLE. So, so bad. Realistically speaking, I was probably hungover from Friday morning to early Saturday afternoon. I was so hungover I felt homesick. Like, there was that same lump in my throat and waves of sadness kept washing over me and I just wanted a hug from my mom. If I had a gun and a roommate, I would have asked to be taken out back and put out of my misery. On a related note, I'd like to apologize and/or say you're welcome to my Baja Fresh delivery guy, Jose. (I don't know if his name was actually Jose. That's just pure racism right there.) I finally got the energy to go online and order food at about 3:30ish, immediately fell back asleep, and woke up 45-minutes later to angry banging on my door and six missed calls on the phone I had whaled myself on top of. I then proceeded to answer the door in a negligee that in no way housed my breasts, extended a single shaking paw out the door, took my food, mumbled thank you, and shoved pork tacos in my face while watching old episodes of Wings on Netflix. And that's how it was for quite some time. So. Mr. Lethals. Not just a cute name for a drink. More of a lifestyle.

- While I'm issuing apologies, I'd like to apologize again to my Twitter followers for that obnoxious virus I got last week. I normally know better than to click on those virusy links that are like "LOL! I saw a picture of your dick on TMZ last night! Oh my god!!!! Look~!" because I've always got one eye on my dick and one eye on TMZ, but this one was practically tailor made for me:

 

GAHHHH! You got me, you bastards! You got me good. Given how Christ-awful things were going that week, it only made sense that someone was talking shit on some blog somewhere and I completely fell for it. I'm sorry. I lost a crap-ton of followers because of it, if it makes you feel any better. But you know what? That's your loss because you people are missing out on classic Evie/Meg tweets like this little gem:

evie pictures

Yeah, that's me and Evie. BFFs^max. Gettin' ready for bed. Making Blingees. Doin' face masks. I spent the last two weeks house/Evie sitting for my parents while they were in Santa Cruz and Napa (must be nice...) and Evie and I became freakishly close. We were inseparable. And I know you're interpreting me saying we were "inseparable" as like, "Oh, cool, they got a good snuggle session in here and there," but I what I mean is we were inseparable. Like, by the strictest definition of the word. She would not leave my side. I would have to walk her down to the kitchen to eat her meals or else she'd just stay in my bedroom with me all day and not eat. Typically sitting directly on my laptop. Here she is obstructing my view of the classic 1994 film Airheads:

Here is her paw:

Every time I went down into the basement to work out, she'd follow me and jump up on my chest and want to snuggle at inopportune times, like when I was climbing a particularly steep hill on the bike:

(I know I'm not anonymous anymore, but I'm sweating profusely in that picture and the Internet is forever. What do you want?)

So, yeah. No big deal. NBD, if you will. We're just two of the best friends this world has ever seen. Although it did get weird one night when I dreamt that I was back in college and couldn't remember my schedule and was stressing out, so my dream boyfriend and I snuggled on the couch and I was like, "God. This is so nice." Then I woke up and realized I was full-blown spooning Evie. Shit got a little too real, God bless me.

- My dad asked me to do two things while they were away: call Comcast and fix the Internet and set up their wireless printer. Because I already have an established relationship with Comcast (albeit a dysfunctional one), I took care of fixing that problem first. (And because I wanted to watch Airheads.) While I was on the phone with the Comcast tech, I had to go down to the basement, get on my hands and knees, and reach behind the router to unplug it. After unplugging it, I withdrew my hand and realized that I had just inadvertently grabbed a fistful of spiders. Just a whole handful of spiders and spiderwebs. I then managed to do the following without making a single noise or dropping the phone: gag and come dangerously close to vommitting, frantically wipe the contents of my right hand off on a Longaberger basket, jam the receiver between my ear and shoulder, and rip my shirt off with my left hand. I don't know why, but every time I realize there's an insect on me, my natural reaction to rip my shirt off. Even when it's not even on my shirt. This was particularly embarrassing during The Summer of the Cicadas when I was at Best Buy and thought I felt something on my back. "Megan, is there a cicada on my back?" I asked the friend I was with at the time. "Yes Meg, there is," she calmly replied. But then instead of batting the goddamn thing off me, she booked it in the opposite direction, I freaked out, hurled my purse into a rack of candy, and ripped off my shirt in the middle of Best Buy. I swear to God. Then, as I tried to regain composure and get my shirt back on, I heard this little "It's gone!" from halfway across the store in office supplies. Thank you, Megan. Ass.

Anyway, my whole point being, Chris and I worked off and on again for about a year developing a reality show with a few of dat dem der big time Hollywood producers, but they backed out a few months ago. Which is fine because, my God, the weight we'd have to lose. But every now and then a moment like that happens and I'm kind of sad I can't make a gif out of it. So much of my sadness is gif-related. You have no idea.

- I'm speaking at Hood College later this month about blogging ethics and when I told my mom the topic, she laughed-out-loud for a depressingly long amount of time. When I told my sister, she recoiled.

- Fitness First on L and 19th is on my shit list. Hot and heavy. First and foremost: we have to sign out hand towels now and they're limit one per person? Seriously? Where are we—Communist Russia?? Do you want me to till the fields and share my apartment with six of my closest comrades while I'm at it? Second and secondmost: they closed at four on Columbus Day and I walked all the way down there at 4:30 because I didn't know that and was all emotionally ready to work out and was instead faced with the harsh reality of two locked doors. Seriously? Columbus Day?? What is the point of a gym closing on Columbus Day? Do your employees need to go home to be with their families and eat their Columbus Day turkeys and sing Columbus Day carols and open Columbus Day presents around the Columbus Day tree? Shenanigans. Lazy, gym-related, Columbus Day shenanigans. AND that hot guy who's always there when I am didn't ask me out when I told him the score of the Cardinals/Brewers game the other day. I know that's not your fault because I was the one struggling to breathe and wearing six layers of sports bra at the time, but you certainly didn't help.

- While we're on the topic of policy changes, I have a new policy of my own: if you don't lock the door behind you when you go to the bathroom and I walk in on you, I refuse to be embarrassed. It's your fault, not mine. I am so sick of walking in on people in bathroom stalls and fitting rooms and having them treat me like I'm some kind of pervert trying to sneak a peek. I just have to pee, OK? I went to the bathroom, I saw a door ajar, I naturally pushed it open, and lo and behold—there you are with your pants down all, "UM, EXCUSE ME, DO YOU MIND?!" Yes! Yes I do! I don't want to see your junk anymore more than you want to show it to me! And the thing is, this happens to me more than it should. It happened to me twice this past weekend alone. Why aren't you weirdos locking the door behind you? Are you insane?? There's a lock on every public bathroom door in America—use 'em. And let me just address the obvious comment I know I'm going to get: "Oh, Meg, what barn were you raised in? You obviously knock before you go into a bathroom." Fuck that noise! Why should I knock? I'm not coming over to your apartment with a nice bottle of Merlot for an intimate gathering of friends and colleagues—I'm trying to piss at the bar. I can't hear shit over the Wilco that's inevitably being blasted anyway. Just lock the fucking door. And if you don't and I walk in—I will no longer be embarrassed. Effective immediately. EAT IT.

- Alex, Helena and I were supposed to go camping last weekend but it started pouring as we pulled into the campgrounds and we had to throw in the towel. Speaking of towels, I should have known the trip was destined for failure when I realized that I forgot Hat. (Let that speak loudly. Forgetting Hat, forgetting Larry Hagman's birthday...God. Get your shit together, Rowland.) We got drunk on boxed wine in an Olive Garden parking lot instead, so, I mean, the night wasn't an entire loss. More to the point, en route to camping, I made Helena and Alex try my Clear Eyes Cooling Relief drops and they LOVED it. "I know! It's amazing, right? That's why I blogged about it!" Helena was then essentially like, "No offense, but I thought that post was just some bullshit filler and disregarded it. I stand corrected." So, in summary, that post where I recommended you put Clear Eyes Cooling Relief in your eyes and run really fast down a hallway? It wasn't (entirely) bullshit filler. Try it. You won't regret it.

- Speaking of blog posts that didn't get the appreciation I felt they should have, I'm going to re-post the Vance Vance Revolution graphic I made. Not only do I think it's clever, it took an embarrassingly long amount of time to research and create it, and it only got like one comment that was just someone telling me to go fuck myself. So, JIM VANCE: the revolution will be televised.

- I should go fuck myself.

Current State of the Meg: Hanging on by a thread. Slash incredibly aroused by this crisp Fall weather! Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

My name is Meghan Rowland, and this is what I did today:

...I hate myself. 

(For loving you.)

Where Is My Mind?

(You know a blog post is going to be awesome when it begins with this gchat conversation:


Sent at 5:44 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  sigh

 Sent at 5:58 AM on Wednesday

 Dan:  how's the post coming?

 me:  sorry, i was reading this really intense ghost story

so...not well, i guess.

Jesus Christ...Let's try to move past it.) 

 

- So that's happening. That's a very real problem in my life right now. It feels like fucking Barbados in my apartment and I'm sweltering despite the fact that it's physically impossible to be any more nude than I am right now. I don't know what to do about it. I mean, buy a fan, I guess, but the thought of getting up, putting layers of clothing on my person, walking to CVS, interacting with human beings, and walking all the way back to my apartment is exhausting. I had to walk to the bathroom to get my phone earlier and by the time I got back to my bed, I might as well have just been doing jazzercise in Dubai for all the sweating and wheezing that was going on. Because it's not just hot in here; it's humid. The air is heavy and wet and dank and horrible. I feel like I'm living in a terrarium. So I just lay here all day trying really, really hard not to move. And wait for someone to feed me crickets. Again: it's a problem.

- Ughhhhhh, the battle of Meg vs. Antidepressants has taken an obnoxious turn. As mentioned, I've been on 360mg of Effexor for a little over three and a half years and am currently attempting to wean myself off it. (Fun fact!: 360mg is 10mg over the maximum dosage. I found this out via the Google shortly after my doctor in New York prescribed it to me in 2007, but I never brought it up with him. Wanna know why? Because his office was down the hall from Flyleaf's record label. I swear to God. I didn't ask about my questionable dosage of medication because I was impressed that my doctor's office was down the hall from the record label that represents Flyleaf. And I'm sorry, self, but WHAT KIND OF FLAWED FUCKING LOGIC IS THAT?! I don't even like Flyleaf! And yet I distinctly remember being like, "Oh, shit. Flyleaf. And there's a Dean and Deluca directly next door. Meh—he clearly knows what he's doing. DOO-BE DOO-BE DOO! POPPITY-POPPITY-POP! WHO NEEDS A LIVER?! LA LA LA!" I realize I have an anthropomorphized camo hat and a soft spot in my heart for confederate flags, but it's still shocking how country I am when you get right down to it.) I managed to work my way down to 37.5mg over the last several months without any problems, but I started 25mg last week and it's not going well. I'm withdrawing hardcore, and let me tell you guys something—Effexor withdrawal is no fun.

One of the many Christ-awful withdrawal symptoms of Effexor (you know, besides brain shivers) is rage. I swear to god: straight-up rage. I sit here in my little humidor and I rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light! Except yesterday, the dying of the light = a brochure I got in the mail for a technical college in Philadelphia. The brochure is for CHI Institute (Franklin Mils campus) and it came addressed to the informal Meg Rowland in a handwritten envelope and had a business card stapled inside with the recruiter's name and phone number highlighted. I was so confused. To my knowledge I hadn't consumed a box of wine and decided to pursue a career in insurance processing (although, to be fair, that wouldn't be completely out of character), so I assumed someone must have put my name on an info request list as a joke. And if mail shenanigans are in play, there's really only one suspect—Tulane Chris.

Now, under normal circumstances, I probably would have thought to myself, "Ha ha. Oh, Chris! That delightful little scamp," and gone on with my day. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Instead, I grabbed the brochure, raised it heavenwards with a shaking fist and thought to myself, "That son of a bitch! HE DOESN'T THINK I CAN BE A WRITER?! HE THINKS I SHOULD PURSUE THE FINE ART OF PRIVATE INVESTIGATION OR RESIDENTIAL/COMMERCIAL/INDUSTRIAL WIRING?! Well, I'll show him. Oh, I'LL show him. Baha. Ha. HAHAHA. HAAAAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAA!!!" and kind of continued to cackle like that for a few minutes until I thought I was going to pass out from heat stroke and had to take a cold soak in my bathtub with a grape-flavored Freezepop until I calmed down. BUT THEN...I retaliated. 

About an hour later when I was feeling somewhat less, you know, crazy, I thought I'd confront Chris and see if he was indeed the culprit. Aaaaaaaand as it turns out, he was not. In retrospect, I probably should have been an adult about the whole thing and confirmed that fact before I retaliated. Which is another way of saying: Chris, I'm very sorry that I gave all of your private information to the Church of Scientology and told them on your behalf that you've quote, "got more questions than Catholicism will ever have answers." **~~~~Love you, biffles!!!1!~~~~** ;) ;) ;)

- I made this image of the DC flag with NBC news 4 anchorman Jim Vance heads instead of stars for no reason other than I just genuinely feel more comfortable living in a world where it exists:

I'm a hardcore Vance-head. My sister and I like to play a game called, "What Do You Think Jim Vance is Doing Right Now?" It's fairly self-explanatory. We get together and occasionally turn to the other and pose the question, "What do you think Jim Vance is doing right now?" More times than not he's playing golf or doing sudoku. If you catch me when I'm in an especially good mood, he's listening to Waka Flocka and writing in his dream journal about what a bitch Doreen Gentzler is.

- We've officially reached the point in the summer where I give up on trying to look attractive when I leave my apartment! I've retired my blow dryer, flat iron, and genitals until October. We're all excited.

- Tulane Chris' full name is Chris Turner-Neal, but I said it really fast the other day and it accidentally came out Chris Turtle-Neal. This small mistake has changed my life in ways that another human being never could. I can not express to you how funny the concept of Chris as a cartoon turtle going about his daily business is to me. Chris Turtle-Neal loading the dishwasher. Chris Turtle-Neal going to Wawa to buy an energy drink and scratch-offs. Chris Turtle-Neal avoiding eye contact in the elevator. Chris Turtle-Neal writing an angry letter to the postmaster general about not receiving his phone bill on time. Chris Turtle-Neal making a fresh batch of Crystal Lite. Chris Turtle-Neal all pissed at me because I turned him over to the Scientologists. It's just never not funny to me. Mostly because in my head, it looks like this:

The Asinine and Completely Realistic Adventures of Chris Turtle-Neal—what will he do next?! (Answer: drink port, play Xbox, and somehow work a joke about the Battle of Verdun into casual conversation. God damn I love him.)

Well, this post fucking sucked and I don't have a conclusion (although I did write a song called "Who Needs a Conclusion?" to the tune of the 1981 Men at Work song "Who Can It Be Now?", which I won't subject you to), so I'm going to go punch holes in the wall until I fall asleep. XOXO!

Worming my way back into your hearts with a little help from CJ Fam

Well, we're done writing the manuscript for book #2 and we're back from hiatus! Or at least I'm back from hiatus. Chris is vacationing with his dad in Maryland this week to celebrate finishing grad school. I'd like to say they should have aimed higher and picked a more exotic travel destination, but then again, my stance on Maryland is and always will be: Maryland—DON'T MIND IF I DO, AND DON'T MIND IF I DO!

So how did writing the book go? Um. Not "well", per se. Chris and I apparently wrote this manuscript on an ancient Indian burial ground because everything that could have gone wrong did. My laptop broke, Chris got strep throat, we had to get three extensions, Chris' apartment exploded in mice, I developed a really painful style on the inside of my upper-right eyelid. I know, A STYE!!! How the hell did that happen?? I really can't stress enough how irritating it was. Blinking was excruciatingly painful. I tried writing with my right eye closed for a while, but it threw off my depth perception and I just ended up getting car sick. It was a weird couple of days. But we're done (thank Christ) and I'm so, so happy to be back. We love writing for Adams because: 1.) they give us money and 2.) our editor is delightful, but writing for someone else really makes you miss writing without restrictions. Adams doesn't even restrict us that much, they just asked that we not write jokes about two subjects: abortion and suicide. Which is problematic because if there's anything funnier than abortion and suicide, it's child molestation. Now we have an entire binder's worth of aborted abortion and suicide jokes that just sits on a shelf marked "irony" in my apartment and collects dust. Therefore this needs to happen:

SUICIDE! SUICIDE! SUICIDE!

ABORTION! ABORTION! ABORTION!

SUICIDE! ABORTION! ABORTIONY SUICIDE! SUICIDAL ABORTIONS! ABORTICIDE! ABORTION! ABORTION! ABORTION!

KNOCK, KNOCK.

WHO'S THERE?

ABORTION.

ABORTION, WHO?

SUICIDE!

God, that felt good. Glad to be back here at the old 2b1b where the bar is set low. Really, really, embarrassingly low.

So remember when you were a kid and your dad would go away on long business trips and bring you back something nice to make it up to you? Or in my case, both of your parents would go to Monte Carlo on your birthday and then come back and give your bike to your sister to abandon in Malcolm X park, not replace it, and after years of not letting them live it down, you delude yourself into thinking that maybe they've learned a lesson, but then your dad gives his car to your sister, sells your car, and uses the profits to help buy himself a Porsche, and when you ask what you get out of that deal, he hands you a jar of baby gherkins and everybody laughs really hard?............Goddammit, I have no idea what my original point was. Oh, yes. Dad/business trip metaphor. So I know Daddy had to go away on business and now you're all mad at me, but I brought you back a little prezzie to make it better. (For the record: I feel like I just molested each and every one of you and I apologize profusely.) It's a privilege and an honor to start the 2b1b engine back up with our interview with C-C-C-C-CJ FAM!

I'm totally not making this up. Chris and I sat down on Easter Sunday and interviewed my new BFF #1, CJ Fam. It turns out after I wrote "In Defense of CJ Fam", CJ's mom (Brenda, she's a doll) found it and reached out to us because she and CJ thought it was funny. Which is awesome, because whenever I write about someone not in my immediate circle, I'm aware that it's going to go one way or the other, and it always tends to go the other. Like the time I wrote that really flattering piece about my ninth grade crush and within an hour of it being up, his cousin emailed me to tell me to take it down and his best friend called my best friend to be like, "Meg wrote some gay shit about Steve on her blog or whatever and Steve's like, really weirded out now." God, that was disappointing. It was like watching a magician empty his sleeves, or Santa take off his beard. Except once Santa's beard is off, it's not upsetting because he's just some random guy—it's upsetting because he has the sense of humor of a foghorn. Sigh. Anyway! CJ Fam is promoting her new single "Show Off" and we had the pleasure of chatting with her about it. (Side note: we did the interview over Facebook chat because it was just easier for transcribing purposes, however, because my Facebook photo is of Carl Winslow, the entire interview felt more like watching a fantasy version of "Inside the Actor's Studio" starring Carl Winslow instead of James Lipton and CJ Fam instead of James Franco. So, basically, a 5,000% better show.)

2birds1blog:
Hey CJ, Thanks again for taking time out of your Easter to chat with us.


CJ Fam:
Sure, anytime.


2b1b:
First and foremost: Ark Records: what was behind that decision? It seems like an unusual decision for a girl of your talent.



Fam:
Well, I wrote a song and they offered to produce it because every one has to start somewhere.


2b1b:
So did they find you, or did you already know about them?

Fam:
They were trying to launch a girl band and we submitted a video of me singing and they wanted to launch me as a solo artist.

2b1b:
That must have been flattering! I was hoping they were going to do that with our book deal. And yet. Here Chris is.

So are Patrice “Bizarro Usher” Wilson and Clarence Jay as creepy as the world collectively decided they are?

Fam:
Absolutely not, Clarenece was so down to earth and supported me and he is very spiritual.

2b1b:
Sounds about right. Are you still working with them at all?

Fam:
No, I moved on from Ark but still keep in touch with them.

2b1b:
Who are you with now? And what made you want to move on?

Fam:
I am with Famous Teen Traxx. Ark had suddenly broke down after the whole Rebecca Black situation. I moved on I could prove that I could sing because I have been under attack. I just recorded a new song called "Show Off" and made a video behind it so the song should be out soon. The producer's name is Ramone and we were in LA for a week.

2b1b:
Well, as Chris just said, judging from "Show Off", there's no doubt you can sing.

Fam:
I still have a long way to go.

2b1b:
Going back to Ark briefly, I know that you read my blog post about how I VERY MUCH thought “Ordinary Popstar” deserved to go viral over Rebecca Black’s “Friday”. Let’s rap about that. Are you as peeved as I was (/am)?

Fam:
I'm not angry because she has to deal with all the negativity and I would rather have less hits but they are mostly good then going viral in a negative way.

2b1b:
That's an incredibly good and mature point. It’s crazy that you’re only 11-years-old. When I was 11 I failed Earth Science and wore a fair amount of baby-doll tee/boardshort combos. Are you having fun or is this work?

Fam:
I think of it as fun and not work because you can express yourself in a different way.

2b1b:
So what can you tell us about "Show Off"?

Fam:
It is a jazz type song from the 1940's, they were looking for a singer for over a year, and they knew nothing about my song "Ordinary Popstar".

2b1b:
Does this mean you have a contract with Famous Teen Traxx?

Fam:
No they want to take me to different labels to get signed but my parents don't want me to grow up too fast. And I love going to school and having friends.

2b1b:
I know what you mean. [That comment was followed by an awkward 30 seconds of silence. I really expected a fair amount of HAHAHA's because I thought it was obvious that I was referencing the line in "Ordinary Popstar", "I want to have a regular life again, like going to school and having good friends. You know what I mean?" And when you've out CJ Fam-ed CJ Fam, it's time to get out of your fucking apartment.]

I’m going to be real honest with you: I went to a very performance arts heavy high school with lots of girls pursuing pop stardom and I usually describe them with words that I’m not going to use in front of an 11-year-old girl. Please tell me that you’re nice. As your #1 blog supporter, this is oddly important to me.

Fam:
I feel that I am very humble and I don't like talking about my popstar life at school so my friends can think of me as just a good friend. I enter these contests for myself to improve. My dad says that being a good person is the meat and potatoes and having good grades and being able to sing is just gravy. We all like gravy but we don't need it.

2b1b:
Ooo...my dad pushed grades. But in the end I'm just a blogger, so I guess I showed him. I have a question on behalf of my friend Andrew (who introduced me to your music, by the way). In all of the Ark videos, including yours, are those your real friends or extras that Ark hires?

Fam:
They hired extras, but I took one friend and she was in the video too.

2b1b:
How fun!

Fam:
And I wonder sometimes who are my true friends and who aren't.

2b1b:
I feel like that's normal for middle school (or at least in my experience) but I imagine it's even harder if you're a public figure.

Fam:
Well, being in Elementary School is even harder.

2b1b:
Oh, just kidding then. Middle school is a breeeeze!

Fam:
Good, can't wait.

2b1b:
Well, look. As I've written about on our blog, elementary and middle school sucked for me, but every day I came home and ate a box of cookies and watched "Mama's Family". At least you have this amazing project.

Fam:
Do have any words of wisdom for a girl like me?

2b1b:
GIRL, I could write you a novel.

Fam:
Well, I'm up for reading it! Do you think I should stop what I am doing?

2b1b:
I'm genuinely rooting for you, so any time you need advice, you come straight to me, missy. I guess my overarching advice is that grades 5-7/8ish can be rough, but it gets considerably better. And if not, just start a blog!

You totally should not stop what you're doing. You're a genuinely good singer! I think bowing out of the reality show was a good call though. [Fam was cast in a reality show about assembling the next tween pop group, but left when she was allegedly encouraged to be more competitive and start dramz with other other members of the group].

Fam:
I'll take that, good advice. I didn't want to target anyone out of the group, you know? I would never stomp on anyone's dreams.

2b1b:
I think that was a good move. It would have painted you as this fame-hungry tween and clearly that's not who you are. Well, I'm pretty sure we just became best friends, but I have one last question for you...I see that one of your biggest supporters is Sean “Barney Rubble” of Death Row Players fame. Can you, or can you not help me attain my personal life goal of meeting Dr. Dre? I am not too big to beg an 11-year-old girl.

Fam:
Well if you could write a blog on Famous Teen Traxx, maybe we can make some arrangement...

2b1b:
Muhaha...consider it DONE. Well thank you so much for your time, Ms. Fam! We can't wait for the release of "Show Off"!

Fam:
And we are rooting for you. Thanks!

2b1b:
PSHHH, stop. If you need any more advice from my anthology of middle school meltdowns, just holler.

Carl Winslow + CJ Fam = BFF4LYFE, OBVS