Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Meghan McBlogger...

An email I recieved a few weeks ago: 

Hey Meg: 

Fellow blogger and big fan here. 

A little background. My blog is http://payattentionto.blogspot.com and has been growing a lot lately - people go crazy for the Jersey Shore and Real Housewives entries to name a couple (no big) (ok, ok, big). P.S., I link out to you as a Favorite - mwah. 

Anhyoozles, I got to thinking that the time you did a Q&A post was hilarious. Thought it would be fun to send you some Q's for you to consider answering for a future post on your blog. Would also be honored if I could include it a duplicate on mine - but totally fine if you'd prefer not to. Self-promotion is not the underlying intent. Swears. You don't even have to mention a name at all if that's better for you.

Oh man. I know it's completley self-indulgent to want to answer these questions, but frankly, my brain still hurts from so selflessly fighting to find the cause a possible cause of Landing Boner, so I think I deserve this little cerebral break. Right? Right. Take it away, Fellow Blogger. 

Q: What's it like now that your sister is married? Any awkward moments?

A: To be 100% honest with you, my sister's marriage hasn't affected my life in the slightest. IS IT SUPPOSED TO?! I mean, she wasn't at Christmas dinner this year because she was away on her honeymoon, so I guess that was weird. But then again it wasn't, because Andrew of the Great Juno Debate came as her proxy. I made him strap on a brown wig and roughhouse with me on the carpet for a while, so it was kind of like she was there. Andrew really was a good sport about the whole thing. Some say he got too into it, some say not enough. Only time will tell. 

And as far as awkward moments go, I think the most awkward thing that ever happened between me and Geoff actually happened last Fall when he and Becca were still engaged. Helena, Laura, and I were about to leave for our big camping excursion, but I needed to swing by the bar Geoff manages part-time to get the key to his truck first. Geoff is like this all-American, cornhusking, sturdy, frat boy. He calls waiters "Boss" and ladies "babe" or "beh-beh". God only knows what motivated me to do this, but as I took the keys from him and prepared to say goodbye, I decided that that would be the perfect time to jump on his terms of endearment bandwagon and call him "babe". Again, I don't really know what I was thinking. Sometimes I'm afraid I come off as uppity and stand-offish to him, so I think I was trying to be like, "SEE?! SEE?! I CAN BE FUN AND LAID BACK TOO, BABE!" So I tried to say, "Thanks for the keys, babe! Have a good night!" but it came out, "Thanks for the keys, baby! Have a good night!" That may not sound like a big deal, but I was M-M-M-MORTIFIED. I ran back to my car and immediatley called Becca all, "I DON'T KNOW IF GEOFF HAS CALLED TO TELL YOU YET BUT I TRIED TO CALL HIM 'BABE' AND IT ACCIDENTALLY CAME OUT 'BABY' WITH A HARD 'Y' AND I WASN'T TRYING TO HIT ON HIM AND I DON'T THINK OF HIM LIKE THAT AND I'M REALLY SORRY!!!1" She was like "Yyyyyeah...I don't think he noticed. Or cared. At all. Calm down over there." So then not only was it embarrassing because it was just embarrassing, it was embarrassing because I made this huge deal out of it. Ugh. I don't know. I don't want to talk about this anymore.

Also, when our families get together, I somehow always end up drunk in a corner harrassing Geoff's dad to talk to me about the Marines because I'm fascinated by the armed services. Not enough to join, mind you. Just enough to harass a retired military officer over cocktails to take me out to Quantico to see if I could survive the Quigley. He always says no, but once he did offer to make a giant mud pit for me in his backyard and watch me flounder around in it for a while. And I am UP for that, sir! Semper fi! In my mind, Geoff's dad and I are best friends. According to Becca, every time she sees him he asks how her "worthless sister" is doing, and the meaner he is to you, the more he likes you. SO HAY BIFFLES!

Q: What are you doing right now? Don't lie. Go.

A: At the moment it's 1:41 in the morning, I'm wearing madras booty shorts and a wife beater, and I'm laying across my bed and answering your questions in one tab and watching the PBS special The Marines in another. And that is honestly what I'm doing right now. Pretty par for the course, really.

Q: If I can speak for all of your fans, and I think I will, we LOVE your dad. He sounds like the perfect, Tommy Bahama wearing, supportive, corny joke-telling dude. What was he like when he was younger? He's gotta have some hippy stories no?

A: Thank Christ my dad doesn't read this blog. Not because I talk about my porn preferences, not because I talk about my sex life, or alcohol/drug use, or how hardcore I cheated in high school, but because I think he would hurl himself directly out of his office window if he knew that my fans picture him in a Tommy Bahama shirt. My dad is the most well-dressed gentleman I know. I mean, he's the kind of person who dresses up to fly. After he got his posh new Italian suit for my sister's wedding, he circulated an email around the family just to preemptivley make us all aware of how good he looked in it. I met him at the metro a few days ago in a bomber jacket that I had just bought at Target, and after I hugged him hello, he literally recoiled and said "Is that pleather??" It's obnoxious.

My dad has gone through quite an interesting metamorphosis throughout his life. Rumor has it he was a bit of a hellraiser in his youth. He got arrested a few times and kicked out of not one, but two colleges; the second for telling the Dean to go fuck himself. He ended up at NYU's film school and spent the better part of the late sixties in Washington Square Park, so yes, I'd say he's got some pretty good hippie stories. I'm not even going to try to tell them though because I could never do them justice. In high school, my friends used to come over for dinner all the time just to hear them and ask my dad all sorts of questions about his shenanigan-filled youth. (This is my life—my parents and hairpeice are more popular than I am.) 

Just to give you an idea, there was the time my dad went to a Black Panther party in the Bronx, looked around the room and said, "Man! So not all of you guys can dance!" before he even realized what was coming out of his mouth. There was the time he found himself in a bar fight (unrelated to the Black Panther incident) (shockingly) and picked up a beer bottle by the neck to smash over the bar and use as a weapon. Not realizing that the beer was full, he raised the bottle over his head and ended up pouring it directly down his sleeve, thereby ending the fight due to LOLZ. There was the time he was a high school bus driver. There was the time he managed a leisure suit store. There was the time he worked for SNL. There was the time he almost ran over Gene Wilder. And just recently my dad's oldest friend, John, informed me that when they were in college—my dad at NYU and John at Pratt—they got a job writing erotica together for extra cash but got fired because their pieces were always too plot-driven. I mean, my stories are like, "HAR HAR, I WENT TO REN FEST TODAY AND SOMEONE CALLED ALEX GAY. I SHOULD WRITE A BOOK." Please. I think I'm funny and well-dressed until I look at my dad and realize I'm just Dave Coullier in a pleated skort.

Sidenote: Speaking of how my dad is a hero of mine and all that mushy jazz, one day in college I thought it would be really clever to change the "About Me" section of my LiveJournal profile to the video for the Simian Mobile Disco song "Hustler". (Lyrics: "I'm a hustler baby, that's what my daddy made me.") A few days after I put it up, it sunk in that while the lyrics might be applicable, the video is just a bunch of hipster girls playing a game of telephone that slowly morphs into a softcore lesbian orgy.

So basically, I had just changed my profile to:

About Me:

I AM A GAY DISCO EXPLOSION!!!!!!!!!!!! 

That was a humbling moment.

Q: I tried watching Soap and I wasn't really into it. What do you have to say about that?

A: I respect that. I don't like "Glee" and get a bunch of a shit for it, so you do you and I'll do me.

Q: OK, now that you're done going off on me, you should know that I like Benson - does that count?

A: If you like Benson, give Florida from "Maude" a try. As far as stereotypically sassy black housekeepers go, she's the tits.

Q: What shows have you been watching on Hulu lately?

A: I actually don't watch a ton of Hulu. I watched it a lot when I was a receptionist because I was just sitting in front of a computer all day with eight hours to kill and no Netflix, but (thank God) things are different now. That being said, my Saturday ritual is waking up and watching that week's "Parks & Rec", "30 Rock", and last week's "Simpsons". With my incredibly attractive boyfriend. While we spoon. And he does the Times crossword puzzle. And tells me how great I am. And then we have The Sex.

Q: We want to know more about your hair... haven't heard much about it lately. Are you still dying it? What color these days? Do you still have the weave thingy? What's your hair regimen?

A: First of all, I never had a weave, thank you. I had a Jessica Simpson/Ken Paves HairDo piece. Second of all, she had a name: Weekend Hair. And I'd appreciate it if you would use it. 

My beloved Weekend Hair died in 2008 and has since gone to the big frat party in the sky. These days I'm all natural. My hair is dark brown, long-ish, with sideswept bangs...it's not terribly interesting. And as far as my hair regimen goes, that's even more uninteresting. I was telling Tulane Chris about it last weekend and stopped mid-sentence because I realized it was the most boring conversation I'd ever been in, which is saying something because it was about me and I was the only person talking. It's so much sexier when Christian Bale does it in American Psycho...

[Ugh, embedding disabled by request. You're breakin' my balls here, Lions Gate.]

But out of respect to you, here it is:

I have naturally curly hair, so the entire purpose of my hair regime is to beat it into straight submission. I wash my hair with Philosophy's Purity shampoo because my mom bought it for me, and I condition with off-brand Pantene Pro-V conditioner because I bought it for me. Before I blow dry, I use Garnier Full Control Mousse and a few spritzes of Frizz brand Styling Spray. Then I blow dry, pin that shit back while I do my make up, straighten with a T3 flat iron, and finish with a little shaping creme to tame the flyaways. It's pretty sexy, I guess. I know I'm not not wet...

Q: Are you a fashionista or more of a "dress for comfort" sensible shoes type gal? (Yes I really just said gal)

A: I'm hesitant to say I'm a "fashionista" because I feel like girls who self-identify as "fashionistas" are the same girls who order cosmos at sports bars and say things like, "When people call me a bitch, I say thank you." But I'm defiantly not a sensible shoes kind of gal. (Although I do have a pair of fur-lined urban mocosins that I wear in public more than I should because they're obscenely comfortable.) I'd like to think I'm stylish. I like clothes, I like dressing up, I like putting together outfits. I don't know. I feel like there's not a way to talk about this without sounding like a giant asshole. Let's talk about my hair again.

Q: If Larry Hagman called you right now, what would you say to him?

A: That's such an impossible question to answer. My friend Caroline has this story about how she was at her mom's candle store in Georgetown Park Mall one day when she was eight or so, and Bill Clinton, who was the President at the time, came to the mall to Christmas shop and meet people. Although unimpressed, she went and stood in line to meet him. When it was her turn to shake his hand, she froze, and the only thing she could think to say to him was, "..................GOD BLESS YOU, SIR" with these wide eyes. I feel like that's what would happen if Larry Hagman called me. I'd just burst into tears and talk about Jesus for a while.

Q: What's your #1, 2, and 3 favorite food? And don't say gummy fangs. Real food.

A: Oh God. Ummmmm...hmm. Well, I have this really weird neurosis where I don't like to eat food that's wrapped in other food, so my entire life I pooh-poohed the idea of a Chipotle burrito. But then once day I had a burrito bowl and it was like I had tasted God's tears. Serioiusly, it changed my life. I'm also a huge fan of Belgian food: waffles, steak, mussels, fries, cold beer...it doen't really get much better than that. (Shout-out to Bistro du Coin and Belga Café. Moules and frites, baby. Moules and frites.) And pad thai is another go-to food staple of mine. When I lived in Brooklyn, my apartment was over a thai food restaraunt called Thai Tony's and that, plus DiGiorno pizzas from the gas station across the street, is pretty much all I ate. But at least I made a friend out of old Thai Tony. He was fine with me meandering in two glasses of Pinot deep in my pajamas on various weekday nights and being like, "SIR ANTHONY—PAD SEE EW ME!" Ex Co-Blogger Chris and I still email each other frequently to reminisce about Thai Tony and whether or not he's also looking up at the moon and if somehow, in that moment, we're all connected...?

Q: Did you get an advance for your book? AKA did you pay the %&$* cable bill yet???

A: Yes I did. And then I split that advance with Tulane Chris. And then I split what was leftover with Comcast. And then I blew a guy for $30 and fell into a K-hole.

Q: Are you really still looking for a job? Or freelancing? Or focusing solely on writing?

A: I'm not answering that question based on my suspicion it was ghostwritten by my mother. I'm still single and have been going to the gym lately, if those are your next two questions.

Q: Do you have a drop date for your book yet (yes I said it like that on purpose - makes it sound more rap album-y dontcha think)? Have you shot the cover art yet?

A: Our book drops September 18th and I haven't seen the final cover yet. I need to figure out if it's better for you guys to pre-order it, or wait until the first week it comes out. So. Note to self.

Q: Have you talked to Eddie lately? What's she up to?

A: Yep! We just had dinner when I was up in Philly the other weekend. Eddie got her MSW last May from Penn and now she works in Philly as a federal sex educator. I know that sounds like the plot line to a movie that heavily involves a ruler in a non-measuring or making straight lines context, but basically the great state of Pennsylvania pays Eddie to go around to different schools and teach Philadelphia's youth about important things like why you should always wear a condom and how fingerbanging should be a track meet, not a marathon. She also does a lot of volunteer work counseling LGTBQXYZ%^4 at-risk youth. The stories she tells about it really stress me out and confirm that it's a good thing I just sit in my apartment writing fart jokes all day and don't interact with children. Or people in general, really.

Have a good one.

Thanks for being interested!

Now, enough about me; what do you think of me?

Rasta Pugs & Peeping Toms

Man, we are crazy overdue for a Dr. Rueben Q&A o' the Day, huh?? Lord knows I haven't felt the ungodly need to grab my genitals in phantom pain in far too long. However, before we get to the good doctor, I need to talk to you about something that has absolutely nothing to do with anything.

Now, if you were to break down the percentage of how I spend an average day, this is what it would look like:

Meg McBlogger's Average Day

- 30%: Sleeping; napping; cat-napping or some combination of all of the above
- 30%: Assing around and general Tom Foolery
- 15%: Blogging
- 7%: Eating
- 5%: Gym
- 3%: Calling my mom and asking her inane questions like, "do you think this yogurt's still good?", "which side of the body is your liver on?" and "where are my keys?"

And the other 10%, you ask? Welp, the remaining 10% of my day is spent googling pugs, pugs in costumes, pugs in clothes and/or general pug accessories. There it is. The truth. Now you know what it is I do all day. Am I proud? No. Could I be doing more productive things with my day? Of course. Am I happy? Ecstatic. Because please look at what I found today:

Hi. That is a rasta track jacket for pugs. I mean...I just...I have no words for how absurdly fucking adorable that is. None. To quote my sister, "If I saw a pug walking down the street in a little rasta track jacket, I think I would have some sort of epileptic seizure it would be so cute." AND HOW!

Also, can we please discuss that upon discovering they're out of the 16" pug appropriate ones, I audibly gasped in disappointment? It's just somewhat startling considering how I don't own a pug, know anybody who does or have any plans to get one in the near future. (Although as MTV can attest, getting one is part of my five year plan...God I hate being me.) I just can't help but to think that if I had the ability to spend 70% of my day strutting around Dupont Circle with a joly little rasta pug, I'd be 99% happier in life. Do I sometimes fantasize about making rasta pug a Twitter account and all of the delightfully inappropriate things it'll say, like "Blazin' with my mom, mon!" or "Crackin' open a Red Stripe and watching de NatGeo"? Yes. Yes, I do. Am I comfortable with that fact? Jesus god, no.

I don't know what's happening to me. I'm out of control. I've already written two verses of a Robert Palmer cover song called Addicted to Pug and I'm weirding myself out harder than I've ever weirded myself out before. Mind you this is coming from the girl who wanted to create a graphic novel about the adventures of her Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. Bold statements. Bold statements all around.

Dr. Reuben! Step into the weirdo spotlight and make me seem normal again!

[Oh and FYI, I picked today's chapter in my normal way of flipping to a random page and pointing blindly to a sentence. Today I landed on:

"Mental rape is no fun if the victim is willing."

Slam and dunk.]

Q: What else does he [a Peeping Tom] want to do?
A: [...] Some peepers are more dedicated. Take Arnold, for example. Arnold is a stockbroker. He is in his early forties and was married for a year or so when was twenty-two.

"It just didn't work out—she was too immature."

Arnold describes his favorite technique.

"On the days when the market is closed, I go to the Public Library. I go back in the stacks and pretend I'm looking for a book. I always poke around on my hands and knees. Begin to get the idea?

"I wait until some girl comes along—she has to be a good-looker—and then I swing into action. I kind of work my way over to her, real slow so she doesn't suspect anything. Then I get out my equipment. I have this little magnifying mirror and I hold it by her feet so I can look up her skirt and get a perfect view of the entire situation."

For some reason, peepers love to refer to the object of their peeping in vague, general terms—entire 'situation' is a good example."

-----------------

1.)

You sick son of a bitch...

2.) How old must Arnold's wife have been if even the local library peeper can't handle her immaturity? I mean, what are we talking? 12? 13?

3.) Really Arnold? You won't take a peek unless she's a "good-looker"? You know Arn—may I call you Arn?—Arn, there's an old saying that goes, "beggars can't be choosers." I think when you're the guy who hustles straight from work to the public library and crawls around on all fours like a farm animal to get a five second peek at a pair of Hanes Her Ways, you might officially be classified as a beggar. I know I'm no medical doctor, but let's stop putting on airs here.


Q: What about female exhibitionists?
A: Most of them are professionals. Strippers and topless dancers are good examples. No matter what they say, strippers enjoy their work. They derive sexual satisfaction from displaying their breasts to large groups of men. They don't need much encouragement to display everything else. More than one stripper has obligated an enthusiastic audience by taking it all off, G-string and all, and parading around nude. She gets what she wants and they get what they want. Everybody is happy, no harm is done, except to Public Morals, whatever that means.

Predictably, strippers don't get much other sexual satisfaction. They usually have trouble attaining orgasm and never find much real pleasure in genital sex.

The same holds true for beauty queens. Their activities have more social approval, but the game is the same. They show off their breasts, hips, buttocks, and a discreet outlining of the vulva (through a bathing suit) to admiring men. Miss Artichoke 1966 has a lot in common with Bubbles LaTour and her Magic Balloons.

-----------------

I only included that question and answer because I've decided I'm going to start a band called "Dr. Reuben & The Blanket Statements" and we're going to tour the nation's countryside in our mystery van solving wacky, far-out crimes at haunted mansions and amusement parks.

And that is exactly where rasta pug and I will be if you need us. Good day.

CRACKED OUT LIFE PLANS!

Almost getting fired last week turned my world upside down, but not in the way that you think it would. Instead of being like, "BAHHH, I almost got fired! Jobs are hard to come by! Money buys you pants and sandwiches! I should straighten up and fly right!" I just wish I had actually gotten fired. Because while anxiously waiting for The Talk last week, I really came to peace with the idea of not working here anymore and got excited at the thought of pursuing other life avenues. But as we all now know, that Talk never came and here I am, still stuck in this ghost ridden dump show. Perhaps last week was the wake up call I needed that I've become too complacent in this job and it's time for me to make moves. After all, this was origionally just supposed to be a "for now" job and I've already been here for over a year. Yep. It's time to bust a move.

But here's my question: if I quit my job...where exactly would I get this "money" that everyone speaks so highly of? Jäger isn't exactly cumming in their pants at the thought of sponsoring us, literary agents are like bicycles: I don't have one, and Lord knows you're just as broke as I am, so I'm not looking at you. This means that when push comes to shove, I actually can't make moves. Which is a fact that causes me a significant amount of stress and frustration. And that stress and frustration, coupled with how sick I've been recently, has turned me into one giant cracked out freakshow.

HOWEVER! When god closes one door, he opens a window and I think I've found my window! In my haze of complete cracked out...ness yesterday while talking to Co-Blogger Chris, I got an idea: I'm going to make a graphic novel and make a babillion dollars off of it. BAHAHA! Take that quarter-life crisis!

CRACKED OUT GRAPHIC NOVEL BOOK IDEA:

I call it, The Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair are two important characters in my life who you don't know about because up until now I've had a shred of dignity left. But you know what? Fuck it! I've got nothing left, so why not just let it all hang out, right? Let's start with Aspie's Clip. I have a Mac Powerbook that Alex got during his Junior year of college and I bought off him when I moved back from Brooklyn. It's a bit old and rickity, but it gets the job done. One day I was in bed with said laptop when I randomly found a paper clip. I started fiddling with the paper clip, as you do, and I realized that it is magnetically attracted to the latch on the front of my laptop. From then on, I kept the paper clip attached to the front latch so I have something to fiddle with while I'm working. I became oddly dependent on it. It became part of my creative process.

Flash forward to the weekend of Jäger Ball. Saturday morning Chris and I were snuggling in bed together when I pulled out my laptop to check my email. Chris, ever the curious little thing he is, reached over and grabbed the paper clip off my computer. Which is when I freaked the fuck out. I shot up, grabbed the paper clip back and shouted, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!!!!! DON'T TOUCH MY PAPER CLIP!!!!!!1 Now, the reason I did this is because I knew that if Chris got his grubby little talons on it, he'd probably unbend it or pocket it, or drop it or lose it or any number of things that result in me no longer being able to fiddle with it while working. (And I realize if that were to happen, I could easily just get another one, but bringing a paper clip home from work for the soul purpose of sticking it to my computer to fiddle with is a depth of odd that even I'm not willing to explore yet.) So, yes, I freaked out a little bit. "Wow...." he said as he handed the paper clip back to me with wide eyes. "Here's your paper clip back, Aspie." Embarrassed, I tried to explain why I was so attached to the paper clip in the first place, which of course only made the situation worse. From then on out, we began referring to it as my "Aspie's Clip". Throughout the weekend Chris would randomly be like, "WAIT! EVERYONE STOP! STOP EVERYTHING!...Where is Aspie's Clip??" and I'd point to him safely on my computer and be like, "He's right there! No worries!" (Also, I'd be lying if I said at one point during Jäger Ball, I didn't lean over to Chris and whisper, "God, I wish Aspie's Clip were here to see this.") (I'd also be lying if I said Chris didn't respond, "I know. He'd love this.") Aspie's Clip has taken on a life of it's own. In casual gchat conversations with Chris, he'll routinely be like, "Hey, how's Aspie Clip doing?" and I'll give him a full life update. He's a force to be reckon with. He's Aspie's Clip! How could you not love him?

Now, Weekend Hair. Ok. I'm not going to lie to you: I have an affinity for fake hair. I've had painfully fine hair my entire life and have always fantasized about what it would be like to have long, thick, luxurious locks. I've thought about getting extensions more times than you can imagine, but always Jew out in the end when I see the steep price tag. Thus, you can imagine how happy I was when I heard about the Ken Paves/Jessica Simpson line of clip in hair extensions called HairDo. One day in early 2008, I finally went into Ricky's in New York and got myself a 22-inch midnight brown HairDo clip-in hair piece. I was elated. It looked badass. I explained to Co-Blogger Chris (my then roommate) that I would only wear it on weekends because it would be too awkward to show up to work one day with mysteriously long and luxurious hair and my short little chemo hair the next. "It'll be my weekend hair!" I told him. And thus, we started referring to it exclusively as Weekend Hair.

I honestly think Weekend Hair was more popular with my friends than I was. While I'd get ready to go out for the night, Chris would pop his head into my room all, "IS WEEKEND HAIR COMING OUT TONIGHT?!" and if I said yes that meant it would be a good night. (It has been theorized that the Black Eyed Peas' I Gotta Feeling was origionally written about Weekend Hair.) When my friends from home came up to visit they'd all ask if weekend hair would be coming out with us and when I came home to visit them they'd remind me not to forget her. When I arrived at places, it was always, "WEEKEND HAIR'S HERE!.......And...Meg..." I think towards the end I was only invited places because Weekend Hair happened to be attached to my head.

One time I got cocky with it and wore Weekend Hair to work in an up-do. What a heinously embarrassing call that was. The evil whore-bags I worked with would be like, "Your hair looks...different today," and I'd have to be like, "HAHA...yeah. It's just a...it's a Ken Paves...it's...never mind I GOTTA GO I THINK I HEAR MY EMAIL!" Finally towards the end of the day an Editorial Assistant came in to give me something and was like, "What's different with your hair...?" and I completely lost it and yelled at her, "IT'S FAKE HAIR, OK?! YES, I AM WEARING FAKE HAIR. TO WORK. BECAUSE I AM RAGING WHITE TRASH. ARE YOU HAPPY?!" I don't think that really helped my dwindling office popularity...

Anyways, like all good things, Weekend Hair had to come to an end. The average lifespan of a HairDo peice is six months, and man did I stretch that out. One night Weekend Hair and I hooked up with a gentleman on a tarp under a beer pong table and when I woke up the next morning she was covered in Miller Lite knots, body fluids, broken dreams and god knows what else. Thus, I finally decided it might be time to retire her. (Sidenote: Jen Toppe, I know you've been mind-boggled by this before, but let me reiterate that you can hook up while wearing Weekend Hair and he won't know the difference. Because THAT'S how Ken Paves and Jessica Simpson roll. Although I will tell you that one time I was doin' it with a gentleman while wearing Weekend Hair in a low pony tail and in the heat of the moment he pulled on it and it 100% slid out. I was like, "Yyyyyyyeahhhhhh...just ignore that." Honestly, he didn't seem too fazed. Although anyone who's going to pull your hair that hard during sex probably deserves to have it be a clip-on.) (That was the most redneck sentence I've ever written and I'm not sure what to do about it...)

After I gave Weekend Hair her royal burial in a dumpster in Brooklyn (fitting burial or what?) I never bought another one again. It just seemed like it would be cheating or something. My mom did buy me a HairDo ponytail she saw on QVC in October ("Weekend Hair 2.0"), but it's not the same. Sometimes Chris and I have uncomfortably long gchat conversations about how much we miss Weekend Hair and wonder what she's doing right now. If she's staring at the same moon and thinking about us...? Yesterday, in my state of sheer cracked-out...ness, we began musing about who would win in a fight between Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair. The thought of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair with little shivs in their hands, circling each other West Side Story style was almost too comical to imagine. Thus! I want to write a graphic novel about the Adventures of Aspie's Clip and Weekend Hair living together in my apartment and the shenanigans they get up to when I leave for work. I think it could make it big in an Arj and Poopy kind of way. And make a babillion dollars and never have to work again.

My only trepidation is that I can't illustrate. And I don't know how interested people are in the adventures of my paper clip and slutty clip-on hair. And that I'm currently having this conversation with Chris via ghchat:

me: so i have an entire post about aspie's clip and weekend hair written, but i don't know if i'm brave enough to post it.

Sent at 12:08 PM on Thursday

Christopher: this is dicey.

what exactly are you saying?

like just outline it for me

i'm concerned a reader might have you committed.

Sent at 12:10 PM on Thursday

me: my life is in the shitter -> what should i do with myself? -> oh i have a cracked out idea! -> write a graphic novel about the adventures of aspie's clip and weekend hair! -> who are they, you ask? -> this is aspie's clip -> this is weekend hair -> this is a bad idea. lol. FIN.

Christopher: this worries me.

God damnit. Back to the drawing boards...