Ooo, writing the end of this Queer Abby got me a little misty...

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I wish I could italicize blog titles...

Oh, hey gurl. I'm back. And stressed out by my own absence. I've been avoiding reading blog comments for the past few days because I know when posts go down, hostile blog comments go up. And I get it; it makes sense and I accept that it's part of the job. But with things as touch-and-go as they've been in my personal life lately, I'd just rather not read about how I'm the least funny thing since Serbian genocide and my mom should have aborted me in June, 1984 and saved the world a lot of grammatically-based trouble. Because while I'm not saying that you don't have a point, I am saying that sometimes I'm more emotionally equipped to handle rough blog comments than others.

Which is why it's sort of regrettable that I keep getting emails from people being like, "Dear Meg: I'm a big fan of the blog, which is why it's been so rough reading the comments recently. That shit is FUCKED UP. Don't do that to yourself with a soldering iron. And nobody actually thinks your mom has Hepatitis. Plus, you said you're locking your door from now on, so I don't think anyone will actually rape the lazy out of you, you know?" I'm like, "Wait, I stopped reading blog comments for a few days. Is it really that bad?" And then either a.) I don't get an email back, or b.) I get back an awkward, "Oh...................don't worry about it. Great talking to you, BYE! "

I was at work once and Alex was in the neighborhood, so he stopped in to say hi. I was psyched to see him until he dove into, "HA HA OH MAN, someone on the Internet really hates you!"

"WAIT. I haven't had a chance to read blog comments today, what did they say?"

"Oh. Uh. You know, just the usual. Nothing too bad. I wouldn't worry about it."

"You just went 10 neighborhoods out of your way to talk to me about whatever it is that they said."

"Yeah. Well. I mean, you know how it is.................OK, WELL I BETTER GET GOING, GREAT TO SEE YOU! MWA, MWA!"

The same thing pretty much happened when Talia came over tonight for dinner. We were catching up and giggling and gossiping the general what-not, when out of nowhere she was like, "God, so the blog comments have been fuckin' brutal lately, huh??" I was like, "GOD DAMNIT! I KEEP GETTING EMAILS ABOUT IT AND NOW I'M TOO SCARED TO LOOK. WHAT ARE PEOPLE SAYING?" Never much of a liar, bless her heart, Talia proceeded to legitimately shift her eyes around the room for a few seconds until she managed to get out, "I mean, it's kind of a good thing when you really think about it!"

So I have a new rule: if I get a specifically cruel comment or comments; don't tell me. That's right, for a very homo friendly blog, I'm instating a Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. Because whatever was said, I'll read it eventually and it will suck and I'll do my stress vomits, but then I'll move on and you'll move on and we'll all be better people because of it. Deal? Deal.

I really bring this up because I can't decide if people would be more pissed off if I explain where I've been the past couple of days or if I gloss over it completely and pretend like it never happened. I mean, I guess either way someone's going to tell me to abort myself, so it really doesn't matter. I've been out-of-town working on blog business stuff with Chris without Internet access. Sorry, it's not really that glamorous of an explanation. (Although Chris' dad told Chris to take me out to dinner Saturday night and pay for it with his card. He later referred to this dinner as our first date. TEEHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHEHEHEHEHEOOOOO!) But we're done. (With our blog work, that is. Me and Chris' dad are just beginning.) Fingers crossed something good comes out of it so we can keep the blog a-growin'. But in the mean time, I'm back with a constant source of wireless Internet and cable TV, so hey HEY hey. K. I'll just be aborting myself now. —Flush!—

(By the way: Larry Hagman is alive; you'll get a double Jersey Shore recap this Friday and Queer Abby will be back tomorrow.)

So, I really liked Chris' post yesterday. I mean, I always like Chris' posts. I'd read them even if they weren't on my blog. (YEAH. YOU'RE WELCOME, SIR.) But I specifically liked his post yesterday. I've been mulling over his proposed list of new getting-to-know-you questions all day and even though I'm not going back to school (HA HA...what if?), I thought I'd share my answers with you anyway.

"What song will your bathtub suicide anthem be?" GOD DAMNIT. Chris totally took the best one. This question gave me the most trouble. And you might think we're morbid fucks for thinking about this, but seriously, your bathtub suicide anthem says a lot about you. What way would you go—ironic? Reassuring? Disturbing? Topical? It's important to think about now because you don't want to make a hasty decision in the moment and be That Guy who the cops find dead in the tub with Black Eyed Peas' "Pump It" on repeat. Unless you do. In which case, you know, maybe it was for the best...

Case study: Top 3 Cinematic Suicide Anthems:

3.) Girl, Interrupted: "End of the World", Skeeter Davis.

Points for irony.

2.) The Rules of Attraction: "I Can't Live (If Living Is Without You)", Harry Nilsson.

[Embedding disabled, click here.]

Points for irony and points for how delightfully emo this scene is. Especially:

I love this movie and I love this scene. It would have been #1 on the list, but one thing consistently bothers me about this scene no matter how many times I've seen it: she sits in a college dorm bathtub. Eww. Every time I watch it, I want to be in the moment and be sad for her and feel tense, but instead I'm like, "Aw, that poor girl, this is so disturb—oh, god, no, DON'T SIT, WEAR SHOWER PANTS, WARTS!!!!" They say you need balls to kill yourself, but that requires cojones of steel.

1.) The Royal Tenenbaums: "Needle In The Hay," Elliot Smith.

Well played, Mr. Wilson. By the way, this is absolutely the most disturbing thing I've ever seen in my entire life:

When you get down to brass tacks, I agree with Chris; I'd want to go out on the angstiest song humanly possible. And since he took "All The Things She Said," I'm going to have to go with "Stay Together For the Kids" by Blink-182. Because if there's anything angstier than suicide, it's early '00's teenagers dealing with divorce emotions.

HA HA HA HA...Mark Hoppus. Plus, that would eradicate any lingering "WAS IT OUR FAULT?!" feelings my parents may be struggling with. The cops would be like, "She was playing Blink-182's 'Stay Together For the Kids' on repeat."

"But...we did."

"Well ma'am, you clearly did everything you could."

"Oh. Well then! Brunch?"

See? See how thoughtful I am, even in death, mom?

"What's the lamest thing you ever did?" That's like asking Larry the Cable Guy the most redneck thing he's ever done. I guess I'll default to Simpsons tattoo and a locally recognized blog?

"What is your most embarrassing fear?" That part of I-95 in north New Jersey you have to drive through right before you get to New York where it's all industrial and nothing but scary piping and metal and ominous lighting and steam and bridges and oh my fucking god. I don't know what that area is technically called, but I strictly refer to it as The Devil's Workshop. Why? Because that's exactly what it looks like. I only just got to the point where I can drive through without having a panic attack, but that's only as a passenger. I haven't even begun to tackle driving it myself and honestly, I probably never will. And I'm fine with that. I know exactly what rest stop to get off at to switch drivers in time for me to take a Klonopin, close my eyes, put my fingers in my ears and la-la-la-la-la all the way through the Devil's Workshop.

"What's your default drunk singing songs?"

"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)", Looking Glass.

My #1 go-to drunk karaoke song and personal theme song. Junior year Halloween, me, Helena and Alex went as this song: I was Brandy, Alex was The Sailor and Helena was The Sea. Still hands down my favorite Halloween costume ever. (Sorry, Jäger Deer.) The night before I moved to New York, I had a goodbye party at Millie & Al's to do Jell-o shots and karaoke for old time's sake, and when I sang this song, everyone stood up and sang along and it kind of felt like my heart had just been pulled out of my body with a corkscrew via my asshole. Memories...

"Since U Been Gone," Kelly Clarkson.

Yeah? What of it.

"All I Want For Christmas," Mariah Carey

Somewhere in Greenbelt, Maryland, Ashleigh has a really amazing video of the AU gang in Helena and Alex's old kitchen, wasted, dancing around and singing this at the top of our lungs. Helena, Alex and their then roommate Lauren threw a holiday party at their old house on Capitol Hill and it was right around the time I moved back from New York, so I was really excited to go and meet their new friends. Now, I was under the impression that this was a dress-up holiday party, so I rolled up in a red mini dress and 5-inch black leather booties, smoky eyes and my hair up in a french twist. Thus, you can imagine how uncomfortable I felt when I opened the door and saw a sea of hipsters in jeans and t-shirts. I was like, "Oooo...I grossly misunderstood the assignment." I felt like such a jackhole, as if I were playing into the whole, "Hi I'm MEG, I just moved back from NEW YORK, I'm FABULOUS, my skirt barely covers my LABIA!" I chose to deal with this embarrassment by marinating my liver in the punch bowl for the rest of the night. And say what you will about alcoholism, but it totally helped. Hours later I was singing and dancing to "All I Want For Christmas" in the kitchen, not giving two shits about what I was wearing.

And that was today's Meg's Lessons on Self-Esteem, kids.

"What's the Lamest Thing You Ever Cried At?" Uh, when Kermit's suicide montage flashed a picture of him and Jim Henson five minutes ago? Although I don't think that's lame, as much as it is completely justified.

"Do You Have Any Humiliating Medical Problems?" Yes. Yes, I do.

"What's the most horrifically inappropriate sentence you've ever heard?" OK, well if Chris gets to cheat and say something that he didn't actually hear, I get to say something that I didn't actually say. But I came disturbingly close.

Back story: When I was living at home in December 2008 (right around the time I was flashing my shit all over town to expand my social circle,) I went with my parents to get our Christmas tree. When we got it back to the house, my dad started obsessively vacuuming and re-arranging the furniture in our living room before he set up the tree, during which I chose to entertain myself by snapping a little branch off the tree and whittling it down until it resembled a Harry Potter wand. I was really, really proud of myself. I loved my Harry Potter wand. I spent the better part of that evening, as well as many others, prancing around the house casting various spells on things. (Yes, I was 23, but I was also unemployed and had been living at home for four months. I don't really know what to tell you.) I could only remember two actual spells from Harry Potter: alohomora and wingardium leviosa! So when those got old, I got creative. For example, if Evie wouldn't stop meowing: CATETH VON SHUTETH! If I wanted my dad to get me a glass of wine? PINOTIUS GRIGIOUS! If I was hungry? SNACKUMS DELICIOSO!

Now, while I thought this was hilarious, my mom didn't exactly feel the same way. After a few days, she gave me an ultimatum: throw out my Harry Potter wand, or have it shoved up my ass. Frankly, I didn't want either of those things to happen, so I told her I threw it out, but actually hid it on one of the branches deep in the Christmas tree. (23-years-old.) Then when I moved out of the house and into my apartment a few weeks later, I crept into the living room, took it out of the tree and packed it in one of my suitcases. It currently resides in my closet in an old digital camera box.

Flash forward to my cab ride to National Airport, en route to Ireland this past June. Halfway through the ride, my cabbie started fiddling with his sun visor. I looked up to see what he was doing and I swear to all that is good and holy, this is what I saw:

He had a god damn little tree branch shoved in his visor. Absolutely no amount of science can measure how close I came to shouting, "DID YOU WHITTLE YOURSELF A HARRY POTTER WAND TOO!?!?!?" And just knowing that that sentence could exist in my lexicon was slightly depressing.

At best.

Hiwhat’syournamewhereareyoufromwhat’syourmajor?

Remember that set of questions from every single college party, ever? Remember answering them so often that occasionally a waitress would ask how you wanted your eggs and you’d say “Tulane Chris, Texas, history” like a parrot? Remember that odd little silence after you’d all answered those questions because, really, they didn’t give you much conversational opening?

“So, Texas, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ride horses to school?”

“Not since about 1890.”

“Yeah, huh. Did you vote for George Bush?”

“No.”

“I thought everyone in Texas voted for George Bush.”

“Evidently not.”

“Eat a lot of barbecue?”

“Yes.”

“So, history, huh?”

Eventually, you started to think of people by their descriptors. I’d be by the drinks table with Rachel Olympia History, watching Berg Baltimore Human Sexuality Studies and Sean St. Louis Undeclared try to coax Audrey Tulsa Evolutionary Biology into a threesome, because hey, we’re in college. It got especially bad after the hurricane. Since a lot of people left, some cliques had to consolidate to save money and to ensure a large enough breeding population, so there were always all these people around who you sort of knew, handing you Natty Light and obviously kind of wanting to have sex with you but not being willing to put the effort into it. I was the same way; it would have been nice to get laid, technically, but unless I happened to fall directly atop someone it was just too much… talking. Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your major? (My last year of college was essentially a big depressive episode shared with about four thousand other people.) These parties usually tended to be in the same house, and the directions given were always the same:

“Go down Calhoun the wrong way – what cops? What other traffic? – until you get to the 800 block. It’s in the only house that isn’t condemned. Second floor, obviously.”

…well, the nice little lead-in to my post turned into a moody little flashback, didn’t it? Here’s the point: wouldn’t it be swell if we standardized a few more good icebreakers, so we could finally be shut of “Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, what’s your major?,” its post-grad sequel “Hi what’s your name, where are you from, what do you do?” and the recession era “Hi, what’s your name, where are you from, have you moved back in with your parents yet, do you want to join my suicide pact?” So here are my candidates for new questions, along with my answers.

“What song will be your bathtub suicide anthem?” This is especially good for pink-slip parties. Imagine it: the cops break down the door to find your prune-toed little corpse in the tub – what song have you put on the stereo on repeat to ease your exit? I have to confess something for my answer to make sense: t.A.T.u. ruined my life. I’ve never been a fan of displays of emotion other than the Big Three (contempt, amusement, and worry), and so now when someone talks to me about their feelings my mind immediately starts playing “ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID, ALL THE THINGS SHE SAID, RUNNIN’ THROUGH MY HEAD…” because it’s the single angstiest song in the world. Mascara running, ashtrays being thrown, I’m drunk and I don’t know where I am and I just vomited in my purse and ruined my cell phone ANGST. So, of course, since suicide is inherently an angst-ridden act, my bathtub suicide anthem is “All the Things She Said,” by t.A.T.u.

“What was the lamest thing you ever did?” In high school, I lettered in theater, orchestra, and French… and Quiz Bowl.

“What is your most embarrassing fear?” I will not open tubes of biscuits or bottles of champagne because the “explosion” makes me nervous. The worst, worst is when you peel the little wrapper all the way off the tube and it still doesn’t open so you have to press on the seam with a knife or, if you’re me, jab furtively at it with a long spoon. I’m also hesitant to inflate air mattresses all the way for a similar reason: what if it bursts and a piece of flying vinyl hits me in the face and blinds me?

“What are your default drunk singing songs?”

God Defend New Zealand

Harper Valley PTA

Good Luck (Basement Jaxx)

“What’s the lamest thing you ever cried at?” Longtime readers of this site know about my love-hate (or hate-hate) relationship with emotions. I find them hilarious, but embarrassing and inconvenient. But hilarious. (At our last business meeting, Meg presented me with a Powerpoint presentation about her feelings about a proposed project. It was fifteen slides long, had sounds and transition, and was titled “I Have Emotions: A Meg McBlogger Production.”) I don’t have emotions in public for the same reason I don’t relieve myself in the middle of a crowded room: some things are private. That said, I once completely lost all control and sobbed at an episode of “Upstairs, Downstairs,” the 1970s BBC series about the resident, both upper-class and servant, of a fine London house in the 1910s and 1920s. It was the episode when World War One starts while the servants are enjoying a day on the beach, and everyone at the beach spontaneously starts singing “Rule, Britannia” and I was GONE, like a Miss America contestant off her meds.

"Do you have any humiliating medical problems?" Sure do! As much as I talk about diarrhea, that’s more a side effect of a beer and bacon diet than any underlying problem (other than being a compulsive eater who drinks too much.) My embarrassing medical problem is a chronic, painful inflammation of the chest wall called “costochondritis.” It’s most common in women over 40, meaning that I officially have an old lady disease. As I write this, I’m in the middle of my worst attack ever in my life. It hurts to breathe, bend down, and even type – so you can see how devoted I am to my readers (both of them [Meg and Dad]) to finish this post. I’ve been wincing and rubbing my chest all day and the ladies I work with are all convinced I have some secret heart problem.

"What’s the most horrifically inappropriate sentence you’ve ever heard?" Technically, I wasn’t present for this, but it was reported to me by more than one trustworthy person. Did you have an Extra Friend in college? The Extra Friend is the girl (usually, but they can be male) who attaches herself to your friend group like a cheerful, judgmental lamprey and imagines herself to be b-b-b-BIFFLES with you all and you like her fine but clearly not as much as she does you and you’re kind of embarrassed to take her in public because she’s never quite appropriate even by your admittedly low standards? That girl. Ours would never shut up about female ejaculation (“I had to change my nightgown!”) which led to a lot of uneaten meals: Louisiana cuisine favors sauces, and her chronicles of fluids a-go-go could turn even the most dedicated eater off Hollandaise for a month. She was also the most disorienting person I’ve ever known in terms of beauty. When she was fixed up, she was absolutely gorgeous; when she wasn’t, she looked like she was having an allergic reaction to puberty. Anyway. The semester after I finished college, some of my friends were having drinks, and Extra Friend came. Gin in hand, she turns to the room and, as an icebreaker, says casually, “So, who here has been sexually assaulted? Mary?” in, like, the tone of voice a sane woman would use to say, “So, who here has been to the new bar on Magazine Street?” If you can imagine it, no hands went up.

Granted, these new icebreakers might lead to some awkward pauses, but isn’t that better and more useful than simple rote responses? And any awkward pauses you create with these will be shorter and less frosty than the one made when, turning in a wide arc to take in the whole room, rye sloshing out of your glass, you bellow, “So, who here has been sexually assaulted? Mary?”