Oh hey. I didn’t see you there.

Sike, I totally did see you there, I just wanted to appear nonchalant.

If you are still reading this, then allow me to first, say thanks, and then second, tell you that your loyalty is matched only by that of dying soldiers in the Civil War. Particularly those on the Confederate Side (for obvious reasons).

And for that loyalty, you are being rewarded: there is something delightfully new that I’m doing, and this is your official invitation to enjoy it.

Because you are a busy person with lots of places to pretend to be while you lay in the dark, pull the covers completely over your head, and scream into a pillow to keep you from going all Patrick Bateman, you can subscribe very quickly here: http://atomicheart.org/list/?p=subscribe.

For those of you that are not that busy, here’s the details:

It’s a newsletter that I will send out once a week, and it will only contain 5 things I find interesting. They might be pictures, anecdotes, links, quotes… whatever. Only 5 things, once a week.

It will of course also be funny. Because that’s kind of my “thing”.

So if you’re down, click that link above, and we’ll all go home happy.

Well, except for you. There’s no amount of therapy that’s going to let you forget what happened to you that fateful day in 3rd grade, but, you know, you’ve come this far, it would be a shame to give up now.

Don’t you think?

I have some proper Stuffs waiting in the wings, but they’re not ready to be read just yet. However, you have all just returned from a long weekend, and I can’t leave you hanging, so here are 2 lists, just for you!

Well, you, and everyone else who reads this blog.

Stuff I Would Never Eat, Even If You Paid Me A Very Large Sum Of Money.

1. An Anus. Any Anus. I do not mean ‘eat OUT an anus’, which I would not do, but imagine I *would* do for a large sum of money (Okay, $100… any takers? No? Okay, you know what? FUCK YOU! I didn’t want to eat your eat anus anyway, YA FREAK!). I literally mean an anus, like the kind they make people eat on Survivor and Fear Factor. Just a little bit of skin with a hole in the middle, ripped from, like, a kangaroo or a pig or a rhino or something. Yes, I know they wash it, but I am pretty sure evolution didn’t create anuses for us to eat, so I am pretty sure they are not flavourful. In the least.
2. Cat. I don’t want to know that my cats can be very delicious. I’m a crazy cat lady, and you never know when you’re going to fall on hard times. I just don’t need that kind of temptation. For whatever reason, I *would* eat a dog, though. I love dogs, but I am actually kinda curious. Weird, huh!
3. Nails, Screws, Other Assorted Building Materials. I hate the smell of metal, 1, and 2, I hate the idea of shit poking through my organs. On top of that, you can’t chew any of that kind stuff, you have to just swallow it down whole, and I am not sure I could even do that. I still need to rub my throat to take pills. Oh, and I refuse to believe those kinds of items could truly be completely clean. If the nails don’t getcha, the tetanus will!
4. Glass. NO. FING. WAY. Not in a fine powder, not covered in the best Belgian chocolate, not if you paid me a million dollars every day for the rest of my LIFE. I hate glass. HATE IT.
5. Hair. It gets caught in your throat, which is just a hassle. I’d rather not have a large sum of money than have to do that cough-&-mouth-sweep thing you have to do when you ‘accidentally swallow a pube’. Or when you do it on purpose.

Stuff I Really, Really Want To Eat That A Lot Of People Would Need A Large Sum Of Money To Eat, And Possibly Not Approve Of!

1. Puffin. I heard it tastes really, really amazing, and because I do not particularly fancy birds (except for eating), and I find the puffin ridiculously ugly, I imagine this would be an amazing experience for me on a lot of levels.
2. Whale. I love Iceland, and Iceland loves whale, so through the transitive property, I LOVE WHALE. It doesn’t have to be blue whale, or one of the others that are on the Endangered Species List (TM). Any ol’ whale will do jussst fine. I imagine whale to look both like clear spam and a tuna steak. Oh… turns out it just looks like regular steak. Hmm.
3. Baby Sham. This is actually a drink. I am still unclear on WTF it actually is, and I bet I’ll hate it, but just like Pot Noodle, I saw it on an early 80’s British comedy, therefore I NEED IT NOW.
4. Any Bug or Insect, Anytime, Any Place. I had meal worm larvae one time, in regular and BBQ flavours. They were quite good. I decided then and there that I enjoyed eating bugs and insects. I imagine beetles are delicious. Oh, and chocolate-covered grasshoppers? Where can I get me some of those? The way people talk, you’d think they sell them at every bodega, but no. No, they do not. Would anyone pay me to eat dead bugs and video tape it? I’d pay someone to do that.
5. Human. Look, I’m not saying I would KILL someone and eat them, but if someone was like, ‘Hey, I’m going to kill myself, want some leftovers?’, I would not say no. I actually started thinking about this when I heard people talk about weird stuff they’d eaten. I asked myself, Would I eat human flesh if a legal and safe opportunity presented itself? The voice inside me came back with a resounding yes, and I do not feel bad about that. I mean… c’mon. You wanna know what it tastes like, don’t you? We always makes those ‘tastes like chicken’ jokes, but I bet we taste more like beef. I’ll probably never get to eat human flesh¹, which is actually a-ok by me (unlike puffin, which I must obtain within the fortnight!), but I think it’s important to know oneself, and now I know I would if I could. See? This is better than therapy, and I don’t have to actually hear any of you judge me.

Happy Monday After A Long Weekend! After work today, you should get a 6 pack or a bottle of your favourite booze, invite a good friend (or a sexy friend) over for platonic cuddling (or sexy cuddling), and just watch a movie you really fucking love.

Or you could offer yourself up to me to be eaten.

Whatever sounds fun to you!

¹ – Upon re-reading this paragraph, I realize that using the words ‘human flesh’ is really what’s most disturbing about it, and would like for you to mentally change those words to ‘delicious people bacon!’. Thank you.

Sometimes, you just need to get something off your chest. You need to say to a large group of people who you’ve never met, ‘Hey… I fucked up. I’m sorry.’ And then maybe make a sad face with a colon and a frownie bracket.

So that’s what I did: Weird Girls 2, my guest post over at Look Back In Anger.

Please comment on it. Rebecca got 6 comments, so I need 7 or more to be better than her.

I mean…

No, no, I meant that.

They have revamped the board game Clue.

I am actually going to go ahead and ask, ‘Why?’. I was pretty sure Clue was the way Clue was because they were paying homage to while also lovingly mocking by-gone pulp fiction mystery novels and etc.

Well, but then again, I was the child whose parents bought her a board game about US History that she forced everyone who entered her house to play.

Whatever, Hasbro. I bet this is all just a red herring.

I was a really fucking weird child. I know, News You Couldn’t Already Guess. Before the 1988 presidential election (US), when I was 7 (pushing 8), I was so insanely pro Michael Dukakis, I spent HOURS telling my father he had to vote for him. I also drew pictures of George Bush, Sr. (then, just George Bush) with actual bushes on his head (not vaginas; the plant kind). Did I know what was going on at all? No. I just had this insane passion for the Democratic Party, and the idea of anyone but their nominee winning was unacceptable.

As we all know, My Main Man Mike did not win. As a matter of fact, he holds a place in American history as kind of big fucking joke.

But seriously, this motherfucker is UH MAZING.

First of all, he’s a scorpio, and that’s just the best sign in the zodiac, period. I am a scorpio, and, kind of ironically, more presidents have been scorpios than any other star sign. He remains the longest running governor of MA, with his only real bad mark being in his last 2 years in office, which were- not surprisingly- the 2 years immediately following his defeat to Bush.

I mean… c’mon. If you had lost to that dude, wouldn’t you be a little depressed, too? $1.5 million in debt-$1.5 smillion in smedt, he was just going through some stuff. I forgive him. I understand completely.

He was also the second Greek-American governor in the United States, preceeded only by Spiro Agnew. Spiro Fuckin’ Agnew. That’s not too shabby, if you ask me. It’s like winning an Oscar the year after DeNiro wins. Or Walken.

He also appeared on an episode of St. Elsewhere, many, many years before it became fashionable for politicians to do that sort of thing. Trendsetter!

Dukakis also supported an issue really near and dear to my heart. He vetoed a bill that would have required the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance in schools. Having already been identified as unconstitutional in 1943, Dukakis, that brilliant, full bodied hairdo, sexy as hell motherfucker, shot the bill down. And then he mooned all of his naysayers via video phone, which was the new hot thing that he was really into then, having gotten a reputation for being a tech-friendly kind of guy.

He was also phenomenal in Steel Magnolias.

Oh wait, that was Olympia Dukakis.

Oh, but even that is a wonderful item on the list of reasons why Darling Mikey is an outstanding, upstanding guy! Olympia is his cousin!

So the next time Bill Maher makes a remark about Dukakis and his failed attempt to become president oh so many years ago while attending a dinner party you decided to have just so you could cut ties with all your D-List, maybe-too-political friends, you throw your martini right in his smug bastard face, and you tell him: ‘NO, WILLIAM! YOU WILL NOT SPEAK OF MY PRECIOUS MIKEY D LIKE THAT IN THIS HOUSE! NOW GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR AND LICK THIS MESS UP! LICK IT UP, WILLIAM!’

Or just grit your teeth and then text message John Mayer with ‘God, Bill is sooo getting on my nerves’.

It’s 743 in the morning.

In the morning.

I don’t know why I’m awake right now, but I hope it shows all of you how much I completely adore you. Not only is it too early in the morning, but I also stayed out late drinking and playing Rock Band at Pat O’Brien’s, and I actually can’t feel my face or any of my extremities right now.

To write an actual joke here has proven painful and time-consuming, so it’s onto…

STUFF THAT A LARGE GROUP OF PEOPLE FIND DESIRABLE THURSDAY!

1. Rock Band. There is no one on this entire planet who will ever come into contact with one or more RB controllers and not automatically smile, make 3 new friends (at least), and have the most amazing time of their life. I’m sorry, this is just the most accurate thing that will ever appear on this blog. I’m a board-certified scientist, and I got some grant money and did a study. I also did a study on whether or not you’re still a virgin if your first time was with a gay dude. The results aren’t in yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to come back as a printout that reads ‘YOU CAN CHANGE HIM!’. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like totally possible results.
2. Reuniting With Old Friends. Ever since that incident at the AA Meeting in the Rock Valley Methodist Church basement, I kinda promised myself I’d never make amends again (or hang out with alcoholics… god, those people can’t party AT ALL!). The sad side effect of this is that, because amends gives you a great reason to just call up anyone from your past and ask to hang out, once you say you’re never going to do that again, you kind of only have 2 reasons to out-of-the-blue a former friend or lover- 1. ‘accidental’ dialing of their number, 2. that restraining order they have against you. But sometimes you get lucky, and you get OOTB’d by someone who used to be mildly enjoyable back in the day, and you get to hang out and get some shit off your chest, and maybe have an awkward and sweaty makeout session that you actually end up laughing about a hell of a lot sooner than you did the LAST time. Especially now that your old friend had that sex change, and you just spent an hour explaining to her why you could never be sexually attracted to chicks. But see? That’s why everyone loves this- time kinda heals all wounds, and you just feel better about yourself all around afterwards. Oh, and it’s okay that you think she’s hot; she totally still has a penis.
3. When Animals Act Like People. I have 4 cats, and the times when they are most adorable are when they do things that make them look like they are trying to be people. It’s actually, when you think about it, a weird perception thing- why is X action by Y animal considered ‘people-like’, and why can a group of people all agree on that? Also, why do we want animals to be people so much? Do you have any idea how horrible my living situation would be if my cats were people? My cat throws shit at me NOW, without any opposable thumbs. I’d probably be in an OZ-like situation, or one of those slaves-kept-in-the-floor-of-a-trailer horror stories. Anyway, everyone loves when animals act like people because it means that they are probably as in love with us and aware of us as we are of them, which makes us feel good about ourselves, and the fact that we just dropped $80 on a sweater for something that IS ALWAYS WEARING ITS OWN FUCKING SWEATER.
4. Rock Band. Seriously, this shit is so amazing, I have to list it twice. And if you think that’s a cop out, well, you wanna know what? Where the fuck were you last night? That’s right. That’s. Right. I rest my case.
5. Being Told You Totally Deserve A Promotion, Whether You Actually Want That Promotion Or Not. It’s just nice to have people tell you you’re good enough at something that you could totally do something else. And that you’re worth more than $8/hr.
6. Getting Engaged. Since I am pretty sure I am never going to get married (Legalize Single Person Marriage NOW!), I am taking some people’s words for it on this. Namely, Rebecca over at Losing It, who just got engaged. I am pretty sure she’s happy about that, so if you want to question whether or not this is actually a Thing EVERYONE Loves, well, you are going to just have to head over to her blog and fight it out there. While you’re doing that, though, please tell her I said congratulations over here on Stuff, in a very public and out of character manner. Then tell her I was serious when I said I’d need that $20 back as soon as she had it. God, she NEVER pays anyone back on time! Well, it’s her husband’s problem now. And so are the herpes.

I hope you enjoyed today’s TELT. I also hope you enjoyed your meal, as it will be your last. Mwahahaha!

JK, babies. Have a wonderful Thursday!

It’s Christmastime, 1999.

Wait, sorry, that sounds like the beginning of a horrible poem. I meant to say-

It was the season of Christ’s noble birth, in the year one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you this blog isn’t classy.

Anyway, I was 18. I worked at a video store (surprise!). I got the job because I referenced two of the greatest and most opposite films of all time- To Kill A Mockingbird and But I’m A Cheerleader.

ANYWAY. I was 18, I worked at a video store, it was the Xmas season, and I hated everyone. Because everyone is stupid to you when you’re 18 and work in a video store in the mall during the holidays. I learned that in developmental psychology class.

Every person who walked up to the register- and there were literally THOUSANDS as it was, you know, Jesus’ bday- handed me a credit card. I had been thinking for some time about getting an American Express Blue Card, which were completely new at the time. They were so fing sexy; clear with the little blue box in the middle, and a microchip that stored your info for, I don’t know, shopping in the Matrix, or whatever. I knew jack shit about credit cards. I had heard they caused the great depression, and that only poor people carried Discover, but beyond all that, they were free fucking money, and who doesn’t like that shit?

As soon as I told my mother, she did the only thing a mother could do, which was DASH ALL MY HOPES AND DREAMS. She said the rates were too high, and why did I need THAT particular card anyway? She warned me to be careful of debt. I should look at my father and the fucking mire he’d gotten himself into being so horrible with money (that all makes my parents sound like terrible people, but, honestly, my dad’s awesome).

This, and the fact that every single person I sold ANYTHING to between November 20th and December 24th put it on their card, created within me a burning fear of credit cards.

Burning like pubic-lice-when-you-tell-them-their-favourite-show’s-been-canceled burning, not lighting-my-hand-on-fire-and-then-pouring-lye-over-it burning. Just to be clear.

So I passed through college without anything more than a debit card, and I exist now as an adult with only some medical bills on my freecreditreport.com.

My mother… okay, look, she’s probably never going to read this, so I’m just going to say it- what’s her fucking deal? Why is she always trying to ‘teach me important life lessons that stick with me years afterwards’, and ‘doing my laundry’, and ‘making me delicious sandwiches’, and ‘telling me it’s okay if I’m gay, just don’t marry someone who hits you like your Aunt Desiree did’? I mean, seriously, where the fuck does that lady get off?

My mother is constantly telling me how important it is for me to have some semblance of real credit. What if you want to buy a house?, she asks. What if you want to buy a car, or a boat?

Apparently being homeless, staying in one place, and not having fun in the summer is some sort of social faux pas now.

GOD, MOM!

I guess, in a way, one of the reasons I enjoy not having a credit card is it doesn’t prove my mom right.

Every 20-something girl should have at least that.

But the biggest reason is that I never, ever overspend. I can’t. When I try and put even 1 cent over my checking account balance on my bank-issue-standard debit card, it doesn’t go through. For someone like me who considers drunk shopping 1. a fucking sport, and 2. the only way to shop for anything, especially underwear, this is really for the best. It’s a safeguard. I’d be in a basement somewhere with the CEO of Urban Outfitters, the President of Virgin Megastores America, and the guy who makes my sandwiches at Columbus Gourmet slapping and waterboarding me right now if it weren’t for that.

Every cent I spend is completely accounted for, and every nano-cent means something.

Let’s ignore the fact I never have any money, and any time something breaks, rips, or disappears, I have to wait a few months before I can replace it (which is why I currently do not have any pants, or sheets, or furniture). I only have healthy debt, and, of course (but no offense), a raging case of the ‘better than you’-s because of it.

Just because I can never have nice things, or be treated like a normal, functioning adult doesn’t mean I can’t be happy with the current state of my financials. At the end of the day, I am fucking shyte with money, and it would be a risk that would make things far, far worse for me than they are now.

At they very least, not having a credit card shows me where my priorities are: delicious food, thirst-quenching booze, overpriced jewelery, and toys my cats will never play with, no matter what they do. It’s half therapy, half religion.

And it also makes me work hard for things, since the only way I’ll ever be able to own anything I want is to spend extra hours in my scary, saw-filled place o’ work, staring at a computer screen and mentally preparing for a serial killer to clomp up the stairs and gracefully put an axe in the back of my head because I forgot to set the alarm.

So when I look at my video game console holder and get a little sad because there is no XBox 360 there, or when I come home from work and I have to make prison wine because I can’t buy beer or my rent check will bounce, or when my friends wear clothes that they bought sometime after their 16th birthday, I just remind myself of how sweet it’s going to be when I become famous, and Amex will just give me a black credit card and tell me to call their special hotline whenever I need tickets to a Sixers’ game.

Also, how much it probably irks my mom that I’m not accruing any frequent flier miles.

It started the way all bus rides start- I was a blissful, pre-pass-out drunk, listening to sweet jamz on my ipod, and I didn’t want to fucking be there.

Oh, and I had to pee, but not enough to really make the experience (‘experience’) of using the bus’s bathroom worthwhile. Because there really isn’t anything to make that worthwhile or good in any way, unless you have bladder cancer. And you were just given 3 seconds to live. And you had no family or friends, and also, you were blind.

In between 2 of the most amazing mashups ever, I hear someone go: ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’

And then: ‘I’m going to need everyone to exit the bus!’

You are all shaking your heads now, the ‘that’s a shame, I know what that’s like’ nod. You are picturing yourself in the same situation, after that trip you took to meet up with your boyfriend at RISD, and you guys had that amazing first time doing anal, but he was kind of standoffish the next day, and you went home wondering if this was because he wasn’t speaking to his dad right now, or if it was you.

I mean, it couldn’t have been you… right? You guys swore you’d make it through his first year at college, it can’t end like this, with you giving him the one thing you never thought you’d ever give a guy, even one you really really loved who knew you preferred Lipton tea over the fancy stuff, and him just… drifting away from you. Your love is an awesome love that has withstood the toughest of times these past 2 months. No, no, you are totally freaking out, it’s going to be okay, he was just weirded out when you said his dick smelt like shit and you weren’t into going down on him right then. Yeah, that’s it.

And then your bus broke down. Right at this, your moment of deepest love and understanding for your best friend’s older brother’s friend you met at a Big Busch Party on Dobb’s Rock, your bus broke down.

And what did you do? You did what every other person anywhere on this Earth would do- you cursed a little under your breath, you kind of stamped off the bus so the driver would know you were soooo going to call Greyhound as soon as you got back home to get a refund, and you made one or two little snide comments to the other passengers, so that you could have that fleeting and beautiful moment of connection that only strangers experiencing First World Problems together can have.

I know you did this because I am also a human being. And I watched 40 other people do it last night.

Okay, 39. Because I didn’t. I didn’t do any of that. Unlike everyone on that fucking bus and exactly like everything on this fucking blog, having my bus break down is something only *I* like.

I did start to get a bit annoyed, for sure. When they loaded us all back on the bus to wait for an empty one, I kind of sighed, and I looked around, and every time someone walked off the bus and didn’t come back, I thought, ‘What are they doing? What do they know that I don’t know? Should I go see what they’re doing? Oh wait, that lady came back… she’s my ray of hope, I can calm down knowing she’s ba– DAMNIT! Where is she going???’

As soon as we all exited the bus the FIRST time, 4 girls around my age all grabbed their shit and started walking back towards the bus terminal. My skin itched a little to follow them.

Unsurprisingly, I’m sure, what stopped me was not how bizarre or stupid their actions were, but the fact that I was pretty sure they wouldn’t like me, and it would be awkward for me the entire time.

Whenever I started to freak a little, I just told myself to calm down. There was another bus coming. What’s the worst that could happen? I’d sit on this bus for a few hours. I had jamz, booze if I really needed it, and, yeah, the pee alert level had just gone from Red Bull Yellow to 1980’s Kid’s Show Dance Crew Neon Yellow Visor Yellow, but there was a toilet, at the very least.

And then… the whole thing became fun.

I should also say at this point that my cell phone had died some time before, while I was trying to call Greyhound and find out if my bus had been canceled, since it was almost an hour late and no one was around. So it didn’t become fun because, you know, I was callin’ up all my peeps, talkin’ and textin’ and fighting via Facebook Status Message.

It became fun because I literally just stopped caring. There are far worse things that could happen on a Greyhound Bus (insert 18 comments from people about the guy getting beheaded story here), and there are far worse things that could happen in life. I was safe, all my shit was still with me, my ipod had full power, and I was deep in the midst of a wonderful 26 Bloody Marys buzz, several hours after actually consuming them.

I got off the bus at some point, and I stood by the side of the road with all my bags. I did ballet on the shoulder of the road. I took pictures of the natural fauna in the area. I smoked. I took out my Macbook so everyone standing around waiting could see how important and smart I am (which ended up helping the bus driver when some bitch was tearing into him; he said, ’see? other people have work to do, too’, which was pretty great because, I’m sorry, lady, but what do expect this man to do? Do you think he made the brakes shut off for shits and giggles? C’mon. C’MON!).

Oh, oh, oh… and my favourite! A little game I invented called ‘Stand behind the bus door, and then peek around it like you are playing peek-a-boo with this other bus that is supposed to be coming’!

It involves a 20-sided die, 2 fighting chickens, and 18 decks of cards with the jokers, aces, and 4s taken out and thrown into a pillow case for the Chance Card Tie-Breaker round.

JK. It involves me standing behind the bus door, and then peeking around it like I am playing peek-a-boo with this other bus that was supposed to be coming.

There was also some giggling. A lot of it, in fact.

And I had a lot of time to think. I came up with an awesome idea for a tattoo, I wrote a poem, I remembered poetry is shit (no offense, Gabriella, but I didn’t think ‘At The Orange Julius’ was any good, and I know I said I really liked how you used alliteration, but I was actually just saying that so we could stop talking about your poem, and get back to serious issues, aka – me), I came up with fun gifts to give my friends in the future, I reflected a little on who I am and how I got here (spiritually speaking; I was well-aware of how I got to my actual physical location).

The best part, though, honestly, was the air. It was so fresh. It was just summer, all around me. I could hear crickets, and there was a light breeze. When I got back to the city, I walked out into Times Square to catch a cab, and the cacophony of NYC at 2 in the fucking morning was overwhelming. But I loved it, and I missed it, and I appreciated it more because I had spent 4 hours standing on the side of a major highway in a state whose name implies the only reason it exists- to connect Boston and NYC.

At midnight, when we boarded the Saviour Bus, I was still in fucking awesome spirits. The fact that I had been so happy and cool through the whole ordeal made me feel good about myself. I was heading home, and, also, the driver of the second bus was really fucking funny. As we were pulling out of the rest stop, she got on the intercom and said, ‘Are any of you still inside? If you see anyone running after the bus, please feel free to tell me’.

I was the only one who laughed.

Greyhound still owes me a full refund, though, and a continental breakfast. I mean, complimentary breakfast. Whichever’s the one with baby batter. I mean, waffle batter.

No, no… I definitely mean baby batter.

If you are reading this, you are reading this before I have a chance to post this week’s TELT. I left my charger at my friend’s house, so my computer will not be on in enough time for me to create something amazing. ASAP though, I swear,

In the meantime, here’s some mega-wtfry from my stats:

the NUMBER ONE REFERRER FOR THIS SITE:

wordpress.com/tag/adult-baby

Uhhh… what? I mean, yes, that’s a tag I used but WHY ARE SO MANY PEOPLE LOOKING FOR THAT TOPIC?!

some recent google searches:

One of you lovely readerfriends of mine made a specific request for a post. I am going to say two very important things right now, and even though only one of you made the request, you all need to listen up:

1. I do not take requests;
2. NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO.

Write it on a post-it note and put it next to your alarm clock or vibrator or Early Morning Frosted Flakes Enema or whatever is the first thing you see every morning, because I don’t want it to happen ever again. My creativity is very fickle. So fickle, in fact, I am actually pretty sure I have not written in however long it has been BECAUSE of this request.

So if you have missed me and my posts, and you’d like to complain, write me at stuffonlyilike [at] gmail.com, and I will tell you the name of the person who took me away from you.

Then I will demand you send me candy from a foreign country.

I mean… my creativity will. She is fickle. Like I said.

There was a joke in there. Did you catch it? It was about sending me an email. Why is that a joke? Because this Stuff is going to be about never answering emails. But it’s one of those jokes that is not funny because it is true, but because it is NOT true. A few of you have written me emails, and I have responded. So don’t go thinking I’d shun any of you, my adorable little drunken babes, my precious friends & fans, my siblings by another mother who we all know by the name of ‘Mama Internet’.

Because I am- as all of you are- very, very afraid my bosses will discover this blog and then call me in for a very emotionally painful and surreal meeting, I will say this first and foremost: Yes, the answering of the emails issue is very specifically mostly work-related, but NO, it is not intentional.

How long have you been on the internet? 10 years? 1998-ish? 1997? Were you one of those weirdos on BBSes? Prodigy.net?

I have been on the internet for a very, very long time. I started being very proper, then I abbr.’d evrything, then I went back to as proper as I could be, time permitting.

THAT’S how long I’ve been on the internet.

Because, you know, when you get an email from cuddlydaddybear897005 or handsomedan6722350918462 via the almost embarrassing amount of dating sites you are a member of, you always know how long that person has been on the internet by the way he types. If the email is ‘hey u, u r a superr qt. meet 4 drnks on the LES?’, he has been using the internet for at least 5 years. If the email is ‘hey hot stuf, u r vry hot, want 3 cyber?’, he is probably going to rape you with shards of glass from his coffee table, after he pushes you into it and snaps your neck. If the email is, ‘hii do u liek funk music? i do. want 2 chat? >:)~’, he is retarded, aka- your best bet.

Maybe we don’t all out-and-out know these things, but we feel them. Almost always, we just go, this guy’s a loser, and we don’t respond, or we respond, and then talk about him and how stupid he is to all our friends while we do. But it’s really directly proportional to how much internet you’ve had in your daily.

Again, I’ve had a lot. So much, in fact, that I don’t remotely use the internet the way 90% of you do. It’s a very personal space for me, a play space, a social space. Emails aren’t real communication; I had several horrible dates that proved that point to be true. Emails are notes. Like when someone writes, ‘For next time- please do not rub your balls on my lunch’ and leaves it on your keyboard. It would never, ever occur to me to write back, ‘Sorry I did that, Linda, but basil chicken salad feels so good on my nads, I really couldn’t help it. Will do for next time, though!’. I mean… that’s silly. Not because I used the balls-to-sandwich analogy, but because it was a very small note. It doesn’t deserve a return note. I mean, does anyone really want to know how good chicken salad feels on my balls? No. No, they do not. And, frankly, that’s my business, and I don’t WANT them to know.

There’s something else, though, something that I thought for a very long time was generational, but I am now not so sure. Face-to-face makes sense to me. I have something to say, I say it. To your face. Is an email necessary? I mean, if I wanted to work with people who ignore me, I’d just work for my parents and be done with it.

Sorry, sorry… if Mummy Stuff ever reads this, she will be mad, so I need to correct this- my parents have never, nor will they ever, ignore me. I mean, I am just under 200 lbs and stunningly, blindingly gorgeous, how could they? Also, my voice is the exact pitch and volume of a cop car when it breaks up a bunch of gay men in an popular anon sex area of a state park.

Back to the Stuff at hand- I had this conversation with a friend of mine, who recalls her 40-something boss at a publishing company always- always- sending her emails instead of just talking to her. I had several 30-something bosses who never, ever did ANYTHING this way. So, generational, right? I would think so, but there were plenty of OTHER 30-something bosses who did the email-while-you’re-right-there thing.

The difference? My bosses were creative, open-minded people. Peace Corps, queer rec center, babies-with-conservatively-adorable-names people. It’s just a different kind of brain. There’s no good or bad in it; it’s just different.

And I was blessed with that kind of brain.

And cursed (in a way- not a good way or a bad way- just a way!) to work sometimes with people who have, what I call, ‘a business brain’.

Because of this, my not answering emails is in no way intentional, and I never, ever get any of the much-needed personal contact I so crave. Instead, I get little emails I am never sure are as harsh or demeaning as I read them. Also, I get emails about how emails I have responded to have already been resolved, and I should just STFU.

And then sometimes, I get emails about Viagra. I hear it will make the ladies crazy. Is this true?

Anyway, the reason I love never answering emails ever is because, in the end, I get a lot more work done, and it makes me feel far, FAR more important than I am.

It also makes me look like an adorable scatterbrained artist who has too many genius ideas on her mind to be able to respond to you in a timely or remotely relevant manner!

Gosh, I’m so kooky!