Day Numero Uno, Continued: Trying New Things! *spazzes*

Friday, July 17th

So we departed from the airport. I saw no celebrities while I was at the airport, which leads me to believe that I have some kind of curse placed on my head. When I was in California in October, I saw no one (if you don't count the actors from Wicked; the guy that played Steve on Married With Children was in it). I was there for 9 days. WTF?! They are all hiding. They must know I'm crazy. They've probably actually got Danny locked up in a bomb shelter somewhere in Europe until they know I'll be millions of miles away from Cali. *sadface*

While we were on the road, talking ensued. Lots of talking. I normally am not that talkative, unless I'm with my mom or something. I just like to annoy her. But as I said before, it was like I'd known May for ages. Speaking of good ol' mom, I had to call her to tell her that I hadn't been abducted by rapist werewolves or something.

We passed two notable things that I can remember: The Staples Center, which is where MJ's memorial service was held. It was crazy because not even 2 weeks before that I was watching that from my tiny laptop screen in the cluttered abyss that is my bedroom. And then we passed this HUGE Harry Potter ad on a building. Snape was on it. He was bringing the sexy like a mofo. I love that he looks like an older version of Trent Reznor. Alan Rickman is another man in my exclusive "Age 50+ Men That I'd Have 'Relations' With Every Day and Twice on Sunday!" I kind of sacrificed my Harry Potter viewing to go to Cali (which was worth it!). I hope to see it soon. Sometimes it sucks to only have friends that live 3753277 hours away. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

I got to see May's office and meet her dad. Her parents are very awesome and adorable. Her dad makes some seriously amazing jewelry, which I need to tell my aunt about soon. She's been working in the JC Penney jewelry department for...a very long time. I assume she'd be interested.
After taking a quick pee break (unnecessary detail?), we set off to explore! I should have been tired at this point, but I was full of piss and vinegar (well, technically just vinegar, since the piss had just been expelled) and ready to PAR-TAYYY!
I'd never seen more jewelry stores in my life. Also, for the first time in my life, I ate at El Pollo Loco. Which, of course, translates to "The Crazy Chicken." That's my kind of place right there! The chicken burrito I ordered was ginormous and delicious. I'm rather sad that we don't have that here. One more reason for me to GTFO and go live there.

You know what else I did? Rode the freaking subway! Yeah, yeah, big deal. But it was to me! I'd only seen them in the movies! I live such a sheltered life, and that was made about as obvious as a giant wart on someone's face, but my sheltered, easily amused self enjoyed it immensely. I saved my tickets.

Wandering around Hollywood Blvd was quite an adventure. I spent much time looking at the ground, but not for the same reasons I usually do. I was looking at the stars, trying to find names of people I adore or people I could directly relate to Danny in some way. Yes, I am a nerd. I saw Pee-Wee Herman's star. The picture is regrettably still on my phone. Same with Ozzy Osbourne's. Ozzy's been an idol of mine since I was a young metalhead fresh out of seventh grade. *nostalgia*

I took this picture especially for my mom. She's the biggest Fleetwood Mac fan that I know, even going as far as to name her only child after Stevie Nicks. I figured said only child should do that. Mom was pleased.

Apparently some guys were checking me out at one point. That never happens, so I'm reluctant to believe that it's any different in another part of the country. I told May I was going to look up the phrase that was used, but I don't remember what it was. Goldfish memory, of course. I also don't remember what they looked like. I'm surprised I even remember enough to write these blogs! I'm the world's youngest Alzheimer's sufferer, I swear.

May took me to this awesome bar called the Velvet Margarita. And when I say awesome, it's an understatement. The decor was GORGEOUS. I was looking up reviews last night and someone said it was like being in a Tim Burton movie. My kind of place indeed, heh heh heh. I met a couple of her friends who worked there. May, if you're reading this, you seriously do have cute friends.

If I may digress for a second: THERE ARE QUITE A FEW CUTE GUYS IN LA!!! ARGH!! This is extremely frustrating when you live in a shithole filled with redneck, conservative types whom you'd never get along with in a million years. The most attractive person is the one with all their hair and teeth who DOESN'T listen to country music and watch NASCAR. I'm not even sure if such a person exists, unless you count the emos and wannabe gangstas that are around my age. Which I don't, because I tend to gravitate toward older men. Much older...*cough* Yes, Freud would have a field day with me, I know. Anyway, enough ranting.

While checking out other various, cool-as-hell buildings, we noticed a big group of people standing around something. *GASP* I couldn't believe it. It was Michael Jackson's star. I wasn't sure if I'd get to see it or not. Seeing it up close with the many tributes to him laid around it was very emotional. I wanted to leave him something too, but I had nothing. More on that later.

Eventually we (and by that I mean us and her parents) went back to May's house. I don't mean to be mean with this, but she had a sick turtle that looked straight out of Star Wars. It was cool, but sad.
While we waited for dinner and for Cathy to show up, we watched some special features on the Edward Scissorhands DVD which showed Danny looking like the cutest nerd of all time and *gag* his ex-girlfriend. One day, when I get a time machine...oh, don't get me started on that speech again. That digression might take about 10 different blog posts.
We watched a Jeff Goldblum movie that I'd been dying to see, and I was not disappointed. Another one of May's friends came over. She, naturally, was cool. We talked a bit and watched Ah-nold make an ass of himself in Rio. Funniest shit I'd ever seen, and I actually like Ah-nold. Maybe I wouldn't if I lived in Cali, but..."It's not a toomah!" That's all I'm saying.

Cathy showed up and it was good times. Dinner was authentic Spanish food, which I'd never had in my life. LOVED IT. I miss it, actually. Again, I'm back to my lack of food diet, which is doing my head in as far as brain power is concerned. My writing is going to suffer. I think it is already. Damn.

More talking ensued until late that night. It was kind of funny because my jetlagged self was slowly falling asleep as the conversation went on...until the subject switched to Danny. Suddenly I was awake, alert, and contributing animatedly to the convo. That tends to happen quite a bit, seeing as he is my favorite subject. I'm majoring in Elfmanology. I'm trying for my Master's degree in it! Huzzah!

Seriously, though. Look at him. He should be everyone's favorite subject. Period. Exclamation point. Whatever.

We discussed many things, from the fact that Danny has been Elton John-ing recently and...Geisha-ing?! You had to be there. A week later and that still cracks me up. And training he may or may not have had. Oh, and his hair. Yeah, all kinds of good stuff. I love him.

Fastforward to bedtime. I was crashing at Cathy's mom's place and got a delightful surprise. A beautiful picture of Danny in a frame in ze guest room. The fun didn't stop there. Cathy showed me a couple posters she'd brought. One specific picture almost gave me a heart attack. Yeah, that one. I mean, really, does the man even REALIZE what he does to poor young women such as myself? I used to make fun of people in suspenders a couple years ago. Now I look at them and go, "SHAZAAAAAAAAAAM! HOLY MOTHER OF BOB SAGET! HOTHOTHOT!!! I'm on FIYAH!!! YOWZA! WOOOOOOOO!" You get the idea. You know how awkward that is? Hittin' up a Chinese buffet and seeing some overweight, elderly man sporting those things and suddenly having a craving for something that is NOT Chinese food?!?! What the hell have you done to me, Danny? I'm a monster. A fiend. A twelve-year-old girl.

Let's hope he never reads this. The last thing he needs is to know that a certain creepy redheaded girl is madly in love with him. Ignorance is bliss indeed.

So, I digress again.
We went to sleep, because the next day was going to be EPIC. The end.

Hopefully the next part is coming tomorrow. I've noticed that the 'A' is fading from my keyboard and that disturbs me.

Adventures In My Personal Heaven, Day Numero Uno: The Arrival.

Friday, July 17th:

My plane was set to fly out of Columbus at approximately 6:16 AM. I'd spent the hours leading up to the event nervous as hell. A series of paranoid "What if?" scenarios ran through my mind as I packed the remainder of my things. What if I missed the plane? What if security thought I was a terrorist because I'd packed something questionable? What if I got to Houston and missed THAT plane? What if I got to California and annoyed the shit out of my friends? After all, we'd only met on a Danny Elfman forum. I felt like we all knew each other fairly well, but I was concerned that some of my more irritating quirks could only be seen in person, therefore causing them to rethink their opinion of me.

So with my hands sweaty and trembling with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, I set off for the airport. The hour drive involved lots of staring out the window with a lot on my mind. When we made it there, my friend dropped me off at the door and was gone. I was alone. At an airport. For the first time in my life. Panic attack? Luckily, I just kept trembling and that was it. I'd rather be seen as somebody with Parkinson's Disease for the time being than have a full-blown panic attack. Those are as much fun as being locked in a room for hours with Paris Hilton.

I'd managed to get through security without a hitch. There was one less thing to worry about. I found the gate very quickly. Another worry obliterated. I made it onto the plane. Huzzah! I had an aisle seat. NOOOOOOO! I despise aisle seats. Why? Because you always get those irritating fuckers by the window having to get up for whatever reason and disturbing my peace. I have NEVER gotten up from my seat while on an airplane. Ever. And that's who the window seats should be reserved for. I know it cannot necessarily be guaranteed that one will not get up during a flight, but in my case it can. If I have to pee, I hold it. I'm not leaving my stuff unattended, and I am not interested in trying to use a toilet in a cramped space. I'd be having a Tommy Boy moment while trying to get my pants up or something. It doesn't help that I am horribly clumsy. And of course, the person by the window DID get up. I was sleeping AND rocking out. Ugh.

We made it to Houston and I couldn't get off that plane fast enough. In my urgency to GTFO, I hit my thigh on part of the armrest and I knew it would bruise. I was right. Looks rather nasty too. See? Me = klutz.
At the Houston airport, I had a bit of a Home Alone moment. The flight into there was late, I saw a commemorative Michael Jackson magazine that I HAD to have, and the line was freaking Great Wall of China long. After I got it, I made a mad dash for the gate, fearing that I'd miss the plane and be stranded in the airport while everyone else was having fun watching Forbidden Zone the next day. Making a mad dash for a gate that seems to be miles away with like 25 lbs. of crap on your back has 'chiropractor' written all over it. But, I made it, with several minutes to spare. I sat there panting and sweaty, receiving weird looks from the surrounding people.

On this next plane, I was in the middle seat. The window guy here was also annoying, but for a different reason. Dude was hogging the armrest! If I wasn't sleeping most of the time, I'd have started something. Maybe he figured that I didn't need as much arm room because I'm kind of small and female. Well, guess again. I'm a gorilla in most senses of the word. Bah. Again, I was more than happy to GTFO. And now, we'd arrived at LAX. w00t! I'd reached my final destination (and the plane scene from that movie pops into my head every time they use that phrase and I can't suppress a shudder).

I called my friend, May. She and her mom were going to pick me up. I was informed that I'd have to take a shuttle to Lot C. Shuttle? Lot C? Oh, shit! This was not in the plans! Commence the freak out! Taking a deep breath, gathering up every ounce of courage I could find, I held my head up and followed the signs out of there. A cute black guy greeted me at the exit and asked me if I needed help, so I asked him where the shuttles were and what not. A huge misunderstanding later, he showed me where I needed to go. He asked me if I would donate to starving children in Africa or something, and once it had been confirmed that he was legit, I did. Not much, because I'm broke as shit, but still. Africa reminded me of Danny, starving children reminded me of Michael, the guy was cute, and I try not to be TOO selfish.
I made my way over to the shuttle stop. It took a million years for it to get there. When I made it to Lot C, there was a bit of a struggle to find me. Everything turned out okay in the end, though, and I finally got to see/hug May in person. It was such a crazy feeling. I'd never met any friends from a forum before, and it was surprisingly not awkward at all. I automatically felt like I'd known her for years. I knew that this was going to be a trip I'd be telling my grandchildren about if I ever decide that I don't highly dislike kids, haha.

To find out what we did later that day, check back soon. I gotta take a break, man. My fingers are falling off and I need some food.

There will be several blog posts documenting my trip. O_O

Noodles For Fatso

The role of "Fatso" will be played by myself in this production. "Noodles" will be played by the delicious egg noodles that are now being eroded by my stomach acid.

I cooked tonight. There was no fire. Nothing was even burnt. Culinary brilliance has been achieved once again. We've got the tools, we've got the talent! It's Miller time! HUZZAH!

Although...part of the chicken did look questionable...but we'll pretend that didn't happen.

I'm dead tired right now, to the point where I could start hallucinating at any time. I have such a big mess to clean up, so while I'm doing that there will be a purple rabbit in a top hat reading the newspaper and conversing with me about the weather. Good times.

Meanwhile, writer's block still sucks worse than a two-dollar hooker with herpes and OCD strikes my blog once again.
I'm also saddened to know that I won't be seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince until next week because I suck at life and can't drive myself to the theater. Happiness denied. Until Friday.

Peace, love, and bacon grease. I'm getting some damn sleep and hoping that the massive zit on my face (it knows where it is) will GTFO by tomorrow because it looks diseased. Stupid, stupid skin. No wonder I was invited to join the nearest leper colony. I'd fit right in.

Artsy Haircuts, J-Rock Obsessions & Pre-trip Pantswetting

Today, I did something drastic. Something never heard of before, at least as far as my body is concerned. I went into it with my nerves running high, the adrenaline rushing through me as I contemplated the possible outcomes. The cynical part of myself that everyone knows and loves (HA-HA!) had me convinced that I'd live to regret it. I'd leave feeling ugly, begging to turn back time to rectify the damages that had occurred. Looking like a dirty hippie appeared to be not so bad after all! The trust issues would be justified. My world successfully reduced to rubble around me.

I'm talking, of course, about my haircut. My hair used to be on the longer side, thick, bushy, and horrid. I've despised it for months now, wishing the haircut fairy would come during the night and take away my misery. To my great dismay, the chance of that happening is about as slim as Danny showing up to my house and declaring that one wife isn't enough and proposing to me on the spot. Yeah, ain't gonna happen. Sadness.

The results were surprising. Very surprising. I hadn't counted on the shortness. Well, I had, but not THIS short. At first I was like, "OMGWTF?! What happened to me?! I'm looking in the mirror and not seeing what I've been accustomed to seeing!" And then, upon further review, I realized...OMG, THIS IS ME!!! The me on the inside, finally showing through. I struggle with my identity constantly, so this is reassuring.

So aside from feeling totally badass, I've got a raging obsession with J-Rock right now. Mainly Dir en grey, X Japan, The Pillows, and Gackt. I
loved it before, as I think Japanese is the most beautiful language ever and those singers have gorgeous voices, but the passion has really been kicked into overdrive. Also, I'm very fascinated with the visual kei movement. Japanese men are brilliant at being pretty fo' sho! I have a feeling I'll be using a lot of J-Rock as the soundtrack for my trip, along with some serious amounts of Michael Jackson and Oingo Boingo. Excellent stuff.

Speaking of my trip, I'm wetting 'em right now. And by that I mean pissing my pants. Just a few more days now, and I'm flying out to California. Alone, with the exception of my mental illness as a travel companion. Holy spaz attack, Batman! LAWDY HELP MEH! I feel like I've got millions of things to do. So goes the life of a procrastinator...

PS: Bachelor Party is one of the funniest movies I've ever seen. Tom Hanks + Oingo Boingo + total chaos = classic 80's goodness. Why did I miss it?! Somebody bulid me a time machine. Seriously. I'll love you forever. I'll sacrifice my first born. I'll wear a pink leotard! *shudders* Never mind. No one wants to see that. If you do, I question your mental stability. Insanity is a great thing, but NOT when it involves pink leotards and me in them. It's wrong. WRONG.

It's a *Deaf* Man's Party.

Went to a party last night. Got a little tipsy. Scornfully gazed at the group of people smoking pot. Was ignored by just about everyone. Listened to a band. Pretty sure people are now suffering from tinnitus and hangovers. I, fortunately, am not.

The band mainly covered Metallica, Megadeth, and Slayer. Of course, I was more than cool with that considering that I've got metal running through my veins. YEEEEEEEEEAH! I've also got gangsta running through my veins. Which reminds me...I don't recall seeing any black people at all there. It always makes me nervous when I'm surrounded by only one race. I always complained that my high school was too white.

Anyway, the singer sounded almost exactly like Phil Anselmo, of Pantera fame. It was pretty fascinating. I'm sure if we'd stayed longer, there would have been a couple Pantera covers.

I kept wondering what it would have been like if there was a Boingo tribute band there instead, with me fronting it. People would likely be WTFing all over the place, since they never get the respect they deserve. Plus, I am certainly no Danny Elfman. His voice is pure heaven, where as mine is...not. At all. Most of the time I'm rather shrieky and all over the place. Everybody with glasses and beer bottles would have to run far, far away or else they'd shatter and cause some serious damage.

However, I have heard that I have a nice singing voice from a few different people. Encouraging, but my cynical side believes they are LYING. Hopefully they aren't, as I would like to sing as a career someday. Hmmm.

SyFy Does Sound Like A Venereal Disease, Doesn't It?

I'll answer my own question. Yes, it does. Not only does it sound like a pet name for "syphilis," it also will probably add to the growing problem of horrible spellers. It looks like 1337spe4k. OMGZ, WE IZ HAXXORZ!!!1
I already had a beef with that channel for canceling the supreme genius that is Mystery Science Theater 3000. Never seen it? I suggest you do so. Now. It's quite possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen next to myself attempting to solve algebraic equations. That's absolutely hilarious.
Now I turn on the TV and see wrestling there. I wanna see science fiction-y things, dammit! If it's not Terminator Vs. Robocop or Alien Vs. Predator doin' the wrasselin', then get it off the damn channel. And I don't care to see their lame original movies either. I think I'd rather watch Manos: The Hands Of Fate un-MSTed than sit through some rubbish with Ice Spiders or SuperSquids for antagonists. Now, if Al Gore decides to make a movie about ManBearPig, and it airs there, then I might be down. EXCELSIOR!
I'm tired and don't have enough energy to rant on this fully. I'm sure you're devastated. But the bottom line is that I've lost faith in television, period. Every channel I used to love sucks. Cartoon Network sucks. Nickelodeon sucks. MTV has sucked for faaaaaaar too long. The soap operas I used to never miss...well, I miss 'em all the time because the writers must have been thrown into thinking jail or something. I've written more compelling fanfiction when I was twelve.
The only show I want to watch on TV most of the time is Countdown With Keith Olbermann. It's funny, intelligent, informative, and hey, Keith's a cutie. We also share a common enemy in Loofah Boy, AKA Billo the Clown, AKA Falafel Man. So that's fun.
I'm normally watching anything else online because most of the time I have to.
I think I will be compiling a list of TV shows I miss one of these days. Or not, because I might cry. Nobody wants to see that. Really, you don't.

Of Dr. Seussian Statements and Ignorant Opinions

Don't you love it when people make judgements/assumptions with basically no coherent argument to back it up?
"Oh, he was a junkie, nothing more."
"OMG, he molested kids! He's gonna burn in hell!"
"He's a Muslim because his name sounds like Osama!"
"OJ did it, man!!"

Alright, forget the OJ thing. There is solid evidence to prove that he did do it, so why defend him in this little rant? Plus, what has OJ really done for society? Really. He's always getting busted for stuff. My reason for this is because I read something that really upset me last night. I always read things that upset me, because I am a defensive old bat who can't stand it when people bash things I love for no good reason. If you're going to bash something and want to debate with me about it, have a reasonable argument ready. I'll admit that sometimes my own arguments have several holes, but I will not act as though my opinion is fact if I know this.
As usual these days, the subject was Michael Jackson and his alleged pedophilia. The person in question called him a couple unsavory, disrespectful names, that really shot all credibility in the ass from the start. The whole fiasco began because of a header banner at a forum I frequent. Both Michael and the subject of the forum (Layne Staley, who is also deceased) were in it together, and that offended this person because, "OMG he's a pedophile! That's disrespecting Layne!" That's basically the gist of what was said, not verbatim. Verbatim would just make this person look worse, to be honest.
I love Layne to death, first of all. He was my first real love, and even if I don't feel quite the same anymore, that will always mean something to me. But let's face some facts here. The man was a junkie. Sure, he was also a brilliant musician, wonderful artist, and one hell of a guy, but he was still a junkie. Everyone in the fandom knows that. But because we respect the man and his art, we don't go around defining him by his habit and get angry when others do, when they obviously know nothing about his character otherwise.
Same goes with Michael. Most people calling him a pedophile are merely parroting what the media had said about him before he passed away. There is solid evidence that he did not molest those kids. And you know what? This is coming from someone who was not always a defender of his innocence. I did research and came to my own personal conclusions. Independent thinking is something more people should look into. I don't quite understand the sheep mentality. Michael was a very loving, exploited man who was misunderstood mostly by self-righteous puppets.
So you'll see where the hypocrisy comes in. Getting angry about Layne being called a junkie, which was a proven fact that he didn't even try to hide, yet spouting off accusations about Michael with NO FACTS...God, obviously you have no common sense. I compared Michael to Jesus in part of my argument. Not saying he WAS Jesus, but the parallels are there. A kind, pure-hearted man comes into the world and wants everyone to love each other. In turn, those around him shun him and it eventually leads to his death. The response was that as an atheist, she knew nothing about Biblical stuff. You know, I would understand if we were talking about a slightly more obscure Biblical figure like...Job. Not everyone knows about him. But Jesus is common knowledge, especially if you are from uber-Christianized America. I was an atheist for a decade and never really paid attention in Sunday school as a child, and I still had enough Biblical knowledge to successfully debate Christians about their faith. I know a lot of atheists who do, so they don't look like the morons some of the more conservative types paint them to be. Declaring ignorance about that doesn't reward points in your favor. Also saying that Michael contributed nothing to music shows that you have ignorance in that field too. Why don't you just admit that you fail? Take your proverbial ball and go home.
Anyway, to me junkies and pedophiles are both not good. The point is that we know one was one thing, and the other MIGHT have been, but probably wasn't. Who gives a shit anyway? They were brilliant, amazing souls who need to be left alone and remembered for what they did contribute to the world. RESPECT.

I think I now understand why my mother has always said I should be a lawyer.

Also...when the hell did it become uncool to spell "judgement" with an "e?" The spelling is acceptable, according to the dictionary, yet every flipping time I type it, I get that stupid red line of death. "Judgment" looks weird to me. I refuse to embrace that spelling. Ever. Ine Facte, I'me goinge to starte puttinge ane "e" ine almoste everythinge. How do you like them apples, spellcheck?

I Shall Temporarily Withhold Sexually Deviant Comments. Especially Ones Directed At the Pope and Frank Zappa.

*takes deep breath* Michael Jackson's memorial service. Wow, talk about intense. I wish I could have been there instead of just watching it on my tiny laptop screen. Although if I'd been there, I would not be sitting here writing about how I wish I could have been there. There's the real tragedy, let me tell ya. I'd probably be seriously crying like a little girl. I'm surprised I'm not, actually. These past couple weeks have been highly emotional for a multitude of people throughout the universe. You know the aliens are just as sad about this as we are! Or not, considering one of the Men In Black movies outed him as an extraterrestrial (unless I was dreaming that part, like that time I swore ET actually turned out to be a chain-smoking bag lady named Marge). They're probably thrilled to have him come home. Selfish creatures. They need to bring him back. Now.
But wherever Michael is, I hope he's happy and being shown all the love he gave while he was here and then some. He deserves it. <3

Now I've got my window open and am blasting the holy hell out of "Thriller," hoping the people outside will hear it and start doing the dance in the middle of the street in honor of MJ and for my own personal entertainment. It's not working yet. The consequences of living in the middle of nowhere. Bah.

So where do we go from here?
I'm thinking McDonald's. I'm starving. Oh, that's right. McDonald's is not a charitable organization. They don't give free Big Macs to the poor, such as myself. Bummer.
To the Batmobile!..If only I could drive. And actually HAD the Batmobile. Triple bummer.
Alrighty then. We go nowhere...for now.

Stop Sinking My Ships Or I'll....Go Back To Sleep!

During this period of complete lack of motivation, good food, and intelligence, I've felt the need to channel my inner sloth. It was Independence Day yesterday. Aliens were getting pwned by computer viruses and Randy Quaid, Bill Pullman was making a sweet Presidential cameo, Will Smith was being Will Smith, Jeff Goldblum was being hot, as usual...complete badassery! And where was I?! I was off in Slumberland. Not the cool Slumberland, either. With Nemo and his shenanigans that set off a chain of events that lead to things that made me ruin my pants as a child. No, not that one. Oh, and if you know what I'm talking about here, we should consider marriage. Like, right now. Vegas, baby! The love of my life is married to someone that isn't me, so why can't I do the same? HA-HA!....*cries*
Anyway, my Slumberland consisted of a creepy house and not much else. It figures. So in my waking hours, I decided to wander back into my Yu Yu Hakusho fandom. When I was in middle school (and last summer), that show was like my life. The characters are REAL, man. STFU, they are too! Of course, I decided to fall for the one character that everyone else seems to find repulsive. I didn't want no stinkin' pretty boy Kurama, or Hiei. Vegeta does that personality type much better, so I'll just stick with him. I am quite fond of Yusuke, but I think my raging teenage hormones wanted something on a superficial level with him. That leaves one more main character: Kuwabara. He's the most manly of the group, and the most likely to be in the closet. I mean this in a loving way, as I have a slashy brain and think all men should be gay together. This leave me, a biological female, out of the equation, but I don't care. *hides stash of fanfiction that has myself paired with him lest I be called a steaming pile of hypocrite* I don't want to see him with Yukina. Ever. It's wrong, and it's boring. I'd rather see him with Yusuke. Again, I don't care if Yusuke is already tied to Keiko. Keiko can GTFO. It makes me sad that there isn't more love for the Kuwabara/Yusuke pairing. In fact, there's not enough love for Kuwabara, period. As usual with the men I fancy, he is vastly underrated. Sure, he may come off as an ignorant buffoon sometimes, maybe a little loud and obnoxious, but so was Billy Mays! Look at his fanbase, and he sold OxiClean, and various other household products. Kuwabara is a lover, a fighter, loyal to his friends even though they treat him like shit, and bringing the sexy like a mofo. Most people don't find him sexy, but I sure do. Gotta love the red curls. Red curls own me. I think it's because I want red curls myself. I was only able to get half of that magical combo. I am pathetic, I know. But I owe Kuwabara SO much. He's the reason I started writing on a regular basis. Hooray for crappy teenage-angst-inspired fanfiction drivel! He made me take my own honor code more seriously. Maybe TOO seriously. And the most important thing of all: it's thanks to Kuwabara that I was introduced to my favorite band, Oingo Boingo.
Yes, that poster in the background! It's a modified version of the album art for Good For Your Soul. An outstanding Boingo album, so Kuwabara's got some seriously awesome taste. What I find really funny/creepy about this is that I'm a redhead, the two boys in the picture are redheads, and Danny Elfman is a [HOLYCRAPGORGEOUS!] redhead. Coincidence? We be takin' over da world. In fact, my YYH obsession ended because I fell head-over-heels in love with Danny/Boingo. Really, it was a long time coming. The Simpsons was my first favorite show and Tim Burton's movies had been giving me kickass nightmares for years. But Kuwabara is responsible for the past year's crazy Elfmania. The crazy Elfmania is why I just spent a billion dollars on a plane ticket to LA (my intentions are pure! I ain't a stalker, people.) Thank you, Kuwabara. Thank you for being you and causing me to fall for a redhead that is actually not an anime character. I am a little less pathetic now. Redheads FTW, live long & prosper, Semper Fi...whatever.

Writer's Block Sucks Worse Than a Two-Dollar Hooker With Herpes!

Not that I would know from personal experience or anything...*cough* However, I can imagine that it can't be a pleasurable thing. You may have only spent two dollars, but now you've got a lifetime of Valtrex prescription payments. Huzzah!
Yes, and writer's block is worse than that. How could that be? Herpes is like the worst thing in the world. Ask Paris Hilton. Ooh, burn.
First of all, my writer's block is like herpes in that it will not go away. Ever.
I was working on this story recently. Actually, I've been attempting to write this thing for about two years. I've also been trying to get my driver's license for about two years. Motivation is not my strong point to begin with. Add serious mental blockage into the equation and you get counterproductive, uninspired, hackneyed bullcrap. That describes about 97% of my writing, FYI.
The plot has gone through a massive metamorphosis throughout this time. Main characters have been added, changed due to my own changes in taste, the plot actually exists now, and it's just seemingly the most badass thing I've ever decided to put down on paper, so to speak. This thing was going to be my magnum opus. Nothing else I do would ever surpass this level of literary genius I've created. One day, people would read this and just drop dead from how amazingly written it is. I'd win some serious awards and become a gazillionaire. I could finally live my dream. I would buy...God. He'd be the President and I'd be the CEO of the business we call "life." I'd bring Michael Jackson back to life and promptly smite anyone who makes him feel bad about himself.
But writer's block returned in an outbreak so fierce that I felt like my head would explode. My head was like a watermelon and Gallagher's standing there with his mallet, a sinister grin playing across his face. Impending doom. Plans for ruling everything crashing and burning all around me. Life as I knew it was slipping away. I had people expecting to read the story, but I just couldn't deliver. I felt like a failure. I've failed my characters most of all. They never got a chance to endure the hell I planned to put them through. It's so unfair.
And that was me about three hours ago. Haven't touched the thing. Instead, I'm here writing about how I can't write.
I probably just passed it on to someone else. Misery loves company. I need a vacation from my problems. My trip to California is a definite go, so maybe I'll get some inspiration while I am there...hehe.

OxiClean Is Bringing SexyBack.

Oh, darlin', mah weak heart can't take no mo'! Oh LAWDY!

For the past week, I've been teetering on the edge of a breakdown of some kind. I've been making travel plans that seem to resist me at every turn, thanks to oh-so-wonderfully passive-aggressive people. Passive-aggression is MY thing, dammit! MINE. Don't try to use it on me. Hopefully by tomorrow I'll stop having recurring nightmares about missed flights and hanging out with Michael Jackson. I'm pretty sure he was zombified. Otherwise I'd have no objections to hanging out with him. Curse you, Reaper!!! SHA-MON!

I read somewhere that the late Billy Mays, the most annoying, but good-natured person ever featured in commercials/infomercials, might have died from heart disease rather than from taking a headshot by luggage on a plane or whatever. You know what's sad about this?
A.) I'm about to be on a plane.
2.) I'm loud, boisterous, and OVERENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT OXICLEAN!!!! *GASP*
F.) It's just so damn random. Again, the mortality thoughts cloud over my graphic sexual fantasies about OXICLEAN!!! NOOOOOOOO! *molests the container*

Now, I am regrettably not smart enough to go to medical school. I'm not smart enough to do a lot of things. Either way, I know close to nothing about how heart disease works. Yet I still wonder if his excessive shouting and passion for the products contributed to it, if that is indeed what he died from. The man had to have had high blood pressure or something. Hmm. Anyway, I'll bet he's selling God, and Michael, some OxiClean right now. That's a good, positive thought.
So with the week I've been having, I feel like my heart's about to give out at any minute. I'm an emotional rollercoaster-slash-trainwreck. I'm in a permanent cycle of excitement, panic, reflection, more panic, and straight hysteria. These masochistic tendencies cannot be at all healthy for the long run, but I'm sitting here yelling, "HAND ME THE GIMP SUIT, BABY!" A gimp suit and a lifetime supply of OxiClean sounds like one hell of a good time. Now I'm excited in a different way. w00t to the 5th powah!

I have a genetic inability to be coherent. For that, I apologize.

Billy Mays wants YOU to buy some stuff! [RIP, buddy]

I am in no way endorsing OxiClean because I've actually used it...the way it's intended. Or at all. I'm endorsing it because that's what Billy Mays would have done.

'SHA-MON!' For New Dictionary Entry! YES, WE CAN!

That's what they should do in honor of Michael, if they haven't already. I am fond of words (even ones that technically don't exist). I use them often, being a person who never shuts up. If I'm not writing or chatterboxing to people I'm not shy around, I'm having hours-long, in depth conversations with myself. Call it insanity, or a type of narcissism if you feel inclined. I find conversations with myself to be an enlightening experience. Even the dirty conversations. Hehe.
Also, I used to read the dictionary for fun. I remember when I first heard about that Christian metal band, Stryper. Something about how they used to throw Bibles into the audience. Besides the jokes about one smacking somebody upside the head while the singer shouts, "THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!" in some weird exorcism ritual, I decided to throw dictionaries at people if I was in a popular band. To encourage better spelling, better vocabulary, and a better chance of winning at Scrabble. Winning at Scrabble is like winning at life in my family. Hell, winning at Life is like winning at life. I always thought winning at Uno was like winning at life too. I take sick, sadistic pleasure in laying down a series of Draw Twos and Draw Fours in rapid succession and going, "Yeah, draw those cards, biatch! BOOYAH!"
Naturally I don't take losing well.
I actually have a list of favorite words buried in my brain somewhere, but as I get older and the dementia kicks in, I can't remember all of them right off. Plus, the list would be too long anyway. I will say at one point my favorite word used to be 'rendezvous.' Unfortunately I've never used it in a Scrabble game. I have used 'torque,' 'foal,' and 'penis,' though.
'Torque' got me triple word points and won me the game. 'Foal' was challenged despite my repetitve, "IT'S A BABY FRIGGIN' HORSE!" shouted explanation. That's why I mentioned it. And 'penis'...well, I should have calculated the reaction. I was playing with my aunt and uncle. It was worth it. I pulled out my Beavis and Butt-Head laugh.
But hey, now they know what a foal is. Knowledge is power, yo.

This Post Needs More Cowbell...and Maybe Some Pecan Pie.

LOTS more cowbell. In fact, life needs more cowbell.

I've been drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to Michael Jackson in the moments of consciousness. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he's gone. When I sit here listening to him, so young and full of energy with lyrics full of compassion or things that are just real, I feel like I have lost a friend. It's rather strange. I'm sure many people feel this way, but I can't even call myself an uberfan, really. I don't own any of his albums (I used to "borrow" my mom's cassettes. Haha, cassettes. I feel old.) or any other merchandise. You really don't know what you have until it is gone. It's actually made me think about my own mortality again. Yep, 20 going on 80.

It also bugs me even more now that Michael was a really attractive man and felt the need to get an effing cleft chin (I'm ignoring the whole nose fiasco. Everyone talks about his nose and I don't want to be everyone right now). I have a cleft chin. Half my family does. If none of us had one, I wouldn't miss it. The only cool part about having a cleft chin is the invention of Chinderwear, in my opinion. Thanks, Dr. Forrester, you magnificent bastard! I'll be getting my leopard print, bikini-cut pair as soon as I get out of my soon-to-be California debt.

However, I do know what it's like to hate one's own appearance and want to do a series of things to change it. Unfortunately the changes are never enough, because new flaws pop up. Self-acceptance is a bitch. It's like trying to climb Mt. Everest. You get halfway there and some stupid avalanche happens and knocks your ass down the mountain. Then you either drown in the ten feet of snow that you've just been buried in or claw your way out and start all over again. It's a perpetual battle for those of us with poor self-image. I think the one thing that saves me from drowning in the snow is the fact that I don't entirely loathe my personality. Yet in a world full of plastic, superficial robots, it doesn't feel like personality means crap to anybody.

That's probably reason #242434 for me being a hermit, constantly paranoid, and misanthropic about 99.8% of the time.

End of blog-therapy session. Someone now owes me $8000. I just passed a new law that says the patients need monetary compensation. Seriously. I'm poor. I have needs!

J-Gold, However, Is NOT Dead. A Moment of Celebration and Many Huzzahs, Please!

Why y'all gotta be bringin' Mr. Goldblum into the death stories, huh?!

By now I've made it obvious that I harbor a soft spot for the man. Of course, the idiots who started that rumor don't know that, but that is beside the point. I could have jumped off a bridge in extreme grief, had I not known it was a rumor.

Granted, the only bridge around here goes....into a pond....and is about six feet off the ground or something. I wouldn't die, I'd just go for a nice swim in duck excrement. Nice. I like to see me try to explain that one to my housemates.

"Why am I wet and covered in suspicious substances? Well...um...DIDN'T YOU HEAR?! WE LOST JEFF, DAMMIT!!!" *sobs uncontrollably* "A-And, I-I...just c-can't go OOOOOOOOOON!"

Then they'd be like, "You jumped off the bridge in the park, didn't you? You do know that's a rumor, right? He's fine. In fact, we've invited him over for dinner."

Jeff comes out, sees me like that, and my chances to date him are completely shot. All because of stupid rumors.

The moral of the story is: Don't start death rumors about men I fancy, or my life will be ruined and I will come after you. The end.

The King Is Dead. A Moment of Silence, Please.

It comes in threes, and unfortunately Michael Jackson has completed that awful trinity. Michael Jackson. One of the few people out there I'd thought of as being immortal. Despite a series of health issues, he always seemed to hang in there.
I'd been asleep, as I'm known to do most of the time, and received a text with the news. In a sleepy haze, I shook my head and wrote it off as some kind of hoax. In my mind, a loving God wouldn't take him before, say, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, or [insert typical Hollywood bimbo]. His personal life was questionable, no doubt. Everyone knows about the child molestation charges, hanging Blanket off the balcony, going out in public looking as though he was afraid SARS was going to make a comeback before he did, the overly excessive plastic surgery that transformed him from a handsome African-American man to...something not even human, etc. But he was human. A fragile human, at that.
I'll be one of the first to admit that I made many jokes about him concerning this behavior, as most of us did. I found the South Park episode about him to be both hilarious and frightening. I never did it for malicious purposes. I, like South Park, make fun of everything.
I actually respected the guy, and pitied him. The respect has been there since I was a child. I was sitting here earlier, listening to his music and fully realizing how it had an impact on me then. I remember being four or five, trying so hard to Moonwalk. Once I thought I had it right, I'd try to show people and just trip over myself and fall over. Michael was the coolest for that. He was probably my second favorite Michael overall (gimme a break, it was the 90's and I had the Jordan fever. Basketball was life for a certain redheaded tomboy!)
I loved the sound of his voice. It was so unique and still is. Next to aspiring NBA (yes, you read that right) player, I wanted to be a singer. Now singing is my number one aspiration. After several failed attempts at dancing (that have carried over to adulthood), I spent a long time trying to imitate him and those weird inflections that sounded like a cross between a sob and a hiccup. I didn't know what the hell he was doing, but I liked it. I ended up sounding like a dying cat, so I tried to sound like Whitney Houston instead. Let's face it, I shouldn't really be white. The Whitney Houston thing also failed, but I digress.
The first tears that threatened to spill over tonight came from "Will You Be There." It was basically the theme from Free Willy. Yeah, that whale movie. Being a lover of animals and such, it was one of those movies that really affected me emotionally. The song did too. Just thinking about that damn song and movie make me tear up.
Losing Michael is the end of an era. Many people will probably feel like others did when we lost Elvis, Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Tupac, etc. Mr. Jackson was a very talented and kind-hearted individual, despite the allegations against him. He will be missed dearly.
He obviously had a lot of issues in his short life, and maybe I'm not being as harsh on him as others would be. The man was really like a child in a grown man's body, and I find it sad that he had to be like that in the first place. Hopefully now he is at peace. <3 For now we should focus on the musical legacy he left behind.

The Flies Continue Assaulting Me; Life Sucks.

The first group of maggots I see in the house, I'm going to throw up. They have to be coming from somewhere close, seeing as there are 37524783 of them always there to greet me with their God-awful buzzing that leaves me hearing it everywhere in a fit of extreme paranoia. I've been holed up in my room for who knows how long, hoping that they won't find me. The ones who have, of course, have met my wrath. Not of the Khan variety, of course. I am not a Trekkie.

PETA has yet to attack me. Remind me to not become President. Not that anyone would vote for me, since my main agenda would be to take over the world and take certain currently unattainable people as love slaves, and I have never been entirely subtle about those plans.

Anyway, life sucks. In fact, I'm resorting back to my teenage angst for a moment:

The wounds have scarred, yet I'm still bleeding
as if they were broken stitches,
torn by my constant struggles

...and you get the point. (I can be a better writer than this, I swear!)

I'm no longer feeling that optimistic, foolish excitement from the first couple posts because, as usual, plans never work out in my life. Ever.
Plus, I'm in raging bitch mode thanks to my hormones. See, those plans didn't work out either. I would have chosen to be a man, haha. Or both. More about that....some other time...or something.

What Would Drunk Brundlefly Do If He Was In My Room?

The fact that Jeff Goldblum knows about his evil twin, the infamous Drunk Jeff Goldblum, and is as amused by it as I am makes me happy. In the pants. And in general.

Also, my goal in life is to destroy all flies because they made him look ugly (and they carry disease and make my life more difficult by coming into my room and raping my stuff). He's never ugly and is not supposed to be, you fiends! Don't make me go uber-ninja Obama on you, you nasty creatures!

I'm gonna be on PETA's Public Enemy #1 list soon enough.

Cross-Country Bus Trips = Rape Biscuits With a Side of Pwnage Gravy

This is basically what my half-asleep, possibly delirious mother said to me yesterday. Really, I think she said, "You could get raped, beaten, and murdered, or sold into prostitution because guys in bus terminals are always looking for that kind of thing." Gee, thanks for the pep talk, Mom. I feel bad for all the guys in bus terminals who are clean-cut, law-abiding citizens that she kinda lumped into that category.

This is a woman, mind you, who constantly tells me to stop being a hermit. This is the exact opposite of hermitism (Taken from my own personal dictionary!) and now she's basically like, "Don't be a hermit, but don't not be a hermit or you'll be some old, fat guy's whore in Inthemiddleofnowheresoyou'rescrewedquitefigurativelyandliterally, Oklahoma."

I realize it's a mom thing, and I'll never experience that with some little goofballs of my own, but the contradictory statements make my head want to explode.

There is a point to this story, though. A silver lining, if you will. My mom is SO concerned about my safety (or lack thereof, if I ride a bus), that she wants to buy me a plane ticket instead.

That works too! As long as somebody's paying for it. I'm trying to auction off my kidney on ebay for extra cash as I dictate this blog for my helper monkey in a gimp suit to type.

So there are more details to work out now, but plane, bus, golf cart....doesn't matter. I'm going and I couldn't be more happy about it!!! HUZZAH.

Exit Teenage Years, Enter...Oh, Crap.

Today is my 20th birthday. A perfect excuse to start blogging again, methinks. That, and the irritating insomnia currently plaguing my entire body. Usually I have no problem sleeping excessively. In fact, I'd call myself a professional. All the excitement is getting to me, I guess. The excitement of what, exactly? Doing normal things instead of having a huge party featuring stripteases by my drunken uncle?* Leaving those wretched teenage years behind as I look toward something better and less...psychotic?

It could be that. Possibly. Or it could be the news I received yesterday involving a certain trip to somewhere that I've been dying to go back to since I left last October.

The trip would involve solitude in a crowd of strangers. In other words, I'd be staring my worst fear and my mental illness in the face. Blatantly.

A damn near cross country bus trip. The only bus I've ever been on is a school bus. For about twenty minutes at a time. Not two days.

My gut tells me to do it. I have reassurance that it is possible. So why not?

My illness keeps me from doing many normal things. I have panic attacks when I have to walk into a store alone. I don't have a driver's license. I have no job, and I rarely leave the house. The only friends I have outside of the internet are the ones I live with.

Anyone who has the same problem can and probably will tell you that it's like being in prison. It's not much of a life, really.

And even this news scared me to death and I immediately tried to come up with a multitude of reasons for why I couldn't go. I begged my friends to come with me. I realized something, though.

I NEED TO KICK ANXIETY'S ASS. At least once.

Two days on a bus with strangers both ways? Ummm...I DO need to read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince again before I see the movie!
No showers? .....Is it legal to wash your hair in the sink of a McDonald's bathroom? For the sake of personal hygiene, I'd do it.
Smelly bathroom? I only pee twice a day, and right now I couldn't be happier about that.

The point is that I can't hide forever. I need to live....even if it's just a little.

*Disclaimer: I have no drunken uncle, but I have one that acts like he is. He's awesome.