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.