SORTA RELEVENT MOVIE REVIEW- THE ROOM

I look forward to the day when I get to see a movie in an actual theater. I really miss it, but I also have to take into consideration that between tickets, treats and babysitters, I'm looking at about 80 American dollars to see one moving picture show (that's probably going to suck anyway). Instead, Mark and I have been Netflix devotees since 2003. I have to mention the date we joined Nexflix because Mark will get on his "I loved Netflix before anyone else did" soapbox. I shouldn't give him too much grief though because he definitely has the Netflix thing wired. Not only does he know the processing time of our local hub, but exactly when to mail something back in order to get a "long wait" release, pronto. That man can manipulate a queue like nobodys business. But I like Netflix because it means I can watch crap like The Bounty Hunter without judgement or shame. OK without judgement.

But once in a while there comes a film, so moving, so haunting that it deserves only to be seen in a theater. Scratch that, in a theatre. When I first heard about The Room, it was apparent that this thing was so bad it had garnered sort of a Rocky Horror-like cult status with midnight showings and everything. All I had to do was hear "one of the worst movies ever made" and I was in. I love bad movies. Not bad movies like The Bounty Hunter, but baaaaaaaaaaad movies like Showgirls, which PS I saw in the theater on opening weekend.

Frankly, it's a pretty bold statement to call a film "the worst ever made," because that's a direct challenge to classics like Plan 9 From Outer Space and Valley of the Dolls, so you'd better be ready to put your money where your mouth is. And they did. The Room is amazingly, wonderfully, exquisitely bad. The direction, I don't think there was any. The camera work, sloppy. The story, incomprehensible. The continuity, non-existent. And the acting, oh the acting. It made the Saved by the Bell cast look like master thespians. Let's put it this way, one of the main characters also doubled as the line producer.

Tommy Wisseau is the wonky-eyed triple threat that wrote, directed and starred in this masterpiece. Don't take my word for it, but I think that the story revolves around Wisseau's character, "Johnny." I really wish that people would never, ever name another character Johnny. It reminds me of 1940s film noir, and this movie is no film noir. It's more like film no bueno.

Anyway, Johnny has this slut girlfriend, Lisa, and despite the fact that everyone constantly refers to her beauty, she's more like a poor man's Britney Spears. Which is like saying she's a rich man's Tonya Harding. So even though Lisa appears to love Johnny she doesn't and wants to be with his friend, Mark (also the line producer). However, Johnny is a successful something-or-other and is about to get a promotion despite his Warrant-inspired hairdo and ill fitting suit (because he only wears one throughout the entire movie).

You know, I can't even bring myself to try and decipher the rest of the plot, because to be honest, I'm still confused by the delicate nuances of the script. Let's just say that there are subplots about drugs, cancer and domestic abuse but none of them are fleshed out further than one scene. You just kind of have to go with it.

Seeing The Room at an actual movie theater was like going to see Mystery Science Theatre 3000 live, but with more alcohol. We were surrounded by die-hard fans and it took me about 60 seconds to adjust to the yelling. I had to fight against the instinct to shush everyone. But once I settled in I realized that I was among like-minded friends. Finally, there were people to validate my feelings about dialog like, "I did not hit her, that's bullshit! Oh, hi Mark." To relish in my confusion over exactly what the deal was with that creepy kid Denny (or Danny depending on your interpretation of the accent) and his voyeurism. I'm not going to even address the tickle fight situation.

All in all it was the best $40 we've spent in a long time on a movie that we knew going in was going to be crappy. If only that had been true with The Bounty Hunter. By the way, we got my Dad to babysit.

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DOWN LIKE DISCO

A while back, a controversial video surfaced of a woman dragging her child through a Verizon store with the help of one of those backpack leashes. As I watched this disengaged mother pull her limp child, I was horrified that I wasn’t horrified. Instead, I thought to myself “I totally get that.” Apparently the tyke wasn’t listening and decided to pull the old “go limp” maneuver that I myself perfected in college whenever someone tried to throw me out of a bar.

My former self would have been outraged that a mother would do that. However, my current self has actually hidden from Piper to make her think that I’ve left her behind. My former self thought that if I was in public and I knew your child’s name, you were doing something wrong. My current self would be able to retire if I had a dime for the number of times I’ve been in public and said “Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper, Piper.” It’s safe to say that my former self was an idiot.

Someone once told me that, aside from Brook Shields and Tom Cruise, no one really talks about the dark side of motherhood. And they’re right. Remember in The Empire Strikes Back when Luke is hanging onto that upside down Space Needle thingy? His hand’s just been cut off and he’s all kinds of sweaty and windblown and the only one there to offer help is Daddy Darth Vader? He extends his hand, and says “join me.” You can see the desperation on Luke’s face he ponders his choice between physical death and spiritual death. In the end, chooses to plummet into the darkness below.

You may be thinking, “wow, you sure have put a lot of thought into the Empire Strikes Back.” I find that scene pretty poignant, not only because of Mark Hamill and his limitations as an actor (everything was downhill after he starred in Sarah T. Portrait of a Teenage Alcoholic with Linda Blair), but because sometimes I truly believe that Piper is trying to take my spirit and to crush it. Those are the days when "there is no escape. Don't make me destroy you," sounds like great a parenting strategy to me.

I know that if I really wanted to take some drastic steps, I could get this child under control. But like Luke, I choose instead to fall into the unknown hoping to come out on the other side. However, my unknown is actually going to my bedroom, locking the door, and reading celebrity gossip magazines. I don't know if that would have worked for Luke. It certainly would have put a different spin on the movie, but would have totally explained the gay-ness of Return of the Jedi.

In my scenario, reading gossip about Jennifer Aniston's potential love child, prevents me from embracing my inner Darth. I always try to remember that I am the adult, but there is just something about having a 3 year-old scream “you aren’t my friend anymore!” at the top of her lungs that can drive you over the edge of your very own Space Needle thingy. Once after being told that “I was a bad mommy,” I actually gave Piper the finger. I threw my kid the Rockefeller. I figured that she doesn’t know what it means and lacks the dexterity to imitate it. It’s definitely better than the time I muttered “fuck you” under my breath, and as she walked away I heard “you fuck you.” You may send my Mother of the Year certificate to me via email.

But at the end of the day, I love my kid more than anything. I just hope that by the time we get along I'm not half man, half machine. Although it would be cool to have James Earl Jones as my voice. Then everyone would do as I say.

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IF IF'S & BUT'S WERE CANDY & NUTS...

I never thought that I'd have children - ever. But as it turns out I did. Now I find myself having the most inane conversations about subjects that are really of no interest to anyone other than myself. While I love my kids, which the fact that that the word 'kid' is plural freaks me out, sometimes I miss the little things that I use to not even have to consider:

• I miss not having spit stains on all my clothes.
• I miss not smelling like regurgitated breast milk.
• I miss being able to leave the house in under an hour and not having to carry everything I own with me "just in case."
• I really miss the portion of my brain that has decided to take maternity leave as well.
• I wish that every conversation that I have with my three-year-old didn't remind me of an acid flash-back: "I did have my balloon float away with my robot kitchen, but he was going to see his mommy daddy and the fish that lives up there, so I did say bye to him, but then the little big kid was mad at me." I mean really, who can follow along with that story and not feel slightly fucked up?
• I wish that I still didn't have to wear maternity pants.
• I know that I should look on the bright side of this last one... I guess I'm too important to not be available at all times to everyone in the house. But what I wish most of all is that I could take a shit with the door closed.

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IRRELEVANT MOVIE REVIEW– 2012

It’s been awhile, but give me a break, I’m pregnant and have low to moderate brain functionality right now. While I want to write blog posts, the most I can muster is a sarcastic comment or two from my couch at home, making every evening a little MST3K-ish. So, I figured why not do an entry on the shit movie I just watched if for no other reason than to keep Blogger from deleting my account due to inactivity.

So began the cinematic tour-de-force that was 2012.

Yeah, yeah, yeah I know this came out like 6 months ago, but considering that I don’t get out much, I just saw it this past weekend. And all I can say is that I’m glad I didn’t pay $9 to have my eyeballs raped in an actual theater by this movie. If I were seven and reviewing this thing, I would have called it a piece of poo, but I’m not seven, so I’m calling it what it is, a piece of shit. This thing clearly cost a kabillion dollars to make and it sucked. It sucked worse than Day After Tomorrow and their stupid wolves or that thing with Tea Leoni and Morgan Freeman with the gigantic wave. Sadly, with all the CGI and implausibility, neither one of these “blockbusters” can touch the awesome-ness of the 1983 mushroom destruction that was The Day After. Plus it starred the Gutt, so it’s got that going for it.

Mostly after sitting through 2012 I just wanted to have a sit-down with John Cusack and Woody Harrelson. Really? Really, you two? What happened? Did you need some money or what? I know that Woody has pot to buy, so OK, I’ll give him that. But the man was just nominated for an Oscar so he can clearly act, but you wouldn’t have know it from watching this particular movie. And Cusack. Oh, Cusack. I’ve taken it very personal watching Lloyd Dobler (Lloyd, Lloyd, Lloyd all null and void) slowly kill his career. It started with Pushing Tin and slid into America’s Sweethearts and has sunk to 2012. He's dangerously close to entering Nicholas cage territory here. And, should it bother me so much his character a limo-driving writer that has the mad driving skills of a stunt man? Maybe I just put too much thought into the whole “suspension of disbelieve” thing.

The one thing about bad movies is that it always makes me think “someone wrote this down. It was revised – many times. And then someone was paid to punch it up.” However, thanks to “writers” like Roland Emmerich (who brought us both the Day After Tomorrow and Independence Day) and Jerome Armstrong, I have now cracked their disaster movie code. The equation is something like this (subject to minor changes):

Lovable but aloof loser (hero) + estranged wife + strained relationship with children from aforementioned estranged wife + catastrophic end of world scenario + crazy dude that no one will listen to except for our hero + way too many CGI effects + optional African American/female president + the optional sassy gay comic relief to provide comedy and levity a la Harvey Firestein in Independence Day. = 2012, Day After Tomorrow, Deep Impact, Independence Day, Armageddon, Volcano, Dante’s Peak, Twister and War of the Worlds.

I’m telling you, if this is the best that "professionals" have to offer, give me made for Sci-Fi movies like Earthquake 10.5, Category 6 or Atomic Twister. Sure, Mansquito and Supergator are incredibly outrageous and goofy, but they’re supposed to be. But at least my expectations are realistic, because they’re on Sci-Fi for God’s sake.

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CHRISTMAS, BLOODY CHRISTMAS

** OK, if you are super-sensitive about Christmas, God or retail, please do us both a favor and skip this post.

Well, it’s Christmas again – that special time of year when Santa sells liquor and angels sing ‘half off everything in the store.’ I hate Christmas. I know, I know. I’m probably going to have my Christian card revoked for just verbalizing that, but I’m pretty sure that I crossed that line the day I compared Jesus to a zombie (except he didn’t eat people. Think about it). My only saving grace is that God might find that funny because he/she/general life force, has one dark, fucked up sense of humor. If you doubt it, just look around you. It’s called “life.”

Granted I am a cynical person, but I see Christmas as nothing more than a orgy of buying and receiving shit no one needs (except for this year, I’m getting tires for my car, which I really do need). Exhibit A - the insane commercials on your TV. Once, just once, I’d like to meet someone that got a fucking car for Christmas.

All the Christmas hubbub makes me think about Hanukkah, you know, that other holiday and how civilized and practical it seems compared to the carnival-like atmosphere of Christmas. Eight days, eight presents, light some candles and enjoy some dreidel spinning – done and done.

My husband likes to remind me that Christmas is really for kids and now that we have one I’d better buck up and change my attitude. He’s absolutely right, but it doesn’t mean that I have to go quietly into that goodnight. I’ve promised to hide my crankiness as long as he postpones the Christmas kickoff until after Thanksgiving. Novel idea, I know.

By now it’s a cliché to bitch and moan about the commercialism of Christmas. I think that people were probably complaining about it at the second Christmas. The three wise men were all, "you know, myrrh ain't cheap, and frankincense and is just so passe nowadays. Besides, I mean have you ever seen them use this stuff? 'Cause I sure haven't."

Besides, no one is going to ever give a better commentary than Dr. Seuss, so the rest of us should stop trying. However, I don’t even think that the Grinch could have foreseen the complete anarchy that is Black Friday. Five years ago, unless you worked in retail, you had no idea what Black Friday even was. Now, companies tout the day as if it were, well, Christmas. For Christssakes, this year Sears actually had a “Black Friday” sale. I find it highly ironic and hi-larious that we now kick off the celebration of our Lord, the baby Jesus, with something called Black Friday. And I thought comparing Jesus with a zombie was bad (except he didn’t eat people. Think about it).

Ever since I left the wonderful world of retail, I swore that it would be a cold day in hell before I participated in the Black Friday chaos. I absolutely refuse to throw bows to get a HDTV, or to punch some stranger in the throat for an awesome deal on a laptop. I know that I’m giving away my age here, but I remember all too well the insanity that occurred during the Cabbage Patch riots of ’83. By the time Daddy learned to walk again, little Xavier was all but forgotten about. Shame.

However this year, I did it. I laced up my ice skates and I ventured out onto the lake of eternal fire, or as I like to call it, Target. I wasn’t really taking it very seriously as we didn’t get there until 10 a.m. Door busters, we weren’t. Piper and I milled around for a bit and I found a couple of things, but I steered clear of the electronics section, since that’s where the highest concentration of crazy seems to be during the BF sales. Mostly people were civil, but there were a couple of instances of people cutting me off with their carts to get that last $4 copy of Nights in Rodanthe. Then there was the high-school couple that decided to make out in the kid’s movie section, block the isle and apparently the stares of everyone around them. Finally after a couple of minutes of soft-corn porn, I piped up, “really guys? You picked today?” Of course they shot me a dirty “old lady don’t understand our love” look, but they got out of my way.

I decided to take a moment of refuge in the shoe isle, quietly looking at slippers for Piper trying to figure out which one would fit her freakishly wide feet (sadly, I do not see cutesy, strappy sandals in her future). I had just put a fuzzy pink number back when I heard the voice of an angel in the next isle. OK, not really. It was just some crazy lady humming “Silent Night” with all her might. And for the first and probably only time this holiday season, I took pause and delighted in the moment. Because even though this woman had probably been at Old Navy since 3 a.m., she had the will to sing a Christmas carol while browsing shoe carnage on Black Friday. That my friends, is faith.

Her vocal stylings made me think about what carol I might sing in the shoe isle of Target? If I ever felt so inclined, I think that it might go, a little something, like this…

“Siiiiiiiiilent Niiiiight, Hooooooooooly Niiiiiight, round yon virgin, these shoes are too tiiiiiiiiiight. Hoooooooly infant, they are a good priiiiiiiice, maaaaaaybeeeeeeeee they’ll streeeeeetch, maaaaaaybeeeeeeeee they’ll streeeeeetch.

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GIVE ME WHAT I WANT, AND I’LL GO AWAY

Like most of my posts, this one has a back-story that will take a long time to explain. Also it is beginning to occur to me that, at least in my mind, my ordinary experiences are always linked to stupid pop culture references – and I have no control over it.

Waaay back in 1999 there was a God-awful made for television mini-series called “Storm of the Century.” It’s a Stephen King story, which is good. But it was written for TV by Stephen King, which is bad. I mean have you seen his “version” of The Shining with that dude from Wings? I rest my case. Basically, this has the other dude from Wings and is about a small town in (gasp) Maine that was having a huge storm and this stranger shows up and wants the folks in the town to give him a kid to be his heir and if they don’t comply, he’ll kill everyone. Of course, this is merely a condensed synopsis, but you get the gist.

After wasting three nights (or more, I blocked it out) of my life that I can’t get back, the only mildly entertaining thing that I got out of this piece of crap (which won an Emmy, BTW), was the line “give me what I want and I’ll go away,” which the villain kept saying over and over. Yeah, it was just as cheesy as it sounds. But, I found myself latching onto the bad guy’s catchphrase, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that in a way, it was already kinda my mantra. I’m not trying to sound like a spoiled brat, but sometimes I act like a spoiled brat. Being an only child does that to you sometimes, but hey, the perks are nice.

While I toss the phrase around at home, mainly in regards to whatever Mark is eating, I really try not to take on the attitude in public. However, there have been times that I’ve been pushed to the edge and I’ve used my mantra to, as my friend Amy says, “unleash the beast.” That’s we call it when I completely lose my shit on someone in public. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s an awesome spectacle, like an emotional meteor shower. Of course there is a story here involving a 4th of July trip to Hilton Head, the Redneck Games of ’04, fire ants and a born-again rental car employee named Billy. But I’ll save that one for a rainy day.

Occasionally, “give me what I want” can be extremely helpful when say, you’re having a Falling Down kind of day and all you want is some delicious ice cream and the counter jockeys keep screwing up your order.

I don’t know if you are aware, but pregnant women, we have these things called "cravings." Sometimes they aren’t a big deal and sometimes they are a matter of life-and-death. Seriously. That was the situation the other weekend around 4 in the afternoon. After a particularly frustrating day with my “spirited” two-year-old (that’s what her teacher told me to call her after I struggled with an alternative for “little turd”), I decided that the best way to salvage the remaining portion of the day was with some emotional eating. You know, a good slogan for all dessert and fast food restaurants would be “filling your emotional void for over 30 years.” Honesty in advertising goes a long way with me.

So, instead of throttling a toddler, I opted for ice cream. In particular a chocolate malt. I know what you’re thinking “hey chubbs, it’s not 1954,” but a well-made chocolate malt is thing of beauty. Besides, I wanted it. I know that doctors like to say that pregnancy cravings aren’t “real,” but I’d like to see them fight off the ice cream after they've thought about it for five hours.

We went to Sheridan's (normally, I don't call out places that piss me off, but since they saw no need to reply to my strongly-worded email, I see no need to protect their identity) and ordered at the drive-thru. We got a “huh?” in response. We ordered again. The girly with the headset repeated it back so fast we didn’t catch everything she said so Mark said “huh?” Through the speaker, I heard a sigh and an eye roll. Yes, I heard her eyes roll – it was that apparent. She begrudgingly rattled off our order in a tempo we could comprehend and we moved forward.

Upon arrival at the window, she pretty much threw everything at us, mumbling “thank you.” She was especially irritated when I had the audacity to ask for a lid to Piper’s ice cream. I mean what kind of monster asks for a lid for a two-year-old? You give me a lid and the next thing you know I’ll be asking for napkins, too. Her facial expression added, “if this is the kind of cruel world God has created, I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.” We drove off with our desserts and precious lid, but as I took my first sip of malted I realized that sugar-tits had given me a plain, regular chocolate shake. That bitch.

Mark sighed deeply and asked if I wanted to take it back, to which I replied “no, no, no it’s fine.” Now, my husband is a smart man. He’s been around girls and girlfriends and me for a long time. Long enough to realize that the “no, I’m fine” response actually means, “you’d better fix this ASAP.” Although I’d entered my passive aggressive plea, he turned the car around and headed back.” As I just mentioned, this isn’t his first time at the rodeo, so to speak. I think that he very wisely weighed the option of fighting traffic to get back and exchange this drink or listening to me bitch about it for the rest of the day. Like I said, he can be smart sometimes.

In yet another move to prove that he’s schooled in the ways of Ashlee, Mark wouldn’t let me go to the window to exchange the drink. He made me sit in the car, where I sat helplessly by and watched him talk to the unenthusiastic employee behind the counter. The upside was that they have glass walls, so I could’ve seen had anything “extra” been added to my malt. When Mark brought it back to me I took a sip and damned if it didn’t taste the same. He looked tentatively at me and said “is it OK?” Well, I should have lied, but I didn’t. I did however ask him not to go back and have these brain trusts try a third time. I figured that I’d put everyone in the car through enough that day and I also realized that I haven’t even hit the really crazy part of this pregnancy, so I’d better save up some “rational bucks” to cash in later. Besides, all I really needed to do was add about a half a container of malt into it when we got home. Problem solved.

Make no mistake, had there not been any Markervention, I would have had no reservations about pulling out the "give me what I want and I'll go away," to the fuck-nuts behind a goddamn ice cream counter. Because I assure you, given my mindset they would have, or it would have been the Shitstorm of the Century.

The one funny thing to note regarding the Storm of the Century was that when it came out, I was working at a Borders in Atlanta. For some reason Stephen King was trying to pass off a bound copy of his shit screenplay as a new "book." Anyway, as a promotional item they gave away some gigantic umbrellas that had "Storm of the Century" printed on them. These were really class-A umbrellas. Not only were they HUGE, but they had a real classy wooden handle. After all was said and done, the movie sucked, but I loved my umbrella.

One rainy day, Mark had taken the SotC umbrella for his walk to the train station. On his way, the rain and wind picked up and snapped the umbrella handle in two, blowing the umbrella out of Mark's hands and into the street. The huge, blue canopy cartwheeling right into Midtown Atlanta traffic. The BMW's and Mercedes careened to avoid it, but alas it was too late. In the downpour, Mark could make out a fender-bender caused by my beloved umbrella. Drenched and afraid, he took cover in a nearby bookstore. It was the Outwright Book store. Did I mention this happened in Midtown? OK, because that means that it's the "gay" section of Atlanta, or should I say "gay-er" (not that there is anything wrong with that).

This actually worked to Mark's advantage, because while he waited for the rain to subside and the police to come, he was comforted by the patrons of the bookstore, who'd "seen the whole thing," and apparently really thought he was cute and also "family." It was almost as funny as the time he went into the pitch-black gay club by our old apartment to use the ATM (yeah, sure). He didn't realize that the club was really small, and had masked this fact with a back wall made entirely out of mirrors, that is until he ran into it.

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THE BOLD & THE FACEBOOK

Caveat: This isn't about any of you.

When my husband first joined Facebook, I made fun of him. LOTS of fun. It was mostly because he was using it when it was still only for college students and he’d “borrowed” a friend’s email address so he could play Scrabble online. What a dork! Then, Facebook blew up into a phenomenon that now includes social networking for users like Proactive and my Mom. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. It’s a good way to keep in touch with people and all that jazz, but my new favorite tool for Facebook is honing in on those “friends” of mine that have some serious problems and give the entire Facebook community a daily play-by-play. Now, I use the term "friends" loosely when talking about Facebook. Because let’s face it, some of these people aren’t really your friends, are they? Like my in-life friend Nicole says, “it’s not like you can call them in a jam.” Granted, there are some people on Facebook that I love reconnecting with, but most of them are located in exotic, faraway places, like North Carolina. So technically, I couldn’t call them in a jam. I mean, I could, but there probably wouldn’t be much they could do except keep me company on the phone while I waited for help to arrive. Like OnStar, but with embarrassing stories from my past. 

I find it very interesting how Facebook as created a completely new set of weird etiquette. Who among hasn’t accidentally offended someone, setting off a string of events that could have had catastrophic consequences? Oh… that was only me. Seriously, hasn’t everyone made fun of Kirk Cameron to the point that someone un-friended them? Again, only me I guess. What about the “friends” that you get fed up with and un-friend them, only for them to try and re-friend you? Awwwwkwwward!  

I had friended this dude from high school that had apparently turned into a crazed-right-wing-nut-job in the years since I’d last known him. And frankly, I got tired of reading posts like “HOPE THAT ALL YOU FUCKING DEMOCRATS ARE HAPPY WITH YOUR SOCIALISM. HEIL OBAMA!” Really? Like you’ve never looked at my profile? Like you couldn’t possibly understand why I might not want to read that shit every single day. If I want to be abused I’ll just watch Fox News, thank you. So I hid his feed, but that didn’t help when he’d post some asinine response to a mutual friend, or that I’d seen he’d join the Glen Beck fan club. It is here that I should also mention that this is the same guy who posted a photo of himself with his wang hanging out.

Hey man, I’m sure that I post things that people dislike, but not every single fucking day. No wonder those teabaggers are so angry. Teabagging is all they think about. That, and having some guy’s ball’s slapping them about the face (if that confused you, I implore you to Google teabagging. Then you will see why everyone thinks the name is so funny. Oh and be sure to turn your safe search off). After I un-friended him. He again tried to friend me. I felt guilty and accepted. Then, after about a month, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I un-friended him again. That lasted a few days until his friend request notice popped up. So this time after some inner dialogue about being rude, I decided that it would be best for everyone if we parted ways. 

In a rash of uncomfortable Facebook moments, the girl that un-friended me for my Kirk Cameron remarks decided to forgive me and request that we once again be faux Facebook friends. Unfortunately for her, I was having a “fuck you” kind of day, and she too was denied the love. I look at it like this: If you truly know me, then you know I will eventually say something to piss you off. All you have to do is tell me, and I will be more than happy to apologize, admit my mistake, and then mock you behind your back. See? Everybody’s happy. On the flip side, are the “friends” that are unintentionally hilarious. I currently have someone that is unaware how much they brighten my day with their vast array of inappropriate disclosures. This person’s life is truly like a soap opera. I’m not talking about As The World Turns, either. They’ve long veered into Passions territory with warlocks and men having babies and shit. Their life is so riddled with drama, that Paul who has reunited with Emily only to reconnect with his daughter that he didn’t remember from when he had amnesia, only to come out of just in time to witness the death of this father, James who is super evil and no one likes – has nothing on them.

These posts have it all: Violence! Sex! Depravity! Just name your poison. And even though I have ever so gently posted replies to these insane status updates, my hinting has fallen on deaf ears, or screens. By now, I figure that I've done all I can do, so it's time to sit back and watch the fun. I also keep up with the updates because I figure one day they might come in handy providing evidence in the event their author ever follows through with the threats to do bodily harm to others. Now, I’m no big city lawyer, but even I think that’s not the smartest idea.

While I try not to judge, I do. I usually justify it by stating beforehand "I don't want to judge, but here I go." So here I go. People, just because there is an empty space by your name, doesn't mean that you have to fill it with the minutiae of your fucked-up life. Jesus, just get a blog.

** So I guess that I wasn't nearly as generic as I needed to be because Crazy must have caught wind of this post and I got unfriended this past weekend. Man alive! Now what am I going to do with my day? By the way, if you want to know who it is, just ask me 'cause I got nothing to lose now.

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