I'm writing this from a sleigh.

Hey. Merry Christmas. I'll bet that right now you're all gathered around your fireplaces, maybe drinking cocoa or warm eggnog with a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. Maybe you're in your aunt's bathroom (and you can hear the murmur of the rest of your family all laughing (maybe playing Pictionary!) and dancing and eating and gesturing right outside the door) filling your pockets with the mini soaps and Hershey's kisses and things that she puts out for guests. I do that when I go to family parties. I take things. Why not? I take candies. Once, I took a vacuum. Whatever. No one notices. You wanna know what I'm doing right now? Well, I'm in a sleigh. A magic sleigh with Internet access. Imagine! Santa's here. But he's preoccupied as you can imagine. Santa called my mobile earlier and asked if I could help with some last minute tasks. He says that usually he'll only accept help from elves, but that since I'm as ugly as an elf he thought it'd be alright. It's freezing in this sleigh. And Santa acted like he didn't know what I was talking about when I asked him for some Turkish Delight. What's going on here? Santa just told me that my "duty" for tonight is to take him back to his cabin at the north pole and rub salve all over him because "dry skin is a bitch."

I've got a one way ticket to Christmasbreak Town (which is the county seat of Fantasmoville)

I'm leaving tomorrow at 5 a.m. I'll be headed for my homeland, a modest town in lower eastern Michigan called Lapeer. Lapeer is a nice place to live, especially when your parents own a soda shoppe, which mine do. I can get all the free ice cream cones and diet soda that I want. I can also get free sandwiches. Yum, sandwiches. Right now I am sitting in my room, perusing the Celebrity Playlists section of iTunes. I'm pretty happy because it turns out that Michael C. Hall (a.k.a. Dexter) and I would be fast friends in real life. He likes Lucinda Williams and Bob Dylan, just like me! And Neil Young. What? We're BFFs. Also, I would totally get along with the cast of How I Met Your Mother. That makes sense since that show is one of my obsessions. I've decided that I would have sex with Michael Cera, just based on his iTunes playlist.

So anyway, I'm sitting in my room. My TV is on. I don't even know what channel. I just like a little light background noise. Last night my cable box broke for the second time in two weeks. I don't think God wants me to watch Project Runway. That's pretty much the conclusion I've come to. I guess NBC is bringing back American Gladiators...FINALLY. What the hell took you so long, NBC? I started off every Saturday morning as a kid with a healthy dose of muscle mania. Um.........no. Well, I actually did used to watch American Gladiators. But, I don't think it's really Primetime TV material. But what the hey, ya know? I'm all for really muscly guys wearing tank tops that barely fit. Well, actually no, I'm not all for that. But I love blond permed mullets. Well, actually no, I don't. So OK, back to what I was talking about: God doesn't want me to have cable. I have never smote God in my entire life, so I don't know where He gets off depriving me of the one thing that gives me joy. But the good news is: God hasn't messed with my Internet connection lately. That's why I carry around those Rosary beads.

For dinner tonight I had Chinese food. I asked the waitress if I could substitute fried rice for my steamed rice (Os!) and she seemed really put-out about that. She was all, "No, no, absolutely not. Not even if you owned this place and were the head chef could you do that." I said, "Really? I can't substitute, even for a price?" She implied that the price of substituting fried rice for steamed was much more than I would be willing to pay. The look she gave me said this: Sure, you can substitute fried rice for steamed. Um, just give me a pint of blood. I'm really good at reading people.

Later tonight, after seeing a chiller at the local Cineplex, I walked my friend Josh back to his apartment. Then as we were standing around in his kitchen talking, I got the oddest feeling that he was hiding a human head in his freezer. I lunged for the freezer door, but he blocked me. Then I gave him a look that said: you and I both know you've got a human head in there. And he gave me a look back that said: you're not ready to see what I've got in there...unless you want me to dismember you. I left after that because, you know what? It's almost Christmas. I don't want to ruin Christmas for my family by getting dismembered.

I'm a nerd for reality TV.

Last night I was watching the Survivor finale. I was watching it a day late, I know. I'm still a big fan of that show, despite declining ratings. But maybe the ratings aren't declining as much as I thought they were. According to Jeff Probst, Survivor: China was CBS' most watched Thursday night show. More viewers than CSI? I find that hard to believe. But it's nice to know people are still watching. I know a lot of people hate reality shows because they "aren't real." And to that I say: They're not supposed to be real. Survivor is an elaborate game show (as are most other reality shows). The reality part comes in when you see how real people react to an extreme emotional and physical situation. The people are real. The show is entertainment. You don't see people getting all offended by Wheel of Fortune, do you? Anyway, I am super excited because during the finale of Survivor, CBS aired promos for the first ever WINTER EDITION of Big Brother! You just made my winter, CBS. I love Big Brother. Talk about the ultimate social experiment. Sure, it's not as classy as Survivor or Amazing Race, but it is juicy and nasty and hilarious and jaw-dropping and amazingly fun to watch. And, it airs three times a week! So set your DVRs, 'cause Christmas came early, folks.

If it bleeds, it leads.

Hi everyone. That is, all none of you who read this. OK, I know you read it Kate. Thanks for reading my blog. You are my best friend. I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. I guess I haven't written because I don't care. Just kidding! I've just been busy. The holiday season is upon us and I've been doing a lot of Christmas shopping. When I say Christmas shopping, I really mean poking around on my computer, clicking around on Amazon, making lists of things to buy people, and not doing much buying at all. You know Christmas shopping is supposed to be fun, but it seems like nowadays everyone has their lists of "approved" gifts. I gave my family a list, just in case they had no idea what to get me, but I wouldn't mind it if I didn't get anything off my list. Surprises are more fun anyway. Whenever someone gives me their Christmas list I feel like I have to run out and find everything on it. And that stresses me out. I know it's my own fault and not the list-giver's. I'm a freak. I'm obsessive. I can't buy just one gift for someone and call it a day. I'll buy them five big gifts and three mini gifts. Sorry, this is a really boring blog. You don't care about me and my Christmas shopping and lists and surprises and this junk. You've got your own Christmas celebration to worry about. My poor mom. Christmas is always a super stressful time of year for her. It's the busy season at Blondie's. So I try not to talk to her until Christmas Eve if I can help it. I guess I get my obsessiveness from her, because she goes nutzo at Christmas. It drives me crazy. I called her last night to order a basket for someone and she cut me off mid-sentence, like she couldn't stand to wait for me to even finish my sentence, that's how over talking to me she was. I said, "So I walked outside and--" And then she cut in with, "(frustrated sigh) I gotta go, Liz." Apparently I'm a ridiculous waste of time. Christmas: more hassle than it's worth.

In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns.

I feel sick to my stomach. I just learned about this sicko kid who walked into a Von Maur department store in Omaha, Nebraska on Wednesday and killed 8 people and himself. What the fuck is wrong with people? Why do things like this keep happening? Apparently the kid (19 year old Robert Hawkins) had been dumped by his girlfriend and fired from his job at McDonald's. I just hate what's happening to the world. I wonder, Robert Hawkins, what is it about shopping at Von Maur (or working there) that makes someone a piece of shit? Why are schools and shopping malls scary places now? Why do I look over my shoulder at Walmart and wonder if the angry guy in line is going to shoot me? There is something terribly, terribly wrong with the world today. People complain that even in the information age, the age of interconnectivity, of cell phones and text messaging and IM-ing and email and navigation systems and DVRs and YouTube and Blogs and every other goddamn thing, we're all growing so much more lonely, so much more solitary. We sit at the computer or in front of the TV and we forget to go out and make friends, face to face. We forget to be kind to strangers. But how is any of that going to change when people are afraid to leave their houses? I mean, one of the first things I thought when I read about the Von Maur shooting was, well that's why I do most of my shopping online. But that's not really a solution, is it? I don't know what the solution is. All I can do is hope that there is one.

Remember the squirrels I saved as a kid? First I knocked them out of their nest with a rock, then I saved them.

Sorry I haven't written in a while. I guess my plan for being a better person isn't going so well. It snowed a lot last night and now I'm worried that when the snow melts it will turn out that I actually parked my car in the middle of the street. Maybe the reason that I haven't written in a while is that I haven't had anything to say. It's been snowy and rainy and icy, so I've been living peacefully in my hole, finally watching the 6th Season (part 2) of Sopranos and falling even deeper in love with cheddar cheese Snyder of Hanover pretzels. But I wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you.

I want you girls to know that if it weren't for this man here, I'd be standing here dead.

Today is day one of me being a better person. That includes posting more often to my blog. Sometimes I walk around thinking of blog topics in my head. Like today I was doing laundry and I was thinking about yesterday's blog and how I should have put 'dryer racks' under the heading "Things that are annoying." Dryer racks are so annoying! At least the one we have where I live is annoying. It's constantly collapsing for no reason. I'm trying to put some wet pants on the dryer rack and..whoa, it collapses. So I put it back together (kind of forcefully, I'll admit) and I try to put a sweater on it but..whoa, it collapses again. Some of you might be thinking that it's time for me to get a new dryer rack, but no, I'm not going to. I don't give up on my stuff just because it doesn't do the one thing it was made to do. I don't give up on my stuff, but I do get mad at (and sometimes shout at) my stuff. I'll yell things like, "Do your job, dryer rack! You do your job! Now!" After yelling at my stuff, I sometimes rip out a small patch of my hair, but whatever... It doesn't really hurt because I've worked myself up into such a rage that the adrenaline's really pumping, you know?

This morning I tried a new cardio machine at the gym. It's this stair-stepper that's kind of like real stairs...like an escalator that moves and that you literally walk up, not like your typical stair-stepper where you place your feet on platforms that simulate stair-stepping. I'm a fan of the show The Biggest Loser, a reality program in which obese people lose weight and compete for 250,000 and the title of The Biggest Loser. There was one competition on the show where the contestants were put on escalators (they were climbing up the escalators) and whoever could stay on the longest would win the competition. I watched and thought to myself: Yeah, that'd be kind of hard, but I could do it. It's more a mental game than anything. No, I was wrong. Walking up that escalator-style stair stepper was ridiculously hard. At first I put it on level 10, thinking that I do level 14 on the elliptical all the time. Then I was totally gonna fall off so I had to put it on level 4 and then I had to force myself to do 20 minutes. Anyway, props to the contestants on The Biggest Loser. They're bad ass.

You are a fucking ugly bitch and I want to stab you to death and play with your blood.

I'm going to try to post new entries more often. I'm really sorry. I'm a pathetic excuse for a human being. Even though I know that very few people read this, I've started to get what I've affectionately termed blog-anoia. Now when someone looks at me with sad eyes and tilts their head and says something like, "Are you ok? No, really, be honest.", I think uhhhh did they read my blog? But it's cool. Writing is (or should be, I think) about honesty. So I'm trying to be as honest as possible with this. I don't think I always succeed, either. Because you don't want to know how bad things really are. Just kidding. Alright, so in the spirit of honesty...

Things that are on my mind:

1. I shouldn't be allowed to watch The View or any other talk shows or news programs for that matter. Today on The View (which I only caught by accident. Come on guys, I'm a nanny, which is practically a stay at home mom. This programming is aimed right at me!) they were talking about how the polar ice caps are DEFINITELY GOING TO MELT IN 23 YEARS. What? I mean, I know we're in trouble with Global Warming and everything, but when I hear things like that it makes me feel like there's no hope. It makes me feel like there's an expiration date on my life. And I have no idea, other than the obvious buying reusable grocery bags and not running the water when I brush my teeth, what the hell I'm supposed to do. Tell me what to do, someone! I don't want to have to wear a spacesuit someday just to grab the paper off the stoop.

2. Someone told me recently that "water is the new oil." This is a scary thought. Then the person who told me that followed it up with this tidbit: "they're going to drain the Great Lakes." Da da DUM. Don't you just love alarmists? But now every time I turn on the faucet I imagine that it's oil spilling out...washing my dishes in oil, bathing in oil (or a commodity as precious as oil). It's making me nuts. Again, what can I do? I feel hopeless. We can't live without water but we can live without oil.

Things that are annoying:

1. Bras. Bras are such a pain in the ass. It's fucking hard to get my bra clasped. My arms don't bend that way. And what about putting on a bra after you get out of the shower? Putting on any clothes while your body is damp is frustrating, but putting a bra onto a damp body is sincerely tough. What about when you put your bra on and then realize that one strap is twisted and you have to do it all over again? Fuck!

Things that are great:

1. The Rubik's Cube. I know, it's totally 80s, but I'm in love with my Rubik's Cube. I've been messing with it nonstop since I got it, and I finally finally finally got TWO SIDES. For you fellow cubers out there, you know that's a big accomplishment! I'm this close to solving the whole thing.

2. Campbell's Select Italian Sausage and Pepperoni. They might as well call it Pizza Soup. It's delicious.

Deep fat fry! Deep fat fry! Music to my ears!

IT'S FINALLY HERE. I have a great Thanksgiving meal idea. I think we should make a ton of food and then I'll lay down and you'll put all the food on top of my body and then I'll have to eat my way out. That's my bliss right there. That is my bliss. So, it's snowing outside. How poetic. It's as if God's holy light is shining down upon all of us right now. Isn't it cool that God's holy light manifests itself as cold, wet, clumpy, drizzly snow? God sure is mysterious. I wonder what God eats on Thanksgiving. Does God eat? Does God have intestines? Is God American? Are there Pilgrims in Heaven? I know these are the questions we all ask ourselves each year on Thanksgiving. And the sad thing is, we're never going to know the answers...until we have our first dead Thanksgiving, of course. That will be a special one.

Since I'm still alive, this year I'll have to settle for Thanksgiving with my family. We're going out to eat. We're too lazy and way way too stupid to cook. So we're going to be eating at a restaurant called The Deadwood Lodge in Northville, Michigan--the city in which my sister Gina and her loving (and lovely) husband Jason make their home. No, they don't have any kids yet. Get off their case! The cool thing about eating out for Thanksgiving is that you can order whatever you want. You can say, "Fuck you, Pilgrims, you bony bunch of suckers! I'm ordering prime rib and I won't be shoving even one sweet potato down my gullet. So there! Fuck you! Fuck you!" You don't have to say it out loud, but you can if you want. Every time I've shouted that at Old Country Buffet (which is where we usually feast on what you all call Thanksgiving but what I've begun referring to as Prime Rib Day) my words have been met with a rousing round of applause and in one circumstance, a kiss on the lips from a leathery old man still holding a dripping turkey drumstick in one hand. But hey, a kiss on the lips is a kiss on the lips.

But the real point of Thanksgiving is not the food. (Of course, I don't really mean that, but I have to say it just so that I can sleep at night--between you and me, the real point of Thanksgiving is totally the food). The real point of Thanksgiving is, of course, giving thanks. So what are you thankful for this Prime Rib Day? Oops sorry, Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for God's love, my family and friends, all my blessings, my cat, my health (and the health of my family and friends), but most of all I'm thankful for:

1. Dead Pilgrims
2. Gristle
3. Mint gum
4. Television
5. Booze
6. Snacks
and
7. Moccasins

Thanksby to God for the embarrassment of riches that has been bestowed upon me! And thanks for my family, too.

How would we have, like, just...made a campsite in the middle of three piles of rocks, just by coincidence?

I read something in US magazine that disturbed me. You know those "Sound off!" sections where they have pictures of celebrities with little bubbles coming out of their mouths with quotes inside of things they've said? Well, of course, you all know that Thanksgiving is coming up so some of the quotes in "Sound off!" were Thanksgiving-related. Here's what T.R. Knight (George from Grey's Anatomy) had to say about it: "We believe that the Pilgrims and Indians had this nice meal together, but it's a lie. People were slaughtered." Whoa, T.R., don't you think you're laying the holiday love on a little thick? Here in America, we don't care about Indians. Alright? We care about turkey and FOOD, but not about Indians. I'm kidding, of course. T.R. Knight is right about Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was a real bloodbath. I don't know about you but when I think about bloodbaths and mass killings, I start to think about slaughtering a bird and eating it with stuffing. I don't know, I'm just saying. Here's what some other celebs had to say about Thanksgiving:

"I'm not much of a cook... We all chip in but I don't think anybody in my family wants me to handle the Thanksgiving dinner." --Angelina Jolie can do a lot of things (save the world?). Apparently cooking isn't one of them.

"Thanksgiving, man! Not a good day to be my pants."--Kevin James lets it all hang out on Thanksgiving.

"We have been the recipients of the choicest bounties of Heaven; we have been preserved these many years in peace and prosperity; we have grown in numbers, wealth, and power as no other nation has ever grown."--What? Abe Lincoln is SO not a celebrity.

Check back at the Humane Egoist later this week for a list of things I'm thankful for.

Vanity...definitely my favorite sin.

So it's Sunday again. I always look forward to my time off during the week. On say, Wednesday, I'll be really tired but I'll think to myself, that's ok because when Sunday comes around I can just sleep all day or go to the bookstore or do whatever I want. But Sundays are rarely good days for me. Being alone on a Sunday (as I often am) is somehow even worse than being alone on a different day of the week. I prefer hanging out alone on a Friday night to hanging out alone on a Sunday. If I'm alone on a Friday night, I can at least laugh at myself, sitting around doing laundry and watching Ghost Whisperer. It's still Friday night, a night filled with the promise of the weekend. Maybe it's that I really don't mind not having a boyfriend or someone to go on dates with right now. I'm not worried about it. But Sundays are family days, or at least friend days. And when I don't have family or friends around when everyone else seems to, that's what gets to me. And I can't help it--it seems like on Sundays, all I see around me is tragedy. I live in a city so it's not hard to find something to be sad about--the homeless man standing in the intersection holding up a sign that says "Vietnam Vet, hungry," or the line of people outside the Salvation Army Rehab Center waiting to see if there's a bed available. Even a cloudy, gray sky gets to me. Today I decided to go to the mall. I thought, I could never be sad or depressed at a mall. Malls are so bright and cheerful, with their skylights and shiny floors and jewelery shops and frozen yogurt stands. But I was wrong. Surrounding myself with people all happily Christmas shopping was not a good idea. There were thug-wannabe teenage boys walking around in puffy coats with buzz cuts and fake diamond earrings. They depressed and frightened me. There were whole huge Asian families, standing in line at Villa Pizza or Great Steak Escape joking and laughing with each other and taking turns running off arm in arm to the restrooms. I saw a girl holding one of those photo booth picture strips. Anyone who knows me knows that I love photo booths. But it's way too pathetic to go into one of those things alone, so of course I didn't. The one person I did speak to at the mall was Phyllis, the kindly woman who asked if I'd be willing to fill out an Old Navy survey and in return she'd give me five dollars. She was older and hunched over with scraggly blond hair. She reminded me of the little woman/puppet that lives in the junkyard in "Labyrinth" (starring David Bowie). I thought, what the hell, I've got nothing but time. She asked how old I was and was shocked when I said 25. I said, "Why how old did you think I was?" She just said, "Younger, for sure." So that lifted my spirits a little. Plus, when she gave me my five dollars she said, "There you go. I'm sure you'll have fun with that." She's right. I will. So now that I'm thinking of it, I think I'll make a list of things you shouldn't do alone on a Sunday (if you're prone to Sunday depression):

1. Don't see a dramatic or sad movie
2. Don't go to the mall
3. Don't go to the pet store and think how much better your life would be if only you could have a pet
4. Don't go to Potbelly's (that place gets so busy on the weekends!)
5. Don't pull out any of your old yearbooks/time capsules and look through them while listening to mournful Bruce Springsteen songs

More to come...

I believe in two things: discipline and the bible. Here you'll receive both.

I am now fully obsessed with the Showtime drama "Dexter."
It's the best show I've ever seen.
And that's saying a lot,
because I watch a lot of TV shows.
I've been feeling faint lately.
Dizzy as shit,
is another way of putting it.
Fuck you, inner ear.
I ate a lot of pizza last night.
I think it was a good decision to eat a lot of pizza and I don't care
if you agree.
I actually like that show "Kid Nation."
It's refreshing,
a show with no adults.
Adults can be so awful.
They opened a new animal shelter near my house.
They let the cats roam around in their own special rooms,
which is nice because when I walk by they come up to the window
and meow at me through the glass.
Then again it makes me sad because
I can't have a pet.
I was reading Prevention magazine and it said that if you gain
between 11 and 22 pounds after the age of 18
it can increase your risk of breast cancer by up to 15%.
But what if you gained, say, 80 or so pounds after the age of 18?
I don't know, I'm just asking.
I get it, Prevention magazine.
Why don't you just write this:
Prepare yourself for cancer you fat piece of shit.
That's ok.
I've got the Diet Detective's Calorie Bargain Bible.
So I'm all set.
I've learned that if you go to Outback Steakhouse you should say things like:
Can you cook it without butter? and
Would you mind boxing up half my meal right away? and
Wanna split my 1 lb. baked potato with me?
Maybe a bigger problem is that restaurants like Outback are serving us
five times as much as we actually need.
No, because Outback would never hurt me.
I know that in my heart.
Thanksgiving is almost here.
I got some mashed sweet potatoes from the hot food counter
at Treasure Island
in celebration of that fact.
They were delicious.
But I think that on Thanksgiving day I am going to order Prime Rib
instead of Turkey.
That's what the Indians would've wanted.

So raise your hand if you think that was a Russian water-tentacle.

Sundays depress me. I saw "Into the Wild" tonight and it made me want to go into the wild myself. Not eat the wrong wild potato root and die a slow death, but live off the land in other ways, sure. No really. There's not nearly enough nature in my life. I miss grass and trees and quiet.

Flippin' sweet.

I was wrong about Dexter,
because it is the best show ever.
Michael C. Hall makes me smile.
Dexter may do bad things,
but I never want him to get caught.
Michael C. Hall is very in-shape.
Look at his round behind.
I never notice guys' butts,
but I noticed his.
Just because it is so round.
In a good way.
I bought a book called "The Diet Detective's Calorie Bargain Bible."
It makes me realize that a lot of the things I eat
have a lot of calories.
Damn you, mozzerella sticks,
jalepeno poppers,
omelet sandwiches from Einstein's,
chocolate chunk cookies from Einstein's,
etc.
I have learned that when you go to fast food sandwich shops
(like Subway)
it is best to get the soup.
The soup at Einstein's is a calorie bargain.
Today I ordered a bowl of Turkey Chili from Einstein's
and the girl gave me two cups (to equal one bowl).
I was ashamed of myself carrying two bowls to my booth,
where I sat alone doing a crossword.
Tonight I saw a rat the size of a tiger cub.
That's a large rat,
my friends.
Then I saw another rat.
What a night!

Are you having a holly, jolly Christmas?

It makes me happy that even though we haven't hit Thanksgiving yet the Christmas ads are already popping up on TV. I'm not being sarcastic. It really does make me happy. I love Christmas. I love snow, I love decorations, I love hot chocolate, I love holiday movies, holiday-themed pies and cookies, footy pajamas, holiday cards (preferably with long letters inside about how "The Orsons" or whoever are doing), snazzy holiday outfits, crunching ice beneath the toe of my boot (you know when the ice is real thin on the sidewalk or somewhere and it breaks like glass?), sledding, rosy cheeks, sitting on Santa's lap (yes I still do that), thinking about reindeer, buying gifts for everyone (and receiving a few, too), the Abruzzo family Christmas party with Aunt Susan's little weiners wrapped in those pillsbury croissant biscuit things (and hopefully a rousing game of whatever that game is with the dice and the money), cats lying in empty gift boxes and dogs shredding up discarded wrapping paper... But mostly I love the cakes and pies. Cakes and pies, cakes and pies!

Cheese, if you ever disrespect her again like that, I'm gonna pull your fuckin' card, okay?

I don't have much to say today. But I enjoy writing this bloggestat (I think I'll start calling this a bloggestat, just for fun) so I thought I'd drop by and see what comes out. So...I netflixed season one of Dexter and I watched the pilot last night. I love Michael C. Hall. He's snazzy and a great actor. I thought the pilot was really strong. In fact, when I was done watching it, as I went over to my DVD player and ejected the disc, I thought, what a strong pilot. Back in the day, pilots used to be kind of iffy and that was ok (check out the Seinfeld pilot). Nowadays though, the pilot of a show is expected to be representative of what viewers will see if they tune in each week. I guess that's fair. But Dexter is a disturbing show. I know that Dexter kills people who deserve to be killed, but I couldn't help but feel for them once they got all wrapped up in plastic and strapped to a metal table in the middle of an empty old shed or an abandoned warehouse. Maybe it's because I didn't get to see the so-called "bad people" do their killing/raping/abusing. I have to see it to know that they deserve to die. Plus, Dexter is so emotionless. It's scary. Even though he uses his powers for good, it's still killing. Hmmm. It's a real ethical pickle. Anyway, I had bad dreams last night. I dreamt that I was at this woman's house and she was begging Dexter not to kill her. I convinced Dexter not to kill her, but then I kept thinking, if I was that woman I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. I'd just be waiting for the moment when Dexter was going to show up and wrap me in plastic and then knife me. So what kind of life is that? That's no life. No life at all.

Jimi Hendrix, deceased: drugs. Janis Joplin, deceased: alcohol. Mama Cass, deceased: ham sandwich.

I died last night, just like I thought I would. Ok, ok. I'm not dead. Michael Myers showed up at the movie, just as I suspected. He took mercy on me and only cut off one of my hands. Lucky for you, I'm a lefty. Otherwise I would not be able to type this.

He came home.

Here's a comment I left on my sister's Myspace page. I'm not posting it because I think I'm hilarious (even though I am). I just wanted to put it somewhere I'd be able to read it again if I ever felt like it:

I'm so glad you liked my slideshow. But I'm confused. That wasn't a Halloween costume. That's just how I dress when I go out now. Boy, a lot has changed since we last spoke. Now I am white trash and I live at Rainbow Run Trailer Park and I have two parakeets--Giggles and Leukemia. Leukemia is hilarious, but Giggles can be a cranky bitch. Man, parakeets are fun. I'm writing a newsletter all about how if you get a parakeet your fun factor in life will go up by 3%. I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but seeing as how I made the percentage up (I'm too lazy to do research. Plus, I can't read) I didn't want to say that having a parakeet would increase your life's fun factor by 50% or something, because then I might get a lot of angry post cards from people who'd gotten parakeets and whose lives' fun factors had not risen as much as promised. A bunch of angry postcards are the last thing I need. Then again, I haven't gotten any mail in weeks. I think I angered Rainbow Run's postal worker, Royger (that's no misprint), when he asked me to water his plants while he went on an Alaskan cruise, and instead I let the air out of the tires of his go-cart. Hey, where I come from when someone asks you to water their plants while they're on vaction that's code for "come to my house while I'm away and pretty much just do whatever the hell you want, including make a meatloaf, eat half of it right outta the pan and leave the rest to rot on my kitchen counter." It's not my fault Royger doesn't know the code. Am I right or am I right? I'm right. Anyway, I hope everything is going alright with you. Last we talked, Danny was about to have his left leg amputated. How'd that go? I meant to send something...like flowers, but then I thought, flowers die...so I wanted to send some of those cheese crackers with peanut butter in the middle because whenever I'm sad or recovering from an illness (fuck you, nasty open sores on my lower abdomen) cheese and peanut butter always makes me feel like I'm flying. Maybe that's because Tony, my best friend (other than Peg) at Rainbow Run, and I always do cocaine and then eat a bunch of peanut butter and cheese crackers. Oh whatever. Send Danny my best. They make great wooden legs these days. Maybe he could put a bunch of stickers on his or somethin. They make really cool shiny glittery stickers nowadays and they put 'em in machines at bowling alleys and stuff. Maybe you can buy them at stores too. But why would you go to a store when you can go to a bowling alley? That's sort of been my life's motto. That's why all my shirts and pants and shoes are from The Lazy Lanes. Well, Lazy Lanes or Goodwill..because going to Goodwill is a lot like bowling. A LOT.

I do love you. I love you so much that my love is like a piece of gum that fell on the ground, but that you still want to eat even though it's got cat hair on it.

I saw Mr. Riddle in his backyard. He was watching me.

Happy Halloween everyone. When I say "everyone" I am referring to the scores of people that read this blog. This just may be my last post ever, because I am anticipating my own death tonight. After all, it's Halloween. I'm going to a showing of the original 1978 classic "Halloween" by John Carpenter. Those of you who know me well know that Michael Myers haunts my dreams. I see his white, emotionless face and black eyes (Devil's eyes!) and crazy auburn hair wherever I go. I'm pretty sure that Michael Myers will be at the movie tonight because he's vain as shit. I think (and I've believed this for some time now) that the whole reason he even kills people is because they don't pay enough attention to him. Just because he walks slow, wears a jumper, and doesn't know how to use a brush doesn't mean he doesn't exist. All he wants is some tender love and maybe a cup of hot cocoa with those little mini marshmallows. Even though they melt away quickly, they're so deliciously slimy and puffy and well... I'm pretty sure that Michael Myers is going to kill me tonight at "Halloween." He'll do it discreetly because he won't want to disrupt the screening (vain bastard!), but he'll definitely do it. I bet you're wondering why I'm still going if I know I'm gonna get slashed. Look, I'm not a killjoy. It's Halloween. On Halloween the doctor prescribes fun. And I listen to my doctor. Mmm kay? If I do manage to appeal to Michael's sense of decency (or maybe bribe him with Junior Mints. He loves those minty morsels!), I'll certainly write again soon. Happy Halloween. Have a bloody good night. I gotta go. I'm making boo-ritos for lunch.

Joe lies.

I've got an ache in my heart.
I don't know why.
Maybe it's this Mandy Moore song I'm listening to.
Maybe it was the Mandy Moore documentary I watched yesterday.
She's very pretty.
And talented.
With good hair.
She's younger than me.
Why can't I get it together?
Why do I continue to buy ice cream when I know it's bad for me?
It tastes so good.
I worry a lot.
I can't clear my head.
I feel guilty.
There's a lot I want to do.
I'm not doing any of it.
Not even a little bit.
Well, maybe a little.
I'm getting my feet wet.
The me on the outside isn't the me on the inside.
I walk in the middle of the street so someone can't step out of the shadows and grab me.
I went to the movies alone.
I spilled my pop all over the bathroom.
I cleaned it up the best I could.
I told the snack girl.
She was mad at me.
Even though I cleaned it up the best I could.
I really did.
Clean it up the best I could.
I'm pretty good at a lot of things.
I can write.
And draw.
And sing.
And I'm funny sometimes.
But I'm constantly spilling things.
And tripping.
I want to lock myself away.

I'm mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore.

To the bitch who took Ellen's dog away from a nice family: you want to help animals? You want to rescue dogs? Maybe start with this: once a dog has found a loving home, let it stay there. I can't believe you made Ellen cry. America is in love with Ellen and you made her cry. Good luck with your rescue organization. I'm sure a lot more people will want to adopt dogs through you knowing how you treat your clients. And now, something pretty important: the new pumpkin cream cheese at Einstein's is bliss in blob form. I had a wheat bagel toasted with pumpkin cream cheese this morning and it was grand. I walked home thinking: today is shaping up to be a good day. But now things have taken a turn for the worse. Supposedly a huge storm will be sweeping through Chicago tomorrow afternoon with 70 mph winds and "large, destructive hail." It's a great time to not have a garage.

Sometimes, if things are closed, you just..open them up.

I just sent out my second application to a school at which I could potentially study nursing...in like two years when I get my prereqs done and have waited for the program to begin in May of 2009. Every time I send out an application, I get a nothing's-ever-going-to-be-the-same-again feeling. I hate change. Proof that God hates me: Today I went to Einstein's and I picked up a chocolate chip cookie. They have pre-wrapped cookies with labels that say things like "chocolate chunk" and "mudslide," etc. So I picked up a "chocolate chunk" one, except when I opened it: oatmeal raisin! What kind of a fucked up world is this? Maybe that's God's way of telling me that I'll never get into nursing school. You know, His way of saying nursing school is the wrong cookie in the right package. If so, I don't need that memo, God. Also, Dunkin Donuts is a sad place. Did you know that there is now a Dunkin Deli? Dunkin Deli sells pseudo-gourmet sandwiches and pizzas. A large Dunkin Deli pastrami sandwich costs 10 bucks! Um, when did I move to New York City? And: Hardee's introduced a new breakfast burrito that packs almost 1000 calories. Hardee's reasoning behind the monstrosity? (I'm paraphrasing here) "Well, people pull into McDonald's and feel the need to order TWO or THREE breakfast burritos to satisfy their hunger...at Hardee's they can just order one giant burrito!") Oh, well that's better then.

I want someone to eat cheese with

I'm sorry that I haven't written in a while. It's because I don't like you anymore. Any of you. No, I didn't mean that. No, really, times have been tough for me lately. I've gotten very wrapped up in applying to nursing school. Well, I'm not even actually applying to nursing school...because you can't just apply to nursing school, apparently. You can apply to a college, take a year and a half of prerequisite courses (and all the prereqs you need to get into the prereqs) and then you can apply to nursing school. But you probably won't get in, at least not right away. In fact, you're really not applying to nursing school then either--you're applying to the nursing school waiting list. Thankfully I still have my mornings at Einstein's eating a toasted bagel with garden veggie spread and doing the crossword. I'm such an old person. I should apply to a nursing home, not nursing school. And, like an old person I am very, very alone. But hey, at least I'm overweight. Some things never change. I like that I'm still hopeful when I go grocery shopping. There is still some small part of me that believes I'm going to turn it around. I still buy fruit and then let it rot. I still buy low-fat cottage cheese that I literally can't bring myself to open. It's like, I open my fridge and I'm offended by that cottage cheese. What the fuck do you think you're doing in there, cottage cheese? I wonder. You smug bastard. You're not so slim, cottage cheese. You're a tub. As in, actually a tub. That's large my friend. And your curd is large. So don't look at me like that. Hey, do you think this blog would also serve as a good application essay to nursing school? They want healthy, well-balanced people, who are smart and good at science and know what sciency words mean. I think I totally fit the bill. I know what corpulent means. It means obese. I know that because that's what I am--obese. It's not easy being obese. You don't know this, but that was the working title of Kermit's infamous "It's Not Easy Being Green" ballad. But whoever wrote that song was all, hey, Kermit's not obese! What the fuck's wrong with me? Then he switched it to "It's Not Easy Being Green" because what Kermit is is green. I guess the problem is that I don't know where I fit in. Sometimes when I watch Beauty and the Geek, I think, am I closer to a beauty or closer to Nicole, the geeky girl they brought in this season as part of a geeky girl/beautiful guy switcheroo? Nicole cried because her partner Sam had sex with fellow beauty Rebecca while she was in the room. Would I cry about that? Probably not. Then again, I do like to read. And I know that the moon is not a planet. Where do I fit?! Well, it's too much for me to figure out right now. I gotta go anyway. Hello? Is there anybody out there? Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret.

Sex! It's still sex!

I'm a fan of Dane Cook. And...that's probably the only reason I endured "Good Luck Chuck." Directed by Mark Helfrich, this film had some charming moments, but was ruined by too many dick and fart jokes. The borderline offensive scene is one in which Chuck attempts to break his every-girl-I-sleep-with-marries-the-next-dude-she-dates curse by asking out the most attrocious creature he can find--a morbidly obese girl with acne, rotting teeth, and decidedly bad social skills. When he asks her out, she lifts her butt and lets one rip in response. Classy. Still, that girl is a real person! I can't help but wonder about the actress who plays her. I do love Dane Cook and hope he has a long movie career. He just needs to start making some better choices. They could've made the same movie with a lot less raunch and a lot more heart. Somebody call Nora Ephron!

I want my dog back.

As a rule, I try not to read a film's reviews before I see it. I do this for two reasons: 1. When I do read a review, I find that I go in with an expectation of how well I'll like the movie, and as self-fulfilling prophecies usually go, I end up feeling the way I thought I would. And 2. I like to see if what I have to say about a film is the same as what the critics are saying. I like to test my movie-critic intuition, if you will. I do, sometimes, look at star ratings of movies before I go see them...so without reading in-depth about a film, I do know how well it's being received overall. I noticed that Entertainment Weekly (one of my favorite magazines, by the way) gave The Brave One a C+. (Entertainment Weekly eschews star ratings in favor of letter grades). After having seen the film this past Saturday, I have to say, I don't think The Brave One deserves a C+. I think it deserves an A- or a B+, at the very least. Why are movie critics so snobby these days? I love revenge movies. I also love movies in which a woman figures out she's part innocent sparrow and part bad-ass. I love movies where characters take the law into their own hands. At the screening I attended, people clapped and cheered, hooted and hollered. I think any movie that inspires that sort of visceral reaction deserves some accolades. Jodie Foster plays Erica Bain, a poetic public-radio employee who is very much in love with her doctor fiancee, played by Naveen Andrews. When she and David are attacked while on a nighttime stroll in the park, he is killed and her whole world collapses. She spirals downward, barely able to leave her apartment, until one day she decides to take matters into her own hands and buys an illegal firearm. It's certainly fun to watch Erica take out the bad guys one by one, and they undoubtedly deserve it, but it's also a little unsettling to watch such a seemingly meek woman turn into a veritable monster, driven equally by fear and rage. I can describe the film in one word: intense. Of course, there are a few flaws--the fact that Erica's original park assailants recorded their own crime on a cell phone. Why on Earth would they have done that? Are we to believe these men are so sick that they were recording their atrocities so that they could watch and delight in them again later? I don't buy it. Still, the fragile relationship that Erica forms with Sean Mercer, a divorced NYPD detective played by Terrence Howard is delightful to watch. Both misfits in their own way, their bond is immediate and solid. I only wish they shared more scenes with one another. And, always fun to watch is Nicky Katt, who provides some much-needed moments of comic relief. So, C+? Nah. This movie is no Oscar-winner, but thank God for that. If every movie that came out was going for an Oscar, we'd be sitting through a lot of films that leave you not with a rush of adrenaline (as The Brave One left me) but with a hearty dose of reality. Sometimes reality is overrated, ya know?

They're lost without him, like a pack of dogs without a master.

When I walked into the theater, I looked around and realized I was the youngest person in the place. I should've known. After all "3:10 to Yuma" is a remake of a 1957 Western. Westerns are pretty rare in contemporary cinema these days, maybe because studios are afraid modern audiences don't want to shell out $10.50 to see a bunch of guys shooting at each other and riding around on horses. To be honest, I have no idea where that logic comes from. After all, every weekend millions of Americans shell out millions of dollars to see guys shooting at each other and riding around on motorcycles and in fancy cars, airplanes, and speedboats. In my opinion, horses are a hell of a lot cooler than all of that. Give me a horse over a souped-up car any day. There is something to be said for simplistic storytelling in films these days. It feels like a lot of modern movies strive to tell the most intricate, detailed, and emotionally deep stories. It's all about inter-connected personal dramas that show us how we are all part of the brotherhood of man, even though we may not realize it. Groan. Give me a shoot-out and some real red-blooded motives, some stubbornness, some pride, some foolishness, a laugh, a tear. "3:10 to Yuma" is the story of two men at odds with each other and with their lots in life. Dan Evans (played by a brilliant Christian Bale) is a rancher with troubles. He's got a family to feed, a business to run, and creditors breathing down his neck. He's got a bum leg and a chip on his shoulder from being beaten down by everyone from his wife to the man who's trying to steal his land out from under him. In other words, Dan Evans has something to prove. Ben Wade (played by Russell Crowe) is an outlaw with a near supernatural ability to avoid capture. He is charming, confident, arrogant, and he knows how to kill. Put Dan Evans and Ben Wade together and what have we got? Not war. No, not really. Actually, we've got a recipe for friendship. The two men may not understand one another, but in a way they're out to protect each other. It was nice to see some real characters up on the screen for a change--real three-dimensional people. Another memorable character is Charlie Prince (played by the always devilish Ben Foster). Who knew the sweet little kid who played Tucker James on the plucky Disney show "Flash Forward" would grow into such a complete and utter bad-ass (and a pretty damn fantastic actor as well)? I don't know if the fact that I was the youngest person in the theater today means I'm simply wise beyond my years and mature enough to recognize authentic storytelling even when it doesn't come with all the modern CGI-rific bells and whistles, or if I'm just a little odd, but what I do know is this: "3:10 to Yuma" is a movie worth seeing, even if it does cost you $10.50. I only paid $5.50 for my screening. So there. I'm wise beyond my years and a bargain hunter.

Don't get chumpatized.

"The King of Kong: Fistful of Quarters," a new documentary by Seth Gordon about (you guessed it) getting the high score in the Filet Mignon of retro video games--Donkey Kong--is the most heartwarming, hilarious, and action-packed documentary I've seen all year. What is it about watching other people play video games that's so damned entertaining? Maybe it's the fact that Donkey Kong is not just Donkey Kong. It's really an allegory for life. In life, obstacles are always being thrown at you. Maybe it's unemployment or an unplanned pregnancy instead of a fireball or a barrel, but you get my drift. And we--patient, hardworking little Mario's that we are--must keep jumping, side-stepping, and climbing our way to our ultimate goals: the princesses of our souls, you might say. Steve Wiebe, lovable science teacher and family man from Washington, is good at Donkey Kong and he's good at life. He maneuvers through both with ease. To some, he is just the underdog of a small-scale documentary. To some, he's just the guy who challenged Billy Mitchell, the "greatest arcade-video-game player of all time." But to me, Steve Wiebe is Mario. And Billy Mitchell is like so many of the villains you meet both in life and in video games--imposing and scary at first, but in the end, completely transparent...and completely beatable.

When I was your age, television was called books

I am, as Mike Myers' character in So I Married an Axe-Murderer would say: confus-ed. I just turned 25, and I'm beginning to feel the pressure to have my life figured out. I say "beginning to," but I've really been feeling the pressure for quite some time now. Sometimes I wish I didn't aspire to do something creative as a career. Because of my lofty creative goals, I always feel guilty when I am doing anything other than writing or researching--which is most of the time. I mean, should I really have to feel guilty for watching 6 hours of trashy reality TV a day? Come on, I'm a normal human being. Normal human beings relax by eating pints of ice cream and watching episode after episode of Dr. 90210. That's what we do. I feel like there are two roads for me. On one road is a job that isn't related to my creative goals whatsoever but would, theoretically, allow me plenty of time and a lot of flexibility (and a decent amount of money) to pursue those goals. On the other road is a job that is at least marginally related to my creative goals, but would take up most of my free time (or would occupy my mind more during the supposedly "free" hours in which I would theoretically be pursuing my main creative objective) and wouldn't pay as well. It feels like road number one is the obvious choice, but part of me feels like taking that road means I'm giving up on my dreams. Is that ridiculous? Anyway, I gotta go. Newport Harbor: The Real O.C. is on, and that's my top priority right now. You understand.

I swim as fast and as hard as I can, for as long as I can. And the sea takes the rest

Reasons why Kevin Costner is a perfect speciman of human man-meat:

He has a nice voice
He is comfortingly regular
He has gorgeous tan skin
He doesn't apologize for having acted in "The Postman"
He says what needs to be said, even when it's hard to say
He is a natural leader
He is slim
He is smart and sporty
He is as at home on the sea as he is on the ballfield
He will die for you
He is aging gracefully
He is a warrior

Start out depressed, everything comes as a pleasant surprise

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Treasure Island grocery store is my home away from home. I go there most nights after work, really for only one reason: to buy dinner. Some nights I get a turkey drumstick from the hot food counter. The kindly black man who waits on me there knows that I do take gravy with my mashed potatoes, and he knows not to give me too much. He knows I eat alone in my room, and he probably figures I do it while weeping and watching Lifetime: Television for Women. He's not wrong. On nights when I don't feel like eating myself into permanent spinsterhood, I visit the salad bar, where the young Hispanic boy who works the produce section stares at me as I shake the juice off of my black olives before delicately placing them in the plastic container that houses my veg-tastic delights. I believe he hates me. I believe he hates me for always taking time to dig around and get the lettuce that isn't on top of the heap, the tomatoes that aren't mushy and white in the middle, the hard-boiled eggs that aren't the slightest shade of green. He taps his foot, and twirls the tie of his apron around his index finger, the way some girls will twirl their hair when they're bored or just plain mad at the world. Fuck you world, they say (usually not aloud). Ha! I'll show you by twirling my hair! At Treasure Island, I also cross paths with a middle-aged Asian gentleman, whom I believe is the general manager of the store. He usually rings me up. He wears thick, thick glasses and he has acne despite being at least forty years old, and I like him very much. I like him because once when I was buying donuts, he gave me a deal because I was buying them at the end of the day. Donuts are supposed to be 75 cents each, but he gave me two donuts for 50 cents! That's a whole dollar off. A whole dollar! After that, we were bosom buddies (and still are to this day). I believe that the Asian gentleman is engaged to the pear-shaped girl who works the counter at the front of the store, which serves no purpose whatsoever other than being a place that a random customer can come up to and ask the time or inquire about when the hell they're going to put out more free samples (soon, I hope). It wouldn't be weird at all if I got invited to Asian gentleman and pear-shaped's wedding. I think that when not if I get my invite in the mail (along with, I hope, some sort of buttery biscuit or something!) all will be right with the world. All will be exactly as it should be. Certainly we're a mismatched family at Treasure Island, but we are a happy family.

I can do anything, I'm the chief of police

Thanks for coming 'round to read The Humane Egoist. Those of you who know me know that The Humane Egoist is the title of an online newsletter I used to send out. I started writing it while I was working a hellish job as a marketing assistant for a radio station on the campus of Eastern Michigan University. I always love a job where my main duty is running to Taco Bell to pick up a stack of tacos for my boss. Mmm. Wouldn't you love to eat your way through a stack of tacos right now? Would you eat them one by one or would you just shove your face in and try to crunch through a bunch at once? I think eating would be a lot more fun if people weren't so concerned about having food smeared across their faces. Because really, what's the big deal? So I have some Grade-D ground beef on my cheeks and lips. So what? What of it? Anyway, I hope some of my loyal readers will be back to tune in to my hi-jinks again. Now I'm living in Chicago. Living the high life, that's right. Sometimes I order TWO sandwiches at lunch. That's how rich (and chubby) I am. Sometimes I order one sandwich, but TWO sodas. I have a key chain with REAL diamonds on it. One day I said to myself: where would be the best place to put your diamonds, Liz? Then I said (out loud, to myself): "I've got two words for you Liz--KEY CHAIN." Then I nodded and smiled to myself and gave myself a congratulatory pat on the back for being so clever. Now every time I open the door I remember how rich I am. Anyway, not all that much has changed with me personally since I wrote the last installment of The Humane Egoist. I'm still confused and angry much of the time. I still have a soft spot for slugs and pretty much anything else slimy. I still really like candy. The long and short of it is that I have a lot to say, so why not say it out loud and in public? I hope you enjoy this. I really do.