i'ma survive mmmmhmmmm

soo. my laptop is broken, and in conjunction with job hunting, moving, trying to make friends who actually like me and the consequences of my shenanigans, I am super super busy. Creeperville is going to become a daily blog, as soon as I make it through all this junk; I'm giving myself a three week deadline.

In the meantime, if the nineties taught me anything, it's that when life gives you lemons, you turn to a girl group, or Alanis. In this case Destiny's Child is the answer, and I can think of no better way to tell someone they suck than by ukelele.



P.S. This is Julia Nunes. You should love her as much as me.

the girl in the orange jump suit

You know that thing that you say will never happen to you?

That one thing you spend your whole life thinking will never be a part of your life?

Remember all the million thousand hundred ways you said it would never get to you; how you were stronger, bigger, cooler, and soooooo much saner than all that garbage?
Well, the good news is, you still stand a chance, the bad news? I had to learn the hard way that i am most ardently, not immune. Not even a little bit.


Rewind, just right quick-like here. Last summer, my universe FLIPPED slap out. I got hit by a car, my dad had a heart attack, the OMG-i'm-20-and-found-the-love-of-my-life-even-though-we-barely-can-stand-each-other guy in my life, happened to dump me most brutally. I lost my job, my car, my apartment,

my dog. (i wish i was kidding, really, I do.)
I was a country song.

Yeah we get it, thank you Hank Williams for writing my life for a summer, but you are unwelcome. Go back to your grave sir. This is offensive, but I like you better there.


Anyways, all this soap opera crap but me a little on the tweaker (once again, not actual drug tweaker, just the most overloaded i've ever been andthensome) side.

The details aren't really all that interesting or entertaining, but one day, I went to the local grocery store and according to the shrink I saw shortly thereafter, in an attempt to gain control of a great big giant hairy assed world which was not being very nice to me, I stole.


I took a bag of pistachios. i got caught. (ohshit)

(this time you can judge me)
The strawberry blonde, sweet and freckled security head (who honestly was probably younger than me) escorted me, willingly and shakily up to his very scary, very fluorescent office. herein lies the irony. The security guard (quickly alerted by his flawless powers of observation, or my sobbing and hyperventilation, that trouble was most definitely something I was accustomed to) didn't want to call the police. He wanted to ban me from the store for 100 years.


I'm not kidding you. 100 years. That is no kidding what the paperwork said. They took a polaroid of my pitiful little self while the clerk went to ring up my "purchases"

When the clerk came back with my total damages, shit hit the fan. They had to call the cops, my five-year old befreckled buddy informed me. Why? Well, pistachios aren't cheap. Had my theft been under five dollars I could have just gone home and been done with my crime spree, but that's not how these things work.


I should have taken the peanuts.

Cops called, arrest executed, and all my haughty belief that I would live my life without trouble from the law shattered. Court attended, scary liver spotted public defender who really didn't give a crap what happened got me 5 days of jail (which turned out to be 5 days of "day labor") and a year of unsupervised probation.


Fast forward to last month.

I am now sooooo awesome that I have therapeuticizerated myself through alllllll my life bullshit. Sort of. And am a very proud awesome work in progress. So awesome, in fact, that I am unemployed and wear a lot of sweatpants, and only hang out at a gay bar on weekends because all the other places in the world have heterosexual males, which scare me to the point of incontinence. I am obviously on my way to awesome. My (shall we call it this?) awesomeness has imbued me with a fabulous talent for sleeping for shocking lengths of time. Like, put hibernating bears to shame lengths. Like, I'm pretty sure I slept through lent. (I'm telling god I gave up being awake. :)) And when Easter came, like Jesus (or not at all, cause even though he was dead, I'm pretty sure I smelled worse) I rose from the dead, and realized I had hibernated (somewhat metaphorically, but mostly not) through my opportunity to begin my day labor program. (ohshit)
I am an angsty person. I've made that very clear. I think too much and I tend to be REALLLY nervous on the inside, and remarkably unflappable on the outside. Actually, I can't even lie, I'm a flapper. But, the angsty part is true. So, this missing your day labor stuff is what we hardened criminal types like to call a "probation violation" (i think?). When this happens, they put a warrant out for your arrest and the police can come and take you away. I have an emotional tummy. You cannot imagine the stress-poo's this induces.

So, because I am awesomely overthinky and panicky, and prone to thinking I'm the worst person in the world, I was in a constant state of anxiety. Seriously. This whole being on the lam thing, in conjunction with a lot of unnecessary friend drama, and the not-having-a-job-ness, and the I got back together with said ex-boyfriend and what if he breaks my heart again alllll came to a head on Saturday night.

Enter, jell-o shots. Full of 99 proof alcohol and sweet, sweet oblivion. I don't typically drink away my problems, but the stress poo thing was out of control. Enter, long lost friends buying you drinks. Drinks that taste like candy. I suddenly remember,I did not eat that day. Not once. Cue drunk girl, with intoxicated friends, a wallet full of cash that I cannot seem to remember after all these jell-o shots what I was saving for (uhhhh, groceries, citizen cope show, play tickets?) Money is mostly gone. Alcohol is gone. Rachel is gone. Like Mel Gibson's career. Rachel is puking in the bathroom. Rachel's friends? Gone-er. Like, as in, don't really give a flying crap what your stupid ass does. I needed to sit down. I needed food. I found my friends who showed no interest in helping me, so I said I'd meet them at Pie Hole. My phone was dead, and so was I. Pie Hole was neutral territory. A place to eat and sit and breathe.

An hour and four slices of pepperoni later, friends are nowhere to be found. Drunk, guilt ridden me, immediately ascertains that this is my fault. It is 2:30 and I am without friends, or phone, or sufficient cab fare. I am the Worst. Person. Ever. Find random strange boys, call boyfriend. I proceed walking towards boyfriend's house in a belligerent state of thinking I am the worstest worst of all the worst people ever. I bet Hitler didn't make his boyfriend come get his drunk ass in the middle of the night. I should be grown up and if I was grown up my friends wouldn't have left me, and even Mussolini had friends who did not leave him. Ohhhhh yeah.
Boyfriend fetches, eventually. But only after an epic fall. (Pretty much the entire left side of my body is the bluishyellowish color of me picking a fight with the concrete.) I picked a fight. Because I was all filled up on a big fat batch of the frownies. And alcohol. And guilt. Boyfriend person takes me home, but this is not enough. I have decided I must call the police and turn myself in.I simply cannot live this lie anymore. I cannot go on in such a fashion and even though it is nearly 4 am and I am broke, now is the time for turning myself in, for showing the world what a truly disastrous person I am.

The police came, I hyperventilated. I threw my shoes. Not at them (thankfully). I most definitely went to jail, and on the way I told the cops what a bad person I was. When I could stop hyperventilating. They breathalyzed me twice because they were all pretty effin sure I was too drunk for jail. Let me say that again. Too drunk for jail. The she-cop who booked me felt really bad for me, and she kind of loved me. Her love came from my so pathetically crying I fell of the bench behavior, and the fact that when she searched my purse she found four fake mustaches? Yeah. Win. See, I am Hitler and Moussolini. And probably Charlie Chaplin. He was a bad guy too.


Boyfriend person came to get me. I think he loves me, because I was ready for him to be mad at me, and he wasn't. When I walked outside he put his arm around me. And asked if I was done being a jailbird. Love might just be when you call the cops and have them take you away because you are so drunkly dramatic you simply cannot live a lie, not even until morning and are worse than Mussolini and someone still takes to to their house and kisses you goodnight and tells you that they need you to want to succeed at your life. Because you are amazing, but you are sucking it up a little right now.

Want to hear the moral? Pistachios will not make your life better. Thinking you are the worstest ever will not make your life better.

You have to work at it.

or something.

don't cry over spilled window

Right after I moved to North Idaho, I started working at a fancy schmancy resort, in housekeeping (read now, hate later) and made a few brand spanking new friends of the pierced, tattooed, and sailor vocabularied variety. One day, they were unbeknownst to poor, oblivious, Rachel, wasted, and I was confused. Somehow, we reasoned that the only logical course of action would be to go to the skate park and watch our pierced pal Brandon break his ass on his BMX (please wait until you feel sorry for me in 5 minutes to judge my adolescent activity choices).

I arrived at the skate park in all my blonde, capri panted glory. At the skate park. Wearing my "sunshine modeling company" t-shirt. At the skate park. Sober and naive. At the skate park.
Worst Camo Ever.

I am by no means implying that the Couer d'Alene skate park even knows what the word hardcore means, but they knew it wasn't me.
I was hanging out, revelling in my sudden and surprising inability to misfit like everyone else, when all of the sudden, swoon of all swoons, the unicyclist of my dreams appared.
(remember the part where we are judging later?)
yeah. that's what i said. get a magnifying glass.

To my credit, he was all, oh I can jump my unicycle off big tall stuff, and bounce on it.
(i can smell the big stinky poo of your judgement, it's unpleasant, stop)
Ok so the unicycle thing was definitely probably not the center of my attention.
It was probably his big, rippling muscles and dark Dominican skin and his big brown eyes and his smile so wide it made the freakin mississipi look like the puddle of drool forming at my feet.
He was like Fabio, only dark, and sexier, and not ever ever creepy (at least not for a couple days)

Andhekeptlookingatmeandhewasapainterandhehadacuteaccentandhewantedtopaintmeandiwas18andstupid.
And I. HAD. NO. IDEA. what that stupid craphead would to to my poor poor Rosie.

ahem. Meet Rosie.

The unicyclist had a stupid name, so he will hanceforth be known as Fabio, because Fabio is not a ridiculous name or anything.

Fabio enchanted me, jotted down my phone number, while my drunken friends chatted up the other tragically hip in their very own special way too cool for me kids. They returned to me, because after all, they needed a ride home, and we departed. By the time I got home to my cell phone, I had three missed calls. And a text message. And a voicemail. All from Fabio. I was too shellshocked by the adoration of this swelly unicycle ridin' hunk to even listen to my BLARING CREEPER ALARM.
He wanted to go dancing, in Spokane. Alone. Me and him, an hour after we met.
nopenothankyou. I'm stupid, but honey, please, I have an IQ slightly higher than a mango, at least.

I declined.

The next day at work I show up, and my friends are finally sober, WOOOOOOO.
I was all kinds of proud of my one-wheeled wonder, so I told them alllllll about how Fabio was so excited about me he left me 8bajillionfivehundredand77 messages.

They stared in wonder.
Oh yeah, that's right. I got Fabio hooked.

The stared some more.

This was inordinate staring.
"So, wait, FABIO? From the park?" She was not excited like me. Maybe it was the unicycle.

suddenly not so awesome, "um yeah"

"You know he's married, right?"
Here's the part where the previously aforementioned epilepsy kicks in, and I don't know if you know this, but being lied to gives me Salmonella. Nausea, fevery yucktasticness that no one deserves unless they've been running around chomping on raw bacon.
Neat.

I stop returning his calls because who does confrontation anymore, really?
Days pass, 35,600 ignored phone calls and a message that says "I just need to know we are in this together" have clued me in to the complete and utter lunatic my fifteen minute conversation truly is.

So, you are wondering how Rosie fits into all of this?
Muahahahaha. Just you wait.

I left work one afternoon around 3 o'clock and walk the 3 blocks to the employee parking lot. And my gorgeous curvy little girl is standing there all shining and perfect waiting for her mommy, just like a good little girl.
I stop. I stare. I do not register for a moment that no I did not leave a circular center CHUNK of my window rolled down because that's. just. not. possible.
There is a rock in the drivers seat.
I think "Sweet dumbass little shits."
Then, I go to call the police to file a report.
very sweet dispatcher says "Have you upset anyone you know lately?"

The effects of rippling muscles and clipped exotic accent has worn off so now, suddenly,
BLARING CREEPER ALARM REGISTERS.

Check my phone. My very very last text message from Fabio says "You said I wasn't alone in this"
UM NO I DID NOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
:(
Jerk.

Fabio stopped texting. Fabio fell off the Earth.
This was the first, but not the last time a boy decided he didn't like my drivers side window.
If my car windows were stray eyebrow hairs, the men of this world would be like aestheticians on the JET FUEL of all amphetamines juiced up and on an anti-unibrow rampage.

But we'll save that for another day.

you're welcome.

P.S. This story is funny because it's over. If you or someone you know is being Fabio'ed, CALL THE POLICE. Then laugh and tell me alllll about it when he scrubby ass is in handcuffs. K?

the root of all evil

This blog came into being because I'm a damn epileptic.

Which is offensive (probably) to anyone who is actually epileptic because I'm not, in fact, a real epileptic.

And now you are going ---howisthatevenremotelycooltosay----

It is relevant. I am a fake epileptic because sometimes, a lot of times, I freak slap out. I shake, in a crack addict who ran out of money and tried to smoke Smartees (don't pretend you don't remember smartees, if i knew how to hyperlink i'd help you. if you don't know, please google, until i can become a slightly less inadequate blogger) kind of way. And I feel epileptic. Colors sort of explode. It's not a hallucination, trust me I checked. It's more an, I'm dramatic and tweaking in an absolutey non-traditional drug-withdrawal and/or drug overdose sort of way. I don't even do drugs.

I have this other blog (this is the part where if i were even remotely adequate i'd be able to hyperlink my blog to that pretty little blog, but since I can't I'll be awesomely archaic and do this: thatprodigalchild.blogspot.com ) and it's awesome, in an mildly, angsty, twenty-something deep, almost existential, figuring myself out kind of way. But this other blog gives me a complex. I love it, it helps me be all self-searching and inrospective in ways you would never even BEGINNNNNNNN to imagine upon actually meeting me. It's nice. It's the 20 year old secret-romantic version of a dragshow only minus the sparkles, (which I don't mind, I hate sparkles), the Aretha ( but you can sock it to me anyway) and i don't have to take off my boobs when i get home, which is so nice, because they are on pretty solidly.

The problem with the prodigal child is that the figurey-outy, growing up right before your very eyes version of me is making the me that likes jokes about pirate's balls* feel pretty much like the drag queen who still stuffs with Kleenex and tries to offer Mynerva my wet 'n' wild eyeshadow, only to be most. brutally. shot. down.

Not my favorite.

So, this in conjunction with the Devil - InCarnate (ex-bf who shall heretofor be referred to as the DIC imsoclever) had me feeling all epileptic-y. I needed a time and place to celebrate my petty annoyances, childishness, estrogen/chocolate/coffee fueled rants, my poop/pirate's balls jokes, and my other psychotic behaviors in general. I mean, I can't be evolving and GROWING as a person all the time, it's exhausting.

So then I was watching Buffy the Vampires Slayer and this very short awkward guy did a spell to augment himself. Which sounds INCREDIBLY pleasant for the love prospects of said short awkward guy, and delightfully dirty, but it's not. He make himself just generally AMAZEBALLS and altered reality entirely for everyone and even made Buffy look like a stick of string cheese, which, pfff, is HARD. Anyways, in order to balance this power of good, the spell automatically created a gross long armed demon who had the skin tone of a baby gerbil, and bad the-hills-have-eyes teeth, and a gandalf beard, which made him look alarmingly like he would bring fireworks to a hobbit birthday party (don't judge me because I make Lord of the Rings references).

Basically to make the world even steven he had to make the antithesis of everything good, and let it wander around Sunnydale. Because if Buffy killed the demon, shorty mcawkward shrank back to his regular old self (metaphorically, if the regular augmenty sort of parts were augmented, no one ever discussed it)

The moral of the story is, in life, as in the Buffyverse, the balance must be maintained.
If I'm going to be all neat and poetic over there ( thatprodigalchild.blogspot.com incaseyoumisseditbefore) then I get to be long armed and beardy over here. Or something like that.

I know, I'm weird.

Welcome to Creeperville.

* -- A pirate walks into a bar. The bartender says, "Do You know there's a steering wheel in your pants?"

The pirate says, "Arrgggh, and it's drivin me nuts" :) you're welcome.