An Open Letter to All My Lady Friends...

Stop having health crises. Me no likey.

So here:



Kitties giving breast exams. Way to be.

I ate too much at lunch. I am far too close to comatose for my own good. Sheesh.

The Obligatory Giving Of Thanks

Before I get sentimental, I will share some of my favorite quotes from this Thanksgiving:

[Upon the F train with Aron and Ashlee, when it was decided we needed to say what we are thankful for}:

"I'm thankful my pussy isn't as cold as my heart."--Ashlee

[During a discussion of stripper tricks, and one in particular where a stripper took off a customer's ball cap with her, ummm...you know]

Aron: "I really appreciate vagina tricks. Carrie, can you do any vagina tricks?"

[beat]

"Yeah. I can make a quarter disappear."

Needless to say, all that triptophan made us raunchy.

Ashlee is in my living room. I am in my bedroom. I've been playing on my laptop so much that I wasn't following the movie that we rented. I put away my laptop, realizing that I wasn't really paying attention, only to discover that I had missed too much and the damage is done.

But it's alright. It's not like I'm missing conversation time with her. Ashlee is my family. And it's nice to be around family on the holidays (especially when the rest of my family is spread so far and wide across the country). Every time I see her, I feel no time has passed at all, but I guess it's been about 3 months or so since I saw her last. But we can talk or not and just being around her, I feel more like myself.

I miss when it was just us in Austin. I miss the life that I had there.

This is not to say I'm melancholy or anything at all. Really quite the opposite. While I can recognize my nostalgia, I accept the fact that the world moves on and you have to make the big choices and the big separations.

It's what makes you grow up. And as much as we'd all like to avoid such things, they have to happen.

A lovely Thanksgiving. I'm so weirded out by not having to work and having 4 days off. I keep thinking today is Sunday, since it should be, but that is not the case. And while I've bailed out on a lot of tentative plans this weekend (mainly involving Chris, Spring, and Dru), I realize it had to happen that way, too.

Spring has even mentioned about my lifestyle catching up with me. Working so much and then forcing myself to have my social life, which can also be quite demanding, can be a bit draining. So it's the holiday and I needed my time to not get out of my pj's and watch DVDs and the UT game from the comfort of my home.

Not to mention, it's cold as balls out. That also helps me to sloth. Too cold to go out. Layers are tiring.

Yup. I'm being a very lazy girl. But it needed to happen. And I have my sister-in-arms with me, and I couldn't be more content about doing absolutely nothing with her except just knowing that she's here.

Much love to all my family--real and adopted--on this Thanksgiving weekend. If anyone can be judged by the company they keep, people must think that I am the most blessed person in the world.

And I am.

If only I were blessed enough to not gain the 19320479823784 lbs. I gained this weekend eating, well then, I'd really have no complaints.

A Little Gift from Chris

Ok, so I went to karaoke this weekend. Adam took a lot of pictures, which you can see here.

But they started floating around our livejournals, and Chris in his Infinite Knowledge of Perfect Things did a little photoshopping to create my Perfect Album Cover.

And here it is [apparently, I'm signed with Columbia Records--go me!]



Honestly, folks. I saw that and started laughing so hard, tears were falling. It was beautiful.

A New York Love Poem

The New York life is a series of bombardments
You want to know why they didn't go down with the Towers?
Every day is a preparation for disaster
Around every corner
Buildings reach up to challenge God
Skyscrapers like middle fingers
You want to know why they didn't let killers break them?
Their tolerance is high for such things
In the same way they say "Fuck you" to God
To each other
To the buildings swirling around them
To the subways
To the homeless
There is more to break you here
Than anywhere else on the planet
It's not that it makes you hard
It's that it makes you strong
For living on the edge of annihilation
Every day
Every morning
The end of every business day
We clock out
Check out
And living on that edge of destruction and beauty
Makes you more alive than tucked away
In track homes and manicured lawns
There is more terror here than in all the dreams
Of Middle America
There is also more hope
More wonder
A thousand different twinkling lights
That prepare you for Heaven

I watched those Towers fall
And my heart broke with everyone's
And it was the first time that I saw what being human
Was really all about
Was not the terror
Not the death
Not the horror and the blood and the ash

It was the love

The calls to family
The rushes to the blood banks
For once in the history of my life
I watched America in the largest game of Red Rover
And we stood united

I don't know what happened to all that
The chain broke apart
And everything went all to Hell
Our broken hearts were manipulated into
A War of Apathy and Spin...

I walked along the Times Square Station
Up through the N/R/W into the main terminal
Where I bumped into prophets and fakes
Indistinguishable from each other
And a man played "Mrs. Robinson"
To the beat of the fading day
Through the tunnel past the 7 train
Where I kissed him goodbye so many times
And preachers telling me about sin
And competing musicians
A woman with a tambourine has beaten
The man with the flute for the attentions
Of those who passed by
He looked disoriented as if someone had
Eaten his porridge
Slept in his bed
Goldilocks with a tambourine and a hymnal
I left them to duke it out
And on to the passageway of the A/C/E
Where the same violinist perched himself
Every Sunday
I drift along like a ghost to Vivaldi
Barely touching the ground as the violin cried
For a moment I cried with it
And then I smiled

You want to know why the Towers were brought down
But not New York?
It is the endless parade of these moments
Tragedy wrapped up in comedy
With a healthy sprinkling of the absurd
You cannot break a world like this
Not with a thousand bombs or terrorists or threats
Because every one of us walks around with
Our buildings giving you the finger
With our voices crying out
"Fuck you."
Behind every one of these hard moments
Is the silent appreciation and wonder of this
Place
Time
Experience
And every curse and hard brushed shoulder of a stranger
Is a silent "Thank you" to Whomever
Might be listening.

I Gave My Word to You, My Darling...

So I had a dream about my soulmate last night. Which was a nice change from almost exclusively dreaming about work recently. I mean, sheesh, people. I spend enough time at work. I have to dream about it, too?

So who's my soul mate?

Well, I don't know. I mean, obviously in my dream I knew, but I can't recall the face. The only part of his face I can remember is his mouth (and noooooooooo, it wasn't one of those dreams). I think for a while I will be checking everyone's mouth around me.

What do you want to bet my "soulmate" turns out to be the dude in the mailroom?

Oh yes, shiny objects, A.D.D, FOCUS, silly.

The dream.

Not too long of one that I remember. But I was with my soulmate and we were in the woods. We were building a house for us. Though it should be mentioned all the wood we were working with was thin like reeds. So I imagine our house is gonna take us a thousand years to build.

But it's peaceful. And I was chipping in and cutting wood and sanding it down with a small knife. Now, I am not one for manual labor. I imagine this is part of the reason my brain knew this man was my soulmate. We were happy and comfortable and it didn't matter if it took us till the end of time to build the damn thing because we were doing it together and none of it seemed like a stressful idea.

Then the wolves show up. We had gone hunting at some point, too. There was meat that needed to be cooked (along with candy, but I imagine that has more to do with the fact that we watched Willy Wonka last night). And they are menacing and growling and they want to take our food.

We don't stress. I have just the thing. And this is the part that I find hilarious:

Apparently, in my dream, the proper wolf-repellant is Designer Imposter Fragrances. Remember that shit? If you liked "Georgio Armani" you'll love "Some Piece of Crap." So I take out about three bottles of the stuff and we spray around the area we're working in. Tons of the stuff. It is reeking of cheap perfume. But it creates this sort of cloud of protection and the wolves leave.

We laugh.

He is seated, leaning up against the tree. I straddle on top of him and curl into his chest. It feels safe and warm and I feel complete. I kiss that mouth (where is that mouth?) and we look at each other and I swear to God, I say this:

"If you can love me through Designer Imposter Perfume, you can love me through anything."

That is sooooooo winding up in my marriage vows. All I need to do is figure out who the guy is.

But it was a very nice dream, indeed.

I'm Cheating

I don't want to post these all over again.

Here's the link to the pictures of Ladies' Night at the Penthouse Party.

Word to my dress. Holla!

I have to check with Gepetto...

One of these days I'm going to be a real girl.

Queens is a strange place to go. It's like Old Town Springs. Only it's New York.

I can only ever play one game of really great pool.

I cannot sleep with a guy. Not like that. Just with another human being in my bed. Maybe I should get a really large bed. Maybe I should start stocking up on cats.

I had never seen Kill Bill: Volume 1 and 2. I fixed that. It was awesome. And I realize that I am the last person on Earth to do so.

I have a brunch date tomorrow. That's all I really know. Trying to stay open to the whole idea of actually dating someone. Or multiple someones. But my whole getting-drunk-and-hooking-up is not providing me with the stable, growing relationships that I've been sort of wanting.

I spent a lot of money on cabs. That is the problem with having a car service home. I never want to take the subway anymore and I now finally have the means to do so.

One of these days, I'm going to be a real girl.

Blaring Today's Theme Song [On Repeat]

A decade ago, I never thought I would be,
At twnety-three, on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Woe-is-me.
But I guess that it comes with the territory,
An omnious landscape of never-ending calamity.
I need you to hear, I need you to see
That I have had all I can take and
Exploding seems like a definate possibility to me.

So pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of this world and it's people's mindless games.
So pardon me while I burn and rise above the flame.
Pardon me, pardon me... I'll never be the same.

--Incubus

And it doesn't hurt imagining that this is the dude who's singing it:



And rinse. And repeat.

Happy Friday!

This makes me laugh because it's dead on

Me and Junebug: A summary:



And the dramatic build:



And a conclusion:



Chuckle, chuckle.

It's all good now, though. Promise. All is well in my world. There is something brewing, but it has nothing (for once) to with me and my romantic woes. Conor and I might be needing to have a little "chat," though.

**************
CLARIFICATION:
**************

After concerned emails, I feel the need to point out that the last statement about Conor in NO WAY implies any sort of "involvement" between the two of us. It was more about general Conor misbehavior and I'm sorry for the confusion.

An Open Letter to the Lady Who Does My Brazilian Wax...

Dear [Whatever the Hell your Name is]--

I understand the nature of our relationship is awkward. Some chick just walks in one day and wants you to take all the hair off her lady bits. You, being a lady yourself, probably are not thrilled about this. This is why it costs so much. I wonder if you could charge by coverage area, though I imagine this would make some larger women feel uncomfortable.

I am a small girl. And I still feel uncomfortable with you all up in my lady bits. I can't even imagine how bad it must be if you then have to search, not only through the lady bits, but folds of flesh as well.

I feel for you. I really do. I know my job at times really sucks, but that is ROUGH.

But I do have an issue, now that you mention it:

Please don't talk to me.

This is not a fine establishment, and I think we can both agree on that. Now, I'm not saying it's dirty or anything like that, you're clean and everything's clean but it's the bare minimum. It's not like one of those fancy Aveda salons where puppies greet you and you lay on a queen-size bed and someone reads you a story while someone else does magic tricks to distract from the pain.

I can afford those places. I choose not to go to them. And not just because I'm cheap.

I want something clean and quick. In and out in 15 minutes. And you deliver. But I don't want to have to discuss my day with you. I want to stare at the ceiling whilst you dive around my vagina and pretend that this is not happening and get out of there as quickly as possible. It's awkward enough having a stranger down in there, but a Brazilian recquires you to see my body in angles that I wouldn't let the Man I Love view me in.

I just want to be an anonymous vagina that comes in to get waxed and then leaves and goes about it's Vagina Business. [Vagina Business: A Memoir]

Also, I don't appreciate when you finish up and say, "It's so clean now."

Ummm, excuse me. It was clean before, thank you very much. It just had more hair. I don't like the assumption that just because things grow a little wild down there without this maintenance that I am somehow filthy. Believe me, the things I do with it once you finishing making it "clean" are far more filthy. Nothing wrong with having hair down there. I just choose to take it off, but I don't like you implying that somehow my hygeine was poor before I decided to start doing the Brazilian.

So next time you see me, please only use hand signals. I will not talk, I will shift my body the way you tell me, and I will leave you a generous tip. It's the least I can do for the Lady Whose Name I Don't Know, but knows me more intimately than any other person on this planet.

Thank you very much

Carrie

On second thought, scratch that. No names. Just call me Vagina 12 of the Day.

From the Porn and Chocolate Book Club...

Also, the Where Ironic Comes to Die Book Club, which is an extension of the ikanread book club:

From Sex Drugs and Cocoa Puffs:

"There is something undeniably attractive about become a born-again Christian. I hear atheists say that all the time, although they inevitably make that suggestion in the most insulting way possible: Nothing offends me more than those who claim they wish they could become blindly religious because it would make 'everything so simple.' People who make that argument are trying to convince the world that they're somehow doomed by their own intelligence, and that they'd love to be as stupid as all the thoughtless automatons they condescendingly despise. This is not what I find appealing about the Born-Again Lifestyle. Personally, I think that become a born-again Christian would be really cool, at least for a while. It would sort of be like joining the Crips or the Mossad or Fugazi.

Every rational person will tell you that all the world's problems ultimately derive from disputes that are perceived by the warring parties as 'Us vs. Them.' That seems sensible, but I don't know if it's necessarily true; all my problems come from the opposite scenario. I was far more interesting--and probably smarter, in a way--when I refused to recognize the eixtence of the color gray in my black-and-white universe...But that's what happens whenver you start to understand that most things cannot be emotively understood: You're able to make better conversation over snifters of brandy, but you become an unfeeling idiot...

This is not a problem for the born again. there are no other subjects, really; nothing else--besides being born again--is even marginally important."

I choose this example because they are actually making this:



Yes, indeed, folks. Jesus Juice: The Wine. I personally always felt Jesus would make a fine Shiraz, myself.

You can read about it here.

Also, in the blow-your-mind category, is the revelation that good 'ole Scooter Libby (who really was just asking for a whole heap load of trouble letting people call him Scooter past the age of 12) wrote a porno book several years ago about a 10 year old girl who gets put in a cage with a bear who knows how to fuck women, because it will teach her to attach no feelings to her johns, hence becoming a better whore.

I am not making this up, kids.

These are the people that run this county. Talk about your family values. All Clinton wanted was a grown woman to put a cigar in her Naughty Bits. It's always the religious family value freaks who always wind up with pedophiliac porn books that involve bestiality. Every time. You should check out what Rush Limbaugh wrote when he was cracked out on Oxycontin.

Hint: You'll never look at your My Little Ponies the same way.

[actually, I totally just made that Limbaugh stuff up. I hope Fox News picks it up, anyway. But more likely The New York Post--which I only italicize because TECHNICALLY, it's a newspaper--though you're better off just using it for when you run out of toilet paper]

Oh, and YES, PLEASE:



I have never done it like this. This is something that needs to change. Preferably, with Jake Gylenhaal as well [that's from Jarhead--which now, I will be forced to go see].

Why I Have No Gag Reflex: A Memoir

It's odd how I can't sleep in anymore.

I'ts 8:45 in the morning on a Saturday. I finally don't have to work.

Why am I up? Lord knows. Perhaps it's some indication of age and habit [I wrote an entry about habit/addiction etc, and completely failed to notice that when you wake up sometimes becomes our greatest habit. Because I've gone a while without drugs, I don't drink booze all the time--only in times of recreation--but the time that I wake up seems to be a habit I can't break] Which, for those of you following from home, SUCKS. I'm giving myself an hour to watch TV and stuff, and then I really need to get some sleep.

Dude, I'm watching Rome on HBO on Demand. The amount of people who eviscerate themselves on this show is astounding. I guess killing yourself in non-horrific ways had yet to be invented--

"You mean if I just cut my wrists like this I'll bleed out in a minute? You're talking crazy. I'm just going to stick to the old fashioned way, slicing open my stomach so I can hold my intestines in my hand. You know, like a normal person."

Also, people have sex ALL THE TIME in front of the servants [on this show]. This, of course, being before the time of the creation of "The Memoir." It also helps if your servants can't read or write. Princess Diana should have thought of that before hiring some of her folks. It annoys the crap out of me, someone who loves to write, when people like this get book deals. It's like Kevin Federline getting to make a rap album. Umm...you're not a writer, you're not an artist, you're a fucking leech and you come to suck on the brains of America. People wonder where all the values, all the real talent, has gone. And it's somehow our fault, because in this modern world, it is normal to be oddly fascinated and completely supportive of people who have no right and no talent to be in the public eye, but somehow wind up there because of celebrity residue like the stain on good 'ole Monica's dress. Why? To watch them make rich asses out of themselves. And then feel better about our mundane lives.

I'm not knocking it here, people. I am a perpetrator of it as well, seeing as I spend a lot of time on this site. I just hate how anybody who's slightly famous gets to write a book. I bet if I blew Brad Pitt or Prince William or something, they'd probably publish this blog. And I'd go on The View and talk about my struggle to make it in this world [and being oddly evasive about why people were interested in me in the first place--i.e., blowing the Prince of Wales].

Then I'd start a handbag line.

Then a perfume.

Then a clothing line.

And then I'll retire at the age of 27, rich beyond my wildest dreams, and all because I gave head to a cute British boy, who just happened to be heir to the throne of the British Empire.

And that's how I feel about modern celebrity.

I should try to get some sleep now. Oddly enough, I keep dreaming about celebrities.

The Bestest and Mostest Ironic Halloween Costume EVER

Fabulous.



I love this costume. And I have to say, I look good as a nun. I should look into becoming one. You know, one that can still drink and drug and have sex.

Or maybe I should just start wearing more scarves on my head. And continue as I normally do.

I Never Have to Interact with Another Human Being Again

I have forgotten to mention, though I alluded to blogging from home. You'd have no way of knowing this, but it was my way of saying:

I FINALLY GOT MY LAPTOP.

I have to say, I'm pretty happy to be sitting in my lounge chair, watching House in my pj's, drinking a beer, and not having to bug Devon or take over his room or his space to do it.

I haven't had a computer of my own that had internet in a bazillion years. I feel like I shouldn't be writing, I shouldn't pass GO or collect $200. I should be spending all this time downloading porn. Why? Because it's MY computer. And I can do that. I'm not even feeling particularly sexual these days, but just to have the OPTION is nice. It's like going to a buffet and stuffing yourself even though you just ate. BECAUSE YOU CAN. And that's an incredibly satisfying feeling. And porn has far fewer calories than, oh let's say, a Cici's buffet or something. But just barely.

My mood