Anonymous Amy

there is goal-tending. multiple fouls, with every movement in basketball there is some sort of whistle loving referee there to call out the damn sloppiness. there are players who are “old as shit” and ones bigger than Goliath, Garnett should be on Heroes. there are allioops, bench stats–(how warm the bench gets?) there is a lot of this: lanky orangutan arms thrown toward the sky, mouths gaping, heads shaking back and forth cartoon style (think the Wylie coyotes head as the ringer inside a bell) eyes darting from coach to ref in disbelief–This is bullshit, I did not just ram my Goliath orangutan mustang of a body full force into yours, skid you across the acre of waxed floor boards and then float by innocently like a turd just flushing on down the toilet. Not on purpose anyway. Coach are you going to do something about this??– *shoulders raised like the hair on the back of a dog ready to fight*.
The coach is consumed in a sweat induced, red faced eyeball brawl with a referee who doesn’t care. The referees are clearly thinking about when the hell this game is going to finish so they can get home and watch Golf. works sux.
…and oops, all that shite about fouls and instant replays and jeering and pointing and pushing and violations and time-outs, that was 30 seconds ago—the crowd is up…balloons are waving, sneakers screech worse than Saved by the Bell’s pubescent jew, rebounds OH OH, they’re up and running and OOOOH he’s hanging off the basket, he’s dangling like a decal in a rear-view mirror. the crowd is a mosh pit. something great must have happened, some unheard of play–is he a paraplegic and these were his first steps? did The Beatles just walk in?
wait, is the court getting an Extreme Makeover????
no, no, i see. 2 points were scored. oh wow, now they are tied. how unbelievably miraculous.
oh hey, it’s half-time. lets talk all about ‘being aggressive’ with the men in 3 piece suits who only talk about basketball because they can’t play it, lets analyze what goes through the minds of the high top wearing men, lets re-watch how they run here, no there, now back here, wait–up here, now he fell down but He’s UP, so are his shoulders. he’s appalled! How could you call that?? He did nothing of the sort. This is preposterous.
words like “leverage”, “jump shot”, “gamble”, “dominate”, “rebounding”, “defense”, “worn down”
ok. done.
the itunes commercial with Coldplay is only going to play 2983 more times and I’ve only seen 3430 of them.

Getting the mail isn’t an evil process. It shouldn’t be scary or horrific or frightening. Sure, the mailbox holds a small part of the unknown but it isn’t going to chase you with an axe.

I have a slight case of exaggeration. here is the back-story.
Call it what you will; luck, karma, fate, destiny, God, chance, life, good, evil, tea leaves…..
It hates me.
“Unfortunate” follows me as if I’m eating a pile of crunchy Jinx and dropping a fat crumb trail. I don’t walk around tempting the gods by stating obvious facts so that they can be jinxed and then thrown at my wallowing self. But yes, yes, I did in fact get excited about a random expectation.
-My stimulus package.- That money owed to me by the governments… (sorry. i’ve fallen prey to the “everything is plural” phenomenon) I even made a public comment on my Twenty Something Blogger site regarding my surprise that this so called money exists and that maybe I’ll be a believer since others were receiving this fabled money. how stimulating.
**PIANO COMES CRASHING OUT OF BLUE SKY ONTO HEAD**
I am notoriously known for getting the shit end of the stick. I try not to make a habit of picking up shitty sticks but again, it’s like I have a posse of them trying to hang with me.
I should be grateful that the United States Postal Service even considers me alive. I had to fight for this right. They killed me off when I moved and my mail service discontinued. All my Netflix movies were leaving their Netflix queue but being mysteriously returned by someone who was NOT ME! The post office said i was deceased. They took the liberty of putting a yellow sticker onto the bottom of envelopes coming to me that simply said “deceased”.
I was now:
“Stick it in my ass” Jones
151 wehateyourlife Court
Die, MI 66666
DECEASED

After I convinced them that I didn’t die, I just moved up the street, not into a cemetery but a condo…they finally stopped breaking the news of my untimely death via a yellow sticker on the front of my mail envelopes.
No one seemed alarmed when they found out, in this manner, that I died. Most people nodded and went about eating their Cheerios. Thanks Friends. Their expectations of my finality was laid to rest. excuse the pun. yay.

this is just one little story in the unique collage of karmic repercussions I’ve managed to survive. Anything from getting a brand new car without working brakes to being chased up a flight of stairs by an astonishingly quick midget to having my car stuck in the driveway of a fraternity house across the street from the office i worked in….(no worries aye….Jeff, the husky, red-bearded and incredibly hostile Facilities guy drove it out “no problem”. In the meantime my car is doused in cheeseburger remnants and slime from Nick and I, who grappled, with soggy, greased fingers at car parts to hide in as we slid down a hill of ice where we thought we’d plunge to our death. But THANKS Jeff for just driving it on out like it was a horse heading to his barn.)
Here for a while the waters have been calm. I’ve been chugging along at a miserable pace but nothing disturbingly inconvenient has surfaced. (i’m going to fucking pay for writing that out. the universe isn’t one to let me get away with these types of naive statements. Seriously, just ask my butt.)(I like to kid about anal rape. I know it isnt actually a laughing
matter but it’s so graphically descriptive of my feelings…)
Like I said, exaggeration is probably key to these little disaster recipes.
So, my boyfriend, lets call him Life Loves Me, gets in the car with a funny envelope. The envelope has my name on it in the return address side. Weird. The envelope only has a return address side…the rest appears to have been chomped off by ….a shark, maybe? Yes, that must be what happened. Ooooor, the mail box does have an axe and it chopped off half of my envelope. But, why? The partial envelope is contained inside a bigger envelope with a clear, plastic window to display my slaughtered piece of mail. Honestly, my measly murdered mail should have been delivered inside a Band-Aid box or via a cast…or at least they could have delivered the culprit shark.
But no, it was just me, Life Loves Me and this illegible cut of something that was just about to make sense.
Life Loves Me: that is your return address and my handwriting…*pause*…What did I mail for you? Oh shit, your taxes. I mailed your taxes for you.
upon opening the strong, secure, well-put-together envelope from my friendly, neighborhood USPS I was horrified to find that the small triangular shaped envelope was indeed housing the triangular left-overs of my taxes. so i guess they’re late.

Sunday was chilly. After a week of warm sunshine in Michigan we quickly forget that this place is 2 figurative steps away from Antarctica and we start wearing sandals and t-shirts the second there is no more snow on the ground. The sun was bright yesterday but it wasn’t creating any heat. Clouds cast shadows on my newly planted pansies; they shivered all day in the icy breeze skittering through. Poor pansies.
I left for work at 6:05pm. I was in a slump because Sunday night is usually spent lolling on my love seat recliner eating popcorn and reading trash novels. Once I got out and started working I was all right; it was only going to be a couple hours so I sucked it up and gave myself an internal beat-down for being so whine-y.
At 9PM, on my way out this guy shows up in our building asking about the bus system. He’d been waiting at a bus stop for 45 minutes and no bus went by. hmmm. the buses are supposedly running; we check the website. Yup, buses run till 12:15am. hmmm. he said he knew they were definitely running that day because that was how he came to be standing in the spot he was in. but now, at 9pm, he was stranded. we looked up different bus lines for him but they unfortunately didn’t have sunday service. shit. “okay, well, we can call you a taxi, how bout that?” “nah”, he says, “I’ll just walk, it’s colder than it looks outside.” we all agreed that it was and he went right and i went left. guilt was pressuring me to give him a ride but my brain was on a powerpoint presentation of slides showing what happens to girls who give strange men a ride home. it’s so stupid to be getting in a car and not giving the poor man a ride to his apartment. 20/20 has me paranoid and all i can think about is my inhumanity and how i am such a selfish person for not having some decency and courtesy. no way though, no way can i put this guy in my front seat and drive into the night. decency and courtesy is nice and so is not being strangled. so i pushed the radio dial on along with the heat– 93.9 had The Barenaked Ladies in their studio doing a live show. Within 60 seconds their song, Pinch Me, was welling in my ears and the lyrics go “I could walk but I’ll just drive / It’s colder than it looks outside”
The lyrics sharpened my senses–immediately I analyzed the entire evening for evidence. any evidence pointing to anything. unearthly coincidences are signs. that is just the way it goes in my world. it seemed so blatant that his last sentence was the lyric to a song i would go to my car and listen to. but, i haven’t figured out if it means anything. maybe a coincidence really is just a coincidence this time. the blaring obviousness of it makes me feel that the universe is trying to tell me something…and i am not interpreting it.

this is a sand puppy. they live in the african desert.
they live in tunnels and are cold blooded, a rarity among mammals.

they move backwards and forwards at the same speed and they are highly adapted at moving underground (wikipedia).

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everyone knows that halloween is a time for women to dress up like sluts. little girls who used to be princesses and cinderella are now naughty nurses and witches clad in sheer mini skirts. i’d like to see that witch hop onto a broom; there isn’t a single brew or eye of newt to remove that kind of splinter.
here is my predicament: I don’t want to dress up, I find it corny. The amount of work involved in finding/buying/making the costume is wasted time–it’s like spending a whole bunch of money on garbage bags, they are made to be trash and get thrown away. it’s not like you hold onto them or even reuse them. why invest? much like halloween.
going to a halloween costume party without a costume is also a retarded thing to do.

hi, i’m the asshole who is too good to look like the kind of asshole who dresses up for halloween.

i can never think of what to go as. obviously nothing that would cause me to get a splinter in my snatch, nothing that requires me to worry about my boobs accidentally being exposed, and nothing that is a shortened, transparent, sleazy rendition of an actual uniform.

for instance:
She’s a police woman who fights crime in fishnets and spiked heel knee high boots.
There is nothing like following the yellow brick road in her pleated porno skirt, all the better for the munchkins to see up oh, and toto is her bitch.

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