Jiffy LUBE

This is another one of those moments where I wonder how this has possibly happened to me. I would like to think I live a rather moderate life, I don't do anything too harmful or engage in activities that would make my parents any more ashamed then they already are of me, so I don't know why these things seem to fall upon my lap.

The other day I needed to get an oil change at Jiffy Lube. Being that you are supposed to get it every 1,000 miles or so, I like to question the morals of auto mechanics, and I chose to take my car in after 10,000 miles since its last oil change.

Stop.

Let's go back about 7,000 miles on my car, when I drove it to San Francisco Pride and was walking around aimlessly when I saw a strange man in a thong, with an erection, posing for pictures with obviously homosexual men. I am intrigued, so I approach this interesting scene I have come upon.

As it turns out, the man with the thong erection is some famous gay porn star, and like any star, he is signing autographs for fans. However, this guy (Turk XXX) seriously thought he was Edward Norton or some shit with his attitude. He was extremely smug and had quite the pompous attitude. I wasn't in the mood to put a bitch in his place, but seriously, I've seen longer autograph queues for that Disney character that is Captain Hook's second in command. See, I don't even know the guy's name. But he had more fans.

Anyways, I quickly get in line. Then I notice the photos he is signing. He put the head in headshot. There, in perfect 8 x 10 form is a picture of the guy in front of me jacking off. Its like all cock and the small makings of a guy in the background. It is tastefully done, it looks like it was captured right at the peak of that session.

As I gather my headshot, I actually begin to get nervous for my autograph. I can honestly say that holding a photo of someone masturbating as you as them to sign it must be one of the most unnerving experiences I have ever had in my life. I didn't know how to open the conversation. So....what were you thinking about this particular session? That scene from Brokeback Mountain? Yeah that got me too...anyways....

So my 2nd in command Nicole comes up with a brilliant idea. Let's get this photo made out to none other than my mother, Carol. As I am trying to act professional in front of Turk, I kindly ask him (as I peek at his thong boner) to make the autograph out to "Carol."

He scribbles something without looking at me then hands it back.

To Carl,

Best Wishes,

TURK XXX

Oh hey Turk...ummm...its Carol. What? Its Carol. C-A-R-O-L. He seemed annoyed that such a peasant as myself could ask for such a mudane favor, but he instead just wrote something that can be made out as CARLR.

Oh well, good enough.

So that day, I proudly go home and promptly put the picture on the fridge, right next to my 10 year old sister's report card and a photo of my father and I playing baseball. It fit right in.

Upon the discovery, my mother asked it be removed only because 'he looks oddly like your brother' so the photo was taken down and never to be seen again.

Cut to like 5,000 miles back in my car.

My mom saves the photo for a perfect day and slips it on my windshield right before I am about to go to a job interview. Being that I am always running late, I have no time but to throw the photo in my backseat, never to be given a second thought until.......

I am at Jiffy Pube and I am asked to come out to the garage to talk to one of the lead mechanics about the abuse I have put my car through. I'm sorry but there is no damn law about abusing your car, so as long as its running I see no problem with my negligence.

As I'm standing there with "Jeffrey", who is lecturing me about the damages of driving my car on no oil, I notice that one of the little shop guys is circling my car with a vacuum. What is he doing. I signed up to get an lube job, not a suck off.

He begins to open all of my doors and vacuum the filth that is the inside my car. Just as he gets to the seat behind the driver's seat...he pauses. This catches my attention and I look over.

There, laying in perfect view, is a slightly crumbled photograph. An 8 x 10 if you will. An 8 x 10 of a large penis about to spew ejaculate that is autographed to my mother and sitting like it belongs there right on my seat.

He doesn't just do a double take. He does a quad take, something I have only witnessed a few times in my life. His face was utter shock. I felt my soul sink to the depths of my bowels and without any other options I muttered, "JUST CHANGE THE OIL DONT DO ANYTHING EXTRA I'M WAITING IN THE LOUNGE AND YES I WILL TAKE YOU UP ON THAT COMPLIMENTARY BOTTLE OF WATER."

And so I retreated to the lounge, where I felt like a fish in a tank as I watched the shop erupt in laughter. I nursed my bottled water, calculating how long it would take me to hitchhike home and send Carol to go get her beloved photo.

When it came time to pay the bill, I paid with my head bowed down in shame, embarrassed for the misfortune that had somehow crossed my path yet again.

It turns out, Jiffy Lubed Crotch did something to my car and now it is sounding like an exasperated porn star catching their breath after a particularly exerting scene. Actually...my car now sounds like TURK XXX in his famous film "Meeting Brian" that is advertised on the back of his beautiful headshot.

Did you hear that?

So the other day, I was inspired to write this entry. I will not dive into who or where, but let's just say it was the poof of inspiration I needed to get my blog going again. And yes, this is about a bodily function.


I was snowboarding, I think two seasons ago, when I was engaged in a rather political conversation regarding situations where you wouldn't mind prematurely exiting this Earth due to the intense embarrassment the situation presents you with.

Some were discussing serious issues, which I cannot remember right now because mine is the only one I credit as being serious enough.

Basically, I won't even tell you mine. I will just tell you of how I created my own self-fufilling prophecy.

We were going to Boreal that day, and although it is not one of my favorite resorts, it is good enough for college student Friday. As I approach the magestic mountain setting, I feel that familiar twinge of discomfort in my bladder. With no other choice, I make my way to the public restroom, that will forever go down in history as one of my Top 3 Most Tragic Moments.

As I waltz into the bathroom, I am first shocked at the size of the restroom. It is a 2 stall operation. That is not okay because that leaves room for someone else to come in and then its just me and that other person. And I hate people hearing me pee. And I hate hearing people pee. So it becomes weird and I clench up and anyways.

I don't think it can get any worse. And then I see that there are two girls at the mirrors fucking putting on a Mac Makeup show or some shit. Like, they have pallets of makeup spread across the gross ass sink. They aren't just regular girls either. They are like typical pretty girls who don't have buttholes and note their favorite hobbies as tanning and horseback riding.

And, what makes this worse, is I've already committed to the bathroom. I can't back out now. It's going to be me trying to urinate, and them just standing there. This is also more commonly referred to as "my worst nightmare."

I sit down. The silence is deafening. I pull out multiple seat covers. The gentle swish swish cuts through the air like a knife. Its so silent I can hear them dipping their little blush brushes. I sit down. The toilet seat covers crinkle. And I wait.

And wait more.

I push a little.

Nothing.

I am so stressed out from the situation that I can't pee. So now it is like I'm shitting (nightmare #1) and so I push just a little harder when the unthinkable happens.

I fart.

It wasn't even a big one, but it was enough of one to break the silence like it broke wind from my backside. I hear a Clinique Pastel Eye shadow set hit the sink.

Then I hear giggles.

I literally become a prisoner in a 2x4 foot stall, and I'm looking for any kind of escape route. I'm sitting there, pants around my ankles, frantically searching for something that can cause critical injury to myself. Can I drown myself in the toilet? Can I strangle myself with the toilet paper? Is there any way I can get out of here.

Not knowing what to do, I forgo any further attempt to urinate and pull up my pants. I then flush the unscathed toilet and gently turn the lock that opens the door to my destiny. This was like some Lord of the Rings shit, I swear to you.

I break into the light, make eye contact with both girls for a split second, and then frantically run out of the bathroom and as far away from that bathroom as I could get. I am remembering the conversation in the car, where I said my worst nightmare would be to fart in a bathroom stall with someone at the sink. Little did I know I would do it with two people and in absolute silence without any sort of warning that would allow me to frantically clutch my butt cheeks.

I was humiliated, traumatized and worst of all, I still had to pee. I wasn't taking any risks that day, and I held my urine for two more hours, until the beer I had intoxicated myself on from emotionally drinking my experience away caught up to me. And by that point, when all of my insecurity had vanished with the beer, I couldn't even fart if I tried.

I say the C word in this and its a long entry

There are a lot of days that I look back on with such remorse and regret that I would almost sacrifice a stray puppy to never have them happen again. However, as I sit and blankly stare out my window and imagine the truck full of goats parking in front of my house so they can eat the field, I was brought back to a faithful day that occured back during my junior year of high school.

Or as I like to call it, the worst day of my life.

Back in high school, I had few enemies. My most noteable enemy was myself due to the fact that I was comfortable leaving the house with Goodwill clothes and a bowl cut. On the days where that wasn't my fashion choice, it was always a good fallback to throw on some vibrant sweat pants and a homeade sweatshirt.

Anyways, entering my junior year of high school, I had cleaned up quite nicely. I had gone from full blown mullet to faux mullet, which is very similiar to the fauxhawks of today minus the stylish trend that is implied when you see someone sporting one. I actually might need to download Womanizer, this shit is catchy.

As I entered my first day of school, I was most excited for my English class because at the time English was my favorite subject. I noticed I had Ms. N(for her protection) as my teacher, but more importantly, my class was located at G-6...which I fondly referred to as the G Spot. Little did I know that this particular portal to hell would be further from any G Spot stimulation one could get either through masturbation or aided assistance.

The first day I walked into that classroom, I instantly noticed the temperature got colder. My nipples stood on end and even the most comfortable of sweatpants could not prevent the rapid spread of goosebumps that decorated my calves. Suddenly I saw the source of the cold. Ms. N.

To describe this woman and do her justice would be like trying to sum up the effect of World War II on Germany while only using a crayon and a Post It. She was tall and abnormally skinny, but not in a concerning way, but in a way that makes you think 'she burns so many calories being angry, she probably just finished an XL Meat Supreme pizza at lunch.' She had pointy breasts that were like torpedos, and at any moment could lock onto a target and destroy any fanatsy one might have held. But most of all, she was angry. She was beyond angry. She was filled with hate. Like you know how you can feel people's auras or whatever? Hers was slowly disembolweling me with a dull butter knife. And I had been in the classroom for 5 minutes.

Before I can progress to the actual story, I must give you some backstory on Ms. N so you can fully understand that out of all 8 billion people in this world, I choose her to cross paths with.

Example 1: I was giving a spelling test to the class, and as I was doing so, she casually paced across the room. Suddenly she paused. I looked up to notice that her gaze had fallen upon a bright yellow smiley face sticker that had latched itself to the commercial carpeting that lined our classroom.

She stared it down for a few minutes. It smiled back.

She then took the heel of her shoe and ground it so hard into the sticker that the only thing left was a vague skid mark of yellow grasping for life among the carpet fibers.

Those of us that saw quickly caught our breaths.

I had to ask. Why did you just decapitate the smiley face sticker?

"Because I hate happiness. I find it obnoxious."

I decided not to press the matter further.

Example 2: Ms. N asked me to stay after class one day, and I was excited. I had been getting good grades on my papers, and I was almost positive she was going to ask me to be her TA the next semester. As I entered into her dungeon, she asked me to take a seat next to her desk. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. The speech that follows is a rough transcription of what I was told.

"Ashley, I have to admit, you are a good writer and you should consider English in your future. However, I just have to tell you that I really don't like you as a student. I think you are immature and you cause even the most focused of students to break their concentration with all of your comments. So I want to tell you now not to register to be my TA next semester because I really don't want you to."

Alright. I can always take Advanced Ceramics.

Example 3: This one is my fault, because in all honesty, I didn't know what the word cunt meant junior year. I swear on my life. Anyways, we had just read that book Black Boy and had to draw a scene from the book that stood out to us. Well, for me and Nick Bilotti, the scene where he wrote curse words all over some building and had to wash them was so powerful. So, with my limited drawing skills, I draw this black boy washing off a window with a sponge. Then Nick thinks we need to add the end of a curse word so people get what we are depicting. I mean, with the entire dictionary of curse words in my head, I don't know why we fucking chose CUNT as our goddamn word. I'm laughing out loud right now thinking of how utterly STUPID we were for choosing that. I mean next to his sponge we could have wrote (sponge) U C K. or (sponge) A M N. But no. We write (sponge) U N T.

I knew cunt was a bad word, but I had no idea it was as bad as it was. So under the amazing leadership of Nick Bilotti, we fucking turn this paper in with not a single inclination of the punishment to come.

I think we made it 2 periods before we were called into her classroom where we were lectured for an hour. I got in more trouble than Nick because "as a woman, I should never let this word be thrown around, or throw it around and disgrace my gender." I was crying, Nick was crying and Ms. N was holding a piece of paper with the word CUNT on it that had actually been turned in as an assignment. We both failed our Black Boy project. Actually this just made me look like the asshole.

Example 4: I'll keep this short because people might be bored. By the way Hi Amy and thank you for reading! Anyways, we were playing Hangman as a class, and I picked the word TWAT for people to guess.

Ms. N looks up as we have T __ A T on the board.

I received three detentions with her. And by detention, I mean the three most terrifying hours of my life.

SOOOO now that you have a backstory of me and Ms. N, let me tell you how things went from worse to near death.

We had to do a group project about that book Montana 1969 or whatever its called. Anyways, I just had to delete a whole paragraph because it was TMI. Bottom line: we worked in groups for our project, my group didn't get along with one group member, the group member called me a "raging tyrant, much like Hitler" in our evaluations and it was on.

A few days after we turned in our evaluations, one my groupmates, Ashley, and I were watching the movie to Montana 196something. I swear that fucking book got me in so much trouble.

Anyways, as the movie was playing we got a little "sidetracked." When I say sidetracked, I mean that we began drawing huge pictures of penises going into our former groupmembers various orfices. Like, graphically drawn


wait erik needs the computer i'll finish this soon

Icky Nasty

I actually am going to postpone my blog about phone sex operations to talk about something that actually really bothers me. This blog can take a serious turn sometimes.

Since I've been sick for 47 days and counting, I have been forced to watch a great amount of television in my time of sitting at home and trying to find something to distract me from my misery. I've worn out the Travel Channel and E! and have reverted back to a channel that I rarely ever watch now, unless its for watching the tranny on the Real World.

Anyways, I flipped over to MTV today and caught a glimpse of a show called A Double Shot at Love with the Ikki Twins. I thought the original Shot at Love was entertaining the first season and completely exploiting the second season, but I thought all possible damage had been done. I mean come on, Tila Tequila looks like she was beamed over here from Uranus, and they tried to cover up her alien features with bronzer and extra forehead space.

So I flip this over and the first thing I notice is the two 'bisexual' twins. Those bitches are bisexual in the sense that they will make out with a girl to attract guys. Actually I don't know. They are probably such sluts that they probably don't notice when they are being penetrated. They can be riding up an escalator by a flagpole shoved in their vaginas and they'd probably only notice the sale going on at Mervyn's.

It was down to the final four, and they went to everyone's hometown to meet their family. The first thing I noticed is that the two "lesbian" girls had never brought a girl home or even told their parents they were gay. Hmmm...could that mean that they are attention whores just trying to get on reality television? So that was the first red flag. And if you are going to be coming out, something that is so challenging for millions of teenagers and adults in America today, why would you do it on national television with two post-op bimbos next to you?

The one girl came out to her mother, who was shocked and kept repeating,"i don't think she's gay," and then one of the twins started to make out with the girl...right in front of the mother who then felt uncomfortable. My mother seeing me make out with anyone is uncomfortable. However, when you are taking such a sensitive moment as coming out and making it theatrically a hit by kissing the chick after...I mean that's just exploiting things.

I could rant about this show forever, and in fact, I had to turn it off. When they showed up at the next guys house for dinner in red bikini tops, I realized that there are very few people in this world who I think should have an unfortunate death, and those two have now been added to the list among animal abusers and Osama Bin Laden. It just really annoys me how objectified they are not only making homosexuality, but women as well. I mean, what type of example are they serving to the female race? We are sluts who will take it in any hole and then cry about dramatics we created after.

If I ever encountered those two bitches, I would tell them to wait where they are, I'd go off and catch myself every STD known to man and then I'd give them both what they deserve. Actually thinking about that, they probably have every STD known to man and I would just catch them for nothing.

Sorry that was so serious. I will talk about bubblegum fields and my favorite Tetris piece in the next post.

When I get back to the Doctor's tonight I am going to write a blog about how I almost became a phone sex operator. Instead I'm an eBay entrepaneur.

Baby Come Backkkk

I don't really know why I want to blog right now. I am still really sick and I'm on an emotional overload from a bunch of things. I might write a super serious blog and make it private. But then you'll wonder what's in it. Well I'll give you a clue...it will involve unicorns and feline AIDS.

Anyways, let me see if I can update some things. Well first of all I am ill and I cannot get better. My tonsils have swollen to the size of testicles, and my throat is the gentle scrotom (minus the hair) that will house them. Seriously though, they are huge and covered in canker sores. I think this might be an STD, but just to be safe I'm not going to go to the doctor because what I don't know won't hurt me.

So, being sick has interrupted my usual routine of sitting around and doing nothing by adding a cough to the mix. So now I sit around and do nothing while coughing. Its really too much sometimes. I might explode from the amount of activity going on in my brain. Sometimes the stimulation of having to balance eating, watching TV and scratching my crotch overwhelm me.

I got an interview tomorrow with Royal Ambulance, which is cool. I would be working for royalty and thus would become royalty. I got my Solano County EMT card in the mail, which I went and got last week while I was ill. I had to take a photo, and so its one thing that I am haggard and troll looking from my illness, but its another because the lady couldn't figure out her camera, so I just sat there smiling for like 10 minutes. By the time she took it, I look like I've had a stroke because half of my face is drooping from my facial muscles giving out from holding the pose for so long.

Remind me to post some stories I've written about my mother in here some time.

Oh yeah back to the ambulance thing. So yeah I have an interview tomorrow and I sound like a retired porn star. You know? They get those weird ass deep and froggy voices from having one too many caaacckss in their mouth. I don't know how that happens. Can a dick really hit your vocal chords? Shit that sucks. Well now you know if you ever see a meth faced cashier at Raley's with a really crackley and deep voice, you know she was a fan of oral penetration.

How did I get off on that tangent?

My mind is racing in 1000 places. I swear I hate it because my emotions are so up and down. My boss described me as going from a high to low with nothing in between, and that's exactly what that is. So the highs are amazing and fun, but the second even the slightest bit of low comes near me, I just cancel out everything good and focus on that. And that's whats happening now and so I came on here to distract myself but all I really did was write some more about penetration and vaginal warts.

Its kind of working though.

Ahh okay I will end this so nobody else has to suffer from my paranoia/schitzophrania. I'm going to go watch me some Gordon Ramsey and hope he comes to clean out my kitchen, if you get what I'm saying. And if you didn't get what I was saying, I was insinuating intercourse between me and Gordon, and since he is a chef, I objectified my vagina to make it more relatable...thus calling it a 'kitchen' of sorts. I used the term 'cleaning out' to imply the actual penetration itself, and linked it together with my 'kitchen' by using a popular phrase.

Someone take my keyboard away.

Ashley? Yes, I'm coming.

So, ever since I was in 6th grade, I've had to live with a very naughty thing on my concious. You see, while most kids were dreading P.E., I was looking forward to it. I wasn't excited because I was athletically gifted and this was one of the few subjects I excelled at, but rather for a more selfish reason.

I had hidden my shame until recently, when I was reading Mary Roach's latest scientific book entitled BONK. It explores human sexuality and the science behind it, and it has on many occasions given me a slight tingling in my genitalia that I can only describe using the word "enjoyable."

Anyways, I was reading the book today, just as I would any other day, when a particular passage not only jumped out at me, but took a choke hold to my clitoris. It talked about kids having orgasms from climbing the rope during P.E. class.

I thought I was the only one.

Let me emphasize this next part: I will never forget that day in P.E. class. It started off as any other as I began the period dressing down in the women's locker room that smelled of stale urine and San Quenton's laundry room. I had put on my navy blue uniform, which by this time was covered in various stains as I saw it unfit to take it home to wash and risk the chance of forgetting it the next day.

I think I've touched on this before in another blog, but for some reason, my PE number always had bird shit on it. Did yours? Like seriously. I was usually number 2 or 3 and its like the seagulls and pigeons targeted that to take their craps. I mean numbers 4-19 were always clean, and 20-25 occasionally had some stains, but for some fucking reason my number was always covered in bird shit. Sometimes I forgot it was there and I'd sit down, only to have the kids make fun of me for the white spot on my butt. Its like I had gotten my period, only my period looked like white out and had gone through my pants.

What was I talking about again? Oh yeah orgasms from inanimate objects.

So our PE teacher that year was Mr. Bergman, a strapping young lad of 25 who I had somehow commondered as my boyfriend. He was unaware of this, but we had a passionate relationship that consisted of over the clothes touching and kissing with tongue.

He told us that we would be climbing the rope in the gym today, and whoever made it to the top got extra points. I am terrified of heights, but I wanted to impress my fake boyfriend and then maybe the fanatsy version of him in my mind would pay a little more attention to my needs if I reached the top. I could actually do more with that last sentence, but for timing sake, I must move on.

So we go into the gym and there it is: my future first orgasm giver. At the time I was unaware, but that shit stretched to the top of the gym ceiling. That's like 20ft. For safety, they had laid out some of those blue wrestling mats, that if anything, would only limit you to losing motor function in 3 of your 4 limbs if you were to fall.

I don't go first because that wasn't my style, yet I watched with glee as nobody could make it to the top. Finally I decided it was my turn.

I started out with normal positioning and I began to hoist myself to the top. I was about halfway through when I felt a strange tingling in my crotch, unlike anything I had ever felt before. Okay I lied, I had felt it before during a particularly racy episode of Growing Pains, but I had never acted on it.

The feeling began to intensify with each climb, and by the time I made it to the top I was ringing the bell so hard in order to drown out my gasping breaths. I returned slowly to the bottom, my legs shaking and my arms no longer wanting to do the work. The cheers of my classmates were drowned out from my sudden urge to have a cigarette and go to sleep.

I had no idea what had just happened, but I knew I wanted to do it again.

So I did again. And again. And again. I climbed the rope three times that day, and each time I rang the shit out of that bell at the top.

It wasn't until high school that I was forced to climb the rope again, and all of my memories slowly flooded back to me. Being that it was some years later, I realized what exactly happened that faithful day in Mr. Bergman's class. Did I have sex with a rope? No, it totally had sex with me. WAIT WHAT.

I was scared. I didn't want to. I felt dirty. But then I did it anyways. And I analyzed myself this time.

I had been so worried that I was humping the shit out of the rope in 6th grade, that I was getting nightmares from it. However, when I climbed the rope in high school, I realized my crotch didn't even touch it! Thank God, because can you imagine the damage that could come from a girl humping a rope in front of everyone? I'd spread that shit around!!!

Anyways, I'd lived with this guilt and fear and curiosity for several years now. How the hell did I orgasm from a rope with no dinner, foreplay or gentle carasses. Shit it left me with burns and exhaustion...not my idea of a good time. Most importantly, how did I orgasm without anything touching my crotch!! Was it all mental? Am I turned on by woven pieces of wool? Does that mean I can't wear belts? Am I going to have to join some kind of society?

Albeit several years late, but my questions were finally answered in my book. As it turns out, your body can orgasm from extreme exertion! Isn't that awesome? Looking back, its a good thing those intense basketball practices didn't get to me...or did they. But apparently when you exert so much force on your pelvic and groin muscles, they can actually produce an orgasm. And since climbing the rope in gym class involves just that, many kids have orgasms when they do so.

So, now that I am calmed about not being the only one...it brings about another question. What kind of sicko perverts are still imposing the damn rope climbing shit if they know kids are getting off on it?! Are the teachers secret pediofiles because they are watching kids orgasm left and right as they reach the top and ring the bell? And what really is the purpose of the bell...is it like a trophy for reaching sexual maturity?

I don't know, but if I ever hear about my little sister encountering a PE teacher that insists she climb the rope more than once that entire year...well I'm going to march right down there and report them to Meganslaw.com. Well first I'm going to climb the rope, then I'll give them what they deserve.

And the first person voted off Survivor Island is...

So I invented a new game. It's called Bacher Survivor.

The premis of the game is oddly similar to the popular CBS show entitled Survivor, where 'castaways' must fight to stay on the island in order to win the million dollar prize. I swear I didn't get the idea from that though.

Our game is simple. Each week, we vote a family member off and that family member is voted "Least Liked of the Week." Although my initial rules demanded the family member (aka my mother) leave the house, it was met with some difficulties to which I do not want to go into detail.

By the end of Week 5 (animals were not allowed to play because they would win), we will have an Ultimate Bacher, who in theory is supposed to take home a $20 prize, but nobody, including myself, wanted to chip in $5 each to play.

We had our first day of voting yesterday, and at not so surprising odds, my mother was voted off 4-1. The other vote was for me, and was casted by her, but I am working on an alliance with my brother and sister to vote off my dad because I think I am next. I cannot help it that I have a temper and accidently leave used menstrual pads within my brother's view.

I was thinking aside from the voting, we should do some challenges. Great, I just realized I'm going to talk about bodily functions again. I was thinking the first challenge could be called Carol's Cooking.

For those of you who do not know my mother, let me tell you that she is the worst cook in the world. For the last 23 years, I have endured such dinners as chicken with olive oil on top of it, chicken with a whole potato stuffed inside of it, chicken with nothing but the chicken cooking in the oven. Its always chicken, a potato and some random liquid she pulls out of the cabinet to season it...which is either oil or vinegar.

A couple of weeks ago, my mother decided to expand her culinary excellence. She purchased some Italian sausages (the penis jokes were in high demand that night) and some saurkraut. I was beginning to get a distended abdomen from being malnurished in her care, and so anything she cooked, I was willing to eat. So when I saw the phallic sausages sparking up grease from the pan in which she threw them in, I started to eat them. And, to be honest, they weren't that bad...until...

I'm fucking sitting on the computer that night when my stomach starts making crazy loud noises. It was like Los Angeles traffic status. I didn't feel sick, but the sounds were so alarming it was like the animals going crazy before a major disaster.

Cut to about an hour later. I begin getting these strange ass stomach cramps that are screaming 'poorly cooked sausage.' I'm reading Oh No They Didn't, when suddenly...it hits me. I have no time to react and in a matter of .01 of a second...I've shit my pants.

I am LIVID. Not only have I shit my sleeping boxers, which ironically have donkeys on them, but I am not trapped at the computer. I am afraid to get up because I do not want to see if I've left a mark and I don't want that shit getting everywhere. So I call in my sister, who brings me a roll of toilet paper (it actually wasn't that bad) and escorts a hysterical me to the bathroom. My mother laughs so hard she cries.

Cut to like 20 minutes later. I think the worst of it is over when BAM it hits me again. But I'm ready this time! And by ready I mean I am practically sinched into my bed with the computer and 100 wires wrapped around me, preventing any kind of movement. At first I try to gently put the computer back on the desk and slowly remove myself from my bed, but then things change. I begin to sweat. Now I am throwing the laptop onto the ground and ripping the sheets off the mattress to get out. And just as I free myself from my bedroom prison, I shit my pants again. God fucking damnit.

Twice. In one night. I shit my pants. I went 23 years with only shitting my pants once, and then it happends TWICE IN ONE FUCKING NIGHT. I blame this entirely on that sausage, and Carol still stands by the fact that she felt fine that night.

The next day, I am home alone and wallowing in my self pity, when the phone begins to ring off the hook. Annoyed by its ring, I unplug it and begin my day. Little did I know that my poor sister was at school, massivly shitting and calling for me to come pick her up. She came home at 3:00pm that day pale, clammy and cool to the touch. The poor kid was forced to do this all in public restrooms, stalls nonetheless, and I was to blame. Unfortunately all I could do was laugh hysterically and reflect on the fact that she very well could have shit her pants at school, and nobody was coming to get her.

So, all in all, this post started with my excitement for my new game and ended in my bowels. My mother has now been voted out of the household and the next vote takes place next week. I was thinking another challenge could be to spend 1 hour trapped in a room with her after someone has woken her up from a nap, but that is so much tortue that it wouldn't even be allowed in Guantonomo Bay.

And with that, I'm off to my favorite haunt: the public library, to make more copies. I swear that bitch of a place is the shit. I go there and just relax until the ghetto kids 5 years younger than me intimidate me and kick me off the computers.

I also felt bad because the librarian helping me yesterday had a piece of broccoli right in her front tooth and I just kept staring at it. Then I went and asked her questions I knew the answer to so I could stare at it more. Then I realized I was a bitch.

I think this is a trend...

I have been writing WAY too much about bodily functions, and much as they are in my life, I cannot stop.

I would like to touch on the delicate subject of farting in public today, as we all have been there and understand the extreme consequences that can come from releasing one's undigested carbon into the air. It's like a Yankee Candle Company candle flavored "Old Taco Bell" that you constantly have lit.

Anyways, I just have to say that one of my biggest pet peeves is when someone farts in public. I know that sometimes you can't help it, and that's when you clench your ass cheeks together like Michael Jackson is approaching you from behind with a freshly ripened banana and a cup of warm milk. You do not let anything in. You do not let anything out.

So, I just have to say that I really, really hate when people fart in public because even though I didn't do it, I somehow do. It all starts with that initial sniff. It's like...wait...something...SOMETHING...has changed in the air, but you can't quite get it yet. So you go on alert. It could be a fart. It could be a skunk. You never know.

Then you get confirmation that it is a fart. And this is where I go a little insane.

I start to wonder what diameter the cloud of ass has reached. Who can smell it? Then I begin to wonder if it is me, when I know damn well it is not. But then I get so worried it is me that my face turns red, I start to get really anxious looking, my nose starts to twitch and I occasionally state,"It was not me who farted," out of the blue.

When you combine all those factors, it appears as though it is me that farted, when in fact I have not. That is why I get so fucking upset when someone else does because its like a get out of jail free card when I am around. You can easily slip one out and as you play it off cooley while you engage in your conversation on the hardships faced by the migrant farmers in Northeast Africa as I am convulsing and having a minor attack to take the guilt.

I was at the gym once (I apologize for those of you that have heard this story) when a man came up onto the ellipitical next to the treadmill I was running on. He looked like Gene Simmons. He had weird 80's fro-ey hair with one of those tank tops that usually obese guys cut the sleeves off of down to their belly button. You know what I'm talking about? Usually a moob and an erect nipple peek out the side, along with their viciously long armpit and chest hair. God, I am getting so turned on writing about this, I might just have to masturbate to Gene Simmons. Annnnnnd done.


ANYWAYS. Gene and I made eye contact. I will call him Gene for purposes of reading/he was gross. As I'm running, mind you inhaling deeply, I feel the temperature around my knees begin to get warmer. It begins to rise. I am so confused as to why it is getting so hot in the OH MY GOD IT WAS THE WORST FART I'VE EVER SMELLED IN MY LIFE.

I swear the recipe for that fart was like 100 dead babies divided by 14 landfills and then square rooted by feces housed in a Mexican restaurant. I was unable to breathe. I felt my lungs burning, grasping for fresh air as my heart tried to pace itself with this new abundance of carbon in my body. I didn't know where this came from. Did I teleport into someone's anus? Then it occured to me. This foul odor could be produced by none other than fucking Gene Simmons.

I look over. He looks at me. The guilt was pouring out of his eyes. I coughed twice and then proceeded with my run.

Cut to five minutes later. SAME THING. I actually felt sweat form around my brow because that shit literally raised the temperature in the room! Just as I was gasping to breathe, I realized something. Everyone was noticing the smell. You saw it hitting people like a tidal wave across the room. However, nobody's eyes accused Gene of it. Instead, they figured that the girl running must be exerting so much energy she couldn't control herself.

After I finished my run, I ran up to my friend who was next to me while the whole thing occured. While she was hesitant to acknowledge at first the presence of such a powerful odor, I eventually coerced it out of her and she admitted to thinking it was me because I 'run quite loudly.' WHAT. BECAUSE I RUN LOUD MEANS THAT I HAVE TO FART?!

I was so embarrassed for the fart I didn't do that I went to the front desk and tattled on Gene to the worker who happened to be my friend. I explained, in great detail, the origins of the first fart, the change in climate and how everyone thought it was me. She assured me that she would clear up any customer complaints abuot my farting and blame them on Gene.

I went home that night satisfied that I had taken a stand. Now I realize that nobody went up to the desk complaining of my fart, and to this day they probably still think I did it. Then again, after it happened I began frantically scanning the room with my eyes, my face turned red and my ass began to clench, but that is just a natural human reaction to a scary situation.

And someone is playing music that is a heartbeat so fucking loud. Hi, this isn't the cave dwelling days, we have guitars and drums and pianos now. We don't need to listen to heartbeats for pleasure. Plus how do you sing along with that shit.

I'm so tired that this post was a giant white and black blur that looked like a Unicorn whom I have named Sweetmuffin.

So this one time when I almost died....

I almost died the other day, and had I actually died, I would be so pissed off.

So I'm at Valero, filling up my vehicle with gasoline. When I say filling up my vehicle, I mean I go there with the intention of putting $10.00 in. Then I fuck up and hit $10.01. That is unacceptable, so I decide I'll go to $10.05. I hit $10.06. The next thing I know my car has $20.00 of gasoline in it and I am getting overdraft charges on my credit card/

ANYWAYS.

So I pull in and get out my car, praying that it does not break down for the FOURTH time at Valero. Side note: You would think breaking down at a gas station would be like being horny in a sex shop. No. The people at gas stations are so hesitant to help. It's like this 23 year old female in soccer shorts and a cow t-shirt is probably faking her car breaking down so she can slaughter a family. Shit, I'd have better luck breaking down in the ghetto because at least I'd get attention from the people trying to shank me.

What was I talking about again?

Oh yeah, how I almost died.

So as soon as I get out of my car, I hear hysterical screaming coming from the other pump. Its this woman screaming at a man in a truck something along the lines of,"dafjkd;af YOU ARE GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOUR DAUGHTER JFKDAKF, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OH MY GOD YOU ARE GOING TO KILL US ALL WHY IS YOUR CAR ON WHILE YOU ARE PUMPING GAS!"

Naturally, I look over and sure enough, this fucktard's truck is on while he is pumping gas, while an adorable little girl is sitting in her carseat staring out. I begin to get upset/angry/scared. Then the lady starts screaming again,"WHAT THE FUCK WHY ARE YOU SMOKING ARE YOU CRAZY SDFKA;F OH MY GOD YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!" And I look over, and this 5-inch taint is holding a lit cigarette over a small area of spilled gas.

Being that I am now a trained Emergency Worker(ha! I just am still excited from my testing) I decide to act. So I run into the gas mart and frantically scream THAT GUY OUT THERE IS GOING TO BLOW THE PLACE UP THE WOMAN IS SCREAMING wait hold up there is a funky ass bug that just landed on a piece of paper here. It's like an inbred ladybug. I think its handicapped. Come here little guy, I will take your pulse and get you a sling for that broken leg.

Hi ADD, if you could just go away for like 2 more minutes so I could finish this story, that'd be great.

So I scream at the gas station guy and he just stares at me. Then I repeat what is going on and he runs outside and starts looking in the trash cans. I was like seriously? Please don't mind the man with the lit cigarette or the woman screaming at him, but those overflowing trash bins are really going to cause some major health problems.

Seeing as the gas dude was about as helpful as a hemoroid on a sunny day, I decided to go break up the fight. I run over and start to scream WHAT'S GOING ON WHAT ARE YOU DOING SIR MA'AM ARE YOU OKAY I'M CALLING THE COPS DON'T WORRY! And both parties get silent. I am confused.

The woman then starts to laugh and goes,"Oh aren't you sweet! I'm just having a fight with my husband because he is putting our daughter in danger, but it's no big deal. Right honey?" And he smiles and nods at me. Then they both thank me and tell me to have a good New Year. Then I went home and kicked several babies and punched several puppies because I was so frustrated with how stupid people in this world can be.

So moral of the story is I almost died because of a domestic dispute. But I guess that'd better than dying because there's a spider in my car.

I'll take a Things Ashley's Afraid Of for $400, Alex

So I just got a TB shot. I'm pretty sure the needle is the size of an ant's penis, yet I was still so scared that I hyperventilated, spit on myself and showed signs of incontinence.

Anyhoo, it got me to thinking of the one thing I am most terrified in life: Balloons. They are my mortal enemy. And you may read that and think I'm crazy or whatnot, but its the truth. I am fucking frightened by balloons.

I've heard phobias stem from some kind of past relation to the object in question. I have no memory that could lead to me being afraid of latex. My mom didn't like abuse me with balloons, although the imagery of that is quite entertaining. Can you imagine Carol chasing me up the stairs with like a giant CONGRATULATIONS! balloon? Actually I can and it scares me.

Being afraid of balloons has greatly affected my social life, and I blame them for me being so uncomfortable and awkward in even the most delightful of situations. I mean come on, parties have become a nightmare of sorts. Whenever someone is having an 'occasion' themed party, I must be on alert. Will there be balloons? What kind? What shape? What kind of gas will they be filled with?

I remember I was at a party once and some twat didn't believe I was afraid of them, so she took a balloon and punched it in my face. I promptly fell in the fetal position, thus spilling my cranberry/vodka all over her slut shirt. I am sorry, but I was not in the wrong here. Whenever I fear for my life when balloons are around, it is only natural that I drop into the fetal position and seek the comfort of my mother's supple womb. I also plug my ears so hard they have bled on occasion. And yet, somehow this is entertaining to envoke upon me like I am some kind of party clown. I am more of a party dinosaur. I think they are more fun than party clowns.

Another instance occured my freshman year of college, when higher education is taught to eager students via pop the balloon off someone's ass on the front lawns of campus. It was some game designed to get our class to bond, and the object of the game was to tape a balloon to your ass(no), grab a tack(no) and try to pop everyone's balloon while protecting your own(NO). I mean for fuck's sake I was already nervous enough from my first day of school, let alone having to tell the teacher that I cannot participate in the project due to a fear of an inaminate object. So there I was, while everyone was popping each other's asses(maybe its a good thing I sat out), watching with my ears plugged as they ran around bonding. The best part was, everything for the rest of the year somehow related to that dumb ass balloon project, and thus I felt even more left out. "Did you know the radioactive principals of carbon are nearly identical to the way Kevin popped Claire's balloon on the first day of class! Remember that Ashl...oh...wait."

Alright, I need to go run. I might bring a bag next time I run because I find the coolest shit. Like I found Mickey Mouse ears with the name TOBIAS written in gold on them. I literally stopped my pace as I considered grabbing them, but then I decided not to because what if Tobias wants them back? I also found that dead cat. Oh oh and I found a fucking ALL SAINTS CD! Remember those bitches? I am heavily regretting not grabbing that one. Yeah, I'll bring my backpack today.

Also I am a nationally certified EMT now :D

Bodily Functions Post

I've been asked several times in my life who I admire, and everytime I pull some bullshit answer out of my ass that usually makes me look like I really want to grow up to be influential and positive.

It occured to me the other day that I admire people who can take shits in public.

No, seriously. Like, that is something I have never been able to do and I know people can relate to that. How many times have you been somewhere in public when its like fuck I really gotta take a shit. But what can you do? I'd rather take a sperm shot to the fact than risk someone hearing that oh so familiar plop plop splash that should only be heard in one's home.

Its so funny because when other people are faced with a situation like that, it's like there is no hesitation on their part. Oh, I have to shit, let me find the closest bathroom. I wouldn't put it past those people to take a shit in a glass window toilet positioned in the middle of Nordstrom.

I can't tell you how many times I have been driving, while using every contraction of my muscles to not crap my pants. And why do I torture myself like this? Because I would rather drive 20 minutes home than use someone else's bathroom?

I swear, that has got to be the worst feeling...driving and having to go to the bathroom. You are pretty sure that is the end of your life. "Vehicle crashes, driver dies in accident covered in own feces." And somehow, there is never anywhere to pull over when you really have to go. I would rather shit outside than in a public restroom. But whenever I have to go while driving, I'm either on a bridge or on a road with cement walls on either side. My body really hates it. It triggers the waves of nausea in accordance to the most inconvienant surroundings. Oh, Ashley is driving through a tunnel, let's put a lot of pressure on her sphxinter and make her feel like she is going to throw up her own bowel movement because she can't pull over.

I may be writing this drunk.

Except I'm not drunk.

But that's sort of how I feel right now drinking a Monster on an empty stomach.

And I got distracted looking at t-shirts, so I'm going to end this and write more later.

I hope I passed my NREMT!!!!!!

I am so terrified of shots that it makes me feel like technological advances owe me something.

I mean come on, we can dissect how many atoms are in a neuron photoplankton reactor site, but we really cannot find a better way to deliever intravenous medications? And there are so many spelling errors in that sentence, I suggest you ignore it.

When I went to Sonoma State, you had to have all of your shots in order to register for the next semester. Unfortunately, my doctor insisted the only accurate way to keep someone's shot records was on a piece of yellow binder paper. So, when I presented this crumpled piece of paper with various coffee stains and bodily fluids on it, they rejected it. That meant I had to go back to my doctor's office and have him fill out an official immunization record, which at the pace he was going, would be done by the time they had found a cure for AIDS and the first moonwalk on Mars had taken place.

For those of you who have had the pleasure of registering for college courses, you understand that the moments leading up to your registration time are like the fucking Kentucky Derby. Its like you have a $100 bet on getting Physics 301 from 10:00-10:50 on TuTh, but the only way to get it is by being there EXACTLY when your registration time starts. If your time is at 11:00 and you decide to start browsing classes at 11:01, you are lucky to get into Angry Women Poets on Fridays from 1-4:40. It is the most stressful thing in the world. And, when you go to register and your account pops up "blocked," you feel your arteries constrict and the formation of an ulcer begin to take place.

So when this happened to me my third semester of college, I didn't know what to do. When I realized my account was blocked because I had no record of my Hepatitis B shot, I threw on my rollerblades (don't judge) and bladed down to the health center.

They explained that because I had no record of my Hep B shot (which I had obtained a year earlier, as noted on the yellow binder paper), they could not allow me to register. I asked what I could do. They said I could get another one. So I did exactly that.

In fact, I did exactly that for four more semesters until my doctor died and my shot records were discovered in his office and mailed to his mother. So every semester, right as the block appeared on my account, I hustled down to the Health Center and got a new Hep B shot. Since a full cycle of the shot is over the course of three, I would be required to get my second one a month later. However, since I only went every six months, I just continued to get the first shot over, and over, and over, and over again.

I was thinking about this today as I requested my shot records so I can begin my new job. Is it healthy to have five Hepatits B Cycle 1 shots? Do I repel the disease now? Am I protecting others around me from it? Or, did I over do it and now I have the disease. Its really a troubling thought.

My only issue is, there has got to be a better way of doing things. After my 5 Hep B shots, getting my knee drained and having that horrible anti-venom shot in my ass, I can't help but be terrified of needles. How is it we have not thought of a better way to do this? The same can be said about childbirth. That looks terrible. I've seen several videos of it, and those vaginas look like they are taking gigantic, solid shits in the form of a child. Again, there has got to be a better way.

I hope by the time I have to get my next shot or crap out a child, technology will have taken my advice and devised a pain free way to go about this. Maybe they can grow the child in a cup of special water, like you do with one of those toys that grows when you put it in water. That would save on the weight gain, morning sickness and vaginal expulsion aspect of it. Same with shots. You should be able to take a pill for Hep B or Chickenpox or Meningitis or any of those things.

I guess what it comes down to is that I'm a really big wuss afraid of needles and huge things coming out of my vagina, and I'm just looking for an easier way out.

I've been getting really annoyed lately because people have been making me feel shitty. It's one thing for me to make myself feel shitty because I drank too much or read something sad in the news, but for other people to, that just isn't right.

Back in high school, I like to think that I meshed somewhat well with everyone. I was a far cry from the popular crowd, who to this day I wonder why they were even catergorized as that at all. I tried to just be friendly and mind my own business, then secretely express my dislike for whores and sluts to my trusted friends behind closed doors. For the most part, people left me alone when it came to making fun of me. Which is surprising when I wore teal sweatpants and had a bowl cut until high school.

However, there was one boy who openly made fun of me to everyone. Let's call him Ben. He was chubby, red faced and blonde, with a slight lisp and a personality that made you wonder why he was in a position to be poking fun at anyone. He relentlessly was mean to me, and call me out on physical deformaties and personality faults. To this day, I feel as though I've gotten over it, but I still can't help but think...'you made fun of me?' He should be mean to nobody other than the chunky face staring back at him in mirror, not the innocent girl who just wanted to be comfortable in sweatpants.

Lately, I've experienced similar feelings within this last week of people being mean. It's strange, because I feel as though I'm a grown woman and people are not supposed to be continuing this adolescent hobby. Its been nothing major, a comment about a shirt I was wearing, some strangers making fun of my karoke, you know, just miniscule things. I was surprised to find them slowly wearing on me. My outer shell can repel the first few comments, but it can't hold for long. My body is sort of like the spaceship in the film Independence Day, you know how they have that cool forcefield around it? Well, its like Will Smith came along this week and penetrated me. I'm actually going to keep the sentence like that.

What I'm just trying to say is that I'm angry and upset that I have allowed people to get to me. Moreso, I'm hurt and betrayed by several of the comments stemming from people I consider friends. Bottom line, if you are going to make fun of me, do it behind my back so I can continue living my life in a world that believes in the written word and that all dogs go to Heaven. Just let me live in my denial folks.

Oh and random boys at the bar: Your voice will get as high as mine when I sing Christina's part in Lady Marmalade when I shove a chair into your dicks next time I see you. kthanks.

I always watch scary movies and get pissed off when the stupid whores get killed because they were being dumbasses. Oh my God, the killer is coming, I'm actually going to go run into this dead end room with no exit site or weapons to defend myself.

It got me to thinking of what I'd do if someone broke into my house, and I decided that I would shank a bitch.

I don't really know what shanking someone entails, but I'm prety sure if it came down to it, I could do it. Its really sad, but I'm always on the lookout for weapons just in case need be. Like, I'll be sitting in the bathtub thinkin,"Okay if someone broke in, what would I use?" Usually I narrow it down to my brother's electric pube razor or a wicker basket.

I do this for every room in the house. In my room I have a baseball bat, and if that is too much effort, I can always use my guitar and smash the shit out of him then stage dive after. Allison's room presents some problems, but she has a giant stuffed teddy bear, and that could work. Seriously, this thing is like the size of the midget I danced with this weekend, and could easily smuggle someone. Or snuggle someone.

Anyways, with all these break ins and home invasions lately, I feel like I need to take some action. I found a meat cleaver in the garage the other day, and instead of thinking of the wonders it could do to tough cuts of meat, I thought of how cool of a weapon it would be. Girl defends herself against attacker with meat cleaver. Its like the tables would be turned. He'd come in with a machete, and see me with my meat cleaver, and probably just walk out.

I was talking to one of my friends about how I want to get a gun in case someone breaks in, but then she said I'd probably shoot myself. Hi, I'm not Plaxico Burris (some of you will have to look that up, but it works as a reference). I wouldn't even use it. I'd just keep it locked and loaded in case someone comes in. But then I realized, I really don't want to go to jail if I accidently killed the intruder/somoene accidently intruding, so I settled on the next best thing.

I think I'm going to get a paintball gun. Granted, they look absolutely nothing like real guns, and he'd probably think I just was trying to scare him off with my Star Wars collection. But seriously, how good would that be? Someone breaks in, and you just UNLOAD on them. Its not fatal, but its definitely enough to knock you back.

I went paintballing once and I ran away from the combat and found a secluded spot. Ten minutes later my team captured the flag and took a path that coincided with my spot as their means of escape. I was shot like 47 times from close range. I cried under my mask. I vowed that day to never go paintballing again, and I'm sticking to it.

Anyways, the point of this is entry is to say that the world is turning into an increasingly more dangerous place as each day goes by. It seems like just yesterday I could put on my knickers, grab the townfolk and go for a cruise in my dad's '67 Ford. Now I put on bullet proof vests instead, and my new ride is filled with fucking spiders. And most importantly, if someone breaks in, I don't want to go down in history as the bitch who sat under a desk and got attacked. No. I want to be known as the girl that singlehandedly took down an attacker with a Beanie Baby. I'd prefer to use the cobra, but I guess the bumble bee will do.

Take that Neve Campell.

This is so fucking good I can't stand it.

I have this really irrational fear that I am going to die by means of a spider in my car. It has definitely happened. I mean, how terrible is that. You died because a fucking spider was in your car.

Have you ever encountered this? You are driving along when suddenly BAM there is an arachnid dangling from a web in front of your face. I once was driving home from Tahoe when a giant white one, roughly the size of a Sackajewia dollar, fell from my rearview mirror. I began frantically swerving, endangering the lives of everyone, until Nate simply reached up and smashed it between his hands.

Another time I was driving from my house to Safeway when another white spider fell from my rearview mirror. Are white spiders attracted to '96 Jeep Grand Cheerokes? Do they migrate towards them? I personally hate white spiders above any other kind. Its not that I'm racist, its just because their features become creepier when dropped against a white background. I could actually say that about a lot of white people I know too.

Anyways, I ended up pulling into the parking lot where I demanded a man kill the vile beast. I had no remorse for interrupting this man's shopping trip, and he spent 10 minutes searching my car for the spider. Eventually he came out and said he got it, but I saw no physical evidence. I ended up Raid-ing my car for 20 minutes, which not only killed the mystical spider, but any creature within a 40 mile radius of my car.

Most recently, I was driving on the freeway to school when suddenly another fucking white spider dropped from my rearview mirror. Before the panic could set in, I became convinced that there was a little whore spider in my mirror, getting knocked up by whoever came by, and was producing mass amounts of white spiders to test my wit.

After it dropped, I realized I had no options. There was nobody else in the car to get it, and I was driving on the freeway. So I took a deep breath and readied myself. Then I took a deep breath and did it again. Then I started to shake.

Finally, seeing that my window of opportunity was closing, I reached out, grabbed the spider as fast as I could, closed my palm, and smashed my hand into my uniform pants as hard as I could. I then proceeded to SLAP SLAP SLAP my hand into my pants where I had dropped it and then caught my breath.

After 5 or so minutes, I decided that I should look down at my pants in order to see the proof that not only had I killed the spider, but I was also a fierce bitch. As I looked onto my pants, which were now slightly elevated from the swelling of my leg which had gotten the shit slapped out of it, I saw nothing. No carcass. No smearing of spider guts. Nothing. They were as clean as the day I bought them, and somewhere in my car...or my body...a white spider was basking in the glory of having a major pussy try to kill him.

Sometimes when I listen to my iPod, I am scared people know what I am listening to. Like when I am running to Just Dance on repeat for 40 minutes, I am pretty sure other people can hear it. Then I get kind of self concious and try to not mouth the words as much. Not that I know many words. That has always been one of my major setbacks in life: learning song lyrics. I can hear a song hundreds of times, and at best, I'll memorize the chorus. It's always awkward when I go to a party or karoke, and I am singing something completely different in front of a large group of people. Most noteably is my performance of Jingle Bell Rock, which does not get past the first verse.

I also spent this weekend dancing with an African American little person named Medium High. It was at a bar, and he was dancing with his friends to the live band. Never being one to pass up dancing, I headed over and enjoyed a night with Medium High, who introduced himself by means of his hat. When I told him my name, he pointed to his backwards Phillies hat, which had printed on the back "Medium High." I'm not sure if that is really his birth certificate defined name, but it worked for me, and actually I found it quite fitting. He wasn't Roloff status, but he was as you could say "Medium High" in height.

It got me to thinking that maybe I should get some kind of article of clothing as a means to introduce myself. It's such a bother having to articulate your name so people can understand it (Ashley is always tough) and then you have to risk germs by shaking hands. Maybe I can get a pair of Apple Bottom Jeans and write on them "Backdoor Bacher" or something referring to my large ass. I just remembered that "backdoor" is associated with someone who enjoys anal pleasure, which I have never experienced, so maybe I should go with something a little more subtle. Like Anal Ashley.

I was once walking down the street when a van pulled up to the stop sign I was waiting to cross. The Hispanic man and I made eye contact, when I saw him reach down for something in his van. A second later, an electronic cat call erupted from some hidden speaker and was followed by a wink from the driver.

As I walked on, I got to thinking that not only was that one of the most objectifying and disturbing things I'd ever encountered, but by far one of the funniest.

I knew as I would go on about my life, I would tell people about the man with the electronic cat call van. I figure most people don't believe my story, but then I realize, that it sounds so crazy it'd be impossible for me to make up. Although I have a wild imagination, clearly that man's was wilder and I must applaud his willingness to hit on women.

And now, almost a year later, I reflect back on that day and how even the most alarming of gestures can still make me smile because I believe in it.

There was a moment in my past where I lacked any kind of formal sleeping accomidations. Having returned from my year abroad in Sweden, my life was reduced to whatever items could fit into two faulty suitcases and whatever stray items I could wear.

So, with a few pairs of jeans and a couple of sweatshirts, I moved into my first apartment with little more than the clothes on my back. As a person, I don't require much to function, and I find myself in awe of how much it takes my friends just to get by. For the first few nights, I slept on balled up towels, which served as pillows, blankets and padding between me and the carpet. Although this idea was minimalist to the extreme, practicality wise I was suffering and needed something soon.

My father came up with the idea to loan me his loaned bed. For twenty four years, my father had slept downstairs on some stray couch cushions and Goodwill blankets. My mother would have none of his snoring, moving and general involuntary functions taking place while she was trying to sleep, and within a couple weeks of marriage, he was outcasted to the family room.

I think I take after my father when it comes to being minimal, and he does it better than anyone I know. For two decades he has slept under certain conditions, so when he was given an AeroBed for Christmas one year, he not only disgraced its presence, but was offended by the thought.

So it was only natural the AeroBed was given to me as a means of bedding until I was able to afford my own. In theory, this would be an ideal situation for anyone who had been sleeping on balled up towels. However, what they neglected to tell me was that the first time my dad laid on the bed, he popped it, and attempted to fill the hole in with toothpaste and scotch tape.

My first night with the bed, I woke up in the middle of it with my back and buttocks completely on the ground. As a visual reference, it was as though an obscenely obese person had decided to sleep on a trampoline, and was thus defying the laws of gravity and intertia in the process.

Lucky for me, the AeroBed came with an automatic pump, so I sleepily reached over until I found myself once again sleeping on air. This process went on two to three times per night.

After a few weeks, I couldn't handle the restless nights and the slight case of scoliosis I began to develop. One of my good friends offered up another air mattress, which was not only hole free, but also a California King.

It was love at first sight and I spent four hours blowing the thing up until I discovered she had provided me with a pump. The mattress worked wonders. I was sleeping again and was almost getting enough courage to invite hopeful one night stands over to get it on on my air mattress. As trashy as it may have sounded, I would feel honored if I were to be taken back to a strangers home, only to discover they spent their nights on giant Ziplock baggie.

When I moved to my new apartment, the mattress situation needed to change. I was now in a committed relationship, and somehow the thought of sharing a stained twin mattress I had commondeered was not so sensual. Nights usually ended with one of us on the floor while the other slept peacefully on a lumpy mattress.

It was only when I began to cruise craigslist.com that I realized the potential for a cheap bed. Although it may seem disgusting, the promise of adventure lurked beneath my future used mattress. Who knows how many children were conceived on that bed? I would now be a part of their lives. What if Obama had been created on the very fibers I was now sleeping on? I would be famous and change the world for the better, simply because I was in the right place at the right time.

After searching for a couple of weeks, I found a hidden post misplaced among the sporting goods section. "Free pillow top full mattress and box spring, must go by Thursday." I checked my calender. It was Tuesday. I instantly called the woman and staked my claim on the mattress. This would be far greater than the Louisana Purchase.

Now that I had a mattress, I just had to figure out how to get it from Point A to Point B. After talking to several friends, I got an offer to borrow a truck for $20 plus gas. Although that is practical, it takes away from the FREE aspect of the mattress. I would lose all bragging rights, and in turn be degraded to sleeping on a used mattress, instead of a free pillowtop wonder.

Enlisting the help of my dad seemed to take me a few steps backwards. For starters, he called me Thursday morning complaining of a stomach ache and that he would be unable to help me. However, he had promised to get a truck from his work to move the mattress, so I couldn't complain.

After calling a rather impatient woman, we rescheduled to the next Tuesday. Come Monday night, my father was complaining of dizziness and a sudden case of diabetes. Again I had to cancel.

Finally after two weeks of mysterious illnesses and fabricated appointments, my father set a time to come meet me at work so we could go get the mattress. When he arrived at work, I was shocked by two things. One, was the fact that he was showing up to my place of employment in a holey t shirt and sweat pants that accentuated his manhood. Secondly, he was driving his Ford Explorer with no heavy duty pickup truck in site.

When I questioned him about the logistics of carrying not only a mattress but a box spring as well across Santa Rosa with only an Explorer, he responded by pulling out a spool of rope. Were we going to tie it behind the car and pull it?

Arriving at the residence, we came upon a slightly agitated woman with a child in each hand and an urgency to get rid of us. It was in the garage that we discovered a perfectly good mattress and box spring, pillow top and all, that had been used only a handful of times by her son before he became afraid of it. Sensing that it was possessed, I debated slightly before deciding that I'd rather stay awake from demons and wake up comfortable, than stay awake from sleeping on the floor and wake up miserable.

As we dragged the mattress out of the garage, the woman began looking around somewhat puzzled. She too saw the factual evidence before her that my father's vehicle could not support us and the bedding. And, as he saw her faith begin to dwindle, he took out his own spindle of rope to ease her woes. Understanding that she had no loyalty to us whatsoever, and the sooner we left her property the better, she returned to her home only to peek out of the blinds every 10 minutes.

We started by lifting the box spring onto the top of the car. Not only was it dramatically wider than the Explorer, but it also was taller and hung over the windshield creating a blinding shadow.

As soon as it was on, my dad got like a spider and began to web the mattress to the car. He worked like a Boy Scout, and although he had no prior training, his mixture of knots and loose ends looked to be doing the job. My only complaint is that this process took 45 minutes, and not only did I have to get back to work, but the woman inside was now opening her front door to stare at us.

Assuring me that it was on safe, we moved onto the mattress. There was absolutely no way in hell or physics that we were going to secure it on top of the box spring on top of the Explorer. So we did the next best thing. We lowered the seats in the back, pushed our seats up all the way, and shoved the mattress in with all our might.

By some miracle it fit, but now I was forced to sit with my knees against the glovebox and my dad was practically steering with his man boobs. As we pulled away, I began thinking that this is one of those moments where you sort of want to die from embarrassement, yet want someone to capture it on film.

Here we were, driving down 101 with a box spring on the roof, a mattress in the back and two clowns trying to take deep breaths against the force of the dashboard on our chests. With each turn, we felt the car shift as the guiding box spring above us decided if it wanted to stay or send us rolling Firestone style.

Somehow, we made it to my apartment without losing either piece. Unfortunatley, my box spring now had a series of dead bugs lining the front of it, and my mattress was smashed into a used Ranch dressing container left behind from a fast food excursion.

Despite the insects and garnish, I was very pleased to have my new bed home safe and sound. My father insisted on taking the rope off, knot by knot, which took another half hour. Eventually we dragged it upstairs, set it up and put a towel down in place of the sheets I had yet to purchase.

The whole adventure took just over two hours, yet it was quality time with my father I will never forget. I can't express how much I appreciate his willingness to not only help me out, but put his creative mind to use when all else had failed.

When it was time to move out, I had more than enough money to rent a truck or buy a new mattress at home. However, I simply called my father back up to Santa Rosa, Explorer and rope in hand to take my mattress all the way home. And despite the new row of dead bugs, the few spots of bird shit and the small amount of spilled Jack in the Box, I once again have my craigslist mattress to sleep on and new sense of appreciate for my father.