We just wanted to twirl.

Ashley, Party of Threesome.

2011-08-31T23:04:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, I used to be straight.

As you can see from the picture above, I had great style that consisted of skirts that made me appear as though I had a phallic erection, and white granny panties that luckily were not graced with period stains when this picture was taken.

I also sat like a man.

Whatever.

My freshman year of college, I was still figuring out my sexuality *

* bitches, I knew I was gay when I first saw an episode of the show Growing Pains. Everyone was like "dude...Mike Sever is super ~*cute*~ (they totally typed it with those weird symbols) and I was like...you guys....the mom is kind of banging hot in a 'i just wanna be her best friend' kind of way.

Because I just wanted a bunch of really hot best friends that were girls.

So when I say I was figuring out my sexuality, I was baiting time until I decided to become gay.

I probably could have phrased that better.

Become gay.

Scissor.

I was baiting my time until I could openly scissor.

Much better.

Anways, as many of you know, I was staying at my roommate Petra's dorm for much of my first semester, and her entire house got along so well. And I was like that adopted kid from China that Angelina adopted and everyone is like 'ehh why'd you adopt it, but its kind of dependent on us now so we can't kick it out' so they were nice to me.

So we came up with a game.

It was called the Star Chart.

While I would love to say that it is an astronomical masterpiece of our knowledge of the galaxies and Uranus, it was far from that.

You guys, the rules were super complex.

Example:

You started with a name.

Ashley.

Then if you hooked up with someone, you got a star according to the amount of distance you travelled in or around one's genitals.

Makeout: one star
Hand job/fingered: two stars
Blowjob/tuna casserole: three stars
Penetration/intercourse: four stars
Anal sex: - 4 stars

So like say me and a guy go out and we make out then I jack him off and he goes down on me (I hope my mom isn't reading this but she probably is. Hi mom, this will teach you to read my diary that's on the Internet for everyone to read you pervert!)

Ashley: *****

See?

So as many of you know, I am the most competitive person in the world. I attribute it to the lack of affection my parents showed me as a child, and as a means of commanding attention, I had to win everything.

Including my parents hearts.

:*(

I hope you are still reading mom.

Analways.

Side story: I was babysitting this girl once and we were playing "break the egg" on the trampoline and she uncracked me. So when it was my turn, I jumped so hard next to her that she literally flew up 10 feet in the air, landed on her knee with her face and her nose erupted in blood.

But I won.

And really, that's all that matters.

So seeing as I have no mercy for 9 year olds, this star chart was going to be no different.

Freshman year, our friend Aaron joined a frat at UC Berkeley. As a means to open one of his frat parties, he invited me and my friend (I will keep you nameless but you know who you are) to represent him as his dates.

He told us the usual. Dress slutty and be ready to drink.

Ogay!!!

So we went in my closet and picked out my one Old Navy jean skirt, and I borrowed a whore top and a real bra *not sports bra* and proceeded over to UC Berkeley.

When we arrived there, I was a bit confused.

Bitches were wearing Pajamas.

Not like hot pajamas. Like flannel pants with Tigger on them.

We had been tricked. It was a pajama party and we showed up like two craigslist massage therapists with a happy ending in their purse.

So naturally, if you are a dude...are you going to make out with the girl dressed as a slut? Or are you going to make out with the girl wearing polar bear slippers with Donkey Kong boxers?

(I'd actually go for the PJ girl...)

Sensing this as a weird advantage, like a #1 draft opportunity, I knew I needed to make the most of the situation to propel myself into the lead in the Star Game. I was not the leader, but definitely a contender, and a night like this could win the trophy (a handle of vodka. my god we were sluts)

done capitalizing. too much effort.

anyways, i got started immediately. i set my sights on a cute guy, who actually turned out to be slightly handicapped, but i didnt let that stop me. ryan. down.

*

every corner i could turn, i was making out with guys. in the hot tub, in the pantry, in a random midgets room (not even lying) (ok it was the midget) (jesus christ this is making me look bad no wonder why im gay)

*************

then i met him. the boy of my dreams.

sergio.

he was from italy or somewhere. maybe like fresno. something exotic. and we just hit it off so much. if i liked the cock, id totally like his in more than a plastic with aharness sense, but i felt safe with him, and decided to settle.

so we go downstairs into the hot tub room, and we are making out, maybe more

(**)

when i hear a splash come from across the hot tub.

wtf?

suddenly another frat brother appears. matthew. i wonder what he could want after being a perv for 5 minutes watching us hookup.

he decides to chat, and then he starts making out with me (*) when i come up with an idea.

like..what would propel me into total victory. this was like the Hunger Games, it was life or death.

and it occurred to me.

"how would you guys feel about a threesome?"

they pause. at first, they are repulsed. no. that's gay. oh it is? and you guys parading around half naked for your pledging isn't?

then, they begin to consider it.

and they swim to the other side of the hot tub to discuss.

they come back with a verdit.

"ok."

its on.

i position myself in the middle and resume the positon of 'skiing'

you might have to urban dictionary that one.

Skiing The act of delivering dual simultaneous hand-jobs simulating the motions of a cross-country skier. This action is usually performed while ‘Sitting Bitch’ in a pickup truck (front seat center position) but any vehicle with a bench seat will suffice.

you guys, i really wanted to win.

we skiied and made out for a bit. nothing was a black diamond as far as difficulty or enjoyment, but i went along with it. the whole time i was drier than the mojave and thinking about the galaxy i was single...double-handidly creating.

midway through our little expedition, i hear a knock at the door and the familiar voice of my best friend. she is talking to someone and all i can hear it 'i just want to see if my friend is ok.'

she did not want to see if i was ok.

she knew exactly what was going on.

she busts through the door wielding a camera, and without warning, i look up laughing to see a picture go off.

she pulls me out of the hot tub and tells me that we need to return to the dorm where we will be sleeping.

i look at both guys sitting next to each other naked in the hot tub with boners and i take the hotter one back to the room with me where i proceeded to put BACK ON my clothes and tell them that'd we'd only be hanging out 8th grade status, i.e. all touching will be done over my sports bra and hanes her way.

the next morning we wake up and make our way back to ssu. i felt gratified, like a whore and smelled oddly of fetal alcohol syndrome and shame.

when we got back to the dorm, i immediately went to the fridge and began to write my stars in like we had just found some hubble telescope in the back yard and i was reporting my observations.

literally it looked like this.

everyone else (combined) ******
ashley ********************************************************************************************************************************

the next day, i went on my myspace (you guys this was before the days of THEfacebook) and saw that my bff had posted a 'puzzle surprise' on my wall. it was a picture that it scrambled into puzzle pieces that you assemble.

as i began putting the pieces together (figuratively and literally), i noticed that i was assembling my prior night in the hot tub.

then i only had a few pieces left.

one such was a jigsaw piece of just my naked cooter, only censored by some cloudy hot tub water.

oh god. i dont want to know why it was cloudy.

the other was of a giant penis resting on my leg.

and finally, perhaps the best piece of all, was the look of shock on my face that a picture was being taken.

since myspace has basically become more extinct than the career of famed actor jonathan taylor thomas, i cannot locate the picture, nor do i feel comfortable enough for all 4 of my blog followers to see my 19 year old lady berry.

she looked delicious in her debut spread though.

see what i did there?

moral of the story:

sometimes threesomes work for people. sometimes people just prefer twosomes. personally, i just prefer a quiet friday night with an emily dickens novel and a hot tub of tea reflecting on what events in my life led me to where i am now.

this is one of them.

hey snow season is coming up? who wants to go? i've recently converted to snowboarding...;)

Dirty Girl.

2011-05-21T18:32:00.000-07:00

So, I am going to blog again. And do it with pictures. I realized that the following story was blocked from my blind much like a traumatic event. And like some 'nam soldier having a PTSD flashback, it came to me like a splash of hot water on one's vagina.

Wait. Did I kill the punch line? Ok let's proceed.

As many of you know, I studied abroad in Sweden. It was a great experience, and I spent a lot of my time absorbing the local culture by sampling all of their local beers and then eating every fried food I could get my intoxicated hands on.

Seriously I gained so much weight.

I looked pregnant. But the fetus didn't implant itself in just my gut. It implanted itself in one of my 4 chins, my inner thighs, my lower back and my wrists. I got so bloated from drinking so much that my wrists got fat. I looked like the extra member of Wilson Phillips who sings great, but looks like a whale holding a corn dog when she sings.

Anyways, for some reason, I thought it would be a great idea to see one of my neighboring Scandinavian countries in the best way possible: a booze cruise to Finland. It was put on by my school (at least that's what I told my mom) and I was sold when they said they had wine on draft.

Wine.

On draft.

I mean seriously? That's like discovering how to make fire. And like fire, it can be very dangerous, yet warming at the same time.

So we all board the boat. I'm looking super fly with my hair in one of those little poofs on top of my head. I had a cute shirt on. And I had a cute skirt covering up the present underneath.

Want to know what the present was?

Hint.

Granny panties.

Crisp. White. Potential hole in the crotch from a dog chewing them.

I screamed sex.

As we get on the board, we make our way to our cabin to where I was staying with three of my friends from class: Amie, Amy and Sarah. Our cabin was roughly the size of a matchbox, so we all had to coordinate and take turns standing up. It literally was like in shifts who could get dressed or go to the bathroom. If it wasn't your turn to stand up, you laid on your mattress, which was comparable to that of a nursing home mattress where a patient had just died on it. It was filthy, disgusting and best of all: it was cheap.

So after we all get ready (see: hot), we head down to the main area for dinner and drinks. I don't really remember dinner. In fact, the only thing I remember was the wine on draft. And as for specifics on that, I just remember someone calling last call, and I remember sticking my head under the red wine tap and drinking it like it was water after a long game of soccer.

After dinner, we all headed up to the dance club (this boat was amazing) where many of our classmates were already dancing.

And that's where I saw him.

I think his name was Sven.

or like Swan?

Maybe David?

Whatever. I saw him. And we instantly connected. According to my friend, one minute we were dancing, and the next he had me thrown up against a rail with his hand all up in my lady pocket.

I'd see him around before, he was friends with my friend Lars, and all I knew was he had on a black shirt and was from Switzerland. And I think at that point in my year abroad, we were actively playing a game of who can hook up with the most countries.

News flash:

Girls can be pimps too.

So there we are, on the dance floor, just dancing. And by dancing, I mean he literally had his had in my crotch like it was the fountain of youth, as all my friends looked on with hilarity.

Suddenly I realized something.

I have standards.

(Remember that statement because it goes downhill)

Who am I to be drunk off draft wine. Red stained teeth. Matted down hair. Denim skirt. Who am I to be FINGERED by SOME DUDE on a DANCE FLOOR in FRONT OF MY FRIENDS.

This is a little bit too white trash of me. Let's move the party.

So I tell him that we should just go back to my room, and he agrees.

We head to the elevator. I push some random buttons, because at this point, I don't know what fucking floor my room is on. I don't even know that I have a room. In fact, I think the elevator is my room at one point.

As we are in the elevator, we start making out again hardcorexx and he decides he wants to go down on me.

Um Hello! No you can't go down on me! I'm on my period! I have a tampon in! (When he was going to second base, as noted above, it was not pen)

Here's how it went down.

(scene starts in elevator, on cruise ship, with George Michael playing faintly in the distance)

Him: I want to eat your pussy
Me: Ew, don't say it like that
Him: Can I?
Me: Um no...I'm on my period (future self: you are also in an elevator)
Him: I don't care ::rips tampon out and throws it::

..............................................................................

'::rips tampon out and throws it::'

I mean at that point, you really have no say.

So I let him do it.

Except do you remember how I said I had no idea what floor I was on? We didn't end up pushing a button for the elevator. And we were so wrapped up in our sexcapade, that we didn't notice that the elevator was moving.

Nor did we notice when it opened until I opened my eyes when I heard people screaming.

And without interrupting the act before me, I leaned over and hit the "close doors" button. Which as everyone knows, takes roughly 2 minutes to close.

This little open/close elevator show went on for about 10 floors, until it opened on two of my friends, and I was mortified. They were literally crying from laughter, and I really hoped they didn't notice the tampon in the corner.

Bless their hearts, they alerted me to the fact that I had indeed reached the right floor (finally) after giving nearly 20 international students the show of their life, while simultaneously leaving a bit more of my pride on each floor.

So okay. We were one step closer to the room. We were on the right floor. Next obstacle. Room number. I had no idea, but there were only 50 rooms on the floor, my key was bound to work on one.

It didn't work on the first 20.

And since patience wasn't a virtue either of us had, we decided to find some privacy and hook up more.

We went behind one of those trash cans with an ash tray on top of it.

I realized that I'm fb friends with my cousins, so I'll spare some details. We both hit triples. Behind a trash can. Until some more of my friends found me and escorted us back to our room, which was on the complete opposite end of the hall.

FINALLY we are at our room.

The only problem was there was some chick in the room who I didn't know.

Flashback.

This potentially wasn't my room.

Continue.

So, because we were super modest and full of respect at this point, we decided to continue hooking up in the bathroom.

Pause.

I don't know if you guys have ever been on a cruise ship bathroom. But they aren't the cleanest things in the world.

Okay, now turn that cruise ship bathroom and turn it into a third world country bathroom. Except Sweden isn't a third world country. But imagine the type of bathroom on a booze cruise. With college kids.

Do you think that shit is clean? No.

I would have been better off washing myself with dead crabs and flossing with cod bones.

So we get in there and we start hooking up. I'm up on the sink and he's all up in/around me, when suddenly he pops up like he's fucking Einstein with an idea.

"I know what girls like"

Oh you do? Show me.

He then grabs the detachable shower head, turns on the water and shoves it in my cooter.

I got one look at the showerhead before it...'washed' me. The little holes where the water comes out were clogged with this weird mold/fungus/std shit and before i had a chance to say NOOOOO! USE A DENTAL DAM! GIRLS DON'T LIKE THIS! it was right up in her.

And the water.

Was scalding.

I was like HOLY FUCK THIS HURTS.

To which he replies "You dirty girl, you like this you dirty girl, dirty girls like this."

When did I get upgraded to dirty girl?

It wasn't when you went down on me in the elevator in front of people?

It wasn't when you ripped out my tampon?

It wasn't when I went down on you behind a trash can?

OH.

I know when it was.

It was when you shoved a DIRTY showerhead in my CLEAN vagina.

Of course I'm a fucking dirty girl now!

AND NOGIRLSDONTLIKETHIS.

So I promptly removed Niagra Falls from my crotch, and turned it on him. And I was like HOW DOES THIS FEEL?! And he fucking loved it! HE LOVED IT. I called him "dirty boy" OH YOU LIKE HOW HOT THIS IS DIRTY BOY YOU DENTAL DAM HATING DIRTY BOY.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I was sobering up and realizing that I don't need to be hitting all the bases with some dude who is gonna give me a douche filled with ocean water that most likely will end with a prescription for a UTI and 15 hours of therapy.

So I booted him.

I was like dude, I'm hella tired, you need to go back to Switzerland or Zimbabwe or wherever the fuck you came from.

And he looked super hurt and sad. Granted he was hella nice because I wouldn't let him put it in me, but still. I was over it. I was ready to pass out on the bed that wasn't mine next to some stranger I didn't know.

(haha I just found some photos I'm gonna post)

So as I'm kicking him out, he turns and looks at me with these sad eyes and goes 'I want something to remember you by.'

And I just stared at him.

Then he reached up, plucked the bobby pin out of my hair that was holding up my poof...and walked away.

Without thinking twice, I climbed into bed and slept until people I recognized came back with a sense of shame/pride.

The next day, I got off the boat to see Finland, and as I got on the shore, I looked at someone and said...

'does this count as going to Finland?'

They said yes.

Without hesitation, I turned on one foot and walked back on the boat. Where I passed out in a chair on the deck and placed cold packs on my vagina.

I haven't been to Finland since.

Its too soon.

I'm ending this so I can post some pics to capture the trip:

obviously we were a match made in heaven.

the aftermath:

Code 3 Clit

2011-02-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

So yesterday my partner and I were loading a particularly heavy patient, so we put two people on the back of the gurney.

We ended up lowering the patient to a level where my crotch was kind of resting on the gurney bar.

The guy at the front of the gurney was unsure of whether it had locked or not.

That's when my partner decided to give it a good old shaking on the back. Where my crotch was resting on it.

Now, I know a lot of guys have a hard time finding the clitoris...but needless to say, my partner and/or the gurney bar did not.

It felt like my bean was refried.

I can't explain the pain/sensation/discomfort that comes from having a metal bar repeatedly shaken up and down against ones little lady. I felt all the heat rise from my crotch to my face as I attempted to remain professional.

Is this grounds for workers comp?

How I Lost My Virginity to An Actual Person Part 8.5

2011-02-10T00:19:00.001-08:00

I'm trying this new picture, inspiration thing. And hurr it goes.

*side note

I drank a NOS energy drink and I don't even know what NOS sounds like but I bought it anyway because we all know what a Monster is, and a Red Bull, and a Rockstar (I picture Steven Tyler and he's creepy), but I didn't know what a NOS was so I got it and now I am tweaking out like a tweaker person and my teeth are chattering but I'm not cold because my nips aren't out and its just an awful feeling. And I'm scared to watch the rest of that movie Dogtooth because it was creepy like Steven Tyler creepy and my ADD comes out really bad with energy drinks ohmygod.

Many of you may look at this and just think 'oh, there's that dollar conditioner I accidently bought because it was cheap and ended up making my hair look like a Booniqua weave that got ripped out in a fight at the local bowling alley after getting entagled in some girl's high heel'. To me, I see something much different.

I just realized family members of mine might read this story.

You guys.

Obviously I'm still a virgin. Until I'm married. So this is like, fiction.

/end disclaimer.

Let's do this.

Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo wayyyy back in the day (6 years ago), I decided I wanted to bang.

Back in high school, I had this really unrealistic, and sexually frustrating, idea when it came to how relationships were gonna go. My poor boyfriends. I literally didn't put out.

Anyways. I had a flow chart, and this is how I thought it should go:

Date for a month: Make out

Date for 3 months: Finger/Handy J

Date for 6 months: Oral intercourse

Date for a year: Intercourse via pen.

For realz, I swore by that. If I were a calendar keeper, I'd probably mark like at 6 months in my Anne Geddis "Creepy Babies Posing With Oversized Vegetables" calendar "bj time."

Alas, I had an amazing bf in high school who put up with all of my nonsense, and rules and somehow didn't force me to have sex after a year, even though it should be acknowledged like one would acknoweldge Flag Day.

Side note.

Seriously, what the fuck is Flag Day.

Then I got to college and all of this went out the window (entry tomorrow: hot tub time machine).

3 months? 3 BEERS.

6 months? 6 TEQUILA SHOTS.

College makes us all slutty. The people we meet didn't know us when we wore sweatpants to school with headgear arranged over our bowl cuts as we drew stussy S's on our Lisa Frank notebooks. They only know us as the new college girls who are hot just by being college girls and came out of the womb with perfectly straightened hair and perfectly did makeup and never had an awkward phase. If this entry sucks, blame the NOS.

So let's FF (fast forward) (well that took the purpose out of abbreviating it) to when I was 19. I had slutted it up my freshman year, and I was looking to lead a more respectable life. I had just gotten out of a kind of weird relationshippy situation, and was somewhat heartbroken. That's where he came in.

That's where he came in.

Odd how fitting that sentence was.

He was my best friend forever status minus the broken heart necklace with best and friend that we each wore. We went to the gym together. We went to the cafeteria together (maybe because we were the only sophomores with meal cards...), we did everyting together. Then one night, we made out and it was like psh ok. We made out. Then like we made out some more. Then it was like okay man, let's not make out anymore we are bff's and bff's don't do that!

And then one night I decided I wanted to lose my virginity.

I really wish I had more of an explaination for this...but it really was that simple.

All my friends were doing it, and I didn't want to wait any longer (I mean I was a prude 19 year old) and plus it seemed like why not lose it to your best buddy? I wasn't insecure or self concious around him, and best of all, he was a virgin too! It was a like Virgin Party of 2, your table is ready, our main entree is Reverse Cowgirl and a modified Doggy Style for her comfort.

So he came over one night after we discussed the act we were going to partake in. Oddly enough, it was after midnight, thus making it October 31st, thus making it by far the scariest Halloween ever!

At this time, I had a bit of a flu going on, so I decided that before I was going to lose my virginity for the second time (reference: jetski hymen), I was going to take massive amount of Nyquil to ease my symptoms. For those of you who have ever taken Nyquil, that shit makes you HIGH and then gives you fucked up visions.

I literally slept/hallucinated through the first three bases.

I was pretty sure I was picking corn in Cambodia with Adrian Brody while a harp seal wrote a new Declaration of Independence on the benefits of watching at least 4 episodes of Roseanne a day.

Like that out of it.

Third base? What's that?

Finally it came time for the main event, and as we prepared, I didn't feel nervous or giddy or anything. I felt comfortable with my decision, pretty sleepy, but totally on the same page as him.

I waited for like candle lighting to magically appear and for Celine Dion to pop out of my closet singing that Titanic shitshow of a song.

Instead it was like...

You ready?

Yeah, dude let's go.

Ok.

::insertion::

Ok not that fast of insertion. Wait I'm not talking like us anymore, I'm like interjecting as me right now. Before we banged, I wanted to be safe, you know? I mean we were both virgins, and he came from a healthy family, but what if he like secretely got the HIV during wrestling practice? Uh uh. So, I was like dude do you have a condom and he was like no. Then I remembered something.

Someone got me a birthday card with a condom in it. So I like dug through my dresser butt ass naked and found the birthday card with the condom in it.

It didn't even cross my mind how many people in the store had probably touched that condom. Or if that was even a real condom. All I knew was it said 'condom' and was funny. And condoms are hella funny.

So he goes to put it on, cause I sure as hell wasn't gonna help, and then he minorly breaks down.

He's like I'm kind of self concious.

And I'm like dude why? As I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, such a flattering position with my 8 stomach rolls and my squashed together thighs.

And he's like, I don't know if I'm big enough, I'm self concious.

And I'm like dude...you felt kind of big...have you ever measured?

And he's all yeah...I'm 8 and a half inches on a good day, but usually around 8 and a quarter.

.................................................................

um.

what?

WHA.

Isn't my vagina like 3 inches deep? Where the hell are those other 5 inches gonna go, and most importantly where is that extra quarter of an inch gonna fit? Like, are you going to cause internal damage? And you fucking should be self concious, you are like the goddamn elephant man down there dude.

But I didn't say that.

Instead I was like umm dude you are huge put it in me.

Ok I didn't say that either.

We talked and I reassured him, all the while debating if that one time I used a Super Plus would have prepared me for this.

Well, it didn't.

We first tried Missionary

hold up.

like I really hope my family doesn't read this. If you are stop now. Please.

So we tried Missionary, and SHOCKING it didn't go in. It was like my vagina was a network of mortars and heard '8 inches' and it was like the Titanic when it was sinking. The mortars were the dudes in the bottom level shoveling coal like mad into the furnaces to propel the ship after it got hit.

They literally furnished a brick wall.

He literally said "I feel like I've hit a brick wall."

I didn't know what to do, so we tried another posish.

Doggy Style didn't work.

Me on Top didn't work.

It just wasn't going in.

I swear, at one point I like stood on top of my bookshelf and jumped on his dick and it still didn't go in.

Then I got an idea.

Lightbulb.

I swore that I had heard somewhere that you could use hair conditioner as lube in case you didn't have any handy. It had the same consistancy as lube (which I know know is NOT true) and it was safe to use on your lady berry during intercurse.

Being that I was a poor college student, the only conditioner I had was V05 Hawaiian Tropic.

(what kind of guy let's a girl do this)

So I paused our fornication and went into the bathroom, got a handful of conditioner and lubed us both up.

It sort of worked, but not really. But then it sort of did. Then I remember saying 'are you almost done' and now I realize that's really rude.

And then it started to burn.

Like really burn.

And tingle?

But not the good kind of lady berry tingle. Like the 'what the fuck were you thinking putting conditioner inside of me' kind of tingle.

And I told him he needed to go home because I wasn't sure what the hell had just happened. So he tried to spend the night and cuddle, and I was like dude GO HOME. You literally live three doors down, go home. (that explains a lot)

So there I was. I had just lost my virginity to a robocop of a dick wearing a birthday card condom covered in cheap conditioner as lube.

Is this how it was supposed to be?

The next day I woke up, and my lady was just on fire. She was burning, and smelled like the Hawaiian Islands. I was literally queefing out Kauai.

It continued like that for a week. I'd get weird like surges of pain and then the room would smell like a luau. Ok not that intense, but it was weird.

And then one day I was healed. My vagina stopped feeling like Pearl Harbor and all was well. And then he wanted to have sex again and I was like um hell no. Then he brought strawberry lube and I was like hell no.

I fucking hate strawberry.

Cherry, fruit punch, those are acceptable red flavored stuff.

Strawberry, no.

Um when did I get standards? I just got fucked with conditioner.

I later researched where I had heard that you could use conditioner as lube, and I realized that it was an extremely bad case of misheard information.

You can't use conditioner as lube.

You can use lube to condition your skin if you get the right kind.

Oops.

So needless to say, I'm surprised I'm not preaching absitenence education with Sarah Palin, and sueing V05 for their biological weaponery they created.

Instead, I now have learned that the free samples of lube and condoms given out on the college campus are an essential dorm supply.

And to tell my little vaginal mortars to hold their brick building.

And that when my roommate tells me she's going to try anal sex and then comes in my room at 2 am asking if I have any of the free lube samples I got from a table from campus, and then literally takes 20 packets, that I probably should have just been like wait dude...I have a better idea.

Take this instead.

2011-02-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

Also, I found this gem from my high school notebook with Petra.

Ashley, what would you do if you had 3 hours left before the world exploded.

"I would go have crazy wild, animal, orgy sex with a bunch of hot guys. Then I'd go get a chinese symbol tattoo on my ankle and then maybe skydive. Then have a threesome with Josh Hartnett, Ben Affleck and Colin Hanks."

Well, let's hope 2011 really is the end of the world!

I've Got it!!

2011-02-08T21:27:00.000-08:00

I'm going to write about fisting!

How was I inspired you may ask?

Obviously...

Kidding!

I've never been fisted. Well purposefully. I mean, well it kind of was fist like. Ok To Be Discussed.

The picture that inspired this was:

I might just do this. Pick a random picture and write on it. And people can submit random pictures and I'll write on them. And then I'll come up with a good idea like this and never follow through on it!

When I first saw this picture of some, obviously, poor, mangled loser's (me) pants, I thought 'you could fit a fist in that hole.' And then it got me thinking about fisting.

Let's time travel ok? Like back to anchient times. Before dildos and dental dams and Anime porn. Let's go back to like when people lived in caves and just did it Missionary.

Like...who came up with fisting?

Who saw a vagina (or anus (!!)) one more (anal fisting omg !!) and thought...I'm going to put my fist in that. And like how would you react if you were the girl that was going to be the very first fisted woman?

Honey, I got this crazy idea...but I think you might like it.

Ok baby, tell me, I'm super excited!

See this? 8= (thats my fist on a computer)

Yeah?

(actually pretend I'm translating grunts cause this is like caveman/Missionary time)

Grunt, I'm going to grunt, PUT THIS INSIDE OF YOU!

:O

No not that hole!

No, I wasn't opening my mouth for you to put it in that hole I was like shocked!

Oh! My bad! Awkward!

So like how would you feel? Like are you that much of a intertube down there that someone is like ...my finger just isn't fitting...my fingerS aren't fitting...I mean I'm really left with no more options. I'd be pissed! I'd be like Jermaine I'm sorry you knocked me up and that now I can't even fit a Super Plus tampon in without it falling out like a skydiver who's parachute got stuck.

8=

I am all about new things, but I really have to give credit for the guy that came up with this. And his female counterpart. I don't know. I mean, I've seen a lot of 'holes' in my life. Like sinkholes. Pot holes. Belly buttons. And I never once thought to stick something in them, let alone an entire fist. What if its like a Mike Tyson fist too? Hella beefy!

Then it got me thinking to something else. What is the proper fisting format? Is there a protocol? Does each person have a preference? Because as I understand it, there are two fisting formats. Allow me to explain:

The open palm:

I see this form of fisting, and I think of it as like when someone has a sock puppet on their hand, but without the sock. The thumb is joined at either the middle or ring finger, and an almost 'talkable hand' is formed. I find this the more polite version of visting. You eaaasseeee into it. You can even make your hand talk once its in too!

I'm in!

What's that smell!

Why is there a gerbil carcass up here?!

The true fist:

This is the common version of fisting (from what I've seen on youporn.com). It involves a completely closed fist. Its like a team huddle fist. But you don't stack a bunch of fists. I'm sure they do in some parts of this world. I mean but what angle do you go in at? Like head on, as if you were giving someone's anus the pound for doing a good job?

Hey nice homer man, you tied up the game!

Thanks dude ::bends over::

::fist pound to anus::

or do you do a side to side motion? I'm actually making the motion right now. I hope my mom doesn't walk in.

Yes I still live at home.

Shut up.

AND

Once you get make contact (penetration) how far do you know when to go? Its not like a finger where you have a built in stopper at the base of it. I mean, the closest stopper is your elbow joint, and if I'm not mistaken that's approx. 16 inches from your fist. And if I can use my medical training to calculate 16 inches, I think you'd be reading into someone's aorta by the time you got the signal to stop.

Do you make a mark on your arm or something? Like mid-wrist?

What's that mark?

Oh nothing...justsoidontgiveyouabowelrupturemark

Its so complicated!

I haven't even touched on lube!

(water base, natural, spit (omg ew))

We hit depth.

POOP?!

NO.

I promised myself I wouldn't make my blog about poop anymore.

I lost my virginity to a jet ski.

It was a craaaazy story. I was jetskiing in the Benicia Bay and we were playing a game aptly called 'try to throw the person on the back off the jet ski.' I was on the back, attached to my friend Christie. Our friend (some boy I don't remember, clearly he was a memorable guy) was driving and we literally were locked on. We were like Lego people. It was like the Human Centipede. Minus the...OH GOD NO MORE POOP REFERENCES.

So he was twisting and turning, and we held on. Well Christie held on, and I held on to her. Then, he goes 'ok you guyzzz, gamez over (he talked in z's)' and kind of slowed the jet ski. So naturally, Christie relaxed her grip. I did not.

That's when he full throttle'd the jet ski and took it at a turn I can only compare to 'right angle'.

I still held on, but felt myself flying and I peeked over my shoulder to see Christie's hands grasping nothing but the sweet Benicia Breeze. I think I saw this in a Harrison Ford movie once, but I felt safer letting go, so I let go of her and that's when it started.

I literally tumbled (at a high speed) head over feet, head over feet, head over feet.

Three cartwheels.

After those subsided, I skimmed the surface of the water like Jesus doing a reverse slip and slide.

Finally, just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, I came to a screeching halt in mud filled water, oddly enough, extremely far off of shore. Something is jacked about that bay.

Then I sat there for a moment. My head was spinning. My nips were hanging out. I had no idea where I was. And then I felt it.

Penetration.

I had never felt such a sensation before. I felt like I had food poisioning from Applebees and it wanted to exit every orfice of my body, including my cooter. I was perplexed. Then it occured to me. What exactly is the source of this penetration?

Did I hit a sand crab?

Did I hit a buoy?

Did I hit an endangered leopard seal?

Oh my God...did I land on that Humpack Whale that got lost in the Bay like 10 years ago? What was his name? Humphrey? DID I LAND ON HUMPHREY?!

And then I realized the source of such discomfort (see: pleasure). My bathing suit bottoms. They literally were hanging on by a string on my waist. The rest...well. They say the vagina is 4 inches deep. My bathing suit was so balled up it could have fit in one of those little bubbles from the quarter machines that contain the prizes. It was up in thurr.

I didn't know what to do. So I pulled. And I pulled. I tried to get traction. I tried leverage. I heard a suctioning noise. I thought there was an octopus in there. Hey, it hurt, I wasn't limiting my possibilities.

Finally, with a Paul Bunyun pull I heaved my underwear out of my vagina. I felt a weird rush, an urge to pee, and an odd cool sensation fill me up. I realized water had rushed in.

Looking around the Benicia Bay, I saw three eyed fish, tampons floating, I for sure had peed in the water, boat fuel, a dead body, a cracked container with the label "HIV" on it, and Nessie, the Loch Ness monster.

Its safe to say, I didn't want any of that water inside of me.

Too late!

As I waddled onto shore, I could barely move. I felt as though I had ridden a horse while sitting on a pyramid. It was awful.

I got home that night and checked my underwear. Dried blood. I for sure wasn't on the rag, and I didn't shit my pants, so there was only one explaination for this : penetration.

As I share this story with others they ask, what's it like knowing I lost my virginity to an inanimate object? And I smile at them, and take their hand and console them for they have not shared such an experience.

My answer is simple.

It depends on how you look at it.

Did I lose my virginity to the jet ski or the underwear? Its a simple question. Chicken or the egg? Macauley Caulkin or Michael Jackson?

I like to think I lost my virginity to the jet ski. I have always wanted one, its a beautiful machine, the colors were shining that day and it was a mutual attraction.

I'm okay with that.

On the other hand, if I look at it like its my underwear, well its like I kind of banged myself PLUS how long had I been wearing those underwear for?

Just kidding.

Har har har.

Seriously though what did I just write about for half an hour.

I really need to go to bed.

I can't wait to see what kind of dreams I have tonight.

I'm going to rip out your endocrine system - gary buesey

Herrrooooo

2011-02-08T21:20:00.000-08:00

So I have had some requests to start blogging again, and since I am definitely not overburdened by going full time to school, work, snowboarding and soccer games...I should have time to update my blog.

Then I was all, what do I write about?

And I searched my mind.

And oddly enough my first thought was 'did I have any funny stories of bowel movements lately?'

And then I scolded my mind for being so perverse.

Then I thought if I had any funny sex stories lately.

Then I realized I did...but then I realized that I might be friends with them on facebook or they may read about it somewhere or whatnot.

Then I decided I was just going to copy and paste entries from the book I was writing about my mother.

Except my computer got stolen from my car in San Francisco.

So then I went to the soup kitchen on Embarcadero and asked the homeless people if they had seen my computer and they just stared at me.

Then I told them that among my computer, a bag of groceries for homeless people was also stolen (kind of true).

(not true at all)

(there was a bag of groceries in my car)

(it was not stolen)

So I am going to sit here and think of something I am going to blog about. I should write about my pet hedgehog, Iggy, and how we have had odd encounters. Including his decision that my underwear were a dinner item and that accidently (!) catching me off guard when I was on the computer and spiking my crotchal were appropriate.

On that note. I'm out for now. Dam your clam.

2010-05-19T23:40:00.001-07:00

sometimes i think i am the reason my mother believes in abortions.

Brookstone Twat Tease

2010-05-19T23:28:00.000-07:00

So I was walking in the mall today, when I happened to be enticed by two lovely looking massage chairs sitting out front practically displaying the words 'put your anus on me ashley so i can massage it.'

I resisted it the first pass by, but the second one was almost too much, and i had to give in to my aching muscles that craved the tender touch of an automated machine packed with metal moving parts.

so i sit down with my friend into the leather luxery, and it takes me about 10 minutes to figure out how the thing worked. literally the remote was something out of a NASA space station experiment. i thought if i pressed the wrong button a satellite was going to dis-orbit and come crashing down and thus destroy the powerful, yet minute state of deleware.

finally, after pressing every button i can possibly get my fingers on (is that what she said? im not sure...), i start to feel gentle vibrations hitting my back. then it does that like karate chop shit and i want out. the only problem was, in the process of pressing every button, the leg massagers clamped onto my legs, and i was locked in. then the anus massager started going, and pretty soon, i was being chopped, trapped and sodomized all within the gentle comforts of an open stored botique facing innocent passerbys in the mall.

i didnt know if i was experiencing pleasure, pain or a little of both. i felt like i was in one of those bear daddy relationships with whips and shit, but instead of a ball gag, i had a metal ball trying to shove itself into my ass.

just as my suffering reached its peak, this older woman in a brookstone apron marched in my direction. she gave us disapproving looks, and in the most passive aggressive way possible said "there's a five minute limit on the chairs....."

she literally '.....'d' out loud. how does someone convey an elipses vocally?

and also, who the fuck is she to tell me how long i can be in the chair? they were BEGGING for people to sit in them with their position right in front of the store. and it took me 4 minutes and 30 seconds to figue out how to turn the fucking thing on, so FUCK OFF AND LET ME ENJOY MY MASSAGE. really who was she? she was like an ss guard marching around and we were the rebels of nazi germany joining forces through poorly crafted machinery.

and then this bitch started to like circle us while we were in our chairs. who can enjoy a massage when a vulture in a blue apron is preying on you from all sides. that was it.

i was out.

except i couldnt get my feet out of the leg slots because they were locked in. and i had slight vertigo from the chopping motion on my back. and i was scared to get up because the butt massage may or may not have disrupted the maxi pad i was wearing.

(yes i still wear pads but only at the end)

alas, we composed ourselves and ran out of that store faster than lindsay lohan running from a club with cocaine in her shoes. except we didn't trip like she did. and call the white stuff baby powder. instead we just ran over to hot topic to check out the new edward posters and see if they had any team jacob notebook covers.

Bay To Bachers

2010-05-18T07:26:00.000-07:00

So I haven't blogged in a while, and I want to get back into it. And when I say get back into it, I mean me and Trocano got up at 0300 today to make sandwiches for EMS Week thinking it would take us 8 hours (?!) and by 0530 we were done. So now I have some free time as I make a futile attempt to avoid morning traffic.

I wanted to talk about Bay to Breakers 2010, or as I like to call it, Bay to Bachers.

So this year we decided to go as Jersey Shore, which I find quite entertaining due to the fact that I have never seen the show, yet know who all of those bitches are. After recruiting Christie and Ian Branyan, we decided to go big or go HOme.

Preparation for the costume began about 2 weeks ago, when I realized that I lacked the genetic malfunctioning in the height department to be Snookie, so that left only JWOWW for me to be. We actually have a lot in common. I like to get drunk and fight people, and, like her, I find it imperative to go to the gym in a bathing suit top and booty shorts with some clever slogan like 'PINK' or 'LUSH' engraved on the anus.

I began dieting about 2 weeks in. It is really hard to diet when most of my meals are consumed out in the field, and seeing as how the majority of my time is spent in Oakland, my options range from Boston Market to KFC. So I dieted, and I worked out like a mother, and the only six pack I had was staring at me from the fridge with the words "dont drink you alcoholic" plastered across their label.

Then the big day came, and for fucks sake it came early. Who decides Bay to Breakers needs to start at the ass crack of dawn? I'm sorry, but I am not one of those crazy Kenyans who flew in here to run this race. I am a drunk American looking to dress up and get lost in San Francisco. Unfortunately, the week prior, I had worked several early shifts, and sleeping in to me had consisted of waking up before 6 am. I was going in with one foot in the grave.

So we headed to Branyan's house at about 0845...roughly an hour after the race started. I had my alarm set for 6. Shit happens.

We were armed with non-toxic craft paint, wigs, sunglasses, attitudes and fisting. Fist pumping. I should really clarify that. Fist pumping. Not like fisting someone's anus, although that totally wasn't out of the question. When you fist someone do you like do it like you are gonna punch them? Or do you the more subtle, like open hand reaching into a closed chamber. WHAT THE FUCK AM I TALKING ABOUT.

We got there and painted up. Now this was the problem. I decided that our base paint should be brown, and despite my attempts to counter the half of bottle of brown with an entire bottle of orange, we looked like white people trying to be racist. Well I did. Christie and Branyan managed to wait it out until the color had settled so they got their orange complexion. Me? I looked like Tiger Woods taking refuge in a tanning bed for 3 weeks.

So we dressed up and made it to Bay to Breakers and walked and talked and fist pumped and took pictures with random people. We by far had the best costumes. Where was the creativity this year? If I saw one more goddamn skank ho dressed in booty shorts and a slutty clevage shot pretending she was Susan B. Anthony, I was gonna kill. I'm sorry, but I think Hellen Keller a bonnet, not a breast enhancer.

Now this is where my adventure home begins for those of you wondering. LONG story short, I end up at my friend Kim's house after getting kicked out of some random house that I was hanging out in. So I am hanging out at Kim's house as she is trying to move it and I am trying to be helpful. By being helpful, I decide to busy myself by countering all of the progress she had currently made with moving in, all the while trying not to get brown paint all over her new bed nor explain to her that I didn't know where my wig, hat or sunglasses went. I was a mess.

At this point, I am wearing a bathing suit covered in specks of brown paint, so it looked like someone with blast ass used my swimwear as toilet paper. I have on pink booty shorts that say JWOWW on the ass, well kind of the ass, I didn't know her name had two W's, so I had to add one on the side because I ran out of room. I am covered in flakey bits of orange/brown paint, and a combination of the sun/booze had led me to acquire what I like to call 'meth face'. In a matter of 3 hours, I had aged approx. 30 years and developed a drug addiction in the process. Seriously, I looked BEAT.

So after bothering Kim for several hours, I decided it was getting dark and I should begin my journey home. Branyan and Christie had both safely made it back to Oakland, and as I now call it, 'left me for dead'. Kim lived out in the Panhandle, which I couldn't show you on a map, but somehow she convinced me it wouldn't be a bad walk to the nearest BART station. I have come to the conclusion that one of us has a poor sense of what it means when someone says 'its not that far'.

Alas, I began my journey in flip flops and the outfit noted above. It was dark by this point, and there were no cabs, people, animals or buildings. It was that desolate. So I just kind of started walking with no real direction or sense of what was around me.

About an hour later I called my friend Lianne so I could get Christie's phone, which still doesn't make sense why she had it in the first place. She lives by the Castro, so I started walking over there. FINALLY I arrive at the Castro about 30 minutes later, where she then tells me she lives 8 blocks up from it. She somehow thought I was driving, so when I arrived at her door quite a while later severely persperating and oozing pus from the sores on my feet, she became quite concerned.

Being the amazing friend that she is, she took me to the Mission and 16th Bart station, where I proceeded pause by a trash can and pondered why there was a dead pigeon smashed into it. The pondering cost me about 2 minutes, which is exactly how much I missed the train by, which equated to me waiting for 30 minutes for the next train. If any of you have ever taken the Mission and 16th BART station, then I will leave it at that: I waited there for 30 minutes, cold, alone and in my outfit.

When I boarded the train, I began to frantically text Branyan and Christie (even though I had her phone) to get me from Rockridge BART. I am waiting for a reply and I hear nothing. I assume they will get me, and as I pull in a little after 11...I see nobody waiting for me at the station. In fact, there was nobody at the station.

So here I faced a moral dilemma...what do I do in West Oakland at 11 pm dressed as a Jersey Shore wash up with no place to go and nobody to get me.

You walk aimlessly. DUH.

So I embark on my journey, and I think I have a general idea of where Branyan lives. I walk, and walk and walk. I'm not remembering any of these streets. Hmmmm this is weird. The neighborhood is turning a bit darker. Oh good! A main street! I walk up to it. I am at 51st street in Oakland.

Rule of thumb: Any street named after a number system = ghetto.

Then panic begins to set in. I start to walk and walk and walk until I find where I am going, and then I realize I have an even longer walk ahead. The sore on my foot looks like something straight out of Paris Hilton's panty line, I'm severely dehydrated and the elements were not being kind to my outfit that was fit for a summer's day in the Florida Keys.

As I'm walking down Telegraph, I pass a gas station, where an African American woman filling up her car spots me. She then says:

"You better run."

..................................................

I don't know what that meant, nor why she said it. But when I'm walking alone in the ghetto and some black lady tells me to run? I'm fucking running.

I immediately disengage my flip flops and bolt down the street. The whole time I'm running I'm thinking, "thank god I worked out so hard for this costume so now I can run forever and outrun whatever is chasing me."

I run, and run, and run, and run. I see a Taco Bell, I'm tempted, but run further.

I make it to Branyans house...finally. I later used the odometer on my run...1.3 miles. Barefoot. Through the ghetto.

I manage to get my car keys, which were cleverly hidden in case something like this happened (as well as sleeping supplies and water in my car) but I did not want to sleep in my car. It was frigid, I needed to pee and I needed a shower. So I began knocking. Nobody answered. I knocked for DAYS and nobody answered. Fine. I'll sleep in my fucking car.

So then I go, and I drink all of the water, and I go to get the sleeping supplies I packed, and then I realize...wait a second WHERE ARE THEY. My sweats and sweatshirt somehow made it into Branyan's house earlier in the day when I was cold, so I was left to sleep with a balled up cardigan and my EMT jacket that is covered in MRSA.

I can make this work.

I fall asleep for about an hour and then people come by and begin fighting by my car. Not like ghetto fighting, arguing fighting. It wakes me up. I am pissed, but cozy back into my cheaply upholstered trunk, and begin my slumber. Then I have to pee, so I squat behind this dumpster, and some of the pee gets in my open sore and I want to scream but can't and then I started to get frustrated.

So then I go back to sleep more. And then some fucker calls 911 and a fire truck drives by with its sirens blaring. That's it.

I go back to Branyans house and find his bedroom window, peer in and see a figure curled up on the floor. I then frantically bang on it, and he finally let's me in.

I then lay down next to a completely passed out Christie, who begins to throw up, some of which is on my arm as I try to watch Avatar which I have never seen and somehow contort my body to fit on an ottoman for the night to sleep.

Between Christie's barfing and the ottoman supporting 1/8th of my body, I decide to sleep on the floor. Just as I am getting to sleep, Branyans fucking ferrett comes up and whiskers in my face status starts to inspect me. I was so confused and stressed that I almost started to step on it for fear it was an Avatar person.

After being up every hour for Christie's vomiting needs and the random sounds of the house (snoring, farting, ferrets, puking, creepy haunted noises), I manage to wake up in time to call in sick to work, which is not allowed when you are hungover, so I go into work anyways.

I work an 11 hour day, hungover and on no sleep, only to get a call from Branyan and Christie that its like genocide status in the house and reinforcements are needed. So I stop by CVS and pickup one of those rug cleaners, and stop by Boston Market for a family meal for 3.

When I arrive in the house, it is like a scene from D-Day. Anarchy. Bodies everywhere. Body fluids everywhere. And before me, are two of my closest friends, comatose and shaking with weird patches of hair stuck to their faces and looks in their eyes that make me feel some sort of emotional connection to their suffering.

After all was said and done, everyone survived and all was made well. The sore on my foot is leaking a green fluid that sticks to my sock and is extremely painful to walk in. My calves feel like I ran a marathon barefoot through West Oakland (oh wait I did) and the stains on my teeth from not brushing them for two days show my weakness to the cause.

So, after two days...I finally made it home from Bay to Breakers. I feel like my whole experience can best be summed up from my mother, Carol, and her wisdom:

"I thought a cop was going to come to the door and tell us you died at Bay to Breakers because you just...you just never came home."

I know Mom. I know.

Jiffy LUBE

2009-06-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-12T22:48:00.001-07:00

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

2009-01-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-20T21:53:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-19T15:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-15T21:47:00.001-08:00

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...

2009-01-09T13:43:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-01-07T21:43:00.000-08:00

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....

2009-01-05T18:22:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-05T15:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

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!!!!!!

2009-01-02T13:42:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-31T11:05:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-12-29T11:11:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-29T11:07:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-28T12:41:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-28T12:27:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-25T22:04:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-25T21:16:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-25T13:28:00.001-08:00

I need to write a story about my craigs list mattress and the beauty that comes from it.

Scroogeee

2008-12-25T13:14:00.000-08:00

There is something so familiar about that holidays that I can almost say makes me uncomfortable. It's like waving to someone every time you see them, but having never talked to them at all. Its a weird feelng of expectation and hope that arises around this time of season, year after year for the rest of our lives. I don't know what we hope for or even what we want to get, because it certainly seems to be more than the rows of presents that silently stand guard at the base of the tree.

As for myself, I can only think about the things we've lost as the year closes, rather than the materialistic items we are sure to gain. I can't help but reminice about our loved ones who have passed on or fallen in poor health, the sorry state that many families have found themselves in lately, and most importantly, the loss of innocense that comes as each year slowly breaks us down.

I look back to when I was a child, where everything and everyone seemed so indestructable. As the years went on, I saw the horrors of the world, and that suffering lurks around every corner. There are children, barely old enough to have lived a day who are starving to death, while our prisioners are enjoying three strong meals a day. There are animals being slaughtered for nothing more than pleasure, while house pets enjoy the comforts of their everyday lives. Everywhere people are beating cancer, dying of cancer, tragically suffering and miraciously recovering, but when it all comes down to it, its just part of everyday life.

I don't know why the holidays make me think of this, or even what value they provide. I just know that age is a numerical inconvienance, where the emotional toll is what can kill you. I guess what I'm just thinking is that I hope someday, things will get better. And, to be honest, I don't even know what I mean by that. Get better how? World peace? A cure for AIDS?

I just want the one thing that we can never get back...innocense. The things we have seen and experienced will stay with us for the rest of our lives., but we can never change that. So, I think most of all, every Christmas I just wish I could go back to the time where I saw the world as a healthy place where everyone lived happily ever after.

Pub(l)ic transportation

2008-12-22T12:55:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write about this for some time, but now have the chance. Since suddenly my schedule of doing nothing and being unemployed has opened up an opportunity for me to blog. Actually my schedule has been like that for months...

Anyways, since money is tight and the economy blows more than a retired prostitute looking to score an extra $3 to buy a McDonald's Big Kid's Meal, I have resorted to taking public transportation. When I lived in Sweden, that was how I got around for an entire year..and it was fucking fantastic. I saved on bridge tolls, gas money and the risk of hitting a pedestrian everytime I decided to text and drive. Feeling as though all public transportation is equal, I figured it must not be as bad in America as it was in the Land of Vikings.

I started my public transportation trend by taking BART. Not only did I start with BART, but I ended with it as well. For those of you who are unfamiliar with BART, it is a network of trains connecting the Bay Area to each other. Its basically a cheap way to get in and out of San Francisco from towns outside of its range.

Here are some notable stories from my BART rides: nerd, fingernail guy, guitar playing guy

The Nerd and The Princess: This is one of my first BART encounters, and it will always remain in my memory. I was taking BART to San Jose one day, when an attractive female and a rather nerdy/chubby male took the seats facing me. As they sat down, he engaged her in a conversation she clearly did not want to have. He asked her questions about travel, work and education, and for every answer she had, he had a better one. With travel, "have you ever been outside of the United States?" She answered with, "Yes, I lived in Costa Rica for a year, spent 6 months in Europe and am going to India for 2 months in October." The man replied with,"Well, you see, a lot of people don't understand what culture is like outside of the United States. I once spent 9 days in Switzerland for a Jazz concert, and its just like, so different," and went off on a speech lasting 5 minutes about how he knows so much about culture. Then he talked about how he has a degree in computer sciences and how really nothing else can compare. She mentioned how she studied Marketing and now is working for a successful law company, but he just replied "well marketing jobs are probably next to go in this economy." For every statement, he had a remark insinuating he was better than her. He clearly was hitting on her, but in a really, REALLY terrible way. The woman and I made eye contact several times, but I was too busy writing down their conversation to help her.

The Guitar Guy: Now, I understand if you are in a subway or on the street corner, it is appropriate to play an instrument for money. This is not the case on a train. I like silence and give people dirty looks for even thinking about talking. A few weeks ago, there was a man on the train playing his guitar. And when I say playing his guitar, I mean he was hitting a string every now and then. When it came time for him to get off, he got up and had the nerve to ask people to give him money. The guy seriously plucked 3 strings the entire half hour ride. When nobody would give him money he started to bitch about how ungrateful we are and we were all cheap (insert racial term) who don't appreciate him. When he approached me for money, I turned my iPod on full blast and began talking to myself. When he poked me to get my attention, I talked really loud and said I couldn't hear him. Not wasting his time on me he moved on and I was spared a guilt trip.

Gross: This is by far my worst encounter. I was sitting on BART listening to my iPod, when suddenly my beat was interrupted by a familiar sound. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, so I lowered the volume to get a better listen. Sure enough, I instantly recognized the sound as working fingernail clippers, and wondered why the fuck I was hearing them. Turning around, and almost getting my eye pierced by a flying nail, I saw the disgusting homeless man behind me clipping his toenails not two feet from where I was sitting. I waso so grossed out, so baffled by what I was seeing that I couldn't move. I just imagined all the nasty little toenails, flying through the air like kites and getting stuck in my hair like a kite gets tangled up in a tree.

As if he wasn't bad enough, he didn't have a ticket and needed to get an extra one from someone on the train. He asked me, but I pretended to speak another language and watched as he asked everyone on the train. Finally, a kind gentleman provided him with a ticket and he sat back in his seat, only to discover that it was expired. He then approached the man again, who went from kind gentleman to raging psycho, and the two broke out in a loud and somewhat frightening argument. I naturally took the side of the man who did not cut his crusty toenails against my back, and in no time, both men left the train.

I have more stories and will update them as they come, but I just realized its the 22nd and I haven't done my Christmas shopping, so I need to cut this short.

2008-12-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

I prefer running at night. There is something so anonmyous about it. However, as a female with a rather large ass and a tendancy to find myself in uncomfortable situations, I have learned to take some precautions.

For starters, I try to dress and act like the person that is most likely to attack you so that way nobody would attack me. This is usually accomplished by wearing all black with a beanie to hide my ponytail. Sometimes I have considered carrying at the very least a pipe, or maybe a knife, but it will slow my pace and thus I will be running for longer than I want.

Secondly, since it is at night, I am free to do whatever I want because nobody can see me. Singing and playing air instruments got old the first few months, but I have moved on to bigger and better things. My favorite game is called Prison Break, and is based on the popular Fox series. During Prison Break, I pretend I am Michael Scofield and must avoid the cops that are trying to catch me from breaking out of prison. I have two versions of this game. The first is I plan my escape route, so I creepily slow and run down weird streets as my attempt to create a proper escape plan for when I break out. In reality, I run aimlessly in circles down dead end streets and courts, but I don't notice because the adernaline from the task at hand keeps me going. The second part of the game is the chase itself. I do not follow the earlier routes I have made. Basically, if a car or person comes into view, I run as fast as I can until I can find someplace to hide. My places to hide are usually parked cars because I am too scared to go onto property/scary areas, but it keeps me going and is a great workout. I also realized that this post makes me look lonely and crazy.

Finally, I must vent about a recent irrational fear that has surfaced lately while running at night. For some reason, there is a new 'in' this Christmas season. People are fucking obsessed with those blow up Christmas decorations. They range anywhere to an entire snowglobe of creatures to giant Sponge Bob's in Santa hats. Anyways, when I am running and cross a house with a HUGE inflatable snowman swaying in the wind, I am CONVINCED that fucker is going to start chasing me. Then he will join forces with the inflatable Santa and the inflatable Jesus and they will form this game of air attackers. The visual of me running up Rose drive with this army of inflatable creatures trailing me is enough to not only make me run as fast as I can, but almost pass out from respitory distress from laughing so hard at the image it creates.

And I swear I'm not crazy. I'm just trying to make life a little more interesting.

2008-12-22T12:35:00.000-08:00

So the other day I was running when I came upon a cat laying in the middle of the sidewalk. Since now I am a cat lover/expert, I decided to offer my soul to this creature in return for a few strokes on its beautifully covered coat.

Approaching the cat, I got down in a squat position to make a better first impression. I had barely settled into my catcher-like squat when my baby voice took over my vocal chords. I swear to God, its like a tourettes. I can't control the series of coo's, ahh's and made up pet names that exit my mouth upon seeing an adorable animal.

Despite the neighborhood dogs beginning to bark after my little high pitched emission, the cat did not even move. I was beginning to feel dejected, so I moved onto step number two: contact.

I then began stroking the back of the cat (it was positioned so that its head was facing away from me) and I still got no reaction. I kept petting the cat and cooing it, expecting AT LEAST an angry hiss and claw attack, but alas, nothing.

Finally, I stood up and walked around to see this vile beasts face. It was only then I discovered that both of its eyes were bloody marbles and that blood was spewing from its ears and mouth.

I had just spent 5 minutes petting a dead cat.

I continued on my run pretending as if the world really is a good place and that all dogs go to heaven.

BART STORY

2008-09-10T23:56:00.000-07:00

This is not about our trip, but a reminder that I need to write about the people I encounter on public transportation. Most noteably, the woman and awkward nerd guy from last week. And the 'whoever told you you were cute should be slapped' girl who sat by me as well.

I hate babies

2008-09-10T23:41:00.000-07:00

After France, we decided to make a quick pitstop in Switzerland for the day and night. It ended up being our favorite place, and it is by far the most beautiful country I have ever been too. Anyways, here is our story from there.

Nicole and I had about 1.5 hostels to choose from in Bern, Switzerland. I have no idea why I chose for us to stay in Bern. We ended up actually taking a train to Interloken, but for some reason Bern sounded like a good place for us to sleep. Being that it is not high on the list of tourist sights in Switzerland, it is not fully equipped with hostels. We ended up booking at some random hostel that had pretty decent ratings and was somewhat affordable.

We arrive at the hostel, after climbing down a hill about as steep as the peaks on the Alps and I notice something is in the abnormally clean air. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I proceed with caution as we enter the hostel.

At first, it seems like a college dormitory. It reminded me of summer camps at St. Mary's and I was eager to join in on the spirit. However, something was off. And it was in the form of a play structure.

Why the hell would there be a play structure at a hostel? I ignore this first omen and proceed to reception, where we are forced to wait an hour until it opens. As we are sitting here, I hear a commotion coming in through the enterance. I turn around to see one of the worst things I have ever seen in my life. Children.

Now, don't get me wrong, children are alright. But if they require supervised shitting or speak a language divided into cries, then I openly hate them. And here, entering the building were two women with a shitload of babies in tow. Now, they all weren't babies, but they were under the age of 10, and that is baby territory.

I was so confused. Had they gotten lost? Why were they here. I think there was a Motel 6 down the street, and they accomodate babies. But nope. They took their seats right next to us, with their whole brood wandering around and disturbing shit. You know, normal baby doings.

Anyways, we check in and we get our room, which is straight out of an American Girl book. It was like Camp with wooden bunks and sleepy quarters. Thank GOD the family was not with us. No, they were two rooms over occupying the 8 room dorm with 6 of them. Imagine if me and Nicole were the other two people in the room? I'd take my chances sleeping under the play structure.

We ended up getting the eff out of that place and spending the day in Interloken, only to make friends with a somewhat creepy girl who has my parent's address and walked aimlessly around Bern with us pretending that is where she lived. But that story is easily overtaken by babies.

So we get back to the hostel, and as we approach, I notice one of the women with the babies is playing ping pong with one of them. Assuming we had some sort of relationship from staring at each other in reception for an hour, I extended my hand and said hello. This ho looks straight at me, acknowledges my gesture with her eyes and turns the other way. She dissed me. What the hell. Sorry I was trying to be nice to you as you tote your babies across the world.

Then we are walking to our room (is is now a little past 9 pm) and Nicole begins to talk to me as we are passing down the hall. Some mother opens her door and shhhh's Nicole! It was past her baby's bedtime! WHAT THE HELL. So now that we have to get to bed at like 9 pm, we just change and hit the sack. Actually we made fun of the babies with some British girls, but other than that we were over it.

The next morning I electrocuted myself on Nicole's straightner (which had exposed wires) and the only witness was a 10 year old girl who was giving me dirty looks for taking up the mirror. Sorry you have to clean your braces out. Anyways, I was dying and in pain and she just gave me a dirty look. It's always good to have support when 20,000 volts surge through your body.

We are walking to check out, and I have my huge backpack on. Its already a pain in the ass to go anywhere with that thing on, but I had to manuever through a baby obstacle course. At the continental breakfast, there were high chairs EVERYWHERE. Imagine carrying a 40 lb backpack, weaving in and out of tables as you try to avoid babies sitting in high chairs. We happen to forget one of the keys in the room, so I had to run back. And, I am almost positive I made a bad turn and a baby was sent flying. However, the image of my backpack sending a baby flying is hella funny if you discount the potential damage it could cause.

Anyways, our lesson was to never stay at a hostel that caters to the traveling family. There is no fun there, you have to be quiet, and the parents are often times crazy and rude. To be honest, I'd take a drunk ass puking throughout the room than a baby staying up crying all night.

I think I have maternal issues I need to work out.

Paris

2008-09-10T23:33:00.000-07:00

Okay, I will start to update again.

So after our live sex show in Amsterdam, and Nicole's almost live sex show in Belgium, we made our way over to France to visit with Florian. I was so excited to see him, and it was well worth the wait.

On our train over, there was an adorable little girl sitting next to Nicole who was speaking French to her and getting no response except for a smile. Anyways, I happen to bend over to look out the window, and being that my jeans were like JNCOS and oversized, my crack was exposed. The little girl uttered the cutest thing to Nicole when she saw my frog tattoo. She said..."bonjour grenoulle," which I guess means "hello frog" in French. Adorable, yet awkward.

So we meet up with Florian and enjoy a relaxing night on the streets of Paris. Now, I think because we had so much adventure on our prior journeys that we needed a slight break. The only crazy thing that happened was we came home late one night from walking around and some dude jumps the subway gates and catches up to us.

He then comes up to me and begins to rap AT me in French, which sounded like this to me: "ladjfadkl;fe, sdkfja;dsfk asdifjapdkjeapfipojef dlfjdk!!!" Not knowing what the fuck he is saying is one thing, but not caring what the fuck he is saying is another. I was a combination of the two. It was late, I was tired, and I do not need some Michael Jackson's brother rapping to me in another language.

Then he realizes we speak English. I think he knew one word in English and that word was "magic." Then, as if David Blaine took over his body, the bitch starts doing magic tricks! Now, when I think of magic, I think of doing a card trick or making me orgasm without me having to see your face. However, his idea of magic was trying to trip Florian by showing that he will magically fall!

He then proceeded to grab my hairclip an pretend it was a magic trick. He was doing all this weird shit and touching us as he continued to proclaim "magic, magic!"

After all these shenanigins, he of course rides our train. Being that we are not fans of magic, he fell back on his default: French rapping. So here we are in the subway, putting back together the pieces of clothing he had used for his tricks as this douchebag raps shit in French to us while keeping beat with his hand.

Thanks dude. We're lucky Paris wasn't crazy, but our rap superstar only made us realize we do attract weirdos. Aside from him, the only crazy person was this ho who took up all the dryers at the laundromat for her boyfriends super sexy and silky track pants.

And I'm done for the night...Switzerland next.

Amsterdam...

2008-08-24T18:56:00.000-07:00

So, Nicole and I make our way to Amsterdam and we get off to a pretty good start. We took a couple of free tours, I finally saw the IAMSTERDAM sign that I missed last time (it took us two hours to find it) and I got the chance to meet up with Irene! It was great.

Its starting to wind down and we are running out of things to do. We took two walking tours (nerd), went to coffeehouses, bars, museums, shops, everything. There was only one thing we hadn't done...a live sex show.

When I was in Amsterdam before with IMCS, I was like hmm a live sex show...really? I don't know what I had imagined, but for some reason, we all were too 'tired' to go out and see one, and I really regretted it. So, with Nicole eager and in tow, we were ready.

Ultimately, as we were walking back to the hostel, we had decided that we would rest that night and do the sex show the next night. We were tired from walking all day and we really needed full concentration for the show. However, right as we walked into the hostel, two of our friends in the room looked up at us and go 'do you guys want to go like a live sex show?' It was out of nowhere, and clearly this was a sign.

We ended up recruiting 2 other pairs of travelers to join us, so in total our group was 8 people. I knew that the doorman, Chuck (don't ask), to the Moulin Rouge gave discounts for groups, so we headed there. Upon arrival, we all paid 20 euros, got two free drinks and were escorted up a dark stairway where the magic awaited.

My first clear memory of entering the performance arena (for lack of a better name) was a Hawaiian looking man standing at the top of the stairs. He was wearing cut off Daisy Duke shorts, and a white sleeveless tee that said Malibu in rainbow writing. His lispy "hey girls" was a good indicator of how the night would go.

The setting was not only personal, but intimate and classy. It was a bar with a stage and weird pew-like seating surrounding the stage. It was smokey and I specifically remember the colorings carrying a red and black theme. Class at its best.

The first girl takes the stage. At this point, I will spoil the rest of the story by saying that the entire night was to the Christina Aguilera "Dirty" Soundtrack. So each girl came out and danced to a new song. Not only was this extremely amusing, but I was able to sing along.

Anyho. The first girl comes out and dances with a really depressed look on her face. She is watching herself in the mirror and basically is in her own world as she swings around naked on a pole. Suddenly, she grabs a guy from the audience, takes off his shirt and has him lay on his back on the stage. She then proceeds to her Louis Vutton purse, where she pulls out a sharpie.

Now at this point, I am confused as these elements are presented in front of me. Why the hell is that guy there? Why did she get a marker? Is she going to give him an autograph? Well, I was sort of right with my guess, because she then took the marker, shoved it in her no no hole, hovered over the guy and wrote SEXY on his stomach.

I can't color in the lines. I cannot write my name with my foot. But this bitch straight up has talent for being able to write legibly from her vagina. I will hire her to do my next essay.

So then the first couple to have sex takes the stage. I hear one of my personal favorite tunes "Can't Hold Us Back" begin to play, and I notice that the guy that had greeted us at the top of the stairs is standing with his back to us at the stage. What the hell is he doing up there.

Suddenly, he turns around, while doing terribly chorographed hand moves, to reveal a boner popping out of his Daisy Dukes. Then a girl joins him on stage. And together, they begin to dance something even the 5 year olds from Susie Harper School of Dance can do.

The whole thing was like a musical with penetration. It was like reverse cowgirl...2...3...4..and switch doggy style...5...6...7...8 and repeat dance moves 1-4 then go missionary...1...2...3...4. It was SO entertaining to watch. We were in hysterics.

After they 'finished' another girl took the stage and began to dance around to Dirty. She was doing her thing when all of a sudden there was a flash and this girl had a ribbon in her hand. Nicole and I turned to each other, and were so confused as to where this ribbon came from. She keeps pulling this ribbon and its getting bigger and bigger until we realize it is coming out of her vagina and she has by now wrapped it around the stage three times. I mean...to fit that much material into one's body...she had to have lodged it into her esophogaus to pull that shit out. Again...talent.

Next up came another couple having sex. One of the guys looked like my Communications professor, but uglier, taller and with saggier balls. Don't ask me how I know. He was dressed like a priest and his wom was dressed like...I don't know. A slut? A slut who wears plaid? Something. They were boring and painful. He couldn't keep it up and the smacking of his balls was offbeat to "Beautiful."

Okay...now for the best part of the night. We were enjoying ourselves so much that we stayed for two rounds of the show. So we kind of knew what was 'coming' when this final girl took the stage. She was by far our favorite, so when she got up, danced for about a minute and picked me out of the audience (I didn't even have my hand raised), we knew this was going to be something to write home about.

I got on stage and me and this woman start dancing around. I try to swing on the stripper pole and I am about as seducing as Donald Trump in board shorts. Actually...that is sort of hot. Anyways.

She then calls on three more people, two girls and a guy. We are all dancing around, having fun, when she sits us up against the stage wall. We then have to take off our outfit with our teeth and when she gets her underwear off, she puts it on the guys face and makes a motion like it smells.

Now...here is the kicker. She then goes to her Gucci purse (these girls are RICH) and pulls out a banana. We all know what's coming, its just a matter of which banana trick I will get.

She then takes the banana, peels it, and shoves it into her vagina while beckoning the first girl to come and eat it. The girl obliges.

Then, she takes a piece of the banana and puts it on her nipples. The second girl comes and eats them off.

Its now my turn. I am confused, she was doing the tricks out of order and I wasn't sure which one I would get. Our friends in the audience called which one I would get to Nicole before it even started, so props to them.

So she takes the banana, and puts it in her cooch. Okay, not so bad. I will eat a banana out of a prostitutes vagina. As I am nearing in for the bite...she calls it off. No no, this will not work.

She then turns around...puts the banana in her ass and tells me to eat it. I really had no choice, I was put on the spot and looking ahead I saw this banana just begging to be eaten. Plus, I had been living off of fries and mayonaise, so I figured I should justify my nutrition with this. Bottom line is: I ate a banana out of a prostitutes ass. I got the butt banana.

After the last guy ate the remainder of the banana out of her crotch and she closed her legs on his head, we all danced around some more before the show was over.

I took this opportunity to approach Bahina (she seemed like a Bahina, I didn't know her name) to tell her that she really made my night. This was another once in a lifetime opportunity and she really just...she made me so happy to have that much fun (it was fun despite how gross it sounds). She then kissed both of my cheeks and said..."anytime...anytime.." and exited just as another Xtina track was ending.

From Nicole's perspective, she said she was laughing so hard that she thought she was going to die. Convulsions status. So it was entertaining on the outside end as well. As for me, I have no visible scars from this encounter except for the drunk email I sent my mother simply stating one line and nothing more.

Mom, I just ate a banana out of a prostitutes ass, miss you!

We still have to talk about it. In a counseling setting.

Belgium

2008-08-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

After the beginning of our trip erupted (literally) into hysterics, I realized that the museum fart was surely an omen for an interesting trip. When we reached our next stop, Bruges, I was under the impression that a country so quiet and innocent could not possibly compare to the chaos in London.

Before our trip, I had been to Bruges once before and that ended in us crashing a bachelor party, riding on a beer bike and eating enough fries and ice cream to make me vomit. I knew that this time around, things would be a little more subdued, so we avoided any chance of craziness in favor of marveling in the silence.

As the night closed in upon the city, we began to get a little restless and decided to go to a local bar to indulge in my favorite beer ever: Hoegarden. No, I do not like it for the name, but rather because it is the best tasting substance ever to be created.

We checked our handy map and made our way to the bar that is recommended for its selection Belgian beers and laid back atmosphere. After walking in the rain to it, we realized that it had been shut down. Dejected, we made our way to three other bars on the map, but with the map now soaked from the rain, I was unable to read the proper streets and we soon became lost.

Then fate intervened. There was a small section of the map that had not yet been destroyed by the rain, and it marke a little bar named Joey's that was supposed to be really local and low key. As soon as we went to find the bar, we got lost in the maze of shops and hidden streets that surrounded it, and decided to just go back to the hostel and read that stupid book Twilight that we both had gotten addicted to.

Just as we were leaving the street, we heard some commotion and followed it. Sure enough, we had discovered Joey's, nestled in a tiny corner and hidden from view. We entered the smoke filled bar and were greeted by the bartender, who got us two Hoegardens and struck up conversation with us.

He then passed off bar dutie to someone else, and came and joined us for our beer. We got to talking and it turns out his name was Stevie and he is a muscian. He introduced us to his friend and we all began to talk music. I usually take an outsider approach to conversations such as this, but Nicole spoke up and mentioned to Stevie that I play the guitar. He seriously popped a boner in excitment and offered us to come back after the bar closes to play guitars together.

Now, I understand this may sound sketchy, but a variety of planning went into this. For one thing, Stevie was around 50 and somewhat scrawny, so if worst came to worst, two menstrual females such as me and Nicole could handle ourselves quite well. Secondly, he seemed really genuine and neither of us felt any sort of fear of hidden intentions. So, we went home, took a nap and went back to the bar at 2 am to begin our jam session with Stevie.

I cannot possibly put into words how amazing it was. Stevie had a beautiful voice and was singing us songs and we were playing our guitars together as we sat in this deserted bar in the middle of Bruges at 3:30 in the morning. He then shut all the lights and began to play us some of his favorite music in the world, and it was amazing. Simply amazing.

As he got up to change another CD, I noticed he moved his chair right next to Nicole. I was a little confused as to why he did this, but I figured he probably needed to clear a walkway for the customers who were not there. Now, in the darkness, I am about as good as blind, but I thought I saw something. I thought I saw his sensually stroking Nicole's hands and legs. No, no, it must be my imagination.

When he got up to change the song again, Nicole tried to whisper me something, but I couldn't hear her and I kept doing the "what? WHAT? WHAT I CANT HEAR YOU WHAT?" thing until she finally gave up. She was pleading for help.

It was now nearing 5 am, and I was being quite obvious that I was tired and wanted to go home. He put on one more song, that seriously lasted 106 minutes, so we were both sitting there miserably as we waited for it to end.

Then, Stevie leaned over and whispered to Nicole,"I think your friend wants to leave. You can just stay here with me. It wouldn't be about the sex, it'd be about the affection."

I'm sorry, but that's a damn good line. If I were her, I'd be like peace out Ashley and I'd head upstairs to Stevie's love shack. Instead, she quickly got up, grabbed me and we said our goodbyes as we exited promptly.

When we got back to the hostel, I was so tired and we had to wake up early to catch a train, so I just slept in a sports bra in my sleeping bag. When I woke up around 7 am...I felt someone watching me. Now, in our hostel room, the doors did not lock and it was just me, Nicole and some British boy occupying the 8 beds in the room.

As I opened my eyes, I noticed there was a boy, fully dressed, sitting over the edge of the top bunk, diagnol from me. He had long, wet, greasy, curly hair and was dressed in all black. And he was staring right at me.

I got freaked out so I burrowd further into my bag, but couldn't sleep. I kept checking my watch, and at 8:30, I peeked back out, only to discover he was still staring.

I once again took shelter, and when the alarm went off at 9:30...I peeked out PRAYING he wasn't still there. He was. And he was staring.

So I sat up in bed and began to stare at him. We both stared at each other for about a minute until he jumped down, pulled a suitcase off the bed and left, never to be seen again.

I was terried, overtired and confused as to what had happened the night before with Stevie. It was a shame, because it really was such an amazing and beautiful experience, until Nicole had to be a ho and mess it up. Totally kidding!! Anyways, this is not one of the funny stories from the trip, for those they will be in Amsterdam, Slovokia and London Part II. But sort of interesting things like this will be in the meantime. Alright, Amsterdam is next, but I have to go scrapbook now. Sorry I turned 86 over the weekend.

London Part I

2008-08-23T11:56:00.000-07:00

So we arrive in London, and are having a pretty good time wandering around the city and adjusting to the travel styles of one another. After seeing all of the major sites for Nicole, I finally got to do my part of the trip: The Imperial War Museum.

The Imperial War Museum is my favorite museum in the world, and every time I am in London, I go there solo and spend hours marveling at its wonder. However, the museum does not often change its displays, so I was beginning to get my trips there mixed up. That is...until this faithful day.

Nicole and I had walked around the entirety of the museum, and had ended up at the Modern Warefare and Genocide section. This part of the museum highlights any and all conflicts from WWII up until the present day. It is very interesting and informative, and a lot of the conflicts have happened during our generation, so we were spending some time in this area.

We arrive at the Vietnam section, and we are both standing side by side watching a video and reading some text regarding the war. Suddenly, a young boy around twelve years of age walks up and stands next to Nicole. As with the nature of the museum, everything is silent and subdued, so the three of us are standing there quietly as we absorb the material.

Suddenly, and without warning, I see the boy lift up his leg (yes, he lifts his leg) and he lets out one of the loudest public farts I have ever heard in my life. Now, I am sorry. I understand that I am 22 years old and farts should not be funny, but they are. In fact, they are one of the most humerous things to me. However, being that we were in such a serious atmposhere, I knew I couldn't laugh. I knew it. But knowing something and doing something are two completely different things.

Moments after the fart has broken the silence, I feel shudders begin to pulse through my body. I understand that the key to my composure is not looking at Nicole. You know, when something funny happens, the key to staying calm is not to make eye contact with your friend. I knew it was imparitive, and as the silence remained through the three of us...I began to wonder if Nicole had even heard (or smelled) the fart that had exited the body right next to her.

Deciding that it was a safe move, I slowly cocked my head and met the gaze of Nicole. Big. Mistake.

In a matter of seconds, Nicole let out a mouth fart, and ran away laughing down the hall. Confused as to why the kid had farted and remained at the scene of the crime, I decided to be the bigger person and pretend as though nothing had happened.

I remained for roughly 11 seconds.

As soon as Nicole was out of earshot, it was just me and the boy, and the fart kept repeating itself in my head. I soon began to seizure from repressed laughter and if I didn't release it soon, I was going to reach that point of loss of body control...and a fart would soon ensue from my end.

With no choice, I fled the scene, choosing a dark corner to let out my laughter. As much as I was trying to muffle it, I was laughing so hard, and in a matter of seconds an angry man rounded the corner and gave me a disgusted dirty look. I was confused and I looked up only to realize that I had ran into the Darfur section of the exhibit. It looked like I was laughing at Darfur. Before I could explain the facts of what was going on, a series of other dirty looks followed his lead. I had to escape, and as soon as I made my way back to the exit, it was blocked by that damn boy still staring at the Vietnam exhibit. I then went to turn right, only then was I blocked by a now composed Nicole, who instantly lost that upon meeting my gaze once again. I was trapped, and with no other option, I rushed past the boy into the open hallway and began to laugh until tears flooded down my face. I NEVER cry from laughter, so this should tell you just how ironic and funny the moment was to me.

I felt like a piece of shit, so we quickly left afterwards. But then I asked myself, who is the piece of shit? Is it me, forced into uncontrollable laughter by an unnamed source in a place of death and destruction? Or is it the boy, who chose to release his gas in a fashion that was not only disrespectful to the material, but greatly dangerous to those around him. I think we all know that answer.

EuroTrip...The Beginnings

2008-08-23T11:43:00.000-07:00

So, I have been asked by a few people, namely my grandmother, to write a blog about my excursion to Europe this summer. And, since I am currently unemployed and living with my parents for an indefinite amount of time, why not? So here it goes...

Even before the trip started, we ran into a bit of a problem. Nicole and I were hanging out at the house, when we noticed an odd, circular rash forming on the inner part of my right knee. Thinking it was just another herpes outbreak, I ignored it for the time being. For those of you who don't know me, I make a lot of herpes references, and I have never had the disease, yet find it quite entertaining to use in an analogy sense.

Within a week, the once small rash had turned into a full blown jelly fish on my leg. It had a clear body with weird strands extending down the outside of my leg, practically to the middle of my calf. Again, I figured this was probably just some form of scabies I had contracted from a public toilet, so I ignored it until Nicole decided she would rather go on the trip alone unless I got this checked out.

So, I finally gave in and decided to go to the free public health clinic so I would avoid having to pay a co-pay out of my own pocket for this weird rash that I now housed. After waiting in line for a group of dying people to get a less-than-satisfactory exam, it was my turn.

When the doctor(Dr. Latisha) saw my leg, she instantly wore worry on her face. Something was not right. After examining it a little further, she determined that I had somehow gotten myself a parasite and it had traveled through my body and lodged itself by my knee. As if that wasn't enough to hear two days before you are about to travel for two months, she needed to run some tests in order to properly determine exactly what parasite this was. I pondered for a moment as to what kind of test is accurate in identifying a parasite. I finally concluded that my worst fear would be realized and I would be subjected to a blood test. I was wrong.

The doctor returned with a plastic bag containing a plethora of materials. I was so confused and beginning to worry as she pulled out a ivory, upside down construction cone with various numerical markings on it. What could this possibly be for?

I was then told that in order to properly identify the parasite, I would need to provide them with a variety of stool samples so they could analyze my bowel movements and find a cure. In simplier terms, I had to shit in a cup. I was not having that. After explaining how to collect my feces so loud that the whole hospital heard, she provided me with 12 sample viles in the case that I shit more than once a day. She wanted every shit, every time, and the detailed list of instructions on how to properly care for the shit during transport was pages upon pages in length. I put on a brave face, smiled and walked out of a clinic clutching a pink bag with a stool collector and 12 viles. As soon as I was out of eyesight, I dumped it into the nearest dumpster and went about my day. Problem solved.

So now that you have the backbone of the story, I will simplify what two months did to my beloved parasite. Not only did this thing continue to grow, but it produced a weird brown/black/gray color on my knee that looked as though I hadn't bathed in several days. Even when I do not bathe for several days, I make sure to wipe off any obvious signs of filth, but in this case that was not possible. It began to worry me midway through the trip, but then I forgot about it in favor of other things and now I have a slight scar from where it was. You may ask yourself...how does a parasite leave one's body? I have asked myself that same question, and I don't know...however...in London Part II of my story...we may find out.

Now, I will just highlight the country funny parts instead of writing every detail of every place. Who wants to read about oh the building was so pretty, the culture was so great, when you can read about farting, live sex shows and crotch scratches in front of strangers. I will now end this post and begin the tales.

Poor Carol

2008-01-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

This one did not go into my school memoir. This is just me relaying a story my mother told me a couple of years ago and speficially noted that I am not allowed to write about it. With her warning slowly fading from my mind, I have no choice but to proceed.

Now, this is me hearing a story told to me and putting it into my own words. The material itself is not fabricated, but specific details such as carpet color, facial expressions and the like are merely added for effect.

So way back in the day, my mother decided her neck pain had become such a bother that something needed to be done. Bringing my grandmother along for the ride, she opted to invest in a personal neck massager in order to aleviate her pain.

Being that she is cheap under any circumstances, SEARS seemed perfect for such a contraption. Now, I don't know about you, but I have never gone shopping for a 'personal neck massager.' That alone sounds sexual, and quite frankly SEARS and sexual don't mix. In fact, the only thing SEARS mixes with is flannel print and underpriced hardware.

So, with my grandmother in tow, my mother purchased her neck massager. Now, even though I was only a few years old, I can describe this device perfectly. It looked like a penis. Plain and simple. A vibrating penis that you rub on yoru neck to soothe sore nerves. Somehow this latest design appealed to my mother, and my grandmother unknowingly went along.

Well, let's be honest. If you have a vibrating penis massager thing in your hands, you are going to let it wander. Suddenly your inner thigh will be 'sore.' And then the next thing you know your vagina will be sore from using it so much. Basically, I cannot confirm nor deny that my mother used this device for purposes other than its intended design, but that main details is that she had something that looked exactly like a vibrater.

So now that we have that detail clear, let me tell you what happened on that faithful Christmas Eve.

Back in the day, Christmas Eve was held at our house, so all of the relatives gathered in our stunning home that was decorated with on-sale Wal-Mart snowman and Christmas lights that were burnt out dozens by the strand.

As everyone was gathered in the living room enjoying their coffee and burnt cookies (courtesy Carol), someone happened to notice that young Ashley was missing. As a child, I was pretty cute. I had this weird curly hair that was only curly on top, which resulted in a mullet and weird sideburns. I sort of looked like Moe from the 3 Stooges with a jeri curl. I was not the type of child you'd want to show off. And, since it was Christmas Eve, I was dressed in my finest outfit: a hot blue dress with lace outlining every seam. I looked like a placemat. No wonder why that modeling agency rejected my headshots as a child.

Anyways, someone notices that I have gone missing, and being the only reaction my family knows, panic swept over the household. Chairs were lifted. Closets were searched. Cavaties were opened. Baby Ashley was gone.

Little did they know that I had somehow climbed the giant staircase, lodged myself under my mother's bed and found myself a new toy to play with. Hearing the commotion below me, and unable to hide the excitement I held for my new toy, I decided to show everyone what I had been playing with.

At the height of the search, my uncle hears a faint buzzing in the background. Confused, he alerts the rest of the family to the sound now coming from the top of the stairs. As all searching haults, a new sense of attention is brought to the top of the stairs, where a noise reminicent to a bee hive is being produced.

Just then, Baby Ashley beings her descent down the stairs, complete with vibrating neck massager/penis in hand.

The worries subside as I embark on my new journey to show off what I have just found. Everyone is so relieved that I am okay that they avert their attention momentarily from my right hand. Suddenly, its spotted. Someone speaks.

What...is that...she's carrying?

Through her panicked tears, my mothers focus suddenly turns to my right hand. There, with its wobbly head moving in a circular motion is the penis vibrating neck massager. And there, surrounding her completely, is her entire family.

Now, my mother has never really been much of an athlete. She claims she played college tennis, but when the two of us played together about a year ago, it looked like she was playing tennis underwater. She scored one point in six sets.

However, in that moment, my mother was comparable to a defensive lineman going to pickup a fumble to make the winning touchdown. Within seconds, and with one swift motion, I was scooped up and brought to the safety of her room...all the while the sound of the buzzing still ringing loudly in the ears of my confused relatives.

When my mother finally composed herself, she returned downstairs to see her entire extended family staring at her. Naturally, in a situation like this, the obvious has just occured and nobody really needs to say anything. However my father, completely oblivious to the embarrassment that everyone was feeling, decided to break the silence.

"Hey, how did Ashley find your vibrator?"

You know. I would have given anything, I mean anything, to have seen my mother's face when he said that. I feel like that is worse than shitting your pants on a first date. So much worse. Not that I have done that.

Realizing that this situation needs to be rectified, my awkward mother stumbles on her words in a meager attempt to restore any sense of dignity she has left. I feel as though the words, neck, not a vibrator, and penis were uttered in a variety of orders through quickened sentences under her breath as her family intently watched her pride die on the spot.

To this day, nobody will mention that faithful Christmas Eve. The only way I know about this story is when I accidently did something to embarrass my mother and she said something along the lines of "I know you did that on purpose that Christmas Eve." With my curiosity peaked at the thought, I had to know more, and with the bribe of babysitting my sister, the story was soon leaked.

My mother still adheres to the idea that I purposly embarrassed her that day. Mind you, I was only three and had the mind capacity of a turtle, but still, apparantly knowing what a vibrator was and where it was located had somehow been taught to me in pre-school.

Even though we are the same person, I somehow want to go back in time and high five Baby Ashley for that day. I mean, sure, a lot of kids can say their first word was shit or that they used to grab their mother's breasts while being held in public. But how many children can brag that on Chrsitmas Eve, in front of the entire family, they brought their mother's vibrator downstairs for everyone to see.

That my friends, is a story that I will tell my vibrator-toting children.

NOTE

2008-01-01T17:22:00.001-08:00

I mentioned this earlier, but I just uploaded some stories from my senior project memoir. They are all first drafts and I did the editing on my school computer, so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. ENJOY.

Pain in the Arse

2008-01-01T17:19:00.000-08:00

There was something on my ass, and I wasn’t having it.

For starters, this pestering problem crossed the ultimate line and woke me up promptly at 7 am on a Friday morning. The only thing I had to do on Fridays was my Self Defense class, taught by an 86 year old woman who claimed to take down the entire gang of Bloods late one night in San Francisco. I believe she attributed her jab/punch combination to that success.
Just as I was reaping the benefits of a cheap comforter pulled against my chin, I felt a sharp itch on my ass. I knew it, this was finally the day I got herpes. I’d joked about it so much that it has finally come to get me, and had taken on the more embarrassing form. No, it can’t be herpes, I bet its hemorrhoids. I’d never had them before, but I once saw a hidden tube of Preparation H in my mother’s medicine cabinet and was overcome with desire to read the label cover to cover. When she caught me red handed with a gaping mouth she decided the only rash punishment would be for me to apply it for her.
When the itch became unbearable, I convinced myself to get out of bed and check out my rear in the bathroom, which was surprisingly fitting for this occasion. You see, in the aftermath of the roommate-from-Hell living situation, I had managed to use the torn cartilage in my knee as an excuse to gain the only single room available, which so happened to be handicapped and under reserve just in case a disabled student needed it. Aside from enjoying the enlarged bedroom, low light switches and constant reminder that I was in fact going directly to hell, that room also came with low fitted mirrors on the bathroom walls, perfect for my need at this moment.
As I steadied my half asleep body, I mean this was 7 am, and it was a Friday, I positioned myself directly in front of the low rising mirror and dropped my pants. I was shocked at what I saw. A small red bump had neatly barnacled onto the cuppage below my left ass check. Seeing no immediate threat, I popped back into bed and resumed thoughts of Scott Baio and Knight Rider.
A few hours later, it was time to get up and go to Self Defense class. There was nothing more convincing in the world to wake me than the promise of my 86 year old teacher’s grunting as she inflicted a slow moving punch on a student who unwillingly was forced into the demonstration. It was kind of like a cross between Golden Girls and Power Rangers, but instead of colored sweat suits, we had Easy Spirits and DKNY sports bras.
Soon into class, the itch began to intensify and I saw no other option that getting a second opinion from Christie, who held no medical background and was extremely under qualified for the job. Just as I pulled my pants down after a roundhouse kick that made me feel like Jenna Jameson, Christie was appalled. I knew it, I have herpes and I’ve just exposed it. However, I was shocked to find out that Christie was not disgusted by my abnormal body mass, but rather from the fact that I had chosen a pair of black granny panties to decorate my rump that day. They weren’t just any granny panties though, they were the high rollers…or as I like to call them…lacy…and spacey. She was left speechless as the killer whale of my backside breached the surface to make its mark on her mental scars.
After Christie determined that not only did she never want to relive that experience again in her lifetime, nor that of her children’s, but that I had a simple spider bite and I needed to silence my complaints. Well, that answer wasn’t good enough, so after class I went to my roommate Ash-Lee, who also had no medical background, but most likely would grant me the attention I craved.
As soon as I dropped my pants for Ash-Lee, and she got past the image of my mammalian sized ass, she used her textbook Biology knowledge to alert me that I had ringworm. We then narrowed down the options and decided that I had gotten it from doing sit-ups at the gym, so before it spreads faster than Paris Hilton after four vodka shots, I needed to go to the Health Center.
Now, any health care that is free tends to frighten me, but, being as accident prone as I am, it suits me just fine. However, the Health Center at Sonoma State is a little confusing to me. It seems as though every time I enter the ginormous wooden doors that give me a hernia just by pushing them open, I am asked about a Pap Smear. I personally am not a fan of Pap Smears, especially when they are offered by the same doctor who came into my Biology class to talk about the importance of safe sex. I feel as though that might cause some awkwardness during our next encounter, with knowing my luck, would not be that far in the future. So, against my will and with the advice of Ash-Lee eating away at my brain, I decided to go get some ointment to rub on my ass.
After reading about the effects of Vaginitis (standard reading material in the health center), I was called into the one of the tiny rooms to wait my turn. When the doctor came in, he took one look at my ass, wrote something his chart, chuckled a little and explained I had a simple spider bite. After feeling like the girl who got a cast on her hand just for attention in 9th grade, I exited the Health Center, still itching, but dejected at heart. I was really pushing for the herpes. I mean, what a story to tell.
A few hours later, I decided to avoid my ass altogether. I took off my jeans and opted for long shorts that minimalized touching below my butt cleavage. I was avoiding this spider bite at all costs, and as the doctor had said, I cannot, CANNOT, itch it. So I didn’t.
Later on in the night, I decided to check on the little bugger, just to make sure it was healing normally as the doctor promised it would. I mean, it was only a spider bite. As I lifted my cheek just a little to peek in, much like a mother bird lifts up on her eggs, I noticed that this bite, which initially was the size of a quarter, was now the size of a fist. That is strange. Alas, I am a faker who made a big deal out of a spider bite, so I will just have to live with it.
Just before I was about to go to sleep, I decided to spend the night at Petra’s so we could make fun of her roommate when she came home drunk complaining about a condom stuck in her lady berry. I loved sleeping at her house, especially when I accidentally fall asleep on her roommates blanket only to discover that it is covered in white spots and I most likely am now carrying a child. Without wanting to refuse the chance at entertainment, I head over there, intent on showing Petra the massive bulge slowly sodomizing me.
When we took a look at my spider bite, it no longer was pink and fist sized, but rather it was brown, raised and looked like someone had slapped me for stealing her boyfriend. Without sensing concern, we retreated to sleep and eagerly awaited the return of her roomslut.
The next morning, I awoke to two things. First, and most importantly, her roommate had not returned and we determined that she had spent the night at Nick’s, the boy who she had accidentally showered with after thinking he was a different Nick that she was supposedly dating from Summer Orientation. Oh, that girl. Secondly, there was a large, brown, raised mass encircling my upper and lower thighs. Getting excited, I figured I had probably slept in that same spider’s nest, but no, I wasn’t going back to the Health Center! It was only when Petra noticed that this large mass was stemming out from the initial bite, which now resembled a pitchfork wound from an angry Amish. We were slightly concerned.
Not knowing what to do, we called back the Health Center and explained what had become of the bite. Did you scratch it? No, I didn’t, I sat there and watched it mutate into a small creature who is slowly becoming very intimate with me. Did you do any illegal substances last night? No, I watched reruns of ER and ate a grape Popsicle. Okay, you need to go to the Emergency Room. And just like that, after asking two, simple mundane questions, I was sent on a quest to the nearest emergency room to which my insurance company would cover. After promises of Taco Bell on the way home, Petra came along and offered the moral support I desperately needed.
When we finally reached the hospital, we ran quickly into the ER to the awaiting team of doctors who were waiting with EKG machines and morphine to treat my life or death situation. As we busted through the automated doors, we were shocked by what we were seeing. There were no doctors waiting for us. No nurses carrying IV drips and next of kin forms. Rather, there collected in the waiting room, were some of the scariest people I have ever seen in my life.
After scanning the room, we decided our best bet was to sit next to the fish tank and share a seat so one of us would not have to sit next to the man throwing up blood. If we moved across from him, we would be forced to stare at the man who was holding one of his fingers. And, if we really wanted to stretch a few more seats down, we could easily position ourselves next to the girl with the protruding ribcage. I think sitting next to Nemo will do just fine.
So we sat there and waited. And waited. And waited some more. I am glad its called the emergency room. I could have called that morning and made an appointment for that night and still have been seen sooner. Each minute that passed by, this bite was disfiguring my body more and more, so I contemplated suing for reconstructive surgery just as my name was called.
As I prepared to shove myself off of Petra’s lap, and avoid the pile of blood next to me, the nurse seemed to feel as though just calling my name was not enough. Perhaps, there was more than one Ashley Bacher in the building, and just to be safe, we should state her ailment to the entire waiting room just to make sure we get the right girl. Just as I am passing the girl who looks eerily like Samara from the Ring, I hear the unexpected.
“Ashley Bacher, here for the BUG BITE!”

I froze midstep. Suddenly I felt all eyes turning to me. Here we had people vomiting vital body organs, while others were holding those same vital organs in their hands, and I, yes me, I was making my way forward with a bug bite. Thank you for announcing that. Now, not only do I have to worry about this bug bite, but now I will probably be returning with a stab wound a few hours from now.
Knowing that there was no turning back now, I hurried my steps into the patient rooms, taking one last look at Petra, who was following one of the fish with her finger.
As soon as I got into the room, I had only one request, and I figured it wasn’t so much to ask. I did not want to wear a gown. I do not do gowns. I would rather cover my body with a branch of poison ivy than some giant Brawny paper towel. But, just as these thoughts were passing through my mind, I saw it. Neatly folded in the middle of the paper sheet lay a beautifully colored hospital gown, with none other than flying pigs jumping over fences decorating its cheap fabric. They had a better chance of taking out my gallbladder than shoving me into this Donna Karen knockoff.
“Now, if you’ll just slip this on, the doctor will be in shortly.”
Slip this on? How can I slip on a sheet. It looks like my bedroom set from fourth grade. Who puts pigs jumping over fences on an already disgraceful piece of fabric? Its like decorating children’s pajamas with a picture of the Unabomber.
Without any other options, I was forced to “slip on” the pork pajamas. For safe measure, I did a twirl, much like that of a ballerina, to test the sturdiness of the gown. I swear to you, I was like Marilyn Monroe, and instead of pulling down my cute white dress as I stood over a sewer, I frantically tried to cover my lacy and spacey granny panties as I clawed at my bright green hospital gown. I tell you, we could have passed for twins.
After waiting there, carefully deconstructing the posters on the wall for roughly eight hours, the doctor finally strolls in. He is a tender man, with one of those out of date head band type things with some tool on it that denotes he is a doctor. He seems bothered by my chart, since it simply says, “Ashley Bacher –Bug Bite.” He also seems bothered by my existence, which I find shocking, seeing as he has a waiting room similar to one of the Civil War to look forward to. I should be a blessing.
He introduces himself without looking me in the eye, and then asks me to roll over on my stomach. We are moving rather quickly here, I have no time to ask or answer questions, I am simply laying on my stomach with the lower half of my body (definitely not my better half) exposed to a man who looks strangely like he is related to Tom Selleck. Suddenly I feel a cool surface touch my skin and I peer over to see he has taken out a Sharpie and is playing Pictionary on an easel established by my ass. I would have asked him what he was doing if he actually had a personality.
“Well, you have been bitten by a venomous spider, a brown recluse. You’re actually really lucky we caught it early. I drew a circle around the bitten area so we can monitor it. A nurse will be in shortly to give you anti-venom and then we can send you home to recover. Bye.”

That’s it? Just as I flip over, he’s gone. I felt so…used. A brown recluse? Aren’t those things dangerous? I mean shouldn’t I…be somewhere? How are you going to leave me with that news and move on? I mean granted, yeah someone was just shot, but I was just violated by a spider and you walk out?
I was so angry I decided to rebel. I took off the damn gown and threw it into a heap into the biohazard trash can. I then threw on my shorts and waited for another six hours until a portly nurse came in bearing a tray with a vile full of liquid and a needle. Great.
I watched her fill the damn shot up with this liquid that looked like handsoap…or something else my mother will kill me for if I make the obvious comparison to. It didn’t look so bad, it was just a shot, I can handle these, I’ve had them a million times before. In fact, I had just gotten my 6th, I repeat 6th, Hepititis shot earlier in the month. The school health center lost my shot records and put holds on my registration for every semester until I came down and took a shot. I think I’ve taken so many Hepititis shots, that I not only repel the disease from myself, but those within a 20 mile radius.
As I begin to roll up my sleeve, ready to take this massive injection, I see the nurse chuckle a little. What is so funny? You have no idea that your gown is where it belongs in the trashcan full of syringes and used cotton balls. What can possibly be funny?
“Oh no honey, we can’t give you this shot there, its much too potent…we have to give it to you…here.”
Then she checks out my ass.
Is this a joke? You cannot be serious. If you think for one minute I am…wait a sec…this would actually be kind of a funny story. You know what, just for the sake of telling a story, I am going to get this shot and I am going to get it in my butt. Let’s go!
So, like any good patient would, I inch down my waistband and expose my right cheek for her to go. Just as I look over to see her progress, I notice she is doing the unthinkable. She is about to insert her needle into my tattoo of my frog jumping into my buttcrack! Poor Kremit! She might puff him up and disfigure him for life, this isn’t going to work. We need to switch sides. So just like that, I rotate 90 degrees and expose my left cheek for her to work with. We’re all set.
Just as I am about ready to take the wrath of this nurse, fear strikes a chord in my head. I can’t help it. On the count of one, two and just before the three, I use my self defense skills and left jab the nurse before she can inject me. Clearly upset by my maneuver, she explains how that was dangerous and now I must stand, pants at my ankles, arms crossed at my chest so she can give me this shot. Had someone walked in, surely this scene would raise questions.
Its in. Not so bad actually. In fact, I bet she’s almost done. Just as I wonder in my braveness, I hear her say that it might burn a little. Turns out, she had just stabbed me and the anti venom hadn’t even began its journey through my bloodstream.
Then I felt it. I felt like she was injecting me with a yeast infection. It was the most intense, tingly, painful, burning sensation I had ever felt in my life. I quickly turned around to see how much more was left, only to discover she hadn’t even hit the 1/4th mark.
After enduring this pain for what felt like a presidential term, she exclaimed “all done” in a pitch that reminded me of how Martha Stewart reacts when a cake comes out of the oven. I turned to look at her and felt the whole world rush to my ass. Before I could stop myself, I was falling straight into the arms of a very confused nurse who began screaming GURNEY at the top of her lungs.
When I came to, I was on a stainless steel gurney with the nurse frantically rubbing my head as I wondered what had just happened. Why do I feel as though someone has just injected a gallon of Dove Moisturizing Body Wash into my left…oh yeah, there it is. Within moments of this realization, I was in tears. Not just any tears, weeping. I hadn’t cried that hard since Sally Jesse Raphael’s show went off the air. I needed help and I needed it now.

“Do you need me to get someone!”

“Yes, YES, I, I need you to, I need you to get my best friend.”

“What’s her name! Is she in the waiting room?”
”Yes, she is, PETRA, my best friend PETRA, fish tank, she’s a girl GO!”

And with that, she was off. As I struggled to survive the acid eating away my cellulite, the nurse was spiriting into the waiting room to get Petra. While waiting for me for approximately 16 hours, Petra had seen her fair share of chaos. An old man had been wheeled in, left right in front of her, and proceeded to have a seizure, although nobody but Petra reacted. She also managed to memorize and name each fish in the tank, and to top it all off, she had learned how to treat a gunshot with only a tube sock and six ounces of baking soda.
Just as she was regaining control after witnessing the seizure, she was alerted to a commotion coming from the patient area. She noticed a nurse running out, screaming incoherently something in the direction of the waiting room. She struggled to hear.

“IS THERE A PEDRO. A PEDRO THAT IS A GIRL?! PEDRO YOUR FRIEND BACKER NEEDS YOU PEDRO.”

Petra naturally looks around for a Latin man by the name of Pedro. She does not see him. She then looks back at the nurse.

“Does this Backer have a bug bite?”

“Yes! You must be Pedro, come quick!”

So Petra (Pedro) quickly followed the nurse into my room where she saw me screaming, crying and writhing on a stainless steel table with my pants still slightly pulled down. She thought the worst. Later on, she would go on to explain that she thought I had cancer and she would have to be the bearer of bad news to all of my friends and family. When she decided that it was much too painful to be cancer, she also realized she would have to be the bearer of bad news to my friends and family that I did in fact become pregnant from her roommates blanket. I don’t know which thought upset her more.
As I opened my eyes and I saw Petra (Pedro)’s glistening face come close, I had to tell her the reason for my pain. I was fumbling for words, but the saliva that had collected in my nasal made it difficult to talk, so I capitalized on this for a dramatic effect, and turned my head away quickly.

“What is it Ashley? What’s wrong?”

“I…I…Petra you don’t even understand…I got a …shot.”

“You got shot? Some other guy in the waiting room did too…I just thought..”

“No, no…I…got a shot.”

And with that, Petra was turning towards the door, exhaling angrily at the fact that I had scared her shitless for a routine shot. Just as she was nearing the exit, I turned to her to say one last thing.

“…In…In my ass.”

Just as the words left my mouth, Petra was by my bedside, offering words of sympathy and caressing my hand. She felt for me, knew my pain and was willing to do whatever it took to get me through this tough time. Yes, her best friend had just gotten a shot…but not just any shot…one…in her ass.
After hanging out in the hospital for another hour to make sure the anti-venom was working, the hospital staff decided it was time to let us go. I don’t know why they would decide this, seeing as Petra was yelling “Can we DISCHARGE the ass shot girl yet?” or the fact that she had donned plastic gloves, a surgical mask she found and was currently wheeling a stool up and down the corridor. Without much else, and a disgusted look for Petra to take off their equipment, we were sent home with nothing more than a pamphlet on spider bites, a very sore ass, and a friendship that had been through the perils of hell and back.

Crystal Meth

2008-01-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

So we moved. I don’t know what it was, but I’m pretty sure my parents wanted to move us to a safer town, even though our previous residence had all of that. In my own selfish mind, I’d like to think we moved due to my testy-tetherball-redhead incident, but that is up for discussion.
It was my first day of second grade, and like any first day of school, I had to wear my best outfit. Unfortunately, I was still at an age, unlike most kids, where my mother still held me under her wrath of fashion. If I was not donning OshKoshBgosh overalls (without a shirt, until I began to develop noticeable nipples), then I was certainly wearing some form of oversized shirt depicting a slogan I could barely read.
On this day however, my mother went all out. Since it was my first day not only in a new town, but at a new school, first impressions were high on our priority list, as this outfit would come to show. While I was at home packing my lunch of brown apples and smashed bread into my Jurassic Park pail, my mother took the liberty to pick out my first day outfit. She came home proud, as though she had single handedly found a cure for cancer in the form of a sale item at the local mall.
Within the wrappings of the shopping bag was something I now refer to as “busy.” There was a lot going on. Starting with the least damaging, we had the black stretchy pants. They were fashionable in the day, especially the kind my mother had purchased, complete with stirrups for my miniscule feet to slide into. God forbid they ride up slightly or come off. Without those stirrups, I would be lost.
The stretchy pants were perfectly sized to grip my body in all the right places. Since I was still pre-pubescent, I was lacking the abnormally large backside I would soon acquire within a few years. However, the stretchy pants did provide me with a camel toe large enough to draw attention to, but my mother must have been thinking ahead, for the black casted a shadow that my wedged crotch hid within.
Next, to go with the strecthy pants, we had the main focal point of the outfit: the sweater. Seeing as it was the first day of school and it was late summer, one may raise the question of why a sweater? I was asking myself that too as I began sweltering in the heat, unable to breathe through the fibers that adorned my body. This sweater was stylish though. Not only was it form fitting, but it also held a décor, in which to this day, I have not seen one like it.
Covering the sweater were penguins skiing. Yes. Penguins skiing. I personally did not know penguins could ski, but by the looks of it, they were quite capable. There were even obstacles, such as the sewn in trees and occasional red flag dotting the course. Not only were these penguins fashioned to skis, but they carried poles, goggles and the blowing scarf. If I wasn’t going to make an impression with this, why then I think we shall have moved again.
Finally, to top the outfit off, and just as I thought it couldn’t get any better, my mom pulls a fast one on me. She buys me a turtleneck*! Why, what makes this turtleneck so special? Could it be that, it too, is adorned with SKIING PENGUINS! And, if worn correctly, the neck of the turtleneck would expose itself just above the sweater so the obvious similarity of the garments can be recognized. Why Carol, you’ve really outdone yourself this time.
Now, to really appreciate my beauty on this first day of school, I need to paint a picture of my haircut (again, controlled by my mother) that I proudly sported up until my second year of high school. We all know what a mullet is, right? And we all know what a bowl cut is, naturally. But, have you ever seen a mulleted bowl cut? If you have not, let me describe it to you. My hair was cut in the shape of a bowl, severely long on top, but trimmed proportionately on the sides so that it did not distract too much from my squinty eye. Then, my mother had the hairstylist do something drastic. Instead of just stopping the bowl cut, she had it, oh let me say, slope downward, to form a section that appeared to be longer in the back. Not only did this make my neck extremely itchy, it also combined two of the worst hairstyles ever created to rest conjoined upon my head. Add my sweater/turtleneck outfit, and we clearly had a child bound for success.
As I entered that first day of school, and gleefully marched up the ramp to the rusted over portable classroom, I felt the envy. Not only was I the new girl, but I was clearly the cutest there. I saw all the other kids wearing Esprit with flowing locks of hair, but they had nothing on me. I waited for them to begin to flock to me, to push and shove for a chance to share their pencil sharpener with me, a chance to catch my cooties.
However, I soon realized after I sat in the back corner by myself with a desk that was considerably shorter on one of the legs, that I was not the hit I had assumed I was. I felt lonely, crushed, and profusely sweaty from the immense layers I was sheltered in. I decided that instead of standing out, I would just be by myself. I mean, I could easily go the whole year without being noticed, let alone called on for roll or some other mundane chore that I would exempt myself from.
Just as I began to accept my role in the society of 2nd grade, the teacher decided to take role. I already knew she would pronounce my last name wrong, and the thought of correcting her annoyed me profusely. Instead of just skimming my name and making it sound like a Russian appetizer, the teacher makes an announcement. She wouldn’t dare. No. Yep, she’s going to.
“Class, I would like you all to welcome our new student, Ashley Bootcher!” The blood rushed to my face like an adolescent boy getting an erection. What do I do. I’m trapped. That bitch, who honestly does this. Ugh. This can’t get any worse, they will just stare and I will play off the fact that I exist. “Ashley, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, and then we will pair you with a student to be your buddy for the day!” Great. Just what I wanted. Well, where to start.
Should I state my outstanding tetherball achievements and show off my battle wound? No, too soon. Maybe I can talk about my dog, yes that’s safe. No, no, I have a better plan.

“Hi, I like books.”

I don’t know what I expected with that sentence because if people were already considering being my friend, that idea surely was gone now. But, I still had the buddy system going for me. I mean, what could be better than forcing someone to be my friend for the day? They would get to know me, and in turn, we could become lifelong friends. In fact, I was already scouting prospects. There was the girl with the foreign name who sat three rows away. She looks like a good catch (as it turns out, she would later become the best friend I ever had in life). Oh! How about that boy, he has new LA Gear shoes and his socks only ride mid calf. As I eagerly anticipated my new buddy, the teacher began sorting students for the task. Suddenly, a lash out.
One of the girls, Crystal, talked back to the teacher, and that was it. As a punishment, Mrs. Lloyd assigned Crystal to be my buddy. Now, I have no degree in education, nor do I have any idea the stress it takes to run a classroom, but I do not feel as though a form of punishment should be to partner this obvious hoodlum up with the new girl who has etched a Lisa Frank horse into her desktop.
As the bell rang for recess, I approached this Crystal character. She seemed a little sketchy on first appearance. She was already wearing makeup in second grade, and she had some substance in her hair to hold it tightly into her scrunched bun. She wore jeans, a garment I was still unaccustomed to, yet was willing to embrace if that meant we could be friends. To top it all off…she had on a bra. She purposely cut her shirt on the shoulder to show the strap, enlarged in size due to training status, and intimidate every child on the playground. “Let’s go,” she bellowed as she walked out the door, leaving me to quickly catch up.
Things started off good with Crystal, until I began to talk. She showed no interest in where I had come from, what my history was or how many Pogs I had in my collection. Rather, she strutted roughly fourteen feet in front of me, carrying her book bag (which was too advanced for me) and mini backpack, which I grew to envy in the minutes to come. All was going well, by not going at all, until a sudden urge overcame me.
I do not know if it was the heat, the penguin sweater or the fact that I had not gone to the bathroom for nearly four hours, but I had to pee, and I had to pee soon. I frantically looked around for a bathroom, but all I saw were basketball hoops and play equipment. Crystal was my last resort. If there was a God, He would give me a sign to the nearest facility, lead me there magically and relieve me of this pain. But, He did not, and I was forced to confront the Devil herself.
“Crystal, do you know where a bathroom is, I have to pee really badly.” I said it in a voice, high in decibels, similar to Mariah Carey’s E note in her hit “Emotions.” I hoped this increase in tone would come off as desperate and melt the blackened layer that had formed around her heart. Apparently it did not.

“Find it yourself, asshole.”

Asshole. ASSHOLE? Whoa. Now. I was in second grade. I had heard the word before during arguments, but I couldn’t even bring myself to say heck, so asshole was way out of my league. Who was this girl anyway? Why wasn’t she locked up? How can she go around, calling people assholes and thinking that is okay? Where were her parents, cause surely Carol Bacher was going to give them a call and let them know what was up.
I didn’t know what to do. I was in shock and so frightened that the unthinkable happened. I felt something drip down my leg. The bitch stabbed me. No, no that was not my blood flowing, but rather warm urine reminding me that I in fact was the most awkward human being alive. Not only was I verbally accosted, but I was intimidated so badly that I physically peed myself. I thought that was only reserved for life or death situations and bungee jumping? Clearly, this was a life or death situation.
Now, with the urge to pee finally subsided, although not in the manner I had expected, I needed to solve my new problem. Crystal hated me, cursed me out, and proceeded to walk behind the kickball field to talk about the boy she held hands with. I on the other had was in a life or death situation.
Just before the recess bell was about to ring, I ran back to the classroom to find Mrs. Lloyd organizing papers.
“Where’s Crystal?”
“She…she as…she had to use the bathroom.”
“Oh what brings you here?”
“I peed my pants.”

I swallowed all my pride and admitted it. I had to. I smelled like a piece of family room carpet and although the black concealed it well, I just couldn’t take risks. Luckily, my mother had prepared me for such an instance (for this happened a lot).
Neatly tucked in a plastic bag was a pair of corduroy plum overalls and a yellow t-shirt with a giant duck on it. Mrs. Llyod quickly replaced my outfit and discarded my old attire into the realms of the bag. I was all set.
Just as I exited the classroom to enjoy my last minutes of loner recess, I was stopped dead in my tracks by Crystal. It seems she finally wanted to talk to me! I wonder what she had to say.

“Listen asshole, if you told her that I called you that, you’re dead, I’ll make sure of it.”

Gasp.

“What did you tell her? WHAT DID YOU TELL HER ASSHOLE.”

First of all, get a new word bitch. You said asshole once before and it got the point across. I would settle for anything now. Cocksucker. Whore. Even the overused phrase of Slut. But asshole? Come on.
Naturally at the time, I was shaking so badly, had I not already wet my pants, surely they would have been soiled by now.
I told her the truth, that I needed to move seats because of the sunlight and was hoping she could do it before the other children returned from recess. Crystal accepted this answer, and turned on one foot away from me to continue her prance to her posse.
As the year went on, I learned to not hate Crystal, but to fear her with the other girls. I soon befriended a girl obsessed with horses, and whose hamsters I would accidentally die during my care. I also became friends with two girls who would last me throughout high school, and we would reminisce about our second grade days.
One day though, Crystal and I met again. We had a class together in high school, and I was still terrified of her, despite my athletic advantage and abundance of dangerously sheltered friends. I didn’t know how to approach her, in fact, I kept my distance, until she was ready to throw the first words.
“So, how you been.”

What? I’ve been good. A lot has happened in ten years. Breasts. Braces. An interest in George Orwell. How about you Crystal?

“I’ve been good, I dropped out for a little while to have my first kid, but this is my last year I’m doing the high school thing cause my boyfriend’s going to jail and I have to watch the baby.”

Ohhhh. Is that what you’ve been doing. Well, if your water happens to break while you are in class with me, and you need to know where the bathroom is (asshole)…then I will gladly point you in the right direction as I still cower in your wrath.

umbrella-ella-ella

2008-01-01T17:14:00.000-08:00

so i had to do a memoir for class and i will upload some stories so you guys (cough sofie allison) can read them. i hope this works cause i had to unencript the emails to which i sent myself them so the formatting might be ghetto. here is the first story...its called Umbrella-ella-ella. Also this is a first draft, I did all the editing on my school computer so I apologize for any errors of the sort.

Since I spent a year abroad in Sweden, my mother found it fit to kill two birds with one stone by visiting me. She could a) get the mandatory visit out of the way while b) capturing a family Christmas card that would succeed in showing off to the rest of the family where my mother has traveled. Her original plan was to meet me in Sweden, but after a previous visit to the country during my first semester, she realized that it might be better to meet in country where the primary language matches her own.
So after much delay, my mother decided to meet me in London along with my grandmother and little sister in tow. Now, you must understand the way my mother travels before you can fully appreciate the adventure I knew I was in for. When my mother visited me in Sweden during my first semester, she wrote a will that described, in great detail, would be in charge of my sister if her plane were to “plummet into the ocean.” The will was erected three days before her flight and granted custody to anyone but my father’s side of the family. Always sure of the immediate death waiting for her every time she leaves the house, I have become accustomed to the random voicemails depicting my mother’s last wishes in case of emergency. Usually they are long, heartfelt and repeatedly emphasize the lack of faith she has in my father’s side of the family.
The day had finally arrived when I was to meet my family in London, and I was more than excited from having not seen them for seven months. Naturally, they took the wrong way to the hotel from the airport and I ended up sitting in the hotel lobby for three hours as I awaited their arrival. When they finally arrived, the initial greeting was filled with blood, sweat and tears as I struggled to suppress the anger one has from feeling like they were on To Catch a Predator for the last three hours.
All was going well with the trip, or as well as it could be, when my mother decided we needed to go souviner shopping. I am highly morally against souviners because I find them completely useless. Who really needs a minerature statue of the Eiffle Tower? How much entertainment can really come from a coaster from Madrid? But, my mother is the sole reason establishments like this remain in business, and with that in mind, we were off. I decided to take her to Picidilly Circus, the mecca of tourist traps. My mother was in heaven as she filled her arms with stuffed police bears, Big Ben alarm clocks and photos of the queen. I was aghast at the joy overcoming my mother. Who knew one could find such happiness in such awful objects.
After about three souviener shops, I’d had enough. Each one had the same stuff in just different colors or different prices. After threatening to leave my mother to find her own way to the hotel, she compromised with me and we both agreed that we would hit up one more store.
Knowing that this would be the end of a journey similar to the Amazing Race, I couldn’t help but feel excitement as we approached the final leg of our quest. We spent a few minutes moseying around the store, as my mother grabbed random objects while exclaiming, “Two dollars for this Ashley! Can you believe it?” “Its pounds not dollars, Mom.” “Oh well same thing! Perfect I’m getting it. Your brother is going to love this ashtray that says his name.”
Just as my mother made her final purchases, I saw the light at the end of a long and seemingly endless tunnel. However, the light was blocked by something. And that something caught my mother’s eye.
It was a rack of umbrellas. But one stood out. It was a fake Burberry umbrella and my mother needed to have it. You see, my mother is obsessed with that brand, but for no good reason. She has never owned, or even come close to owning, anything Burberry. She has the catalogue. She goes to the store. Yet the only thing she can boast is a scarf she tried to knit herself in their pattern. It ended up looking like my third grade mother’s day present we made in arts & crafts.
I knew the second she picked it up that she needed to have it. It didn’t matter that it was fake. It didn’t matter that it was two dollars. All that mattered was my mother now had her hands on something remotely Burberry without having to compromise her natural sense of cheapness.
So she paid for the stupid umbrella and we finally got to go home. Much to her dismay it was not raining, but that would soon prove otherwise in a matter of moments.
When we got back to the hotel, I decided to investigate my mother’s new “Burberry” umbrella. From far away it looked like a small child drew lines in black and red on a tan piece of canvas. Upon closer inspection, it was in fact a piece of plastic canvas with badly printed lines across it. Yeah it was the Burberry pattern, but would they really print their product on what looked like a tan trash bag?
The umbrella was fastened together with a Velcro strap, that was slightly peeling after the single use it had. The bottom was complete with a handle like any other umbrella, although it was slightly frail to the touch. Oblivious to the fact that Burberry would never create such a product, my mother began toting around her new favorite possession.
After a few days, I noticed the bond between umbrella and parent had become quite strange. My mother seemed more proud of her umbrella than she was of me for graduating high school. She took every opportunity she could to point out its features, to marvel at its pattern and to mention the name “Burberry.” I couldn’t take it anymore, but as luck would have it, the weather had turned quite wet and I often sought shelter under the tarp like device.
The day before we were about to leave, my mother and I decided to go buy my train ticket home as one last chance for mother/daughter bonding. As we are sitting on the tube, I glance over at my mother as she clutches the umbrella tightly into her bosom. In that moment I am filled with awe and a sense of endearment for the woman who provides me with nonstop love and entertainment in my everyday life. Just as my heart is warming to the moment, the woman sitting across from us catches my eye. As I turn my head I notice that she too is clutching something in her arms. However, the item she is clutching is made of a thick fabric coated in a water-resistant protectant. The pattern marks are evenly hand-sewn in vertical and horizontal lines that are visibly appealing to the onlooker. And the strap. The strap is not Velcro, but of the finest buttoning material making it possible for a safe and secure lock every time. The bitch has a real Burberry umbrella.
Just as the realization has hit me, I understand what I must do. I need to distract my mother before she sees the umbrella. I turn my head quickly, thinking of any Rod Stewart fact I can bring up to engage my mother in conversation before…before…its too late. She’s seen it too. And no longer is her umbrella safely hidden in her bosom, but rather, it is outstretched in the direction of our fellow rider.
“Oh, is yours real?” she asks as she motions towards the umbrella that is equivilent to our mortgage in price. The woman cordially responds with a nod, which to my mother is enough reason to proceed. “Yeah, mine’s real too, I mean aren’t they just great?” The woman is intrigued. She almost believes my mother for a moment before her eyes catch sight of the thin and now torn plastic that my mother is proudly presenting. The woman, unsure at this point how to proceed, continues with the conversation, which appeases my mother a great deal. Acceptance at last.
As it turns out, the woman is getting off at the same stop as us, so the thought of a smooth exit was instantly lost. She follows us up the exit, as her and my mother discuss the wonders of overpriced designer accessories. As we emerge from the underground tunnel, both women open their umbrellas to shelter themselves from the current downpour.
The woman unbuttons the strap, easily clicks a button and in an instant a performance ready umbrella is ready to deflect the droplets of rain.
In that same instant, my mother loudly unvelcros hers, and struggles with the button to engage the reflex that opens the umbrella. Just as the umbrella pops up like the smile on my mother’s face, a rather strong gust of wind approaches out of nowhere.
For two hundred dollars, the real Burberry umbrella easily deflects the nuisance of air. However, in front of several onlookers as well as her new friend, my mother met a different fate. Unfortunately for her, my mother’s “Burberry” umbrella could not deflect the wind, and rather inverted itself so badly that two of the spokes actually penetrated the plastic. It was like watching a building crumble before my eyes as my mother abandoned her dignity and tried her best to save the umbrella. The woman began to laugh and walked away, dry safe and amused at the encounter.
We walked away wet, embarrassed and remoreseful as the “Burberry” umbrella was forced into the nearest trash can in my last effort to save my mother.
Although it was only two dollars, my mother seemed to have convinced herself that she actually had purchased something from Burberry. The anger she expressed at my trashing of her best accessory was apparent for the rest of the trip. Even though we had a rough spot, we parted on good terms and I thought that would be the last I would ever see of my mother in designer wear.
As I made my final trip home from the year abroad, my first encounter with my mother was rather odd. She offered me money and insisted on me bringing her purse so she could grab me some. As she told me the location, I was shocked to see a Burberry patterened purse lying on the dining room table, complete with loose seams, faded patterning and a plastic name plate etched with the words Burbery.

2007-08-12T23:19:00.000-07:00

So I'm pretty sure we've figured some things out about the neighborhood we live in. Let's start off with my personal favorite.

My ethnic boyfriend.

His name is Jermaine and we met at the pool. Let me take you back to that lovely time in my life.

I was sitting at the pool, sweating profusely in the direct sunlight as I attempted to make up for lost skin cancer time caused from being in Sweden. I can tell you a few things. One, I was reading Harry Potter. Two, I was not attractive at all.

Suddenly I'm laying on my side, so that my badonkadonk can tan, because it looks better in direct sunlight.

I hear someone approach.

This boy, of African American decent, comes up to me and says:

"Giiirrrlll you know I was watching you."

You were? I didn't know that actually. I was reading Harry Potter and working on my tan. But go on...

"You know I gots to get your number!"

Again, how am I supposed to know all of this?

In a moment of panic, I decide to tell him that I have a boyfriend and that he can't get my number. Then he gets mad saying that wasn't his intention so can he get it anyway. I decide to give him my brother's phone number. But then I had been mixing our numbers up because I had just gotten my cell phone and had been using his for so long that I accidently gave him my real one. I ignore his calls/texts. I see him daily. Yesterday he greeted me with, "Ugh, hey girl."

I GOT UGH'D.

My next favorite part about our building is the domestic abuse I saw...again at the pool.

This boy walked into the gym and he was a typical surfer type, except I live in an area where there isn't much surfing, so he was a desperate wannabe.

I say hello to him, he checks me out and decides I am not attractive enough for a hello (where was Jermaine when I needed him) and continues to the pool. After I finish my workout, I want to go swim laps but cannot because he is there with his girlfriend. So I just sit in the sun and stare at them...where he proceeds to carry on a conversations consisting of these three elements:

-surfing
-how good he is at swimming
-how bad his girlfriend is at anything physical

So then he makes some comment about how she shouldn't eat dinner because he's noticed she looks a little 'out of shape' and then she says she's going to slap him. He does not like this.

He then starts to go off on the ho! My favorite quote was "I'm not sexist, but seriously, I will take you out of this pool and in front of all these people beat the living shit out of you." Then she starts to giggle (I almost slapped her) and he goes on about how he won't be found guilty because he is like OJ Simpson. Then he somehow mentioned Jessica Simpson. Then he said its really annoying when people stare like they are two year olds and I grabbed my towel and left.

Finally, we have the meth addict, Twilah, who lives above us. Bitch is crazy!

This ho seriously like wakes up at 7 am on a Sunday morning and starts to vacuum. But she doesn't just vacuum. She could be like in the Olympics for it. You hear her, its like an athletic event! And! AND! She vacuums so violently that you can hear the cord physically rip out of the wall and the vacuum shut, so she goes back, plugs it in and it starts all over.

Then, since we both have the same room, just hers is above, I can hear everything she does. Like I can hear her get up to use the bathroom, and its like a full on sprint to the toilet. Either this ho has no rectal control or she's a meth addict. I think she's addicted to something. And she is awake at the weirdest times and I will hear the strangest noises coming from up there!

Like the other night I was home alone and I heard what sounded like she was building a small house in there. Then it goes silent. And two minutes later she is blasting ABBA and it sounds like she is throwing a huge party! And its just her and her son. AND she has hella plants.

That's my life here now. I miss Sweden so very much, but things are starting to pick back up here. I just need to get myeslf a license, maybe do something for that school paper I signed up for and finally, get some sleep. Eff the meteor shower, I'm hella tired.

BYE!

stolen

2007-06-12T15:32:00.001-07:00

We’ve all stolen something at one point in our lives or another. It’s a simple as that. If you are denying it, you are only lying to yourself and those around you. I mean, we are all human here.
Some people have stolen hearts. Others have stolen notebook paper from their roommate. And, some people, have stolen cars. But as for me, I became the ultimate outlaw at the age of six when I stole a television dinner from our local Raley’s.
Don’t we all have that? The definitive moment of our childhood where we were first taught the wrongs of stealing? I had an entire conversation about this with my friends and I was shocked to hear of the things their tiny fingers had taken!
I remember one of my friends had really wanted a pink highlighter, and her mother wouldn’t buy it for her, so she put it in her fake baby stroller. Another friend insisted on a pack of gum, but at the tender age of seven was forced to take the Juicy Fruit and hide in their OshKoshBGosh’s. In fact, my own sister wanted two copies of the movie The Pacifier so badly that she took an extra one! I think she got away free because the shock of someone wanting not one, but two copies of that wretched movie was enough to silence everyone.
Anyways, when I was six years old, my mother took me to Raley’s for our Friday night routine. You see, every Friday night was considered “TV Dinner Night.” I think it was the only official thing we did as a family. And, my mother made us believe it was a form of reward for us, but looking back, I see it as a form of reward for her and her ability to get out of cooking.
So there I was, a little six year old with a bowl cut and those stretchy pants things that every little girl wore in the early 90’s. I was so excited to get my TV Dinner. And guess which kind I wanted? The penguin kind! I don’t know the name of it, but it was the kind with the penguin on it, and it came with like a dessert (that always got some of the nasty corn in it) and a little sticker. Again, let me emphasize, I was so excited.
We’re standing in line, holding our Hungry Man and Penguin things, and I just cannot wait to grace my taste buds with the deliciousness that is found in frozen, pre-processed food. I see my mother putting all of the other dinners on the conveyor belt, but for some reason, I am attached to mine. I cannot bring myself to put it up with the inferior dinners. I had become paralyzed by the Penguin.
The next thing I know, we are walking out of Raley’s and I’m still holding the dinner. Nobody said anything as I held it all the way through the processes of scan, pay and bag. Finally, just as we are getting to the car, my mother notices me clutching the dinner with a death grip and it occurs to her what has just happened.
Now, this is where any other parent would march their child back in to the store, explain to the cashier what happened, pay for the dinner and explain a valuable lesson for life at an early age.
Not my mother.
She looks at me, looks at the bag, and speaks. “Did you not pay for that, Ashley?” I nod. “Okay, well quick get in the car, I don’t feel like going back I’m hungry.”
Lucky for my mother, I did not turn out to be a criminal who sells stolen TV dinners for drugs. I learned the principal of honesty at an early age when the entire family ridiculed me for stealing a TV dinner…of all things.
The only other time I have ever ‘stolen’ something was when I accidentally gave the cashier at American Eagle a receipt for a jacket, instead of the tank top I was returning. So I ended up getting jeans for free, a tank top for free and a $15 store credit, all because he didn’t notice that he had credited me the jacket, instead of the cheap top. But does that even count? No, I didn’t think so.
Its funny, because if you ask anybody if they ever stole something when they were little, an array of stories will come forward. Its incredible the amounts of merchandise stolen by children each year. Most of the time its accidental or before the age where it is taught as ‘wrong’, but I still find it to be quite entertaining.
I am excited to have children, not for the family memories, or feeling of fulfillment, but rather to see what they will steal in their infantry. I wish my mom had saved the wrapper of the dinner and put it in my scrapbook (if she had made me one…) because that is one of the most distinct memories of my childhood. I know as you flip through my child’s scrapbook, you will see their baby picture, their first steps, and the pack of LifeSavers they stole from Raley’s eight days after their fourth birthday. Now that is classy parenting.

2007-05-15T06:33:00.000-07:00

Oh I forgot to say this.

There is this girl that lives on the second level and she ALWAYS takes the elevator.

And I accidently laughed at her yesterday.

++++++++++++

2007-05-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

So I really don't have a problem with organized religion.

Okay I do. But only some parts. Like this.

Yesterday I'm about to plop down for my third nap of the day, when suddenly I am buzzed. The feelings of joy/popularity are enough to rise me from my bed to see who has summoned me to grace them with my presence.

Its a guy who looks like an 80's boy bander. And he's holding something. And I know my fate.

"Hi...::looks to mailbox::...Ashley? Do you have God in your life?"

Um...yeah? I don't know? What?!

But he doesn't take no for an answer. I try EVERYTHING. I told him I come from a devout Catholic family back home and he then explains that Catholicism (is that a word?) and Jehovah Witnesses have a lot in common and I should consider them. Then I say I'm not religious. Then he tells me that I don't know the future and he does. I am intriged.

And by intrigued..I mean thorougly annoyed.

Then he wants to read me something from his Bible about how if I don't find God I am going to die in the future. Then I tell him I'm leaving for the gym in a second. I'm wearing pajama pants and a tshirt that has a cow on it.

This same thing happened to me last semester! The Jesus people come here so much and buzz us trying to convert! Its hella annoying! Ho's need to back off. That's where I draw the line, let me find my own religion, don't come bugging me, especially at nap time.

Last semester was the best though. I get buzzed, and again feel cool and popular, so I go to answer the door. As I'm in the living room, I see Bina motioning DONT ANSWER DONT ANSWER, but I assure her that I'm really popular and its one of my friends.

Its not.

Its some guy who starts talking in Swedish and is holding all these pamplets with fires and crosses. I think I'm safe because I go "I don't speak Swedish." Then he starts speaking English! This is how it went...

God Man: Well I can speak English
Me: I'm sorry, I no espeaka Englais?
G.M.: Where are you from?
Me: South America
G.M.: Where in South America?
Me: I'm sorry I no espeaka Englais
G.M.: Where. IN. South America?
Me: Brazil.
G.M.: So what do you speak there?
Me: ...Brazillian.

Then he asked to read me something and I didn't know what to do so I listened. And then he said God Bless. And then I realized Brazillian isn't a language.

I have no problem with people practicing religion, just don't preach to me. Its helllllaaa annoying. If I want to be religious I will. And if I want to nap and watch House I will. And, I need to stop picking at my chest. This is TMI but I'm telling you anyways.

I didn't do my laundry for a while and my chest didn't break out, not like backne, but it has a few spots that I want to try to pick at and pop. But they won't pop cause they aren't really zits. But its so convienant cause its on my chest so I dont need a mirror. Its ever pop phenes dream. Minus the incredible redness I have just caused.

And the fact that I wrote about it. Ew.

Oh, and my bird feeder blew over :( I had to go down and get part of it, but the roof is missing. I hope it didn't kill anybody.

Riga Riga Riga RIGA!

2007-05-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

So I just got back from Riga...and for once I had a blast, and not blast ass.

Let's see, I know its boring and its going to be long but I want to write about the trip so I will. And I have moments I want to talk about. I want to talk about them so badly that I actually wrote them down. So my to do list is like -write article for school -do research paper -goran hepititis -michela dogtags and etc.

Let's begin!

First of all, me, Jesper, Amie and Goran pretty much took the most difficult and ghetto way to get to the boat...it took us forever and while carrying my duffle bag around Stockholm, I just about pulled a menopausal woman on everyone's ass.

So we get there and we see our boat! Well, we think we see our boat. When I went to Tallin I was on that boat and it had such nice cabins that were STD free and even had TV's in the rooms! So I figured well, same cruise line, kind of the same place...let's see what we get!

Well we were in for a surprise. We were not on that ship. Rather, we were on a boat that looked like the they pulled the Titanic up from the depths, painted over the rust with blue and renamed it Regina. It was the Compton of boats.

Our cabin wasn't much better. You couldn't physically have four people in the room with all the beds down, so the two top bunks had to stay folded at all times. The mattresses had stains (blood, weird colors, semen) and we found a biohazard dog tag that said Michela in the bathroom, which actually ended up being our favorite prized possession. To shut the bathroom door, you had to straddle the toilet, which has had God knows how many shits and pukes emptied into it, and you can tell by the smell that the sewage system was not flowing well with the waves.

Once past that we had a good first night! There was the onboard entertainment which was surprisingly normal! I mean to Finland we had the Russian Grease performance and to Tallin I had the Russian Shania Twain cover band...but to Riga we had "Travel Band." Their name was Travel Band. Come on. I mean. Travel Band? Whatever. As long as we danced to Achey Breaky Heart I was fine. Speaking of that. That's when we saw her. Betina.

Betina, or however you spell it, was the star of the ship. The first night, her and her main pimp were the only ones dancing and grooving on the center dance floor to Travel Bands' tunes. Betina is an older, drunk Swedish woman with a mullet and a knack for a two step. She would become our best friend.

So we danced and danced and danced and I split my pants straddling Jesper, and then we decided it was time for karoke. Expecting a karoke bar was an undestatement. There was like two microphones and a TV screen set up in one of the bars, so it was ghetto and personal.

But.

Betina was there.

Just to let everyone know, I have never had so much fun as I did singing Dancing Queen with all of my friends as I was arm in arm with Betina. We raped karoke. Betina needs to go on Idol. She just completes my life. Once the pictures go up I will post them here...I promise!

So then we get back to the bed and I notice Goran is sleeping in his jeans. Curious to this matter, I question his reasons. He replies with one of the greatest quotes on the trip:

"I am not sleeping in this AIDS, Cancer, Hepititis C bed."

You know what the sad thing is? I wouldn't be surprised if it did in fact house all of those diseases, plus the gonorehha we gave it. I mean what?

The next day we explored Riga and had a blast, minus the dead pigeons part :( But it is a nice city and I can't say that Latvians were too friendly, but it was a good time. Everything was cheap, including the vodka, but we will discuss that later.

Anyways, we get back on the boat and we all take a nap. I arise from my nap to hear Jesper, Amie and Goran ask me what I was dreaming about. I say I can't remember and they all start laughing hysterically. Apparantly I was moaning in my sleep. So now that I think about it, I was probably dreaming about Jesper. Jesper in his black underwear. Jesper in his short black underwear. Jesper in his short black underwear sle...so then we decided to go back up and have another go at the on board entertainment!

BUT...we are stopped. We are stopped by a Swedish man who comes out of the room of the children I wanted to destroy. Honestly. I hate children. But that's a whole new matter.

The man is there with his sister, her husband and her children. He's bored and lonely and offers us free drinks. When a strange man takes you to his room with promises of drinks, your mother tells you not to go. Well, not Jesper's mother. He was the first in line to get in his room and somehow made several trips there without us. We got suspicious of homosexual encounters until Jesper and I fake coupled on the dancefloor to make everyone jealous. And he did split my pants afterall.

So we dance again...and then we see her. Betina. But she's sober! She doesn't remember us fully until about an hour later (an hour = 3 martinis) and suddenly she's dancing with us and chanting Karoke. So we go back and we sing Unbreak My Heart and a number of other 'hits.'

But then the fucking bass player from Travel Band comes. And he wants to sing karoke. So, since we were into the karoke orgy where we all sing together, we offer it to him and I stand up to sing with him. And I get a finger accompied with "I sing ALONE" as he requests Eric Clapton's Change the World.

Honestly. Worst thing I've ever heard. He thought he was the SHIT. Not just any shit. He thought he was God's bowel movements.

Can we analyze this for a second?

You sing on a cruise ship. You are in a band called Travel Band. Your big break comes from 9-12 every night where you play other people's songs to an audience of 10. You aren't even on a good cruise ship! You are going from Stockholm to Tallin! At least get on that Carnival shit or something. And if I want to sing Change the World with you, FUCKING LET ME. That is diss #2 from on board entertainment for me. #1 was when I asked the Grease dancers for a photo and they said no.

So we sang again. And I have vague memories of strip poker/me being the only one playing. And then we came back to Stockholm.

While I was in Riga I bought a liter of vodka for hella cheap to bring back! I carried that shit for hours across Riga then for like 2 hours in Stockholm. Well, we are on the #2 bus back to Flogsta and I was so fucking hungry that I LEFT THE FUCKING BOTTLE ON THE BUS. Do you know how upset I am? UGH. My mom thinks its a sign that I should stop drinking, but I think its a sign I should stop being obese and obsessing about my hunger.

Well I am going to go, sorry that was long and I will post pictures once I get them! My batteries were dead in my camera. I knew I shouldn't have used the ones from my vibrator. I mean what?

PSSSSSSSSSSSSS

2007-04-25T15:28:00.000-07:00

Something has been stolen from me. My most prized possession in life.

My bathroom privacy.

You know, the main reason I came to Sweden is because I was promised private bathrooms? The only time in my life I have shared a bathroom with other human beings was for four days when I lived in the ghetto my freshman year of college. I couldn't handle it. You know why? I'll tell you.

When I was younger, I had a phobia. It was so life limiting. I was afraid of going #2 anywhere but my house. Whenever I'd go on a trip, I'd get a full blown anxiety attack! I'd start sweating, and shaking and hyperventilating. And people would ask me what the fuck was wrong. And I'd tell them I had to go throw up instead of poop.

So my mom realized that it had become serious when I would physically stop going anywhere. This created a problem because it meant me and her had to hang out more, so she took me to a therapist.

Yes I went to a therapist for my bowel movements. Suck it.

Anyways, this lady totally helped me through it! She told me that next time it happens, I have to remind myself that everybody poops (Jennifer Lopez doesn't), and that I need to take a paper bag to breathe into so the carbon dioxide is distributed and I don't pass out, which tended to happen often.

It took a couple of years, but eventually I stopped getting anxiety attacks and I was able to lead a normal life, as corny as that sounds. I was able to go on class trips, overnight basketball games and everything without freaking out like some schitzophranic who passed out and became bulemic at the thought of shitting.

So now, even though I am 'cured', I am still not fully better. I cannot share my bathroom. That is my time. That is my palace. I like to be able to pee with the door open. To take as much time as I need. To throw my clothes on the floor in piles of mess.

But most importantly, I like the privacy. And recently, that has been taken from me. You know why? Because of my damn friends in Flogsta.

So apparantly, APPARANTLY, you can hear the person above you doing EVERYTHING that a person does in their bathroom. Everything!

Michelle has told me of audible farting. Amie has mentioned specific splashing. Amy has made remarks about peeing.

All of this, is unacceptable.

What am I supposed to do?

Everytime I go to the bathroom, even if its just #1, I freak out when the toilet paper hits the water. What if the person under me thinks I just birthed a brick from my anus?!

I don't ever want to meet the person under me either! What if they are really hip and cool and talk shit (literally) about the girl above them? There are some relationships that just aren't meant to be formed, and this is one of them.

I am stressed out now! What used to be my sanctuary, my 24 hours a day spa, has now turned into a public bathroom with open stalls that don't lock! I don't know what to do. I can only IMAGINE the things they've heard. You realize I do entire monologues in there to myself? I sing Hinder in the shower. You know that Lips of an Angel song? No, I can't pick a nice song. I have to pick a song that makes me sounds like I'm burping as I try to get my voice that deep. Although, I do sing Piano Man rather well, the bathroom provides great acoustics.

But see? These all have to go! I have to be silent now! That's impossible. ITS A BATHROOM.

I don't know what to do! Its really stressing me out. Its like hearing your parents having sex, you just don't want to be involved. And especially in my case, this can be a life altering realization.

I don't hear anything because I am on the 7th floor, so nobody is above me to grace me with their bodily functions. But I wish there was. So I could blame that night I ate too much cream on them.

I mean what?

I mean I have to go to bed. The enchanted forest is calling.

2007-04-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

Something is seriously wrong.

I'm freaked the fuck out as I try to sleep at night because I live by an enchanted forest.

I don't know how it started or what exactly is going on in there, but its honestly made me unable to sleep the last three nights. And, to top it all off, I'm scared that the creatures are going to come to my window to eat the bird food!

It all started out innocently enough. I sleep with earplugs in, not by choice, but because I became addicted my sophomore year of college. I'm almost positive the girl who lived above me was auditioning for Riverdance, because that bitch would just go at it. I can't tell you how many nights I'd lay in bed throwing my soccer ball at the ceiling until the Britney Spears wannabe got her fat ass into bed.

When it became unbearable, I consulted my only option: become addicted to sleeping pills. They worked perfectly until I took one at 3 am and spent the entire next day feeling like I was walking in cloud land, literally. I was all shaken up and convinced that the world had been ingulfed by a gigantic cumulus. Is that a real cloud name?

Soon thereafter, I realized that sleeping pills were not the best of options. So, I decided that I would destroy my eardrums and shove pieces of foam into them as to block out any opposing sounds. It was brilliant and the sleep I encountered made me feel like for 10 hours a night I was physically dead, it was that deep.

However, a problem soon occured. I could not sleep without them. The slightest sound, or hum, or ANYTHING would turn me into Jack Nicholson straight out of The Shining. I wouldn't be surprised if I would become an axe welding psycho at the mercy of a loud heating vent.

I mean, there are worse things I can be addicted to. Internet pornography. Crack. Martha Stewart Living. But no, I'm addicted to earplugs. I get these awful earaches every now and then, and sometimes I shove them in so far that I'm pretty sure they can touch each other in the middle. But, as long as my sleep is silent, I'm a happy person for the next day.

So I have decided that its time for me to abandon my foam friends and try to learn how to sleep without them. Usually after a heavy night of drinking, I can sleep without my earplugs as the Rose Bowl Parade is going on in my cooridor and have no problem. During my sober sleep, I struggle a little more and wake up constantly during the night, but I have gotten better! I almost went a full week without earplugs until a couple nights ago. That's when...it happened.

Now I live on the 7th story and directly outside my window is a forest. I walk through it during daylight hours on my way to ICA, and have generally been happy with its presence. That is, until it turned into the fucking land of Narnia.

I don't know what the hell is going on out there, and I'm not sure if I want to. But last night, I heard the strangest things. What started off as birds chirping loudly (at 2:30 as mentioned in the previous post, strange thing #1) soon turned into a mass of chaos and calls. Then I heard weird rustlings and it sounded like the snapping of branches. I was so terrified it was that black smoke thing on Lost that I was wondering if I could set up some of those neurological destroyers outside my room.

Then! It gets worse! I somehow manage to fall asleep to this bird gang rape, only to be awoke at 6 by something similar! I heard weird ass cries and animal screams. AND, this is what freaked me out. I heard the screeches outside my window and then on the roof above me, I heard all this banging and running. Are these birds X MEN? Do they have some uncanny ability to morph? There is no way any human being was on the roof at 6, because that would just be scarier, and the thumping coincided with the screeching.

I don't know what the hell it is. It must be enchanted. There is some type of magic going on out there. I want to bring my bird feeder in at night so these like half bird half horse creatures don't steal all of my seeds. Its really frightening and I should tape record the things I hear. Allison said she lived by an enchanted forest in Canada, but I think she was faking, because nobody would admit to that unless they felt their life was in danger.

Hence the point of this blog.

I leave my only prized possession, my 1988 Gameboy, to Anna P-my gympa instructor on Thursdays.

Mah nipples

2007-04-24T04:22:00.000-07:00

So, why do the birds insist on singing at like 2:30 in the morning? They sound like gossipy old women who just got finished with Bingo. Honestly, get over yourselves.

Okay well to get back on topic about my nipples. Some of you already know this story, but I want to vent about it anyways.

Having lived in Sweden for quite some time now, I have realized that the sun is like snow in California, its occasionally there, but quite rare. Pubic hair. Oh sorry I wanted to rhyme.

Being that the sun and I have not formed our inimate relationship for well over 6 months now, I realized that I have lost a lot of pigmentation. In fact, I look like that dude from the Da Vinci code. You know the one that is albino and whips himself? Well I look like him, minus the red eyes (except in certain photographs).

Well, I decided I needed to take action.

When I went home for Christmas Break, I once again made my presence known at body works, and suddenly an idea popped in my head.

It was like Albert Einstein had taken over my body and instead of filling it with formulas and atomic energy, he came up with an idea to make me hot.

I was going to fake tan.

Now, I have never fake tanned before in my life. In fact, I'm quite against it. But, my skin was so pale that I was physically feeling sick. I felt like I had jaundis without the yellow skin coloring. It was like some mysterious force was sucking the life out of me and using it to procreate children for Angelina Jolie to adopt.

I distinctly remember in high school, Petra pointed out a girl to me that was the definition of fake tanning. Like her skin was about to fall off. Petra named her "Salmon Skin Girl." Whenever she'd walk by Petra would go "Its a salmon swimming upstream!" I actually think in my old journal I have a huge entry dedicated to salmon skin girl and how bitchy she was. And how I think I got radiation just by standing in her viscinity.

Anyways, back to this notion I had just decided to enact. Well, I mean, it was the dead of winter. There was no sun to be seen. I had three weeks to do something before I returned to the Twilight Zone. I had to fake tan. There just was no other option.

Well there was, but I wasn't taking it again. Christie Albertson needed to train on how to use the fake spray tanning stuff and she asked if I would be willing to be her subject. I agreed and left looking like a giraffe.

While growing up around some friends, who I consider to be professional fake tanners, I learned something vital. VITAL. Your nipples can...and will...burn.

Do I want burnt nipples? No. Can you imagine the pain? Have you ever had nipple chaffing? My gosh that's the worst. I forgot to wear a sweatshirt home from the gym the other day and I was all sweaty and the chaffing there was like the inside of Rosanne Barr's thighs. I thought I was going to come home to discover that I had somehow managed to lose my nipples through the act of friction.

I devise a plan.

Its actually a pretty good one. You know those stickers you put over your eyes? Well I was going to put those over my nipples so they don't burn.

(break for astonishment)

(and proceed)

I KNOW. It was perfect! They were just the right size so that they would cover the entire aeorola, while leaving some excessive space so no stray light rays count penetrate. Realizing that I am somehow a slight incarnation of a genius (who won't have burnt nipples), I proceed to flop my naked ass down onto this ghetto tanning bed for 15 minutes a day.

I got addicted. I saw results instantly until my mom told me I was turning orange. I laid off it for a week and then went back. Its like a drug. If I hadn't been stopped I would look like Jennifer Lopez. I would be a fucking basketball.

Finally, it was time to return to Sweden, and needless to say, I had gotten darker. The orange had gradually faded away and I had maybe, MAYBE, one shade darker skin. I was no Donatella Versace, but by God, I wasn't Mark Anthony. Sorry for all these celebrity references, its just such superficial subject that they fit perfectly.

So I get back to Sweden and instantly find excuses to wear shorts and tank tops so I can show off my new look. Amy notices my tan and I instantly feel hotness gratification. There's just one problem.

You remember the nipple stickers? Well, they were a little too big...so while they did protect my nipples from burning, they also created a "bullseye" effect. When I say bullseye effect, I mean my nipples now look like bullseyes.

That little, tiny excess sticker space caused a small ring around my nipples to not be tan...SO NOW THERE IS LIKE A WHITE CIRCLE AROUND EACH OF MY NIPPLES! I look like a fucking dartboard! I don't know how to get rid of it! Its almost criminal how embarrassing this is.

If I engage in sexual activities, the lights need to be off, and even in that case, I'm sure that whitness reflects like a fucking lighthouse. I don't know what to do! Can I rub fake tanner on it? Can I lay naked on my desk, hoping the sun will shine through my blinds? Is there a solution to this? No.

That's why I wrote this blog, to alert others out there with this condition that they are not alone. And for anybody hoping to hook up with me, so that they can be aware of this instance ahead of time. At least as they make fun of me, they will know why it happened and not think it is some birth deformity.

Alright, I'm done with school for a little while so I'm going to go to Amie's and bug her and Goran. Maybe we will go for a bikeride as long as I don't faceplant as I decide its a good idea to ride into a ravine.

2007-04-23T14:36:00.000-07:00

Oh my God! There are hella moths in my room! And I'm not even trying to be dramatic or funny, but I think I just consumed one.

See, I didn't want them in my room, and I didn't want to kill them, so I herded them all into my entryway, then shut my room door and opened the door to the cooridor so they'd all fly out there.

It was a great plan until I decided to walk out there and it was like the fucking Mothman Prophecies. Minus Richard Gere.

Anyways, I saw the most DISTURBING thing ever today. No seriously, this is worse that like a puppy born with two heads. Actually that's not bad at all. That's double cute and I regret making the reference.

So I'm at the gym, and who strolls in? No, not Smelly Girl. Or Short Shorts Man. But David Beckham.

Okay so it wasn't David Beckham, but he looked just like him, just a little shorter, slightly more built...and this feature that I will eventually get to.

As David Beckham walks in, he sees me and he smiles at me! Do you know why? Because he probably doesn't know what other reaction to produce when he sees a girl singing to herself Total Eclipse of the Heart as she prespires like an overweight aunt sitting in the sun. We bonded.

Well as I'm doing weights downstairs, I see David Beckham again, but this time, he makes his presence known. You see, in between his weight set, he would start jumping up and down like a fucking rabbit. It was insane. I have never seen a human being jump like that. It was like he was on a pogo stick!

I become fascinated.

Then obsessed.

I can't take my eyes of the fucking jumping.

Then I see it. Something is sticking out from the back of his head. At first I think its his earphones, but then I notice he has no headphones in. I am so confused. WHAT CAN THIS BE. Its at the base of his hairline where his neck meets his shirt. Honestly, I'm perplexed.

And then. I see it.

Its a fucking rat tail.

Do you know what a rat tail is? Its one of those haircuts, where your entire head is clean cut and groomed, but down at the back, in the middle is this fucking...RAT TAIL. Here a picture does more justice than my disgusted words.

SEE IT! Its creepy! Now I know all of you boys had them when you were little, but come on, grow up! And, when you were little, it was the 1980's. Our side ponytails and crimp jobs were not earning us much hot points on the other end. Side note: I'm so glad I didn't grow up in the 80's, I'd probably be asexual.

So basically, I began to wonder. Why. Why on Earth does this seemingly attractive, young and intelligent (I needed another adjective) have a rat tail? That stuff is reserved for ranches and people that use the word "y'all." And then, like most things that upset me, I became obsessed.

Whenever he hopped, I noticed the little rat tail, which was neatly secured with a colored rubber band, moved with him! It was like a school banner blowing in the wind!

It brought me back to the days of elementary school when a boy named Falco sat in front of me. He has the mother of all rat tails. This thing almost went to his butt. Seriously, all day in class I'd sit there, and sit there, and just wonder...what would happen if I cut it off? I mean, he'd never know, one quick swipe of the scissors and it could be hours before he realizes its gone. Give him another 10 years and he can grow a new one, but that satisfaction? It would last me a lifetime.

Well I am cutting this entry short because I should be doing my paper. And you better believe that the NEW OPINIONS EDITOR OF THE STAR (well I still have to do formalities, but its pretty much mine) will be writing about the Rat Tail. And other topics that I find disturbing.

But for now, I'm going to check on my $1 lasagna as I pass my roomate who knows the date for everything as I come back in my room to wage a battle against deformed butterflies who are eating my clothes.

Annoyed

2007-04-21T03:05:00.000-07:00

So something is really annoying. Its not just here, its on a worldwide scale too.

Now, don't get me wrong, I think I am cute (I'm not being cocky, I'm just saying), in fact, I'd even go as far as to say that I'm pretty damn sexy. Especially when I am doing such activities as organizing my Monopoly game and/or cleaning out my hairbrushes.

But I get so annoyed by the girls that KNOW they are cute. And its not just that they know they are cute, its like they go above and beyond to promote their cuteness! Like, if I am going out to a party, you are lucky if you get me to shower from the gym. You are even luckier if I straighten my hair. And miracles must be working if I put on makeup. There are just more things I'd rather waste my time on, like celebrity gossip sites and wondering if I were to throw a ball out of my window...if I could hit ICA.

Now, then we have the girls, that spend all day trying to outcute themselves from every other girl at the party, and its so fucking annoying! Honestly, I see right through it because its like, who's more pathetic? Me for looking halfway decent or you for going above and beyond and wasting your time? But this is what gets me.

Then...they try to make you feel super uncute.

:o

Nothing specific prompted this next part, because I am not insecure when it comes to this, but here we go.

This is my question...are these girls really confident and full of themselves (as they put off) or are they just really insecure? Are they just so scared and afraid of what other people think they look like that they put others down and attempt to get attention for themselves? So who's worse? The girls they put down or the girls themselves?

Being a female, you are given a nice starter kit right from the womb. A vagina. Breasts. An inate desire to watch Sex and the City. And the need to be insecure within one's own species.

What if Darwinism goes into effect? Who will survive? The fake confidence girls or the real ones that get put down by them? I'm not labeling myself as either, cause don't get me wrong, I get super insecure sometimes, but not from other girls. Not from other guys in fact. Just from my mother when she says something like, "Ashley, I think your ass is going to be bigger than mine when you are my age."

I don't know where I was going with this, I'm just super annoyed and hungover and don't know what I'm trying to say without sounding like a bitch. In all honesty, if I could I'd go to an event in my pajamas, cause that's when I feel sexiest. And I don't sleep in anything sexy. In fact, I'm wearing an oversized Boston T shirt and my gym shorts and yes, it is 1 in the afternoon.

Weird...

2007-04-19T14:21:00.000-07:00

The other day Amy Lewis and I were enjoying the orgasmic qualities of the again avaliable soft serve ice creams downtown, when we decide to indulge our ice cream on a bench situated nicely in the town square. Now, those of you unfamiliar with Uppsala need to understand a few things.

For one, its like Benicia with a ton more attractive people. Like, instead of the scum and ghetto wannabe gangsters, it has metrosexual guys and girls who look like they are straight off the pages of an H&M catalogue. Its full of people who tend to themselves and its very well kept. You could walk down the street with a 500 sek hanging out of your ass cheek and the most that would happen is someone would point it out and tell you to be careful.

So with that said, what happens next is concerning.

We're sitting there, enjoying our 10 sek ice cream and I have like 2000 sek in my wallet because I was going to pay rent. Needless to say, I had money on me. I'm sitting there, enjoying the weather and my favorite treat, when suddenly the sun is blocked.

What could have caused such a distraction?

Well, right in front of us, us out of the hundreds of people out that day, is a woman. She is wearing kind of high water pants and has short hair and I'm not going to be a bitch and describe her look because that's beside the point. Physical features are not the problem here, although Amy Lewis would disagree. OKAY FINE SHE DIDNT SHAVE HER LEGS.

Anyways. She stands there awkwardly for about 20 seconds with me and Amy licking our ice cream just staring at her. Finally she babbles something in Swedish and we just continue to stare at her.

30 seconds pass.

Finally I say. I'm sorry? English? I'm sorry? And again...

30 seconds pass.

Its like the Wild West, the staredown before we draw our guns. It was so uncomfortable!

Then she asks us if we have 10 sek. I look at the bag she's holding. I can clearly see a 20 sek bill through the plastic. I look back up at her. She's staring, open mouthed at us waiting for an answer.

I say no.

She just stands there, not moving, just staring. I say no again. SHE DOESN'T MOVE. I am the most awkward person alive, so this is like torture for me. Finally I say...

"I spent my last 10 sek on this ice cream cone..ha..ha."

And she looks at my ice cream. Then back at me blank faced. Just staring.

Almost a minute passes.

I'm not sure what to do. Do I resume my conversation with Amy like this creepy woman is not standing inches from my face? Do I attempt to include her in the conversation about our final project for IMCS? Does she want a lick of my cone?

Then I look back up at her. She's still just staring. Finally, as though God himself took his giant hand down and pushed her along, she moved onto the hot dog stand, where she took 10 sek from some woman and continued on her way.

It was just so strange! I cannot convey how awkward it was. I mean, I've met so many beggers in my life, and usually I will give them money if they have a good cause or an animal. But this woman just made me so uncomfortable! I almost wanted to pay her to go away! MAYBE THAT WAS HER STRATEGY! I'm going to do that from now on. I'm going to find two unsuspecting people and just hover over them with a blank look on my face until they pay me to go away.

If I wasn't so unattractive right now I'd take a picture of her stare. It was honestly uncomfortable. And what's with the 20 sek in her bag? Honestly, if you are gonna beg, at least hide your winnings, because that wasn't earning you any points with me.

And on a final note, why is the weather so shitty? My crackhouse isn't built for all terrain weather, especially with sunshine, then hail, then wind and thunder. I hope its better tomorrow cause I have to bike into town tomorrow. And the only thing worse than a wet ass from my bike...is a wet ass for any other reason.

2007-04-18T16:05:00.000-07:00

Okay I need to write a happy post now, I've been like in a weird sadness all day and I need to cheer up.

So I'm going write about my crackhouse for birds.

As some of you know, Goran has a birdfeeder that hangs from his window. Each day, as he sits at his computer, his fellow companions grace him with their presence as they eat the delicious food he provides out of love. Well, being that me and Goran are basically the same person with animals, I decided I wanted a bird feeder. I just waited and waited, and finally I found a really lame excuse to be sad (it was something like I missed a TV show) and decided I would get a bird feeder.

Well, it was like a message from above. As I go down to ICA, I check my favorite thing: the discount cart.

As it so happens, much to my EXTREME surprise, they had BIRDFEEDERS IN THE DISCOUNT CART. Now, the bird feeders were 10 sek, which is about $1.50. Let me explain what it looked like.

You know when you are little, like in first grade, and you do art projects? This birdhouse looked like one of those art projects. It had badly stained wood, that gave deep splinters upon touching, and was seriously held together by staples. You know what, it honestly doesn't even look like a first grader made it. That's insulting. Its like something a prisoner would make at arts and crafts time. Or my mother. It was that quality of workmanship. And naturally, I purchased it. Actually Amie did because I was too embarrassed to be seen carrying it.

So as I'm walking home with it, the top falls off and breaks, but still, I am going to give it a try. I buy parakeet food and can't figure out how to put it outside of my 7th story window. I mean, if this thing falls, which it probably will, someone can seriously be hurt. Can you imagine that? If you like have this horrible scar on your face and people ask what it is? Oh a piece of shit bird feeder fell off the roof while I was walking by.

I begin to panic. What if this doesn't work? Then I see it. Duct tape in my kitchen. So I steal it and decide I have a plan. As if this bird feeder isn't shitty enough, I DUCT TAPE IT to my window and it basically looks like a box with a hole on the bottom pouring out food.

Did I mention what Goran's looks like? His is like the Playboy Mansion of bird feeders. It has regular customers, it has top of the line expensive food and it even has a little roof, so they can eat rain or shine.

I have the 8 Mile bird feeder. Seriously, mine is falling apart, its like the trailer park of bird feeders and I wouldn't be surprised if there was a little bird prostitute that hung out there after hours. I almost wanted to take sugar and put it in the shape of cocaine lines just to lure the birds/because it goes well with my feeder.

Now that everything is in position...I wait. And wait. And wait. I begin to get upset. Its been almost a week and I haven't even seen a single seed leave the crackhouse...feeder. As I am walking to Goran's house, I see entire flocks of birds MIGRATE to his palace, not even to eat, just to hang out. And what can I offer? Maybe I should put lines of sugar on the windowsill.

Then one night, about a week after I purchased the feeder, we have a long night out and I get home rather intoxicated and am ready to sleep. Since I got home at almost morning, I was wanting nothing more than interrupted slumber as my body fell to the bed. Well, I was in for a surprise.

About two hours after I fell asleep, I heard something that sounded like rain on my window. Then I heard something hitting my glass. I grabbed my hair straightener as obvious protection from the robber who had somehow scaled 7 stories and chose my window to break into.

Then it occured to me. It was my first bird.

The moment I had been waiting for couldn't have come at a worse time. I was still slightly drunk, and the thought of moving the 5 feet from my bed to my window seemed like way too much effort. But, nonetheless, I heaved my body up and slowly opened the blinds to see what prey I had caught.

I couldn't have been more disappointed.

A couple posts ago I talked about the blue jays here, how they are like the size of small hawks. Honestly, they are scary. Its like fucking Alfred Hithcock based the Birds off of these things. And to top it off, this bird was attacking my bird food like it was the last living seeds on the Earth. He was going at them so frantically that they flew up against my window, and he started to attack them there, that's why I heard the tapping on the glass.

I stood there repulsed for about a minute as this thing gluttonized my food. But it wasn't just that. He was going so violently that I noticed the bird feeder was teetering rather close to the edge and I could see the tape was giving way. With no other choice, and the satisfaction of sleep looming way too close, I did this weird dance jive thing like Natalie Portman does in Garden State and the bird flew away. I don't know if it flew away because of me, or because my dancing was so frightful.

Anyways, the damn thing kept coming back! The little shit has woken me up almost every single morning at the same time (5:45) and my food is almost gone! Its such a pig! And its not even that cute! Its SCARY. And I love all animals but this thing frightens me! I'm going to take a picture of my bird feeder to show how ghetto it is when its light out. But today I got a really cute and really rare bird! It came up to the feeder and I got so excited I like jolted and it flew off instantly. This is quite the art feeding birds. Its enrolling Calista Flockhart in an eating contest, it just doesn't make sense.

So that was my story. Its really ghetto and I've been told I'm making Flogsta trashy. The best part is people now know about it, and my friends look up to my window just to see if its still there and hasn't fallen.

Give it time bitches. I will have flocks of birds. And if those flocks in any way resemble blue jays, I'm taking my feeder down and replacing it with a plastic owl to protect me.

2007-04-18T12:26:00.000-07:00

Thank you Florian for understanding where I'm coming from :)

Serious but you can skip its just me ranting!

2007-04-18T05:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I usually post non-serious entries in this blog, but something has been sort of bothering me and I would like to address it. Well my hands are numb from biking in from town, so hopefully this goes okay because my fingers are throbbing.

Anyways, as everyone knows, there was a major shooting massacre in Virginia a couple of days ago. And, as everyone knows, everyone is talking about it. Usually I try to remain neutral and not let things effect me, but for some reason I've been glued to my computer trying to get more information and to understand why this happened. I think being so far away from home also makes it worse, because I cannot turn on the TV to get information and I feel really disconnected because nobody here really is making a big issue out of it. I want to show my support for the victims, but I really can't when Sweden is so disassociated with that sort of thing.

I just kind of want to vent because some things in the aftermath of this tradegy have upset me quite a bit. For one thing, I have learned to NOT talk to Swedish people about this. Its nothing against them at all, but they haven't really expierenced this sort of thing that growing up in America has given me. I was there for 9/11 and the Oklahoma City Bombings and all of these tradegies that have not only hardened me as a person, but put more meaning into what its like to come from America. I am tired of people telling me what my country needs to improve or the reasons why its the way it is, because they don't know having not lived in the States. Its one thing to be curious and have an opinion, but its another to berate my opinion simply because it does not match yours, so I had to get that off my chest.

And this is the part that is pissing me off the most. Its not political. Do not compare the deaths of the victims to the people in Iraq or the slaughter the US has put upon other countries. This is different. You are disrespecting those involved so much by taking away from their suffering and justifying it with your own political discrepencies. Stop blaming everyone but the shooter for what happened. The guy was upset, and instead of taking a responsible way of handling his issues, he decided to destroy the lives of the strangers around him. Its annoying to read comments on articles or message boards tying Virginia Tech with the Bush Administration. Just stop. Give the victims what they deserve, and allow their memory to rest in one individual's actions, instead of excuses and blame pointing in order to emphasize your political standing. If you have something against the way our country is run, pick another battle to use in your defense. This one is a inhumane crime that will sit in the hearts of Americans for a very long time. Just remember that next time you see a message board or posting attempting to use this as propaganda against the government. I am by no means a fan of the Bush, but at this point I am not going to take my views on Iraq and the United States' place in the world and even get them remotely close to a tradegy that occured on a somewhat innocent campus.

I have more to say, but I feel like since my blog is not private and others do read this, I will stop my bitching. I hate talking about serious things and this is why, I can go on forever with my opinion simply because it really does feel better to get it out. I could talk about why it happened, the nature of the shooter and everything else surrounding this, but I don't really feel like defending myself anymore. I feel extremely homesick and disconnected right now and I wish there was something I could do over here to convey my sympathies. I'm not the relgious type, and I'm actually quite against this, but every now and then, even if its just talking aloud, it feels good to think someone's listening as I wish peace upon those who lost their lives.

AND. With that seriousness over...I will write a blog on my crackhead bird feeder to lighten the mood sometime later.

2007-04-17T11:40:00.000-07:00

As we all know, my mother is just a dear. She lovingly dotes on her children (if others are around), is always willing to go that extra mile ( if it involves Starbucks or McDonald's sundaes) and loves to play an active role in her children's lives. Here is an example of how mature my mother is.

So some gossip recently occured on facebook, that not only disinterested me, but would concern my mother way more than anybody else on there, so I alotted her my username and password to go in and mess around. This was MONTHS ago. I assumed she went in there once, followed my directions, went to the photo, then left! Apparantly, I was wrong.

Yesterday I go into my facebook account to see on the mini feed that I have changed my interests, location and relationship status. Now I am Married and from Rockport, IL. Before I allow this perpetrator to go any further, I change my password instantly and begin to freak out at who could have possibly hacked into my account - Josh was off the hook, for he knew not to do it again.

So then I check my email and I see at the bottom of the long email, a question from my mother asking me if I have gotten married because people are asking her. I lable it as Carol Nonsense and think nothing of it.

Then, I get two more emails from her. The first asking if I changed my bank account password (which she doesn't have, which confused me) and the second if I changed any of my other passwords. You know, she could have gotten away with it, but she got greedy.

It clicks.

Why is my mother asking me about marriage, password changing and why is my Facebook location set to Rockport, IL, the very place my mother is travelling to in a month. I wonder who it could be.

I go in to send her an angry email this morning, only to see she's left ANOTHER email for me asking if my passwords are still the usual! THIS WOMAN CANNOT GET AWAY WITH ANYTHING.

These are the emails she has given me in response to my anger:

ashley-

I did not hack into your facebook...it kind of just happened, i was playing with
numbers and your naked (blacked out) body showed up with your name.....I was so mad
that all my attempts to correct your facebook profile was shut out due to the
PASSWORD being changed!! It still must be some configuration of your (edited out)....correct?? Did you like the fact that you were Married and from
Illinois!!! When did you notice?? Did you correct the other info...listed on your
profile??? I thought for sure you would not notice and I would have access for a
long time!!!

Anyhoo...if you are mad you will get over it...you can't live without your mother

Then 15 minutes later I get this:
ashley, please forgive and give me your new password. love and kisses, mom.

Apparantly my mother, don't worry she isn't one of those creepy mothers who has to know everything about their child, she just does it for amusement, but she has been on facebook for months! My mother. My mother has been an active member of the facebook community for MONTHS! I can only imagine the things she's seen! Although I was so mad yesterday at her, I am now over it and amused by the situation. She never fails to make me laugh, but I still need revenge...so I purposly gave her my blog address so she can see me post a bad photo of her on here.

This was my mother at midnight over winter break. She wears her pajama bottoms to her breasts. Sorry its sideways, I'm too lazy to switch it.

And here's my dog, just because she's really cute. And yes, that hat is my mother's doing.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

2007-04-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

So I almost just died.

No, seriously. Like, world record for youngest heart attack at the age of 21.

I decide to dedicate today to Spring cleaning, and I do all my laundry, including my rugs and unmentionables. Well I don't stop there! I then go ape shit and dust and clean every surface, and decide its about time I mop my bathroom floor, seeing as my method of showering in the bathroom and splashing water doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

So I'm in the bathroom cleaning for like 10 minutes with the door shut so that I don't get water everywhere, when I decide the fumes are overwhelming and its about time I go into my room, where I have opened my window so I don't suffocate on the cleaning smells.

The I hear it. A loud buzz. It sounds like someone is chainsawing at my desk and I'm quite confused at what this could be. Then I see it. The most massive, intense, angry looking (okay not really) bee EVER is in my room!

Now here in Sweden, I have noticed that all wildlife seem to be on steroids. For example, snails in America are what, maybe the size of a quarter? Well here they are the size of a golf ball. Same with the blue jays here. Back in America, they are you know, a regular size bird. Here, the blue jays are the size of small hawks. Oh remind me to write about my bird feeder.

Anyways, not being excluded from this series of evolution, the honey bees here are literally the size of a small child. No okay that was a slight exaggeration. Its like the size of a baseball mit. No, okay FINE. Its like the size of three American bees mating and on top of each other. That is not a lie. They are FUCKING HUGE. And one of them was in my room.

I panic.

I open my door and check the cooridor. Nobody is home. My computer is currently being circled by this beast, so I can't cry for help there. I must fight this battle on my own.

I run in the kitchen and grab a cup, then grab a postcard and decide I will still be the Angelina Jolie of bugs and save them. Well, when I get back to my room, the buzzing has stopped. I see no sign of this monster. Did it fly back out?

NO.

It decides that my freshly made bed looks cozy, SO IT FUCKING CRAWLS UNDER MY BLANKET! I freak out and shake the blanket, which makes this beast even angrier as it starts flying irratically around my room screaming with buzz's. I panic again and sit in the kitchen (where I can actually hear it buzz) until I hear it calm.

We stare down for what feels like an eternity. Eternity = 5 minutes. Then Maria my cooridormate who doesn't talk comes home. And she seems me screaming and running in and out of my room, carrying a plastic cup and a postcard of Barcelona as I'm screaming MOTHER BEE MOTHER BEE HELP ME IM GOING TO DIE IM GOING TO VOMIT IM SO SCARED HELP ME.

She does not help.

Finally, I decide I must open my window all the way and pray this creature finds its way out, because it was smacking itself violently against the window I felt this was safe. Now let me tell you something without being ashamed. As I approached the window, a mere inches from the bee. I almost pooped my pants. Not kidding. I was THAT scared. That bee almost got me to shit myself. I was contemplating taking a picture, but this was life and death situation. Its kind of like when there's a fire, you don't go back and grab your shit. I wasn't going to grab my camera and risk it.

So needless to say, the bee flew out. I am never, ever ever ever ever again opening my window no matter how many toxic fumes are cicrulating in my room. I'd rather die of aphixiation than of a giant bee sting.

Here I will use the computer to attempt to give an accurate depiction of its size.

( )
( )
( )

Like that. I think. Its kind of hard to make a bee with parentheses and blank journal space.

2007-04-16T13:29:00.000-07:00

So...why is my blog in Swedish? Interesting. I hope this really is post a new entry and not like my application to be a Lativan porn star.

Anyways, since this is my blog and all I do is bitch, I'm going to bitch about my next subject of diaster. Laundry.

Now, back home, laundry is kind of like a brutal sport that can be comparable to the Gladiator games that took place in the Roman times. But instead of swords, shields and tigers, we have whites, coloreds and socks.

My mother, as we all know, is just a doll. She tries so hard to do the mother thing, but has failed in so many areas that my brother and I practically nursed ourselves until we were able to develop a taste for real milk. That's actually a lie, if I can quote my mother, "I wasn't going to nurse you guys, I was afraid you'd hang on too long and end up as weirdos." We are bottle fed babies. Does it show?

But back to the laundry! Now, my mother would try to do our laundry, and we'd send her a full load of our finest clothes. They'd come back (if they even came back at all), shrunken, covered in weird bleach stains and socks...don't even get me started with socks. You were lucky if you came back with a matching pair, and it was not uncommon to see me sporting some Nike ankle socks with some Champion mid calf socks. It just was a mess. So at an early age, my brother and I learned to do our own laundry. While other elementary school children were learning how to finger paint and do times tables, we were understanding the scientific components into mixing bleach with color safe detergent.

Oh I have an example of my mother! I remember freshman year of college, my first winter break home, I did my favorite clothes as my last load before I headed to school. I was so caught up that I completely forgot them and realized this two days later at school when I unpacked. WELL. My mother thought I left them on purpose and gave them all away to the GoodWill. I hope the child wearing my once worn Abercrombie sweater appreciates it more than I did.

So now that I live in a community setting, much like a college dormitory, I must adapt to sharing washing machines with other human beings. The washing is free here, so I gather my clothes until they smell drives them out my door, and I proceed to wash them. But there are some washing room protocols I'd like to discuss, because upsetting as they may be, one must be aware of their position in society.

1. Never. Never under any circumstances, remove clothes from the dryer. Now this is important because the clothes, as washed as they may be, will never be fully clean. Grass stains will occasionally remain. And girls, we all know when that time of the month rolls around, we bring out our finest underwear to grace our vaginas. See its okay when its just been washed, and you do the washer/dryer transition. Its a wet mess that probably looks like my friend Ali's muff. But. Once clothes are dry and at their best, all your bodily imperfections come through, and nobody can live that down.

2. Never hog a dryer for anything other than clothes, or any less than a full load to two loads of clothes. This is my pet peeve. I hate it when my clothes are a sopping ball of mold, and I go to see that all the dryers are full. Not wanting to break rule #1, which I constantly do, I check the dryers to find all kinds of shit in there. Did you know once, I sat for 20 minutes while a fucking dishtowel dried by itself? Does a dishtowel merit an ENTIRE dryer? No. You can hang it where it usually hangs and in a day it will be dry enough. Its made to be wet. DON'T DRY IT.

3. Never, shit what was it I just had it. Damnit it was a good one! OH. NEVER. EVER. Get caught moving someone's clothes. Has that ever happened to you? Oh my God its so awkward. Its like 69'ing with a stranger. I swear to god, there you are, standing with their clothes in your hand, the shock on your face, its just inescapable. I once caught someone doing that to my clothes, and I was so embarrassed for them and myself that I turned around and went right back out the door until they left. Its just horrible. Its like, we work so hard in relationships to get to the point where we drop our clothes, and then suddenly this person in a laundry room can hold my wet panties in their hands? Come on.

Alright. I'm going to go. Here's a Carol Email Quote:
"Your sister's friend's mom is an interior designer, and your brother heard this and opened the garage on purpose because he knew it was a mess. When I yelled at him he called me fat in front of her. He's wearing a wife beater t-shit and looks like a hoodlum. Yes I spelled it like that on purpose."

Ugh

2007-04-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

I just have to get this off my (non hairy) chest. You'll see why I ()'d later.

So it was a huge issue, do I get a hostel bed for another night and pay a ton or money or do I just sleep on Sofie's hostel floor? After much debate, and a loss of reasoning, I decided to get my own bed that night, thus removing my belongings from my room of a week, and positioning them in my new room. Room number 6.

Room 6 was fine. I was the only American, and the other 5 "mates" were Australian. No big deal, they were friendly and supportive of my germaphobia which limited me to sleeping with my personal airplane blanket and in a sweat outfit to prevent any unnecessacary touching of skin - sheet contact.

Knowing very well that I would be leaving the hostel at 5 pm to have a long early afternoon/night of drinking, I prepared my bed ahead of time. I neatly laid out my pajamas/biohazard suit and my blanket on my bed before I left, as well as my backpack and jeans to have toothbrush access and drying capabilities respectivly. With this in place, I began pre-drinking with a strange man named Liam as I waited for Sofie to change.

So we go out and we have a blast until almost three in the morning. By this hour, I am exteremely agitated, sleepy and on the verge of passing out next to the transvestite that resides outside of our hostel. Finally, I bid Sofie farewell and head into my room.

Now, the room is dark, so I prop the door with an Australian slutty heel to shed some light in on my surroundings. As the light shines in the room, I notice that my top bunk, closest to the door is currently occupied by some boy. Being that I was slightly intoxicated and over life at that point, I decided to find any bed to sleep in and deal with things in the morning, for our wake up time was a mere 4 hours away.

Well as luck would have it, all the beds were occupied seeing as their rightful owners were fast asleep. That led me no choice. I angerily march up to my bed like a pregnant woman craving pickles and i poke him straight in his bare shoulder flesh, jolting him awake.

Here is how the conversation went:

Me: You are in my bed.
Him: Oh am I?
Me: I'm pretty sure
Him: Hmm...can you hand me my boxers so we can sort this out?

Your boxers? Do you mean there was scrotom-sheet contact in my bed?! MY BED. I panic. I try to not let my face show as my eyes being to water as he slides his boxers on. Well you'll never believe what I saw next.

As he sat up to pull up his boxers, his back was revealed. Now this back, was unlike any back I've ever seen in my life. I would have preferred my DAD's back to this guy's. His back looked like a grizzly bear. Not lying. I could have petted it and put a collar on it and it would have made a nice mat to lay in front of the fireplace. And best of all...IT WAS ON MY BED. THIS PUBIC HAIR INFESTED BACK WAS ON MY BED. This was almost too much to take.

Me: Um...why did you get into this bed?
Him: I needed a place to sleep and they said they overbooked, but this bed looked empty.
Me: Did you see my stuff on it?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Then what did you do with it?
Him: Oh, I threw it on the ground.

And sure enough, at my feet, are my pajamas, entering biohazard zone of hostel floor where people's nasty ass (including his) barefeet circulate. My backpack is like scattered open, flinging dirty panties, London tabloids and a series of pens I stole from my classroom all amind this destruction. I hate him.

So then I calmly tell him that I will be in fact sleeping in that bed and he better find a new place to sleep. I told him he can take the blankets because I didn't want them in the first place because of people like him, and I certainly do not want them now.

He then jumps off the bed and starts cussing and screaming, waking everyone up, about how he has no place to sleep! Not knowing what to do, I jump into bed in my jeans, pull up my sweatshirt hood, lay my airplane blanket over where he slept so I didn't choke on a hairball and crawled into the fetal position so nobody would know I was involved.

About 10 minutes later the hostel guy comes in to see what's wrong and he notices me. Being that I had befriended him, he knew I had paid and let me be. But as he's leaving he goes., "Aren't you cold, you can sleep with the blanket, its clean you know." And as I shivered, I gave him such an "I want to witness your death" look, that he quickly shut the door and let me be.

So, less than four hours later Sofie woke me up and has no idea the hell I had just gone through. I mean, it wasn't a real big deal, its just the fact that I am such a germaphobe and take such precaution when travelling, that this was in fact my worst nightmare. I would have rather spent the night in a trailer with a family who's sole attire was jean vests and cut offs. As long as their backs were waxed, I'd settle.

Well, on that note, I am getting into my bed, whose sheets have not been washed for over a month. And you know what? I don't really care, because its clean, my germs and the only areas where I have excessive hair growth I take care of with Lady Bics.

P DIDDY PART I

2007-04-01T16:37:00.000-07:00

So here's the story that everyone's been asking about, and I apologize to those of you who have heard it so long you can preach it at your nearest church come Easter Sunday.

Bascially, me and P.Diddy (Puffy Daddy, Diddy, Puffy, Sean Combs) are best friends. And by best friends, I mean I saw him.

It all started on our class trip to London, which in and of itself, was more fun than a Christmas dinner table contain the following characters: Mozart, Rosie O'Donnell, Benjamin Franklin and the band Savage Garden.

I had been reading the tabloids all week, and in doing so, read that the notorious rapper P. Diddy was having a party on Tuesday night. Instantly I expierenced vaginal moistness and an inate desire to go, but the reality was not that I could not go, but that nobody would be willing to go with me.

So Tuesday comes along, and we all decide to go to this ridiculously random bar that consisted of techno music blasting over 12 dollar beers. Over it. I was dressed like an extra in the Sound of Music, and not planning on going out...that is until wonderful Sarah McGovern got a text message from her boss at MTV (where she interns) explaining tha the put her on the guest list for P.Diddy's party and she was allowed to bring one guest.

Now, we could have done a fair coin tossing or drawing straws process, but nobody wastes as much of their life on celebrities as me, and I would have casually cannibalized anyone who took my place. With no other choice, Sarah took me and we rushed our casually ass dressed...asses to this party for we had to be there in 10 minutes in order to get in.

Right when we get there, its chaos. Everyone, EVERYONE is dressed like a celebrity: fur coats, stillettos, loose vaginas and enough makeup to build a dam in East India. Then you have Sarah and I...dressed like normal people who look like we spend our free time birdwatching and playing Yahtzee.

Anyways, so Sarah goes up, explains she's on the guest list to four different police offices who tell us to go in the que, for everyone on the guest list and with tickets had to wait to get in. Unfortuntaely, the que is about as big as Tommy Lee's cock, so we proceed to the back of the line, pissed and waiting for our moment to mingle with the Becks.

As we're waiting in line, a flock of B List celebrities arrive and pose for pictures...which is something B list celebrities apparantly do. So I decide to go check up on the action and I see some chick with her head bent down sitting in a hummer with long blonde hair. It must be Parasite Hilton and I was instantly disinterested. Then I noticed her body was much too un-anorexic, and rather toned, thus eliminating Paris, Lindsay, Nicole and both Olsons. Deciding she was another B list celebrity, I make an 'over it' face and walk away only to see in the papers the next day that it was none other than Fergie Ferg.

Sooooo I report back to Sarah and we're both so fed up with how long the line is and how we have not moved. Its quite late now, about 12 midnight and I'm thinking that Grandma Ashley needs to return to her hostel to get some rest. But then Sarah pulls out something...which sparks the idea that leads to the main part of the story.

Earlier that day, since we were on a "class trip", we had gone to Reuters news agency. Since they are such a big company, they gave us all visitors badges that contained our name, our University and the date. No biggie. So she pulls out the visitor's badge and instantly an idea has sparked. Sarah, give me your camera.

Luckily for me, Sarah had a professional looking camera, although this story would be funnier had I used my rather large, early 90's cellphone looking camera.

I take her camera, as well as my Reuters badge which was still in my pocket, and I go up the front of the police barracade. I then proceed to be possessed by the late actress Katherine Hepburn, for my acting skills were fan fucking tastic. Here is what I say:

"Umm excuse me Officer. Is there a reason why I am not in the press pit? I am here on assignment for Reuters, the leading news agency in the world, and it seems to me that I am having way too much difficulty finding my way in. Is there anything you can do?"

He then asks to see my press pass. So I hold up the visitor's pass from Reuters. He buys it. I'm in.

Unfortunately the press pit was full, so he sent me to this other dude who would have to take out a member of the already there paparazzi in order to fill a space for me. Just then, a limo pulls up and I'm in the middle of the street walking around to the pit, and guess who comes out? The grand Diddy.

The guy instantly starts shouting QUICK TAKE PICS TAKE PICS. But I'm so nervous/don't know how to turn on Sarah's camera so I start shaking and pretending I'm professional by twisting the lens cap, which only made them blurry! By the time I got the camera on, Diddy (yes I'm on a Diddy basis) was already on the other end of the limo. I'll post the picture at the end.

So I'm all shaken up, my panties are wet and I'm being suddenly shoved and asked for ID as they kick some guys in the paparazzi out to make room for me. I think the defining line was "Excuse me, but I am with Reuters, you are letting people from the UK Sun have a position but not me? Oh you've got to be kidding me." Its all about the attitude.

Suddenly I am physically lifted over this baracade, my thunder thighs couldn't make the 4 inch gap they made for me and I am pushed to the front of the pit, right at the red carpet. Unfortunately, the only people that came by were the girls from the band Girls Aloud, who I haven't heard of, and I had to convserve the camera battery until Sarah came with the new pack. So I was sparing with the pictures, and actually quite annoyed with them posing.

So let's give you a visual shall we?

Here I am, the only girl, standing amid these professional photographers with this little camera, flashing a fake visitor's badge, explaining I work for Reuters as I cover one of the biggest parties "London has ever seen" -London Daily Lite.

People are asking me what my project is...I'm stumbling. "I work for Reuters, you know, Reuters." "Isn't it Reuters (different saying)" "Well whatever, I'm an intern and they just sent me on little assignments." "This is the biggest party of the year." "Who are you again? Because I'm with Reuters and I don't have time for chit chat."

Unfortunately! I am really sleepy and ready for bed, so the rest will wait til tomorrow. I apologize, but I still have to write about fucking BigFoot sleeping in my hostel bed and other amusing antics from the trip. Sleep well foes I shall return.

Prehistoric Problems

2007-03-20T14:24:00.000-07:00

So the girl hogging the elliptical at the gym today reminded me of a stegasauras. Which brings me into my next topic.

Remember those shows when we were kids? Like Hey Dude. And Salute Your Shorts. AND DINOSAURS.

Do you remember that show? Honestly, now that I look back at it, I realize that I had a crush on one of the Dinosaurs. Then that reminded me that I had a crush on one of the Ninja Turtles. And then THAT reminded me that I sound really creepy and somehow am attracted to reptiles taking on human characteristics.

Although my memory has since faded since this show was on, I hope to God I did not have sexual feelings for either of those vile creatures. That baby looks like Tori Spelling gave birth to it and somehow the Pappa Dinosaur looks like John Goodman. Or Roseanne. Its the flannel.

But here is my point. I had the BIGGEST crush on Leonardo from the Ninja Turtles. Now ladies, I'm going to warn you. If you view the next picture in a public place...please be aware of the tingling sensation you may get. Oh my god its not working. Of course I get the ugly ass dinosaurs on here but not hot Leonardo.

Anyways you all know what he looks like. Am I so wrong or odd for finding a cartoon depiction of a reptile attractive? My mom took away my Leonardo toy because I would sleep with it at night in "comprimising" positions. I don't know what I'd do if I found my daughter and a plastic turtle spooning and kissing, but hey, I'm not a parent and that's one of the reasons why.

Now this is my other point. I know, KNOW, that all of you had a crush on Prince Erik from The Little Mermaid, so who is worse? Both are cartoons. Shit I just realized I was digging myself a hole because Prince Erik is actually human. Needless to say, I outgrew my crush on the dinosaurs and turtles and eventually moved on to William Shatner. Again, my mom took away my diary when she saw "Age Doesn't Matter, William + Ashley 4EVER." I was 9. He was 60. I'm sure in some states that's legal.

Anyhow. Here is a final tribute. Wow I had great taste. Its a good thing Rescue 911 was cancelled before I hit puberty.

How much for a photo?

2007-03-15T05:11:00.000-07:00

Okay okay so I am still here but I will write another entry about my trip to Spain.

It started off well with me getting to the airport way too early and being seated by a family who taught their children to communicate solely through a series of screams, cries and inaudible yells. After roaming around Spain alone with a giant and broken suitcase (it ripped and my razor fell out, but I abandoned it for natural reasons) I decided that everyone around me was a pickpocket and I was going to die on one of these streets.

So my hostel was on a street called Diagnol. Diagnol. I go up to someone. Do you know where Deeeaagnol is? NO HABLA ENGLISHA. Okay. Do you know where this is? No. No. No. Nobody would help me! So I´m wandering around Barcelona at 8 pm, looking like a Rosie Donnell in an eating disorder clinic, thinking this will be my death. Finally I find it, get locked out with some Slovkian boy for an hour and then reunite with Melissa after falsly greeting another sleeping girl who I mistook her identity for my close friend.

But Spain has been awesome, we went to the beach and have been going out every night with the hostel managers who are young guys from Argentina. One of them asked if I wanted to sleep with him and that he would give me a discount on my room. After careful consideration and weighing the pros and cons, I decided that that was a form of prostitution and he could be an undercover cop.

Speaking of prostitutes! The other night we were wandering and we saw prostitutes. They dress like they wear JLO´s clothing line here, all track suits with slut boots. Anyways, Fefe went up to them at our request asking how much for a photo with us. We offered 1€ but she wasn´t having it. So then we tried to buy her to just hang out with us for the night and talk and have a prostitute as our friend, but she was trying to charge us 30€, which is the same as she charges for sex, and I think the only oral going on would be us asking her questions. So needless to say, that failed.

But as I mentioned last entry I am sick, and sitting up for this long has made me nauseous again, so I am going to go lay back down and watch Napoleon Dynamite in Spanish. I wish you well my bitches, and I will be back in Uppsala Friday sometime. Hejda!

Public Displays of Bowel Movements

2007-03-15T04:56:00.001-07:00

So I am in Spain right now, and you may ask, well if you are in Spain, why are you not doing anything cool¿ Look I did the upside down question mark to prove I´m here. Well I will tell you why I am not doing anything cool. I have food poisoning.

I was specifically told to not eat meat or eggs while I was here, especially with the fact that I have a weak weak stomach and it will dramatically increase my chances of something happening. I was so good. Soooo good (Toshi) and then we go out to a bar and I have a couple shots of absynth, not a big deal. But then drunk/obese Ashley gets hungry and decides that its best if I go to a really sketchy supermarket at 3 am and get an egg sandwich. Good call!

Needless to say I have been vomitting and I have blast ass, I don´t care if that´s too graphic. But there is a problem, the hostel bathroom does not adaquately suite my needs for public pooping, so I have been walking 5 blocks to the McDonald´s where I find the bathroom to be quaint and somewhat homey.

But this is the most awkward thing ever. I walked in on a boy going #2. Yeah. Tell me about it. You know in those situations, there is a set of protocals I want to talk about.

Everyone assumes when you walk in on someone or you are walked in on, there will be embarrassment on the part of the individual who is caught urinating or deficating. However, that is not the case.

I find it to be so much more embarrassing if you are the one doing the walking in on. I mean, I have been walked in on ONCE in my life while peeing, and that was by my grandpa when I was 8, and in the last 13 years I have taken the necessacary actions to ensure that was a lone occurance. However, the amount of times I have walked in on someone greatly multplies my own encounter, and thus I have the right to say that it is more terrifying.

First of all, it takes a second to process what is going on. And naturally, your eyes wander. For example, yesterday when I walked in on the boy, I was surprised to see a boy sitting on the toilet instead of standing. So my eyes went to his face, then they went to his crotch, then back to his face, then I yelled and ran away without shutting the door. I have seen him several times since then and I have decided everyone in the hostel needs to be aware that he is the boy I walked in on. I need the reassurance from my peers that I was not in the wrong, it was him, and that my actions are merely the result of human instinct. I couldn´t help but stare and gawk at my position of power and the fact that this really was happening.

Anyways, I just want you all to take a moment to think about this situation, who is the victim? Because I stand by my word when I feel like I am the one victimized by walking in on that boy pooping. There is no other way around it.

But Melissa is off exploring Spain, and I´m glad I got sick the last day we are here because I´ve pretty much seen everything. However this means I cannot get my shirt with hedgehogs on it since I am quarenteened in the hostel until my flight, but that´s life. At least nobody has walked in on me during my time of samonella induced illness.

I´ll post pictures when I get home.

Public Displays of Bowel Movements

2007-03-15T04:56:00.000-07:00

2007-03-05T16:39:00.000-08:00

So there's a bit of a dispute going on in the house right now. I, for the most part, have tried to remain neutral. But then it occured to me...why am I remaining neutral when I am the one causing the dispute?

Naturally, the whole thing is between me and Mr. Archives himself: Erik.

This started off innocently, he became pushy and overbearing on the friendship. Then...THEN...he started treating me like I had just exited my mother's vagina and was incapable of surviving on my own. This may surprise all of you, but I actually can do quite well with my survival skills within the cooridor. Just because I do not check my door four times before I leave the house to make sure its locked doesn't mean that one day I am going to wake up finding myself malnourished and a weird rash in the shape of Spain on my ass.

Example: I was getting ice cream (obese) out of the freezer and he turned around really creepy and just stared to make sure I'd lock the door. Just to be a dick, I didn't lock it and just held my hand there...each second the strain on his turned neck was paining him more and more. Finally I screamed WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT and he calmly reminded me to lock the door. God forbid someone steal my one pot.

Anyways, so here is the feud.

Every Sunday I have card games at my house, yes it sounds old womanish, and to add to it we all bake desserts and pull out pictures of our grandchildren to show off. And, every Sunday Erik comes in and SLAMS the kitchen door as a revolt against our noise. And its not just Sundays! I can be in the kitchen sleeping silently and he'll yell for me to slam the door!

So long story short.

We took off the door.

Oh. And threw it in the fire escape.

And Erik has about shit his pants all week. Especially yesterday when we had a loud card game and he had to go into his room because it was too loud. Shut the door! What door?

That was just the beginning. Next, I am setting up the old television right next to his, his television that is in the family room yet he is the only one that can watch it. So I am going to put this other tv right smack dab next to his. And when he kicks one of us off his televison next time, I'll invite them to my little tv, that sits a few centimeters from his, and gets the same channels.

There are lessons that need to be taught in appropriate and mature ways. That is why I am here to do so.

Speaking of appropriate and mature...here's Carol's Email Quote of the Day:

"talk with you soon...i am having the light replaced in the kitchen by Sergio and i must go pay him (if you know what i mean) just kidding.!!"

Oh mother.

Petra's haha

2007-02-28T12:26:00.001-08:00

My cool celebrity look-alike collage from MyHeritage.com. Get one for yourself.

HOTTIE

2007-02-28T12:22:00.001-08:00

So this is analyzing the hot pictures we took of ourselves. I love how Larry King appears on both...I thought for sure I'd get Rosie.

My cool celebrity look-alike collage from MyHeritage.com. Get one for yourself.

Its my blog so I'll vent

2007-02-28T11:46:00.000-08:00

Alright, so I hate a lot of things in life. I hate when people are mean to animals. I hate when I do online face comparisons and it says I look like Vin Diesel. But most of all...I hate when people fart at the gym.

Why?

Do I really need to explain?

First of all, farting in the gym is like trying to drown a fish in water. The air in gyms is always 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the world and its always humid and moist. So naturally, any disturbances to my oxygen levels are going to be greatly exaggerated. Plus, unlike outside, there is no breeze to carry the fumes to some other victim. Its like containing a nuclear blast within a 10 x 10 foot room.

I remember last SUMMER (one of the hottest on records) I was running on the treadmill when a man who looked like Sylvester Stallone came on the elliptical next to me. He was to my right, Lauren Cayford was to my left. I had no real problems with the guy other than the fact that he looked like a washed up 80's action hero.

Suddenly, I feel my lower body get unusually warm. Then it proceeds up until it hits my nose. And by God...I have never smelt something so pungent, so vile in my life. It was like he had taken a shit right there in the center of the gym and put a giant fan in my direction. The fart physically made the air warmer! And, to top it all off...it travelled from right to left, thus looking to Lauren Cayford that it was ME who farted. Unacceptable. Un. Acceptable.

So today at the gym, I am running on the middle treadmill when a quaint, nice looking girl gets on to my right. Then, to my left, an older woman gets on and both proceed to exercise. I have half a mile left in my run, so I am not only exhausted, but my oxygen intake is at its all time high. This being said, what happened next nearly killed me.

One of those two, I don't know which one because I was so caught off guard I couldn't determine if it went L --> R or R --> L. But my God. I didn't think the female species was capable of that kind of power. Forget the war in Iraq, bottle this stuff and set it free and we can solve the world's problems without violence. My eye's physically watered. I was gasping for air like a goldfish. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't think hateful thoughts because my brain was on fire. And the worst part was...it lingered.

You know how some disappear? No. This one lingered. It knew it was good. It hung around like a stray cat waiting for food. And its food came in the form of my bleeding nostrils.

So to all of you reading this thinking "Oh my God, I can't believe Ashley wastes her time writing about farts," go ahead. But I am bringing justice to underrated topics that plague the world today. I have made it so you can now comment on my entries. If you have a problem say it. I will probably dedicate the next entry to your demise, but so be it. I was violated in a way today that will leave emotional scarring for weeks to come. What if it was the older woman who farted? Now the girl on the treadmill (who I see there regularly) will think I am capable of producing that morbid stench. I don't want that blame. You can say I sweat a lot at the gym. You can say I give dirty looks to innocent people. But never, ever accuse me of being the one that plants the fart that leaves people talking. Thank you.

2007-02-27T12:33:00.000-08:00

I just did that thing where you load a picture and you get your celebrity match.

I picked this one:

It said I look like Vin Diesel. For those of you who don't know who he is...let me get a picture.

My confidence? Soaring.

2007-02-27T12:06:00.000-08:00

I've got a sweaty backkkkkkkkk. Yeah.

Anyways, so I have realized there is a huge problem with transportation here in Sweden and I am going to analyze it. Aside from that, nothing really interesting happened today because I spent most of it walking around town.

Let's start with the obvious (and no this is not morbid, I'm just bringing attention to what inspired this)...

Buses: Now, just today there was a bus crash just outside the city that killed 6 people. I saw the images on television and it was honestly awful to see. Plus, last semester a girl was killed from a bus. Let me just take a second to vent about this. The buses here are like 6 year olds on Prozac. They are so destined to make their time schedules that the driver's go way to vast for their giant green tubules, especially in this weather. I remember one time I was going to catch the bus and it was running 3 minutes late and the bus driver started driving as I was swiping my card! I flew backwards and practically went to second base with an old woman. Out of control. So buses = no go.

Walking: It would be accurate to assume walking would be the safest way. I mean, the biggest injury you can face is slipping and breaking your ass...oh wait. However, today proved to be quite the contradiction to this theory. Amie, Robi and I decided to not be obese and to walk into town to do our errands. On this journey, we seriously almost died 100 times from...SNOW PLOWS. They came out of nowhere! They just tumble down the sidewalk, pushing everything/one to the side! It was so scary. We could hear their vicious roar and tedious scraping. Then they started to reproduce! One giant snow plow would go by and shortly thereafter a little baby one would follow it. They are procreating! And, AND, as I came home today, I was leaving the building and there it was. In the dark with its bright lights shining on me. The mother of all snow plows. This one had like 4 shovels, a HUGE bin for gravel and its sights were on me. I got so scared that I went out the opposite enterance of my building just because I knew it was aiming for me.

And finally...

Bikes: I feel as though biking has now become the most dangerous thing in life, especially with the snow. How come I am surrounded by snow plows when I don't need them, but when I go to ride my bike I twist and turn, sliding in and out more than a porno movie starring Jenna Jameson? I am terrified of falling on my bike...ever since...that day.

It wasn't more than a year ago. Actually, it wasn't more than a month and a half ago but I'm trying to be dramatic. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a particulary snowy day and I decided to save money, so I rode my bike into town. As I bid farewell to Amy at the bus stop, I began my grueling ride home. Just as I was entering the ICA roundabout (I know you all know which one that is, please note its very busy), I hear the familiar roar of the No. 2 bus coming my way. Knowing very well that my friend is on it, I decide to be amusing. So, as the bus is about to pass, I turn back to wave frantically when suddenly...chaos.

My bike and I are literally seperated like a mother cutting her newborn's umbilical cord. It is anarchy. My bike slides out from under me and like we are magnetically repelled, I fly one way and my bike slides ACROSS THE ROUNDABOUT. The bike practically crossed a street! Luckily I was so bundled up that I didn't feel any pain from the fall...but the emotional scarring was much worse.

Being that the bus was coming and I was still in the roundabout, I had to make the bus stop so I could cross the street and retrive my bike. I just remember this girl's face on the bus...she was in utter shock. Half the bus was laughing, the driver even looked amused...but Amy? She was completely out of the loop from what had just happened. I would have wished no other fate on her than to see my biff. It was like out of a movie, especially the embarrassment that haunted me for days to come.

I'm actually cutting this entry short because there is a delay when I type and its starting to annoy me.

Carol Email Quote of the Day:
"I don't have time to focus on you anymore, your brother is just now applying to college and I feel that is more important than you. Also, your bird took a shit on the computer and your brother is quite mad."

Crop Circles...no that's only ailen videos

2007-02-26T12:26:00.000-08:00

Okay okay okay. So this post is going to be mean, but I really don't care because it was funny.

So lately at the gym, me and Amy have been doing these classes called 'jympa.' Basically, they are like a mass orgy of exercise. Everyone piles into this gigantic gymnasium, and a little instructor stands in the center of this mass and directs them through a series of awkwardly, yet somehow amazingly fun, exercise moves. It honestly brings a little smile to my face, especially when the homosexual man teacher has us do stripper moves to the Village People's "In The Navy."

One day we were doing a move, not very difficult in nature-despite what Amy says, when suddenly I look over to see my exercise buddy Amy...on the ground. Apparantly the woman next to her bumped into her, took Amy to the ground and then ran out of the building quickly. It was highly amusing, but this one takes the cake.

So we are doing INTENSE (I'm trying to get you a feel of this) gympa with the intense instructor to our favorite song that we now just found out the name to. The teacher split the entire class so that there are two giant groups facing each other. Literally its like 50 people on each side, facing each other and air punching as we do knee highs.

There is this girl that caught my eye. She is wearing light blue with camel toe inducing strechy pants. She is in the very front row (like me and Amy are...which somehow is a genetic default seeing as we SUCK at it) and she knows all the moves. I mean...she KNOWS her shit.

Suddenly, we are doing an intense move. Its where you like do these four step moves forward, clap 8 times and then you go backwards as you like kick your feet like you are a redneck doing a squaredance. All of a sudden, I see commotion.

That girl...totally biffed. I mean..she ate shit. She was on her ass faster than Paris Hilton after a Corona.

But the group...KEEPS GOING. It was like man down man down! No no we must continue to four step forward and CLAP CLAP. We clapped as one of our own was on the ground scrambling before she was trampled by the herd of wildebeasts that we had become.

Now this is where its awkward. I start laughing hysterically. I look around...nobody is laughing. The girl is staring upwards at me. Umm...I need support.

I turn to my right, Amy is punching and high kicking her little twat off. I KNOW she saw that girl eat shit, I mean it was right in front of her, but she's acting MATURE and not laughing! So then I look across to the people by the girl and they are just doing their own thing.

I CANNOT HOLD IN THE LAUGHTER ANYMORE!

I start bursting out and laughing, and between the dance moves, the music and the fact that I am holding in laughter, I am going to lose bodily function. I feel like one of those puppies, that when you get them really excited they like pee on the spot. That was almost me.

But luckily I ducked into my shoulder and let it out. I know the girl saw me. And I confrunted Amy after, and she totally saw the girl fell, but thought it would be 'mean' to laugh. Come on! When she fell I practically held a parade and took out an ad in the local newspaper to announce it.

Wanna go sledding?

(possibly one of my favorite pictures EVER) I tried going headfirst to test our tabletop sled...and well it didn't move...

GHETTO.

And the obese duo that broke the sled...no seriously we hit a jump and the sled shattered. Hence why I do gympa. And this is too long already so Carol Email Quote will be tomorrow, k?

2007-02-25T11:36:00.000-08:00

So you know you are obese when you break multiple sleds down a small hill. It sure beats riding down on a piece of a chair. I am about to bleed from my vagina soon so I will keep this short because I do not have a lot to say. But here is the...

Carol Email Quote of the Day:
"Rehab is just around the corner, check your nose for veins coming through from too much drinking, it can be very unattractive."

Okay Mom. Next time I see a random ass vein coming from my schnoze I will be sure to check myself alongside Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Every email from that woman declares my need to go to rehab. Fine. But I feel like that will put quite the damper on my social life. Betch.

Coke whores no more

2007-02-23T15:23:00.000-08:00

So I just came home from a few beers at Amie's when I notice the cooridor across from mine is having a party.

No biggie...no biggie. They tend to have parties a lot, and I can tell this because I now have the base lines memorized to every Avril Lavigne and ABBA. So I hear the familiar base thumping of "Sk8ter Boi" as I climb up the elevator and I realize I am in for a long night.

As I enter the floor, we have two adjoining cooridors. They each house 12 people and the main door enterances face each other. Strange...the cooridor having the party's door is shut...while ours is open. Okay.

So I walk hesitantly in to come upon a strange site. There on my living room couch, casually reading the newspaper is a man dressed in a full suit. He has a neatly placed tie setting amist his freshly pressed jacket. He has long, greasy black hair that just falls short above his nipples. Actually, he looks like Professor Snape from Harry Potter! YES! That's it! Here...this is what I came home to.

To top it all off, he was sitting cross legged reading the day's newspaper as though I had just interrupted him in the middle of a quaint Starbucks somewhere in Connecticut. He looks up at me. I am staring with my jaw open. He smiles politely and not sure of what else to do, I wish my newfound stranger friend a good night as I go to my room, making sure my door is securely locked.

But then I am obese. And I need a midnight snack. I know in the fridge I have cottage cheese and I can put them on these crackers with salt. I am going into detail about this because I cannot eat that meal right now for this happened.

I open my door a crotch and peek out to see a seemingly empty cooridor. Now both doors are open, but the thought of food is worth the risk of people seeing my braless and pajama clad body run across the hallway for a feeding.

Just as I am near my Mecca (the fridge) I look over just in time to see some Spanish guy snort cocaine right off of my table. The very table that Professor Snape had left his newspaper. I didn't know what to do! He looked up at me with a look comparable to Britney Spears (because she is just a trainwreck) and I didn't know how I should approach this situation. Its not everyday that I am letting my ape hangers run free as I go to eat when I run into a strange Spanish man snorting narcotics off my table. Okay fine, I lied, it is everyday.

So that was my night. We are going to complete each entry from now on with the Carol Email Quote of the Day. This new feature will capture the feats my new technologically advanced mother covers in her constant emails to me on a daily basis. Today's quote (the email was short so bear with me)...

"I bought the birds food at the dollar store today, I hope they don't choke. Scooter (my bird) is really going down on the dog downstairs, now the face is all white!!"

I probably should explain a little. We have a porceline dog statue that is downstairs and the bird goes down to peck at it everyday. As a result, it has now turned white. I feel it could have been worded any other way than "Scotter is really going down on that dog downstairs, his face is all white now!"

Winter is in the air

2007-02-22T04:56:00.000-08:00

This explains my Artic Nips.

Fra la la la la la....

Assley

2007-02-22T04:25:00.000-08:00

So I guess I should write about it, because it kind of was a big deal. But umm...I broke my ass.

Wanna see?

This is what it looked like a few hours after it happened. You are going to see a lot of my ass in this post, just warning you. So get out the Kleenex and 80's porn music ahead of time.

As you can see, its not that bad. My ass, not the bruise. This wound is about 6 hours old and its already starting to form. So let's journey back (I'm trying to make this a travel blog bitches) and find out exactly why I broke my ass.

It all started off innocently enough. We went to Sofie's for a pre-party and then the plan was to head out to Varmlands nation for a night of grinding to Swedish pop music. Unfortunately, it was about 10 F outside, and I could feel every vein in my body struggling to pump blood because they had actually become slightly frozen like water pipes do in the cold. I'm not lying either.

But we decided to walk! Good plan. We saved the roughly $3 a bus would cost, and in turn, trotted the distance to Sofie's (I'm not saying how far so it seems more dramatic).

As with any situation involving my International Media class, it was a great time at Sofie's. We didn't drink at all and instead opted to sit around sharing stories of our first kiss and how to change the world for the better.

Who believed that? Because I thought the first kiss part was sort of believable.

We really got shitfaced and proceeded to have drunken ramblings about the Shoes video. I mean, what else can you expect?

So now, the night is a little fuzzy for me, so let's just get whatever details I can extract from my highly damaged brain. I remember sitting at Sofie's desk and having shot after shot after shot of my ghetto vodka which I kept nicely in an empty Fanta bottle. Pretty soon I was singing the Shoes song and doing some type of pelvic motion to specific parts. But then it was time to go!

Now let me explain...Sofie has 'complicated' stairs. They are the spiral kind...so they spiral upwards, staying wide on the outside, but on the inside the steps are small and few between. Naturally, I decided that I will take the inside route and a high speed while heavily intoxicated. That can't be too bad.

I personally do not really recall much of what happened, but the pain was sobering enough to make me feel like a nun in the middle of mass.

From eyewitness accounts (Rameel), I apparantly flew up in the air, was completely vertical in my body, and came down full impact on my beautiful buttocks.

If I had landed anywhere else, I would surely be dead. My head...a goner. My back...broken. But my ass. If any of you have seen this limb on me, you will realize that if there is any place in need of taking impact...it is my ass. Its like my built in airbag.

So the night continues, and I will spare myself the reality of writing them on here. I end up at Amie's house somewhere around 4 am and realize I have a tremendous amount of pain pulsing outwards from my backside. Where did this come from? Ow. I think my ass hurts. Someone look.

I go home. I have had enough of the night and decide the best remedy is sleep and lot's and lot's of water. Well, that was working well until I happened to roll over in the middle of the morning to be shot awake by the worst pain in life centering in my left buttcheek. What the hell?

So I get up and take that picture to see what is wrong because I have no mirrors in my room. Hmmm...there is a bruise. Memories, although fuzzy, seem to be flowing back. Hmmm. Well, I'm sure its just a bruise and will go away with time. Right?

Wrong. It only continued to get worse. This is a few hours after the first one...(Christ those aren't stretch marks, they are capallaries on the skin that lost all of their blood in the bruising, I asked the doctor bitches)

The pain is UNBEARABLE. It is effecting my whole body. I have shoots of pain running up my back. I would imagine this is the closest I will ever come to anal sex.

I'm down. I can barely walk and I begin to get shakes. We call the doctor's, they think I have broken my ass, but alas, there is nothing they can do for it. I am immobile and have lost my place in society. I do not want this to hold me back from attending parties, but when I do so...I look like this:

My ass requires icepacks, sweatpants and the constant laying on my stomach. I have hurt myself a great amount in the past, but this was by far more immobolizing than my broken knee. The bruise continues to grow. Some place bets on what it looks like. The most popular was "China" or a "pancake." Soon I come to terms with my new abrasion.

I soon am known as Broken Assley. Ass. Anything that can be a pun on my name and the word ass are soon associated with me. The mass of humor takes away from the abundance of pain. I soon become grateful for my new injury for mending the relationship with me and many friendships. Although, when the trauma of the ass causes me to get 3 viruses and makes me sick for a month, I begin to strain to find that same humor.

So now, well over a month later, there is still a mark. It is more of a shadow, but I can now sit down fully. However, it still hurts if I put too much pressure on my left side, which leads me to assume that the blood within my bruise calcified, thus making this process of healing longer. But what can you do.

Some people write about their travels, their relationships and their adventures. I write about breaking my ass, and am quite proud of it. But I feel like I need to post a real picture now because the ones of my ass aren't exactly flattering.

Here's the night before I broke my ass/one of my favorite pictures of the new semester:

"You from Euu Sss Ahh?"

2007-02-21T15:47:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite pastimes, as many of you know, is going to the gym. However, here in Sweden, my gym expierence has been less than pleasant. For one thing, I have found that I hate nearly everyone that steps foot in the facility. It is nothing personal against them...its just I find myself more exhausted from the calories I burn shooting dirty looks or plotting serious injuries in my head.

Let me explain a few of my favorite gym members, then I will get to the main point.

Scrotom Shorts Man: S.S.M. and I have a long history of not getting along. It all started out innocently one day when I began to come to the gym at a different time. As a result, I began finding myself encountering a man who wore the shortest shorts I have ever seen in my life. If I were to ride the short bike as he were doing the elliptical, I would find myself practically teabagging his scrotom as it falls out the side of his shorts. Although it may be tempting, I cannot hate him just for that. I hate him because everytime he comes in, he turns up the lights and shuts all the fans while closing the windows. He creates a sauna of undeoderized people that makes my sweat leave my body faster just so it can fall to the floor and die. As a result, a battle has taken place. As he shuts the windows, I step off the treadmill to open them. Looks are exhanged. Death plots are plotted. Scrotoms are falling out of shorts. We have a relationship that defines all barriers of hatred, but rather is borderline sexual in some strange way.

Smelly Girl: Although the name is not original, there really is nothing else to sum this girl up. It all started out when she began giving me dirty looks from across the gym for sweating so much. Although I sweat like Rosie O'Donnell at an all girl's choir performance, I do not smell. We can thank good genetics and Lady Speed Stick for that. However, upon closer relations with this girl, I have found that she smells what a taint would smell like, if I ever had the privelage to smell one. She wears the same outfit every day and I feel like she needs to wash it in order for the tedious oder to leave her clothes. Her smell is comparable to Salt & Vinegar chips, and as I type this right now, I can smell it on my own hands. What have you done to me Smelly Girl? Why must we lower ourselves to such standards?

But by far...my favorite person at the gym to hate is The Woman Collector. The W.C. is at the top of my list, although I have only seen him once, but the encounter was enough to last a lifetime. He looked like someone took him directly out of the 1993 hit film "Mario Brothers-The Movie." No kidding. He is Mario. Look:

<------------- SEE!

So now that you have the picture, let me explain what happened.

I was doing a late workout one night, when I spotted a man who caught my eye. He didn't catch my eye because he was cute or doing a particular workout I was fond of. He caught my eye because he looked exactly like Mario from Mario Brothers the Movie (1993). I had to add the date. Anyways, so I stare at him and I notice he is staring back at me, so I avert eye contact and continue about my workout. As I progress through my weight set, I notice that Mario has been staring the whole time. Who can blame him though? I mean, when I have sweat running down my ass, a massive camel toe and my hair is parted like Queen Latifa's weave...who wouldn't want me?

Its nearing the end of my workout, and I have to do back extensions, and the gym had just moved the machines into the corner of the facility (its like they set this up). So as I go over to do it, I notice Mr. Mario has followed me and practically cornered me...well...in this corner. Thinking that he's going to give me a magic flower or pull out a turtle shell, I prepare for the best. And then, he spoke.

He began speaking in Swedish, and I had neither the time nor mood to translate, so I explained that I spoke English. He then, in broken English, proceeded to talk to me.

Mario: You from where?
Me: America.
Mario: Euu Sss Ahh?
Me: USA.
Mario: Euu Sss Ahh?

It continued like this for a few moments until the conversation moved forward.

Mario: Where I from?
Me: ??????
Mario: Where I from?
Me: India.
Mario: Iraq.
Me: Ohhh!

Then, I began getting annoyed that the conversation had lasted for 5 minutes and that was the most progress we had made. Then I became bitchy.

Me: What do you want.
Mario: You.
Me: What?
Mario: You very beautiful woman. Do you have home?
Me: Yes....
Mario: You come live with me. I need girl from Euu Sss Ahh.
Me: What?
Mario: I collect women.

Pause. What? Okay this can't be real but let's see where this goes.

Me: You collect women.
Mario: Yes...I have British girl and Polish girl now. They cook. They cook for you. You can live with me. Do you have cook?
Me: Yes. I cook for myself. Wait, you collect women?!
Mario: I never had Euu Sss Ahh girl, I need one. Come live with me?
Me: No...I like my house. And you should hate me because I'm American and you're from Iraq.

Yes I know the last line was bitchy, but at this point, I was cornered, trapped and feeling VERY creeped out. Desperate times call for political measures.

Mario: I no hate you. I love you from Euu Sss Ahh.
Me: Oh?
Mario: Let go on date to talk about you live with me
Me: Okay.
Mario: Let us get Coke tomorrow.
Me: Okay.
Mario: What time?
Me: 8 am I will be here to get a Coke with you.
Mario: 8 am tomorrow I be here to talk to girl from Euu Sss Ahh to live with me.
Me: I have to go now. Bye.
Mario: See you beautiful girl!

So that was the story. It is not made up. It is not fabricated. How could I lie about something like that? Something that crazy HAS to happen in order for it to be true. I swear, the next day, I avoided the gym all together. I kept a good 10 mile radius between me and the facility for I was terrified Mario would capture me and bring me home to his British and Polish girl so I could vacuum for him.

WHO COLLECTS WOMEN?!

Honestly. Crazy times. I have yet to see Mario again at the gym. I feel like he is too busy with his collection of women to find time for fitness anymore. I mean, I know as a kid I used to collect rocks. And now I sort of have a sock collection. But women? Come on. That's like me having a collection of used condoms. Its just not something you want to have a lot of...nor is it somethng you want to tell people about.

That's it for now folks.

Nippin around the mountain

2007-02-21T15:38:00.000-08:00

So basically let me say this.

I don't care where you are from or how well you think you know the cold. Nothing is like the cold here. It is artic. And as result, I have permanent, what I like to call, Artic Nips.

Artic Nips are simple, and I will explain why. As well all know, as human beings, we have learned over our evolutionary period to adadpt to certain circumstances. When we are happy our stomach churns. When we are hot we sweat. When we are frigthtened our heart beats fast. And when we are cold...our nipples get erect.

I understand why we sweat when we are hot, it obviously is a cooling method. And when we are frightened our heart beats faster to pump aderenline. But why. Why. Why on Earth do our nipples get erect when we are cold?

I am trying so hard to position myself as a little Darwin to explain this evolutionary nature of human beings. What good does nipple erection do? It is not as though I look down, see that both of my lady berries are practically waving hello to everyone and instantly feel gushes of warmth flowing downwards from them. No. They provide no warmth whatsoever, so the point of them becoming hard baffles me. And, I promise this has to do with Sweden, I have encountered a greater problem in this area.

Living in Sweden is like living in Antartica if you are me. I am unwilling to wear anything but shorts, I prefer flip flops and I hate going outside with anything on my head. So while it may be -10 degrees to everyone else outside, its pretty much -20 to me. And as a result, I've developed Artic Nips.

Artic Nips are when you nip out so hard, it practically burns. Your nipples are at their full erect state, any further and you are risking clothing damage and frostbite. It is so damn embarrassing to walk outside even in a winter's coat, for my nipples are still visible and ready for the world to see. Even a stroll to the local market merits enough attention so that the cashier is practically going to second base with me everytime my nipples are at her seated eye level.

How do I solve this problem? Not only am I risking an STD, but I am now risking damage to my clothing. I swear, they are so vicious I feel like I am breeding rotweillers in the middle of my training bra. I don't know why I said training bra...I so grew out of those in like...11th grade. Anyways. I just wanted to vent about something I know at one time or another, everyone can relate to.

I feel like I am my 2nd year of University History teacher. That woman had nipples the sizes of coasters. How was I supposed to learn about World War II when I was watching the war going on between her bra and titwillows.

Sweden is a blast, but I feel like they need to warn students about this. They can try their best to prepare us for the language barrier, the new food and the cultural differences. But by God, next year, please say something about the massive toll the cold will have on our sexual organs.

Thank you.