Well, not really me so much as the lovely Miss S who discovered her bunny has grown a pair! Hence, the bunny can no longer be called Nancy. Here are some of the suggestions so far, with the front runners in bold
A BUNNY IS GOING TO LIVE AT MY APARTMENT THIS WEEKEND!
Clearly, I am excited.
My blond, magical pixie roommate’s sister is staying with us this weekend and is bringing Formerly Nancy the bunny. It’s name is Formerly Nancy since this morning roomie’s sister found out that Nancy has balls. I am hoping that Nancy gets a new name. I think Nancy is, too.
If someone asks me my age, I usually think of my birth year and then count how many years. I can be daft a lot, and that’s one of the ways :)
It usually takes me a moment when someone asks me how old I am as well. I usually use the ages of those close to me to reference. For example: if the boy is 25 and I’m a year younger than him I must be 24. My first instinct is almost always to say that I’m 19. I somehow got stuck at that age in my brain. This could be because I had a head injury at 19, or maybe because that’s when I peaked and wish I was still so awesome, or possibly both.
There are now TWO eyewitness sources who confirm that Jon Hamm is the most beautiful man alive. One who saw him stand out among a sea of dapper tuxedoed men and myself who saw him shine at a movie theater among mere mortals. The man is out of this world.
Hey guys! Hope you had a great time last night at the Emmy’s. Great job hosting, NPH! Anyway, I am writing this letter to you because last night you took a couple of awesome pictures in an elevator after the show and my roommate, Allison the page (really cute, little blonde thing), was in them. Which, you know since you’re the ones who took the photos. Anyway, she’d reeeeeeeeeally like a copy of those pictures, and since you CLEARLY read my blog and all, I told her I’d write to you amazing gentlemen and let you know about her desires. She’d probably also donate her reproductive services if you ever require them, but that’s purely speculation on my part.
To sum up: Emmys=awesome, you two=awesomer, copies of photos please, thanks!
Women who draw on their eyebrows.
And not for the reason you might think.
I hardly have the time and motivation to pluck mine on a daily basis, let alone artfully draw them on each and every day. The patience those women must have!
One of my costumes in a play had wings made of tons of strips of different fabrics hanging from my arms. One of the fabrics was ripped up pieces from a skirt that Deborah Ann Woll had worn in a play earlier that semester.
too bad no one I went to school with was on Community Thursday night. Then USC would have seriously seriously been reppin’ on NBC Thursday night. My School of Theatre is making me so proud. BUT LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT HOW THE FOOTBALL TEAM IS MAKING ME FEEL.
My mom said my little baby nephew has chunked up. If there was any doubt, it is for certain now that he is a Garvin baby. (My brother and I packed on the pounds our first six months, him more so than me.) This post is starting to sound as if it’s good news that now we KNOW my brother is the dad…which is not the case. I mean we DO KNOW but there was NEVER any doubt. NONE. NADA. The good news is that now there are lovely dimply, squishy baby legs (and arms and body and head) for me to squeeze and kiss next time I visit. And even more surface area on that kid to give off AWESOME BABY SMELL. Squee!
sad news for probably no one that isn’t me, but she was one of my neighbors growing up and was a sweet lady. also, puff the magic dragon.
I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GREW UP NEXT DOOR TO MARY FROM PP&M!!! I grew up listening to them. My dad would play their songs on his reel-to-reel. I think my parents may have played one of their songs at their wedding. I’m pretty bummed she passed.
I briefly mentioned my encounter with a truly amazing breakfast burrito in an earlier post, but now that I am no longer running a fever, I believe it merits another visit, one in which I really explain this quite interesting experience.
It is Sunday and I am on my couch with a raging fever, headache, and all kinds of phlegm lodged uncomfortably in all kinds of places. The television might be on, but it’s all shapes and colors and comforting background noises to me. I look at the boy who is sitting across the room on the futon staring at his laptop screen. And then, I see it. Sitting by his feet, resting on a foil wrapper, there is a burrito. At this point in time I do not know the contents of this burrito, but I do know that I have had four bowls of Cream of Wheat in one and a half days and more glasses of tea and juice than I can count. And, yes, my throat is ON FIRE and scratchy and in oh so much pain and I really can’t and shouldn’t eat solid foods (like a burrito) BUT I WANT TO SO BAD.
But you see, this is not MY burrito. This is the boy’s burrito. That he bought and is probably going to finish eating. I don’t want to ask for the burrito because then he will feel guilty and take pity on the poor little girl clutching her sad crumpled up tissue to her chest and give her the burrito. And then HE won’t have a burrito. And what if I don’t like the burrito? Then I’ve just been selfish.
So I say nothing. Instead, I steal furtive glances at the burrito, watching for any signs that he may be finished with it, in which case, I WANT IT.
Suddenly my eyes jerk open. I fell asleep. And didn’t know it. As one is apt to do when one is sick. As I start to turn onto my side and snuggle into the couch, I notice out of the corner of my eye, the boy walking past me to the kitchen.
What are you doing?
ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE BURRITO??
Yeah, I don’t want it anymore.
BUT I WANT IT
Sweetie, I already put it in the trashcan
GET IT OUT
GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT
Are you serious?
YES! Was there a lot left?
I’ve been looking at the burrito for SO LONG. I want it.
Sweetie, it feel out of it’s wrapper; I’m not getting it out.
I’m sorry sweetie.
Sweetie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know!
Was there really not very much left?
No, there was just a little bit.
I miss the burrito.
I know you do.
(Now, it may sound as if I’m exaggerating, but if anything I am actually PLAYING DOWN my distress over this burrito being thrown out. I may have wailed BURRITOOOOOOO with my sick scratchy voice that sounded like a dying cat several more times. They have been omitted due to lack of relevance to the story.)
Fast forward approximately one hour. The boy leaves. I IMMEDIATELY summon my strength and head to the trashcan in the kitchen to look into this burrito situation. Because, secretly, I suspect he was lying about the amount of burrito thrown away. And guess what? I was right. There was at least a quarter, if not a THIRD of that burrito going to wast in that trashcan. And guess what else? The burrito had merely fallen out of it’s wrapper only to rest upon a perfectly clean plastic grocery bag from Pavilions. Totally ok. AND it turned out to be a BREAKFAST burrito. Which made the fact it had been in the trashcan for an hour or so completely unimportant. I love breakfast burritos. And that one was no exception.
And that, my tumblrs and friends, is the story of the best burrito I have ever eaten.
Stayed tuned for the story of the time I ate a piece of halibut of a dance floor!
“Why act in the theater? Because it engages the high-minded seeker and simultaneously satisfies the crude exhibitionist in me—as does dancing,dressing up for Halloween, telling jokes, sex, reading aloud to someone, doing imitations, smiling at strangers, playing with animals, flirting, playing charades, singing on a bus …”—Willem Dafoe
“Neanderthal man listened to stories, if one may judge by the shape of his skull. The primitive audience was an audience of shock-heads, gaping round the campfire, fatigued with contending against the mammoth or woolly rhinoceros, and only kept awake by suspense. What would happen next? The novelist droned on, and as soon as the audience guessed what happened next, they either fell asleep or killed him. We can estimate the dangers incurred when we think of the career of Scheherazade in somewhat later times. Scheherazade avoided her fate because she knew how to wield the weapon of suspense—the only literary tool that has any effect upon tyrants and savages.”—E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel, 1927