The eggnog stain looks like...

My hiatus from the cyber world may be over. maybe.
That's because my mother got an iPad for Christmas.
Thank you Santa claus (or as you may call it: the combined efforts of husband, son, and daughter)
I would like to write a full-fledged post so I can call myself an actual blogger,but it's Christmas. My cell phone is dead, dad is napping, mom is chatting on the phone, and my new kindle needs to be played with.

So long freaks.

I got a secret

I, along with a friend, started our own post-secret phenomenon at our high school. Except we have complete creative control, and can edit at will. Just our little high schoolers submit their secrets.
Example uno

I didn't know you had to flip the page to read more.

My internet connection is either hibernating for the cold months, or it is on its feeble last breaths. Yesterday I waited thirty minutes for amazon to load. Read here for more babble on the computer I should give a toddler to play with.

In the absence of blogs, articles, and emails, I have returned to these funny things called books. I thought kindle was just another word for book. I then realized that reading a book meant holding a device that had enough flaps to fly away on its own. 

I've actually spent my entire childhood and adolescence with my nose buried in a book. I imagine that future generations, possibly offspring of my own, will regard books as flightless rectangular things. 

In kindergarten I struggled with reading as every child was, but by first grade I was reading chapter books. One time my first grade teacher asked me what I was reading. I promptly said, "The Junie B. Jone's series. I'm about half-way through."

The teacher said, "Oh dear, I'm sure your mother reads those to you."

I replied, "No. I read them myself."

The teacher firmly placed her hands on her hips, which were about at my eye level, and sternly said, "Carmella, it's wrong to lie. You're not good enough to read those." 

I sometimes have lofty imaginations that I am an undiscovered prodigy. Einstein's teacher thought he was mentally retarded. I had a speech impediment that rendered me almost unintelligible for most of my childhood.  I tell myself, there was a genius at work at even that young of age. 

Like every child of the past twenty years, I grew up on Harry Potter. I actually thought I was a witch, and I would perform spells that would infallibly prove I was. For instance, I would point at the cat with my index finger (this was my substitution for a wand) and would demand for the cat to walk in some form of complex gibberish like, "wakkmeharra". And guess what? The cat walked. Like magic, one would say. 

Yet I have advanced to a new addiction (an addiction for bookworms I mean),  Steig Larsson's The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (first in the trilogy). Normally I'm not for the murder mystery because scooby-doo only keeps someone interested if they are under the age of eight, or incredibly stoned. Also, John Grisham sucks. I can't put his writing skills in fancier jargon. His book's just really suck. 

For one of the first times my feelings about a bestseller matches the shortened blurbs on the back cover. It is "engrossing"..."blazing"..."beautifully paced"..and so on. This book has taken my attention from calculus! Actually anything can distract me from calculus. For instance, a pretty cloud outside the window. So, as my teacher plotted away at some graph, I was in Sweden solving a murder. If my friend leaned over to ask for the time I resolutely lifted my hand and said, "Sorry, but I am investigating a murder right now."

A few times during the school day I slammed my hand down on the table and gasped in shock. The classroom paused and someone asked if I had finally killed the fucking fly that had been buzzing around for past hour. All I could sputter were things like, "He found the photographs!", "She's being shot at!", "I think I know!" 

Less than an hour ago I went to the bathroom, with my book in hand. I peed for probably twenty seconds, but sat on the toilet for fifteen more minutes, paralyzed with the need to finish the chapter. Later, I got up to have a snack. I sat motionless over the counter reading the book, until I abruptly realized I was in the kitchen to find food. 

This is the Harry Potter for adults. It's just as addictive, but includes all the sexual torture, murder, and danger every adult loves! 

I actually just got distracted by reading again. 

And now I'm only thinking about finishing the paragraph I was at.

Gotta go. 

(sorry for no pictures. I began searching for images, but, yet again, my internet is giving out on me.)

The Indian man thinks I'm rude

11:34 am
My brother tells me that he is banning me from his macbook because I downloaded shit onto his desktop. Yeah, its loads of creepy porn.
(Actually, I downloaded skype and enough phd theses to make my brains bleed)
11:37 am
I unhappily sit myself in front of the desktop computer. This computer is circa the turn of the century.
11:42 am
I am still waiting for the computer to open google.com, and then it informs me that the web address is unknown. It's fucking google.
11:43 am
I scream to my dad, "Fix the computer! It's taking forever to load!"
He replies, "You should wash some windows."
11:45 am
I scream to my brother, "Alex, can you make this run faster?"
He replies, "Not my fucking problem."
11:46 am
I call my mother at work (she didn't get an entire week off for Thanksgiving like the rest of us)
"Mom," I say, "the computer is running slow and no one will fix it."
She replies, "Why don't you wash some windows instead?"
"But mom, how am I going to work on college applications?" (actually I need to find a pirated version of this week's Dexter)
My mom's voice gets panicked. "You can't do you college applications? I'm on it honey. It'll be fixed."
11:47 am
The house phone rings. It's a man with an Indian accent. He tells me, "I received a call that you need assistance with your computer. I am here from Charter customer service to help you."
His voice is the gatekeeper of hell for many reasons.
I scream for my dad. "Charter is on the phone. It's for you."
He yells over his shoulder, "Uhhhh.. I'm going golfing." He is in his car and pulling out of the driveway in less than thirty seconds. Ass.
I scream for my brother. "Charter is on the phone. It's for you." No answer. I walk to the other end of the house.
He replies, "Not my fucking problem." He eats another chip. "Anyway the internet is not the problem. It's the computer. Just hang up."
I stutter, "But-but-mom-said---"
He grabs the phone and turns it off.
11:50 am
Phone call from mother: "Did you just fucking hang up on him! I'm only trying to help!"
The phone rings. It's Charter. I ignore it, frightfully.
Phone call from mother: "What the hell?! You hung up on him a second time?! He just called me again and told me I have rude children. How embarassing!"
I reply simply, "Alex did it. I did nothing."


I am seventeen and my brother is twenty, but I still turn toddler tricks when under the line of fire.

F-Flossing

I flossed my teeth for the first time today. The only other times my teeth have been flossed is at the dentist. Every year I recline back in the dentist chair saying, "No I haven't really been flossing that much." Which means I never ever, not once, even had the inclination to floss my semi-pearly whites. And every year I get up from the dentist chair saying, "Thanks for the floss. I'll definitely use it." That's a full-fledged lie. Sometimes the dentist goody-bag floats around in my car for the next few months, while other times I discard it under my sink. Either way the floss ends up in the trash when I am forced to clean.

Yesterday my dad said, "I never really flossed in my life, but one day I decided to. My god, there was so much shit in my teeth and I had just brushed! Stuff kept falling out of my teeth. I swear I filled my entire sink with gunk that I left after brushing. Now I just feel shit between my teeth."

That perked my interest. I am curious about all things nasty. For instance, popping zits and/or blackheads (this is vomit-worthy, enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xf8G-c_eAhs). One friday night, as a lonely middle-schooler, I hoisted myself onto my bathroom counter top. This is the optimum position for extreme zit-popping because I can get so close to the mirror that I can feel the fog of my breath. So I did the standard pick, poke, and squeeze of my face. Then I got to glaring at this blackhead on my nose. It had been there for years...this stubborn, black dot. Let's just say I did not know that skin pores went down that deep. By the time I had squeezed the black spot out, it felt like I had tunneled down into the inner-organs of my body. I had actually gone through all seven-layers of my skin for half my nose. For the rest of the week I looked like a burn victim, but that blackhead never came back.

I am also curious about the roots of hairs. Did you know that your knees have the longest roots? Fascinating! Just like I am fascinated with rare diseases. I don't remember their names because I'm no doctor.

So this morning I flossed my teeth. Not exciting. I didn't take my dad's testimony of an "entire sink", but at least half a sink would have been disgusting and fascinating. I think I got one tiny piece of phglemy gunk in-between two black molars. So, next time I go to the dentist I'll say, "Fuck flossing."
Actually, no I won't say that. I'm not that confident.

Paris Hilton endorses "Fuck flossing"

Tis the season for a dangerous life affair

The first way to cultivate an online personality is to actually be online.
Sorry, but I've had too much real life. Actually I've been living two lives; it would've been three lives if I would have kept up with the blog. As a personal calculator, me leading two lives expires at two months--approximately.

Life number one:
A high school senior in the rural south. No, I don't spend my time huntin' before school, and, no, I haven't kissed any of my cousins. I haven't gotten a B since that dreadful geometry class freshman year, I've read almost all the classics, and my writing awards do not fit into my college applications. I'm a master at self-deprecation, and I hide my fear of failure. When I sit down in a back scratching train, I am skipped because my muscles are as stiff as a bookcase. I'm not muscle. I'm stress.

Life number two:
I have a foreign boyfriend. His name is Mustafa. He's an immigrant from Eastern Europe finishing his master's degree. He is handsome and romantic. Merging life #1 and life #2 was an interesting experiment. My friends reactions were, "hot damn, get it girl!" while my parents went something like, "Carmella, what would a man that age want with a girl in high school? We always knew you would date older, but this...this...is too much." (gotta love the wild card kid)
My parents thought it safest to enforce supervised dates. A movie date meant my older brother in a row behind. Going out to dinner meant being flanked with two parents that spoke to him like he only knew elementary-level English. Moments alone, like walking my dog, was something treasured.
Impatience is my deadly sin. Within a month I was secretly dating Mustafa. And by the next month I was caught. And by that time we were in love.

I have ignored this blog because my life had become a lie. I used to live by deadlines, test dates, and the promise of four hours of sleep. Now I am emotional and confused. Sometimes I annoy myself, and I know it's mutual when my best friend rolls her eyes.

When you blame squirrels on your mid-life crisis

     Tonight, I walked into my kitchen to see my dad sewing little hats on stuffed squirrels. Last week he ordered stuffed-squirrels online. Not taxidermy shit, but like teddy bears. Yesterday he went shopping and found little hats and stickers to decorate them.

       And now on a Friday night, I come home to witness my father going through a mid-life crisis. He already spends hours every day doing jigsaw puzzles. The singular image of my father, that will last for years, is of him looking down at a half-finished puzzle every time I walk by the dining room. Whenever my friends come over they like to sit down with him and try put a few pieces together. Then they realize that the 2,000 pieces of the blue sky look exactly alike.
     The squirrels, with the little hats, are part of his Halloween costume. Every year my parents go to the same Halloween party. I used to go with my parents when the Halloween still meant trick or treating, now I spend Halloween like all other adolescents. This years theme for the Halloween party is "welcome to my nightmare". My parents number one fear is being attacked by squirrels.

Queue the stuffed squirrels, the hats with the skull and cross bones, fake blood, the adhesable scars. Last night, my mom walked into my room looking for a headband. Thirty minutes later a squirrel was attached to it.
                                                                                                
Once my eyes fully captured the sight of my dad delicately pinning a cowboy hat onto a squirrel with his sausage-link fingers, this is the conversation that followed.
Me: You are so fucking weird.
Dad: It's called being creative. What are you dressing up as? Probably something stupid.
(I open my mouth to answer, but he interrupts.)
Dad: You must be dressing up as boring girl. You've worn the costume for seventeen years.
Me: (laughter) Fuck you.
Dad: Your mom is acting the same way. When I asked her what her biggest fear was, she said it was her children getting hurt. How lame is that? Who the hell wants to dress up like their dead or injured child? So I came up with this idea.
Me: Of you being eaten alive by squirrels?
Dad: There's actually a story behind it. Do you wanna hear it?
Me: Oh hell no.
(exit to bedroom)

This squirrel is going to rip you apart.

Happy Halloween. 

I should be bird-dogging chicks at Coney Island

I have no idea what that phrase means, but it sounds perverse and fun.
Let me toot my pity whistle for a second:
         On Friday my doom awaited me: a calculus test, second period. I had studied; if that means attempting a problem and then doodling expletives as an answer. I was walking towards the classroom that housed that calculus test, when my name was called over the intercom, "Carmella Mingo is needed in the counseling office." Like Micheal Jackson, I pivoted around and then, like a geriatric, I slowly walked towards the front of the school. The orthopedic steps were taken to stall as much as possible. In the counselor's office I fixed the mistake on my college application. I could have left, and made it back in time for calculus, but the counselor asked a question.
            "So how is it with your friend?" 
        Oh right, I remembered, my mom told my school counselor about the guy I'm dating. I just love her. Under normal circumstances I would have circumvented any conversation and I would have promptly skirted out of the room, but I had a calculus test to skip.
         I had an hour and a half of girl talk..the hour and a half it would have taken me to complete my calculus test. Now here's the self-pity part: I am taking the test tomorrow and I have to study for it.

I am a generic teenage girl that listens to pop music on the radio. (Hey hipsters reading: fuck you <3)

these are the songs I am obsessed* with 

    *obsessed in this case means: switching radio stations every 2.1 seconds, in hopes of getting this one particular song. In the case of said song coming on the radio: scream fit, ear-bleeding volume, and a performance worthy of broadway in the confines of my Honda. People at red lights stare...and maybe point and laugh. 

Rihanna- Only Girl (In the World)

The video is average, but the song is fist-pumping fabulous-nessss

Like a G6
the term 'slizzard' is totally my thing 


(and for you hipsters) Die Antwoord
this is of them just spitting it. this is dream me.


and this completes life
KID CUDI (featuring my loves: ratatat and MGMT)

* I'm sorry my little devil has a penis. It was meant to be a tail, honestly. Yesterday I left the computer for ten minutes and came back to my mother asking, "What's with the wiener?"

Love you mom!

Power-thirsty bitches

Today, our senior class, all 252 of us, has assembled into the shape of a 2011 on the football field. No, our senior class does not organize activities like flash mobs, red rover, or duck-duck-goose. Although we totally should. It's time for that aerial photograph with the senior class in the shape of the year they are graduating.

(This kind of formation. Ewww stock photo, I know)

Football coaches are parading around shouting orders and addressing members of the student body as, "Hey you--in the green shirt! Move! To the side!" (I think there are like nine football couches at our school, all who walk around on stout legs and only know how to shout)
All the students idly stand around and gossip. They all stand with a hunched backs and talk with their mouths open wide enough that gum falls out. I wish the distance photograph could get these kind of details.

(This is a sampling of my senior class. How...upstanding...)

The principal stands over us, like Zeus, in this tree house looking thing. For all my writing finesse, that's the best way I can describe it. I have no idea what purpose it has, other than a girl lost her virginity there on homecoming night. So, the principal is glaring and waiting for the senior class to slowly assemble itself into the number 2011. When we are in place, the principal grabs at the air and looks around confused. He was reaching for an invisible camera that he never procured, before hoisting himself into a tree house. Of course, it wasn't his stupidity...it was mine.
Without searching for me in the crowd he bellows out my name, "Carmella Mingo!"
I think I was delicately touching a pimple on my chin when the entire student body turned to me. I stepped out of the formation.
"Where's your camera?" Zeus shouted from the sky.

The principal meant the yearbook staff camera. I, representing the yearbook staff, had no idea I was fucking responsible.
"The batteries are dead," I shouted.
The principal precariously climbed down from the tree house, and beckoned for me. I walk forward, passing the entire student body. My friend and fellow yearbook staffer, Alice, joined me.
He barked at me in two short breaths, "what batteries? Where is it? Can we charge it?"
"It's a rechargeable battery, and the camera doesn't have a wide enough lens to cover the aerial photograph," I said seriously, while trying to contain a smile. Alice had a similarly hidden smile.
Before the principal left in a huff and puff he turned to both of us and said, "This. is. about. to. turn. into. an. utter. disaster."

It was absolutely fabulous. Alice and I turned to each other and shared the same look.
"Do you feel so powerful, all of a sudden?" I asked.
"Oh my god, I do! It's like the principal needs us to fix his problems."
I nod. "And we can't even satisfy him."
"I feel like I could run a mile."
"I feel like the bitch behind the scenes. Or the spy. Yes, a spy."
"We're power thirsty bitches."
We gave each other a high five, and returned to the student formation.

Sometimes I want to blog about my exciting life (I have fantasies of being a superhero like Lisa Ling or Martin Luther King Jr.), but this was the highlight of my day.

Cowboys can do calculus

Blogger tip numero uno, before being an attention whore, is posting regularly with good content. Right now I am trying to catch up with real life, and then focus on being a blogging drone.

Real life is calculus.
Calculus makes me want to light a cigarette in the middle of class, and say, "Fuck it. I'll just be a writer."
I don't actually smoke, but I think it makes a statement. Like when I fantasize of casually smoking a cigarette halfway through the SAT and saying to the classroom, "I've already got a publishing deal, and I don't give a shit about cancelling all of your test scores." I'm not that mean actually; that's why I fantasize. I am so polite that I will finish the SAT with a dull pencil, save standing up and loudly sharpening it.
But calculus is nearing my breaking point.
I'm already sassy enough to take daily naps, and loudly ask for the time every four minutes. When class will be over in twenty minutes, I begin a countdown. Right now I am blogging, watching the first season of Modern Family, and facebook chatting--not doing my calculus homework due tomorrow.

How beatnik of me!

This is fantasy me.

I enter the calculus classroom like a cowboy, ruthless without a care in the world. I pull the gum out of my mouth and stick the slimy wad under my desk, with everyone watching. The teacher begins the lesson, while I stretch my legs over my desk, pull my cowboy hat down over my face, and take a mid-morning nap. As the teacher lectures about derivatives, asymptotes, and limits my brain magically absorbs it all--like one of those retarded sevants. When the teacher lifts my cowboy hat to ask me the answer to a calculus question, I politely take my hat back and answer, "the limit does not exist." The teacher gasps and mutters, "damn geniuses." The classroom stares in awe. I have a solid poker face; I can't even grin after my victory. Deciding it's time for lunch, I reach under my desk and pull out a sizzling steak. You guessed it--right off the grill. For the rest of class I chomp unabashedly on my Texas beef.
This is real me.
Staring at my homework and getting a panicky feeling--which means clutching my chest, hyperventilating, and pacing my room.

I'm a prostitute. As simple as that.

*writers note: To let you know--I am not actually a prostitute. This is a work of fiction. I just put finger to keyboard, and today I felt like being raunchy. 

I'm at this fucked up, high moral institution about saving women from the sex industry. I'm only here to have free donuts, and get the police off my ass. The head of the group, this middle-aged woman with a panty-line outlining her rear, just handed out sheets of paper for "journaling time". Here we go.

I'm not like every prostitute. I don't smoke cigarettes on street corners, but I chew bubble gum like an addict. Between cat calls and parading myself around like an esteemed giraffe I smack my double bubble. Sometimes I pull the wad of bubble gum out, and let it stretch between my fingers. Thank god my customers are paying too much attention to my ass or tits to notice the wad of gum being stretched from my front teeth to my pressed-on nails.
In middle school a boy called me a "butter-face". I asked a few people what it meant, but I only got embarrassed snickers and half-assed answers. A "butter face", according to urban dictionary is  "a homonym that sounds like 'but her face.' To call a woman a 'butter face' is to say her body is very sexy but her face is ugly." I didn't spend an hour in front of the mirror crying to myself, followed by cutting my arms. The next day I offered that boy a hand job. I had never given one before, but I knew what it was from the stack of porn under my brother's bed. He got sweaty and embarrassed, his fingers were even shaking. Without saying another word, I pushed him into a closet and proceeded to unbutton his jean shorts. Sure enough I nearly clawed his dick off. He went running out of that closet with his junk cradled in his hands and his shorts around his ankles. Problem solved, I thought. 
Before you start psycho-analyzing my life by interpreting my first incidents with sex as a "call for attention" or referencing my shit-for-brains parents as an "unstable childhood", I want you to know I didn't enter this business blind-sided. Prostitution has its evils, like every illegal trade. My heart goes out to the girls who are victims of sex-trafficking, who get addicted to drugs, or those that decide the boyfriend to have is a pimp. Most of these bitches are sitting around me, crying as they crouch over their sheets of paper. Some even struggle with writing full sentences, pausing between each letter, like first graders, to perfect the 'monkey loop' on the end of each letter. I even got a few glares as I laughed over my opening paragraph. These women's rights groups preach about how the sex industry subjugates women and leaves them as victims. Obviously, they don't see the intimate moments where men become powerless to my touch. Stiff-suited men have crumpled in my arms and let their eyes roll. Middle-aged, well experienced, men will stutter at their first words to me. Men, with wedding bands, have cried mid-screw. I'm not a victim; I'm the exploiter. I'm the conqueror when men, expecting to use me, find that they are powerless to an orgasm. "Oh baby, oh baby, I need you" they'll exclaim, and I now they are admitting this to me--a girl with a bulbous nose, squinty eyes, and acne scars. What animals they must be, if my ass can drive them this wild. 
I've never tried to defend the sex industry or give reason to what I've done because right now I really want some Ramen noodles, and the next moment I'll want to paint my nails, and after that I'll be thinking about stomping that bug a few feet away. The moral complexities of prostitution don't riddle me because I am stupid. It's hard for anyone to admit that a child born in the United States could be inherently dumb. It wouldn't matter if I had listened to Mozart while in the womb or if my mother had enrolled me in one of those pre-school prodigy academies, because I could still listen to the three same Ke$ha songs for the rest of my life and be happy. I think simple, y'all. My thought process goes somewhat like this: have sex with guy, get money, OOOHHHH money!!! I want Outback tonight. And then I'll go have my medium-rare steak. If I could give any explanation to my simpleton, nearly neanderthal, behavior, it would be my mother getting high on laughing gas for ten years before I was born. She was one of those weirdos that just wanted laughing gas. She didn't have a meth lab or rub cocaine on her gums. She just loved that fucking laughing gas. She thought as simple as I did, like when we visited the Grand Canyon when I was seven. The park ranger told us to look closer at a rock formation far away. My mother leaned far enough forward, squinting her eyes like a puppy dog, and fell off the side of the Grand Canyon. She died, and my family buried her. Years later, someone told me that I could've made millions in a law suit. I told you, I have shit for brains. 
Okay, this frumpy bitch is telling us that "journaling time" is over. She's asking for volunteers to read what they wrote. Fuck it, I can read out loud, I thought. As simple as that. 


*writers note: These are not my finalized opinions on the sex industry. I have heard this opinion from prostitutes and porn stars, and I thought it was an interesting perspective. Please share your view on prostitution, womens rights, or how many comma splices I made. 

Untamed Va-jay-jays

For all those who clicked on this post solely for the title say 'AYE'. Seriously, say it out loud and sound like a sociopath because you're already looking for some literature on vaginas. 

      No matter how the school day begins--pausing in my car to spit beats like Eminem or running to class with a water bottle full of scalding coffee--my school day ends with dance.

    Today I was tap-tap-tapping away in front of the mirror. I noticed that the only tan left from summer vacation was on my knees. The white socks I was wearing made me look like a grandma with shapeless ankles. The thirty strong deafening roar of thuds, stomps, and shuffles was interrupted by the double doors swinging open. In came the administrators--crisp clothes and cold demeanors. We tried to silence ourselves, but each awkward movement was amplified by the tap shoes. The principle called out a single name, "Mary Grace Hearth". 

     She looked up from her feet with a dopey smirk. It was the same dopey smirk she gave when she announced to the class the day prior that she had been fingered by a boy during study hall. Apart from her mouth, that never seemed to close, she walked with confidence unlike any freshmen I knew, even when answering to the principle. She exited the room with the administrators flanking both of her sides. The class stared, only moments from beginning the whispering and speculating. The dance teacher quickly made the music louder and shouted choreography to us. While tap-tap-tapping away I leaned over to Courtney in front of me. "What's up with Mary Grace?" I shouted into her ear, which only sounded like a whisper over the metallic stomps. 

     "You've heard. She got fingered. She told everyone." 

     Mary Grace had told everyone. The insidious words had exited her mouth with an expression of lax smugness. The other freshmen stared, the sophomores laughed, the juniors rolled their eyes, and the seniors looked on with worry. After four years of high school, I could see the want for acceptance underneath her haughtiness. Rick, a senior, interrupted her boasting by simply saying, "You shouldn't be proud of that." 

      Dance class had ended, and the girls were changing in the dressing room. Those wearing thongs were situated in the corner hoisting their jeans on, while the rest paraded around in bras that looked like lingerie before undergarments.

    "So, who was the guy?" One the girls asked, spraying perfume in no general direction.

    "Russel Haggard. He's not even cute, " answered another.

    "Did you know they live in the same neighborhood? They could have just waited," piped in a girl adjusting her makeup. 

    "How did they not get caught?"

    "Some fat kid was sitting in front of them, and that teacher must be really fucking clueless." 

     I slipped my shoes on. "I feel bad for her. She just wanted attention."

     The girl capped her perfume and spoke for the dressing room, "She deserved it. She told everyone. What a fucking skank."

     The bell rang, and we picked up our things and left. 

Close the curtains. This is my second debut.

I work under a pseudonym so I don't embarrass my mother, incite bitch fights with my friends, or get sued by a control freak.
I have realized that the scariest thing is non-fiction. Apart from my occasional experiments with fiction, I write about what I experience, which means I record the stupid comments, private conversations, and pathetic pick-up lines in my memo pad (who is affectionately called Mr. Handy-Dandy). My scribbled notes are then used for my writing. I know it is immoral, and possibly illegal, to then post my writing on the internet--real names, quotes, everything. I learned this the hard way. My impulsive writing got me into deep shit*. If you tell me a secret I won't tell a soul, at least audibly. I can't help myself from writing about it and then posting it on my blog. On any given blog post I am comfortable with anyone reading it, except maybe one person. A few weeks ago that one person read that one blog post that was never intended for he or she to see. Thus, the days of my real name as a writer has ended, the days when I used real names has ended, and my first blog with its lame title has ended as well.
Granted, some of you do know my real name.  You are the few that read my former blog and respected my former writings. I emailed you, and it looks like you had the energy to click on the link I provided.
You might know me personally. You might know that I have a flat ass, but that won't stop me form acting like I have a donk on the internet.
All I ask is that you respect my anonymity. Don't go on Facebook publicizing that I have returned to the blogosphere, or comment on this blog including my real name. Hey, like every blogger I am a publicity whore. A blogger's self confidence is determined by the amount of readers, comments, and profile views. If I was mathematically minded I would create an equation that equates my happiness to blog attention.
Real blog posts that have interesting content are pending. Creating a new identity takes a long fucking time.

*nope, not telling you the details. nice try. you even read my footnote. 

I doodle the ugly way.