I assure you, none of them have formed any prejudices in the course of their lives and they possess the ability, as do I, to hold someone’s fate in their completely non-judgmental hands.

Of course, I’m the first one of 45 to be called to the jury box.

Did it not even matter that I checked the box saying I knew a judge, and an attorney, and a law enforcement official, and have been the victim of a crime?

Well, what in Sam’s hill is the point the boxes then?

To waste my TIME?

Maybe there should have been a box for “almost married the State’s Attorney’s nephew.”

Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.

And at least something good would have come out of that relationship.

And, of course, it’s 2:15 and they have yet to give us our promised lunch break.

Which wouldn’t be such of a big, hairy deal had I not decided that showering and eating was not nearly as important as an extra ten minutes of sleep.

No, you’re right, I couldn’t possibly have eaten and showered in ten minutes anyway. The dice was loaded from the start.

And, of course, I tripped over my dress pants in front of the entire courtroom, on the way to the jury box.

Would it KILL this town to have a decent seamstress?

I can only hope, in the event I flip out and do something so incredibly dumb someday, that I am lucky enough as to be offered this same level of justice. I also assure you that all of us are completely happy to be here serving our civic duty with nothing in exchange except the joy of knowing justice was served in the quickest way possible, so we could all get back to texting in the car.

Now I’d like my $13.00 please so I can go put a down payment on the parking ticket I just received so I wouldn’t have to walk two miles to the courthouse.

Truly honored,

Blunt. (insert one of those stupid heart shaped thingys that I don’t know how to do and never will)

P.S. I’d like to thank this person, whoever they are, for the ridiculously generous write up. It’s completely untrue. And I’m not entirely sure, but I think that means, you should follow me on FaceSpace. Or something like that.

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It’s always a good idea to date a guy who’s a few years younger than you anyway.

You know, cus they always die first.

That’s what I did. Your dad is four years younger than me.

Have fun on your double date Sweetie!

Sorry for the absence my dears, it is crunch time for everything in my life right now -  except my abs. Your regularly scheduled blog programming will return soon, and I shall be in your necks of the woods faster than you can say “cradle robber.”

XOXO,

Blunt.

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It’s almost like my witty, overly-dramatic titles don’t even fool you anymore. I guess that could be a good thing, cus it means we’re getting past the honeymoon phase of our relationship, eh? But if we’re being honest, which I think we are, my mom never thought it would last.

First, I’d like to start by saying: Gentlemen, I feel your pain.

I am QUITE aware of how difficult it is to find witty, brilliant, beautiful, self-confident women in this world because I have been searching with eyes wide open. And let me tell you something, these eyes are really starting to hurt from all the wide-openness. They’re all dry and reddish and people are really starting to question the meaning behind the name of this website.

So it’s a good thing the search is over.

Two weeks ago, I packed up the convertible, put my hair in rollers and said, “Mom, I’m gonna go be a stewardess.” With Simon and Garfunkle playing in the background, I drove off to California with a mystery boy in a velvet shirt, leaving only my record collection behind for my little brother.

Nope. But what I did was EVEN BETTER.

I packed up my friend’s Honda, drove to Chicago with a very bad stomach ache, a very full bladder, a McCafe that I now refer to as “the mistake,” and a GPS that had lost its ever-loving mind to meet up with two of the most amazing women the universe has to offer!

The flood gates of heaven’s splendor have finally opened and I have discovered where the world’s coolest women have been hiding: behind the comments section of this blog. I’m pretty sure a small piece of Chicago exploded from all the awesomeness of our reunion. You can click here for Lola Lakely’s report on the night, and here for V from Uncorked.

As could be expected, we did all the normal things that girls do when they get together. There were super tight pj’s, pillow fights, feathers, kissy face self portraits, boy-bashing, singing into hairbrushes, and jumping on beds while listening to Madonna.

You know, the usual.

Or, we profusely mocked all of those things. I’ll let you decide which scenario actually happened.

I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been sulking in the sadness and the void that I feel without these ladies around.  Why do you think it has taken me so long to post a blog?

If you want to keep abreast to all of my shenanigans, you can follow Blunt Delivery on FaceSpace. Or, you can keep hitting the refresh button until something new pops up.

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I get all teary every time.

I could listen to valedictorian speeches all day. Oh wait, I have been. A local TV station has been replaying all of the public school graduation videos from this past spring. For me, it’s a little slice of heaven. For everyone else, it is a rare and peculiar form of self-inflicted torture.

I am in love with school. And not just because I have an absurd obsession with the smell of school supplies. I love the feeling of that first day. A new start. Endless possibilities. Football games. Catching up with old friends, making new ones. That sickening feeling when you walk past the one person you will never have the guts to talk to. Add the fact that school starts in the fall and you have what might be a perfect storm of awesomeness.

I wish I could make a career out of attending school.

But Brit, didn’t you quit college?

I’m sorry, what?

Of course, high school is also vicious. Girls really are mean. Teenagers are unforgiving and selfish. And in the process of everyone trying to find themselves, we all have a tendency to lose a little bit of dignity. But even though I had my fair share of tearful nights and end of the world moments, when I think back on those days, they were incredible. There’s nothing like it. And never will be again.

Easy solution? Become a vampire and stay 17 forever.

What I’m going to do in the meantime? Make a sack lunch and watch Clueless.

Stay tuned. My next blog will feature pics and stories from my epic weekend in the Windy City with Lola Lakely and Uncorked!!!

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And please refrain from referring me to the best-selling book, Secret, as highly endorsed by Oprah. I don’t care much for self-help books. Or Oprah. Or tube tops. And more obvious things like Ranch dressing and humidity.

I’d say the majority of my life I’ve been what you might call “a planner.” And no, not like that. I haven’t had my wedding dress picked out since 7th grade, but at the same time I try to make sensible, well-thought out decisions. And I own a label maker. Of course, this is also coming from the person who gave her family 2 weeks notice that she was moving to London, and who also started a retail store with no prior retail or business experience. So if I were you, I’d take whatever I say with a grain of salt. Perhaps, several.

Maybe like even one of those cute little mini-shakers from Crate and Barrel.

One of my favorite movie lines is from Dan In Real Life when Steve Carrell says, “Instead of telling your young people to plan ahead, we should tell them to plan to be surprised.”

If you think about it, life is nothing, but a series of surprises. Rarely have I heard anyone say, “Why yes, my life has turned out most beautifully, exactly as I expected it would.” Both the best and worst things in life always blindside you on some idle Tuesday.

This is especially disturbing news for someone such as myself, who hates surprises. I didn’t even like Happy Meals as a kid. Or the DumDums with the big question mark on them. Screw that.

I think how each of us defines a happy and fulfilling life is continually changing. I wrote a ridiculously honest post a couple months ago about broken dreams - all of the different ways I had envisioned my life to be at certain milestones, and the harsh contrast of reality.

So is it dangerous to dream?

Is our happiness measured by the achievement of dreams, or plans? Or is the destruction of dreams the only way we truly live and grow? Are they, in fact, the only thing that forces us to change? If left to our own demise, who of us would really seek change? Rarely, is it our idea to venture outside of what is comfortable.

And if broken dreams are inevitable, how do we maintain happiness amid the constant challenge of rebuilding? I don’t know.

I’ve never known.

Cus, lately, I wish my biggest dream was just to build a sandcastle on the beach. With my mom.

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But that’s just the way it is.

I may or may not have spent the majority of my day listening to TuPac, my apologies.

At the start of this year, I had high hopes. Really, really high. So high, in fact, I was sure that I must have accidentally inhaled. I thought, perhaps, this is the year. This time it’s gonna be different.

But then, time after time, I was proven wrong.

Three times if we’re counting. Which, clearly, I have been.

Folks, I am on my THIRD phone number change since January. I mean, I have very understanding friends, who are pretty much used to my annual number changes. But even angels have limits. Boundaries. A point in time where they must draw the line in the sand and say, “I see the direction you are going, and I just cannot follow.”

I fear some of them may have reached that point two days ago when I sent the mass text: “Hey, it’s Britteny ___. And yes, this is my 3rd number change this year. Don’t ask. No really, don’t.”

Took this picture while walking along the river. Whoever this dude is, he digs Karen.

Here are a few of the responses I received, mind you, these are direct quotes (they are written in RED to depict the tone of disappointment):

“What the hell woman.”

“Brit! Seriously? Seriously? What the? SERIOUSLY?”

“You know, there’s no prize awarded for the most number changes…”

“Why?…. No Really, Why? This is absurd.”

“You change numbers more than I change litter. And diapers.”

“What happened THIS time?  Sorry, I have to ask since you said not to.”

“LOL. Who is he?”

“You are ridiculous.”

“That’s effing messed up.”

“What in the world? Who are you shunning now?”

“Holy sh*t Brit.”

“I haven’t even had a chance to call you on the other number yet.”

“Is that area code even for this state?”

“You are a very perplexing and mysterious woman.”

As you can see, some of these responses are severely disconcerting, and I feel my friends may be hanging by a thread. But we didn’t gather here today to talk about my deepest, darkest fears.

I promised you some mad crazy pimpage and that is what I plan to deliver. Ever so bluntly. Now, if you’ll recall I’ve only bestowed the highest award in the land once or twice. This award does not come easy like Sunday morning. I don’t just hand them out to people who tag me in posts, or give me awards, or who brush the snow off my windshield. This is serious of all serious business.

If we were in medieval times, this information would be written on parchment paper, sealed with wax, and then stamped by the Cardinal.

Sorry, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to get up to speed on The Tudors.

Go visit Matt over at Love In The Dumps. Why? Well, the same reason why I have three types of leftover pizza currently in my fridge. And the same reason why I have been wearing a ripped, men’s vneck t-shirt for a week. And the same reason why Victoria Secret has a semi-annual sale.  Because it makes life more awesome. It’s in my 5-year plan to convince him that Chicago is his kind of town.

Poetry is one of the only things I read, besides some occasional non-fiction. Not only does Maggie’s poetry blow my friggen mind, but her posts are thought-provoking and refreshingly raw. She also finds some amazing photos to post on her blog Flux Capacitor. You should, like, join her million other followers.

Ladies and Gentleman, (especially ladies) meet your new gay best friend, Ron. Go here to listen to him vent, on his aptly titled blog, VENT.

I beg of you, quit smoking. For the love of everything righteous, it will kill you. And I don’t want to kiss you cus it reminds me of my grandpa. And ashes. And it’s pricey. And stupid. And all the cool kids aren’t even doing it anymore. But, in exchange, I’m giving you a New Bad Habit that you can pick up from Denny.

Don’t get my blog title? Well… maybe you should figure it out this weekend while I’m hanging out with V from Uncorked and Lola Lakely in Chicago!!!!

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Wow. That was a lot of words that begin with A.

Lately, I’ve been trying to post more. I know, I know, ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’ But you know what? There is also no Yoda. Posting more is for my benefit, as I cannot imagine that my posts would be of any benefit to you. I find that all individuals need to exercise themselves creatively. And considering that is the only type of exercise I ever get - it’s extra important that I do it.

I’ve been so busy talking about meaningless things and carefully observing the world with my critical eye that I’ve forgotten to update you on what’s going on in my actual life. The past several years have been filled with highs and lows of which I will only ever touch on the details, but right now, at this very moment, I am happier than I have ever been.

My dad, for one, is super excited for me.

WORK: Remember that job I took with an upcoming creative arts magazine that I was super excited about and haven’t talked about since? Yea. It’s kind of my thing to bring stuff up and never mention it again.

Well, it has taken several months to uncover all of the most brilliantly creative staff our town has to offer, but we’ve finally done it and the magazine is better than we ever thought. Our launch date is set for mid-September and I am so excited I can’t stand it! So I’ve been sitting an awful lot. What’s it about? Real people. Struggle. Creativity. Triumph. And everything else that is awesome.

Me = Unbelievably busy.

And Irony…

It’s what’s for dinner.

LOVE: Although everyone around me keeps throwing their best male suitors my direction, I have no interest in being distracted and/or releasing my emotional energy to another human being. Rarely, do people get an opportunity like I have  - so there’s no better time than now to give it everything. I actually dig being alone. I like eating the same thing every day, going to bed at 3, watching the same episodes of Friends over and over, and repainting my living room whenever I please. I find people who are chronically needy are definitely unsatisfied in their careers and/or lives in general. And that’s the truth.

WOMEN: They’re still crazy. And don’t worry, they continue to prove that point everyday. They still stalk my blog cus they have no lives of their own, make up fake profiles, and try to be my Facebook friend so they can spy on me. Why, I have no idea. They still post pointless pictures of themselves in bikinis that they try to make look nonchalant in order to get male attention. Am I the only one who realizes this and feels sorry for them? They still focus more on others’ relationships than their own, which is probably why they are all miserable.

But… all of this also makes me happy, cus if women ceased to be so ridiculous, what the Hades would I write about?

YOU: I am constantly blown away by the amazing people who I’ve met through this blog. There is so much talent floating around on THE INTERNETS that it astounds me. Stay tuned, I’m going to be handing out some major props on my next post!

Oh, and I’ve been taking lots of pictures lately. Not that I have time for it, but I love it, so I make time. That’s kind of how love works. Check out my latest photography post. And follow me on Facebook. Those are pretty much orders.

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This young man from London sent me a friend request, which I ignored, of course. I’m particularly leary of Londoners, given my extensive experience with a certain British boyfriend. A couple hours later, I noticed a message from the guy. I have so conveniently preserved the conversation for you to analyze.

Mind you, I thought this would be an appropriate time to stop responding as it sounded like we were on the same page: I’m not from the “tele” or a model or a singer = no further point to continue this conversation.

Just kidding! It’s Opposite Day!

He started a new message thread:

And now that I’ve posted this on my blog, I’m quite sure I’ve only sealed my fate. But I couldn’t help myself. You guys deserve to know the real reason why I came up missing. And while you’re mourning my absence, you can check out the other half of my creepy, abandoned house pictures.

They may, afterall, be the last ones I ever take.

It was nice knowing you.

xoxo,

Blunt.

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Clearly, we have communication issues.

And in the interest of breaking free from my passive-aggressive behavior, I will simply tell you that is precisely why we will never work out.

Luckily, now that I’ve had the holiday weekend to cool down and get myself back to neutral, I’m ready to talk to you again.  

As you may or may not know, it was the 4th of July on Sunday. As you also may or may not know, it is my second favorite holiday despite the fact that it always lets me down either in quality of company or the always-anticipated- but-never-welcomed raping of my eardrums by the Neil Diamond sky concert. Either way, I still dig it.

Crackly sunburnt foreheads. Watermelon. People blowing up illegal stuff. Shirtless men holding a Bud Light while grilling an assortment of mystery proteins on their front porches. Apple pie. Coolers everywhere. A general sense of gratefulness bestowed upon our military. It’s as if the country gets one giant free pass to be a hillbilly.

That being said, my 4th of July celebration was pretty typical:  

1. I ate Mexican food.

2. I wandered around a cemetary in search of the archaeologist that discovered King Tut’s tomb.

3. I busted into an abandoned house while on an aimless photo-taking drive.

Thinking back on it now, I might have thought it was Halloween.

You can check out the Creepy Abandoned House Part 1 pics here. Part two coming soon!

Hope your holiday was simply fabulous.

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Answer: So that you have something even more upsetting than your birthday to focus on.

Another viable reason could be because it slightly entirely resembles The Hamburglar. Cus isn’t that what birthdays kind of are? One giant Hamburglar, sneaking up on you to steal another year?

This year has been interesting. My career has taken a direction that I couldn’t be more pleased with. I’ve taught myself how to take photos with a fancy camera, which I’ll never fully know how to use. I started eating Flinstone chewables, and I’ve never felt better. Friends have moved away. Friends have come home. I’ve been severely depressed, and unbelievably happy. Relationships have come and gone. I’ve met some amazing new people. Cut out some not so amazing people. Started eating tomatoes. Almost died behind the wheel of my car about 75 times. I changed my phone number.  I repainted my living room.

Yea. That sounds about right.

But the most important thing I’ve learned is: How To Avoid Awkward Encounters On Your Birthday.

1. Stay inside your house for three consecutive days.

2. Refuse to shower during that time.

3. On the off chance that you are tempted to leave your house, remember that you haven’t showered.

4. Make a pan of brownies.

5. Eat the entire pan of brownies, and pass out.

6. Set a goal to watch the entire Sex and the City series.

7. Resolve that there is no better time than now to start achieving your goals.

8. Don’t run out of food.

9. When you run out of food, use your Mary Kate Olson sunglasses to disguise your grossness and get carry out pasta.

10. Question why you own Mary Kate Olson sunglasses.

11. Remember that some of life’s mysteries are just too complex to unvail.

12. Cry.

13. Realize even your Mary Kate Olson sunglasses couldn’t disguise your puffy eyes.

14. Finish the box of wine.

15. Realize that expiration dates are there for a reason, and they best not be challenged, especially when it comes to boxed wine.

I’m happy to report that (1) I don’t look a day over 45, and (2) I did survive my birthday weekend.

I went out one itty bitty time, but the rest of my weekend was spent in hiding with my friend Jo, and can be described exactly as on the numbered list above. It. was. fabulous.

I am working on my next photography post at the moment and then I’ll be back over to visit all your incredible blogs. Don’t even think I won’t!

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 …And why is there a whistle around your neck?

Did you recently become a gym teacher?

STOP TAPPING YOUR FOOT! What do you mean it’s only been a week and I’ve already broken my promise of posting on Monday, Wednesday and Friday? 

Well, well, smartypants.. perhaps you missed the memo where I mentioned that I’m now going off the ancient Mayan calendar. Bam, roasted! That also means that you’ve only got until 2012 before the earth explodes, which makes this whole broken promise thing seem a bit trite, eh?

Besides, you need to lay off me cus my birthday is on Friday and I’m having a breakdown. 

Now. I realize that I’m pretty rough on women in this neck of the woods.* And guys, I feel like you might think you you have a free pass around these parts.* Well, sike. You better not even think you do, cus you don’t. I will further support that statement with the following numbered list of 5 Things Men Do That Annoy The Crap Outta Women:

 1. Leave the bathroom floor covered in water. Question: Are you capable of washing your face and/or hands without turning the entire bathroom into a slip ‘n slide? Question: Is it possible to take a shower and actually step onto the conveniently provided mat when drying off?

2. Don’t properly take care of your feet. I’m not exactly sure what happens here. Question: Why does almost every man between the ages of 18 and 80 have at least one (if not all) deformed toenail? It’s either yellow, or crusty, or infested with some sort of mystery fungus that is resistent to over the counter treatments. In most cases, all of the above.

3. Leave a new toilet paper roll on top of the counter instead of putting it on the holder. Question: I’m too furious to ask a question right now.

4. Always being the hero, even if it requires making up a fake crisis. Man: Did you see that guy? He totally just checked you out! Who does he think he is? Can’t he see you’re with me? He’s totally staring at you?! Girl: Um, I didn’t even notice anything. Man: Stay right here. I’m gonna take care of this. Girl: Can’t we just go eat? I’m hungry.

5. Refuse to check the order at the drive thru. You know it’s gonna be wrong, it always is.  Ask my metrosexual bff Kenny what happens when he fails to check my order and it’s wrong. Just ask him. [Speaking of, Happy Birthday Kenny. It just isn't the same without you around here to throw a highly inappropriate combined bday party with.]

Ladies, please feel free to add to the list.

That being said, guys, you know I love you. You fill the world with muscles, sweat, problem solving skills, a wealth of useless facts and movie trivia, the ability to vaguely determine the general origin of a scary car noise, and an endless supply of “It’s going to be okay’s.” But, sometimes, I just want to strangle you with that loosely fitted metrosexual tie.

*I’ve recently spent alot of time at my parents’ country house. Sorry.

Check out my latest photography post Where Have All The Good Looking People Gone?  [this time the link actually works] And while you’re busy clicking on links, join all the other cool cats and follow Blunt Delivery on Facebook.

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Yea. Unfortunately, we don’t really have time to talk about that right now. But I am sorry you feel that way.

I mean, we are REALLY pressed for time. This whole blogging three times a week thing is cramping my style. But a promise is a promise. Except, of course, when you’re in a relationship cus then a promise is merely a meaningless statement you make to set the other person’s mind at ease.

At ease, Soldier.

I’ve got a meeting in an hour and I’m typing this in last night’s Tshirt, yesterday’s frizzy hair, and some eyebrows that have seen better days. And by better days I mean, ones where you could distinguish me from Bert. I have leftover pieces of face mask and cake frosting on my chin,* and I’m just hoping that one of my long lost loves decides that today is the day he’s going to surprise me at my door. Cus that is pretty much how my life works.

*currently daydreaming about a face mask made of cake frosting.

So this picture. You know, the one of the car hitting the giant cement bricks that I cleverly used as a metaphor for the lives of people in their twenties and then siked you out by saying we weren’t gonna talk about it? Well, I took that yesterday. It was raining, which is when I get most of my creative inspiration, and I went for an aimless drive with my camera and my ipod. As I was driving through the not-so-desirable parts of town, I noticed alot of things that I thought were beautiful and interesting. So I decided to start a photo project called My City, As Seen Through My Car Window. If you are cool enough to follow me on Facebook, you’d already be abreast* to this fact.

Why my car window?** Well, partly cus I don’t want to get arrested for wandering around condemned places. Partly cus I don’t want to get my camera stolen, cus man, it’s pretty. So there was alot of stopping abruptly in the middle of the road and making people very angry. This is nothing out of the ordinary.

 *Again, I just can’t stop saying it.

**Unfortunately, today’s picture taking attempts resulted in the loss of my passenger side mirror.  We’ll see how long this project lasts.

Click on the photo to go to Indigo Photography.

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The one whose overly pushy, Sicilian boyfriend was able to convince her that entering a beauty pageant, despite the fact she was allergic to hair spray, 4-inch heels, up-dos and beauty pageants, would be a super awesome way to get scholarship money for her overpriced private college education.

The one with absolutely no rhythm or hand-eye coordination, who was forced to perform a group dance number to Cher’s Believe.

The one who discovered, upon signing up, that she needed something, como se talent? Since she had not been practicing the art of lap tap dance or clarinet since the age of 5, she wrote a comedic monologue about her trials with teenage acne.

The one who survived blissfully on nothing but McDonalds cheeseburgers and Sour Patch Kids until realizing that it wasn’t just televised beauty pageants that had bikini competitions. She then ate nothing but granny smith apples for an entire month. Why granny smith?  You’ll have to ask her.

That girl.

She’s gotta stop posting such ludacris pictures of herself on THE INTERNETS.

For crying out loud, it’s embarrassing.

For her, that is.

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Mom: Milk? I’d blame it on the strawberries. They’re so acidic.

Dad: Milk contains lactic acid. Don’t ever forget it.

Mom: Well I should buy lactose free milk then.

Dad: You did. You were buying that Soy Milk, but then you said it was gonna kill me for some reason so you stopped. Now I have heartburn.

Mom: They had something on the news about that for a week, Denny!

Dad: All I’m saying is that I may be avoiding death by Soy Milk, but I have no quality of life. I have heartburn.

Mom: Oh, fine. I’ll start buying the Soy Milk again.

Dad: What are you trying to kill me?

Twenty-five years of marriage and this is what it all comes down to. Not for me of course, cus I’m not getting married. But for all of you, these are the conversations you’ll be having.

That aside, I had a revelation the other day. And it wasn’t just that I needed a tan.

Or that I desperately need to visit the dentist. Still.

Or that I haven’t started any kind of workout and it’s mid-June.

Or that I still want an English Bulldog named Shakespeare.

Or that an unfortunate day is fastly approaching: my birthday. And I fear for the lives of many famous people on that day.

Or that Lola and V from Uncorked will be uniting with me in the great city of Chicago at the end of July! And the area will probably spontaneously combust from an awesomness overload.

Or that I’ve been eating spaghetti for the last 13 days.

No, it wasn’t any of those things. But now that you bring it up, those are some serious problems.

I realized that I need to force myself to write more. I am verifiably the WORST blogger on the planet. I get alot of emails from people asking why I don’t post more, yet you always stick around.  The truth is, I haven’t been posting cus I wasn’t inspired. Now I’m inspired, but I’ve never been so busy in all my life. I’m actually using my DayPlanner, as opposed to just admiring how cute it is.

But, I am going to post more. This is probably the only committment I’ll be making in the forseeable future. We’re not talking every day here, don’t get all clingy on me. We’re talking like a Monday, Wednesday, Friday type thing. Sound good?

What’s that? You don’t care?

Figures. 

Speaking of busy, Eric Bana stopped by my town last weekend. Each time, he lets me snap some pictures of him. We’re tight like that. And if you want to keep abreast to all the latest, then follow Blunt Delivery on Facebook already!  (I really  just wanted an excuse to say “abreast”)

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I currently have strep throat. I have taken my nightly cocktail of drugs and shortly I will feel myself slipping away to reruns of Sex and the City. You know, the TBS ones sans nakedness. So as long as I’m conscious, you just put your feet up, pour yourself a glass, and forget all about your problems while I wax poetic about the mundane details of this life talk about mine. I’m your Carrie Bradshaw and this is my way-too-personal-sex column. Of sorts.

Lately, I’ve been thinking alot about secrets.

Secrets hold great power. Once revealed, they can disrupt your entire life. Although many of us hold secrets in a negative light, there is such a thing as good secrets. Example:

• I’ve been in love with you for years. Oh, and I’m perfect.
• Grandma died. And you’re the sole heir to her bagillions.
• Even though you said you didn’t want to get married, your boyfriend is proposing to you in Paris!

*Sorry, based on experience that last one was a poor example.

That being said, these Manolo Blahniks have been carrying alot of secrets around. So many, actually, that they might be reaching their secret holding capacity. I mean, I wouldn’t want to break a heel. And they aren’t just my secrets.  They’re your secrets too. And don’t you think that with the friendship should go the secrets?  Why should I have to tote around moldy secrets of people that I don’t even associate with any more?

So while I was compiling a list of your secrets to blog about, I took a seat next to my giant New York apartment window, and in true Sex and the City format, I stared at my laptop and said to myself:

I can’t help but wonder… what are my secrets?

*My family always wondered why my cat BamBam looked a little strange. When I was 5, I wanted her to look like Heathcliff so I bit a chunk of her ear off.

*Speaking of ears, my right ear is significantly larger than my left. Like, my left ear is normal size; my right ear is ridiculous. I discovered this in high school, but my parents had kept it a secret since I was a baby. I always wear my hair down and no one is the wiser.

*My senior year of high school, I was always late for my curfew. Every time, I told my mom that a cop pulled me over. Every time, she believed me. I don’t know if this is a credit to my persuasive skills, or a testament to my poor driving ability. Truth is, I was driving in cars with boys. Actually, one boy. And I found it impossible to leave him.

*I think Blake Mycoskie is the single-most attractive man on the planet. He’s generous, brilliant, well traveled and scruffy. He went on vacation to Argentina and saw hundreds of children without shoes, so he decided to dedicate his life to changing that. He now runs a successful business, while traveling the world and giving people shoes.

*I wrote a paper in 6th grade about Pearl Harbor. By my second year of college, I had handed that paper in to about 8 different teachers along the way. What alarms me, is that I never even edited it.

*I dig the Twilight saga.

*In high school, when I worked at Chuck E Cheese, I would purposely misspell the names on the birthday cakes so we could eat them. They were so, so good.

Well, my dears. That’s all you get for today. Maybe someday I’ll tell you my big secrets. Maybe even the ones involving boys. But right now, I’d rather pass out. Of course, I’d love to hear some of yours - I promise I won’t blog about them. Right away.

And while you’re thinking about that, I’m going to leave you with another question to ponder deep within yourself. What exactly is my friend doing in this picture? Because we’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks. Happy Memorial Day!

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So have you ever tried this dating thing? There must be something in the autumn Illinois air that is making everyone want to set me up with their finest, handomest available male. I usually date men I’ve known for awhile, thus I haven’t gone on many “first dates.” And I’m finding the entire process to be sort of, different.

Someone asked me the other day to give him the ”Cliff’s Notes” about myself. With a sigh and a sarcastic laugh, I said, seriously? I can’t even sum up the last week of my life in Cliff’s Notes format.

So in the interest of efficiency and simplicity, I have devised a form letter that I can simply hand across the table when presented with the statement “So, tell me about yourself.” I suggest you do the same.

Dear Gentleman Suitor:

I hate form letters. I love to travel, but I can’t fly unless I am unconscious. The aesthetic quality of my penmanship is a constant let down, as are my driving skills. I take issue with people who don’t understand the meaning of aesthetic. Although you may not fall head over heels in love with me, you will with my family. I’m a night person, so don’t even try. Whatever it is, do not try.

Truth is, I’m a total nerd. I get annoyed when people use “than” where they should have said “then.” I color coordinate the books in my room. I’d rather buy office supplies than jewelry. Because of these facts, it is a natural result that my friends do not include girls who talk about shopping, tanning, how much their feet hurt in heels, their new eye shadow, or how much they can’t WAIT to see Lady Gaga in concert. My mind explodes from all the meaningless information. But let there be no mistake, I look great in heels.

I’m very tidy, but I hate the word tidy along with several others. Compliments make me feel awkward. I like to cook. I like it even better if you like to cook. It’s not that I hate reading. It’s that I hate reading mind-numbing fiction, sci-fi, romance, or essentially, almost anything contained in the public library. Got it? If it’s witty, well-versed, or based on someone’s actual experience, I’m in. Got it? I believe in God, and although I have always loved Him with my mind, I have not always done so with my life. I’m passionate and creative. I love making people laugh.

I’ve lived alot of life in my short time on this earth. I must be with someone who can hold their own. I view money as a necessary evil, nothing else. I hate people who get embarrassed. I’m independent, and I will rarely ask for your help unless it involves heavy things or snowy weather. I want to move to a place that has fall weather permanently. My household uniform is a hoody, plaid pajama pants, and braids. I’d rather fight it out than ignore it.  If I end up really liking you, I’ll probably worry about your well-being and you’ll get annoyed. Most importantly, I’d rather be single forever than with a seemingly perfect man who doesn’t understand me.

Thank you for your interest. If you find this alarming rather than endearing, no worries, you can step out for an important call and I will go make out with the attractive waiter.

Sincerely,

Blunt.

I hate dating. It’s like something out of Deliverance.

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I help take care of this elderly man named Allen. He can’t remember what happened five minutes ago, but he can give you a play by play of everything that happened during his time in WWII. Sadly, he is aware of his condition and why he’s in a nursing home. Every morning he still goes outside at 7am and salutes the flag. I work with another lady, Elene, who always walks around holding a picture of one of the Saints. She passed away yesterday, and I had to go into her room. I glanced at her wedding picture, next to her bed. It was from 1935. There were pictures of her grandkids, trips to Paris, and family Christmases. I noticed her stack of journals, chronicling her 90-some years on this earth. Next to them was a box that contained tattered love letters from her husband, who had died several years prior. He wrote her a note everyday telling her how much he loved her.

Then there are the others. The ones whose rooms are empty.

I’ve been taking my ipod on alot of daytrips to the park lately. Parks are bittersweet to me, as are daytrips. At any rate, they are good places for reflecting. If we ever met, you would probably instantly recognize two things: I play with my hair alot, I’m sarcastic, and I’m passionate. Okay, three. I’m also Italian, which makes the problem of passion significantly worse. But is it really a problem? Interesting you should ask. I hadn’t thought about it much until recently.

It’s a tricky dichotomy, Passion. I’ve always gravitated toward passionate people. People who aren’t alarmed by my enthusiasm for composition notebooks and travel size products, but rather, appreciate it. They take notice of little things that may appear insignificant, however, they are anything but. Passion can also be easily misunderstood. For example: once an old friend drove through my town looking for the fence in my bio picture because I wouldn’t tell him where I lived and he insisted on seeing me. You could paint this in a couple different lights: crazytown, stalkertown, or passionately determined. I try not to paint pictures for others, so draw your own conclusions.

I never saw a problem with passion. Someone once told me that passionate people are amazing lovers, and even better fighters. When we’re in, we’re in. But is that always a good thing? For example: I told someone to “F off and die” recently. Wait, what? This isn’t common vernacular to me and in fact, I was slightly appalled at myself after doing so. However, I share this with you because I like to keep it real. I’m not about pretending to be something I’m not. There is no greater disservice to the world, and to yourself. I’ve done some horrible things, which illustrate all too well, that there is a bad side of passion. You care greatly, you hurt greatly.

When I went to college in London, I learned alot about Queen Victoria. I took a trip to her castle. I was excited when the movie Young Victoria came out, as she had such an incredible story that many haven’t heard. After living in near isolation and becoming Queen of the British Empire at only 18 years old, Victoria eventually married her best friend, Prince Albert, against all odds. He died of typhoid fever when he was only 42. In honor of him, she had his clothes laid out every day until her death, at age 82. Their story was one of passion.

Despite the bad side, I can’t see living any other way. Don’t be scared of what will happen if you jump all in. Life is just, life. It’s messy and horrible and wonderful. In the end, you’ll lose your hair, your health, and your good looks. Don’t end up with an empty room.

It’s a longstanding arrangement that I hate music from soundtracks. But I’m a sucker for Sinead O’Conner. Whatever. In the spirit of reciprocity, I’ve added someone new to my blogroll. He’s a good writer, check it out.

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My apologies that my posts have been a bit introspective lately, I suppose that’s because I’ve been doing alot of introspecting. Or taking alot of sleeping pills. Either way, deal with it.  P.S. I’d like to extend my utmost gratitude for all of your comments on my previous blog. You have no idea what an effect your encouraging words have on me, even if they are just floating out there in cyberspace, and even if you really are just a bunch of perverted old men with a hit list, it still means alot.

I was riding in someone’s car the other day. I got excited when we drove past a business and I saw my dad’s work truck parked outside. He looked at me and said, “I hope that my son’s face lights up like that someday when he drives past my truck.”  I’d never thought of it that way, but I guess my face did light up. It always has.

When I was young, I was convinced of all sorts of things. I thought babies came from swallowing watermelon seeds, I thought my grandparents had immunity from death, I thought the earth was suspended in air by magic, and I thought my cats actually went on to live in a better place after they died. A place where trees were made of Cat Nip and it rained milk. I thought married people really loved eachother, and I thought the whole point of Easter was so that girls could wear cute hats. In fact, all it really took was for my dad to tell me something was true and and nothing could convince me otherwise. Example: for fifteen years I believed my cat had run away when I was 8. Not until my grandpa got wasted at Christmas and mentioned “that time my mom accidentally crushed the cat to death under the garage door” did I know the truth. It was a tragic discovery. But at least I know the little fuzzball went on to a better place.

It was a blind faith I had back then.

There is something innocent and wonderful about blind faith and having a father that you know would rather sacrifice his own life than see you get hurt. Someone who highly overuses the benefit of his doubt, who is eternally compassionate and understanding. But it skews your perception. And although I never thought there could be a downside to this, I find lately, that lifelong assumption may not be entirely accurate. This mindset is foreign to me and I’m unsure what to do with it. Much like that first kiss after moving on, it’s neither good nor bad, it just feels different. Different than you might have thought. Different than what you were used to.

If you’ve been around here for more than a hot minute you know that my viewpoint is anything but unicorns and pots of gold. Life has left a pessimistic taste in my mouth. But in spite of everything, when it comes to people, I have always had a tendency to believe the best, that their intentions are ultimately good, that they empathize with others, that they feel pain. Anyone can open up a history book and see that this is far from true, and naive at best.

I’m sure all of you can relate to this in some aspect. Your experiences have left you either too trusting or incapable of trust - so who is better off? Are we both just screwed? Cus I kind of like the sound of that. I’ve seen my dad tremendously hurt because of his outlook on life and people. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather end up like. So what does that mean?

I don’t know. The older I get, the more it seems, I do not know. Confusion is where I live, and the population just keeps growing.

But I do know this: I still believe everything my dad says.

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