(Well, not really. I mean, kind of. Like you think you know someone for a whole year and then they turn out to be a completely different person so you sorta feel like the person you knew is dead. That’s where I’m at right now.)
Alessandro and I finally took Diane Kitten to the vet after almost a year of having her (not out of neglect, we’re poor) but because she randomly started coughing and it was clear she was having trouble breathing. We rushed her to the kitty Emergency Room and found out she has asthma so it’s all good and she has medicine and feels much better now.
We found out some things like she’s about 2 years old and has a little tracker in the back of her neck (which I totally wanna remove, especially considering we looked for her owners for a longggg time and nobody claimed her so they’re clearly just bad people). We also found out she is not a she.
Then again, how am I supposed to know how he/she identifies? It’s my fault for assuming he was a girl, but apparently he’s neutered so it makes sense why I was confused. Also I hoped he was a girl for solidarity purposes, imposing my own desires concerning his gender upon him which is totally philistine and not at all forward-thinking. I never thought I’d be this type of mother (cat-owner) and my surprise as well as my feelings of loss at the news were quite disconcerting.
I looked it up though, and there exists a phenomenon within the transgender community that people don’t really talk about. There is often a need to mourn the person you (or your friend/family member/etc.) used to be so that the true person can live and flourish in their real identity. It’s actually good to grieve the loss of the prior identity and gives the transgender person a feeling of closure without any guilt in moving on.
I’m likening my feelings to this phenomenon because even though it’s just a cat, I feel like I got to know him as “Diane Kitten” and in my childish brain, I built up this whole personality surrounding that female identity. Now I feel like I have to get to know him as a boy and mold an idea of who he is around this knowledge.
The worst part is changing the name. I was proudof that name. (She even has a twitter account.) The deal was that if we found out Diane was a boy, Alessandro would get to pick the name, so he picked “Mr. Tibbs”, Sidney Poitier’s character from the movie “In the Heat of the Night”, which is a badass role and Sir Sidney Poitier is probably the coolest person you could name someone after, but he already has lots of social media accounts and Virgil Tibbs had to deal with so much racism and bullshit which I would like to shield Diane/Mr. Tibbs from. “They chew you up and spit you out.”
So here we are, going through the gender identity process together. Tibbs has certainly taken to his new name like a justice-minded detective to the mean streets of Sparta, Mississippi. I’ll miss Diane, but I can’t wait to spend the next couple decades growing and learning with my perfect little boy. :)
(Jk. I showered in the interim. But only because the back of my head turned into a giant dreadlock and my cat fell in the toilet. It’s been a tough month.)
This isn’t really a cohesive post because I’ve been sick and I have to go back to school next week and I want to jump off a cliff. I’ve been hiding in bed with Rufus (my giant stuffed dog), Nyquil, and large bags of chips. It’s also come to my attention that I’ve gained weight because apparently when you turn 23 you can’t sit around eating bullshit and drinking entire cases of beer anymore.
Not to mention that evvverrryyything is falling apart. Over Christmas, Diane Kitten decided to celebrate the holidays by eating tinsel and scoot around the apartment dragging a long shiny string from her butt with a little turd ball on the end, and I couldn’t even snap a picture because everything was happening so fast and my body was in a laughter-seizure.
Then for the New Year (and because she only drinks water that poses adventure), she was sitting on the bathroom sink watching me pee (it’s weird, I know, shut up) and when I got up, SHE JUMPED INTO THE GODDAMN TOILET. I screamed and she screamed and it was totally madness (not at all Sparta), but luckily Alessandro ran in and saved the day by fishing her out and covering all of us in my urine.
In light of all this crazy, I barely did any work on my novel, washed none of my clothes, didn’t clean my house at all (except for the bathroom), and wasted my entire break in bed/playing Grand Theft Auto V. Also, my body is turning on me because for the very first time in my life I threw up after drinking.
So now I have to lose weight, stop drinking, do my laundry, and find a new therapist. (The one I see at school for free is great, but she’s really nice and I tend to lie to her so she doesn’t see how nuts I am. How are you supposed to tell a sweet little Christian lady your opinions on the best methods of torture/execution or details of the dirty dream you had about your cousin?)
You can read all about it in my book. If I ever actually finish.
Anyways, so I don’t bum you guys out too hard, I’ll end with a conversation between me and myself which Alessandro so rudely interrupted…
ME: They say, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, but why the Hell not? Are they self-conscious about their teeth or bad breath or something? And if so, somebody give them a mint and some Crest White Strips. Or is it because they’ll bite you and then they wouldn’t technically be a “gift horse” but rather a “punishment horse”?
ME: Or is the expression, “Don’t PUNCH a gift horse in the mouth”? Because at least that would make sense. Nobody likes being punched in the mouth, including gift horses. Also, what even is a “gift horse”? I have to look this up…
ME:[Making a verbal reminder on my cell phone] “Lookup ‘gift horse’. And the expression about it.” I’m picturing a horse with a fancy hat that rides into towns in the Wild West, bringing gifts to all the good pioneer people, like a sort of equine Santa Claus. Unless you punched him in the mouth. In which case he comes to your house and takes a giant horse-dump in your stockings. Instead of coal.
ALESSANDRO:[Poking his head into the bedroom with a look of great confusion] Who the HELL are you talking to??! Are you alright?!?
ME: I’m reminding myself to lookup the origin of why you shouldn’t punch a gift horse in the mouth.
ALESSANDRO: It’s, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
ME: Why not though?
ALESSANDRO: Because a horse’s teeth indicate how healthy it is, so if someone gives you a horse it’s considered rude to look at its mouth since you’re assuming they gave you a weak or sickly horse.
ME: Well then the saying should really be, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth until after the person who gave you the gift horse leaves and then you can be all kind of judgemental about their crappy non-gift horse.”
ALESSANDRO: …Uhhh…. I guess so…
Exactly. Get with it, colloquialisms. Nobody wants to end up with a broken horse. (Actually… yes you do. Oh well. You guys know what I mean.)
Good morning, everybody. It’s 3:00am right now, but you probably won’t see this until later because I scheduled it for 8:00am. I’ve been up all night trying to write, but I have lost the ability to do so and should probably quit while I’m ahead.
Maybe become an accountant or someone who sells houses. A “something agent“. See how worthless my brain is right now?? I can’t even think of the term for those people.
(And I’m not about to look it up all, “What’s the term for someone who sells houses?” because Google will think I’m stupid and be like, “Seriously, Alanna?? You had to look this up?????” Since Google is very judgemental.)
I tried to ask Alessandro for feedback, but as usual, he is no help at all.
Conversation between Alex and I after I read him an edited version of my story:
ME: What’d you like about my story?
ALESSANDRO: It was reminiscent.
ME: What do you mean, “reminiscent”?
ALESSANDRO: I mean I was there. I remember when you changed those words to some other words.
ME: Well what do you think of the like, actual writing?
(Do you see what I have to deal with?)
Anyways, have a lovely day, everybody. And good luck on all your writing adventures. Because sometimes we just can’t find the words.
(Sometimes I feel like my whole life is about bacon. And I’m quite often correct in that feeling. That’s why you’re reading this right now. “Bacon” was my fault.)
If you’ve seen the buzz around here or read my last reblogged post, you already know about the experiment by the lovely and talented Jessie Janelle Reyna and her noun experiment. Today’s noun is “bacon”. Brought to you by the letter “B”.
I grew up with parents who ate extremely healthily(ish) so we never had bacon in the house.
(Unless it was Canadian bacon. Which bothered me. No offense, Canada. It’s just that your bacon kinda sucks.)
So now that I’m a “grownup”, I have bacon all the time. But contrary to popular belief, there can be such a thing as too much bacon, and I’m living it. My boyfriend (Alessandro) shares many commonalities with Ron Swanson: the mustache, the stubborn nonsense, and a love for bacon that rivals his love for me.
Bacon is in pretty much everything I eat because Alessandro uses bacon and bacon fat like other people use oil or salt. The other day I came into the kitchen and frying in the pan was the largest piece of bacon I’ve ever seen. About a foot long, 4 inches thick and 4 inches deep. (I should’ve taken a picture.)
My house is like this:
It’s scary. And often smells. It’s gotten to the point where I get nauseous if I smell pork cooking.
But that doesn’t matter. Because bacon is like crack so I eat it anyway.
Well, that’s all for me. Check out the crew of “Turn Noun For What?!” and read more about bacon and stuff.
(Remember when people used to say “crunk”? I think it was a mix between “chronic” and “drunk”. I prefer the term “drigh”. You do the math.)
Ahh, that takes me back…
Anyways, I’m always a little late with Christmas presents. I never know what to get my family because my mom goes shopping every single day and my step dad never speaks to me. Alessandro just says, “You,” when I ask him what he wants. (Plus or minus some dirty stuff.)
I always know what the fuck I want.
Sometimes my list sounds like the lyrics to a Christmas hip-hop song, but regardless… it’s better to know what kind of liquor someone wants under the tree instead of having to guess. Speaking of which, I finally put up my tree:
(Side note: I’m currently listening to Wham’s “Last Christmas” and dancing with my head because, honestly, how can you not?)
My REAL Christmas list might be unorthodox but here it is…
Alanna’s Christmas List:
1. To be 19 again.
(Because why wouldn’t you?)
2. Really good cocaine.
Don’t judge me. I don’t live in Florida so it’s hard to get and Philadelphians screw you on it. I’d settle for lots of adderall, though.
3. To hang out with my great aunt Lil one last time and share a glass of her world-famous egg nog.
She died a couple years ago, but lived a fantastic life up until the day before she turned 98. The most badass person I’ve ever encountered.
4. To see Led Zeppelin perform live in concert.
(Don’t even get me started on Robert Plant’s unwillingness to sign a fucking contract. WHO TURNS DOWN $800 MILLION DOLLARS?!?!?!??!?!??!?!)
6. To hang out with my best friends.
I miss my dawgs.
But that’s about it. I could deal with more or less, but the essentials are there. Although the Dirty Boyz know what’s good when it comes to Christmas lists…
“Dear Santa I’ve been very good this year can you make them two felonies on my record disappear All I want for Christmas is peace in the ‘hood And an old-school-candy-painted Cadillac Fleetwood”
(I know you’re all just dying to see who won the “Guest Post Contest”, but you’ll have to scroll down for that. Also, if you stay around long enough to read this post, there’s another giveaway to be had. Stay tuned…)
Hellooo and welcome to the first annual (or rather, weekly) Funny Blog Friday!!! Hashtag “FBF”. Hashtag “badass”. Hashtag “laugh your hash off”. This Blog Hop consists of pretty much the greatest people on earth. You should all go visit their blogs because they’re amazing and that’s kind of the whole point of this.
And to make you laugh.
And they’re giving away prizes, too. Get it while it’s hot, y’all.
Go to these people’s blogs, do what they tell you to do (they’re calling from inside the house), and get free shit because this is America (depending where you’re standing) and in this country we give people prizes for existing. Seriously, it’s not that hard. In fact, I have yet another giveaway today for anyone who follows the rules on this link:
Aren’t you hyped? Because if not, you should be. Halloween is awesome; candy, costumes, dickheaded teenagers running around in black hoodies and making fun of us for being adults… I love this holiday. Also, I might be in my local paper in the coming days because last night was Trick-or-Treat night in my town and some reporter took some pictures of me in my all-out Bride of Frankenstein gear.
Or he may have just been a pervert. Either way, I’m calling it a win.
I don’t know how many of you are 6 feet tall and above, but fun fact: it fucking rocks. You totally get to tower over everybody and feel like an Amazon queen. (Or Amazon king if you’re a guy… but perhaps not because I’m not sure Amazonian kings existed. But then I always wonder what happened to baby boys born to Amazon women. Do they just do that Spartan thing where they’d throw them off a cliff? Or do they get sent away to Amazonian boarding school because nobody in Amazon-Land wants to raise a male? Also, who impregnates these women? Is there a tribe of super-men who come around every year to bust a nut in some tall warrior ladies? So many questions…)
Anyways, I digress. Another fun fact: without my wig, I totally look like the Joker. Imagine all this makeup with bright red hair.
It was really fun putting all this crap on my face and especially drawing the scars. I used those cheap Party City costume makeup crayons and it still stinks like wax up in this place. Some little kids didn’t wanna come up to my porch because they were scared of me. But that’s okay because apparently, parents don’t teach their children to say “Thank you” anymore so kids just give me a “Fuck-You-Where’s-My-Candy”-stare and hold out their tiny little hands. Then I’m expected to compliment their shitty costumes, give them candy, and tell them they’re cute and to have a “Happy Halloween” just because I’m an adult?!? Well, fuck that noise. Your kids can get razor-blade chocolate for all I care. I don’t give people compliments unless I truly mean them and, quite frankly, their costumes are lame. I wasn’t even drinking last night (at least not a lot), and I still managed to smile at tiny jerkoffs who thought that I was a witch or Morticia Addams. Just because the real Bride of Frankenstein wig was too small for my gangster-size head (that’s an “8” in fitted caps for those of you who don’t know) and I had to reappropriate an Amy Winehouse wig (which I did fantastically), doesn’t mean you’re allowed to be stupid. I will say that wigs are incredibly fun, however.
(I secretly wanna go around wearing different colored wigs, pretending to be someone else. People will be like, “Alanna? Is that you?” and I’ll reply, “I have no idea who you’re talking about, my name is Avada Cadabra. Good day.” And just walk off into the sunset.)
Oh, by the way, why did nobody tell me there are zillions of makeup tutorial videos on YouTube??! All this time, I’m walking around looking like a person who taught herself how to apply makeup (which I did), practically looking like Janis Joplin, wondering why all these other girls came to class or the store or the fucking laundromat with professional-looking makeup. All these years feeling bad about myself for not looking like the girls on PLL when in fact it’s really super easy and all you have to do is watch some random girl put on makeup while she videotapes herself!!!
I blame you all for my ignorance.
But I forgive you because now it’s time to announce the winner of my “Guest Post Competition”…
Well, let me preface this by saying that it was really difficult to pick a winner because everyone’s posts were excellent and funny and different. I thought about giving out more gift cards on multiple occasions, but unfortunately, I’m not rich like that. I’m sorry to those of you who submitted but didn’t win. Remember you can still win a gift card by doing today’s giveaway. You’re all still amazing, but just like the Highlander, there can only be one.
The only problem is that (unlike today’s contest), I chose the winner myself and of course personal biases came into play. I tried to make a pro’s and con’s list. Without divulging what are “pro’s” and what are “con’s”, my lists included such gems as “‘Billy Madison’ reference”, or “My personal opinion possibly skewed by obvious attraction to writer”, or “Poop jokes :)”.
Please be sure to read and visit the blogs of everyone who posted (there’s only 10 so it’s not that hard), and give them your love. They all deserve it for being awesome and as far as I’m concerned, they’re all on my list of funny people. They totally deserve some snaps.
For anyone else who wants to win stuff too, comment here and you’ll be automatically in the running for another $25 gift certificate to the place of your choosing (at least from this list). So comment, people!! And visit the folks for “Funny Blog Friday”!! Happy Halloween, everybody!! And have a very funny Friday! :)
(And it takes 3-5 business days to arrive. The flags, I mean. Friendship probably takes longer and you can’t get it shipped overnight.)
Alessandro thinks I’m weird because I’ve been buying an inordinate amount of American flags on Amazon.com. I need more friends that understand where I’m coming from. This is a conversation he and I had last night:
Alessandro: “But six giant flags is too many.”
me: “There’s no such thing as being ‘too‘ patriotic.”
Alessandro: “Throwing away $70 on nylon flags is too patriotic.”
me: “It sounds like you’re trying to put a price on freedom.”
Alessandro: “No, I’m putting a price on flags. That we don’t need.”
me: “But what if one touches the ground? We’d have to burn it and then you’ll be glad we have 5 more on backup.”
Alessandro: “We don’t actually HAVE to burn them if they touch the ground. Who’s going to enforce that law?”
me: “I assume the Secret Flag Police. Or Captain America because he just won’t stand for that type of behavior.”
Alessandro: “… So you just want to tie the flag around your neck and run around with a cape then?”
He is not wrong.
I’ve also decided that I need someone to hang out with so I’m looking for a cat. If anyone in the Pennsylvania area has kittens (or flags), please let me know. Gracias.