Robyn Pennacchia's "A Series of Unfortunate Hair Styles"

So... I totally need to get my hair cut- I have a bad habit of putting it off until the last minute. But I was thinking today about the various retarded phases my hair has been through.

1. I swear to god, when I was like, 3, my mom brought in a picture of Scout from the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, and told the stylist - This! This is what I want! And thus, I looked like this:


Almost exactly, actually.

2. And then I had that hairdo, but with sausage bangs. Sweet!

3. Then, my sister came along. And my sister, unlike me, had pretty pretty princess hair. Long, blondish hair, with perfect little ringlets that formed at the bottom. Totally not fair. I demanded I be allowed to grow my hair long.

4. And it was long. For a ridiculously long time. But I did not have pretty pretty princess hair like my sister. I had hair like this:



5. Around 6th grade I started getting all experimental and shit. The first real damage I ever did, personally, to my own head, involved, of course, Sun-In. And a day spent by my friend and I devoted entirely to dousing our heads with the awful crap, blowdrying it, and doing it again. Over and over again. It didn't work wonders, of course- we both had super dark brown hair- it only got slightly lighter. But then, we figured, in all our genius, that if we each used a whole bottle on just our bangs- we could get them pretty bleached. And it worked! We looked completely retarded, but it worked.

6. But it got better! Oh, it did! It truly did! Because then we discovered food dye! Yup, food dye! We dyed our sun-in bleached bangs blue and red and green with food dye, and my, wasn't that attractive! Then we tried koolaid- which of course only lasted like, 5 days and made my hair smell like raspberries, but not in any kind of good way. Also- kinda sticky.

7. 8th grade was my first foray into the world of permanent (read: not food dye or kool-aid). A bottle of "Purple Haze" Manic Panic purchased from Newbury Comix. Which destroyed my bathroom (to my mother's dismay) and didn't really show up so much in my almost black hair. Still, I thought I was totally bad ass. The use of Manic Panic continued perpetually, and unattractively through my teenage years.

8. When I was about 16, my hair was probably down to my ass- and, really- not so cute looking. However, for whatever imaginable reason, I thought it might be swell to chop it all off. Like, all of it. It looked so terrible that I couldn't bring myself to cut it again for quite some time, and when I let it grow out, I had this hideous Indigo Girls mullet- well before the fashion mullet ever existed.

9. When I was about to turn 22, I came to the realization that this was the last time I could dye my hair bright pink and not look, you know... sad. So I did it. I bleached my hair out, and dyed it pink for the last time. Oh, by the way, you know how you kinda have to wait for a bit before you dye hair after bleaching it? Yeah, well, in case you never guessed it- I look horrifying with blonde hair. Horrifying. I scare children and animals. Oh, and despite my plan to not look sad, I kinda did- because I just wasn't that person anymore. Still, glad I got it out of my system.

Since then, my hair has primarily been either burgundy, or as close to my own shade of almost-black-brown as I can find in bottle (yeah, the red keeps showing up, so I have to dye my hair until it finally all grows back in. I am fine with that. And I keep it at a reasonable length, and really, my only major mistake is going too long without bothering to get it cut. Which I'm totally not going to do this time.

If I were rich, I'd get you this for your birthday

But alas, I don't have 5k. So, um, I could just go to the thrift store and get one for 3 bucks. What the fuck am I talking about?

Bill Cosby is auctioning off his Cosby sweaters on Ebay. For like, five grand a pop. I really, really want to know who would pay that. I also would like to know if they come with a package of Puddin' Pops. Because, man, do I ever wish those still existed. Fuck you, they were delicious. And it doesn't work the same if you just throw some pudding into the fridge. I should know.


http://www.eonline.com/uberblog/b139998_pattern_recognition_cosbys_sweaters_are.html?sid=rss_topstories&utm_source=eonline&utm_medium=rssfeeds&utm_campaign=rss_topstories

Pride and Prejudice

For the past two weeks, I have harbored a strange and bizarre craving. I kept thinking about it, and thinking about it, and finally I gave in.

I bought a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Which I have read before, along with all the other Jane Austen stuff when I was a kid staying at my Nana's house- mostly because, well, it was there. I don't remember anything but thinking that Mr. Darcy was quite dreamy... probably because I was like, 10 at the time- and I'm guessing that most of it didn't sink in. It's entirely possible that it did, though, on some subconscious level. Because- like, I fucking love it when I think someone is, at first, the most awful person ever, and then have them turn out not to be. It makes my life. I like being surprised. In that way, at least. I much prefer it to the opposite situation, which, unfortunately, is a bit more prevalent.

But if there is anything that makes you feel like a lame-o, it's reading Jane Austen on the bus. Especially when you notice that one part of your skirt that you forgot to attack with the lint brush. And you realize that you're like, that chick. The chick who has some cats and is reading Jane Austen.

It's too late baby, now it's too late

So, there's a lot being said about this new Scott McClellan book. First of all, like most people, I feel like it's too little too late. But second...

Duh? I mean, really- I feel like I could have written this book just by like, guessing around at shit and been at least 85% correct. I can't see what would make me purchase it. It's like purchasing the novelization of a movie you've already seen.

A movie? Really?

Ok... so it has come to my attention (maybe I'm slow on the uptake and this was a big deal or something) that the book "He's Just Not That Into You" has been made into a movie. Here, I present to you the trailer, which may make you want to stick things in your eye (Seriously. It involves Ben Affleck, Jennifer Aniston, Drew Barrymore and Scarlett Johannsen.)




Oh my god! Isn't it just hilarious how women are like, just so pathetic, and so desperate to find a man? Any man? And isn't it just so terrible that all these men are horrible douchebags who will step all over their fragile hearts if given the chance? Wow! I've never seen this movie before! I can't imagine how it might end! Ooh! And there's a Cure song in it! Won't someone please mend Scarlett's broken heart? Oh! Thank goodness there's a man around to tell them all the big scary truth!

This shit goes right up my ass. It just does. These women are totally imaginary- they're like, figments of some asshole dude's fantasy about how every chick on earth is secretly scheming to be his lawfully wedded wife. I do not personally know any human being this pathetic.

I don't know, the moral of this story seems to be the old adage... "When a person has the courage to tell you who they are, believe them." Which has never been difficult for me.

Yay! I'm actually working on this shit again!

I am in fact once again working on my illustrated interpretation of a piece I wrote a couple years ago called "I Never Liked You Anyway." Basically, it's like a field guide to Robyn's occasionally horrifying incidents involving the opposite sex. It totally needs to be updated to include flip phone pick-up artist. Here are a few of the ones I did before... (it sucks because I totally cannot locate the one about my gothic cookie guy stalker. Alas...)

You'll have to click on them to actually see them, and then click on the large size. Because they just won't fit on here. Sad, but true.

Cult...




Children of the Corn...



Brits...



Dreams...

When I was a teenage whore...

I can't tell you how much it amuses me when I wake up in the morning looking like Courtney Love. It happens more often than you'd think- mostly because I got home too late to remember to take my make-up off and wear vintage slips to bed as a matter of habit once it gets warm enough. I am also wearing my pink mental patient slippers with the pom-poms on them, which totally makes the whole look even more awesome. Oh, that and I have mystery bruises all over my legs, which is always attractive. I think I just don't even notice when I walk into things anymore.

But today, today, my friends... is the most glorious day of the year. Memorial Day, you ask? But Robyn, it's not like you give a shit about patriotism!

Hah! Today is also the day that we are going to the International Mister Leather Convention! Assless chaps as far as the eye can see! Yeah bitches, we go every year.

This is totally how I dance.

Holy crap. I do not feel like going to work today. I stayed out a bit too late last night and thus feel like death.

Word of advice- vodka cranberries at Subterannean eat your stomach. Seriously, I don't know what kind of juice they use, but it's like drinking a Warhead. Replace at least half of it with water. Oy.

The positive thing about going to work today, is the fact that we found an old copy of "ABBA Gold" and have been having dance parties when no one is in the store. Which is why I woke up this morning singing this!



SO much winking and crimped hair in this video! And the big black boots? WANT.

Rethought post...

I still haven't been able to figure out how to articulate what it is I mean to say. Which is not an issue I generally have.

I do know that I don't like being a novelty. I feel like that happens a lot because, well- shit, I'm a tall, dark-haired, mouthy, overtly opinionated, very frank Italian girl from the east coast in like, a midwest city full of these super sweet, demure, tiny blonde chicks who like, grew up milking cows and shit and then moved to the big city. I am not something you come across every day here- and yeah, in comparison, I probably seem like the freakin' whore of Babylon. But I never thought of myself in that way before I moved here. It's a difficult transition to make, mentally.

It is weird to me that when I date these super super white guys here, that they totally think that they are doing something risque by hanging out with me. I don't see it that way. I'm kind of used to being the funny girl who says snarky thing sometimes rather than like, Sophia Loren or whatever. I don't know what to make of it. Seriously, if anyone back home saw that people acted like that's what I was, they'd probably fall down on the floor in hysterics. Part of me thinks that I don't really want to date them anymore, because I don't want to feel that way, or be forced to think of myself that way. I want to go back to just being a person.

Prior to moving to Chicago, I had to deal with a lot of things, but not like, assumptions about me based on my ethnicity. I didn't even really feel like I had one until I moved here. I also never had to explain what "agita" means- which, let me tell you, is not an easy thing to do.
I don't know if my cultural issues with Chicago have as much to do with my dago-ness as I feel like they do sometimes. I'm really not sure. I do feel like a lot of people here place a high value on like, middle-of-the-roadness. Like, you achieve some level of special sainthood by no one being able to point you out in a crowd. You're not supposed to draw attention to yourself, really. Which, yeah, is something I do, but not really on purpose. It's just me.

The one guy I did date in Chicago for a long time used to get people, mostly girls, coming at him left and right (who didn't know me) telling him that I was "a really bad person and to stay away from me." Then, he dated a much plainer (trust me, I'm totally being nice by saying plainer) looking girl and thus gained public acceptance. I couldn't figure out why that was then- because I think I'm quite pleasant, but I think I sort of have a handle on it now. It would take more balls than most guys here have to hang out with me in public, because I guess I look less wholesome than the nice, short, blonde farmgirls. Like, they might be more attracted to me, or even like me as a person (gasp!)- but to admit that publicly is tantamount to admitting you like to kill kittens and then masturbate with their corpses or something.

This one time, I was at a bar here, and this girl walked in who was just absolutely stunning. I mean, really, she was just so freakin' gorgeous and well put together that even I couldn't stop looking at her. And I heard these guys next to me talking about her, and the thing that struck me was that one of them said "Yeah, she's really hot, but she knows it." And it was said with such bitterness, you know? Like this girl had committed some terrible sin by not having low self esteem, by not looking like every other girl around. I don't quite get that. But that's the way things are here.

But, at the end of the day, I'm truly happy with who I am. I don't want the way people think of me to affect my feelings about myself.

Stuff and things.

1. I have decided that the Red Eye needs to replace their sex columnist with, um, me. Because, I'm sorry, but Dustin J. Seibert (I just looked up his name.) seems to be hell bent on making what should logically be a hilarious and interesting column- as most sex columns are- the most boring and retarded crap I have ever read in my life. Which, you know- isn't that surprising seeing as how it's the Red Eye. However, I think it's the only job of that sort in the city, and I would very much like to have it. I promise I will not begin anything with "I couldn't help but wonder..."

However, I think I'd have to write it under a pen name, as I have a lot of especially Catholic relatives back in New England. Who would probably freak the fuck out if they ever even googled my name now.

2. I like juice. Especially in the morning when I'm hungover. Like today. And not like, juice flavored water. Actual juice. The kind that comes from fruit. Particularly strawberry kiwi juice. It is maybe my favorite thing ever. But, as I realized this morning, juice is now an endangered species and has been replaced in near entirety by juice flavored water. Now, fine- maybe the juice flavored water is better for me... but it is nowhere near as delicious, and is of no help in the morning when I am hungover and would like to actually taste something. I implore you, corner stores of the world and specifically Chicago Ave... do not give up on Strawberry Kiwi Snapple!

3. You may or may not have noticed that I took a post down like, a day after publishing it. Mostly because I decided it needed more serious thought. I plan on working that out today, along with doing laundry!

Happy Birthday Mum!

Today is my mother's birthday, as you may or may not have guessed from the title of this blog entry!

She's quite a bit more awesome than anyone, ever. It's a fact.

Let me tell you a story. In highschool, when I was having some ridiculous 16 year old freak out over something stupid, she refused to let me address her as Mom, and insisted I call her Tupac. Which is brilliant, because it's awfully hard to take yourself so seriously when referring to your 50 year old mother as Tupac.

Thank god for that, really, because, with my disposition, I very well could have been someone who takes themselves waaaay too seriously.

She used to say she'd prefer that I smoked pot rather than drink because drinking was what the "straight people" did, and it was corporate, or something. She discouraged me from harder drugs by pointing out all the people she knew who had become Jesus freaks after getting off of them ("Scratch a Jesus Freak, find a junkie!," she always says)

She didn't raise me with any fucked up notions about what it means to be a woman. Which is the single greatest thing anyone can do for their daughter. I'm damned lucky to have been raised by a feminist. Even if most of the time she's so 2nd wave about it ;). I am so fucking glad that it doesn't even occur to me to sit there and be demure and let the boys talk. Back in my organizing days, even among radicals (fuck, especially among radicals- see, because they usually consider themselves "exempt" from sexism, which makes them 80,000 times worse)- I was usually the only woman talking at meetings. And no matter how hard it was to get a word in edgewise, I did it. And it just has never occurred to me that what I have to say is any less important because I have lady parts. I have my mother to thank for that.

In my life, I have never met anyone as funny or as smart as my mother. And I'm not just saying this because I love her and she's my mom. The woman is freakin' brilliant. She can solve the Sunday crossword in pen in an episode of Law and Order, and thinks nothing of it.

Because of my mother, I don't just throw my opinions out there without being able to back them up. I learned how to know my shit.

People love my mother, because she makes them feel important and interesting. She actually finds everyone interesting- I wish I did, maybe it will come with age, I don't know. Like, this one time when she was at the Barcelona Olympics, I think, she met this Mormon kid (and, by the way, my mother is quite the athiest), who ended up writing to her the whole time while he was on his mission. I'm serious, people just absolutely love her.

I am trying so hard to not let my anger get the best of me. I am trying to not, as she says I have a tendency to do, make sweeping generalizations, and theorize everything.

The best thing about my mother is that she always makes me want to be a better person.

:)

Television will be 80,000 times better!!!!!

Hello All!

My dearest friend, and occasional contributor to this blog (as The New Jan Brady), Miss Pandora Boxx needs your votes to get on RuPaul's Drag Race!

In defense of my bad self

I went out last night with a friend of mine who likes to refer to me as Evil Robyn- to differentiate me from another Robyn he knows (oddly, I think I have the more complimentary name, but that is beside the point). He claims that I have no sense of morality.

Au contraire! See, I admit that I am a bad person- freely- but when I say this, I say it with my toungue firmly in my cheek. It's not that I'm bad, it's just that I am very, very honest. With myself. I don't mean to say that I've never lied, because of course I have, everyone has. But I could never be accused of "being-in-itself" or "being-for-others"- or of having bad faith.

If I am not concerned with convincing others that I am in fact a good person or a nice person, I am more free to be a good person than I would otherwise be. Does that make sense? I like to be on solid ground. I would rather know that someone has a problem with me, and start from there, rather than have them pretend to like me so we all get to be in happy happy land where no one is a jerk. And the thing is- I have the worlds most well-developed bullshit detector. I know when someone is blowing smoke up my ass. And I would rather they did not. For instance- I would vastly prefer it if a guy coming on to me at a bar said "Hey! I have absolutely no interest in your aesthetic opinions! However, you have got a swell rack there and I'd sure like to do ya" rather than feigning interest in anything I have to say (ie: "being-for-others"- acting in the way he thinks I want him to act). Because then we start from solid ground. I am allowed the privilege of making my choices based on facts rather than bullshit.

I don't believe in "niceness"- I believe in "kindness" and I believe that there is a difference.

This, I guess, is where my weird feelings about committed relationships come into play- which, I believe, is the primary reason for my friend thinking I'm evil. Because basically, I've always been irritated by the idea of people being in relationships just to not be alone, rather than because the idea of being with another person makes you nearly physically ill and you do not personally want to do it. Like, I get what people are trying to say when they say that, well, in order to feel that way about someone you have to commit yourself to them first. I don't feel like I do. I am like, awesome at multi-tasking. Like, I've never been able to wrap my head around the concept of cheating, because... well... if I wanted to get with other people, I wouldn't be in a committed relationship in the first place. But then again, I am an especially entertaining person and thus have no issue about being alone. Unfortunately, in order to get anyone to go along with me on this trip, I pretty much have to make them read "Being and Nothingness." Which, you know- is honestly not that great of a time.

I don't feel like I owe people things. I really don't. Maybe I'm deficient in that way. Maybe we just all assume people sort of think like we do- you know- like how if you don't lie, you don't expect other people to? I don't want people to ever feel like they owe me anything. That makes me uncomfortable in the worst way. It's like, I would rather people be decent to me because that's their personal choice, rather than something they feel they have to do.

(Full disclosure- am PMSing and have taken codeine... so this may not make nearly as much sense as I want it to.)

Neither bloody nor bowed

"There is something about that woman -- that woman! -- that refuses to bend, and something about a large portion of this country that despises her for it."

You know, I actually think Clinton might cut your face if you called her "Poor Hillary" to hers.

That's what I would do. And at the end of the day, that's why I'm still gunning for her. I am that woman. At first, my support of HRC was primarily based on the fact that it would annoy the largest numbers of people I can't stand. I'm a big fan of schadenfreude and ball busting. And it's still partly that. I'm not exactly the worlds biggest fan of the Democratic party- I don't think they're all that different from the Republicans. At all.

But this is the thing- the main thing. People feel the same way about Hillary Clinton as they do about me a good deal of the time. There is just something about being that sort of woman that gets under people's skin, and I see it all the time. It drives me crazy, especially because it's usually coming from other women. And I get why she's staying in the race. I totally get it. Because, whenever I'm in a political argument, the more "Oh my god, will you just shut up and go make some cookies!" vibes I get, the more I am determined to continue.

The two criticisms I hear about myself most often are the following:
- I talk too much
- I am too opinionated.

Think back now, and try- just try to think of time when a man has been described in those terms. I can't think of one. Men have opinions, women are opinionated. Men are talkative, women just won't shut up.

And when they say I'm strong, it always has that tinge of resentment to it, a bitter aftertaste I can smell on their breath.

And with Hillary Clinton, this whole "Oh! It's cute that you tried, now go home to your family and let the boys play their game" thing gets right under my skin, and if she did bow out without fighting it to the end, I'd be fucking pissed.

This whole "Poor Hillary" thing is nothing but a perverse desparation to always see women as victims. It's a place where people are comfortable, and that disturbs me on a very deep level. If people can put you in the category of victim, it makes you much easier to deal with. Because the opposite of victim is victor. And no one likes losing to a woman.

I don't know how to act like a victim. It's just not in my bones. My mother is not a victim so I never learned how. We have too much pride, the women in my family. I would fall down dead before I manipulated anyone with tears. Even to get out of a ticket. Which is why I know she wasn't faking that day.

What does it say about our society that we are more at home with women cutting themselves, and starving themselves than fighting? Or being president. Why do we need women to be pathetic? Why do we need to insinuate that need onto a woman that does not need, ask for, or want our sympathy?

...and though to good I never come,
Inseparable my nose and thumb.

In which I take issue with Madame Butterfly.

(I would issue a spoiler alert... but I'm sure you don't really care)

I fucking love Madame Butterfly. I do. Seriously, everytime I listen to Un Bel di Vedremo, I sob. And I am totally not a cryer.

Ok, so let me get this straight-Butterfly is "married" to this douche nozzle Captain Pinkerton who is all "Sweet! I'll have a good time when I'm here with Butterfly, and then I can just dump her ass and not even have to officially divorce her!" And that's what he does. He leaves her ass for 3 years, and doesn't come back until he finds out she's had his kid. He comes back with Wife 2.0, a fellow American, and then they demand that she give them the baby. In fact, at first, he just sends Wife 2.0 over to get it, because he's too much of a pussy to do it himself.

And then instead of cutting their faces, she gives them the baby! She changes the kids name from "Sorrow" to "Joy," and then she kills herself.

Fuck. That. Shit.

Totally don't get it. It makes me sad, yes- but I totally, in no way, understand the logic behind it. I do not know how that thought process works. I am right now making the face that I would make were some asshat actually have the balls to act like that, and then demand I give him my fucking kid. It's not pretty. It's very incredulous looking. I can't fathom the day when anyone would even have the cajones to try and pull that shit with me. Balls on a silver platter, motherfucker.

I have just seen the trifecta of awful

At Dominicks. Guy in his late thirties wearing shants (you know, the big pants cut off into capri-length shorts?), a fucking shiny flame shirt, and a goatee, with soul patch. And it was pointy. And I bet you he was probably planning to grow it out so he could braid it. I'm also sure that somewhere there were tribal tattoos.

Sad. Clearly, 1997 was a momentous year for this man. I've decided to think of him as a modern day male counterpart of Miss Havisham. He was probably stood up by the love of his life at a Limp Bizkit concert or something, and decided to stop time. Like, I bet you he has a ton of kitschy clocks from Spencer gifts around his house all set to the time when she was supposed to be there. And blacklight posters. So many black light posters. And inflatable couches galore. And one of those weird lightning globe thingies! You know what I'm talking about? Like you touch it and all the crackly light goes to where your hand is, and then your hair is supposed to stand on end? He totally has one of those.

I have like, such a giant fear of becoming that, though- I'm pretty vigilant about it. You know, like I still see women with those teased up hairsprayed 80's bangs... and it's so sad, really. It's as though they're still clinging to the time when they were on the cutting edge of life. On the other hand, I don't want to like, be in my 30's or 40's and still trying to be super hip. Because that's pretty sad as well.

When I was 22, I dyed my hair bright pink for the last time, officially. Because I told myself- you know, this is the last time you can do this without looking like some giant weirdo desperately clinging to 17. And I haven't done it since.

Did you know that my boyfriend is married?

I found out recently, that my boyfriend, and love and light of my life, Mr. Vincent D'onofrio (Det. Goren!) is totally married. With children! I'm so disappointed you don't even know.



And I totally don't even know who she is, really. So it's not like with Elvis Costello and Diana Krall, as I know for a fact that I am way more awesome than Diana Krall. I do not know for certain how I compare to Mrs. D'onofrio. Except that clearly, I have better fashion sense.

Also- I hope that he's just really tall- and that she is not in fact a short chick- that would be so disappointing! See, the moment I truly fell in love with Det. Goren, was on this one episode where he told this guy that the reason he was into short blonde chicks was because a) his dick looked bigger in comparison, b) he was secretly a pedophile, and c) he wanted someone he could kick around. And then he added that he liked tall, dark haired, unkickable women. Much like myself. It made my life!

Sigh.

*** UPDATE!- for the many of you out there searching for actual advice of some sort as to what to do if your boyfriend is married, I wrote a special blog post which may or may not be helpful. http://notesfromtheunderwhelmed.blogspot.com/2008/06/robyn-answers-your-burning-questions.html

A very special early 90's moment...

Facts! And things...

1. I will not be shutting up about that whole seal shtupping a penguin thing for at least a month. I am going to write songs about it on my red ukulele, I am going to write a children's book about it, I will make pictures and diagrams, and anyone who is lucky enough to run into me will be sure to hear the glorious tale of the seal who shtupped a penguin. I am going to get this picture blown up



and I am going to hang it over my mantle. Because it is just that hilarious.

2. Another hilarious thing I cannot bring myself to shut up about- Did you know that those FLDS chicks don't cut their hair... because Jesus is going to come back and they have to use it to wash his feet? True story. The whole thing sort of breaks my mind. Especially because like, all I have to relate this to is that one weird dude who tried to convince me to let him give me a pedicure, and what a terribly awkward situation that was. Also, I don't feel like hair would be an effective foot cleaning device, pumice stones exist for a reason. Also, like, are they all going to do it at the same time, or will they take turns? That would take up a lot of time, I would imagine. There are a lot of those chicks, since they're so into having babies and all. I mean, is that all Jesus is going to do when he comes back? Sit around and have his feet washed with Mormon hair? You'd think he'd have like, other things to attend to or something. Then again, what do I know?

3. I totally got hit on by a Rick Astley look alike last night at The Continental. It was especially awkward because at first I thought he was gay... because he walked up to me and said "Hey boobs!" Which, I don't know, is just not something the straight guys tend to say, I guess. But no- he was straight, and he totally thought that he and I were going to make a love connection. Which, of course caused me to run back to my table yelling that I just had been RickRolled. Because I am mature like that. And then I sang this:



Which is, of course, my favorite Rick Astley jam.

4. Robo-squirrel. Teehee!

Oh, text messaging!

Oh my god... this is amazingly hilarious. Or maybe I've had too much wine. I merely thank the gods of Gawker for blessing me with this priceless gem.



Oh, 3:44... it's funny because it's true...

A wine soaked cry for help and snack foods

Dear Wise Crunchy Cheez Doodles:

Why do you not exist in Chicago? WHY? I have searched for you in every damned grocery store in the city, kept a vigilant eye out for your blue, confetti covered bag, and yet you do not appear. I will not deign to consume Cheetos, a clearly inferior product. It's just not right. Where can I find you? Why do you refuse to exist in Chicago? Seriously, I will do anything for just one bag of you! Also, please pass this desperate plea on to Drake's Cakes.

Love and Kisses,

Robyn

PS- If you can tell me where to find a bag of Wise brand Crunchy Cheese Doodles in Chicago, we can totally make out. For realz.

Antidote.

I just wrote a bunch of crap about a bunch of crap. Then I got on the phone with my dear friend Nicole, and I erased it all. Why?

See, Nicole is moving here in a few days. Which means Chicago is going to be like, 80,000 times more awesome. Anyway, she starts telling me how the guys in Rochester suck. I tell her, eh- just to warn you, they're not any better here- let me tell you some stories...

Nicole says: Eh, whatever. We're just going to do it and burn it down!

Which makes complete sense if you know her, and totally made my night. And thank god she's going to be living in the same city as me again, as she's the only known antidote to my complusive jaded-ness. I need someone who calls me at 11pm to say she's picking me up in ten minutes to go play slot machines in Canada. I need someone who shows up at my door in Chicago with her five suitcases, two dogs and a bottle of Raspberry Stoli. Because that's what friends are for.