My posse and I roll into a supermarket because that is how my posse rolls, and we are looking for ice cream because we are a very hard posse, and we roll into the “ice cream & frozen novelties” section. And next to the Klondike Eskimo Pies and next to the Popsicle Brand Fudgsicles, we see this.

READ CAREFULLY.

FROSTY PAWS.

IT IS ICE CREAM FOR DOGS.

Ice cream. For. Your. Dog. For your goddamn dog, you guys!

A few things:

1. This “treat” is right next to shit people eat. Like nestled between frozen novelties specifically created for HUMANS. Between the Klondike Bars and the Fudgsicles. As if to say “IF YOU LOVVEE KLONDIKE BARS, THEN YOU’LL LOOVVEE FROSTY PAWS!” I can foresee a situation where someone quickly picks this up because of the cute packaging and then goes home and then, upon discovery, becomes sad. And maybe, just maybe, a little curious. Like, hmm, what if I tried this? And after a few sniffs and rudimentary licks and a double-dare from your stoner of a roommate and then a choke and a gag, the depression truly sets in. Not to mention the fact that when you want ice cream, you really want fucking ice cream and now you are left without ice cream. Or a dog. That is the true sad story there.

2. The packaging looks very close to a kids’ cereal, which makes the whole thing even more disturbing.

3. JUST BECAUSE PEOPLE EAT ICE CREAM, DOES NOT MEAN DOGS SHOULD.

4. DOGS DO NOT NEED ICE CREAM. They lick their own buttholes. They eat garbage. They don’t need ice cream, you guys.

This kind of goes along with what I was saying before about dogs not needing sweaters because they are born with them. They don’t need ice cream. They don’t have to eat the same food as you. In fact, they shouldn’t. I imagine, and correct me if I’m wrong here, that when packs of dogs were running buck-wild, they did not eat ice cream. A raging mutt did not hunt and catch a squirrel and think, god I can really use a Frosty Paws right now. They also did not think, man life would be so much cooler if I were in someone’s handbag.

Ugh. I can’t stand that dogs are turning into people. We have enough people on this planet. Let dogs be dogs. THUMBS DOWN!!!!

A new store just opened on my street, where a men’s shop used to be. This men’s shop kind of sucked. So I was hoping something useful would pop up in it’s place. Like a bookstore or a music store or a natural foods store with a bulk section (I LOVE bulk sections shut up) or a candy shop or a musical instrument shop or a nice, chill bar or a place with really excellent coffee or a shop that serves stuff on toasts or a place that only sells kale because kale is tasty or a place that teaches you how to tie bowties or maybe a public living room where you can go and hang out and watch TV and cook dinner or a place with ping pong and pinball. What i mean to say is that the potential for awesome was very, very high.

It’s a store called Wool and the Gang hahaha The tagline is “Crazy Sexy Wool”. This is where you can insert your own pun (Angela already said Celebrate Wool Times, Come on!) It is a high-end yarn place. Like fancy ass yarn. Fancy fancy yarn made by some ladies in some part of some place with some kind of animal raised on some kind of organic business so that it grows some kind of magical hair or fur that gets shaved and then spun by children with large dewy eyes and nimble fingers and during lunch they run around in mountain meadows. Mind you there is ANOTHER fancy yarn place a block away. This other yarn place happens to be expensive too. Can someone tell me WHY does my neighborhood need ANOTHER fancypants yarn place? Why not a Target or a Commes Des Garcon pop-up store or a place that lets you play with kittens and ducklings by the hour? A YARN store? Seriously, people. It’s bad enough there’s two doggie lifestyle places in my neighborhood.

Oh I meant to mention that this place also has dog sweaters. Dogs don’t need sweaters. They are born with sweaters already. That is what makes dogs rad. They come clothed, it is awesome. So now, in a block, there are three places where one can buy doggie sweaters. This is NOT including the American Apparel down my street which also has doggie clothes, but those aren’t sweaters, more like gold lamé unitards. For dogs. Obviously. Duh.

I’m sorry, dear friends. I was sick. I know it’s no excuse, and I’m sorry I haven’t been here. But now I am back. I can now climb three flights of stairs without coughing up an alveolar sac, which, in case you’re wondering, looks NOTHING like a nutsac. Seriously. I myself was surprised. I mean a sac is a sac is a sac, right? Like a sac can only look like one thing, and that is a nutsac. But, NO. I was WRONG. Alveolar sacs and nutsacs actually do not look alike. I feel like I’ve been living a lie all these years. Feel free to share that fact. That one is yours to keep.

This has been a week of me breaking shit. The most recent casualty is my computer mouse at work. I think I spilled coffee and water on it too many times, so it got fed up and said, eff you loser and then the little red light wet dim, just like that scene in the original Terminator where the robot gets crushed in the George Foreman grill and it’s little red eye goes dim and it is all, so sad…so dark…and cold…so…alone. That was my computer mouse. Later it came back as sweet fucking liquid metal, and then it came back again, this time as a girl that is not Charlize Thereon but kind of looks like her if you squint, but I didn’t see that one, so I can’t say for sure. Then I guess it came back again to the past to go back to the future. God these things are so confusing sometimes. I need to waterproof my life, that is the lesson learned, friends.

I also busted my wallet. Normally I bust wallets because it’s filled with COLD HARD CASH and it’s like yo dawg, can you break a C-note and they are like uh no don’t call me dawg and I don’t have change, and I’m like whatever, loser!

So here is what I’ve figured out: In order to buy a wallet you need to spend money. That means it comes out of a wallet. But you don’t have one. But let’s say you somehow buy a wallet, but then you don’t have money to put in it. Like, this is some kind of weird black hole/time-space thing, maybe.

I think I had mentioned that a lesson learned was to GET DELIVERY when YOU ARE EFFING SICK, instead of going to the grocery store like you are some kind of superhero.

So I did.

I got delivery from a place I always get. I got what I always get, which are veggie balls (heh I said balls). They are spicy. Spicy is good. Veggie balls are good. Food is good. Right? NO.

I bit into a veggie ball and got…A BOLT.

HOLY. SHIT. Seriously. Those are my veggie balls (heh I keep saying balls). That is a BOLT. Luckily I did not bite ON the bolt. It went into my facehole, and then immediately sunk to the bottom of my mouth and I thought…hmm…what is this thing. Is it a rock? NO. IT’S A BOLT.

So the good news is that it wasn’t rusty. The bad news WAS THAT IT WAS IN MY VEGGIE BALLS.

So I called the manager, who was so apologetic and very sweet and made ammends. And I’ll keep ordering from this place again, but I was like “you know, these things happen…I guess.” So he says,

“I know this is going to sound weird, but…can you give me the bolt?”
“What?”
“Do you still have it? I want to show the kitchen.”
“Yeah sure, but…it was in my mouth, is that OK?”
“I don’t care where it’s been. This should not have happened.”

So, I wrapped it up in plastic wrap. You know. To go. He sent over a delivery person to pick up the bolt.

But, hey, good news, I’m still sick.

I was feeling hungry. So I said to myself, dude it’s Tuesday. You have not left this house since SUNDAY afternoon. It is time to join the living. Also my apartment is quite small, so imagine if you had stayed in your bedroom for 48 hours and didn’t leave. Hopefully your bedroom has a bathroom. But you get the picture. It sucks. Cabin fever in addition to swine flu-slash-throat gonorrhea. No good, boss.

So I left to go to the grocery store for soup. This grocery store is several blocks away. I got the soup and a half gallon of juice (no not Jews, juice) and pasta sauce and somehow that all cost $26. NYC does not care if you are sick. It just wants to eat your money and nosh on your soul until you are like those fried chicken bones you always see on the subway, Jesus people, you should clean up after yourself, that shit would NOT fly in the House of Choi.

So anyway I’m walking home and it is clear I should have opted to eat something lighter because I’m too weak to hold my bags. So I stop on a bench to rest like a block from my apartment and now I am writing this.

I am sick.

Lesson for the kids: Always get delivery.

My good friend Karina lives in Brooklyn and has this backyard where feral cats just roam where they please. Totally not a problem. Karina traps them and then gets them spayed/neutered and then either tries to find homes for them if they can live alongside human mammals or ‘releases them back in the wild.’ The Wilds of Brooklyn.

So the other day she started seeing this cat that had a rope tied around its middle. Pretty tightly. So tight, in fact, that the beast had a big gash from it. The cat was not in good shape. So, Karina trapped the beast, and took it to the vet. He sewed her up and said the cat was most likely PITBULL BAIT.

DUDES. PEOPLE. STOP BEING ASSHOLES.

I know we raise cows and all that to eat. Yes, it’s cruel. It’s horrible. But to go through the trouble of training dogs to be complete killing machines because you can exploit their ability to follow orders and please their owners is a real dick move. Most of those dogs die, and probably not from wounds, but from infections. Which is a horrible way to go. I much rather get shot then die slowly of gangrene. But then to use a cat to tie it to a stake somewhere to get your pooch all riled up is like adding another layer of assholery I don’t even get. A lot of cultures have some kind of cruel animal fighting thing. But a lot of cultures also have that folktale where a kid kills a little bird and the dad is all, dude, you killed a bird, why would you do that? It can’t feed a family, you are a dick, etc. One of those harsh life lessons about mortality and precious life blah blah blah. There’s no Native American folktale where the kid trains dogs to fight and dad is like GREAT JOB KID HIGH FIVE.

Anyway this cat escaped, probably by chewing through the rope. The vet’s office made Karina name it, so she called it Houdini. While at the vet, Houdini got spayed. So now it’s recovering.

She is pretty cute. Looks like she got ink on her face. Karina can’t keep Houdini because her husband is more or less deathly allergic. He is in my top five most unhealthiest friends. Seriously. He might be number two, after my friend Doug who’s allergic to anything made up of atoms. Neither here nor there.

Right now, Houdini’s in a cage at Karina and John’s, shaking and cowering. Karina can pet her head and touch her nose and the cat appears to sniff her. The choices now are to release her back into the wild after she recovers or find a home. But it’s not clear whether she’s a domestic cat that just got Admiral Shaft or if she is feral. She’s not hissing or snapping, but she’s also in some kind of strange comatose state of fear. Anyway, the ideal situation is to find a home, if the cat seems domesticated. But she wouldn’t be a very cat-like cat. I mean she could eventually, hopefully. But she probably needs a home with patient and sensitive owners.

I’d take her but if you saw my apartment you’d think she was better off living in a cage. So there you go.

If you’re interested, email me.

Is 09-09-09 over because I am over it. Listen. It’s going to happen once a year until 12-12-12. We’ve been doing it since 01-01-01. And by “doing it” I mean doing the sex making act haha jk jk jk. But not jk about the 090909 part.

I’m now in San Francisco. In the airport. My flight arrived an hour early so I’m now waiting for my ride, Dr. Jared, to pick me up and feed me Mexican food. Dudes. I’ve been in SF for like ten minutes and I haven’t had any Mexican yet. Like WTF PEOPLE. I need to get it on. And by “get it on” I mean the sex making act haha jk jk jk. MEXXICCAANNN. In the belly of this beast, narch!

I’m going to a wedding. But I swear this is the last wedding I’ll ever go to…until the one I have in October…and the one the weekend right after that one. Also in California. Ugh. I have no money. The last cent will be spent on A BURRITO. My needs are so small, surely they can be met? Yes? Yes!

Anyway I am excited to be here. I almost missed my flight. You know how there is always one jerk who gets on the plane super late, all sweaty and discombobulated, and the doors close right after they get their sad out-of-breath asses onto the plane? That wasn’t me. I was the one in front of that person. Also sweaty and panting.

Fact: Humans have more than five senses.

Fact: Balance is a sense.

Not fact: Bees taste good.

Leave yours here.

I often ask myself, hey Annie? and I answer yeah, Annie? I’ve been doing some thinking. Oh yeah, what you been thinking about? And then I answer, well I was thinking that I’m not edgy. Then I answer, oh Annie, you are so totally edgy, what are you talking about? And then I guffaw–which is kind of like a scoff and a sneer and a pooh pooh–and I say, dude I’m so not edgy. Look at me, or, uh, you. I am not edgy. I am not wearing drop-crotch pants. Made of leather. And then I’m all, omg wtf hfs, etc. And then I have to break it down for myself.

Point 1:
I have a baritone ukulele. Edgy people have regular ukuleles. Made out of orphans.

Point 2:
I have very low blood pressure so when I stand up I sometimes get really light headed. This makes rock squats really really difficult to pull off when I am at the grocery store.

Point 3:
My fridge reeks of cauliflower. I mean really really reeks. It smells like garbage stuffed inside a rotting carcass.

Point 4:
I love toast.

Point 5:
If I drink any beverage that contains alcohol, I turn bright red and then eventually lean on a surface so I can fall asleep.

Point 6:
I would like to have a Soda Club seltzer maker. It makes seltzer. It is a seltzer maker. SELTZER MAKER. Oh my god, it is like the headgear of home appliances.

Point 7:
See Point 4, above.

Point 8:
See Point 7, above.

Point 9:
My friend Kim taught me how to drive stick shift in the Von’s parking lot one summer, and then I pulled up a street and stalled right in front of a party of 10 year old boys who then proceeded to make fun of me because I kept on stalling. Eventually I got out of the driver’s seat and made Kim drive us home. Later, I was driving stick shift in Europe and wondered why the car handled so poorly and then I was at a border, and the border patrol dude pointed to my parking break, which was on. I must’ve been driving with that thing on for miles.

Point 10:
Cheese kind of gives me gas. And when I mean “kind of” I mean like it totally does.

So after making these points to myself, I agreed with myself that I was not edgy. And in order to make myself edgy I needed a nap. The end.

Dudes. It’s been at least a year since my last blog post. I apologize. I cannot say what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. Not because I’m working on a supersecret project, but because I honestly don’t remember. In fact, if you read my Twats I haven’t been doing much of anything. Look, I lead a boring life. I am a boring person. I eat, I read, and then I fall asleep while I read. Somewhere in there I write something, drink something, and wake up feeling bad about myself and other people. Occasionally I feel bad about children, good god think of the children! There’s not much to talk about. I shot a bear. No that was a lie. I just lied. Sorry.

Tonight there is rock practice. Starting now, each of our practices have a theme. Tonight’s theme is “no pants.” This means that no one is allowed to wear pants. No pants. Quite simple. Pants are not allowed. I realize in British English, pants means underpants. This theme could stand if we were in British England. I do not care. British, American, Canadian. Whatever you call it, no pants.

Thank you.