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.

Man, I cannot tell you how great it’s been eating things like potato chips and Triscuits. I keep forgetting to eat with the left side of my mouth, so it’s like I’m a chipmunk with this wad of food in one cheek and then it dawns on me that I CAN EAT WITH THE OTHER SIDE HOLY CRAP. Dual-side eating! TWO SIDES. I did not know there were two sides of the mouf. Now I know. I feel like I can eat twice as much as before. TWO! It’s my favorite number. OK, fine, I don’t have a favorite number, but if I did, it’d be two. Glorious two. Now you’re gonna tell me I can walk with oth feet too. Hah, I’ll believe that when I see it, buddy.

My good friend Chris wrecked on his bike over the weekend and broke his collarbone. Now he’s getting surgery to get plates and pins put into his shoulder. He’s gonna set off metal detectors, which is cool only to us because we’re not the ones who have to get strip searched every time we fly. Anyway, I was thinking that I would really like to be half robot. This shoulder of Chris’s is INDESTRUCTIBLE. It is METAL. It probably has some space age alloy crap in it. On a side note: I love the term “space age” because it means absolutely nothing. We’ve been in “the space age” for like 50 years. Space age can mean macrame or plastic or neon vinyl or maybe like that memory foam stuff. Anyway, the point is you can punch or kick Chris in the robotic collarbone and it will not break. NO IT WON’T BREAK. I dare you to try it. Anyway I think I would like some metal parts. I get hurt a lot. This would just be a lot more convenient for me. Convenience is everything.

I went to the dentist YET AGAIN yesterday. This time to get a permanent filling. My final appointment. So I’m sitting in the chair and the dentist comes in and asks, how are you? And I say, pretty good, and sorta you know, do a half smile. Like how good could one possibly be at the dentist finishing up a root canal? OH YEAH I’M FANTASTIC, I HOPE IT HURTS SO BAD IT MAKES MY GUMS BLEED FOR WEEKS AND THIS TIME I WOULD REALLY LIKE TO PAY AN EXTRA $500 JUST BECAUSE I FEEL SO GREAT RIGHT NOW HEY LET’S BE BROS AND GET BEERS. Anyway, I’m not rude, I’m just reserved. I am not what people would “bubbly” and “effervescent” or “chipper”. And he just kind of stares at me and says “How come you’re never happy?”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That is SO unbelievably rude, even if he meant it as a joke. We are not “girlfriends” here. He can’t ask me that kind of shit until we’re friends first. And we are not friends. I wanted to take the suction tube and strangle him for being such a toolkit.

Then he got snippy with his dental assistants for not getting the cementy filling stuff prepared in time. And he gets all flustered with them and says, I’ll just do it myself. No. NO. I’ll just do it myself.

You know how your parents never yelled at you in front of guests? Or, if your my mother, not yell at you as bad. Like they are on better behavior? It was awkward. I felt as though my dentist should’ve been on better behavior with me sitting there with toobz in my mouf. But I guess not. Sure, the assistants probably should’ve had everything ready and all that, but like, be nice in front of guests. I dunno, I know I am not “BFFs 4 eva” with this dentist so I’m hypercritical. But come on, dude. PLAY NICE.

Anyway, this makes me realize how much I love my regular dentist, who is awesome and professional and his office is from the future and also he is from Pasadena and his dental assistants make fun of him for saying “awesome” and “fabulous” too much. If you guys want a fierce dentist (who sadly does not do root canals), go to mine. I would marry him if he wasn’t gay. I would love to have his gay dentist babies with perfect teeth.

So, it’s over now. I am going to eat potato chips because they are crunchy. I’m very excited about crunchy foods right now. Crunchayyyyy.

Oh my god, I’m going to eat a gigantic pile of carrots too.

I realize I haven’t been blogging much these days. Mostly because I have writer’s block. It’s pretty bad. Really bad. I’m having problems. And it’s not like one of those problems you can throw money at or one of those problems where you can just amputate something or one of those problems you can just throw something out and start over like a souffle or a custard. What do you do when your brain refuses to help you out? I say, hey brain, let’s write about this, and the brain says, I have an idea, why don’t I suckerpunch you in the face or stick a shiv in your gut. Pow! And then I say, but brain, seriously, it’s time to get serious. We need to write something that doesn’t suck and the brain is like, oh my god, you totally need to handwash that scarf right now.

So I handwash that scarf and now it’s ruined. The yarn is like falling apart, I guess the detergent was too heavy duty (Sorry Erin, it was the one you made me).

So then I’m like, OK brain, let’s do this. I’m totally serious this time. We’re gonna squeeze something out. We will write anything. We’ll write an essay, or a letter, or EVEN A PIECE OF FICTION GOOD GOD HOW HORRIFYING and then my brain is like, you know, this isn’t working out. I want to break up with you. I want to see other people. And I’m like, dude you can’t leave me just because things are tough, we’ve been together for a long time, for as long as I can remember, you can’t do this to me and my brain is like oh yeah? Watch me. Then I hear the door slam and if I (only) had a brain, I’d think oh my god, I think my brain just left me and is never coming back. I mean if I were my brain, I’d leave too.

So now my brain is totally at the club,doing the cabbage patch on the dance floor, doing coke with, like, everyone from Gossip Girl and probably getting it on with James Franco or Peter Petrelli from Heroes and I’m sitting here, with a wet scarf on my table. The good news is that I washed the walls in the bathroom so now they’re not as moldy.

So hello, friends. If you see my brain, tell her I miss her and want to get back together again. We’re meant to be together, like Hall and Oates.