Thanks for all the good wishes for my friend yesterday. And thanks to everyone who checked their (or someone else’s) boobies. You are doing a great service to yourself and to boobies everywhere.

That’s a blue-footed booby, in case you were wondering. I am not a big fan of birds, but I do like me some boobies. And the pygmy owl. OH man I love the pygmy owl. Actually I like birds that eat other birds. But other than that, birds can suck it. You hear that birds? Suck. It.

Anyway the surgery went well, my friend woke up totally disoriented and then checked her boob and was like, oh my god, someone signed my breast! And sure enough there were initials on her boob. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, that’s all I have to say. Anyway she was totally on drugs and crazy loopy and was crying, laughing, and then checking out her boob every two seconds, I can’t believe someone signed my boob! I heard the surgery makes your nips hard all the time ha ha ha! I was like I want to BE ON WHAT YOU ARE ON RIGHT NOW. How awesome to be so relaxed. I am not a relaxed person. That may be hard to believe. Hah.

I just doused my entire desk with spearmint oil. It smells like mouthwash. It smells nice. It will cover up the smell of rotting mice bodies in our office walls. Mmm.

So now I’d like to talk about James Franco and how I am going to do him.

OK there’s not much more to say other than that.

That is all.

So this morning, I come to the office and just like any other day at the office, I open my drawer to get out some papers. Documents, if you will. But what do I find underneath my documents?

MICE SHIT.

SHIT. FROM MICE.

How do I know it’s from mice and not say, a dog? Good point. I’m not sure. I can only ASSUME it’s from mice. I have not SEEN the beasts who have made the shits. It could very well be a dog. It could also be a minotaur. I hear those shit too. But let’s assume it’s mice. Once a co-worker came to the office and smelled something bad and it was a dead mouse. In his office.

MICE POOP IN MY DRAWER.

But wait! What if it’s just ONE mouse? How do you know it’s mice, as in plural of mouse? Hmm, good point. Well, there was a lot of poop. So it’s either one mouse with a very active and enthusiastic lower G.I. or a bunch of mice was slightly less active lower G.I.’s. But still active nonetheless. There was also dried pee.

I threw EVERYTHING out. All my documents. Totally. Fucking. Disgusting. I doused the thing with bleach wipes. I then I washed my hands with the bleach wipes, put hand sanitizer on them, and then washed my hands with soap.

I don’t even keep food in my drawers. I don’t even have food. Karina has my food, remember? So I think, what if they are LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO NEST. Oh my god. I’m getting the hurlies just thinking about this.

MICE! Poop! In! My! Drawers!

My friend Mary P-S tells me that mice do not like spearmint. You get spearmint oil, douse it on some cotton balls, shove it in the drawers, and hope they scamper off to somewhere else. Most likely to the desk next to me. I just purchased some spearmint oil on the tubes. If this shit doesn’t work, I’m lighting the whole place on fire. You think I’m kidding but I’m not. Do I work in an alley? No. I work in an office. A modern office, not some turn of the century Oliver Twist shit, you know what I mean? At least I don’t work above a Wendy’s, but still.

Hopefully the exterminator will come and napalm the building. And the city with it. But this won’t really help my drawers. I SHALL EMERGE THE VICTOR. I am outnumbered, no doubt, but I SHALL BE VICTORIOUS.

In other totally unrelated news, I am writing a movie on “cups, pints, quarts, and gallons” and was researching on the interwebz and googled “what comes in quarts?” Because, I wanted to know (other than milk, juice and paint.) And then I found this.

http://comesinquarts.com

Keep refreshing!!!

The temperature is 17 degrees F (which is 8.33333 degrees C) outside.

But let us focus our attention on the inside. After all, the inside is what counts, right?

My apartment does not have heat. I’m going to guess that it’s about 30 degrees in here.

I do not know why it does not have heat. But this morning, in the bathroom, I think I saw my breath.

I have called the landlord. He is “on vacation.” I called the emergency number. I left a message. I LEFT A MESSAGE FOR EMERGENCY. That’s great. It’s like calling 911 and them being like “Hey can’t come to the phone right now! Leave a message!”

I am wearing a down jacket. And Pikachu slippers that are like wearing stuffed animals on my feet and make me walk funny because the ears are so big and slam into each other when I walk. I never wear them because they make me walk funny but also because my apartment is so small and has no floor space I really don’t need slippers to walk around in. It’s not like I can say, hmmm I wonder what’s going on in that other room! Let me walk there to find out! Point is, I’m freezing and I’m sitting on this aluminum chair.

People are grouchy,
Holiday season, thumbs down,
Hey! STFU!

Office doors open,
During Christmas to New Year’s,
Who does that, you ass?

Good times, long ago,
Now holidays are a chore,
Don’t go to Macy’s.

Why the long face, friend?
Streaming bitter, emo tears,
Stop crying, stupid.

Twelve days of Christmas,
But a lifetime of torture,
Death, the only choice.

Today I’m going to the dentist, where he will ask me to open my facehole so he can install a crown on my toof. This crown happens to cost eight hundred United States dollars. In addition, while he is “there,” he would like to replace an old silver filling that is more or less the same age as myself. This will cost fifty United States dollars even.

It occurred to me today that the crown is the most expensive thing I own, except for my computer and my keyboard (musical, not USB with the coffee on it). Actually the crown is worth more than my computer since that beast is about three years old. So the second most expensive thing I own is this stupid crown. EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! I must part with EIGHT HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS during this economic meltdown! I feel like it should come with a free toaster. A few years ago if you opened an account at a Commerce Bank in Chinatown they gave you a free rice cooker. A FREE RICE COOKER. All I get is a toothbrush, but I have to ask for it because during these tough economic times, the dentist is being stingy with the toothbrushes.

I just spent OVER AN HOUR trying to find parking in this town. I started in my neighborhood, went down to Tribeca, then toward City Hall, then toward South St. Seaport, then Chinatown, then I said, fuck this, I am going to go to over the goddamn Manhattan Bridge to DUMBO, went there, then went to BK Heights, and then was heading toward Boerum and realized what a horrible decision that was and then turned around, went over the BROOKLYN Bridge and then went back through Chinatown and Tribeca and then contemplated paying for a parking garage which would’ve easily been $50 but decided I rather spend my $50 on anything else other than parking (pants, eggs, crack, not in that order) and then I ended up a block away from my apartment in a “Monday” spot, so I have to move it tomorrow morning before “street cleaning” happens and do this all over again. OH GOD. THE. ABSOLUTE. WORST. I have no idea how people have cars in this city, but holy crap I wanted to die. Apparently Chris and Roz spend hours moving their car each week. And everyone knows the goddamn city does not clean the streets so alternate side parking is a joke, plus half the fire hydrants are dead and yet we still can’t park in front of them. Seriously, I almost started crying it was so awful. Let me tell you, the streets are lousy with douche right now. Turns out there is a UN General Assembly plus the San Gennaro festival but that doesn’t really explain why Brooklyn parking situation got me by the short and curlies. But anyway, hello. I am back. The wedding was awesome, congratulations to John and Karina, they are among my favorite people on this planet, I mean that. Actually the wedding sucked, I mean, people were crying everywhere and it wasn’t at Burger King. The BrainPOP Jr. team made an animated biopic of them and it totally blew everyone’s minds and made Karina cry. That was the point, to make her cry. I’m apparently good at it, for what it’s worth. In a related note, I woke up this morning with the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life. OK maybe not my life, but definitely top five. My brain felt like a dehydrated apple ring. Spongy and moist yet dry and chewy.

This is for you architects out there, go ahead and hate me:

Santiago Calatrava is a steaming pile of douche. I had no idea, because I am not an architect, but holy shit on a stick. He pretty much embodies the worst of architecture, as a person. I was reading the New Yorker (oh yes I was) which is the “style issue” (oh yes it was) and there’s a profile on Calatrava (oh no they didn’t) and all I can say is the guy is high on his own supply of hot air. You can read the full article here but I recommend waiting at least an hour after your last meal. Kind of like you’re swimming. In a pool of douche.

I am so sad. There are nice, modest, humble architects out there that do nice things and build nice stuff and shut their faceholes and wouldn’t it be nice if people created/designed/wrote totally anonymously and then this guy is all behold! My boner! Let me release a pair of doves over my creation! He’s just totally out of touch. Anyway I just needed to vent because it was piling up inside of me. AND YES, I understand that architects are not the only blowhards on this planet. You can read the Marc Jacobs profile in the same issue. Not to say that he’s a blowhard, I actually found him sad in other ways, but he’s also not claiming to give back to “deliver something to those who don’t have anything” whenever he makes something.

Also, my office now has mice.

My co-worker and friend Brian is going to be on JEOPARDY! Can you believe that shit? It’s not surprising because Brian is seriously an idiot savant except he is not an idiot. I guess that would just make him a savant. He goes to pub trivia every week at Pete’s Candy Store and schools everyone’s asses. The only time he doesn’t win is when he is HOSTING it. It’s ludicrous. You know, I don’t even go because what is the goddamn point? Brian won’t let anyone on his team if they can’t name the vice presidents in order. To be perfectly honest, I always get too drunk at pub quiz to answer the questions so by the time we get to the visual round I am leaning on the table with my head in my hands and saying “oh god I think I am hungover already.” And then Mr. Pony yells at me, “ANNIE! Dude! WHO IS THIS SILENT FILM ACTOR?” And then sometimes I hobble home on the train and think, wow, why didn’t I take a cab? Because I was TOO DRUNK to think about a cab. And all this happens on a Wednesday. My problem is that it only takes one drink and I am absolutely stupid. I just can’t hold it. I mean I’ve tried and tried and have gone through rigorous training sessions, but it just hasn’t worked out for me. One drink and I’m stupid. At least I’m a cheap date. Anyway, congratulations Brian. Bring home the big bucks.

I’m pleased to report that the air conditioners in our office are not functioning. I’m very pleased. I am doing my happy dance. That’s the dance where I do the robot, go into the Cabbage Patch, and then hold up one finger. It’s the one between my index and ring fingers, in case you are wondering.

High of 97 degrees. That’s in Fahrenheit. For all you Celsius people, that’s 36 degrees.

Let’s talk about bowling. Bowling is the only thing my doctor has told me to avoid completely: “Your tendonitis is bullshit, don’t go bowling because it will break your fingers in half.” OK she didn’t say that exactly, but you get the idea. I said I would never go bowling because who even GOES bowling in the first place? I do not live in 1955. The only bowling people do now is on Wii and even then we all know Mario Tennis is better. Like I do not think it will be a problem to avoid bowling. It’s not like avoiding wheat or dairy (on a side note I had to go on a wheat- and dairy-free diet to figure out some allergy issues and I was totally angry and hungry all the time so I caved in after two weeks and told my doctor at the time that I rather die tomorrow by eating pasta than live forever and never eating toast again, and then he kind of gave me that passive-aggressive thing that doctors do, as if to say, sure, fine, WHATEVER, it’s your life and you’re going to die but hey, don’t let ME stop YOU from eating your precious toast. And I’m like holy shit am I paying you to be a total dick? So then I left for another doctor who was like yeah I’m not gonna force you to do anything unless you are in the throes of death because I am not a jerk. She is the best.) Anyway, what I mean to say is that not bowling is not a problem.

But then Pony came to visit from Hawaii and the whole office decided hey, let’s go bowling. And then I gave about a thousand other suggestions that does NOT involve bowling, such as air hockey, ping pong, skee ball, and trapeze lessons, which all got shot down because everyone I work with, especially Pony, is a real douchemeister. YES YOU HEAR THAT? YOU ARE A DOUCHEMEISTER.

But hey, I am a team player. I figure, I will go bowling but I will not bowl. I will watch and drink beer. Delicious beer full of wheat.

Done and done.

Anyway while at the alley, I figured out a new way to bowl that does not require me to break my fingers in half. It was a technique I knew would make all my coworkers talk mad shit and make fun of me but by that point I was drunk so who cares. They are all douchemeisters anyway. So I walk up as far as I can go in the lane and then do a granny roll between my legs, but I do it, very, very slowly with very, very little spin on it. It kind of just rolls straight ahead and then hits the pins squarely in the middle, and then I get a strike. Yes. That is HOW YOU DO IT. I was the winner and I was victorious. Granny tortoise style, much better than the crane or praying mantis style. Jackie Chan would be like, whoa, wtf, I am going to cop that shit for my next movie. And then Jet Li would do it. And then Steven Seagal would do it but like, no one would care. And then some place, somewhere, Jean Claude Van Damme would be like, I am going to make Bloodsport 8 in tortoise style and everyone would be confused because they thought Van Dam was dead and then he’d have to explain, no, I’m not dead, I’m just Belgian. And people would be like oh right, Belgian, like the waffles, you know, I thought you were Danish, like the pastry. And then Van Damme would sulk and get his fake tan on.

So bowling: I give you the thumbs up.