Dear Online Diary,

I normally don’t quote Dane Cook. Trust me. I do a lot of quoting, but Dane Cook is not someone I usually have the need to quote. I have never felt the need to share the super finger gag with anyone or to explain my burger king experiences through his eyes. However, this quote is the ONLY thing I thought of the day I came home and my house had been broken into.

A few weeks ago, I drove my little piece of crap home from a long, but stress free day from work. I was looking forward to going inside, turning on the fan, and passing out on my couch for a quick 2-hour power nap.

This nap was not to be. I pulled up in my driveway and I can see the screen on my front window leaning on my porch and my window wide open. I immediately should have gotten on the phone and called the police. I should’ve waited by my door, then let a cop go into my house and walk around, gun ablazin’, and making sure no one was there. Then he would write a little report, and I would thank him profusely and give him some cookies for his efforts. He would probably tell me to have a good night, be safe, then leave me bitter for calling me “ma’am”.

But no, I didn’t do that. My window was wide open and I had a newly fixed cat inside who didn’t know where the fuck he was yet. He had only been at my house 2 days. So I walked up the stairs to my house. I looked inside the window. I didn’t see anything. My TV was still there. I didn’t hear anything. I checked my locks. Nothing had been opened-the deadbolt was still intact. I somehow doubt anyone would take anything that would fit through the window. I also doubted that if they used the front door, they would have dead bolted it for courtesy sake and go back out through the window. So I walked in.

I walked to my kitchen. I grabbed the biggest, most intimidating knife I own. Now I was mad at myself for never sharpening my knives. But I assumed if I needed to plunge it into someone’s midsection, even a semi-dull blade would work. I’ve never actually stabbed anyone, but I once saw a dude on TV with a pencil sticking through his hand do to making eye contact with a mentally unstable classmate. I’m no knifeologist, but I think a dull knife is still sharper than a pencil. Feeling secure in my abilities to stab someone if I needed to, I walked through my entire house with that knife in front of me. No one was there. No one was in the closet. No one in the shower. No one under the sink (you never know.) Nothing missing. My laptop was still on my bed. My jewelry box is not full of precious rubies or anything, but nothing was missing from that either. No missing TV’s or stereos. No missing panties (you never know about that one either). Nothing missing. Nothing moved. No indication of scrounging through drawers of dressers. Cat sleeping peacefully on the bed. A perfectly Zen environment, all around.

I started seriously wondering who the fuck goes through all this trouble and doesn’t steal shit? Who goes through the motions leading to a very probable arrest for nothing? You never know, the cop that catches you might be really fucking pissed he’s going to lose his job because the governor cant balance the budget. His wife might be leaving him for someone in the Sheriff’s department, and he noticed he’s starting to go bald. This is not a cop to fuck with. He knows you’re already in trouble, why not riddle you, the perpetrator, with some bullet holes and blow off some steam? It’s easier than going to the gym, and lets face it, it’s been a few years since the treadmills seen any action. Do you really want this angry, chubby, balding, lonely cop to come in and find you? The answer is no. If I were going to break into someone’s place, this would be at the top of my list of worries.

Next to that would be the possibility that someone was home. That someone is an agoraphobic member of the NRA and an itchy trigger finger and a habit of skipping his meds. Sure, he seems ok to the neighbors. Very quiet, by all accounts and doesn’t bother anyone. But what you don’t know is that his therapist is actively trying to find a balance of Lithium and Thorazine that makes this man stop planning to secede from the union. Sure, he has an entire arsenal in his spare room, but it’s only to be prepared when the rest of the militia sets plans in motion and needs his help. Who wants to break into the house of that guy??? Not me!

That’s really the only reason why I have a boring day job and never started a meth habit. I like to avoid these kinds of situations. I may be a pussy for that, but I’m a pussy with no bullet holes in her anatomy.

I walked back to my living room and proceeded to close and lock the window. I shoved the lock up extra hard, as if stripping the locks would make it more impossible next time. Then I put the screen back on. The screen was perfectly intact and unbent. Whoever this asshole was, he was a considerate and agile one. Then I closed my front door and sat down to catch my breath and let my aforementioned heart return to its proper cavity.

I calmed down after that. It took a few minutes and a Guinness, but I did achieve some state of calm. But after my body stopped releasing adrenaline and my hands weren’t shaking like Katherine Hepburn, my brain went into full throttle “WHY?” mode.

I only came up with one analytically sound conclusion: this motherfucker was a huge fan of Dane Cook. This was an awkward 16-year-old male who had not yet grown into his features-most likely oversized feet and/or ears. He is still riddled with acne and can’t seem to find a hairstyle that doesn’t accentuate his many cowlicks. He started listening to Dane Cook because he works at Burger King, and Dane worked at Burger King. Surely, this adolescent had some hope of becoming rich, famous, and socially acceptable as well! He doesn’t have any real friends, which left him with LOTS of time to listen to Dane’s albums over and over again, chuckling to himself while playing WOW online with a girl in Virginia who is definitely REALLY hot in person. He knows she’s super hot; because she told him she was “super hot lolz”. She won’t post pictures, but her avatar says it all. Busty and tall, with a tiny waist and big, blue eyes. She wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing. Her name is WOWgurl198 and someday, he will totally go visit her.

As our socially rejected teen got less acquainted with society and more invested in WOWgurl198 and Dane Cook, he decided he would totally break into someone’s house just like Dane did. No harm done. He wasn’t going to steal anything, so it was cool. And he would have a story for WOWgurl198 to show that he was a badass motherfucker. She would be so impressed; she would totally let him touch those huge boobies of hers. He would have street cred, even though he would NEVER talk to anyone on the actual street (those people are scary!). He would definitely grow some hair on his nuts, so that’s a huge bonus.

After no planning at all, this bastard headed into my neighborhood. He found my place. Since I live in a sea of condos, I have no idea how he decided to go to the one in the middle with nothing to cover up what he was doing. Perhaps he sensed the ambiance was excellent inside? Perhaps he was tired of walking in his undersized converse and didn’t make it to his actual target? Whatever it was, he settled and walked up my stairs. Problem one: I have a security door. It’s made of metal. And it’s locked. Even if this skinny bastard could muster the strength to kick down my real door, the chances of making it through the security door was nearly impossible without the assistance of angel dust and 20 extra pounds of muscle.

So he went for the window. He got the screen off, which he learned to do in his own house when he wanted to sneak out. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but it was still super awesome to sneak out in spite of THE MAN and just chill in his backyard for a while. Then he somehow got the window open. I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave it unlocked, only because I’m pretty sure I’m not an idiot, so I don’t know what happened there. Magic powers? Youtube instructional video? The world will never know. But he did.

Then something happened. He freaked. He didn’t even take the Dane Cook mandated two steps into the house before realizing he was really about to piss himself. He could hear cars driving down the street. My cat let out a lion-like roar. my neighbors annoying chihuahua started barking. Or there was no environmental element at all. He just realized he was a pathetically inept, skinny, suburban 16 year old who didn’t have any business here. But what would happen now? Well, WOWgurl198 didn’t need to know, right? She lived in Virginia. She would still probably let him touch her boobies someday. She didn’t need to know he never actually got in. the condo. He got far enough, right? Even the person living there would assume he got in. He would just leave everything open. Yeah, that was it. Dane Cook sure as hell wouldn’t know. That bastard still hadn’t written back to any of the letters with meticulously drawn and anatomically corrent super fingers all over it. And since he went this far, he might even have a chance at growing some of that much needed ball hair. The adrenaline alone should be worth a few, right?

And that was that. He left, feeling simultaneously manly and like an oversized invertebrate. But the crappy, spineless feelings would pass…. especially once he touched those boobies.

Leaving only me to come home and deduce this entire scenario’s absolute probability. With a few weeks of contemplation under my belt, I am now absolutely certain this is what happened. Leaving me only one thing to say:

FUCK YOU, DANE COOK!

I would really like to make a connection with a convicted felon. Not a deep, strong, emotionally involved connection. Not a sexual connection. But a humorous connection. No, it won’t be funny for them at all (unless they hate themselves enough), but it would be an absolute hoot for me. I love these websites.

Writeaprisoner.com is my favorite. The reason is simple: extensive search options. I can find anything. I love finding Buddhists on death row. I’m not a buddhist, nor do I pretend to know the ins and outs of the buddhist faith-but I know they’re pretty fond of being laid back. I’ve never heard of a bunch of CRAZY southern buddhists picketing soldiers funerals with signs held up proclaiming “God Hates Faggots!”.  I’ve never seen a group of buddhists being brought up on charges for bombing an abortion clinic. Buddhists seem to have found some kind of happy medium in this crazy world and they don’t really bother anyone. I like buddhists.

Which makes me wonder how one of them is on death row for homicide.

Perhaps, this guy somehow found out he was going to be reincarnated into a really annoying parrot* and just snapped. Perhaps he helped a bunch of old ladies cross the road out of the kindness of his karmacally driven heart. Then he stubbed his toe on the curb, tripped on the old lady’s cane, and did a swan dive into the asphalt. Then decided karma was a fucking idiot-thereby murdering the helpless old woman with her own cane.

The logical person would assume they were not buddhist when they committed these crimes. Perhaps they used to associate with a more traditionally violent religion. Perhaps they just too original  to find Jesus in the pen-but also really didn’t want to “chance it” with suffering eternal damnation when they got the chair.

But I’m not known for my logical thinking. Never have been. I would like to think this guy was a bad ass buddhist who snapped.  I think he was hardcore. I think he wore a black pleather jacket and steel toed pleather shoes-so he could look like a biker without killing any animals. I think he had 3 days worth of stubble that would add to his badass credit, or make him look somewhat homeless if he wasn’t wearing that kick ass pleather jacket. I think he was the most militant buddhist who ever lived. I think he was so hellbent on being a fierce tiger or beastly bear in his next life, he was going to make you find some fucking peace on this earth even if he had to stick it up your ass. You WILL find Nirvana-or you will fucking pay!

As much as you might want to argue with me about this, we will never know. Because I can’t write to these prisoners. I would love to, but I don’t have a post office box. I may be crazy, but I’m not crazy enough to give a group of felons my street address-not even the buddhists.

I’m dying to write to these guys. In the words of Ariel, I want to ask them my questions and get some answers. I would even post them here. I’d get an anthology of my pen pals letters and drawings. I’d scrapbook them show them to my grandchildren and friends that come to visit. It would be an amazing coffee table book. Glorious and entertaining, but most importantly, extremely informative.

Alas, I barely have enough money to pay my bills, much less pay for a po box and endless amounts of stamps. Perhaps, when I am more financially stable, I will fulfill my dreams of getting to know the murdering buddhists. But then again, if I’m more financially stable, I might find better things to do than sit in my apartment and dream about harassing inmates. Only time and money will tell.

*To be fair to this parrot, and parrotkind everywhere, all birds are annoying. They’re screeching little bastards and I hate them all. Except penguins. Penguins are fucking cute.

Saturday night made me realize I should not have children. I don’t even have the patience for Kitty Kitty, much less a noisy shit machine who constantly needs attention from my boobies.

Saturday, as a whole, was a good day. Goodwill, laundry, absolute seclusion from humans I normally interact with. It was, as they say, muy bueno. Just what the doctor ordered. Just the ticket. Just good. Saturday night was spent at home on the internet, randomly looking for side work and reading updates from friends on Facebook and Livejournal.

At a certain point, my need to be awake was completely satiated. I was ready for some light reading before heading off into a beautiful, blissful, much needed trip to slumber land. Nothing better than going to bed on Saturday night, knowing there is no alarm clock or work waiting for you in the morning.

I fell asleep relatively easily. This is a rarity for me. Without the help of Ambien, excessive amounts of booze, or heroin, I have never been a good sleeper.

But the blissful sleep was not to be…about an hour after falling asleep, I woke up to Kitty Kitty running like he was on fire across the wood floors. I don’t know what he was running from, but I can only assume it was a big fucking dog. Or a tiger. Or the boogeyman. I went back to sleep….until a big, black, furry asshole jumped squarely on my head. At this point, I was more worried it was not Kitty Kitty than anything else. Once I figured out that it was the cat, I was pissed. However, it was a grumpy “I just want to go back to sleep” kind of anger.

Begrudgingly, I flipped over and went back to sleep. This was interrupted AGAIN by incessant meowing, the sounds of the fury asshole running around from room to room, and at some point, knocking over shit in the living room. As much as I was trying my hardest to get back to sleep, it was not to be.

The final assault was performed in the form of a WWF body slam to my head…again. At this point, I threw off my covers, stood straight up, looked at the fury asshole and yelled, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!?!”

By this point it was 6 a.m. I’m pretty sure it was sleep deprivation…but for some reason, I stood there staring at the fury asshole waiting for an answer. I’m not a complete nut job-I didn’t expect english. I didn’t expect him to write down the actual symptomatology and diagnoses of his assholish condition.

But some indicator would be nice.
Some REASON for being psychotic all night long.

+Perhaps there was danger lurking? “What is it, Kitty Kitty? Is little Timmy stuck in the well?”
+Perhaps I was a bad owner? Maybe he really really hates his name. Which would definitely further my understanding as to why he only answers to Kitty Kitty. But his name isn’t Virgil, let’s not get dramatic. Besides, it’s the name he came with. I didn’t give him a new one. No..this can’t be it.
+Perhaps he smelled gas? This would be awesome, further indicating my cat can be used as a security system. Alas, I don’t have one gas appliance in the house. My monthly gas bills add up to state taxes and surcharges.
+Perhaps he’s beginning a Freudian Regressive Period? According to Freud, everyone reverts back to childlike behavior every once in awhile, then bounces forward into adulthood again. If I didn’t think Freud was a perverted cokehead-I might go for the psychological regression.

Even if it was none of these reasons, I would at least appreciated a head hung in shame or serve me some sort of revitalizing omelette breakfast.

Instead, the fury asshole started rubbing on me and purring like a candy kid at the height of a rave. I was perplexed and excessively grumpy. I got up and drank some coffee. I’ll admit, I was shaky and puky from the lack of sleep. I headed back to my room, intending to grab some pants and start my day.

As I walked by the spare bedroom, I noticed something on the carpet. Dark splatter all over it. What the fuck? I just vacuumed. But without my glasses, it was far too blurry to see. I went to get my glasses from the side of my bed, the asshole till rolling around on my bed meowing and purring.

I went back to the spare room. Green flakes all over the floor. ALL OVER. And in the corner-a ripped up, empty bag of catnip.

Kitty Kitty was HIGH! That was it! He ripped open and consumed an entire 3 ounce bag of that shit.

Now my entire perspective of the night had changed. Kitty Kitty is a drug addict. He consumed enough catnip to impress a cat version of Keith Richards. Now I’m not mad, I’m concerned. My wayward cat needed to dry out and withdraw. He was still an asshole-but he was an asshole with a pathological disease condition. Now I would have to stage an intervention and put him in rehab. And at least feel somewhat bad for him. Or maybe it was just one bad night and he would regret it all and never do it again?

Only time will tell. I was far too tired to stage an intervention. Dr. Drew would understand. We can’t stage an intervention when we are that tired. It just isn’t right.

By 10 a.m., Mini Keith was sleeping soundly on my bed. So soundly, he didn’t even wake up when I took a shower or got clothes out of my dresser. Some people may wonder if he was in a coma…he was not. I was sure to poke him every 20 minutes for the rest of the day..every time I was sure he was asleep-I was sure to poke him or pet him just enough to wake him up-then walk away.

Take that, you hungover bastard!

I’m officially in my mid-to-late twenties. I’m 26 years old…thereby forcing me into the upper half of my early adult life. I didn’t appreciate this change. Not because I feel old. My friends will tell you that I’m far too immature to be considered anything resembling a sophisticated, sound minded adult. However, I should start doing adult things at this point, and so I have.

I consider the following four things definitive indicators of adulthood:
1. A Stable Relationship.
2. A Pet.
3. A Car.
4. A Savings Account.

Well, I’ve done ALL OF THOSE THINGS! Aren’t you fucking excited? I know a minute ago you were scratching your thigh and trying to remove the crust from the inner most part of your eye and only half reading this. But now, you’re fucking excited. You are happy that someone on the internet has grown up just a little bit.

Perhaps, I should explain how I accomplished all of those fucking exciting things!!!!!!

1. Lets start with the stable relationship! It’s with my cat! We aren’t sexually involved and we don’t make compromises in order to continue our merriment together. But I have agreed to feed him and clean out his litter box daily. He has agreed to occasionally do cute things. That’s fairly stable if you ask me. I know it’s not a real stable relationship, but in order to do that, you would have to literally talk to people you find interesting and attractive. I don’t do that. I’m still a scared, shy little fourth grader who thinks these things should just magically happen. I should wake up one day with a manfriend who smiles and kisses me with glee and enthusiasm. So far, Merlin hasn’t waved his wand and created a perfect, stable manfriend that magically shows up without any awkwardness whatsoever. I’m just going to wait it out. Come on, Merlin!

2. Yes, I have a cat. A black cat with green eyes and a name he doesn’t answer to. He only answers to “Kitty, kitty” so far. Maybe that’s his real name and no one told me. Every single time I call him Sebastian, he’s really offended and confused. I feel bad for him. So misunderstood! But he came to me malnourished, sad, lonely, scared and really fucking dirty. He is now looking less like an Ethiopian with greasy dandruff and more like a pet. We’ve been together for a month and so far, kitty kitty likes me a lot more than he did the first week.

3. I do have a car. It’s a 2000 Ford Focus ZX3! Sure, it’s almost 10 years old, but it’s a car. Sure, it has a condenser with a hole in it, needs all new rubber tubing and wiring to avoid overheating after 3 miles of driving. Sure, the air conditioner doesn’t work because the coolant is leaking so fast I leave concrete stained wherever I go. BUT IT’S A FUCKING CAR.

4. A savings account. I have that. It has $5.00 in it. But that $5.00 is totally off limits. I’m going to save that $5 for 20 years. Eventually, I might need that $5 for an emergency trip to 7-Eleven. And when I do, it’s fucking there for me. Like an old friend. An old friend that isn’t worth much, but is always there for you.

I think this proves that I’m an upstanding citizen with a rich future that any parent would not cry disparately over at night. Not even a catholic mother. Sure, I don’t have a college degree and I don’t pay my bills on time…but give me time, my dearest online diary. AND STOP FUCKING JUDGING ME!

Yesterday, I went to Goodwill because their 4th of July sale entitled me to get everything at 50% off. While this is a fantastic sale that Sephora and Ulta should consider undertaking, I had NO IDEA what a cluster fuck it was going to be.
That was stupid on my part, I admit. For one thing, Goodwill is always crowded on Saturdays. And it was a big sale. And the economy is shit so there are a lot of poor people.
I did manage to find 8 books for $4.00.

But was it really worth standing in line for 40 minutes with a sweaty, smelly, angry man breathing on my neck?
Did I really need to endure all the dirty, snotty, LOUD children running around playing hide and seek around my feet?
Did I really have to smile politely as the 85 year old woman in front of me explained how pissed she was that she didn’t find a birdhouse anywhere in the store- but that the yellow candy dish she found would be per-FECT for her dining room?
Did I really need to feel my makeup sweating off of my forehead because the body heat around me made air conditioning irrelevant?

The answer is a resounding YES! Because I got 8 books for $4! This is an awesome deal, dammit.

Of course, some people shy away from buying books and other items at goodwill because they smell like your grandma. The books I got today do too. That familiar smell of roasted chicken, baby powder and looming death.

Well, let me give you an AMAZING piece of advise, my friends:

Here’s how you get rid of the grandma smell:
1. Place your item in a Ziploc freezer bag*
2. Put it in your freezer.
3. Return in twenty four hours.
4. Remove item.
5.Take a hearty whiff.

You will smell nothing. For whatever reason, this gets the smell of mildew, dust, and old women** out of your books.

It does not, however, remove any stains. If you find a book and it’s stained and smells like pee-I suggest you get another book. You really can’t be THAT desperate for a deal or you’re going to end up with some kind of disease. And I won’t touch you.

Enjoy!

* it doesn’t actually have to be a Ziploc brand freezer bag. You can use any kind of freezer bag you want. It could be made by Toyota.
**or old men.