Monthly Archives: May 2011

People who kill spiders AND People who ignore them and pretend they will go away on their own

July 30, 2010

It was as hot and sticky as an X-rated theater on the kind of evening when you relinquish your body issues, accept your stretch marks and bacne as character-building tools, and lie naked on the kitchen floor because tiles are surely cooler than Berber carpeting.

I had just moved into a new apartment after the demise of a damaging and over-priced marriage. Still in my ultra feminist, “I don’t need a man and since my underwire broke I might as well burn this bra” stage, I was feeling confident in my abilities to master things I had previously left to the opposite gender. I had changed the batteries in the fire alarms all by myself and supervised my father as he installed a new toilet seat.  If it weren’t for my well-endowed form I could have been mistaken for a man.

Having just finished hanging my last Bob Dylan poster, I was rewarding myself with excessive quantities of peanut butter and jelly saltine sandwiches – a perfect excuse to open the fridge and feel the cool gust of the electronically-produced, climactic heaven contained inside. I was settled comfortably on the kitchen floor, shrouded in my nakedness when I saw it.

Gigantic in size. Grotesque in appearance. Rivaling Donald Trump in sheer arrogance. A spider.

A gangly, furry, hemorrhage-inducing spider clinging to the corner

of the ceiling and the wall, its eight limbs, the forceps of evil personified.

A wave of panic coursed through me. A spider? A SPIDER? Really, God? A failed marriage, a radically bloated anatomy, an appalling American Idol finale, and now a spider? What kind bulls*** is this?

I slid up the wall, my bare back sticking uncomfortably to the glossy paint. It wasn’t moving. I tip-toed toward it with the speed of a clay-mation turtle, temporarily paralyzed as I often am when confronted by creatures that disgust me, like neo Nazis or born again Christians. Testing the waters to determine what kind of personality I was dealing with, I tapped a wooden spoon on the wall a few inches beneath the beast.

It remained unscathed.

Conceited twat.

I backed away from the wall and paced the kitchen. This was a serious situation. A situation that would test not only my faith, but my new found masculinity.

I knew I had to either kill it or scoop it up with a piece of paper and put it outside. But ten minutes passed and I was still being controlled and manipulated by this self-serving prop of Satan. It was getting late and I didn’t want to stay up any longer waiting for my testicles to descend, so I made an executive decision.

“Just let it go, Lena,” I told myself. “This little spider will not hurt you. This little spider will not crawl into your mouth in the middle of the night, and lay eggs on your tonsils. This little spider will realize the error of its ways and leave quietly in the night. No blood shed. No walk of shame. Just a mutually respectful understanding of boundaries.”

So I did just that. I walked away. I got ready for bed, nestled under my sheets, and slept though the occasional sensation that something was crawling on me did disturb my slumber more than once.

A few weeks later I spotted the crumpled, rigor mortise, remains of a faithfully departed spider on the floor of my unused second bedroom. Out of respect and unapologetic laziness I left it there. Now, 10 months later, as dust collects on its vestigial limbs, I realize that most people would have not only taken care of this matter the second they were faced with it, but would not allow this sort of madness to continue for a second summer.

I, evidently, am not most people. Which brings me to the next categorical segregation of this entirely useless blog:

People who kill spiders and people who ignore them and pretend they will go away on their own.

I am confident that I am in the vast minority here. In fact this posting may help me eliminate some unwanted Facebook friends and birthday present recipients. But that’s ok. Because you know what, people? I have no shame. That’s right. NO shame.

I do what I do. I let all kinds of wildlife infest my apartment and I don’t think twice about it. I’m sure there is some sort of psychology behind this behavior, involving the avoidance of unpleasant things and eating your feelings. But I don’t care.

You can judge me as you like, because I judge you too! I judge anyone who could kill a spider and heartlessly crumple its body in a paper towel, or paralyze it with hair spray as a certain family member of mine has started to do.

Why can’t we live in a world where we do not kill and wreak havoc upon these armpit hairs of Mother Nature but instead welcome them into our homes and hearts?

Ponder this, my children. Feedback regarding this topic and my mental health is always appreciated.

Peace be with you.


The girl who wears bleach-stained clothing in public

***In an effort not to offend any female readers, I do realize that most women and men go through life with an equal amount of spider/insect related deaths on their conscious. Referencing my weak femininity was simply a literary tool that I used to salvage my lack of imagination.

As children, myself and my siblings took great pleasure in this gem of film making. I encourage all parents reading to put this on the TV play list for your children the next time you go clubbing.

Those who are victims of intense unrequited celebrity love AND Those who are not

Today is the best day of my life. It marks the anniversary of an event that would result in the most intense, passionate, wild-eyed, manic depressive sort of love I would never actually experience in life.

Today is Bob Dylan’s 70th birthday.

In the past week, amateurish publications like Time, Newsweek, and Rolling Stone have demonstrated their ignorance of Bob Dylan. They pretend to understand the clout of his God-like perfection when “honoring” him with their long-winded articles about his “prophetic lyrical genius” and “legendary presence” in the music industry.

In my spare time, I draw pictures he will never see! *giggle* Isn’t he cute?

They are fools.

Naïve in their feeble attempts to encompass Bob Dylan.

Pathetic in their ignorance of the fact that no matter how many pages and words they use to write a tribute to him, they will fail. Yes, fail to do him justice. You want to know why?

Because I am in love with Bob Dylan.

None of them understand him the way I do! None of them feel their heart flutter when they overhear a co-worker mention her grandson Dylan and his recurring toe fungus. None of them spent hours researching home made bomb recipes when Nick Jonas said that Bob Dylan can’t sing on national television. They do not know my Bobbykins, and they do not know love the way that I do.

Some of you – many of you – most of you are probably checking Craigslist Classifieds and Casual Encounters right now for a used but sanitary straight jacket to put me in. You will tell me I am sick, perverted, psychologically disturbed for wanting to bone a 70 year old man. But, there is a select population that will understand the intensity I feel in my heart and in my loins. Which brings me to our next category:

People who are victims of intense, unrequited, celebrity love and those who are not.

Many consider this sort of severe infatuation a cute phase that a young girl goes through during a segmented period of her life. A time when no real boy wants her and the only way she can feel emotionally and sexually satisfied is by making out with the back of her hand and imagining David Cassidy’s lips on hers. I am here to tell you, that is just a lie.

Ladies and gentlemen, stalker-like celebrity obsession is a prevalent part of regular adult life. Look around you and I guarantee you will find at least one, highly functioning adult who lives among the rest of us, struggling with this debilitating frustration of the heart.

This is not something a person simply “grows out” of! If anything it becomes worse overtime. What starts as an 11 year old girl’s cute habit of doodling Mrs. Justin Bieber all over her underwear, will turn into a 17 year old girl getting her boyfriend Sid’s name tattooed on her nether regions. This is a serious matter the divides the population of the world, person by delusional person.

Take a look at this future “16 and Pregnant” star!

Of course, not all individuals will experience such emotional turmoil. I am the only one of

my siblings who has ever experienced this. For years

Was THIS worth international public humiliation? WAS IT?

I felt alone… scared…helpless in my pursuit of real, live, human love that could replace the feelings I have for my little Bobsters. It wasn’t until I saw  this chick, a desperate, pathetic excuse for a human being, sobbing over infamous American Idol contestant, Sanjaya, that I realized I am not alone.

take a look at this freak!

Recent studies by a team of vague and unspecified researchers indicate that 1 in 5 adults suffer from what is known as Compulsive Celebrity Infatuation Disorder (CCID). Symptoms include manic and irrational behavior (as seen above), isolation from friends and family members who do not appreciate or understand the depth of your pain,  and the occasional loss of bowels, though that has yet to be backed by any legitimate research.

As a long time sufferer of CCID, I have struggled with my attempts to connect with those who have not been cursed with this condition. I have joined bowling leagues, established knitting circles, and participated in Calligraphy workshops, only to be ridiculed and looked down upon by the other sort. The sort that mocks, judges, and belittles my love. The sort who has never, and will never experience this kind of duress.

So today I ask all CCID sufferers to stand tall and stand proud. YOU ARE NOT ALONE! Remember, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. You are one blog comment away from a potentially normal life full of unhealthy, emotionally damaging relationships.*

Today is not only the most important day in human history.

But it is also the first day, of the rest of your life.

I love you all, you sick, twisted, psycho freaks.


The girl you want to be reincarnated as

*OKAY…let’s be honest. Commenting on this blog won’t help you. You will always be a puss-filled sore on the lip of society whose pathetic obsession with the unattainable will continue to be mocked and disparaged for years to come. You are probably better off sticking with your sick delusions than facing the fact that you are entirely undesirable and no one loves you. Just so we have that clear.

I still appreciate comments though!

Those who crumple toilet paper and those who fold it

During a recent conversation with anonymous family members, I was discussing a human being we all know well. The kind of human being we all dislike with varying levels of intensity, and who can only be described as one thing:

The sort of person who folds his toilet paper.

Yes. This is a category, an adjective, a stereotypical description with which I judge people. But let’s look at this more deeply and examine why, oh heaven’s why would someone do this.

When I was a wee child, filled with child-like urine and child-like feces I did not know how to take a child-like dump in the appropriate way. An older woman who briefly served as a babysitter took the time to  explain how and why it is important to fold toilet paper as oppose to crumpling it.

“Do you see these wittle lines?” she asked me in a goo-goo ga-ga voice that made me want to choke on a kidney stone even at the wittle wage of 3. “You fold the toilet paper on these wittle lines.”

Seated on her pink pastel toilet seat in a cramped bathroom that smelled like peanut butter, swinging my legs and staring at her, I couldn’t help but wonder why I would take the time to fold toilet paper when I could just crumple it in my hand and go to town. But I was young. I was impressionable. I had yet to be scorned by love or overly taxed by the government. I wanted and chose to believe that this was the proper and only way to clean one’s behind after a substantial trip to the loo.

After this babysitter was fired, no doubt for indoctrinating me with such inconsequential life lessons, I slowly broke free of this tendency. I can only assume that since I am a marginally normal human being I am not the only person who crumples instead of folds. Still, having the knowledge that there is such a population that does this, I feel equipped to make judgments as to what this habit means.

So when discussing this human being that myself and my anonymous family members all dislike with varying levels of intensity, I had an epiphany. I knew what was wrong with him. It was all clear. He is, after all, the sort of person that folds his toilet paper.

What does this mean? Well scooch back into the center of your seat and I will tell you. The sort of person who folds his/her toilet paper is the sort of person who cross categorizes their allergy medications by season, color, and alphabetical order. They take 42 minutes to vacuum a 9 square foot room. They fancy themselves experts on your career, emotions, and underwear size. They will never be wrong, but never say they are right. They will dust the surface blades of a ceiling fan.

More flattering, they will always know where the keys are and will never forget to check the mail though they will certainly criticize you for receiving junk mail from Kuntz Insurance Group (a real business I plan to become a patron of).

On the flipside, crumplers are not the beautiful specimens of perfection you may imagine. Though we donate more frequently to charitable causes, juggle phallic shaped vegetables with ease, and can correctly identify all of the members of ABBA, crumplers have difficulty paying bills on time and cannot read a newspaper article without asking for the definition of at least one multisyllabic word.

Still I would rather be stupid and a talented juggler than someone who quotes Proust for fun. Is it fair to make such generalizations? One word. Yes. For all of my flaws – my haphazard flossing techniques, Parkinson’s style penmanship, and misguided understanding of months of the year underwear – I would never take myself so seriously as to actually practice such arbitrary habits.

Think of the precious seconds lost, LOST by participating in this madness. In the amount of time it takes to fold toilet paper one could tear open a packet of Splenda for an amputee. End a relationship via text. Steal a library book. Talk about a lack or productivity among this population of humanity!

For this reason I am proud to stand here today (or sit seated in a coffee shop and type) that I am the sort of person that crumples, yes CRUMPLES her toilet paper. Am I glorifying this technique? Of course. But do I wish to alienate the folders of the world? Pshhhh…..maybe I shouldn’t answer that.

Either way, there are certainly several very prominent figures in our society who I would bet the four pennies in my pocket on being folders instead of crumplers. Some of these misguided individuals include:

Ben Stein

Bill Pullman

Meg Ryan

Carmelo Anthony

Nikki Hilton


Bo Obama

So I turn this back onto you fair reader(s). Am I the misguided one? Am I an unsanitary dreg of society? Do I deserve to be stripped of my right to vote and wear white after Labor Day?

Tell me your thoughts and I will be forever yours.


The overly judgmental girl you want to smack in the face with a brick