Free Gift with Purpose
The thing about being one of those people who doesn’t believe in mere coincidence is that it makes it impossible to ever ignore my current circumstances. This Thanksgiving, to my terror, I took a second or seven to zoom out and get a screengrab of The Big Picture to find that it was painfully obvious that I’m exactly where I am because I’m destined for something effing massive. Whoa, hang on. Don’t think I’m getting all egomaniacal here because this actually applies to you, too. However, being that I can’t speak on anyone’s [mental] behalf other than myself, I’m limited to a self-reflective angle from which to pontificate. Surprise

Love in Arms
I’m not one of those people who tends to fling myself wildly into trendy causes or mass events. I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day (because I’m not Irish and I don’t get wasted anymore) or Cinco de Mayo (because I’m not Mexican and I don’t get wasted anymore), I don’t donate money to anything claiming that they’re “stopping global warming”, and I kind of have emotional qualms with Talk Like a Pirate Day. (Honestly, why are we promoting pirates as a cool thing!?! I just don’t like that we’re glorifying people who were into raping, murdering and robbing people and then bragging about it as a lifestyle.

…Can Ya? CAN YA?*
* This is a continuation of my confessional post from the other day. I enjoyed the exercise so much I thought I’d overdo it. It’s my deal. I only clean my house six times a year at most, but I do laundry and dishes daily. I adore TCBY but I always order the same thing (white chocolate mousse with cookie dough) because I don’t get to go there often and wouldn’t want to waste a visit on medioce yogurt. Whenever I stay in a 5-star resort/hotel or rented home, I always pretend I’m a princess being doted on in her castle. I can’t sleep unless I have a heavy cove

Stop Talking for Me, Carrie Prejean
Ms. Prejean, Stop. Stop talking. For just a few minutes. Seriously, I don’t know why nobody has told you this before now but all you’re doing is making it worse. I would say that your publicist should have the sense to tell you to can it but, truthfully, that guy’s pretty smart if he’s letting you ramble, make an ass of yourself, lie to the mass media and prolong this side show you seem oblivious to be emceeing. Look, ordinarily, I really don’t care about beauty pageants. Frankly, I got over being judged in middle school so I don’t understand why people would volunteer to do it on the off chance they may win some cash and 12 months of r

Can you see the Real Me, Doctor?
I give a physical, facial reaction to everything, including thoughts/memories and television programs.   I paint my nails only once or twice a year. I remember obscure things for so long that other people involved usually suspect I’m obsessive. I love writing and receiving letters and have had at least two penpals at any given time since I was 6. I only like about three physical attributes of myself. I still play “dress up” and “pretend”, although having a daughter makes it more justifiable. I listen to CDs of stand-up comedians I love on Repeat, even when I can recite the entire monologue by heart with all the right inflections. I talk incessantly because