When blog vomit becomes real life vomit

Last Wednesday, I was sitting at the bar, watching the Phils clobber the Yanks when I was overcome with the overwhelming desire to go. And not just go, but GO. Like, right now. As I've talked about a brazillion times here, my sense of mental stability has been walking around with a limp and a couple black eyes recently. I'm perfectly fine one minute, then with a single thought, my anxiety is through the roof and the next thing I know I'm crawling around the back of my closet pulling coats and shoes over top of me and doing some really heavy mouth breathing.

I had given my final notice to work earlier that day, and the realization of LEAVING was staring me in my sweaty face. So I texted my friend Monica.

Wanna go on a trip?

Within minutes, I got a text back. Obviously yes. Where are we going?

And less than two days later we had two round-trip tickets to southern California leaving the morning after my last day of work in Philadelphia cause that's how we roll.

As I've said before, you know that friend that you've had for almost as long as you can remember? The one you met the very first day your family moved into the house you would grow up in? The one that's been there even as kindergarten became grade school, grade school became high school, high school became college, and college became the world? Even when the places you called home changed? Who was there for the first sip of alcohol in your life and is still there now when you get kicked out of the bar? The one who was there from the very first boyfriend to the very last boyfriend? Yeah, that's this chick.

So it's only fitting that we set off on what promises to be one last gigantic shit show of an adventure together while we still live in the same zip code. So if anyone lives in the San Diego area and wants to meet us for drinks/show us all the secret awesome places/bail us out of a Mexican jail cell, be sure to drop me a line.

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In other news that isn't really relevant but is too short for it's own post, B is convinced than blogging is turning me into an asshole and I think he might be right. Wait, let me rephrase that. B is convinced that blogging is turning me into an even bigger asshole than I already am and I think he might be right. Because ever since I started letting my sense of censorship really just slip away on here, I seem to have done the same thing in real life.

It all started with the va-jay-jay:

In an effort to liven up this week because Jesus is punishing me for throwing words like dirty sex around in places B's mom can read, like this blog, so he's bringing winter back in March which is totally not fair because ENOUGH ALREADY and who do I have to show my boobies to to get a little warm weather around here? I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be Jesus because I don't think he was a boobies man. Speaking of vaginas, I was chatting with a friend yesterday and she was all you really DO talk about your vagina a lot and you know what? This whole week has been a vagina and it's only Wednesday.

Then, there's the ever popular pooping posts:

So remember when I went on that little kick of talking about poop a lot? I have a dog. Poop comes as a perfectly natural conversation topic for me. If picking up poop with a plastic bag was part of your daily life, I assume it would be natural for you too. And while we're on the topic of dog poop, let's talk about people poop.

Is anyone still out there? I can hear people collectively clicking the UNFOLLOW button and drafting letters to my mother about what a crass little girl I am. AND AT LEAST I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT MY HOOHAH AGAIN. You should be thanking me.

And of course more recently there's been the references to big black wein and the caloric count of a beej:

Also for the record, I wasn't afraid of penises because of that whole Catholic guilt thing. I was afraid of penises because they were ugly. And also my freshman year bio teacher told my class there were approximately 3,000 calories in a tablespoon of you know what, and if you want to strike fear in the heart of a Catholic high school girl, just tell her it'll make her fat.

Aaaaand let's not forget my proclamation of Chris Christie's affinity for eating dicks for breakfast:

Chris Christie, eats dicks for breakfast.

So now B is convinced that my sense of "Yellaphant" has made me feel entitled to do or say as I please no matter where I am, and who has to live with those consequences huh? HUH? Not the little blonde girl. The little blonde girl's husband who now has to fight a bear hunter in a bar because his wife hasn't yet learned that slapping is not socially acceptable behavior. Or smooth things over with the dude dressed as Kenny Powers at the Halloween party because his wife just poured a beer down his shirt (sorry, Kenny). Or explain to his grandmother that his wife didn't mean anything when she told her to tap dat ass. Soooooo yup.

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