Finding meme-o

While I'm waiting for Rolling Stone to call me requesting that exclusive, in-depth interview, Lynn from Here Today, Gone Tomorrow has graciously consented to send me five questions which I am honor-bound to answer, lest bad things happen.



Love stinks. Love hurts. Yet, you’d do it again in a heartbeat. Why?

In every classroom, there is always one kid who is many decibels louder than his fellow students. If a question is asked, he's always the first one to shout out his answer, and if he feels like interrupting another speaker, he does so without hesitation, essentially dominating each and every encounter. Unfortunately, this kid is not usually the smartest one in the classroom - in fact, most times, he's a moron.

So it is with my heart, which is a certified dumbass. When someone who knocks my socks off appears on the horizon, my brain immediately says, "This is dangerous, this is bad news, this is more complication than it's worth...we just need to take a cold shower NOW." But while my brain is doling out this very sage advice, my heart walks over, kicks my brain right in the jewels and shouts, "I'm in loooooooooove! COWABUNGA!" Then my heart jumps over the edge without so much as a second glance, and all the while my poor brain is writhing on the ground, clutching its throbbing 'nads and gasping, "Wait, you stupid fucker! You're still in Band-Aids from the last time...you'll take us all down with you again!" But my heart is so excited it just plain forgets the other times it's been scarred and sullied. You can rest assured, it won't be long before my heart is lying right next to my brain, clutching its own damaged goods, berating the brain for not trying to stop the heart's ill-advised maneuvers. At this point, brain just rolls over and throws up.

All that said, my heart is, at this moment, mummified in duct tape and stuffed under the skirting of my house. I'm exercising a zero-tolerance policy toward romance.



What would you do today if you knew you were going to die tomorrow?

First, I would score some meth so I wouldn't have to waste any time sleeping or eating. This is a trailer park; there's probably a lab on every block, right?

Now, down to business:

I'd write a heartfelt goodbye post to You, the Internet as a Whole. This post might or might not include uncensored assless chaps photos. Let's face it - a bitch who's gonna kick tomorrow doesn't worry about her reputation or who's seen her pasty ass cheeks (and been subsequently traumatized by the sight - can't sue me if'n I'm dead).

I'd gather my family and we'd have a roast. I don't mean a hunk of meat swimming in carrots (that will be me tomorrow) - I'm talking about a zing-that-bitch-but-good roast in the vulgar tradition of the Friar's Club. With drinks, of course. And cigars. Why the fuck wouldn't I have an AyC Mini in my hand up until the moment of croaking?

After making sure my disposal expenses were covered, I'd spend every last cent I have buying cool presents for my family and friends. Then I'd drive to Grand Rapids and bar hop, using the sympathy card ("You know, I am buying the farm tomorrow...") to worm my way onstage with a bunch of different bands during the night.

If there was still time left after that, I'd knock off a bank for some extra cash, rent a ritzy hotel suite, and have Kelly Monaco flown in. We would, of course, squaredance until dawn. With the door locked and the stereo loud. And a giant pack of AA batteries.



What blows your dress up? In other words, what makes you feel happy like a little girl on a swing set? (stolen from eclectic)

Cats. Kitties. From the arch and spring of a kitten to the contented purr and drool of an elder cat, they've been my favorite critters since Josephine and Tiger stood on the edge of my bassinet to get a better look at the fresh delivery. Cats turn me into a giggling toddler, and I can't help it (nor do I want to help it).

Playgrounds. Swingsets, slides, teeter-totters (though they can be hazardous to one's vaginal comfort), the occasional merry-go-round - if they're hefty enough for my weight, I'm there. Obviously, I have no regard for my own dignity. Contrary to popular belief, though, I have never pushed a child out of my way to get to the swings; I find kicking is much more effective.

Crab legs, red cream soda sherbet, filet mignon (medium), Clover Bar pizza, avo/cuke rolls, shrimp gallaba and hummus from Badawest, crawdaddies, Squirl's salads, non-lumpy mashed potatoes with butter and salt, Quisp cereal, creme brulee, saganaki, guacamole, my spaghetti (because I like it better than the way most restaurants make it), vegetarian lasagna from Latina's, veggie subs (no olives, no oil) from Big John's...yeah, it should be no mystery why I weigh as much as I do.

Music. Discovering new bands. Love at first listen. Hearing albums I haven't heard in ages. The electricity of a great live performance, and the way you never forget some concerts. Some music, and some musical moments - so perfect that they make me cry.

Laughing like an idiot with my siblings over things only we would think were funny. Finishing a song or a video. Sitting in a bubble bath with a glass of red wine and a notebook and/or whatever book I'm currently reading while the kittens walk along the edge of the tub and dip their paws into the water, surprised each and every time that the paw comes back wet.



What version of yourself – the “you” you want to be or want others to believe - do you spend the most time creating for the outside world?

That's an interesting question, since there are so many of me. Also, I have more than one outside world.

When I'm blogging, I let my guard down more than I ever do in my "right here" life (I refuse to call my non-online life my "real life" as I feel like my blogging friends are every bit as real as my "gotta see me in person" friends). I guess in person, I work hardest to maintain the illusion of the Eternal Wisecracker. A lot of the time, it's no effort at all, but there are times when it's a chore. If you're close to me, you'll get the chance to see what's really going on in my head, but for everyone else, I want them to think that shit doesn't bother me. I don't want people to know when I'm scared out of my dwindling wits. I like to maintain the illusion that I have some idea what I'm doing and any kind of control over my life.



Pretzels, butt plug, or Mac? The Cotillion is burning down and you only have time to grab one (don’t worry, the firemen have already rescued the cats and the Dominatrix Leg Lamp). Which one and why?

The pretzels: While it would be sad to know there were perfectly good, only semi-stale pretzels aflame in the house, I think I could console myself with saying a little prayer for them, and then driving down to the gas station to get some more to munch in the driveway.

The butt plug: This was more of a dilemma. Of course, we can be sure that one will make it out safely, if you know what I mean. So I assume you're not talking about whichever one I happen to be wearing at the time fire breaks out (hell, for all I know, the flashing lights shorted out and started the fire right under my ass). Although there is an obvious sentimental attachment to each and every plug in my arse-nal, practicality would win out, and I would just wait for the insurance company to send me the special buttplug replacement check.

The Mac: Oh, yes. The Mac. You'd better believe I'd be grabbing that little sucker, ripping out wires as fast as I could. I'd even shoot the plug out of my butt so I'd have room to carry the mouse. A piece of machinery is replaceable; the shit stored on the hard drive may not be. I can buy more pretzels and buttplugs, but my Mac is the only place in the world where I have all those pictures of that splintery broomstick shoved up my ass the cats and stuff.



So, you wanna play along?

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me, please."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choosing.
   
3. You must update your blog with the answers to the questions. Whether you like them or not. Or Yoshi's head will explode.
4. You have to include this explanation, and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.