Everyone knows someone who has cute little idiosyncrasies... funny little habits that are endearing. For me, this person is my grandmother. I'd like to take this opportunity to walk you through hers.

Let's start in the kitchen.


This is a loaf of bread. She cuts off the top of the plastic after every slice. Why? I don't know.


This is the silverware drawer. Yes. The silverware drawer. I tried to organize this once and she freaked out because she didn't know where her things were. I can't even go here.


This is the garbage. The way that Grandma deals with garbage is that she uses small plastic bags, a la Target or Festival, and once it's full, they are lined up by the door and every time we go outside, we take them to the garage, where the big metal garbage pail sits. I've tried to revise this system, but she won't have it. Oh well.


Here's a calendar in the kitchen. Stay with me on this.


And the clock on the microwave. Stay with me here too.

We leave the kitchen and head to the dining room. For clarity's sake, know that the kitchen and dining room are in one big area, separated by a counter. So it's basically the same room.


Look! A calendar!


A clock! (I'm assuming this was the one you were referring to your grandparents having, Pelowski. Both sets of my grandparents have this clock.)

Let's take a peek in the enclosed porch, just behind the dining room.


Hark! A clock!

Now, directly across from this enclosed porch is the hallway, which leads to the living room, the bathroom, and the three bedrooms.

So let's look at the hallway. First, let's stop in the alcove.


A calendar. And directly above?


Yep. A clock. Let's take another look:


See the reflection of the bird clock? A clock across from a clock. This is not the first time we'll see something like this.

So now we're going to pass the living room. The only big thing in there is the grandfather clock I mentioned the other day.

Passing the living room, we reach a very important part of the house.


The thermostat. Let's look again.


It's set for seventy eight degrees.

Moving on to the bathroom.


This is one of my grandmother's special bath towels. This picture doesn't do it justice, but the point is that she buys regular sized bath towels, takes a scissor, and cuts it in half. This would barely wrap around my head.


Mylanta. Grandma's miracle cure. Every time I have a headache, grandma suggests Mylanta. It's like Windex in the Big Fat Greek Wedding. Everything = Mylanta.

To her bedroom!


Um............ yeah. Cute kids.


Clock on top of her bed frame.


Clock on top of her television, across from her bed.


Clock on her shelf, next to her television.


It's all very cute, and none of it drives me crazy, really.

Except when she asks me what time it is.

Um
I may have watched this four times already.

When little things get under my skin, I bitch until the cows come home. When big things bother me, I stay silent until I reach a breaking point, and then I explode.

That time is at hand.


My grandfather bought this clock many years ago. Its chime echoes throughout the house with an air of familiarity. It wouldn't seem right to be in this house and not hear this clock chime. There are even two tiny mouse figurines, Tick and Tock, who rest in the depths of the belly of the clock, barely missed by the swinging pendulums. This clock not only has character, but a family history.

Despite the physical beauty and family ties, I hate this clock with a burning passion.

And why? Oh, I didn't mention that it chimes every fifteen minutes.

Did you read that correctly? It chimes every fifteen minutes. It chimes on the hour, fifteen after the hour, on the half hour, and fifteen to. Yes. Every time I forget about the clock's existence, the surprisingly loud dong reminds me that yes, there's a big obnoxious clock in the corner.

It's especially bad when you're watching a movie. Grandma and I were watching James Bond the other night (yes, my grandma watches James Bond movies with me) and James was about to pop a cap in the bad guy and the effing clock chimed, scaring the pants off of me. And it was ten o'clock, so the clock chimed ten whole times, causing me to miss important plot points, and by that time, the movie was ruined anyway. Thanks, Clock.

Oh yeah, and there's no night sensor, so if I'm up at midnight, it'll chime -- yep, twelve obnoxious times. It wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes. It scares the crap out of me if I get up for a glass of water, and once my heart rate returns to normal, then it's fifteen minutes later and the fricken clock chimes again.

I turned it off once. It was glorious. It ticked in the corner, silent and beautiful. I could admire the clock once again for what it was: a gorgeous piece of timekeeping machinery, elegant and sleek. And then my aunt came. And I came out of my room in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and it chimed and I nearly lost control of all of my bodily functions. I was on a heap on my knees in the middle of the hallway, clutching my heart. And guess what? My aunt is gone, and now I don't remember how to turn off the chiming.

A clock shouldn't bring out such strong, hateful feelings, especially such a beautiful clock as this.

Maybe Grandpa should have just gotten a watch.

    I was just a part of what will go down as one of the best games in the history of the National Football League, and what will no doubt go on to be the marquee game of Peyton Manning’s illustrious football career. This was, of course, the AFC's championship game between the Indianapolis Colts and the New England Patriots. This game came with a whole heaping load of hype. It was the destiny’s team, the Pats, versus the underachieving talent menagerie that is the Colts.

    The game started out as many do with the two feeling each other out and playing it conservative. And as the pats jumped out on top to a 14-3 there was a feeling that this was going to be a scary game. Then, the Pats got an interception by Samuels on a pass intended for Marvin Harrison (who ran an uncharacteristically bad route) and returned it for a touchdown. Now it is 21-3 and I began to realize that they had a long road ahead of them. So I watched till halftime and left my viewing area and came to my humble abode.

    This is when I believe that I took my place in the outcome of this game. I was frustrated with the game, but I was going to watch it because it was far from over. To lessen the angst I decided it was time to get down and dirty and clean my room. It was long overdue, but as I cleaned I watched the game. The Colts began showing life, and I continued to clean. By the end I had all but cleaned my room, but the Colts had the ball with 2:13 seconds left, and I couldn't stop what I was doing for fear of throwing off the universes energy. That's right I, like most other sports freaks, was in complete belief that I was in sole control of this game's outcome. I could see myself acting like a fool but I didn't care, I was giddy with the idea that the Colts would win and I would see a new team in the Super Bowl. The Colts did end up winning the game and sealing it with an interception from a much maligned defense. I was so happy! I even screamed a little bit with joy.

    This is why I love sports. I can really get excited about them and can definitely get a boatload of enjoyment out of them. I must say that I was absolutely shocked when I looked at Peyton Manning's stats after the game. 27-47 349 yds, 1 TD and 1 INT. These were his numbers. At first glance they look like really good numbers, but if we look a bit closer we can see that they are actually much better than this. When Peyton threw the interception in the second quarter his stats were something like 4-9 60yds and 1 INT. So if we do our math we clearly see that Peyton played the rest of the game at a torrid pace, 23-38 291 and a TD. Those are ridiculous numbers!!! Peyton Manning may very well be the best quarterback in NFL history, and we have just seen him take his next step towards that goal. A Super Bowl win will galvanize a tremendous career and stop all this silly talk about not winning a big game.

    Tom Brady and the Pats have nothing to hang their heads about, they are the best team of this decade, and they always find a way to be competitive. Tom Brady is a very high class quarterback and he did more with less this year than anybody ever has. That said, I'm glad that someone else is getting a chance and I look forward to Peyton Manning and the Colts beating the Chicago Bears in the Super Bowl by a 37-24 margin. And let's not forget the absolute best part about the Colts winning this game, we get to keep on watching Peyton in his wonderful commercial career!

    It was a great day for the Colts and a great day for me to be watching some football and cleaning my room. I can only hope that the Super Bowl is as exciting. Also, I just want to say that I am very happy that finally the NFL has an African American head coach in the Super Bowl and there’s not only one there's two! In a day and age when racism is the giant elephant in the room that everyone is ignoring. I am proud to be a fan of a sport where there are finally African American coaches that are proving they are some of the best in the game. I hope that this opens the door to more minority coaches and eventually to a better America, because lets be honest we have a long way to go. But we'll get there, because someday all the wonderful people I know will be in charge of the world, and that means good times are a-comin'. Have a wonderful day everyone and pass the love!


Buegs is a favorite of Anniemosity's. To read more from him, visit his blog, although he doesn't keep up with very much, and actually started up a new one that hasn't been written in since day one (ahem).

Buegs

I can't sleep.

I lay in bed every night, tossing and turning, trying to sleep. I think of boring things. I "daydream." I count. I name as many bands that start with the letter E as I can. Nothing.

Then I decide to stream television shows online. "Hey, I heard about this new comedy on CBS starring Jason Segal and Neil Patrick Harris," I think, remembering that I used to watch movies to lull me to sleep. "I should check it out." So I stream about six episodes and realize that it's three hours later and I'm still awake.

I roll over and think "JESUS CHRIST I have to wake up really soon," hoping to scare myself into slumber.

Nope.

So tonight I am blogging out of insomnia. All I ask for are suggestions to help me sleep.

Guest Blog II debuts in T-Minus... soon.


EDIT: OMG


Also, you should peep Dior's S/S 07 line. Hot.

I want someone who laughs freely,

Who savors every bite of food as much as I do,

Who is aware of his own emotions and willing to share them,

Who doesn't want to kill me when I share mine.

I want someone who will dance with me,

Be it in the middle of a bar or in the middle of a parking lot.

I want him to dance well, I want him to dance awfully.

I don't care, I just want him to enjoy the moment.

I want someone who smiles at me with his eyes,

Who has a certain kind of sexy that only I can see.

Someone with dark hair and an ever-present five o'clock shadow,

Who looks just as good in jeans as he does in a suit.

I want an amazing friend, who is equally amazing in bed.

Someone ready to explore everything, and shies away from nothing.

Who is willing to embrace new ideas and concepts,

But remains completely true to himself.

Oh, and someone who loves me ridiculous amounts.

The End.

Holy crap, I sure want a lot. Maybe if I'm lucky this dream guy that I'm conjuring up in my head will pop out of my closet after I close my eyes and mutter "Manra-cadabra" over and over again. I have a feeling that I'm setting my standards pretty damned high, but really, it could happen. I could live my life like a bad romantic comedy and everything would be fine and dandy. And there would be a lot of jumping into my man's arms and spinning around in circles, because that's what happy people do. All the time.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not sitting here fantasizing about the next great thing to walk into my life. I am A-OK with being single at the moment, seeing as I am thoroughly enjoying its little perks. But eventually, when I have done everything thing that I aspire to do for/by myself, then I will welcome this surreal man into my open arms. Just like the Journey song, but even cooler.

"Does he even exist?" you ask yourself. "Is she going to be sitting around waiting for her fantasy man forever?"

Well my friends, the answer is: I sure as hell hope not.


Miss Fuller, Anniemosity's hero, can be described as a romantic in many senses of the word, and we think that's wonderful. She, too, likes great things, including fictional men, food (more than the average human does), excellent music, the little things in life, and being her bomb-ass self. Trivia: did you know that Anniemosity and Fuller grew up in rival suburbs? And that Anniemosity's high school kicked Fuller's high school's ass in football? (That may or may not be true -- Anniemosity never paid attention to high school sports. Expect a correction in the comment section.) For more from Fuller, read her blog... which, really, you should be doing anyway.

Fuller, pictured with Fat Tony on Halloween.

I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus' son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know


I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
And you can't help me now, you guys
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know


I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man can not be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know


Then thank God that I'm as good as dead
Then thank your God that I'm not aware
And thank God that I just don't care
And I guess I just don't know
And I guess I just don't know.

I've been having a rather introspective few days and I felt the need to have a poignant, ruminative post, which I haven't done in a long time. And then I realized that, in light of a few people I have recently realized are consistently lurking around my sacred webspace, I probably shouldn't do that again for awhile until my little duckies are in a row. What does that mean for you, the viewer? Probably more pop culture, I thought. Perhaps I would write something on how I've recently discovered the charming and fricken hilarious "Knights of Prosperity" via my newfound insomnia issue and abc.com's wonderful streaming of its quality programming. Or maybe I would mention how I feel embarrassed for being the pop culture aficionado and "Da Ali G Show" lover that I am and didn't know Sacha Baron Cohen was British until I caught the YouTube video of his Golden Globes acceptance speech (once again, due to my insomnia issue). Or maybe, just maybe, I would write about Journey and how I've listened to "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'" about thirteen times in the last half hour (if that's mathematically possible).

Instead of the intellectual introspect, cunning commentary on current conditions, or other alliterative topics, I've decided to make my first Post of Amendments.

What is a Post of Amendments, you ask? Well, here at Anniemosity.com, we post many a list, top ten or otherwise. Sometimes, even I change my intensely-set mind, believe it or not. For example, I once posted my top five songs of all time. While these are still solid tunes, I have grown and matured in my tastes in music, and unfortunately these do not all make the cut today. Perhaps in the coming weeks I will make a Post of Amendments to this list.

But today, we will re-address the post entitled "The Top Ten Hottest Male Television Characters," because, in my excitement, I made five rather ridiculous oversights. Here is where I *ahem* correct myself.

Five More of the Hottest Male Television Characters

FIVE:
Steven Hyde, "That 70s Show."

Hyde. The wisecracking, sarcastic, pot-smoking, classic rock-loving conspiracy theorist. His derisive mockery of his best friends melts my heart. While I feel that it was a bad move on the part of the writers to pair him with Jackie (I mean, really, can she really be with anyone aside from Ashton?), their relationship was surprisingly sweet. And a little known secret is that I love "trademark sideburns-slash-chops." (It was perfected here, but Hyde pulls it off well.) One of the saving graces of the monstrosity that "That 70s Show" morphed into, I believe Steven Hyde deserves a spot on this list.

FOUR:
Mike Delfino, "Desperate Housewives."


Yeah, I watch "Desperate Housewives," and yes, Mike Delfino is hot, and no, Susan Myers does not deserve him, but whatever, she's better than the Cul-de-Sac Slut that is Edie Britt. I digress. Mike Delfino, the former-hitman-disguised-as-a-plumber of the neighborhood, is hot because he is eternally mysterious, kind of gruff, but sweet and sensitive. He may have a fricken psychotic son (spoiler -- only if you're two seasons behind), but he was a good father to him, so that gives him points, right? And... oh, who am I kidding, check out this guy's chiseled features. Sigh. You can fix my plumbing any day, Mr. Delfino. Ba-zing!

THREE:
Michael Bluth AND G.O.B., "Arrested Development."


Lovely gentlemen, these Bluth men. Of course, they belong to the most dysfunctional family ever to be portrayed on television, but despite this, they manage to still make the list. One is a responsible and intelligent businessman, a good father, determined to give his family the best, with seemingly endless patience... and the other is a magician an illusionist, a ventriloquist, former stripper, and cartoon character creator, who makes "huge mistake"s, has an illegitimate child, dated his nephew's ex-girlfriend, is unfaithful to his loving girlfriends, and is generally selfish and crude. I love them both equally. (Honestly, I don't think that's true. I think I love G.O.B. a little more. There may have even been a sandwich named after him at Sir Benedict's, with only four employees getting the joke.)

TWO:
Jack Tripper, "Three's Company."


The beauty, the majesty, the exquisite hilarity that is John Ritter's groundbreaking physical comedy is best manifested in the character of Jack Tripper. The klutzy, womanizing chef is surprisingly sweet and endearing, and I must say that I quite enjoy watching him "play gay." Guys who make me laugh win every time.

...which brings us to...

ONE:
Daniel Desario, "Freaks & Geeks."


There was an actual study done that has proof -- nay, facts -- that James Franco is the hottest man alive. (I know, I usually give Anthony Kiedis that crown, but fret not, if he is not number one, he loses to this man only.) This proof is as follows:






Aside from his ridiculous good looks, Mr. Desario is impossibly charming and yet surprisingly insecure. Daniel is an actual character, flawed and human. And gorgeous. Did I mention he's incomprehensibly good-looking? Daniel stole my heart from the moment he helped Lindsey Weir pick up the contents of her purse when Kim Kelly, Brat Extraordinaire (for some of the show), dumped it out into the hallway, to the scene involving Carlos the Dwarf. Oh, Daniel. If both you and Pacey Witter happen to simultaneously become real and call me within the same time period, I would have quite the difficult time deciding between the two of you. I can't promise that there wouldn't be coin-flipping involved.


Thus endeth Anniemosity's Post of Amendments, Volume One: Man Pretty.

Also, if you owe me something, this is your official reminder to email it to me. Soon. As previously mentioned, I feel like an uptight middle-school English teacher. Bitches.

1)

OH MY GOD.
THE CANON EOS 20D. I want that so bad that I'm salivating all over my keyboard. Can you imagine the 8.2 megapixel, 5f/s continuous shooting, 9 point auto focus-y goodness produced by this camera? Oh man. I want it. Bad. Too bad it's like $900. But someday it will be mine, and I will probably end up naming it after Daniel Desario or something.

2)
The narwhal (Monodon monoceros) is an Arctic species of cetacean. It is a creature rarely found south of latitude 70°N. It is one of two species of whale in the Monodontidae family (the other is the beluga whale). It is possibly also related to the Irrawaddy dolphin.

3)

4) I like cover songs. Here's three four.
-Red Hot Chili Peppers - Havana Affair (The Ramones)
-Bob Dylan - Big Yellow Taxi (Joni Mitchell)
-Ednaswap - Torn (This is actually their song. Natalie Imbruglia covered it. Trivia!)
-Richard Cheese - Milkshake (Kelis)


Thoughts?

We paid tribute to my grandmother on a sloppy Thursday night in Salt Lake City. The snow had been steadily falling since before we had arrived that morning, and it was clearly becoming an issue as our rental car crawled down the highway.

We sat in silence for awhile. My father stared ahead, concentrating on getting us to the church in one piece. My step-mother stared out her window at the passing billboards. Next to me, my step-brother read his book, and behind him, my brother sat silently.

I was numb. I had only been to two funerals before, and as every funeral is different, I was nervous. The only family that I had seen so far were my uncle Wayne, his wife Pat, and Beth, one of my four cousins. I didn't know what to expect from the rest of the family, although I had heard that my aunt Julie was a mess.

I started thinking about Julie and how remarkably strong she had been through the difficult things that had come her way, and I began to realize how incredibly difficult the next few hours were going to be. My thoughts wandered to my grandfather. This man had just lost his wife, his partner, the mother of his children, the love of his life. I'd never seen him get emotional before, and I wondered how he would be when we got to the church. Would he cry? Would he be okay? I had no idea.

We arrived at the church soon after. We greeted Julie and my cousin Daniel, my cousin Ben, and finally Grandpa, who was calm and composed, as I should have expected. Daniel, Wil, Eric, Ben, and I congregated towards the center of the narthex near a table filled with photos of my grandmother -- her as a girl; her as a young woman alongside a very young version of my grandfather; a family portrait of the two of them with their three children, my father's tiny hand enveloped by his father's; and finally, the family portrait that all fourteen of us had made this past summer.

That's the moment it really hit me. My grandmother, my beautiful, elegant, wonderful grandmother, was dead... as in, she wasn't standing somewhere behind me, laughingly scolding my grandfather for joking too loudly, beaming at her children, or marveling at her grandchildren. The woman who epitomized grace and class, the woman who cared about every living creature, the woman who never stopped thinking of others, was gone.

I don't know how I managed to make it into the sanctuary, but the moment the prelude ended, I began to cry. I cried for the loss of a grandmother. I cried for the loss of a wife... a mother... a friend... but most of all, I cried for the loss of this incredible woman. I began to think it wasn't fair, and why couldn't God have spared her? My tears turned into bitter ones, and I became selfish and angry. Just then, as if by divine coincidence, the pastor mentioned Jesus not resurrecting everyone in the Bible -- only three, including Lazarus, testing our faith in what we truly believe about him resurrecting our loved ones in heaven.

After the sermon, I felt a little better. He talked about her incredible light and warmth, and I knew that she had lived the life she was intended to live. She touched so many people. She had lived her life well and left an impression upon her loved ones that we will never forget.

The service ended and the family congregated in the narthex, taking turns holding each other. My father gripped his boys tightly. Daniel and I grasped each other, blubbering into each other's shoulders how much we loved each other. Wayne took his father's hand and said, "She was a great woman, Dad."

The reception was a blur of sugar cookies and handshakes, hugs and anecdotes, tears and smiles. I looked around at the room full of people here to honor my grandmother, and I was filled with a sense of her content. She was done hurting, done fighting off the awful disease that consumed her for so long. She lived to see her three children grow into three wonderful adults, and to see her seven grandchildren begin their own journeys into adulthood.

Julie approached me as we were leaving, her nose crinkling just like her mothers'. "Grieve well," she said, smiling through her tears. "This is a great loss."

The ride back to Wayne's house was as quiet as the falling snow. I stared at the twinkling stars and knew it was her smile that was lighting the snow-covered mountains that night. She was happy. She was home.

Love is a sacrifice sometimes, you know? Love is pain sometimes. Love is selflessness when you want so badly to be selfish. Love is hard work and a lot of tears. Love is moving on. Love is losing sleep sometimes. Love is having infinite patience. Love is letting someone make their own mistakes. Love is not always being right. Love is understanding instead of finding the answer. Love is letting someone else take care of you every now and again. Love is a compromise. Love is not always getting your way. Love is space. Love is learning. Love is telling someone it's all going to be okay, even if you're not sure it is.

Love is really fucking hard sometimes, but in the end, you get moments where you know it's all been worth it.

It's time to have a little talk with John Mayer.


Yeah. I'm serious.

Dear John Mayer,

I get a lot of shit for certain music I listen to. Steely Dan. Old-school Mariah Carey (haters can shut the hell up because she was amazing back then). A certain shitty-ass emo band that I still refuse to admit owning their album(s). Bon Jovi. Something tells me that you feel me on every single one of these (except the emo band, which we really shouldn't talk about). You can appreciate Steely Dan's chord sequences and harmonies... Mariah's undeniable talent (should she choose to execute it)... and Bon Jovi just rocks.

I get shit for listening to you, John. And I understand why. Let me break it down for you. Your "acoustic rock," while good for the genre, was, well, pussy acoustic rock. I'm sorry man, that doesn't earn you a lot of credibility unless you've got something super unique going for you, and it didn't look like you did.

So it's, what, 2004?... the era where I'm wanting to slice my ears off if I hear "Your Body is a Wonderland" ever-the-fuck-again. And I'm flipping around and I land on VH1, and there you are, playing with Paul Simon. I remember doing a double take. I think that's the first time I kind of took notice of you, John Mayer. I noticed your chord structure was very different. Cliché singer/songwriter, but good player.

Then I caught wind of something about this:


Do you know who that is? Do you know who you're playing with right there, Mayer? That's Buddy Guy. You are onstage with Buddy Guy, Mr. "Swim in a Deep Sea of Blankets." I never saw the PBS thing you did with him, which is where I'm assuming this picture came from, and if not, you played with Buddy Guy more than once (oh wait, you're on his 2005 album, which is currently downloading on iTunes, thanks to an old gift card I just found). And then B.B. King started raving about you. And then you showed up on his "80" album, while in the meantime, put out an album that was better, but, sorry to say, very similar to the first. (...although... "Daughters" was really sweet. I mean.. sappy-sweet, but sweet. I liked it, okay, fine, I liked it, but I probably won't be admitting that again.)

Something didn't add up to me, Mayer. I remember thinking, "What do they know about Homeboy that we don't?" Clearly there was something that we, the public, weren't privy to... all we knew was your soft acoustic-y singer/songwriter shtick, and why the hell would that land you gigs with Buddy Guy and B.B. King and oh yeah you played with Eric Clapton at one point too, right? And Dr. John? And Aaron Neville? And John Scofield? And lest we forget, you TOURED with Herbie Hancock. Oh yeah and then you decided to not only conquer the old-school blues dudes, but the cutting-edgiest of the cutting edge hip hop dudes. Common. Kanye. ?uestlove. You showed up on Dave Chappelle. You popped up everywhere and every time, I went "WTF."

I can tell you when it clicked for me. I'm riding around in the car with a music-savvy friend of mine (you see, Mayer, all most of my friends are at least mildly music-savvy) and he says "Have you heard of John Mayer's new blues trio?" B-b-bwha? "Yeah, man, it's fly." FLY, Mayer, he called you FLY, and I knew right then and there that this was it, man, this was the real thing. He burned it for me (I actually for real bought it later, and I'm not just saying that) and then I knew that this, THIS was the John Mayer that Buddy Guy saw, that B.B. and Herbie and Scofield and Common saw, that the world needed, John, it needed you like this. We don't need another singer/songwriter acoustic-y crooner, we need THIS.

Fast-forward: "Continuum." God bless you, sir, you finally shed it all. It's blues meets old-school R&B, laced with rock, with a splash of decent pop. It's soulful and groovy and wonderful. Your lyrics are surprisingly vulnerable and bold at the same time, and while your vocals aren't your strongest suit, they are perfect for your kind of music (and may I add, the vocals during the chorus of "Belief" remind me of Sting, in the good way). Dude, you have the cajones to do a Jimi song and it's good. (Did I mention your version of "Route 66" on the soundtrack to "Cars" is fucking great? Your version of "Route 66" on the soundtrack to "Cars" is fucking great.)

The thing is, Mayer, that the people who only know you as "That Fucker Who Wrote That 'Wonderland' Piece of Shit" (direct quote, dude, the truth hurts sometimes) will probably always think of you as "That Fucker Who Wrote That 'Wonderland' Piece of Shit," but thankfully, you're taking steps to change it to "That One Dude Who Can Tear Up This Mother, and Happened to Write That 'Wonderland' Piece of Shit a Long Time Ago." However, I know some pretty stubborn individuals (imagine that) who aren't giving you a chance, Mayer, and I'm trying to spread the news about the new and improved You.

I just wanted to let you know that you've made a believer out of me. We here at Anniemosity.com fully support you. (Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that I was one of the eight people who watched both episodes of "John Mayer Has a TV Show," even when I didn't really like you -- I still talk about this sketch all the time, and it's never as funny when I try to talk about it.)

So play on, John Mayer. And, if I can manage to come up with $40 by February, you can bet your sweet ass that I'll be at the Xcel Energy Center at the very same time that you are.

Love,
Anniemosity

PS: I have decided, in the least fangirly kind of way, that I am in love with you? Creepy? No.

PPS: You should really maybe think about cutting that hair. I'm just saying.

PPPS: If you really are dating Jessica Simpson, I will probably print some sort of retraction to this entire letter, unless she can somehow prove that she has a) a personality, b) brains, or c) talent. God damn it, Simpson, if you ruin John Mayer, I swear to God....


EDIT: Yeah, here's "Route 66" because it'll blow your mind. If you're a non-believer, wait it out. The first part is the straight-up song. The second part is straight-up unbelievable.