My mother and I visited Grandma today at the nursing home and decided to stop at Perkins for dinner. The restaurant was relatively empty -- there was an older couple, a few families, and a booth full of girls who look like they couldn't be any older than sixteen. The host sits us directly behind the girls, of course. As we settled in, I couldn't even concentrate on my menu; the girls were screeching and laughing and swearing and laughing and insulting each other and laughing and gossiping and laughing and screeeeching. And laughing. I couldn't hear my mother. I could barely hear the waitress and had to repeat that I wanted cream for my coffee multiple times.

"GRACE, YOU ARE SUCH A BITCH!" one screamed.
"SHUT UP, JESSIE!" another yelled, dissolving into Barney Rubble-style giggles. I grabbed my fork, glaring at the bleached quartet, my jaw set, ready to silence them all. My mother told me to calm down and breathe. I returned my fork to the table, but kept it close.

I ordered my bread bowl salad sans chicken, and she, a mushroom & swiss chicken rice thing, just as the four bitches got their meal. My mother and I attempted to discuss Grandma's current health and a few other important topics, but it was in vain. We couldn't hear each other over gossip about who was taking who to some dance, why Jenny was a "whore," whether or not Levi was "into Grace" ("he's sooooo disgusting, I mean, he's in the marching band" -- bitch, please), how Alex had made fun of two of the girls in their science class, and some comment someone had made on a myspace page.

I was losing what little patience I had. Stress, exhaustion, and annoyance were all rolling into a mildly hazardous emotion that had me reaching for the fork again, a dangerous gleam in my eye. All of a sudden I hear a thud and a scream and see a dinner roll being hurled across their table.

Oh HELL no.

I prayed that they would have the maturity to retaliate with insults instead of more dinner rolls.

It was not so. Dinner rolls started flying. Screeching increased. The thuds came in a more rapid succession. My silverware clattered to the table and I dropped my head into my hands, wishing intently for either patience or some kind of natural disaster. Neither of these things occurred.

And then a dinner roll flew in front of my face and landed next to my plate.

Suddenly I was filled with an inexplicable glee. I grabbed the dinner roll, squeezing it in my white-knuckled fist. I excused myself from the table. The girls had immediately silenced themselves, trying not to laugh. My mom quietly tried to stop me, but I was on my feet.

I stood in front of their table, clutching the dinner roll, scowling at them. The silence seemed to echo through the restaurant; the only noticeable sound was the steam hissing from my ears.

"Ohmygod I'm sooooo sorry," one girl finally said. I continued to stand there, staring at them.
"Yeah," another one agreed. I stayed silent, choking the roll in my hand.
"Sorry, we'll stop," a third said.

"Shut ------- up," I said, slowly, both words saturated in anger. I dropped the crushed roll onto the table, making sure I glared at each and every one of them. They stared at the roll intently. I stood there for another moment or two, letting the moment sink in, and returned to my table.

My mother shook her head at me as I sat back down. The girls finished their meal quickly, but I caught phrases like "What's up her ass?" and "God, what a bitch," and, my personal favorite, "Like I can even eat this roll now."

They left the restaurant, and the entire place seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. It was quiet and peaceful, curse-free, and nobody was in danger of a dinner roll interrupting their mini-chimis.

All of a sudden I heard a honking out the window I was sitting next to. I glanced out the window, and there were the four girls, hanging out the windows of their car, asses bared and middle fingers flying. Their lips said "BITCH."

I started laughing. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was cackling. My mother put her face into her hand, begging me to stop, but starting to giggle.

Did anyone -- ANYONE -- out there behave similarly in high school? Did you throw dinner rolls when you were over the age of four? Did you get upset enough with random strangers that you mooned them and flipped them off fifty feet away from a family restaurant to make your point?

I behaved poorly in high school, and I will be the first to admit it, but never to this extent.

Kids these days.

Look. See it burn.
Bask in the warm hot coals.

You're too young to be old
You don't need to be told
You want to see things as they are.
You know exactly what I do
Everything.
-Jim Morrison.

Sometimes when I get upset I hold my breath. I sit there and hold it and don't even know it and then I breathe out and it's such a relief and I realize I've been holding my breath. Sometimes people ask me what's wrong because they hear me sigh heavily, and it's just that I've been holding my breath and letting all the air out.

I guess I do that in real life. When I have a problem -- like a big problem -- I hold it in until I can't breathe and it all comes flooding out. Sometimes that makes the problem sound worse than it is, just because it's been built up for so long.

I'm having a small problem that I'm holding in. It's not huge, but it seems like it's looming above me sometimes, more than I can handle at the moment. Maybe it'll go away if I just hold my breath long enough.

I also have major, major problem that I'm holding in, and I feel like when I exhale, the floodgates are going to open and someone is going to get really hurt. My lungs are burning and I'm ready to burst, but why waste my breath when you don't listen and, more importantly, you don't ever take me seriously?

The force behind this kind of an exhale doesn't leave a whole lot of room for diplomacy.

She lost her damn mind.

I don't think there should be one day to acknowledge the people who mean a lot to you, so I didn't do much yesterday in the Valentine's Day area.

Seeing as today is NOT Valentine's Day, I want to point out just a few of the people that I love so dearly.





















Special thanks to Jason Staab, who I also love, for the photo of Fat Tony... and thanks to Miss Samantha Scott for the photos of my bitch (Miss Pelowski) and my hero (Miss Fuller).
Thanks for the lovin' kids. I don't know where I'd be without you.

In the world today, there are many death-related mysteries. Who shot Kennedy? Is Elvis still around? But the most pressing matter is the matter of who killed the Notorious B.I.G. (aka Biggie Smalls). No one cares about the Tupac murder because we all know he is alive and well. It was not a police cover up, nor was it a "gang-related incident." No, it was a far more menacing foe: Fonzworth Bentley killed B.I.G.

Tupac was as dead as a door-nail, was dead to begin with; as dead as a doornail. In life, he was partners with a notorious money-lender by the name of Suge Knight. Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Suge Knight! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. It is said that Suge Knight had gang ties, therefore he is naturally associated with the death of the Notorious B.I.G.

Suge Knight, upset by the death of his friend, began to believe the gospel that Tupac had been preaching, that the Notorious B.I.G. and Sean "Puffy" Combs had set him up to be... "removed." Now, Suge Knight, always putting business first, placed a courtesy call to Sean Combs, accusing him of murdering his friend, and promising to avenge the death by ridding the world of Puffy.

Combs, trying to save his own hide, attempted to make a bargain. He proposed that if Suge Knight were to let him live, Combs would take care of a "B.I.G." problem. Suge Knight accepted the proposition.

Combs set about trying to rationalize how he could make good on his promise without taking the fall himself. All of a sudden, he knew exactly who to turn to. Throughout the years, one man has emerged as Combs' closest confidant, his right-hand man, his sidekick... his bitch. That man:


Fonzworth Bentley.

Combs approached Bentley with some apprehension. He promised Bentley that if he were to do as Combs asked, he would give him a career -- a career in anything he wanted.

"I like umbrellas," Bentley responded. Combs agreed -- how he would incorporate this, he did not know, but he knew Bentley would be the most famous Umbrella Man this side of the Mississippi, if he carried out the plan.

Jump to the night of the murder.

Eyewitnesses claim they saw a skinny black man in a bowtie working the door of the club that the Notorious B.I.G. and Combs had been at that fateful night. This is the actual police artist's rendering of the skinny black man:


Look familiar?


In further investigations, the police later proved that the man in question had deep-rooted gang ties, and, honest to god, drove.... a Bentley. Coincidence? The man's legal name is Harry Billups, but who names their child Fonzworth?

All Combs had to do was make sure that the Notorious B.I.G. was sitting in the correct seat in the correct SUV. The trap was set. The plan was foolproof. The execution was swift. Now the Notorious B.I.G. rests in peace, up on a diamond-encrusted cloud, gazing down upon us, and cursing Fonzworth Bentley for all eternity.

The case was officially closed in 2005, but speculations of the tale will continue to swirl around the case until Fonzworth comes clean. That umbrella-twirling pansy sold his soul to the devil for glory and fame, and he must be brought to justice.

These are the conspiracy theories of DebonERIC (Anniemosity's brother)... a boy who watches far too much VH1. If Suge Knight, Sean "Puffy" Combs, or Fonzworth himself are reading... I'm just kidding.......... don't kill me.

I like eating broccoli.

There are many different ways to eat broccoli, and frankly, I am a fan of nearly all of them.

I've gone awhile without eating any broccoli, and it makes me wonder when the next feasible opportunity for me to eat broccoli will be. I'm working out every single possible scenario, and really, it doesn't seem like it's going to happen anytime in the next few months. Sometimes a girl just needs some broccoli.

Eating broccoli by myself is always an option, and sometimes it's far more satisfying than eating broccoli with someone else, but I can only eat broccoli by myself for so long. The last time I ate broccoli with someone else, they finished theirs before I even had a chance to finish mine. That was not unexpected, but, as usual, incredibly stupid. Nonetheless, given the choice, I'd much rather eat broccoli with someone else. That being said, there are some people that are so desperate to eat broccoli with others that they eat it off the street. That is unclean broccoli. UNCLEAN.

Really, I need is reassurance that I am not the only one not eating broccoli at this time. Come on guys.

.....anyone?

Ladies & gentlemen, it's fashion week.

What does this mean? If you've seen "The Devil Wears Prada," you know what this is about. It was set up for fashion designers to debut their spring or fall collections (but in reality, it's all about letting every celebrity under the sun get a lot of swag, get really drunk, and get their photos taken while pretending to pay attention to designers). The established (Oscar de la Renta, Marc Jacobs, Betsey Johnson, Diane von Furstenberg [Anniemosity's personal favorite], Roberto Cavalli), the up-and-comers, all parade their latest designs around for a week, hoping to be mentioned in a rag almost as much as they are hoping to catch the attention of celebrities (everyone from Lenny Kravitz to Roger Federer to Reverend Run to Fran Drescher), or -- gasp -- Anna Wintour and/or André Leon Talley.


Ahhhhh. Titans of thread at Carolina Herrera.

But wait! What's that? André Leon Talley is wearing.... Baby Phat? Kimora Lee Simmons' line? Kimora is fun-trashy... like how Paris used to be, what seems like eons ago. Girl knows how to throw a party, but step back because she will not hesitate to choke a bitch, decked out in gaudy-ass bling from head to toe. This makes her pretty a-ok in my book. However....... this does NOT mean she needs her own fashion line. Baby Phat supposedly touts "Fabulosity" (which, in all reality, sounds like a word that I would use frequently) but has the smackings of "Hooker." Observe:


What?


Since when is this couture?


Gold lamé. Lame.


DANI??????? WHY ARE YOU WALKING FOR BABY PHAT. THAT IS A STATEMENT, NOT A QUESTION. UNLESS YOU ARE CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED, I DON'T HAVE A GOD DAMN CLUE WHAT YOU'RE DOING ON THIS RUNWAY IN GOLD LAMÉ SHOES.

This begs the question -- why, oh why, is the editor-at-large at Vogue wearing something from this line? And why, oh why, is the editor-in-chief, the most powerful woman in fashion, letting him? She's not named "Nuclear Wintour" because she keeps her opinions to herself.

So what does this mean? Is Kimora single-handedly ushering in the era of Tacky Chic? Has the entire fashion community gone the way of Britney Spears and lost their damn minds?

I don't like this. I don't like this one bit.

I'm going to art school.

Yes, I'm 21 and I'm excited about starting school.
Really excited.

A new chapter in my life -- new people in my life -- new skills, new opportunities, new everything.

Minneapolis, here I come.

"This is one time where television really fails to capture the true excitement of a large squirrel predicting the weather."

"There is no way this winter is ever going to end as long as that groundhog keeps seeing his shadow. I don't see any way out of it. He's got to be stopped. And I have to stop him."


don't forget about the previous post. those things are important.

In the dull, drab, colorless world of Onalaska, sometimes a girl just needs a little pick-me-up.

Oh baby.