Effed-Up Shit, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

Happy Columbus Day! If you’d like to celebrate with me, meet me tomorrow at the southeast corner of 21st Street and 5th Avenue, 10AM. We’ll pick a direction to walk in, enter the first store we come across, and take whatever the hell we want.

Discovery! So exhilarating.

If anyone tries to stop you, just shove ‘em out of the way.

It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

TERRIBLE IRONY: By the time you finish paying off your educational debt, you are too old to engage in drunken shenanigans on a weekend when you’re already exhausted from moving to a new apartment, and you settle for a nice dinner out at your favorite Jersey red sauce joint and a good milkshake. I mean, I like a milkshake as much as the next debt-free gal, but COME ON. Twenty-three-year-old me weeps.

Higher education: at what cost?

It’s like 10,000 spoons, when all you need is a fifth of gin.

It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Jesus H. Christ

And forgive the Bearded Lady, Amen.

Did you know? The patron saint of carneys is also the patron saint of murderers. His name is Saint Julian the Hospitaller, and he once hallucinated that a deer told him he was going to kill his parents. (FYI, he did kill his parents. Don’t worry, though: he was really sorry, and did penance by building a hospital by a river to care for sick travelers. He also “rowed travelers across the river,” which sounds like another famous ferryman, not that I am suggesting anything untoward.)

The carney/murderer thing can’t be a coincidence is all I’m saying, and I thought you should know. I love a goddamn saint.

It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

Everyone take a deep breath while I tell you about the best TSA experience I’ve ever had.

Let’s take a break from wishing bodily harm on rapists and rape apologists to consider how fantastic my hair is: it is curly, it is bouncy, it is kooky and spoingy and wonderful, and it got me pulled out of the security line at Newark Airport today so a female agent could give me a top-of-head-specific pat-down. MY HAIR IS SO HOT IT’S DANGEROUS, Y’ALL.

There, don’t you feel better? I know I do. Now let’s all get a good night’s sleep and pretend that last post never happened.

It's 3AM; I must be lonely., Jesus H. Christ, Warning: Strident Feminism Ahead

Why can’t you die quietly, like a gentleman?

Have you read Bill Keller’s New York Times column about Lisa Adams, who’s blogging her way through cancer treatment?

I did, and it resulted in the first official King of States! Dander-Raising of 2014. Huzzah!

For god’s sake, don’t stop reading now!

Building teh Interwebz, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

Please endorse me for microfiche operation and Dewey Decimal expertise.

I was on LinkedIn the other day; I’m not sure why, other than it’s a thing I’m supposed to use to connect to people, most of whom I hope never to need to contact and never need to contact me, and some of whom I have already forgotten completely. Networking!

(Not you; I remember you well and would gladly recommend you for content strategy or budgeting or cheese-mongering or underwater basket-weaving, or whatever the hell you do.)

Anyway, this isn’t about LinkedIn; it’s about Microsoft Word.

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An Open Letter, It's 3AM; I must be lonely.

To the Housekeeper Taking Care of the Ninth Floor of My Hotel

I bought an apple yesterday, intending to eat it this morning. I like apples cold and crispy, so I left it by the open bathroom window. Then I decided to shower, so I moved the apple to the bedroom window. In the night, it was too cold to keep the bedroom window open, so I shut it, re-opened the bathroom window, and moved the apple back there. This morning, I forgot to eat the apple. As I was getting ready to leave for the day, I heard a gust of wind roll the apple off the sill, but I was running late and promptly forgot about it.

And that’s why there’s an apple in the bathtub of room 909.

UPDATE! When I returned to my room tonight, the apple had been neatly replaced on the sill.