Sexy Tranny

Once upon a time not long ago, I wrote a post titled "Duck Face" in honor of girls who make creepy looking faces when they take pictures, in order to appear pouty or sexy (such as myself).

At the time, I asked all duck face heroes to step forward and proudly display their support of duck faces everywhere by sharing their pictures with the world via this blog. Many brave readers sent their duck face declarations and a certain funny guy even submitted a picture of his duck ass. If you haven't seen it, here it is:

His name, is Charles. His blog content is mainly about drug addictions and sticky balls and constipation and you probably shouldn't read it, but he also wears button down shirts with dorky glasses, a lethal combo a snob like me simply can't go up against (sorry ladies and gents, he has a hot girlfriend).

Charles has quickly become one my closest virtual buddies and if you partake in this universe we call the blogosphere then you're well aware this is its most rewarding aspect, the friendships we forge with strangers who are probably as mental as we are, if not more. Charles, with his humorous disdain for emo kids and upmost command of the English language is one of those people to me.

A few weeks ago while stranded in Argentina I hosted a purse giveaway since I'd run out of post material in the land of Malbec and tango. I asked readers to enter by stating what they'd match the purse with in the comments' section and this was Charles reply:

After this, many of you expressed interest in having our fab Emerson stick to his promise and rock out his fashion-forward outfit. Unfortunately he wasn't the giveaway winner, yet he was determined to own the red purse and did this special glamour photo shoot just for us:

        

And my personal favorite...

Thanks a lot for upstaging me, Charles.

How could I possibly compete with all this?

Five Dollars Can Only Get You So Far

Dear guys (that means girls too):

It's high time you're briefed on some classified information about yours truly: I love expensive sunglasses. When I die I want to be buried naked rocking a pair of them and a fake smile.

Okay that's not entirely true, because funerals are expensive and I don't think anyone should spend that ungodly amount of money to cover a rotting corpse with dirt but you get my drift. This weekend was filled with none of the fun and a rigorous exercise regime which is literally kicking my ass into famosity shape (lots more deets on that later, I promish). Back to the sunglasses and the point of this stupid post that should be shot in the face along with fat-free ice cream. There once was a time when I had about seven different pairs of designer shades (and a job too) but one by one, they ended up in the claws of this dog right here:

Also, I lose everything and sunglasses are not exempt from the unfortunate bunch so I started buying cheap designer knock-offs at five bucks from street vendors instead. You know, the ones they have at Chinatown in NYC or in those little carts at the mall in Hialeah (really shitty Miami town with the highest population of Cubans and delicious greasy food). I bought a new pair about a week ago and fell in love with the stupid things but guess what? I dropped them while opening the door for an old lady this weekend and look what happened:

Versace and Dior should pay me for this post as it is an obvious deterrent for anyone thinking of buying knock-offs.

Happy Monday and thank you for reading what was possibly the worst post known to man (I love you too).

Unrelated sidenote: While we're on the shit train I have to share that my six month celibacy vow is officially over in twenty-six days. I know you don't care, but guess who does? (Hint: she has dark hair and likes cupcakes). I ate a mango the other day and look what I did to the poor thing.

I think my sexual frustrations are being projected on food in more ways than one.

Not. Good.

Text Sex And a Double Date

I went on a double date the week before I left for Buenos Aires and something really traumatic happened which I'm about to discuss here (imagine yourself as Freud and me on a velvet couch).

Kimmie (whose name has been changed for reasons you'll soon discover) begs me to join her and some guy she met the weekend I almost broke my celibacy vow on a double date (his name is Sean). My designated snore for the evening is Sean's cousin, dude named Ronald with a funny walk (fail) and Converse shoes (win). I'm hardly capable of saying no to people when they plead so off we go: Kimmie, Sean, Ronald and myself.

We arrive at a restaurant called Carrabas 'round 9 and soon as we sit Sean orders a bottle of wine for the table. Glad for the much needed social lubricant as it's obvious this is destined to be one of those awkward blind date situations that never end well, I smile appreciatively his way. I'd already done my own mandatory liver lubricating at home prior to being picked up and am feeling pretty chirpy, indulging Ronald in a conversation about the importance of Scorsese films and lack of depth in present-day movies.

Once our food arrives, Kimmie excuses herself to go to the bathroom but when I try to follow she gives me the evil eye which means Stay put. I'm puzzled but comply, awkwardly making conversation with two strangers over shrimp linguini and Robert Mondavi wine. Five minutes feel like five hours and still no sign of Kimmie, so I take it upon myself to check up on her since I'm bored to tears because I'm concerned.

The restroom only has one stall with a mirror and sink outside so I figure Kimmie's inside peeing. I've known her since we were kids so instead of knocking I just open the door and almost fall back at the site of her in front of the mirror.

Apparently, while poor Sean was ordering bottles of wine and whispering sweet nothings in her ear in an attempt to seal the deal, Kimmie was having text sex with some guy she likes who lives in Atlanta. I've never really taken part in "text sex" so to speak but seriously could she have picked a more inopportune time?

Me: What in the fuck are you doing?

Kimmie: I. I was just, ahhhh, taking sexy pictures for Josh.

Me: Josh? Who in the world is Josh? And why are you doing this now while I drown out there in shitty conversation?

Kimmie: It's the kid I told you about that I met on Twitter.

Me: (roll my eyes so much I catch a glimpse of my own thoughts). Twitter. You met a guy on Twitter and you're taking naked pictures while you're on a date with another guy and leaving me out there to die of boredom with Ebert & Roeper?

Kimmie: I'm sorry (gives me a sheepish look). You don't understand how this guy makes me feel, Annah. You're too, well, you're too you. You don't understand.

Me: Kim, you don't understand how he makes you feel. You've never even seen the guy. It's fuckin' Twitter. Really?!

Kimmie: Shoots me a blank, puzzled look.

Me: No worries my friend, take your time and I'll cover up for you. Just come back when you're good and ready.

I head back to the table and promptly order a dirty martini, no olives.

"Is everything alright?" Sean asks with a concerned look on his face that almost makes me feel sorry for the poor schmuck.

"Kimmie has the shits," I smile sweetly, burying my face in my glass of wine without waiting to catch a glimpse of his reaction.

-------

Have a naked weekend and take lots of pictures (just don't do it in a public bathroom stall, boys and girls).

Dirty Face & a Werewolf

Most of you know by now I'm a crazy dog lady who avidly takes part in rescuing and as mentioned previously, my latest one is a wolf named Maximus who much to my dismay and disappointment does not turn into Jacob from Twilight at the stroke of midnight.

With all that said, I've come to bond some with this oversized beast in the past few weeks meanwhile trying to find him a loving adoptive home. His potty training skills put my dogs' to shame and whenever he howls by the door I know he's going to lay down the business in my neighbor's front lawn which is awesome.

The only troublesome issue with Maximus is that he's a big boy and I've yet to fully master the art of walking him like I do my real dogs.

I've somehow gotten accostumed to semi-handling Max on the leash and holding it tightly enough so that I don't end up on the floor without my front teeth, choking on gravel as Max mauls an innocent child two feet away from me.

Unlike my dogs who just stared at me stupidly when I arrived home Wednesday afternoon from Buenos Aires, Max was jumping all over the place doing a happy dance and even though it was pouring outside in typical Miami fashion, I couldn't deny him a walk as he pulled on my t-shirt and dragged me to the door.

I quickly threw on some flip flops and off we went.

By the way he forced me forward, I could tell Max was beside himself with agitation, pulling with all his might and panting heavily as I struggled to have the upper hand whilst recalling Cesar Millan's tips on proper dog walking. Soon enough we reached a nice pace and Max begrudgingly surrendered to his master (that's me by the way), our steps synchronizing nicely as the rain soaked me and mascara ran away from my eyes.

This isn't so bad, I thought, finally relaxing a bit and enjoying the lake view on my right.

But then:

Soon as I saw the damn thing I was hoping it would run off when he spotted Max but instead, it just sort of hopped around ahead of us, provoking a little game of tag. Luckily my werewolf had yet to spot him but in a matter of seconds all that changed. Sidenote: Trying to run after a dog who's running after a cat who's running for the hell of it on a slippery sidewalk in flip flops is not as fun as it sounds.

Ninja cat ran into the grassy area towards the lake and I tripped on a branch and fell face-first into the muddy ground. I knew if I let go of the leash I'd lose Max forever and there was no way in hell I was willing to let that happen after all I went through to rescue him in the first place. I laid there cursing the day I decided loving and rescuing animals was a respectable hobby, a death grip on Max's leash as he pulled with all his might, slowly inching me forward on the grass until he realized he wasn't going anywhere.

The aftermath?

I'm aware that is possibly the worst picture of me ever taken with my Blackberry but I had to show you guys the proof of my brush with death. Also, my mother says that soil is a very good exfoliant but I'd rather stick with this.

Max found a home two days later and I still have all my front teeth, which is fucking great if you ask me (and I should know because there was a time when I was missing them). Buuuuuut, we'll save that post for another day.

True Love Takes Shit

Disclaimer: The thought of poop makes you want to vomit? You should probably skip this then.

If you've been following my madness machine for a bit then surely you know I'm cursed with random bouts of diarrhea on a regular basis. My "cagaleras" (spanish word for "the shits") are usually induced by liquor or spicy food. Taking into account I ingest either one or the other on a daily basis, it's safe to say my toilet plunger and I are tighter than me and Jesus.

Thursday night I attended a housewarming at a friend's tiny apartment in south Miami. Considering everyone's ultimate poorness, we drank cheap wine and noshed on five dollar pizza from the corner store as we talked the house of shit (pun not intended) about everyone from high school and made fun of people's Facebook statuses. Of course I had to drown my pizza slice in this (because it tastes so good):

A couple of hours into the getty, my stomach came knocking with the message it was time for some relief and although I tried to command my sphincter to get its shit together 'til we arrived home, it was clear it wasn't willing to cooperate with the situation.

As I sat there damning the day Cholula made its way into my local supermarket...

I began to think about my best friend.

So I pulled out the Blackberry and decided to shoot the breeze while I finished my little business. I knew Olivia would be happy to learn of my bathroom troubles and coax me along, as she usually texts me everytime she bombs her toilet or has a stomach ache (I mean, What are friends for if not taking each other's shit?).

I'm aware you guys didn't want to read this on a Monday morning but in life there are times we'll be forced to hear things we really don't care to know. I know, it just isn't fair.

-

Unnecessary sidenote: Miss Universe is on tonight! I'm rooting for Miss Haiti.

I Love This So Much!!!!!!!!!

Alright guys you know I don't usually do this but I seriously had a little pee dribbling down my left thigh after watching this video on Amber's page.

And I'm aware that when it comes to watching videos on blogs we're all impatient as hell but trust when I tell you, you'll love this (even if you can barely understand what this man is saying). This dog is the shit (literally)!

By the way "mind me" means do as I say in "southern speak". How do I know this? I read The Color Purple in Buenos Aires last week (and if you haven't read it, baby Jesus run to the store and buy yourself a copy).

Yay to reading and learning new things! Now excuse me while I clean this house which is tragically messy and oddly smelling of scrambled eggs and lavender.

Sex Machine & a Weener

The ever-so-fabulous Ms. C. left me this comment two days ago and of course I had to share.

In a nutshell she stated that after forcing her fiance to visit my blog and getting into a heated debate about something that may or may not have had anything to do with my latest post, they ended up tangled in the throes of some passionate monkey style back-breaking sex.

Suddenly, it dawned on me!

And if you read it, then it's obvious you too are going to have this type of mind-blowing sex Ms. C. was referring to. Just please try to remember me when you do as apparently I'm the only exception to this remarkable rule (considering the celibacy vow and all).

You may not know it but right now as you read this the sex gods are smiling down upon you and I know it probably makes no sense now but later on it will (if it doesn't just take a few shots and I promise it'll all fall into place).

Finally, the weener of the two-toned red croc bag from last week's giveaway is Meagoo! Watch video and see me pick out her name out of my dog's food bowl (it took me forever to write those names and ball them up so watch it damn it! Big bonus is that you get to hear my nasally voice laced with tons of sleepiness, which is awesome in and of itself).

Have a great weekend! No drinking and driving please (I love you too much).

XoXo,

Annah

This World Is Full Of Dickheads

I'm back boys and girls!

I haven't slept in over thirty hours because I'm terrified of airplanes and had a panic attack on the first flight from Buenos Aires to Houston and nearly fainted on top of a surfer dude from California who held my hand for eight hours while I sweated profusely and complained of nausea as he held a barf bag with his free hand "just in case I tossed my cookies". There really are some nice people in this world (but that's another story altogether).

As usual, when I choose to write posts such as this one I find my self squirming in my pink butterfly undies because I know the loss of followers will surely ensue. Moreso because in the past week a handful of readers have pointed out most of my post subject matter is inappropriate for children and also that I need to find Jesus (yet again).

To that I can only say this: If at some point or another I claimed or alluded to this being a kid friendly blog then please accept my sincerest of apologies, as surely it is not. In regards to Jesus, I have no reason to find him because he's never been lost to me. Me and Jesus are like this!

And I'm aware it may be difficult to believe but I'm a very spiritual person and also a self-righteous fuck who can't even bring herself to steal a ten cent caramel candy from the grocery store when I'm craving one during that time of the month or not open a door for an elderly person when usually they can't be bothered to say thank you.

What I'm trying to say is: I'm not as evil as you think I am, guys.

Yes... I like drinking, cursing, partying til' my extensions fall off, gawking at beautiful men, being mischievous and on occasion making out with random strangers but I'm sorry! Like Popeye says, I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam (or something like that). There are worse things to be out there than a raging lunatic, trust.

My buddy Charles has a warning on the bottom of his blog that reads "all posts should be taken with at least one grain of salt" and I think I'd like to borrow that and apply it to my blog as well. You may also take them with a shot of tequila or your drink of choice, I prefer vodka slushies but you can drink what you like.

This blog is called Red Means Go, not Just Say No or I Like Bows. If we deny what we are then Jesus would surely be upset at us (ha ha), so I personally just roll with it and stay true to form regardless of the strange stares shot my way as I dance without music in the grocery line or the "Religion is your sauviour!" emails flooding my inbox. Can I get an amen? Okay!

Now on to the post...

Once I was a month into blogging I compiled a list of things I wanted to achieve for major famosity points by my six month bloggaversary which falls on September 16th (Bloggaversary: Can I copyright that word?).

Here they are:

So two out of four ain't bad and obviously I can't be mad at Ricky for not wanting to give me the bone but Perez Hilton is a different story. If you've been reading this blog for long enough then you know I am not one to give up easily when I want something, yet I have hounded this girlie man over and over via every social medium possible and he has repeatedly ignored my pleas for help at famosity. So who is Perez Hilton, you ask?

Well, asides from being that guy who forgot where he came from (cough cough, Miami), he's also the one who got his mug punched by this dude from the Black Eyed Peas...

Perez is filthy rich because of his blog in which he mainly makes fun of celebrities and draws penises pointing at their poor unsuspecting heads. He's obviously not down with helping the little people either so I'll just come out and say he only cares about himself. That's right, I said it. Maybe he's scared I will dethrone him because we have so much in common? I'm so delusional with lack of sleep right now it's not even funny. Go ahead, you can laugh at me. The similarities are definitely there though.

• Both graduated high school (but Annah graduated from college so she wins. Well, marginally wins since her GPA sucked as she was too preoccupied with Partying 101.
• Both love the gays (albeit in different manners)
• Both like traveling.
• Both like ties.
• Both have large breastesses (not a real word, guys).
• Both like cupcakes.
• Both like gossip.
• Both are from Miami with Cuban heritage.
• Both have messed up teeth (but Perez' are worse than Annah's).
• Both like manicures.
• Both like wigs.
• Both like wearing pink.

Only difference? Perez Hilton makes over six thousand dollars a day according to an article wheras Annah currently makes zero. That's enough to make anyone dive into a bottle of whiskey and drown their sorrows if you ask me.

And I'm sure as you're reading this you're thinking, Bitter much, Annah?

And heck yeah, guys. I am bitter because let's face it, who doesn't want to make $6000 a day for drawing doodles on celeb mugshots (only the ones who deserve it though). They don't even have to be celebs, I would extend my art to lesser people of insignificant value if given the whim.

Dude, you know what? I'll do it for free.

So thanks for nothing, Perez! I will not forget this when I am famous, damn it.

Oh wait! Forgot one more dickhead drawing.