Today's A Day For Romance!

Today I'm wearing magical polka dot shoes and damn it they make me happy!

What does this have to do with anything? Absolutely nothing.

On to the post.

But first, Ryan and I have come up with gay alter egos! Just for fun. Mine is Shaneequa Fiercenozzle and his is Mr. Fancy Pussypants. You should make one up too. I command it!

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This morning via text.

John: Feeling any better this morning?

(I was feeling crappy about life in general last night then went out with Britt and possibly drank too much and played beer pong with strangers on the sidewalk of a street culminating in homemade pasta made with shells, ketchup, mayo and some parmesan cheese at three a.m.)

Me: I feel happy. And slightly hungover.

John: No better way to be.

Me: Did you see Kate's wedding dress? Motherfucking dreamy.

John: Kate who? Your friend? Didn't even know she was getting married.

Me: The princess, John. Get with it!

John: You're the only princess I know.

Me: Awwww, babe. That's the sweetest.

John: The princess of explosive diarrhea!

Me: That was *one* time.

John: Nevertheless you've earned your royal title.

Answer Me This

I wonder why it is, that on the rare occasion when all the guys in an office don't resemble gremlins who haven't showered in weeks and there just so happens to be one who looks like he stepped off a J. Crew catalog, each time he walks by your office and peeks inside to say "Hi" instead of looking like this:

You're doing this:

"He's probably a dickhead," says Britt. "Or gay."

"Maybe," I reply.

Or maybe he doesn't like girls who pick their nose and search for tampons while belting it out to the Beach Boys. I guess I'll never know...

Or will I?

I'm No Longer A Man

Previously, on Red Means Go (that sort of sounds like some television show intro), I mentioned I was having a minor outpatient surgery for a rather nasty and painful mole growing on the inside of my right thigh (I hope you weren't eating your lunch while reading this). After two cancelled appointments and a fire at my doctor's office, I finally had the procedure taken care of last night.

Then later...

Ryan: What're you doing?

Me: Is this a reference to that last post about sexting, 'cuz that won't work in the real world, you know...

Ryan: No... I mean, what are you doing at this moment?

Me: I'm at my parents' house with four dogs on the couch, about to pop in a movie fest that I just rented at Blockbuster.

Ryan: Ooh! Anything good?

Me: The King's Speech and some Katie Holmes fluff puff movie, but don't even think about coming over.

Ryan: Why not?

Me: Because I look and feel like shit, that's why.

Ryan: You always say that and then you don't.

Me: Trust me, I do.

Ryan: Bet you don't...

Then I sent him this.

Ryan: ...... Um.... So how did the operation go?

Me: Went well, I think.

Ryan: Did it hurt? The removal process, I mean.

Me: Nope. It's sliced off with a laser so you really don't feel a thing after anesthesia.

Ryan: Wow, it must really suck getting old (he's 25).

Me: Yeah, thanks for that reminder.

Ryan: Feeling any post pain?

Me: No, sir. I'm dandy.

Ryan: Well congratulations. You're no longer a man, madam.

Me: Eh?

Ryan: Full fledged woman, I say. There's nothing growing in between your legs anymore.

Me: Yes, of course. That penis really was getting in the way of my vagina.

Ryan: I know. Too bad I can no longer say "Go screw yourself!" and mean it. Makes me sad.

And just when I was thinking Maybe it's time for new friends, he came over with Taco Bell and a vodka slushie with a note that read, "For the gaping hole where your penis used to be."

Well thank you very much, dickwad.

Love Letters

This is the part where I say something witty as an introduction to today's post but taking care of a batallion of berserk animals has caused me to lose what little sense I'm capable of making on any day that's not Friday or Saturday.

As previously mentioned, I went to the Arsht Center this past Saturday night to catch Cyrano. A brief synopsis, Cyrano is an opera based on a soldier who's in love with his cousin, Roxane, but is too afraid to tell her because of his distorted appearance. Poor Cyrano is afflicted with an enormous nose which causes him to be the talk and ridicule of the town, therefore diminishing his confidence towards the fairer sex, especially his lady love and relative (incest, anyone?).

Roxane falls in love with another soldier by the name of Christian who although winsome and charming, does not possess the ability to tie two coherent sentences at once without practicing them for a minimum of ten minutes. When Roxane confesses her love for Christian to Cyrano, he decides to help by ghostwriting love letters on Christian's behalf. I'm sure I don't need to tell you but I will do so anyway because I love spoiling things for people: Christian gets the girl and Cyrano ends in heartbreak and misery on his way to war.

Watching Cyrano got me thinking about modern-day romance and how no one goes out of their way to be exceptional or write love letters anymore.

Excuse me.

No one writes any letters nowadays, not even a note saying "You have cooties" on a paper napkin. And it saddens me, really, because nothing gets the panties dropping faster than the written hand, especially when it derives from the mind of someone you love/find attractive/want to have sex with.

On this note, I leave you with one of my favorite internet people ever who's been narcissistic kind enough to write the following guest post for me today: Natalie from Awkward Sex & The City. You can follow her awesome and witty blog here.

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I think we can all agree that the art of love letters isn’t exactly lost… they’ve just evolved… into our handy dandy little cell phones.

SEXTS, people! I’m talking about sexts.

It’s so true, too. We are a generation of instant gratification, and if it can’t be said within 160 characters then quite honestly, I just don’t give a damn.

Nothing quite says, I love you like, “I just got tear-gassed to the face, when are we doing it?”

Breath-taking really… And that is a real sext, that I have received, in my real life.

And we probably boned that night too. I kind of don’t remember.

Any who!

I keep all my sexts, because whenever I’m feeling ugly/disgusting/hungry, I just read them and spray some cheese onto my finger, and then all is right in the world.

For example:

“I hope I wasn’t a disappointment.”

…he kind of was…

“Nope, just you. I love you and I wnt to bmmgh gud you.”

Boom!

He said those three magic “boning” words…bmmgh gud you.

Or my all time favorite… “What are you doing?”

…did I mention I was easy?

How does that not just make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

And isn’t that all a love letter was, in theory? Just some words scattered around on a piece of paper that make you feel hot/sexy/full? And talks about how awesome your boobs are?

Side note: They really are…my boobs… being awesome, that is.

I’m just assuming over here, because I’ve never received a “legitimate” love letter…for obvious reasons. I’m a little too easy for that much thought and effort. It would just be wasted energy on the man’s part, really.

Little word of advice: If you ever have sex with me, which honestly, you probably will… just sext me… or send me a penis pic… either one will suffice.

…I’m still waiting, Brett Favre.

Sadly (but not really that sad), once Taco Bell starts delivering sexting will be obsolete, then the lost art of love letters will truly be dead… because Taco Bell is the only type of sex any girl wants in their mouth.

Ever.

I Had A Dream Last Night

Last night I dreamt that I was walking along a tree lined street whilst holding the hand of a much older man whose face was blown up to the size of a watermelon. As we walked, he gave me advice on how to make salami sandwiches and just exactly how important it was to get the olive oil between the cheese and cold cuts without overpowering the taste of french bread.

Then the man turned into my friend Ryan and we were surrounded by dogs and the barking was incessant and my head felt just about ready to explode when I said, "Let's get the fuck out of here" and all of the sudden we were at a charming bookstore where hipsters and older people came together to look smarter than they really were while sipping lattes or wine.

Suddenly a waiter materialized from thin air and brought overpriced sandwiches and my favorite wine from New Zealand while a band played jazz in the book store's open air cafe and a fan blew air into my already frizzy hair.

The sandwiches were almost as pretentious as the people who frequented said bookshop with none of the substance but were soon redeemed by carrot cake and a red velvet cupcake that tasted like heaven personified.

Then I stumbled upon a book that cost almost thirty dollars written by that lady that always impersonates Sarah Palin on that live show from Saturday nights and thought Good God almighty that's a whole lotta money for a book! but bought it anyway because her huge man hands on the cover excited me.

Soon the dream moved from night to day and I awoke to find myself in a gray dress and six inch heels clicking inside a huge building with multiple floors as the sound of opera eminated from one of the rooms. I found myself in a pitch dark room and there was a beautiful stage on which a man sang of true love and the hardships of expressing your feelings to your beloved while an orchestra played below him.

Later I had wine and ate a giant cookie and suddenly heard the sounds of laughter around me. Multiple voices which could only belong to Cubans were singing and talking loudly and drinking beer and just the typical madness of a house party at a Cuban household. Then in the distance I heard someone say, Hey, hey... Are you awake?

I groggily opened my eyes to see the face of a man I didn't know but who looked down kindly on me as I adjusted my vision to the twenty-something people in the room singing karaoke and laughing.

"You've been out for two hours," he said.

"Who are you?" I responded.

"I'm Leo. We were introduced when you walked in the door and said you'd had a great time at the opera but somehow it had made you sleepy. Then you sat on the couch and next thing I knew you were dead asleep on my lap."

I had a hard time differentiating between dream and reality but this morning it was Easter and although I was due to have lunch and some drinks with Leo and new friends, I decided to forgo it in favor of my mother's hammock and a book.

I found myself thinking just how odd it was to be all alone on a holiday, but felt content to be enveloped in the sound of silence. Not even the dogs barked as I laid suspended on air and looked at my book's cover in amusement.

Someone pinch me.

Holy Shit

Today all the birds woke up chirping and everyone seems happy and elated to be alive including my mom's neighbor whom I know poisoned one of our cats last year because her soul is rotten but it's okay because she goes to church every Sunday.

It's good Friday and like the stellar Catholic that I am (even that made me laugh) I'm here to make a confession.

Annah isn't my real name.

I know. You're more than disappointed in me but let me explain. When I first started blogging my mother, father, great grandmother, and ex-fiance were incredibly worried about my safety. I tried to explain to them that everyone has a blog these days but all I heard was You're going to have stalkers coming to your house and This is how people get murdered.

I'd be lying if I said this didn't sort of creep me out so I decided changing my name would be a smart idea. Then months later I realized it's all pointless because my picture is plastered all over this damn thing and whomever wants to find me will do so anyway.

People forgot my real name. I'll go to bars or be buying eggs and cheese on a random Thursday evening, when someone will stop me and be all "Annah, how are you? My God I love your blog!" And I ask myself, Who the heck is this Annah? And then my alter ego answers, That's you, you dumb fuck.

If it makes it any better "Annah" is actually part of my real name. So it could be Diannah or Annahlynne or Mariannah or Hannah or Tiannah. Actually, it is one of those, I just won't say which to please my parents and anyone else who cares if I live or die.

At any rate, I adore Annah and I'm keeping it so please don't stop calling me that because I've come to love it and if I ever become famous I will legally change it.

(Maybe).

Previously, I mentioned my parents were leaving to Cuba for a week and yesterday I woke up at four in the morning to take them to the airport. I promptly went back to my apartment at six that morning to walk my dogs and change to head on to work. After my shift I went back to my parents' house for a small nap and will you look at the small surprise I had on my pillow?!

Sidenote: My parents aren't going on vacation until their diamond anniversary which is a few decades from now. Even if they don't know that yet.

For Cubans, there's a superstition that if bird shit lands on your car you have something good coming your way in the form of money. If this is God's way of telling me something massively awesome is headed for Annah-land then I hear it loud and clear, buddy (now bring it).

This whole sitting of ten dogs, five cats, twelve ducks and one spoiled turtle named Genevieve has already been an adventure and only 24 hours have passed since my parents left. Then this morning I woke up to an email on my Blackberry with God's sign that something so fucking incredible was going to happen to me that the papers would have to write about it in bold shadowy letters: an email from Bank of America with the subject "Courtesy Balance Notification."

Well that's nice, Bank of America. So sweet of you to send me a notification shedding light on the fact my checking account only has 31 cents, I thought. But then I opened the email and almost had a coronary in my underwear right there on the kitchen floor:

Way to go, Jesus Christ (and to top it off, I can't even call Bank of America because they're closed today to question why all of the sudden, I am a negative millionaire).

I'm not really sure but I think this could possibly be one of the best Easter weekends in the history of mankind. No parents, 28 pets, greasy Chinese food, and a cool negative one mill in my checking account.

Fucking ninja, guys.

I Be So Confused

It has come to my attention that search keywords and backlinks are a vital part to growing any website and so naturally I've become interested in things like SEO (search engine optimization) and pinging like they were happy places where the sun always shines and the birds don't poop on you.

I still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and most likely never will, but it makes me feel good to play an active role in the growth of my blogging vehicle.

One of the sites I've been doing my SEO training on, requests that you "pay special attention to which keywords are driving traffic to your site and how you can learn from it." This week's top three search keywords for my blog have been interesting and I've paid "special attention" as instructed.

So far I've learned nothing.

Except possibly it's time to go on a diet...

Like Ripping Buttons Off A Shirt

When you're a famous blogger and people actually read your shit there are two things you will learn sooner than later: 1) You can't please everyone. 2) Pleasing yourself is always more fun (and by that I mean doing what you want and not touching yourself even if that always proves to be more than self-gratifying).

Of course I'm not saying that I'm famous (yet) but it seems like the more people who read my blog the less likely I am to make everyone happy and that makes me feel sort of nostalgic for the days when only my best friends and dogs read my drivel.

I lie.

I love you guys. Even you, Anonymous.

Now! On the the things I did this weekend because I haven't written one of these posts in a while :)

Friday

• Realized the flowers in my beautiful green vase were dead.
• Knew I was too poor to buy fresh flowers every week.
• Went on a hunt for "natural" looking fake flowers.
• Aware natural looking and fake don't go together in the same sentence.
• (Except in breast enhancement commercials.)
• Found some fake calla lilies.
• Very satisfied with the end result.

(All of this happened before work because when I want something I'm psychotic and it has to be right then and there, damn it!)

• Left work at two in the afternoon for my third nipple removal surgery.
• Get to the doctor's office to be informed there was an "accidental fire in the operating room" and my surgery was rescheduled for the end of April.
• Wondered why they didn't call me, then realized I have no insurance and there's a reason why I chose said facility.
• Called Penelope & Miguel to meet for drinks.
• Wish I remembered more than Penelope saying "I have to go to church so I'm only having one drink" and then she had six.
• ... But I don't.

Fade To Black...

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Saturday

• Promised Britt to watch the "basketball" game at Sandbar.
• Britt's late (as usual) so Ryan and I go buy vodka slushies for the ride over.

I wish I could keep this post going but I just had an incredibly long dinner of tapas and wine and now it's Sunday and almost midnight and I'm trying to write something like a responsible blogger but apparently being responsible is not my forte.

Here are the highlights: I bought kitty cat glasses for $6.00 at Target and I am in lurv with them.

Ryan was so sick on the way to Sandbar on Saturday afternoon that he threw up his slushie and chicken nugget combo on the sidewalk of a darling Coconut Grove street. Once he was done and I was over feeling sorry for him, there was an older man limping in the rain selling peeled oranges in a bag. And I was all, "Ryan, can we buy oranges from the guy with the limp."

Ryan: But his hands are all dirty.

Me: It's raining! Poor dude.

Ryan: His hands are dirty, Annah. Do you want to eat dirty oranges?

Me: I don't want to eat oranges at all. I just wanna buy 'em so he can go home and drink a beer.

Ryan: He has three bags. He's not going home any time soon.

Me: Please! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease. I want oranges. Please? Buy two bags.

I'm very convincing when I want to be.

Then I want to say something really exciting happened after that but mostly we just went to Sandbar and had beer and some of us drank Coca Cola because we were too hungover for liquor and Britt said she was going to California for a wedding in May and everyone thought it'd be fun to purchase tickets on their phones to fly to Cali.

So we did.

Then we made plans to go salsa dancing until the sun came up but instead we went home and passed out at seven in the evening and didn't wake up until noon the next day.

Yeah...

Nothing else of interest took place because Sunday is family day as you should already know if you pay *any* attention to this blog whatsoever. I finished my Dia de Familia at six in the evening and came home to flip through magazines and found an old version of Traveler's which mentioned a restaurant in Miami named Bin No. 18. I then texted my boyfriend with "There's a restaurant named Bin No. 18 and I really want to go."

And he replied with "Whatever bin you stick yourself in is bound to be interesting" and I silently cursed the day I decided a long distance relationship was a good idea (yet again) but also thought I was blessed to have friends whom I annoy enough to go with me to places called Bin No. 18 and buy dirty oranges.

I took pictures:

We drank three bottles of wine. And they had this incredible manchego cheese with slices of guava and all sorts of ham and chorizo and wow, guys.

A culinary orgasm just bursting in your mouth and not the type that induces vomit, but moreso the kind that makes your eyes roll back involuntarily and think, Ay Dios mio!

I came home after that and ate an orange.

A man with dirty hands peeled it for me.

Hyper Smash

I Can't Keep Doing This But Today I Have An Excuse, Damn It!

I realize I can't keep phoning it in and bringing back old posts like I did just a couple of weeks ago but I'm having surgery tomorrow and I'm tired and all I really want to do is drink some coffee and watch television so please love me.

Sidenote: This is my first post ever so in a sense it's only right people actually read it.

If for any reason you're curious, tomorrow's surgery is on a third nipple I have growing on the inside of my right thigh.

***Third nipple = A tiny mole I ignored for years that suddenly engorged into a mammoth within a week and started bleeding and hurting majorly (gross, I know).

At any rate, I'm alive and hopefully will continue to be after tomorrow and my parents are going to Cuba for two weeks which leaves me in care of a total of seven dogs and five cats (not including my own). If this doesn't drive your head into a screwdriver I don't know what will.

So don't hate me for not being all here even though I am here in spirit and still hoping for famosity and loving you so much my panty liners are falling off. I leave you with my first post (it sucks, don't judge).

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Menage-A-What

Last night, after a particularly boring evening of cleaning and being a couch potato, I decided to hit the sack 'round midnight and schlepped on over to my room when the house phone rang. No way it could’ve been a damn telemarketer calling so late so I answered with a “Yeeeeeeeeees?” figuring it was the bestie, Olivia.

“What are you wearing?” whispered the voice on the other end.

“Oh Jeez not you,” I yawned, incredulous. “I’m tired and in no mood.”

“Come on, we haven’t had a go in like a month, we’re due for some action,” whined Matt, my phone sex guy. “Ten minutes, I promise.”

Matt, is a buddy from high school who unofficially became “phone sex guy” on a lonely college night when a three hour conversation inevitably led to the-you-know-what. Ever since then he’s been my go-to guy, an unspoken arrangement of sorts. He’d been in a relationship for the past year and so our friendship remained intact (sans the phone sex of course) but two months ago he became single and now we’re at it again a couple nights a week. I wasn’t really feeling the whole phone sex thing last night, but since I’m no good at letting people down I decided to just fake my way through the entire deed.

I was playing brick-breaker (I’m totally obsessed with it) on my Blackberry between exaggerated oohs and aahs when a text interrupted my game. It was my boss, saying she’d be working from home the next day and I immediately felt like a sinner (I work for a very conservative Christian church). I hit the reply button and put the phone down to focus on my best acting performance up to date.

Matt talked incessantly about the usual guy fantasy (threesomes) and I rolled my eyes and said with Yes, yes, I like that and other b.s. that came to mind to drive him to the finish line.

Disclaimer: Unless Channing Tatum and Josh Hartnett miraculously appear naked in my room at the same time, I really have no interest in threesomes; yet I came through with my acting for Matt and after much screaming and panting on my end, he was finished. I quickly said goodnight and hung up without waiting for a reply. The phone rang again and he growled “You’re impossible tonight," hanging up before I could say something back. I felt guilty for being so short and picked up my phone to text him the following message, hoping to brighten his spirits:

“Baby, you know very well that if I’d ever have a threeway you’d be my first choice. Maybe soon we can arrange the real deal. I was just too tired for the whole threesome thing tonight. Hope you understand. Kisses.”

I hit SEND and got up to brush my teeth, a devilish smile spreading across my face as I waited for the reply that would inevitably come in seconds. I was only blowing smoke up his ass in hopes of mollifying his anger just a bit, but when ten minutes passed and I’d received no reply I got worried and grabbed my phone to make sure the text had gone through.

Surely enough it had, but the person who received it was my boss, Kathleen.

Stranger Things Have Happened. But Still.

Remember when calling a bunch of your friends via "three-way" or "party-lines" was a fun source of entertainment and everyone would talk at the same time and no one knew what the conversation was about or who was speaking but it was awesome anyways because what-the-heck-do-you-have-to-do that's better when you're thirteen!?

Whatever. You're either too old or too young, then. If you're one of those people who has no idea what I'm talking about,  I promise this isn't made up. Kind of like when I have children and tell them about fax machines they'll be all "What the heck is a facsimile and what does it do?"

Why am I writing about this? No particular reason. Tangents happen and I can't help them so deal with it, guys.

The real purpose for this post is to talk about yesterday, which was the weirdest day I've had in a long time and I'm finna tell you about it because I can. (Finna = Going to) <------ This is ghetto slang and ghetto slang is fun to use so let's get jiggy with it.

No, I'm not drunk.

So yesterday I woke up after watching Mean Girls 2 with Lola's daughter and not only am I traumatized for life but it's a wonder how little girls still eat after watching that garbage. Every female character in the movie seriously weighed less than 100 pounds. That or they were just regular girls who were supposed to be "the fat friends."

Weird.

The morning started with me waking up and making eggs & bacon and Madelyn was all "Don't burn them this time!" and I replied "It was ONE time, child!" and she gave me the stink eye and drank her orange juice even though it had pulp in it after she'd said she didn't like pulp and I told her if she was in Cuba she'd be drinking water with brown sugar with a side of ketchup sandwiches and loving it.

Children these days.

Then her mom picked her up because they were going to church and I was surprised people still did that but it turns out they do so I wrote a blog post and then proceeded to clean my place while listening to my "Jack Johnson/Taylor Swift Cleaning Mix CD" because that's how I roll. It took me three hours to finish the sweeping bonanza as I kept getting distracted by re-runs of Dexter and the roses I bought ten days ago which are still alive but never opened.

Then I went to go visit my mother because Sundays are family day for me and we did a bunch of uninteresting things no one wants to hear about but if you must know we raked leaves in her backyard and drank virgin pina coladas because my mom isn't fond of liquor (she's a looney bin, that one).

Afterwards I drove back home and ran a red light unintentionally and realized there were three cop cars behind me which proceeded to follow but instead of turning on their lights and asking me for my "license and registration" they made a left into the Dunkin Donuts.

As I'm hyperventilating and thanking my lucky ninja stars while nearing my community there's a dog and it looks familiar and when I get closer I realize it's Daisy, a dog I rescued six month ago.

After posting fliers all over the neighborhood the owner finally called me and gave me her address and when I got there her daughters and everyone was crying and hugging and telling me how much of an angel I was and bla-bla-bla-save-it-for-the-judge. Then she proceeded to attempt and give me $20.00 for my rescue efforts and I declined even though my fridge was empty and told her to "Please use the money to buy the dog a collar and name tag."

Fast forward to today when I picked up Daisy looking wet and lost in the middle of the street and surprise, surprise... No tag or collar to be found.

I went to the house I'd initially dropped her off at the first time and knocked until my fake nails fell off but no one answered (people deserve to be kicked in the face sometimes).

Finally Daisy and I came home and Mikey bit her and a doggy fisting contest ensued and after screaming and scrambling to separate them I finally succeeded, then took a shower and went to sleep. Then I woke up around ten to realize amidst all the boxing commotion between the two dogs I'd left my door open the entire time and there was probably a serial killer inside my house at that exact moment just waiting to pounce on me with a butcher knife. Of course I immediately texted Ryan to tell him of my predicament when I get a text message from a blank number with no message.

No number.

No message.

Holy fuck I almost did diarrhea in my sweat pants right then and there.

I sent a mass text to Migz, Ryan, and Britt with "Oh my God I just got a blank text from a blank number. What do you think it means?"

Britt: Maybe the Egyptians are coming to mummify you because of you're new Eye of Horus tattoo.

Migz: I think that's probably Anonymous. Trying to tell you something.

Ryan: Pretty sure it's the serial killer inside your closet.

I replied to the text with "Hello?" and immediately got a "reject!" reply.

Then I asked Ryan to haul ass to my house since I was shaking in my flip flops and he came right over because he's a good friend but mostly because I promised beer. Once he arrived we went to Daisy's house and he got off and pounded on the door and a lady opened and came to the car almost crying and took her dog inside the house while simultaneously thanking me over and over and rubbing Ryan's back suspiciously.

This time she didn't offer me any money but it's okay because times are rough. Then Ryan and I decided midnight was as good a time as any to go buy chicken wings and drink beer on a Sunday and so we did and it was delicious and greasy and full of barbecue sauce.

I Don't Usually Do This, But... We All Need An Antidote

To Britt, Penelope & Ryan.

Thank you.

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No secret the last few days were an emotional rollercoaster and an eye-opener in all sorts of vampire-slaying ways.

"There's no better platform on earth for true character to shine than in times of adversity," I read somewhere long ago. Time and time again life shows me the veracity of said statement when I least expect it.

Sometimes, I find that looking at pictures from my past soothes me and makes me feel good about the yet unlived future. I wanted to share some of my personal favorites with you today and hope for the best with the ones that've yet to be snapped.

(That and I'm working on a cartoon heavy post about nipple tassels and sexy time but I had to clean my house and do laundry and that takes me forever because I'm easily distracted by shiny objects and re-runs of Dexter).

At any rate, here they are. I hope you're having a beer-filled Sunday (Amstel Light happens to be my favorite).