It Happened One Night (Part II).

***If you didn't read it, part I of this post is here.

Our time in Spain had been a dream I never wished to wake up from, but all good things must come to an end and this one was no exception.

The Foreign Cinema and Accelerated Spanish classes we chose for the semester had been a breeze I gladly allowed myself to sway in, plus the vending machines serving cappucinos and beer at the university cafeteria weren't too shabby either.

"So," said Roxy as she opened the blinds and windows in our room, a cool zephyr filling the space in spite of the summer heat. "What does Annah want to do, on her last day as a Spanish señorita?"

"Die," I groaned dramatically.

"Don't be ridiculous. We'll come back as soon as I win the lottery next month," she teased me. "Now spit it. Que hacemos?"

"Nothing that involves thinking," I finally replied, covering my head with the sheets as I tried to come to grips with the grim reality of a season ending.

I heard her snort loudly and tap dance around the room, then she pulled the covers off me in one silent woosh and said, "That would be exactly like every other day this summer, and we can't have that." With that she was off to the kitchen for coffee, whistling to herself and clicking her heels to her own little tune.

-------

We went to Plaza Mayor a little after noon and had lunch at our favorite seafood restaurant, bidding farewell to our favorite place in all of Salamanca.

It seemed that a few months had taken place in only minutes and now there was only this, that bittersweet feeling of emptiness and wonder for what's to come. Roxy was sipping her espresso in silence, surely lost in her own nostalgic thoughts as she watched some pigeons feast on bread crumbs.

"I want to go to church," I said suddenly, to which Roxy responded with a raised eyebrow and an incredulous laugh.

------- 

Upon our arrival, we caught the end part of wedding ceremony taking place that afternoon, as we quietly took our seats in a pew at the far end of the church. When it was all over and the groom kissed his bride, we rushed outside with the rest of the wedding party to see them off. A stocky man with a bald head and red bow tie handed us a small bag of rice. When in Rome.

The happy couple exited the church beaming at their friends and family, waves of rice flying all around them.

"How long do you give 'em?" I whispered to Roxy in English.

She laughed and gave me a sideways mock glare. "Forever."

"Que viva el amor!" Screamed a small child enthusiastically. Then he pinched my butt and ran to hide behind his mother.

-------

That night, Roxy was more excited than a schoolgirl going to her first dance, singing to Shakira as she did her makeup, then forcing me to sit down so she could do my own. I kind of thought I looked like a cheap hooker but didn't want to offend her so off we were.

Our farewell dinner was set to be inside an old ship that no longer went anywhere. The ship was set up with round and rectangular tables covered in white cloth, penguin like waiters walked around with champagne for the taking. Wild Eyes was his usual self, walking around the ship pretending to be a pirate while wine sloshed in his glass, spilling on the carpet and staining the dresses of unsupecting victims.

After our meal music was played and we sang and cried and hugged each other like morons. It was kind of like high school all over again, but with better liquor.

Once midnight hit and we were basically kicked off the ship, we headed to a narrow street filled with bars. Wild Eyes was already plastered by the time we reached Bar #3, and Roxy wasn't too far behind. Maybe I'd had one too many bread rolls over dinner, or my liver had built permanent immunity to wine after months of incessant partying, but I was pretty lucid in spite of myself.

Bar #3 was reknowned for their special mamadas (Spanish word for blowjob). Said shot, is meant to be taken by wrapping your lips around the glass and swallowing it all back at once, no hands allowed. At two dollars a pop, everyone had at least six each. Who could refuse a cheap blowjob, after all?

By one thirty everyone was hammered, except me and my gay friend Frankie.

We eventually became bored of blowjobs and moved on to a larger nightclub called Vice, where we'd split the cost of two VIP tables to continue the fiesta. As soon as we walked through the double doors I could sense trouble brewing.

With large amounts of liquor in them, my friends lost all desire to speak Spanish and behave respectfully towards the locals. As far as I could tell, we were the only Americans in the club, and we know just how much Europeans love us (don't shoot the messenger). The club's hostess took our $400 and escorted us to our tables without so much as a thank you, dropping our 2 bottles as she glared at Frankie dancing flamboyantly a few feet away from her.

"What is it with these people and no ice," Roxy pouted in my direction.

Wild Eyes just looked at her and snorted. "Fuck the ice! Where exactly are the mixers, dude?"

Not wanting to cause a scene, I quickly went to the bar to fetch a bucket of ice and juice, only to be greeted by quite the spectacle upon my return. My dear Roxy had thrown up all over herself and the floor of the VIP area, as clubgoers looked at her in disgust and Wild Eyes laughed, taking shots from the vodka straight out of the bottle.

"What are you guys doing?" I growled. "What is happening?"

"Oh, it's just a little spittle, Catherine. No big deal."

I quickly went into damage control mode, grabbing Roxy by the hand and leading her to the bathroom, where I laid toilet paper all over the floor of a stall and asked her to get on her knees and let the vomit rip. She had no issues with obliging while I held her hair back and wondered if I could still sneak in a drink after this fiasco, when the door slammed open and in walked that bitch of a hostess, screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs.

Roxy continued to vomit, unfazed by her surroundings, while I simply stared at Bitchzilla with a silent smile, curse words streaming out of her mouth like daggers I was impervious to.

"Are you done?" I asked calmly in Spanish once she shut up.

"Just get the fuck out!" She shouted, almost bursting a blood vessel in her eye as I suppressed a laugh.

I inhaled deeply, still holding Roxy's hair, simply stating I wouldn't be leaving until my friend was through vomiting and all cleaned up. Bitchzilla slammed the door and returned two minutes later with three male bouncers, a smug look on her face.

I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and exhaled slowly before speaking very slowly. "I am not leaving. Until my friend is done. And cleaned up. You can bring the King of Spain and all his servants and they will wait, just as you will." I then directed my gaze to the three security boys, who were all looking amused. No one said anything.

By this point Roxy was asking for help in getting up, and after managing to get her on her feet we moved on to the sink, where I cleaned her shirt and hair with paper towels and scrubbed her cheeks and chin clean. "We're done now," I said. "And don't worry, we'll see ourselves out."

On the way out, I was holding Roxy up and signaling to Wild Eyes that it was time to go, when I heard Bitchzilla still cursing and screaming from a distance. What the hell was wrong with this girl? The three guards were behind me and she followed them like their sergeant, making sure we left the premises. Apparently my lack of enthusiasm over her hysteria didn't please Bitchzilla, because she broke through the guards before I reached the door and pulled my hair.

Out of nowhere, Frankie came and got a hold of Roxy, and I immediately turned around and slapped Bitchzilla smack on the ear. It wasn't exactly the most effective execution of violence, but I felt the sting on my hand which meant I was winning. Before I knew it Bitchzilla and I were on the floor clawing and slapping each other, and I could hear Frankie howling with terror in the background.

"Don't do it, Annah. Don't do this, oh my God," he cried. "Someone do something!"

I was wondering how someone so skinny could be so vicious when the crazy tramp bit me and I lost all touch with reality. A clump of her curly hair waved in the air as I repeatedly punched her, then aimed a kick in the dark that apparently ended everything.

The cops arrived soon after and cuffed me without asking our group any questions. Wild Eyes attempted to defend me but was too drunk to sound coherent, so they cuffed him too.

Frankie held on to a barely awake Roxy and said me, "You're going to end up like Brokedown Palace, Annah. I told you not to do it."

Gay men are so dramatic.

-------

So there we were, Wild Eyes and I, waiting in the back of a van while a dozen voices argued outside about the order of events.

A cop opened the van doors what seemed like ten hours later and finally asked for my side of the story. When I was finished, he said the security guards had vouched for me and I'd be free to go after signing some paperwork.

By the time Daniel and I were released, everyone including Roxy had gone on their merry way. Damn drunks. I glanced up at Daniel and jokingly asked how I looked.

He cleverly ignored me and said, "You know what time it is, Catherine? Taco time." He made a great production of patting his belly, as if we hadn't been on the verge of being behind bars just a few minutes before.

"This is Spain, Daniel. Not Mexico. Let's just go home."

"Home is where the heart is. And my heart is in my stomach. Now let's make it happy, shall we?"

I sighed and took off my shoes, grabbing his hand as we walked down a hill back to Plaza Mayor, my bare feet collecting the dirt of the city in passing. We eventually found home in the form of lamb gyros an hour later.

... And just as Daniel had predicted, our hearts were very happy.

It Happened One Night

Digital cameras where not invented at this point in my life. If they were, I couldn't afford them. My apologies.

-------

"There isn't a taco in the world I haven't fallen in love with," says a wild-eyed guy across from me to no one in particular.

"Excuse me?" I reply. My hands cuffed behind me as we sit in the back of a police van in Spain, the sweet feeling of intoxication I'd felt just an hour before slowly deserting me for one of nausea and terror.

"Tacos, Catherine," repeats Wild Eyes. "Don't tell me you don't like tacos! Or better yet, gyros. Hmmm, those are so good. I could go for some Turkish food right now."

I wanted to tell him that right now we were going nowhere, except possibly jail. But I was too tired to burst his bubble and too scared to care about lunatics craving greasy foreign food in the middle of the night.

"Who's Catherine?" I asked instead.

"You are, brown eyes."

"My name's Annah, remember?"

"Well, I'm Daniel, and tonight you're Catherine. Just like that Zorro girl, but a little chubbier."

Then he laughed, and told me for the tenth time I was too prissy to go to jail.

7 months before...

Some people chalk up their lack of social skills to years of high school torment, yet for me, that time was a breeze in comparison to college. Transitioning from being part of the "popular crowd" to a complete nobody in a sea of snooty bitches and sex-deprived boys was a phenomenon that took me by surprise and threw me for a loop.

I initially attempted to acclimate by joining a sorority, then soon realized I had no interest in paying for a group of friends I didn't like and preferred wine stands to keg stands on any given day.

Since most of my friends went to community colleges and others got married straight out of high school, my social group was limited, to say the least.

I eventually found solace in my intership at Univision, immersing myself in research with the news crew and staying up way past my bed time. My fellow intern and partner in crime Gabriela spent too much time gawking at telenovela stars and newscasters in the make-up room with me, their faces transformed into something beautiful by the expert hands of artists as they sipped coffee or wine. We just knew that life would lead us directly to our dreams, her behind the cameras as a producer, me front and center as a reporter.

When Gabriela passed away unepextedly that winter from pneumonia, I lost all inclinations toward what was supposed to be my stepping stone to a career in the limelight. Soon after, I quit my internship and changed my major, the first of many times until I finally settled for whatever didn't require much thinking.

The weeks after her death, I took a new liking to my elective dance class, losing myself in badly choreographed routines and eventually striking a friendship with a feisty Puerto Rican named Roxy.

That semester, Roxy and I bonded over "Abstract Dancing For Beginners." The following, over "Basics of Flamenco" and cheap tequila. One March morning, as I sweated on the treadmill at the university gym, I overheard two girls squealing over their summer trip to Spain. I couldn't help but be consumed by jealousy, and the deep-rooted desire to get the fuck out of town.

First step in my poorly planned execution of said ambitious journey? Meeting Roxy for coffee.

Me: I need to talk to you.

Roxy: Oh God. Please don't say you're pregnant.

Me: No way! I'm the Queen of Condoms, don't you know?

Roxy: (smirks loudly) Is your crown made of latex?

Me: No, it's made of penises. Focus, woman!

Roxy: Focusing.

Me: I want to go to Spain for the summer study-abroad program.

Roxy: You charged spaghetti sauce last night. How is it exactly you intend to make this happen?

Me: It's called student loans. You in?

Roxy: Um... What's the legal age for drinking over there again?

Me: I knew you wouldn't disappoint me.

-------

I can sit here and tell you how departing for the motherland that summer with sixty strangers changed my life.

Or how living with a Spanish family who sat down for dinner every night shaped the way I'd like things to be if I'm ever blessed with a family of my own.

How Spain is infinitely beautiful, vibrating with a life that refuses to be dimmed by things like work or stress.

How regardless of how many gorgeous Spanish men hit on me during those months, I stayed true to my boyfriend at the time.

How when I returned, that same boyfriend I'd been so loyal to cheated on me in the stealthiest of fashions.

How I decided then and there being faithful to "boyfriends" or "significant others" at such a young age is a complete waste of time that should only be spent chasing pleasurable pursuits.

How Eat. Pray. Love. pales in comparison to all the things I've experienced abroad on a budget.

How we snuck away to Madrid without our professors knowing and I fell madly in love with the city, hoping to one day return for more than a night.

How when I did return eight years later, I fell in love once again, this time with a man who ignited my soul and changed the course of my life with his sad, blue eyes.

Alas, this is only a prelude to a story about one night, the very last of our trip.

... And I'll tell it to you tomorrow, as soon as I get some sleep.

It's Like They Can *Smell Me* Or Something.

This month my sweet, one-eyed dog, Paco, makes a year of no longer being with us.

I can still recall when he came to me on a cold Christmas night, a hideous red Santa cape flapping in the wind behind him, his one closed eye permanently winking at me in the most endearing of ways.

I immediately knew I had to have him and love him and keep him, and that's precisely what I did until his final goodbye last year.

Paco taught me that life can still be beautiful even if you're missing essential parts like eyes and several teeth and your breath smells like you swallowed a zombie corpse the week before. That all you really need is love and a cozy place for sleeping to be happy and satisfied while walking this earth.

That no matter how many blows we endure, there's light on the other side if we're brave enough to fight through those brief moments of darkness. Mostly, he showed me that even when people we've known for most of our lives reject and kick us to the curb, others will pick us up and restore us to a place of peace and joy once again.

I miss you so much, my one-eyed bandit. You sweet, chubby, resilient, little fucker of a dog.

Bearing this in mind, it's only right that when I see a stray dog in need I pick them up and do my best to find them a loving home.

Tonight on my way to the store I found this beast, whom I've named Lucas.

I'm deathly scared of chows and their black tongues but he seems to like me just fine, or at least the fact he hasn't bitten my face indicates so.

If I'm not back tomorrow than he mauled me in my sleep and it's been super nice knowing you.

Love, peace, and chicken bone grease,

Annah

House Parties Are Awesome. As Long As It's Not Your House. Or Mine.

Here's what happens when you promise your roommate you'll throw her a birthday party and then wake up the next day still intoxicated from said shenanigans.

• Write a serious post about important life decisions while naked on your bed, music blaring from your ipod and a beer to kill the mouse fizzing noisily on your nightstand. (Sidenote: Kill the mouse -or "Matar el raton"- is a Cuban saying that means, "Ericate the hangover." I have no idea where it came from, but that's what it's called.)
• Go outside to your living room and suddenly remember why you haven't had a party in over half a year. Broken glass, empty beer bottles, pieces of cake, pairs of shoes, and someone's hat casually lie about your living quarters, causing the already massive headache you had to double in magnitude and scream, "Ha ha, moron."
• Throw on some clothes and pump up the music, meanwhile your roommate lies in a pool of vomit in bed, possibly hating you for being so chirpy as she nurses the mother of all hangovers and swears never to take another shot for "as long as she lives."
• Slap on some gloves in an effort to save your manicure from further damage, and proceed to spend the next two hours picking up bottles and napkins and cake and cigarette butts and wait, Is that a piece of poop? Oh no, it's just the end of someone's cigar.
• Put on a brave face when your father calls to remind you that it's family day, and he's expecting you over in less than half an hour and Could you please get some fresh tomatoes for the salad?

Ay, caramba.

• Spend five hours with the parental units. Bless their hearts for understanding you're still wearing last night's dress and look like a hooker who hasn't bathed in a month.
• Get home to find these pictures on your camera.




• Sleep for twelve hours and miss True Blood's new episode.
• Have vivid sex dream between you and one of the main vampires.
• Wake up and go to work. Weep internally at the fact you're not rich and have to listen to "Wah wah wah, mumbo jumbo, mumbo jumbo," at a meeting held too early to be deemed legal.
• Come home to the stench of dry beer emanating from your tiled floor and couch. Brace yourself for a night of cleaning.
• Spend three long and smelly hours scrubbing every surface of your place.
• Realize you were supposed to write a long post, filled with greatness and other famosity inducing stuff but instead you have nothing.
• Watch last night's episode of True Blood.
• Write cop-out post, and hope your readers are still fans.
• Get in bed and pray for another one of those vampire dreams.
• Inhale deeply.

Wow... It smells really good up in here.

Like Clorox. And vanilla cake.

I'm Sorry

The funniest thing happened this morning... I woke up to an Anonymous comment that was actually sweet and honest and full of insight (and I really appreciate that). At first I thought it was my friend Britt but when I inquired she said it "Negative. And I don't need to comment as Anonymous, you bitch. I've already told you the same damn thing!

So the comment is under my last post and I'm not going to include it here because it's too long and I couldn't fit it into print screen in a way that would be legible. The following conversation was had with Britt last week, setting the wheels in motion for this post and a lot of other things so it's kind of important that I include it here.

Britt: Yoohoo.

Me: Hi, chicken dumpling.

Britt: I'm reading your blog.

Me: Yay! I was beginning to think you didn't love me anymore.

Britt: Don't get excited, hooker. What the hell is going on?

Me: What do you mean?

Britt: Dogs? Poop? Weight loss? Where the hell is the FUN?! This shit ain't right.

Me: I thought I was being funny.

Britt: You *are* funny. But that's not why I read your blog. I read your blog for the pow! factor. The spice. The craziness. And yeah, the sex. Where the fuck's that?

Me: My blog is totally popular right now, Britt bear. Can't be that bad.

Britt: Well it ain't exactly good. And I don't care how popular it is. Bring it back. The real, Joannah.

Me: Shit... It sucks, huh?

Britt: It doesn't suck. You suck. This whole long distance relationship is sucking you dry. More sex. More spice. Less poop. Less bullshit.

Me: Damn...

The truth hurts, they say, and the aforementioned definitely stung. The reality is that lately I've been consumed with work and studying for the GRE and applying to grad school. Too consumed to even write quality material or go out or even spend time with my friends the way I used to. My nights are filled with insomnia because my mind is too preoccupied with vocabulary words I'll never use in a sentence and pre-requesites to allow myself some proper rest.

The worst part of all this is I don't even want it.

Every fiber in my being is telling me this is pointless, yet I want to do what's "right." I'm scared of failing, especially in the eyes of my parents, who put a great emphasis in education and are making me sick to my stomach with this whole going back to school situation.

What if nothing ever materializes from this blog? What if no publishing house ever picks up my book? What if I waste years of my life chasing after a pointless dream? And how do we know what's right and what's wrong? I've vascillated long and hard between these thoughts and the reality is, I can't do both.

I truly can't pour my all into school and work and life and writing this blog, so I've decided not to go back for my master's at this point. I've already signed up (and paid for) two wonderful English literature classes that I will attend in the fall, but after that it's done. I can only hope God smiles upon me and directs me towards the right path. For now, that path is doing what I love.

I'm sorry that I haven't been myself lately on this blog. I really just haven't been myself period. And I appreciate the fact that some of you have pointed that out. I'll be back tomorrow night as myself and no one else.

Kind of a serious post for such a beautiful Sunday. Bruno is curled up at my feet and my other trouble makers are searching the apartment for leftover chicken wing bones from last night's party. Out of the fifty-something people that came over, one had the foresight to put away a bottle of vodka for future times.

When I opened the cabinet that stores my dog food this morning, look what I found:

I tell you... Some things never change.

Blob Blog: Part V

If you give a hoot then you probably thought I gave up on this thing altogether but I’ll have you know that no siree, I have not.

I haven’t written in the past two weeks because my trip to Dallas set me back about five pounds. What with all the Mexican food and Thai noodles and giant margaritas by the pool and bottles of wine inhaled, it’s a wonder I didn’t revert back to weighing 200 pounds. Nevertheless I’ve been somewhat good on this torture mechanism we call a diet and I’m back to normal, also known as square one, also known as a gazillion pounds away from my goal.

At any rate and moving right along… I joined a gym a few weeks back, and I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the fact that putting aside $32.09 from my already limited monthly budget to join a gym I’ll never go to was a good idea.

Back when I was skinny by Cuban standards and looked like this:

I used to go to the gym four times a week.

In those days it seemed reasonable for me to hop on a treadmill for an hour and listen to music as I mentally jotted my grocery list and plotted the death of my boyfriend neighbor. But the only constant in life is change as they say, and it seems I no longer find it enjoyable to get on the equivalent of a hamster wheel to walk at a steady rate of 2.7 (that’s really slow, by the way). I would rather have the inside of my eyelids tattoed than go to the gym but alas! I must go.

Now, it’s important to note that when searching for a gym everyone has certain criteria to be met. Most women would say a clean facility, plenty of hot guys in attendance, little to no waiting time for machines, friendly staff, juice bar, and blah blah blah. My checklist below defines my personal criteria, and I’m happy to say Latin American Chubby Ladies fits the profile just fine. 

• Walking distance from the bachelorette pad.
• Old and stinky personal trainers to soothe my already wavering self-esteem.
• Ratio of overweight to fit people: 10/1 (so I can feel awesome about myself).
• Closed on Sundays (who works out on Sundays?!).
• Near McDonald’s and Wendy’s (more on the importance of this later).

The worst part about this whole gym situation? I discovered after joining and signing a three year contract that I much prefer dance classes and they don't offer those there so I'm screwed.

 

Please Excuse Me While I Throw Up

Want to know what's more awesome than doing the lambada with Jesus at an atheist convention inside a submarine off the coast of Italy?

When you go walk your dog and he's all excited and you know he's going to poop when all of the sudden he does and you're all "Yay, doggie!"

Then you go back home to drop him off and grab a bag to pick up the caca but upon your return you're greeted by an army of flies.

Then you scare them away by waving your hands back and forth with your plastic bag and you're breathing with your mouth open because the smell might cause permanent damage to your nostrils when you realize one of the flies feasting on feces totally went in your mouth.

Well played, insect.

I Found It

Studying for my GRE -also known as the Graduate Entrance Exam I will not take if I become famous before August 29- has begun and I am not happy about it. This means I will post videos of my dogs or pictures of me crying frequently and you don't get to judge or unfollow me for any reason whatsoever.

Last week I was shopping for a fancy salt shaker because things like that turn me on and guess what I walked right into?

The missing piece to my room's makeover puzzle was finally mine. The only issue is that Bruno is deathly terrified of it and now I have to deal with him hiding under the covers every time he realizes that indeed, The Magical Tree is hanging on my wall.

I recorded a short video of him freaking out over it. I'm speaking Spanish in it so if you don't understand I'm mostly telling him to come closer and that the tree is pretty and will not hurt him.

He, of course, is not buying it.

 

The Magical Tree makes me happier than a gay guy in black leather pants prancing down Ocean Drive so it stays.

Oh, Boy.

Because it's summer time and I'm sure funds are limited, lots of the parents in my current place of employment have been bringing their kids to work in an effort to save some moolah (or keep their sanity at the expense of other co-workers, I can't really tell just yet).

At any rate, one of the little kiddies has taken a liking to me and follows me around the office like a lost puppy on a rainy day. On Friday, he finally braced himself full of courage and asked me the following questions.

Boy: Sooooo... Are you married? I don't see a ring on your finger.

Me: Nope. Not married.

Boy: Engaged?

Me: No, child. No ring, remember?

Boy: Well you have to have a boyfriend at least, right?

Me: Um, no. No boyfriend.

Boy: So like, you're all alone? Just you and your dogs?

Me: (Feels herself shrinking in the presence of this pre-pubescent child). Correct. Just me and my dogs.

Boy: (Takes a minute to reply) Well that must suck.

Whatever. He knows nothing about anything.

Constipation Central

Day 5 of constipation and I'm beginning to think if I don't unleash the toilet fury soon I'm going to have to go to the doctor.

The good news? I'll be five pounds lighter once it's out.

Optimism is one of life's necessary evil, guys.

Tonight

I feel like the only thing this night merits is a dirty martini with blue cheese stuffed olives and some shit talking with girlfriends (which is precisely what I intend to give it).

I don't want to be a complete and total party pooper so I included my latest obsession down below. Listen to it or I will pull your feet tonight while you're sleeping.

You can thank me later. Or just call me "whore." Whichever you prefer is really fine by me.

Almost Famous (A Love Letter To Anonymous).

Friday night I received a comment in my About Me section from an "Anonymous" person that went a little something like this:

My initial reaction was the following:

Then I thought it was the ever-so-infamous Anonymous but they didn't call me a whore so I could only deduce this was a new person. I sensed that in writing about it I'd be giving them credit they clearly don't deserve, but there's no shame in admitting it stung to be told my blog sucked (I work my ass off on this thing day in and day out).

Then I hit "Approve Comment" and opened a bottle of champagne with some girlfriends and forgot all about it two minutes later.

For those of you who've been living under a rock and never read Hyperbole and a Half, you can go here, as it's possibly the funniest site I've encountered after The Oatmeal (which you can view here). Its writer deserves all the praise she's garnered, as she is super talented and hilarious.

But even though there are some similarities between Hyperbole and a Half and Red Means Go, I don't think they're all that striking:

To My Anonymous Haters

If being unoriginal means I'm not the only girl with a vagina between her legs and two eyes under her forehead and a nose used for breathing and one boob that's slightly bigger than the other well... My sincere apologies.

I'm really sorry I'm not an alien and write my blog posts in Latin.

How dare I think or express the same thoughts someone else may have had in the last millenia?

And climbing the ranks of the internet in only a year? I'm such a bitch for doing that!

Dreaming of being more than an assistant who makes a little over minimum wage is overrated and I have you to thank, for helping me see the light.

I'm so grateful you took the time to acknowledge my existence and pour your infinite internet knowledge upon my brittle and under-developed brain. I have to tell you though, I rather enjoyed getting under your skin (it's warm and fuzzy and smells of brownies).

Here, I made you a little something just before I send you to go f*ck yourself with a spiked baseball bat.

XoXo,

Annah