Tag Archives: Horror Stories

Jonas in the belly of a whale, not a teenage girl

I have a lot of things on my plate, including a trip to ALASKA tomorrow. Not that my Xanax will prevent a plane crash. Did someone say Xanax? I know it’s the night before, but maybe I should get a head start on the drugs. We’re talking about the same cross-country travel plans that I tried to coordinate via railroad, but it turns out Amtrak doesn’t go to Juneau. You would think that expressing my fears about flying in a blog post would be therapeutic, but no. I only imagine CNN picking up the story about a young blogger dying in a tragic plane crash shortly after predicting said plane crash online. She must be some kind of clairvoyant, says CNN, with flattering photo. I only have one thing keeping me motivated: whales. They’re waiting for me. And they have way more to be worried about than I do. But look at them, fearless, still whaling it up. God, I just want to feed them and caress them and dock on them. If they can travel to Alaska, so must I. If only their journey involved Detroit airport, Seattle airport, TCBY, Cinnabon, Sbarro’s, Us Magazine, a tiny bottle of vodka, then they might understand. I will be fine. Seriously, don’t worry about me. Unless you’re selling sedatives, in which case meet me at the Richmond airport at noon.

I am experiencing the usual emotions: excitement, terror

Tomorrow we fly to the land that gave us Junot Diaz, Mario Vargas Llosa, and Julia Alvarez. At least they have all written about the Dominican Republic. Everything I know about the world south of the border I have learned from novels. I’m expecting a lot of old, winged men falling from the sky and that sort of thing. I’m also expecting a Lost-type scenario, or more probably, death by plane crash. But before death, pina colada!

I will not be blogging about my trip, but here are some literary links to tide you over until my plane lands softly, angelically on Virginia tarmac next week:

The Times writes about how the Times broke Wallace Stegner’s heart.

Colin Robertson of the London Review of Books weighs in on the publishing crisis. (Thanks to MW for the link.)

Trailer for the movie adaptation of Larry Doyle’s I Love You Beth Cooper starring Hayden Panettiere as Beth Cooper.

Zadie Smith writes about race, being both genuine and multiple, language, and Obama in the New York Review of Books. (Thanks to AP for the link.)

Also, these jerks stole my gig, restaurant servers are conspiratorial about dessert, and the most bizarre experiments of all time.

Failed improv and other notable neuroses

Last night I had a nightmare that I was one of two leading actresses in an improvised play and all my friends came to see it but I couldn’t think of any funny lines and every time I spoke it was with a different unconvincing accent. No one returned to the theater after intermission, but the dream still woke me up in a cold sweat.

I think I experienced this nightmare because I watched Reno 911 earlier in the evening and those actors always knock me out with their improv skills. They don’t make me cringe like I usually do when people try too hard to say zany things off the cuff. For instance John C. Reilly routinely makes me feel uncomfortable when he acts in comedies. Every time I see him in a comedy I want to reach into the TV, pluck him out, cuddle him to my bosom, change the channel to a depressing period piece, and then put him back where he belongs. All with the help of my Wonkavision.

But this Reilly business reminds me of a website I recently discovered: I Am Neurotic. Here folks can dredge up the weirder thoughts and feelings that reside in their subconscious minds and post them on the internet for all to see. It’s a time-honored recipe for building a popular blog and then earning a book deal (HarperStudio, 2009).

If I drive up to this light late at night, when I know I can easily make the right on the red, I feel bad for the light making the effort to turn green, so I wait for the light to turn green before I go.

I do this with crosswalks. I imagine that if I push the crosswalk button and then walk across the street before the white light specifies that it’s okay, a driver will later be held up when the light turns for no one and he will think, “That bitch must have already crossed.” But that isn’t exactly neurotic because road rage is very real.

And then there’s this clown:

I don’t wash my hands every time after going to the bathroom because I don’t want to aggravate my dry skin too much. But I want everyone to think I’ve washed my hands so after I flush I turn on the faucet and let the water run for people to hear. I want it to be believable though, so I mime washing my hands to make sure I let the water run for exactly how long it would take me to really do it.

Hey person, you are gross and everyone knows it. Your ruse is a failure because there are hidden cameras in the bathroom and they also caught you pooping. And your whole office knows that you’re addicted to porn and Buffy: The Vampire Slayer fan fiction. Now stop soiling my internet with your dirty stories.

We hate you.

Harper’s receipt from Build-a-Bear reads like her mother’s worst nightmare

CUDLY HGS TDDY PK                                         $14.00
SPRKL FUR EARBAND                                        $2.00
SLVR GLITTER HEEL                                           $7.50
GLITTER PURSE PNK                                          $3.00
WHITE DRESS                                                    $10.00

Darren and I entered Build-a-Bear Workshop with a four-year-old girl and high expectations, and we left Build-a-Bear Workshop with a furry pink bridezilla wearing a lace veil and bear high heels who had aspirations to marry “Johnny,” the bear back home.

At least she didn’t want the one with the Hannah Montana wig and charm necklace.

Blog devastation via disgruntled employee

This week blogging platform JournalSpace was singlehandedly destroyed by an ex-IT guy caught stealing from the company. This means that all the tens of thousands of bloggers on the site lost their entire output of data in one malicious stroke. Some of them spent years establishing their voices only to see them completely obliterated by some a-hole with access to the JournalSpace servers.

I probably shouldn’t even be writing about this now, before bedtime, because I’ll feel responsible for the nightmares all you internet people will suffer later. I already know that I will wake up tonight in a cold sweat, screaming for an automated backup mechanism; begging for an impregnable, fireproof server room; gasping for a redundant drive. Even now I hear the Jaws music in the background while I envision some cat burglar sneaking around in the recesses of the internet, preparing to pull the plug on my entire blog history while I’m sleeping. I think I’ll keep my monitor glowing until the sun comes up.

My heart goes out to you, JournalSpace refugees.* Please take shelter on my website until your bloggings find a new home. There’s safety in numbers.

*Their terminology. Personally I find the word a bit dramatic even under these tragic circumstances.