Crazy as the Day is Long 1.0

The funny thing about being crazy is that it makes you interesting. There is harmless crazy and harmful crazy and I love me some harmless crazy. Though the “less” part may be debatable, I love Nancy Grace because she is what I believe to be, a harmless crazy.

Soothe me with your lovely voice, Nancy. Soothe me.

(If you kill yourself based upon a 15 second interview with Nancy Grace…then I have to believe something else in your life has gone horribly wrong.)

I’m crazy. I’m okay with it. I think everybody sort of is. Or, at least, everybody I would ever want to spend any amount of time with. The crazy is what keeps things interesting, and funny, and by golly, keeps me on the edge of my seat.

This is a poster I have above my bed. No. It isn't. I'm not a fucking loser. Who made this and why do they hate life so much, that they would subject their fellow humans to a fucking panda kicking us in the face with this horrible message?!? This is only appropriate to be sold in gift shops at insane asylums. Seriously. For real.

The older I get, the more types of crazy I see.

Personally, I don’t do “anger-crazy.”  I don’t yell. I don’t slam doors. I have never raised my voice to any boyfriend I have ever had. (And if any of them stumble across this, they will verify that….or else). I just don’t get crazy-angry. I don’t see a point in yelling, and on a purely psychological and physical level, I don’t get angry like that. (except at kittens. watch yourselves…baby cats.) (just kidding, guys.)

While I wrote this post, I ate two orders of this. Crazy bread is my muse. Along with cheesecake, guacamole, and Alf.

But I’m food-crazy. Oh, how I’m food-crazy. Aside from my very obvious unhealthy relationship with food, that alternates between rapist-victim, to mother-child, to ex-boyfriend-with-a-new-hot-fiance-and-old-girlfriend-who-has-a-major-breakout-happening-at-this-mutual-friend’s-holiday-party.

I figured since nobody ever reads this blog..."fuck it" I'm just gonna post a pic of my tummy. Took 8 hours and 300.00 bucks to do that, guys. Worth. Every. Penny. They don't call me "Chicken & Biscuits" for nothin'

It is a complicated and disgusting relationship that all too often involves 6 trips to the grocery store a week, binge eating blue corn chips dipped in pesto, and then crying in the shower afterwards. Jealous? Yeah you are. Turned on? You’re fucking gross. Get out of here.

Why is Little Ceasars trying to make mental illness fun again? Let it go, Ceasar Pequeno. Let it go. But keep the dipping sauces.

So speaking of grocery stores-here we go. The crazy.

I lived in a dorm freshman year at Arizona. I had no cell phone, as I have previously mentioned, and so we had a nice land line phone with a great answering machine. Jealous? Yeah you are.

The dorm assigned us a phone number. For Christmas, freshman year, I received a cell phone from my dad. Hooray! No more land line.

But I had started over in Arizona, and as my only phone number, I had given the land line number out to a million places.

Like Safeway. To hook up my Safeway club card.

I have little to add to this gem. But...offer accepted.

Everybody knows Safeway club cards are altruistic measures taken by grocery stores to ensure their very loved customers are getting the absolute best discounts available and not over-paying for groceries.

Just kidding. Its a way to ensnare, track, and hunt you until you are so exhausted from playing their  “this is 9 cents less with a plastic card” game that you curl into a ball below a palm tree and pray for a swift death. Death comes, and you are mummified in long receipts and your body turns into garlic salt. This is all true. I saw it once.

Fuck. I'm hungry.

So when I moved, I still had the one number connected to my Safeway club card. I never carried the actual card around…I’m not a plebian, for Christs sakes.

But I always used that number. Safeway cashiers would always say, at the end of our interaction “Thank you Ms. _______, have a lovely day”

But whomever had gotten that number after me had switched over her name.

Her name was Amy Bernal. To be precise.

So for years, they’d say “Thank you, Ms. Bernal, have a lovely day.”

Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nall. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nail. Sometimes they pronounced in Burr-nawl.

One day. A full four years after I got a new number and never changed over my Safeway card, I was checking out of Safeway, and the cashier said “Thank you, Ms. Burr…nail?” and before I even realized it, I said in a authoritative voice “Its Burr-nawl” and corrected her pronunciation of a last name I don’t even have.

I caught myself and stopped breathing. Realizing just how deep I had gone down a crazy hole.

I had assumed somebody’s Safeway identity and had the audacity to correct a cashier on my fake name.

I lived in Arizona for 5 years after I got rid of that original phone number. I never did get a new Safeway card. I lived as Amy Bernal, buying oatmeal and produce under an assumed identity for years before I left. So, wherever you are, Ms. Bernal, however you say your name…I apologize for being absolutely insane and boosting your coupon output, but probably lucky for you—I’m a harmless crazy.


Marry me. I thank God you exist, good sir.


$3.99 Worth of Eternal Shame

Hi friends. (again- I know this is just me and trolls reading this-but let me pretend. I paid 18.00 for this website and I’m going to pretend all fucking 18 dollars worth.)

So. Here we are. It is story time once again. For those that have heard this story (anybody who has ever encountered me) I apologize. (But in that way that isn’t really serious- I’m sort of like “Sorry you’re a jerk who wants me to apologize” about it all.)

Dead Behind the Virtual Eyes- the true, virtual tale of DQ Franchise ownership.

As many of you know, I lived in Tucson, Arizona (Nationally known as:  “Worst Place on Earth, 1999, 2003, 2008, 2009, 2011!) for six long, trying years.

During that time I frequented a street (a single street) that locals called “downtown.” when in fact, it was just a single street where a bunch of Mexican teens hung out sometimes. Great.

On this street was one of the only Dairy Queens I ever saw in Arizona. Now, when you grow up in a small town in the Midwest, you don’t treat DQ like a restaurant. There is never a cold, blustery January afternoon where you say “Lets go to Dairy Queen and grab some sundaes!”

No. It is closed. It closes for winter and it is too cold for sundaes, idiot children. But in Arizona, it is always summer, and you are always getting skin cancer (seriously) and DQ is always open.

DQ terror

I have nightmares that these three are gang raping me while a churro films it.

So one evening, driving around in my pajamas, I decide to go get a DQ blizzard. I was driving around in lounge wear because I felt like it. I worked two jobs, like, a gazillion hours a week, and I wanted to go drive “downtown” to spend 4 dollars on shortening my lifespan. So off I go, to the DQ which, at 8pm on a weeknight is crazy busy.

So I pull into the “drive thru” window-because I’m in pajamas, and like the sad and morbidly obese white girl I am, I like to order my food with the least amount of human interaction.

This is also the name of the home-made porn I'm currently shopping around.

So the drive thru is packed. The drive thru has begun to spill out onto the street and people are milling around all over and its just a crazy orgy of people all trying to get dilly bars. (Nobody. I mean, NOBODY was ordering dilly bars. This isn’t 1979, and nobody, not even in Arizona, is that fucking hard up for an ice cream bar-that they would order that shit)

Though I have never been associated with DQ...I was awkwardly driving this around when cravings struck

So I finally make my way up to the drive-thru window and I order a large Oreo Blizzard, and they’re in there- whipping it around, scooping delicious oreos into aerated ice cream, and all the sudden, my car sort of..shifts..and sighs…and turns off.

I try to re-start. Nothing. I look in my rear view mirror and see, like, fifty cars all waiting to experience the hot-fudge orgasm that is a Pecan mudslide*

My car will not start. I’m stuck at the window of a drive-thru Dairy Queen. This is my life. These are my choices. I’m wearing Target pajamas and I am a sitting duck at a fucking Dairy Queen order window.

So I do the only thing I can. I tell the sweet high school student making minimum wage to serve me a large blizzard that my car just broke’d down in her drive thru lane. To her credit, she doesn’t really blink an eye. She runs out and asks the various Dad’s in the crowd to help push me.

This is where things get really sexy. I try to get out to help push, but all the dads take one look at me and are like “get back in the car. we’re good out here”

I sit on my fatass in my 2007 Chevy Aveo** getting pushed through a Dairy Queen drive-thru lane to an adjacent parking space. In my realization that all I had to do was steer- I start binge eating my blizzard.

That is correct. As 6 Dad’s were pushing my obesity in pajamas, I was blatantly enjoying my ice cream treat going 1 mile per hour through a parking lot, while small children felt embarrassed for me. I am a complete animal, with absolutely no shame.

Here is the best part. My car was not broken. I had run out of gas. Completely run out of gas. Because I had about 5 dollars to my name- and I wanted a blizzard more than I wanted a working vehicle. Is there anything more American than this story? I doubt it.

So I call my ex boyfriend who is pissed. He drives from work, to the DQ parking lot (Where I have my feet up, and I am still enjoying this blizzard) and puts gas in my car-and gives me my dog, who he brought for some reason.

So I go to a gas station to fill up my tank- because, ha, guys-that was sort of embarrassing. And I come back to my car and my seats are all wet. My dog had climbed inside the blizzard and was prancing around with melted oreo ice cream on his paws. It was a great ending to a very uplifting, empowering day.

So that’s me. I have sunk so far below decency that I let my car run out of gas, and had to be manually pushed through a DQ drive-thru while I started eating my oreo blizzard in front of my rescuers. You’re welcome-America.

Oh. So...just because there was a double homocide here, now you're choosing to close early and make ME a victim too? Where does the pain stop?

*I’ll do this for you for 50 bucks or a JCrew giftcard. Find me on Craigslist.

** Jealous? I was on a waitlist for like, 18 months to score these wheels. (No, no I wasn’t)