Bob Saget's full of shit.

A couple of months ago, I came home from work and noticed a guy standing in the yard of the house next to my apartment. He just stood there. Didn’t move, didn’t talk, just stood. He had a shaved head, with tattoos on his head, and ON HIS FACE.

This guy makes me way nervous. By the way he just stands in the yard constantly, I am figuring he just got out of jail. He just leans against the tree, and smokes. Oh, and scare the shit out of me. He does that, too.

Saturday night (or Sunday morning for you technical assholes), I got home late from Mrs. Mitchell’s. It was about 2:15, and totally dead in my neighborhood. I pulled into my driveway, and noticed about ten feet away from me, in his yard, was Tattoo Face. I seriously think I peed a little when I saw that I was going to have to get out of my car and walk by myself to my door with him standing there creeping me out.

I had no choice. I had to get into my house. It’s times like these when having a man would come in real handy (not only would he save me from mortal danger, but I’d get some later, too). But I don’t, so I got my phone out, singled out my house key, and got ready to bolt from my car the hundred or so feet to my apartment.

I jumped out of my car, locked it and shut the door, ready to haul ass, and I dropped my goddamned keys. Not just dropped them at my feet, they went under the car. I really started to panic at this point. I knew he was watching me, and I couldn’t find my keys. I finally find them after reaching around in the dark, and right when I jump up, I hear “Hey!” Fuck. I pretended I didn’t hear it and started walking.

“Hey! I am talking to you!” My heart started pounding in my chest and I was totally panicking, not knowing what the hell I should do. I stopped walking, and turned around. He was still in his yard, and I was about thirty feet away from him.

“Something fell out of your purse.” Holy shit. When I knelt down to find my keys, my purse flipped over and my wallet fell out, and I didn’t see it. So I went back, picked it up, thanked him for pointing it out, and ran the fuck to my apartment where I proceeded to flip out.

Now, if my life was a Full House episode, this is the part where the “very special lesson” music starts playing, and I sit on Bob Saget’s lap and he tells me that it’s not right to judge people based on their appearance, and to judge them based on their actions.

Fuck you, Bob. He has tattoos on his face. I’ll judge all I want.

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An open letter to a psychopath:

Dear Celestia,

I know you must feel incredibly misunderstood by the people around you who don't realize you have 21032165479 personalities.

Do you think you could sit down and have a chat with personality # 10645, because I can't deal with her anymore. She's become a real bitch (even more than all your other personalities, and I think that says something).

Also, I know your Mom fucked up your whole vacation schedule last summer by suffering and eventually dying from cancer after three years, but could you please stop telling everyone what a selfish bitch she was? I think the fact that she bore you, raised your ass, and didn't sell you to gypsies after you learned to speak should merit a little respect.

I do believe there's a special place in hell saved for you. I hear Hitler likes redheads, so at least you've got a sweet hook-up waiting for you when you get there.

Thanks for making every work day a fucking catastrophe for me. You're the best.

Your friend,
Andria

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And lastly, to my cat Ike:

I know it's my fault you're gay (not that there's anything wrong with that), with all my "who's my pretty boy" and "pretty kitty", and the fact that I force you to wear a pink collar and watch episodes of Queer as Folk (well, no one's twisting your arm on that one, buddy) and what not... But do you have to punish me by coughing your fucking hairballs up IN MY BED? Seriously. I am sleeping, you fluffy ass. Could you do it somewhere else?

Thanks you big 'mo.