8.24.2010

Dear Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe,

Hey!  How are you?  That’s good!  I’m great.

That, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, is how all of our conversations should go.  If you or I are feeling a bit creative then deviation from the script is acceptable, but too much adlibbing is distracting, hinders moving on to the next scene, and just downright pisses me off which is, by the way, one of the many things Patrick Swayze and I have in common.  Yet, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you still insist on being my John Leguizamo in To Wong Foo.  How can we rectify this?

You see, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, I don’t dislike you.  In fact, I enjoy your presence as my neighbor—you are quiet, soft spoken, and oldish, so you’re neither an annoyance nor a threat.  Please know that this is not a letter of chastisement.  What I am trying to say is I like you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, and I’d like to keep it that way, so the only way that is going to be possible is if you modify your behavior.

Since you have told me on numerous occasions that you are an alcoholic, I will break down this behavior modification that I am suggesting into three, easy-to-follow rules.

Rule number one: Do not embark upon long conversations with me when I am clearly carrying heavy objects or if I have to prop my door open to have them.  I appreciate, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, that you want to introduce The Boyfriend and me to other people in the building.  This is one of the reasons that I like you.  However, when both The Boyfriend and I are laden with bags of groceries, a box fan, and a vacuum cleaner it should be clear to you that stopping us in the parking lot in the middle of the hottest August day to introduce us to another tenant is not acceptable.  Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat was clearly on his own mission from which he did not want to be deterred either!  I suppose I cannot be too upset, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because you were as unaware of Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat’s desire to be on his own way, so you did not intend to personally irritate us, but, to be clear, the fact that Other Neighbor Who Happens To Also Have A Cat cohabitates with a feline like The Boyfriend and I do does not make it okay to watch as we sweat and juggle awkward boxes.

I have to apologize here, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, because rule number one has two parts, which I know is not fair, especially at this early juncture in rule explanation, but I must insist that you not embark upon long conversations with me when I have to prop my door open to have them either.  Last night is a good example of why.  To be frank, my cats are kind of assholes.  Because of this serious affliction, they tend to want to run out into the hallway which you, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, are across.  This would not be such a big deal if it were not for our other neighbors who sometimes prop the shared doors to the outside open because they are not as concerned as you or I with being murdered, which is, I must say, another reason why I find you favorable as a neighbor.

Now, I understand; I was vacuuming at eight o’clock at night on a Saturday which can really be an annoyance.  It’s much like your pipe which constantly lingers in the air, now that I think of it.  So I can see why you knocked on my door to ask what that sound was, noting that, as an alcoholic, sometimes there are sounds which only occur in your head.  You needed clarification, and I was glad to give it.  I, embarrassed, told you I would gladly stop for the night as it was late, and that should have been where our conversation ended, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe; however, it did not.

This is when I noticed you were drunk.  You were kind enough, though, to also tell me in case I could not tell.  It was, I admit, an impressive kind of drunk in which you were largely functional, but drunk nonetheless.  In this state, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, you tend to be repetitive and again unaware that I desire to be inside and not having a conversation.  I understand now that you do not pick up on the subtlety of “have a nice night” as a way to end a conversation, and for that I thank you as I will be sure to be more forceful if ever I find myself in a similar situation with you again, but the fact that both of my cats, at separate times, ran out and how annoyed I was at this should have also clued you in.

You should have also realized our conversation was going downhill when I had to remind you of my name more than once which brings me to rule number two: do not forget my name.  I know your name, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  I may not be utilizing it here, but I know your full name.  It is objectively insulting to forget someone’s name you have spoken with on more than one occasion.  You cannot know that this is a problem I have dealt with my entire life, that my forgetability is incredibly high, but I am largely becoming intolerant of this fact.  My name is not “Amy.”  I admire your valiant efforts, plentiful as they are, at making my name Amy, even more than once in the same conversation, but no matter how many times you point at me, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, cock your head like a slightly retarded dog, and say, “Amy, right?” I am never going to give you a double thumbs up and answer, “Right!”  I don’t even do double thumbs ups, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, so please, do not expect one.  It would be better for both of us if you simply pretend you know my name and just not use any personal designation when addressing me.  This is a problem which pains me slightly more than those in rule number one because I know you know The Boyfriend’s name seeing as you used it in our conversation last night which brings me to the third and final rule: above all, do not be creepy.

This is imperative, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe.  Creepiness will not be tolerated.  Do not ask me if The Boyfriend is home when I answer the door at night.  Your intentions are largely unknown to me, though I have cited that I enjoy you as a neighbor because I find you unthreatening, but please be aware that there are various ninja weapons hidden around the apartment a la Dwight Shrute.  I think this rule needs no further explanation.

So, in summation, no long conversations, no guessing my name, no creepiness.  These are the rules you must follow in order to continue being considered an acceptable neighbor to me.  I think those are simple enough, Neighbor Across The Hall With The Pipe, but if you need clarification please do hesitate to contact me.  If you find you have problems modifying your behavior in accordance with what I have set up here, limit all contact with me to a wave and a nod when we are forced to see one another and you will have successfully followed them without worry.

Thank you so much for your time,

Not Amy

8.12.2010

The Best Thing

There probably isn't much that's better than hearing 20 plus Belgian girls sing "fucking" in perfect harmony.



Except maybe when they say "Wha te-hell-em I doeeg here?"

I don't really care what you think about Facebook, but that Social Network movie is NOT ABOUT FACEBOOK.  Not that a movie about Facebook wouldn't be effing awesome.  With the right director, actors and, most importantly, writers, a film about the torment a group of teenagers do to themselves and one another via the internet could be fucking epic and speak to this generation like Insert-Title-Of-Film-About-Awkward-Teenagers-In-The-Late-90s did for my generation.

But I digress from my digression.  Social Network looks sweet and that's coming from someone who dislikes Justin Timberlake.  And I don't think it's just the trailer.  It appears to be a film that's actually about the superficiality of some friendships (which is pretty appropriate for the makers of Facebook which is super superficial) and about legal stuff. And that looks good.

And back to the main point: This choir is magical.  It reminds me of my first experience in a choir in elementary school.  Not that we were any kind of good, but a group of voices together always sounds good.  We wore gold cummerbunds and I have a picture of this that I will share with you someday.

And it all reminds me of that feeling that wells up inside of you when the music that you're totally immersed in is coming to a crescendo and it feels like the whole world is voluntarily on pause, holding its breath, waiting the perfect amount of time, that weird amount of time that you can't possibly count, it's not in beat with the rest of the music, it's completely subjective and based solely on intuition, the fermata, but you know when it's supposed to end, you feel it, and everybody feels it and everyone comes together at once during it.

I wish I could draw that.

Except that now that sounds like a really sexual thing and all I can think about is hentai now.

Great--I'm a creep.

8.08.2010

What The Hell Kind of Satan Bug is This?


It is here to kill me, I just know it. 

EDIT: Turns out it's a house centipede which, although venomous, is not harmful to humans.  Which I think is a contradiction, so I don't trust it.

7.26.2010

Things I Find Creepy

Getting ready to graduate college and dating someone who’s getting ready to graduate high school regardless of gender.

That’s it for now.

7.15.2010

An assortment of things happened today.

I took my car to the shop where they wanted to charge me $400+ (basically all the money to my name) to fix it, so I brought it home.  It is still broken.

I did an extensive apartment hunt to find that we’re on the verge of screwed at finding an affordable one bedroom that allows pets by the time the lease is up here.  We might be homeless for a week-ish.

I reviewed a paper that was all about how bad health care reform is going to be for America that was full of “facts” and used Anne BatShitCrazy Coulter as a source.  To me, that's like citing Stephen Colbert.  Kind of.

I was officially rejected by AGNI who I submitted a short story to back in May.

But today is still awesome!  Know why?  Because I got an email from Allie Brosh, funniest lady on the internets.  Since she might see this, I thought I’d say that I’m funnier in older posts.  My blog also used to exist a billion years ago on Wordpress at ashleycaggiano.wordpress.com, but after I had a slight mental breakdown I killed it and turned it into a useless site that is pretty much a picture of me with my diploma where I look like a blowup doll, so everything here only goes back two months.

I thought I’d share with you all the picture I originally sent her that she LOVED.



She said, “This is by far the most badass drawing anyone has EVER drawn for me.”  I quoted that out of my email, people, ver-muthalickin-batim.  I know a lot of people have sent her drawings, I’ve seen some, and they’re effing amazing.  But mine is the “most badass.”  Suck that, internets!  I of course am taking this literally and going to make myself a certificate/award/trophy of some sort in the near future.

This is a very good day.

7.11.2010

My Favorite Place on the Planet

NOTE: This is another shared post with Mrs. Brown and Lady Margaret (though I don't know is Mags has done it yet, so that's just a link to her general site.)


Hands down, my favorite place on the planet has got to be the bathroom.

Let me make this a little clearer: my bathroom.  I find public bathrooms to be helpful and I am grateful for even the grossest of them due to what I expect is overactive bladder, but my personal bathroom is my absolute favorite place.

First of all, it’s where the “get clean thing” are. If I could, I would take three showers a day—that is how hygienic I am, or, rather, a testament to how much sweat and oil I secrete. Starting a day without a shower turns me into, well, a slimy bitch.  That’s the most poetic way I can put it. I will slowly sink further and further into myself as the day passes, replaying the morning in my head to figure out how I could have gotten a shower. Then I continue by berating myself for not following the now seemingly simplistic path that would have led to a cleaner day. I start to be able to feel every part of my body, every inch of skin and the layer of oil that has formed on top of it, every hair follicle on my legs and under my arms working tirelessly to poke out as much extra thick bristles to go along with the overnight unshavenness as possible, every bodily crevasse I own pooling with sweat. Yes, that crevasse too. Especially that one. Once I feel how terrible it all is I realize that there is absolutely nothing I could have done, including shooting kittens in their furry little faces with bear mace, that would merit me coping with such an existence, so I quickly blame whoever is closest to me. To punish them I repeat how badly I desire washing in various ways:

“I need a shower…Oh my golly do I need a shower…Dear, God, please, I need to bathe…OMG I feel disgrossting…Do you smell that? It’s me. What, you don’t? *pitt shoved directly into face* Yes, THAT!...Don’t touch me; I feel gross…Seriously, I’m so nasty…DON’T FUCKING LAY YOUR FILTHY GODDAMNED HANDS ON MY ALREADY REVOLTING SKIN, YOU’RE JUST ADDING MORE OIL TO IT! DO IT AGAIN AND I’LL BITE IT OFF AND BATHE IN YOUR BLOOD! FUCK!!!”

Aside from containing a shower, though, the bathroom is also the greatest sanctuary known to man for the simple fact that it is largely socially unacceptable to enter into whilst someone else is occupying it. This means you can be totally alone in there for as long as you want. And…you can poop.

Heaven knows I love a good poop.

But my body largely fails at allowing me to do this anywhere that is not the safety of my own bathroom. The question to “Does Ashley shit in the woods?” is “NO.” I have incredibly shy bowels. It doesn’t matter how badly anything is rolling around in my colon, it is just NOT coming out unless I’m safely at home or somewhere I’m incredibly comfortable or am absolutely sure that I will be alone. It’s actually kind of tragic.

So this is why my own bathroom is so dear to me. It is apparently the only place that my sphincter feels safe.

And it is also the place where I get my best ideas. Showering allows for some extra think time for a lot of people, but I’m pretty interested in actually cleaning my body which we’ve already established is naturally more soiled than most. But while pooping I write some of my greatest masterpieces, albeit in my head. I’m sure that this has something to do with pushing out crap in order to make room for new stuff. Yes, that must be it.

See? Poetic.

7.10.2010

What Scares the Shit Out of Me

First if all, this topic is being done, as I type, by my bloggette partners as well.  You can read them here and here.

Aaaaaaaaaand GO:

Alligators.



Holy goddamn fuck!

These prehistoric bitches are re-goddamn-diculous. The fact that they exist at all is nightmarish. They are 800 pounds of evil. It doesn't matter that I live in Ohio and the only ones here at locked away at the zoo--I'm still convinced that they could organize, climb on one another's heads to escape their glass tanks, saunter into a web cafe, google "What Scares the Shit Out of Me: Alligators," find me, and death roll me. Please note here, though, that I used to live in Florida and you can randomly come across these reptilian creeps in the middle of the road there, so my fear was at least partially legitimate at one time.

I have this reoccurring dream. There are different versions of it, but I often start out in a Jeep with no kind of top and I'm always the front seat passenger with two other passengers and a driver. The four of us go speeding off into the swamp, always end up ramping something, and then flip headlong into a canal. The Jeep's overturned and I'm buckled in, so I can't go anywhere, submerged, though it doesn't really matter that I'm underwater because somehow I can still breathe.  Everything is that greenish color with bits of algae and dirt floating in the water and then, in the distance, there's this shadow.  I start to struggle with the seatbelt, but it doesn't matter.  The gator's used its prehistoric telepathy to keep me locked in. I don't look away--I can't.  The shadow takes on a familiar form--rounded snout, piercing eyes, open jaw full of teeth--and it's speeding at me.

And that's it.

Sometimes I have dreams that I'm near a swamp on really thin docks that are incredibly close to the water and there are alligators swimming around me, snapping at my ankles. It's all pretty horrible and now, because I'm writing this, I'm going to have another. I'll keep you updated.

But being afraid of crocodilians is totally justified and the reasons are manifest:
  • Alligators are over 200 millions years old.  They're practically right out of the primordial ooze.  They pretty much are the embodiment of demons, created before man and everything. And they are not good.
  • These assholes used to be bipedal.  That's right--walking around on two legs with their massive flapping jaws.
  • They're only native to the US and China.  Know what else is only native to the US and China?  Me neither, but it's probably something evil.
  • They don't kill you, no. They drag you underwater and stuff you under a rock until you tenderize. That is intent, my friends, and that is terrifying.
  • There are also crocodiles which are kinda dragon-like but God knows they're not full of magic and rides through the air:
  • And caimans:

I once dated a guy whose family thought it would be fun to take me to an alligator farm. Needless to say, he is not The Boyfriend.

So, in summation, alligators make me want to poop myself.  The end.