Merry Fucking Christmas

Well, I've just gotten back from Eli's. I figure if I have to spend time at my grandmother's house, I am not eating any of her salad dressing from 1987 or her Stouffer's french bread pizza. I went all decadent like. Got artichokes, spicy olives, hummus, gourmet soups, chocolate covered pretzels, and blood orange juice from Italy.

I'm attempting to do last minute Christmas shopping with a cold. And clean the apartment. And pack. And take down the trash. But somehow I just keep sitting here blowing my nose and attempting to motivate myself away from the computer.

It's getting kind of drastic.

Partially because I had the brilliant idea I would make Christmas presents this year.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. But it's just NOT going to happen. I did, however, get some nice stuff for my mom. And, well, I am going to rush down to the union square holiday huts tonight. Or more likely tomorrow morning and finish the rest.

Oh yeah.

So the birthday scandal will have to wait because I want it to be quality. I don't wanna spill it in a half assed fashion. But since I'll be in PA-where there is no cable, no cellphone service, and no Internet service-well I won't be around for a bit. So all of you have a Merry Christkwanzhannamus and I'll be back here soon with seductive pictures and scintillating wit in time for New Year's.


I only have the time to post this picture so far. You can have fun inventing a title for it if you like. Hopefully tomorrow the Doberman will allow me to borrow his laptop again and I can actually post a real Part I of Bunni's Postmodernist B day.

Oh yes, there will be blood.

I'm Just a Birthday Bunni
"There is still no cure for the common birthday"-John Glenn

You don't want to hear the moping. I know. You don't. So I'll just skip it and say this: I would like for my birthday wish to get 32 comments on this blog tomorrow as I will be turning the big 32. I don't care if you have to sign in using multiple aliases. I don't care if you have to blackmail your friends into pretending they care. I don't care if you have to sling shot gerbils over a brick wall through a hoop of fire.

I'm not sure how that might result in comments, but well, you people are rather odd.

And I'll make you a deal. If you do this for me, I shall put up salacious pictures from my birthday as well as a scandalriffic post.

My therapist told me I should.


Something about the line, "If I punch you, I'll end up in the ER with acrylic nail extensions embedded in my palm," really spoke to her.


Then comment.


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