Why God...Why?

Dear *Higher Power,

You put me through a few uncomfortable mini-ordeals today and I am not thrilled. I don't know why you hate me. Well, I suppose there could be some reasons, but talking to me about itbeforethe public shaming would have been nice.

Anyway, why do you wait until I look homeless in mismatched sweats and ratty hair without an ounce of makeup on to send the neighbors to my door for first introductions? Why? It's really hard to be taken seriously when you look more like a suspected squatter than a home owner.

And why do you let my dog hang on to her dingle berries until she is at someone's home? You know she then proceeds to drag her brown eye across their floors, so why do you do it? It would save me a lot of ridicule if you could let this smudgy sitch drag itself out at home, but then again you knew that now didn't you?

Speaking of animal crap, why did you wait until the very moment I was getting ready to step into that lady's living room to let me realize I had a heel full of poo? Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate you catching me before I actually stepped into the room, but still man, that was super awkward to explain why I was not able to come in. Seriously though, why do you want me to look like such a tool?

I wish you loved me like you do everyone else.

Sincerely,
Your confused little friend Daniella


*I hesitate to name you as that would be an attempt to pull you down to my level and label you as something/someone I might be able to understand. I know you are not a person or a Chia Pet, so I will refrain out of deference and respect for your Almightyness.

Overwrought Thoughts

I think too much. Today's proof below.

How did a full-boar, fresh of the boat British dude come to head Kentucky Fried Chicken? I realize that as a conglomerate of franchises, KFC needs a solid, qualified business head, be it an English one or not, but he's on the commercials now! Every time I hear him enthusiastically plugging their new product in his heavily accented refined English, I just can't get over the oddity of it. How does he drive home Kentucky? Fried? American Fast Food? Just like the birds they are frying - this just don't fly. And I know the British have historically gone down with a pretty bad wrap for their cuisine, but come on now. The Queen should be crying.


I worry sometimes that eventually there won't be any more songs to be sung. What if all the new lyrics and melodies run out, and we are left with nothing new to go nuts over?! Nothing else to have that "I won the lottery!" feeling over when you are driving along and your new fave tune comes on the radio. Nothing new to play over and over until...well...it isn't really new anymore. Think about that. Yikeys!

Does This Make My Butt Look Fin?

I have been craving fish like crazy lately, and I am not normally a big Seafoodie. Up until recently my average consumption of fruit di mare would consist of a little fried Calamari once in a while, some sushi, and the occasional piece of Salmon my dad would prepare for me.

All of that has changed. My intake of the previously mentioned foods has increased for sure. April has ushered in three consecutive Sushi Saturdays wherein I ordered so much for take out that there were three or four spork/napkin rolls in the bag! Good times. The other night out with a friend, I ordered a salad specifically for the steamed Calamari on it and just couldn't get enough of it -- especially the tentacle pieces. I had to hold back on ordering the fried Calamari as well to try and satiate my appetite.

There is a darker side to my new addiction though. I am catching myself doing gross stuff. Real nasty Dirty-Italian-That-Will-Eat-Anything kind of stuff. Two mornings this week alone I have made myself a couple of pieces of toast and opened a can of Sardines. Damn tasty way to start the day even though I was grateful I was alone so I wouldn't have to endure any sort of intervention on my repulsive habit.

A few weeks ago, I also went out of my way to prepare a giant recipe of Pasta con le Sarde which consists of Sardines and Anchovies. The sauce was a pasty gray and turned more than one face at the table green while I gleefully dug in and then coveted the leftovers like I was in possession of a bowl of thousand dollar bills.

I don't know what is up with me. I am waiting for a giant fin to pop out of my ass.

Okay, you can make a dash for the toilet to yack now. I will keep you posted.

Your Hand Is Bandaged Because You Are Retarded

When I was somewhere around three, I reached up to the electric stove in our kitchen and placed my little hand right on a red-hot coiled burner. My dad still to this day recalls how the burn was in the same curled form on my mini-mitt, and from time to time could be seen as a sort of phantom's shadow long after I had healed. The only memory I have of this incident is being rushed to the bathroom for some much needed First Aid treatment.

Within six months I had done it again.

Why? It had to have hurt like hell the first time, so why did I through total self regard right out the window and volunteer for round two?

Of course there have been a lot of humorous speculations about my possible mental retardation being the cause. Owning my own self-decorated helmet as an adult probably does very little to make a case for something different.

When I think back on my antics as an adult, the lack of self-regard in my act is what sticks with me.

I could go in to the whole symbolism of the pattern as I got older, but that would be creepy for a blog. I would hate for anyone to stumble upon my drivel and think I am a freak. I am confident that if I wrap things up here, all of this will look completely normal. Riiiggghhht.

Actually I just wanted to post a picture of my brother's ass on my blog first thing on a Monday morning, so had to spin a little tale to go with the visual. Yeah, that's the good stuff.

Now Let's See That With Kittens...