lives in California.
Me: Dude, I’ve had two bags of garbage sitting by my front
door for over a day. It’s starting to smell.
Dustin: So throw it away, douchebag.
Me: I don’t have any pants on.
Dustin: Who the hell wears pants to throw away garbage? It’s
almost midnight over there. Not like anyone will know.
Me: Okay.
Sometime later . . .
Me: I did it. Hope my gay neighbor didn’t catch me or he’ll
call the board on me. Yet again.
Dustin: Wait. You do this on a regular basis? What kind of
a freak *are* you?
Me: No . . . they called the board on me last time
because I enjoy 2:00 a.m. cookie runs to my fridge. Naked.
Dustin: Is your fridge in the middle of the street?
Me: Very funny. My apartment has those stupid floor-to-ceiling
sliding doors and you can see into my place. Anyhow, I’m just abstaining from pissing
him off, but I had to throw away the garbage and, dude, I wasn’t going to put on
pants just for that.
Dustin: No way! Garbage is definitely not worthy of pants.
I take my pants off before taking out the trash all the time.
Me: Is all I’m sayin’.
Dustin: In fact, I have trash to dispose of now and I’m gonna
take off my pants, just so you know I’m not lying.
Me: How in the world would I know?
Dustin: Wait.
After two minutes:
Me: Are you kidding me?
Dustin: Do I look like I’m joking?
Me: You’re not wearing pants, hell if I know.
Dustin: So are you. Send me a picture.
Me: I’m trying to be famous, so if this ever makes it on the
Internet, I’ll kill you.
Dustin: How do you think people get famous, Annah, by keeping
their pants on?
Such a great point, Dustin.
You would think after posting a semi-nude picture for the general
public to see, I’d be the most famous writer in the world or something, but I totally
wasn’t. I did continue to write and it seemed people liked me enough to visit the
blog and leave nice comments, except for some freak named “Anonymous” who still
plagues me to this day with hate mail and little gems such as this initial one:
“Oh my Lord, you such a fucking prostitute. I can’t believe
the shit you put up here. You are a DISGRACE. You claim to make fun of stupid slutty
chicks, but you are really just one of them yourself. All you care about is getting
drunk and seeing how many guys you can tease with your “playful sexuality,” and
the fact that you have 2000 followers to try to pretend they’re you’re friends.
Classy. You are either a huge whore, or the biggest tease that’s ever set foot on
this planet. I don’t like you (REALLY, I HADN’T NOTICED). And I’m sure that
a lot of people you know in real life are disgusted by you. Get the fuck out of
here, you bitch, or you will be destroyed. FUCK YOU.”
Yikes! I confess that even though I was scared, Anonymous didn’t
destroy me, and I continued to tease people with my “playful sexuality” over the
Internet. One morning, I woke up to a voicemail from a Liz Tracy, which kind of
sounds like Dick Tracey and something exciting is about to happen, so I called her
right away. A few weeks later there it was, an article written in the Miami New
Times about me, ensuring my impending famosity. Nothing came of that except
my friends being really proud they knew someone famous and my parents asking why
there was a pantless picture of me online. A few months later, another journalist
reached out to me and wrote a piece for Brickell Magazine on my awesomeness;
I was in print and positively certain that this time, for sure, I’d be famous.
There’s this scene in Julie & Julia in which they publish
an editorial on Julie and her cooking blog for the New York Times , then she
gets home and has 42,000 messages from agents just dying to spar gladiator-style
for a chance to represent her. No one sparred for me that day. In fact, no one even
called. But in my pitiful defense I did get to go to a fancy party thrown in my
honor by Brickell Magazine . It was sponsored by my favorite vodka
Me: Dude, I’ve had two bags of garbage sitting by my front
door for over a day. It’s starting to smell.
Dustin: So throw it away, douchebag.
Me: I don’t have any pants on.
Dustin: Who the hell wears pants to throw away garbage? It’s
almost midnight over there. Not like anyone will know.
Me: Okay.
Sometime later . . .
Me: I did it. Hope my gay neighbor didn’t catch me or he’ll
call the board on me. Yet again.
Dustin: Wait. You do this on a regular basis? What kind of
a freak *are* you?
Me: No . . . they called the board on me last time
because I enjoy 2:00 a.m. cookie runs to my fridge. Naked.
Dustin: Is your fridge in the middle of the street?
Me: Very funny. My apartment has those stupid floor-to-ceiling
sliding doors and you can see into my place. Anyhow, I’m just abstaining from pissing
him off, but I had to throw away the garbage and, dude, I wasn’t going to put on
pants just for that.
Dustin: No way! Garbage is definitely not worthy of pants.
I take my pants off before taking out the trash all the time.
Me: Is all I’m sayin’.
Dustin: In fact, I have trash to dispose of now and I’m gonna
take off my pants, just so you know I’m not lying.
Me: How in the world would I know?
Dustin: Wait.
After two minutes:
Me: Are you kidding me?
Dustin: Do I look like I’m joking?
Me: You’re not wearing pants, hell if I know.
Dustin: So are you. Send me a picture.
Me: I’m trying to be famous, so if this ever makes it on the
Internet, I’ll kill you.
Dustin: How do you think people get famous, Annah, by keeping
their pants on?
Such a great point, Dustin.
You would think after posting a semi-nude picture for the general
public to see, I’d be the most famous writer in the world or something, but I totally
wasn’t. I did continue to write and it seemed people liked me enough to visit the
blog and leave nice comments, except for some freak named “Anonymous” who still
plagues me to this day with hate mail and little gems such as this initial one:
“Oh my Lord, you such a fucking prostitute. I can’t believe
the shit you put up here. You are a DISGRACE. You claim to make fun of stupid slutty
chicks, but you are really just one of them yourself. All you care about is getting
drunk and seeing how many guys you can tease with your “playful sexuality,” and
the fact that you have 2000 followers to try to pretend they’re you’re friends.
Classy. You are either a huge whore, or the biggest tease that’s ever set foot on
this planet. I don’t like you (REALLY, I HADN’T NOTICED). And I’m sure that
a lot of people you know in real life are disgusted by you. Get the fuck out of
here, you bitch, or you will be destroyed. FUCK YOU.”
Yikes! I confess that even though I was scared, Anonymous didn’t
destroy me, and I continued to tease people with my “playful sexuality” over the
Internet. One morning, I woke up to a voicemail from a Liz Tracy, which kind of
sounds like Dick Tracey and something exciting is about to happen, so I called her
right away. A few weeks later there it was, an article written in the Miami New
Times about me, ensuring my impending famosity. Nothing came of that except
my friends being really proud they knew someone famous and my parents asking why
there was a pantless picture of me online. A few months later, another journalist
reached out to me and wrote a piece for Brickell Magazine on my awesomeness;
I was in print and positively certain that this time, for sure, I’d be famous.
There’s this scene in Julie & Julia in which they publish
an editorial on Julie and her cooking blog for the New York Times , then she
gets home and has 42,000 messages from agents just dying to spar gladiator-style
for a chance to represent her. No one sparred for me that day. In fact, no one even
called. But in my pitiful defense I did get to go to a fancy party thrown in my
honor by Brickell Magazine . It was sponsored by my favorite vodka
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