Everyone loves excuses, so here are a bunch of 'em

A shout out to those of you who sent messages to me requesting proof of life. Woot!! It is very VERY surprising to me that ANYONE reads this blog, let alone takes the time to send me an email saying that they enjoy reading it and would like to read more. I am so very flattered when I get such kind messages.

Also, I feel rotten.

READER: "I happened to notice that you aren't doing your job of entertaining me. When do you suppose you will get back to it?"

ME: "I am MONUMENTALLY averse to responsibilities and obligations, and the minute I start to feel like something is expected of me, I start barfing all over the place."

The sincerity of these inquiries, rolling in at a steady pace of one or two a month for three years, completely disarms me. While they give me a live-affirming boost (because I am inevitably in the middle of referee-ing some blood-curdling custody battle that is converting my soul into a gerbil pellet), these pleasant messages make me feel guilty, and I wonder myself why I am not paying attention to "the blog" (I still feel like a jackhole even referring to this thing). But then I have to remind myself: This is just a hobby. I wonder if you know how blogs work? I don't get paid. Was that not clear?

Please don't take that the wrong way. I know what you meant when you wrote to me asking where I had gone off to. What a totally unmerited blessing to have enthusiastic readers – many of you have never even met me! But, then I started to think, who ARE you? I mean, we're on the same page here, I hope. We're all fully aware that I'm no one special, right? I hope it's not the case that a friend of a friend of a friend of a gay guy forwarded this to you and you think I have credentials or something. I am not, just to be clear: (1) important, (2) knowledgeable, or (3) famous, in any shape or fashion. I pay $15 a year for a domain name, and here you are reading this. I apologize if there has been some sort of misunderstanding. I hope that by now you recognize that I don't know anything about outer space or Alanis Morissette's marital status, and that I don't date Brian Urlacher – even though, in spite of all of your emotional support, not a one of you lazy fuckhats, who I guess can't afford to buy books, has come through with his address or even told me what bar he hangs out at. Shame on you.

So even though for all you know I'm serving 25 to life, I still can have a blog. I know. It doesn't seem right, mostly to me. But it is fun for me to write totally wrong things about Chick-Fil-A and Iceland knowing that people actually read this for some reason. Some people even feel compelled to send me very serious messages to "school me" or debate "facts" or refute claims that I've made (primarily re: D.B. Sweeney). Half of what I write in this blog is a clarification that the other half of this blog is total bullshit. Then again, when was the last time you heard anyone talking about D.B. Sweeney? Personally, I think I'm doing him a favor.

Someone from Europe posted a comment addressing me as: "Poor Dumb Polak [sic] Girl." To this person, all I can say is, "POOR YOU!!! I am REALLY sorry!!! Why are you reading a blog that you hate? Are you being held hostage at a Dark Site? Are they making you listen to a lot of Taylor Swift? If you have free will, and access to the internet, why in the hell are you reading THIS? Order yourself 'The Hunger Games' trilogy! It's totally awesome!"

Since the last time I wrote, some things did contribute to my slacking off on the blog: I moved three times. I had a boyfriend. Then I didn't have a boyfriend. I had a JOB. I couldn't find a pencil.

About the boyfriend – right around the time I met him, I ran a blog post up the flag pole about anal-sex. Of course he was not a fan. I have 9,000 other posts involving NO anal sex whatsoever. I can aver that 99.9% of this blog is NOT about anal sex, but after a year and a half, my boyfriend still had only gotten around to reading the butt-sex post, which was clearly purposely ridiculous (even though it was 100% true). He did read the post in which he is featured as offering to let me wipe my sweaty face on his shirt at a concert, and he liked that one, perhaps because I had portrayed events exactly as they had occurred, or because I captured his sense of humor accurately (because I DO literally write down things people say WHEN they are saying them, and some people don't mind that, while others, understandably, find it REALLY STRANGE). He did NOT find it strange, and that is because he is a narcissist of the highest order (i.e., his narcissism is so stealth that he honestly believes that he is the opposite of one, and being a lesser narcissist myself, it took me over a year to even BEGIN to pick up on hints about it), so of course he liked to read about himself.

Even some non-narcissists don't mind reading about themselves from another person's point of view. But most people really DO NOT like it. They might THINK they would like it. Lots of people say, "Are you gonna write about this!!!" And I say, "Yes, but you won't like it." And sure enough, the blog post goes up, and 14 minutes later I receive a tactful email from my friend saying how her aunt is on Facebook and if she clicks through she'll see my blog and know that [friend I wrote about] is "Skippy" [in X blog post] and "could you please remove Skippy from the story, or if you wouldn't mind, just remove the post altogether, and I really do like your blog, but just not when I am in it, you know, because of my aunt."

Aunts are just the worst.  I can say that, because I am one.

So anyway, the day after I wrote it, the boyfriend (who wasn't my boyfriend yet) forwarded the post about us going to see MGMT to some of his friends under the guise of showing them that he had gone out with a girl who… I really don't know what message he was trying to convey… that he went on a date with a girl who writes down conversations verbatim and then plugs them into the internet? That he went out with a girl who goes home from a date and stays up all night transcribing it? Is that something you want your friends to know? Did he like it? I can tell you that most people do NOT like being the subject of, or even casually mentioned in, one of my blog posts, so why this guy got a kick out of it and passed it on to his family and friends, well, I should have seen the red flag. Maybe I thought he respected my "craft," but who am I kidding. This isn't a craft. It's a BLOG. A dirty, filthy, blowjob-laden BLOG, with no value whatsoever. I liked this guy a lot, and although I don't believe that he meant to dissuade me from writing, when he tendered his opinion that I didn't need to write "things like that," I felt tsk'ed, so I stopped writing. I loved him and I didn't want to embarrass him or hurt his feelings. I didn't want to write things about my mother that made it seem like I don't love my mother, because I DO love my mother. But he got me to thinking that if I had a kid, well... I shouldn't be allowed to have kids and also have a blog. I was starting to regret the things I'd written, mostly because I was getting a very strong vibe that the person I loved had it in his head that I would be a terrible mother.

And a regrettable girlfriend

It's not totally unforgivable that he wasn't keyed up to be dating a girl who wrote about that time she took pills and begged someone to fuck her up the ass. Twice. That makes sense. But that ship has sailed. I wrote it. It's out there. I can't take it back. And according to eBlogger, which shows which posts are being read AND the cities where people are reading them, that ONE post has gotten as many hits as the footage of the Snooki-face-punch. And for some reason, the people of Iceland, perhaps ALL of them, based on the number of hits from unique IP addresses, are really curious about anal sex. Now, this had really nothing to do with what I'd written. This was about how search engines work, and people search for whatever they search for.  It just so happened that after a couple of weeks, you could type "anal sex" into Google, and UP came MY blog.

That's not really what I was going for. Not at all. I'm sorry, Iceland. I really am, but I can't be one of the top 3 sites that come up associated with... well, sex of any kind. I mean, it's not flattering. I wrote it. I know that. But it wasn't intended to define me or destroy all of my personal relationships.

But it did.

Because he took to the concert post, I mentioned him in the brutally honest butt-sex post. I thought I was dating a guy who was cool with me having a blog. I think he thought he was cool with me having a blog. But it wasn't worth it to me to push it. I couldn't figure out how to be a nice girlfriend and a weirdo blog-writer at the same time, so I stopped posting... and worked really hard at being a girlfriend. As surprising as this may sound, given all the flattering things I've disclosed about myself, my best wasn't so good. I was a less-than-satisfactory girlfriend, as it was related to me in the end. Too bad, so sad.

But at the time, discontinuing broadcasting the escapades of my youth wasn't a hard decision to make. While I had strangers who had no problem with the things I wrote, I had real-life people who were expressing that my blog was "distasteful." My boyfriend's brother's girlfriend (now wife), who I did not meet until over a year later, on the very day that my boyfriend's brother proposed to her, turned out to be supremely cool. But long before my meeting her, she read the non-blowjob-themed post about my date with her now-brother-in-law at the MGMT concert. I don't know if she read any other posts, or if someone gave her a Cliff's Notes version of the blog, but my boyfriend related to me her concise review of WindyCityChick.com, which was: "She sure likes to give blowjobs."

Oh.

My.

Then, that same week, my father unexpectedly, and surely inadvertently, made a reference to a non-raw portion of an incredibly raw post, indicating that, even though there is no reason in the world for my parents to know that I have a blog, they DO know that I have a blog. And they read it. Ack!!!!

Even though my blog is mostly NOT about sex at all, but about me being an idiot when I was in my 20s, it seems like my blog is just about blowjobs and anal sex, and the only people reading it and admitting to it are my dad and my ex-boyfriend's sister-in-law. So, my own blog has been grossing me out for the past three years. I kind of wish burqas were in fashion, because I'd like to wear one for the rest of my life just to avoid having to look my father in the eye.

When I thought about my boyfriend, his brother's wife, or my dad reading any of this, I felt sick. On the other hand, I really LIKED writing it, and I genuinely missed doing it; so I continued to write, but I couldn't bring myself to post anything.

But there are yet more reasons why I stopped writing:

Against the advice of some caring readers who encouraged me to stop lawyering and start writing more, I became a partner at a law firm, which is the best way in the WORLD to have loads of free time! But before I got myself into a 6.5-day-a-week, trials-back-to-back position, I had to find the job, interview for the job, and survive night sweats and pants-shitting terror over the idea of a potential employer or client entering my name into Google and finding out that I am a blowjob addict with a public forum. So I took the whole thing down.

Three years have passed. I am single. I quit my job. I had a series of "adventures" (I was homeless). I became a middle school English teacher in Nashville (which makes even the NAME of this blog a lie). There are plenty of things I'd like to write about to catch you up on all the excitement, but I think it goes without saying that being a teacher and having a blog like mine is TOTALLY UNCONSCIONABLE. Kids today don't know much about the internet, so it'll probably be fine. But just in case, I've been wearing a fake mustache and a cape to class every day with the hope that my students, co-workers, and superiors won't recognize me in my normal blogger form, which by now should be very clear in your mind: a girl with cocaine-caked nostrils gagging on a dick.

Hi, Dad! :)

Movie Review: "The Blind Side", or, I'd rather watch "Titanic" again

I will tell you what I think of "The Blind Side."  Why not review "E.T." or "Terms of Endearment", you ask?  Yes yes, I know.  I'm a little late to the party with this one, but I knew I wasn't going to like it so I waited for it to come out on DVD, which it did very recently.  This is a stupid movie for a host of reasons, but I'll focus on just one: What if Big Mike had turned out to NOT be a football superstar?  What if he had continued to get shit grades and have a face full of snaggled up teeth and had continued to move around in the world with the speed of an inanimate object and have the personality of a doorknob?  What if he had been more like, say, Precious?  This movie bugs mostly because it makes it seem like the family who adopts him is doing him this huge favor, but they end up not even having to pay for him to go to college.  They feed him a steady diet of Taco Bell, and they don't even fix his teeth.  No braces.  No college tuition.  Free chalupa diet.  And a built-in body guard for their dork-ass son.

Say, I feel like adopting.  I wonder if Brian Urlacher needs a new home.  Brian Urlacher, do you want to sleep on my sofa?  That's about the equivalent level of altruism, don't you think?

This reminds me of something I saw on the dumb Today show, which I hate for lots of reasons.  The reason I hated it most recently was that they did a story on this woman who had a loving husband, six children, a dozen grandchildren, a big beautiful house, and a horse.  She also had some type of terminal cancer and her family helped her fight it and they were raising awareness, which is not the part I'm knocking.  The part I'm knocking is she had a loving husband, six children, a dozen grandchildren, a big beautiful house, and a horse.  Can someone please tell me what is sad about that?  She also had health insurance and she was getting the best treatment someone else's money could buy.  Her doctors at the Mayo Clinic liked her so much, they were going out of their way to fight for her to get experimental treatments, and the treatments appeared to be effective.  They didn't say this, but I bet she had a fancy car, and probably the circus lives in her back yard, and Keebler elves live in her trees and put fresh-baked cookies on her windowsills every morning.  The dumb Today show built it up like this woman was so unfortunate, but from what I could tell, she had a pretty awesome fucking life.  Also, she was OLD.  She'd seen her six healthy, successful children get married and have their own children.

The dumb Today show got it all wrong.  Here's the story the dumb Today show SHOULD have done: somewhere on Lower Wacker, there is a homeless Viet Nam veteran with prostate cancer, only he hasn't been diagnosed because he hasn't been to the doctor since they turned him away from the VA hospital the last time he went.  They told him his PTSD wasn't real, his symptoms were untreatable, and treatment for his psychiatric problems wasn't covered by insurance.  I wanna see the show about the guy who has nothing, no family, no one to love or take care of him, including his government, and show what it's like for that guy to have cancer.

Whoops!  Got a little angry there for a minute... let's cheer up and talk about a movie that I watched right after I watched "The Blind Side": "Titanic"

Again, I realize that I'm not exactly coming out in front of this one.  I’m 13 years tardy with this movie review, but "Titanic" was on TBS tonight.  It’s so watchable, even though it is long.  And really dumb.  Even though I don’t like it, I’ve seen it a number of times.  When it first came out in 1997, I had no desire to see it.  It had been so obnoxiously hyped as the most expensive movie ever made.  Also, there’s the problem of the Celine Dion love ballad.  I was boycotting it for that reason alone.  The other reason was, I knew the ending.  I knew the ending because everything I know about the Titanic comes from a song my mom taught me when I was little and it is one of my favorite songs:

When they built the ship Titanic

To sail the ocean blue

They said it was a ship

That the water would never go through

It was on its maiden trip

When the iceberg hit the ship

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

It was sad

It was sad

It was sad when the great ship went down to the bottom of the sea

[here’s the tactful part I made up to go in harmony with the chorus]

(husbands and wives, little children lost their lives)

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

It was off the English shore

‘bout a thousand miles or more

When the rich refused

to associate with the with the poor

so they put ‘em down below

where they’d be the first to go

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

It was sad

It was sad

It was sad when the great ship went down to the bottom of the sea

[and again with the good taste]

(uncles and aunts, little children lost their pants)

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

So the moral of my story

As you can plainly see

Is to wear a life preserver

And never go out to sea

For the Lord’s almighty hands

Knew the ship would never land

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

It was sad

It was sad

It was sad when the great ship went down to the bottom of the sea

It was sad when the great ship went down down down

It

Was

Oh

So

Sad

Blub blub blub blub blub

You have to do the "blub blub blub blub blub" part at the end to make it clear that you have no compassion for drowning victims.

So, I had no intention of seeing this movie.  However, I was home for Christmas break and my dad and my brother went to see it without me and my mom, because my mom and I were convinced that we had our song.  We didn’t need a movie too.  But all through Christmas dinner, my dad and my brother were talking about how great "Titanic" was.  Mike was saying how amazing the editing was, and he is an editor, so I started to wonder if I was missing out.  When I got back to school, my boyfriend’s family had worn him down about it as well, so we went to see "Titanic."  We were both skeptical.  My boyfriend’s mother had for some reason given him the Titanic soundtrack for Christmas, and he kept playing "My Heart Will Go On" in his apartment, and my roommate, who was a dude (and not even gay!), kept singing it around our house.  The song was everywhere.  In my yoga class.  At the mall.  I wanted to smack everyone.

Besides the horrific soundtrack, there were two other things that bugged about this movie.  First off, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet don’t match up so great.  I don’t think that Kate Winslet (then or now) is overweight, but Leo was pretty young and scrawny at that time, and I recall a movie reviewer saying that watching them make out in an old-timey car in the basement of the boat was like watching a Chihuahua mount a Great Dane.  While I felt this was unjust to Kate, I agree that all the making out in the movie is somewhat awkward.  Besides, on principle, I hate love stories.  They give everyone on planet earth the wrong idea about the way things are supposed to happen when you're in love.  Unrealistic expectations lead to disappointment.  And, very often, sex in hot tubs.

Second, the villain in the movie was so badly portrayed that he may as well have had a glint in his evil smile (with a sound effect) and been stroking a black cat in every scene.  He tries to get on the first life boat with the women and children.  No one could be that evil, not even an evil person, not even in a movie, and not even in my actual life, in which some men have behaved abysmally.

I love how they make it look like the poor people in the basement are having so much fun at their dancing and drinking parties every night. My family came over in steerage on boats like that around the same time and all they ever said was that it rained all the time, there were rats, everyone was always seasick and green and had typhus, and if you had any babies with you, they died.  I lost four aunts and uncles to these boats.  No one was dancing and singing.  They were having back-up children.

All of the acting in this picture is supremely bad. The only good acting is Kathy Bates as the lovable Molly Brown, who looks out for Jack by lending him her son's tuxedo and being some kind of feminist because she rides on boats alone. Molly Brown is the only one who wants to go back for the survivors.  The other acting that is good is done by the men in the string quartet who continue to play as the ship goes down. This is the part of the picture that will make you start to weep, and when I think of dying at its finest, there should always be a string quartet.

I don’t mind that the movie is long, or that Bill Paxton is wearing a giant hoop earring, or that they keep showing extreme close ups of the old lady’s eyes even though her glaucoma is repulsive.  I don’t mind that James Cameron is some kind of legendary dick in the industry, or that children in Burundi are crying even today over the amount of potable water that was wasted in the making of the film.  I don’t care that no one, NO ONE, likes the ending, in which the old lady sneakily drops the 96-karat Heart of the Ocean off the ship and seems pleased about it, the haggedy old hag.  She really shouldn’t have done that.  Do you think her grandkids enjoyed that ending?  Do you think they might have been a bit ruffled when they saw how things actually went down.  “Hey, Grandma, do you think I might have liked to, say, go to college, or have a Vespa?”

But I don’t even care that that old lady was an asshole.  What I really don’t like about this movie is that I don’t get why she didn’t share the door with Jack.  Why did she take the whole door for herself and make Jack hang on in the freezing cold water?  If there wasn’t room for both of them on the floating door, why didn’t they take turns?  Rose is lying on the door, and she’s whining about how cold she is, and Jack, completely submerged in the freezing cold water, is giving her a pep talk about how she’s going to die an old lady warm in her bed.  So fine, she lets him die, but if she loved him so well, why did she rip his cold dead fingers off the door and push him into the water?  He was fastened on pretty good by the time he was frozen to death.  Why didn’t she tote him with her and give him a proper burial at home?  What a jerk.  If the man I loved, who had just single-handedly saved my life heroically and repeatedly, died right before my eyes because I wouldn’t share the door, I would at least not be such a jerkoff about it after I’d murdered him.

The only sexy parts of the movie involve Leonardo DiCaprio.  Even when Rose is lying naked on the fainting couch, the only sexy part of the scene are the close ups of Leo’s eyes while he’s drawing her.  And the prettiest thing in the entire movie is when Leo is standing at the top of the Grand Staircase in front of the clock in his borrowed tux and slicked back blond hair and he turns around to look at Rose.

["Hi. I'm here to save your life, fatso."]

It must suck to be Kate Winslet in this picture and be all dressed up and still be only the 4th or 5th most attractive thing in the movie, after your male co-star and Kathy Bates' giant hats.

Jack isn’t just a gorgeous specimen, he’s resourceful.  The hottest thing about Jack is that he knows exactly what to do.  There is nothing hotter than a man who knows what to do, especially in situations where you don’t know what to do.  Like when a giant boat becomes perpendicular with the ocean and cracks in half.  Here are all the things he knows: He knows to be on the half that goes down second, and then he knows to stay on the boat as long as possible, and to get as high up on one end as possible, and to get on the other side of the railing so they can sit on the railing instead of hanging from it.  And then, as the ship is on its final descent into the sea, he even had his arm around her and is protecting her and he gives her directions and tells her that the ship is going to suck them down and to take a deep breath when he tells her to and to kick for the surface.  He says, “Keep kicking and do not to let go of my hand!”  I mean, this guy is a gem, and even though I do not like this movie, I get totally sucked in every time I see this part, and then he says, “We’re gonna make it, Rose. Trust me.”  And Rose says, “I trust you, and as soon as I get my hands on a floating door, I’m gonna toss you off of it.  Oh, and by the way, I have a life preserver and you don’t.”  Then, when they fall in the water, HE FINDS THE DOOR!  She has a life vest and he doesn’t and he comes over and finds her and he gets her to swim to the door and he puts her on it and she just lies there and is like,

["How’s the water, sucka?"]

So, I don't even like this movie, and still, I just wail my way through this whole part, and I don't know if it's because the Jack character is so impossibly cool that he could never, ever have existed in real life, or because I know that any man I am ever with is likely to rip the life preserver off my back and swim away on a door leaving me to freeze to death in the North Sea.

Alanis Morissette seems like she needs cheering up

Did you see Ryan Reynolds at the Oscars?

[Damn.]

I feel about Ryan Reynolds the way I feel about Brian Urlacher. I have been trying for about six years to "run into" Brian Urlacher. I ask around. I try to find out where he hangs out. People think I'm joking, and I am. But also I am not. I think that if Brian Urlacher met me, he would really take a shine to me. He has three children with three different women, so I figure, why not a fourth? I wouldn't make him marry me, but I would change my last name to Urlacher. I'd do it for the baby. Also, I'd do it because I have this very real-seeming fantasy about walking into a court room and saying, "Good morning, Your Honor. Jules Urlacher representing the petitioner. Yeah, man. THAT Urlacher."

I'm pretty certain that I cannot achieve the kind of celebrity I'm looking for on my own merits. But being Brian Urlacher's Fourth Baby Mama is an obvious best end-run around doing anything of note without exerting much effort (my friends keep insisting that epidurals make it seem like you're not even having a baby). Anyway, I believe that, like Brian Urlacher (and, while I'm at it, Vince Vaughn, especially if he's really coked up and not totally certain what city he's in), Ryan Reynolds, if he had the opportunity to spend a little time with me, would really like me, and so, in my head, we're kind of dating, and may I say, I really liked the way he looked in the tux I picked out for him for the Oscars.

It is easy to picture myself dating Ryan Reynolds, because he never goes anywhere with his wife. His wife, as you may know, is Scarlett Johansson. I'm not going to bad mouth Scarlett Johansson. I realize that doing so would be futile. Undercutting Scarlett Johansson, with her puffy lips and her booby boobs and her husky voice and her blond extensions and her curvy rump, will only make me seem petty. So what can I say except, Scarlett Johansson is just fine. But something I know for certain is, Scarlett Johansson isn't the one for Ryan Reynolds. For one thing, she's like 48 years younger than him, and for another, Ryan Reynolds dated and was previously engaged to fellow Canadian Alanis Morissette for four years, yet he was married to Scarlett Johansson within a year of breaking up with Alanis. It doesn't smell right. And besides, it's Hollywood and they're both actors and no relationship can survive in that town, so they are doomed. Doomed. I'm so sorry, Scarlett Johansson. I wonder who will be your second husband. Or your third. You're so very young. You have lots of time to fit in a baker's dozen of failed marriages before your ass falls into ruin. But I harbor no ill-will towards you. It's not your fault that Ryan Reynolds doesn't want to be seen with you. It's just, you would take away from the sun glinting off of his hairless abs.

Why though, should I care?

I know that, whereas I might run into Brian Urlacher one day, I am never going to meet Ryan Reynolds. That's OK. I'm never going to do a lot of things. Like, I'm never going to play the harpsicord for the queen or fly in a space shuttle. And I'll never get a chance to make Ryan Reynolds like me. But just imagine if you had dated Ryan Reynolds for four years. Imagine if, when you started dating, you were already famous for singing songs that go into elaborate detail about your sex life and your heartbreaks and your past lovers (you can see why I like Alanis so much) and no one had ever heard of your new boyfriend (except people in Canada, but, I mean real people). Imagine then that Hollywood got a hold of him, and he wasn't just wonderfully hilarious in movies like "Waiting" and "Just Friends" (in which you had a very funny cameo that got cut), but then he buffed up into an action hero (Ryan Reynolds and Parker Posey are wildly wildly funny in "Blade: Trinity"), and became as consistently shirtless and bankable as Matthew McConoughey in romantic comedy after romantic comedy.

And then imagine if after he became very famous and very chiseled and you were very happy together, he dumped you and married a young girl less than 12 months later. Well. Of course you had to write a song about that. Take it out on us. We understand. Oh, and then your butt tripled in size and People and US Weekly wrote articles about it and you had to go around telling everyone, "I love my new curves!" And no one believed you. So then you started appearing in Weeds and all of a sudden seemed sightly again, but no one gave you credit for it, because that iced-coffee hose, Mary-Louise Parker, is so impossibly skinny.

After plowing through the meat and Twinkie department somewhere in Vancouver I presume, Alanis wrote a song about Ryan Reynolds called Torch, which is not even nearly my favorite song of hers, but, as with most of Alanis' songs about relationships, it is gut-wrenchingly honest and it makes me feel actual pain when I listen to it. It also makes me feel as if I too dated, and got dumped by, Ryan Reynolds, so I feel like we're in the same boat, Alanis and me. I miss Ryan Reynolds' smell too. I can still smell him. He smells like a combination of Brian Urlacher's baldy-bald head and Vince Vaughn's dirty flannel cocaine-encrusted shirt. God, I love that old familiar scent.

Alanis, I'm so sorry that this happened to you. I don't understand why Ryan Reynolds didn't want you. I want you. Maybe not as much as I want Brian Urlacher or Ryan Reynolds or Vince Vaughn, but just the same, I am so sorry that you are sad. And that when you are sad you grow saddlebags.  I am sorry that even though you are a comedic genius, people don't really know about it.  So, as a gesture of my tremendous respect for you, let me tell you some things that I hope will cheer you up:

You have a nice head of hair. I don't have much hair to speak of, and I may in fact be balding. I can't tell. I'm trying to ignore it. But when it's time for me to buy a wig, I will buy a wig made from your imported Canadian hair, I promise.

You have an interesting way of pronouncing words. The only artists worse at pronunciation are Tori Amos and the lead squealer of Sigur Ros, but at least you know that there are two other people out there who can't talk as good as you.

You apparently visited India once and became moved by it. Maybe go back there. My Fazio's children's encyclopedia tells me that 95% of the world's population lives in India, so the odds are good that there is some fine chap there waiting for you. I bet you could get a gazillion dates on match.com/India. Like in the USA, most of the dates you go on through match.com will be with dullards and perverts and seemingly charming fellows who are massive disappointments in person, and men who say they are 6'1", but are actually 5'4", but it only takes one! That's what my mom always says. This is the same woman who married the man with whom she went on her first date, but she knows what she's talking about. She's always telling me so. Doesn't your mom give you good advice like this?

Well, does she??? If so, then chalk that up as something in the sunny column. Even if you never fall in love again, your mother will still love you, and you can always move into her basement. My mom is always reminding me of this, too. It's so comforting.

According to your own account, you give angry head in movie theaters. I think this kind of thing is widely appreciated by men, and you will go far if you keep reminding people about it. Be proud of yourself! Some ladies don't like to do blowjobs anywhere, least of all in public, and while instilling raw fear in movie-going penises.

You have a twin. I think that's neat! His name is Chad. Maybe don't mention that part.

Even though you are a woman of incredible talent and fame and you have plenty of money and you are quite beautiful, you are the same age as me, and you are a never-married, childless spinster, like me, so if all else fails, come to Chicago and be my friend. I can teach you what the word "ironic" means, and we can go out looking for Brian Urlacher together. I will even be your wingman and will happily yield him up to you. I like you that much, Alanis. But I call dibs on Vince Vaughn.