It came from the ‘yunk

Okay okay okay, I swear to god I have not been abducted by aliens or become a nun or fallen off a really big cliff, although all of those things are certainly possible at any point in my life…

I know. I know…

So, the big news is the She-Devils’ upcoming bout, next Sunday, May 21. Buy tickets now or I will personally hunt you down on my rollerskates (and fishnets) and hurl insults at you until you click on the goddamned paypal button to appease me.

At which point I will then rifle through your music collection (or simply steal your iPod), eat whatever junk food is in your fridge, steal your liquor and leave you alone, with your paypal confirmation number, shivering in the corner, feeling violated.

And you know you’ll enjoy it.

And really, either way, you’re gonna’ get beat up, so you might as well check out some serious roller derby (no pillow fights here, we use our fists).

‘course, I won’t be at this bout, I’ll be laying alongside a clear, blue body of water in the middle of the Nevada desert, with a drink in my hand, many more in my body, feeding the caution-to-the-wind desire for the sin of all Norse-girl sins: a suntan!

That’s right, Vegas. If you see a lobster hobbling through PHL sometime after next weekend, you’ll know it’s me. Kindly avoid touching me, and keep in mind I’ll probably be emanating heat from the burns, so if it’s warm outside, you have been warned….

As far as my extended electronic absence is concerned, I’ve got a few excuses, none of them all that good, but remember, people, I’m old and probably don’t care. The good news is the serial singleton one-bedroom is coming together nicely: I managed to move all 3,000 pounds of chick lit books, plastic plates, coffee mugs from around the world and random pieces of paper, art supplies, clothes and shoes I never wear, several bikes and way too many useless, outdated computers across town and up three flights of stairs.

I’m never moving again. They’ll have to hurl my cold, lifeless corpse down one of those mega-trash shoots they attach to buildings that lands in those mobile truck-sized dumpsters before I’ll lug this crap around again.

I remember the first time I set off on my own and packed my life into the back of my beat up… er… okay, shiny red fast turbocharged German sportscar… when I was 20 and drove until I hit the shiny blue ocean. Well, okay, it was Massachusetts — does that count?

Back then, if it didn’t fit into my car, it no longer belonged to me, or, actually, lay forgotten in the dark corners of my parents’ basement until last year, when they decided to sell their house. (Which, coincidentally, was called off shortly after I went through all my crap and managed to move most of it out… I still imagine the champagne toast after they pulled out the “for sale” sign and wondered what to do with all the newfound junk-storing space.)

Of course, we all have to move on, collect more things, more baggage in oh so many forms, and before you know if you’re still hauling your shit around in the back of a shiny red German car, only this time it’s done in a dozen loads because you’re too poor to afford movers, and too much of a useless hermit to make it to bars and get hit on by men with big arms and small brains who you can convince to move you that weekend thinking you’ll agree to have sex.

Either way, you’re bound to wind up sweaty and tired and vowing to never, ever do anything that horrible again…

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