Lately I’ve been rethinking my choice of fake internet names. I used to go by a different name, when I had my last blog, which was also the name of a goddess of suicide victims. But then I got sick of crazy people getting all crazy on me, and me not being able to say what I wanted to say in my blog in my blog. Fucking crazies. So now, I am Aunty Christ, and the thug dawgs are Goofus and Gallant, and I live in
So sorry, blog verité this ain’t. But I no longer have the problem of anonymous creepy people googling my name and the company I work for and then reading my blog for years without so much as emailing me to say, “Hello, this is your cousin Barbara, and I found your stupid blog.”
But I do have the following problems.
(1) Creepy guys from around the globe looking at this blog after doing a search for things like:
40 yars anuty photo pucy
aunty free fuck
hot midel age wife and aunty fuck with dog
i want to find wodow aunty for sex
So now I have learned a couple things. “Aunty”—in someone’s world—means something other than what I think it means; i.e., a woman whose sibling has a child. And I am an awful speller. (But a marvelous pirate: 40 yars and a bottle o’ rum!)
(2) First comments are difficult.
“Hello! I am a person you don’t know with an extremely off-putting name, come to say stuff to you.”
Am I a crazy right-wing Christer? Am I a crazy satanic cult leader? No one knows! But one thing’s for sure: I am probably crazy.
(3) Lars Von Trier has a new movie out called Antichrist, that people say puts forth the claim that women are E-vil. Not having seen the film, I can’t say how I myself feel about it. All’s I know is I’d rather not have my good name associated with spur-of-the-moment clitorectomies, you know? Self-induced or otherwise.
Part of my prize for winning that essay contest I was bragging about involved the magnificent treat of being allowed to volunteer at a conference for a particular (satanic? right-wing? I'll never tell) association. I was stationed, with a classmate, in the basement of a hotel and instructed to ask attendees which class they wanted to attend, and then pointing them toward the correct door. We were also given goody bags for our trouble, and told that, although we were not invited to eat with the regular conference-goers, we could have all the candy we wanted, and enter numerous raffles to win extravagant presents such as LexisNexis fleece jackets and such.
The lady who was showing us around the joint told us that we should come back later in the evening, after the dinner (which we were also not allowed to attend), to partake in the festivities. “The theme is How the West Was Fun!” she said. She then repeated it—“How the West Was Fun!”—like that was somehow going to make it better.
I did not attend.
I have been plagued lately. Totally wracked with illness. Lately, I have had canker sores, one right after the other, in an unrelentingly painful month. Now, first off, I should point out that canker sores are not cold sores. We’re not talking about herpes simplex 1 here, we’re talking about baffling open sores on my tongue that make me sound like Cindy Brady.
(In a related story, Rich and I took the new car in for a new car stereo yesterday. While we were standing around waiting for the douchey salesman to present our total, he ran up to us and said, “Hey, what year is it?” “2009,” I responded—meaning the car—which was good, as that was his intended meaning as well. Rich and I laughed about that for a second, and the salesdouche ran up again. “Is that an Accent?” he asked. “Um, I think so?” I answered, a little taken aback this time. As he went outside to check our car model, I told Rich, “No, it’s a fucking speech impediment.” “It’s a lisp,” Rich said. “Totally uncalled for.”)
Googling “canker sore” and “canker sore treatments” reveals not much I don’t already know. They are caused by everything, apparently, or perhaps nothing. I already use the special toothpaste for freaks like me, I have the numbing gel, etc.
Actually, no. Google provided one new element I hadn’t considered: Apparently celiac disease causes canker sores too, sometimes. Other things that celiac disease causes include several symptoms that I (along with, perhaps, everyone on earth) have, and are sometimes said to be attributed to everything, or to nothing, depending on who is talking. As I was checking off symptoms in my head, however, on the one hand, I started to feel like everything’s falling into place, just like halfway through an episode of House, where the title character says, “This explains everything.” On the other hand, I started to realize that I am truly disgusting:
Gassy, bloated, farty, cankerous, with herpes-like blisters on my chin, exhausted all the time, cranky, anemic, depressed, mind-fogged, and, lest we forget, forgetful.
Whatever did Rich Bachelor do to deserve such a prize, you ask? Does he rescue babies from burning buildings? Did he start a nonprofit panda-hugging organization in a past life? Ha ha, no. Just incredibly lucky, I guess. If I do have celiac disease, then perhaps all of these wonderful personal qualities are just symptoms. But I am reminded of a friend of mine, who went to the doctor complaining of a lump on his shin. “Is it cancer?” he asked. The doctor poked it and did a few quick tests and gave his professional conclusion. “Some people are just lumpy.”
This has been fun.