Personal Revelations in the End Times

I'm going to miss all of you. Well, some of you. If really pressed, I'm sure I could probably come up with a couple of people I'm going to miss as soon as the world blows up/dark planet smacks into us/fire and brimstone rains from the sky/all the real 'Murricans get raptured/planets align creating massive gravitational forces/sun sends off face-melting rays. No matter what the cause of our impending doom, I've had to come to the realization that I only have few precious hours remaining to speak to you, my fans. It would be most selfish of me not to reveal my current festering thoughts to the world before computers and phones stop working from the electronic disturbance of the magnetic poles switching. Firstly, as you are crying from the sting of radioactive gasses, feel free to focus on this image as the last bit of earthly beauty you see:

I couldn't tell if duck face was better with eyes open or closed so I did both. HOTT.

The above picture was from a party I crashed a few weeks ago. It was the event of the season, I tell you. My celebratory senses were tingling as I started walking down the street and happened upon* a school filled with energy and delight. Students, staff and volunteers were gathering to share breakfast victuals and good cheer in the cause of raising funds for community programs such as the food pantry. I wasn't exactly thrilled by the lack of mimosas or dubstep but this "Santa" phenomenon was such a novel idea I had to get a picture from his delightful throne. I removed him first as he kept getting into my shot and that certainly was not acceptable as although reds and other jewel tones are in this season, fur is murder unless I'm wearing it.

Another surprise from the day was that a well-loved professional soccer player from a local team embodying greenery made an appearance to sign memorabilia and take pictures with the attendees. This player was unfortunately traded later, but now that makes everything he signed so exclusive! As we know, exclusivity is everything. Shame on him though for doing selfless things when he had packing to do. I bet he rushed everything so his clothes are all wrinkled now. Certainly helping to raise money for people in need of food and other entitlements is secondary to assuring a seamless move to God's favorite state.

In retrospect, the only aspect of the gathering that could have been better would have been the safety. In light of recent tragic events, I did a minimal amount of reading and sniffed once or twice at the lamestream media before finding the best information on Twitter, facebook, and Fox News. Now that I'm aware that more guns (rather than adequate mental & physical health care and education) makes us safer, all of the people at the event should have been packing heat. I don't want caregivers around children unless they have a weapon on them at all times. As a former teacher, although I often worked with special needs children and couldn't even have any earrings on or loose hair since both were frequently ripped out by those children, I realize now I still should have had a gun on me. All of the other teachers should have, too. We should have been required to buy weapons at our own expense, gladly pay for the training in their use, and bring them around our precious children on a daily basis. Nothing is more safe than having multiple emotionally charged people spraying bullets in all directions instead of just one irrational person doing so.

I don't know about you, but my reasoning and aim is always best when the adrenaline's flowing and the children I'm trying to protect are running everywhere, without my even having the benefit of being experienced in weapons or law enforcement. I would enjoy having to make quick judgment calls about whether or not that angry dad is getting out his gun, a phone or a business card. Sounds good to me. It's so easy to live with the guilt of killing someone, intentional or accidental, and that should just be another part of the role of a responsible educator.

With the fifth complaint you get a free note.

On a lighter note, here is a sweet note I received a couple of weeks later after I continued to crash school functions every day:










The reason I went to go hang out with these kids every day was to have them create a cyclone of destruction throughout every room in the school. It's preposterous to think I would feel any responsibility for keeping my impact to a minimum, having had my own classroom in the past and remembering just slightly how it felt when someone else used the room. You're right. I have told those kids to get in your desks and just TEAR. SHIT. UP. Guilty as charged!

I laugh maniacally while ordering the children not to sweep up or spend 10 minutes picking everything up at the end of our pure senseless chaos. I have never notified the custodian after we left if there was something I just couldn't clean up. I have also not started taking pictures of the classroom when we enter and when we leave so I have evidence of the difference. That would be insane because those pictures would in no way show how messy all your classrooms are when we get there and that the clutter was actually yours and your students'. I would be completely irrational to be deeply insulted by your repeated complaints to me or my supervisor if I had one. Of course, I wouldn't expect any of you would actually have your students clear off their desks or anything so there wouldn't be the possibility for anyone to accidentally displace their precious items just in the course of using the space, because you don't have any way of knowing via a regular schedule that we are coming to destroy your room. Now I'm just being ridiculous.

By the way, what I really enjoy and hope you will all continue doing, is make phone calls or have meetings while I'm in your room doing wreaking my havoc and roll your eyes at me because that lets me know I'm doing my best. Again, you certainly had no idea I was going to be there or anything and I love nothing more than being able to inconvenience you. How I wish I remembered what it was like to be one of you so this situation could even be more hurtful than you know.



*Note: this is most certainly not a school at which I have happened to become employed. That sounds silly. I promised I would never work in education again, forsaking all reasonable and valiant activities for the lifestyle of a wandering drunkard. This sounds like something my terrible impostor might do! In her responsible way, she would likely remove identifying information and change names as not to cause friction in the course of her sad, frustrated, disappointed ranting at the end of the world. Think no more on this.

The Most Fabulous Accessories You Can Never Own

Yes, I know you want them, but you can't have them. They are all mine. After I spent endless hours callousing my fingers in the creation of my beautiful hats and related accoutrements I have decided I simply cannot part with them. I once thought you may have enjoyed buying a horribly overpriced fashion accessory with my name on it merely so you could attempt to capture a small part of my brilliance for a fleeting moment, basking in my glory as you weep at your reflection, but it is not to be. Sucks to be you.

Hatterday enthusiast GB peruses the most exclusive fashion house in Portland

I arrived at my conclusion after an extended period of research and contemplation. The design and construction of jewelry and other accessories, afghans, quilts and some basic clothing has been a consistent hobby of mine over the years. I had become quite talented in the production of my wares and thought that perhaps I could make a slight bit of income from them instead of just bestowing them as gifts.

Working feverishly to complete a sufficient number of hats for stock, I was driven by the thought my success would be soon at hand. Fortunately, my handler had a line in to a festive event where I could place my wares on a table and my fans would come by and throw endless wads of cash at me. I went into the endeavor fully conscious of how spectacular I am, equipped with impressive works that everyone would cherish as much as I do.

For two days, I sat in a frighteningly white and chilly room, populated by mulleted or poodle-permed women selling such delights as "NASCAR potholders", "scripture bookmarks" and things having to do with the fine art of "scrapbooking". Of course, all of their sales paled in comparison to the cackling coven of witches peddling their evil. I wish I could forget what they were selling, but it was difficult to when every waking moment they screeched at anyone within a two mile radius, "CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAAAAKES! ONLY A DOLLAR! CUPCAAAAAAAAAAKES! OOOOOOOHHH! AND SNICKERDOODLES! YUUUUUUUMMMMMMMY! CUPCAKES!"

Wait, I lied. They didn't screech that at every moment. There were a few times in the ladies restroom or at the sales floor when in not-so-hushed whispers they would discuss the horrendously high cost of my hats and why I wasn't selling anything. I truly wish now that I had known previously to the bazaar that people in East County do not have any money for a hat that would last a lifetime and help them try to look fabulous while keeping warm, but they do have plenty of funds available for multiple cupcakes and trips to Burned Coffee Mermaid Land and the vending machines each day.

Not yours.

Even the lady that came by and asked me to make two custom hats overnight for her found a way to let me keep those, too. I had attained measurements from her, procured materials, crocheted like a beast and brought them in the next day after little sleep. She never returned. I now know that a $20 total quote for two handmade hats was unfair of me, because I should have tried to sell them to her for even more of a loss. Selfishly, I just wanted to be able to say I sold something and at least break even on the materials. I should have tracked her down, given her the hats, and bought her some cupcakes for the trouble of having to talk to me.

This year, I attended a sale at a religious school near my home. Every* person that walked past my table picked up a hat, commented on how beautiful/cute/well-made/stylish/fun they were, placed it back down, and kept walking. I just couldn't swindle the horrendous $25 dollars for a crocheted hat adorned with beads or crystals out of their purses. The exorbitantly priced $10-$15 textured baby hats elicited many cries of joy, but none as exuberant as mine as I came to the conclusion that I wouldn't have to give them up and could take them home to where they would truly be appreciated.

I consulted with my fashion magazines and realized that the most sought-after fashion tends to be the most unique and exclusive. And what could be more exclusive than accessories from a line no one is able to purchase? From now on, I will be making them only for my own enjoyment and bragging rights. Why attempt to get money to survive when I can certainly sustain myself merely on the jealousy of others? I did see some very plain hand crocheted hats this weekend at the Giant Downtown Book Fort being sold for even more than what I was charging. However, they are made in the exotic country of Indonesia so I'm certain it's best you keep sending all of your precious hat money out of the country either at the Book Fort, Cheap Shit Workers' Hell or Nonsensical Ancient Military Allegory.

Thank you, all, for helping me find my path to true enlightenment. I am the only one awesome enough to wear my creations and no amount of begging will ever change my mind. I'm certain of it. Fairly certain.

*Special thanks to the woman that informed me of the fact people with curly hair don't wear hats. You do learn something new every day.

Stop Putting Horseface on My Magazines!

Daisy says no to Horseface and yes to tuna.

My cat Daisy shares my sentiments when it comes to the world of fashion and the coverage of it. Yet again, I open my mailbox and stand aghast in horror as I see Horseface on the cover. Seriously, again with the Horseface? WHY?!? Is there some reason of which I am not aware that you are compelled to force her down my throat?

Are there no other people considered fashionable anymore so that you must frequently return to the same stable? I find that so hard to believe, considering that I myself know at least a few more than twelve people. Although they would not look as fabulous as I do, they would still be able to provide some variance to the medium. You fashion folk have an entire network at your disposal that I do not, so it now seems that you are simply trolling me.

On one of the other magazines that arrived a few days earlier, I had to endure That Other Girl from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie, which is only slightly better than Boring McOneExpression from Twinkly Religious Propaganda Castrated Vampire Movie.

Of course, I could have even been subjected to even more Boobage O'Drugbutt Fame Whore or Heiress vagFlash vonUseless, so I should really count my blessings. Hell, at this point I would even welcome more SadEyes Escapey DeBeard than these chicks, just because I'm happy her ignorant butt finally woke up and fled from her ex-husband Cult Shillington the Vile.

Fashion is a dynamic, ever-changing realm where ingenuity, creativity and innovation are essential and yet historical reference and tribute is also apropos. Why then is it, that nearly every month, the same faces are staring back at me from the fashion magazine covers? I used to subscribe to far more of them but was forced to discontinue my loyalty when I was tortured by repeated exposure to actresses, models, and celebutants for whom I could, how you say, give a "nary a shit".

Please, for the sake of all that is holy, find some new faces (that don't look like Skeletor, either) that could use the exposure and simultaneously help move the industry forward.

PS: I have been six feet tall since I was twelve, and according to your standards, I have always been plus size, even after I had mononucleosis and lost 10000 pounds in a month. Everyone thought I looked dead, not sexy. Hint hint.

Let's Talk About Dreams

Many years ago now, back in the days of responsibility, I met a magical dream guru. Whenever I saw him at parties, he asked about my dreams but then didn't really comment on them besides nodding, humming or moaning in a peculiar way. He also likes to talk about cuddling a lot. Fascinating, but since he couldn't do much to help make me into the super-famous ultra-celebrity I know I'm destined to be, I stopped dreaming altogether so I wouldn't have anything to talk about if I ever saw him again.

Unfortunately, I started dreaming again a few nights ago and I am terribly conflicted by the messages I have been receiving. Since dreams are prophetic visions delivered straight from God I know that I must take each one of these messages very seriously and devote a majority of time figuring out their meaning and accordingly implementing changes into my life. I am not interested right now in talking to my magical dream guru so it'll have to be all me. Good thing I'm amazingly brilliant so this won't take much effort. Additionally, I've only had about three hours of sleep in the last week so I've got that working for me. I'll still try my best to dumb this down for you, my dear fans.

Dream #1:

I was on a ratty yet comfy couch and did nothing but watch an episode of CSI. Not the horrible NY one that makes me want to claw out my eyes or the Miami one whose untimely departure I still lament, the original Las Vegas one I still watch religiously. It was a fascinating episode involving the return of Gil Grissom, but yet his facial hair looked like that of Colonel Sanders and he had put on about 400 lbs. Is this the true fate of William Petersen? I think Manhunter probably wouldn't have had the same effect on me had the Fat Colonel been on the hunt for The Tooth Fairy. With the Taco Bell Chihuahua as Hannibal Lecter: "Yo quiero human flesh."

Anyway, the CSI episode was about how Sara Sidle got pregnant and Grissom wanted her to go on Maury for lie detector and paternity tests. I think this dream means that no matter how popular I become, I must always be ready to whore myself out for any occasion because there's no such thing as bad publicity. Duh. Stupid waste of time dream.

BRB, taking a break to make some 'Sketti for lunch and then barf it all up.

Okay, I'm back.

Dream #2:

I was sitting at a dressing table, looking in a mirror, putting on my three inches of face plaster, when I noticed something odd about my chest. It was covered in stubble. Seriously. I had about three days growth of hair all over my chest and torso. This was clearly a nightmare. As you know, I would never have stubble like that on my chest because I wouldn't shave it, I would wax it. This is probably the most unbelievable scenario I could have dreamt,because the stubble was also grey and I only have grey hairs in my eyebrows and beard. The ones on my chest are black.

Perhaps this dream means I should stop applying Propecia to my chest even though my stylist said it would increase my ability to be cast in an episode of Grimm. I think the show is about princesses and fairy tale crap like that and although I've never watched the show or know what the hairy chest part is for, I usually trust his sage advice in my career choices. I'm still confused, though, so I'm going to still keep applying it for the time being until I have a clarification dream.

Dream #3:

I don't have much time left before my nap so I can only dictate out one more for now (my cat is typing as I sip my coffee [I type real good meow help me she's crazy send help now meow]). As you can certainly remember, I am a WAG. My husband plays football in an over-40 league (reminder: that means the elite league, they score over 40 goals each season), and this is yet another way I am better than all of you. There are many reasons, yes, but this one is pretty much one of the best. The dream involved a discussion with my footballer husband regarding how he had been ignoring me for six months so I was going to go to Las Vegas to cheat on him. I was packing for the trip and removing clothes from an old suitcase. Once I pulled those clothes out, I lifted up the top of the bed and inside the mattress was a pool of water. I put the clothes in and then put the lid of the mattress back down.

I was then all of a sudden in Las Vegas, in a very low quality room without windows. All over the casino there were Icee machines filled with root beer liquor. This certainly had to be another nightmare as root beer is for simpletons and peasants. If this is a prophetic dream and I do end up in this hellish type of place someday, I'm going to put bleach in the toilet before I go in it and try to gas myself. I've tried it about 20 times before but I'm certain I will someday be able to make it work. Since all hotels stopped cleaning the toilets years ago the final addition of my alcohol-dehydrated super ammonia concentrated urine will cause an explosion of epic proportions. What an awesome obit that will be and the classy people will clap for me the most when I'm in the In Memoriam thing at awards shows.

Any and all dream interpretations welcomed, mine or yours.

PS: Dear Russian visitors, I see you. Welcome. I can always use admirers from all over the world.

Impostors! Scandal! Drugs! Entitlement!

It's come to my attention that a most egregious crime is afoot, as someone has been attempting to impersonate me on the internet and allege some horrific claims. My dear fans, let me assure you that my personal presence on the internet medium is to be increased from this moment forward, as when my absence is noticeable, that's when my impostor makes itself known. Fear not, I will clarify numerous points for you so that you may determine at any time if indeed you are hearing from me, or the devious rascal claiming to be me. How this deviant found a way to use my Twitter account when I leave it logged in all the time with my Firefox browser window open and my computer logged in by fingerprint I shall never know.

The misconceptions refuted and my personal goals upheld and expanded:

• The rapscallion claims that I have once again become employed in the noble pursuit of educating children, incredibly enough mainly in the sciences and arts. My tears of embarrassment well up merely at the mention of such a notion, as I gave up that endeavor long ago, when the development of our youth no longer seemed as important to me as doing body shots of Goldschlager. I'm sure you can empathize with my plight. Please, if you hear about me performing any sort of noble deeds, please take them with a grain of salt, and tequila and lime.
• My lack of updates is most definitely not due to new employment or being otherwise occupied with various activities, it can solely be attributed to my discovery of a fabulous new drug upon which I have become immediately dependent. Called "The Cet", "Zert Magic" or "SneezSlepe", this concoction has done more to encourage an out-of-body experience than anything I've ever tried. Within an hour of ingestion, I am already feeling myself lulled to sleep by any repetitive sound such as a clock ticking, cats meowing, or the dulcet tones of a leaf blower. I'm out like a light. Brilliant. I wake up not knowing where I am, who I am, or why I have an amazingly powerful nosebleed. Miraculously, I have noticed a stop to my sore throats and sneezing fits; what wonderful side effects! My dealer charges exorbitant fees for this drug so one day when he wasn't looking I found a bottle of it amongst his personal items and the medical name is Cetirizine. If any of my fans could hook me up with a cheaper dealer I would appreciate it.
• I was in the deliberation stage of adding a new goal to my Rules of Engagement, that of aiming to be re-tweeted by a reality star, when my shameless impersonator accomplished that very goal with something I NEVER would have said. Adrianne Curry, 1st Top Model Winner and now undoubtedly my biggest fan, RT'd a statement regarding patriarchal oppression in religion. My true fans know that I would never had uttered such a statement, knowing that I have no interest in discriminating against religions by telling them to stay out of my life and basic rights. I welcome your control of my lady parts, because as soon as I am mega rich I won't have to worry about it any more anyway. I just have to find an old white guy to bankroll me and society's rules no longer apply to my life. I don't understand why other women haven't come to this conclusion, either. If you are pretty and he buys you lots of sparklies, remember to vote against rights that poorer women might want because it will motivate them to find an old rich white guy, too. We all win. Hooray sparklies!
• In relation to the last point, I must take a moment to discuss entitlement as my impostor has an unfortunate liberal conspiracy agenda (and is probably a communist socialist). During this election season, I have come to the realization that I would be far more successful as an adult if I hadn't been given the entitlements of reduced school lunch or the gluttonous amounts of rice, milk, and actual government cheese when I was a child. I would have been far more motivated to make something of myself, working even more than the two jobs at a time, if I had been taught the important lesson of starvation. Of course my parents were working incredibly hard to support us, but it clearly wasn't enough because the children beating me up for wearing thrift store clothes were not impressed. If only my parents had found a way to either become job creators or receive the blessings of one and buy me designer clothes back then. Of course, I prayed constantly during this time for us not to live in a decrepit house with mostly non-functional heat, but I must have been sinning in some yet unknown way to not deserve the basic things in life. I am reminded every day on Facebook that I am immensely blessed to have the opportunity to vote for a lack of change to continue and to in fact expand these horrific circumstances for today's youth, because what an exceptional motivator utter despair truly is. 

As an addendum, please enjoy this look into my current redecoration hobby. I have been watching a lot of reality TV shows and one constant I have come to understand is that no one ever puts anything away when they move into the mansion/beach house/castle and they just leave everything out all over the floor and beds. You clear a patch on the bed when you bring someone back to smush or clear a path on the floor when you need to get to the bathroom to vomit or sit on the toilet with the door open. I've been making progress on the bedroom and I'm quite proud.

I'm available for decorating consultation; email me anytime.

Slummin' It... Camping at Detroit Lake

In the second installment of the newest internet sensation, the Slummin' It series, our heroine discusses more aspects of a life without sophistication. This week, I elucidate on the experiences at Detroit Lake, from the second half of my week long camping trip. The first part of the week is here: Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park.

Booooooorrrrrriiiinnnnggg.

There aren't very many pictures from my time at Detroit Lake, as except for the couple of occasions I went floating in the actual reservoir or took quick sprints to the restroom*, I spent most of my time hiding in the tent. This was not due to to the fact it was breezy, or the squirrels too friendly, or the gravel making it hard to walk in heels. It was because I was certain at least one of the campers around me was a serial killer. Maybe all of them. I'm not sure. But this tranquil location is certainly an accomplice to disaster as it lulls you into a calm, false sense of security and then, BAM! Your throat is flapping open in the wrong place and you're gurgling like a bathtub drain. I thought camping was supposed to be a relaxing experience. I was supposed to be out connecting to nature to decrease my anxiety, not increase it in the fear of waking up without a face.

My refuge. If I had been staying in a cabin by the lake, I'd be dead already.

I couldn't take any chances with my safety. All of the signs of impending doom were there: a campsite in H Loop had a full size refrigerator plugged in on the driveway, there were a lot of massive red trucks covered in Romney stickers, and a bird shat all over my publicist's chair. Even the campsite of frat dude bros was not likely to be a safe haven, for although they were fortifying themselves with plenty of Vitamin R, I knew that the killers in our midst would likely search out the bros first as they were listening to Bruno Mars and Justin Bieber for some reason full blast on a boombox. The inside of my tent with its half-deflated mattress and sandy sheets was far more of a safe and secure location. I even had chemical warfare devices at my disposal: the new issues of Elle and Marie Claire were loaded with perfume ads.
 
The suspects:

Screaming Grandma, Screaming Mom, Barking Dog, Sad Children: This site housed a woman that looked like Large Marge, her even larger and louder daughter, all five of the daughter's kids, a trailer, and about 70 tents. The children ranged in age from an approximately 14-year-old boy, who was expected to act like the man of the house, all the way down to a three-year-old girl. The eight-year-old girl was screamed at constantly by her mother, for various reasons such as not keeping the three-year-old's dress from getting dirty, not rinsing the dishes fast enough, and for not sweeping out the trailer. The large dog was apparently named Shut Up, as all day long that's the only phrase anyone ever said toward it. Screaming Mom really likes her coffee and snack cakes and if you get in her way you might not live to see the sunrise. Perhaps Shut Up could escape and gnaw through your stomach to fill his emotional hunger inside that can't be sated by food. Or maybe little 8-year-old Cinderella would beat you with a broom as she screamed, "Why does her dress need to be clean? We're camping at a lake, stupid!" So many possibilities here.

Rastafarian Knicks Fan and Little Dude: The stoner group arrived after dark, turned on their headlights to set up the campsite, and cranked up the Bob Marley. The laughing never stopped, except to shout at Little Dude, "Hey, Little Dude, don't walk on the tent poles." "Little Dude, don't get in the fire pit." "Little Dude, don't release the emergency brake and run us all over in retribution for when we used to blow smoke in your face when you were in your crib." At some point around two a.m., the gentleman in the Knicks jersey with the Jamaican flag colors on it stumbled over to the frat dude bro site and crawled into one of their tents. One of them wholeheartedly protested, and Knicks Fan merely replied, "Whoa, I've never slept on an air mattress before!" Will Little Dude stab you with a broken bong? Perhaps the Knicks Fan smothers you in your sleep and then eats all of Screaming Mom's snack cakes? Will the ghost of Peter Tosh wail at you endlessly because you only listen to Bob Marley?

The Quietest Family I've Ever Seen: Dad about 55, pregnant mom about 38, one boy ten, other boy nine. They were SILENT. The campsite was immaculately kept, the folding chairs were never moved, everything that was dirtied was immediately wiped or washed, but all was done so SILENTLY. I was self-conscious every time I opened or closed the car doors because it seemed so extremely loud in comparison. Every once in awhile the family would head out with the parents walking and boys on bikes, but there was no sound. They would come out of their tent and I would have no idea that they had even come back. This proves that they could have gotten behind me with a piano wire at any moment, just to feel the intoxicating power over my insignificant existence, and then slip away again to chuckle at how close I was to death, any time they wanted. Oh, there was the one time the dad spoke to the ten-year-old, hissing, "YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU," but I'm sure that has nothing to do with anything at all.

Glow Stick Juggalos: Um, they were Juggalos with glow sticks. Isn't that enough?

Although I managed to survive, situations like this could happen again anytime, anywhere. Discussion is always welcome on the Do-Nothing Blog (anyone can comment without registering), but it is even more appropriate today. Please tell me which of these people you think would be more likely to drag you out of your cabin and into the woods, and hang you in a tree by your entrails. Perhaps there are some scary folks you remember from a camping trip of your own. Education and vigilance just might save someone's life. Maybe mine, which is the most important.

*I didn't have to worry about counter space here to put in my contacts as unlike at Silver Falls, no one at Detroit Lake washed their hands after going to the bathroom.

Slummin' It... Camping at Silver Falls State Park

Welcome to the first installment of my wildly popular new series, Slummin' It. This series will detail my attempts to ironically enjoy activities I used to do as a youth, before I became the gorgeous, sophisticated socialite I am today.

Yes, that's vodka in my bottle.

The first location I thought of while trying to come up with a regression to simpler times was that of Silver Falls State Park, right here in Oregon. Although this site is cursed with many exhausting and sweat-inducing trails, freezing cold waterfalls, and thousands of varieties of stinging and biting wildlife, I remember this place mainly because this is where my mom found a poop in the shower and where I lost a quarter inch off my little toe when a boulder trapped my foot.

My handler and I imagined that a return to this nightmarish vacation spot would provide a slight bit of needed aversion therapy. If I faced my fears here, I might be able to face other fears later, such as talking to dirty-looking people or having to drink house label champagne. We packed up everything in the house, Tetrised it all into the car, and then unpacked it into a much less sturdy version of the house, where I slept on the floor in a mix of blankets and dirt. To blend in with the local population I wore some clothes I found on the MAX and rubbed soot in my hair.

Yes, majorly disconcerting about this trip was the fact I wouldn't be able to wear my typical dress or cake my face in its customary beautifying sludge. I didn't even pack any exfoliant. Imagine my surprise, then, the first morning I entered the ladies' loo to find three fabulous women taking up the entire sink counter with their own cosmetics and various hair burning devices. My jealousy overwhelmed me when I realized they were expertly applying enough mascara, eyeliner and shadow to successfully avoid a raccoon attack (if you do up your face to look like them, they invite you into their family). I knew that my needing to put contacts in my eyes was not as important as their blowouts, so I gratefully waited for 30 minutes to have counter space. I was additionally happy at realizing how kind these ladies were to prevent me from putting in my contacts for that much longer, as any amount of time I could spend not being able to see my imperfect reflection was truly a gift. The bitches that kept trying to cut in to wash their hands had better check themselves next time, too.

I can still hear the chattering.

The smell of propane hurts my delicate senses so I sipped at a fine vintage bottle of MD 20/20 to gather up enough courage to conduct all cooking over the wood fire pit. This can often be time consuming, so after trapping the young squirrels I would just place the traps directly on the grate. Fortunately, the smell of their roasting brethren kept the rest of the furred menaces away from our site, leaving my just-woven basket of fresh croissants and beignets untouched.

The main objective of this trip was to find the exact waterfall--there are ten in this park-- where I lost part of my toe as a child. In my more studious and responsible youth, I broke away from my character for a moment and decided to climb under one of the waterfalls. It was a inviting scene: a waterfall of reasonable volume, a smallish pool, and direct access that allowed me to wade into the water and directly under the falls. The pool came up to my chest and the refreshing and exciting falls cascaded over me. I was greatly enjoying myself until the boulder I was on shifted slightly, and caught my foot in between itself and the adjacent rocks. I attempted to dislodge my foot, but it was tightly wedged, and I couldn't simply pull it out of my shoe, because I had already removed my shoes on the shore.

It took approximately ten minutes of focusing away my panic and shifting all of the boulders with a rocking motion until I was able to yank my foot out of the water. I made my way back to shore, thoroughly frozen by now and shaken from the experience. I jammed my feet back into my shoes and started back down the trail with my family. Approximately fifteen minutes later I was feeling a strange dull pain in my right foot. I looked down and saw my white canvas shoe was now bright red, and leaving even more liquid redness on the trail. Upon removing the shoe I discovered that my little toe on my right foot was shorter than it had been before and had no nail; I hadn't felt the injury due to the cold water. My nail actually grew back six years later, strangely, but the toe is still slightly stubbier.

Anyway, my publicist and I traveled the entire system of trails until we found the devil falls. I was disappointed to not find my toe piece, as I know a really good plastic surgeon that could have certainly reattached it the next time I went in for a forehead sandblasting. Returning unsuccessful to the campsite, I desired some level of productivity so I again visited the restroom. This time, I found the sinks available, yet the outlet still was not. A teenage girl stood next to the wall with her iPhone plugged in, despite the fact there was no signal remotely near the park. I admired her devotion to her cause as she stood in that bathroom and watched her phone charge for the next four hours. Oh, the sights, sounds and smells she must have witnessed, that brave girl. Perhaps in 20 years she will return to the park and reenact her trauma, as well.

This installment is merely the first half of the camping trip. The second installment will outline the second half of the week, which was endured at Detroit Lake. I'll upload that adventure for my fans soon enough.

The scene of the tragedy.