Additional announcement...

God, I'm a freak. I just realized I forgot to post the URL for my new blog. Here it is:

http://www.100daysofsnow.blogspot.com/

Hope to see you all there!

I've Got a New Blog

Hello everyone. It's been a long time since I've written anything on this blog, but I just wanted to let you know that I have created a different blog. If you are interested in following this one (assuming you follow this one at all), please do! I don't havve that many people reading it yet, because it's so new. I thought this might help.

Thank you!

These baby birds are singing the praises of my new blog...

I'm Sorry my Loves! I've Been Neglecting You!

OH, uh, and by "my loves," I definitely do not mean all of you out there. Nope. I'm talking about my books. Or, not my books, but rather all of the books that's I've yet to buy/read.

You all know what it's like. You go to work/school/couch everyday, and by the time you get home, you're exhausted, and if somebody hands you a book, all you can say to them is, "Who the hell has time to READ?!" Or, "Just leave it there, and I'll read it later (which will end up in a pile of never to be touched paperback novels and school book reports)" or even "Book? Read? What's that?"

So, anyway, looking at all the books I've been missing out on, It made me realize that I can't wait to start writing again. Because reading isn't the only thing that I've been missing out on. I haven't written anything solid in weeks, even months. And it really makes me sad. Because that's what I do. I write. I write books and music and poetry and plays. And lately the only thing I've been writing are thoroughly charted, planned out, structured, analytical, in-historical-present-tense, English papers. Ugh. What a life.

And I can't even write decent blog entries anymore because A) I have no time, and B) the stupid, freaking, ZEMANTA ASSISTANT makes every thing slow, so that when ever I type a word it takes a full thirty seconds for it to appear on the screen!!!. (And don't even THINK about making a typing error, because that takes TEN TIMES LONGER to correct. Gah!)

.
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And do you know what else miffs me? The stupid Twilight movies! There's a commercial on for one of the movies right now, and it just makes me so ANGRY!!! Now, don't get me wrong. The books were good before they got all popular and obsessed over. But the movies are crappy. REallly REALLLY  crappy. And has anyone else noticed how, in the time it took to make one Harry Potter movie, ALL of the Twilight movies were filmed and three of them came out for general audiences to see.

Anyway. I'm done ranting. Typing is too slow too slow to rant anymore. Or to type at all . Anything else. Goodbye.

With hearts and confetti and cute little puppy dogs and twirly skirts and smutty romance novels,

Kacie Renn

P.S. the 7th Harry Potter movie (part 1) kicks serious, totally AWESOME, Voldemort-defeating, I-totally-went-to-the-midnight-premiere-and-had-a-terror-inducing-time, ASS.

Just in case you wanted to know.

I Want an Apology...

Hey guys, I know it's been a long time since my last post. It seems like forever to me, anyway. But I feel like I could use an outlet right about now.

Do you ever feel like you want an apology from the world? It's just been one of those weeks. You know the ones, where a simple "I'm sorry" from the offending party won't do, where you feel like the very cosmos should get down on their knees and beg for your forgiveness. The weeks where you just can't catch a break. Well, that week has perpetualized itself, that is to say, my life has become a never ending shitty cycle of tough luck.

So I want an apology.

However, the world, being an inanimate object in a sense, cannot speak, let alone offer it's regrets. In which case, a separate apology from each separate party will have to suffice.

So here is a typed list of all the things that really grind my grain:

1. My stupid eyelash is poking me in the eye. I would really like it to stop. That would be a suitable apology.
2. Our stupid car radio has been acting up lately, and because I'm the kind of person who has to have music while they drive, this fact has hit me the hardest. In the place of an oral apology, I would just really like the radio to start working again, or possibly for us to buy a new stereo system.
3. My pants are wet. Why you ask? Because they got washed for no apparent reason, and I came home and they were in the dryer, with forty minutes to go, and I had no pants, so I put them on anyway. For this heinous act, I would like an apology from my grandmother, who has been the laundry Nazi these past couple of weeks.
4. This is the worst occurrence, and the one that upsets me the most: My Something Corporate t-shirt got put in the dryer and it shrunk. I would really like an apology, again from my grandmother. I know she can't read the labels on the clothes to find the washing directions, buy if she's not willing to wear her glasses when she does laundry, then she should call someone to read them for her. This isn't the first time she's ruined a piece of clothing because she was too stubborn to ask for help.
5. My family ate without me. Now, I'm gone a lot during the week, and I usually don't get home until late. On nights like this, I obviously don't expect them to wait for me. But when I'm out on the weekend, and I call and say, I'm going to be home soon, and they say, "Oh, alright, that's fine," and don't say anything about starting without me, I assume, that they are going to wait for me so that we can eat together as a family. And when I come home, and the dirty dishes are in the sink, and a half empty tub of yellow, microwaveable mashed potatoes are on the counter, crusty form sitting out for a long time, and they say, "here you go, we ate without you, but there are mashed potatoes on the counter if you want some," of course I'm going to be a little mad and hurt. I would like my feelings to be considered before you decide to eat without me. I would like an apology for that.
6. I have too much homework. but no one will apologize for that.
7. Carry yelled at me this week. Carry is the choreographer for the musical out school is doing. And so far, she hasn't had any reason to be mean to me. But once you get on Carry"s bad side,she'll hate you forever. Now, I know I deserved some of what she gave me: I didn't have the dance number down really well. but she totally went over board in tearing all of us down about it, especially me. It was way over the top, specifically considering that we are so early in our rehearsals for her to be so critical. It just really made me mad, and it also scared the bejesus out of me. to say the least, it wasn't a good experience. and I would like her to apologise to me, and to everyone in the cast.
8. My neck hurts. I would really like that to stop.
9. I'm out of chap stick, and I really wish my lips weren't so chapped.
10. I'm broke, so I can't afford any chap stick.
11. I keep having these reoccurring nightmares where I lose all of my teeth, and it feels so real that every time I have them, I'm sure I'm going to wake up and not have any teeth. The thought horrifies me. I want this to stop.
12. Our show choir sucks. There's nothing I can do about that.
13. My hair is too long. It is always getting into the way, and it takes forever to wash. In addition, my bangs are growing out, and they look stupid. Also, my shampoo is crappy, and it dries out my hair to the point where it feels like plastic. Yuck. I would like Tressemme to mail me a personal apology for their insufficient product.
14. I'm too busy to do anything for myself anymore. I'm always doing homework or rehearsing for the musical or sleeping. I haven't had an opportunity to write or read or listen to my music since school started. I just want the world to stop for a minute, just so I can breath for a second.
15. Stupid blogger is being realllly slow, and it takes forever to type anything and to correct it. I want a last apology form blogger, for handicapping my venting abilities.

And my mom says she can't understand why I'm suddenly acting so hostile. Thanks for putting up with this angry entry.

With love.

So I've Been Thinking....

The Event? You know, that new show that has all of those commercials on TV? The one that harasses you to no end, trying to capture your interest... What is The Event? Why is it so important? Who knows what The Event is? How can I find out?.... And they tell you that you have to actually watch the show to figure it out.

Psh. Eff that.

You know what I think? I thing The Even is a load of crap. I don't CARE about The Stupid Event! It will probably end up being a surprise birthday party for the president or one of the Secretaries' kids little league game.

Below is a smooshed down account of the "mystical" Event:

Secretary of Defense: You guys, you guys! He's coming! The Event is almost upon us. Quick! Hide!

(All of the Secretaries, plus the first lady and children, turn off the lights. Everyone hides where ever they can. Well, everyone except the Designated Survivor, because, frankly, he never knows what the hell is going on.

Footsteps can be heard coming down the hall. They all hold their breath. The President of the United States, who is holding a newspaper, opens the door and flicks on the lights.)

EVERYONE: SURPRISE!!!!

THE PRESIDENT, looking surprised: Aw, shucks you guys! How did you remember it was my birthday?

The first lady: How could we not? We've been planning it for forever!

THE PRESIDENT: Really?

EVERYONE: OF COURSE!

The Vice-President: And we have something else to tell you...

THE PRESIDENT: What is it?

The Secretary of Defense: Welcome to The Event!

THE PRESIDENT: THIS IS THE EVENT?!

EVERYONE: YEP!

THE PRESIDENT: Why didn't you tell me?

The First lady: We wanted it to be a surprise!

THE PRESIDENT: Well, I'm surprised.

The Vice-President: Isn't that wonderful! Now, how wants cake?

THE PRESIDENT: Uh, you guys?

EVERYONE: WHAT?

THE PRESIDENT: As much as I appreciated all of this, I've got some really important business to take care of. In the, uh, oval office.

EVERYONE: OH. (They look again at the news paper in his hand.) Oh, we understand.

(righting them selves from crouching on the tiled floor, and disentangling limbs from the shower curtains, Everyone exits the bathroom.)

THE PRESIDENT, lifting the lid on the toilet, calls them back: Hey! You Guys! Take the Designated Survivor with you! (muttering to himself) Jeez, how did he get in there?

THE END

Image via Wikipedia

thanks for reading guys.

This is my story. I hope you all like it. I worked realllllly hard on it.

Hey Guys! Guess what! I wrote a story! "Why?" you ask! Because I wanted to! And because I did it for a writting contest! You should all read it! Because it's funny! Or, at least I think so! So, go on! Read it! Or I will forever torture you with my endless exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!






The Mystery of Bad Writing

He brought in his shirt pocket the last photograph he'd taken of his son. Which was, admittedly, rather difficult to do considering it was a life-sized, full color portrait that one overly-fond parent would likely hang above the mantle in their home. As he trudged through the rain, cursing as he ruined yet another pair of Versace custom hand-stitched leather shoes, he vowed that he would track down his son, even if it meant using the never-to-be-mailed child support check to buy another pair of designer loafers.

Yes, his son would be found. And he himself would be the one to find him, by hiring the best Private Detective money could buy. And once all of his efforts, and income, had been spent, he would be a hero in his son's eyes. But more importantly, he would make some pretty lofty headlines. The whole world would adore him as the clever, stubborn, determined--not to mention handsome--father who endlessly pursued the kidnapper of his only offspring and heir.

If only the rain would cease so he could get to the P.I.'s office before he ruined his tailored Armani suit, too. And this was his favorite one, hand knitted by thousands of teeny little silk worms. He often wondered how the worms could knit such fine fabric when they didn't have knitting needles. Or, hands, for that matter... But the suit was Eco-friendly and highly compostable, so when he threw it away next week, it would decompose into the land-fill, no problem.

He held on to his hat as a wind smelling of Creepy-Screams Donuts gusted against him, and a crack of thunder resounded through the heavy air. Turning into a back alley, he jumped when a flash of lightning zapped through the sky, briefly illuminating a silver and blue "happy birthday" balloon with a chihuahua tied to it bobbing through the sky. Looking onto this forlorn, and slightly disturbing scene, he wondered if sometime, somewhere his son was also floating through the sky, secured to a helium balloon.

In the blackness, he could barely decipher the rusting fire escapes that decorated the brick walls of the apartments he passed. It was strange, he thought, that The Best Private Detective Money Could Buy was located in such a shady part of town. That was the first incling he had that something might, if most certainly wasn't already, wrong. The second foreboding feeling came from the cliche foreshadowing that followed his suspicious thoughts.

Finally, after cutting through numerous backstreets and poorly lit cusdesac (did you know that "culsdesac" is the plural of "culdesac"?), he found the dimly luminated facade of Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I.

Emblazoned on the little half-umbrella-nylon type thing that hangs over the door so you don't get wet from rain, but that nobody really knows the name of, was a giant eye emblem, staring out at the bleak streets, red from the pollution caused by the smoke-stack houses. As he stared at the eye, he wished someone would give it some eye drops, because the irritated pinkness was really a turn-off. Suddenly, he realized how stupid he must look, standing there, and not underneath the half-umbrella-nylon type thing, and decided to step under it so that its life purpose would be fulfilled.

Feeling generous, he took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the building.

The first thing he saw was the secretary sitting at the reception desk. She was young, maybe in her late twenties, and she had a blonde, curly bob. She sat by the phone, flipping through a magazine and obnoxiously chewing a piece of obnoxiously pink bubble gum. He stood there, horrified, watching her mouth open and close, unable to look away as the slippery hunk of gum slid around on her tongue like egg-whites in the cookie batter, like a snake on the slip-and-slide, like Drano poured into a clogged drain, like.... Well, like something really slimy. It was kind of a turn-on.

The next thing he noticed was that the rest of the room was empty. He looked around and spotted an office door, wooden with a frosted glass window occupying the top half. It was dusty. On it was the same eye, still pink, probably because the janitor of the building obviously never cleaned any windows around here. Glancing back once more at the secretary, he adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket and strode toward the door. He was just about to knock, when a voice came from behind him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she told him with a little gesture he had never seen before. It looked rather stupid, especially combined with the lip-smacking chewing and bubble blowing coming from the secretary's mouth.

Predictably, he answered, "Why not?"

"I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work," she said as she bounced up and down.

"What?" he asked, assuming that she was crazy. And foxy. They usually go hand in hand.

Suddenly, she stood up from her chair and sauntered over to him, swaying her hips in an exaggerated way, so that when she suddenly stopped in front of him, she stumbled a little into his arms. Still smacking her gum, she looked up at him from under her lashes, and leaned close to his ear. Once there, she licked his earlobe, and said in what he assumed was supposed to be a sultry voice, "For the longest time they said we didn't need one, but then something changed and they said that we did."

Figuring she was cracked, and that he better humor her in case she snapped, he leaned forward and kissed her passionately. Then he stopped, cradling her in his arms and asked, "You didn't need what?"

She suddenly straightened. "Well aren't you a card!" she squealed. "A Private Investigator, of course. What else would we be talking about?"

He just nodded and smiled. Pacify the crazy ones, and they usually didn't make any sudden moves.

Twirling around like a ballerina, she continued talking. "You know, a boy with a parrot on his shoulder was walking along the railroad tracks."

Edging slightly toward the door, he tried to wrap up the conversation. "Well, how fascinating. Really, we must talk again soon. It was nice meeting you, nice indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

He turned and speed-walked to the door, thrusting it open and diving inside. Before he bolted the door, he swore he could hear the receptionist shouting at him, "Don't say I didn't warn you! He's going to take all of your money and leave you to die in a ditch!" But maybe it was his imagination.

He turned around, and straightened himself, smoothing his suit as he did so.

It was a normal, everyday kind of Private Investigator's office. There was a desk in the corner, with heaps upon heaps of papers covering the entire top of the desk. There was a small lamp, much too small to give of any real light, but enough to throw shadows around the room. There was a book shelf, with a book on it, and a garbage can full of empty gourmet coffee cups and Creepy-Screams Donut boxes. Behind the desk was a big, huge, giant window, with the shades pulled and set so that no light from outside could get in.

Oh, and everything was in black and white.

Behind the desk, in an equal lack of color, was Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. He was a man in his late thirties, a camera strapped to his neck, and a magnifying glass gripped so tightly in one hand, death itself would have had a hard time prying it from his lifeless fingers. He wore a trench coat, the collar popped, and under it a white shirt without a tie. A fedora sat on his head, hiding his features and casting the good part of his upper body in shadow. The only visible thing under the hat, in fact was the glowing (in black and white) end of his hand rolled cigar.

He stared at Ignatius for a good three minutes, not saying anything until the silence that stretched became sufficiently awkward. Then, clearing his throat approximately 13 times, he said, "I've come because I need you to assist me with your services."

Ignatius ignored the question, and instead asked, "You been talkin' to Dolly?" He had a heavy Brooklyn accent, and it made it hard for him to concentrate on what the Private Detective was actually saying.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"Dolly? The secretary?"

"Oh," he stammered, blushing at the mention of the P.I.'s crazy receptionist. "Well, she might have said a few things to me, but I assure you, I didn't take any of it into advisement. And I certainly didn't talk to her. I don't find it amusing to humor crazy rantings."

Ignatius chuckled. "Oh, Dolly's alright. A little eccentric, always feeding you the Firstline that pops into her head. She's a local."

"Awwww. I see."

Pacified at this new information, he offered his hand and said, "My name is Fredrick Richard Blake Wellington The Third. I'm afraid I need you help."

At this, Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., stood and shook hands with him, saying, "The name's Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I. Please, have a seat. How can I be of service?"

Taking a seat in the chair across from Ignatius's desk, Frederick Richard Blake Wellington The Third opened his mouth to start talking, when Ignatius got up from his seat, picked up a baseball bat, and began bashing at the wall. From the other side, a loud thump, and then a wail waifed into the room. Ignatius stopped banging, and then shouted, "Go back to ya desk, Dolly! This meetin' here is con-fee-den-chal." He waited for a few moments, ear to the wall, before adding, "Beat it, kid! Scram! Or you'll never work in this town again!"
Nodding his head in satisfaction, Ignatius went back to his desk and sat down. "Sorry 'bout that. that girls' a little too nosy for her own good. Now, tell me what you need me to do."
Swallowing once, Fred began to tell his grueling story of loss, hard-ship, stubborn will, and hopelessness.
When he had finished, Ignatius said, "Okay. Now tell me the real story."
Fred let out a breath of astonishment, and then said, "Alright. I was at the grocery store, picking up some laxative, and the little shit wandered off."
He didn't know how he knew, but when Ignatius leaned back in his chair, Fred knew he was smiling. "And then your son walked off somewhere."
Fred nodded his head. "Yes. And I couldn't find him, so I came here. You see, my wife and I are divorced, and so I get him every other weekend. Well, I can't lose him again when it's my turn to watch him, otherwise the judge will take away my custody rights."
Nodding slowly, the Detective said, "I think I understand you, Freddy. You can't lose your son again, otherwise all those big investors who come to your dinner parties won't pay as much because your kid isn't there to charm 'em."
"Yes!" Fred said. "Yes, that's exactly it. So, will you help me?"
Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker, P.I., studied him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Did you know that Private Investigators are falsely named?"
Fred, scrunching up his brow in a cutesy way he knew was guaranteed to get him his way, said, "I'm not quite sure I follow you."
Continuing as if he had never spoken, Ignatius rambled. "Yes, P.I.'s were falsely named. They should really be called 'Private Observers.' But that wouldn't work for obvious reasons, would it? Damn the United States Postal Service and their 'P.O.' boxes! (It also sounds kind of dirty) So, Mr. Wellington The Third, I've observed you as you've been talking to me, and I've come to a few conclusions."
Fred, still inwardly chortling at the dirty joke, asked amusedly, "And what are those?"
Looking up, but still concealed under his hat, Ignatius said, "I see that you are a selfish, rich, melodramatic, rich, stupid, rich, greedy, rich--and I must say--handsome man who only wants publicity and money, the more the better."
Fred studied the Private I. in front of him. "So you won't help me, then?"
Ignatius back peddled. "Oh, no, no, I never said that. I quite admire you, really. You are quite cunning."
Fred, no longer laughing, rose from his chair angrily. "Then what is the problem?"
Ignatius followed the movement with concealed eyes. "Well, the matter is, is that I can't find someone who isn't lost."
"What do you mean, 'not lost?' I don't understand these words that are coming out of your mouth. Why, you might as well be speaking Swahili for the good it's doing me!"
Ignatius shrugged. "kusema chochote."
Fred grabbed Ignatius's shoulders and started shaking him. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING, MAN!?"
Ignatius was being jostled too hard to say anything other than, "Stop! Dad!"
At the sound of his voice when he said "dad," Fred stopped. "What?"
Finally, for the first time since they had met, Ignatius removed his hat.
Fredrick Richard Blake The Third gasped. Ignatius Carberry Umbrucker gasped. Dolly stuck her head out of the vent in the ceiling and gasped.
Even the studio audience gasped.
***
He pressed the back-space. All of the words that he had just written disappeared into a place where they could never be retrieved. It was worse than outer-space. At least you could see there was someplace to go, unlike the computer screen of his laptop.
Sighing, he closed the top, letting the small computer hibernate for a while.
He never had been good at writing mysteries.

Damn it all.

WARNING: IF YOU ARE MALE, YOU MIGHT JUST WANT TO SKIP OVER THIS ENTRY. YOU KNOW...FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.

Okay, so I was PMS-ing. Is that really a very good excuse? And, in all actuality, it isn't even a legit excuse, since I was technically past the all mighty tyranny of PMS. Yep, definitely crossed THAT bridge. I was full on MS-ing... Uh, not like the disease, but like the "PMS" without the "P." Okay, that sounds too gross. Let's just call it PPMS. NO, SKIP THAT. That doesn't even make any sense. But I think you catch the gist of what I'm trying to get across here, people.

It was fine. I was fine. I was actually having a pretty good day. We (Grammy and Myself, minus the Mother of Diplomacy, who is currently on vacation without me:(:(:( ) , went out to lunch at a little dinner. We were getting along considerably well, considering the Mother of Diplomacy (who is aptly named) was not present. There wasn't much talking, but it wasn't hostile of awkward of anything.

Now, let's get to the real reason we were there: the food.

And I could have been naughtier than I actually was. I could have ordered a "cheese Frenchie," which is basically nature's version of an atomic bomb, only instead of nuclear waste eating the environment, it's the fat count sticking to your arteries and slowly inclining your cholesterol that do the damage to the metaphorical Hiroshima.

Anyway, what I ordered instead--cheese nachos with sour cream, salsa, and jalapenos--didn't add up to nearly the amount of destruction it could have.

It wasn't until it came that I realized I had made a mistake. Because the plate was bigger than my head. And I generally try not to eat more food than the circumference of my noggin. It also looked really greasy.

And after the first bite, I lost my whole appetite. Because--at that exact moment, when I was about gorge myself on unhealthy food because I have my period and that's always a good excuse to eat crap--that's when my body decides that it wants to remind me of the burden of being a woman.

It figures that God would do something like this to teach me to make a better choice the next time I went out to eat.

I got these massive cramps. No, not just cramps, but the Holy-Mother-of-all-that-is-HOLY kind of cramps. And I sat there (what else could I do?) and made pained conversation, and ate my food like a good little girl (trust me, no little girl would be in that much pain for that particular reason, ever in a million years), smiling and not talking between bites. Mind you, I wasn't even hungry anymore at that point. I was on automatic, trying to act like a normal person instead of an enraged lunatic, screaming about the monster eating everybody once it ate through my pelvis. Which is what I really wanted to do.

NO, what I really wanted to do was go home, and put on my most comfortable sweats (even if they weren't exactly spring fresh) and go lie in a corner moaning until the cramps subsided a little.

But there was no way in hell THAT was going to happen.

It took forever to get home. Why did the city have to pick now--NOW, when I'm about dying from womanhood--to tear up all of the main roads, and instead replace them with crappy detours that put you at least twenty minutes out of your way, just in order to get home?

The mysteries of the world.

And all the way home, all I could think was, "I hate my life. I hate myself." Now, you've got to understand that I'm not normally like this. And this wasn't even really hormone related either. But I'll give you the reasons, in a nut-shell, to why my thoughts were hostilely turned inward:

1) The ride was taking forever
2) If I wasn't a woman, this wouldn't be happening in the first place
3) My mom should be hear, listening to me bitch about this situation, considering this was all HER FAULT! for having me in the first place
4) I couldn't exactly "bitch" with my grandmother in the car
5) I was writing this blog entry, in my head, while driving in a car going 20 miles an hour, clutching my stomach, and in the background of my thoughts, clearly audible through all of the writhing and pain and blogging and personality, a sickeningly happy song by Ingrid Michaelson had the nerve to be blasting in the virtual speakers of my brain. If there had to be waiting music, then I at least expected something that fit the situation, like death metal, or Johnny Cash.
6) OH, yeah, and did I mention MY UTERUS WAS FALLING OUT!!!!!!!!!!, or in the very least doing the jitter-bug inside of my body, making sure to kick all organs in its reach.

So, yeah, I think I maybe had a right to keep thinking my life sucked, and that I sucked as well.

And as alarming as this testament might be, I should just tell you, I wasn't actually dying. This is pretty normal for me, ever month or so.

But is sure as hell sucks squid.

Naturally, after writing all of this, I would happen to come to the conclusion that I needed to talk about a very important issue in our society today....

Implants.

Yeah, that really just happened.

No, I'm just changing the subject, because I still have cramps, and I need to try to distract myself, and talking about how painful they are isn't really helping. (And don't think that I'm a wimp, because I actually have a very high threshold for pain, but they are extremely torturous this time around.)

So, on that note, you know how some people get boob implants? Well, I was thinking, what about people who get butt implants? And don't try to pretend that I'm the only weirdo out there who has ever thought about this. Because I know you're out there!

Anyway, butt implants. I know people get them. But, even in comparison to boob implants, they seem a little.... Well, stupid.

What happens when you have to sit? And what if you accidentally sit on something sharp?

Ouch! Oh nooooo!!! There goes ten grand down the toilet.....

And speaking of toilets. Would butt implants make it super weird to go to the bathroom? It would be like sitting on a cushion all the time...

And you wouldn't really be able to live in a cold place, because what if you accidentally left the window open, and the implants froze. Burrr! That would be CHILLY.

Same goes for hot weather; they would start to boil.

I guess it just goes to show that, whether it's cheese nachos or butt implants, there are a lot of bad ideas out there.

Thanks for reading!

P.S. THIS is a video of the totally kick-ass Ingrid Michaelson concert I went to on Sunday. She was hilarious!!! There was this little girl in the audience, who kept saying, "I love you Angle Michaelson!" and she interacted with her the whole night. In this video (I was standing right behind the person who took it), you can kind of hear the little girl. Anyway, this is a cover of "Toxic." Yes, the one by Brittany Spears. It's reallly funny, but not until the end. Just watch it to see what I mean.