Why I Don’t Have a Stalker

Hello again.

I’m trying to deal with some issues in a “healthier” way than I want to, so I’m writing, but not about those things. Maybe I’ll write about those things in the next couple weeks if I don’t think it will bore everyone. We’ll see. I’m feeling wordy.

But right now it’s the weekend, and  not to brag or anything, but I’m pretty sure I have a hot date with the shovel. Oh yes. I’m told I could get a good six inches, but then again, those things are always exaggerated. 

Or so I’m told.

The only dating I do is reading expiration dates on food.

Anyway, I don’t have a hot date and I don’t have a stalker. Why? Because I’m 154 percent sure that I would bore him to death after about two days.

During the week, my days are basically the same and involve the same route and the same activities. The weekends are similar, minus the drive to work and the occasional TV appearance that at no point included paparazzi or security guards—except to drag me off the set.

Pretty much knowing where I’m going to be might appear to be the formula for a stalker, but trust me. If parts of my Twitter feed lately are any indication, you can see why they would move on to someone with a social life beyond jilted geriatrics and gang-banging birds.

I think I’m safe.

• For the record, it’s entirely possible to fall up the stairs completely sober. Multiple times.
• Never ask yourself, “Could I make a bigger mess?” as you will promptly find out that yes, in fact, you can. At least if you’re me.
• I need the Dog Whisperer to teach Chauncey how to not pee into the wind.
• It’s kind of amazing how quickly I go from “nothing sounds good” to “why isn’t there more of this to eat?”
• Today I’m going to replace the word “the” with “le” for awhile. Example: “A piece of le cereal just fell out of my bra.” Sounds classier.
• Someone found my blog with “Abby + Gordon Ramsay = fuzzy pink gnome tiara” so I have that going for me.
• Going to Walmart at 6am on the way to work saves the annoying people factor. However, you can’t brag about/show off your teeth. It’s a push.
• Just spent 10 mins playing, “What the hell did I write on that Post-It?” I think I’m inventing my own language, written only in characters.
• I’m still wondering if I will ever look at a man as passionately as I look at just about anything with pesto.
• I think I killed my fake tree.
• Going to write a novel about a young, successful, beautiful woman who achieves great things. What’s the opposite of an autobiography called?
• I can’t be sure, but I think there’s some sort of winter bird gang initiation ceremony going on under my bird feeder.
• Simon says: Shovel, food, couch, hockey game, food, football game, shovel, couch, food, repeat.
• I actually moved things when I vacuumed today, so I’m basically some sort of cleaning Superhero now.
• I didn’t win Miss America or a Golden Globe this weekend, but I did manage to watch football & catch up on “How I Met Your Mother.” I win.
• Despite numerous verbal threats, this bug keeps lunging towards me. I obviously have a very brave adversary. This may take awhile.
• My uncle called because he was at the bookstore and couldn’t find my book. It turns out he was looking for “Abby is Crazy.” Close enough.
• Tonight’s quote from the old people’s home: “He might have left me for a woman 25 years younger, but that didn’t make his peter any younger. Have fun with that pickle, missy.”

Now keep in mind that these aren’t all my tweets or anything. I do actual stuff that goes undocumented. I also only tweet from my computer and not phone, therefore reducing the stalker potential even more.

But if you are so inclined to proceed with stalking, please bring a shovel and at least make yourself useful. If I decide to break out the fuzzy pink gnome tiara, I’ll let you know so you can jump back in the bushes.

Just watch out for the gang-banging birds.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

(I encourage this kind of stalking.)