Things Not To Say In Therapy:

Heath: I guess I do do that sometimes.

Me: Did you just say that you doo-doo?

Eat My Leftovers, Eat My Shit: A Choose Your Own Adventure Meal

Me: I’m so happy to be home! Time for my awesome pizza leftovers!

Heath: Um…I ate them…

Me: No you didn’t! *opens fridge*

Me: WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY LEFTOVERS?!!!

Heath: I just told you, I ate them.

So, now what? This goes on all the time and nothing is ever resolved. I finally, in a fit of rage and anger, came up with a solution…I says to him, I says:

“The next time I put leftovers in the fridge, I am going to put a little piece of my poo in them. Then you will learn.”

This seems to work. Maybe only if you are bat-shit insane enough to actually do it. (Which I am [and Heath seems to know this]).

Try it on your boyfriend/girlfriend/roommate or whoever it is that eats your leftovers. Just a helpful hint at taste bud joy from your friend, Emily Illinois. XOXO!

I'm Not Putting That There...Oh Wait, I Just Did.

The first time I used a tampon was unremarkable. I was going to a dance and my friend gave me one. I had about as much fun that night as I ever had at a school dance: none. But it did start a better life for me, full of tampons and menstruation fun.


My sister on the other hand has a better story. The first time she used a tampon she imagined it sucking up all the fluid in her body. She then threw up and got to stay home from school.


I wish that happened to me.

This Was Found Floating In My Head

I used to work at a photo development store. The owner would sometimes keep copies of pictures that were weird or funny, even though it was probably illegal or something. Mainly he kept pictures of naked women or people doing stupid shit. Even though it was ten years ago, I can’t get these two pictures out of my head. I decided to badly reproduce them here for your enjoyment. You’re welcome.






And I censored these because I didn’t feel like showing you how badly I draw body parts. You’re welcome again.

And Then I Walked Away

This happened at work the other day while I was leaving my register.


Customer: “I was worried that you weren’t old enough to ring up all this wine I’m buying.”

Me: “No, I’m twenty-eight, definitely old enough.”

Customer: “Yeah, I was gonna say, if you were seventeen, you’d look like shit.”


I’m sensitive about my age now. And my face.

In Which I Learn Something About Myself:

Last night Heath (my boyfriend) and I were sitting around eating apple pie. I remembered, after we had finished eating, that I had actually bought awesome chocolate earlier. Second desserts are a favorite of ours (mine, actually because I’m a glutton)… This is the conversation that followed:

Me: “HEATH! I have something for you!”

Heath: *narrows eyes and tilts head* “Is it a fart?”

I guess that’s what I say every time I fart.

Open Letter: To Firemen

Dear Firemen,

I watched a bunch of you out of my window last night. It made me feel like a creep to peer out of my blinds like that at one-thirty a.m., but I was curious about what was going on out there. The house was on fire two houses away, but since I couldn't really see that, I watched you guys instead.

And my question for you is: Why do I think you guys are so hot? (Pun intended).
Obviously the hero and danger factors top the list, but there is so much more to my feelings. I love the sound of a fireman running. I couldn't tell you why, maybe it’s the thumping of your huge boots and the clicking of all the buckles on your jackets that does it for me (I've always had a thing for buckles). Maybe it’s the obvious brawn underneath your uniforms (you have to be strong to carry a zillion pounds of equipment). The fact that a fireman always runs with purpose might be the answer I'm looking for here.

I fear though that most of you would bore me to death after five minutes. So, what’s my problem? It scares me that I could be attracted to some of you long enough to try to justify the use of the word 'Bub' or the saying of the word 'sassage'. Oh well, I guess I'm just a victim of my own hormones or something.

But let me admit something to you that I have never admitted before (because what is the fun of blogs if there is no really secret information divulged?) When my house caught on fire when I was in high school, a certain school cop who was apparently a volunteer fireman showed up at my house. I had reasons for not liking him, but as he stood in my driveway in his fireman get-up I thought to myself, 'Damn, our school cop is hot.' And that’s when I knew I had a problem.

Thanks for being hot hero's, you stallions of danger,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Woman on the El

Dear Woman on the El,

Bitch.

I was sitting down on the train. You were talking to your friend. You both had just gone to Dunkin' Donuts and you had a coffee in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other. Do you even remember me?

I remember you. Mainly because you were letting your bagel crumbs fall on my head and bounce off my glasses. Who the hell holds on to the pole on the train with food in their same hand? That's just fucking sick. Especially after last week when I saw a guy sneeze into his hand then grab the pole. But, back to you.

As that crumb bounced off my glasses, I knew that I could actually murder someone in cold blood.

Hope to see you soon!

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Flying Buttresses

Dear Flying Buttresses,

I understand that you are important to load-bearing walls...but...really...do you know what you remind me of?

Just Checking,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To "Always"

Dear 'Always',

You are a deceiving word. You should be pronounced: all-ways,
but are actually pronounced all-wheeze. Or. Hmmm. Maybe that is just the way I say it?

I will be thinking about this now,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Hibernation

Dear Hibernation,

I am busy sitting here trying to understand you. I am doing this because I feel a deep need to hibernate right now, but I am not even sure what that means exactly. I learned about hibernation in grade school, but it was not as fascinating then as it seems to be now.

I am pretty sure that cold blooded creatures like me cannot hibernate. I perch on my heated rock under a sun-lamp on cold days like these. As I sit there, I dream of hibernation. To be a raccoon or some kind of bear and hibernate all through the winter, only to wake up a couple of times to eat some fish or garbage or whatever it is that animals eat, that would be the life. And that is all that I remember learning about you.

I think it would be cool to tell people that I was hibernating. At work they would say, "How was your day off?" and I would reply, "Oh, you know, I just hibernated, like usual." I think that would really impress people at work. At least more than saying, "Oh, you know, I was just thinking about hibernation." If I had to say that, they would think I was a total loser. (And I am not).

Anyway, I just hate winter and being cold. I am wishing for you, hibernation, but I am not some kind of weird animal...so, it’s just never gonna happen. It’s one of those things I talk about, but will never be able to do. Oh well.

Hibernating is so sciencey,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To My House Plants

Dear My House Plants,

I am so sorry. I do not even know if there is anything that I can say to make things between us okay. I apparently have no idea how to care for you on the most basic level.

Your friend, the succulent, has died. It is completely my fault. I must bear complete responsibility for this. I just thought that since he had such fat leaves he needed more water. I thought that if I was from a desert, I would crave water like how I crave candy and salt here in Chicago. I thought he would really like it. I was so wrong.

Then there was the roundie leaf, woody stemmed favorite. I still have no idea what I did wrong. Too much water, not enough, too much sun? He died too. His death represents my failure to take care of living things, literally.

And innocent begonia; she never hurt anyone. All she did was try to live her life in a nice little pot. She is on her way out, all falling over herself, drooping, looking watery. What should I do? She is a gonner. I am a murderer. I cannot stop myself. But it is not on purpose. It’s not even neglect. It is just routine now. For the love of God, I need help. Someone, please help me!

The green leafy guys are my buddies. You guys know what’s up. You wilt, I water you, you perk up, we move on together. You communicate your needs and I respond with, well, mainly water. We are together and seem to understand each other well. I am thankful for you guys. You are the reason I keep trying. You should tell your tropical and desert cousins to try to work on their communication. Not that I am blaming them. It really was all me.

I may have never had a green thumb,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Wind

Dear Wind,

I only like you in the summer and sometimes in the fall. Other than that, you freeze me to Death. Stop getting through my improperly insulated windows. I blame you, in part, for my $250 gas bill (I blame the other part on all the frozen pizza I eat). Anyway, you tangle up my gloriously long, shiny, beautiful hair. Asshole.

Damn the uneven heating of the earth,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Snow

Dear Snow,

I really like you! You make me so happy because you are beautiful! There is never a time that you are snowing down that it isn't so pretty outside! You make winter really super!

In fact, if you are falling outside, then I know that it is not too cold out there. When it is too cold you stay up inside of your mother; a cloud. It must be weird and smooshie in there but I suppose all mothers are weird and smooshie, so whatever.

After you stop snowing down I am not so happy anymore. Maybe I will be happy for the rest of the day or night, but then no more. I do not like to watch all of your snow on the ground dying and getting crappy with foot-prints and gray stuff. It makes my face frown the whole time.

Sometimes, after I get new lenses in my glasses, one of your flakes will get on my glove or sleeve or something. Then I look at you and try to classify you as: amazing, beautiful, really cool or brokenie. This is a fun time for me. They say that no two of your flakes is alike. I used to believe that, but now I do not anymore. I think that it is highly improbable that in the history of the Earth (a million years or something) that every snowstorm that has happened (a thousand or more) that no two snowflakes were the same. That sounds crazy. I will bet that at least two have been alike. Yeah, I really think that I am right about this one.

Anyway, I hope a blizzard happens to me soon so that I can tell people I meet in the future that I "Remember the Blizzard of '09, and what a Blizzard that was." I really think that would be awesome to say to people. Plus people love hearing about weather incidents, that’s why people love the Weather Channel so much.

Cotton, popcorn, out my window...

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Improperly Lifting Things

Dear Improperly Lifting Things,

So, I improperly lifted something about a week ago. I have no idea what I lifted, but I am one-hundred percent sure that it was improperly lifted. I am sure, because of the pain. The pain tells me something was improper. And as you know, pain is almost always associated with 'improperness'. Whether mental or physical, something improper caused it.

One day I am a fine, buxom, robust, sturdy, hardy, durable, brawny maiden and the next I am a decrepit, weak, complaining, brittle, hindered hag. I suppose that is how one gets old. Running around one day without a care in the world, and the next hobbled over with a hand on the back. All I know is that my upper-butt/lower back was rife, RIFE, with some kinds of pain. For the most part it has subsided, but I have learned a valuable lesson: improperly lifting things may be easy, fun, and look cool, but it is really not worth it.

Bending the knees so I can back that ass up,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Being Serious or Sarcastic

Dear Being Serious or Sarcastic,

I can't even tell anymore.

Is that bad?

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To Getting Eight Hours of Sleep

Dear Getting Eight Hours of Sleep,

I just wanted to let you know a couple of things. The first one is that you are a lie, an overrated lie. The second thing is that you make me sick, literally.

People say that if you do not get Eight Hours of Sleep then you are missing out. They say that your life is messed-up, you have no schedule, that you are not taking proper care of yourself. That is bullshit. How did you weasel your way into my thinking? I used to believe in you, get Eight Hours of Sleep or more, just to prove how beneficial you were. I do not believe in you anymore though, Eight Hours of Sleep. I even read somewhere that people who get Eight Hours of Sleep or more have a higher mortality rate. I do not know why, and I do not know where I read that, but I believe it with all my heart and soul.*

Lately I have not been taking advantage of you, Eight Hours of Sleep. Frequently I get only Four to Six Hours of Sleep. Sometimes I would wake up, move around a little, go to work or do whatever it is that I do when I am not sleeping, then I would think, 'Jeeze Louise, I wish I could have had Eight Hours of Sleep.' Now I am refusing to let myself think that ever again. And that is because of what happened today, today you ruined it for yourself.

If you had not been such a Fuck-o, I would have probably kept thinking that Eight Hours of Sleep was a good thing. But, today I got Eight Hours of Sleep and now I feel sick. Not like I have a cold or the flu or the diarrhea or anything like that, no, I feel like I slept too much for too long. I am dizzy, tireder, and feel like I have the spins (and at least if I had the real spins it would be from a night of fun [if you know what I mean {and I think you do}]). No, all I did was lie in my bed and sleep for too long (that’s what I think now [Eight Hours of Sleep is too much]), I did not even have a sick dream to be proud of. Anyway, I just wanted you to know how done with you I am.

Setting my alarm for a robust Six Hours of Sleep now,

Emily Illinois


*Use of the word 'soul' is purely for reasons of persuading and of no merit in a religious sense.

Open Letter: To Kris Kross

Dear Kris Kross,

Thanks for making me 'jump jump' at work today. Every time that I hear your song "Jump Jump" I have to 'jump jump'. It is a lot of fun. But I have a question: which one of you is the Daddy Mac and which one is the Mac Dad? I am always confused because you have on backwards overalls (does that signify a hatred for farmers?), and I cannot tell who people are if their clothes are on backwards and their names are similar (like 'Kris' and 'Kross'). Please get back(wards) to me soon!

Some of them try to rhyme, but they can't rhyme like this:

Emily Bemily (Illinois)

Open Letter: To Doing the Laundry

Dear Doing The Laundry,

I think you know what this is about. It is about the leaving the apartment, the driving to the Laundromat, the washing, the drying, the folding, the hanging, the carrying back to the car, and the putting away of clothes (not to mention the spending of perfectly good money). I am all about the doing of things, but the doing of the laundry is not one of them. Why are you so labor intensive? You take at least a couple of hours, even if I am rushing around. I have given up trying to wash things on delicate and tumble dry on low just to save some freaking time.

Honestly though, if I had my own washer and dryer located somewhere in my apartment, I would not be writing this to you today. Mainly because I would have gained some perspective on what is annoying about doing you and what is not; Annoying: having to leave my apartment and carry shit, Not Annoying: watching my T.V. while a washer is spinning my clothes in my apartment.

Plus the Laundromat sucks. When I go there I have to sit on plastic chairs. Fuck that. Not that I am against plastic chairs usually, but they always suck at Laundromats and then I am sliding all over the place (not in a good way). And sometimes there is a crazy person who tries to talk to me. In the last town I lived in, the attendant was always staring and smiling at me, then one time there was this guy who told me his life story but I could not understand him except that he was from Louisiana and I think he was a criminal. Then once this Russian man tried to make me a communist, (but that did not work because I am such a fascist), or maybe he was just talking about something else, I could not understand a word he was saying anyway, but I made sure that I looked properly horrified at his communist proposals. The last thing that happened was that this drunk lady was running around the place yelling at people and almost falling everywhere. I could not stop staring at her (it was like looking at my future self: fascinating) but, I think she was three minutes from kicking my ass, so then I just had to stare at the floor really hard (which I hate [looking at the floor]). It is just a matter of time before something terrible happens to me there.

So, today I have to go do you. I am not excited about this. There is this delicious Chinese takeout place right next door to the Laundromat. But I cannot spend money on vegetable lo-mien, so this sucks. Really sucks. Plus I have to go it alone today (which I hate [the doing of you alone]). Taking one for the team sucks. And on top of all of that it really scandalizes me to bring my unmentionables out in public. I mean (since I am mentioning them now...) if my unders fall on the floor then everyone will see the lame monkey underwear that my mom buys for me. What is she thinking anyway? Beggars can't be choosers (that’s what they say anyway). Scandal.

Anyway, see you soon, Annoying Task,

Emily Illinois

Open Letter: To My Smoke Alarm

Dear My Smoke Alarm,

Thanks for going off at 11.30 at night a few minutes ago. One millimeter of the edge of my delicious pizza was burned. You were unnecessary because the pizza was out of the oven already. If my landlord has anything to say to me about this, you are going to have Hell to pay. At least I know you still work, I had my doubts.

You are a dick,

Emily Illinois