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Alert level: Cuddly

Blogs are so, like, stupid.

iCan't believe iHave one.

Misery loves danish

Subway: drink fresh

Can you believe I only know three people who have blogs? Lame.

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  Annie Barrett is a writer living in New York City. Annie Barrett. Annie Barrett is probably insane. Annie Barrett doesn't care. TH

I'm sitting outside on the deck at the lakehouse in the middle of a storm with no rain. The thunder is outrageous and I keep seeing lightning out on the lake. It's awesome. But where's the rain? I need to know. I'm freaking out that even one raindrop will get on my lovely tank of a computer. I'm very nervous right now. After each of these words I type, I glance up, as if I might have missed the first drop. It's really annoying that I'm doing that.

(One hour passes.)

Okay, the downpour is over. I got inside fine, before any water hit the deck. I chickened out after envisioning the destroyed Mac floating in a pool of what just killed it. Why did I need to take it that far? I even started imagining different and more awful scenarios. One involved me running inside on a sunny day to do something, probably get a large snack, and leaving the Mac outside during a sudden downpour. In this vision, I didn't even think "I have to run out there and save my computer." I just went about the snack and let it sit there, forgetting. Hours later, when I remembered what I had been doing hours ago (because that's what I do) I went outside, realized what had happened, and began to weep. In my mind I pressed the pause button and watched myself bawl in slow motion. I recall there being snot involved, which would make sense because right now I have a cold. Then I called Apple in tears and Apple laughed and called me a moron, which made me cry even harder and since I coulldn't see, I ran smack into a table, hit my head, and never woke up. Keep in mind none of this actually happened. This was me sitting safely indoors with the Mac, willingly plunging into a nightmare.

I do this a lot -- get a freakish pleasure out of imagining really sad scenarios. I remember trying to convince my dad of something once during Annie Barrett: The Teenage Years and him looking at me with this "maybe we should get you into therapy" look. I told him I'd want to throw my childhood doll, Carwie, off a speeding boat. If anyone knew me back then, you know that despite my "teen" status, I was still obsessed with this doll to the point where we all considered her a member of the family. (Her birthday is October 2nd and she is always just turning two. I still believe this. Maybe I do need therapy.) It actually became quite comical within the family. I don't think anyone else would get it so don't even go there. Anyway, I adored her. So there's no reason I should have wanted to throw her off a moving boat.

I tried, and failed, to explain the thrill I sought. I wanted to fling her in wildly into the air, and then sort of stop time (pause button!) so that she'd never hit the water. I just wanted the momentary feeling of doing something that treacherous and reckless, but I didn't want to have to deal with the trauma of the aftermath. (Friends tell me this is also a common attitude towards sex.) I tried to explain that it could be like a still frame in a movie, when something in motion stops suddenly right before the credits roll. I'd be standing at the edge of the boat, post-fling, mouth wide open and screaming, the doll on the upwards portion of her arc, still smiling. That's it. It would have to stop there.

This sort of reminds me of the scene in Love Actually in which Colin Firth loses his manuscript. The Portuguese indentured servant accidentally picked up the coffee mug that was holding the typed pages down, and they all blew away into a pond. I want to do that! For some reason I'd find it thrilling to have a stack of my own meaningful, irreplacable typed pages fly away and be gone forever. Or if not, I'd at least like feeling like I had the power to make it happen. I'd sit there, nudging the paperweight, toying with the idea until it completely freaked me out and I couldn't take it anymore; then I'd probably chicken out and run inside... just like I did with the computer. Man, this post is getting so "meta."

Come to think of it, the losing-the-writing thing is pretty common. It happened in Anne of Green Gables with the handsome father figure Morgan's work, and I'm pretty sure it happened in a Parker Posey movie. I forget the movie. It's a male writer on the top level of some sort of fancy boat (meta!) and he throws away the novel he's just completed on a whim, because he knows it's a piece of shit. How writerly of him. No wonder I can relate. What damn movie is this? Why am I thinking Celebrity? Was Parker Posey even in that? That has to be wrong. I'd google all of this, but no wireless out here and it's more fun to torture myself like this. Even though going inside would be a terrific idea now that a Shania Twain song just came on, about 40 notches higher in volume than all of the other songs. Two good reasons to visit the stereo. WTF? The neighbors hate me.

Anyway, now I'm back outside, and I'm even charging my computer. That was an effort. I knew there was an outlet somewhere along the side of the house but couldn't find it for the longest time because Bill managed to cover it with something the exact same color as the faded gray wood. Bill the Builder never fails to impress.

Everything's still wet, so I laid towels from the outlet to here so that the cord wouldn't be resting on water. Was that necessary? I don't really understand how electrocution works. I'm aware that using a hairdryer in the rain would kill me, but what if water just started pouring while I was using a plugged-in computer? I highly doubt I'd die from that.

And yes, if you were wondering, I am sitting here envisioning myself just on the precipice of turning on a hairdryer in the middle of a storm. I'd just have my finger on the button! I wouldn't actually do it! Nothing would happen!

Okay, this is becoming scary. Suddenly I'm recalling a moment during my drive here that I found a tad worrisome but nothing major. During the Cars song "Hello Again," there's the line "You just want to fly!" at the end of a verse. It's the kind of line that gets you really revved up for the next few seconds, a line you'd sing even if you didn't know the rest of them, because it sounds more passionate than the rest of the lines.

But instead of "fly," I sang "You just want to die!" I was certain that was correct. Strangely, I'd made the same mistake at other times in the past. I guess I just never fixed the glitch. Or maybe this is my way of telling myself that I want to die. But probably not. Somehow I think there would be other warning signs than mistaken Cars lyrics.

Maybe being all alone in a big house (family's coming up tomorrow) is making me crazy. I live alone in New York, but it's different being alone here, in a place where a step in any given direction doesn't require the artful dodging of mountains of crap. This place has (gasp) multiple rooms. I feel like I should spend an hour in each one, just to appreciate the space. Yeah, let's try it.

I wasn't kidding about the 7-Eleven obsession, as evidenced by the huge thingie on a popsicle stick some guy outside the store was handing out. It says "I AM A FAN OF 7-ELEVEN, 23RD STREET AND PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY." I think the apple shape is a reference to "The Big Apple," which means "New York City" for all you non-locals. Ha ha. Very cute. I curbed myself at the last minute from shouting at the little man "No way, I totally just wrote about this on my blog!" because I feel like he wouldn't have cared. Seriously. If someone told me that I'd want to slap her in the face. Sigh. Bloggers. Ew.

Just came home and promptly turned on Footloose, which I DVR'd tonight while at work. I've watched the opening sequence, with all the different '80s shoes dancing (shown at left -- yes, I did just really take two pictures of the opening scene from Footloose, thankyouverymuch), at least three times now. I'm in love with all the shoes in this sequence. I wish there was just a storefront with all of these shoes, so I could go up to it and then buy all of them. Would you guys make fun of me if I did the legwarmers/sneakers thing shown in the image to the left? Does it really matter if you would? I don't care. I think the combo looks fun. And very warm! Yum.

Speaking of yum, I feel like now is as good a time as any to post these two embarrassing photos of Rebecca and me completely devouring huge hero sandwiches at Long Beach a few weekends ago. Yesss. We are so cool. She opted for turkey, while I went with the roast beef. We already had a big bag of Fritos in our Big Brown Bag from home, and although I love me a good turkey sub, I feel turkey doesn't go as well with Fritos as does RB. Tuna or chicken salad would also have been good. Rebs should be taking notes here, although she looked pretty damn happy with her choice as it was.

Here is a non-eating picture of us on the boardwalk. I was smiling rather normally (for me) during the first three, but quickly realized she was insistent on doing the trademark Rebecca McFarland "Aggghh! Look at me, camera! Catch me in a hilarious moment!" open-mouth gape (OMG), so I grudgingly went along with it for this fourth and final shot. Cute, huh?

We also ran into our Boston College friend and roomie, Shannon. And when I say "ran into," I mean "saw intentionally because we knew she was lifeguarding at this particular Long Island Beach." We are such stalkers. But she loved it. I'm proud of her for letting down the sportsbra to avoid nasty tan lines. That's a kindred spirit right there. Kudos to Shannon.

In Creepy News, I saw the same person two nights in a row while walking down 7th Avenue between 23rd and Bleecker. Last night I saw him a bit north of Gourmet Garage. I stared at him longer than the requisite half-second glance, because he was one of 'my people,' it seemed – long messy hair, casual non-stylish outfit, looked hippyish... and right before we crossed paths he gave a little nod/grin. It made my night. (Lame!) It wasn't necessarily sexual at all. It was just nice to acknowledge someone like that, a sort of "we're on the same page" glance that was shared. It really put me in the best mood. No big deal, but it made everything so much better at the time. Someone on the mean streets of Manhattan just grinned at me! Wow! I mean, that rarely ever happens. You know how it is.

So now that I've seen him twice, it's just weird. Like, I sort of feel like this is Truman Show and I am the central character. (Imagine, a blogger thinking she's the center of the universe. Whoa. No way.) It was a random glitch in the Truman-esque system that I saw him twice, like he'd been planted at that point in the city by accident twice in a row. Or maybe it was an intentional move by the producers! Maybe someone wanted me to see this guy two nights in a row and feel great the first night, and a little weirded out the second night. Very weirded out.

I saw him sooner tonight. Meaning, I got to stare at him for at least four seconds before the crucial "passing point" occurred, wondering is this the guy? Could this actually be the same person? And I'm positive it was. Oddly, he was wearing some sort of structured red coat, with gold buttons on the front and down the back. Not a big fan of the red coat. Was it a costume? Does he perform at the Stonewall and then walk up to the 14th Street subway every night? Is he just a madcap free spirit who thought that coat would be a unique fixture of his character?

This time, it was obvious that I was staring at him for at least four seconds, as was previously mentioned. I couldn't help it, because I found all of this just that weird. He totally knew it. So he started nodding a hello while he was still in front of me, as if to say yes! I'm the same guy! Can you believe it? And I had no idea what to do – I was still pretty happy-slash-mildly-freaked-out from the first night's encounter – so instead of giving my usual reaction to eye contact on the street (i.e. nothing), I squeaked out this really weird "Hi!"

Fuck!

It was about an octave and a half higher than my voice usually sounds. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to watch/hear this in a surveillance camera playback. (Which I'm sure could be arranged, given that there are 2.5 delis per block around here.) I feel like I totally ruined that coolness of our second encounter that could have been achieved given the coolness of the first... by squeaking out a hello. Gross! Now if we never see each other again (which I kind of hope doesn't happen), I will have "lost" round two after "winning" round one (when he gave a grin the first time, I didn't smile, I just stared blankly. Somehow this counts as me winning).

Enough. I have no idea where this is going. I think I'll go finish Footloose. I'll leave you with this image, which was photographed on our day at Long Beach. It appears at the base of my spritzer bottle:

I mean, whatever. That's cool. Thanks for letting us know you're an equal opportunity employer and everything. The only part I don't get is "in Michigan." Was that necessary? If so, why? I'd like people's input on this. Discuss.

Not updating this website is addictive. I bet you didn't know that the absence of something, literally a non-activity, could have addictive qualities. But it can. It's not the same as being addicted to a substance or activity, like drugs or doing drugs. I don't go around thinking about my next "fix" of "doing anything else except writing in this space" but I do sit there motionlessly ("going around" sounds a little too active for me) and think to myself "You know what I feel like doing right now? Not updating my website." Which at least means something -- that I'm thinking about the website instead of thinking about nothing -- but what ends up happening has nothing to do with the website at all. Namely, that I end up doing nothing that has to do with the website and nothing that doesn't, either. I just got lost myself too, don't worry. You see, not updating the website means that it's that many more days until I can remember how to form coherent sentences again. And realize when it's time to end an atrocity of a paragraph.

Here is proof that I had a reason to keep basking in the not updating:

See? I was at the lake (Michigan, where they don't even have computers yet), looking nasty and acting smug in front of the camera for no reason. Who am I kidding with my hand on my hip and the no-teeth smile here? It's like I'm saying "Yeah dude, check out my lake. Made it all by myself. Whoosh! Lake." Gross.

Yes, my shirt does say "Western Springs Recreation Girls Youth Basketball." It's making my chest look disfigured, but that's probably due to the bathing suit underneath. Bet I could sell that tee to a downtown thrift store for $16, which I would promptly carry to and deposit at Chipotle.

Somewhere in my busy schedule of not updating and thinking about how much fun not updating is, I've been writing the TV Watch (thing I did for "The O.C.") for "The Real World: Austin" on EW.com. The show is truly horrible, so I can't bring myself to recommend that you watch it. It makes me actually miss Mischa Barton. Oh, well. I guess the show's easier to make fun of this way.

I've been getting 2-3 Slurpees per day at NYC's first-ever 7-Eleven. I now excrete sugary syrup from my pores without even trying. Whoosh! It's lovely.