Hi everyone. It’s Diminishing Returns. The economic principle! No, just kidding, the crappy blog. Annie seems to have dropped off on me due to a lethal combination of supermarket wine and generic Nyquil, so allow me to take the reins for a bit. I’m sure Annie will post some sort of lame-ass New Year’s Resolutiions list within the next few days, so watch THIS! I’m going to preempt that bitch. Also, because she would probably be predictable and do 10, I’m going to list 11.

New Year’s Resolutions for DR:

11. Lose weight, eat right.
10. Feature one review of NYC nachos per week.
9. Focus more on The Issues!
8. Yeah right.
7. Develop better logo. This one is sooo 2004. Actually, more like 1995.
6. Stop sucking.
5. Update automatically, even if Annie is cranky and hungover. Feed Annie bruschetta in bed if that’s the case, then spew out something brilliant. Because I am brilliant. She only wishes.
4. Train vigorously for Sexiest Pathetic 20-something Soul-Searching Blog of 2005, or at least a place in the top ten.
3. The above referred to the blog itself, ME, not Annie. Who are you kidding?
2. Change name from The Anti-Blog to The Annie Blog without warning so that Annie seems extra dorky.
1. Stop being so blatantly a blog.

Contributions welcome! How do you think DR can improve?

Try to come up with something better than “Come on. Go back to the old biweekly features - they were better than this. Really.” because that requires more work and creative energy on Annie’s part and she’s stubborn, although if you pressed hard enough she might give in. Also, do not request “more pictures of hot girls!” because that ain’t happening.

(Note from Annie: Whew! I just woke up. It’s true. I try not to post pictures of myself on here too often. It gets excessive…ly hot.)

What? Annie, shutthefuckup. You know what? I (DR the blog) think my real NYR should be to take over this webspace. Yeah! Sexy, mysteriously anonymous blog trumps dowdy, identity-obvious blogger any day! Come 2005, you’ll have to answer to ME. I like this. It’s a plan.

I have decided to give rum-based drinks another try. Previously, I was adverse to them in favor of vodka-based guzzlers like StoliRazCran and everyone’s tequila favorite, the margarita. I must have had a bad experience with rum that made me hurl at one point within the last five years. But we need to look forward, forget the past. As John Kerry would say, We. Can. Do. BETTER! I mean, I still love SRC, and in the last few days have developed an amazing admiration for bottles of mediocre local beer. It’s just really hard to turn a snobby cheek to a frozen mango-strawberry daiquiri. I mean, really. I’d like to see you try. I dare you.

We just drove home from Danny Buoy’s Irish Pub in our rented knockoff version of a European SmartCar, and within this five-minute ride, rather tipsy, Bill, Meg and I came up with a few verses to the tune of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” that revolved around my mom really wanting a Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar as soon as she got home. We’re really bad. But she really wanted it.

A few updates:

–I am now tan, even though it’s still cloudy.

–Despite being sick, I am eating like a fiend.

–Up to 50,000 people may have died in that tsunami, and here I am complaining about phlegm.

–A few days ago, Dee saw a green flash of light when the sun was setting. Apparently it’s really rare and most people think it’s a myth, but if you look directly at the horizon as the sun is setting, you can see it, and she claims she did. So she’s been trying to get us to see it ever since, but we can’t, so now we make fun of her as if she’s into aliens and UFOs. Well, Bill and I do. By that time, Meghan’s about two hours deep into her gym time.

–Somehow, amazingly, we have constant Internet connection in The Unit. This makes for some excellently creepy stalk sessions, during which I sit on our grond-level screened porch and peer out from above the giant Mactop and spy on everyone who walks by. They are jealous of my machine and of my ability to accurately judge people within three seconds. They would love to know what I think. But they won’t.

–Haha - Dee just walked by, waving. She’s excluded from the judging.

–My sister gave me a black sweatshirt with “Villanova” written in pink letters across the chest for Christmas. I never take it off. That must mean I like it. But ew…. pink letters.

–I’ve just decided that 3:15 p.m. is late enough to be considered Happy Hour.

No! I’m not a slacker! I’m on a family vacation.

Hmm. That’s actually the definition of a slacker. Good sun, strong drinks, free food, pleasure reading (sorry Hal - I’ll write that paper when I get back).

Here I am.

I totally lied. That’s from last year, when I was tan. This year, I forgot my digital camera and I am not tan due to clouds. I’m pissed about the camera. I don’t really care about the clouds as long as I don’t run out of reading material and have to resort to writing the paper that was due Dec. 6. It took me forever to find this photo, probably because it was labeled “annie_vegetation.” What goes through my head when I name my files?

It’s okay though. I have a few funny images from last year that I’ll post sporadically (you know, the vocab word from Clueless) during my stay here.

So, as we’ve seen before, my mom, Dee, enjoys mailing me things. She mostly sends Twix, running socks (okay. I get it.) and newspaper clippings about reality television. But sometimes she goes above and beyond my Mawmee Expectations (ME) and sends something like this.

She probably doesn’t even remember sending this, but she’ll be so thrilled that I actually kept it. Seriously. It’ll warm her heart.

More recently, Dee sent this:

She wrote ‘’We’re enjoying his column lately.'’ Oh, Dee. It’s so cute that you wrote this out to let me know. Which TV shows are you enjoying? What was the last movie you rented? Did you like it? Please explain why in a 100-word essay, and send it with Kirschbaum’s cookies.

Dee also took this picture of my sister and me looking snobby (on purpose) on Bleecker street with our new matching bags — gifts from our parents thanks to the amazing Lighthouse Place outlet mall in Michigan City, Indiana. Did those last three words just blow your mind?

I’m sorry in advance.

Meghan and I are so self-aware of the stereotype here that we are effectively the ANTI-stereotype. The fact that I’m even putting it up on this site is a joke. Right? I think so…

Eh. Who even cares. MATCHING PURSES!

Sometimes I wish I lived in Chicago and could be a Trixie. Only for a few minutes.

But let’s focus on New York. On Saturday, I went running for my obligatory monthly workout. On my way back, there were these ridiculous preteen hoodlums blocking the Hudson River pathway for anyone who ran by. As my shitty luck would have it, one kid sprinted up and literally played basketball defense against me as I ran for about five seconds.

I considered blowing my whistle (yes Dad, I had my whistle) and calling him out on the five-second rule, but he didn’t seem like he’d be that into organized sports. I had to actually shove him away (while thinking he might have a gun) with my iPod-wielding forearm (extra threatening!) so I could get by, and spat out a resounding “WTF” in the complete-word variety while doing so.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the kid seemed to really dig this reaction. He backed off and shouted triumphantly to his friends, “What the fuck! She said what the fuck!” It was as if his other little greasy partners-in-crime were recording a log of people’s reactions to their antics. I guess that would be better than playing with guns.

40 steps later, another one of them crept out from behind the bushes like one of those huge Washington Square Park rats who dart out from under the benches and ran towards me. But this time I warned him ahead of time with a simple imperative: “Get out of my face.” I said it calmly and in statement-like form so that things would be more clear. This kid actually backed off right away. Yeah. That’s right.

So what’s the protocol here? They were seriously under 13. At what point are children forgivable, and at what point is it okay to wish you were the one with the gun?

I guess at the very least, this particular could-only-happen-to-Annie experience can serve as a valid excuse to not go running in the near future (read: until April).

Thanks, kids.