There are at least 10 pigeons gathered on my two windowsills and the two directly across the five-feet alley. They will not shut up. They’re making this woo-ing noise. It’s awful. It’s like what I imagine people hear in their heads just as they’re about to die. “Deathbed: The Soundtrack” or something. Oh shit. I’ve just jinxed myself. Please, if I’m dying, crank up the music. It can suck — it can be like those cheesy ’80s mixes that everyone loves (because “how can you not!”) but I hate. Anything but this. This is torture. I haven’t even fallen asleep yet. It’s 7:15 in the morning.

Just when I think they’re about to let up, one starts up again and then the rest “catch on” and become the chorus for the most awful song imaginable. I literally wish I could kill them. Look at me in the left corner, glaring at the pigeon and scheming. This is intense.

I probably couldn’t actually kill them. As soon as I opened a window, they’d fly away, and if one happened to fly into my apartment, it’s more likely that it would end up killing me. I just wish there was some sort of homemade poison pigeon-killing concoction, like an over-the-counter thing I could whip up in my one medium-sized pot and smear onto the entire side of my building. Maybe even superglue — the squawking would be horrible for a few days until they died, but at least their friends would have learned their lessons and I might get some cool digital photography out of it.

Speaking of CDP, this is the best (and worst) thing I’ve ever seen on Gawker. I don’t approve of security guards watching DVDs, but I wholeheartedly admire the person who took that photo. I’d probably mess it up by using a flash or something. Harold and Kumar. If that’s for real, it is truly priceless. Good thing that when I slack off at work, there’s no one sneaking behind my back and catching me in the act. Oh wait.

Finally, I’d like to extend a giant F-you to winter, courtesy of DR fan D.R. It must be from somewhere in Boston. My thoughts exactly.

A comparison between Alex, a plastic-looking character on The O.C., and one of my favorite toys in the ’80s, My Little Pony:

You can’t see it, but the ponies have little tattoos all over them too. But they’re tattoos o’ innocence, like hearts, stars, and (probably) large, ugly insects. I want to meet whoever was in charge of hair for this episode so I can glare at her in much the same way as Alex is glaring at Seth in the photo. Oh, slutty teenage bartenders. Gotta love ‘em.

The other day, someone (I think it must have been my mom) asked me in a very alarmed tone, “Annie! WHERE do they put all the SNOW in New York City?” Hmm. Yes, definitely Dee’s inflections. We have a winner.

Anyway, I found all the snow. It looks pretty and white from this angle, but on the street side it is a gritty charcoal gray. Yuckers.

Does the title “Joan of Arcadia” piss anyone else off? It’s just such a horrible pun. I feel personally embarrassed for the person who thought of it. Why is that?

I am extremely jealous of this book’s author. She printed out a private blog, cut up the picees, scattered them across the floor, and decided it was a book. It’s probably really good. And she can also draw. Damn other people.

I apologize for promoting college humor as a post-graduate, but this is way too funny, and it’s from the University of Illinois! Yay home.

Does anyone know about photography? Am I a moron, or is it really difficult to take pictures of snow? One of the answers is obvious, but I’d appreciate input on the other.

I can’t shake this ridiculous cough. Are there really obvious remedies I’m just missing? I’m out of cough drops. And tequila.

When I grow up, I want a really NICE couch. You know?

The tendency to fall under this social umbrella is what I was trying to ward off in my last post. Of course, it’s not really working. Damn you, beautiful sleek lines of my impeccable Apple machines. (Thanks to royge for the find.)

In more disappointing news, one of the low-life commenters on my Biggest Loser TV Watch felt the need to post this:

I’m a little more concerned about the author of the column, Annie Barrett … I think she is just jealous that she chooses to sit in her fat instead of doing something about it like the contestants did.

Hmm. Yes, he does sound very ‘’concerned'’ for me. Maybe I can contact him and he can give me counseling and free writing/diet advice!

(You guys, live webcams don’t lie. Maybe the commenter was right about me.)

This train of thought conjures up images of Family Guy’s Peter Griffin when he loses his bone structure and becomes a big puddle of goo. Hahahaha.

Friday, during one of my signature workday walks to Wendy’s, I encountered a giant ad board for Nestle Drumsticks (right, beckoning).

I was never a fan of these. I much prefer the strawberry shortcake or chocolate eclair bars from Good Humor. Drumstick cones are always soggy and tasteless, and the idea of massproducing and freezing the cone in addition to the ice cream just sort of pisses me off.

Nevertheless, to answer the board’s question: Yes. I did want one. And I knew it.

It’s highly unlikely that someone would be thinking “I want one of those crappy Drumstick things” while walking down the street. But come face to face with the bold declaration, “You Know You Want One!” (why all the caps? Did they copyright this expression?) and it’s hard to disagree. Just look at that gaping circle of bright, white, virginal ice cream just waiting to be devoured. BTW, that incision definitely wasn’t made with human teeth. I recall from personal experience the nasty-looking skid marks that go along with taking the first bite out of one of these. They’re unavoidable.

Let’s examine what actually happened:

Annie: Mmm, can’t wait for Wendy’s.

Sign: You Know You Want One!

Annie: [glances away] Nah - I’m REALLY looking forward to Wendy’s.

Sign: You Know You Want One! Haha, she’s looking the other way! Nice try.

Annie. Hmm. Well, yeah, if you’re going to be so giant-sized and sit almost directly in my path, and since I’m hungry anyway, yeah - I guess I do want one. This is pretty upsetting. How did you know? I didn’t even know!

Moral of the story: Sometimes we just need the right marketing devices to tell us more about ourselves.

Update: I have since been filling the Drumstick void with a six-pack of Reese’s Trees, courtesy of Dee (who wishes I wouldn’t eat them).

Here’s Friday’s pretty sunset from the 29th floor.

I was about to offer details about my supercool weekend, but had to restrain myself as this is not a blog. I swear.

Okay. I’m watching The Bachelorette. You have permission to disown me as a friend, or to stop visiting this site immediately if you are not my friend and merely an admirer or hata’ from afar.

I never watched this crap until I started working at EW. I’m pretty sure the people there don’t love it either, but someone has to be up on all the drama. You never know if, at a crucial point in a meeting, an editor will pound his fist on the table and shout “Who got the third rose last night? WHO?” and Annie Barrett, Intern Extraordinaire will need to valiantly swoop in with a booming “A.W.! It was A.W.! Booyah!” It hasn’t happened yet, but I need to keep watching in case it does. Seriously. We’re talking instant promotion if I could come through in the clutch like that.

(What kind of name is A.W.?)

The point of this post, though, is to point out how offended I am as a Manhattan resident at how much friggin’ space these idiots (the 15 bachelors) get to occupy. This is PRIME New York City space. The men get to live together in this huge building (looked like SoHo, which pisses me off even MORE) with rooftop suites, patios, hot tub lofts, etc. There were even these ridiculously oversized cushions just lying around. Huh? Guys don’t want those. I want those. Unfortunately, I don’t think even one of them would fit in my apartment, unless it got to replace my bed.

Just to prove a point, here is visual proof of how much space Jen is taking up in Manhattan. I mean, come on.

I know this fancy-living-arrangements thing happens all the time with TV shows. The Real World is an obvious example. But these shows rarely take place in Manhattan, and it’s not like anyone’s going to be pissed off if the “seven strangers picked to live in a house” actually end up living in a building that used to be a bank at the edge of Philadelphia or a converted train station in New Orleans. It’s not like people are banging down the walls to live there.

It’s pretty immature, but it makes me kind of pissed to look at that huge, pretty, SoHo building and know that ABC producers are renting it out for bajillions of dollars because they feel they need six floors and 20-foot-high ceilings to catch just the right angle of the Staten Island firefighter’s giant protruding jaw as he witnesses All-American Sweetheart Jen ascend the stairs.

I can just picture the thousands of cramped apartmentites like me wanting to throw objects at the screen when we see these huge gaping spaces. Hmm. Actually, there’s no room to throw. But we could potentially reach out and tap the screen, smack dab in the middle of a 400-sq-ft hardwood floor slip n’ slide course that they’ll probably set up “for fun.” That’d show them.

(There is no slip n’ slide course in the show… I made that up… but HOW FUN WOULD IT BE to have one of those in your apartment? Think Tom Hanks’ loft in Big. I always wanted those giant rubber balls that he and his girlfriend were about to bounce with on the trampoline. The balls were just sitting there, accessories to the tramp but completely worthy in their own right, you know? They looked like so much fun, and then Tom Hanks just carelessly swept them off the tramp as if they were in the way or something. :( … $100 of money I don’t have says that I am the only one in the world who felt sorry for those big, fun, colorful balls that only got used for three seconds of footage with the creepy redhead kid.)

Don’t get me wrong; I still love NYC. (Kind of.) I just don’t like how it’s portrayed on reality television. Thank you. Now please refrain from leaving the comment, “Then Annie, you psycho, quit watching reality television.” I can’t. Besides, it’s for my job.