I was so sick of reading about how gross it was that Britney Spears doesn’t wear underwear that I decided to sort of stick up for her.

I’m going to interview the winner of Top Model next week! Yay! What should I ask?!?! I’d almost rather interview the loser so my first question could be “Will you conspire with me to murder Tyra?”

Believe me, I could do it in one.

By the way, these things are amazing. I just wish the word “chunk” appeared somewhere in the description. Brownies, cookies, and ice cream are always better if they give good chunk. It really breaks up the monotony.

I’ve been sitting here obsessing about the concept of chunk for 20 minutes now. It’s also just a great word.

My roommate (Poor Leno) decided to deviate from his strict diet of cold porridge and frost in favor of:

Just don’t do what I just did: heat it up the next night and expect the Fritos or your microwave to survive. I put the mixture in, power-slid down the gigantic hallway in my socks (so much better than walking), and when I came back 40 seconds later it sounded like there was an industrial strength mosquito zapper somewhere in the kitchen. Where could it be? Maybe it was that thing on the counter being forced against its will to sizzle my corn chips.

I should have known. Cooking? Fritos? You a nut, Annie Barrett!

“Sizzle My Corn Chips” sounds pretty hot. I may start saying this regularly.

Last night (Easter), I was at my part-time job (I’m really religious.) Every Sunday, the company orders in 30 or so pies from Bravo Pizza. Some of us are cute and call it “diarrhezza,” because OMG, guess what happens when you eat it?

Anyway, the food on the table is never enough, likely because the powers that be keep hiring more and more people who also need to eat to stay alive and no one ever bothered to alter the weekly order. It kind of sucks, especially when I claw through the masses for my trademark slice of soggy, weathered, rubbery-veggie ‘za and the only things left on the table are rings of grease.

Not so on Easter Sunday, sayeth the Lord and the Bravo delivery guy, who together unloaded close to 20 trays of various shitty Italian food that we then arranged into a massive buffet. There was eggplant, chicken marsala, ziti — all low-quality, mind you, but at least it was different — and a “mixed salad,” which was basically an entire tray of iceberg lettuce.

I’m mildly obsessed with iceberg lettuce. I like the sound it makes in my mouth — it’s as if I’m accomplishing a great deal just by crunching down on it. If I buy it in “head” form, I’ll cut it in half, wash it, sprinkle salt all over the cross-section, and just go to town. It feels like my face just decided to take a dip into the ocean, independently of the rest of my body. Maybe this paragraph should end.

Here’s the point: Around 1 a.m., when it was clear no one else would be coming back for seconds (in my case: fifths) of the iceberg lettuce salad, I decided to take matters into my own apartment by stealing all of the remaining salad mix. I couldn’t find a plastic bag, so I settled for the paper bag the plastic silverware had come in. That is disgusting. I knew this at the time, but try to guess whether it stopped me. Spoiler alert: Don’t look down!

I’d give anything to see security camera footage of me pouring the salad into the paper bag. Actually, first I used the plastic scooper, then I lifted up the tray and attempted the pour (harder than you’d think!), and finally I just started grabbing the excess leaves with my hand. Add to this my glamazonian frame and complete inability to be stealth at anything, and it was a pretty funny scene. “Funny” meaning “I should be fired.”

But whatever. I got to make an extra-huge salad (left) when I got home, with better tomatoes (vine-ripened, from Gristedes), croutons (Pepperidge Farm Onion & Garlic), and the creamy vidalia onion dressing I’m still really into. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as a phase when you’re me. I once tried to terminate what I thought could have been a phase (dipping Fritos in grape jelly), but couldn’t make it work… which itself might have been my only phase ever.

This verdant treat, in addition to the 40,000 chocolates sent by Dee, made Sunday a very Happy Easter indeed. Bonus points for the shredded carrots and withered cabbage, two things I enjoy looking at in salads but never bother to buy. Why do the colors of these items matter more to me than their tastes? I’m like a little kid.

You’re welcome.

The new Forever 21 had been silently annoying me with its brightly lit vibes and outpoor of clones for a few weeks. Along with Whole Foods, the new Trader Joe’s and its accompanying line to get into heaven, Strawberries, and the people who crowd around Nuts 4 Nuts without ever ordering anything (MOVE), Forever 21 seemed to me to be the pinnacle of Union Square obnoxiousness. I wanted nothing to do with it and resented everything about it, especially its name. (I still resent the name. More on that later.)

But then a friend gave me some store credit and so I decided to go. I mean, I wanted to get a not-too-expensive dress for my friend’s wedding and so I decided to go. I mean… a teenager dragged me off the street and into the store so I decided to go…

Fine. I just decided to go to Forever 21. Rebecca had told me the clothes were cheap and “basic enough, if you can get past the bullshit.” I liked the sound of that! So I went. Shoot me.

Rebecca was right. 90% of the clothes make no sense, but since the store is a million square feet, I ended up dropping $40 on shit I arguably didn’t need but am now glad I have. Despite the shrieking/hissing combination platter I uttered when I thought a mannequin lounging lazily on a table (right… I wonder what she’s thinking?) was an actual person, my trip to Forever 21 was a successful mission. Except for one perhaps obvious problem.

FOREVER 21 MAKES YOU FEEL OLD.

I went into this store taking its name pretty literally. “Oh, that’s cute, I’ll feel 21 again if I shop here,” I thought. “Nostalgia! Yes!” No.

The majority of people in Forever 21 (at least when I was there) are under 21. Case in point: these two, chilling out in their Uggs at the register. And these aren’t even very representative of the breed. They were just the two I thought I could get away with shooting. I’m a horrible photographer. I have no guts whasoever. I see cooler/prettier/thinner/ whatever subjects to photograph and I run away from them in fear. I’ve always done this. It’s sick.

All of the under-21s in the store were so tiny and perky and smushable! I seriously thought I could stomp all over them and clobber them to death, and not because of my towering height. I’m used to feeling more elevated than people. This was different. I imagined the sheer force of my 25-and-higher hagitude casting a wicked spell on the kids. They’d lie there, wriggling like tiny cockraoches under the steady stream of my Mature Woman disinfectant spray. The nozzle would be set to the shower-like setting instead of the jet dagger, so I could get to more of them at once.

Still, I didn’t necessarily want to kill the teens. It was more the type of situation where I felt guilty for existing in such a ridiculous space with creatures like them in the first place. This was their natural habitat, not mine. I didn’t belong! Who was I kidding, thinking the store’s name was all-inclusive? The teens were laughing at me on the inside! Is this how parents feel, all the time? Gross.

For some reason, I hadn’t considered the teen overload as a possibility. Except for ubiquitous NYU undergrads, I don’t see too many youngsters around my ‘hood. Now I know why: they’re all in this store. Maybe they live there.

Speaking of which, it would be really fun to hide in this store until after closing, then get stoned and roam around making fun of things (left) like entire racks of jade fur shrugs. The store is enormous!

Now Forever 21 has two reasons to want to ban me: that comment and their apparently not so strict anti-photography rule, which a disinterested salesgirl outlined to me near the register. She was like, “There’s no pictures.” I said, “Okay,” the long version of which was, “First of all, you’re wrong because I just took 32 shots elsewhere. But okay. You didn’t say no photos, so I’m going to dart around you in 30 seconds and photograph the inexplicable atrocity hanging from the ceiling.”

Which was a mobile of babies.

I don’t get it either. They could be going for a number of themes.

–Uncalled-for Kitsch. (You’re going to stare at different-sized fetuses floating in a puke-green ether, and you’re going to enjoy it. Love, Management.) ANNOYING.

–Youth. (Shop here and you’ll feel younger.) WRONG.

–Infancy. (Your presence in our store has reduced you to the level of a newborn. You lose.) DING DING DING.

There’s one more feature of the store that fits both the “Get stoned and shop here” and “You’re old” themes: The Forever 21 Wall of Words. Some of the words are misspelled, and paired next to the “correct” version of itself. Click here for the bigger image.

The Wall of Words further downgrades the clientele. If they’re not infants, then they must be quasi-literate grade-schoolers who more often than not take things “for granite.” The words and phrases appear in the escalator area, so that customers can squeeze in a quick vocab lesson (containing imaginary words) on the way up to formalwear, most of which is polka-dotted. I must have stared at this wall in shock for maybe three entire minutes before thinking to take a pic. Yes! Journalism!

So I’ve gotten Forever 21 out of my system. And onto my website! Awesome. As a parting gift, witness a throwaway from the blooper reel, wherein Annie ducks behind racks of clothing while wearing a jade fur shrug not because she doesn’t want to get caught taking photos, but because she doesn’t want to be seen wearing a jade fur shrug! I think the big “21″ tag on the celebrity/hooker sunglasses are the perfect touch. You wish, Annie Barrett!

And yet…

I’ll probably go back.

Today I’m embarking on a solo three-for-the-price-of-one film festival at the Battery Park Stadium. I’ll buy a ticket for Million Dollar Baby, then dart over to Sideways and The Aviator without ever leaving the theater. Yeah!

The cinema dart is a complicated strategy that requires meticulous planning and stealth, warn my parents, who do this at least once a week at the Quarry 14 in the ‘burbs. What can I say, they’re thrill seekers at their finest. The natural high gets them through those harsh Chicago winters.

They’re totally gonna kill me for posting this and outing them as dirty criminals. “And they seemed like such good people. You’d never know,” their former friends will say, shaking their heads sadly.

But I’m not addicted and obsessive like The Deedles are. I’m just doing the dart (I’ll probably do the Dew at the same time) so that I’ll have seen all the nominated movies before Sunday night. Last night was Hotel Rwanda. Yikes. Is it wrong that all I could think about the entire time was that Don Cheadle was my favorite featured porn star in the greatest movie ever, Boogie Nights? I don’t think so.

I better go fix a sack lunch… and possibly also a barrel dinner. I’m so excited. If my plan doesn’t work, it’s not just me who’ll be disappointed. I’ll feel like I’ve truly let down my parents. That would hurt.

What do you think? Is the cinema dart as daring as I’m making it out to be, or does everyone do it? At least assure me that my proposed triple play is SO much cooler than my parents’ usual double feature.

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.