I'm Baaaaack

I'm back from the realm of the accidental Internet hiatus. And when I say 'accidental,' I really mean that I'm absolving myself of all guilt related to temporarily abandoning The Wonder That Is My Blog. Frankly, the thing has taken on a life of its own, and I was a little surprised to see that it didn't update itself.

See, it's not my fault. It's my blog's fault for not developing artificial intelligence in my absence. I missed you desperately. Do you still love me?

But anyway, baby got back, except my first name ain't baby, it's Carrie--Ms. Harris if you're nasty. (Hello, random music references!) It was a good holiday. I got fake eyebrows and a copy of the Zombie Survival Guide for Christmas, so I am quite pleased. I got a lot of other good stuff too, but it's not as snarftastic.

The whole Baby Got Back thing reminds me of college. I was a dance major for a while there; I did modern and jazz, mostly because ballet brings out my desire to mosh. A lot of ballet dancers have sticks up their hoo-hoos, which is helpful when it comes to staying on pointe but not so much when it comes to not acting like a biscuit. So it takes all of the self-restraint I've got not to mosh all over their tutued butts.

Anyway, I avoided ballet and took other things, and during one of my jazz workshops, we did a routine to Baby Got Back. And me and this other girl, let's call her Boob Talker, used to act out all of the spoken word stuff at the beginning. Because, let's face it: that spoken word stuff is snarftacular.

"Oh. My. God. Becky, look at her butt!"
"It is so BIG."

You're probably wondering why I chose the name Boob Talker, aren't you? See, I don't remember her name, which is pretty pitiful because we had a lot of dance classes together. The one thing I remember about her is that she had a tattoo of a wolf on one breast and the moon on the other. So one of her boobs howled at the other one. For some reason, that always freaked me out.

Not quite as bad as the one girl who intentionally wore her dance tights everywhere because they... er... gave her happy alone feelings. And then she'd talk about it constantly in the dressing room. Then one day I forgot my tights, and she offered to let me wear hers. Er... no. I'd rather wrap myself in toilet paper and duct tape, thanks very much.

I'm sure I'm going somewhere with this, but I have no idea where. I guess that the discussion points to this entry are that I've returned and dancers are strange.

Happy snarftastic new year, peeps. And take a word of advice from me: get your own damned tights.