Apparently this stuff has been around for a while, but this was the first I’d heard of it. Naturally I had to check out the ingredients, and it does, in fact, contain actual animal placenta. Gag. I’m all for earthy, hippie concoctions (ask my old roommate about the summer I traded in my shampoo for a baking soda and vinegar regimen that left my hair…pungent. And none too silky.) But this I just don’t know about. I’ve witnessed the birthing of kids (goat, not human) and it ain’t pretty.

At least it’s only 98 cents; I mean, if you’re going to get in the habit of rubbing afterbirth all over your scalp you might as well stick with a brand that’s easy on the wallet.

Before you all start hounding me for more information (good grief, the mail bag has been soo heavy lately, all these fan letters, gift cards, tickets to hockey games, handpainted porcelain teacups and other tchotchkes [love using that word], family heirlooms, you readers just don’t know when to stop!) I’ll answer the questions I’m sure are at the forefront of your minds so you’ll understand how I came to be lying on a bed in section 1  of the donor floor trying to look anywhere but at the needle in my arm and the bad Jennifer Lopez movie on the television in front of me.

What on earth has driven you to the point of desperation that you’re willing to sell your plasma? I’m going to Africa this summer for 3 months that I can tell already will be revolutionizing. This is costing several George Washingtons  Ben Franklins Grover Clevelands (yep, definitely had to look that one up) and let me tell you, I haven’t climbed too many rungs in the corporate ladder since my days as Service Desk Worker Girl and Nanny Anna. But I’m not taking the typical fundraising routes; oh no, no lemonade stands or car washes for me, I’d rather pawn some of my intercellular fluid.

Are you going to do it again? Yes, tomorrow in fact. And according to one handout, if I can gain 11 pounds in the next 24 hours I’ll qualify for the 825 ML group!

Do you recommend becoming a plasma donor? It’s a great way to meet people, enjoy a snack, and be tested for HIV–all for free! What’s not to love?

Did you feel a sense of pride thinking of the people you’ll be helping? I’d say it was more a sense of…wooziness. Actually I felt fine the entire time. I may have felt a bit accomplished upon noticing the clever/cheesy banner that pretty much summed it up: “Coagulation! You’re a donor.”

It’s been the first summer in 17 years that I haven’t had to go school supply shopping.

It’s been the first time in 4 years that I’ve lived with my best friend, who also happens to be my sister. (She now lives a few streets down from me in a freshman dorm with her crisp comforter and blank notebooks. It’s been a summer of “news” and “firsts” for her too.)

It’s been a summer of saying goodbye to some wonderful, unique, and utterly irreplaceable friends as they move far, far away to places with as much as 13 hours’ time difference.

It’s been a summer of several weddings and a funeral, too.

Hello, adulthood. Here so soon?

(But not really.

Because my pitiful, thrift-store bed frame collapsed this morning after bravely trying to withstand a little too much jumping yesterday afternoon.

Because I went to the bookstore in search of The Confessions of Augustine and The Iliad and returned with an armful of picture books about princesses and baby kangaroos and a boy with bananas in his ears.

Because I had apple pie for dinner instead of vegetables and stayed up watching Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium instead of turning in at a decent hour.

Because my room is an absolute mess and I don’t feel like cleaning it.

Because I couldn’t resist a trip to my favorite playground tonight even though I was in dressy clothes.

Because I’m resigned to being a 22 year old on the outside but a 7 year old at heart.

Because it’s just more fun.)

To my vegetarian readers: it’s been real. I completely understand if you can’t stick around because of your personal convictions over this post.

To the rest of you: I’ve never considered myself to be overly carnivorous. Yes, I eat meat on occasion but I never buy it or cook it myself. Ask any of my roommates, current or former: I live on Kashi and Rice Dream. Which is why it’s so strange that of late all I can think about is…Beef Jerky.

Oh mylanta. Past chocolate cravings that I thought were intense are nothing compared to this newest obsession. I’ve been having to tell my friends about it to account for my car’s peculiar smoke-house scent and the various half-eaten bags of Jack’s Links littering the floor. They laugh me out of town. And then find themselves suffering from the very same cravings hours later.

I won’t be surprised in the least if one of these nights I find myself dancing with life-size, stringy pieces of meat in my dreams, riding a carousel with my new Oh Boy! Oberto BFFs, weaving daisy chains and laughing uproariously with a fine looking hunk…of beef.

I now keep dental floss in my glove compartment in case I’m suddenly struck with a craving while on the road. Is it an expensive habit? Shoot, yeah. I’ve tried switching to turkey jerky and the more exotic beef-and-ostrich variety as an attempt to go cheaper and healthier, but there is no substitute. A girl’s gotta have her 100% beef.

Teriyaki flavor is rather repulsive to me, and the peppered variety, although tasty, still doesn’t hold a candle to the good old original.

Am I iron deficient? Perhaps. Am I going through a rapid growth spurt at the age of 21 years, 11 months and my body is desperate for protein? Not likely. Will I one day run my own cattle ranch and smokehouse in the middle of Montana so I will never find my cupboards devoid of my favorite snack? It’s becoming more and more possible with each passing day.  

So what does this mean for the blog, you ask? Will I completely cut out other topics and devote it to my findings as a budding beef jerky connoisseur? Will I pawn my beloved Jorge in order to support my habit? Will my pitiful photography skills become even more pitiful when I begin posting pictures of me and beef jerky at the bank drive through, me and beef jerky at the movies, me and beef jerky at DollyWood Splash Country?

Time will tell, readers. Time will tell. For now, thank you for allowing me write 467 words on this ridiculous topic. And now that it is nearing the hour of my evening meal I can say with confidence, beef jerky: it’s what’s for dinner.

(Awww!!) He has one brown eye and one blue eye and is currently teething so he likes to maul my arm. But what’s a little blood and a few hundred scratches when you have an adorable baby boy to clean up after cuddle with? Besides inflicting pain with his new fangs he enjoys belly flopping off the couch, dragging around dead birds outside, and turning a cold shoulder to the pricier chew toys provided by his owners to spend hours with his favorite plaything, Mr. Plastic Bottle Cap. The puppy still doesn’t have a name, though, and that’s where you and the handy poll feature come in.

2. Be understood over the phone, even when speaking in plain English.

3. Taste.

4. Smell.

5. Breathe.

6. Sing. Not that I could do that before I got sick.

However, my intention wasn’t for this post to be a downer, so I’ll count my blessings and be glad I don’t have a flesh-eating bacteria invading my body. And that I can still drink out of my favorite giraffe mug.

Iluvatothem asks: “What did you have for lunch today?“

Let’s see, upon returning from class I foraged for a few minutes and realized my lunch options were limited to

a.) popcorn

b.) hot cocoa mix

c.)  ramen noodles

So I settled for the latter, adding an egg for a little pizazz. I’m proud to report that the smoke detector did not go off once. Probably because the batteries in it are dead.

Mallory wants to know: “Did you manage to have a fairly decent Valentine’s Day in spite of the fact that you have no significant other, have never had a significant other, and currently have no prospects on the horizon?“

Thank you for your concern, Mallory. I actually had a wonderful Valentine’s Day. It’s like I was telling my roommate: I am not a secretary, nor do I have a secretary, but do I feel left out on Secretary’s Day (now known as Administrative Professional’s Day)? Of course not. Neither do I begrudge the secretaries their recognition that one day out of the year. Likewise, on February 14 I feel no bitterness, only anticipation for the 90% off candy sales we can all enjoy the following week. Of course, if someday a handsome bohemian man with hair like long twisted ropes were to sweep me off my feet with his strong arms, I might find this time of year even more enjoyable.

koolhippiedude24 writes: “Anna to the Max, you sound like the girl of my dreams. How does a future traveling the country in a sweet Volkswagen camper sound? We could live simply, being completely self-sufficient with a thirst for adventure and the open road. Eventually we could settle down in a quaint log cabin (built by moi, of course) with a massive waterpark in the backyard for the dozens of foster children we’ll take in. Hope you won’t be disgusted by my rockin dreadlocks and really toned biceps. P.S. I, too, have a pipe, also not for drug or tobacco use. Cause drugs are not kool.”

Unfortunately, koolhippiedude24, you spelled cool with a “k” twice, and that really gets on my nerves. Sorry, but you lost your chance right there. Which is too bad because everything you described is what exactly what I’ve been dreaming of. Ah, well. C’est la vie.

anna_fanatic says: “Anna to the Max, I am naming my first woman-child after you.” 

Why, thank you, anna_fanatic. I am utterly speechless. That’s all we have time for today, but keep those questions coming, readers; your feedback is always appreciated.

_______________________

*Ok, I don’t actually have a mailbag because I don’t actually get mail. But there’s no harm in practicing for when I do.

Have a pleasant day!

“Sure,” says I. “Let’s get something light and comedic.”

30 minutes later we were popping in ”Paranormal Activity.”

I do not do scary movies. The creatures from “The Village” have left me permanently scarred with an aversion toward hooded cloaks and the color red, I’ve never watched “The Sixth Sense,” and the trailers alone for “The Grudge 2″ made me want to cry.

I begged Roommate to get anything but that movie. “Imagine That”? Sure. I can stomach a little Eddie Murphy now and then. “The Proposal”? Why not. It’s been a while since I’ve given in to viewing the latest ridiculous rom-com. “Princess Protection Program”? Absolutely! Anything to keep me from losing sleep and jumping everytime I hear the neighbor’s creaky floor.

But my pleas were ignored, as was my Chinese textbook as I inched closer to Roommate and our spooky-movie-loving friend Moolina. (Why do all my friends have such bizarre names?)

Oh I’ll admit, I laughed through the first 45 minutes of the film. A home video picking up a few faint thudding noises? Please. I almost felt demeaned having to sit through such nonsense.

What a fool I was. Girl going into zombie mode + demon voice +crawling scene near the end = no zzz’s for me. I barely moved all night and dared not look at my phone lest it say 3:15 a.m. For those of you who haven’t seen it, the alternate ending is none too cheery either.

I need to go purchase a nightlight now, so I bid you adieu.