The Simple Life?

Dear Katie,
The secret to Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, and Ashton Kutcher being famous is that they should be seen and not heard. Why on earth are both Punk'd and The Simple Life in production for another season? Please tell me. I need answers.
Love,
Brianna

Since you've (I've) been gone...

Dear Brianna,

Sorry it's been so long since I've written to you. It's been a little crazy here lately. I don't know if you heard through the grapevine, but I had to go home last weekend to visit my parents. Baltimore has quite a personality. I would write about my experiences on the train, but since you stole my thunder with your bigger and better transportation stories, I will write about something else. Something that may be a very big love of mine.....

COFFEE!

Everyone in the whole world knows I have an affinity for coffee, especially coffee of the Dunkin' Doughnuts variety. I just fucking love the stuff. When I'm on my death bed, pull that IV out of the medicine bag and shove it right into a nice large ice coffee with a little bit of skim milk and three sweet-n-lows; you'll only be doing me a favor. Jesus christ I love coffee.

I guess our love affair started my last year of high school when I learned that being awake at night was much more fun than being awake in the day time, and since I had to be up for fucking class at the unholy hour of 7am, coffee became a necessity. In college, I started staying awake until 2 or 3 in the morning, and waking up at 9am so the need for coffee rolled over.

On a slow day I'll have one (large) cup of coffee, and I can drink up to three on a good day. You'll know it's a good day (like today) when I speak really quickly, type insanely fast and shake a whole lot (usually my feet shake the most).

If I have a cup of Dunkin' Doughnuts coffee in my hands, it's a good time to approach me; I'll be in a good mood (even if I'm hung over! it's THAT magical!). That warm bean juice laced with cow secretions and artificial sweetener running down my throat just makes me want to scream in pure delight with every sip! It even still sounds appetizing after I described milk as a secretion! Ew!

It is my duty, as a full blooded coffee drinking American, to know where each and every Dunkin Doughnuts in my path is located. And, I truly do. I can list every Dunkin' doughnuts within thirty miles of my house back in Baltimore. I can also tell you that there is a Dunkin' Doughnuts/Baskin Robbins on 8th btwn 23rd and 24th, a plain Dunkin' Doughnuts on both 34th (btwn 6th and 7th) and on 23rd (btwn 5th and 6th). And yes, there is a Dunkin Doughnuts/Taco Bell on 8th ave btwn 36th and 37th. I only know of one where I live in Brooklyn, and it's at the Fulton Street Mall.

So, in conclusion, I have a problem. But, don't we all?

Love,
Katie

Mile High Club

Dear Katie,
As I write this, I am sitting in Laguardia airport waiting to catch a flight that will seemingly never come. When I first arrived, the flight was delayed by an hour. It’s scheduled departure time of 8 was pushed to 9 meaning that I had three hours to waste. After I waited an hour, an announcement informed me that the delay had been extended another hour, canceling out the time I had already waited.
I am hungry, and the airport is hot. If the airport is going to make you wait an extra two hours, the least they could do is provide air conditioning and a complimentary beverage, preferably alcoholic. The genius who designed this airport put all the restaurants and stores outside of the security lines, meaning that even if I was willing to buy something—a bottle of water, a soggy turkey sandwich, or an oversized bag of trail mix (each item priced at over ten dollars)—I would have had to do it before I checked in.
Once in the gate area, you are stuck in a vacuum of warm, recycled air, abrasive voices relaying bad news over tinny loud speakers, and pacing mothers pushing restless babies around in strollers. In the time it has taken me to write the last two sentences four people passing by have almost knocked my computer out of my lap.
I am trying my best to be positive and be in a good mood. Ashford and Simpson are playing on my Itunes right now, I might indulge in a trashy magazine, and a famous comedian (the one from Conan who was in the Asssscat special on Bravo) just walked by me. I see that dude everywhere, at the UCB, McManus, The Onion, something strange is going on. I digress.
So yeah. It is time to venture out of the gate area. If I ever get to Chicago, I will give you a call. If not, I will try to build a fort out of pillows by the Au Bon Pan stand and you can send a search party out for me. I am in terminal B fashioning an “I surrender” flag out of a white I heart New York t-shirt and an umbrella from The Hudson News shop.
Love,
Brianna

PS- I wrote this on Friday, and my flight home was just as bad.

London Calling, Speak the Slang Now

Dear Brianna,

I just want to start this post by letting our readers know that I suffer from a very serious disease. I don't want to bring the vibe down here, you know, but I feel like it's important that people in the world stay informed. Okay, so here goes.

I suffer from social retardation. Or, to put it in more politically correct terms, I'm socially inept.

Now, I know it's hard to admit things, but sometimes just saying it makes you feel better. "I'm socially inept!" "I'm socially inept!" "I can't hold conversations that don't turn painful at one point!" "I can't walk away from situations without feeling like I sound stupid!" "Sometimes I can't even look at people when I talk to them!" "I'm socially inept!" Feel better? Not me.

That's right, you heard me. I don't buy this bullshit. Sure, It's hard for me to exit situations with people without sounding/looking like an asshole. Sure, I look at people oddly when I don't know what to say. Sure, I fill sentences with phrases that are not necessary, and they just come off as sounding completely insane. Sure! But I'm human. I'M ONLY HUMAN! And I need your help.

I'm coming to terms with my disease, slowly. I've realized that it's better to fake a sore throat sometimes rather than talk. It's also helpful to pretend to read something! There is really only one known "cure" for this disease and it's very temporary (alcohol). The only way to live life and go on is to accept your disease and move forward with your life.

If you have an awkward conversation with me, it's not that I don' t like you, it's that I'm may be going through an episode, and I also don't trust you (that's another disease that I'll keep in my back pocket for another rainy day blog entry). Understand me, don't push me away! I'm a good huggerer! Yeah! Hold up the conversation, and somewhere along the line, I'll work it out! Promise! Embrace my diseasssseeee!

Love,
Katie

P.S
Say happy birthday to my mom!
53 years ago today, she made it happen for the first time.
Go Susan, Go!

Menime is Eminem Backwards

Dear Katie,
8 Mile, Eminem's biopic, is a fucking amazing movie. UPN played it to try and steal the Oscar's thunder Sunday night, and I wasn't even tempted to see who won best film because I was in the middle of watching the best film winner of all time.
Watching B. Rabbit, a thinly veiled Eminem, rap his way from being trailer park trash to trailer park trash who battles at underground clubs, was like following Odysseus on his quest to return home. I cried with B. Rabbit when his girl, played by an obviously anorexic Brittany Murphy, cheated on him with Poppa Doc, I laughed with him when he schooled Ice Cube in the factory commisary, and I feared for him when the Free World crew jumped him in front of his trailer.
The climax of 8 Mile is the final rap battle where B. Rabbit burns through the whole Free World crew with his tight rhymes, and only has to beat Poppa Doc to get the title. Not since Tiresias poked his eyes out in Sophocles's Oedipus, have I seen such a cathartic moment. B. Rabbit lays it all out on the line. Yes he is white, he is a f*ing bum, he does live in a trailer with his mom, and his boy Future is an uncle tom. He does have a dumb friend named Cheddar Bob who shoots himself in the leg with his own gun. He did get jumped by all six of those chumps, and Wink did F*** his girl, but he is still standing there screaming, "F*** the free world!" We can all take a page from Emin...I mean B. Rabbit's book. It doesn't matter what other people think. Be yourself. Don't make apologies. And all of your dreams will come true.
Love,
Brianna

I believe the children are our future

Dear Brianna,

This morning was totally worth waking up at the ass crack of dawn (7am). I don't think I've ever had such a generally fun show. And I wasn't even offended that they kept talking about how tall I am. And laughing about it. And then pointing and telling Kate how tall I am. Oh God, it's elementary school all over again.

I pretty much love kids. I still don't think I can handle having one of my own though. SCARY.

We're like fourth grade super stars! If I could go back to elementary school, I would have such a better time, this time around. Oh yes, this time around.

Love,
Katie

P.S.
they were quoting and recreating the scenes after they left the auditorium! Wow!