the first rule of scrabble club, is that you do not talk about scrabble club

I am an idiot who deserves to be locked up one day in a padded room.
And I am totally cool with this conclusion to life. Do not, under any circumstances, ruin my fucking dreams.
Cartoons, rigid routine, arts and crafts, therapy and heavy sedation - can you say *Cherub Mecca Bliss* three times fast?

When I openly admit to you that I do things solely to amuse myself (bonus if any one of you is amused as well, but let me be honest about my true intention here), I do not think that most people really understand how far I will or have gone in order to laugh. The few that have been privy to my repeated nonsense (making Big Lebowski sock puppets, lighting stuffed animals on fire, creating fish slings for injured fish, taking polaroids in homage to Kevin Federline's masterpiece of a debut album release) truly understand because they, through some random act of late night insanity fueled scientifical mania idea hatching, were wrangled by guilt (I am good at guilting, even better when there is no real reason for to bestow the guilt) into coming along for the ride. Rides are fun. Just look at stupid dogs in cars (not that any of you are stupid, please, DOGS are all stupid but happy to ride in cars thats all I was trying to say, and damn it, NO arguments, this blog post is not about dogs or their intelligence quotient, we can verbally spar about that FACT later on) (ok, some of you ARE stupid but I love you any way) (not stupid like dogs though, they drool. fucking gross).

Your honor, The Prosecution would like to present Evidence A: My Underground Scrabble Club Facebook Profile.
So, today, I logged into my top secret Facebook profile in order to post a status update on the account, that no one but me will ever see.
Then I laughed. Ha. I just laughed again.

Last year, I created the profile with a few other friends because I liked to play Facebook Scrabble but for reasons I am unable to recall, this little bunny did not think merely playing was fun enough. I had to play in private under a secret name and anyone who wanted to play with me, had to do the same. Oh yes. I am not the only one, just the little man behind the curtain (don't ask for a brain by the way, we are all out).
But why should I not share? Why should this be private? BECAUSE I SAY SO!
I like private, which is why I blog in secret. I am ashamed of my brain.
*sniff*
Not really.
I dunno. I am weird.
I like Scrabble.
*sniff*
What?

[cue: bunny leaps out of closet dressed in orange striped shirt, wearing a pink florescent wig and brandishing a pelican]
For you who are bored. For you who have never done anything illogical just to amuse yourself. For you who like secrets. For you who are just fucking curious and might pee your pants otherwise.
For you, I resurrect this Retardedness of Tingly Grandeur (version 2) In the year of our Cosmos: 2010.
TA DA!
Come play in the sandbox with me.
I am openly inviting anyone who reads or one day happens upon this blog to join in.

All newly ordained 3rd graders: Here is what you do.
Using an anonymous email, sign up for Facebook under a made up name. Your new Underground Facebook Profile.
Be... creative.
Find and befriend me. Mary Jane Sprankles. You can actually find me listed as a friend on the xylem lagomorpha : wood rabbit Facebook page some of you have already "liked".

Keep in mind, there should be no visible links to anything representing actual you.
Don't befriend yourself or any of your friends, anonymity is half the fun.
Maintain character when leaving comments on my page or others.
And if you want to get your ass kicked in Scrabble, leave me a comment that you'd like to play.
If you are interested.

Or lock me up.
(see ya around)

Not THE Killers. Singular, as in Killer.

As if this month couldn't get any weirder.
Last week I received an email about an old online buddy of sorts, who used to blog alongside a few other tragically bent souls (including myself), every day on a social networking site called Tagworld.

Rewind: Takin' it back to ol' 2005, holla.
For a time, a handful of us who joined this site would chat, email, write, draw, paint, create and create and create ABC and XYZ, outdoing the next guy, nudging the next guy, challenging the next guy, onward, upward, let's see what else we can do. We uploaded photos, poetry, blogs, artwork, asked each others opinions and collaborated on as much as possible. It was one of the more creative times in my life. This wasn't Facebook where you knew who your "friends" were. It was a small site still in it's infancy and none of the people whose blogs I read every day, did I honestly, in real life, know. I liked that anonymity. With those of us on the same war path, there was a lot of communication outside of your normal comment and reply. Online identities to the wayside and you share more than ideas, you share names, hopes, dreams, secrets, personal information that you are sometimes surprised you volunteered to what is essentially, a stranger. I chatted in invite only groups, formed coalitions with other like minded individuals; exclusive clubs of fools. All of this interaction and after a time you get a sense of those you contact and who contact you every day. A type of friendship, one might say, develops.

A few times in my life, I have met some of the people that I began talking to strictly online. After Tagworld sort of fell apart, and this group of dedicated bloggers went their separate ways, I kept in contact with a few of the people I felt kinda lucky enough to have crossed virtual paths. Any of them I would have had lunch or dinner with had we ever been in each others time zones and five years later, I would still say the same thing. We still talk. We still talk about meeting.
Well. Maybe not now.

So, back to the email.
It wasn't from him, it was about him. The him who had been my buddy. At first I did not reply because after my other experiences communicating online (which were not sunshine and happiness but filled with intimidation, hatred, and anger) I tend to keep my distance and default to paranoia before I even get past the greeting portion of any new unprovoked letter.
Yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah NOTHING I thought I knew about this "friend" was any where near the truth for the entire five years we kept in contact as revealed in a short conversation I had with an actual friend of his who sent me the email.
But that's not the weird part.
First Degree Murder Charges. That's the weird part.
Rather than fluff about it anymore, I present to you ladies and gentlemen, the online buddy I thought I knew.

Mugshot

She was 15 weeks pregnant. I didn't even know he had a girlfriend.

For me, I think the creepiest thing about it all is that last week his Facebook status messages were about going to confession after 20 years of not stepping anywhere near a church. In typical me fashion, I joked about his moment being like Chunk from The Goonies movie; I even blogged about it, my image of his snotty nosed, whining to a penguin clothed Fratelli brother more than amusing.

I am not so amused anymore.
so. fucking. weird.