Survival Kit: One Hairbrush, One Bobby Pin

I interrupt the regular programming of WYSNLYBTG, (my most wildly popular segment YET!) to bring you HUGE NEWS.

I'M A CELEBRITY.

Check it. My FIRST INTERVIEW!!!!

Not only was this interview done by someone that is actually ALIVE, but it's done by one of my favorite bloggers in the ENTIRE WORLD! And I would know about the ENTIRE WORLD because I travelled to Nepal, but NO ONE CARES SO WHATEVRRRRRRR.

Now that this interview has propelled me into insta-STARDOM, I decided that it's time I write some quality content.

That was a pretty funny joke, because I'm a TERRIFIC writer and God asked me last night IN PERSON if I'd rewrite the Bible in vernacular.

What did God ask YOU last night?

That's right.

NOTHING.

Do you know what I HATE?

When people don't tell you REALLY IMPORTANT THINGS that will directly affect you.

Yesterday, I got up at around eight thirty and proceeded to do my morning routine. Sacrifice a lemur at my Cher shrine, Swiffer the kitchen, the usual. I'm sitting in my bathroom shooting myself with the makeup gun when I hear the doorbell ring.

Yes, I do have a doorbell for my pothole.

Doesn't everyone?

Continuing.

I hear the doorbell ring and, as always, I don't answer it. Not because I HATE EVERYTHING, which I do, but because anyone who dares to ring my doorbell before 2 pm is worthless to me. It's either a mailman, a disgruntled neighbor inquiring about the recent disappearance of a pet lemur, or one of my pothole mates who forgot their key. Any way you cut the cake, YOU'RE NOT GETTING IN, fools.

So I ignore the doorbell and reload my makeup gun with more blush. As I pop open the chamber, I hear this horrible ripping sound.

Like, door ripping off of its hinges sound.

I'm a little scared. I wonder if my neighbor knows that I stole her lemur. But, come on, it's just a lemur. You can get them at Pier One, right?

Then I hear footsteps above me. My pothole has a main floor and a basement, and I'm in the basement.

FUCK.

Someone broke in to my house and THEY WANT TO TASTE MY BLOOD.

Remarkably, this is the first time that my life has ever been threatened. Hard to believe, but 100% TRUE. So in my panic, I start looking around for things that could potentially help me in a crisis situation. I run to my bedroom and stare at the fully functional Blackberry laying in the middle of my crumpled-up newspaper bed.

In this moment of dire straits, do I grab my cell phone? Do I decide in this adrenaline-pumped moment that I will grab the one item in my general vicinity that could help me contact the police and anyone that I care about?

Well, I don't really care about anyone. Except Cher. And she has my number blocked.

So do I grab my phone?

NO. NO I DON'T.

Do you know what I grab instead? When faced with potentially being mugged and murdered by a door-ripping criminal, I decide that the only two things I need to survive are...

A HAIRBRUSH AND A BOBBY PIN.

So I run out through my basement door, (yes, my pothole has a basement door because it's LUXURIOUS,) and I hop the chain-link fence in my backyard, (yes, my pothole has a backyard and it's DECADENT). I run out to my front driveway, (yes, my pothole has a front driveway and comedy comes in threes, so the parenthetical statements are OVER,) and I see two work trucks. But then I think about the scary segments I see on the news about home invasions and people posing as contractors and plumbers and shit to break into your house and ROB YOU BLIND!

You can't fool me, home invaders. I SUMMON THE POWER OF THE HAIRBRUSH AND THE BOBBY PIN FOR POWERS OF GOOD!

But then. I realize that my pothole mates were bitching about how the roof leaks, and how they were going to call a roofer to fix it.

Oh.

Oh.

...Oh.

So I scuttle off to my basement hovel and I have to climb the fence AGAIN. For the record, I hate climbing chain link fences. Also, I am barefoot. So the wire is digging into my skin and when I reach the top, I get this feeling of vertigo where I feel like I'm going to die when I jump down.

I climb the fence and walk barefoot across my pothole's lawn only to discover that my basement door locks whenever you shut it. Lo and behold, I've locked myself out of my pothole.

FUCK.

I climb back over the fence, barefoot, and have to ask the roofer assailants if I can borrow one of their phones so I can call my pothole mate and get a key into our Fort Knox POTHOLE.

After I make my lifeline call, I climb back over the fence (God damnit) and I realize that WE HAVE A DOG DOOR. So after about fifteen minutes of contorting myself, I manage to break into my house in the most shameful way possible.

Of course, all of this could have been avoided if SOMEONE HAD EFFING TOLD ME THAT OUR POTHOLE WAS GOING TO BE TORN APART AT NINE IN THE MORNING.

But hey, my hair looked RIGHTEOUS.

Lucy