Meet Not Fanny Pack

I tried for several tender and frustrating minutes last night to upload all my pics from my mini vacay this weekend, all to no avail. My laptop wouldn’t recognize my SIM card, and I was supersuper frustrated. So, until I have time to stop being pissed off and try to figure it out, you’ll get a no-vacay post from the Briester. Stop your weeping, you guys are so lame.

First (and best) item on the agenda:

I have comprared a bag for my tubaliciousness! Behold. She is green and girly and cool and as un-fanny packish as possible. I have named her Not Fanny Pack. Guys, meet Not Fanny Pack, Not Fanny Pack, meet my peeps.

Isn’t she glorious? She’s been doing a great job, as you can see pictured here. She’s perched on my lap, tirelessly toting the life-saving liquid that, I’ve been told, will save my life. So as of right now, the tube is running about 16 hours a day. So, to do the math for you, that equals about 16 hours of suckfest in a day with 8 hours left over to dwell on the fact that the suckfest will begin again shortly. But Not Fanny Pack keeps cheering me on. She’s such a sweetheart.

I don’t have plumbing again. Guess who pees in blue paper cups? Oh, just me, just me! And, to be supercreepy gross, I’ll tell you that I can fill up TWO that I make Brandon throw outside. That’s more than 12 ouncers! But what can Tube Face say? The dripdripdrip makes me need to peepeepee.

So, in my mind, Thanksgiving is kind of a lame boner of a holiday. It seems like one of two things always happen on this holiday: I relapse, or something bad happens. I even blogged about it last year, but it was like a really depressing and weird post so no need to go back and read it, though I think the mere fact I’ve mentioned it will have several of you perusing through last year’s November archive.
Annnnywaaaay.
I don’t like the smell of turkey. It makes me feel weird. And the consistency of yams makes me want to yam them up. Cranberries (in ANY shape or form, including sauce) is only good to help ease a bladder infection, and that’s only if you’re humiliatingly desperate and are in a 3rd world country or like Siberia and don’t have access to a doctor. And call me a bahhumbugsuckface, but I’d rather just have it be any ‘ol regular Thursday. I really would. But Not Fanny Pack is encouraging me that this year will be devoid of any relapses or bad things occurring. She can also apparently look into the future, which is why I’m thinking the 30 bucks I paid for her was a damn good deal.

You can’t have her, ya jerks, so don’t ask. She’s mine!