Anime people have Otakon, comic book people have Comic-Con, and Xangans should have XangaCon (not to be confused with Xanga-cons, i.e. convicts who blog on Xanga). I think it would be a really convenient way for me to kidnap you all at once fun way to meet fellow hardcore Xanga users. And we can go dressed up as something Xanga-related in the same way anime fans wear cosplay outfits. I'd go as a bald, pantless, stick figure wielding a waffle cone and staring morosely at a scoop of pink ice cream on the floor. Totally badass.

Oh, but you know what would be an even better idea? Dressing up as the literal interpretation of our usernames. My costume would look like this:

Get it? I'm a 64-year-old bottle of Absolut vodka with wings! What hotness! I'd be putting the "sex" in "sexagenarian."

Of course, conventions are a lot more than dressing up in cool outfits...I think. I've never actually been to one, so I'm pretty much basing this entire entry on random Anime Expo pictures I found online. It appears that you can do other things besides taking a million group pictures, like visiting booths or participating in scheduled activities. I don't know what you guys would want at XangaCon, but I for sure want to see a musical reenactment of Xanga's history--with costumes and an orchestra. Ooh! And the opening scene of "The Lion King." How does that not make sense? Do you know that the Xanga people didn't go to Africa to celebrate Simba's birth? No, you don't, so sit yo' ass down!

You know, I might actually put up a booth of my own: an art exhibit for my awesome Paint pictures...? Seminar on blogging etiquette...? Teaching hot Xangans the joys of putting a chloroform-soaked handkerchief to their noses and waking up in my cave all naked and covered with nacho cheese...? (Sidebar: why do people call handkerchiefs "hankies"? Shouldn't it be "handkies" or "handies"? Whatever, perv! That's not what I meant.) Endless possibilities!

You guys would go, right? Forget for a moment that this is probably an elaborate scheme to get in your pants.

XangaCon! XangaCon!

 Does this look familiar to you?

I know you guys have all seen this kind of stuff before. Someone posts 100 pictures of themselves at a social event, with each photo showing the same people in the same poses except that maybe strands of their hair have shifted. And the massive volume of pictures slows down loading time so all you can see for 10 minutes are blank spaces in between captions--assuming you even wait that long. Whenever those ominous empty boxes appear on my screen, Death shows up and tells me that he's going to cut my life short since I'm obviously wasting my time. And of course I close the window immediately because, honestly, he's super ashy and the longer he sticks around the more skin flakes he drops all over my carpet. I keep telling him he is really nasty, but he'll just be like, "get a Dyson." And I'll be all like, "you get me a Dyson!" And then he'll be like, "I can't. I am still paying off my scythe." I knew this was going to happen. Death has really bad credit, but he still insisted on buying the expensive scythe--the one that Ron Popeil claims can "slash life and wheat with ease!" "I'm going to need this when I retire and start my dream farm." Retire? Hello! You're Death!

...Where was I going with that? That's right, another blogging etiquette lesson.

Lesson 3: Posting Pictures

Although I am a huge fan of words, I admit that there are moments where they are just not enough to convey thoughts. In those circumstances, then, it is acceptable and necessary to put up a picture or two to help illustrate whatever message you are trying to get readers to understand.

Unfortunately, your partying life is not such a message. It is pretty clear to everyone that you had fun at some party when you write "I had fun at some party." And yet you think it is necessary to put up hundreds of pictures of this party anyway.

Why am I singling out boozy party posts? Because those are the ones most likely to have a ridiculous amount of unnecessary pictures. Albeit I'm sure getting wasted with your friends was really fun for you, but viewing tons of pictures of you getting wasted with your friends is fun for no one. I understand that you might feel the need to give a shout-out to all your friends by putting up photos of them, but let's keep something important in mind: a picture is usually worth about 1000 words or so, right? So for every picture you put on your blog, you've added 1000 words, i.e., 3 single-spaced pages, to your post. That's a lot of stuff to expect anyone to get through.

However, you can showcase your photography without forcing it upon the rest of us by creating a photo album. I will use Xanga's feature as an example because that's the only one I know how to use...since I've been  to Xanga for years...*cough* badge me *cough* 

Click on that!

Wow!

You can thus create a photo album dedicated to whatever party you went to, and put all the pictures into it. Then just pick one or two pictures you really like to put on your party post, and include a link to the album for those who want to see more. People like me will thank you for keeping Death and his gross skin flakes away, and people who went to the party will thank you for showing them what happened after they passed out.

Some of you may have noticed that the little light bulb shows up next to my username quite often, and yet I have not posted a thing since Wednesday. That's because I am too busy looking at all your profile pictures and drooling over you sexy things. There are a ton of good looking guys and girls here, and I know you gorgeous Xangans are just dying for me to sexually harass hit on you--despite the wave of nausea you experience whenever you think about being the target of my PMS (pervert macking skills). You'll get over it eventually.

Unfortunately, it's a little difficult to showcase my smoothness when most of you are nowhere near me. It's not that I have a problem with traveling to your areas and showing up at your doors in the middle of the night with a nylon stocking over my head (keeps the mosquitoes away)--but I am a little sick of paying for airfare, flowers, and candy when all I get in return is a face full of bear mace. That's so uncool, you guys; regular pepper spray would have been just fine. And what the hell is up with bogarting the Russell Stovers but leaving behind the gross, nutty ones? Those are the worst!

Thankfully, Xanga has made jocking on you distant hotties easier by providing me with Credits to lavish and impress you all with. My theory is: since affection can be influenced by money, and Credits are like money, then I should be able to influence your emotions with Credits. In other words: I'll be big pimpin', spending C's!

There are two things you can buy with Credits: Minis and Premium. However, I am just going to stick with the Minis because giving Premium seems so...commitment-ish. You can't just drop 4000 Credits on someone and not expect them to interpret that gesture as a marriage proposal. The extra storage space alone is enough to make someone want to have your babies. Imagine what they'll do when they find out their sites no longer have ads and that they can upload 99 profile pictures! You're going to be featured on the next installment of MSNBC's "Lockdown" series: "Lockdown: Matching Baby Blue Tracksuits."

Anyway, in order to effectively use my Credits to buy attention from you beautiful bloggers, I shadowed nasty, old businessmen to see how they use money to entice younger lovers. The only rule is to blind prospects with expensive bling so that they no longer notice your liver spots or old man smell. This was actually Rule # 2, but it moved up to replace old Rule # 1: become governor and join the Emperor's Club. That one was tossed out for obvious reasons, i.e., it is way too hard to become a governor.

Applying this rule to Xanga, the first thing I must do is damage your eyesight with expensive Minis. I have already spent hours researching the entire list to find the ones that most closely resemble bling, and have come up with these options:

This one is gold and fairly shiny, and therefore constitutes bling. However, it only costs 5 Credits--that's not really going to help me blind you with my wealth. It might make it easier for you to ignore the shag carpet on my armpits, but not the crust underneath them. I can't just wash it away! That stuff is food for the microbes living on me! If I get rid of it, the colony will starve to death and I'll be a murderer. I don't want that on my soul.

I'm going to have to pass on this one too, because it only costs 100 Credits. That's not enough to get me any gold diggers. At most, I'll get a bunch of gold panners--and everyone knows gold panners are ugly.

Check out the shiny sparkles! This is so bling it's not even funny! And it's also the most expensive Mini available. Wow, just seeing it now makes me fall in love with myself! What sasquatch armpits? Those are tendrils of sex appeal!

Now I just have to infect you with the pink eye of love by going around to all your blogs and giving you this Mini. I probably won't have time to read your posts and give you any actual feedback because I've got a lot of sexies to visit. But I hope I don't give you a Mini on a post where it would clearly be inappropriate:

Hmm...yeah, I don't think anyone would find me attractive for that...

Once I'm done decking out your comment sections and making you hot for me, I'm going to feel you up:

(Where is that hand going?!)

And then I'll lose interest immediately after I have my way with you, and will leave you for another hot Xangan:

It's inevitable. But don't worry, cuties, you'll always have something to remember me by:

I used to think I had game, but that was until someone informed me that "your ass is grass" is not an effective pickup line, even when coupled with the Roger Rabbit or the Electric Slide. Wish I knew this before I spent 6 hours studying "Bring It On." Now what am I supposed to do with my awesome Jazz Hands skills?

Being unable to charm my way into a guy's heart without looking like a desperate loser or creepy pervert, I've had to rely on traditional methods--not the one where you knock guys out with a club because that just makes them angry when they regain consciousness. I'm talking about that other traditional method: good, old fashioned hotness. It's way more tedious, but at least I won't get sued again!

I work my physical appearance the way everyone else does: nice clothes and makeup. I might even take a shower if I'm really determined to meet someone. I generally enjoy making the most of my looks even when I'm not prowling for man meat, because I don't get to do it very often. Outside of school and the once-in-a-lifetime social outing, I remain indoors in my true form: wrinkly old bag. So it's really a treat to be made up; meeting a guy is actually just an added perk. 

When I am able to trap a guy, the dating part is always pretty fun. It's when we advance to boyfriend-girlfriend status that things get complicated. The transition is automatic and always, always, starts with a request for me to stop being hot. Even though my appearance is what brought us together in the first place, the first thing most of my boyfriends have tried to do was get me to stop taking care of myself. I call it "Girlfriend Uglification."

Girlfriend Uglification is practiced by douchie guys who believe they are unable to keep their girlfriends in the relationship, yet don't want to put in the effort to get her to stay. They instead use their energy to turn their girlfriends into frumps that no man would bother hitting on--thereby cutting off potential competition and further ensuring that their lazy, undeserving asses will have women who love them.

I have been uglified before, and it was horrible. But I gave in because my then-boyfriend admitted he was insecure and did not want other guys looking at me. I thought it was very sweet of him to be so honest--until I caught him checking out another girl. Oh hell no! I'm walking around the mall in this ugly ass burlap sack you told me to wear because you said it would put your mind at ease, and you have the nerve to look at a chick who I would be way hotter than if your testicles hadn't shriveled and died?! Looks like I get to make use of all the time I spent studying "Bring It On" afterall--because I am going to shove my fists up your ass and tear you open with my Jazz Hands!

Yes, I really hate Girlfriend Uglification. I already spend 80% of the year looking like a tore up banshee, so I've got to get my pretty on as often as possible during the remaining 20%. Plus, I know how this age thing works: I'm not going to have this body or face forever, and there is no way Botox will be enough to lift my raisiny body. Therefore, unless beauty trends change to where I'll be able to attract lovers despite my saggy, 84-year-old boobs and crap-filled diaper, the only way I will put up with Girlfriend Uglification is if the boyfriend cuts his nads off. You heard me: old bag + eunuch = love.

When I was 5 years old, I watched my neighbor's sister's friend's cousin's classmate's friend's acquaintance get trampled by an angry elephant. The experience was so traumatic that it prompted me to write a few sentences which will eventually go into my memoir--probably in the chapter where I talk about the time I flew into space in a cardboard box. I hope my story will help me make millions of dollars and give people advice on how to visit Saturn in a hobo's bedroom, or what to do when they watch someone get owned by an angry elephant.

Of course none of that stuff is true, but you no longer need to base a memoir--which is "an account of the author's personal experiences"--on personal experiences. Just ask James Frey (fake hardcore criminal), Laura Albert (fake tranny), Misha Defonseca (fake Holocaust survivor), and Margaret B. Jones (fake Bloods member). Fake memoirs are hot! Real ones are not!

No matter how lame these losers are, you have to give them credit for realizing that their lives were not worth writing about unless they included fantastic embellishments. If Mischa Defonseca wrote about being a Belgian Catholic whose parents were resistance fighters, i.e., her true life story, I'd be all like, "ew, yawn snooze!" Lucky for me, she instead wrote about her experiences as a Jewish Holocaust survivor who was adopted by a pack of wolves--much more entertaining stuff, and apparently highly believable because her "autobiography" has been translated into 18 different languages and made into a movie. Oh yeah, and she won $22.5 million dollars in damages after she sued her publisher for--get this--"willfully and knowingly [engaging] in unfair and deceptive acts and practices"! Talk about getting bit in the ass! Not only did the publisher find it realistic that this woman was roaming around with "friendly" wolves, it also has to pay her for such a stupid story! The woman's got balls of titanium! Where do I sign up for her fan club?

Just last week Margaret B. Jones, who wrote a book on her life as a drug dealer for the Bloods, admitted that she has zero street cred. She claimed to have grown up in the ghetto--when in reality, she was a Valley girl who was brought up by her wealthy, biological parents and attended some upscale private school. Now I might be wrong, but I don't think living in Sherman Oaks is the same as living in South Central L.A. But that's a non-issue; the real issue is: what the f*ck was she doing lying about being in the Bloods? You should not mess with gangs, people, just like you should not mess with elderly drivers, stressed out law school students, or people with explosive diarrhea. Definitely avoid the explosive diarrhea group because we will stomp you if you get between us and a toilet.

I wonder why these authors couldn't just call their fiction "fiction." Does it look bad if you write fiction? Is there a stigma? Do nonfiction writers get VIP rooms in strip clubs or something?

Or maybe the fake memoir people are like me, who sometimes get "fiction" and "nonfiction" confused--like the time I referenced "Jurassic Park" in my report on dinosaurs. I should have gotten an A on that one. It's not like anyone could prove velociprators didn't attack slow moving tour vehicles during the Cretaceous Period.

Xanga and I are celebrating our five year anniversary today--even though (1) Xanga probably doesn't know this, and (2) our actual anniversay date was January 31. I forgot my profile had that "Member since" thing, and was just going to go by the date of my first post--March 3, 2003 (it is long gone for your protection). But let's pretend I'm not an idiot so that I may still have something to write about.

My relationship with Xanga started five years ago. Most of my friends had been using it for awhile and they convinced me to sign up...which I did because I'm a conformist. I wrote a little here and there--sometimes pasting an entire AIM chat log, song lyrics, or my answers to a 100+ questionnaire--and left comments on my friends' pages. It was basically just that for the first few months.

Then one day while I was browsing some blogs, I read one of the worst works of prose ever written. It was saturated with boring crap like the stuff the writer had done, the stuff she had yet to do, and the stuff she was supposed to do but wasn't going to. And the freaking thing took forever to load because the writer put up a bunch of pictures of--oh hey! That's me! And me again! And me some more!

Do you hear that? That's the sound of the tsunami of shame that washed over me when I noticed that I was reading my own blog. I just had my ass handed to me...by me.

I was really embarassed. If I found my own writing to be stanky, then that meant everyone else thought it was a steaming pile of crap, and that I was the maker of that crap. And I really didn't want to be known as a crap maker--even though it is a natural bodily function--but the damage had already been done. And that left me feeling pissed! I spent the rest of the day in a really bad mood.

While walking to class I noticed a girl wearing a sun dress and Ugg boots. She looked disgusting, and I was so tempted to beat her down with some twigs--like a fat stack of twigs that would make me look really scary. But I couldn't get near her because she was too horrifying to look at. So I just went straight to my laptop and onto Xanga, and typed up an entry describing how much I hated Uggs. I felt much better afterwards.

After that I started using Xanga as a form of therapy, e.g., I hate PeOpLe WhO tYpE lIkE tHiS--must Xanga about it! This person's grammar and spelling deserves to be mocked--must Xanga about it too! And surprise! I loved ranting like a crazy bag woman way more than writing about what I had for breakfast. Sure, I knew complaining so much would make me look like Barry Bonds but I could get away with it because it was my Xanga and I do what I want! *snap* *snap*

It's been five years since I started Xangaing. Most of my friends have stopped using their accounts, and those who do only blog sporadically. A few have even sent me messages, telling me how surprised they were that I was still here. But I'll always be here. I paid $100 for Lifetime Premium, so I'm going to stay here until I die to get my money's worth!

Aside from that, I have known for awhile that there are very few things I am good at. However, this has never bothered me because being able to write somewhat decently made up for all my shortcomings. As long as I can keep doing that, then I'm okay with not being able to play sports or rinse my mouth with Listerine for the required 30 seconds (that stuff burns!). And Xanga has made writing even more worthwhile because it's connected me to people who actually like what I have to say. It's the best thing ever! And you guys are the best people ever!

So happy five year anniversary, Xanga (even though I'm the only one celebrating it and it's the wrong date)! May we have more great years together!

Today was one of those days where I could not remember how many friends I had or who they even were. When this happens, I usually sit and sigh, pull petals off a sunflower, maybe ask a bird--usually a crow because that's all there is around here--if there is such thing as a number one resource for wrestling games...to which the crow responds, "CAW!" and flies away. And then I go back to doing the things people typically do when they waste time lamenting over "Dawson's Creek" type issues, while a Nora Jones or Vanessa Carlton CD plays on repeat.

After being pathetic for several hours, I had an ephiphany! I know who will know how many friends I have and who they are! Friendster.com! Of course! Friendster is there for people like me, who have trouble remembering that they have five friends! It also lets me compare my number of friends to everyone else's number, because if I have more friends that tells the world that I am cooler and more fun to be around than they are!

I logged in and my memory was automatically refreshed! That's right, I only have three friends, not five. Thank you, Friendster! *thumbs up* 

And then I logged out of my account...only to realize that I hard forgotten how many friends I had again. I started to wonder: was it three or four? Five, six, seven...? And I kept wondering up to 116 until it occurred to me that...I didn't know what came after 116! Oh yeah, and I still didn't know how many friends I had or what their names were!

Suddenly, I felt something...*fart* And then I felt something else! Another ephiphany! Myspace.com also knows how many friends I have and what their names are! Because Myspace is available for people like me, who use Friendster to keep track of their friends but need another forum to keep track of their friends.

I logged in and saw I had--four friends...? That's odd; I could have sworn Friendster said I only had three friends. But apparently I have another friend--some pale pedophile-looking person named Tom. And...who the hell is he? More importantly, why is he on my Myspace page but not on Friendster? Why do I have one more friend here than there? I have to know, because if I can add Tom to my Friendster page, everyone will see that I have four friends and think I'm really popular!

There was only one way to find out...but what was that way...? What is the key to finding an answer to such a stupid question? I looked around my desk. It had been really messy since the semester started--with my textbooks piled on and my makeup mirror randomly lying there...

Hmm...

Mirror...face...books. Mirror...face...books. Ah ha! Mirrorfacebooks.com! No, that's wrong. I mean, Facebook.com! Yes! I will log into my Facebook account, which is yet another website devoted to helping people keep track of their friends! And even though it is exactly the same as Friendster and Myspace, it's still useful in situations like mine--where remembering how many friends I have is so impossible that I need three separate accounts on websites that all do the same freaking thing. It's not redundant at all!

I logged into Facebook...there, I found my answer...