Murder Bry Wrote

As I was driving home tonight, I decided that the Fourth of July is really a good day to do some murdering. Think of all the havoc one could wreak just as the loudest boom of fireworks goes off. 


These are the things I think about. This is why you love me and are mildly scared of me.


Everyone at work tonight was talking about these two things:


1. Andy Griffith died. 
2. Alec Baldwin said some really crazy things in Vanity Fair. 


The first, that Andy Griffith died, is sad. The second, unsurprising.


Most specifically, Alec Baldwin said of a paparazzo, "I wanted to stick a knife in him and gut him and kill him and I wanted him to die breathing his last breath looking into my eyes."


Obviously, Alec Baldwin didn't do this and that is just some good old fashioned Irish rage talking. But his thoughts make me feel better about my dark thoughts. 


I do love Alec Baldwin. In fact, a few weeks ago at trivia, our quiz master asked for some suggestions for trivia topics and I said "Alec Baldwin" and she said "Who?" and I sad "ALEC BALDWIN!" And she said "No one cares about Alec Baldwin." To which I wanted to respond, "Fuck you? And people care about 80s butt rock, cartoons, and candy?" Because terrible music, cartoons, and candy seem to be the theme of trivia every week, which is sort of infuriating. 


But whatever. 


My point here is that as long as one does not act on them, it is okay to occasionally have dark thoughts. It is a creative mind at work. I don't think these thoughts because I want to follow through with them. I think these thoughts because I want to write a book about them. And because I watch too much Criminal Minds. 


A few days ago I was driving home and saw a city vehicle pass by. The side of the car said "Forensic Services" and I literally almost peed my pants. I wanted to follow the car to the crime scene and ask a lot of questions, chief among them, "Do you know Dr. Spencer Reid?"


The truth is that I could never murder someone because I think disposing of the body could take a lot of energy and I'm actually pretty lazy (shocker) and dislike guns, digging holes, lifting concrete, and duct tape. Remember this should you ever be called to testify in my defense. 

I threw in this picture of Alec Baldwin because he was very handsome at age 26 and I could forgive him anything. Actually, I could forgive him anything just for taking Liz Lemon under his wing, but being extremely handsome does help. 


I am not extremely good looking. On occasion, I can be mildly clean looking. 


Several people told me I look pretty today, but I don't care because I don't want to sleep with any of them. They probably only said I look pretty because I'm wearing a clean shirt and some free make-up. Also, I've really perfected the sexy tousled hair look and I will tell you how to achieve the same look. 


1. Don't wash your hair for several days even if you take a shower (it is really tiring to shampoo). 


2. Don't brush your hair for several days and hope all the snags work their own way out. 


3. Wear your hair down because you can't find a hair tie. 


4. Drive to work with the windows all down because it is hot as balls in your car and there is a suspiciously moldy smell wafting about. Try to hold your head against the headrest so you can maximize the cross-breeze. 


5. While trying to find a toothpick in the center console, pull out a scuffed up, black and white polka dotted headband and decide that will work to keep your bangs out of your face. Boom. You're done. 


I give you this advice because I love you and want you to look your best, too. And I promise you now, I will never stick a knife in you. 

My inner-thoughts and ways in which I'm a creeper.

Yesterday at work we were talking about the serial killer house, which naturally segued into talking about the Tom Waits songs "Don't Go Into that Barn" and "Murder in the Red Barn".

We sat for a time talking about the lyrics. And then I had terrible flashbacks to high school English with  Mr. Woods. Every Friday we would listen to songs and then talk about what we thought the lyrics meant. I remember we analyzed Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit," Metallica's "Enter Sandman," and Matchbox 20's "3 AM." Some really profound music, for sure.

It doesn't take a sophomore English teacher to decipher Tom Waits lyrics. It takes drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

Sometimes when I'm listening to Tom Waits, I think he sounds like a 40-year smoker on LSD. He sings about some weird shit. I can totally see him as the kid in fifth grade that smelled like pee and sat in the back row, drawing pictures of death on graph paper. But then that smelly kid grows up to write songs about all the weird dreams he used to have.

One of my favorite Tom Waits songs is "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought Six". I like all his songs about crows, like "Shiny Things." Crows. I want to get a crow and keep it on a leash.

One day I was pulling into the Starbucks drive-up and there was a crow in the way. I knew he would move, being squished by a car would seriously hinder the crow's ability to eat puke, and crows love puke. IK was in his car seat in the back and saw the crow but didn't see it hop out of the way.

"You ran over that crow!" he shouted.
No I didn't. He moved, see. I pointed to where the crow was back eating piles of junk off the asphalt.
"Oh." IK was quiet for awhile. "What do you think is inside of crows?"
Candy, I told him.

A little 3 year-old Tom Waits in the making.


I've developed a mild fascination with crows and I think my spirit animal is the crow. I don't know this in some sort of official capacity. I mean, if you want a spirit animal, shouldn't you just pick it yourself?

Crow. I'm going with crow.

I was mildly curious about how one figures out which animal is their spirit animal and turned to the Native American mystic know as Google to figure that out.

Step 1. Google "How do I figure out what my spirit animal is?"
Step 2. Pick the first search result that doesn't appear to have been written by toddler.

According to wikihow.com, a website that I believe is maintained by Viagra ad copywriters, there are nine easy steps to finding your spirit animal.

Nine steps! That sounds like a lot of work. I like my process a lot better. Step 1. Pick whatever you want to be your spirit animal.

Actually, I do know how you pick your spirit animal. You get really high and sit in a darkened, incense and candle infused living room, meditating and periodically banging on a deer skin drum while a cynical and sarcastic teenager looks on in disbelief. I know this because I was a cynical and sarcastic teenager and I grew up in Montana where people do a lot of weird shit.

Tom Waits had this to say about crows, in a NY Times article from last fall.

Crows…they say if you can find a wounded crow and nurse it back to health it will never leave you. I’m always looking for limping crows. I’ve even considered wounding a crow then, like a doctor – they break your leg and then fix it, just to have your business. I saw a crow building a nest, I was watching him very carefully, I was kind of stalking him and he was aware of it. And you know what they do when they become aware of someone stalking them when they build a nest, which is a very vulnerable place to be? They build a decoy nest. It’s just for you. So that you think, well, that’s where he took the gum wrapper. That’s where he took the sticks. That’s where he took the tinfoil. But the nest is somewhere altogether different that you’ll never know about. That’s a form of intelligence that’s very curious.

And I also think someone would be real scared of you if they saw you walking down the street with a crow on a leash.

What was I saying about people from Montana doing weird shit?

Regrets, schmagrets. And all that jazz.

They say don't make any big decisions after eating breakfast.

Okay, only I say that, and it is pretty true. You have a window of clarity between waking up and eating breakfast and then after that the day can go all to hell.

Which is why, after eating some hard-poached eggs and toast, I did something I will probably regret for the next six months.


Here is a photographic hint.

Remember how I always tell that one story about cutting my bangs to look like Janeane Garofalo's in Reality Bites?  Or about watching Kill Bill in the middle of the night and then cutting my bangs to look like Uma's?  No? Well those two things happened.

And then this morning, after finishing my poached eggs, I got up from the table and I walked with purpose into the bathroom and lopped off three inches. I can't explain the steps I made in between  eating and the bathroom. I kind of feel like Lorena Bobbitt, suddenly there was a chunk of hair in my hands.

I said a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs, a bangs, bangs, bangity bangs!

Now here is the real question. What should I do with my hair? I kept it in a sandwich bag.

How weird would it be to use it in a craft project?

Should I:

1. use my bangs in an art project?
2. throw them away?
3. mail them to an ex-boyfriend with a note saying "You're next."

Is there a non-profit group dedicated to the re-hairing of Barbie dolls? Perhaps you have a bald Barbie and would like my chunk of hair so you can make a wig.

Speaking of health and beauty, I got a mani/pedi today and the aesthetician kept showing me the skin she scraped from my feet and the cuticles she cut from my fingers.

Thanks lady, for making me make me feel worse about my manly size 11 feet. And when she gave me a massage, which consisted of beating my legs with her fists, she stopped and said "Strong legs? Very Strong." Then she mimed walking by moving her outstretched palms up and down. Like a horse. I'm surprised she didn't offer to shoe me.

But my hooves do feel silky smooth and look mighty fine.

New bangs and fancy phalanges. What will I think of next?

Wherein Bry is just happy to be alive.

Here is a story to prove how much you love me, because I am the only one who will tell you stories like this.

Yesterday I woke up at 5am and the first words out of my mouth were "Mother fucking son of a bitch."

I have spelled out the full swear rather than masking it with one of these, $@*!, because I want you to feel the full force of my dirty, Orbit-less mouth.

See, it was 5am. And in order for me to get to work by 6am, I have to be in a carpool exactly at 5am and the carpool doesn't wait.

So other than being more than an hour late (not an option when it is your job to let everyone in), I would need to take a cab. I called a cab and then took a three minute shower, dressed, and grabbed my bag. I then proceeded to wait for 25 minutes and was about to call a rival cab, when the driver showed up.

Right from the start, he was a real charmer. As if it were my fault that he was late. That he was now going to be late getting the car back and would probably be fired. That, Holy Crap!, we have been driving for five miles and the meter is not running!

Not to mention the lethal speeds he was traveling at, weaving in and out of traffic.

And not to mention complaining about the distance and asking if he could drop me closer.

"With all due respect Sir, I said up front I was going to Lake Oswego and you accepted the fare."

And then he almost hit someone. Rather than being concerned about the person he nearly ran off the road, or me as his passenger, he asked "How much further? Where can I drop you?"

At this point, I could see work in the distance, and we were near the shoulder of the exit I needed, so I said "Drop me here." And he did. No questions asked. No "But ma'am, we are on the freeway!"

I threw a wad of $5s over the seat, which I thought was $15 but was only $10 (I found another $5 when scrounging up money for coffee). Really, I should have paid him zero. The actual cost would have been $30, so he got screwed in the long run. Not to mention that he probably lost his job when I called to complain later in the afternoon.

But wait! The story isn't over.

As I'm walking down the ramp off the freeway (a gentle slope, not an actual ramp), a car pulls over. And it is TS.

I get in and he is shaking his head. This is what he told CPR later:

"I was driving down the freeway and I see a cab pull over and someone gets out. I think who would get out of a car on the freeway? And then I realize it is Bry."

Later I told my boss, "You will probably hear this rumor that TS found me on the side of the freeway this morning and I have to say it is true. I'd like to say this sort of thing never happens to me but that would be a lie."