How’s it going internet?  Unlike Larry King, I am not retired.  I’m moving!

I wanted to take a minute to thank everyone that’s been taking the time to check out my blog.  I know you are all busy people and it means a lot to me that you would take the time to read what I have to say. 

I’m really excited to say that I’m moving to my very own site!  You can now follow me on:

www.dontmakethatface.com

I hope that you’ll take a minute to make the move with me. 

Thanks,

DMTF

I hate forwards for a couple of reasons. 

First, as I’ve said before, I’m extremely lazy.  If I open an email that is more than a paragraph long, chances are I won’t get past the first couple of lines before I’m scrolling to the end to see exactly what the point is. So, you can imagine the eye rolling and groaning that go on when I see that dreaded FW.  I immediately slump my shoulders, grab a cup of coffee, wrap myself up in my Wisconsin Badger snuggie and hunker down for the long read. 

Secondly, you read that right.  I have to read the blackhole waste of time bullshit message even though I’m 100% sure that it will have something to do with:

1. The sister of a friend of someone your aunt works with getting pulled over by an undercover cop who *gasp* is really a rapist (I’m pretty sure this was an episode of Cold Case).
2. Something about someone loving me so much that they had to include me in a group of 50 people they hope is having a good day (I was until I got your email). 
3. Some animated walking stick figure that has already traveled around the world 500 times and needs to be forwarded in order to continue (Your trip ends here, loser).
4. Animals Photo Shopped in people clothes with sayings like “I Hate Mondays” or ”Best Friends” (These just suck).

However, last night I got a FW message that really made me think:

Hello:  Its Me Jesus.  I will be handling your problems tonight.  I will be in control.

Send to 15 people and receive the biggest blessing tonight.

*Pause for reflection*

Ok, Jesus.  Just a few things:

1. You don’t have to introduce yourself.  I know who you are and I totally dig you.
2. I wonder if my spam filter is working, because I don’t remember giving you my email address.
3. If I promise to send this to 30 people can you get rid of FW emails?  Thanks.

My love for Prince goes way back.  When I was 7 I had an amazing babysitter.  She was probably way too young to babysit, but she lived across the street.  She was like the big sister I never had. She introduced me to all that was cool about the 80s, including the delicate purple flower known as Prince. 

I used to sit in the back corner of her room trying to make myself invisible, for fear that she would kick me out, as she and her friends Aquanetted the shit out of their perfectly feathered bangs, glossed their lips, popped their collars, bathed themselves in Babysoft and covered up their hickeys with foundation and toothpaste (one of many valuable lessons learned) all while listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album.  I can still smell the burned matches they used to melt their eyeliner.

Proof that she was totally awesome to the max cool?  This is the poster she gave me for my 8th birthday:

I was only 8, but I knew sexy when I saw it.  *Sigh*

I can’t tell you how many times I made out with that poster.  A typical make out session usually started like this:

Thank you for the flowers, Prince.  They’re totally awesome.  What’s that you say?  You think I’m prettier than Apollonia?  Why, thank you.   Would you like me to spray your bangs? 

So, you can imagine my dismay when I came across this recent picture of The Beautiful One serenading Leighton Meester.  *blink blink*

WTF??!!!!  Isn’t this chick in that Gossip Tree Hill Twilight Diaries show?  She wasn’t even born when I was fantasizing about riding off into the sunset on a purple motorcycle and changing my name to Nikki! 

A-hole.

Have you heard Oprah’s big secret?  Apparently, she has long lost siblings scattered across America!  As a matter of fact, one of those siblings was found in my backyard in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  Do you know what this means?  It means…I COULD BE RELATED TO OPRAH, BEOTCHES!!

You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of sitting in Oprah’s colorfully dressed, multicultural, attractive audience decked out in my Sunday best (white gloves, Easter hat, and patten leather purse on my lap included), hair ironed pin straight, and make up spackled on just so, anxiously awaiting for the show to begin. 

Well, my friend, no longer will I think that I have a better chance of being related to the Queen of Talk than I do of getting tickets to her show because, there is a chance that I might be related to her!  I can just see myself getting that golden ticket DNA test result:

Maury:   Let’s read the results.  In the case of 33 year old DMTF…… Oprah……….you ARE her sister!

Me:  AWWWWWWEEEEEE YEAH BOOOOOOYYYYYY!!  I TOLD YOU!  I TOLD YOU YOU WERE MY SISTA’!  THANK YOU JEEEEEEEEEESUS!!!!

No more 500 words or less bullshit essays on Oprah.com/tickets for this girl.  No siree. I’m getting my ass on ancestor.com and doing some serious research.  I’ll see you in a few months, Oprah:

P.S.  I hope I’m one of your favorite things.