I was born Katie Schwartz. I know there others out there, thanks to Google and not being retarded.

For years, I have been dying to talk to other Katie Schwartz’s to find out if we have any commonalities. I’m curious, okay?!

Don’t you wonder if people who share your name also share your likes and dislikes and if there are similarities between you? I do. I’m freakishly inquisitive by nature and about this.

I friended (as of this evening), 30 Katie Schwartz’s on Facebook. Only two have accepted my request, argh. I’m hoping more accept. Below is the questionnaire I’m going to send them via Facebook.

Is it too over the top for an introduction? Should I consider foreplay, like “Hi, how are you, nice to meet you.” and stop there to wait for a response before delving into the below Q’s?

1. Is your given name Katie Schwartz?
2. How old are you?
3. Where did you grow up?
4. Did you move around a lot as a kid?
5. Are your parents married or divorced?
6. What do you do for a living?
7. How many siblings do you have?
8. What’s your favorite color?
9. Do you have nightmares?
10. Do you like dark comedy?
11. What’s your sexual orientation?
12. Did you ever have feathered hair?
13. Is your hair dark or light?
14. Is your hair naturally curly or straight?
15. How tall are you?
16. Are you thin or chunky but funky?
17. Have you struggled with weight during your life?
18. Do you have a thyroid disease? If so, what kind?
19. Do you have a genetic autoimmune disease?
20. Where is your family originally from?
21. What religion were you born into?
22. Is your family loud and gregarious or quiet?

If anyone has any suggestions, by all means, toss em’ my way.

If you’ve been following my twitter stream, you know about the break in. If not, keep reading.

Let me begin by saying, you know you’re an addict when…

1. You wake up at 4 AM and realize you’re out of fucking coffee. Your mind feverishly races.
   1. You curse yourself and everything else out.
   2. The desperation to smell rich, butch coffee percolating is so intoxicating that you’d blow a homeless person; allow Satan to anally rape you and promise to deliver a quality spawn a la Rosemary’s Baby, but way more 2.0; stop writing and become a grave digger.
2. You clumsily grab your things, a la pachinko ball style; hoist hooters into bra check, pee check, pocketbook check, keys check-ish.
3. As you exit your apartment locking the door behind you, you realize you took the wrong fucking set of mother fucking keys. You’re locked out of your house and the building, should you leave. You don’t have your car keys and you left your Blackberry in the friggin’ house.
4. It’s pouring rain, not drizzling; torrential beads of rain are pounding the building and bouncing off of cars. This does not deter you, you just need a plan.
5. You exit the back door of the building and place a mat between the door and the lock, so you can re-enter if your dumb ass idea fails.
6. You make your way into the dirty, knee deep in mud, bug laden pathway between your building and the one next door. Once there, you try to figure out which apartment is yours. At 4AM, who thinks clearly?!

Fortunately, I keep all of my windows open. After fondling screens that seemed to be mine; once I hit window, I realized; like a schmuck, I almost broke into my neighbor’s apartment.

Clomping through the mud, more window fondling, and I was outside of my living room, the most reachable window in the joint. I’m a Jew x 4 = fat. Still. I couldn’t maneuver myself into the window without assistance. And, and, and, I had to remove the screen. I don’t usually carry screw drivers in my pocketbook. I did what any girl at 4 AM would do; I tore the screen open with my key and determinedly yanked the screen off the wall so hard, I fell backwards into the mud fab. At least I was able to hurl my pocketbook through the window.

I trekked through the mud looking for wood to create a pile in front of my window, so I could reach it. More rain, more mud, a shit load of heavy ass wood and I thought I had the perfect pile. I kept trying to reach—bupkas. During one attempt, I managed to get my bra stuck on two nails as I slid back down, so did my titskas, out of my bra and towards my waist.

40 minutes later, I was almost there, I just needed something to make my pile taller. I walked all the way back to the entrance and found a multi-gallon thing of white paint. That thing was so fucking heavy. I dragged it and myself through the mud to my wood pile, what fun! Once on top of my sorry ass pile of wood, it was precarious at best and reeked of, if I fall, it will be on a nail that pokes a vital organ.

Would a crack addict give up? No. I was staying the course. After a few botched attempts, I was in the perfect position to jump through the window. Picture it—a fat chick soaring through a window with the grace of an elephant stampede.
I didn’t think the landing through, shit I didn’t think any part of this debacle through. I landed on my head on the hardwood floors. I digress… fab.

One would think that I’d give up, right? Wrong. Or, at the very least, assess the damage to the window and oneself. I grabbed my bag; the right set of keys and went straight to the car.

At the GroSto, I bought three things of coffee. Nobody said jack shit, so I figured I must not be as muddy as I thought I was.

HA. After I got home, I went to the bathroom and found globs of mud on my face, strewn through my hair and all over my sweatshirt. The GroSto peeps probably thought I was high, or blew the aforementioned homeless man in the mud.

Nobody called the police. I was simultaneously relieved and disgusted. If I was a robber, evidently, I was a shitty one considering I was louder than a crane falling on a building. What if someone was trying to bust in and kill me, what then?! Have we devolved into a society that doesn’t bother to see what’s going on? Conversely, I was thrilled; getting arrested for breaking and entering at the crack of dawn wouldn’t have gotten me any closer to that fucking cup of coffee (@JoeTheCop, can you be arrested for breaking into your own house?).

PS: I still don’t know where the other set of keys are, which is probably for the best, and I destroyed my window.

As we’ve discussed, blogs are one-part confessional and another part… well, whatever we want them to be, right? This would be the one-part confessional.

7-days into 2010, is akin to having my head shoved up geriatric, hemorrhoid addled, musty smelling rectums. Like a famished dog, I’m waiting for the moment when embracing the New Year washes over me, igniting feelings of hope and enthusiasm for what this year will bring. So far, I’m disgusted, outraged, irked, nauseas and overwhelmed. I’d rather vomit then wake up to another shit10 day.

I thought the last decade was the worst of my life and it was. My biggest fear is reliving that debaclecade over. So far so good, huh?! I digress… Trying to stay positive is like asking a born again Christian (not a Christian), to accept other religions or watch Sarah Palin talk, or watch an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. What’s not painful about that? You don’t want to see it or do it, but you kind of have to. Of course, you keep your vomit bucket within arm’s reach. Still.

I hate people. I hate how shitty many people have become. I hate how disillusioned I am about certain people. I know better, yet the blow is still a hard one to take. Slamming my head against the wall won’t help, I tried. Kidding.

A fight broke out this afternoon in the building next door to me – girl-on-girl – I know, straight peens are jerking off at the idea of a crotch fight. Anyway, they’re sisters (I realize this is hotter for the straight peen reading this blog. Calm yourselves). Their fight was over their mother’s Will when, when, when she’s dead. The broad still has a pulse. Dude, seriously?! They were screaming like greedy whorellas, slamming doors and hitting each other. WOW. Disturbing, no?

Drivers have lost their ever loving minds. While plodding along, minding my own business, they cut me off and curse me out for being in their way. Nice. Real classy. Being called an (unjustified) cunt makes a lot of sense.

Not one person I know and love isn’t struggling or hurting, or frustrated, or revolted. It kills me. What can I say? Find a bridge and do the drama diva swan dive. I’m drowning myself. Who isn’t?!

At my last doctor’s appointment for my lady balls (blurred vision, double vision, I can’t fucking see without tinted or super dark glasses), my ophthalmologist’s prescription, I kid you not, was “Be positive”. I told him, “You might want to turn off your tape recorder now,” and proceeded to tear his ass gland wide open. I’m sure there’s room for new tent cities should anyone need to resurrect one.

Life is shit. And, no, a pulse isn’t enough.

On that shituation of a note, let’s discuss the lame ass emails I keep getting. Why not, it’s entertaining.

Someone signed another Katie Schwartz up for Twit with Ease; that was nice. Being a 140 character addict, I can see the menschiness of that act. I just feel bad for the other Katie Schwartz. I’m also curious as to why we have similar email addresses. Don’t mimic Jew x 4.

Caitlin keeps emailing me. Her last email was really short and to the point “Jocelyn”. Super informative, right?

Someone signed me up for a Neo Pet, so fucking great. My username is “Sing Star Sam”. So me, I can’t stand it. I’m ready to Neo Pet myself into a frenzy (boychicks heads-gutter-remove).

Another sweetie signed me up for Pets Next Door. Bitch, my dog is dead. You want to pet next door, fondle your neighbor. Clearly, I still haven’t resolved my issues with death.

Phang just got back from Phucket and sent me a Christmas card. How many levels of wrong is that sentence?

Katieroxol, that’s my new username for Foo Pets. Dog. Dead. Deal.

What the fuck is with people and online pets? Is this a kid thing? I’m so not their demographic. I guess my email address is.

I received a Santa in a Speedo picture; he works a Speedo like nobody’s business. Santa’s got mad crotch thrusting skills.

Did I mention that my Outlook isn’t showing my sent mail as of this afternoon? Fucking fantastic.

Happy Fucking New Year,

Katie