I was really...

crunk a few nights ago. I was "forced" to take some pain pills to treat my desperate unrequited emo love for my back and "accidentally" washed them down with vodka. It was all a horrible "misunderstanding."

So, the next morning I was digging through the empty pizza boxes and pill bottles on my bed looking for my phone so I could check my email. I finally found it under a poem titled Sad Pig, that I'd written in melted butter and mascara tears the previous night.

Anyway, I had a ton of emails from iTunes, thanking me for purchasing a bunch of shitty songs. This shit happens to me all the time, but I barfed some Xanax chunks through my nose when I came across a certain purchase. Apparently, in the depths of my darkest hours, while blacked out (time traveling), I'd purchased the new Susan Boyle album.

What the fuck is wrong with me? This definitely counts as a White Trash Weekend Confessional (WTWF). I've been a big supporter of this sad pig since she did the splits on that shiteous tv show. What's worse, my Susan Boyle confession or my love of Amy Grant?

Did you happen to see the pics from her most recent meltdown? She was mobbed by a bunch of fans and resorted to sucking her thumb to deal with the situation. That's my kind of nutty pig. Get it bitch! God, I love Brit Trash!