No, it’s not as heinous as abandoning kittens, hope, or the issues, but it’s sad for certain.

Letting a blog go quietly into that dark night, well it’s kind of like breaking your diet for a gluttonous go at a big, juicy burger. The prickle of sesame seeds on the tongue, the mash of too much meat and cheese between the teeth—it’s at first satisfying, but ultimately disconcerting as it leaves that heavy place in the pit of your stomach.

The burger is noshed but not forgotten.

Perhaps the same could be said about this blog …

My parents are too freaking laid back.

Had they been run-of-the-mill parents the response would’ve been, omg! what the hell happened? is he ok? are you ok?

Instead our conversation went like this:

Dad: So I heard you hit your boyfriend with your car.

Me: No Daddy, I hit someone else.*

Dad: You didn’t hit Andrew?

Me: No I hit a stranger.

Dad: Oh … so how’s work been?

—-

*For the record, no strangers were (profoundly) harmed in the bumping of my car into said stranger’s ass. Apparently the man with the brass balls–who decided to stand between incoming and outgoing traffic lanes–also has buns of steel.

I’d like you to think I’m wearing a sassy, pink armband today because I’m kind of a Punk Rawk Princess, (and gurls like me wear that kind of stuff). But the truth is, Nike Pink –she is a makeshift pressure cuff. You see, dear hannihaus readers, I’m no Sporty Spice and I’ve got the boo-boo to prove it.

Yes, apparently when practicing at the driving range, it is highly advisable that the golf club be used for hitting golf balls, instead of –say – the ground.

It makes sense really. I mean, the irons, they’re called golf clubs, not ground clubs or divot sticks ….

Except, of course, when your name happens to be Hänni.

If your name is Hänni, any club that makes its way into your hot, little hands, can’t be called anything BUT a divot stick.

Trust me (and my repetitive -golf-induced- strain injury) on this one.

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Anyone else injured themselves slamming a club into the ground 15+ times in an hour? No? Just me? Ok. Well I’m sure you all have had some kind of misadventure this week. It’s Friday, so why don’t you share your truth? C-O-M-M-E-N-T and come clean.

Somebody found the haus by googling “Mariah Carey is fat”. (hee)

Now why would anyone say that about Mimi?

My only guess is it has something to do with this unfortunate picture that’s been circulating on the Internet:

Fake you say?

Agreed. That last pic was obviously *not* Mariah Carey. It was missing a critical component:

Now that’s the Pillsbury Doughboy Mariah Carey!

For more Mariah Madness, (and photoshopping that doesn’t suck) click here.
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In (seemingly) related news my glasses are M.I.A. I bet Mariah ate them.

Let it be known, that from now on when something goes missing, the reasonable explanation will be that Mariah has placed these items, like so many innumerable amounts of pork rinds, in her eager pie hole.

My lunch – my kittinks – my organic raisins, nothing is sacred. Mariah will eat them all.
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In other news, Season 5 of American Idol starts tonight and I’m so totally stoked. I think I’ll christen the occassion by playing a drinking game wherein I toss one back any time Paula pouts, Randy says “dawg,” and/or Simon rolls his smarmy little eyeballs.

Something tells me I’ll be drunk and vomiting by the first commercial break.

If you met me today, you’d probably think “Wow, she’s fun and remarkably well adjusted”, but the truth is I spent many of my teen years in a panic. I was worried because I was *gasp* a virgin (hi maaa), at a time when lots of my peers weren’t.

Now, every time I hear a teen girl lamenting her chastity, I say “Cheer up, being a virgin is cool. Besides, I’m sure it’s not you. It’s probably just that your boyfriend of two years, the guy you’d consider spending eternity with, well, he likely prefers steak to tuna, because he is gay – really.”

At least that was my experience.
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Dear hannihaus readers, have you dated a boy who likes boys? Share your truth at Hänni’s Friday confessional. C-O-M-M-E-N-T and come clean.

When you were standing beside the road glaring and pointing a radar gun at me, I was pointing something at you too. It wasn’t a gun though. It was my middle finger. I was hiding it beneath the dash, because the truth is, that while I have enough balls to flip off a cop, my balls do not have enough cash to pay a ticket, lest you decide to pull me over.
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Dear hannihaus readers, what naughty things have you done this week? Share your truth at Hänni’s Friday confessional. C-O-M-M-E-N-T and come clean.

Somebody googled the haus for “how to get rid of smelly crotch”…

Two things:

1. Wash (if applicable)

OR

2. Close your browser already, pervert!
(… That one’s subtle folks).
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Help our designer – Vote For Chris

This is the last day to vote for Chris’s t-shirt on Threadless. Vote 5 for Chris b/c a vote for Chris is a vote for your personal protection. Merci Beacoup.

I always say I have no cash, and ask “will you take a card,” knowing that you won’t. The truth is, while I’m sitting in the parking lot, preparing for my entrance, I take all my greenbacks and put them in the change purse. That way, when I open my wallet to get my library card, you won’t see that I can *indeed* pay the $4.65 I’ve acquired in late fees. The truth is, the books you let me check out today-despite not having paid for past indiscretions-will probably be late too. I won’t pay those fees either.

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Dear hannihaus readers, care to share your truth? C-O-M-M-E-N-T and come clean.

With all my talk of secrets, I thought it only fair to come clean to you dear hannihaus readers. No, I’m not ready to reveal The Secret (it really is coming), but I am going to announce a new segment of this site called The Truth. The Truth will be my confessional, a place to share, for all you voyeurs out there, my best kept secrets. It’s kind of a post secret type thing, but without the post cards and of course, there’s no anonymity. At the end of each post, I will ask you, gentle readers, to tell your Truth, should you feel the need for catharsis. Of course, you can post anonymously.

So let me show you how it’s done.

The Truth

I acted all nice when you sweetly inquired if my treadmill was broken, but the truth is, inside I was mad, mad, mad. I’m fairly sure, before I entered the gym, that you tried “my treadmill”, found it wasn’t working, and picked the other one for your morning speed walk. Then, when I came in, looking like a dolt in my booty shorts and pink sweatbands, you let me fiddle helplessly with the broken treadmill for a few minutes before addressing me, pretending not to know that it wouldn’t start up. I’m fairly certain you did this, because I did the very same thing to some other girl last week.

For those of you who doubted that perversion was alive and well in these most sanctimonious of Bush administration-run times -(God tole gdub to run this country all christian-like, never mind that pesky thang called sep-ration of church and state)- somebody found my site by googling:

“diapered bride”.

That’s just nasty.

But you know what’s not nasty and actually very cool? My secret. And guess what? I just might reveal it. Very soon. Til next!