Thank You, Mass Media

I don’t know what the symptoms of Tuberculosis are, but I’ve officially got it. (The deadliest strain, I’m sure). I coughed up phlegm this morning, I feel like I’ve got a ball in my throat, my lungs are burning, and there’s a faint whistling noise when I breathe through my nose.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this all stems from the daunting press conferences I watched on CNN while getting ready for work this morning. Seems like all I took away from the footage was, TB dude is young, he is going to die, and he spread the disease to who knows how many innocent bystanders before he was quarantined. Oh, I also I think I heard the nifty little fact that two million people die from TB every year.

My symptoms are rapidly progressing as I type. My breathing is so shallow I’m dizzy. I don’t know how much longer I can resist the urge to google.

The Itchy & Scratchy Show

My new favorite past time, particularly when relaxing after work or lying down for bed, is to induce a fury of itchiness upon myself, then flail about the room trying to make it stop.

The only way this sensation can be adequately described is...oh, I don’t know...four million fire ants burrowing under my skin. And when I launch into itch mode, all sharp objects must be locked away, because scraping my skin off with a potato peeler would be infinitely more pleasant than the vileness of the itch.

At first it wasn’t so bad. The itch—while still incredibly intense—was generally confined to a particular area. Usually a thigh or arm, occasionally the top of a foot. It was manageable. I could handle the scratching on my own, or in times of desperation, solicit Rey to help me scratch that portion of my body until it bled. Things were simple back then.

Too simple for me to bear, so I started getting creative. Suddenly, I found myself itching only on portions of my body that were touching a certain object. Like a couch, or a shirt, or a bed. That’s all fine and dandy, right? Makes things simple, right? Wrong! As soon as I’d stop touching that object, I’d stop itching.

So for instance, I come home after a long day’s work, throw on my robe, grab a beer and sit down on the couch to enjoy an episode of Deadliest Catch. Suddenly, dunnah nunnah nunnah, I begin to severely itch on every portion of my body that’s touching the mother fuckin’ couch.

I jump up to scratch; I don’t itch. I sit back down; I itch. I jump up; I don’t itch. The end game is me standing in the middle of the room, or sitting on the floor, “because the couch makes the fire ants living under my skin mad.” It’s crazy. I’m crazy!

I won’t even tell you about the time I had to clothe myself from head to toe and lay towels on my side of the bed because the sheets were itchy.

Excuse me, I think I hear the fire ants marching in...

Going Great Lengths to Ruin My Reputation

I’ll just come right out with it, I’ve got herpes of the nose. Nose herpes. We’re talking ½” pussing boils poking out of each nostril. And I don’t care what you think, if I don’t tell someone, I’ll burst.

Okay, I do care, and it is not a herpe. It’s also not ½” or pussing, but it is a painful, crusty sore on the very tip of my inner nose. And I feel like I’ll die if I’m forced to host this infection for one more day.

Breathing out of my nose is not an option. Air traveling through my shriveled up nostril causes incessant twitching of the facial muscles. Flaring the nostrils is suicide. I’ve never felt such pain.

WebMD said I need to stop picking my nose. What an insult! I don’t pick my nose! And I don’t fart! WebMD’s really pushing it, that’s strike number two...

I Think We're Dead

Is this thieving, pot-brownie-eating cop a hypochondriac? Or, just a lightweight? Either way, this clip made me laugh harder than I have in a long time. Not because I can relate or anything. Thanks, Dooce.

Memorial Day Weekend Leila V. Style

Most people use Memorial Day weekend to go camping and hang out with friends and family. But since I have no friends, and I have no family, and I’m much too intelligent to enjoy camping when I can relax in the comforts of my home, my Memorial Day weekend looked something close to the following:

Leave work fifteen minutes early without approval because WTF, how dare they not give an early release the Friday before such an important holiday. Assholes.

Proceed directly to casino. Discover a nasty bum has taken over my multi-card keno machine. Get pissed. Do several laps around machine fiercely eyeing bum. Realize Bum is not giving up machine. Order tall Black Butte Porter. Lose ass on crappy machine. Drink excessive quantity of beer.

Retreat to Mexican restaurant. Wait at table for ungodly amount of time while Rey goes to bathroom. Fight myself from ordering additional beers in his absence. Rey returns, squirming, with fire in eyes. Informs me he never stepped foot in one-man bathroom. I’m ordered to watch exit, so he can kick ass when dude gets out. Order three bomb, crispy shell, shredded beef tacos. Eavesdrop on neighboring tables. Rey makes successful trip to bathroom. Upon his return, have fifteen-minute conversation on one-man john etiquette. Rey gives diatribe on how leaving the light on is grounds for hanging. I tell him he should’ve checked the door.

Arrive home. Proceed to backyard to ingest more alcoholic beverages. Contract West Nile Virus through mosquito bites on thigh and back. Curse myself for going outside. West Nile symptoms take over. Pass out on couch in fit of panic.

Rise early Saturday morning. Experience sharp pains in lower back. Debate between West Nile side effect and organ failure. Settle on liver damage from too much drinking. Hope I make it through the day. Eat soyrizo and tortilla breakfast. Head outside for yard work. Proceed to get the shit sunburned out of me. Worry about skin cancer. Curse myself again. Take shower. Cry about sunburn while Rey insists I don’t have one. Return to casino. Order tall Black Butte Porter. Drink excessive quantity of beer.

Arrive home. Consume several more alcoholic beverages while watching Chuck Liddell get knocked out by Quentin Jackson in UFC 71. Rey screams, “fuck you, you punk ass white boy,” repeatedly at TV. I inform him our windows are open and our neighbors now hate us more than they did before. Rey is so excited he throws up all over himself, (a rare event). We pass out.

Wake up Sunday with intense hangover. Try to blog. Realize I’m dying. Eat two Advil and three tablespoons Nyquil, my sworn hangover cure. Sleep for two hours. Wake with same intense hangover. Really think I’m dying. Eat three more Advil. Pass back out. Eat bean and cheese burrito. Take shower. Go to casino. Order tall Black Butte Porter. Win ten dollars. Drink excessive amount of beer. Return home to watch Ant Bully. Pass out.

Wake up Monday morning. Do a dance and thank God I don’t have to work. Head straight to computer to assess neglected blog. Realize I have no life. Write about non-life while cooking breakfast. Finish post. Head to bedroom to get ready to go to casino where I’ll order a tall Black Butte Porter and drink an excessive amount of beer.

Happy Memorial Day.

Panic Attack, Just Add Water

Excuse me for being AWOL these last couple days, I’ve been busy beating myself up, then drinking my sorrows away, then fervently repeating the process.

To make a long story short, I took the last three semesters off school, because frankly, I was an emotional basket case. I couldn’t handle the classroom setting. My social anxiety would prevent me from participating, and my emotional instability would keep me crying for hours after class.

The time off has done me good and on Wednesday I decided I would resume class in the fall, in the court reporting program, (a program I’ve been interested in for the last year and a half, but have been to crippled to pursue). When I went to sign up, I was informed the program was discontinued.

I couldn’t believe it. What a slap in the face. My emotional instability was suddenly back and my thought process resembled something close to the following: “That’s what I get for being such a procrastinator. I’m going to be stuck in my lowly secretary job for the rest of my life. I’m a loser. My whole life is ruined. I always fuck everything up.”

It was all I could do to hold back the tears for the rest of the workday, and before I got to the car, they were spilling out. I spent the next day in a funk, consumed by self-pity.

Then, I received a call from good ol’ Rey, who had found a reasonably priced, accredited, online court reporting program. Bam! I’m not a loser! I’m not gonna be stuck in my lowly secretary job forever. Saved by the internet!

Out of nowhere, sharp pain in the head and dizziness. Numbness and heaviness in the left arm. I was having a stroke. I was terrified. My chest constricted, I couldn’t breathe. I wouldn’t be able to complete the court reporting program after all. I immediately called Rey, who sarcastically informed me that if I was having a real stroke, I wouldn’t be calling him. Whatever, what does he know about having a stroke.

In retrospect, I see that the discontinuation of the court reporting program was almost comforting. It was an out. I would’ve made a great court reporter, hell, I could’ve opened my own business, if only those bastards didn’t shut me down. It was out of my control. But when confronted with the fact that the program wasn’t gone and I still had the opportunity, panic struck.

Failure is now back on the table. What if I’m not good at it? What if I can’t cut the mustard?

I guess we’ll find out, I start the program in fall.

You Ain’t Quittin’ Me

I’ve officially got a stalker. A thirty-seven year old, female, recently separated, legal secretary, stalker. My “friend,” as I’ve recently referred to her, is…um, fucking overwhelming. And it’s not that I don’t like her. I do. But, she’s preying on my passive aggressiveness. She’s knows I won’t say no. She also knows I will ignore her calls and knocks at the door, (unless she hounds me all week).

Forget the fact that I see this chick everyday; she’s now made it clear that her Fridays and Saturdays are reserved especially for me. Flattering! Oh, and, Rey can join us, “unless he feels too uncomfortable being the third wheel."

Need I remind you, it’s Tuesday, three days from Friday, four days from Saturday, and my weekend is already booked. I’ve been informed that if I don’t answer my phone, “[she] will hunt me down,” and “[she’s] not joking.”

Curse of the Cow

About five months ago, I came to the realization that my body was in an advanced state of decay. I became aware that my normal bodily functions were deteriorating at every turn. First, went the metabolism, followed closely by the eye twitch, which could only be topped by my body’s abrupt refusal to produce lactase. Plainly put, lactose intolerance, or more honestly, “I shit myself if I even look at the word dairy.”

I’ve always been a cheese-man. Growing up, it was Mac-n-Cheese, grilled cheese, string cheese, cheese zombies, scrambled eggs with cheese, cheese enchiladas, e-z cheese, cheese-stuffed hotdogs, cheese puffs, cheese fries and Oreos with cheese. Okay, the last one was a lie, but you get the picture. Into adulthood, the cheese fetish continued and merged with my Mexican food craze. This resulted in cheese enchiladas with extra cheese, bean and cheese burritos with extra cheese, chile rellenos with extra cheese, please don’t make me go on.

And, this was how I carried on until one gloomy day last winter when a little bird flew by my window and mentioned the evil words “lactose intolerance.” My heart wept for that girl when she divulged her infliction. “What a sad, pathetic existence life must be without cheese,” I thought, as I went about my business inhaling cheese-covered Twinkies.

Then it happened. I ate cheese; I felt bloated. I ate cheese; I felt dizzy. I ate cheese; and I’d crap myself if I wasn’t within two minutes or one hundred yards of a bathroom. It was hell. At first, I lived in denial, tried to tell myself it was food poisoning, but that could only go on for so long.

I gradually accepted my defeat and began to think of it as a consequence for abusing cheese as a child/adolescent/young adult. I came to the understanding that some cow in the sky had finally looked down and said, “that girl’s had her share.”

I was devastated. I cursed that cow, and begrudgingly reduced the cheese from my diet. Weeks and months passed in this cheeseless existence until one day I decided to tempt fate.

It was a Saturday, if I recall correctly and I had nowhere to go for the next two days. I sent Rey to my favorite burrito spot to retrieve the biggest, cheesiest burrito this side of the Mississippi. I devoured it.

Five minutes passed. Nothing. Ten minutes. Nothing. Thirty minutes. Still nothing! After about an hour, I thought I was dreaming, nothing!

Could it be? Could this lactose intolerance really be another product of my imagination? I promptly ordered a cheese pizza. Nothing. Quacked again.

Charlie Brown, I feel your pain.

Sunday Morning Funnies

The Big Snip Part Deux

As I sat on the swivel chair in front of the oversized mirror and watched inches of my identity fall to the floor, a sharp shooting pain coursed through my head. The overly tanned blonde with flappy skin in a polka dot shirt circled my chair indifferently. She talked about her cat. I smiled. I worried that I’d lost my earring somewhere in the salon, (probably in the sink and down the drain). Another inch fell to the ground. Sharper pain in the head. My earring.

I can’t believe how my neurosis blossomed as I sat in that chair for a simple haircut. I bounced between stroke and lost earring with every sweep of the scissors.

It made me realize that I use hypochondria as a vice. As an escape. I use hypochondria to drown out the real world and real world problems. After all, if I have a stroke, I don’t have to live with a bad hair cut, or even find out how bad it is.

As soon as I realized the cut was okay, the stroke symptoms faded. The earring was a non-concern. I had to fight myself from scheduling another appointment right then and there. But, I guess that’s life for a neurotic extremist with hypochondria.

Next time, I’ll leave my earrings at home.

Off to see the Fam

Returning tomorrow, assuming we don't crash off the mountain and die. Haircut pics are in flickr, posts upon my return...

The Big Snip

I’m getting a haircut today at 5:30 p.m., at the Aqua Salon. For a normal girl this would be an exciting event, or maybe a non-event, I don’t know because I’m not a normal girl.

Unless you count a ¼” trim over the sink in a bathroom a “haircut,” I haven’t had one in over four years. Needless to say, I’m more than past due. And more anxious than I should be.

Long hair has always been a part of my identity. You know, “Leila, the short girl with the long hair.” It’s not as if I have a huge mass draping below my knees, but it hangs nicely, several inches above my waist. People often stop me in public to tell me I have “beautiful hair.” Part of me feels like if I alter it anyway, I loose some of, or all of, that beauty.

I think subconsciously I believe my hair is my finest physical trait. I don’t have big breasts, but I have nice hair. I’m not tall or super skinny, but I have nice hair. I’m not the trendiest chick, but I have nice hair. Did I mention I have nice hair!

I want to be freed from the notion that my worth is connected to the length of my hair. I want to be freed from the low self-esteem that grips me so tightly. Short hair or long hair, it’s all the same, neither changes who I am inside.

Assuming all goes well, pictures to follow shortly...

Stop Me Now

I woke up this morning to what felt like my right eye being ripped from my skull. (A fairly mild sensation compared to the pain I’m enduring now.)

My eye is still in its socket, but I don’t dare to even think about moving it from anywhere but front and center. If I do, (and believe me, I don’t), I’m jolted by an intense aching pain that reverberates through my soul.

While I’m somewhat calm now, I’m wholly convinced that I’ve got a tumor on my optic nerve. The tendon behind my eye feels like an old rubber band being stretched beyond its reach. I can’t help but think I’m on the verge of blindness at any give second.

If this continues, I’ll be at my eye doctor’s office by the end of tomorrow. But in the meantime, I’m distracting myself with my latest victim, the pot belly pig. He seems like the perfect pet. Intelligent, clean (contrary to popular belief), and adorable.

If I make it to the weekend without loosing my vision, that piggy is mine!

What Now, Skinny People?

We all know someone who eats recklessly and never gains a pound. Hell, for years I deluded myself into believing I was one of those people. I’m not.

But now, experts are saying that those “skinny people” who take pride in not taking care of themselves and still looking awesome, aren’t that awesome at all.

…a lot of thin people may be in trouble…internal fat surrounding vital organs like the heart, liver or pancreas—invisible to the naked eye—could be as dangerous as the more obvious external fat that bulges underneath the skin.

I'm ashamed to add that I'm rather thrilled with this news. What can I say, misery loves company.

Impulsive Girl + Impulsive Boy + Payday + Dog = Problem

I grew up with animals. Over the years, (but not all at once), I've been the proud owner of three dogs, four cats, who knows how many fish, a hamster, two leopard geckos and a chinchilla. Naturally, I fancy myself an "animal person."

So on Friday, when I received an email from a co-worker with this adorable clip of a dog attempting to eradicate a cat from his bed, I was filled with a sudden longing for a new member of the family. That was the beginning of the end. I forwarded it to Rey, who shared my desire, and shortly thereafter, we made a date to scope out the humane society for dogs that night. Not to adopt one, but just to look. We wanted to make an informed decision before bringing a new animal into our home.

Sure enough, not thirty minutes into our “window shopping,” we came across a gorgeous, chocolate miniature pinscher. One hour later and one-hundred-sixty dollars lighter, Me, Rey and “Eisley” emerged from PetSmart.

Fast-forward to six o’clock the next morning. Rey and I looked at each other the way two strangers must when they awake together in bed after a long night of drinking. Eisley was frantically leaping about the room.

It dawned on us, we're not "dog people."

Four beers and four hours later, with hats in hand, eyes full of tears, and hearts full of shame, we trudged back to the humane society where we “surrendered” Eisley. Naturally, we blamed it on our cat, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. We crafted a wild story about our cat pissing on the bed, World War III and severe emotional distress.

We’re now on adoption probation for the next ninety days. But are looking into purchasing a purebred Scottish Terrier.

I’m Baaaaaaacccckkk

Wake up World and hear me bitch! I’ve had no internet access for the last six days and I’ve got much disgruntled blogging to catch up on.

My mental health has all but deteriorated without this little blog o' mine. We’re talking spinal tumors, strokes, heart worms, palmar hyperhidrosis, nose bleeds, impulse spending, and nightmares.

I never realized my mental stability is contingent on my ability to disclose my mental instability and read about the mental instability of others. Now that's a mouth full.

“The Internet is a giant international network of intelligent, informed computer enthusiasts, by which I mean, "people without lives." We don't care. We have each other...”
- Dave Barry

Living in the Dark Ages

I have lost all contact with the outside world. I’ve been forced into a box by my faulty DSL connection and can only peek out during my spare minutes at work, (which are far and few between).

I can’t blog. I can’t comment. I can’t breathe. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Please don’t leave me behind, world. I promise I’ll be back in the light soon...

An Anxiety Ridden Tuesday

As a rule, I can’t wait ‘till 5:00 p.m. I count the seconds of the minutes of every hour until that magical time when the office doors miraculously fly open.

Today couldn’t be more different. The time can’t go slow enough. And, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because I’m attending an “event” tonight. Actually, let’s be honest here, that’s exactly why, and that “event” is consuming me.

Rey was chosen as the recipient of a hefty scholarship, donated by a family who’s college student died in a car crash ten years ago. Tonight were having dinner with eight members of that family.

Being the self-centered individual that I am, this dinner is about ME and the way I feel. It’s not about being excited for Rey and his accomplishment. It’s not about being happy to meet such a generous family and having the opportunity to hear their story. It’s about ME!!! And ultimately, about me hating me.

I wish I could stop, but I can’t. I can’t stop deriving potential embarrassing scenarios. I can’t stop feeling like I’m not worthy of the dinner. I just can’t. I’m my own worst enemy, (that’s the one piece of wisdom my mom imparted on me that’s actually true).

Deep down I know the dinner will be fine. I’m sure I’ll have a nice time, I always do. But in the minutes and hours leading up to it, I refuse to believe it's true. Shoot me now.

Truth be Told

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he hoped to make it.
- James M. Barrie

Hurry, Get the Bug Spray

I realize I live nowhere near Afghanistan, but that isn’t stopping me from obsessing about developing the flesh eating disease Leishmaniasis. My skin hasn’t stopped crawling since I stumbled across this article earlier today.

Unbeknownst to me, Afghanistan’s population is apparently being mauled by a highly contagious, flesh-eating parasite carried by sandflies. Now given, I doubt there are many sandflies in my neck of the woods, but I can’t help but think it’s only a matter of time in today’s ultra-connected world.

These “flies” don’t fly, they hide on animals and people. People maybe like oh I don't know, troops ending their tour in Afghanistan and returning home, or immigrants coming to live in America!

West Nile and Bird Flu out; Leishmaniasis in.

Skittles up the Nose

I’ve had an obsession lately with the nose and nostrils. Not just any nose and nostrils, but my nose and nostrils. You see, I realized a few days ago, (not while picking my nose), that my left nostril is larger than the other. Yes, larger than the other. Not exactly life threatening, but a crisis all the same

Ironically, while surfing WebMD this afternoon—shame on me—I stumbled across a message board titled “Skittles up the Nose.” The entry basically outlines the events of a mother sucking a red skittle from her child’s nose with a wet dry vacuum. (Yet another reason why I’m not having kids). But, as soon as I saw that title, my lopsided nostrils suddenly made sense

I too was once a raging lunatic who shoved miscellaneous items up my nose. And on one particularly lovely afternoon, in a kindergarten classroom not too far away, I lodged a piece of packing Styrofoam so far up my nose that it had to be removed by a doctor.

I don’t know what kind of teacher sits a group of four-year-olds down to watch a movie in a sea of Styrofoam, but that’s how it all began the day I stuck that Styrofoam up my nose. In my defense, all the kids were doing it; I just took it to another level. Being the over-achiever that I am, and always have been, it was my duty to stick the Styrofoam farther up my nose than any other kid in the class.

After ten minutes of trying to remove the jam, by inserting my finger deeper and deeper into my nostril, I emerged from the sea of Styrofoam into my teacher’s arms, teary-eyed and begging for mommy.

The office staff did what they could, but after poking around for a good fifteen more minutes, were unable to remove the lodge. I blew my nose, picked my nose, had my nose picked by others. By the time we headed out for the hospital, that Styrofoam was lodged so deep in my nose that I couldn't see.

And, so the story ends as the grinning doctor enters my hospital room. With a pair of pliers as long as my head and as thin as a spaghetti noodle, he swiftly removed the soggy Styrofoam from my poor deformed nostril.

The mystery is solved! Either that, or, I pick my left nostril more often than my right.

Truth be Told

I think the most pitiful person on earth is the one who wrote the text book on normality, the poor climate-controlled soul who thinks mental health can be disconnected from the wind.
-Kathleen Dean Moore

Sweaty Hands for Sale

I didn’t realize sweaty hands were in demand, but apparently they are. There I was, minding my own business, trying to discover the root cause of my recently sweaty palms, when WebMD offered the following:

Sweaty Hands: Shop Here For Sweaty Hands Buy From Multiple Merchants Here! SHOP.COM

Sweaty Palms: Bargain Prices. Smart Deals. Shopzilla.com

So, that’s when I decided I’d auction off my own sweaty hands. They’re nice hands. Small. The nails are nothing to write home about but are more than serviceable. They type well at 80 WPM, and are particularly sweaty after several cups of coffee or in any social situation.

Let the bidding begin! Although, I guess you could go buy a cheap pair over at shop.com or shopzilla.com, but I assure you, mine are much sweatier.

You Are Now Entering...

My mom is a psycho. I’ve said it here before, and I’ve said it a million other times in my life. But, what I’m starting to realize is my mom really is a psycho! Not an "I'm a teenager can't get along with my mom psycho," but a honest to goodness, full blown "get the straight jacket and call the loony bin psycho." She is now pretending to be my brother in email exchanges. Either that, or, I’m a paranoid schizophrenic, (both are entirely possible).

Just after Easter, I cut off contact with The Beast because I’m tired of her nasty emails, her manipulation tactics and her name calling, (see The Frumpy Old Librarian). I’m not in a mental state to tolerate her behavior; it takes me days to recover from a fifteen minute conversation with her.

Around the same time that I cut her off, I sent my brother the following email:

Hey Tony:
Just thought I'd write to say hello and see how things are going. All is good here, just working a lot and hanging out with Rey and Keno. I thought about you over Easter, and the time we got those huge stuffed ducks as Easter gifts! Hope you had a good one. I can't believe you're almost finished with your first year of high school! How's school treating you? Miss you!

Honestly, I wasn’t expecting a response, because typically, he doesn’t respond. But, to my surprise, I found this in my inbox the following day:

it's been treting me fine. the stuffed duck i got, i gave it to my gurlfriend. i miss u too. i also miss mom but im not aloud to talk to her. could u tell her i love her for me. thanks leila. bye

Flags started to go up immediately, because (1) check out the garbled English, which resembles very closely my mom’s language, and (2) the whole “tell mom” part is weird. But okay, maybe it is him, so I respond with this:

Hi Tony:
Glad to hear school's treating you good! High school can be tough, hang in there. Which girlfriend did you give it to? Seems like you've got a new one every time I talk to you!

You don't have to tell mom that you love her, she already knows. She loves you too, just like your dad does and I do. We all love you. Try not to let the divorce get in the way of your relationship with mom or Mike, it's between them and it doesn't mean either of them love you any less.

We went snowboarding today. It sucked. You didn't miss a thing. SSX is way cooler than the real thing!

Notice how I try to sum up the whole “mom” line of the conversation, and move on to other topics. Apparently, it didn’t work, (bear with me here), this is was what “he” had to say:

Leila im afried she's gunna guve up on me and i just don't know what to do

That was the email that sealed it.

I've mentioned before that my mom is in the middle of a nasty divorce and has basically depleted all of her money and inheritance in an attempt to make her husband of ten years pay for the hell he put her through by making her stay home and get supported.

Due to her spending, unemployment and $100,000+ divorce, she is now esentially forced to move out of the bay area, into a more affordable part of the country. And she just can't bear it because she doesn't want my brother to think "she's giving up on him."

She doesn't want him to think she's "gunna guve up" on him! The nerve!

But it gets better. There's no end to her manipulation. Not two hours after "my brother's" email, I receive this from The Beast:

Hello Leila:
What are you up to I have no heard from you hope your alright. Talk to Tony Sat he said you e-mailed him that good he looked OK . Hope to hear from you soon

XXoo
MOM

Oh, no, and it doesn't stop there. Last night I got a call, "wanting to know what my brother thinks about her moving."

Is there such a thing as a psychopath gene?