I'm going to start carrying a dry-erase marker in my car.

When people are behind the wheel, they are assholes.

Perfectly kind, normal humans turn into unholy demons when there are four wheels beneath them. I can't explain this odd phenomenon, and I won't try to.

What's even worse is when those same demons park their vehicles in a way that disables other people from getting into their cars.

This is common practice at my apartment, which in itself is odd considering it isn't hard to find out who drives what car.

Anyway,  I just read a blog bitching about the whole I-had-to-get-into-my-car-from-the-passenger-side-because-some-dickhead-parked-too-close-to-my-car problem. And the writer didn't leave a note because it would do "no good."

The writer is right.

The alternative sucks, too. I have friends who'll gladly bash the offending car with their car door trying to teach a lesson. I'm not too fond of that, either, considering it's impossible to know the entire reason they parked so close (perhaps they had to because of another asshole car on their left side). Or there's always the chance that the poor parker had no idea they parked so badly (I know, inexcusable, but it happens), and they're left with a huge scratch they won't feel guilty for.

Anyway, I came up with a suitable solution that damages no vehicles, yet lets a fair amount of venting take place.

The dry-erase marker.

When someone parks too close to you, parks over the line, takes up two spots, whatever the offense is, simply write a message on their windows with the dry erase marker.

It does no damage to their car. It doesn't waste paper. And it'll freak them out thinking they've been Sharpied with:

• Just because your car cost 100K, doesn't mean you get to park like an ASSHOLE.
• Thanks for making me get in on my passenger side, DICK WAD.
• Take my license from me. I don't know how to park.
• I can't stay in the lines, either! Enjoy the Sharpie, JERK. 

Or perhaps it's a terrible idea. But I'm excited to try it.

Go ahead, demons, park too close to the 'Stang!

My desk is a death trap.

Did you know it’s possible to be allergic to dust?

Dust! Plain, lands-on-everything dust.

I’m allergic to dust. And “allergic” is putting it lightly. Apparently, I’m really very truly allergic to dust. And I have the photos of my allergy test to prove it.

And my desk? Covered in dust.

This knowledge has made me paranoid. Instead of my keyboard, I see teensy, tiny skulls. The light film that collects in the corners of my work area look like tiny daggers. And the film that gathers on my phone buttons looks like itchy, sneezy spears.

No wonder I was constantly scratching my face, arms, neck ... I’m fucking allergic to my work environment. 

 I guess I could do a better job cleaning it. But everyone will laugh at me if I break out the gloves and face mask. Which is far worse than some scratching. Right?

Can we say girl power?

A friend of mine dated this guy for around two months. It was a fun little fling that she needed to get over a previous ex.

Because as most of us know, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

Well, he called it off, and to her it was no big deal. She wasn't going to marry this guy anyway.

But then he started checking up on her. Via mutual friends. And painting this picture that she was depressed and eating tubs of ice cream while sobbing to Lifetime movies.

So she sends him this:

Posted with her permission.

Um. Genius. If I had half the balls as my friend does, I'd rule the fucking world and drive a motorcycle or something.

Instead, I can only bestow her Awesome status. Which ain't bad, in my awesomely humble opinion.

Let's amp up the window washing.

The other day, window washers assaulted the building I'm working in. And by "assaulted," I mean that they were just doing their job. But they startled the crap out of nearly everyone.

Three of these acrobatic men all slammed into our 25th floor windows at the same time. Then the rubbery sounds of squeegees waved through the air like blasts of buckshot.

But it was still cool. Many of us grabbed our phones to snap photos as the Peter-Pan-like shadows danced behind the blinds.

"Perhaps we should wave," I suggested. "They probably don't get too much human interaction when office folks are trying to ignore them."

"I bet they get flashed a lot," a guy commented.

Shortly after, I walked home. And another building was being washed by these brave men.

And as I watched from the sidewalk, I thought to myself, window washing could be even more entertaining if retired Cirque du Soleil performers did it.

Think about it. A flexible clown scaling up the side of a glass building without a rope, tumbling and stretching as he artfully removes dirt and grime above the streets.

Together, the crew of clowns would spin and dance. Operatic music would play, and just as it reaches a crescendo ...

... the clowns fall, spinning to earth.

The crowds which have gathered below would gasp. They would their faces behind quivering hands. Others would stare as the colorful clowns twisted and flailed, fighting gravity's strong grip.

And then, just as it seems too late, they would all land on ledges and light post with the litheness of cats. The whole descent was a part of the show, the audience would realize. Then applause and cheers would explode from the masses.

And the window washers would dash off into the sky, leaving behind a sparkling building and an amazed group of onlookers.

I want to be more than an ACD.

In the advertising world, ACD stands for Associate Creative Director. Usually it means you have a teensy bit of power (but not much, it's still a creative job in advertising) and a few more responsibilities.

But it's a lame title. ACD? Come on.

I don't want to be an ACD ever. But I do want to be an ACDC. Because that would fucking rock.

What does the extra C stand for?

• Copywriting
• Cock-punching.
• of Creative (again).
• Awesome (yeah, there's no C, wanna fight about it?)

As the sole ACDC in the creative department, I would promise to only wear shiny, leather pants. Perhaps even pleather. I would grow my hair too long and tease it to the ceiling. Every meeting would end with my throwing a chair through a window. No windows? I'd rip the marker board off of the wall.

When I'd enter a room, smoke would billow through the door along with me. Lunches would be metal--served off of the bodies of hot people. And I would never sit on someone's desk. I'd just prop a foot up on it, and stretch as I explained whatever I would be explaining.

Every day would start with a guitar solo and end with an encore. And you bet your sweet ass that all of my friends would get backstage passes to my office.

Yep, I want to be an ACDC. In fact, I think every office should have one.

Still rocking out on YummyAwesome.com.

My partner in crime, the DirtyCanadian, has decided that if our Facebook page can get 100 fans by Halloween, we each must eat 100 pieces of candy back to back.

The part of me that loves my way-to-expensive designer jeans is screaming, "Noooooo!"

But the four-year-old girl in my is screaming, "CANDY!"

So what defines a piece of candy? Because I could totally cop out and eat 100 jelly beans. Although, that's still a shit ton of jelly beans, the more I think about it.

Although, baby Snickers bars sound good. Or Rolos.

Just not Tootsie Rolls. I hate those. They look and taste like little chocolate turds.

ACL almost killed me. Again.

Consider my most recent trip to the popular Austin City Limits musical festival my swan song.

Because there's no way I can go back again. Unless the city of Austin manages to install huge filters to suck the dust and allergens out of the air.

Two years ago, simply attending ACL put me in the hospital and resulted in weeks of crazy steroid treatments to flush out my lungs and get me breathing normally again.

Because I'm the pathetic asthma kid.

So I didn't go last year. But this year, my sweet husband begged me to attend. And I was terrified. Because I remember how bad I felt. And I remember thinking I was going to die as my air supply slowly shut off. And I remember how the first clinic we went to wouldn't accept my health insurance and wouldn't treat me despite the fact that I could barely stand.

So I went. I listened to the music. even enjoyed it. I ate the food and drank many cans of delicious tea.

And I put my vanity aside and wore a mask over my mouth and nose so I'd be filtering the nasties out of my inspired air.

But alas, this wasn't good enough. After rushing to the medical tent and undergoing a breathing treatment (and the possible chance of being carted out of the festival in an ambulance), living this entire week with a cough that exceeds safe volume, a faucet for a nose, and exhausting my inhaler, I've decided that ACL just isn't for me.

Austin, to you I cry, "Uncle."