Any of y’all who’ve been by Snidge’s lately may have noticed that you’re getting a 404.

That’s not an error, folks. I’m afraid that my dear friend has decided to go silent ... no, wait, that’s not entirely accurate. Let me be frank: The short version is, Snidge pulled her blog because of crazy pussy. Normally, crazy pussy is something we laugh about, because it’s funny in a tragic sort of way to watch grown women resort to subterfuge and all manners of bizarre behavior to get a man/job/whatever it is she wants. (And, as a recovering crazy pussy myself, it’s practically law for me to look and laugh, much like an alcoholic reminisces about past benders.) The long version of the story, however, has Snidgey afraid for her son’s and her well-being, and for that reason, I’m not going to repeat it here.

I will say this, though—and since I know the woman behind it is checking in on me now as well, I’ll direct my observations with her in mind: She needs to give it a rest. Not because it’s the right thing to do; that goes without saying. But I’ve been watching this whole thing unfold since she started it, and I gotta tell y’all, I’ve never seen such a sloppy campaign in my life. Seriously, it’s embarassing. True, she did have a couple interesting tech touches, so Ok, credit where it’s due and so on and so forth. But all the tech in the world isn’t going to help if you can’t keep your damn mouth shut. THAT only gets you busted, which she now has been (and y’all can take that however you like).

Outside of visiting the blogs she frequents, I doubt Snidge will be back online ever, and that’s a shame; aside from being one of my closest friends, she’s a voice I admire and got a lot out of, as I’m sure many of y’all did. Yeah, she and I call each other 12, 15 times a day, but you know what they say about the written word and its profound effects and stuff.

And you? You’re a two-bit hack. Don’t quit your day job.

(she says, dropping to her knees like in those cell phone commercials, then beating her head on the floor.)

Tell me something: Why is it that I can't have just ONE DAY where I have no responsibilities other than what I want to do -- which, in this case, was just sitting around the house doing nothing but drinking Pepsi and watching TV after a morning story and a nice lunch with Poppy!?? I was in for the night when I finally decided to answer Mother's seventh call of the day; she called to tell me that she needed pills picked up. (Before anyone jumps on my shit gets the wrong idea, it's a medication that she didn't absolutely, 100 percent need until Sunday, and believe me, I know aaaaaall about her meds and what she needs immediately and what she doesn't.) Oops, I forgot, along with the appointment I made at Marathon to have them look at my tire, which got really low on Thanksgiving, but Ok, I'll get them, I said, to which she promptly starts going on about how she's soooo worried about my tire and how I need to get that looked at before winter sets in, wonkwonkwonkwonk, then asks if I would then pick her up a pack of Orbit gum along with her meds because she doesn't want my aunt to complain about her breath tomorrow when they go out for lunch. (I almost said "Obit." How's THAT for a Freudian slip!?). Well, I got caught up in AMW -- again, she doesn't need these pills until tomorrow -- so as I'm picking them up, I get my eighth call of the day. I call her back:

I get there, and she tells me to grab the last piece of pumpkin pie. As I'm putting whipped cream on it, she hands me her checkbook to write out her rent check -- you know, the one THAT ISN'T DUE FOR ANOTHER WEEK, because it must be done RIGHT NOW. Sigh. Where's a pen? I ask, and then she's all like, "I don't know what I did to you." I tell her, "Nothing," but she gets all whipped-puppy like. Ok, yeah, I DID say that she should call in the pills today; I just didn't sweat it because she said she had one to take in the morning and wouldn't need it until Sunday.

Just one lousy day to myself, is all I ask. Is that so wrong?

And THEN there's TOG, who gets all pissy with me because, as we were having a little saucy talk over e-mail, I kid that he's talking to some hot chick online. (CONTEXT: Without getting into details -- shutUP, you -- I was asking what he was doing home when he COULD be with me, unless he was talking to some hot chick online.) The correct (and funny) response to that would be "The only hot chick I'm talking to is you," regardless of whether I was or wasn't, or to just not say anything at all. But no, he gets all, "See? You gotta kill the mood," and I'm all, "Um ... wasn't trying to ..." and then he tells me he's going to bed because he's falling asleep. Oooooo-kay, then. Fine time to tell me that's a sore spot; that'll REALLY encourage me to indulge in saucy talk the next time, but whatever.

Stupid boys and their periods ...