Man, I love this girl.

Apparently her drunk-ass (now-ex-) boyfriend roughed her up in a Sacramento hotel room, and the both of them got dragged off to jail on domestic violence charges.

I’m just gonna copy/paste what she wrote on her blog, because she’s a brilliant writer herself, and I’m not going to be able to add much to this. She said “hoosegow.” Nothing I can do will ever top saying “hoosegow.” Nothing ever. I love you, Elyse. If you want to be BFF, seriously, email me. Like, you know the way all my little 10-year-old commenters feel about Miley Cyrus and Ashley Tisdale? How they’re all like “mily i luv u and u shoud b my best freind heres my addres its 502 harriet st in scarsdle the key is behnd a rock near the hose just let urself in if u coud come 2 my scool and tell every1 we r bff that wud be awsome bc i alredy told them that” and then I have to hurry and delete the comment before they get raped by someone who looks a lot like Vince Vaughn these days? That’s how I feel about you. I fantasize about us being best friends, sitting around eating Thai food and watching American Idol, and you briefly interrupt your painfully acerbic and hilarious comments only to look me in the eyes and tell me how much you value our friendship. That’s what I want, Elyse. That’s what I want for us.

Anyway.

I’ll let Elyse take over from here.

1.) On the drive home (home?) from Albuquerque to Portland, my ex-boyfriend got shitfaced and roughed me up in a Sacramento hotel. I escaped from the room through a blitzkrieg of violence and talked to hotel security, who called the fuzz.

2.) Because he had a bite mark, inflicted in self-defense, on his arm, Marty told the police to PRESS CHARGES OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AGAINST ME. Now I am a felon.

3.) I spent the night in jail. Dig the hilarous monetary contents of my wallet as described by the pig who booked me:

4.) Jailors. America’s Next Top Model fans, all. As the warden took pics of my bloody knuckles for evidence (!!!! evidence!), he quipped, “So there goes that hand modeling job, huh? What’s Tyra going to say about this?” And here is how I was summoned from the holding cell for a strip-search, complete with a thorough plumbing of the boodissy: “Hey, Supermodel! Git over here!”

4.) A bail bondsman (!!! I have a bail bondsman!) got me out of the hoosegow this morning and took me to a hotel room where I now await my court date. Martin Lesley Crandall is still incarcerated. You can follow his saga by searching for his name on sacsheriff.com (click on “inmate information”).

So I’m stuck in Sac-town, alone and lonely, for 4-5 days until court. Court! OMFG.

On the flip side, I’m single and um, ready to mingle. Blind date, anyone?

ETA: Breakfast in jail is served at 4:00am. Meat-stuffed croissant. And, you should already know what a “kite” is if you’ve been studying your 50 Cent lyrics. But “toilet talk”? That was a new one for me. Apparently, if you bail all the water out of the toilet, you can use the pipes to talk to inmates on different floors. And, girl, you can tell who do it ’cause they got like a big rash or whatever on they face from puttin’ it down in the toilet and shit. Damn..

Heh heh. “(!!! I have a bail bondsman!)” Elyse, if you ever want a stint as a guest-blogger around here, you’re so hired.

Update: I should add that the abusive boyfriend in question here is Marty Crandall, the keyboardist for the Shins.

[via Jezebel]