ALTERCATION

Everything you are about to read it true. Despite that, I'm assuming a number of you might need to suspend your disbelief for what I'm about to tell you:

I went shopping today. Alone. Because I wanted to.

(I KNOW!! Don't worry. Stay with me. It gets much more believable later on, I SWEAR.)

I bought three things for myself.

(SHUT IT. I didn't say it got more believable IMMEDIATELY.)

At Bed, Bath, and Beyond I bought myself a new loofa (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!) and a hanging mirror for my door (Yay! Nakey time will be so much more FUN now!), and then, at DSW, I bought myself new shoes (Are you still nakey if you're wearing shoes?).

I have to say, after all that I was pretty thirsty. Also, kind of hungry. And because I am brilliant, I thought a smoothie will be just the thing to thwart both these ailments.

So I drove to Smoothie King.

As I pulled into a spot, I noticed the spot directly ahead of me was open so I pulled forward. I got out. That is when he got my attention. And he shall be known as Self-righteous, Pretentious, Pricky Person or SP3.

Mr. SP3 was just stepping out of his LOVELY man van to my right as I got out of my car. He looked perturbed.

SP3: "Hey! You almost hit me!"

Now, take notes here, dear reader, for I am peacemaker extraodinaire.

I fixed upon him my most sympathetic gaze. Something that might have been misinterpreted as incredulous with a hint of disgust.

SP3: "Why don't you watch where you're going?"

Now, I HAD been paying attention and when I made the decision to pull forward, he was NOT opening his door. Not only that, but he could have been ALL THE WAY OUT OF HIS CAR AND STILL HAD PLENTY OF ROOM BETWEEN HIS BODY AND MY CAR. I'm just saying.

Also, SP3, you may not realize this, seeing how it's our first meeting, but I? Am awesome. At everything. Especially driving. My driving could soooo kick your drivings ass. Yeah, huh! That is so even possible!

By the way, this wouldn't even be a problem if you never existed. I'm just saying.

Me: "Sorry?" I said with UTMOST sincerity.

I turned to leave. And ran into my side view mirror, so when I heard Mr. SP3 call me an asshole, I couldn't quite stop myself.

Me: "Oh, bite me."

SP3: "F*UCK YOU!"

You'll forgive me, dear reader, but I was overwhelmed... no, no I was COMPELLED at that very moment to share with Mr. SP3 my brandy new manicure. Specifically, a particular finger of that manicure. This was merely because the manicure on that particular finger is BEAUTIFUL and I was still under the misguided hope that this guy was at all rational and might be calmed by the sheer beauty held before his gazing (glaring) eyes.

He was not.

SP3: "Why don't you sit on it and rotate, bitch."

Son, please.

Me: "That WOULD be more fun that doing it with you."

SP3: "GO F*CK YOURSELF!"

I was kind, guys. I let him have the last word. Mostly because I had just walked into Smoothie King as this point. I composed myself, smiled brightly at whoever was in the store, and walked to the counter.

And then I promptly turned and walked out of the store and back to my car.

Why? you might be asking yourself. Because my car? It was still parked next to his sexy man van. And there was no reason why someone who is as much of a prick as Mr. SP3 would not, if he left his store before I left mine, key my car. And I'm just not okay with that.

I mean seriously folks. It isn't my fault that Mr. SP3 is socially awkward enough to bitch out a COMPLETE STRANGER for some perceived wrong THAT DID NOT ACTUALLY HAPPEN. He must not have been raised right because I would NEVER bitch out a complete stranger for any reason ever. Amen. Except maybe under my breath or, ironically, while driving, because, DUH! Quick get away.

Not that I've ever done that (yeah, about a month ago and the F-word may or may not have been thrown out at the beginning of that little spat but he shouldn't have been walking on a DON'T WALK signal and getting all up in my way).

Now, you may be wondering why, but I DID take to heart what this guy said to me folks. Next time, I'll pay attention. So I don't miss.

I'm just saying.

I CONCUR

BJ: "I slept from 4 to 9 then went back to bed at midnight."

Bubba: "I tried to take a nap but my mom woke me up to show me my stupid horiscope."

Hazel: "What did it say?"

Bubba: "I don't know. Something about 'there will be luck in your future.'"

BJ: "You'll get lucky in the future?! Hot damn, that's specific."

Hazel: "God, I need mine to say that soon."

ONLY SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT RESPONSES

Co-worker:

"OHMYGODWEHAVEACRISIS!"

"Oh, Jesus! What happened?!"

"Um, well, I broke a nail."

"..."

"What?! That's a crisis!"

"You have got to be kidding me, kid."

"BUT THE WEDDING IS IN A WEEK!"

* * *

Ma:

"Mommy! I have a crisis! The perfect, happy wedding has been thwarted."

"Alright. And exactly how is that?"

"I broke a nail."

"SONOFABITCH! So, are you going to need a tip put on?"

"Probably not. I figure my nailbeds are long enough she can just cut the rest and fake it."

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

* * *

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEAN (also known as Baby Butthead Brat Face)!!!

I'LL ANSWER ANYTHING, PART 2

Time now for the next installment of "I will answer ANYTHING you ask me!" (Sparkly lights! Cheesy music! Jazzy hands!)

This episode is brought to you by Anonymous (if that is your real name) who says: Tell us about your love of anchovies.

Um. Well. See, here's the thing. I don't like anchovies. Or sardines for that matter. I'm not entirely sure where you got your informaton, Anonymous, but I'm not terribly fond of tiny fish and their horrible smell.

BUT! As luck would have it, I DO have an honest to life story about tiny fish (sardines rather than anchovies but really, close enough, right?).

Once upon a time, I was in high school. I know, I know. Hard to believe. But, alas, it is true. And during that time of my life, my dad had an ugly old truck. This was not the black truck he later gave to Tiff but a two-tone blue monstrosity with no power steering and the meanest clutch the land has ever seen.

But that's not important.

What is important is that SOMEONE broke into the back window of this truck (which wasn't exactly hard since the latch had long since broken) when it was sitting in the driveway and threw in an (open, obviously) can of sardines into the truck. Not only was that a pleasant smell, but it stained wherever it touched a stange sort of neon green.

I can't say with any certainty that that even expediated the sell of that truck but it is sufficient to say I was always afraid to drive the truck after that because I didn't want to turn neon green.

And that was how I saved Christmas.

IF I SAY IT ENOUGH TIMES

Alright kids. I'm done with my book. Which means I'm down a distraction from this wedding coming up in nary two weeks. Don't get me wrong. I'm as happy as I can be for Bean and Bob, my dress shows A LOT of titty, and I get to see Tiff in just over a week (plus two days off work - unpaid but I'll take what I can get).

I'm just... frustrated.

Again with this line, huh? Well, feel free to depart if you have to and I shall continue tomorrow with made-up stories about anchovies. TUNE IN THEN!

Anyway, I'm frustrated. And I don't want to be. But, God damnit if I don't REALLY want to go to yet another wedding alone, particularly one I can't really run away from (um, yes, that has actually happened). And no, I can't ask anyone to go with me. There isn't anyone I want to go with and God that would be like torture for someone who knew no one in my family. Yes, they're nice, but it isn't exactly polite for me to stick you with my dad and future brother-in-laws while I run off for a manicure and oh, by the way, could you help cook for the rehersal dinner while you're there and with no hope of getting any since I'm not interested in you I simply asked you along so I wouldn't be alone at another one of these effing things.

I'll be fine. I know I'll be fine. I'll have Tiff and Trini and a bottle of wine. I'll be fine.

THE HALL OF AWKWARD CONVERSATIONS

"Did I show you my new purse?"

DID YOU AND MAN FRIEND GET BACK TOGETHER?!"

"Did I... wait, what?"

"Well, you got a new purse."

"My mom got it for me when she was in New York."

"Oh."

NERDED OUT

This weekend was Bean's bridal shower, also to be known as the weekend of awkward questions. All of them directed at me.

But, alas, that story will have to wait because I hold in my hot little hand a borrowed copy of Harry Potter the seventh. If any of you know the way I throw myself into books, you won't be entirely surprised if I don't post for a couple of days.

Yes, I am fully aware of my nerd status.

No, I won't tell you if Harry dies AND IF ANY OF YOU ASSHOLES ATTEMPT TO TELL ME I WILL CUT OUT YOUR SPLEEN WITH A SPORK!

Have a pleasant day.

MAN-HANDLED

HEEEEE!!!!

I'm so excited you guys are PLAYING ALONG. Hellz. Yeah. I'm da coolest person in the world! People love me! I am popular! Suck it middle school bully! Suck it long. Suck it hard. ((Butt jiggle jig of joy. Yes, it's a REAL dance.))

Okay, okay. I'm cool. I'm totally not swooning from the attention.

Anyway, since three of you responded to my request SO FAR (Hint. Hint hint.) I'm going to span these out over the next few days starting in the order they were requested.

No, you may not object.

I only said every question would be answered. I NEVER SAID WHEN. Back the hell off, demon spawn.

Cough. Anyway. On with the show!

* * *

Our first LOVELY contestant is c. holly who writes: Tell them about our secret sex affair.

* * *

SLRd Design Productions in cooperation with Man Slut Studios presents:

Man-Handled: A Fictional Affair

Well, I guess I HAVE to tell you all now about our SECRET sex affair since SOMEONE let the cat out of the bag. Dick. Though, I guess, to be completely fair, it wasn't much of a secret. It's quite difficult to keep anything a secret when you get caught in the act.

I'm not sure who eyed up whom first, who was the first to whisper of a love that dare not speak it's name, but I do know he made the first move. I mean, with a package like that, it's gotta be hard to keep it under control. And Mr. c. holly ISN'T known for his self-control.

I hold to the truth that I was an innocent victim to Mr. c. holly's lustful longings. Poor, sweet, innocent me who'd never known the rough touch of a man (shut up), me who was so naive to the world (SHUT UP), at first I only thought his attentions to be completely innocent.

I was wrong.

He cornered me on the stairs.

I was helpless to defend myself so I just gave in (Again with the shutting it up).

It was wild. It was dirty. It didn't last very long.

When he'd finished, he glanced up to find my roommate standing at the top of the stairs, her jaw hanging down, a wee strand of drool glittering in the sunlight.

Her eyes were glazed over in anger and she huffed like a furious bull. "You guys," she whined, "that stain is NEVER going to come out!"

And she was right. Even a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser couldn't remove that mess.

WHAT?! I said it was dirty!

~Fin.

* * *

Yay! That was fun! Gimme more.

ASK.COM

Alright. We're going to try something new. YOU tell ME what you want me to write about. Is it a story about us you want the world to know? Is it something make believe that I just pull out of my ass? Hell, it could even be my height (5'5"ish), shoe size (8.5 - 9.5 depending on the designer), or favorite color (blue).

Nothing it taboo!

Nothing is off limits!

Every question WILL BE ANSWERED!




Okay, your turn now.

TIDDALY BITS

Which is basically my way of saying I have not the will nor the function to form a proper entry so you get to enjoy the random shit going on in my brain.

* * *

"You can't use that outdated photo."

What other option would you suggest? And I don't remember asking for your permission. Or even your opinion, for that matter.

* * *

I will never live up to the standards I set for myself, though I certainly live up to the standards I set for others.

* * *

It is exceptionally frustrating to be sexually repressed but not really interested in anyone who could (and probably would) help alleviate it.

* * *

I very much miss make outs.

* * *

"Oh, you just lost coolness points for asking me that."

...

I'm sure I'll get over it. As a matter of fact, I'll tell you what. If I'm not over it within the next two minutes, I'll let you know.

* * *

Seriously woman! If I tell you that's enough, that is not an invitation to do it again AT AN INCREASED VOLUME because just maybe I'll find it funny the next time.

Moron.

* * *

I shouldn't laugh near stairwells because I'm already loud enough without throwing echos into the mix.

* * *

I very much enjoy my bitchfests with the IT guy.

* * *

I'm tired of being a push over. I'm tired of just allowing people to hurt me with a "you gotta do what you gotta do" attitude. You know what, screw you guys.

* * *

I wish life wasn't so hard sometimes. And I feel like a pussy for thinking that anything in my life has ever been hard.

* * *

I'll pay $10 for an audio book but I won't pay the $4 to get rid of my library fine.

* * *

The only friend I have that would drop everything for me is 1,730 miles away (and has been and will be and it sucks ass) and hasn't been emailing and I swear to God if you don't get ahold of me in SOME FORM by the end of the week I will fly down there JUST TO KICK YOUR ASS! DO NOT THINK I WOULDN'T DO IT!

TORTURE IN PRESENT FORM

There is a running debate throughout the immediate family right now and it seems as though it might be tearing a rift between us.

See, Tiff and I went in together to buy Bean's wedding gift.

Bean's bridal shower (the one I'll actually be at) is this coming weekend.

Tiff will not be as this shower.

Bean is all hot to trot and would be exceptionally pleased if we told her to have her way with the crappy red wrapping paper. Now, as much fun as it is place something tempting in front of Bean's face and then repeatedly, oft times in a sing song voice, tell her she can't have it, Tiff and I were planning on putting her out of her misery and just letting her have it at this coming shower.

Mom thinks we should wait until Tiff is home since she bought the present too and part of the joy of the thing (the thing is called "giving" and you could do more of it in my general direction as a matter of fact) is watching the evil, greedy gleam in Bean's eyes as she tears bloody savage into the paper.

Needless to say, Bean is not thrilled by this plan.

So, I'm rather at a loss about what to do. Should I just end her pain and suffering and give her the damn present this weekend like God intended or should I milk her torment for all it is worth?

Milk it? Really? Well, alright. If you say so.

GIANT HILLS OF DEATH AND MAYHEM

Annnnnd we're back from Cedar Point.

Whole.

No one lost their feet on any rides, though I did lose my voice on the Magnum XL-200, which makes me feel like a pussy because I was totally cool on the Millenium Force but those damn tunnels in the dark with the unexpected dips and you can color me a pansy. To make matters worse there was a little girl right in front of me, couldn't have been more than 10, with her parents. Didn't make a peep. Not a single sound. At least, not any I could hear over my SCREAMS OF TERROR.

The other REALLY noteworthy thing that happened was that while waiting TWO WHOLE HOURS for the first ride of the morning (Raptor if you really MUST know), a seagull managed to shit on several of us, yours truly included.

Why yes, that WAS a pleasant start to the day. It was suggested that rather than wipe the white stuff off my arm myself, I simply wait until someone forgot about the damn bird and thought I just hadn't rubbed in my suntan lotion. "Won't you rub that in for me? Oh, you look like you could use some on your face."

Because I want to never have any friends ever again.

CERTAINLY WOULDN'T

I get to cover for the receptionist in two weeks when she leaves for vacation.

"You can think of me on the beach!"

"But then I wouldn't be thinking of you fondly."

NOT SURE IF I SHOULD BE FLATTERED

I guess it's a thing that some people do, they have strange, little habits and strange, little sayings that are really only funny to them.

We have that at work. When we talk like we are from the deeeeeeep, way out in the boonies, south.

It makes us giggle to say things like, "sumbitch, that ain't right," or, "step on out there an meet Jesus," or even, "butter my backside and call me a biscuit."

I know. We're weird. This isn't new information.

We're constantly trying out out new phrases and or attempting to top one another, and I must say, I'm mightly good at my Bobby Jean impression.

Too good, apparently.

It's always odd when you throw someone new into the mix, someone not quite as up on the joke but who's a good sport and willing to play along. Someone who might actually BE from the south. Someone who is so convinced by your accent they ask where you're from originally. Someone who scoffs when you tell them you're from northeastern Ohio.

It was eventually decided that I'm half red neck, half blue blood, which means I must be purple.

DISAPPOINTED

GOD DAMNIT.

So Chad Sofa will not be coming to live with me as previously indicated. It doesn't fit through the door.

The good news is I managed to hold off crying until AFTER the delivery guys left. And the hell? I'm crying. Over a freaking couch. But that couch had symbolism. That couch was good news when I had no good news.

Add to that I'm tired and angry.

F#@%.

YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY

On second thought, you might find it refreshingly relatable. Maybe that trait will make me seem human.

See, I have this thing. I don't really GET angry.

Go ahead. Scoff. Laugh if you must. I understand if you don't believe me.

Alas, your doubt and skepticism do not make it any less true. I do not really get angry. I won't let myself. Instead I get frustrated. Lets call it Self Preservation. Because, see, I have this other thing. We'll call it a Bad Habit. I tend to say most anything that pops into my head, oft time to the point I walk away from many an interaction thanking God they find me funny.

I'm afraid of my own anger. Because I feel it might drive me to say something that won't be interpreted as funny, something I won't later be able to fix. Because some people hold grudges (and y'all need to knock that shit off.)

So rather than rely on my rather severe lack of an internal editing system, I don't get angry. I redirect that energy internally (much to the detriment of my own mental health) and regenerate it as frustration, something that upon recent reflection, I don't handle NEARLY as well as I handle anger.

Who knew?

My point in all of this is that I've recently been learning to accept and thoughtfully deal with my own anger. Then there are times I fail.

I was talking with the Pretentious Intern at work today about something decidedly not work related. My dad and I saw Ratatouille this weekend and as has come to be expected by the best the industry has to offer the CG was AHH. MAY. ZING. I mean shit. They paid attention to details as minute as the DENSITY OF THE BREAD.

I, apparently, was stupid to comment on this.

PI: "I mean, I've heard that the story is good, but no one has said anything about the CG."

Now, for those of you not paying attention: first off, knock that shit off. I am important because I have a blog therefore PAY ATTENTION TO ME. Second off, my background IS IN DIGITAL DESIGN. I would be remiss NOT to notice.

I stated this fact.

PI: "What software do they use to make it?"

ME: "In school, we used Cinema 4D though that isn't the industry standard."

PI: "Well, I don't understand why you're so impressed. I would think anyone would be able to do that if they had the software available to them."

ME: "..."

WTF?! Do you even realize you just negated my FIVE YEARS of schooling, not to mention the couple thousand my parents threw at them every couple of months for me to go TO said schooling IN ONE GOD DAMN SENTENCE?!

I mean shit. Do you think anyone could be a brain surgeon because they have a scalpel or an opera singer because they have a voice? (And do I think my art is on par with either of those things? No, but I'm trying to make a point here people!)

And I didn't say anything to you at work. Because we were at work. But I do have a few answers for you:

"Why didn't you invite me to lunch today?"

Because you're an asshole.

"Why don't we ever hang out anymore?"

Because you're an asshole.

"Why haven't we gone to that one resturaunt?"

WE have. WE just haven't invited you.

Because you're an asshole.

HAIRY HARRY

Tonight I had one of those mass hair removal-a-thons, what with the shaving and the waxing and the voodoo.

Oh, don't even ACT like you haven't done that before.

And there will be none of the negative thinking that I let this things get away from me on purpose. I mean, I'd had plans to thwart my eyebrows from mating for WEEKS now and, seriously, I'm single. Why the hell do I really need to shave my legs? Really. NO ONE IS GOING TO SEE THEM.

Let us not even speak of the touching.

But there are limits even I won't cross and, apparently, that limit is when I can glance down while STANDING AT MY FULL HEIGHT and see leg hair. Seriously? Ew. The good news for me, however, is it seems to take about 6 weeks to get to that level of disgusting.

Um, yay? It's a yay, right?

So now that my Sasquach transformation has been abated, I can focus on more important things. Like Chad Sofa (who will be here WEDNESDAY! EEEEEE!).

BEST LINE EVER WRITTEN

"No mater what's going on, I'm up for a cookie. They're fun, they're always a treat and just about anytime of day I would like one in my mouth. They are the tits of food."
- The Sneeze

God bless the internet.

WITH BATTERY

It's true. I'm with battery and I've never been happier.

AND it's the battery that was sent to the wrong location. So Cupcake no longer needs a stern talking to about how to fill out a proper delivery form.

Hah. Oh, did I not tell you about that? Yeah, after the cell phone miracle I later realized that my phone still didn't recognize the battery when I attempted to charge the thing. So I was still stuck waiting for the battery that was promised me ON SATURDAY and rather than sit on my hands with no phone, I went to yell at the Verizon guy who found out Cupcake? Sent my battery to the wrong address.

But now it would seem I got it anyway. So, woo.

AND! My phone RECOGNIZES THE BATTERY. Which means I don't have to go back to the Verizon store YET AGAIN to replace the face. Hot damn.

Feel free to give me a call. I'm dying to hear from you.


P.S. - Is it wrong that hearing Bad Religion ON THE RADIO gives me a shit-eater grin? Also, I can sing along and not worry about being off key.

MORE BREATHABLE THAN COTTON

Seriously kids, the best part about living alone is getting to walk around in various states of undress AND NOT CARING.

No one is gonna see me. WOOO BOOBIES!

DUN DUN DUN

BEHOLD! I have INTERWEB!

I also have plans to show you all pictures of my new digs. But I'm tired. And you'll wait.

To be continued. DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNNN!!!!

I'LL NOW BE BURNING THOSE SHEETS

Mom: "You're lucky it's so warm in your apartment. It prevented me and your dad from having sex in your bed."

Dad: "A second time."

STILL SHAKEY BUT A DAMN FINE WEEKEND

So today was the day of Meant-To-Be's. No, I DIDN'T get my new cell phone battery but while attempting to show my Dad how the phone would only flash the Samsung screen (and absolutely nothing else) when I pushed the ON button, it suddenly, sheepishly, sprang to life and LO, THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING.

And that, my friends, was the second well-hot-damn thing to happen IN ONE DAY.

I think I may be getting spoiled.

Mom and Dad came down this weekend to help me clean/decorate/revel in the new apartment (which is certainly starting to grow on me but I still fear it will never be home). They spent OODLES AND OODLES of money on me for things like a valance for the kitchen window. I mean hell (an appreciative and grateful hell, but hell nontheless).

Part of the weekend plan I had formulated was to use the existing sofa I had inherited from the parents (and by existing, I mean has probably been in existance since before I was born) and crappily recover it just so it MIGHT look better than brown burlap.

Mom and Dad formulated a new plan that involved buying me a new couch.

Heeee.

They set a limit of $300 (which I SWEAR TO GOD Dad told me $200 but whatever) and we proceeded to check out Sofa Express (expressly your style, my ass), Furniture Fair (style and flare, from 1987), and Lowe's (yeah, they don't carry couches) all to no avail. Not only was there a severe lack of styles I actually liked, but all the shitasticly overstuffed styles were a wee bit more than budget.

We checked out Big Lots which had a leatherish (I think it was real?) couch that wasn't bad but still a bit much and I didn't really want to have to fork over my money for this thing, because seriously. That $50 I spent on a table? Pushing it.

Our last ray of hope fell squarely upon the shoulders of Value City Furniture. And we went to Value City. Department Store.

NO ONE TOLD ME THEY WERE NOT THE SAME THING.

But we did get directions (and then I almost got in a car accident) and made our way on over and we found it. The couch that was destined to be mine.

It's blue. It's beautiful. It's a wee tall and I'm not entirely convinced it's going to fit through my door but the mover guys can figure that out. But best of all. It's $300. Now, if you were not paying attention, that means it was within budget. I'm just letting you know that because up to this point, I had not been paying attention and was still thinking I might have to hork (yes, HORK) over some of my money.

We were all ready to just tell the sales lady to wrap it up with a little bow but I thought I might want to glance at the other couch down the way JUST TO BE SURE when the first miracle happened to be sitting just down the way in all it's splendor.

We discovered a floor model of the EXACT SAME COUCH in the EXACT SAME COLOR I had just decided I wanted for, get this, $149.99, and LO, THERE WAS MUCH REJOICING and possibly a jig.

Behold:



It's name is Chad Sofa in Navy. At least that is what the Value City website says. It shall be mine a week from Saturday (it would have been this Saturday but I'm going home for a 21st birthday party).

No, you may not sit on it. You will sit on the floor with the rest of the dirty nasties BECAUSE CHAD SOFA SHALL ONLY BE FOR GAZING!

OOPS

Hi.

I broked my cell phone. So until I get a new battery (and hopefully it is only the battery) it's as if I don't even exist. Woo.

ADDENDUM: Hate. Hate. Hate. Loathing. Hate.

I went and waited for nearly an hour to get help just to find out that it's the battery (I TOLD YOU, SUCKA!) and they no longer carry my model of phone.

...

Of course you don't, Cupcake.

So they're mailing me a new battery. Snail mailing. Which means I might have it tomorrow. Or Monday. But if not by Monday I have permission to go back to wait in line for an hour to have them track it (and by that I mean bust a cap).

* * *

I couldn't wait any longer and I've rearranged my schedule and I'm now getting internet on Tuesday which is THREE. WHOLE. DAYS. better than Friday.

* * *

Tomorrow is Tiff's birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TIFF!!!! In case you forgot, you're old. HAHAHAHAHA. See? I'm helpful.

YET ANOTHER NOT FUNNY POST

So really? How sad it is that me minus internet equals much weeping and gnashing of teeth?

I felt better last night, due in no small part to Court but I'm still unhappy with my life at the moment. Yes, I'm making attempts to fix it. Yes, I know that is all I can really do but I'm frustrated. I feel as though I would be so much better off if even just one area got better, just one thing to look forward to.

I was SUPPOSED to move on Sunday. I believe it is a reasonable assumption that when someone says, "I will give you the keys on Sunday," that means they will give them to you at a decent enough hour, particularly given the following day was a work day, that you could accomplish all that is required when moving. HOWEVER, you would apparently be wrong. As I was. Asshat.

My new landlord (who happens to have been my neighbor the last 4 years) didn't deem it important to tell me in all the conversations we had about the move in date that he wasn't going to be home until 7 on Sunday. At night. At the earliest. Again, I reiterate: A-S-S-H-A-T.

By that point I knew I wouldn't get anything done and would be up way too late and would end up being a royal bitch on Monday, which I was anyway but for different reasons.

My God, I already DON'T want to move into that apartment and don't even get me started on the bathroom. I took a spray bottle of watered down bleach to it last night and have yet to go back to witness the carnage. And the ceiling fan? Looked as if no one had cleaned it SINCE IT WAS INSTALLED. Ew ew ew. I'm not afraid to clean but it's different when it's someone else's filth. The previous chick did a good job on the carpets but the place still smelled like dog.

The funny thing is (not as in, Funny HaHa, more like Kind-Of-Sad-and-Pathethic), I probably wouldn't have as much of a problem with this place if it was in a different location (say, Columbus?). I don't want to be here anymore. My friends (specifically one of the Matt's) mentioned this weekend how I just up and disappeared like David Copperfield for nearly nine months and I laughed and played it off by making jazz hands and saying "TA-DA" but... so? I was ready to move on. Am ready to move on. I'm ready to be somewhere else. I love my friends and I'll always remember the times I had with them but I just. don't. want. to. be. here. Six years is my cut off date, which means I have to be gone by the end of August. Not so very long when I've heard hardly a whisper on the job front. Something has just got to click. Anything.

Things just need to get better.

LONELY

Don't get excited. I'm at the cafe mooching the wifi.

I was losing my damn mind without internet. And I'm not getting my own until NEXT Friday. As vain and stupid and self-centered as it sounds, I think I might lose it before then. I literally ran out of the house fighting tears on my way over here.

The roommates are gone. I'm lonely. And I miss my old life.

I feel like I can't do this.

All I really want to do right now is give up, quit and go home to my parents with my tail between my legs and beg for them to fix it.

I don't want to be an adult. No, I don't want to be this kind of adult. I want everything to be fixed and the way it is in my head. I want to be secure in something instead of up in the air not really knowing. I don't like not knowing. It frustrates me not knowing.

And I won't give up, and not for any noble reason. I don't have any plans of fighting through this and perservering because I know tomorrow will be a little better than today. Nope. Not me.

I won't give up because to do so would be humiliating.

JUST NOT PLAUSIBLE

Tonight we had a goodbye dinner with the roommates and Chris.

Now, Boy Roommate. He is very smart. He is a classics major going for his Masters and PhD. That little tid bit also makes him a HUGE BLOODY FREAKING HUGE (DID I MENTION HUGE?) NERD. Anyway, we managed to get into a conversation about what people name their body parts (ie - the chesticles and testicles) after I introduced my breasts as Mary-Kate and Ashley. No, I do not ACTUALLY refer to my breasts that way, but I like the looks I get when I pull out that little gem.

Boy Roommate, apparently, has not named his member so Girl Roommate and I were making suggestions. Such as Thor, God of Thunder, and Priapus, God of Fertility.

In case you are unfamiliar as I was, Priapus is the god who just so happens to have an ENORMOUS cock, as in a foot long, easy. And my question. WHY WAS I NOT TAUGHT THIS IN SCHOOL?! WTF, PUBLIC EDUCATION SYSTEM???!

While describing who this Priapus character was, Boy Roommate described this image. See:


He is WEIGHING it. On the other side of the scale is a bag of gold. BECAUSE IT'S WORTH IT'S WEIGHT IN GOLD!

Me-ow.

(Another of my suggestions involved a god of thwarting. Because Boy Roommate could then thwart virginity. Fabulous, is it not? Me=GENIUS, pure and utter.)

* * *

A pirate walks into a bar with the steering wheel to his ship in his pants. Bartender asks what's with the wheel and the pirate responds, "ARR! It's driving me nuts!"

Now, I've told y'all before that Girl Roommate screwed up this joke ("ARR! It's steering me balls!" - yeah, not quite), but Chris. He'd never heard this joke. So we told it at dinner. Then we spent the next five minutes explaining it until Chris? He asked why someone would EVEN HAVE a steering wheel in their pants because THAT IS JUST NOT PLAUSIBLE.

* * *

Jimmy Carr on Comedy Central: "There was an article about why men go bald."

Random balding guy in audience: "Why?"

Jimmy Carr: "Too much male hormone. My suggestion is you stop swallowing."

DIRTY GIRL

My feet are FILTHY.

I've spent since I got home from work cleaning the damn house. I am STILL working on the first floor. Bastard.

So... because I'm brilliant, or wish death upon myself, I'm moving this weekend. Without any preparations. I am so smart. S-M-R-T. I mean S-M-A-R-T.

Ohh, ohh! But I DID buy two new tables and a shower curtain from Elimee who left for New York today (BYE ELIMEE!!). It is really kind of sad getting a paycheck knowing that all of it is spent already. So very sad.

Anyway, I wanted to let the folks that read this thing know that I may be without internet (and cable but that doesn't so much concern you) for a little while.

Try not to miss me too terribly.


BTW - Who wants to help me move my couch and bed on Sunday?! That is all I need help with! Honest! Except maybe one of my new tables! But THAT is really it! I SWEAR! Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease.

THERE'S NOTHING ELSE I CAN SAY

I was all prepared to write something about how crappy my day was.

But I can't.

I know this probably isn't following the rules, and I know you were Man Friend's friend, not mine, but I am so very sorry for your loss Drew.

BYE BYE BISHOP HOUSE

It's official.

I'm moving.

No, not to Columbus. Not yet anyway.

I told my neighbors today I would be taking the one bedroom apartment on the street behind the street I'm currently living on. (I could maybe even get a dog!!! I won't because I wouldn't be able to come home to let him out over lunch but I COULD and that is certainly a step in the right direction.) The place is more than I want to spend but they're willing to go month-by-month with me. Because they heart me.

This weekend marks the official end to the Bishop House, the end of a four year run. I love this house. I will miss this house. I will not have a place nearly as cool as this house for a long, long time. In the whole time I've been here, there has only been one place I've deemed cooler than the Bishop House. This is the house that made me love front porches. My friends and I solved all the world's problems on that front porch, often talking deep into the night, drinking and smoking cigars. It was on this porch that the very first uttering for a girl pyramid passed through Asshole Matt's lips. And it was on this porch that I took this picture:



Yes. It was me who gave Marta the appearance of real boobs of her very own.

I guess this is a long winded way of telling you that while I'll miss this house and, yes, these were some awesome years here in the beautiful, glorious Bishop House, I can't very well leave without having one last cookout.

Yeah, cookout. On Saturday. At 8 p.m.

I made this announcement on Facebook but, in case you're like me and you don't check Facebook everyday (Seriously kids! Pick up a phone and CALL ME.) I'm announcing it here too.

Bring beer and a side dish because my rent is going up.

HAPPY HAPPY JOY JOY

My mother told me once that she was afraid I don't know how to be happy.

At the time, I was mad. Why couldn't she cut me some slack? Everyone gets into bad moods, everyone has their down days when they feel like the world is against them, everyone feels like this. It was temporary, it would pass.

But she was right.

I decided today that I should do one thing each day that brings me joy. Seems as if it might be simply enough, no?

Except...

I couldn't think of anything.

Sure, there are things that I like to do, things that may make me happy for the moment--hanging out with friends, talking a walk through my neighborhood, folding paper into stupid shapes, writing about it all and assuming you want to read it--but there is nothing that I would describe as joyful.

I'm not so sure anymore that the answer is depression. I've suffered from this affliction all my life. I was an uptight, serious child and I am not kidding in the slightest when I tell you all I did not have a sense of humor until I was 15 years old and that, even now, it is sometimes still an uphill battle.

For so long have I told myself, "I'll be happy when I achieve this," or "I'll be happy when I live here," that I've managed to completely lose what it's like to be happy NOW, in this moment and not waiting for what might happen in the next.

And what a sad life that is to lead.

But how do I get around this trait in myself? I am a planner. I like knowing how things are going to turn out. I like having an idea of what plans are going to be like, where I'm going to end up, how it's all going to happen and when, because my head just won't let it go.

Funny thing is, the times I really remember finding joy in my life are the times I went against the grain of my own personality, the times I was spontaneous or reckless, maybe even stupid. White water rafting, skiing down a hill that was far too advanced for me, walking into Young Life (drop it) when I knew absolutely no one, the first time I ever realized I could be funny.

So basically, I'm the problem. But maybe now I might fix it.

AND I SAY THAT WITH AS MUCH LOVE AS I CAN MUSTER

Today is my Mommy's birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOMMY!!! Even if you are on the beach. Without me. Bitch.

GO GO GADGET EGO BOOST

I, my friends, am maybe a little bit drunk. And I, my friends, got hit on tonight. H-I-T ON. Whooo.

Granted, I dressed for the occasion. Top shows a nice amount of boobage without really worrying about the whore-ish factor. Yay BOOBS!

Anyway, on the way home from the bar tonight? Some guy in the car next to us was staring. And he waved.

I waved back. I am so totally hot and attractive like that.

Yes, Guy In Car. I shall be Your Friend. Ish. Maybe. If you aren't totally a creep wad. BUT! Sans Creep Wad, we could totally do business. Not, like Dirty Business, but... yeah, you probably don't know what I mean.

AND! BEFORE THE DRINKING EVEN STARTED?! This gem of a conversation:

"Give me your number! Give me your number! Hey shorty!"

"Is he talking to you or me?" ('Me' being.. well.. me and 'you' being Girl Roommate, who definately just burped)

"I don't know, but he say shorty and you and I are the same height."

"..."

Why, yes! Girl Roommate IS a blond. Why do you ask?

XX MAYBE, BUT CERTAINLY NOT XXX

A number of things sort of came together this weekend to produce HOURS of entertainment for me.

1. I was attempting to clean my house so my landlords can sell it (AND OH MY GOD THEY ARE GETTING RID OF MY HOUSE, MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE THAT I LOVE AND HAVE LIVED IN FOR FOUR WHOLE YEARS AND I DON'T WANT TO MOVE, LET ALONE MOVE TEMPORARILY WHILE I FIND A JOB IN COLUMBUS, AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE COLUMBUS FREAK OUT I WAS HAVING TODAY, OH MY GOD).
   
   Ahem.
   
   Anyway, cleaning is boring and there is a hell of a lot of it to do and, frankly, I don't wanna.



2. I found a link to a VERY fun, mucho easy to waste copious amounts of time on website.



3. At the moment, I'm not so much a fan of men, particularly men that get to wear ex- before their once upon a title.

Rather than being all bitter and mean, I thought I might regale you with tales of intrigue and woe, love and loss, the eternal struggle of mankind.

And then, when I failed to get past the bitter and mean, I decided to share with you the tale of My First Boyfriend, because HE DOESN'T READ THIS WEBSITE. I THINK.

A little background for those of you who are not in the know:

• I met My First Boyfriend at Young Life (youth group whore!).


• When we were both still in high school.


• His dumb ass did NOT ask me to his senior prom because he thought I was WAY out of his league. (HAH! That doesn't make a lick of difference when it comes to getting asked to PROM, ASSHAT!)


• Instead of taking me he took a girl who would later, in college, realize she wanted to be a guy.


• A really, REALLY good way to piss him off is to mention that little tid bit.


• We started dating because I grew a pair and kissed him on my 18th birthday as we were playing in the snow. I know, I KNOW. I should totally keep it in the pants, but a girl has NEEDS Y'ALL.


• I really only dated him because I was flattered he was interested and I wanted the experience. Oh, yeah, and he was an Older Man (because we all know that being a freshman anything, let alone college makes you hot shit).


• We dated three whole months. He was My First A-Lot-Of-Things.


• I created and refined my Dick Tease status on him.


• Yes. He really did take me on a date to the cafeteria and I STILL waited a month to break up with him because I ain't no Gold Digger!


• I do not consider him my first love.

As for my choice in characters, I chose to portray him as he pretty well is today (last I heard/saw/any information whatsoever which was he was getting married, which, I mean, I sure lucked out, huh?), sans the cigar because I did not design the character, merely used what was available to me.

I am the devil because, well, this ex- once upon a title told me a few years after we were involved that he thought I was terrifying the entire time we dated. T-E-R-R-I-F-Y-I-N-G. Which, seriously. Me. Demanding? Yes. Stubborn? HELL, yes. Terrifying? Pussy.

BEHOLD! My masterpiece!

THE EX: Part 1* (Also known as My First Boyfriend)

Depending on how well this goes over (as in LEAVE ME COMMENTS BECAUSE I WANT TO FEEL LOVED, DAMNIT) I may have future installments. Which I may do anyway. COMMENT!

*Yes, this is a pretty realistic representation of how our relationship went. Scary, I know. I promise I'm not THAT shallow anymore.
**Okay, maybe he wasn't exactly CRUSHED, but he was dismayed. Briefly.

ON PURPOSE DAMNIT

"So where is VD? I haven't seen him around recently."

"He's been working a lot and is taking care of the girlfriend."

"You know, people who completely ditch their friends when they get a significant other are total assholes."

"..."

"I WAS BEING IRONIC ON PURPOSE!!!"

BEHOLD! THE FEMALE CAR EXPERT

My car stopped working yesterday. Turned the key and.. nothing. Not even a whimper.

My attempt at a lunch might have been foiled (and woe to the world had that happened), except I was going to lunch with Intern. So he drove.

Yay, lunch.

I called my Dad and explained my well-founded belief that my car being dead was directly related to the little electrical something wrong with my car. See, my radio, when you turn the car off, it does not automatically go off. You either have to open the door or wait ten minutes.

Not too terribly long ago, that door thing stopped working. I was never really concerned because what was the big deal about turning off my radio if everything would go off in ten minutes anyway.

I wasn't really concerned until yesterday. Because yesterday my car died. Deceased. Dead.

Deciding an attempted jumping (heh) might be worth it, I enlisted the help of IT guy and Hot Blond, and lo, my car ROSE FROM THE DEAD. It purred (as much as a Cavalier can purr) and roared (again with the car insults) and sputtered maybe once and we decided it was worth driving it around the block because 1) my boss was not in the office yesterday and 2) that was pretty much the extent of our collective car expertise.

Dad had suggested I might have left my dome light on so as I'm driving around the block, I check. It was not the dome light. I'm still expecting it was a little terror of an electrical problem like I told Dad it was.

Then I looked down.

I LEFT MY HEADLIGHTS ON! Why the hell did I ever even turn them on?! IT WAS DAYLIGHT WHEN I LEFT FOR WORK. I DID NOT NEED THEM.

I guess it's just karma for yelling at Girl Roommate because bitch was IN MY WAY and THROWING OFF MY SCHEDULE even if she did HAVE TO LEAVE BEFORE I DID because I'M A BITCH.

Yes, I'm all done with the CAPS lock. Why do you ask?

NOT QUITE WHAT HE WAS THINKING

"I couldn't find shit at most of the stores I went to so all I ended up with was a new pair of pants and some lacy pink panties."

"Why would you buy lacy underware if no one is going to get to see them?"

"Well... because they make me feel pretty and then I'll project that."

"..."

"FINE! I'll show them off to Girl Roommate!"

WORLDS GREATEST SHOPPER AND OTHER WHITE LIES

I watched Thumbelina yesterday.

Yes, on purpose.

Shut up.

So after 86 minutes worth of an eye raping, THAT, YES, I WILLINGLY SUBJECTED MYSELF TO, SHUT UP ALREADY, I decided that I was going to go shopping.

By myself.

I am not a good shopper.

In fact, I hate, detest, loathe shopping. It takes me being in the right mood and even then I'm only okay. And dear, sweet God be with you if I pass my expiration date. It generally goes something like: Okay. Okay. Not quite as okay. WALL. and then I feel my body melting into a self-indulgant temper tantrum and I generally manage to piss off everyone within a 10 foot radius.

But, lo, that was NOT going to stop me yesterday because I? I deserved to treat myself to something nice because, well, Friday was payday and because I have such an issue buying things for myself EVEN IF I NEED THEM TO SURVIVE because OH MY GOD WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS AND I AM EXACTLY $36.95 SHORT BECAUSE I BOUGHT A PAIR OF PANTS?? THE WORLD MIGHT END PEOPLE! AND IT WOULD BE ALL. MY. FAULT.

So I went to Lerners because I always do well at Lerners.

I didn't do so well at Lerners because I made the mistake of assuming they would have anything I wanted IN MY SIZE. I made the same mistake at Old Navy, except for a gray pair of swashbuckling pants and SERIOUSLY? Does ANYONE look good in that shit because it is soooo not the sexy to feel as if my generous hips have melted down to my knees. If my boobs will never be able to perform that task, I CERTAINLY do not want my hips taking over the job.

Sigh.

But, alas, I was willing to keep the torture but because I'm a good shopper. I'm a good shopper. I'll go on over the Gap though I've never bought ANYTHING from the Gap (I know, I know, I know, again with the shutting up which you will do right now because I said so).

I head to the dressing room and pull on the ONLY pair of pants I can find muttering to myself the whole time. "Son of a bitch, you have to be kidding me this is ridicu... Wha? They FIT?! Butt check. Not bad. Ohh and they don't press painfully into the soft fleshy parts like the OTHER pair I'm trying to replace. I AM WORLDS GREATEST SHOPPER."

So I pay and decide to try Target.

Who had nothing.

I am not a good shopper. I am not a good shopper. I am not a good shopper.

I bought underware.

What? Mine are getting to that not pretty, please, oh please GOD just throw us away already stage.

I can't believe I admitted that.

GUTS

I have always had obnoxiously opinionated instincts.

I am unsure whether this is because of the severity of my own moral code or simply something God so graced me with, but they are there. They are loud. They are not to be ignored.

Except I HAVE ignored them. My gut screamed at me when I first met Man Friend, told me that he was only paying attention to me because I was a new conquest, that the only reason he was so ready and willing to walk the drunk girl (ahem, that would be me) up the hill to the bathroom was so he could kiss me (okay, yeah, that one might not have been too terribly off). Eventually, in a blurry haze, we exchanged numbers and he made hugely flowering and sweeping promises to come down and visit. And then I left.

I honestly thought that would be the last time I ever heard from him again.

Except it wasn't. The weekend after I got back from Canada, he drove all the way down here to hang (make) out. With me. Because he LIKED me. And that was just the first of a million times he proved my gut wrong.

It wasn't a week later that I found out he'd finally gotten the phone number of a girl he'd been vaguely chasing for a while before he met me. He threw it out.

Once, maybe a month into us dating, I got up the courage to tell him my most humiliating secret, a secret that when I think about telling anyone else makes my stomach CHURN. IN. H-O-R-R-O-R. He looked at my red, puffy, guilt-ridden face and he told me none of it mattered. He loved me anyway.

So, why am I telling you all this?

Because, right or wrong, I've lost my gut instinct.

Tonight was the first night all week I finally got the chance to be alone with myself without all the distractions I face throughout the day. Tonight I asked myself a lot of very hard questions about how I truely, god-honestly feel about this situation.

And I don't know the answers. Nothing. Nip. Nada. Not even a little tingle in one direction or another.

I don't know how I feel about that.

* * *

ADDENDUM: Oh, son of a bitch. No. No. I did not mean that I-don't-know-how-I-feel-about-that shit ironically. You've got to be kidding me. God, sometimes I'm a real asshole.

OPEN LETTER TO MAN FRIEND

I decided today I wasn't going to feel bad anymore. Not something that is commonly just announced and perfectly followed so I'm expecting some bad days, but overall, I'm just tired of feeling sad or mad or numb.

It was suggested that anger, particularly anger directed towards Man Friend, would be the way to go to get over this. I tried on that role and it just wasn't that satisfying. Yes, I am unhappy with how situations were handled, with outcomes and my reactions to said outcomes, and yes, I am hurt, but he can not help how he feels or does not feel and I cannot see how my anger, beyond being a catalyst for my own healing, would help the situation. No matter how much I want him on the face of this, I can't be with someone who doesn't want to be with me.

I love him, very much I love him. I had thought I might spend the rest of my life with him. This doesn't mean it couldn't still happen. From what he tells me he still loves me and misses me. I find that infuriatingly frustrating because why can't that be enough?

But I have faith. It's hard earned and faltering at times, but it IS there.

I believe that one day Man Friend will pull his head out of his ass and realize what a mistake he is making, that no matter what, I'm not worth losing. Whether or not he's too late is yet to be told, but we were good together. Even when things weren't so great, we were good. I would have done, probably would still do, almost anything for him.

I had a dream last night. Man Friend was leaving, driving a van, and inside that van were all the people I ever met through him, even a few of my friends (you traitorous bastards). The one person I remember vividly was my favorite of Man Friend's buddies. He met my eyes for a moment, his look forlorn and an overwhelming feeling came over me as I realized I wasn't going to be invited.

Becase those friends, they've been around longer.

Part of me truely understands. Part of me respects him for this decision that is obviously hard on him, too. Part of me.

And that part is telling me to forgive him.

MINI MINIONS

I definately washed my hair in the kitchen sink this morning.

I got home last night to find our bathroom in disarray because SOMEONE (Girl Roommate) didn't tell me the painter guy was coming to fix the goddamn bathroom and that is so not cool and I was already in a FABULOUS mood so adding that to everything was just DANDY as mother effing CANDY.

But I digress.

I got a call from a recruiter today (who wants to find a JOB and thinks I'm SMART and that I have a lot to OFFER and HELL YEAH you are more then welcome to hook me the hell up).

When I got to work I told the IT Manager (whom I ADORE) and she got vaguely distraught. See, she has a plan. She thinks the IT guy and I should hook up.

I believe her exact words were, "It's your duty to procreate and have smart children," and, "He likes burnettes, and I'm pretty sure he's over his whole tattoo thing."

Um. Yeah.

I tried, and failed miserably, to hide my embarrassment and eventually suggested she only wanted us to create mini minions so she could take over the world. I also told her I was charmed she was thinking of me but I really didn't need to be hooked up with the IT guy.

True, I think nerd is a brand of sexy but... um, yeah.

And I totally went to lunch alone today.

* * *

ADDENDUM: Ben apparently thinks I'm a hot piece of rebound ass.

SCREW IT

I've attempted to start three posts before this one. I can't decide which emotion to go with and I don't much feel like writing.

That's a lie.

I do feel like writing, but what I want to write is fiction and I'm unwilling to share that with you. I am willing to share, in obnoxiously vivid detail, every emotion I've ever felt and nearly every thing or event or person that has ever made me feel that way, but my fantasies, my daydreams, my longings. Those are mine.

And you.

You don't deserve them.

THE MAKINGS OF A GOOD DAY

This morning, as I stumbled through the living room, quiet as a wildabeast, I yelped. I looked down. The bottom of my left foot was bleeding.

Stoicly shrugging away the excruciating pain, I took a step forward and realized whatever the hell caused me to bleed was still in my foot. I hobbled to the couch and used my fingernails like tweezers to extract a clear, plastic splinter from the ball of my foot. I made my way up to the bathroom, cursing under my breath because now I was really going to be late, and put some New Skin and a bandaid over the offending hole.

I returned to the downstairs to make breakfast. I looked down. There was a red line across the top of my RIGHT foot.

"I don't remember scratching myself," I thought. "It can't be a scratch," I thought. "It must be pen," I thought.

THEN I LICKED MY THUMB AND RUBBED IT.

It burned like a goddamn scratch.

Then I thought, "I am a mother-effing idiot. Now I've gone and infected it and my foot is going to swell up to the size of a watermelon and fall off."

I returned to the bathroom for some more New Skin.

Upon arriving at work, I picked up an Xacto blade and began cutting out the invitations I printed for an upcoming event.

I poked myself in the forearm with the Xacto blade.

I sighed, heavily, and pushed back away from my desk. And rolled over my own toe.

* * *

For the record, I feel much better today.

I also totally forgot I owe Sarah Cool dinner.

* * *

I love you. I want to keep you and smoosh you and play with you and walk you and give you treats until you fall over in utter exhaustion from all the attention and lovins and belly rubs.

THE END

As of yesterday (Tuesday, June 5, 2007), I am officially single. It was honestly a title I didn't really think I'd ever wear again.

And sure, I know, technicially I've been single for five weeks now, shut the hell up, I don't want to hear it. I obsess and find any little reason to hang on when all the obvious signs tell me I should let go but goddamn could I cling to a hope, a sliver that break meant temporary and distance meant healing, or missing, or change. Change of mind, change of heart, a sudden "Oh shit, what have I done?" realization. I've spent the last five weeks wondering, despite every reassurance it wasn't me, what I did to break it or what I should be doing to fix it, to make it not happen.

And the answer is nothing. It isn't me. It isn't anything I did or didn't do.

I cannot fix this.

He just needs to be selfish, to do what he wants to do, to not cater to anyone, and I am just shit out of luck, I guess.

No, you can't help. No, I don't want a lecture on how I'm better off without him or at least now I know or even maybe you'll come together again someday because, you know what? Screw you and your pretentious advise. I know it's there. I know it itches like a pesky mosquito. I do NOT want to hear it.

The deal now is that I'm going to be sad until I'm not.

JUST TIRED

I've been talking to God a lot recently, and I mean really talking. The kind of talking where there is just as much yelling and cursing and accusing as there is begging and pleading and cajoling.

I feel like I'm getting nowhere. And I'm angry.

RANDOM SMANTERING

I can't sleep. And I found the green stick thing. I have to get up in 5 hours and I am not entirely pleasant without a good 8 (as in 3 more than 5) hours sleep. But here you go anyway.

You're welcome.

* * *

I bet you did not know that among my mad skillz, the shaving of the head with an electric shaver and guide attachment was numero uno.


Or that might be a complete and utter lie. Boy Roommate's Not Girlfriend was over and suggested that he was in desperate need of a hairs cut. I jumped at the chance. It is actually something I quite enjoy doing. Hell, the frat boys used to have haircutting parties (Okay, not really. It was usually someone needed it done and someone else thought, what the hell since you have it all out, do me too) in which I participating in the shaving of the heads, one reason I was surprised they asked me to be their Sweetheart. Not because I didn't do a good job because, hah! Let's be real. Of course I did a good adequate good enough... FINE! They told me I wasn't allowed to do it anymore because I missed one too many spots!

No, I did not tell Boy Roommate about the revoked head shaver privileges.


SEE?! It turned out okay! He even gave me an uber lame, I'm-a-Classics-major-surprise-surprise thumbs up.

Dork.

* * *

I have bug bites. One is on my hip and, creepily enough, it resembles a sperm. You can't really tell because of my craptastic camera work, but it's almost as if the West Nile infected bastard (okay, not really) that bit me hit a vein and it's venom or whatever that makes you all itchy and gives you ANGRY RED WELTS, traveled a short ways down said vein. Thus, a sperm tail.


And on my side RIGHT where my bra rubs.


Fantastic.

* * *

And what you've all been waiting for:

My armadillo!


Okay, so, no. It is not a REAL armadillo, per se, but it is a pretty freaking cool parlor trick, huh?

How many numbers do you think I'll get now that I can turn a dollar into an armadillo? HOW MANY?

That's right, bitches! A COUPLE! Maybe even A FEW!

And that black crap you can see on the dollar is actually Sharpie from Man Friend who wrote all over said dollar after I won a bet. Because he was a bitter loser.

And I am a sentimental asshole for keeping that dollar. But at least now I'm keeping it because it's an armadillo.

And who doesn't like armadillos?

DAILY PUPPY DOT COM

I had a random entry all planned with photos and captions and the like, but I can't find the green stick that lets me upload photos onto my computer so you will have to wait until I find that to see Boy Roommate's mohawk, my angry bug bites, and my armadillo.

I have an armadillo.

So instead of ALL of that chocolaty goodness, I'm giving you this instead:

IT'S A NUGGET!!!!!!!!!!! (In case you aren't thoroughly stalking me through my blog - and if not, FOR SHAME - here is a little back history on the original Nugget.)

And here is a fuzzy manatee! And Steve Buscemi.

Enjoy.

FOLDED PAPER

Last night, Jennith had a shish cabob party.

There was much cooking of meat, a bad-ass badmitton competition (until Vishnu broke his shuttlecock.. hehe), and then... I found this, only it was last years addition.

I had forgotten how much I like origami.

Check out my parrots chilling on Girl Roommates wheat glasses.



And a blurry frog. He just wishes he was cool enough to hang with the parrots. And that grease stain in the background has been there since not too long after we moved into the house. I didn't do it.



This is SUPPOSED to be a lobster. Boy Roommate and I agreed it was a much closer representation of a crawdad.



Why, yes, I did already purchase the 2007 calender. No, I don't care that we are already HALF-FREAKING-WAY through the year. I'm not really planning on using it for it's given purpose when its pages double as origami paper. How freaking cool is that?

HAVING DIFFICULTIES

You might notice a few changes to this blog.

The most glaring (so far) is that my list of authors and books is missing, but also that my archives bar looks funny. I'm attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to make a few housekeeping changes and instead of submitting to my will like a good little tool, blogger is choosing to force itself on me in a most unflattering and unwanted manner.

I've achieved a point where I am, mayhaps, JUST shy of throwing my beautiful, lovely, charming Mac out the window and we all know it isn't nice to put the blame where it doesn't belong and with that being said, I have this to add: FOR SHAME, BLOGGER.

I'm give up for the evening. I'll try again tomorrow.


EDIT: Right after I finished that lament it started working. Oh my shit, this is like the freaking red-headed step-child of upgrades.

NOTHER EDIT: That's RIGHT, Blogger! You will bend to my will!

PUDDLES

Girl Roommate? She has magical boobies. Give her a fussy baby and ten minutes, the kid is out like a light. My theory is she sufficates them between her watermelons (not REALLY that much of an exaggeration). Her theory is that they're soft.

I know. Not much of a theory. My borderline child abuse theory? Much more likely.

* * *

Girl Roommate and I spent much of last evening playing with some of the neighbor kids. My contribution to the playing included threatening to dunk one of them in the pool by his ankles if he aimed the hose at me, getting told NO, I DON'T WANT YOU TO HELP ME DOWN THE SLIDE, YOU HEINOUS BITCH! (she's 2, so I gleamed that last part from the expression on her face), and getting smacking ON BOTH CHEEKS for telling said 2 year old that her friends? They went home. Because they did. They really went home. But I wasn't supposed to tell her that I guess.

But it's okay because she provides material.

Like peeing.

"Daddy, I have to pee."

Yes, child, we can see that. You're still doing it.

"I told you to go behind the bush."

And she does. Well, kinda. She wondered over next to the bush and then squatted down in an attempt to check herself to make sure she was done and grabbed at her crotch in a way that would make most baseball players proud.

I then suggested the hose wielder aim it on over to that funny colored puddle.

MY NEW HAIRS CUT

It's a wee bit short. Apparently "between my chin and shoulder" translated to "between my chin and nose."



Why yes, I do know I have a huge ass forehead.

I haven't decided if I like it yet but dear God did I get a shit ton of attention at work today. EVERYBODY and their brother noticed my hair and squealed in delight.

When I woke up on Sunday, I HATED it. We are talking absolute loathing but it has since started to grow on me. The only real problem with the haircut is the number of times it's been compared to a child's, i.e. - my neighbor's 2 year old and my coworker's 7 year old granddaughter.

Charmed, I'm sure.

Before some of the gents I hang out with managed a completement I got some of these little gems:

"Do you like it?"

"I'm not really up on women's hairstyles to know."

* * *

"When did you get your hair cut?"

"Today."

"Oh."

* * *

"What happened to your hair?"


Bastards.

RAIN, RAIN GO AWAY

I got my hairs cut. I have made SEVERAL attempts to showcase a picture of said hairs but it keeps clogging up Safari and then I have to force quit in a huff of annoyance.

So you get this instead.

* * *

My head? Yeah, it's doing that thing again. Remember the demons?

So because I honestly believe him when I talk to him, and because I'm not going to get the reassurances I want when I want them, I've been instead instructed to think of all the things I want to do, research them until my head is ready to explode, and then do them. All to avoid driving myself insane with an imagination from hell.

In no particular order:

• I want to go white water rafting again.


• Dad and I are talking about visiting Tiff. Details are not so easy to hammer out with that man. How it will work out is I will basically plan the trip and tell him when and where to show up.


• I NEED, not just want, I physically need a dog. I don't care what breed though since I recently started to want to name him Johnny Cash (Cash for short), I'm thinking there is no way to go but black. Maybe I'll volunteer at a local shelter.


• I want to join a pottery class. I always LOVED sculpture and I was always good at it. Now, the reason I have YET to do this is:
  
  
  • It's expensive.
  
  
  • I don't know when my ticket will finally get punched and I'll be heading to Columbus and I don't want to only be half-way through a class when it is so damn expensive.


• I want to learn to belly dance.


• I want to find a job and move to Columbus.


• I want to finally do that drawing for Tiff and Trini I've been promising for over a year.


• I want to go camping. For real camping, not Canada camping.


• I want to be self-assured.


• I want to visit Dan in Guatamala.


• I want to build something.


• I want to live by myself.


• I want to go back to Las Vegas and go to a show.


• I want to visit all 50 states.


• I want to be happy again. I don't want to have to keep faking it.

HOW RUMORS GET STARTED

Bean and I followed behind Mom as we wondered through the grocery store picking out things for dinner. A container caught my eye and I giggled.

"What is so funny?" Bean demanded, barely turning to look my direction.

"That sign. It says Uncle Mike's Beef Jerky and it reminds me of something Man Friend used to say."

She relinquished her attentive stare from the hotdogs and glanced at me.

"Uncle Man Friend's Protein Injections. Can be taken anally, orally, or vaginally."

Her eyes went wide for a moment and her lips curled into a sneer of disgust. She regained her composure and, never one to miss an opportunity to delve into my sex life, leaned in conspiratorially. "And did you ever do any of that?"

"Nope," I grinned at her. "None of it."

"Really?" she asked incredulously.

My expression turned serious, almost hurt, "Why do you think he broke up with me?"

Her jaw hit the floor. "HE DID NOT!" she hissed.

I cackled maniacally.

She glared at me, still not wholey convinced. "You realize," she huffed, "this is how rumors get started."

FUNNIER IN CONTEXT

"Our gas bill is only $27."

"A person?"

"No, total. That means we each owe... $9."

"And would you like that in cash or sexual favors?"

"I'll take it in cash please."

"WHY IS EVERYONE TURNING DOWN MY SEXUAL FAVORS?!"

"Because I need money bad."

* * *

"Well, since I no longer have a date to Bean's wedding, you and Trini can take mine and Man Friend's room. I just stay with Mom and Dad."

"I already reserved a room."

"I can't stay there BY MY SELF! I'll be all lonely and sobbing into my overly iced mixed drink."

"Well... tough shit. It'll just be a party room."

"Maybe I can talk Bean into staying with me."

"ON HER WEDDING NIGHT?! Oh, you are CRUEL."

* * *

"I'll give you a piece of my gum if you let me try a bite of that bagel."

"Sure, why not."

"Oh, that is actually good. Wanna go halvsies?"

"Yeah, I couldn't eat a whole one."

"Alright, well take your half out of the bag so I don't get it all fingery."

"I don't mind fingery."

"... You might not want to say that in mixed company."

* * *

"I had an ex-boyfriend tell me once that I had very German toes."

"And how long did it take you to walk away from that?"

"We only dated a month. He thought he was smarter than me and THAT just wasn't going to fly."

* * *

"One time, after Rafia and I came here, she stopped really fast while I had coffee in my hand and it went all over me. We're talking up my sleeve and all over my coat..."

"Well... this time might not be much better because I drive like an asshole."

ASSHAT

Speak of the devil. Guess who I saw today?

My asshat ex-boyfriend.

Yeah, that one.

He was driving. Something he NEVER did when we were dating because he didn't have a car. No, back then it was much easier to use me to drive him and his best friend to the mall and then pretend I had leprocy. Asshole must have had a pair, too, because he still had enough gull to ask me to buy him $150 headphones.

I didn't for the record.

I'm pretty sure he recognized me, too, judging by the three times he glanced my way. Just to be sure.

He still has dumb looking hair.

JACKASSERY

The much funny that was spewed forth from the everloving assholes I choose to call friends this weekend:

"Your brother called me a whore. Defend my honor!"

"I can't defend THAT!"

"..."

"AGAINST!!! I can't defend against that!"

* * *

"I didn't call you a whore. I would need to first see your price sheet to make that determination."

* * *

"Look at me!"

"Oh, he's looking for the twinkle in his eye."

"I'm not going to get it looking at you!"

* * *

"I don't want to buy your ice cream."

"But you have a job (nevermind that I have one too)."

"But I'm not getting paid for it yet."

"But I got you bling! That makes you my bitch. You either owe me ice cream or sexual favors."

"Ice cream it is."

* * *

"On a scale of 9 to 10, how sexy would I be with a beard?"

"Can you even grow a beard?"

"Shut up."

NOT SURPRISINGLY

I've been one, huge, jovial mass this weekend and a credit to my friends. They really did try to cheer me up, but implying I'm a whore and have no honor really only goes so far.

I can't say depression is new to me. I can't say I've never been affected. (Well, I could but a quick glance around this blog might produce some tell-tale signs to the contrary.)

But the severity of it, that's new. It literally feels as though someone has wantonly and maliciously carved out my chest. I feel hollow.

I am a creature of planning. I try, have tried repeatedly, to ease this feature of my personality. But not knowing, spontaneity, makes me uncomfortable. Makes me fret. Makes me analyze again and again the possibilities in my head.

I don't know if you know this about me but I do not have high self-esteem. Part of this comes from my exceptional ability to internalize anger and make excuses. The other part comes from my need for acceptance and terror at being singled out.

It really doesn't matter what I start out thinking, how convinced I am about the truth of something. The demons will come.

They hide in my imagination, and they prepare me for every possible outcome by showing me, over and over, in excruciating detail the worst possible scenerio. They show me bashing all my teeth out my head when I trip over a crack in the street. They show me breaking my neck and impaling my chin on the creepy little light fixture at the bottom of the stairs. They show me alone and lonely.

This is why I respect people who are blunt, people who will be honest with me no matter how much they think it might hurt. Because my demons, they are creative little shits and what they show me is always far worse than whatever the actual truth may be.

I face, for the second time in my life, the prospect that I am very easily discarded, very easily left behind. It happened once when I was 19, which, in all honesty, was my fault and it was my arrogence that caused it. I thought he would wait for me but three months later he was dating a cute little thing with a perfect manicure and was exceptionally content shoving that fact in my face. It crushed me that I was so quickly and thoroughly replaced. I didn't date again for three years, and when I finally did, he was an asshole and verbally abusive and I can't fathom now what I saw in him. Luckily, that mistake only took up a month of my life.

I blame myself a lot for things that I know are not my fault. I accept blows and more times than not, rather than getting mad at the person throwing them, I convince myself that I deserved it. I paid my dues with the boyfriend I hurt and lost at 19, but I can't help but feel, with such eerily similar circumstances, that I'm being punished, by God or by karma, for the pain I caused him when I so suddenly walked away.

I learned, in the three years after, that I am more than capable of taking care of myself and my own. It made me want to be more cautious with my feelings, but I'm not patient enough for that, nor does hiding how I feel really work with my need for honesty and my supposed inability to be anything less than blunt.

So what is my point? I don't really have one. I'm depressed, soul-crushingly so, and the only truly effective outlet I've ever found was writing.

CLICK HERE. BECAUSE I SAID SO

This is better than what I was going to post.

ITALIC SIGNALS INTERNAL DIALOGUE

I let my gym membership expire.

It wasn't worth the $40, particularly not since the weather has been so nice.

So, to suppliment my workout, I've started walking around the local neighborhoods again (which previously caused me to lose 15lbs (I've since gained it back) as opposed to the ZERO I've lost at that freaking gym.)

I was nearing the end of today's walk when I learned something new about myself.

* * *

I was still nearly fifty feet away when one of them yelled, "Hey, baby! I haven't seen you in so long! Come and give me a hug."

(Who the what now?)

Walking toward me were three scraggly looking thug-wannabe's, one of whom was now approaching me with arms spread wide.

I glared but continued my approach. It was too late to change my course and mother always said morons shouldn't be encouraged. By this point I could see my would-be hugger's features clearly, including his too large black t-shirt, the loose, black manpris that hung down to his midcalf.

And his gleeming gold tooth reflecting in the waning sunlight.

"Give me a hug."

His cronies chuckled.

"Don't touch me."

He looked at me dumbly, arms still outstretched. "What?"

"Don't. Touch. Me."

His arms dropped to his side and he squinted his eyes at me.

"Why would I want to touch you? I'm too good for you."

(Bitch, please. I never had to said I was too good for you.)

"You and your sausage patty ass booty."

(The hell?)

"My momma would be so mad at me for even..." he voice faded off as he continued his badboy saunter down the street.

(Aww, that's right, Snaggletooth. You save face cause you just got shot down.)

* * *

Now, can someone please explain to me what a "sausage patty ass booty" is? I'm reasonably sure he was refering to my back side. And I'm reasonably sure he meant to insult me. But, the hell? It MIGHT have stung if he called me something traditional, something like "fat ass" or "qahba" but why's the bitch gotst to bring breakfast food into this? I aught tell him momma.

HOUSE WARMING

Not that I have a new job yet.

Not that anyone has even nibbled.

But I read today that to get anything you want you need to have a clear vision in your head. So I'm envisioning my new kick-ass apartment.

Along with some house warming presents you can get me.

Just a suggestion.


Living Room
Key Holder

Bathroom
TP Holder

Patio
Fire Pit

Kitchen
Wine Holder

Towel Bar

Over-the-sink Dishrack

Sponge Caddy

Magnetic Spice Cans

Corner Sink Board

And I would be remiss without a tiny spork.

IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME

I can fight or I can let go.

Either way, I've lost him.

And that makes me profoundly sad.

TALKING TO MYSELF

I tend to over think stuff. You could even go so far as to say I'm quite good at it. Beyond compare even.

And it's when I start to over think things that I begin to doubt things I know to be true and solid facts. Things like: "I look cute today," or "2+2=4." That sort of stuff.

But today! In a fit of brilliance! I thought to myself and I said, "Self. What if you downloaded an audio book... say, Interview With A Vampire (Which I have attempted to listen to the whole way through for SEVERAL years now... And it isn't like it's boring. No, in fact, I was so intrigued on a car ride home once that I MISSED MY EXIT and ended up going 10 miles out of my way). You can listen to it on your definately NOT NEW iPod becasue someone didn't think you needed a new one when your old one still works fine, who the hell cares if the are now smaller and play videos?"

Then I thought back to myself, "Oh my god! Self! You... are brilliant!" (The other voice in my head, the one that responds back, it might like the exclaimation point a tad too much.)

So there you have it folks. I... am brilliant! Self told me so and she NEVER lies to me.

Unless I give her time to over think. Then she just turns into a heinous bitch.

SHOULD

Today was a day fit for those ooey, gooey Warm Delights.

It just did not end: from the "you've-got-to-be-shitting-me" meetings to the "my-design-skills-will-REALLY-be-expanded-answering-phones" job description addition. I feel like I got thrown to the freaking wolves today.

Not to mention the bleeding. And the cramping.

I hate my job. I'm not particularly fond of my life right now either. Nothing is going as planned. I should have a job in Columbus that I actually sort of like with an apartment all my own and a dog to take care of and love and cuddle. I should get paid more, have benefits and a vactaion plan, and be taking pottery classes at the local community center. I should be preparing for a trip to visit my sister or going camping and hiking or a vacation to some state I've never been. I should have a little herb garden growing on my window sill in matching, individual serving size, terra cotta pots.

Despite how it might sound, I'm not nearly as pissed off or upset as I was earlier today... like around 10 this morning (right about the time I found out about the phone thing and I was certainly in no mood to hide my sour expression from my boss who also told me if I'm going to call in sick - and never once when I called in did I say I was sick - I should do it the day of, not the day before to which I'm sure that same expression brighted DRAMATICALLY).

I'm actually quite pensive now. Contemplative, if that makes it sound better.

I could probably use some encouragement.

BREAKING NEWS

Word on the street is Man Friend and I are taking a break. (OH, SHOCK! You mean someone DOESN'T want to put up with my shit?! WTF, right?) Actually, I've been thoroughly cajoled and that is not the reason. At this point, there really is no official reason though I do have my theories (government conspiracy, alien invasion, etc.)

I missed two days of work because of this. Not so much because I REALLY needed too (okay, yeah I did, a little) but because my parents somewhat enthusiastically encouraged such behavior. I came back home to Cincinnati mainly because I needed clean underwears.

My hope is that this won't last very long/be permanent because I kinda like the fellow but I understand/respect/don't-much-like the fact that he needs his space.

I guess that is all I've really got to say about it.

* * *

In other news, not only do carney's have small hands and smell like cabbage but they drive like assholes, too.

BREAK

Hi.

So, I'll be around on the weekends from now on if anyone wants to do anything.

COMRADE

Hi kids.

Yes, I realize it's been a long time since I last updated. No, I really don't have an excuse. Nor would I probably give one if I did. This is a blog people. More specifically, it is MY blog and I do with it what I will.

That being said, I do have quite a lot to talk about:

* * *

There have been a few times in my relationship with Man Friend when I have felt the urge to make him cookies.

Such as this weekend. Because I'm awesome.

The first time I ever made Man Friend cookies was for naught because he butthead father who shall hence forth be known as Dirty Old Man (Yes, I call him this to his face. Shut up. He thinks it's funny), ATE EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM.

At least that is what we thought.

I brought Man Friend two containers of cookies with the intention of giving his dad the second container. I thought it best since they were Man Friend's cookies to let him decide if his dad was to get any (see: the first time I ever made him cookies). He was kind, much kinder than the Dirty Old Man and decided he would share... just not all of them. He took out the majority of the cookies leaving three behind and handed the container to his greedy father who hoarded his small stash like it was going out of style.

Munching upon his second cookie, I explained to Dirty Old Man how SAD it was that I could not simply do something nice for Man Friend without having to include his dad in the mix, siting the aforementioned reason above.

Talk about lame.

He then proceeded to tell me that he had NOT eaten all the cookies that night as we previously believed when we saw an empty container. Oh no.

HE. HID. THEM.

Again. He hid the cookies, Man Friend's cookies, and didn't even save him ONE.

Now.. it was ALMOST forgivable when he'd just eaten them all. You understand, weakness of will and all. But to maliciously and intentially hide cookies that were not his. That took a brass pair.

And I told him so.

"But I'm an old man. I deserve a few cookies."

"Yes, Dirty Old Man. A FEW. Which I offered you. BUT THEY WERE NOT YOUR COOKIES."

"Well, I have my faults."

"And they are GLARING."

He laughed and went along on his merry way, not convinced in the slightest that he was wrong as hell. Little does he realize he shall never taste another of my cookies again.

* * *

Man Friend went to the doctor yesterday (it should have been Thursday but his doctor cancelled, strike TWO for doctor (strike ONE was because they didn't fix it in the first place)) because his gut still hurts him. So much so that he isn't eating and his mood is not the sweetest, though, with constant pain, that is completely reasonable.

Strike THREE for the doctor is they STILL do not know what it is but he earned brownie points for giving Man Friend Vicodin. Boy is in the best mood of his life. I have never heard anyone so happy to have to take ethics training (and before you say anything, it was required, and not because he did something stupid).

Thursday, he gets to go back to the doctor for an ultrasound (because he's pregnant with Drew's (or his doctor friend's) lovechild) to find out if it isn't, in fact, his gall bladder causing him trouble WHICH THEY SUSPECTED IN THE FIRST PLACE. Why they couldn't have just gone with that is beyond my comprehension and why I am in great dislike of doctor man.

* * *

This weekend, Man Friend and I went to see two movies. The second of which was Hot Fuzz which got funnier as it went on.

But the first movie... The Condemned was H-O-R-R-I-B-L-E. I mean it sucked donkey toes and it sucked them hard. Like it enjoyed it.

Upon informing Drew of this later at the bar, he looked at me incredulously and demanded to know what I expected.

"Senseless violence."

Man Friend then piped up to inform him that I'm into that one thing, oh what was it again?

UFC. I am a fan of UFC.

Which, might I add, is NOT senseless violence? They're fighting for a reason! A shiny, fake gold belt. Not... unlike wrestling. Which I don't like at all because it is fake and UFC? They ACTUALLY kick on anothers asses. The last fight was AWESOME. Gonzaga or however you spell that kicked Cro Cop in the head knocking the poor bastard out cold.

Which was a shame.

I wanted Cro Cop to win. I've got a little thing for Russians (and by "Russia," I mean any country previously a part of the USSR because Cro Cop is actually from Croatia which, is that even near Russia?). Nor do I find him at all attractive.

I just want him to call me comrade.