CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS, PART DEUCE

"Bastard! How does it feel being the first person I've ever hit THAT I WORK WITH?!"

'You aren't supposed to hit coworkers. Didn't you watch the video?"

"Hit ON. I'm not supposed to hit on coworkers."

* * *

"Do you even know what my title is?"

"I know what we call you when you're not around."

"Harsh!"

"Come on! You walked right into that!"

* * *

"So how is your son?"

"... My son? What?"

"You know, he's 26. Lives in Alaska. Needs a good woman."

"Oh, ohhh. My son. He's good. He'll be home for Christmas."

"Really? So are you going to invite me to your family Christmas party?"

"Oh, definately."

* * *

"Did you get my text..?"

"7 a.m.!"

"Wait. What?"

"You texted me at 7 A. M.!"

((maniacal cackling))

"I picked up the phone and looked at the time and YELLED AT MY PHONE so that it might send the message back to you saying I cannot receive text messages until AT LEAST 8 a.m."

((choking giggles))

"My roommate even asked me who the hell I was talking to because 7 a.m.! I was all curling up hugging my pillow. You know what it's like to be hugging your pillow? I was all nice and warm and ASLEEP."

((chortle)) "I was eating breakfast."

"I wasn't!"

"Hah. I won't do it again."

"I'm texting you at 6 tomorrow!!!"



It will have been worth it.

* * *

I sent the link to my bloggity to a sort of, not really family member who I LOVE because she likes to be mean and catty with me but I only get to see her at special events which makes me sad in my pants (I may or may not have stolen that saying (number 30)). She wrote me back to tell me I'm not right. And that MADE ME PROUD.

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS

My teeth ache. Specifically, my two front teeth. (Shutupshutupshutup*)

I am LOVING this. Let me tell you how much I am loving thing. I am loving this SO MUCH, I could die for joy of it all.

No, seriously. DIEDIEDIE!

Because guess who doesn't have dental?!

Ohh! Ohhh! ME!! ME!

And guess who could PROBABLY afford to go to the dentist but won't because a) I ain't spending that kind of cash to be told to take some advil**, and b) I HATELOATHEDETESTHATE the dentist?

MEEEEEEE! Oh God, it's meeeee!

Now guess who will be sitting here just sucking it up?

I think you get the point, but in case not: MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ((inhale)) EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!


*I swear to all you hold holy that if you EVEN start to sing that song to me, toothache or no, I will bite off your lips THAT is how serious I am. I have had that Goddamn song in my head ever since I thought up this post. At work. I DON'T KNOW WHICH PAIN IS WORSE!

**Unless, of course, they give me something stronger like vicodin, which would probably mean the trip AT LEAST pays for itself***.

***Note to those of you about to LOSE YOUR SHIT: (Like my mother, HI MOM!) I do not sell nor condone the selling of drugs under the table for spare cash. If I need spare cash I'll simply whore myself out for it. BECAUSE I AM CLASSY.

TEMPTRESS

Seriously kids. I need to work on my charms and wiles because my career as a seductress is NOT off to a good start. I mean damn fellas! Look at that picture up in the masthead. LOOK AT IT!! Who WOULDN'T want to bite off a piece of that? WHO?

I HAVE PRINCIPLES

In a tragic turn of events, today I found out that the lead singer of All American Rejects looks eerily similar to my asshole ex-boyfriend. And seems to have about as much emotional range. Which means I have to hate him now on principle.



Good thing their music isn't that good.

FRIDAY NIGHT LASAGNA

(Alright you damn vultures! Here's your freaking post!)

Friday evening on my way home from work I receive a call from Matt of the E pursuasion (this may or may not matter later).

"Let's do something," he said as is his wont.

"Okay," I responded wittily. "What?"

"Dinner at my place?" he asked hopefully and the stars aligned and planets collided and it was decided BY THE GODS that there would be an O-R-G-Y of cheese and sause and noodle and veggies.

We ventured to the local Kroger to pick out way more squash than was necessary as well as an eggplant that, sadly, was not used for sexual favors.

Back at his place we began the arduous task of cutting all the freaking shit we bought. Okay. Okay. Let me rephrase. Matt:E and D.O. began the arduous task. I got to mix up the gooey, cheesey spread that I may or may not have smeared all over my body in a fit of orgasmic lust.

While it was going quite well, what with all the boys playing with sharp knives and the startling lack of blood, D.O. seemed to lack... form, shall we say? And as he cut his pepper, his wrist was held at such a painfully awkward angle that Matt and I were obliged, no COMPELLED, to point out just how big of an idiot D.O. looked. Specifically:

"You look like a gay guy with palsey." ~Matt:E

Others arrived and it was decided by Matt:E's smokin' hot Not-Girlfriend Kalie (because I spelled it wrong last time) that our little get together was seriously lacking some wine. So she bought some. And all us pansy ass light weights drank it all BEFORE gorging ourselves on lasagna.

That is the only reason I have for why the rest of this shit happened:

Me: "Did you say pants down?"

Matt:E: "No, I said hands down."

Me: "Oh. I guess I heard what I wanted to hear."

* * *

Jennith: "Show us the alien!"

Me: "Do you even know what it is?"

Jennith: "It sprouts out of his stomach?"

Me: "Oh sweetie. That's not his stomach."

* * *

It was somehow determined that D.O. was a god among men and could satisfy two women at the same time. Not merely because he is just THAT good, but because he's packing twice your typical standard regulation (he has two penises).

Me: "Would that make you a hermaphrodite?"

D.O. and Matt:E (in disgust): No! (Because seriously? My comment? Not the stupidest thing said folks)

Matt:E: It makes him more of a Double Dudite... Double Dude Delight!"

Me: "You could be in double mint gum commercials."

* * *

Now, you would think after the BRILLIANT conversations you just witnessed above that NO ONE WOULD EVER WANT TO LEAVE. That's what we thought, but D.O.? He had different plans and apparently, stupidly, thought he would go to bed early. Like at 11, which, L-A-M-E.

That's when someone threw out the idea that maybe, just maybe, D.O. would LOVE IT if we all piled on top of him.

And we did.

And then all hell broke loose.

Matt:E dove on first, slipping across D.O. like he was butter. Kalie, the Not-Girlfriend soon followed, pushing Matt:E further to make room. Only thing, D.O.'s bed doesn't reach the wall. There's about a foot gap between the bed and the wall, which Matt:E promptly fell down and Kalie on top of him.

She cried out for my assistance and was quickly shushed at Other Matt (or Matt:VD) slammed his door at us in anger. Heh. Oops. I giggled at her thoroughly, tickled pink at the sounds of Matt:E's groans of discomfort, before reaching an arm around her skinny waist (bitch) and hoisting her back up onto the bed.

Only to find her yelping in pain because her leg? It was stuck between the wall and the bed. Tipsy as she was, she continued her half-whispered pleas for help until I finally had the wherewithall to pull her leg free and clamor down the steps where we collapsed back on the couches in a fit of drunken giggles.

THE END.

JUST CALL ME TITS MAGEE

Why yes, this IS another post about my boobs. Because apparently THEY JUST CAN'T BE RESTRAINED.

This was never a problem I expected growing up. As a young girl it just isn't something you think will ever happen to you though I'm sure plenty of little girls in their training bras are wishing for the day that their full and buxom chests SNAP THE UNDERWIRE OF THEIR BRA IN HALF. AT WORK.

BEAT THAT, VOLUPTUOUS SISTERS! Not. To. Be. Restrained. Bras tremble at the mere sight of my cannons. BOOM.

RANDOM CONCERT ANNOUNCEMENT

Dropkick Murphys
November 13
Bogarts

Now, I haven't heard much by the Dropkick Murphys HOWEVER I do like their style (I'm a HUGE fan of Flogging Molly), but at the same time, I feel like for me to go to that concert I would be an enormous poser.

Besides. It's on a school night. I realize I'm lame. No need to point it out.

IT'S BECOME AN ENTITY ALL IT'S OWN

Self-righteous bitch. You would think after all our years together that mah Hair? She would know better. She wouldn't pick fights with entities that are bigger than she is but nooooo. She got up all in Humidity's face like she has a hope in the world, acting all big and bad, puffing herself up a pissed off cat.

Behold. Exhibit A:


Courtesy of Sarah Cool who doesn't yet know how courteous she's being. (HI SARAH!)

Now, I have to give my Body credit. She tried to talk Hair down. Body? She KNOWS. She done got knocked on her big ole ass by Humidity. She knows better than to mess with that crazy-eyed loon again. But Hair? She hasn't learned her lesson yet. Ohhh no. She goes right at Humidity who's just standing there with a smug "the hell" look up on her homely face (just sayin'). And I have to imagine that Humidity didn't mean it to be such an insult, but she ruffled Hair like Hair was 10 years old, and really? Can that be considered anything OTHER than condescending after you pass the age of 10? And see, that shit right there just pissed Hair off more and she ended up calling Humidity an ugly name (it may or may not rhyme with "lucking punt") and BAM! God, it was horrible. Humidity was all over Hair like a drunk prom date and Hair? I fear she may never be the same again.

But seriously! Hair is getting WAY too old for this shit. Bitch still acts like she's 12 with all that natural shine. YOUR SHINE HASN'T BEEN NATURAL SINCE YOU GOT DYED RED FOR THREE YEARS IN HIGH SCHOOL. I don't get it Hair. You just don't seem to appreciate that these things take effort or that that blue elixor from the gods I dantily brush through you every morning does NOT just grow on trees! NO! IT DOES NOT! And I know you waited (not quite) patiently for YEARS for me to finally pay you some mind and to care and put forth some effort but where do you get off acting like such a damn drama queen and attacking Humidity like that? HUMIDITY IS BIGGER THAN YOU! HIDE YOUR SHAME! You will behave properly or I shall be forced to take DRASTIC measures. SUBMIT! I RAISED YOU BETTER!

Gah. If it isn't the humidity it's the wave. WE DO NOT ATTEND SPORTING EVENTS! YOU WILL LAY YOUR ASS DOWN FLAT and you will like it or so help me God! You'll go the way of my Dad's hair but it won't be natural or gradual.

PURPOSEFULLY VAGUE

It REALLY sucks that something was so fun and (relatively) innocent that happened so long ago can still cause so much guilt and self-doubt.

I don't think I'll ever be okay with this.

VEXED AND HEXED

I may have had a conniption at work today. No one was involved and THERE WERE NO WITNESSES, so really. The chance is only slight. I mean, can you really see me, as cool, calm, and collected as I am, having a conniption? Most people, and I'm sure of this, when they think of me, the first word that comes to mind? Is unfazed. Unfazed by the hubbub of everyday life, unfazed by the stresses you masses so typically succumb to.

Cough.

OKAY, FINE! FINE!!!! I am not like that AT ALL and I really did have a conniption at work. We're talking full on toddler-like trantrum, only without the noise. I didn't yell. I didn't scream. I didn't kick or throw or hit, but I did spasm in UNBRIDLED RAGE while hexing my computer with voodoo and willing it to SUBMIT! NOW! TO MEEEEEEEE! MY WILL, YOU PIECE OF JUNK! MINE!!!

Ohhhh, what, ass?! WHAT?! Do you have a PROBLEM with that? Because I'll cut you. Don't even think I won't.

Of course, I maintain the entire situation was NOT my fault. I didn't decide to highlight every damn thing on the screen even when I was only CLICKING ON ONE THING YOU BLOODY FREAKING BASTARD! And I didn't decide to mock and abuse me with not restarting but OH! You'll work when it says SHUT DOWN you cheap jezebel! Have you been cheating on me with another computer?! You found a better operating system, haven't you? HAVEN'T YOU?!!!! Tell me the truth! I bet you even have a virus now, don't you, even after I was so careful. WE USED PROTECTION YOU DIRTY SLUT!!! Don't you even accuse me of being involved in this! I....

I.. Oh. Hah. I see. Um, so you're working again? Heh. Okay, well... Carry on then.

Cough.

(I may have forgiven the bastard for now, but I'm still vexed about the clicking thing.)

PS - I told myself after being H-U-N-G the hell O-V-E-R Sunday that I was never drinking AGAIN! That lasted until TODAY. IT IS TUESDAY, PEOPLE! Stupid job.

PSS - I was sitting at a light when I saw some guy STOP IN MY LANE, exactly were I was going, and his buddied leaned out the car to holla at some chick. After a few moments the playa got out so he could talk to this girl and his friend? The one in my lane. He threw on his hazards. Then the light changed and right about the same time I was going to lay on the horn, the guy in the car took off. WITHOUT playa, who ran UP HILL chasing after him.

I thoroughly laughed my ass off. Tonight better be a good night.

DEFINATELY MY FATHER'S CHILD

When I got up to my uncle's house on Friday he gave me the grand tour. Dad tagged along.

Uncle: And this is the master bedroom.

Me: This is where the magic happens, huh?

Uncle: Sure is.

Dad: Yeah, because it's a miracle if he gets any.

Me: I was going to say it was a miracle if he could get it up.

Uncle: Did I mention how happy I am you two are here?

* * *

Upon denting my shoe.

Dad: Which shoe did you scuff up?

Me: The right one.

Dad: No, smartass. Which pair?

Me: (Maniacal giggles) The black pair.

Dad: Sigh. You really are my kid.

MIGHT BE A SIGN OF DEMENTIA

I was busying myself by shoving clothing and accessories into our luggage when someone rapped at the door.

My dad went to open it and in walked my uncle. "You guys ready to leave?"

"Give us ten minutes," my mom replied. "We'll meet you in your room."

He nodded his assent and left. Mom and I went turned back to check the hotel room for anything we'd missed.

Someone rapped at our door again. I opened the door to my uncle, again.

"What the hell room am I in?" he asked, a look of confusion hiding any embarrassment there may have been.

Mom and I giggled maniacally as we lead him to his room.

This is the same uncle who this weekend lost his pitching wedge when it slipped out of his hands and into a swamp when he was golfing in the pouring rain.

I love my family.

TURNING BLUE

WE HAVE HAD A CASUALTY!

Okay, maybe not a casualty. BUT WE HAVE DEFINATLY HAD A MAIMING. A heinous, horrible maiming, and what a tragedy it is for us all.

Today, I scuffed my new shoe. By running a cart into the heel of it. Do not ask me how.

Grief has befallen my fair city, friends.

Oh sure, you might be saying, silly girl is making a big deal about a pair of shoes. But they were ONE OF A KIND! So special in fact that you can by me another pair here and here and probably a few other places like DSW where I originally got them but wins a prize for the SHITTIEST WEBSITE AROUND. Also, if you feel the need to assuage my grief even further, I would also accept these as a consolation prize.

Size 9.5, please. I wait with bated breath.

NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS

In my high school days, you might be surprised to find out, I was NOT one of those girls who was interested in the bad boys.

I can tell you're in shock. I'll give you a minute to compose yourself (bastards).

No. No, I was much more interested in the guy who ended up being one of our three valedictorians. The only time I was ever interested in a bad boy was because he could draw. See, I was always attracted to the guys who were good at the things I wanted to be good at.

Nick was freaking brilliant. James was an amazing artist. Jamie could write what, at the time, I considered to be fantastic poetry. Not to mention he was my co-editor and we awkwardly smiled and flirted when no one was around to catch us.

And then there was Matt. He wasn't one of the trifecta, but he still had some potential. He could draw. Hell, I met him in sixth grade art class. He was smart enough to be in AP classes with me my junior year. And I'm pretty sure he might have had a crush on me.

Here's the stupid thing. I have never, EVER been good about realizing if someone is into me. And this hasn't gotten better with age.

There was a project we did our junior year for our History/English class. Everyone in class got to dress up in 20s attire and we had a Gatsby party (as in the Great Gatsby). We were so cool, in fact, the band nerds in class were playing us some big, bad swing. It was while the girls and I were cutting a rug when Matt walked up.

And he took my hand. And he asked me to dance. I assumed he meant he wanted to dance with all of us so I started to pull one of the girls along. And he said no. He just wanted to dance with me.

I was shocked because I didn't even think he liked me as a friend let alone asking me to dance IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE. With him. Just us.

The embarrassment! The humiliation! No, I'm not even kidding!

The poor bastard. I was stiff and awkward and terrified. I didn't say two whole words to him the entire time we danced our clumsy swing and it had nothing to do with me not being interested. Rather, it was because at that point in my life he was the first guy to ever show ANY interest in me at all. To top that off, I was always terrified of misinterpreting someone's intentions and making an ass of myself so I went with what was safe. I just never thought anyone was interested.

And that brings me to today.

I am still unassuming. I just don't think guys are into me. So it surprised me when a co-worker said we should hang out sometime, first getting a drink, then offering to go see a movie I (innocently) expressed interest in.

My mom told me not to take my clothes off on the first date. She's a real bitch sometimes.

CONVERSATIONS WITH COWORKERS

"How old are you now?"

"24."

"Yeah? I have a son about two years older than you."

"Oh? Is he single?"

"Yes, he is. He could really use a good woman."

"As in, not me, you mean?"

"I DIDN'T SAY THAT!"

"No, no. You're right. I'm sorry. So what does he do?"

"Actually, he lives in Alaska."

"Oh! I've always wanted to visit Alaska."

"He's currently living in a cabin with no running water."

"Yeah, not so keen on visiting that part of Alaska."

KINKY EXPERIMENTATION

Oh Lawdy was my weekend wild.

Uncouth. Uncivilized. An exercise in futility.

You see, fair reader, I hate my hair. H-a-t-e. HATE-HATE-HATE-LOATHE-DETEST-HATE.

"But why?!" you might be screaming at your computer screen. Who WOULDN'T want thin, fine, oily yet frizzy, slightly wavy (but not in a good way) hair?

I made a decision this weekend that rather than fight with that oh so slight wave in my hair I should just accept the fact that my hair is just not pin-straight (or even at all managable) like Bean's. I should try to work with what God has given me.

"I don't mean to start any blasphemous rumors/but I think that God has a sick sense of humor." (not sure about the name of the band)

After spending a shit ton of money on "product" for my hair, I made an attempt to curl it.

Sigh.

I KNOW better. I know better than to think my hair will do ANYTHING AT ALL FAVORABLE when confronted with a heated chunk of metal.

So then I made an attempt to let it air dry.

With mixed results. Yeah, it sort of curled, but it was also sort of crunchy and looked like it needed brushed. Badly.

And now? Now I'm just looking for suggestions. HELP ME!

A LITTLE OFF THE TOP

I have two checking accounts. They're through the same bank and the entire reason I even have two is because I was the treasurer for my senior capstone college project.

There is about $45 left in that second account.

I graduated a year ago.

My mother has suggested I embezzled the money. Skimmed a little off the top, which is entirely unfair. I didn't skim from the top. I simply forgot to return from the bottom.

I HAD PLANNED TO! Honest! But things got hectic! And there was going to be a fee to close the account so soon after opening it! And really, everyone was only going to get back $1.25 and that just wasn't worth the effort. I only had the ONE CHANCE to get everyone together in ONE PLACE, and I failed.

Mom called it blood money.

I hold firm that I bled PLENTY for that God forsaken major and those pretentious pricks. I'm just saying.

So I made a decision. I am now going to take $50 from every paycheck and put it in that account. I'm considering the $45 a starter fee, restitution, blood money. AND MY CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR MOTHER!

With that money I'm going to buy myself a camera. Probably a Rebel. You know, a little something pretty.

Because I deserve it.

MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKERS

Monday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon an older neighbor of mine. She was standing on her stoop and watering her flowers from a gallon jug. Not so much watering, actually, as DOUSING THEM AS IF THEY WERE ON FIRE.

She glanced at me, assessing my sweat stained tank top, and smiled warmly.

"You walk this hill every day you'll lose it."

Tuesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, I happened upon another neighbor of mine, this one the father of a young child. He seemed to be tarring the roof of his garage.

"You're dedicate," he said, looking down at me as he slide the broom (or squeegee or whatever the hell they use to tar roofs) gracefully back and forth.

"Pardon?"

"I said your dedicated. You're out here no matter how hot it is." (Which is not ENTIRELY true since I most certainly was NOT out there when the temperature was 102.)

Wednesday evening, as I was returning from my workout, a young woman in a van happened upon me.

"You're working out, aren't you?"

Why, yes. I suppose I am.

"I teach free, they're free, aerobics classes at the Mt. Auburn Recreation Center. You should check it out."

And I did.

And it'll cost me $15 to become a member FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR (which is less than HALF of what I paid A MONTH at the PLACE I WORK FOR).

And they have a pool.

(( jig ))

ROLY POLY

"I win the Best Kid award."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I called grandma."

"You're right. You win. Mom will be thrilled."

"Grandma mentioned to me she'd lost a bit of weight."

"Did she take off her shoes?"

WRITING ABOUT NOT WRITING

Yeah, I'm definately going to watch Pan's Labyrinth tonight instead of blogging for you idiots charming and productive members of society.

I AM NOT YOUR PUPPET!

(I'll be back tomorrow.)

THINGS I SHOULDN'T HAVE TO TELL MY NEIGHBORS

"Would you guys tell your friends to CALL YOU if they can't find your apartment rather than just picking a door and walking on in?"

Now, I've been a good neighbor. I haven't bitched and moaned about the guys upstairs running down the steps like they weigh 3 million pounds. Or reminded them that, typically, Sunday through Thursday nights are considered WORK NIGHTS.

But last night I made the egregious error of forgetting to lock my front door. (SHUT UP)

It was 1 in the morning. I was asleep. I SLEEP NAKED.

I woke up right as the dumb bitch stumbled into my room, looked at me, and turned around NEVER APOLOGIZING OR EVEN SHUTTING THE GOD DAMN DOOR BEHIND HER STUPID, COKE WHORE SMELLING ASS.

I helpfully yelled after her to "get the f*ck out."

I dressed so I could go lock the door behind her only to discover that my entire apartment REEKED as if she'd chain smoked an entire carton in my living room before wandering around in search of SOMEONE in the pitch black apartment.

Moron.

MELODRAMATIC

Alright.

Fine.

So hanging out all by myself Friday night wasn't so bad because you know what? I? Am an excellent conversationalist. And I'm pretty damn cool.

I know. I hide it well.

And you know, just between you and me, I am also a fabulous kisser. I mean, really top knotch. And if THAT weren't reason enough to hang out with me, I do that thing with my tongue. And I have REALLY freaking hot lips. Me. Ow.

Also, I give REALLY good bl... um... back rubs? Yeah. Back rubs. I give really good back rubs.

You're jealous. It's understandable.

I would be, too.

TONGUE TIED

It migth be common knowledge but I'll say it again anyway. I like living alone. I like it so much that I'm pretty damn sure I just might love it. In fact, I know I do. I love it. I LOVE living alone. And do you know why I love living alone? Because you see that mess over there? That's my mess, which is SO VERY MUCH EASIER to clean up than your mess.

Also, I like my time to myself, whether it be idly wasted or enthusiastically spent because, see, it takes quite a lot of effort for me to be charming and lovely all day at work with people I like. It is exceptionally taxing if I don't like them.

That means that at the end of the day, I'm generally not in the mood to make "small talk" or "chit chat." That means, generally, my brain, she is on auto-pilot and that annoyed expression accompanied by glazed over eyes is not exactly a sign of rapt attention.

But that is only most days.

Then there are some days when I'm feeling lonely. Some days when I'm in serious need of someone who can take my mucusy, vomit-like expulsion of words. But not only take them. What I need is someone who won't judge me for them. And as much as I love my group of friends, it is for that reason that I feel spent and tired and used. I'm not particularly in the mood to become gossip fodder.

Despite that I dont want to be alone tonight.

Yet here I am, home alone tonight renting movies, Pan's Labyrinth and My Super Ex-Girlfriend. Oh, shut up. Don't judge me. I'm in a wee bit of need of some guy bashing tonight, because not only did my plans fall through but every freaking one of you available to hang out with is doing bachelor party stuff, which, yes, I'm happy for you but it's a well documented fact that I DON'T LIKE WEDDINGS and I could definately use to not be by myself tonight.

And that really sucks.

DISENFRANCHISED

It shouldn't be this hard.

LITTLE KNOWN FACTS

Sometimes, I say dumb things. Unfortunately, I spend an overwhelming majority of my waking hours at work. I think you see where I'm headed here.

And while at work, it isn't exactly uncommon for my friends and me to get bored. It also isn't uncommon for us to alleviate that boredom by thinking of dumb things to say to entertain each other. Or by making up nicknames.

Hello, everyone. My (nick)name is Bobby Jean. (And, yes, there is a voice to go along with the persona. Also, I may or may not have blackened out one of my teeth to add to the realism. BECAUSE I'M DEDICATED.)

This week, in order to stave off the boredom, IT guy got it in his head that he was a crazy mad Photoshopping genius and he made computer background bling for the other two members of our foursome.

I, UNDERSTANDABLY, was miffed. I mean, where the hell is my bling, bitch?!

So after pointing out his error (whining) and requesting (demanding) some super fine bling of my own, I got it in my head to make suggestions of what my background bling should say. Because my real name? That's just too boring. And why bother with your REAL name when you have a totally-crazy-cool-and-not-dorky-at-all nickname like Bobby Jean? WHY BOTHER?

And those suggestions, they just started rolling. We started off innocent enough with a boring ole Bobby J, or B Jean, or NERD but then it struck me! Idiot's disease! (Thanks A LOT, Dad, ya bastard.)

My name should be Bobby J-izzle!

I AM AWESOME COMEDIC GENIUS! BOW BEFORE MY GLORY!

Except I'm not. And you shouldn't. Because Idiot, thy name is Bobby Jean.

Now, keep in mind I was typing this all in an email and, IN MY HEAD, I was pronouncing it Jay. Izzle. NOT jizzle. So as I was standing in IT Boss' office proclaiming of my brilliance in nicknamed background bling, I realized exactly what I had been spelling. Right about the same time her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she did that uncomfortable laugh she does when I say something inappropriate (yeah, not the first time that's happened).

And, folks, because of where I work, our emails are PUBLIC RECORD.

Let me spell that out for you. If Johnny Q. Public walked into our office and demanded to see all of Bobby Jean's emails from 6 months ago through today, WE ARE REQUIRED BY LAW TO GIVE THEM TO HIM.

Luckily, chances are good that won't ever happen.

BUT IT COULD!

I have to think, dear reader(s), that this was PROBABLY WORSE than that time I was telling them in a definately not indoor voice about my college professor who was, "gayer than gay," as we were walking through the atrium. That echos. And my dumb ass definately got overheard by a person with small children. Small children with perky ears and absorbent brains.

Now, in all fairness, that college professor REALLY WAS gayer than gay. You remember Jack from Will & Grace? Yes.

No really. I am deadly serious. THEY EVEN LOOKED ALIKE. Go watch a rerun on WE and you just might realize why he was my favorite professor EVER.

THE PROTECTOR

Over the weekend, after my friends had consumed nearly $30 in tiny, breaded mystery meat (AND only half of a steak, prick), we headed over to (one of the) Matt's house to watch a movie.

But not just any movie.

A Thai martial arts movie. The uncut, international version.

Now, I LIKE this kind of movie. Despite some initial tribulation, I've since grown to appreciate the artistic beauty of such movies as House of Flying Daggers and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

The Protector was only kinda like those movies.

Don't get me wrong. It WANTED to be like those movies. Artful. Coherent. Tolerable.

It gave the artful a damn fine attempt what with the beautiful backgrounds and Thai dancers to tribal (?) beats and I guess, in the end, I GET what happened so THEY WERE TRYING, but there is only so much disbelieve I am willing to suspend towards any one venture and THEY CROSSED THAT LINE.

They bid their time, however. I was totally into the guys fighting style and I'm fully accepting that no wires were used. I'm willing to believe he managed to climb down four stories using not much more than a drain pipe, IF THAT. I'm apprehensive of his ability to stop, dead in the air, two guys on bikes who ALONE had more mass to them than this little Thai guy. I am COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY unwilling to believe that some Russian-looking dude, huge though he may be, could EVER, in the very slender whisp of reality in which I live, THROW A FREAKING BABY ELEPHANT THROUGH A WINDOW.

Now, I did my research folks. Baby Asian elephants weight over 200 lbs WHEN THEY ARE BORN and the one they were using in this film was not nursing so it had to have been at least 2-3 years old. These things reach sexual maturity at 9 years old. As in, not so much baby as adolescent. YOU DO THE MATH!

And, yes, I get what they were trying to do, showing the big, bad guy's disrespect toward elephants that are considered like brothers to the people of Thailand. BUT HE THREW IT! LIKE A DISCUS!

I can't wrap my head around it. He t-h-r-e-w a baby freaking elephant. GAH!

I just.. GAH!

GOT MA BRAINS FROM ME PAW

My mom thinks my dad is an idiot.

Oh, she may not say that exact word but if you listen carefully to the tone of her voice and see that specific gleam in her eye, it is pretty safe to infer that goofy and idiot roughly translate to the same thing.

Let's take today for example.

My dad, in a fit of brilliance, decided rather than wait until someone else was done with the lift, that he would simply climb the shelves in the warehouse where he works. He made it up there no problem and was a good story off the ground before he teetered, realized he was going down, and jumped for it.

And tore up his middle finger in the process.

Now, I wouldn't go so far as to call my dad a clutz but this certainly isn't the first time he's lost his balance. As he turned, his finger got caught on something above him that he'd initially reached for to steady himself, and tore a jagged slice through the meat of his finger. It's somewhere between a scratch and disfiguringly maimed (and only required 8 stitches and no vicodin).

He yelped, "Jay fall down!" and tucked and rolled (or tripped on his cape) to end up back on his feet to the amazement of his four coworkers.

He drove himself to the urgent care and had to get a tetanus shot. The nurse told him it would hurt a lot less if he relaxed his arm when she gave him the shot. He told her it was relaxed. He just works out.

She laughed.

Then he did relax his arm.

She laughed harder.

Mom went to pick him up and he said on the way home they bought her a little nurses outfit. He said it's cute but rather short and he doesn't know what's the matter with him but he just becomes such a clutz when she's around and he keeps dropping things. He's also requesting sponge bathes.

Apparently, that is where Mom draws the line.

* * *

I woke up last night at 11:30, groggy and confused. I stared at my clock for a long while and thought, "I am REALLY freaking late for work. Wait. Why is it still dark outside?"

STUPID FREAKING INTERNET

Hi.

My internet crapped out on me last night. Expect a post later.

Like tomorrow later.

XOXO

SUPERBAD

In about a half hour there will be God knows how many people in my tiny, one bedroom apartment demanding mini corndogs because I'm an idiot. Who, yes, drank again last night only a measly little week after saying never again.

(BUT! I am not hung over because I had ONE. And it was a little one. Only a half-liter as opposed to the FRIGGIN HUGE liter mugs Hofbrau is known for. I am awesome with the restraint and willpower. BOW DOWN BEFORE MY AWESOMENESS AND WEEP AT MY GLORY!)

There will also be a steak for McLovin, the Artist Formerly Known as DO (which, seriously, Superbad... was HILARIOUS) because, apparently, I owe him a steak from YEARS AGO when I said something funny.

At a very inappropriate time.

And, being the jerk that he is, rather than nurture my comedic genius and guide it to it's climactic fruition, he demaned I repay my tactless remark with a steak. Actually, with several steaks.

But he'll take what I give him, damnit.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOYS

"Trying to exterminate an entire race of people is only SLIGHTLY worse than masterbating in a public restroom."

PRIZE TO BE WON

It was decided as we began trolling about campus looking (unsuccessfully) for an open pool table that I would be the prize up for grabs.

Because Matt? He thinks he's funny.

Matt's Lady Friend who we shall call Cailie, because that is her name, asked what I would have to do for the winner. I stared lustily at her and told her anything she wanted. Bitch decided she would pimp me out. Whore.

It was then decided I would belong to Cailie and make outs were suggested because boys are clever. Really. We didn't see that one coming.

But then she lost me to Matt in a thumb war. Whore.

So what would you think Matt would want to put me to work doing? Huh? Huh? Sexual favors, you say? Not even. No, Matt demanded I PAINT HIS APARTMENT! I KNOW! That's what I thought! Wasting a perfectly good opportunity with this? Hah!

But fear not, dear reader. I rescued myself from oppression, bought my freedom you might say, by SPANKING Matt and Cailie a euchre. It was BRUTAL. There may even have been weeping and gnashing of teeth.

At least there should have been for losing me. TWICE.

Whore.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

After all the bitching and whining and begging for me to NOT use that blond wigged and Warrent t-shirted picture, apparently DO was "kinda disappointed" (and exceptionally eloquent) when I changed it out for the month of August.

He will live to regret that.

THIS CAN'T WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW

"Oh my freaking God," you might say.

"Who is that hot, blond chick," you might query.

But alas:


That is not some hot, blond chick.

That is my best friend, Dan.


In all his majestic, lily neon white, hippy boy glory.


Seriously. Dan. If you love me AT ALL, you will so let me shave your head when you come home. I THREW YOU TWO PARTIES! It is the LEAST you can do.

(AHHH!!! Are you wearing your man-purse in that last picture?! Seriously? That thing is still alive?)

I'LL ANSWER ANYTHING, PART 3

Michael sounded like he could use a sexy dream and a pick-me-up (And he made comments on my bloggity. If you make comments I just might do nice things for you, too). So rather than your regularly scheduled programming, I'm going to answer Michael's question from way back in July. Because I'm nice like that.

Michael says: Tell me about a golden land of milk and honey where grad students are (adequately) funded and the True Academic (tm) is a heroic, respected figure in society.

Y'know, fiction.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away - let's say Mars for the sake of argument - there was a wonderful, not assholish university. Only the brightest of the bright got to go to the WNAU located mere lightyears from the Martian colony of Red Rock.

Our young hero, Michael, was a fresh faced and happy lad of 23 who had just graduated from Ass Rape U. They were not so kind to sweet Michael at ARU but they had not broken his spirit. Despite what everyone said, he knew he had a chance and he applied for the grad program at WNAU.

Oh, what a happy day it was when Michael received his acceptance letter to WNAU. Here was finally a school where SOMEONE might finally appreciate his wit, charm, and brilliance.

But young Michael had a problem. WNAU was on Mars and, as such, cost a whole freaking butt-load of money. How was he possibly going to pay his way?

But fear not, young reader. A plan soon presented itself, for Michael soon found himself a sugar daddy who really appreciated his boyish charm and after only a few nights of life scarring and humiliating debouchery, a tear-stained faced Michael got a fond pat on his sore rump and off he went to better horizons.

WNAU was everything our hero ever dreamt of. He felt a true nurturing of his talents and an appreciation of his ideas and hard work. And, joy of joys, he met someone. She was young, smart, and demure with flowing red hair and fiery blue eyes and she though our hero was brilliant and funny and she liked to do naughty sexual favors to him in their hover-bed in the hazy red light of the Martian sunrise.

Our dear Michael had never been more happy.

Upon graduation, Michael received not one, but 13 offers to do whatever the hell it is he wants to do with his life, four of which offered at least six figures and benefits out the wazu. Of course, no matter if Michael was rich or poor, his lovely, arm candy girlfriend was so desperately in love with his she would have married him no matter what.

So he took the job where he was appreciated and respected and absolutely swimming in the money and never did he speak of that one time, before college, where he was ass candy for some dirty, dirty old pervert.

The end.

* * *

There Michael. I hope that made you feel better! You got two times the sexy dream. Yeeoowww! You stud you.

* * *

Do the rest of you who bother to read my bloggity realize what that means? DO YOU?! It means I am out of story ideas for when I'm out of bloggity ideas which means you buttheads are slacking and you need to ask me more questions. Anything goes.

And I DO mean ANYTHING.

DAWN OF THE DEAD

All day I have been unable to shake this heavy, comatose feeling. All day I've felt as if I was hallucinating, zoning out, and thinking things that were not true. (What? You mean I'm not... well, shit!). And that, my gentle reader(s) (<-- ambitious), should not be the case. Because I went to bed at 8 last night. Eight. The one that comes after seven, which is BEFORE IT IS COMPLETELY DARK OUTSIDE.

But then my alarm went off.

Startled, I reached out and flipped to switch from buzz to off. To no avail.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Ahn. Ahn. Ahn. I. Hate. You. Death. Die. Kill. Beep.

Growling slightly, my brows furrowed, I punch the snooze.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I punch it again, this time more forcefully.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I've officially reached the pissed off stage and I bash at the offending snooze button with all the restraint of a stampede.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Swearing obscenities under my breath (or not because we all know I live alone) and fuming, I yank the damn thing from it's spot on my window ledge and rip the cord out of the wall.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

SONOFABITCH! I am so frustrated I'm crying at this point as I flip the damn thing over and tear out the battery because THE BEEPING MUST EFFING STOP. STOP IT. STOP NOW!

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I throw down the alarm in defeat feeling spent and annoyed beyond anything I've ever felt before IN MY FREAKING LIFE.

And then I woke up. To find out I'd overslept and needed to leave the house in five minutes if I was going to make the biweekly staff meeting on time.

Now, why, I ask you, do I not have cool dreams? Crazy dreams? Sexy dreams? I mean, damn. I could use a really good sexy dream. One with someone tall, dark, and handsome and preferably not bovine. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?! Because this fake alarm from hell shit IS NOT CUTTING IT.

Someone. Anyone. Tell me a sexy dream.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Exhausted. To bed now. Night.

BACHLORETTE MEETS HUSTLER

Okay, so since she's actually received my bachlorette party presents, that means I get to tell you all of my brilliance.


Present 1: Big ass, white granny panties.

This went much along the same lines as getting Christina a maternity bra for her party a couple years ago (Really? That long? Damn). There was also some of the single person lore involved with this choice seeing how wimmins never seem to get laid when they're wear the sexy panties, it's only when they have on embarrassing underwears that the men folk seem to want to go downtown.

I'm just doing my part.


Present 2: A thong that states, "You may now f*ck the bride."

You know. In case he forgot.


Present 3: A thong for him in the shape of an elephant, wherein he gets to "fill out" the trunk.

Bean was very emphatic in her demands that Bob wouldn't fit in said trunk. I choose to feel pity at such remarks.

Bob was disgusted by this gift. I'm not sure why. It's a perfect chance to show Bean his animal magnatism. He gave it three strikes. The first was the dental floss string that had to go up his butt. The second is the effort it takes to "fill out" the thong (lazy bastard). The third was the elephant googly eyes, which I think just adds to the realism of the whole effect.

Now, here is the difference between Bean and myself (among many, many, many other things). Anyone I'll end up marrying would not have shied away from such manties. Nor would he have left them on the coffee table (because, ew). No, he would have proudly stuck the thing down his pants with the ears hanging out. Because that is classy.


Present 4: Flavor "BJ" drops.

Did you know they make flavored drops to make giving head a whole lot more pleasant? Well, they do. And now Bean is the proud owner (well, I'd be proud) of a four-flavor variety pack.

Because I figured Bob needed all the help he could get.

ALWAYS A BRIDESMAID

Well. It's finished. Bean and Bob have become united as one soul together forever.

Or, as we've been so tactfully putting it, she's his problem now. (HI BEAN! Just kidding! It's a joke!)

I'm tired and hung over and, after this weekend, I am never going to drink again. Okay, fine. I might drink again, but not for a long time. ALRIGHT! Give me a week back at work. I'll change my tune.

Two nights in a row of the drinking, and two nights in a row of the taking a (couple) shot(s) when I really should have known better. I think I've figured out a system (if you can call it that) wherein I keep a good buzz going for most of the night. Last night that consisted of ordering a beer and a water every time I went to the bar.

But then, against what would be better judgement if I did not have the buzz, I agree to take a shot with whoever made THAT dumb suggestion (Rico, Trini, Bob, and Trini, I'm looking at you).

I've felt not quite awful, but not quite right all day.

And my teeth hurt. For no good reason I can discern.

BUT! I had one hell of a time and without further ado I present you all with:


MY HIGHLIGHTS OF THE EVENING

• Grandma trying to get in Grandpa's pants. They've been divorced for 17 years. (Mom: "Are you writing something for your blog?" "Yeah, the highlights, including Grandma hitting on Grandpa." "Honey, if you think that's a highlight you need to get a life.")


• Clomping down the stairs at the church before the wedding and yelling, "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER!"


• One of Bean's old high school friends walking up to me after the wedding and saying, "I heard you were upset about Bean getting married before you and I just wanted to let you know I understand." Um. The hell? Tell me, exactly, which one of the voices in your head told you that?


• The running commentary from Trini in the video ("Aw. Isn't the bride pretty? I really need a beer.")


• The fly that got drunk in my glass of champagne for the toast. (Yummy, yummy protein.)


• I definately made a toast and the theme song from the Love Boat may or may not have been dramatically quoted.


• Chasing after two of my nine-year-old cousins around and around and around the tables while double fisting it and nearly wiping out. This and the fact that I couldn't take a full breath in that damn dress consisted to my flushed appearance for most of the night, much to the concern of the best man.


• Mom having to get practically naked EVERY TIME she had to use the bathroom


• Having dad hold my beer so I could go to the potty and then stealing his when he had to go. Because it was cold and had more in it. And then I got it up my nose.


• Wayne pointing out JUST how white my legs are. Bastard.


• Spitting out the car window on the drive home and hitting Trini.


• Contributing to the whole "something old, something new, something borrowed, somthing blue" superstition by being the "something blue". By taking a picture of my butt. With my skirt tucked into my underwear. For Bean to keep in the bouquet as she walked down the aisle.

Now, before you ask, yes, I did bring my camera, but I didn't take any pictures because, well, everyone else had cameras. I did, however, get what I consider to be the MOST IMPORTANT WEDDING PICTURE OF THE WEEKEND:





That's right folks. That is EXACTLY what it looks like. Ribs. Better yet, Trini ribs. Mouth-watering, fall off the bone, oh my God where have you been all my life ribs.

And those alone would have totally worth the drive.

AND IT HAS TO HAPPEN REPEATEDLY

Y'all. I suck at being a girl. I lose all of my merit badges and pillow fight/makeout privileges (Yeah, guys. Your fantasies? They're true. Every slumber party leads to a pillow fight which leads to curious touching which leads to chick on chick makeouts. But you didn't hear it from me).

See, what happened is this. I changed purses today because my old black one, which never gets used anymore since I have red and blue and tan to choose from, MATCHES MY BRANDY NEW SHOES (coincidence you ask or PURE UNADULTERATED GENIUS?) and I forgot.

I forgot I've been ravenous. I forgot I've been moody and bloated. I forgot that I CRIED this week while reading Harry Potter 7 because waaa! My poor Weasley twims get MAULED! Mauled I tell you!

I forgot all those things so why are you looking all shocked and surprised that I forgot to pack something absorbent. Like a diaper.

A curse upon my loins!

I don't understand why my body feels the overwhelming need to prove to the world I'm not getting it on. I am fully aware of my lack of makeouts (because you can TOTALLY get pregnant by tongue kissing. I heard it from Jenny who heard it from Dan who heard it from his cousin whose sister totally got pregnant that way. IT'S TRUE!).

I guess I could forgive my body this obsession if it weren't for the most annoying of grievences. Cramps. Better yet. Cramps that pulsate. Betterer yet. Cramps that migrate.

Oh, it may start to one side. And that might not be so bad. But then it starts to think that my lower back? Much better residents. I mean, what with the room and the view (of my bum, people, and WHAT a bum). And my cramps, see? They're about as hard to evict as coachroaches. Truth be told, I'm fairly certain my cramps could survive a nuclear holocaust and the ensuing winter, too.

It's been a pity in my life that I haven't ever really dated anyone who was good at/liked to give back massages. Because that would be THE SHIT right about now.

AND THEN

I almost called you today. It wasn't any conscious decision. I walked to my car after spending an extra 2 1/2 hours at work and my finger started moving of their own volition...

And then I hung up the phone.

A POST ABOUT MY BOOBS

I went to see Harry Potter 5 this weekend. I totally wish I was 12 so I could crush on the Weasley twins. I think I just like their characters.

Yeah. That's it. Their characters.

Before the movie, Eric and I were getting some snacks. He thought it best to let me pay with my card and he would just give me cash, and lets face it folks, I NEVER carry cash so any opportunity to garner some is welcomed.

"How much is popcorn?" he asked riffling through his wallet.

"Four dollars, plus gratuity."

He paused, and glared at me. "I'M NOT GIVING YOU A GRATUITY."

"Why not?" (I may or may not have pouted at this point.)

"Why should I?"

"I'll let you look at my boobs?"

"Oh! So ten dollars sound good? What does that make it now? Grape slushies and money to get to look at your chest?"

For the record, I didn't take his money.

I should have. But I didn't. It might teach his dumb ass a lesson, because SERIOUSLY guys. Why pay for something that, given you don't get caught, YOU CAN DO AS MUCH AS YOU WANT FOR FREE?!

I mean, I know I have wonderful boobs. And they certainly have served me well over the years (and, between you and me, I always get a shit eater grin on my face when I find out that people I had previously thought had failed to fall victim to the boobs admit their defeat), but to go so far as to let me hold them for ransom?

And I wasn't even wearing a low cut top. Unlike Friday night. Friday night I had on my cute, little, pink, strappy tank top. While standing at Kroghetto. Waiting for one of the Matts.

And I felt very much like a prostitute standing on the corner waiting for a trick to drive by. And that shirt? Doesn't even show the amount of titty that this bridesmaid dress is going to put up there on display. NOT EVEN CLOSE.

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.