were you aware that they still made banana clips??
because i wasn't.
but some girl is SURE SPORTING ONE TODAY, GOD HELP HER.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Yes?
Pardon my eavesdropping but,
HOW THE FUCK IS THE WHINY-VOICED LAZY-ASS DATA ENTRY BITCH ON HER CELL PHONE AT WORK TALKING ABOUT HER BRAND NEW CAR SHE JUST BOUGHT THAT HAS A NAV SYSTEM, DVD PLAYER AND LEATHER??????
I mean. FUCK.
This is the slut that rolls her eyes at me when I hand her my data-entry paperwork. DATA ENTRY IS NOT MY JOB, WHORE. IT'S YOURS. SUCK IT UP.
This is the skank that doesn't clock out for lunch and then whines that everyone is always talking down to her and telling her she needs to "shape up."
This is the broad that wants MY SYMPATHY because she's been here for FOUR WHOLE MONTHS and hasn't been promoted out of data-entry. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. DO THE MATH.
HOW THE FUCK IS THE WHINY-VOICED LAZY-ASS DATA ENTRY BITCH ON HER CELL PHONE AT WORK TALKING ABOUT HER BRAND NEW CAR SHE JUST BOUGHT THAT HAS A NAV SYSTEM, DVD PLAYER AND LEATHER??????
I mean. FUCK.
This is the slut that rolls her eyes at me when I hand her my data-entry paperwork. DATA ENTRY IS NOT MY JOB, WHORE. IT'S YOURS. SUCK IT UP.
This is the skank that doesn't clock out for lunch and then whines that everyone is always talking down to her and telling her she needs to "shape up."
This is the broad that wants MY SYMPATHY because she's been here for FOUR WHOLE MONTHS and hasn't been promoted out of data-entry. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. DO THE MATH.
If You Were a Box of Jello, What Flavor Would You Be?
This Morning:
Slept until 9:30 am.
Cats were curled up together at the end of the bed. The only morning I theoretically don't have to be up and dressed and work-i-fied, they sleep like angels. Any other morning, they'd be playing Chase the Imaginary Monster Down the Hall OR the Imaginary Monster is Chasing the Kitties, RUN, OR Look at the Blinds, Kitties! Try and Climb Them!
I wake up.
Decide am not taking shower because I had one yesterday and it's the weekend and WHO CARES IF I SMELL.
Walk into kitchen. Feed cats, change kitty-water.
Accidentally lock Fat Kitty into small midget closet in kitchen where kitty-food is kept. 20 minutes later hear plaintive meowing. Release Fat Kitty from trauma-inducing closet. Hold Fat Kitty, Pet Fat Kitty, Assure Fat Kitty that Mommy is very sorry and would never intentionally lock Fat Kitty in dark midget closet.
Open closet door and critically eye the clothing choices for the day. Decide on black loose stretchy pants, green long tank top and black stretchy tee. Decide will wear gold flip flops even though work dresscode prohibits flip flops.
Walk into kitchen. Stand in center. Remember have no food that could possibly be construed as "breakfast" consumable.
Spritz hair with Febreeze. A pre-emptive measure used when am too lazy to bathe and bar smell may have infiltrated hair follicles.
Spritz self with perfume. No point in being utterly disgusting.
Apply eyeliner, black eyeshadow, lipgloss and bronzer.
Slect large disc-like earrings from jewelry case.
Scoop kitty litter as have noticed poo smell emanating from kitty poo area.
Wash hands. Kitty poo may have burrowed under hand-skin to attack unsuspecting body molecules.
Decide am ready to go.
Walk out to car.
Stand for 3 minutes staring at THE DING SOME MOTHER FUCKER PUT IN THE SIDE OF MY CAR THAT SCRATCHED MY PAINT AND MARRED THE BLACK SMOOTHNESS OF MY VEHICLE. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN YOU IGNORANT PENIS-LESS BITCH. I had noticed the ding on Thursday but had been unable to fully appreciate ding as had first become aware of ding in the half-light available when I get off work.
Drive to West Little Rock.
Stop at Coffee Beanery for croissant and large coffee. Not the coffee with all the weird shit in it. Just PLAIN. ASS. COFFEE. The LARGE, please.
Can see work building.
Pull into parking lot.
Rest head on steering wheel.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Cannot run away today.
Need paycheck next week.
Clock in at 10:45.
11:45 realize friend Lilleeeee is also at work. Discuss Lilleeeee's cha cha pains (as had rigorous night of, um, festivities). Ascertain that boo-tay is not also in pain. (See Lilleeee's description of boo-tay pain at lilylala.modblog.com)
Lilleeeee did not bathe either. So there.
Other friend Jill is also at work.
Decide tonight will be a margarita ladies-drink-some-other-guys-tequila-that-they-themselves-did-not-pay-for night. Meaning that Jill will be bringing over the bottle that her unsuspecting special friend left over at her house. Stupid boy.
Realize have spent as much time as humanly possible wasting time and will now proceed to work.
Random thought before posting: Hmmm. Well. Cannot put thought into words. Will try another day.
*blows kiss*
Slept until 9:30 am.
Cats were curled up together at the end of the bed. The only morning I theoretically don't have to be up and dressed and work-i-fied, they sleep like angels. Any other morning, they'd be playing Chase the Imaginary Monster Down the Hall OR the Imaginary Monster is Chasing the Kitties, RUN, OR Look at the Blinds, Kitties! Try and Climb Them!
I wake up.
Decide am not taking shower because I had one yesterday and it's the weekend and WHO CARES IF I SMELL.
Walk into kitchen. Feed cats, change kitty-water.
Accidentally lock Fat Kitty into small midget closet in kitchen where kitty-food is kept. 20 minutes later hear plaintive meowing. Release Fat Kitty from trauma-inducing closet. Hold Fat Kitty, Pet Fat Kitty, Assure Fat Kitty that Mommy is very sorry and would never intentionally lock Fat Kitty in dark midget closet.
Open closet door and critically eye the clothing choices for the day. Decide on black loose stretchy pants, green long tank top and black stretchy tee. Decide will wear gold flip flops even though work dresscode prohibits flip flops.
Walk into kitchen. Stand in center. Remember have no food that could possibly be construed as "breakfast" consumable.
Spritz hair with Febreeze. A pre-emptive measure used when am too lazy to bathe and bar smell may have infiltrated hair follicles.
Spritz self with perfume. No point in being utterly disgusting.
Apply eyeliner, black eyeshadow, lipgloss and bronzer.
Slect large disc-like earrings from jewelry case.
Scoop kitty litter as have noticed poo smell emanating from kitty poo area.
Wash hands. Kitty poo may have burrowed under hand-skin to attack unsuspecting body molecules.
Decide am ready to go.
Walk out to car.
Stand for 3 minutes staring at THE DING SOME MOTHER FUCKER PUT IN THE SIDE OF MY CAR THAT SCRATCHED MY PAINT AND MARRED THE BLACK SMOOTHNESS OF MY VEHICLE. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN YOU IGNORANT PENIS-LESS BITCH. I had noticed the ding on Thursday but had been unable to fully appreciate ding as had first become aware of ding in the half-light available when I get off work.
Drive to West Little Rock.
Stop at Coffee Beanery for croissant and large coffee. Not the coffee with all the weird shit in it. Just PLAIN. ASS. COFFEE. The LARGE, please.
Can see work building.
Pull into parking lot.
Rest head on steering wheel.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Cannot run away today.
Need paycheck next week.
Clock in at 10:45.
11:45 realize friend Lilleeeee is also at work. Discuss Lilleeeee's cha cha pains (as had rigorous night of, um, festivities). Ascertain that boo-tay is not also in pain. (See Lilleeee's description of boo-tay pain at lilylala.modblog.com)
Lilleeeee did not bathe either. So there.
Other friend Jill is also at work.
Decide tonight will be a margarita ladies-drink-some-other-guys-tequila-that-they-themselves-did-not-pay-for night. Meaning that Jill will be bringing over the bottle that her unsuspecting special friend left over at her house. Stupid boy.
Realize have spent as much time as humanly possible wasting time and will now proceed to work.
Random thought before posting: Hmmm. Well. Cannot put thought into words. Will try another day.
*blows kiss*
Thursday, June 16, 2005
An Entry in Which I Am Reminded of a Shirt My Brother Used To Wear: The Many Moods of an Alien
I feel restless and edgy and at a loss and my mouth waters in anticipation of something I can't quite put my finger on. I'm spoiling for a fight and craving the feel of a hand on the back of my head, palm on my neck, fingers splayed. I feel lost and adrift and full of wide eyes and confusion because I realize where I've planted myself and I'm overcome with the urge to run. Run to one of those places so ingrained in my memory that I can still conjure up the smell of dry heat, wet stench, cold air or the smell that is New York.
I want to run to these places, find solace in anonymity and start over.
Because I'm absolutely and utterly terrified I picked the wrong path, as Robert Frost would say. That cliched poem, chosen by so many high school graduates, reverbrates in my head because I see the dozens, hundreds, thousands of paths I could have taken and I see that not all of them would have been good, some of them lead right back here and others lead to that point in the road that rises in gentle slope until you can no longer see of the top of the hill so you slow down, approaching the top with just the barest of trepidation because you know the road extends, you know it doesn't drop off into nothingness, but it's a bit like choosing door number 2 on The Price is Right-- a total crapshoot. One where there could be a shiny new car or a set of dishtowels. Both useful, neither harmful. But one is definitely more appealing than the other.
I saw my reflection in a mirror this moring and I saw how my hair seemed to gleam today, how my hips looked beautiful and curvy in my black skirt, how delicate and feminine my ankles appeared, resting in my blue shoes. I saw the slope of my ribcage begin just under my breasts, flowing like carved water into my thighs, my knees, my toes. My eyes looked bright and I felt like I might actually stand out, like I might actually catch someone's, anyone's attention. I saw my visage and for that moment, saw beauty, saw past the heavy eyelids, the face I stare at, absently, a thousand times a day. The face I watch, warily, while drawing on my eyeliner, patting my cheeks with rouge and glossing my lips. For a second that face wasn't mine and I saw what it would be like to be aware of myself; conscious of being female, of having this strange kind of attractiveness and always knowing it was there, knowing that the life inside my skin was mine and I had taken it and let it thrive. Not thrust inside the skin I normally see, with scars on my hands, my knees; small but there, a reminder of the time I burned my hand in the oven, fell on the sidewalk, or ran a knife down the top of my hand, watching for the well of blood that was accompanied by the greatest sense of release, relief, too scared to continue, knowing what I'd become. A road I didn't choose.
All of this a contradiction to the night before, when I caught my eye in the armoire mirror, bending over to turn off the television set, close the doors and retreat into my bedroom. I saw me, aghast, my chin soft, my arms soft, my middle soft and round. Not the good soft, but the soft that comes from too much time taken up by stray thoughts, work and exhaustion, remembering what it felt like to be strong, feeling muscle under my skin so smooth and taut. Never skinny, or even slim. Just toned and firm, breasts round and hips gentle. Legs that felt like a mile long, or maybe that I could run a mile, kick a mile, even lift a mile if I so chose. Seeing in the mirror a complete distortion of who I am, was. Makeup worn away after hours of rubbing my face in frustration. Hair hanging ragged around my face, looking as worn out as I felt. "I'm twenty-five," I think. "What will this be like when I'm...." and I can't fill in the blank. I can't fathom more years, more exhaustion, more nothingness.
Around and round in circles I go, where I stop, no one but me knows.
And then I come back around from this morning, my feeling of awareness has vanished and in it's place is a combination of anticipation and melancholy. I know I can change things, but I keep getting so distracted, so confused by the thousands upon thousands of questions swirling in my head. I miss the days of only 6 years ago, when I was so sure, so confident in the path I had chosen. I knew what my career would be, my life-friends were just starting to emerge from the depths of dormitory halls and I could feel the eyes of men, some lecherous and some curious, as I walked through doorways and and arches, unconcerned with my choices, knowing they were right and good and I knew I was me. Confused, maybe, sometimes, and always a little bit crazy. But I could feel a part of me. Everything happened in whirlwind-like fashion and I embraced it and worked hard at everything I thought I would be, at everything I had planned to become. And somewhere along the line, a combination of events, possibly The Event, marked a beginning of sorts. A beginning where I consistently feel like I'm making the wrong decision.
By now I feel encased in those decisions, unable to escape. I have to exist, survive, remain sane, therefore I have to have this job, that job, remember that job? It wears me down until one day I realize that yes, I am crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. Just crazy. And though I'm better, better than five years ago, better than 2 years ago, better than six months ago, I'm still not me. I'm still walking through water with ear muffs on. Too many thoughts and responsibilities and even though I know that retreating into my head is the very worst thing I can do, I want to, crave to do it anyway.
I want to run to these places, find solace in anonymity and start over.
Because I'm absolutely and utterly terrified I picked the wrong path, as Robert Frost would say. That cliched poem, chosen by so many high school graduates, reverbrates in my head because I see the dozens, hundreds, thousands of paths I could have taken and I see that not all of them would have been good, some of them lead right back here and others lead to that point in the road that rises in gentle slope until you can no longer see of the top of the hill so you slow down, approaching the top with just the barest of trepidation because you know the road extends, you know it doesn't drop off into nothingness, but it's a bit like choosing door number 2 on The Price is Right-- a total crapshoot. One where there could be a shiny new car or a set of dishtowels. Both useful, neither harmful. But one is definitely more appealing than the other.
I saw my reflection in a mirror this moring and I saw how my hair seemed to gleam today, how my hips looked beautiful and curvy in my black skirt, how delicate and feminine my ankles appeared, resting in my blue shoes. I saw the slope of my ribcage begin just under my breasts, flowing like carved water into my thighs, my knees, my toes. My eyes looked bright and I felt like I might actually stand out, like I might actually catch someone's, anyone's attention. I saw my visage and for that moment, saw beauty, saw past the heavy eyelids, the face I stare at, absently, a thousand times a day. The face I watch, warily, while drawing on my eyeliner, patting my cheeks with rouge and glossing my lips. For a second that face wasn't mine and I saw what it would be like to be aware of myself; conscious of being female, of having this strange kind of attractiveness and always knowing it was there, knowing that the life inside my skin was mine and I had taken it and let it thrive. Not thrust inside the skin I normally see, with scars on my hands, my knees; small but there, a reminder of the time I burned my hand in the oven, fell on the sidewalk, or ran a knife down the top of my hand, watching for the well of blood that was accompanied by the greatest sense of release, relief, too scared to continue, knowing what I'd become. A road I didn't choose.
All of this a contradiction to the night before, when I caught my eye in the armoire mirror, bending over to turn off the television set, close the doors and retreat into my bedroom. I saw me, aghast, my chin soft, my arms soft, my middle soft and round. Not the good soft, but the soft that comes from too much time taken up by stray thoughts, work and exhaustion, remembering what it felt like to be strong, feeling muscle under my skin so smooth and taut. Never skinny, or even slim. Just toned and firm, breasts round and hips gentle. Legs that felt like a mile long, or maybe that I could run a mile, kick a mile, even lift a mile if I so chose. Seeing in the mirror a complete distortion of who I am, was. Makeup worn away after hours of rubbing my face in frustration. Hair hanging ragged around my face, looking as worn out as I felt. "I'm twenty-five," I think. "What will this be like when I'm...." and I can't fill in the blank. I can't fathom more years, more exhaustion, more nothingness.
Around and round in circles I go, where I stop, no one but me knows.
And then I come back around from this morning, my feeling of awareness has vanished and in it's place is a combination of anticipation and melancholy. I know I can change things, but I keep getting so distracted, so confused by the thousands upon thousands of questions swirling in my head. I miss the days of only 6 years ago, when I was so sure, so confident in the path I had chosen. I knew what my career would be, my life-friends were just starting to emerge from the depths of dormitory halls and I could feel the eyes of men, some lecherous and some curious, as I walked through doorways and and arches, unconcerned with my choices, knowing they were right and good and I knew I was me. Confused, maybe, sometimes, and always a little bit crazy. But I could feel a part of me. Everything happened in whirlwind-like fashion and I embraced it and worked hard at everything I thought I would be, at everything I had planned to become. And somewhere along the line, a combination of events, possibly The Event, marked a beginning of sorts. A beginning where I consistently feel like I'm making the wrong decision.
By now I feel encased in those decisions, unable to escape. I have to exist, survive, remain sane, therefore I have to have this job, that job, remember that job? It wears me down until one day I realize that yes, I am crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. Just crazy. And though I'm better, better than five years ago, better than 2 years ago, better than six months ago, I'm still not me. I'm still walking through water with ear muffs on. Too many thoughts and responsibilities and even though I know that retreating into my head is the very worst thing I can do, I want to, crave to do it anyway.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
The List is back from "hiatus." Also known in some circles as "rehab" SHHHHH. It's totally fine. No judgements.
How better to spend my Saturday, stuck at work, in a cubicle-- THAN BY USING COMPANY TIME TO ADD TO MY LIST? I am a genius.
38. My incisor tooth on the bottom right is EXCEPTIONALLY pointy and sharp. Not so much that it stands out among the rest of my teeth (which are straight and white, thanks to orthodontia and Crest Whitening) but sharp enough that it's a ceaseless source of amusement to run my tongue or finger over it when pondering the meaning of mullets or why people have children when they SO OBVIOUSLY SHOULD NOT HAVE PROPAGATED THE DANK POND THAT IS THEIR GENE POOL.
37. If you purchase an SUV or truck, PLEASE, reconsider lowering the suspension and having the undercarriage drag the fucking ground. IT'S FUCKING SACRILEGIOUS. If you BUY and SUV, I'm going to assume you bought it for a purpose. AND WHAT FUCKING PURPOSE DOES IT SERVE WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO SLOWER THAN ME IN MY HONDA WHEN COMING OUT OF THE TARGET PARKING LOT? I'll tell you-- NO FUCKING PURPOSE WHATSOEVER EXCEPT MAKING IT QUITE CLEAR TO THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, A GIANT DOUCHE.
36. Bird noises totally creep me out.
35. I don't do sports that involve anything between my body and the ground. This would include skiing and um, skiing. Both water and snow.
34. I don't do sports where balls fly at my head. It's unnatural. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DUCK, PEOPLE.
33. I sleep on my stomach. One leg hiked up. Pillow under head. Pillow under arm. Arm wrapped around pillow and pulled close to chest.
32. Be prepared to let me stop and pee on any trip longer than one hour. It's gonna happen. Just accept it.
31. I like the sound of fast typing. When I was 10, I begged my mother for a typing program that we could use on our old-school computer. She obliged and I learned how to type by Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.
30. I'm not bitchy or cranky or pissy or stand-offish. <---Actual comments made about how I behave in many social settings. People are overwhelming. I'm not going to hug, touch, love-up-on or schmooze with random people I don't know. I have to watch them. THEN I'll decide if I want to make conversation.
29. When I used white-out as kid, I had to make sure I painted out the word completely, in a perfect little white-out box. I then had to let it dry until the PERFECT STATE OF DRYNESS where I could write on it but it was still a little soft -- not so soft it made the jagged edges around your pen when you wrote-- but soft enough where it just enveloped the ink and it would stand out against the dull ink surrounding it.
28. I've been to The Netherlands, Belgium, France and Spain. But here in The States, I've only been to New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennesee, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, New York and New Jersey. That leaves out a WHOLE HELL A LOT OF THE COUNTRY. Guess I have a lot of traveling to do.
28 is an acceptable number to end on becase 8 is divisable by 2, which equals 4, which is made up of two 2's.
38. My incisor tooth on the bottom right is EXCEPTIONALLY pointy and sharp. Not so much that it stands out among the rest of my teeth (which are straight and white, thanks to orthodontia and Crest Whitening) but sharp enough that it's a ceaseless source of amusement to run my tongue or finger over it when pondering the meaning of mullets or why people have children when they SO OBVIOUSLY SHOULD NOT HAVE PROPAGATED THE DANK POND THAT IS THEIR GENE POOL.
37. If you purchase an SUV or truck, PLEASE, reconsider lowering the suspension and having the undercarriage drag the fucking ground. IT'S FUCKING SACRILEGIOUS. If you BUY and SUV, I'm going to assume you bought it for a purpose. AND WHAT FUCKING PURPOSE DOES IT SERVE WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO SLOWER THAN ME IN MY HONDA WHEN COMING OUT OF THE TARGET PARKING LOT? I'll tell you-- NO FUCKING PURPOSE WHATSOEVER EXCEPT MAKING IT QUITE CLEAR TO THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, A GIANT DOUCHE.
36. Bird noises totally creep me out.
35. I don't do sports that involve anything between my body and the ground. This would include skiing and um, skiing. Both water and snow.
34. I don't do sports where balls fly at my head. It's unnatural. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DUCK, PEOPLE.
33. I sleep on my stomach. One leg hiked up. Pillow under head. Pillow under arm. Arm wrapped around pillow and pulled close to chest.
32. Be prepared to let me stop and pee on any trip longer than one hour. It's gonna happen. Just accept it.
31. I like the sound of fast typing. When I was 10, I begged my mother for a typing program that we could use on our old-school computer. She obliged and I learned how to type by Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.
30. I'm not bitchy or cranky or pissy or stand-offish. <---Actual comments made about how I behave in many social settings. People are overwhelming. I'm not going to hug, touch, love-up-on or schmooze with random people I don't know. I have to watch them. THEN I'll decide if I want to make conversation.
29. When I used white-out as kid, I had to make sure I painted out the word completely, in a perfect little white-out box. I then had to let it dry until the PERFECT STATE OF DRYNESS where I could write on it but it was still a little soft -- not so soft it made the jagged edges around your pen when you wrote-- but soft enough where it just enveloped the ink and it would stand out against the dull ink surrounding it.
28. I've been to The Netherlands, Belgium, France and Spain. But here in The States, I've only been to New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennesee, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, New York and New Jersey. That leaves out a WHOLE HELL A LOT OF THE COUNTRY. Guess I have a lot of traveling to do.
28 is an acceptable number to end on becase 8 is divisable by 2, which equals 4, which is made up of two 2's.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
HOLYA CRAPOLA
DO YOU FOLK REALLY THINK I'D REFER TO MYSELF AS A TRUE LADY?
OF COURSE I USE THE WORD 'PUSSY'
examples:
"Get outta my way you fucking pussy!" <--- this is said almost every morning and is aimed at ANYONE AND EVERYONE who is in my way.
"He is SUCH a pussy" <--- used in reference to the giant douche bags with whom I work.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a pussy on your head?" <--- rhetorical thinking. While intoxicated.
"She blatantly flaunts that pussy" <---- used to describe brazen hussies that let their shit hang out of skirts, 14-year-old girls dressed like hookers and anyone sporting a camel-toe.
and the most recent use of the word 'pussy:'
"MY PUSSY WAS NEARLY BURNED RIGHT OFF BY THAT NAIR SHIT!"
total word 'pussy' word count: 7
DO YOU FOLK REALLY THINK I'D REFER TO MYSELF AS A TRUE LADY?
OF COURSE I USE THE WORD 'PUSSY'
examples:
"Get outta my way you fucking pussy!" <--- this is said almost every morning and is aimed at ANYONE AND EVERYONE who is in my way.
"He is SUCH a pussy" <--- used in reference to the giant douche bags with whom I work.
"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a pussy on your head?" <--- rhetorical thinking. While intoxicated.
"She blatantly flaunts that pussy" <---- used to describe brazen hussies that let their shit hang out of skirts, 14-year-old girls dressed like hookers and anyone sporting a camel-toe.
and the most recent use of the word 'pussy:'
"MY PUSSY WAS NEARLY BURNED RIGHT OFF BY THAT NAIR SHIT!"
total word 'pussy' word count: 7
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
And all is Well.
I have been at work such a very, very long time and as eager as I am to go home, I'm even more eager TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY FUCKING WEEKEND.
Perhaps eager is a strong word choice. But everyone else gets to talk about their weekend and SO WILL I.
My weekend: Superfantabulous.
Friday: BB King at Riverfest. Beer. Drama involving ex-friend-who-is-a-boy-but-involved-exceptional-amount-of-benefits-who-was-removed-some-months-past-and-who-has-not-been-seen-since-October-because-he-moved-to-Oklahoma. Hear voice behind me and he's sitting NOT THREE INCHES from my head. Long eye contact. Have awkward conversation with boy where awkwardness is acknowledged. Sleep.
Saturday: beer, eating, beer, jam band, beer, contact high, beer, Black Crows at Riverfest, beer, stumbling home over the river bridge and walking to my apartment BECAUSE MY APARTMENT FUCKING ROCKS AND IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF DOWNTOWN. (4 blocks, to be precise). Sleep.
Sunday: hangover, chat with mom while Nair'ing legs, forget about Nair on legs and BURN THE EVER LOVING SHIT OUT OF MY THIGHS. Especially that very delicate and tender area oh-so-near the nanny area. (nanny is code for pussy. but pussy is a un-delicate word that true ladies such as myself NEVER USE.) Put on most non-touchy underwear possible. read: none. Put on soft cotton stretchy pants and hoodie, walk delicately out to car and drive to meet lileeeee. Drive to Starbucks for coffee that eliminates hangover but does nothing for burned inner thighs though yummy berry cake distracts me for a minute while I contemplate the meaning of berry cake and lemon icing. Drive to lake, get on boat, starts to rain, pull hoodie over head and relax. Beer. Nap. Eat. Beer. TV shows till 3am. Sleep.
Monday: Eat. TV. Beer. Drive home and attempt to watch DVD (as am too poor for cable, as well as internet) when DVD player STOPS WORKING AND I BECOME VERY DISTRAUGHT BECAUSE THE DVD PLAYER IS MY ONLY SOURCE OF MINDLESS ENTERTAINMENT. Drive to Target, buy new DVD player and purchase snazzy antenna that claims to be high-powered enough to pick up local channels. Drive home, fiddle with DVD player, finally get cords in correct slots and might I mention that if you're going to make red-tipped cords and red-tipped holes, then MAKE SURE THE RED THINGS ACTUALLY GO TOGETHER BECAUSE THAT CRAP CONFUSES POOR GIRLS SUCH AS MYSELF. Hook up antenna. No drama. Watch rest of movie. Assemble weird Glade plug-in oil things and place throughout new apartment because have not been able to rid apartment of other-person smell. Smell is remniscent of sweaty kids and smoky smoky. Apartment becomes overwhelmed by scent of lavender garden spring rain linen showers. Realize oil thingees have A DIAL FOR WHICH TO CONTROL SCENT and turn down dial to bring scent to moderate level. Sleep.
Perhaps eager is a strong word choice. But everyone else gets to talk about their weekend and SO WILL I.
My weekend: Superfantabulous.
Friday: BB King at Riverfest. Beer. Drama involving ex-friend-who-is-a-boy-but-involved-exceptional-amount-of-benefits-who-was-removed-some-months-past-and-who-has-not-been-seen-since-October-because-he-moved-to-Oklahoma. Hear voice behind me and he's sitting NOT THREE INCHES from my head. Long eye contact. Have awkward conversation with boy where awkwardness is acknowledged. Sleep.
Saturday: beer, eating, beer, jam band, beer, contact high, beer, Black Crows at Riverfest, beer, stumbling home over the river bridge and walking to my apartment BECAUSE MY APARTMENT FUCKING ROCKS AND IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF DOWNTOWN. (4 blocks, to be precise). Sleep.
Sunday: hangover, chat with mom while Nair'ing legs, forget about Nair on legs and BURN THE EVER LOVING SHIT OUT OF MY THIGHS. Especially that very delicate and tender area oh-so-near the nanny area. (nanny is code for pussy. but pussy is a un-delicate word that true ladies such as myself NEVER USE.) Put on most non-touchy underwear possible. read: none. Put on soft cotton stretchy pants and hoodie, walk delicately out to car and drive to meet lileeeee. Drive to Starbucks for coffee that eliminates hangover but does nothing for burned inner thighs though yummy berry cake distracts me for a minute while I contemplate the meaning of berry cake and lemon icing. Drive to lake, get on boat, starts to rain, pull hoodie over head and relax. Beer. Nap. Eat. Beer. TV shows till 3am. Sleep.
Monday: Eat. TV. Beer. Drive home and attempt to watch DVD (as am too poor for cable, as well as internet) when DVD player STOPS WORKING AND I BECOME VERY DISTRAUGHT BECAUSE THE DVD PLAYER IS MY ONLY SOURCE OF MINDLESS ENTERTAINMENT. Drive to Target, buy new DVD player and purchase snazzy antenna that claims to be high-powered enough to pick up local channels. Drive home, fiddle with DVD player, finally get cords in correct slots and might I mention that if you're going to make red-tipped cords and red-tipped holes, then MAKE SURE THE RED THINGS ACTUALLY GO TOGETHER BECAUSE THAT CRAP CONFUSES POOR GIRLS SUCH AS MYSELF. Hook up antenna. No drama. Watch rest of movie. Assemble weird Glade plug-in oil things and place throughout new apartment because have not been able to rid apartment of other-person smell. Smell is remniscent of sweaty kids and smoky smoky. Apartment becomes overwhelmed by scent of lavender garden spring rain linen showers. Realize oil thingees have A DIAL FOR WHICH TO CONTROL SCENT and turn down dial to bring scent to moderate level. Sleep.
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