Monday, February 28, 2005

i'm a wild woman

In a desperate bid to assert some sense of authority at this house, I invaded a small shopping list. Blame it on my inferiority complex.

At the end of the industry standards like milk and dog food, I added with a flourish "epsom salts". But I couldn't just leave it at that, so I then added "crumpets".

Guess what? I was just presented with epsom salts and crumpets! And I didn't even know what a crumpet was! (By the way, crumpets are awesome toasted with a little butter. Very yum. I highly recommend them.)

I asked, "What do I owe you for this?" The reply was, "Don't worry about it. I'll just use your epsom salts."

For what, I wonder?

I have an attitude right now because someone who shall remain nameless (in this post, but was heavily featured in the last post) called me today and apologized. But he did it in a really bad way. (Unlike the public way in which I called him out...) I forgave him and now we're awesome again but I fully reserve the right to affect a wounded stance and pout a little bit.


why can't we not be sober

Permit me a bit of a whine, if you will. If you would be so kind. If you would just shut the hell up and let me talk. Thanks.

I'm at mommy's abode, soon to be my longer-than-I'd-hoped home, to be sure, drinking too much (many?) Coors freaking Light (yeah, I said I wasn't drinking anymore but you're not my sponsor so you can just shove it) for the second night in a row and connecting with a machine so slow and infected with Christina Aguilara-only-knows-what that the keyboard buffer is literally bip bip bipping at the speed of my typing.

Plus, I'm sick!

Plus, my mom has a cat! (That I'm severely allergic to!)

Plus, my friends are a bunch of assholes! (Except you guys. You're really awesome. I mean those other assholes that don't help you move when they say they're going to help you move (yes, I'm looking right at you, Mr. "Yeah, I'll call you at nine but really won't" rat bastard) and the jerk faces that put caveats on the nice things they'll do for you (scratch your own back, dude - your arms are long enough!) and then won't even answer their phone when I'm drunk and want to share all of my witty Oscar banter...where the hell did I go with this? Oh yeah - John? You see me? Cuz I know you do, boner brain. You suck. There, I said it. You suck.)

Heh. Boner brain. I don't even know where that came from, but it's out there, baby, and I'm letting that pony ride.

Plus, my mom has a gel mouse pad thing that totally exploded because her stupid freaking allergy-inducing cat decided it would make a good mortal enemy so everything is sticky! It's all covered in jam! (That reference was totally for you.)

I've realized that I use the word "totally" and "just" far too often. And "like". Like, I totally just did! Gosh!

Plus, it cost $80 in gas just to get down here! Okay, so John (the aforementioned John, who is my friend but, as we've established, a total and complete boner brain) gave me a hundred smackers (then he paid me for the pleasure...oooeeerrr) to off-set the cost, but still. That's some crazy mad money to pay for a trip that usually costs $30 at the outside.

Gat damn it all to hell, I'm a miserable old coot this fine eve, innit I? How many dialects did I just mash into one sentence? Too many. Far too many.

You ever get in one of those moods where you just wanna go and fuck some shit up? I've been in that mood for, like, a month.

I betcha this bitch will time out before I can even post it.


Friday, February 25, 2005

manly, yes, but i like it, too

Manual labor is awesome. I'm so totally pumped up right now, you don't even know. I felt inspired to stop and do push ups for no reason. But that wasn't good enough, so I went out, raped a hooker and stabbed her in the throat. To top off the evening I came home and rocked some hot wings with ranch.

Just kidding! I'm totally a blue cheese kinda guy.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

i had to share

Okay, I'm packing and moving and stuff, but I'm taking a break to share this with you because I'm so fucking cool.

I'm driving a Dodge Ram 3500 (325 horses, 5.9L Cummins diesel engine, one seriously bad ass chick behind the wheel) towing a brand spanking new 20 foot trailer. I'm responsible for roughly $100,000 worth of equipment, people. That's a house. Would you let me drive your house? Thought not.

So I'm trying to summon up the courage to back this bad boy up my drive while avoiding hitting the (dead) van, mailbox (again) or basketball hoop. I'm kinda ascared. Because if I messed it up and anyone mentioned that I'd messed it up there would be bloodshed.

When I finally decide to attempt this maneuver, it apparently sends out a signal that everyone in the vicinity had an immediate and pressing need to come down my street. Cars were piled up on either side while I'm navigating this thing, and since it's dark out (and I'm practically night-blind) I'm jumping in and out of the truck to see where I'm heading.

Have I mentioned that this truck is so big that I seriously needed a ladder to scrape the ice from the windshield today? The hood comes up to my chin and I can't even reach the top of the cab with my best jump. It has a step to climb into the cab. So it's a safe bet that the people in the cars, some of whom even stepped out of their cars to watch, were amused by this spectacle.

I finally managed to pull the trailer in so freaking straight and perfect that if I'd have posted a picture you'd all think it was a total Photoshop. Upon my triumphant final exit from the truck I pumped my fists in the air and did a little end-zone dance to many cheers from the spectators.

Coming soon to a theater near you, the feel-good movie of the summer. One girl, faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles in her path, overcomes everything life has thrown at her (a slippery driveway, a poor grasp of spatial relations in the dark, a low tolerance for frustration) to park a trailer perfectly parallel to the sides of the drive. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll marvel at her unique ability to see over the dashboard. This summer, don't miss what's sure to become a runaway blockbuster - "The Parker".

The sequel to this film, which is coming out in about twenty minutes, is, "The Parker II: The Packer". My character will next attempt to load the trailer herself, all while grunting in a rather un-ladylike fashion. Rated NC-17 for gratuitous use of phrases such as "donkey fuck bastard!" and "fucking mother son of a fuck!"

That, and the full-frontal nudity.

But anyway, I'm bad ass. Way more than you.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

just one more thing...

I don't know if I'm psychic or what, but remember back in August when I posted this?

Last night I had a dream that Deion Sanders was on an infomercial hawking his revolutionary hot dog cooker. It was such a realistic dream that I spent a chunk of the day looking this up (try to google "Deion Sanders" and "hot dog"...useless bloody search engine!) - part of the dream was about how Deion was all giving it, "You can't just boil a dog. You can't just nuke a dog. You can't just grill a dog. This is the way you need to do it if you want that authentic ball park experience."

Trouble is, I have no idea how else you would cook a hot dog. I believe I've had a vision here. If I can figure out an alternate way to cook a hot dog, and construct a machine that will do so, then I will become rich and star on infomercials and have sex with Deion Sanders. (The sex stuff came into the dream later, but I shan't elaborate.)

Aye, 'tis come to pass.

Are you spooked? I'm totally spooked.

i'm like a venn diagram of marketing demographics

I bet the Coca Cola people are sitting around reviewing their weekend sales for their new energy drink, Full Throttle, and wondering why the hell it's so popular just through this one particular route that leads from Minneapolis to Illinois. That would be because of me.

It's a bit early in the relationship to be absolutely certain but I think that I may, just may, love this stuff more than Diet Coke. But don't mention it to Diet Coke yet - I'm still working out all of the emotional implications.

But damn if that ain't a tasty drink.

I would mention how I'm still not moved yet but I'm afraid that you're going to think that the whole "moving" thing was a total ruse that I'd constructed to have a good excuse to not blog. But you'd be wrong, mister, dead wrong. It's thinking like that that damn near cost us the space race. Where's your faith, commie? Huh? Where the hell is your faith?!?

From my daughter's blog: At the dance I danced with someone, and made the mistake of telling my mom about it. We reveiw the whole "No dating till you are married" speech.

Seriously, though. Dancing at a dance? You know what that leads to, dontcha. That's right - thumb wrestling. And I've barely trained her! I can't send her out into this cold, cruel world without even the rudimentary skills required to put the opposable-digit smack-down on some boy who's trying to get fresh.

I'd like to see the word "fresh" make a comeback, but with the old-time connotation. "You, sir, are fresh!" Then slap them in the face with a glove, even if you have one of those big, fuck-off metal medieval England jousting gloves. (Did I just make that up or did I see that in a movie once? I can never remember if I'm really clever or just a forgetful hack.)

So, yeah, anyway, this is where I tell you that my computer is getting packed up today and that I won't be online for...awhile. An as-yet undetermined amount of time. At some point in the future is when I shall return. I ain't gonna be comin' round hyeah no mo'. Until I get my crap sorted at my mater's abode. Adobe abode. Huh, I never noticed that before.

Away from the computer I shall be, alas alack! but shall return by and by, hither and yon. Sliver and yawn. Zither and Don. Wither and pawn.

Peace out.


Friday, February 18, 2005

a grown-up i am not

There comes a time while packing where organization flies out the window, never to be seen again, and you just kind of go, "Fuck it - I'll label all of these boxes 'misc' and be done with it."

'Tis a very liberating feeling, indeed.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

no one ever says "i'm a psycho co-dependent head-case"

A friend of mine and I were ripping on another friend who took the extreme step of signing up at an online dating site ("oh my god, he said he's fun loving and laid back! And that he likes movies! Ha ha ha!") and we amused ourselves by poking around to see if we knew anyone else on there. Oh dear, what a plethora of fun was had by all!

I'm not ripping on these people simply because they're using a dating site - if that's the kind of thing you like, well then, I guess you'll like that kind of thing. I'm ripping on them because they're idiots, and being an idiot trumps being desperate any day of the week.

These profiles were taken verbatim from the site. I didn't change them at all to increase their comedic value, because I didn't have to.

* * * * * * * * *

I am the person in the picture. I like to have fun, I hate to be bored.
(I didn't doubt that he was the guy in the picture until he said that. Now I just don't know. But he hates to be bored, so he has that going for him.)

I like to help & support people.
(Mow my grass and pay my rent.)

I love,,,,,,, Trees,and grass,,,,,and,,dirt.

My mom tried to strangle me and I made her fat.
(In that order? How did this happen and why do you think it makes you appealing?)

I am tired of the worthless women that I seem to always meet.
("I'm just a worthless-woman magnet! Email me!")

I am not a super model but yet I am not ugly as dirt.
(So somewhere between those two extremes lies "Mr. Git-R-Done". Thanks for being vague, asshole.)

I've been known to sing the wrong words to songs (on purpose mostly) just to get a laugh.
(Oh that Dougie, he's so funny! He's always singing the wrong words to songs! Does he just not know the songs he's trying to sing? Why, no, I believe he does it on purpose, just to get a laugh!)

ME? i'm spontanus, open, smart, caring, fit, wise, curious =)
(Me? I'm curious about your spont-anus.)

i love to breakdance its my favorite thing to do when i have a chance but yeah thats me in the photo doing a flair so yeah i like to breakdance...

I am just a nice guy, I am sure lots of guys say it, but I get told it by every woman who knows me.
(If they say that when they're dumping you it doesn't count.)

Slayer is the most awesomest rock band of all time. I like pizza.

I am very shy when trying to talk to nice women.
(But you should see how I come alive when I'm talking to the whores!)

Only 10's need respond..well 91/2's too
(How about a 45.5?)

p.s. im super strong supa supa sexy supa MAN!!!
(This is the most badass thing I've read in a long time. I'm going to use this line whenever possible.)

I've been told that I'm not a wimp
(Your mother is very kind.)

Intraverted Loner in search of Extroverted Loaner
(Possibly the most honest ad ever.)

all im doing here is looking for a girl who wants to have sex with me
(I take that back - this is the most honest ad ever.)

Hai Girls! Accept my relationship!
(HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Foreigners are funny!!!)

I consider myself to be creative, intelligent, funny, symmetrical, amphipious, and so on and so forth.
(Does he mean "amphibious", perhaps? Symmetrical? I'd like to hear more about this "and so on and so forth", personally...)

My friends, if I tell them I'm running a personal ad, laugh and scratch their heads; not because there's anything wrong with an ad, but because I'm the sort of man who they assume wouldn't need to.
(And what about the sort of women who would respond to a statement like that, asshole? Do they "need to"? Who hatched you? Who the fuck hatched you? Asshole.)

I have a gotee and i have muscle but i do work and live on a farm so i hope that dont bother u.
(I'm confused...does having a "gotee" and muscle usually preclude one from securing gainful employment? And which part of this stunning description does he think will bother the reader? The farm? The muscle? The "gotee"? I'm really confused.)

I may be going out on a limb here but I am a great guy.
(Slow down there, champ! Are you trying to say that you think you're a great guy?!? Where the hell do you get off making an assumption like that? I hate when people are so full of themselves.)

I'm going to be a doctor, talk about craziness!
(HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! You're twelve!)

I'm not your average 22 year old guy. I'm 5'7" and weigh 150lbs.
(You're right - that makes you truly exceptional.)

(Poor speller or raging fetishist? You decide!)

I love to have a good inelligent conversation.
(If you can spell it, you can have it. Otherwise, just stick to talking about your ATV.)

I consider myself a intellagent person, But ofcourse I have those days when you could ask me what the sum of 2 times 2 and i might take a second.
(Another Einstein. Ya know, I consider myself pretty "intellagent" as well but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out the sum of 2 times 2. Admittedly, this is pretty nit-picky but I figure if I'm here I might as well stay a while.)

I'd probably pick you up if you were stranded even if I don't know you.
(So would Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. This is not a good trait and should be omitted from your profile.)

I'm the guy next door. I've been told I look like Garth Brooks,but I think its just my gotee.
(Again with the "gotee". Here's a mnemonic device for you - it's called a GOATEE because it makes you look like a fucking GOAT.)

I'm 28 recently divorced single dad. The last two relationships I have had have both lasted seven years.
(Gah!!! Are you trying to say you've been in two relationships since you were fourteen, or were the last two relationships concurrent? That might explain the divorce...)

One woman man seeking my one woman.
(His profile picture was his wedding portrait with his ex-wife's face scratched out. Filed under "seriously fucking creepy".)

I work full time, have held the same job for 7 years. I enjoy going out on weekends with friends, and riding the horse.
(So he's a heroin junky who can't get a promotion. Catch him while you can ladies! You'll find him where he's been for the last six days - passed out on a dirty mattress in the alley.)

i like to have fun and like to 69
(This was posted by my old graphic design teacher. I'm serious. This was confirmed by two eyewitnesses.)

I'm currently going through a divorce of my wife of nine years we were having problems and then she went to WAR.
(HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Damn her for running out on you like that! Damn her straight to hell!)

i use to be envolved in full contact fighting but im gone from all that .i r aggressive rollerblade,drive too fast , go to the gym and play dungeons and dragons
(One of these things is not like the other...)

i like hanging out with friends and family, doing stuff on the net (games, talking to friends and family, ect...)
(I like how he makes it very clear that he only hangs out with people that he knows (friends, family) but also how he itemizes what, exactly, he does online. Note the absence of "porn surfing" and "google-stalking ex-girlfriends". This boy's a keeper!)

Hey, I can't look at any profiles unless I have one myself. Go figure! So basically, I got bored watching Monday Night Football and triathlon season is 5 months away, so I might as well do something.
(First, I know this is a lie because I saw profiles and didn't post one myself. Second, you're a triathlete and the only thing you could come up with to pass the time is to post a profile...I've seen a lot of "I did this because I was bored" in descriptions but I find this one highly implausible. If I were a triathlete I'd probably pass the time walking around town, telling people I was a triathlete and punching them in the dick.)

* * * * * * * * *

These people make me think that Ted Kaczynski had some pretty good ideas.

My god, do I hate people.

Monday, February 14, 2005

we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this important announcement

It's come to my attention just today (I've been a bit behind what with the whole "picking up the pieces of my shattered life" thing) that my beloved blog-father, John Conners, (who looks totally bitching with his new scruffy 'do, incidentally) has shuffled off this virtual coil, perhaps never to return to blogging again. (He thinks he's all high and mighty because he has one of those "real life" things that you hear so much about.)

A moment of silence, if you will, to honor his passing. He taught me that blogs aren't just for 12-year-old girls who really, really love Britney Spears and puppies and their boyfriends (hi, Adam!), but rather that blogs can be vehicles for discussing important, hot-button issues like blow jobs and shaved vaginas. (Admittedly, I cannot recall that John ever posted about either topic, but let's just say that the student parted ways with the master a long time ago.)

So anyone who comes here and enjoys any thing about this place, you can be sure that you owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Conners.

A toast to you, John, and to the fabulous life you're living. You're the rootinest, cutenest patootinest little Scotsman to ever wear a kilt - and share the pictures.


even the losers who are alone on valentine's day are better off than me


Settle in, because this is a long read. The working title is "Ghengis Khan Reincarnated: Mass Killing in a Previous Life Can Sure Come Back to Bite Ya in the Ass, Huh?"

Yesterday I set off from my dad's house with kids and dogs in tow to return to Minnesota. Things were going okay until somewhere in Iowa where this asshole kept passing me, slowing down so I'd pass him, then passing me again. This happened about six times before I pulled up next to him and honked. He looked at me so I pointed at him, flipped him off, then pointed to the road and mouthed, "GO!" About two seconds later, my windshield wipers flaked on me a little.

No big deal, just a touch of rain, so it's okay if the windshield wipers go.

They were okay until it got dark. Once I hit Minnesota the rain turned to freezing rain/slush and the wipers just went, "Oh for fucks sake - we didn't know you were bringing us back north!" and decided to quietly go to sleep.

I pull onto the shoulder, flick on the hazards, and proceed to travel down the interstate at about ten miles per hour until I see an exit, roughly ten miles into the trek. There's a sign that says "lodging" so I figure we'll just bunk for the night.

I was on that road for twenty freaking miles before I saw a motel. You shouldn't be allowed to say "lodging, thataway!" if it's not visible immediately after exiting. There ought to be a law or a religion or something to prevent this from happening.

I pull into a Super 8 and drag the kids to the check-in counter when I suddenly realize I have no way to pay for the room except for my out-of-town checks. Motels are notoriously bad about taking out-of-town checks, which is fucking stupid, because most of their guests would be from out-of-town. If you were in-town why the hell would you need a motel? Anyway, she doesn't want to take my check and I blink really hard like I do when I hate someone, and calmly explain to her that if she doesn't take my check she's assuring certain death for my children on the icy roads of Minnesota. She relents and I ask the total - she tells me it's $69. $69 for a room at the Super 8, where the amenities include a continental breakfast and an infection from the bugs in the sheets. Nice.

I nearly made a comment about how, for that price, I'd expect them to include a little oral but I was afraid that she'd reply, "But at that price we're already screwing you in the poop chute - what more do you need?" I hate to set people up for jokes that are funnier than mine, so I kept my mouth shut.

I considered trying to haggle the price of the room but I had it on good authority that I only had $7 in my checking account so I didn't bother. A $69 check bounces just as high as a $40 check.

I hand her my payment and she goes, "Oh, I meant it was $65, not $69" so I, exasperated, void that check and go to write a new one - and am met with the blinding white of nothing but deposit slips. That was my last fucking check.

I started crying the way that crazy people cry, where the tears are falling but they don't notice them. I told the woman what the deal was and said, very calmly, "I am going to initial around this void and you're going to take it. If you need me to reissue you a check just call me. If you don't find me a pen that works, and soon, I'm going to freak right out."

I think she was impressed.

We settled in for a night of Blue Collar Comedy and an Oreo dinner and I slept like a drunk. Seven a.m. and we were on the road and now I'm home.

For as terrible as the night was for me, I did have a couple of sweet moments. Nico dive-bombed me for the most aggressive Eskimo kiss ever and at one point I was trying to give him a time-out and warned him that if he wasn't in bed by the count of three that there'd be big trouble. I said, "One" and he replied with a very enthusiastic "two!". We counted to five and he gave me a high-five and a kiss, so that was pretty awesome. Zoe asked me to sing Maroon 5's "Sunday Morning" to her until she fell asleep and said I was "the prettiest, bestest mom ever". And I realized that, all in all, I'm a pretty lucky guy.

And isn't that what the true meaning of President's Day is all about?

No. No it's not.

But it's still a sweet end to a bad story and if you don't think so I'm going to have to bust you right in the dick.

My mate Greg (who doesn't have a blog and likes to disappear from my life for months at a time) emailed me and said that he'd come around looking for funny things I've posted on Valentine's Day, but I really never have before. The closest I've gotten is the picture I posted for steak and a blow job day but that's about it. (By the way, Greg, the way you blurted out, "Wow, does your life suck right now!" just warmed my little cockles, it really did.) The absence of posting about Valentine's Day is because it doesn't really mean anything to me. I can't even summon up enough sarcasm to really construct an anti-VD post, and I certainly don't have any romantic stories to share because romance is for girls. But I will share this story - take of it what you will.

At a party once, a guy friend of mine was talking about how drunk he was from drinking only five beers. The girl who liked him joked, "Only five beers? That's my kind of man - a cheap date and an easy lay." He laughed, then got all serious with her (in the way that only the truly drunk can) and said, "You know, you wouldn't have to get me drunk. I mean it. I wouldn't even have to be drunk." like it was a really big, sincere compliment. She laughed and said something like, "Well, that takes all the fun out of it!" He laughed and said, in this really sing-song, taunting voice, "You're a potential rapist, but I just gave you permission to molest me, so THERE - it's not a crime!"

I don't know she ever took him up on his offer, but that cracks me up. I imagine them sitting around when they're old and one of their grandkids asking, "Grandma, how did you know that grandpa was 'the one'?" "Well, Suzy, it was probably when he made it clear that he wouldn't have to be drunk to have sex with me. Yeah, your old granddad is a bit of a romantic."

So happy Valentine's Day, y'all! May all of your pornography remain undiscovered and all of your intercourse be of the non-felonious persuasion.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

should i stay or should i go

I was supposed to be moving all of my crap today but something came up and now I won't get to move until next week. Do you know what that means? I get, like, four more days of procrastination!

I think it's time that I introduce you to my new pretend boyfriend. He replaces my old pretend boyfriends of Antonio Banderas, Eminem, Axl Rose, and that cute Hungarian guy at the car wash who always affects a really sultry tone when he asks if I'd like hot wax.

Everyone, this is Adam. Adam, this is everyone.

He has no killer ninja moves that I am aware of, which is a major detriment. However, the boy is pure sex, which is a plus. (This Love mpg)

The only real downside that I can tell is his flagrant wearing of a yellow bi-band (okay, it's a hanky but still) on his right wrist in that video, which is code for "anything that moves". Do I want to believe this of my dear Adam? No. Am I surprised? No. (see "sex, pure".)

I'm going to head to Illinois shortly, I think, and take a load of crap in the SUV just to get started. Why am I so eager? Because mom's not there, wheee! I forgot she's taking a vacation this week to some...somewhere. I forget. I need to get down there and wash the approximately 700 pounds of laundry that I haven't gotten done.

Someone once told me, "I don't like dogs. I like babies." Oh, how I laughed.

levity and brevity

Via Susskins, I present you with one of the funniest things I'd read in a long time: Steve, Don't Eat It! where a guy named Steve eats nasty food. And comments.

I must admit that my aversion to drinking breast milk is something of a double-standard. Let me try to put this as delicately as I can out of respect to my female readers... but some women have been known to willingly "ingest" a certain dubious "body fluid" made by men, during moments of "intimacy." (These moments are known as "blow jobs." These women are known as "awesome.")

I don't know what was most revolting about Steve's site - the picture of the Natto (scroll down) or the link to J. Lo's shaved vagina.

Need to go on a diet? Post either, or both, of those pictures on your fridge.

I probably won't find this nearly as funny after I've gotten some sleep but at the moment I'm calling it high comedy, folks.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

random fact of the day

It's really really weird to be packing up the left-over clothes of a man that's no longer here.

The upshot is that I get to steal all of his shirts that he'd never let me wear because I would, and I quote, "stretch boobs into them". Hey, it's not my fault that all of the shirts he owns seem to be designed for a flat-chested woman. Or men.

Plus? All of his comfy pants are now my jammies.

I'm feeling a little bit better now because I'm listening to too much Snow Patrol. I seem to be developing a "thing" for songs about gay heartache.

It's just infinitely more interesting than my stupid crap. I highly recommend it.

yeah, yeah, i'm still here


Thing is, everything pretty much sucks right now. Well, a couple of things don't. Swedish Fish, for example, is always a welcome treasure. Swedish Fish, and all that goes along with it. Pure joy, and one of the few remaining rays of sunshine in my life. I love Swedish Fish a lot more than I probably should, but honestly, I think I could eat these things every single day of my life and not get sick of them.

So there's that whole thing.

Did I mention I had Swedish Fish for my birthday dinner? Alone, on a bare mattress in my living room? In the dark?

Yeah, so there's that, too.

I went to see a friend who owns a bar and he made me work. This was fun, actually, until I slipped and crashed down on both of my knees. I didn't have the good sense to be embarrassed and just kind of went, "Daaahhhmmm!"

I'm still saying "damn" like that these few days later because they still hurt.

Said friend also gave me a couple of books for my birthday - one being "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People" (falling to your knees onto tile isn't one of them, by the way) and "Never Alone: A Personal Way to God".

Sometimes, recovering alcoholics totally suck. (Just kidding, you!)

No, seriously - most recovering alcoholics have no interpersonal skills whatsoever. It's like they (and only some of the "they" - if you're one of "they" that doesn't fit this description, then I'm obviously not talking about you, now am I?) have spent too many years drunk to know how to actually interact with another human being while abiding by the general rules of, ya know, etiquette and good taste and whatnot.

Still. It's probably better than hanging out with drunks.

Have I mentioned I don't drink anymore? I don't know if I will again, apart from the occasional social gathering, if even that. It's really hit home lately how alcohol has ruined so much of my life from way back to when I was a wee lass to now. I feel a lot better about things now that I've realized that.

I haven't fully moved yet - hell, I've barely packed - so there's that whole thing, too. No one to blame but myself for that one, I'm afraid.

I've slept three or so hours of the past 40 or so. Yeah, it's almost exactly 40 hours. I've been awake a full work week with little more than a nap. Yup. That's healthy.

The upshot is that I may have lost enough weight through my Swedish Fish and Stress Diet to justify the weight gain I'd experience by quitting smoking.

No drinking? No smoking? No...funny?

I really hope this isn't a case of Samson's hair - but if this post is any indication, I'm afraid that it just might be.

Go Fish!

(get it? Ah, I'm clever.)

Thursday, February 03, 2005


So I'm packing, right, because up until this morning I could only boast a mighty three boxes having been packed. I'm avoiding the computer because it sucks too much time and I have a hard time staying on task, what on account of my ADD/laziness/bad habit of being distracted by shiny things, when what should happen but the UPS dude shows up at my door. He gave me a box and a big, fat kiss (not really but I could tell that he wanted to - after all, I am sweaty and unshowered) and went along his merry way.

Inside the box was a book from Smeggy Smeg (that's his rapper name) called "The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World" by A. J. Jacobs.

sniff He knows me so well, doesn't he?

Smeggy bought it for me because my face has been like this :( alot lately, plus it's my birfday tomorrow and he's sad because I'm spending it all by my lonesome. So he bought me a time-sucking book to make me feel better and distract me from the cleaning and packing I need to do.

As the kids say, w00t!

why i so totally need to get the cd player in my truck fixed...

...or "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace My Desire to Kill Rick Dees"

* * *

Dear Gwen Stefani:

Your hair is gross, your lips are gross, the warbly way you sing is gross.

I do not like you.

You are tacky. You are obvious. You are turquoise personified.

Please stop.

* * *

Dear Maroon 5:

Jamiroquai called. He wants his vocal styling back.

* * *

Dear John Mayer:

How's about you grow a set already? Sheesh.

* * *

Dear Nelly:

Uncle, alright? Uncle. You got me. I'm not made of stone, you know.

* * *

Dear Good Charlotte:

It's so nice to see that you've decided to own your hypocrisy. Well done, you fucktards.

* * *

Dear Destiny's Child:

First off - stupid, stupid fucking name.

Second - I'd heard your "hit" song before, but only on Mtv and I was too busy waiting for the "got dressed in the dark" Destiny's Child to make out with the "these outfits are a joke" Destiny's Child to pay much attention. On the radio, however, there were no such distractions. I would suggest that you stick with videos if you plan to release any songs that are equal to or more horrid than "Lose My Breath".

* * *

Dear Switchfoot:

You should have never quit your job writing jingles for Cingular Wireless and Rainbow Foods. You blow. Plus, that's a stupid name.

* * *

Dear Chingy:

Who the hell are you? Where did you come from? If I met you in real life I could totally beat your ass and you know it. Bring it on, bitch.

* * *

Dear All Y'all:

What the hell is the deal with "featuring" all of these other artists in your songs? This technique is totally overdone, especially when your "featured" guest feels compelled to introduce himself before he starts his little rap like he's trying to distance himself from the rest of the song. Weak, weak, fucking weak.

Oh, and please stop using flash on your webpages. Played, alright? Played.

* * *

I really should not listen to the radio. It enrages me.

In entirely unrelated news, a friend of mine has volunteered not only to help me move, but also to use his trailer that he will be driving himself all the way to Illinois for me. It doesn't get much better than that.

In other entirely unrelated news, my birthday is tomorrow. Yeah, 28. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet, but at least I'll be too busy packing to think about it. It's not the age as much as the life changes that are surrounding the milestone. So, yeah, I may be a downer.

You've been warned.