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 4-30-02 How Dare You Try to Label Me?
I took this test, and apparently I'm 78% lazy. You don't need an eight-page questionnaire for something like that. I can condense it into two questions:
1. Have you ever deliberately thrown away a fork because you didn't feel like scrubbing off the caked-on food?
Voila.
In my psych class today, we were talking about adolescents' belief in their own invincibility. Then we got on the subject of superpowers, and the douchebags in my class felt the need to start an open poll about which power they would like to have, if they could only have one. And while I was deeply interested in who would rather become invisible than have X-ray vision and why, I actually started thinking about it. You know what would be cool? I wish I had the power to make punctuation pop up over my head. You know, like a question mark or an exclamation point or something. And when I'm in a pissy mood, I could walk around with a middle finger hanging over me. That would save me the trouble of doing it manually, which, as we've already established, I am obviously too lazy for.
4-29-02
Oh, man, I just spent the last two fucking days without power. There was a thunderstorm this weekend, and when I came home Saturday night the power was off. And it stayed off until this morning. Just in this building too. God, I hate this apartment.
So I'm moving at the end of May. And moving. Sucks! First of all, I don't know what the hell to do with my furniture. My current gameplan is to just leave it here, because it's all crappy and not worth hiring movers. But I'd have to check with my landlords before I do that. Which brings me to problem #2: I have come to believe that my landlords are just a big hoax, like the war in Wag the Dog. I could've sworn I met them once, but maybe that was an acid flashback. One time about a year ago, my rent was late so they sent me a letter with their phone number on it. And I have never been able to reach them there. Never. EVER. They don't even have an answering machine. Hello?! Who doesn't have an answering machine? The only connection I have with them is a P.O. Box (suspicion bell!) address way the fuck out on the other end of the island. I had to let them know I'm moving by putting a little note in with my May rent, and I haven't heard peep from them yet. Not fucking peep. Bastards. Excuse me, I have to go write a eulogy for my security deposit.
Yeah, yeah, I finally got around to faxing out resumes. I always felt that having a professional template-based resume with bar experience on it was kind of fucked up. It's got these nice-looking headers, and then "Ozzy's Nightclub - Cocktail Waitress" "O'Leery's Pub - Bartender." And it makes me think that I should be writing more, but what the hell am I supposed to say? "Wore extremely short skirts at manager's request and delivered strawberry daiquiris to people too fruity to drink anything stronger." Whatever, anyway, I got called by this Irish pub in Brooklyn that I think I've been to. Of course, I didn't tell them that, being underage and what have you. But if I remember correctly, it's really smoky and it has a pool table. Perfect.
Got an interview Wednesday. So if I get it, I'm back to my old insanity schedule; going to class in the afternoon, hauling ass to work, coming home at three, and sleeping really late. By the way, no matter how late you work, nothing makes you feel like a bum more than setting your alarm clock for 1:30 in the afternoon. But at least I'll have money again. And if I can find my sorry inexperienced ass a day job for the summer, I might be able to catch up on all that rent money I "borrowed" from my tuition savings account. Ah, life is sweet, in a demented and irritating sort of way.
And guess what else? I just found out this girl that I fucking despised in high school (not the hippie school, the yuppie school) dropped out of college after a few months to pursue a modeling career. And since that isn't quite panning out as planned (?!), she's living at home and babysitting (!!) for money. I can't begin to describe the pleasure this brings me, and I hope you read this, you stupid uppity bitch. Oh yeah, I feel great now. And please don't start thinking I'm being unnecessarily mean. She really is a stupid uppity bitch, and believe me, I've seen my share. I lived in New Jersey.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 2!
4-25-02
I never liked birthdays (even though I have the same one as Al Pacino). My mother hates them because they're a reminder that she's getting older. I hate them because they're a reminder that I'm still young and I'm wasting it. I just always feel like there's something I should be doing that I won't be able to do for long. The only thing is, I can't think of a single thing that I didn't already do in high school. Shit. I burned myself out before I hit legal drinking age.
On my last birthday, I had just moved into this shitty apartment, and my neighbor got into some drug-related trouble and killed himself by walking into a train. So I spent the whole day with various cops answering questions and looking at Polaroids.
Ooh, and I went on a kickass date last night (with that guy I met on the train a few weeks ago). First one in a loooooooong time that went really well. Just got back this morning. So I'm gonna order in a nice birthday pizza and watch the hockey playoffs. Bliss!
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 4
4-23-02
I know I already posted today, but ...
Don't you hate it when you have, ahem, relations with someone, and you want to break it off but you're too much of a pussy, plus you don't even know whether you should because you're not exactly a couple, so you basically refuse to acknowledge their existence until they go away, and they finally do, but then you run into them all the time and they want to have pleasant conversations with you like nothing happened?
Yeah, me too. I mean, it's better than the two of us having to storm past each other and glare from the other side of the parking lot, but still. Plus the more often this happens, the more likely it is that he's gonna figure out that, in the entire time we were seeing each other, I didn't quite know his name, and I still don't. Yeesh. But it wasn't my fault! He never told me! I don't think ...
4-23-02
I was just remembering this, and I thought I'd share, because it amused the hell out of me. When I was in high school, I had this friend. A hypochondriac friend. Always believed she had some horrid disease or another. This is irrelevant to the story, but I'm trying to give you a feel for the kind of person we're dealing with. A little off. Now, nobody ever believes me, but I swear every word of this is true.
This girl had black eyes, totally black. One day she decided that she wanted them to be green, so she ordered a pair of colored contacts. On the day she was supposed to pick them up, she called me.
Her: "I got my contacts today."
Now, I'm not proud of this, but at first I thought, Yeah, that's pretty fucked up. It took a few seconds to sink in.
Me: "You mean your pupil?"
I don't remember how the rest of the conversation went. I do remember her defense; her eyes were black, so how could she possibly be expected to know she had a pupil? The only flaw in this theory is that it assumes, in the seventeen years she'd been alive, that she'd never seen another person. Not sure if I buy that.
The moral of this story? Always have a friend who makes you feel smart.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 6
4-22-02
Guess who locked keys in her apartment today? No, not Greta van Sustern. Me. And I made a point of calling a different locksmith than I did the last time this happened, and it turns out to be the same guy anyway. And he remembered me too! He walks up to the door and says, "You didn't have to sleep in your car again, did you?" But it's a good thing I got this guy, because he only charged me twenty bucks. He said, "Believe me, you don't want my regular rate. Tell you what. The next time you see me, you can buy me lunch." Heh. Every once in a while, I love being a girl.
Well, now there's a Post-It on my door that says "HEY! TAKE YOUR KEYS, YOU DUMBASS!" So hopefully this won't happen again. But there was something else I wanted to say today. Ummm ... oh right. In honor of my departure from New York, and at Steve's request, I'm making a "Best of NYC" a la Maxim and the Village Voice (except mine's cooler). So keep checking back; I'll get it done soon.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 7
4-21-02
My friends suck.
When I was in junior high, I was close with a whole group of people I really didn't like, just because they were there. Then I go to college, and I realize I can actually pick my friends, and who do I pick? A whole group of people I really don't like. I can't wait to move to Boston and start over, because this is just not working. There's only so many times you can get dragged along to pay money you don't have to see a band you hate, and know that the only reason you're not gonna get "forgotten" there is because you remember where the car's parked and they don't. Exasperated sigh, I say! I got bored with them the other night, so I bet one of them thirty bucks I could kick his ass. I lost.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 8
I remember plants! They have them everywhere in the country except where I live! Cool!
So this is nice. I'm at my mother's house, and it's full of spiders. I hate spiders. And I resent them for all the embarrassing situations that they've put me in, where I freaked the fuck out in front of people. Plus I'm still recovering from the silverfish I found in my bathroom two weeks ago. I think it's fair to say I did not handle that well. I was in the fetal position under my table, actually thinking "This is it. I'm gonna die from this." Yeah, that's sad. But here's something sadder. Due to the spider situation, I slept on the floor last night. I really was convinced that if I got into bed, the sheets would be full of them. I am so fruity.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 9
4-19-02
Remember when you were a kid and three hundred dollars seemed like an ungodly amount of money? Well, that's how much my tax refund was a few days ago, and oops, it's gone. When I was fourteen and I first started working, I didn't even have a bank account. My mother would cash my paychecks for me, and then I would just carry around the little paper envelope stuffed with a wad of fifty dollar bills. And I would try (!) to spend it before my next payday, because I had nothing to save it for.
Now, three hundred dollars? What the hell is that? That's not even half my rent. (Although for the shithole I live in, it should be twice my rent.) There was a line in the Lewis Black tax special -- "All three hundred dollars does is remind people how screwed they are." Damn straight.
Part of my problem is that there are some things I just won't be thrifty about. Like coffee. I only buy it from Trader Joe's, and I specifically look for the most expensive brand (thirteen bucks a can, but if there's coffee in heaven, it tastes like this). Same for maple syrup and balsamic vinegar. So what if I can only do laundry once every six weeks? My waffles taste haughty!
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 10
4-18-02
I was in 7-Eleven today getting coffee, and this kid ahead of me in line was trying to buy a CASE of beer, plus THREE forties. The cashier checks his ID, and he's sixteen. Sixteen! That's not even close! Of course, the guy refuses, and the kid throws this huge tantrum and storms out. Excuse me?! I--bleh--he--wha--[brain fart] Okay, you know what? That's all I'm saying about that. That's it. I'm done. Forget it.
All right, now this probably shouldn't bother me as much as it does, but ... I was in Waldbaum's last night buying a carton of cigarettes. I got carded, which was fine, but then this 16-year-old little squirt trots off to the assistant manager because she thinks my ID's fake. And the assistant manager, who by the way was at least a year younger than me, comes out and makes a big deal out of holding it up to the light and passing it around to the other cashiers. So I kind of lost it, and I said, "Are you high? If I was gonna get a fake ID, why would I make myself twenty and not twenty-one, dipshit?" So she got kind of cranky and stormed away. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. But if I have to take this kind of crap from adults, I'm sure as shit not going to take it from some ditzy college dropout who works at Waldbaum's. She can kiss my fat Irish ass, once for every minute of my life she stole. So there.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 11
4-17-02
But that doesn't give people the right to call the Fox5 Problem Solvers because their office isn't air conditioned to their satisfaction. That really annoyed me. I think their office was 91 degrees, and yes, that's very hot. But I'm not sympathetic because my apartment is 96 and climbing, and guess what? I live here! There's nowhere else for me to go! And you don't see me calling a news crew to come yell at my landlords for me. Jesus Christ.
Hey, you know what I just realized? My birthday is next week. Man, when I was a kid I used to count off the days, starting from Christmas, and now I can barely remember when it is. So I'll be twenty. (I know, I said I was twenty already. I lied. Figured I was close enough.) I made an Amazon wish list because otherwise my cousins who I never see don't know what the hell to do with me. So if any of you want to buy me something (coughstevecough), there's some stuff I want. Actually, what I really want is a 1971 Pontiac Firebird Formula 455. Definitely the white one with the blue racing stripe. It will happen.
Oh, has anybody read any of these and want to tell me how they end? -->Wildlife, by Richard Ford
That last one is a real whore. It reads like tax form instructions. I broke my brain trying to get through the introduction.
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 12
4-16-02
Does anybody remember this? There was an anti-drug commercial when I was a kid with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in it. These two boys were standing in front of their lockers at school. The older one hands the the younger one a joint. He says, "What's this?" and the older one gives him the Raised Eyebrow of Evil and says, "Pot. You know, marijuana?" The younger one politely declines, and the older one says, "What are you, chicken?" And then these cartoon turtles delve into a discussion of what the poor kid should do. After a few brilliant insights, they conclude that he should get out of there and tell a teacher.
Okay. First of all, there isn't a pothead alive who just goes around forcing his weed on random acquaintances. If he did, he'd be broke. In fact, most of them don't even share with close friends who ask for it. Potheads are notorious hoarders. Second, what kind of an idiot walks around flashing fucking joints in the middle of a school? Why doesn't he just pin a dime bag labeled MARIJUANA to his shirt? Obviously, he is borderline retarded and deserves to get busted. But it puzzles me that the dickheads behind this commercial were trying to raise a generation of narcs. Christ, no wonder the war on drugs failed so miserably. I'm not even gonna get into the video we watched in health class where the college kid takes a bong hit and dies.
Look, kids aren't stupid. If you want to get through to them, you have to do better than that, assholes. Like, maybe showing things the way they actually are. (Der?!)
Days Till I Can Drink Again: 13
4-15-02
So you freeze your ass off all winter, and twenty seconds after the temperature becomes bearable again, they air condition every building until you can see your breath. Why, why, why?
Know what I love? The Comedy Cellar. If I was slightly less broke, I'd be there every night. I already spend more money there than I do on food. If you live in New York, check it out. Or don't. Whatever. Don't let me boss you around. You just do whatever the fuck makes you happy. You people are so rude. Days Till I Can Drink Again: 14
4-14-02
That hasn't happened in months.
That's the good news. Now here's something I don't fucking believe. I promised myself -- in writing -- that I would never talk about weight issues on here, but screw that. My mother is on my ass daily now, telling me I really need to lose weight. Okay, first of all, I don't. But my mom is the kind of person that looks at people like Jewel and Kate Winslet and says, "She's way too chubby to be wearing that." Which, by the way, annoys me beyond human comprehension. I was talking to her on the phone today, and I said fine, but if she's the one that wants me to do this, then she should buy me something expensive to do it with, like this thing, because I'm damn well not buying it myself. She said, and I'm not paraphrasing, "Fuck that." So we exchanged a few choice words, and we reached a compromise. I try a little plan she concocted for two weeks, and if it doesn't work, then I get the pricey stuff. Personally, I think it was kind of a dumb move on her part, since I don't live there anymore and she has no way of knowing whether I'm sticking to it. But because I love my mom (awwwww), I will anyway.
So here it is. This is the full extent of what I get to eat for the next 14 days:
Plus an hour a day of jogging (WUH?). And here's the kicker: NO ALCOHOL. None. No beer. No whiskey. Nothing. Zero.
With all due respect to my mother, this better fucking work. I took all the beer out of my fridge, so now it's warm and nasty. And I put the whiskey in a box in the trunk of my car, where I know I'll be too lazy to go get it. Did I mention that I don't even need to lose any weight?? To quote Cartman, "This is gonna suck donkey balls."
Today I learned: My grandparents' dog has to be clinically retarded. I like dogs, but Beau-Beau (I swear that's his name) needs to get his face stepped on a few times.
Lewis Black's tax special last night was so funny, I'm certain somewhere in the country somebody shat themselves. (No, it wasn't me.) But there was one part of it that really struck home. He was talking to a woman in Central Park who was complaining about being in a high tax bracket, and she casually mentioned that it isn't fair to penalize her kind "because we're brighter, smarter, richer" than everyone else. Hey, guess what, sweet pea? I grew up with with rich people. I live with rich people now. While I don't know many of them very well, I know their children, and I find it interesting that these bright, smart families spawned some of the dumbest pieces of crap that ever lived. Sorry to bust your theory wide open like that.
On a completely unrelated note, my uncle is coming down from Maine tomorrow, and he's bringing his family, so I guess he's back together with his wife again. They've split up so many times I lost count. He actually swore he'd never come back here again, but he probably forgot. The last time he was here, it was his brother's (my other uncle's) birthday. So the three of us went out to dinner with their parents (my grandparents) at this really nice Italian place. My grandfather got completely tanked and started swearing at all the waiters, and the lovely evening culminated with him passing out in his food. Ah, memories. Tomorrow we're playing it safe and going with takeout fried chicken. Probably a smart move. And I'll take fried chicken over a semi-fancy restaurant any day. I know where I fit in.
4-12-02
No? I think the Friday Five is a little piece of genius. It's a perfect way to tell if you're going to get along with somebody, innit? Like with the restaurant questions this week. Say you take two people that are trying to forge some kind of relationship, and you ask them their favorite restaurant. If she says IHOP (like I did), and he says Le Cirque, they're going to run into problems along the road.
Speaking of problems, I'm severely bruising my brain trying to decide whether I should go to Northeastern or Emerson next semester. When I graduated (and as long as I live, I'll never know how I pulled that off) from high school, I kind of had to take what I could get. Now that I have my shit together, I got accepted to my two top choices, and I didn't really figure on that happening. Hmm. Northeastern is cheaper, it's more convenient to the T station, and it has a better internship program. Emerson has the best writing major in the country, and it's smaller and attracts more people like me. GAAAHHH! Aidez-moi! Au secours!
My mother is being no help at all in this little dilemma. When I ask for her opinion, she says these vague things, like, "Oh, I don't want to be an influence on you, it's your life." Honestly, though, I think she's only saying that because she doesn't want to admit that she really has no idea. If anybody has any suggestions, drop me a line, aiiiight? (Fuck, did I just say ...?)
4-11-02
Funny how things work out sometimes. I was supposed to meet my date at the 25th Street subway station. So I'm waiting to take the train in, and this guy walks past me talking on a cell phone. He was absolutely adorable, but I looked at the suit and the briefcase and the phone, and I thought, "Nah." And just as I make this decision, he hangs up, takes a beer can out of his briefcase, and says to me, "Do you think I can bring this on the train?"
Long story short, we rode in together and went out for drinks at Charley O's. So when my date called and canceled, I was in too much of a good mood to care. In retrospect, it's a damn good thing he did cancel, because I forgot to reset my watch and I would have been an hour late. And you can't undo that kind of damage on a first date. My ex used to tell me that he kept a scorecard in his head, and every thing I said and did had a certain point value, positive or negative. Guys, here's a suggestion: If you do have such a scorecard, you might want to keep that to yourself. Reminding your girlfriend of everything she's done in the past year is scary and mean.
All right, so far so good. This post may not be funny, but it's clean, damnit! Happy, Jeff? See what happens when you sacrifice quality for wholesomeness?
4-09-02
You know what's funny about last Sunday? So anycrap, I'm still just as unemployed as I was last week when I pledged to be less so. But even though we ain't got money, I'm still in love with you honey, because I found a website where you can buy tax-free cigarettes. Also, I have, as of today, perfected my Lewis Black impression down to the finest detail, and I am certain there's some profit to be had there. Seriously, I wish I could show all you people. It's killer.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh! Aaaand, I have a date tomorrow. I'm almost positive this one is already belly-up, but far be it from me to save myself an evening of discomfort and mild irritation. (Yeesh. Sounds like hemorrhoids.)
4-07-02
All right, look. I love my friends. Oh, and look. True to the spirit of this rant, my neighbor's girlfriend is yelling at him across the hall. Loudly. Ugh. Her accent makes my hair fall out.
Take this survey. You'll feel suicidal when you're done.
The Survey for the Hate-Filled
Quick! Run off a quick list of stuff you hate.
Here we go. Shopping, health food, waking up early, Los Angeles, weddings, cold weather, loud children, long pointless phone conversations, bad pop music, suvs, women’s magazines, those horse-drawn carriages in Manhattan, bugs, dancing, fancy restaurants, tearjerker movies, my apartment, my car, my name, girly drinks (pina coladas, cosmopolitans, that kind of thing), going to gyms where football players work out and only being able to bench sixty pounds, shoes, Sex in the City, Valentine’s Day, people who puts tons of pillows on their bed & couches, anniversaries, Jehovah’s Witnesses, telemarketers who call at 8 am so I’m not conscious enough to fend them off, bottled water (tastes like plastic to me), flavored coffee, white guys who say “word,” and the amount of time and energy and expense it takes for me to look presentable enough to leave my house every day.
Who was the last person you met and fell for, who will subsequently never call you?
I’d say Dave Attell, but I was too much of a pussy to actually meet him. So I’m gonna go with my new eye doctor. I swear, I was almost tempted to check his license, because there is no way anyone outside of the entertainment industry should be as attractive as he is. He looks like Craig Kilborn, only hotter, if that’s possible.
Don’t men/women suck?
No.
Doesn’t dating suck?
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!
What do you like to pig out on when you’re depressed?
Nachos. Doughnuts. Pizza. Ice cream. Leftover cold Chinese food. It’s amazing I don’t weigh seven hundred pounds.
What’s your poison?
Whiskey, beer, or both. Nothing else, ever. I learn from my terrible, terrible mistakes.
How many sexual partners have you had?
Five. But I lie about that constantly.
How many of those did you honestly like?
One. For some of the time. One of them, I realized after our third time that I didn’t have a clue what his name was. He knew mine though, so I was too embarrassed to ask.
What’s the rudest thing anyone’s ever said to you?
When I was in high school, a guy came into the store where I worked and referred to me as chunky. I don’t know if he knew I was listening. I wasn’t allowed to say anything because he was a customer, but just in case he reads this, I’m not chunky, and you’re an ugly prick!
Don’t you wish they would just die?
Indeed I do. Indeed [pause] I [pause] do.
What’s your favorite swear word?
If you listen to the Opie & Anthony show as religiously as I do, you’ve probably heard a clip of this, but there’s this guy Frenchie and he called some other guy a fuckball. Actually, it was “f-ball” because you can’t say fuck on the radio, but it’s my new favorite word. I try to work it into conversations with my mother; it cracks her up every time.
If you could change one thing about your appearance, what would it be?
I’d be taller. I’m only five feet. I look like an alcoholic jockey.
What’s something you wish you could do, but you can’t because you’re horrifically untalented?
You know what’s weird? I can’t bowl, and I have no idea why I’ve always wanted to. It just seemed to fit into my personality, but I’m terrible at it, and it’s not really something you can practice without everyone seeing how bad you are.
Haven’t your parents ruined your life?
No, my parents are great. The spoiled little shitstains I grew up with ruined my life.
4-04-02
Yup, I got accepted to Emerson today, so I'm actually gonna transfer out of this shithole. I'm going out celebrating tonight, and I probably won't be conscious again until Saturday, so I just want to explain something real quick. Jeff asked me what the hell is up with my ceiling in one of these pictures. Examine it closer, if you will:
and you will observe that the tile fell down when it was a wee bit breezy one day. I can't get it back up because it's too high, but that's not the fun part. The fun part is that now I have a direct auditory path into the apartment across the hall, which belongs to my amorous neighbor and his incredibly loud girlfriend. It's not only disgusting, it's a constant reminder that he gets laid more than I do. My temporary solution is to play guitar with the amp turned way up. My permanent solution is to hope he moves. Yeah, it sucks, but I only have to stay here two more months, and then he can screw to his heart's content. Oh, wait, he already does.
4-03-02
I was walking down 8th Ave tonight, and this guy followed me for six or seven blocks making with the small talk, and when he saw I was starting to walk in a different direction, he stopped me and asked me out for coffee. So I told him I had to catch a train, which was true, and he said, "So come to my apartment. I give you $200." Two hundred! Jesus Christ! I mean, I told him to fuck off, but the last time I received a similar offer (on 44th Street, if you're keeping track) it was only for sixty dollars. Wow. Still gross though. Anyway, I spent eleven hours looking for a job today. It seems that it isn't very easy to get hired if you don't know how to do anything. I dropped my resume off at some bars, but I'm sick of getting hired in bars and then being talked into waitressing (that's right, it's a verb now). I'm a kickass bartender, but I am the worst goddamn waitress who has ever lived. I know over two hundred drinks by heart WITH garnishes, I can pour without a strainer, and I get the measurements exactly right every single time, but I can't carry SHIT! I have no visible arm muscle and no balance whatsoever. I don't look good with my hair up either. You know how most waitresses are struggling actresses, and it's a little sad? I was a struggling bartender, and trust me, that's much sadder. So, yeah, the date. Well, he seemed nice, and he was veryveryvery attractive, but he kept asking me what I was thinking about whenever we stopped talking for twelve seconds. NOTHING!!! If I was thinking about something, I'd tell you! If I'm just staring into space like a goldfish, I'm either not thinking about a damn thing, or I'm fantasizing, which doesn't make for good getting-to-know-ya conversation. Or maybe it does; what the hell do I know? But I'm pretty sure this was a one-timer. Oh well. My feet hurt
4-01-02
Crap. I'm back home, and I have a date tonight. I hate dates. I used to be good at them, and then I was engaged for three years, during which time I was sort of prepared to never go on a date again. Now that I have to, I'm realizing that I have no idea what to do with myself. I can already tell this isn't going to go well. My hair won't bounce. It bounces every day, but not today, because today I want it to. We're going to the Rodeo Bar, which is the same place I went on my last date, because it's noisy and crowded and easy for me to sneak out if he turns out to be psychotic. And of course he made me pick the place, so now on top of everything I have to worry about whether he'll even like it. And my neighbors are cooking something that smells really good, and I'm starving but I can't eat anything because then I won't be able to fit into my Date Pants, and my hair won't fucking bounce!
But on an up note, I picked up a couple of old Daily Show tapes this morning that I bought on ebay, so I got to sit down and watch a couple of them. I forgot how hilarious the old Indecision 2000 things are. And I put up some pictures here of my friend Steve following me around my apartment with a webcam. Of course, that doesn't make my hair bounce or my Date Pants fit, but that's okay. You know what? At least this can't possibly be as bad as my last one. Yeah. Okay. All right. Great. Okay.
Shit. |
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All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.
