Boat Drinks, Jimmy.

3-2-03
Just Trying to Fix the World,
One Beer at a Time

To: Makers of Guinness Draught
St. James Gate Brewery,
Dublin, Ireland

Dear Sirs,

I regret to say that I had an unpleasant experience with your product recently. My enjoyment of your delicious beverage was severely impeded by the inclusion of what appeared to be a small plastic dildo in the bottle. At first, I was confused and alarmed, which I loudly expressed to all present. After all, a strange clacking sound was emanating from my drink! I was thereupon forced to empty the remainder of the beverage into the kitchen sink, but was unable to discern the nature of the object within, nor was I able to remove it. I left the confines of my apartment building and shattered the bottle on the sidewalk, much to the surprise of passersby, and removed the object of which I spoke earlier. It was about three to four inches in length, and three quarters of an inch in width. Except for the small amount of dark liquid barely visible inside the object, it bore a striking -- nay, exact -- resemblance to ... well, a dildo. Granted, a small and ineffective dildo, but a dildo nonetheless.

I removed a second bottle of draught Guinness from the refrigerator, and upon shaking it, discovered the same odd clacking sound. I examined the packaging closely, and found the answer I was searching for. Your company refers to this object as a "rocket widget"; however, its purpose was left unexplained. Now, if I may extrapolate for a moment, a "widget" is a whimsical word applied to imaginary products. Is it shaped like a rocket? Yes. So are dildos.

A bartender friend who was present suggested that this "rocket widget" is inserted into bottles of Guinness so that, when poured into a pint glass, it is filtered over the widget so that it does not come out all head. In other words, it functions much in the same way as a bar spoon, turned upside-down to ensure even pouring. This explanation was satisfactory to me, although slightly obnoxious in assuming that I would not have come to the same conclusion, given more time and a lower blood alcohol content. But one factor remains unresolved. If you will reread the first paragraph of this letter, you will note that I POURED MY BEER INTO THE SINK.

Fellows of St. James Gate Brewery, I am not a rich woman. I lead a simple life. I implore you, send me mass quantities of free Guinness and I promise to fully embrace -- nay, worship -- your decision to fill your beer bottles with little dildos.

Yours,

Jess

2-26-03
Cubs Win! Cubs Win!

I have a confession to make. I'd never say this to anyone in person, so I'm going to unload here. To find out what my secret is, you'll have to highlight the next line.

I love the Boston Bruins.

And don't think I don't hate myself for it, okay? But they ... they have so much heart, and ... and ... Oh god, I'm so ashamed.

On a completely unrelated note (alcoholics aren't known for their long attention spans), I thought I'd finally publish my list of Things To Do Before I Die. (read: approximately twelve years from now)

1. Spend a week in Ireland having numerous fabulous affairs.

2. Buy a blue 1971 Pontiac Firebird Formula 455.

3. Spend a night barhopping in New York while wearing a Batman suit.

4. Buy a bonsai tree, and not kill it.

5. Meet Scotty Bowman, former coach of the Detroit Red Wings and the greatest human being who has ever lived.

~~6. Nail the luscious Mr. Attell.~~

7. Get in a fist fight with a teamster after calling him Captain Pitstain.

8. Track down and consume an entire bottle of Paddy whiskey, which is illegal in the United States. (I'm halfway there; I finally found and special ordered it from Ireland, just in time for St. Patrick's Day. Shipping cost: $45)

9. Lead a twenty-person chorus in singing the riff for Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" over and over. (I've already done the ten-person version.)

10. Get a song written about me. (I've had a poem written about me, and it was a high.)

11. Break into Six Flags New England at 3:00 a.m. and ... oh, who cares what I actually do there? That would be so sweet!

2-22-03
Don't Go Through That Door!

I saw the movie Plan 9 from Outer Space last night. Now, I know that it's universally regarded as the worst movie ever made, so I'm sure anything I have to say has already been said, but I don't care because it hasn't been said by ME yet.

1.) First of all, the movie Ed Wood made the director Ed Wood out to be a lovable misunderstood genius. Ed Wood (the movie) was a wonderful film based on a book by Rudolph Grey. Ed Wood (the director) was an idiot, and Rudolph Grey (the writer) is a bigger idiot for thinking that Ed Wood (the director) was not an idiot.

2.) According to Plan 9, aliens are humans who wear silk and sometimes use stilted speech, when they remember.

3.) Aliens are also very emotional. They are prone to bouts of uncontrollable rage with very little provocation. Female aliens define the word "dames." When they are put on the spot, and all they need to do is fire some kind of laser gun, they panic and paw at the gun, whimpering uncontrollably and crying, "It's jammed!" If they ever say anything intelligent, they are promptly slapped by the male alien closest to them.

4.) I have trouble with a movie that contains the phrase, "This gives me a plan!" Or, let's not forget "It's murder. [dramatic pause] And someone's responsible."

5.) The whole Bela Lugosi thing drove me insane. I'm a huge fan of his, so I was kind of excited to see the last footage of him ever shot before he died. With the sound off, it's a beautiful scene; maybe three minutes of Lugosi walking sorrowfully around the backyard of a suburban house. He picks a flower out of the garden, throws it tearfully on the ground, and walks off. And then, in real life, he died. So Ed fucking Wood decides to put in a voice-over, ending with the line, "So he left, never to return again." Then there's an off-camera scream. It sounds like Lugosi was spending a moment to say goodbye to the house he shared with his recently deceased wife, then was hit by a truck in his own driveway. It's pornographic at best.

Then, of course, they have to compensate for Lugosi's absence for the rest of the film. How do they do this? By bringing a twenty-year-old preppy kid with Elvis hair holding a cape over his face, to stand in for a balding seventy-year-old Hungarian with osteoporosis. That's great. I know I was convinced by the voice-over insisting that this was the DEAD OLD MAN brought back to life by the aliens. Whatever.

2-19-03
Craptastic

Okay, I lied, I'm still here. Why? Because weather is a self-centered bitch-whore, that's why. We were supposed to leave Boston yesterday around 10 pm, which left plenty of time for the roads to be plowed smooth as a newborn's squishy little bald head. However, when you plow snow, it has to go somewhere, namely to the sides of the road. In other words, where my roommate's car is parked. We had about three feet of snow the day before, so now all that shit is piled up next to the curb, completely burying all the vehicles that had been there overnight. So basically, we can't even fucking find her car, let alone get it out. No, we do not have a shovel.

Yeah. Here I sit, broken-hearted, paid the dime and only farted. Or something. And I'm pretty much snowed in, so I'm taking the time to catch up on my reading. Which is not as simple as it sounds, because I read like an Alzheimer's patient. I start a book, then I start another book, then I start another one, then I go back to the first one, then I start another one, then go to the second one ... lather, rinse, repeat. Here's what I'm reading right now, in case you're looking to finish before me.

You Shall Know Our Velocity, by Dave Eggers. He's the guy who wrote A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, my favorite book of all time. Also it has a really cool cover.

Tepper Isn't Going Out, by Calvin Trillin. This middle-aged guy in Manhattan is having a midlife crisis and tries to recapture his youth by ... finding a parking spot and sitting in it for an indeterminate amount of time. He won't go out, hence the title. I'm smart!

Jenny and the Jaws of Life, by Jincy Willett. It's a collection of short stories by a chick named Jincy. I didn't read it when it was first published in 1987, due to the fact that I was five, and now I'm catching up.

Martin Sloane, by Michael Redhill. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I bought this because it's about an Irish artist, and I love Irish men. God, do I ever suck.

Coraline, by Neil Gaiman. Neil Gaiman is awesome.

There you go. I guess I'll have them all finished by spring of 2005. Just a guesstimate.

2-17-03
Whoo! And Also, Whoooo!

3 am, can't sleep. I'm excited. My roommate's taking a three-day field trip to New York tomorrow, and I'm tagging along. "But Jess, don't you have class on Wednesdays?" Yes, I do, but I can't be bound by rules forever, people. The Man will never keep me down. "But Jess, aren't you buried in three feet of snow?" Why, yes! However, I am confident that it will do the sensible thing and melt. "But Jess, isn't New York on high alert?" Shaddup.

Hopefully, this trip will result in the immediate rectification of the Situation alluded to on 2/9. I feel kind of bad that I can't explain it here, but the fucking internet has caused me enough trouble already. So, balls.

Hm. I'm bored. Too late to call anybody. Guess it's time for a brand-new segment on this program ... Jess Talks to Herself.

"So, Jess. How are you doing?"

"Good, good. You?"

"Not too bad. Just sitting here enjoying a cigarette and a glass of Almaden white zinfandel."

"Ooh, sounds classy."

"Oh, it is. You know it's classy when it comes out of a box with a spout."

"So, how did you spend your holiday weekend?"

"Well, on Friday I went on a 'date' with my ex-boyfriend, then we headed off to a little soiree. On Saturday I hung out at my friend Tommy's. And for the last two days, my mother's been visiting."

"How did that go?"

"Great. She was so disgusted with the way I live that she secretly vacuumed and did the dishes while I was in the shower."

"Hmmm. Seems like a lot of people think you're a slob. Didn't your landlord make a similar comment when he broke into your room while you were sleeping?"

"Hey, that's right! Boy, is he a pervert or what?"

"Ha ha ha. Definitely. Would you like some coffee?"

"I'd love some, thank you. Milk, no sugar. Say, what are we watching?"

"Divorce Court."

"...?"

"Because it's 3:45 in the morning, and there's nothing else on. Besides, I'm not really watching it. I have it on in the background while I'm making coffee, and that makes it okay."

"Oh, I understand. So, can I see a picture of you?"

"Sure, what the hell?"

"Yeesh. Not exactly flattering."

"Here's a better one."

"I'm still not satisfied. How about a picture of you flipping off the camera while your friends pretend to eat a moldy pie?"

"Well ... okay ..."

"Gee, Jess, you're so accommodating."

"I know, Jess. I know."

2-14-03
Fa La La La La

Happy Valentine's Day, fuckers! I'd like to take this moment to say how much I love you guys, and I'm SOBER (!), so you know I mean it.

You know who else I love? Me. I discovered something important about myself today: I look so much better on camera than I do in person. In my speech class we watched videos of our presentations from last week, and my professor was trying to give me pointers about my technique, but I wasn't listening because I was checking my ass out. Then I looked in the bathroom mirror, and I was less than impressed. But who gives a shit? For four minutes and fifty-six seconds, I was hot!

So that's pretty much it for today. I'm all dolled up right now, because I'm completely out of clean pants. I'm also freezing my ass off. Tonight in Boston, it's going to be the coldest night in ten years. This sucks.

2-12-03
Feh, and Other Jewish Utterances

I thought I'd be over this whole business by now, but nope, I'm still pissed off and intoxicated. So to cheer myself up, I'm making one of those 100 lists that I've seen on lots of blogs, most recently the lovely Daniel's. I think I took a stab at this when I first started this thing about a year ago, but I didn't like it. So here goes. 100 Things About Me -- Take Two.

1. I have an insatiable affinity for nachos, as long as they're not made with American cheese.
2. I don't watch network TV, because it is crappy.
3. My favorite expression to denote happiness is "Fuckin A!" To denote sadness, "Well, balls."
4. I hate, hate, hate carrying a purse.
5. In my purse right now: wallet, cell phone, flask, cigarettes, keys, and lock de-icer for my car, which I don't even have.
6. I smoke way too much. I just went through a carton of Marlboro Reds in four days. That's bad.
7. I give myself a pep talk anytime I have to climb a flight of stairs.
8. I used to play baseball. That makes me laugh now.
9. My favorite song is "Wild World" by Cat Stevens.
10. My favorite movie is "Easy Rider."
11. My favorite drink is an Oban manhattan, on the rocks, extra sweet. I save that one for special occasions.
12. I don't own a camera, because I worked in a photo lab for almost four years, and now they give me epileptic fits.
13. I live in a three-bedroom shithole with no heat.
14. Our dishwasher is just for show. It was there when we moved in, and we neglected to ask if it worked. Then we discovered it wasn't connected to the plumbing. In response, our landlord said, "Hey, we never claimed the apartment had a dishwasher. You're welcome to use it for a shelf, if you like."
15. I love animals.
16. I still eat them.
17. And wear them.
18. I don't do laundry until I am wearing my last pair of clean underwear, because I am a disgusting slob.
19. At my high school graduation, we all picked a theme song and had a band play it while we walked out, one at a time. Mine was Guns n Roses' "Paradise City."
20. In fact, the first CD I ever bought was Appetite for Destruction.
21. I own exactly two pairs of shoes: thigh-high platforms, and combat boots. I never wear the combat boots because they take too long to put on, and more importantly, off.
22. My love life is, and always has been, a train wreck.
23. I once said to a bouncer who wasn't letting me into a bar, "Hey, my taxes pay your salary, yeh bollocks." In retrospect, they don't. He was not swayed.
24. All of my pants drag on the ground, because I'm short.
25. My eyes are green. I say this only because my ex-boyfriend tried to convince me that they are not.
26. I have forgotten my own birthday on several occasions.
27. There are a couple of major aspects of my life that I've never ever told anybody.
28. However, when it comes to things nobody wants to hear about (i.e., my sex life), I will talk and talk until I'm punched in the mouth.
29. I've gotten in a couple of really good fights in my day.
30. No, I didn't win. Have you seen me? I didn't totally flake out, though. I'm little, but I can kick some ass.
31. A couple of my friends are married. That scares the living shit out of me.
32. I hate it when people try to tell me that I'm going to have children someday. I think I know me better than they do, okay? And it's not just because I don't want them, which I don't. I would be the worst mother imaginable, and at least I have the nuts to admit it.
33. Krispy Kreme is way better than Dunkin Donuts. I dare you to speak otherwise.
34. On a related note, my mother's been trying to get me to lose weight for two years now. I don't own a scale, but the last time I went to a doctor, I was at 102. What the hell?
35. And anyway, my chest weighs a lot.
36. I assume that all burglars look and sound exactly like Snidely Whiplash.
37. I wear glasses. Very few people know that, because very few people have seen me actually wear them.
38. I looooove Christmas lights. We have them all over the apartment. Colored in the living room, white in the kitchen.
39. I smell nice right now.
40. But I really need a haircut.
41. I drink 6 - 12 cups of coffee a day. I take it black, because I'm too lazy to keep buying milk.
42. No one has a cooler voice than Tim Curry.
43. No one has cooler hair than Denis Leary.
44. But overall, no one is cooler than me.
45. I love summer. I love it even more after living in Boston in the winter with no car.
46. A guy with an Irish accent makes me all tingly.
47. I have a really cute tattoo on my left shoulder.
48. Before I die, I will own a 1971 Pontiac Firebird Formula 455. Average cost: $3,559. I don't think I'm being too lofty here.
49. I will also own a pool table someday.
50. No matter what happens there, no matter how many anti-smoking laws they pass, I will always love New York.
51. I don't have an umbrella. It's not a statement; I'm stupid.
52. I read. Really.
53. I hate shopping.
54. It's 3:16 am, and my roommate's not home yet. I love her.
55. I'm an extra in the movie Anger Management, starring Adam Sandler and Jack Nicholson, coming soon to a theater near you.
56. My favorite porn flick is The Erotic Witch Project. I give it four and a half stars.
57. My least favorite is called Statues. Half a star. And that's only because of the wicked special effects.
58. I spent a month in France when I was fourteen. I wish I could tell you more about it, but I don't remember anything. How sad is that?
59. I'm learning Gaelic. I don't know why.
60. I've been in one bad car accident. It was at 4:30 in the morning after my prom, and I fell asleep and hit a tree. And guess what?? That's right, I wasn't wearing pants. I'd gone home to change into my pajamas before dropping off my date, so I was in a long shirt and slippers. I got a cell phone after that.
61. I've lost money on every Super Bowl for as long as I can remember.
62. I love my guitar Charlotte. She's a red Fender Strat with mother-of-pearl inlay. I can't play her worth shit, but I blame myself.
63. My favorite hockey player is Brendan Shanahan of the Red Wings. Rawk.
64. I hate people who spell rock "rawk."
65. I have better taste in music than all of you.
66. The most painful moment of my life was when my most recent ex-boyfriend looked me straight in the eye and said, "Don't you ever get tired of being just a silly little girl?"
67. He's an asshole.
68. Love. Sucks.
69. I don't understand why there's a Kansas City in Kansas, AND a Kansas City in Missouri, but no Missouri City.
70. My nose is pierced. I don't know why. One day a couple of years ago, I was driving, and I said to myself, "Jess, you should pierce your nose." So I just kind of did. I wear a really, really tiny stud so I don't look like a tool with a pierced nose.
71. I'm half Irish and half Russian Jewish. That equals, whitest girl alive.
72. I do not tan. I go from lily white to blotchy red. It's so sexy, you can't even imagine.
73. I have foot-in-mouth disease. I say something I regret on a daily basis. Leaves me plenty to think about at night while not sleeping.
74. My favorite name for a girl is Casey. For a guy, Gabe.
75. I write for about four or five hours a day. I fill up a notebook every week. I use about 1% of what I write. I don't want to think about how much time I'm wasting.
76. When it comes to food, I'm basically a dumpster. I'll eat pretty much anything you put in front of me. I've eaten snails, bull testicles, chocolate-covered maggots ... but I draw the line at tomatoes. Don't like 'em.
77. I hate my eyebrows.
78. I love my butt.
79. I don't know what I did on New Year's this year. I remember arriving at a friend's house. Then I woke up at home the next day. I assume I enjoyed myself.
80. Speaking of holidays, my favorite is St. Patrick's Day. It's just so wonderful, I can't put it into words.
81. I can make smoke rings.
82. I can also tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue. Cliche, but effective nonetheless.
83. Penguins are awesome.
84. I've never really been on a road trip, and it makes me sad.
85. I'll be twenty-one in two months and thirteen days.
86. I have the same birthday as Al Pacino.
87. I'm not a big fan of light. That's why the apartment is full of Christmas lights, colored light bulbs, and candles.
88. I have a pet bunny named Harley. He lives with my mother because my landlord wouldn't let me bring him. He's a big fat fuck and he shits all over the place (the bunny, not the landlord ... to the best of my knowledge). But he's my baby, and I love him.
89. I haven't touched any hard drugs for nearly four years. I like to pat myself on the back for that every now and again. Maybe if I was a better person, I wouldn't have touched them in the first place, but ... well, balls.
90. I absolutely detest AOL instant messenger. My brother uses it exclusively to talk to his friends, and it annoys the hell out of me. They make, uh, phones for that.
91. My grandparents are unbelievably cute. I love hanging out with them.
92. On the other hand, I want to step on their stupid little poodle.
93. I've never been skiing. I bring this up because this seems to be the Number One Pickup Line Used On A Bus: "Do you ski?"
94. I don't drink soda. Ever.
95. No, not even Tab.
96. It's 3:55 am. I think I just heard my roommate coming in downstairs.
97. I don't dance. To answer your question, I can't and I don't like it. That's why.
98. I drive really, really fast when there's no one else in the car. When there IS someone else in the car, I drive like a retarded turtle.
99. One time I ate a hobo.
100. He was delicious.

2-11-03
My Pockets Hurt

Okay, so, I've been awake for three days straight. Not because I meant to; I'm one of those people that consistently forgets to eat and sleep. I'll remember to run errands (i.e. bank, liquor store) and I'll remember to get all my work done for class, but many a night has passed when going to bed has completely slipped my mind. I'll just be farting around the apartment, then look out the window, see daylight, and slap my forehead in an amusing fashion. "Well, there's no point now, I have to go to class in three hours. I'll take a nap when I get home." Then, d'oh! I don't. I'm not an insomniac, I'm just dumb. Same thing with eating. Since meals are not readily provided for you promptly at 6 pm when you live alone, I just don't remember. So I won't eat for days on end, then wonder why I feel like crap. And to answer your question, no, you don't lose weight that way.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, my landlord is a disgusting pig. Last week I went to his office to drop off my rent, and the only other guy in there, our adorable little realtor, decided to take off. So he says, "Ah, yes. All alone with the lovely Jessica."

"Okay, well, I gotta get going, so ..."

"Oh, sure, we're all squared away here. Just make sure you pay on time from now on. You can't get by on your looks forever, you know."

"..."

At this point, I swear to god, the power went out. My landlord gave me what I assume was meant to be a sexy leer and said, "See that? Kismet!"

"Eep. Right, I have to ..."

"Do you have a boyfriend, or what?"

"Yeeeah, um, he's a ... bouncer? He lives right around here."

"What? You're too young to have a boyfriend! What are you doing?"

"I'm ... I have to go ..."

"Okay, okay, I'll walk you out."

Thus followed a disturbing ass-groping incident that I've spent the last few days trying to repress. I think I'll be mailing my check from now on.

2-10-03
...... shit.

This sucks worse than I thought it would.

2-9-03
Purely Rhetorical, Of Course

Don't you just love the idea of some random anonymous asshole completely fucking up what is quite possibly the greatest thing you will ever have? Just some guy you've never met essentially saying "Hey! I've never met you, I don't know you from a hole in the wall, but I'm going to take the happy fantasy life you were leading, and I'm going to run over it with my '84 Pinto. Then I'm going to dance the Achy Breaky on top of it. Then I'm going to shit on it. A couple of times. Because I have that much free time. Because I make assumptions about people and broadcast them over the internet like the dickless fuckstick that I am. Because I am a selfish bastard and I deserve to have pig feces rubbed in my eyes."

Yeah. That's great.

2-6-03
National Depression Month

Valentine's Day is right around the corner. To quote Lewis Black: "Now is the perfect time to ponder the emptiness of my solitary and fetid existance." So here goes.

Fuck it. Okay? Fuck. It.

For the past twenty some-odd years, I've said that I don't care. Well, this year, I actually mean it. I love love LOVE LOVE being single. I've had Valentine's Days where I was balled and chained, and I've had Valentine's Days where I curled up with a case of beer and bitched like a constipated gerbil. (Believe you me, they bitch.) And guess what? Bitching is a trillion times more fun than putting on a Happy Couple air and shopping for cards. Which, let me just say, is the most unpleasant thing in the world to do. Fuck cards. I can count on no hands the amount of times I've actually read the inside of a card before I buy it. I can count on many, many hands the amount of times I've given a totally inappropriate card because I didn't read it. Try explaining a "World's Best Grandma" card to your mother. "Mom, I'm not pregnant, I'm illiterate."

So for this year, I'm going to give myself a Valentine's Day present. I'm going to buy myself a bottle of Oban. I'm going to watch Easy Rider, Jailhouse Rock, and Rebel Without a Cause. I'm not going to cut my cigarette intake off. And I'm going to set fire to my ex-boyfriend's bal-- um ...

2-3-03
Why? Because This is My Fucking Site

That's why. Ha. Anycrap, today I feel like providing a little insight into the fabulous institution that continues to enroll me besides my best efforts to be expelled: Emerson College.

Emerson is a small private college in the heart of Boston, Massachusetts. Its campus is currently in the process of being relocated from Beacon Street (right next to the Bull & Finch, aka Cheers) to the corner of Boylston and Tremont (right next to the Common, aka Central Park Junior). What does this arduous process mean for its students? It means that many of them have to divide their daily classes between these two locations, which entails leaving one building and running like a crack-addled Irish setter to their next one on the other fucking side of the Back Bay, whereupon they will arrive out of breath, sweaty, and late. Unless they are in shape, which is something I would know nothing about.

Since I'm not "involved" with any "activities" because I am a "delinquent," there's not much more I can say about the school in general. So instead, I'll give you an overview of my classes thus far. (Because I know you've all been waiting with baited breath.)

Introduction to Creative Writing: Fiction/Poetry - I took a fiction workshop last semester, and it was a wonderful experience during which I was given inspiration toward a real career, not to mention met my little band of troublemakers. (And my ex-boyfriend. Pfff.) So this class sounded promising. My problem with it? If you'll notice, the class title contains the word "poetry." Prominently, I might add. Here's a sample of some poetry I've written as of late:

I wish I was a man
That way, I could make copious reference to my balls
Which I don't have
Because I'm not a man.

This might be a challenge. But the professor is a real sweetheart. Maybe she'll let me write a portfolio entirely composed of haikus. I'm good at those.

American Literature - What can I say? Two weeks on the Great Gatsby? Sign me up, cocksuckers!

Intro to Speech Communication - And lo, the Conqueror Worm rears his vermin fangs. Speech. Me. Speech. Bad. Unclean. Bad. Fortunately, this is a required course for everyone, so I'm pretty sure the other people in the class are as trepidacious as I am. And the professor is about twelve years old and looks exactly like the guy from Dawson's Creek. (No, the other one. I will stick bamboo shoots under my nails before I admit to knowing any of their names.) Anyway, my point is, he's not exactly intimidating. The second day of class, he gave us a long dissertation on the evils of beta-blockers such as Inderol, which are prescription pills that people (my mother included) take for stage fright, fear of flying, that kind of thing. "It's cheating," he says. "It's a quick fix," he says. "Chemical assistance is never the answer," he says. Well, I listened, and this is one of those situations where I really wish I could make a light bulb appear over my head. I walked out of that class, called my mother, and ordered a shipment. I love my mommy. (Psst - Dan - that's funny cause of irony.)

Native American Literature - I dunno. Seems that they decided to lump Native American Lit and Eskimo Lit into one course. Since we've only delved into the latter thus far, here's what I learned: Eskimos believe that god is a raven, and he eats like a bastard and likes to dress up as a human and knock up the villagers. Seriously. I couldn't make this shit up.

2-1-03
What I Want for my Birthday

One of those pink plastic lawn flamingo(e?)s. I want to set it up outside my apartment door like a guard dog, and use it to lure burglars into my apartment. He will see it, twist his handlebar moustache and say, "I wonder what she has worth protecting?" Then he'll break in, and the joke's on him, because I don't have jack shit! HA HA HA!!

Want to know something funny? I used to be smart. No, it's true! I was an honor roll student at one point in my life. What happened? How did I go from being brilliant to busting my knuckle open trying to open a coffee can? (And it wasn't even a new can. It was already opened.) Not to mention having to write my rent check over three times because the first two times I forgot how to spell twenty. (Tweenty and tenty are incorrect.) Bah.

One more thing. I watched the show "The Division" the other night. I've known many female cops in my day. None of them look like that. That is all.

[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]

All this crap (c) Me, even though it's just meandering, self-serving bullshit.

What can I do ya for?