Seriously, Though, Don't Listen To Me

I avoid Yelp mostly because I think Yelp reviewers (most kinds of reviewers) are a pack of irritable screaming narcissists.

The only way Yelp is going to be effective in the least is by scouring the profiles of a bunch of whiny prima donnas to find one like myself, which can only end in bloodshed. Such is my curse.

This, of course, is coming from an extremely low-profile blogger who is also an ex-reviewer (of goddamn blogs, no less) that has never amounted to anything as a writer but continues to fling gunky brain-glops all over the internet at every opportunity like a monkey with a fistful of poop. No one should be listening to me but me.

But people love Yelp.  I guess people just love being told what their opinion should be about shit in general.  They love reading movie reviews to decide what to watch (there are these things, you guys, called movie trailers, you should check them out) they love Consumer Reports and TripAdvisor and lists of bestselling books, and they love forming an opinion based upon those previously existing opinions ("I don't know, it's only got two stars on Yelp"). In a capitalist society I understand we want to get the highest value for our money, but come on.  That's a fucking terrible reason to rely on other people's opinions.  Why do you let strangers control your choices over the only things you can truly choose? Why don't you learn things for yourself?

Granted, that's the kind of thought process that leads to toad-kissing and cocaine, but...shut up. All this mildly ties into that Domer who made up his girlfriend, to which I say, um, who gives a shit? So have thousands of other teenagers.  He lied about something and people started to care about leukemia because of it - this is bad how?  Because people had feelings about the health of their fellow fucking man?  THAT IS A GOOD RESULT.  Just pretend you were watching Nicholas Sparks movies, which, by the way, are also fucking fictional, and it does not matter how emotionally damaged I am, Channing Tatum is not going come along and tell me that we are actually married but I don't remember because of a terrible accident and I just have to goddamn accept that.

But there are gullible people believing everything they read on the internet, which is the one place where amateurs can actually lie about whatever the fuck they want with zero consequences and plus there is porn of everything except for me and Channing Tatum and I vow to remedy that. 

So then we all struggle around barking and rearranging other people's words all fucking day, and journalists regurgitate more words and we regurgitate theirs and it's this huge international game of telephone that never ends and nothing ever gets done about it.  Here's hoping this wonderful media fuck-up because people DID NOT DO THE RESEARCH changes all that.

 At the same time...don't listen to me.  Two reasons:

1) Don't be me.  There can be only one.
2) You just keep on keepin on.  But do it because it's what you want, not because it's what other people tell you to want.  Doesn't letting strangers make your decisions for you take the fun out of everything?  When you want to learn something, teach yourself.


...

It's just that I don't like to sleep alone

Listen to the song because you've never heard it before.  Because this was one of the only songs we recorded when I was in the band.   I mean, we recorded it on a Mac, but whatever.  I like it better than the ones we recorded professionally.  Still, I'm going to find our recording of "Run to the Hills" if it kills me.

So I can play this song, yes.  I did play this song.  Many, many times.  Not very well, but fuck it.  Everyone else in the band was amazing. Xtine is singing this song, she wrote it, she arranged it, she should get back into music. I'm not really building this up properly. I wish I had some telling anecdote, but I don't feel like thinking of one right now.  

Then last week I was feeling nostalgic, since it's the five year anniversary of Lewis' death, and the end of immortality.  I decided to make a video of all of our theme nights.  No one else participated in these things, we just did them every Thursday on our own.  I've said so many things about hanging out with The Whores that I feel like I should just link all of it instead of repeating myself, letting you decide whether or not you want to read about us.

SO NOW FOR THE WORLD RASSLES BLOG PREMIERE OF "SPOONING BUDDIES"

day 26 - A song you can play on an instrument (or something like that)




...

Who them girls you be with when you be ridin through?

Day 13, a song that is a guilty pleasure

First things first. I love Ludacris. I don't feel guilty about this at all, so does it count? Let's say yes, because someone is always surprised. I'm really not embarrassed by my love for Luda, but I'm not embarrassed by anything I love so fuck it. He's in a movie, I watch it. He does a song, I get it. Did you know if you go low enough, Ludacris will appear in your mirror? True story. I got lower than I ever really thought I could. Yeah, I practiced in front of that mirror. Just in case.

I have no story, no background, no explanation. Only joy and love.



I wish I could post the "dirty" version. How asinine is life when you can only watch a fucking Luda video with all those words glocked out? Also, I'm about 500% sure Luda and the Beastie Boys have better music videos than basically everyone ever, just for sheer ridiculousness.

...

Hielten sich für Captain Kirk

Day 8: a song that you know all the words to

December 30, 2010. I walk up to a DJ at a bar. "Hey. Can I ask you a question?"

He looks down, raises his eyebrows. Slides the bridge of his shades down his nose and back up again. "Bitch, if you ask me to play Chumbawumba or Baha Men you can just go sit yo' ass back down."

Joey Lawrence whoa. I just start laughing. "Dude. Turn down your shitty Soulja Boy/UB40 remix. No one's dancing and I want to have a conversation with my friends." I walk back to my booth, cackling. "Dick."

I sit down at the table and scoff the story back to my friends. "It's just horseshit. Do I look like the type of person who listens to goddamn Chumbawumba?"

"Well, when you get knocked down you do get back up again," Sean says.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Sean. I expect better from you."

He giggles and shrugs. "Well, you're wearing a shirt from 1997. That guy reads people like you read the liner notes for Tubthumping."

"Better."

"Wait. Is your shirt really from 1997?" Meatball pipes in.

"I can't keep track of these things. But do I dress the same way I did in high school? Yes. Basically. Still, I mean come on. I never listened to Chumbawumba."

"Yes you did," MoLinder inserts herself. "You know all the words! I've heard you sing it in the bathroom. You know you cruised to Tubthumping in high school. Don't lie."

"That was when I was drunk by myself, ass," I glare at MoLinder. "Besides, that was hilarious. I kept myself entertained for hours."

There's a pause, and Meatball bites. "What were you--"


"Pissing.  The night away."

"HA!" Sean freaks out. "You do know all the words. That DJ was right about you. Don't fight it. It's a song that reminds you of the good times."

"It's a song that reminds me of the better times."

And the sing-a-long began.

That's basically just a story that I wanted to tell. I really don't want to subject anyone to "Tubthumping." I know the words to a shitload of songs. I know all the words to basically all of the songs I know. I can hear a song once, twice, and repeat it back to you if I'm actually listening to it.

So I sang this at a wedding once.





Honestly, I used to know all the words, aber Deutscher ist schwierig so I basically just make up words that sound like the lyrics and no one can tell the difference because I am amazing. Once I sang it for ze Germans. They thought it was funny.

...

Luckery and Astrology

In the midst of all the excitement of being thirty years old I've been researching my "novel," and by "novel" I mean "newest unreachable goal." Technically I reached my last two unreachable goals, so that's awesome, and I got them by juuuust half a foot or so, and now I have new ones to make even though I'm pretty sure those were the first goals I've ever reached in my life and I may never reach another. No, I will reach another goal, because that falls under my goals for this year.

Whatever, so I read every book on my shelves and I win at year 29. I make Age Resolutions.

For a decade I was one of those people who would hoard used books with the intention of intending to read them eventually, but I can't even pretend I always had the intention in the first place. Some books I just picked up because I heard someone once say it was good, some I picked up because hipsters referenced them and I wanted to sneer at their pretentiousness, those shifty little fuckers, and some I picked up because they were Classics that Everyone Should Read. Most of them just sat around on my bookshelves, always the neglected topic of conversation.

Last year I read all of them.

This year I have a two new goals in mind:

(1) From now on I will be Lucky.

I spent 29 years believing I was unlucky. Rossi Curse and all. Because, oh, my family has a curse. Haven't I mentioned it?

Unto each Rossi generation there will be an Unluckiest.

It's not an official curse, it's just a fun little game that my bastard Poppy invented to explain why he won at everything and his brother Joe always lost, and the tradition carried down to my dad, John The Unluckiest, and now to me: Rassles The Unluckiest.

It's been accepted throughout the extended family that I am The Unluckiest, and I'm used to being berated for it. Of course you got robbed, you're Unlucky. Of course you're not married, you're Unlucky. Of course you deliver pizzas, you're Unlucky. Of course your job is a dead end, you're Unlucky. Of course you got pulled over on a day-old expired driver's license, you're Unlucky.

Of course comparatively worldwide, I'm extraordinarily lucky. And I actually consider myself lucky to be unwed because marriage is a sham.

So fuck it. I didn't get along with Poppy anyway. I refuse to be The Unluckiest Rossi, and I refuse to believe that my refusal of unluckiness will result in that unluckiness being passed on to another family member with an overabundance of luck to restore the balance of luckery. I've decided that instead, my unluckiness will pass on to some dickweed I don't like who's been lucky his/her entire life. Because fuck that guy.

So what I'm saying is this: I decide to be lucky, because luck and its adversary do not need capitalization because they are in the mind and not decided by someone who isn't me, and now I'm not a Capricorn anymore. I fucking win. Being a Capricorn sucked. Honestly, if I identified with those horoscopic descriptions in the slightest I probably would have grown up to be a fucking gastronomical astrological nightmare, like how I am with the animal test. Do I whip out this shit at parties? Yes, I do. It's a huge annoyance until someone takes the test and flips at its accuracy, and I'm like "bitch I told you" and they're all "yeah you did" and I'm all "fuckin worldshaker and heartbreaker" and then I point to myself with my thumb while they awkwardly laugh and slyly curse my always-right-edness and innate ability to fucking work it.

Then again, I don't think an astrologer named Kunkle should be trusted at all. Kunkle sounds like a Harry Potter character. Plus, astrology is fucking stupid and rooted in absolutely nothing logical. And all you believers shout, "Stars!" and I say, "No, you fools! It's about interpreting the symbolic nature of the position of celestial bodies. Fantasy."

Now that we're clear on my position, and now that we all know I am a Sagittarius (I still don't really identify with any of it, it just sounds more pleasant than a rigid, organized, ambitiously serious Capricorn), I think it's time to move on.

(2) I have a list of about sixteen books to research and master. For the "novel." Which I am "writing." "Hypothetically."

What books they are you'll never know, not until I'm giving interviews and TED speeches about my genius and someone asks for my greatest influence and I'll say, "Honestly? There are so many, but I've always been partial to Winnie-the-Pooh."

...

Awesome By Proxy

With MoLinder out, because she moved way...I'm sorry, for one second we must focus on MoLinder's raging malcontent. I'm a malcontent to begin with, and she is doubly so because she threatens my established order, which is the most important Order there is.

We must focus on the fact that she left me. Snapping fingers, blinking briefly, a flash of yellow cat eyes in the trees and she's gone. I lost an important password-laden post-it note at work around the same time and that was nothing compared MoLinder leaving, because post-its do not choose to unstick from places of import, unlike MoLinders. Post-its also don't snatch cuddly cats away like sticky catsnatchers, unlike MoLinders. Three cats, by the way. There were three cats and a MoLinder and now I have none of both.

I'll be okay.

(Distracting Explanatory Exercise: I want all of you raise your hand, palm facing the computer screen. Do it. Press your thumb to your forefinger real hard. That is how close I came to getting a dog, because I was lonely and dogs are better than most people.

Now, take your allied thumb/finger business and lick it. Do this very sexilly. Use those same two fingers to touch the tip of your nose with it. Take a big whiff. Do not remove your fingers. Look down your nose at what you're doing. Look back up here.

Do you feel smart? No, you don't. You feel fucking stupid. This was a futile, ridiculous idea for an exercise. It was about as good of an idea as me getting a dog.)

By the way, MoLinder, you don't just up and leave your fucking roommate. Unless you are offered a job across the country in the town where your guts were rooted and it pays double your current income. That is the only excuse for unsticking. So...well played, MoLinder, and yes, you can use me as a reference for your Department of Defense clearance, and I will explain that I am much more suited for the position because I used to play a lot of Stratego so I'm real good at hiding bombs.

Of course, I can just beck right and there's an arsenal of Potential Roommates, waiting to be drafted. Because let's face it: everyone loves me. Everyone loves me and they want to be me and since they can't be me they must live with me so they can be awesome by proxy. So MoLinder moving out was like flipping a steak on the grill, and now the Yellavitch, my little sister, is my roommate for the duration of the month. Either way, I get steak.

And then in July, CrazyLiz is moving in. I have good friends.

...

Oh, The Heart of Rock and Roll Is Totally Still Beating.

It's strong and it's sudden.

My bladder is cruel, sometimes. I can't hold it in much longer. "Dude, I gotta pee so bad."

The Smith Sister glances at me, sympathetic, and offers, "My mom would tell you to just not think about that whole like...area."

"But that's so hard--I mean, with Huey Lewis right there, on the stage."

She laughs big and coughy and raises her hand. "Okay, nice. Up high. That right there? You get a high five for that."

I fucking love high fives, I don't know why. I will never, ever turn down a high five. I love their cheesiness, I love the douchey, simple, sporting camaraderie they signify.

Huey Lewis is like the musical equivalent of the high five.

"I just want to give him a big fucking hug," I sigh.

"A naked hug."

"Well he's just so dreamy."

"Ahhhh, the power of love."

"I WANT YOU TO BE MY DAD!"

This stupid ass concert is going to make me hoarse, and I really, really can't hold it in much longer.





...

Are These Stories Real?

Strange things are afoot.

About an hour ago I left work to meet up with people and make fun of M.E., who is currently standing outside the Thompson Center wearing a white spandex onesie with a blaring iron on transfer image of Eliza Dushku. She's wandering amidst a sea of snowy mannequins and other unitarded models, handing out chocolates for an official Fox promotion for the opening of Dollhouse tonight.

So we pointed and laughed. Took pictures.

"You couldn't pay me to do that," Sookie shakes her head.

"Dude, she's getting paid a lot to do it, and you know she's gonna walk out of all this with a new girl to mess around with. Because if anyone can pick up chicks in a silkscreened spandex onesie, it's M.E."

"I don't think I could pick up anyone in a white spandex onesie."

Rob just laughs. I think he's uncomfortable, after hearing Gyna and I talking about how ridiculous things are right now.

According to Gyna, "Dude, you and I had the wierdest conversation last night. I can't imagine what someone listening in would have thought. Threesomes gone terribly awry, cripples being nice to us, shocking heterosexuality. She was holding hands with a boy! I was freaking out!"

"Well, we did suspect that she was trying to be straight now."

"I know, but still! So wierd. I have Teen Wolf scratches all over me from crazy car make out. We're going to spend Valentine's Day at the VFW--"

"Yes: VFW Valentines. Surrounded by men in mullets, fanny packs, and fake white trash teeth. Best. Saturday. Ever."

"It is going to be so hot."

"You know it."

"But still. Our lives are weird. Aren't our lives weird? That this is the norm?"

Thinking about it, I am in the middle of trying to reconcile our friends' love lives using naught but the awesome power of my thumbs and witty, deprecating text messages. And we're going to be in the worlds largest pie fight. Ideally, pie fights should be impromptu, but this will have to do. I get paid to save children and sometimes to sing with a karaoke band (March 7th, bitches).

I'm riding a train to New Orleans to work at a soup kitchen and maybe sneak into the Tennessee Williams literary festival which should be bad ass (because I am broke, and a dork, and just want to wander up to a strange gorgeous man and gasp with gloom and hunger: "Straight? What's straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the heart of a human being?"). I've really been having crazy dreams lately, which means things are normal, because my dreams are usually fucked up.

Gorilla-centaurs and eating the sun and the like.

Now, reading that, it doesn't really sound fascinating. Maybe it was just the conversation that we had. Anything sounds interesting when you say it with enough gusto.

...

I Love Foreigner Harder Than You

1. People who sing along to "Sweet Caroline" and "Livin' On A Prayer" piss me off. And when I'm around other people who get pissed off at people who sing along to "Sweet Caroline" and "Livin' On A Prayer," I sing along and pretend they're pretentious, just to piss them off.

2. M.E. and I are currently undergoing a cross-town competition to see whose roommate relationship is gayer. It's kind of unfair and she's got a head start because, well, she is gay. As of right now, it's kind of a toss up. Basically, I mean, MoLinder has two cats, I made a set of curtains and pillowcases by sewing and retailoring old curtains and pillowcases, and I wear hiking boots all winter. But M.E. and and Marna Bear talk about joining the Peace Corps and the military together, and cook for each other, and sometimes they cuddle. Plus, M.E. calls her Marna Bear.

3. Last week I saw the Detroit Cobras (love), and got pissed off at all the hipsters for standing around and trying to be cool. I mean, when people pulled that shit at Ben Folds I could understand, it was full of douchebags and sheep who didn't really know any better. Then again, hipsters are really just douchebags and sheep with "edgy" clothing.

4. It was much cooler at the Prizzy Prizzy Please show the next night, because punk rock kids (adults, whatever) are always shitty and funny and angry, and either (a) don't give a shit about me, (b) get all angry at me, or (c) think I'm funny. Thank god for Muffy and the musical suburban white boy punk band hook up.


5. I personally become douchebaggier every day, because I recently realized that my previous love for Foreigner is inching closer and closer to shame now that "Jukebox Hero" is on Rock Band. What if people assume I only love Foreigner because I can play one of their worse songs (or best song ever) on fake guitar? Bastards. Makes me want to go around telling you about my jukebox birthday cake a couple years ago that said I was a hero and had one guitar slung way down low and stars in my eyes. That way you'll know that I love Foreigner harder you and everyone else. Everyone except for Eli. She understands how I feel.

...

Rally

Apparently, some library in Elgin is doing this Sex Pants Hamilton exhibit in December, and I am sooooo going, because well, we all know I have a soft spot for the Ham. The only thing that could make the Ham even cooler would be if Jules Archer did a biography, a la They Made a Revolution! 1776 and Rage In the Streets: Mob Violence and that Trotsky bio that I couldn't get through at all.

Archer taught me how to properly exercise my right to throw a shit fit, which is excellent preparation for the election, since if Obama loses, so does your face.

Speaking of getting drunk, on November 5th I'm arranging a preemptive sick day, since I'm totally going to the Obama rally on election night. I figure, if he wins, Chicago will riot, and if he loses, Chicago will fucking riot. Either way, I'm gonna punch someone in the ear. And I plan on pointing my finger and laughing.

If anyone else is going, (by that I mean MoLinder and Gyna, because you're the only two I can think of who'll definitely be there instead of giving me some bullshit about, "Well, I really want to go, but it's so cold and far" - fuck you, this is history, let's vandalize it. We can have "where were you the night Obama fucking worked it" stories, and ours will be the best. Oh, and I am awesome at using parentheses) then I'll see you there.


On a completely different subject, it's freezing outside right now, and I'm in love with the chill.


...

I Have Originality Issues. And a Tattoo.

As some of you know, and some of you don't, I don't have any tattoos*. This is not because of some disdain towards them or because I never wanted one before, it's because, well, if I'm getting a fucking tattoo, I need it to be indisputably mine.

I have originality and ownership issues.

Eventually I realized what I needed. I used to draw cartoon strips for my friends in high school. Kind of. Well, I drew them for CrazyLiz, and she would show them to people and map them out and tell them about how I was crazy. One of these little cartoons was of exactly what I knew best. My dog. It kind of became a signature sketch, and has adapted between dogs.

I've been sitting on it for like, five years. Not out of fear, but funding.

So after the Ben Folds concert on Friday, I rode my bike home at midnight, busted into the apartment and proceeded to throw my keys at MoLinder's face so she'd wake up and go over to Adam's with me for his birthday.

Little did I know that MoLinder has crazy speedy Ferret Reflexes.

She caught my keys in mid air, while sleeping, and growled, "Instinct, bitch."

"Ha. Nice--OWWWW, fuck." She threw them back at me, hard. I do not have her speed. "Get the fuck up. Oww. We're going to Adam's."

"Bah. No. Murmurmurmur."

"Come on, I'm making a pot of coffee. Let's go."

"It's fucking 12:45."
"Yeah, and you're in bed like a pussy when there's important birthdays going on."

"Uggggh. What do they have that is better than bed?"

"Rock Band."

"I'm up."

So I make some coffee while she gets ready, and at 1:15 AM we get in the car and drive out to the suburbs for Adam's birthday of fun. Debbie, Adam's girlfriend, is amazing. She's a cake decorator, bondsman, and tattoo artist. In fact, recently she started giving tattoos out of the apartment, as her own personal business.

"Ross, when am I giving you your tattoo?"

"I don't care, man, whenever."

"Do you still want the same one? The one of Rusty?"

"Yeah, I've wanted it for years. I've been thinking about this white tattoo, too, but I don't know."

"Well, whenever you want it, I'm ready. No charge."

"Really you sure?"

"Of course not, I don't charge my friends. We could even do it now."

"We can?" I'm giddy.

"Yeah, of course, I'm totally ready."

"Fuck yeah, then. Let's do it."

MoLinder was all giddy about it too, and ended up getting one right after me (but she's already got a couple of them).

* At 2:30 AM on Saturday, October 11, 2008, I got a tattoo. It's about fucking time, right? I think I'm one of the last people to get one. I always was a late bloomer.

Last week was like, a week of free bad ass shit.

...

I HAVE CABLE

1. Starting one of those elementary school construction paper chain-link countdowns for the debates on Thursday for the following reasons:

Don't need any reason other than to watch Sarah Palin squirm.

2. Sorry, but I need to talk about Heroes. Briefly: I like fearless-idealistic-I-jump-off-buildings Peter Petrelli, not emo-save-me-waaahhh Peter Petrelli, but I want fearless-idealistic Peter to have the emo Peter scar.

3. Oh Sweet Mother of All That Is Good and Pure, thank you for MoLinder's addiction to the Discovery Channel. I've never watched cable in my a.p.t. before, and I don't know if I can ever stop. Do you understand? This is a huge fucking deal. I HAVE CABLE. No more TV blizzards, no more fucking with an antenna that is, technically, just for show. Just thinking pedestrian thoughts about reinstating Hungover Sunday Mythbusters Day is seriously turning me on.

4. I am going to New Kids On The Block on Saturday. Mock all you want, my shit was free: shout out to M.E. and her mad hook ups. And I was ten when they were spotlit, so whatevs. Never was a die hard fan, though...but do not try to fuck with me on the lyrics to Cover Girl, because I will own you.

5. As much as I want a new costume for Halloween, I'm thinking of bringing back Cubby Gummi, because I get a sword, a flask, a feather, and high adventure that's beyond compare.

...

Hookers Are Dumb And Families Cost Extra

Cousin David was addicted to the idea that we go to a strip club, which was fine with us because hey, Vegas. Long as he didn’t mind going with his four straight female cousins.

As far as strip clubs are concerned, I was dead set on going to Crazy Horse, but David refused, because he's fucking smarter than I am. He was all about Cheetahs because of Jessie Spano and Showgirls.

So after a night of craps at the Golden Nugget and a quick ride down LV Blvd on The Deuce, we started walking in the direction of that huge neon sign for Cheetahs that you drive past on the highway.

Katsisch GPSed that shit on her phone, and brilliantly steered our feet down a disheveled and cracked industry road. The kind road where the sidewalks are fragmented into gravel, with abandoned buildings and high-fenced junk yards full of loud, barking lions and tigers and bears. We completely wussed out with the walking, because, I mean, it was scary. And I had to piss really fucking bad. So we hopped in a cab that drove us through fuck-all before we actually got to Cheetahs.

The cover charge was thirty bucks, and we were all like, this is some bullshit, but fuck it, we just killed the dice over at Golden Nugget and definitely deserve some stripper action.

Yellavitch and Katsisch were against paying that much, and decided that they were going to take off, and while Leeska and David paid their covers, the bouncers stopped the sisters and told them they could just get in for free, because they wanted our business. So fucking jealous. Playing the Pass Line works at strip clubs.

Not gonna lie, I was kind of afeared, and then kind of bored.

We're sitting right in front of the stage in some comfy chairs, and watch some fluorescent strippers glow and shimmy for awhile before the offers started pouring in.

Strippers love the Yellavitch.

She's got more game than anyone else in that bar, just by sheer presence. She sits there, not even drinking, horrified and out of her mind, and strippers are rubbing themselves all over her. David. Was. Pissed.

One thing you should know about Yellavitch: she looks like a soft and feminine fifteen year old boy, with her cargo pants and Queen t-shirts, pixie hair and pretty face. Strippers are straddling her and shoving her face in their tits like it’s their job, and she'd shiver out, "I have no money" and they were all, "Don't worry about it."

Apparently, you don't need no credit card to ride this train.

They'd run their fingers through her hair and wrap their legs around her, Yell's all wide eyed and terrified, and they start running their stripper hands up the Yellavitch's shirt and squeal in shock, "Oh my god, this is a girl!" Which was our cue to crack the fuck up.

Watching their faces react to my sister's tits was way more entertaining than watching them strip.

(I really, really, really want to change that last sentence. My sister's tits? That phrase just feels wrong to say. Pretty sure I have never, ever, ever in my life referenced my sister's tits before. Chest, yes, but tits?)

(Garumph.)

Anyway, these lap dances go on for about an hour and five strippers. David kept on getting snubbed, which irritated the balls off of him, I think, because the four of us were getting way more attention than he was, and Yellavitch in particular.

One of the last strippers to straddle my sister was definitely a hooker. Granted, everyone's a hooker for a price. But I do not want hookers sitting on my sister's lap.

She's all playing with Yell's hair and talking in this awful high voice, with her hooker tits hanging out all over the place. Yell was uncomfortable, and this hooker was asking us about ourselves.

"So, how do you all know each other?"

"We're sisters, actually."

Confused and disturbed hookers are funny. "Huh?"

"We're sisters."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"What are you guys doing here?"

I point at David. "It was his turn to pick."

"What?"

"It was his turn to pick. What we did."

"What?"

Are all hookers this fucking stupid?

"He wanted to come here, so we're here, getting drunk and watching strippers."

"Aren't they married?" She points to Leeska and David.

"No," I start laughing. "Why would you think that?"

"They look like they're close."

"They're brother and sister."

"Eeeewwww." I'm getting an "eeeewwww" from some dumb whore who swallows cum for a living. "Are you guys all, like, related?"

Laughing. "Yeah, we're cousins."

"Oh, honey - family's extra. I don't do families. None of us will."

Still laughing. "Neither do we."

"What? I don't-"

"Dude, we're just watching the show."

"What?"

"Can you not hear me, or do you just not understand?"

She is seriously offended. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"I don't understand why you're freaking out."

"Well, I...so, you guys are like, all related."

"Yes."

"And you came here."

"Yes."

"For fun."

"Yes."

"That's fucked."

"What, haven't brothers come in here before?"

She furrows. "That's different."

I'm still laughing at her. "Dude, seriously? We're just here to see some strippers, like everyone else in the room."

"With your sisters and cousins."

"It's not like we're here for the Champagne Room."

"You know 'bout the Champagne Room?"

"Dude, everyone knows about the Champagne Room. And my family and I--" I gesture to them "--are just here to drink some beers and watch some dancin ladies."

"Oh, because that would be weird."

I don't think hookers understand the practical application of sarcastic vocal intonations.

The hooker stands up and walks away, and Yellavitch, Katsisch and I stare after her. She goes straight up to another stripper, raises her eyebrows and makes some jazz hands, and goes, "Whoa."

I about shat myself from cackling after her.

We left eventually in basic hysterics, climbing into a cab, Yellavitch was all proud of herself and giggley. "They were all so smooth."

"This is crap. I want the smoothness. Why didn't I get the smoothness? I deserve the smoothness, dammit, and fuck you all! Fuck you, and fuck your family, and fuck those fucking strippers. Don't tread on me!" David = bonkers.

Still laughing at him. He sighs. "Goddammit. Let's go lose at blackjack." Poor David.

Then we headed back to the Flamingo.

...

Ubiquitous debauchery somnambulism

I have a new favorite game. I've been playing it nonstop since yesterday afternoon.

It's not really much of a game, since there's no way to win or keep score or really any way to gain anything from it other than perfect pronunciation, which is exactly my type of game. Completely non-competitive, and it gives me a reason to feel smarter than other people with my critically impervious lexiconization (I said it) of ubiquitous and debauchery and somnambulism, three words which are perfectly synonymous with my drunken tardation.

Basically, follow these instructions:

Phase 1
Go here.
Phase 2
Type a word into the searchmobile. One of the aforementioned three will suffice.
Phase 3
Scroll down to the "American Heritage Dictionary" definition.
Phase 4
Click "Audio help."
Phase 5
?
Phase 6
Profit

Yeah, I just did that.

Anyway, so I made it to work today, which means two things:

1. I dominate.
2. I am hungover as balls.

I would like to thank everyone who came over last night to turn my life into an endless cycle of Blurg. I hate the lot of you.

It was an average Tuesday night, your average party, with your average skewerkabobs, grilled mango salmon, two kinds of chili (fuck yeah, chili), and strawberry-lemon tart. Which is what everyone in Chicago eats on a Tuesday. AYFKM? What the hell kind of pretentious grinders are we?

The best kind.

Lennyways, hipstery bikes are breeding on the grassy knoll in front of The a.p.t. The party has split off into two separate factions of Xtine's friends: the ones that we share are sitting inside, the ones that are hers are on the porch, which has been boarded and reinforced since the last party we had. The friends that are just mine rarely visit my home. Knife. Gut. Stab.

Here is a question, by the way: why is it that when you're having fun being a jackass and embarrassing yourself to a near-tasteless degree, there has to be several dissenters hanging out on the porch who narc on your fun?

Wait. Let me rephrase that: why is it that when I get drunk and sing Huey Lewis and the News and there are strangers around who are far prettier than I could ever be, I always assume that they're dissenters? There is a great possibility that they too understand that you don't need no credit card to ride this train.

I have this thing about pretty people that I have yet to befriend: I always assume they're looking down on me from some beautiful people elitist pedestal, and refuse to converse with me until I squeeze out about forty pounds and stop cranking shit to eleven. But my assumptions could very well be untrue.

Life is fun.

I think I just experienced an earthquake...is that possible?

...

ER.

So I had to go to the emergency room yesterday morning. Get a big abscess of puss removed from my armpit/boob area. Fucking lame. Spent the night at the hospital. Had about twelve doctors and nurses feeling me up. Antibiotics IV, the works. Apparently it was an infection that was most likely caused by an ingrown hair follicle. Which is scary. Fine now.

No drinking for ten days...probably a good thing.

Happy Valentine's Day.

...