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 Impossible to Possess Knowledge That Does Not Change Us In Some Way

For the sake of this post, let's pretend it's June.  We're sitting there for a few minutes when the little man comes over.  He vaguely introduces himself and it becomes clear that he's been watching Fraya from the other side of the bar for about a year which is some creepy shit, but he says it with such candor that it's almost endearing.

As usual, I try to include myself in the conversation but he only looks at me with jittery reluctance.  No doubt Fraya and Schmee will disagree with that. 

Do we learn how to behave based on how we are treated, or do people treat us a certain way because of our behavior?  If I've learned anything by the way strangers respond to me it's that (a) I know things, (b) I am appallingly naive, (c) I am unworthy of attention, and (d) I am the most interesting person in the world.

Obviously this information is useless.  I look over at the man. Why is he so nervous? 

I don't think I'm intimidating (if anyone wants to contradict this, feel free to do so in the comments - something like, "Of course you're intimidating because you are luminous, bold, powerfully intelligent, hilarious, intense, and sexy as hell and everyone is in awe of you because you are actually real and not just a projection of the perfect being generated by our collective imagination and desires, like The Fifth Element, I mean you're totally the fifth element and 1989-era Bruce Willis wants to do you even though Fifth Element came out in 1997" will do very nicely) but usually I'm just not...maybe "impressed" is the word?  Usually I'm not fucking impressed by your ability to breathe and exist. What I find impressive is the rhythm of your words, how and why you put a sentence together.

So this little middle-aged man approaches our table and chats with Fraya and Schmee, and then he asks Fraya to hold up her hand.

He flicks his lighter and explores the shadows of her hand before speaking.

"You have...you have a lot of friends. Hundreds of friends.  Everyone likes you. Everyone loves you and they believe in you.  Because you're a great person, no really, you're an awesome person and you're smart and you can do great things and you believe you can do great things, but you don't. I don't know why.  You're...you're kind of going through a hard time right now, a transitional time right now.  But things are going to get better.  Yeah.  Things are going to get better soon, very soon."

We oooo and aaaahhhh appropriately over his foresight seeing as Fraya is unemployed and looking for a job (Editor's Note: She has one now.  Hooray!).  Then Schmee jumps in. "Please do me! Do me do me do me!"

He smiles.  "Yeah of course.  Are you right or left handed?"

"Right."

"Okay, gimme your left hand."  The lighter flicks.  He pauses, considering, flicks it once more.  Again he smiles.  "You're a very complicated person."

"Uh oh," Schmee laughs.

"You are.  But you're smart, and you're beautiful, and you have lots of groups of friends from all walks of life and you can fit in with any group of people, it doesn't matter what they're like or anything.  People think you're amazing and you blow people's minds.  Every day.  And someday soon someone is going to blow your mind, and that's good.  Because you deserve it.  You really do." 

"Yeah buddy!" Schmee laughs, and once again, we oooooo and aaahhh over everything.  "How did you learn how to do this?"

He talks about it with honest modesty, how it's a gift or a party trick or something.

After he's finished it's my turn.  "Will you read mine next?"

"Uhhh...sure.  Yeah."  Again, he seems nervous.  Or is that me? I'm terrified he's going to tell me I'm ordinary, that I don't belong amongst the company of these two women, two of my best friends who are obviously giant shining stars among the dust.  He's going to tell me I'll be alone forever because I only have friends out of pity since I'm so fucking abrasive, boring, everything about me is unremarkable and unworthy, I'm a beast, a pest, I'm a rhinoceros, a fruit fly, I'm a fearsome nuisance--

In this second before he takes my hand I know this is what he thinks. I absolutely do not trust this man, this wee little fiend, and I fucking hate him for what he's about to do to me because he's wrong and he's a shitty little liar and he's a shitty little man.  My skin is daggers.

"Come on, Rassles.  Blow my mind," Schmee giggles.  I blink, breathe.  Okay.

He studies my hand with his lighter and sighs.  "You...you aren't as dramatic as you pretend to be.  You feel things differently.  And you're always right.  Your instincts are always right--"

"Oh, fuck, don't tell her that," Schmee groans and laughs.

"She knows that already," Fraya says, and rattles off her favorite quote of mine, something I said to her when we were 18: "And don't argue with me because I'm right, and people are always more content when they think they're right."

He nods before he continues.  "And people should listen to you, but they don't.  You don't even listen to you.  And...I don't know if it's how you were raised, or if something happened that made you this way, but a lot of you is hidden behind walls.  But you're very strong, and you're going to be fine.  People are not close to you.  They think they are, but even your best friends don't really know you."

"I would agree with that." 

"Yeah. But you're...um...you're going to be fine.  You're very strong.  You're going to be fine.  Yeah.  You're gonna be okay.  You're gonna be fine.  You're strong and you're gonna be fine."

If this fucking jester of spider legs and suck says "you're gonna be fine" one more fucking time I am going to break him in half.  I don't need him to remind me that I'm going to be fine, of course I'm going to be fine.  I'm me.  But I don't want to be fine.  I want to be startled and impressed. 

Okay, little man.  I get it.  Thanks for your help.

I must get off my ass and learn to let people surprise me.


...

My Hands are a Little Dirty.

The other night my brain did that thing where I have waking nightmares and sleep paralysis, and I hate that shit.

Right after I graduated from college, during my brief stint in grad school before I realized it was a waste of time and money, three very important things happened:  (1) I got really into The X-Files, (2) I saw The Notebook and realized Ryan Gosling was a crazy, crazy creepo, and (3) I taught myself how to control the action in my dreams. Lucid dreaming is almost automatic for me, but then again that's just the awareness of being in a dream, and not controlling the action.

But sometimes the dream fights back and won't let me take charge, and then it makes fun of me.  It's like my psyche is lashing back over having too much control and starts to fuck with me.  So I will dream about Ryan Gosling, for example, and then my dream will make him speak, and speaking completely defeats the purpose of people like Ryan Gosling, who is not a real person at all.  If he had a voice like, say, LA Confidential-era Russell Crowe or Fabulous Baker Boys-era Jeff Bridges or always-era Paul Newman, things would be different.  But he doesn't.  He speaks like Ryan Gosling, or an audible abusive relationship, which means he always sounds a little bit drunk and kinda pervy and sensitive to the point of serious violence. He's best in photographs with feminist thought bubbles and Drive. 

So Ryan Gosling and dream-Rassles are in an elevator boudoir, and I am like, "Oh, this dream is about to get ab-tastic" and then Ryan Gosling speaks, and dream-Rassles is all, "No good.  Talk like Bruce Willis" and he totally ignores me and smirks and then dream-me is all, "shut UP Ryan Gosling" and Ryan Gosling is all, "u wan me ta shoo urp n hid mer emoshins? Za wah u wan?" and I'm all "YES" and he takes off his shirt and starts to fucking cry, wiping his nose on the bedsheets, and I'm like "How about this - shut your mouth or I'll kick your teeth down your throat and I'll shut it for you" and he smashes a window and starts carving my name into his arm with a giant shard of glass and then he just looks at me.  Like a horny Labrador.  And I'm all "stop eyefucking me, Gosling" and then he gets stigmata and a bunch of Golden Globe nominations.

But that wasn't my nightmare.

For those who aren't familiar with it--during that stretch of time between wakefulness and legit sleep, if you can slide yourself in there...that's how you start actively influencing your dreams.  At least, that's how it works with me.  Usually I have to make the conscious decision before I sleep.

The problem is this: sometimes I don't make the decision and my brain gets switched around, so instead of me consciously controlling the dream, I have no idea I am dreaming and everything is fucking terrifying and more realistic than life.

So the other night I was laying in bed, waiting to fall asleep, when a severed head started throwing up on my stomach, and I was like, "WHAT THE FUCK" but I couldn't move or speak. But then I heard my dog and I strained to move my eyes and just out of the corner I saw a giant fucking Overlord gargoyle beating my dog, alternating between my Louisville Slugger and his rocky fists, and I could hear my dog screaming and I tried to cry and snarl, and then someone started smashing rocks through my bedroom window and the gargoyle like apparated over to me and raised the bat above my head, beating his wings and laughing like a small child, and I was struggling and trying to move because my dog was still alive and I knew I needed to kill him and put him out of his misery, he whimpered and sputtered to breathe, and I couldn't fight and fucking kill everything around me, I couldn't do that, and I couldn't cry and I was so, so, so scared, and the vomit was coagulating all around me and slipping down my sides and it smelled like roadkill and old milk and the severed head rolled between my legs.

And I woke up screaming and sweating and yelling, "WHAT THE FU--" and I felt the shadowed gargoyle whisp away, and I felt the bat land on my neck and bounce off my jugular and heard it thwack into my dog and clatter on the ground, and I heard my dog die, I felt my crushed windpipe and the warm vomit and at the "--UCK!" and I woke up, and all was well.  But I was sure it was there.  I was so sure.

I smashed my head into the wall behind me, and I started crying. 

I walked over to the corner and picked up my bat, which was resting nicely where it lives. And I carried it around my apartment and I looked in every single corner, because I was sure.  It was there.  I knew it.  But I was clean, and my dog lives with my parents.  I turned on all of the lights.  No one was there.  I took a shower.  I got dressed and walked around the block with the bat.  When I got home I watched Drive.  Twice.

Now, I know it's sleep paralysis.  I'm familiar with it.  But can't my brain come up with something less sinister? Some people just imagine a monkey sitting there at the foot of the bed, but no, with me it's all baffing severed heads and dog-murdering gargoyles. I wrote this letter:

Dear My Brain,
Please stop being so scary. You are not helping.
Regards, Me

I've been grinding my teeth for days.  It hurts my jaw and my head.  And it's like, why can't my paralyzing dreams be of Ryan Gosling?  I don't mind his voice that much.  I swear.

...

Points to be Pointed Out.

Point the First:

Muffy: Going to see Frank Black at Wicker Park Fest on Saturday! You in?

Me: Totally.

Muffy: YAY Snowwhite is in town

Me: Awesome. Oh, and also, the hipsters are going to dress up like zombies and do the Thriller walk down Division tomorrow night.

Muffy: Nice. Why?

Me: I dunno. Because they're hipsters, and they're starved for individuality. So they gather en masse and dress alike and walk with synchronized dance moves. I'm thinking about dressing up like a gang banger from "Beat It" and getting in a knife fight. This would prove four things: (1) I ain't no fucking follower, (2) I ruin lives, (3) blades don't need reloading, and (4) zombies are sooooo 2008, while I live in the future.


Point the Second:

The zombie craze is boggling. I mean, yes, blood/violence/brains/yar. It's not like the vampire craze, diligently resurfacing every couple of years, fading away slowly, only to be shoved back into the spotlight by some new book or television show.

Zombies were dead for a long while (you can't kill the undead (Double parentheses! (Triple! (If it's not math, should I still use brackets? (I have decided no))))), with the exception of the occasional resurfacing of George Romero, but then that goddamn 28 Days Later came out in 2002, and then The Zombie Survival Guide, and all of a sudden it's BRAAAAAIIIINNNNSSS and so on, and they just won't go away.  I got no probs with the zombs, I guess.  But I'm really, really getting sick of it. 

It's the wierdest genre trend ever (from the standpoint of cultural shifts - because zombies are totally not wierd) seven years strong, and getting stronger by the minute.  I just want it to fade away like when everyone was annoyingly obsessed with pirates.  Let's make cowboys cool again, huh?  I know, I know.  Cowboys are jerks.  Whatever, you guys are jerks.


Point the Third:

Oh, the hipsters. Every single thing about myself that I don't like (that yearning to be unique, getting angry when people assume I'm a johnny-come-lately, a distaste for average, talking about doing instead of doing), they assault to the extreme. It's nice having them around.

Here's the thing: what makes people unique is not saying, "I'm kind of unique." You must just be unique. Telling me you're unique proves nothing, because you give the impression that you're just like everyone else that thinks they're unique. Drives me nuts. Same thing with "free spirit." People who say they're free spirits rarely, rarely are. They're too preoccupied with trying to be a free spirit, negating the entire mindset behind spiriting free.

Calling yourself a nerd or a free spirit or a princess doesn't make you those things: you must just be them. More importantly, why do you have to be one at all?


Point the Fourth:

This is the type of stupid bullshit that keeps me up until four in the morning on a Thursday, furiously painting my apartment and trying not to focus on Die Hard. I always watch the Die Hard movies when I'm doing things that take hours, like Orange-Glowing the floor or painting the walls harbor blue. Kind of like how I always watch Star Wars when I'm sick, and The Last Unicorn when I lose something. Dude, and I am not gonna lie, I am a big fucking fan of harbor blue. Also, I can't believe I just actually googled and linked the paint code. It looks much brighter and darker than that on my walls. Wow, I am a douchebag.

...

The Heart Wants What It Wants

About five minutes ago I needed a candy bar. I mean needed, like my heart had two Twix-sized stab wounds and they desperately ached to be clogged back up with chocolatepeanutbuttery goodness.

So I pay a visit to Rahm, the convenience store guy in the lobby of our office building. He asks why I never get Cherry 7up anymore. I tell him he needs to get rid of that bullshit antioxidant crap that he ordered. He says he ordered it for me. I ask if I look like I need antioxidants. He says no, they delivered the wrong kind. I tell him he should get a refund, and some real goddamn Cherry 7up with as many oxidants as they can fit in the goddamn can.

It is a thrilling conversation.

So I hop back on the elevator, dreaming of the Twix I'm about to shove down my throat, when a very handsome young gentleman with an armful of paperwork runs in there with me just before the doors close.

"Thanks," he breathes, as if I held the doors open for him with my mind or something.

"Y'welcome."

He smiles and looks away quickly, leaning his body towards the elevator buttons, but he can't properly reach them.

I jump. "Oh, sorry--what floor?"

"Thirteen. Thanks."

"Welcome." I don't know any other words, apparently.

Several seconds go by before he breaks the silence. "Nice," he says, eyeing my candy bar. "A candy bar seems like an excellent idea right now."  Holy hell, he's got that cool, rippled, rusted (oxidized?) twilight MCA voice.  I can feel myself shifting.

"I know, right?" I nod wisely, and lock my eyes onto his.  My voice drops low and smokey. "The heart wants what it wants."

He looks uncomfortable.

Shit.

Oh holy fuck and a half, am I coming onto him? Via candy bar, no less? He totally thinks...he thinks I'm disgusting. Break eye contact. Laugh.

We chuckle.  Awkward. Shifting.

Simultaneous sighs.

The elevator doors ding open.

I exit the elevator, stop, and smack myself on the forehead with my candy bar.

Before the doors close.

...

Salespeople Must Hate Me.

"Welcome to AT&T! What can I do for you today?"

I feel defeated, because he's cute. I don't like it when the cute ones try to help me, because I get all rambly and defensive. Besides, I'm sunburned today, after sitting outside yesterday for five hours while my sister graduated from college. There's even a nice round white circle behind my necklace pendant thingy, and shit - he's looking at it. I grab the necklace and squeeze.

"I'm uh, just kind of...browsing. I got, um...I got an umm, oh, whatever it's called, a, ummm...upgrade. Phone upgrade. Thing? Because I'm down for one, or up for one, or whatever. You know. The whole new phone. Thing. Stop talking." Fucking seriously, I just told myself to stop talking out loud.

He smiles cleanly, friendly salesman-like. "Are you looking for a PDA, or a (couple other types of phones that mean nothing to me)?"

"I don't know. I just need a phone. Mine won't charge anymore. It's all discombobulated."

"How long have you had it?"

"I dunno, like three years or something."

"Well, we've got a great selection of (boogedy boogedy boogedy phone and I'm going to look up your account and then I'm going to show you a bunch of phones you have no interest in)."

"Sure, whatever."

He does his stuff, banging away on the keyboard. Nice jawline, all angular and ending at the ear, just like a jawline should--

"Can I have your phone number?"

"Hmmm?" I snap my head back up from it's little dreamy tilt. "For, uh...oh, okay." The computer. I close my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed, reciting my number.

"Okay," he says with a smile and a sigh, reading over my account information, and begins walking towards the phones. "So were you looking for something more like Blackberry? An iPhone? Or something else--"

I just interrupt him right away. "iPhones are pretty and all, but I can't help feeling they're pointless."

"The handy thing about them is all of the different applications you can download--"

"Yeah, um, other than Ninja Ropes and that app where you drink digital beer out of your phone, I don't really care about iPhones."

He takes me a step or two further towards the Blackberry phones, with all their extraneous buttons and little rolly mouse things. "What about something more like--"

"Yeah, I'm just going to stop you, because I really don't need all that extra fangly bizness all up in there."

"Extra...what? Okay."

"Sor," I shrug. He's showing me things I don't care about, and instantly his attractiveness wears off. "I just don't see the point. No one liked those little rolly things on laptops, either, what's the point of having them on phones?"

He chuckles, confused, "It is nicer for like, you know, checking your email--"

"Yeah I don't need the internet on there, I don't need an MP3 player, I don't need to watch movies or film things or whatever."

"Well I can pretty much tell you you're gonna find those options on nearly every phone on the market."

I glance at the line up of phones, bummed. "Balls."

He laughs again. "Well, let's say if you have all that on your phone, then you don't need your iPod anymore--" I start shaking my head as he continues, "--and you can get one of these hot little pink Croc cases--" He touches the stupid rubbery holey pink case thing, and I scoff, trying not to giggle. "--and that's not the route I should take with you."

"No, I don't have an iPod, I don't need one. And I didn't even know they made Croc phone cases," I laugh. "That's just dumb."

"Girl, what? You don't need one? You don't like music?"

"Like it just fine, I just can survive without one, so what's the point of making it essential? You know, like--"

"Okay, okay, they're nice for other things too, but I can see I can't convince you."

"Yeah, I just want a phone," guilty smile. "I want to make phone calls and text my friends. Maybe go over the monthly limit, I don't know, it's all up in the air."

"Well, we can change your plan for that."

"I don't really want to pay more, sooooo...no."

He looks up and down the wall and sighs. "You know, honestly, I think you're not going to find what you're lookin for here. You should just check the website."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Look at the refurb phones. Like buying a used car and all that. You're taking a small chance, but you can probably get one for free, and then you're not losing money anyway."

"Just time and effort."

"Prolly worth it, for a simple phone. More environmentally friendly, anyway."

I like this guy again. "Well, thanks."

"Sure. Just doin' my job. You want to buy a car charger or anything? How about you come back after you get your new phone and check out the accessories?"

"So you get a commission anyway."

He nods and winks. "So I get a commission, exactly."

"Thanks, Terence."

"Have a good one, now."

Internet, here I come.

...

I love it when people listen when I say things I love.

I am, arguably, the worst person in existence to take to a movie theater. More importantly, if you are taking me to a movie, it better be something so fucking good that I can only focus on the screen in front of me. Otherwise, I will simultaneously have a conversation with you, start cranking Paper Moon in my head, listen to the movie, and still leave the theater with a better understanding of what was up on that screen than all of the other people sitting around me.

That is my one and only gift, I think. Speech recollection. I can pay attention to like, four conversations at once. I could probably act out the entire movie I saw last night if it didn’t make me want to rip out my tongue and communicate only via Mongolian throat overtones just to drown out the memory of that dialogue.

"Farking stupid, is what I am. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Me and Gyna were all about seeing a movie last night. At least, I was. I didn't even care what movie, but there was a small part of me that wanted to see this one. Perhaps it could offer crucial advice, or a couple funny lines. I mean, I should at least enjoy looking at Bradley Cooper, right? Eye candy? The fact that this movie even got produced makes me furious.

I mean, I hated it more than I hated the musical version of Wicked=, and I'll complain about my loathing for that garbage dump of bitchfuckery to anyone with ears.

As far as I'm concerned, there were three good things surfing through that film bilge that technically had nothing to do with the movie itself:

Kris Kristofferson is still alive. Billy the Kid. Too bad he chose this synthetic bullshit script above something imaginary, like Blade Four: Quadratic.

Derek Waters was in one scene, mumbling his single line and taking up space and riding on the coattails of celebrity friendships. Love that guy.

While conversing obnoxiously about the movie throughout the movie, and after one ear slicing line of dialogue, Gyna announces, in nearly perfectly altered iambic pentameter, “My god I want to kill myself.” I get stuck in hysterics, delighted to be a nuisance to everyone enjoying the scene, because those people are obviously a few slogan-tees short of a faux Stiles.

Not to go all femi-crazy, but seriously? Are there women out there who behave like the dumbasses in this movie? Obviously they exist, I mean, there were people in the theater who liked the movie. Gyna sides with me on this one. What kind off crap-ass girls are wandering around out there in public? Who are these women? <

Every single female in that movie was a fucking moron. The very thought of living like that, in a perpetual state of crazy, embarrasses me. So immediately after the movie, we went to a bar.

"Fucking seriously, that movie ruined my life," I said to a co-worker this morning. "I don't know what could make me feel better after that."

"What about...a burger from Kuma's?"

Sideways look, small grin. "Well that would be nice."

She gets sing-songy. "And a PBR?"

I nod, smirkishly. "I do loves me some PBR."

"Okay, I got it," she straightens herself up in her chair.

"What if you were eating Kuma's and drinking PBR with 1989 Bruce Willis and watching The Watchmen?”

“Oh my god. That would be—I would—overload—I mean—"

“Hu--"

"--Orgasm.”

I love it when people listen when I say things I love.

...

Things I Learned On Wednesday.

1. Oatmeal is complemented perfectly by White Russians. Da.

2. Anyone who's anyone should love Die Hard (get on that, Ammo. Mike sides with me on this one. Ho ho ho.)

3. If you're going to bring booze to-go containers into a bar, don't just stand there and blatantly drink it. Bouncers don't like it, and they have a job to do, and it's very cold outside. Besides, you will bring shame upon M.E.'s credibility after bringing her straight friends into gay bars.

4. Never leave your phone next to a Korean guy who is in love with you, because he will steal your number from it and leave little hidden messages all over your phone, hoping you find them later on. Like "Hi call eric" in the drafts section of your text messages, and marking days off on your calendar to "call eric", and setting alarms to remind you to "call eric" all of which you discover over the course of the next three days and ANNOY YOU TO GREAT DETAIL.


Superheroes and Villains party tonight. Booyah.

...

The Re-emergence of an Annoying Addiction of Times Past

I was all set to write this involved post about how I'm obsessed with the Wahlbergs, and how every day it's all NKOTB and Max Payne and "The Happening, now on DVD" and "Hey, chicken, how's it hangin? A lotta people wanna eachoo but I just wanna talk to you, okay?"

But then, because she's quick to the draw and savvy beyond words, Ginny beat me to it, and I just feel incompetent.

So, so I can be ahead of the game in something, I have a confession to make.


I. Cannot.

Stop. Taking.

Fucking.

Personality.

Tests.

I am retarded. Apparently, I'm also Korban Dallas...how is Korban my secret agent personality? He wasn't even a secret agent. He was a cab driver who was forced to play the hero in a situation beyond his control.

Is it time to bust out the animal book again?

And, more importantly, why do I have two answers for two of the tests? Technically, which animal is really more suitable? For me?

Did I really take a Hogwarts house test? And then tell people about it? Yes. What am I, twelve?

But I loooooove the animal book. Love.

Work is boring right now. Pumpkin carving tonight.

Oh, and could I possibly link any more sites? Don't think so.

...

Quote

Today I came to work a little "drunk."

I think I may have "annoyed" my co-workers.

Perhaps this is partially due to my strong desire to use "quotes." If I was speaking out "loud," I would have used "airquotes," and wiggled my fore-and-middle-fingers "thusly":

Bah. I really wanted to find a funny video on youtube that deals with airquotes, but none of them could hack it.

I didn't realize I was drunk at first, bloody mary didn't even fucking hit me until I tried to change my clothes in the bathroom at the office and realized that I couldn't properly button a shirt.

This was a huge revelation, considering none of my shirts have buttons today.

Still, having the morning off is the shit, and what better way to celebrate a morning off than tomatoey-pepperoncini-olivey-Worcestershirey-vodka goodness?

So golf outing be damned, today will be quote accomplish nothing day endquote. And tonight I'm pretty sure I'm going to watch Die Hard.

...

You a fan of the Fett?

Die Hard 4 really did not disappoint. On par with, lets say, Speed, True Lies, and other decent but not completely awesome mid-nineties action movies (I'm sorry, I loved True Lies. "What kind of a sick bitch takes the ice cube trays out of the freezer?") Remember when all the movies were action-packed buddy-movies? Kind of like now it's sophomoric potty-comedy, comic books, and horror flicks? Entirely gratuitous combat, complete disregard for John McClane's surroundings...love. Very fulfilling despite being PG-13, thank god.

Up next this summer: Transformers, HP5, Superbad, Clubland, and The Ten (maybe, just semi-excited about that last one.)

PS: saw a preview for a movie called The Brave One where Jodie Foster and plays a woman who loses everything (including the guy who plays Sayid on LOST) and becomes a crazy-ass vigilante. At first I was praying it was a delusional sequel to Taxi Driver, with a grown-up Iris, but alas, I was sorely mistaken. Looks like your typical Jodie-of-late-thriller. But I just had to throw that in there. I freaked out on MoLinder in the theater. "It's like the sequel to Taxi Driver except not as good. No fucking way."

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You just killed a helicopter with a car...

Last week, I orange-glowed the shit out of my now-glistening hardwood floor which was previously covered in cigarette butts and sticky booze stains and footprints from our literally cement-porch-shattering party.

(I had a party a couple weeks ago. A party where MSM decided it would be suitable to plow her foot through the foundation of my porch, thus creating, geometrically speaking, a gaping, scalene triangular crevice with a twelve-foot drop into the depths of the basement of my apartment building, which is now full of broken two-by-fours, faded Old Style cans, big ugly crawly things, and pancake-sized fragments of my porch. The floor of the porch is visibly severely and obtusely slanted towards the hole.)

But that is not the point. The point is, as I was orange-glowing my apartment and upgrading far past the standards of clean in college, I watched all three Die Hard movies to prepare myself for today. Why?

Because tonight, I'm gonna Live Free or Die Hard.

"Sir, this channel is reserved for emergency calls only..."

"No fucking shit, lady, do I sound like I'm ordering a pizza?"

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I'm about as good at washing dishes as Buddah was at nonattachment.

the facts:

Fact 1: I have always wanted to build a clock. And I have all the supplies, gears, cogs, whatnot, even a pendulum. Unfortunately, they are all made out of paper, and I don't have time. Because it takes time to make time.

Fact 2: Once, I ran over someone's digital camera with my car. On purpose. I aimed and everything.

Fact 3: I can't stop listening to Warren Zevon lately.

Fact 4: Tonight, I shall join the throngs of prats waiting in line to purchase HP7, although I will not be in costume. MoLinder might be.

Fact 5: I've developed a phone crush on one of the principals of a school we work with here at BSF. Swear to god, he has the sexiest voice ever, because he's not trying to be hot, I mean he's a principal of a Catholic high school, but he always sounds so casual and guyish, and he snickers. He recognizes the songs on my radio over the phone. "You listenin to 'Never Been To Spain?' That song's awesome." And then I swoon slightly once he starts singing along. It's not that he has an extraordinary voice, it's just always enjoyable. Like, he has the vocal equivalent of cheese fries.

Fact 6: I am awesome at washing dishes. I'm about as good at washing dishes as Bruce Willis is at playing John McLane, or as good as MCA is at having a sexy voice, or as good as Buddah was at nonattachment.

Fact 7: I am not, however, good at nonattachment.

Fact 8: I haven't remembered a dream in like a month, which sucks, because I usually remember about four a week. I think it's because of this new job. Waking up early always hinders my ability to remember a dream.

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