Deals

So last weekend, someone smashed into my car while it was parked on the street.  I found it Monday morning, the rear driver's side quarter panel was fucked.

I've never been in an accident before (okay, technically one time some asshole rear-ended me on the highway when I was driving my parents' van), but a hazard of street parking is that my car is just covered with dings and dents. Someone ripped off one of my hubcaps like the Hulk.  There's a massive pound in the side door, scratches all along the body, the bumpers look like a cat's scratching pole.  I just leave them there.  I kind of like them. 

But this new one was going to need repair.  I haven't been looking forward to it, going through the motions of taking it in for an estimate, they would probably just change the whole damn panel, whatever.

So this afternoon I'm shopping around for Halloween costume gear.  An old red van pulls up behind me as I'm getting back to my car.

"Honey, you look like you need some body work done," the driver growls, smiling through dark brown teeth.  "What would you say if I told you I could fix it up here, right now, and give you a good price?"

"I would say fuck off." 

He laughs a deep, hacking belly laugh and turns to the guy riding shotgun.  "She reminds me of my daughter Rassles."  Now for the sake of story, he didn't say Rassles, he said my first name.  But as I have yet to mention my first name on this blog I'm going to keep it that way.  Most of you know it already.  Whatever.

I turn and look at him.  He's probably in his mid-sixties, a dirty looking bastard, and his friend isn't much better off.

"Listen," he says, "I'll give you a good price.  Now if you were to take that car in your deductible would be what, $500?"

"$250," I answer.

"Okay, well, I'll do it here and now for $250.  If you were a man I would say $400, but I know how you girls are."  He chuckles.  "I got five daughters and eleven grandchildren, believe me, so I know how you girls are, with your shoes and your make up."

Obviously this man doesn't know me.

"Tell you what, you can just watch us work, it'll take thirty minutes, and I promise it'll look 90% better."

Now, I don't really need it to look 90% better.  I have no problem driving my dented car.  It suits me.  Drivers avoid me on the highway.

"You're thinkin' right now, right now you're thinkin' these dents give it character, ain't ye?"  He laughs. "You're thinkin' that people get out of your way on the highway."

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking."

"I'll tell you, we'll make it look real nice.  $250 asking price, that's a deal."

I pause.  "You have all the stuff you need in your van?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Tell you what.  If you teach me how to do it, I'll give you $200.  And you teach me and let me do it myself.  I've had enough strangers fuck up my car, so if anyone's going to make it worse, it'll be me."

He laughed again.  "Damn if she don't remind me of Rassles!  She look strong enough to you?  Yeah, I think she can.  Okay, you've got a deal.  Now we can't really do it right here, so how about you follow us down over there by the street?"

"You got it."  I hopped in my car and followed him to an empty area of the parking lot, just next to the busy street.  Am I doing this?  Am I going to fix my car in the parking lot of JoAnn Fabrics?  Why the hell not.

He lumbers out of his van, and he's much shorter than I thought, a good 300 lbs.  He wobbles over on bow legs, matting down the greased hair on his head, chewing on a Marlboro. 

"You got a card or anything?" I ask.

"No I don't, but here."  He gives me his cell phone number and then asks me to call him so I can watch him answer it.  "Hello?"

"Hello!" I say.  

 "What's your name, ma'am?"

"Rassles.  What's yours?"

"Ha!  Wouldn't you know?  I'm John.  Pleasure to meet you.  You do sound just like my daughter."  He tosses his cigarette and ends the call, then sticks out his hand, hard and yellow and covered in grime.

I shake it without hesitation.  "Likewise."

"Okay, you ever done body work before?"

"No, sir."

"Well, ha!  You're gonna learn." John smiles and I nearly wince at the sight of his jagged, stained teeth.  They look almost like wood.  Either way, he feels friendly.

We open the trunk, and he sees that I've already pulled the side felt of the trunk off.  "You try to do this yourself already?"

"No, sir, but my fuel door is broken so I open it through the drunk."

"Smart girl.  Been like that long?"

"A few years.  One time I pulled into a gas station and a guy with the exact same Civic pulled next to me, and we simultaneously opened our trunks and popped the door from the inside.  It was nice to know I wasn't alone." 

He chuckles again and brings out a body hammer and a thick dirty towel.  "You sure you want to do this?"

I nod and take the hammer, wrapping it in the towel.

"Okay, now you just roll it on in there.  Slow.  You want to roll the hammer from the outside toward the middle, not just hack at it."

I take a deep breath.  I feel rad.  I work at this for a minute or two.

"Okay, now come around over here.  Now this here's a slide hammer.  And what I need you to do is screw this right into the body and yank it out o' there."

"You want me to drill holes in my car?"

"Don't you trust me?  You think we'd just put holes in?  We're gonna fill 'em up, don't you worry."

He points to where I need to put the bit of the slide hammer, and sure enough I screw the damn thing into the side of my car and yank it out.  He points to another spot and I do it again.  Five holes later, and John thinks I'm the greatest person in the world. This is because I am the greatest person.  In the world.  We sand it down.

His friend, Hal, comes over with a tray of goo.  "Bondo mud," Hal explains, "it's a fiberglass body filler.  This is the body filler," he says, and then he squirts some blue shit onto there, mixing it up with a spreader, "and this is the hardener.  I'd let you do this, but it's kinda messy."

"There's an art to Bondo," John says.  "It takes practice.  Now, your hand is gonna look different than my hand.  And I say that I would probably do a better job of this--"

"I'm sure you would, but I want to learn."  I take the tray and start spreading pale blue shit all over the holes, all over the dent, all over everything, while he and Hal ramble on.

"Now, you're gonna want to ask your boyfriend, providin' he's worth his salt, you're gonna wanna ask him to help you sand this down."

"No boyfriend," I say, crouched down on the ground, smoothing out the Bondo.

"Pretty, smart girl like you?  It's a damn shame.  All these fool boys runnin' around with girls can't help themselves out of a paper bag.  You tell any man you have your eye on to give me a call, and I'll let him know what he's missing."

Hal tells me not to wash the car for at least a day, wax it down later.  As if this car has ever gotten a wax.  Ever.  I'm excited and proud of my work, and I hear the rattle of a spray can, and turn to see John spray-painting the shit out of my car.

Kind of.  Spray-painting with silver that nearly matches my car.  Spray-painting only over the mud.  Spray-painting lightly and only in that one area.  He offers to do the bumper.

"Please don't.  It's just gonna look more fucked up when it gets tapped again.  And again.  And again and again."

They laugh.  I pull some cash out of the ATM and give to them.

"Thanks a lot guys."

"Thank you, Rassles.  Now don't forget to call me with any questions on further touch ups.  Free of charge."

"Oh, I will."

As they drive away, I look at my car.  My parents are going to kill me.  I'm 31 years old, and my parents are going to fucking kill me because I did this to a car that I paid for myself, and what happens when I sell it or trade it in or whatever....I know people are going to think I'm an idiot.  I know that they'll think I got talked into a scam.  I know that it looks...it looks like shit.  It looks like some amateur asshole couldn't afford to get their car fixed properly.

And I don't give a fuck.  I feel like a bad ass.

...

CK Dexter Haven, Either I'm Gonna Sock You or You're Gonna Sock Me

Because I am nonpareil at dental hygiene and less important things like making giant balls of cheap rubber bands and reusing the same piece of tape over and over and over again, two habits which directly correlate to this story because they portray my determination to accomplish mundane tasks with pride and drama, last Thursday I was flossing and trying to get at them pesky back teeth and I totally I dislocated my jaw.

My jaw clicks.  It always has.  When it clicked open that morning I didn't think much of it, but I did have some flashes of thought like, "I am so awesome at flossing" and "I'll bet my mouth-opening abilities could rival that of the Burmese Python, 20-foot terror of the Asian jungle" and then I tried speaking in Parseltongue and learned that my mouth couldn't close.  It hurt like fuck.

I stood there gaping, trying to ease my mouth shut, but I couldn't bite down and it felt like someone lit a hedgehog on fire and wedged it into my temporomandibular joint (Dear Version-2001 of Professor DeWitt: like I said, I don't need your 8:30am anatomy classes for shit and your ponytail is stupid).  Sure, I could close my lips and pucker (thank god, with all my daily smooching), but my teeth weren't flush.  In fact, the upper row of teeth couldn't meet the lower at all.

But I was late to work, so I just powered through it.  Finished the morning routine and fucked around with my jaw for awhile on the bus.  My speech was fine, and when I was wiggling my jaw around and just sitting there it didn't hurt at all.  But I still sat at my desk for hours and tried to strain my teeth together, massaging my cheek, hoping to grunt things back into place.

This lasted for the better part of the day, until I took my late lunch.  I was only two excruciating bites in when dawned on me:  I cannot chew this Big Beef n' Cheddar without medical assistance. 

After some intense googling, I learned that I could probably force my jaw back into place, and all those silly people on the internet who were all "go to a doctor immediately" were amateurs, because it really wasn't that bad, right?  It only hurt when I tried to chew, or like, move.  Granted it felt like someone was slowly ripping my ear off - but I wasn't bleeding or swelling or bruising.

So I when to the bathroom I made sure I was alone, because I didn't want anyone watching me abusively magic my jaw back into place.    I grabbed my lower mandible, fingers wrapped around my teeth, palm cupping my chin, and opened my mouth as wide as possible, like the queen of the Alien brood, but way scarier because she had my eyes, that bitch.

I breathed deep.  It was time.  My sandwich was getting cold.  I raised my right fist, closed my eyes, counted to twelve (YOU FUCKING SALLY, JUST DO IT ON THREE), yanked my jaw down hard and punched myself in the face, right on the jawline.

And then I screamed.  

But a few seconds later I opened my eyes.  Wriggled my jaw around, which was pleasantly clicking like normal, and I bit my teeth together, which were clacking like normal. A bit strained, but normal.  I traced one finger along my jaw to make sure everything felt right and good, and you know what?  I AM THE FUCKING BOSS. My skills as a de-dislocator are legendary.  Fucker popped right back into place, just like it was supposed to.  Keep that bitch in line with sock to the jaw.

It's been five days, and despite a few raging headaches, everything is hunky dory.  My life is perfect. I fucking hate doctors.



...

Don't You Realize the Things We Did Were All For Real, Not a Dream?

Day 6: a song that reminds you of somewhere

Once upon a time, I was unbeatable at Egyptian/European War/Rat Slap/Screw/Fuck/War.

You know. That one card game where you hit things.

Sean and I were sitting at a picnic table on a cliffside of Mount Shilthorn in Switzerland, looking down into a valley of cows and rainbows. Shit was pritty.

We played like, a fucking twelve hour game of E/E W/R S/S/F/W or something, drank no less than four bottles of wine and passed the hell out. The next morning we were both sure we'd won the previous nights game.

After a full day of bickering and a return to our hostel, Muffy demanded we play a second game to determine, once and for all, who was more bad ass at childish card games. Also, she wanted to prove herself worthy.

She was out quickly. Sean and I battled for hours, drinking mug after mug of mountaintop beer.

Things got interesting. Shit got wagered.

I won, of course. Proud new owner of a small Swiss Army Knife (guess where he got that), a red Zippo emblazened with Che Guevara (lame, I know, but it was important to him so it was important to me) and the crowning jewel: a glowing, vintage ELO belt buckle.

Oh, and his belt. I totally made him wear rope for a day while we hiked up the mountain. I fluttered about the valley and sang sweet, nostalgic, doo-woppy nothings to butterflies and waterfalls and a herd of shaggy Swiss ponies while he scowled from the rocks ahead, constantly dragging up his pants.




...

Tsynq Yr

Dude, my bookshelves look awesome. It's the dawn of an arranging revolution. Much like John Cusack's flash organizational disclosure in High Fidelity -

"What is this, um chronological?"
"No."
"Not alphabetical..."
"No."
"Then what?"
"Autobiographical."
"No fucking way."
(and then hipsters across the world were overwrought once again with Cusack-induced orgasms of jealousy)

- I am changing the face of bookshelves. So get on that. But then today I googled, which is an inevitability of modern times. So I am not the first person to color-code their shit. Lame. Even worse, my shelves are puny compared to the libraries pictured. And I've got a shit-ton of books. Pre-0rganizing, though, I pulled out about 30 for donation. Do I really need a copy of Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling? No, no I don't. But I cannot let go of Stinker From Space because it defines me as a person in ways only an intergalactic space warrior trapped in the body of a skunk and befriended by a dorky little girl can.

Maybe I should keep some of those books so people think I'm smart. No, because what if someone comes around and sees I read Kierkegaard and postulates ethics and the rationality of faith, and then I'm all like, "remember that part in Wayne's World when they're speaking Cantonese and Wayne's all, 'Was it Kierkegaard or Dick van Patton who said if you label me, you negate me?' That was awesome."

Because if you want me to be honest here (that's what I'm about: fucking honesty) the only reason I read Kierkegaard at all was because Wayne name-dropped the bastard in the first place. I think it's the only reason I ever watched an episode of Eight is Enough, at that. I do lots of things because of Wayne's World.

...

Boy, It Sure Is Fun Painting This Here Fence

By the way, you people are fucking useless. Everyone exctept for Mae, who totally gave me a sweet picture to use that inspired me to create similar ones and I've gotten incredibly lazy about the whole thing, because I am very good at starting things and not very good at finishing them. Grinding ideas into irrelevant jokes is one of my superpowers (along with being the boss and blockin' cock (lame)), but a deprecating, esoteric superpower that really only exists in my mind.

Katsisch, the middle sister, is moving into an apartment from the depths of my parents' basement, and I helped paint her new place on Sunday because I love painting walls and changing things that I find boring. I've never been a visibly flashy person, and I never will be (it would make me insufferable) but boring is boring is boring is boring, you know?

Of course, Katsisch is a horrible painter but a master project evader, and after a few hours she'd unevenly smeared lavender paint all over the walls and I told her to go back to my parents' so I could stay and clean up her bullshit job.

So as I was wiping up the purple paint water I sprayed all over her new kitchen during "clean up," the oven started beeping. Stupid oven. I beat it and kicked it a few times, pressed every button with force and malice, and ripped the oven door right off the damn thing.

It wasn't even hard. I lifted the door and sighed at it as the oven blared away. There weren't even any fucking lights on, the clock wasn't set, I don't even think it was fucking plugged in.

Oven doors really aren't as heavy as you'd expect. Out of shock, I carried it around the apartment with me while I looked for more paper towels and cleaning products, getting chips of oven soot and grease all over Katsisch's three-day-old apartment carpet, waving my arms in frustration. I went out on her balcony and considered throwing it into traffic just to be a bitch, because fuck you, oven door.

Back inside the oven was still going off like a fucking smoke alarm (maybe it's the smoke alarm?) so I called my sister and told her I fucked up. She was all, "Talk to mom" and then I panicked, rambling on about beeping oven alarms and flapping around the oven door like a fucking lunatic Icarus, and my mom was all, "why don't you just turn the oven off?" and bam, beeping stopped. I did nothing.

"Okay, so it just stopped."

"See?"

"I didn't do anything."

"Don't worry about it, everything's fine."

"What do I do about the door?"

"Put it back on or leave it there. Get some sleep." Just like that. Like it's no big deal. She did the same thing when I set the basement on fire, like, "I thought I smelled something. Get some sleep." But when I wore a t-shirt to school or pierced my nose it was all, "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING? TAKE IT OFF. NOW. Go put something else on. Something appropriate. When you're supporting yourself you can wear whatever you want, but right now blah blah bliggity blonk you'll thank me." To her it was all about accident versus intent. I get that.

I do not thank her for those clothes, by the way. I'm still angry that I had to wear button up shirts and sweaters throughout high school. No sweatshirts unless I wore a collar underneath them, nothing with a hood, no ripped jeans, and all this because I got a scholarship to Bennett Academy and I didn't want to go because private schoolers were jerks, so what did she do? Turned me into a fucking jerk.

Whatever.

Not that you care, but I can't find an appropriate fall jacket anywhere. I wore the same jacket for eight years, and some asshole stole it off the back of my chair at a bar. Probably because the whole faux military/motorcycle jacket thing is all trendy right now. Whatever. I bought it at Old Navy, it's not like it's anything special to anyone but me. Now they're walking around wearing my well-worn coat, with my grandmother's buttons and the lining I added, and I never realized how attached I was to it, and everything's upside down because I miss my bike and my jacket and it's cold outside, and I feel incomplete.

If this were a movie, I would get everything back. Fuckers stealing my shit.

...

The Interrupting Cow

I used to put on my mom's make-up when I was like ten, drawing a superhero eyemask or a shiny star on my forehead like the Lady Amalthea. Once I tried to make myself look like Jessica Rabbit, with the big purple eyelids and round, red lips, and the mom told me I looked silly and was brave to wear such a ridiculous mask and made me wash it off immediately, so I spread toothpaste all over my face and ran around, crying out melodramatically, "What have you done to me? I'm a unicorn. I'm a unicorn!" until someone paid attention or I sufficiently annoyed the fuck out of everyone. Or something like that.

But usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials--which was a trick I learned from my friend Karla who maturely reasoned out the beauty and health benefits of toothpaste facials all on her own after watching her big sister Margot do it (Karla was unaware that Margot did not actually use toothpaste)--usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials I got in wicked trouble for wasting shit, and then I had to wash the woodwork and pull weeds.

The first junior high sleepover I went to all these girls brought their Caboodles full of make up and gave each other makeovers, and I made myself a breathtaking black eye and dropped a line about fighting in a phalanx a la Civilization to tinkling ridicule because I was unaware that there were people in the world who did not think Civ was the most awesomest computer game ever, let alone people who did not think computer games were awesome to begin with. Fucking weirdos, right?

They made fun of me for awhile, called me a loser, reminded me that boys didn't like girls who liked computer games and never wore make up (they were basically right), and they tried to fix me. Then we watched Pretty Woman, a movie that made me nervous and uncomfortable because it was just about kissing and I didn't understand why she wanted to be with the asshole guy I didn't know why she didn't just get a real job and take care of herself, and they laughed since I obviously didn't understand love and the importance of beauty, so I hid in the bathroom and cried because I knew they were right, and I would never be as beautiful and sophisticated as the rest girls that had life figured out in sixth grade.

They never invited me over again. Told everyone at school that I was weird like a boy and that something was wrong with me because I didn't even like Pretty Woman. And so began the battle of Rassles v. The Pretty Girls, a battle that rages on to this day but only in my brain.

So I have another wedding to go to in a few weeks, and I the other day I decided that this time, for this wedding? I'm going to wear actual make up, not just mascara. Fo' reals. But I needed to practice my brushstroke. I'm initially goonish at anything that requires delicacy, but I've got pretty good muscle memory. I figured I could get this shit down after a few tries, easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Feeling revolutionary, I opened up my make up case. I decided that if this worked it would change my life. Perhaps, just maybe, I should wear actual make up like, all the time. I could look like a grown up instead of a child playing make-believe. I could wear make up to work, you know? Or to bars? Of course, my friends would point it out constantly; I must be prepared to hear, "Are you wearing make up?" at least once a day for six months or so. Still. The possibilities were endless, and kind of exciting. Not super endless because, well, I only have gray, brown, and three shades of green eyeshadow (St. Patrick's Day, 2004). But still. I have to substantiate my place as a feminine consumer before I hit thirty in January. After thirty you have to call yourself a woman and women wear fucking make up, so do it, even if you think it's stupid.

Half an hour later I'd completely forgotten trying to be pretty and painted on a very convincing Frankenstein Monster Face. With scars. I am so awesome at making myself look like the Frankenstein Monster. I should go Frankenstein Monster pro.

So now you know why I haven't finished the casino story.

...

* You know, I like Pretty Woman a lot, when I'm not going all propaganda-brain. (She is valued by everyone in power for her naive, radiant beauty and her ability to subserviently follow orders! She knows about cars which adds surprising depth to her gentle, yet radiant character! Controlling man purchases her love and affection with fancy things! Fancy things make women complacent and enthusiastic love slaves!) But I do think it's fun and ridiculous.

In Hopes of a Snow Day, Here is a Blog Post.

I just got finished shoveling the sidewalk in front of my apartment complex because I am (a) selfless and (b) a philanthropist. MoLinder actually gave me the idea when she talked about how she was thinking about being a good samaritan and shoveling tonight, and I reminded her that she's from San Diego and shoveling a foot of snow is like preparing for trench warfare. She still did it, though, which means she's a winner, and then I hauled another round six hours later.

Everyone who knows anything about snow knows that the best way to shovel is frequently and slightly drunk, so I jumped on that shit. Not the drunk part. Don't get me wrong, LOST was on tonight, and it's veritably absurd to watch that show without beer unless there are wagons and twelve-step programs involved. I believe, and I could be wrong, but I believe it's actually a law. Whatever, pre-shoveling involved driving so I didn't get drunk, due to wisdom and responsibility.

Topic at hand: I need a new template, like, yesterday. So I've decided to enlist the help of everyone who bothers to read this.

I want a header image. I'm thinking something like a dirty-ass dive bar, one where they only bother to clean the tapper and pint glasses because really, nothing is more important than the beer. I drew one awhile ago and never bothered to put it up, and now I'm sick of it. I keep on opening the file and growling at myself out of consternation.

You know when you google images of dive bars and there are always pictures of spotless pubs that fucking wish they were shady? I dislike that.

Basically, help. Please. Sugar and stuff. All template ideas are welcome, but actual submissions earn more points and appreciation.

But the most important thing is this: whoever gives me the best concept will win a prize, which could range from a shitty poem to a fucking robot, depending on how much money I get in my next pay check. Granted, your robot would probably be a two-gallon bucket with some hot-glued pipe cleaner googly-eyes jammed on top of a toy remote control monster truck, but still very cool, right? Robot?

(Note: the poem is more likely)

Also, Chris from Letters: your drawing will be up shortly. I apologize for the wait, but work is eating me alive.

...

Strongest One There Is

This morning I turned into the Hulk and ripped the fuck out of my shirt. Staring in the mirror, hating things. Angry. Like shirts and work.

I was late. I blame quilts.

No, I blame my hands. Very ambitious hands. I do not have an ambitious mind or ambitious eyes, but my hands are ridiculous.

So I'm analyzing my reflection as I slip my arm through my sleeve, and it pinches and rips. Very slight. Eyes narrow. Narrow is bad. Narrow eyes, minds, alleys, smiles, all bad. Do not trust people with narrow things about them.

I don't really need sleeves, do I?

Find someone with an open, growly, gutsy voice.

No, I do not need sleeves.

So I ripped one off. It was incredible, like out of a movie, I just grabbed that fucker and ripped it right off. And then I tried the other one and I could not do it. My left hand, left arm - not stronger than my right sleeve. Lesson learned.

Scissors, after beer and the wheel, are humankind's greatest invention. Then the screwdriver.

That was so much better. So now, now I have no sleeves. It's under a sweater anyway, no one can tell, but that doesn't mean I'm not sitting here at my desk smirking and feeling like a fucking bad ass.

Smash puny humans.

...

Are You There, Nola? It's me, Rassles.

Well, I leave for New Orleans in a couple of hours.

I'm extremely glad to be traveling with Muffy, because we're both total travel minimalists. She's one of my Travel Europa cohorts. That was months of wearing the same three shirts every day, this is nothing. A week? Backpack. Done. It took me longer to sew a case for my camera (which took the entire duration of Teen Wolf) than it did to pack (because seriously? Why shell out money for a camera case when I have fabric, cotton balls, and old bubble wrap? Yeah. You heard me. Best camera case ever.)

Chances are whoever brings a rolly suitcase is going to get seriously mocked.

But, not to leave you guys hanging, I have guest posters. They should all feel very special that they were chosen, because I did not draw names out of a hat. And everyone else should feel sorry for themselves, because obviously I don't love you as much as I love them due to your extreme ability to suck.

(That is an outright lie, and if you believe that, I don't want you reading this blog anymore.)

In the end, there were some people that I'm sure wouldn't want to do it, and some people that I'm sure would, and some people that don't even give a shit that I'm writing anything right now.

(Stop talking.)

Okey dokey.

Everyone have a pleasant week. I apologize in advance for when all of your stats drop suddenly without me checking your blogs every five minutes "just in case." In case of what? I have no idea.

Later skaters.

...

Mad World

Can anyone explain why I've had goddamn Tears For Fears constantly running through my head for the past two weeks?

And if anyone says fucking Donnie Darko I will find the old workroom of HG Wells (I don't care what anyone says, The Time Machine is totally autobiographical), steal his time machine, traverse to your father's thirteenth birthday and castrate him, so that way neither you nor your comment will exist via the most commonly-accepted theories regarding the space-time continuum. Predestination paradox, bitches.

Extrapolate that.

(Let it be known that I have no ill feelings towards Donnie Darko, other than the fact that I was at a bar about a month ago that happened to have two movies playing, one of which was Donnie Darko, and the second was a movie whose title I couldn't remember, so I asked like every single person in the bar, "Hey, what movie is that? The one that is not Donnie Darko?" and pointed to the television that was not playing Donnie Darko, and every single fucking person told me it was goddamn Donnie Darko. I was about ready to go all fucking Donnie Darko on everyone.)

...

Concerning Nerding Out For The Remainder Of The Month And Other Very Uninteresting Updates

Well, now that last week is finally over (seriously? thank god) it's that time of year where I have nothing to do for three weeks. Which is perfect, because I'm broke after this weekend and that whole spectacular shots-for-everyone production.

Detox January is an excellent idea, don't you think? Time to catch up on Netflix, and Battlestar Galactica starts on Friday, and then Dollhouse in a couple of weeks, and then Watchmen comes out, and all I really want to do for a little while is just completely nerd out.

Besides, I have to pay rent and then wait for my next paycheck before I can afford the bars and hang out with the cool kids anyway (you know the ones I'm talking about - the beautiful ones, who are loved by men and don't watch shows that take place on spaceships), so until then, sober fun and designated driving.

Ready for something you don't care about but I'm saying anyway? I need a new pair of shoes for work. God fucking dammit, I hate buying shoes. I can't ever afford what I want and end up buying some that are ugly as fuck, but cheap and functional. This is also why I hate dresses, coats, pants, and you know...fucking clothing.

Finally, inspiration to conceivably, perchance, maybe someday get in better shape: living in a thread-free nudist colony, and never torture myself over stupidhead clothes again. Ever. I should take up yoga.

We all know that is never going to happen, so I guess I'm going to Village Discount this week.

And three weeks from now, you know. Birthday season starts up again at the end of February, and then the train trip to New Orleans for volunteering (you know that the entire time I'm on that train I'm going to be singing "Midnight Train to Nola" and annoying the crap out of everyone).

And I've got like, all these things I'm supposed to sew on Unofficial Back Order.

Maybe I could make myself a pair of shoes out of like, an old leather coat and ripped tire rubber. Does anyone know of a vacant apprenticeship with their local cobbler? Perhaps a Danish one with a bisexual son who writes depressingly fanciful children's stories about mermaids and match girls and dreams of being a famous soprano? No?

Crap. I have no future.

...

Ten Step Solution

PROBLEM:

Want to go out tomorrow night, but do not want to stay out late because of money, tiredness, lack of singing voice, and drippy nose overload.

TEN STEP SOLUTION:

1. Purchase time bomb.
2. Place bomb in the parent's basement.
3. Set timer for 0300 hours, March 3, 2006.
4. Remove all credit cards and/or monetary plastic from wallet.
5. Make sure total amount of cash on hand does not exceed $25 (beer, parking.)
6. Go to Live Band Karaoke
   
7. Support Live Banders, perhaps sing a little.
8. Leave Mother's at 0200, March 3, 2006.
9. Arrive back at the parent's at 0245, March 3, 2006.
10. Defuse bomb.
    

In case anyone is confused, a night at LBK usually ends at around 0600.

I was going to make this a lab report, complete with hypothesis, experiment, observation, conclusion, chemical formulas dealing with bombs and alcohol consumption and all that, but I forgot a lot of the lab mumbo jumbo and decided against it. Perhaps I will try at a later date.

...