Tuesday, February 28, 2006

so sappy all of the sudden (or, what happens when Jennie drinks wine near pen and paper)

I have this book. It belonged to my great-grandmother, a woman named Minnie who died when I was twelve. I've never read it the entire way through, but sometimes I just open it to a random page, stare at the words, and imagine her reading them.

The book is a collection of poetry by Paul Laurence Dunbar. The inscription on the front cover says, "From Mother, December 25th, 1923." A Christmas present. Sometimes I wonder what this book is worth, but I can't imagine selling it. I'd sooner sell my car, my kidney, Phoebe (don't tell Phoebe). I cannot tell you what it feels like to hold a book that is 83-years-old, a book my great-grandmother held, pored over, when she was young. My age. Did I get my obsession with words from her? If so, I wish I could thank her now. Did she ever worry about whether the words she chose were the right ones? I wish I could ask her. In my head, she is a hesitant poet, writing stories between caring for her four children, but I have no way of corroborating this. It's all made up. Fantasies. Stories. What I do. The only thing I'm good at.

I also have a book of quotations that belonged to my great-grandfather. I obtained both of these books after his death in November, 2005, after joining my family in exploration of his recently vacated home. I wanted to keep something, anything, but I didn't know if I'd be allowed these books, if it was appropriate. If someone else was first in line. Until my aunt said, "take them, Jennie, I think they'd want you to have them."

Sometimes I think of my great-grandparents, one the oldest of his brothers and sisters, the other the youngest of hers. I think of what I know and what I wish I'd known. The gaps that I fill in myself. I like to think I get my thirst of knowledge from them, the man who took college courses throughout his life, for no particular reason, and the woman who kept a book of poetry, falling apart at the seams, for so many years. Maybe that was their gift to me. That urge in my brain that wakes me up, makes me Google questions at 2 AM, that desire to write, to discover. And it makes me sad that these books are all I have left, aside from a handful of memories.

My great-grandfather, who always wanted to know what I was working on in school, who I remember looking so proud, so amazed, when he talked about my aunt getting her Masters. My great-grandmother, who I never knew as an adult, but who always let me win, and who taught me how to lose graciously. Who sat next to me at the piano, played me song after song. So patient.

These words are for them. They'll never be enough, but words are all I have to give.

fatty mcgee

Today being Fat Tuesday, nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to celebrate by gorging myself with food and drink, even though I don't plan on giving up anything for Lent. I am a bad Lutheran, but God already knows this.

Unfortunately, I work tonight until 7, I have to be at work tomorrow at 6:30 AM, and the majority of the space in between those times should probably be spent sleeping (and watching The Amazing Race, duh).

Still. I bet I could polish off a bottle of wine and an entire three-course meal tonight if I really put my mind to it. Provided, of course, someone else makes the meal.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Burke and George, BFF 4EVR*

Why yes, I WOULD like to punch Meredith Grey in her shriveled up, bony, squinty face. Thank you!

Oh, George. Seriously. Call me.

*YES I KNOW I get way too wrapped up in this show and I talk about it every Monday and I might have died next week when the Oscar displaces my beloved show if it weren't for Jon Stewart and I'm still a little weepy about it not being on but I don't care and also you can just go ahead and kiss it RIGHT HERE.

Friday, February 24, 2006

just call me Miss Kitty

Our office is closed on Fridays. Meaning closed to patients. I am usually the only one there because someone has to draw the short straw. I'm here in case a stupid patient pulls out their wire or decides to eat taffy and ten of their brackets fall off. It's usually nice and quiet and I get caught up on all the work I don't have time to do when patients are bothering me.

However. As those of you with access to Gmail's chat feature can attest, there are times when I am really, really, REALLY bored. And yesterday it was decided that checking personal e-mail and websurfing from our computers was STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. To quote every single character on Grey's Anatomy . . . SERIOUSLY? Seriously.

Today has been quite an adventure. Earlier someone called and, when told the office was closed, asked what I was doing there all alone. I replied, "Oh, just hanging out . . . answering phones," but NOT before the following response popped into my head:

"I run a brothel out of the office on Fridays. The sign might say closed but we're open for business, if you know what I'm saying."

The list reasons I should not be allowed to talk to real, actual people on a daily basis is getting a lot longer. SERIOUSLY. And I'm going out in Cincinnati (the big city, people, compared to Dayton) tonight so I plan on expanding that list even more by tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

PS: I'm really disappointed that Poohead Buttshits will no longer be the first words people see when they visit my blog.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Poohead Buttshits

Sorry. I just felt like this blog was getting a little too serious. I had to bring it back down to my level.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


Sometimes I have imaginary conversations with you. Conversations in which I confront all of the things you've done that have driven me up the wall. Where I tell you what I really think of you sometimes. Where I, uncharacteristically, rock the boat and disrupt the illusion of friendship we've had going for the past couple of months. Maybe longer. I don't know.

I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you didn't know how the things you said and did affected your friends. Maybe you did and didn't see a problem with it. How do you confront a person and say, "I have a problem with your character" without seeming like the biggest bitch in the world?

This weekend I found out something that you'd done to me personally. Something I had always wondered about but never actually believed you capable of. Something I cannot confront you about without betraying another friend's confidence. You said something to someone that was none of your business. Something a friend would never betray, especially when you had never even heard the words from me. And when I was told what you had said, I tried to laugh it off. I think. Tried to tell myself it didn't mean what I thought it did. But as the beer haze wore off and my thoughts became clearer, I could no longer ignore the implications.

It's the first time I've ever felt like you had intentionally tried to hurt me. Make me look like a fool. Make me wonder what other words of mine you had taken, twisted, and regurgitated in some form of, I don't know, hate or jealousy.

So this is why I have imaginary conversations with you. I still believe you have good points. Why else would we still be friends? I still believe you are a good person. I remember the kind of friends we used to be and it makes me sad to see what we've become, and it's not something I can blame entirely on you. Even though I try.

If the conversations ever stop feeling like they should be imaginary, if it ever comes to the point of real confrontation, then I'll know it's over and it's time to toss what's left of your friendship aside. Until then, I'll continue to pretend everything is OK. That the illusion is real. I've gotten pretty good at it.

Monday, February 20, 2006

yes, I'm drawing life lessons from TV but it's damn GOOD TV and also? bite me

Our little O'Malley certainly was a brave little toaster last night, wasn't he? What an excellent episode. I mean, SERIOUSLY. I found it particularly appropriate that the episode was about not growing up, especially since I spent much of the weekend in Drunken Debauchery Land, where the keg never empties, friends don't have to work on Monday, and you never have to sleep. It's a fun place, let me tell you.

I found more than just Peter Pan Syndrome appropriate about last night's episode. Why is it that when you don't want to think about something, you're pretty much bashed over the head with it until you just give in and wallow in whatever it is you don't want to think about. I wish I could be as brave as George, but I'm not. I am a big, scaredy, baby, "the sky is falling!" chicken when it comes to luuuuuuuuurve and also declaring feelings of luuuuuurve, unless, of course, I am in Drunken Debauchery Land, in which case I will freely give away these feelings to everyone I meet and then probably leave more of them on your voicemail at 3 in the morning.

Although I say a lot of things, I never quite can say the things I really mean. Maybe that's why I use so many words. I'm trying to get the right ones out, I really am, but they end up stuck somewhere between my brain in my mouth. A big lump in my throat. This is probably another reason I'm not taken very seriously. If I do, by some chance, manage to say something I really mean at the exact moment I mean to say it, I'll take it back somehow. I'll ignore it or make a joke about poo or hoo-hoos. And then I'll spend hours and hours delving over that moment, imagining all the different turns the conversation could have taken and then kicking myself for living more inside my head than in the real world.

And so THIS is why George is my hero.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

there's a reason I almost called this blog "foot in mouth"

I have a problem with words. I have too many. And I want to use them all. All the time. So basically, I'll say whatever pops into my head out loud no matter who is around. This is, obviously, not always appropriate.

Add alcohol to the mix and things get worse. I talk too much. In fact, one of my friends said that the only way she can tell that I'm drunk is that I talk more. I talk faster. And, above all, I talk louder. And that little voice in my head that whispers, "Psst, Jennie! We need to have a chat. The brain and I were talking and we think that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't say what you're planning to say right now. Ok? We care about you too much to let these words out of your mouth so please, please for the love of god and the little baby Jesus, for once in your life just SHUT UP," is completely silenced by alcohol. All words become good words. All thoughts become verbalized. The words "ass" and "fuck" are featured quite prominently.

Basically, what all this means is that I really need someone to take away my cell phone at times like this. Had this happened yesterday, I probably wouldn't have called someone at exactly 5:49 AM and said words that I should probably be embarrassed about. You know, IF I could remember what any of those words were.

That's right. The dreaded drunk dial. Don't judge me, you've all done it. The cell phone is a remarkable invention. It allowed my friends and I to converse and finalize plans Friday night. It allowed us, at the bar, to search Google for cab company names and THEN it allowed us to call for the cab. Unfortunately, it is not smart enough to realize that most of my friends do not want four minute long messages that consist of me giggling and singing along with whatever song happens to be on in the bar. It also does not fix mistakes, like when I accidently called my parents at 2 AM senior year.

So right now my cell phone and I are fighting. When it starts to figure out that there are certain numbers that should not be dialed after a certain hour on Friday and Saturday nights, maybe we can start talking again. Until then, I'm saving all my words for e-mail.

Friday, February 17, 2006

frankly, I'd rather give up Phoebe, because coffee doesn't pee on my bed

I don't remember the last time I slept all the way through the night. For the past couple of weeks, it's become normal for me to wake up at least twice. Usually more. I'll look at the clock and it's 3:14. OR 4:51. Or even 5:66. That's right. 5:66. I get really confused when I'm roused from sleep. Sometimes there is a reason I wake up. Phoebe is in my face, meowing and pressing her cold nose against my cheek. Or the Upstairs Loud Sex Neighbors are going at it again at 4 in the morning. Seriously. Sex at 4 AM. Sometimes I think they're trying to slowly drive me insane, but the joke's on them because I am already insane.

Last night, like many other nights, there was no reason for me to wake up. But I did. Several times. I even woke up twenty minutes before my alarm went off, and instead of lying there trying to go back to sleep, and then hitting snooze so many times that I have to make a mad dash to the shower, jump in my clothes, and leave for work looking like a crazy person with Einstein hair, I just got out of bed. Before the alarm. That is not normal behavior.

All of this is making me think I need to give up caffeine. But I don't want to. The thought of trying to get through a morning without the aid of coffee makes me want to cry and throw a tantrum and hold my breath until I get my way.

I'm writing this as I drink my second cup of coffee. It's lukewarm and doesn't even taste that good, but if you tried to take it from me I would have to get violent with you. I don't want to, but I would poke you in the eyes and scratch you and then throw my stapler at you, and then I would cry and hug you because WHY do you make me do things like that? Why? I just want to drink my coffee in peace, go home, and sleep through the night, and when I wake up feel rested! Not like I wrestled a bear or ran a marathon in my sleep. I wouldn't do either of these things in real life, why must I attempt them while I'm supposed to be sleeping.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hold my breath until I pass out.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

where is my McReal McDreamy, I'd like to know

Yesterday was pretty much the best Valentine's Day ever, because after work I went and bought the first season of Grey's Anatomy and spent the night with Dr. McDreamy.

Today? It's Wednesday, so as my theory goes, it should be better than Tuesday. WHATEVER. Why does the universe always try to disprove my excellent theories? Bastard universe.

I am getting super annoyed with one of my friends, but I am often super annoyed as a result of this friend so at least I'm used to it.


Tuesday, February 14, 2006

It's what day now? What's that? I can't hear you

I feel very blah today. It has nothing to do with the fact that it is that oh-so-special-Hallmark holiday today. I don't even bother getting worked up about that anymore.

I think it's because it's Tuesday. I have decided that Tuesday is the redheaded stepchild of the work week. Think about it. (The more I blog and watch The Office, the more I start to think I sound like Dwight in my head. And I'm kind of scared about that.)

Anyway. Hokay, so. Monday is Monday, right? I mean, it always sucks. They don't call it "a case of the Mondays" for nothing. So if anything good happens on a Monday or if the universe turns itself inside out and a Monday, in fact, does NOT suck, then hurrah and yay and let's all have ice cream.

Wednesday is obviously awesome because, hello! It's hump day. Any day that involves humping or makes it ok to say the word "hump" at work is OK by me. Wednesday is when you realize that the week is almost over. Congratulations. You've almost made it to the weekend. Also, Lost is on, Sawyer is hot, and so is the island so he'll probably take off his shirt.

Thursday is the new Friday. That point when you realize you only have one more day of getting up at the asscrack of dawn before enjoying the weekend. So, once Friday actually rolls around, you're just so excited to have made it that you don't really mind being at work because it's FRIDAY and you're so happy you might even go to TGI FRIDAYS even though that place sucks.

That leaves Tuesday. Oh, Tuesday. No one likes you. You are nothing. You aren't as good as Wednesday. You're not even bad enough to be Monday. You are blah and, well, I can't even work up the energy to hate you properly.

Edited to add: I just said "See you next Tuesday" to a patient on the phone and then started giggling WHILE STILL ON THE PHONE because, haha, C-U-Next-Tuesday, get it? I should not be allowed to talk to people.

Monday, February 13, 2006

war is hell

Today I am sore and covered in bruises, but not for the normal reasons (drinking), oh no, it is from cleaning my entire apartment. Yesterday I declared war on every germ, piece of dust, and ball of cat hair that has taken up residence in my once sparkling home. Not because I particularly wanted to clean my apartment, but I am having guests next weekend and to be honest, I would have been embarrassed for them to see it the way it looked yesterday morning.

It took all day, of course. The hardest part was actually working up the motivation when all I really wanted to do was sit on the sofa, read my book, and drink coffee all day. And, yes, if I'm being completely honest, watch the finale of Arrested Development a couple more times. I'm not ashamed.

But instead, I unearthed all of my cleaning supplies. Is it bad when you have to dust them off? I'm guessing it's not a good sign. It's not just that my apartment was merely dirty . . . there was all this CLUTTER everywhere. I tend to keep everything and when I run out of places to put it, I just kind of stack it everywhere. A stack of papers here, a stack of clothes there, a box of stuff I've been meaning to sell on eBay for months now . . . most of it got thrown away.

Throughout the process of cleaning and decluttering, I injured myself in several ways. I stubbed my toes on every table, chair, and cabinet in my apartment. I dropped the vacuum on my foot. I smashed my knee into the wall. I hit my head on the TV. That still hurts. I thought about having it out with my TV afterward, but I really couldn't afford to be fighting with it because it was Grey's Anatomy night and I wanted to see if Meredith would blow up. Does it make me a bad person that I kind of wanted her to? But then she would have taken Burke with her and that is not cool. Also, George might have gotten hurt and that is MOST DEFINITELY not cool.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

George Bush doesn't care about black puppets

I have to admit, I shed a little tear on Friday during the last few moments of what could be the last episode of Arrested Development ever.

Taste. My. Sad.


Friday, February 10, 2006

Beware, for lo! I am about to speak plainly! About boobs! Eventually! Keep reading! I swear! The boob talk is coming!

I have to take a moment to curse Gmail. Namely, the new chat feature they are providing Gmail users. Back when I heard about it (all those four days ago), I thought it was amazing. Couldn't wait. It's too risky to use AIM at work, but this . . . this would look like I was merely checking my e-mail and all the while I would be talking to friends about weekend plans, other friends, or (most importantly) that week's episode of Lost. When two of my friends got the feature before I did, I bitched and complained (who, me?) because I'd had Gmail waaaaaaaaaay longer than they had. I was first in line! Where was my chat feature?!

The next day, it became activated and I became addicted. There is a reason AIM at work is a bad idea. You SHOULD be working. Not talking to your friends. Stop it. Stop with the blogging, too. Seriously. You are so fired.

So anyway. It's addicting and leading me to not get work done. But not really, because luckily my friends have more restraint than I do and they realize that sending messages back and forth all day long is not conducive to the work environment or keeping a job in general.

Do you want to hear my exciting plans for the weekend? Too bad. I'm telling you anyway. Tomorrow, after I work ON A SATURDAY, at the unholy hour of nine o'clock IN THE MORNING, until twelve o'clock IN THE AFTERNOON, I am going bra shopping. Yes, this is something I plan ahead of time. Because I find bra shopping to be the most traumatic and frustrating kind of shopping you can attempt. Worse than jeans shopping, worse than little-black-dress shopping, worse than even grocery shopping with your grandmother who walks at a snail's pace and stops to look at her coupons every five minutes and has to go through the store two times because, haha, she forgot the pickles and who can remember where the pickles are? Not me. ANYWAY, worse still, there are no happy feelings associated with your purchases, like when you buy shoes or DVDs or YES even groceries. Because bras are torture devices plain and simple. I wish I had enough money to pay for that surgery where they give you a built-in bra INSIDE YOUR SKIN. I think it's for real. I either saw it on one of those cosmetic surgery shows on TV or my brain, after a long, hard day of painful bra-wearing, dreamt it and if that is the case then DOCTORS, get on it. Forget curing cancer, forget a vaccine to bird flu (seriously, fuck that), make me a bra that goes on the inside!

How old are you in fourth grade? Ten? If that is the case then I have been wearing a bra every day for the past thirteen years. Except those times, in the first steps of The Training Bra Era, when my mom would make me wear it to school and then I'd go to the bathroom before class and take it off. Because it was embarrassing. I was the only one wearing a bra when we changed for gym, the boys would ALWAYS know, and you know what hurts? When someone snaps your bra. You know what hurts worse? A bunch of evil, ten-year-old boys laughing. Sigh, so sad, the plight of the big-boobed.

I was hoping if I lost weight, my boobs would shrink, because that's what happens right? No luck yet. Maybe if I got down to scary Nicole Ritchie size, but I haven't decided if that's worth it. I don't think it's normal to be able to use a bracelet for a belt.

So yes. Bra shopping. The bane of my existence. Not only do you have to buy something that will most likely end up hurting you in some way, but you may be forced to pay exorbitant amounts for it. Fifty bucks for a bra? Come. On. I don't care if it's all frilly and pretty and can transport me to Narnia, the chronic-WHAT-cles of. No one is going to see it but me (le sigh). If I am going to spend fifty dollars on something, it better either A) entertain me, B) feed me, C) clothe me (on the outside), or D) get me very drunk.

Don't get me started on sports bras. They are either useless and I end up wearing two of them or they cut off all circulation and airflow and I end up passed out on the floor before I've even put my shirt on. And then when I wake up my skin is forever indented with sports-bra-of-torture marks.

So, if you hear a shriek of frustration, of desperation, of any other kind of -tion, tomorrow afternoon, it is probably me, sitting in a dressing room amidst a sea of bras that just don't quite fit right and those tiny, tiny hangers that only the greatest minds in the world can make a bra fit onto properly.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

in the words of Derek Zoolander, "who am I?"

"Be yourself" sounds like such simple advice, right? Who else are you going to be? I mean, it's not like I wake up in the morning and decide whether I'm going to be Queen Elizabeth, Bea Arthur, or Lucille Bluth. I don't know why I picked all old women. Maybe because I feel really old first thing in the morning.

I hear this advice all the time. It seems to be the go-to catchphrase for most situations. Job interview? Just be yourself, they'll love you. Blind date? Be yourself, and if they seem crazy, really be yourself and scare them off. Captured by pygmies in the jungle? Go ahead and be yourself, but also watch your back because those tiny, poison arrows probably really hurt.

Be yourself. It's something I've been struggling with lately and I can't figure out why. It makes me feisty at work, ready to argue with everyone even though I know that's not smart. I've always been the kind of person who just lets stuff go. I'm happier when everyone is getting along, when everything is calm. I try not to rock the boat, because I'm not a very strong swimmer and I hate wearing a life jacket.

But lately I just want to fight with everyone. Verbally. I'm not a fan of fisticuffs, except when Jack Bauer is behind them.

I'd much rather go back to being Calm!Jennie, which I have a feeling will happen in about, oh, say two days. At which point, I'll probably miss Angry!Jennie. Why do we always want to be something we're not? There have been many, MANY, times when I've wished I could be a little more serious. To be taken more seriously. I know, I know, "Jennie, why don't you stop making stupid jokes." Well, I can't. I'm missing that filter and if I didn't say the thing in my head that at least I think is funny then my brain would explode. Do you want that on your hands? Or your shirt? I'm not sure they make a laundry detergent strong enough to remove brain stains.

A couple of months ago, I found some old home movies when I was unpacking one of the forgotten boxes from my parent's attic. One was a video of my family setting up for Christmas. My dad used to put up the video camera as we decorated, facing the Christmas tree, and then hook the camera to the TV so we could watch ourselves. On this video, I'm about five or six. And I will not leave the camera alone. You can tell I'm prancing around in front of it just so I can watch myself on TV. At one point, my dad notices and says, "Jennie, I don't know why you have to be so silly all the time," sounding so tired, so annoyed. And I understand! I get mad at that little girl doing exaggerated ballet moves for her own amusement. Why can't she just sit down and act normal for once?

That never really happened. She grew up into the girl who hid food in her room because Claudia, her favorite character in The Babysitter's Club books, did the same. The teenager who, when faced with writing about what she wanted to do as a career and knowing full well that this would be placed RIGHT BESIDE her diploma for God, the principal, and her grandmother to see, wrote that she wanted to be a book-jacket-cover-writer or a bungee-cord tester, and then took the D the teacher offered instead of rewriting it. She became the woman who spends hours writing in her stupid blog, about stupid things she does, like building a fort in her living room with her friends at 5 AM, or stupid things she thinks about, like what if Hermione got pregnant at Hogwarts or whether Dwight Shrute went to regular college or community college. The woman who can't quite help being silly at least almost all of the time. But it's not her fault. She's just being herself.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

oh! my ovaries! or why I am becoming a man

Because cramps fucking hurt, that's why.

So every year I say I'm not going to watch the Super Bowl, because honestly . . . who cares? I do not. I do not even really care about the commercials, although I must admit I did laugh at some of them. Like the Bud Light magic fridge. Oh, if only my apartment had one of those, but instead of Bud Light, wine. The only thing my apartment has are Killer Crickets and Noisy Upstairs Sex Neighbors who, by the way, woke me up at 4 AM the other morning with their activities. Four freaking AM. That is the morning time. I don't even think the world exists that early in the morning.

As the daughter of a die-hard Cleveland Browns fan (the saddest fans this side of Boston . . . well, before the World Series, so I guess there's hope for Browns fans yet), I was morally obligated to cheer for any team other than the Steelers. So, continuing my streak of throwing my weight behind losing candidates/teams, I cheered for Seattle. I'm getting kind of used to never winning at anything. I like it. It gives me an excuse to be angry/bitchy, which I tend to be anyway so that's nice.

I watched the Super Bowl at my parent's house, mostly because my dad was making chili and his chili is awesome (don't be jealous) but also because my parents are fun and again, don't be jealous, that is just the hand I was dealt. I know you wish your parents were as fun and as cool as mine, but we can't have it all, you know? I mean. I'm really short. And that is my dad's fault. So it's kind of a toss up, right?

Anyway. For some reason I seemed to think my stomach had expanded to the size of a football stadium and so I stuffed myself with chili and cornbread until I almost vomited. And is there anything more disgusting than chili vomit? Maybe hot dog vomit. Somehow, even though you chew and chew hot dogs and they spend time in your acidy belly, when you throw them up they have magically fused back together. Truly. It's science. I bet chili wouldn't really look that different coming up, but it would probably burn. Burn, burn, burn. Like a ring of fire. Sorry. I'm done.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Thursday is the new Friday

Yesterday marked my one year anniversary at my job. Meaning, I have reached my goal, but most importantly, meaning more vacation and a raise. Actually, maybe the most important thing is that they didn't decide I was incompetent after the first week.

I don't talk much about work on here, because it's not very exciting and also I don't want to get dooced. I took this job because I didn't know what else I wanted to do, you know, as in Career capital C. I still don't. Well, I do, kind of, in a way . . . but a really vague way that provides no clear direction. A way I have no idea how to navigate on my own and the thought of getting completely lost scares the shit out of me. And that is messy. Do you know how many pairs of pants I have gone through? Aaaaand, we're entering dangerous territory.

This morning Robert Patrick was being interviewed on the radio (I realize that totally veered away from the previous subject but I don't care so why do you? Huh? Why?), because he is the kind of B-list celebrity willing to be interviewed by radio DJs in Dayton, Ohio. That's right. Robert Patrick. AKA Johnny Cash's father. AKA brother of that Filter guy. Is it Filter? I think it's Filter. But MORE IMPORTANTLY he is Special Agent Not Fox Mulder, FBI. And I used to hate him for that. But now I forgive him. I'm sure he cares.

Anyway, apparently he used to live in Kettering (where I am FROM) AND he went to the middle school that was turned into an elementary school that I ALSO WENT TO. We are like best friends, let me tell you. Except he's like 20 years older than I am. Details. We can still be friends. Who are you to try and keep us apart?

This is the part of the post where it becomes really, really obvious that I have absolutely nothing of importance to say and I'm just talking out of my ass. As usual. Sometimes I sit here wishing I could say something beautiful about something, but instead I just end up thinking about new ways to combine curse words. Deal with it, shitass*.

*I realize I am very hostile today. I am not sure why**. I apologize.

**PMS. Shut up, hormones.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

State of the Poonion

Sorry. That was so lame. I managed to make it all the way through the State of the Union address last night WITHOUT gouging out my eyes, jamming pencils in my ears, OR (most importantly) killing or maiming anyone. Although I think I did scare Phoebe when I threw the pillow I was alternately strangling and then screaming into.

It was all worth it, though, just to see my Political Boyfriend, Barack Obama.