Adventures in online dating profiles

I love cats so much. I have seven of them. Mitsy, Misty, Bitsy, Penelope, Scratchy (he scratches a lot), Blackie and Mrs. Peacock Feathers. They are my babies, and my trailer would feel and smell so empty without them.

I've just joined A.A., but it's really cutting into my drinking time, and since my cats are with me constantly, I wouldn't really say I drink alone. If you love me, you have to love my kitties too! We're a package deal!

I love long romantic walks on the beach, but since I've topped out at 300 lbs, I can't walk too far without stopping a lot, especially if I'm huffing on a Virginia Slims. But hey, that just gives us more time to roll around in the sand together and gaze into each other's eyes now, doesn't it?

I'm still great friends with my ex. In fact, he's the manager of the burger stand where I eat breakfast every day. He's actually the guy who got me into this whole internet thing--I think we still have a video floating out there in cyber-space! Sure wish we'd made the money that Pamela and Tommy Lee made!

I'm looking for a man with a job. Also, you must be incredibly good looking, like Fabio, and maybe drive a muscle car. I've always wanted to meet a special guy who knows how to treat a lady, say by treating her to a candle-lit dinner at a classy place like Red Lobster (hint hint for future reference!).

I'm a real fun person and I make the best tuna casserole you'll ever taste. Also, I'm a whiz with a glue gun and I'm saving up for a Bejeweler (Santa, can you hear me?) so if you ever need anything sequinned, just ask!

I can't wait to meet you! Toodle-Ooo!

P.S. No long distance please. My parole officer gets antsy if I leave town for too long.

P.P.S. Don't be shy--you can see me. If you want a smile, have a pic. That way I can see if you look like Fabio, or Michael Bolton (swoon!).

What a wonderful WHAT?

I'm listening to 89.5 The Current from Minnesota (Thanks Ro!) and now I'm wondering, were Shane MacGowan and Nick Cave completely wasted when they recorded What a Wonderful World?

On second thought, don't answer that.

Things that go bump in the night

I should warn you in advance...this will not be one of my better postings. I have no interesting insights today, no funny stories, no stoner revelations to share.

I just have this one nagging thought coursing through my brain.

I hope there are no moths in the house tonight.

Holy shit am I freaked out by moths, and I am telling you, last night, the mother of all moths got into my house and everytime it hit a window, I thought it would crash right through it. It was terrifying! It kept flying right at me, and so I had to huddle under the covers, petrified, shrieking to myself and hoping it would go away.

I turned a light on in another room to see if I could draw it away from mine, but the moth-bat was too fast for me, and right before I could slam my bedroom door shut, it flew in and nearly took out one of my eyes.

It was a hideous creature too...a HUGE giant body under its mottled gray wings, and I swear, I could see its beady little eyes staring me down. It wanted something from me. Maybe it was my sweater, maybe it it was my child, maybe it just wanted to wreak havok because of something its mother did to it in its youth.

A couple of times it lulled me into a false sense of security, and I would pull the covers down just enough to take a peek and see if it was still in the room. Everything would be silent....eerily silent...and then just when I thought it was safe to take the covers off my face, psycho moth would start dive bombing me again. I don't think I slept all night!

More vacation pics, plus one of my all-time favourite guy

So, that's me with the super-dark hair at a place called Hollyhock, which is a wellness retreat on Cortes Island. It has the most fantastic garden (these pics don't do it justice) and it overlooks the ocean. The girl in the purple skirt is my famous and fabulously beautiful friend Kate. Finally, this is F, looking as sweet as he can next to Cuddles the daycare rabbit.

By the way, if you click on these pics, you can see them larger. In case you didn't already know that. Maybe I'm the only one who didn't know that was possible. I got all excited about it. I'm seeeer-eeee-osssss!

Talkin' 'Bout My Revelation!

Your neighbours, your friends, limiting what you say, wanting to feel proud and yet wanting to talk about what's real to you, what you experience, wanting to make the writing pure, wanting to love your friends and still reveal those goofy quirks you observe that you hate and you adore, wanting to share what you are doing, what you are excited about, what you are most proud of, and what you are most ashamed of. Wanting to be true to what you felt happened and still respect that this is only your perspective and possibly not everyone else's experience of the subject.

I felt all this, with such sadness and affection, and wanting to be true to my experience of my friend and still knowing that one day she might see this and feel hurt by the way I recall an experience we shared, and I ask myself, did I need to share this experience? Do I have to put this out there? Was this really something that happened to me that is important for people to respond to?

I want to write about my experiences. I want to share my experiences because I love them. I need to write because I need to see my perspective in the written word in order to make sense of it. I need to share how I feel on paper and yet not feel limited as to what is safe to write about. And that scares me. Because if I really write what I think, and if I really write from the purest part of me, I might be fucking great. And people I meet might be terrified of revealing their personalities. And I would have no friends. And I would no longer have anything to write about.

What I did on my summer vacation.

"We have to be out of here by noon, we have to be out of here by noon, we have to be out of here by noon," is all that Crazy Polish Kate says to me for the two days leading up to our little road trip. So, I pack the night before. One bag. Cosmetic-y stuff, a bikini, underwear for three days, a dress, a skirt, some jeans, shoes, condoms, 3 t-shirts and a sweater in case it gets cold.

She calls me at 5:00 pm the night before we're supposed to leave.

"Are you packed yet?!"

"Yeah, I packed about an hour ago," I tell her.

"Ok, because we have to be out of here by noon," she says for the hundredth time.

I resist the urge to scream and tell her not to worry, I have the day off, I can leave earlier if necessary, everything is cool, it's all good, RELAX! She's bringing the cooler and sleeping bags, tent, etc, so I have done as much as I can do. I ask if there was anything I can do to help and she says, "don't worry baby--it's all under control!"

The next day I take F to daycare, kiss him and hug him enough to last him all weekend, and go home and clean the house so I won't have to come home to a complete disaster. At 11:30 I call Kate. She's still packing.

I repeat. SHE IS STILL PACKING.

So, I walk over to her house and peek inside the van. It's empty. No tent, no cooler, no nothing.

I open the door to her house and yell, "Yo bitch! What the hell are you doing?"

She staggers down the stairs and explains that she wasn't feeling well last night, and didn't feel like packing, no energy, etc, but she'll be ready in about ten minutes. Uh huh.

Now, I've probably never mentioned this, but Kate has more clothes than God. Assuming that if there is a God, he/she wears clothes. Hmmmmm....ok, she has more clothes than Madonna. Anyways, for her, just going to 7-11 requires a fashion consultation. I'm not kidding. She'll come over to my house and parade around in 2 or 3 outfits, and once I've helped assure her that she looks fine, hot and totally cute, she'll try different combos of the outfits. Then she'll pull out the accessories. Holy fuck. At this point it is everything I can do not to kill her. Except she is hilarious when she does this and it's kind of fun, but don't tell her I admitted it. I have a curmudgeonly rep to maintain.

So, she showers and finally comes outside. I'm helping her load up the van, and she looks at my backpack and says, "is that all you're bringing?"

Then she goes inside again and about twenty minutes later she comes outside in a new outfit. In her arms is a mountain of clothes and a full backpack. She starts putting outfits together and asking what I think. It's 12:30 now.

I say calmly, "Kate, I thought we had to leave by noon or else."

She blushes, "yeah, I know, I was tired last night, yada yada yada..."

Ok, I don't want to continue in this vein, but suffice it to say, she changes 3 more times, re-applies her makeup twice, decides to unload the van and vacuum it out and reload it again and finally we hit the road at 1:00. There is no point in my getting upset over this, I tell myself, because we're on the way!

"Ummm, I just have to make a couple of stops before we hit the highway," she tells me.

My head is going to explode.

So, we get out of town at 2:00 pm. It takes 3 hours to get to the ferry, which is probably backed up because it's Friday. But again, I tell myself, do not waste your weekend getting upset on the road.

So we crank up the tunes and hit the open highway.

"Oh YEAH, babay!" she screams. "Cortes, here we come!"

It is nice of her to warn Cortes in advance, I think.

Apart from the fact that she is always late, Kate is an awesome person to travel with. She takes turns playing DJ. She lets me drive and doesn't freak out when I'm behind the wheel. She laughs at all my jokes and punctuates every hour on the road with, "We are going to have such a great time! Oh yeah, babay! This is the weekend of fun!"

Here is a sample of dialogue that occurs on the road:

Crazy Polish Kate: "I am going to hypnotize the men of Cortes this weekend."

Me: "Oh yeah? How do you aim to do that?"

Kate: "I will seduce them by hypnotizing them with my belly-dancing."

Me: (spit-take on the dash board, Coca-Cola up shooting out of my nose).

Kate: "I'm seeeeer--ee--osss!" (no one pronounces 'serious' like Kate)

Me: "Hmmmm, so when did you start belly-dancing?"

Kate: "Oh, I've dabbled in it for years, and when the men of Cortes see me dance, their sperm will shoot across the floor--I will raise penises like snakes from baskets!"

I can't argue with that. Kate thinks she's the best dancer in the world. Once she and our other neighbour Jen had a fight that almost came to blows over who was the better dancer--Kate or Usher. Jen was astonished that Kate would make such an outrageous claim, but Kate, determined to prove that she was more skilled, insisted on showing us some of her "moves." I think I probably lost five pounds from laughing so hard.

I'm not going to bother giving you a long drawn out description of our trip up there. So, briefly, lots of highway, lots of gas stations, lots of junk food, a great seaside meal, 5 outfit changes (all Kate's) and one long ferry wait, and finally we were on the second ferry to Cortes, drinking wine and watching a fantastic sunset.

We drove around the island for a bit and finally parked in a spot near an outdoor music festival--a real hippy scene--lots of drumming and didjeridoos , lots of barefoot kids with face paint, lots of pot wafting through the air, and yes, lots of patchouli.

But despite the patchouli, it was amazing. People were incredibly friendly and we had a group to sit with almost immediately. We partied into the wee hours and then crashed in the back of the van because we were too tired to set up a tent.

The next day we hung out at a little lake with a sandy beach. The water was incredibly warm. Kate somehow hypnotized me into getting into the kayak with her, and we paddled around an island and then spent the rest of the day sunning, eating, admiring the island and flirting with the local boys at the music fest.

My flirting paid off, and I met a really sweet cute guy who took Kate and me to an after-party at some local beach way in the middle of nowhere. People dragged their instruments down to the beach and jammed for hours--the music was incredible, I don't think I've ever heard anything like it, and I got a little garden tilling taken care of if you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge.

So, I'm back. Sunburned, a little poorer, but so glad I went. Sun, sea, and lots of action for me--what's not to like?!

If you don't hear from me by Tuesday....

Call the authorities. Crazy Polish Kate and I are heading to Cortes Island to camp all weekend. Now, those of you who know me might have noticed that I've never mentioned my love of camping. That's because it doesn't exist. The last time I went camping with friends I got so drunk I passed out and the next thing I know my friends were dragging me out of some kind of wicked rainstorm. Later I was huddled up shivering in a sleeping bag near the campfire, trying to get warm again, and the sleeping bag caught on fire. Not pretty. Ok, I'll admit, this was many years ago, back in my days of drunken debauchery, long before I had a child.

But...the child will not be coming with me. He will be safe in an undisclosed location. Which means there is nothing to stop me from partaking in a little tiny bit of debauchery. And Kate tells me that this island is inhabited by "the BEST looking men in the WHOLE WORLD!"

I am only a mere woman, and we all know about my weakness for the opposite sex. Well, if we didn't all know, we do now. It's a disease. Men make me act silly--they make me do silly things. So, ladies, start clutching those pearls in fear and disgust, because who knows what kind of trouble I may get into? Unless I smell patchouli oil. That stuff is like kryptonite to me.

Two girls and a car with a backseat full of kids

Crazy Polish Kate is such a teenager. We went to the beach tonight and she was totally excited that her ex is going to take our kids camping next weekend so that she and I can have a girls' retreat out on Cortes Island. She blathered on and on about all of the wonders of Cortes, how the place is like some kind of utopia of alcohol and lakes and hot men. I told her, "I don't care what it's like as long as the weather is nice and I can get a drink and a burger," and she cut me off, gushing, "Ohhhh, you can get the BEST burgers in the world there!"

Nothing about the place is mediocre, according to Kate. Everything is the BEST, the most BEAUTIFUL, and apparently I am going to have THE GREATEST WEEKEND EVER.

She became so excited that she did her cute breathless Polish thing and began dropping words, as in, "Don't worry! I have tent, I have cooler!"

On the way home she started checking out every guy we passed and despite my protests of humiliation, hollered out the window things like, "Woo hoo cutie--nice scenery!" or "Hey baaaaaaa-bay, give us summothat sugar!" I put my sun glasses on and tried to duck below the dashboard as much as I could without steering us into the next lane.

Keep in mind we had 3 small kids in the back, covered in sand and staring at us freakishly with their wet bathing suits and goggles on like silent little frog people.

Eventually she noticed them and said to me, "those kids are really cramping our style. Wouldn't it be great if we could just throw a blanket over them?"

I'm pretty sure she was kidding. Well, I'm at least 30% sure.

My future husband

My crush on Mark Wahlberg has reached epic proportions. Of course, the truth is, my crush is actually on the guy with whom I had the brief fling who looks like Mark Wahlberg, but (in my humble opinion) is cuter and less simian. Still, since I didn't have the foresight to take a picture of him when he was here, I will just have to post yet another picture of my future husband, Mr. Marky Mark, for my viewing pleasure when I log in here. Humour me. Mrs. Katie's Brain-Marky Mark. Has a nice ring to it, n'est pas? Ok, I know, I know. I should really start dating again. This can't be healthy! When did I become a 12-year old girl?!

A Myspace observation

You know what I love about Myspace? I love it when I see profiles from guys who are earnestly trying to meet women through myspace (you know, the ones who have six hundred pictures of various lap-dancers on their friends lists).

But more than anything I love it when they write, "No pyschos please."

What a clever way to weed out psychotic women! I imagine a woman scanning the fella's profile and excitedly saying to herself, "Yes, I have big tits and blond hair and I love giving head, I like hockey, sure I don't mind that you're unemployed and can't spell for shit....oh, now, hang on a minute! No psychos?! Damn. I guess that rules me out. Too bad--we were perfect for each other except for that whole psycho caveat."

I blame Paris Hilton

For making me wait in club line-ups filled with identical Mystically-tanned women whose hip-bones jut from their low-slung jeans like prehistoric weapons and whose hair has been tortured and bleached to a colour not found anywhere in nature and straightened until it's the texture of hay and then shined up with a mountain of serum.

For making me wait in line-ups with girls whose pastel cell-phones are so imperative that I believe eventually humans will evolve to the point where baby girls are born with cell-phones already attached to their ears.

I blame her for an entire generation of people who think that a deep conversation revolves around the subject of how much money a guy makes and what time is the fucking cab going to be here, bitch?!

I blame her for every g-string I am exposed to on a scrawny faux-tanned ass, for every tube top, every prairie skirt, every crotch-flashing mini, and for every nasty cotton-candy pink concoction on the streets right now. I blame her for Hello Kitty purses, and for women who carry designer dogs in Fendi bags.

I blame her for the fact that men seem to think that Barbie is real. Or interesting, for that matter.

I blame her for the fact that women like Daisy, on myspace's cool new people list, think the best first impression they can make is a tit shot.

In the words of my co-worker, Paris Hilton has a lot to answer for.

What's my motivation?

Ok, the neighbour who is addicted to karaoke? She's also addicted to self-help. She is constantly looking for a quick fix to her problems, a solution to what ails her, some kind of guide to life, some perfect label to give herself (right now she's ADHD with a touch of the bipolar, but that's just this week). Anyways, last night she insisted that she and crazy Polish Kate and I needed to get our shit together and listen to some Tony Robbins, or as my co-worker Tim calls him, the Man with the World's Biggest Teeth. She figures that listening to Tony Robbins together while writing notes in journals that she bought us would be just the ticket to happiness for all three of us.

Now, despite my neighbour's weird affection for karaoke and motivational speakers, I like her. She is incredibly sweet and warm and kind, and has gone out of her way for me on more than one occasion, so the least I can do is hang out at her house, eat a few h'ors douvres while we huddle around a stereo and listen to some shiny-toothed cheeseball tell us how we're all essentially lazy and how we need to find successful role models to mentor us. I mean, it couldn't be worse than sitting at home thinking about the nasty and entirely predictable response to my email that J sent me, could it?

Well, it came close. It was painful. What made it worse was that my two crazy neighbours started acting like they were in a Baptist church, and anytime Tony Robbins said anything that rang true with them in any capacity, they would yell out, "Oh yeah!" "Sing it Tony!" or my favourite, "Mind juice! I gotta write that down!" They kept glancing at me and wondering why I wasn't writing things down, and finally I told them, "I'm an aural learner," to which they nodded and sighed, "ooooohhhhh!" as if that made complete sense to them. Dodged a bullet there. I'm quite certain the two of them are looking at their notes today, which seemed to consist of shiny little phrases which appealed to them both, and are wondering what they mean--neither of them bothered to jot down any kind of context for these catch-phrases, so I can see them both sitting at home, trying to stay motivated and reading their notes and thinking to themselves, "what was he talking about when he said "integral force fountain?'"

I have nothing against Tony Robbins--I'm sure he's a great guy. I just don't want to dip fruit in yogurt and listen to him make me feel like shit on a Tuesday night. Maybe it's just me. The dude sure does have big shiny teeth though.

An open letter to the obnoxious sixteen year old girl who sat next to me on the bus today:

Dear Obnoxious Sixteen Year Old Girl Who Sat Next To Me On The Bus Today,

Let me speak to you in a language you might comprehend.

So like, fuck, dude, thanks a fucking lot for like totally making me turn into my mom, alright? Because, like, when I saw you get on the bus in that outfit, I was all like, DUDE, it's a lot sexier to leave a little something to the imagination, you know? I'm serious! I'm so fucking serious bitch! Yeah! Like, that is so totally something that my mom would say, so like, thanks for making me think that, ok, bitch?

Oh, and yeah, thanks so much for sitting right next to me even though the bus was empty--I was totally into hearing your entire phone conversation dude. Like, I can't believe that George was so completely wasted on Saturday either! That's fucked up! And you're right, his mom does sound like a total whore--thanks for telling me all about that too! I am so excited for you that you scored some E...that was so fucking nice of you to tell your friend Keisha what to expect when she does it the first time. She's like, so fucking lucky to have a friend like you who can warn her all about the like, tracers and the way it like, you know, makes you think that someone is drawing on you with magic markers. Seriously. And I bet you're right, she may only be 15, but she probably is like, totally fucking cool for a 15 year old. I bet she totally has her shit together--I'm serious! No fuck you! No, shut up, I'm serious! FUCK YOU! Oh my God, that IS hilarious.

So like, yeah, I also think that it's great that you and Chad are back together--he sounds so amazing! OK, sure, he like totally had sex with Staci and Robyn when they were drunk (bitches!), and ok, yeah, he did get busted with horse tranqs in his locker, but like, he's a guy, and that bitch Robyn has totally been like, throwing herself at him obviously, for like months now, so what was he supposed to do? Totally, that is so mature for you to ummm, forgive him, you know? She is such a total whore. Like, seriously, that is such a sign of a healthy relationship, you know, that you can like forgive him and like totally move on? You guys are like, the cutest fucking couple--you sound like you're so good together! Seriously, it's like you were meant for each other.

Ummm, but listen, when you were talking about the whole plastic surgery thing? I swear, like I so, so wanted to respect your thoughts on that, dude, but you are so totally not fat! Not even! No, I'm serious. No, seriously, I am fucking serious--you so totally do NOT need liposuction. Maybe just get implants and a nose job, dude, but seriously, lipo? People have fucking DIED from that.

Man, it was so great meeting you! I'm so glad you chose to sit next to me on the bus even though like, I might have looked like I wanted to put my feet on the seat because I was like sick, and you know, almost like vomiting from the flu, and there were like thirty empty seats so I totally thought no one would mind. I mean, seriously, if I had to have someone sit next to me when I'm like that, you know, on an empty bus, I am so fucking glad it wasn't some total LOSER, you know what I mean?

Oh yeah, PS: I totally agree it is SO fucking unfair that your mom won't let you drive her Audi just because you don't have your learner's permit yet--I mean, seriously it is just a piece of paper, and you totally could just tell the cops that you stole it if you got pulled over--it's not like she'd get in trouble, and dude, you're like 16, and it would totally be like a first offense, so they wouldn't be able to do shit to you. Your mom needs to get laid, I am fucking serious! Talk about uptight! I know! Ok, fuck you beyotch, I fucking love you! No fuck you! No, seriously, fuck you! You're so hilarious!

Things I've concluded

I have come to the conclusion that it is wrong for persons of authority to make book, movie, restaurant or music recommendations. There are a few exceptions of course. It is ok for an English professor to recommend a book, if it is related to course material. But most of the time, people who have any authority over other people should not be going around recommending things.

Why is this, you may ask? Because later when they ask you if you agree with them that this place-sound-actor-writer is just the greatest thing since sliced bread, what the hell are you supposed to say?

I have a perfectly good example of this. My boss writes poetry. I have been dreading the possibility that she might offer some of it to me to read, since I haven't ever read any modern poetry that has touched me, moved me, or impressed me in any fashion. Most of the time it has the opposite effect on me. Reading peoples' poetry makes me want to mock them. It makes me feel sorry for them. It makes me uncomfortable looking them in the eye. I'm not saying any of these feelings of mine are fair, but they exist, and I don't think good friends ask their friends to read their poetry.

These feelings of discomfort are multiplied when the person asking is someone I have to impress on a regular basis. This is what I would consider an abuse of power.

Fortunately, the boss did not ask me to read her poetry.

She asked me to read her best friend's poetry.

Fuck me.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...

Today I curled my hair and put on a swingy black dress, and a woman on the street yelled to me, "Great dress!" Later another woman I've never met who looked like Patricia Clarkson (mmmmm, Patricia Clarkson) whispered, "FABULOUS shoes," to me in the elevator. Anyways, all of this has put a little bounce in my step. I'm feeling very La Dolce Vita today, so I think on my break I will sit at an outdoor cafe drinking espresso, but I will drink that espresso with a rose clenched in my teeth the entire time.
Ciao Bellas.

Stalked By a Mime!

I'll bet you're thinking I'm speaking metaphorically, right? I'm afraid not. I was stalked by a mime today. The weird part is that it's not the first time this has happened. Who gets stalked by a mime twice in their lifetime?!I do. I must have some kind of weird mime magnetism. I'm pretty sure it was the same mime who stalked me last time. The last time was years ago. He followed my friend and me around Granville Island for HOURS, moon-walking next to us, trying on "pretend hats" while we shopped. It was so fucking annoying.

But today was worse.I just so wasn't in the mood for a bloody mime today. Come to think of it, is there ever REALLY a good time for a mime? Clowns and mimes creep the shit out of me. Seriously, I am probably going to have mime-infested nightmares tonight.And it was raining. I was on my lunch break. I'm guessing when it rains business is slow for the mimes of this world, because before I knew it, he began following me. At first I thought it was just my imagination, because as I've stated before, mimes creep the shit out of me and I DO have a history of being stalked by them, so I realized it was possible that I was just being a little paranoid.

Turns out I wasn't being paranoid. He followed me as I sought a little retail therapy. He walked alongside me and began to imitate my walk. I gave him a terse smile, meant to convey, "good job, ha ha, move along now, mime," but it only seemed to encourage him.Then he followed me into the Gap.He sidled up to me as I picked up sweaters. I tried to pretend that he wasn't there, but I could see that other people noticed him too, because they all smiled at me uncomfortably--some with pity in their eyes, some with glee at my misfortune, and some just wondering what kind of freak willingly goes shopping with mimes.

To get away from him I grabbed some clothes and dashed for the change rooms. I figured I'd take my time, and he'd give up and go mime for someone else.WRONG. When I came out, he was waiting for me. He dropped to the ground, genuflecting (aside: I love the word genuflecting. It's so Catholic and sounds just filthy). I was mortified. He pretended to give me a bunch of flowers. "Ooooohkaaaay," I said to him slowly, "You've had your fun, clown. Go bug someone else now, please."

He pretended to be insulted that I called him a clown and threw his beret to the ground. But he kept up right behind me as I went to the till.

I was starting to get very annoyed."I mean it!" I hissed at him. "Piss off!" He mimed being shot through the heart with an arrow, and then pretended to pull the arrow out, and then he mimed crying. People were starting to laugh hysterically.

Once my purchase was complete I walked quickly out of the store. He was right on my tail, pretending to ski behind me. I broke into a run. He kept up. People on the street turned to watch us.

I just don't get it. What the fuck is up with the mime community these days? I mean, does anyone at all like mimes? Why would somebody purposely choose to pursue a profession where the whole world hates you? When this guy was filling out aptitude tests in highschool, did he get results telling him he'd make a great mime?! I did not see that box on the test!

Anyways, I had to sprint. In a dress and heels. And I lost the freaking mime eventually, but when I arrived at the office, I was sweaty and disheveled and in a bit of a panic, so the new guy at work said with great concern in his voice, "What's wrong with you?!" And I told him, "I was being chased by a fucking insane mime!!!!" Everyone in the office started howling at me, and for the rest of the day, whenever it got too quiet, someone would scream, "I'm being chased by a fucking insane mime!!!!!"

Who has a life like this?!! Why do things like this happen to me?!

Goddamn I hate mimes.

Well, it's time to move

I tried to blog at Myspace, but to be frank, myspace is for morons. I would get a few comments from interesting people who I hope will continue to follow my blog here, but overall, the myspace experience has been underwhelming. Browsing Myspace is like paying a huge cover charge to get into a dance club and immediately hating the music and knowing just from the way people are dressed that you don't belong there. Anyways, I guess right now I'm going to move a few of my old blog entries from there to here and hopefully the quality of posters here will inspire me to write a little better than I have been lately.

So, I guess I'd better make this place look cozy, hey? The housewarming will be announced soon. Candles and flowers will be appreciated--BYOB.