Taken Out Of Context

Me: Brian, you should tell your mom to teach a class called "How to save yourself, and the world". She has all this stuff figured out.

Al: What? How to soil yourself in the modern world?

In The Ghetto

A couple days ago, Al and I noticed that a shopping cart had been consistently residing on his front lawn. Now, neither of us are sure if it's someone's "house", or if it was just the aftermath of a grocery shopping trip with an extremely lazy buyer, but we came to be kind of accustomed to seeing it every day. Each of us had some comforting level of security knowing that regardless of how blistering the heat grew to be, that little shopping cart would keep truckin' just for us. We give it space, never crowding or demanding joy rides from it, and in return, it respects our humble sentiments. I dare say, we, well, we love that little shopping cart.

Last night as we pulled into his drive way some drunken 14 year olds were stumbling by. We watched as they pushed each other, slurred some indecipherable statement and then, in an extremely uncalled for bout of deviance PUSHED OUR LITTLE SHOPPING CART.

"What the hell are they doing?" Al asked, "That kid thinks he's so strong."

"Yeah, what the hell?" I agreed with gusto.

We got out of the car and walked towards his front door, both silent and consumed with our joint thoughts of shopping cart vandalism.

"I really didn't like that, when they pushed the shopping cart. I mean, they THREW it down," Al admitted.

"Yeah! That's OUR fucking shopping cart. Punks."

"I'm really glad you were thinking that too."

Forgetful Franny

Something that I've recently had to come to terms with is that I'm embarrassingly forgetful. It's not a very admirable character trait, it tends to cause me overwhelming guilt, and at times it really makes me cringe. I used to pride myself on my ability to photographically remember anything for a test; I'd only study 30 seconds before go time and always manage to do really well. I guess that I haven't entirely lost that capability, it's moreso that people don't make arrangements with me on a piece of loose leaf. God damn spoken instructions! I'd love to turn this problem around, but chances are I'll just forget all together.

Yesterday I got on the skytrain to go home after work, and like many days, I called for someone to pick me up from my stop. I couldn't seem to get through to anyone though so I called Al. He doesn't live that close to the station I get off at, but he's a nice guy like that so he said it would be no problem. I told him to shoot for arriving in about half an hour.

"Half an hour? I could just leave now if you want."

"No no Al, it's fine, wait a bit and then come."

So I sat and rode on through all the stops, knitting like I usually do (because I'm a dork), and encountered the usual strange stares. A woman sat down beside me, she asked what I was making. She told me about her son, how she likes to cook, etc. and I told her about my knitting when she asked. Then I listened, well the whole skytrain listened, to two young guys on their cell phones.

"I dunno man, fuck dude. (Pause) Well I'm going home to fuck my bitch and he is too."

I appreciated the free entertainment they were providing, and strained to listen to everything they were saying. I picked up my phone and called to see if Al had arrived. I walked towards his truck.

"Hey baby, what's going on?" some guy shouted at me as I walked past.

"Not too much," I laughed.

"What are you up to tonight?" he asked. I was almost at Al's truck by that point.

"Tonight? I'm going home with my boyfriend," I said as I opened the truck door. I heard him say "nevermind" as I shut it.

I was so happy to see Al, but I had forgotten one very important thing; I had driven myself to the skytrain station that morning, so my car was there aswell. Allan was a little less than pleased, I felt like an idiot. He drove me over to my car and then we traveled back home one behind the other. Periodically I would look in my rear view and see him rubbing his forehead, the way he does when he's really stressed.

I waved to let a car in infront of me and the guy gave a nod of thanks. The light was red so I waited and watched Al. I could see him looking back at me so I made a little heart sign with both my hands, and then I saw him give a little laugh. I laughed too until I saw the guy I let in looking in his rear view.

It turns out I don't need to forget anything to be embarrassing.

Overheard On The Bus

Girl #1: Oh look there's that cool mural.

Girl #2: Yeah there's Marilyn Monroe. She's so pretty.

G#1: She's in that movie right?

G#2: Yeah yeah, totally. I think so.

G#1: Moulin Rouge.

G#2: Oh yeah, that's it. Mmm hmm.

A Fitting End

There's nothing like a downtown apartment building to act as the crossroads for the craziest of crazies. It's not that I consider myself that sane or normal, because I definitely don't have everything working together upstairs, but it's rather that these other people are crazy in more apparent ways. Some are late night screamers, others are loud ass couple fighters, while a few choose to tell you about their grandchildren during awkward elevator rides. The other day I helped Al move out of his building, and ofcourse, no stressful day of moving could be complete without one of the crazies cramping our style (and being a bitch).

I was sitting down in the lobby "guarding" Al's possessions, a lampshade to my right, and a Magic Bullet to my left, waiting for him to come down from yet another trip. A man walked past and through a door carrying a bag of garbage, a woman walked in the same door and looked at me for a while. She pressed the elevator button.

"Are you moving in or out?" she asked.

"Out, well my boyfriend is."

She chatted with me for a while, asked how big it was, how the view was, how much it cost; she was kind of nosy but I didn't really mind. The two guys that Al and I refer to as "The Russian Gangsters" came into the lobby and pressed the elevator button. They said some things to each other that I didn't understand and looked hard core like always. Two men came in aswell and pressed the elevator button, making it the third time. I looked up at the lights that indicate which floor the elevator is at and saw them flickering in and out of number 16, 15, 14, etc. When it finally got to the lobby Al was there with a table and cardboard box. He started to maneuver his way out and then the chatty woman turned to me.

"Aren't you gonna help him?" she asked in an impatient tone.

I hopped up and went to help him. She asked both of us why we hadn't rented an elevator for ourselves so that we "didn't have to hold it up for everyone else."

"It's broken," Al and I said simultaneously. We were both concerned with proving our innocence.

"Well did you tell the office that there's a problem?" she came back at us with.

Some guy near the mailboxes piped up, "It's been stuck on floor six all night. Don't know why."

The two guys made a comment to let us know that they hadn't appreciated the wait. We appreciated their two cents. The chatty woman continued where she left off.

"Well I just know that you gotta tell the office about things like this right away. I mean, I run a hotel right, and like, you just gotta do things immediately or else there's gonna be problems."

I looked at her uniform and read the words "Security Guard", I didn't exactly believe the "run the hotel" part. She seemed a few screws short and I was starting to loose interest in her stories and lectures.

The majority of people got on the elevator and were whisked away. The Russian gangsters and the woman remained. Apparently she hadn't told us everything she needed to because she started up again.

"You just have to rent the elevator so this kind of stuff won't happen, it's real simple," she began opening her mail.

"Yeah well, it's broken so we couldn't."

She shuffled through her stack of letters and made a joke to the gangsters, they didn't laugh or smile because gangsters don't do that. She opened one.

"Oh fuck, fuck. What do these bastards want now?" She looked up at the gangsters and I. "You know, one time at the hotel there were 28 non-english speaking japanese girls. Gosh, you know, all in their cute little uniforms and they were stuck in the elevator screaming, screaming in those high pitched voices they have, you know what I'm talking about right? Anyways, they were all like hing ho bo ko ja (she uttered her rendition of japanese)."

The gangsters and I looked at each other and then her. Had she really just imitated japanese school girls? I was kind of embarrassed.

The elevators opened, the gangsters and her got on. Allan was still fuming, I could tell he didn't like her butting in to our affairs, and he decided to mutter some last words when the elevator doors were almost closed.

"It's broken. You dumb bitch."

We pushed open the front lobby doors and walked out of the building. It was the last time he or I will ever be there.

I Just Really Didn't Need That

Last night Allan and I decided to walk back to his place, across the Granville street bridge as the sun set, instead of taking the proletariat chariot. After passing the sign that reads "Side walk narrows" Al started to grasp my hand a little tighter.

"Are you afraid of heights?" I asked mockingly.

"No. I'm not afraid of little heights, just big ones." he retorted.

"Ummm, I think that's called being afraid of heights. If it's too little it's not really considered a height."

"No I can handle four stories, just not like ten."

"Oh I see. Well I doubt we're near ten and you're looking a little pale."

"I'VE WALKED HERE A MILLION TIMES OK!"

I burst out laughing because he was squeezing the blood out of my hand and looking so enraged. He told me to stop laughing because all the people driving by would think I looked stupid, crouching down, trying to stop myself from peeing my pants. I couldn't help it though so I laughed until I had some tears in my eyes and then decided to hold his hand again and continue our walk.

"So my roommate told me that he's been using my toothpaste for the past two months."

"Oh christ. Oh god this is horrible. Do you think he was waiting until you were moving out to tell you? Like hey, you're going so now would be a good time to fess up."

"No, I don't even think he was timing it like that."

"Seriously Al, I had moments in your bathroom, contemplating whether or not I should use it for fear that this exact thing would have happened. BAAAAH! You know looking the thing over, wondering, HOPING that he wasn't such a douche."

"I thought it was going down a little too fast."

"He better not have herpes," I spat out as another germ accident jogged my memory. I had dropped my cell phone on the PUBLIC washroom floor the other day and almost fainted. I looked at the little piece of technology, the germ infested ground, and considered just leaving it there. Could I, Carmen, really pick that up? I guess the answer was yes, but a very difficult yes.

It just about killed me. Then I was the one holding on a little tighter; from rage rather than fear of heights.

"Did you know Cecil's was a strip club?" Allan asked.

"I dunno, doesn't surprise me."

Drugs

I took a Benedryl last night and read the "may cause drowsiness" part. For some reason I really wanted to stay up as long as I could to feel the sleepy drug. I thought it wasn't working, until it hit me like a truck-

ZzzzZZzzzZZzZZZzzzzzz's

I really hate falling asleep right in the middle of the day. I'm not a napper by nature and so when I do actually doze off, I tend to feel ridiculously disoriented when I awake. I'll get up, stumble around, and wonder if I had been asleep for an hour, a day, or a week. Did I just miss work for the last seven days? Am I fired? Have I eaten? Did someone update my blog? No? AHHHHHHH.

I bet Rip Van Winkle felt like a fool when he woke up. His girlfriend had long since left him and shacked up with the local horse shoe maker, his parents were dead, the mountain goats had ritually peed on him, and to top it all off, he had a beard that no medieval razor rock could hack away at. Boo hoo, now I know how he feels. Minus the goat pee.

Yesterdays and tomorrows become pretty difficult. Was it yesterday that the waitress asked me if I had been "beveraged", creatively turning a noun into a verb? Did I play frisbee beside the graveyard today, or was that tomorrow? Can I remember things that happened tomorrow? Did Michael J. Fox just ride by on a flying skateboard? Oooh ok, I get it. IT'S BACK TO THE FUTURE!

When I was little, I hated anything to do with sleeping, bed times, or lying still and not talking. But ofcourse sleep is one of those "don't know what you've got til it's gone" things, so I'll be sure to go back in time with Mikey J. and tell myself that. I always found it a little alarming that my mom loooved sleep so much, but I accepted that we all had different hobbies. When it came time to make our mother's day gifts in grade one we were asked to draw our moms doing their favourite things. Some kids drew their mom gardening, or maybe playing with them, and I was all I KNOW WHAT I'LL DO/ EUREKA MOMENT, and I drew my mom in a nice big bed. When I brought it home she was a little mortified. But why are you worried about child services mommy? I drawed it so good...

So this is the part of my post where I sum up my meandering point. I give it a direction, maybe just a general one, but a god damn theme none the less. It makes you, the reader, think ahh, yes I remember why I decided to read this post. Then your life suddenly makes sense and you pick up that old rubik's cube from your childhood and rock it outta the park.

I like to be profound like that.

Oooooh Highschool

This past weekend was the grad weekend for most people making it to the other side of highschool. Luckily for me, highschool fits into that category of "Things In My Past That I Now View In A Veil Of Nostalgia", and therefore is remembered with an air of sentimentality. Somehow, I'm able to remember the majority of good things, and forget the copious amount of bad, bad, very embarrassing moments; and for this I'm grateful. My sister is still in the dog house though, and sometimes the stories she tells makes me so glad that I'm not there anymore.

There are some crazy craaaazy bitches who tell you to "Take off your fucking sweatshirt, yeah, cause I'm wearing the same one and I had it first. You stupid bitch."

Or annoying emo girls that like to claim "emo styles" as their own; as if stripes have never been worn by anyone else through out the history of time. THEY'RE CALLED PIRATES YOU DUMB BITCHES. Some stupid girl asked my sister if she "Was wearing those pants because they're seen?" My sister was a little confused, "Seen?" she asked. "Yeah," the girl said, "You know, like you "seen" 'em on somebody else so you wanna wear them too." That's another thing about highschool bitches, they love to make up exclusive slang in efforts to further extradite their peers.

As I drove my sister to school today and listened to her having a hernia over final exams, I thought about highschool as a juggling act. You're supposed to balance homework and exams, you know, "the determination of your future" with relationships, emo bitches, and impossible expectations. I looked at my sister, with her cute moccasin boots, bangs perfectly in place, and anxiety ridden brown eyes, and thought "My god, this girl does it all and she manages to wear make-up, look hot, choose cute outfits, and act pleasant EVERY SINGLE DAY. I looked back at myself in my rear-view mirror, at my unkempt hair, my pajama pants, and thought, take a shower you hobo. AND THIS IS MY DAY OFF! Granted, some people are better at this juggling act than others.

I try to tell her not to worry and stress so much, that no matter how horrible things seem, they WILL BE OK. The thing is, when you're in the moment, searching for a little sympathy, having trouble visualizing the other side, and drowning in the here and now, it's way too hard to get perspective on things. I can remember when the crush of my elementary life found out that I liked him, and I felt like I'd rather be home schooled for the rest of my life rather than show my face at school again. Or maybe the time that I had a gym test in grade four and cried the night before because I was so afraid of not winning, subsequently flunking elementary, and eventually spending the duration of my life as a panhandling hobo knocking on your window as you sat at a red light on the corner of Seymour and Hastings. If someone had told me then that life would not turn into a downward spiral simply due to gym class, I probably would have kicked them in the shins because they couldn't possibly have said that if they just understood my situation. RELAY TAG ISN'T A PIECE OF CAKE YOU KNOW?! Can you see that my craziness started young?

Maybe, when you find yourself in the midst of a badish situation, you need to tell yourself that your five-years-from-now-self would tell your now-self that everything isn't as bad as it seems; as ridiculously impossible as that is. Sometimes you still have time to destress, take a step back, and log onto your sisters account and leave a picture of your ass as their desktop picture.

Thanks Megan, your bum staring at me in the face was a sign from the highschool god that you are, in fact, going to be just fine.

(Un)Entertaining

During my thoroughly enjoyable day wherein several customers used me as a target for their pure unfaltering hatred for life, I met Screetus, and Smelly Danielly. I was kinda nervous because the closest I've come to meeting a celebrity would be that brown haired lady from "The Shopping Bags," and let's be honest, she's not really a celebrity she's someone who tests out various brands of deodorants. And yes, I consider bloggers to be celebrities. I won't even get started on the time I thought I saw Tony at work, stopped breathing completely, and then resumed when the man spoke with an english accent. I can be a bit of a dork...

I talked to a man today with "Crack is awesome" written across his shirt. I gave it some thought and decided that I liked him. Where as most crack heads like to keep their habits on the down low, or simply can't form coherent sentences, this guy was just declaring his love. Blatant and direct; you gotta give him credit for that atleast. The thing about being a trailblazer is that you can really motivate others to branch out as well. Maybe I'll start wearing a shirt that says "I don't exactly think of laundry as a "regular" thing". Al's might be "I like to eat mustard. Off my finger. My girlfriend doesn't really like that". I'm thinking that it'd be best to start with baby steps but eventually I'd like to make it to "Meth, we all do it in our back yard from time to time".

And finally, for my last random observation, I'm gonna mention the sushi restaurant waitress. I see this girl every now and again when al's kitchen doesn't have anything other than Vector, and the aforementioned mustard. She's constantly in a state of fastforward. She talks, moves, and hustles like Mario when you press A and B at the same time. I feel bad when I ask her what's in the special because I know that, somehow, that's throwing a fat wrench in her well oiled sushi machine. She wears these strange, ugly black and bleached white jeans and I like to believe that she's a hooker. I imagine that sushi is just her family run business and she therefore has to make an appearance sometimes. I suppose my petty california roll questions just get in the way of her habit of daydreaming about her true passion. Being a rude prostitute.

I think I shouldn't write posts when I get home from work. Something about the atmosphere of negativity and exhaustion...

The Day I Became A Murderer

I was at the doctors today, an event that has become quite regular in my life, because I am crazy in a strictly non-trendy way. So what's wrong with me today? "Nothing" as per usual, which means I'll have to waste four years in med school, and figure it out on my own. Either the doctors are stupid, lazy, or dishonest, because they keep on telling me I'm fine, and I know much better than they do. I generally tell them my worries, or atleast a list of 87 of them, and they nod, pretend to listen, and then fiddle around with blood pressure, heart beats, or something else equally useless. Most people call the doctors themselves and set up appointments ,whereas, when you're a hypochondriac they basically just call you.

"Hello Carmen, this is the doctors office, we have an opening at 2:45, are you having any problems?"

I let a little chuckle escape as I check myself over. Any problems? Bitch please, cancel the rest of your appointments for the week. Then I hobble on my crutches, pick up the ziploc bag full of ice and my left ring finger, and stuff the picture I drew entitled "My Paranoia Release" into my purse. As I start the ignition in my car I worry that the air freshener may be emitting toxic and carcinogenic fumes. Around that time I try to breathe.

I always remember the part of that weird song "Class of '99", you know the song that's soley made up of a guy giving advice, where he says something like "Don't worry, or worry but know that worrying is as useful as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real problems in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsight you at 4pm on an idle Tuesday." That made me feel both better and worse at the same time. Better because the things I worry about are just about the most horrible things I can fathom, and if none of those happen to me, I'll somehow be saved. Worse because if I haven't thought of it, dear lord, it must be unfathomably BAD.

But so it happens that each day I generally get to sleep, and each morning I'm still here.

Today as a new doctor was checking me out I said "Well you know, I'm a major hypochondriac. I generally think I'm dying of one thing or another." To which he laughed, "Oh no, don't do that."

I looked at him for a split second with utter horror in my eyes before jumping across the room and beating him with all the rage I had in my being.

"Don't do that?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?"

But he didn't hear me because my hands around his neck had already cut of the blood circulation to his brain.

Gender Bender

At work I see a lot of people pass through in a day, and some of them really stay with me. Generally they're memorable for their blatant rudeness, MC Hammer pants, or collagen lips, but occasionally it's because I really liked them.

The other day I was serving a particularly frazzled looking mother and I saw that her kid was driving her insane. She kept on telling him to "quiet down because she had to talk to this nice lady," but I think what she really wanted to say was "Sit the fuck down sweety." I thought I'd entertain the kid so that the mother had a chance of finishing her shopping, so I came around the counter to talk to him. Now, after semesters of sociology classes, I'd like to think that I don't try to put people into a "gender role" but this little boy had a barbie. At first I was a little surprised, but then I was like wait, this is awesome, all moms should do this.

"That's a pretty awesome Barbie you've got there," I said.

"YEAH! It's a groovy girl (or something like that I don't quite remember, you know, one of those modern sluttier barbies). Her name is SASHA," he emphasized, letting the last syllable of Sasha linger.

"Cool Sasha sounds like an awesome name."

"Yep yep, it is. MOM MOM MOOOOOOM SHOW HER SASHA'S CLOTHES. Guess what, she came with more clothes!" he said to me.

The little boy's mom held up Sasha's package and showed me all the "hip stuff" she came with.

"Wow, Sasha has her own cell phone it looks like. And it's metallic red, that's way nicer than mine."

The boy stared up at me with a certain bewilderment as if to say, I NOTICED THAT EXACT SAME THING AS WELL! I think he was so ecstatic to finally be getting some attention, and I was pretty happy to have a break, so we complimented each other quite well.

"MOOOOM, Sasha's getting a phone call right now. I can hear it, ahhhhh we have to answer it!!!"

I looked at the little boy, the exhaustion in his mother's face, and then Sasha in all her urban hipster glory.

"Don't worry about Sasha's phone," I told the little boy, "She has call waiting. Sasha's so modern like that."

"Oh god yes, yes she does," said the boy's mom.

"Mom, what's call waiting?" he asked.

"It's something you get on your phone so that people can leave messages when you're gone. And then you can finish grocery shopping."

The boy looked at me and scanned my eyes to see if I was telling the truth. I gave a confirming nod and he smiled.

"Ok fine, bye bye girl."

"Bye bye."

He's Lucky That I Think Everything He Says Is Funny

Al: I burnt my mouth so bad tonight, seriously, so bad.

Me: Aw poor thing, on what?

Al: Perogies, damn things. They were filled with bacon. And pain.

Me: Oh really? That's a good fillling. Did you get them at Safeway?

Al: Fuck. I burnt everything tonight. I put the onions in the pan and then burnt them. I put the perogies in after that and burnt them. Then I burnt my fucking mouth....Then I burnt my self esteem.

Me: Hahaha. How unlucky. Maybe it's cause it's 666.

Al: OH MY GOD, IT'S 666? THAT'S TODAY? SHIT. What time is it!? Oh shit, I missed 6:66 o'clock.

Al: Oh shit, that doesn't exist...

Al: Are you gonna write about this on your blog?

Me: I just did.

The Emo (Butterfly) Effect

I'm pretty sure that there's a new serial murderer with a vengeance for bus riders. New as in yesterday had only killed one person and that doesn't count as multiple people (serial), so was therefore only a super creepy lurker man that sells handmade scarves. All the 7:15 regulars were no where to be seen today and I got a little bit scared. Where was the old man who took bong hits near the fountain? The guy from the sandwich place with red hair and emo glasses? The woman who took up two seats of the small bench; one for her selfish self, and one for her selfish groceries? I didn't particularly like or dislike any of them (except the selfish woman), and yet they were my constants. We had a routine, an unspoken understanding, and man were we smooth.

Emo boy was the switch that got our machine working. He'd fiddle with his eye brow piercing and then push his side part more to the side. When he finished his hair, stoner man knew it was his cue to start inhaling, he'd give the emo boy a nod, and emo boy would give him a melodramatic thumbs up. Stoner man would hold in the smoke for as long as he could, and at 50 years of experience he could really hold it. He'd let it out, cough a little, and that was when grocery woman would look off into the distance as to avoid our angry stares. She generally wasn't inclined to give a nod, a wink, or any other identifiable sign to let us know that her part was done, but we knew that she was a bitch and let her inadequacy slide. Usually teen girl would just count to 15 before starting her part, which was to talk on her cell loudly about something random, annoying, and unnecessary. Then the bussiness man would think about how "he unfortunately had to reside with all these no-good rif rafs," and although he was only thinking it, we could read his mind. When he finished that thought the bus driver would drive up and pretend that he was a police officer. We'd play along and let him feel like he had power and authority because we all knew that public transit operator was very close to law enforcer.

I'd pull out my pony tail and shake my hair as if to say "our work is done for today." Then I'd squint to block out the setting sun, and that was the go ahead for mr. busdriver. He'd press the gas, the bus would creak, and then we'd ride into the night.

However, emo boy didn't push his hair aside tonight, infact he didn't even show up. Our machine never got going and everyone was fretting. When I got on the bus old stoner man wasn't high, he looked really nervous and kept on switching seats. The bus driver motioned for me to come up and talk to him and so I did. "Where was emo boy?" he hissed at me. I told him I didn't know, but that something was up, and somebody knew about our machine. He rubbed his chin and looked like he was gonna faint. "Go sit down," he said. Selfish grocery woman didn't have any groceries, so she compensated by taking off one shoe and letting it use up a second seat.

Things started getting rough when mr. bus driver wasn't making any stops. I went back up to the front and found him sweating. I was searching for the right thing to say, but I had no words.

I pushed my hair to the side, I started listening to Belle and Sebastian on my iPod, and morphed my shoes into black converse high tops. I took a paper clip from my pocket and pushed it though my lip.

Mr. bus driver began to relax, he loosened up his grip on the wheel, made the bus come to a stop, and let some people off.

"I'll be your emo cog," I said, as the blood from my lip dripped onto the ticket spitter.

The Littlest Hobo And I

"What are we gonna do today?" Tim asked sweetly, "You did just put a leash on me and that usually means WAAAAALK!"

Yes Timmy, we're gonna go fulfill your dreams. If you had pants to wear you'd probably be peeing them right now. Oh wait, I think you are peeing.



"Yes I'm peeing!!! I loooove peeing. Pee pee pee pee, look at me me."

Honestly Tim, you're gonna have to muster something a little more intellectually substantial than that. C'mon, show all the bloggers what a good boy you are!

"Good boy? I'm a good boy, look at this facial expression, so noble eh?"



Yes Timmy, very noble. Goooood boy.

You know what'd be really great Tim? If we got a picture of us together. You know, you could smile, and I could smile, and then we'd hug and be merry. Doesn't that sound good?

"Does that mean I'd have to sit still for 0.000064 seconds? I dunno, I'm just so HYPER!"

Yeah I've noticed, but let's just try ok.



Well Tim, this pic blows because a) I didn't have enough time to steady the camera, and b) you weren't very compliant. Maybe next time we could try this with a little more force and/or bribing with food. Ok, no force, I love you too much.

Most Dogs Have Read The Bible

Al: It's just been so long since Tim has seen me. Do you think he'll remember who I am?

Me: Ofcourse he'll remember, he's not stupid.

Al: What if he thinks I'm dead. You know, because I haven't been back home in so long.

Me: I dunno, I suppose he could've already mourned you and now he's ok because he's all done grieving.

Al: Do you think he'll be excited to see me?

Me: Duh, obviously you want me to say that.

Al: Maybe he thought I was dead, and then when he sees me he'll think that I'm just like Jesus; resurrected from the dead.

Me: Yeah Al, he'll most likely think of Jesus.

This One's To All My Sisters Out There

Everyone knows that Erin Brokovitch won that huge case because of her knockers. She flirted with the guy at the water board and then she got the records that really screwed over the huge company. I think that was essentially the sub-theme of the movie; boobs make life easier. But do they really?

Sometimes, for doing nothing other than sitting and talking to your brother's girlfriend, you get some strange guy telling you to go buy yourself a drink on his tab. "Whatever you'd like." So you, and your friend go up to the bar, see the bottle of blue-ish stuff that's on its own pedestal, with its own set of stage lights focusing down on it, and you tell the bartender to make you the most insane drink with "that stuff". Mr. Generosity probably thought you were gonna buy yourself a beer, or an easy vodka and cran, but no, you saw his rings, and his strange art school glasses, and felt like showing him an equal lack of modesty. Plus, it is free for you, so why not go for the gusto?

Or when you go to rent a movie and you have forgotten your wallet. Oops, what to do? Don't worry the clerk says, "it's on the house." Wow, nice guy. Or did he have ulterior motives?

Guys are always complaining about how girls get stuff so easy, but I'd like to make it clear that we end up paying for it in the end. Some gender god is sitting high up watching us all and he sees those free drinks we get, he sees the freebies in general, and man, do we get a fat tab.

Yesterday, after having what every woman has to get done to her, a period of time in which you are VIOLATED, I felt that no man should be jealous. I was told to drop off my "tests" at the lab on such n' such a street, so I went, and let's just say the lab is on floor two, and I never went in the elevator. (My thoughts in brackets).

Me: Um I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where people are supposed to drop of their tests?

Male pharmacy worker: Uhhhh, like blood tests? (I wanna get high)

Me: Er, no. Um, different kind. (Are you actually asking me this?!?!?)

Male pharmacy worker: Like what kind? (I reeeeally wanna get high)

Me: I uhh, had a physical? I don't know, I'm not a doctor. (I NEVER HAD ANY CONTROL IN THE SITUATION HAVEN'T I GONE THROUGH ENOUGH?)

Female pharmacy worker: Up on floor two, room 201. (He's never had one before...)

Me: (IT WAS ONE MEASLY DRINK!)