I don't feel like a title.

Chai tea with soy. Mmmmmm-mmm goooood.
Work on Saturday. Not so good.

Time out. I must micturate. TMI, right? Too bad.

I'm back. And I'm not having such a good day all of the sudden. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some improvement.

Suddenly I'm in no mood to fuck with this square. Ugh.

yawn.

I'm tired. Always tired. Can't seem to find the energy to do anything but lounge around the house in my pajamas. So bad, I am. Just a big lump of lazy. I hate it but am not fighting it. I could go walking but -shrug- ...

All caught up on my reading. Yee haw.

Still avoiding the plague. Go me.

And I'm even too fucking lazy to put effort into updating this blog. Therefore, this fuckin bitch is out.

Word to your mutha.

EDIT!: The puppy is growing so fast! He's also the cause of much hair-pulling and yelling. He's lucky I love the shit out of him.

This is what happens when we try to take his picture. He's no good at posing, people. (Also...can you see my lazy day PJs in the background? I RULE!)

For You

Here's the boy:

It's the only one I have thus far. (Bad Mommy!)

I love him, even though he is a flipping pisser! Ugh, he is so.much.work.

Lots on my mind. I wish I could share, but this isn't the right place nor time. Soon ...

I got nothin', kids.
HI!

Also

Did you know that also is one of my favorite words to use? I love it. Much better than and.

Guess what. Go 'head. I'll wait ... OK, I can't wait. Impatience is my middle middle name. After my real middle name. Which, I'm sure, someone knows because, you know, they know all my shit. ANYWAY (There is no 's' at the end of this word. Please make a mental note.) The news: I have a new baby. He's six weeks old and blue/grey and a total monster. He eats my face, loves to get into brawls with my slippers, stays awake all night long. Ugh. If dogs are this difficult, imagine how much fun a newborn will be! Joy!

I threatened to move out the first night. I've since grown fond of the shitter. (I need to stop threatening to move out. He's going to take me seriously one of these days.)

Gosh, I love that man. He's my lobster. Totally.

I turned my cell phone off. I'm going to mess around and turn it right back on tomorrow. I am so fucking strange. Sorry if you called and I was unavailable. I'm prone to act too spontaneously at times.

I hope the keys are still around by the time you two are done with them. ;) I bet you guys are having way too much fun and I am totally jealous. Meh.

Did you do your taxes, kiddies?

yoo hoo.

To: you
From: me
Subject: my pw

If you want it so badly, why don't you just ask me? There isn't anything to hide. Shifty is so yesterday. I thought leaves turned and shit.

Shut the fuck up.

(I wish I could say that to some people and not feel guilty about it. Fucking lingering Catholicism!)

Last night:
Ditched work early. Spent an hour or two with my man. Relations. Up and out ... no second shower, I kind of like having him on my skin. Racing through the rain as the sun shines bright (what a beautiful trip). Stop for smokes and beer. At Amber's. It's been more than a month since we've hung out, but we fall back into the conversation like people do when they are real friends. TJ and Shawn at the door. Time for Knox gelatin and mohawk-making. Drink, drink, drink. Smoke. Out the door, straight to the bar. More beer. I think about how shitty I'll feel in the morning but down another anyway. Mmmmm. In my khakis and chucks, thank god. I'm comfortable and warm. Film the band while tipsy. Laugh because who knows what they'll see tomorrow. OK show. Not their best, but they're my boys so I like it just the same. Off to Fred's for -- thass right -- more beer. (God, I can consume a lot of beer.) Almost 1 a.m. and it's time to go home. The man's been waiting. I call, he comes and everything I never thought I'd want (but needed really badly) is sitting next to me. I smile and exhale because now I am home.

I love my girls. I love my punk rock boys. I love the music, beer and socializing. But I love being home with my baby ten million times more than anything. I've never felt so at peace in someone's presence, as I do when he's around. He really is perfect for me. Corny, cliche and a little bit ridiculous, but it's oh-so-true. Ask Michelle.

It's really nice, all this happy. Shit, I'm so happy I hope the entire population is half as giddy as this here. Even the fucks, three and two dimensional. Even you, Kelly from the sixth grade who made me feel like shit with your hurtful comments. I hope you're happy, too. Because, believe it or not, fucktards need love too. So spread it, losers.

The only thing that could possibly make my life better? Lower gas prices.

I am officially psychotic.
I'm going out tonight.
I think.
Just for a little while.
I think he needs the space.
I am crazy. Crazy, I tell you. I need to unlearn. I have bad habits left over from a toxic relationship and I hate it. He isn't the same man at all and I know he will never do to me what's been done before, but I cannot seem to remember this ALL the time. I have windows where I am irrational and too nosey for my own good. Why WHY WHY must I do that? It's embarrassing.

Stupid, stupid untrusting girl.

And my boobs hurt. Fucking hormones.

NBS

Hello, Internet:

I'm working today. Of course, you -- my faithful voyeurs -- would know that, because I only write in this box when I have nothing better to do. And the only time I have nothing better to do is when I am at work.

To be accurate, I've actually worked today. My shift started four hours ago and I am just sitting down to play. I only have lag time from now until the next person arrives; then I can leave this telephone and finish the job I started on our contest closet. So I guess I do work every once in a while, eh?

Thinkin' about going to the punk show on Wednesday night ... or maybe the one on Friday night. I haven't decided yet. Also, my man Scott Weiland will be here next week; still deciding if I will see that show. Not too sure about sitting through Hoobastank. (I know I won't get away with seeing all three shows.)

Four skittles dropped on the floor so far.

Sunday is Magic Mountain. Just us. Perfect. The sun is hanging around again, so the weather will be fan-fucking-tastic, as it usually is in the best state in the country. (Yes it is.)

I do believe I found my groove thang again. Wouldn't you like to know.

hmph.

I'm pouting. The man is packing for Vegas right now. He'll be gone 'til Sunday. Whatev'. I'm jealous and bratty and sexually deprived right now. I knew I'd hate it today. I don't want him to go. Selfish me.

He better behave. My pessimistic nature is nagging at me. I make up ugly scenarios.

So I'm going to watch Love Actually, eat leftover birthday cake, maybe smoke up, and sleep alone. (It's interesting how quickly one gets used to being part of a couple.)

Mmmm cow meat and french fries. (Another gift to myself for having to spend my weekend solo.)

What a fucking baby I am. Ha.

I could go hit the scene tonight or tomorrow night. I don't wanna. I'd rather hibernate in Sanger. It'll be nice to have a house all to myself, really. I can lounge in my briefs, eh? Maybe I'll take pictures and send them to everyone online. Because, you know, that's what I do.

So, then. That's the guy who is going to get the ax from Lost? The one who fell in the plane? I'm a new fan. Somebody dish and elevate me to devout.
And the light. Aliens?
Yeah, hook me up with the Lost info.