f*@k adulthood

Being a grownup can go ahead and blow its self up, cause it sucks.

I don't know what all the fuss is about. Bills, lots of bills... and as soon as you have more than fifty bucks in your bank account it's like cloaked robber barrons try to steal it all from you. You're suddenly supposed to understand all sorts of stuff about the world that isn't even remotely important and, let's face it, nobody cares. What people think about you switches overnight from 'oh, they're just learning their way' to 'why isn't she married yet? what about kids?'.

So screw adulthood. I can barely take care of myself, much less anyone else. When my toilet cloggs up I almost cry, cause I can't seem to master the plunger. When I get mail I resist the urge to just throw it out, cause it's always bad news.

Grrrr. Just by the nature of my whining, I guess it's pretty obvious that I am not yet an actual adult. Awesome. I guess that means I don't need to swear off cartoons and sidewalk chalk yet.

godzilla and creepy children attack!

I had a dream the other night that was so completely weird that i'm not sure what to think. I was in a hotel, and I think I was a reporter for some kind of paper, but I don't remember. Anyhow. At this hotel there was a girl I liked, and it was weird cause I am neither a lesbian or in denial about my sexuality. For some reason she was in a bikini, like, the whole time. And I had a press pass on, and there was a buffet. The city was very pristine and white, which I could see from the floor to celing windows in the hotel. The hotel also had a pool, a modern structure with perfect white tile and sparkling turquoise water, the roof over which opened up to deep blue sky.
I remember looking down to the street from the windows in the hotel and seeing these really weird kids and thinking, man those kids are creepy. I chatted it up with the other reporters and discussed things relating to reporting and why we were there, which I can't remember now.
Then the hotel started shaking. People started walking quicker and muttering things like, "oh, shit" and "not again". I looked out there and Godzilla was stomping through the buildings. Behind him danced the creepy ass children, now as tall as a skyscraper.
People finally started to freak when the power went out. They started to run, but I thought that it would be smarter to stay inside. I tried to grab the girl I liked, but she was acting all slutty with a Bosnian guy in sunglasses. I ran outside and jumped into the pool, hoping less debris would hit me. When I came up for air I saw two shapes in the air getting really close. When they finally got out of the sun I could see that they were flying monkeys, like from the wizard of oz. So I freaked again, dove down as deep as I could, and swam to the wall. I jumped out of the pool while expecting the scaly hand of flying monkey to grab my foot and pull me down.
So I went back into the hotel, screamed, "we're not even from here, asshole" at Godzilla, and the reporters and I left.

It was such a weird dream.

The Cat Dreams and other such nonsense

As a background for this post, and to reiterate that I am not in fact insane, I was recently in bed sick for a week. The pills were really messing with my head and there was nobody to talk to, so my cat Pee and I got pretty close and had some awesome heart-to-hearts. I began to suspect, though, that she was trying to get into my head and manipulate me into excessive feeding and attention.

Like the dream I had the other night. I was a cop and my cat was a rookie female FBI agent that I had to protect from the terrorists. I do know where this came from, cause I watched a whole bunch of TV that week. But there was gunfire and in the dream I threw myself on Pee to save her life, in the meantime getting shot myself. In the dream she was bent over me crying and telling me to hold on... and then I woke up to the not-dream Pee sitting directly on my head, tail flicking my nose.

The next night I couldn't stand being in my room anymore so I decided to take my laying around to the boys' house. As I napped on their couch I had a dream where I walked in on Pee wearing my shorts, which were apparently magic and could shrink to fit my 8 lb. cat. She was checking out her butt in the mirror. I walked up to her and started yelling at her about borrowing my clothes, and she didn't say anything (because cat's can't talk, that's just not realistic) but strutted by me. I picked her up and ripped the shorts off, but she looked at me with her big green eyes and I felt guilty because they really did look better on her. So I put them back on her, even adjusting her tail so it fit through a button hole. When I woke up Jone's cat, Lira, was sitting on the arm of the couch and staring me down.

When I was sitting on the toilet the other day, too, the cat came into the bathroom like she usually does. She swaggered in and walked up to me, jumping up so her front paws were on my knees and her back paws were on the tile. She looked at me and then recoiled with this look of pure terror, flattened her ears and took off running like a bat out of hell. It makes me wonder what on earth scared her so much... is the image of a girl on the toilet really that terrifying? I gave her a treat to make her feel better again, which I now suspect was just a play into her evil plan.

I feel like the past week has turned me into a crazy cat lady. I guess there's many worse things I could be. Know this, though... if this is all a scheme by my cat to get into my head, it totally worked.

real life pop rocks

I was heading to my friend Brain's yesterday when there was a bomb threat on one of the trains, shutting down the lines. Some moron had actually wrapped a newspaper with tin foil and wrote "C-4" on it in marker, leaving it on the train. That, obviously, would explain all the cops I saw when the shuttle bus we were herded into rolled past one of the stations. There was even a bomb ROBOT that looked a whole-lot like Wall-e. I saw a real, working robot. I just wish I could have met it under better circumstances. Instead I was forced to listen the guy next to me on the shuttle ramble on about why exactly he "wants to go watch that midget stripper", and why it didn't make him a pervert.

When I finally got to Brain's, I tried to cheer him up, cause that was why I was there in the first place. I recalled a story that isn't even mine but can put a smile on any face, so I share it with you now.

At my mom's house there is a cat. This cat is really fat, which is why I call it Fatty McFatterson. Fatty is a slow-moving and filthy creature, huge in stature but with a mew like a newborn kitten. Fatty has been dealt a sad hand of cards in life.

In my mom's basement there is a cat door, which has served both Fatty and my cat, Zukes Longfellow Binabell Stout I, well for a few years. I wasn't there the day that Fatty decided to bop out the cat door and into the yard. Perhaps he saw a bird, maybe he wanted some fresh air. Whatever it was, he stepped out of the cat door and took a deep kitty breath.

It was then that he encountered a problem. His top half was outside, but his butt was still in the basement. Snugly tucked around his middle was the cat door.

He must have pushed and pulled for some time. Nobody knows HOW exactly our dear Fatty got his butt out of the basement, or how he managed to take the cat door with him. By all estimations he must have been running around the yard for quite some time before the neighbor found him and called us up. Again, I was not there, but I imagine the phone call to go something like this:

Neighbor: "Hey, are you missing a cat door?"

Mom "No..."

Neighbor: "Well you must be, cause it's in our yard. Wrapped around the cat."

I still wish with everything in me that someone had bothered to take a picture. Perhaps that would have made it sad though... and the picture in my head is plenty enough.

Mom put in a new cat door for robust cats a few days later. Fatty enjoyed coming and going as he pleased, at least until he peed everywhere and got himself banned from inside. He will forget the cat door incident, but I won't. I can never, ever forget.

if only beck were single (wait, is he?)

So, after work today I did my usual routine (lock door, take off pants on the way to the bathroom, read rolling stone on the toilet, then flop into bed and check my facebook) when I started thinking about internet dating.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have a horrible time with dating. Awful. To the point that I don't tell anyone close to me when I have a date, but rather pretend I have homework. My instincts are almost always wrong, my choices questionable. So, what is a girl to do when every date she's had in eight months goes horribly, but comically, wrong?

Here's a running total of awkward dates that I have had the misfortune of going on:

1. The evangelical christian who started the date with the statement, "just so you know, I'm religious"

2. The awkward guy who didn't talk except to buy me drinks, but kept playing with my shoe

3. The guy who wrote the poems, the really really bad poems that he insisted on reading and then told me that I have an "ancient soul"

4. The old guy in a trenchcoat who dropped his number in my lap on the train and then sat in front of me, winking every time I accidently looked up.  This was not a date, but it was amusing. The name on the paper was Randy, but I couldn't figure out if it was actually his name or a condition he was feeling. I have it stuck on my bulletin board for amusement.

Due to this perpetual wave of bad luck, I am open to new avenues. Internet dating scares the shit out of me, but the television says that it works, so who am I to disagree. If I were to place a personal ad, though, I would have to put one of these up:

1. Woman, 23, looking for a man with a large record collection who doesn't mind her raiding it. Must enjoy fine literature and amusing names for cats. Should not own a shot gun or confederate flag. Must be open to late night slurpees and forgiving said girl when the slurpee keeps her up until four in the morning playing wii.

2. Beautiful and talented local legend, 23, looking for a male housewife. Must enjoy having supper ready when I get home from work, and not mind frilly aprons.

3. Woman seeking man who is amusing and sweet, but not sweeter than her. Should like seeing movies based on comic books, but not own all of the collectors editions of said comic books. Being able to play musical instruments a plus, but not if you only learned it to pick up girls. When asked, you should answer, "what is world of warcraft? sounds silly". No stoners/drunks/Phish fans, please.

So, I have some soul-searching to so. Is the right guy out there at this very moment, checking a Vonnegut out of the library? I suppose that you need to take the bad dates with the good, right?

I have faith :)

i commend your bravery, but here's a helmet

I start this blog with a disclaimer. I am exhausted.
The kind of exhausted that makes you act like Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter. The kind of exhausted that makes you wish you belonged to a union and therefore could protest for longer lunch breaks (ideally one long enough for an under-desk nap).
Now, I am well aware that this is all my fault, but I was out last night, and the night before, and the night before, just trying to be a good friend. And maybe drink a couple of beers. And have conversations like:
guy with dreadlocks and stupid shirt: "duuuuude, did you know that there's, like, such things as double negitives?"
me (with a very odd look): "yeeeees....."
guy with dreadlocks: "no, seriously. if i said to you, 'i don't not want that cookie', what would you think?"
me: "that you wanted the cookie"
guy with dreadlocks: "NO! or, yeah. so, what are you drinkin?"
And the guy could play some guitar, which kind of made up for his gross underestimation of a fundemental principal of the English language. He just played one song for twenty minutes, which should never be done. I do hate jam bands, I just keep thinking, "and it will be over.... NOW! or on the count of three... one... two... *dammit*".
That came up last night, while I was at my girlfriend Darling's house.
She asks a guy on the couch: "what's on your i-pod that we can put on? anything good?"
Guy on couch: "it's all good, lots of hippie music"
Me: "i can do with some hippie stuff, but absoultely no jam bands".
Apparently this was really funny. I still fail to see the humour.
I want to rock out for a few minutes and then switch to something different. Not too much to ask, right?
At least at the moment I have my BEAUTIFUL, perfectly groomed and oft listened to Pandora station on my head phones. Which, in conjunction with a violent case of the hiccups, is preventing me from drifting off. And the writing of my first blog on here, which I am obviously screwing up something awful.