It’s one of those nights where I feel like I have a shit load to say, but I am not really sure where it all connects or how to make it interesting.  I guess for starters I could talk about my recently acquired job as a waitor at UNO’s Pizza.  It’s alright, but in the long run, it sucks.  I am not a good server, because I don’t like to pretend to be nice to people.  I don’t like to “sell” them some special meal we have, I don’t like to serve them bascially, and I don’t like how cheap people can be.  I am always a good tipper, even my service sucks.  Some of these people need to just fuck off.  In fact, I feel that for some customers I’d be better off just telling them to go to hell rather then serving them.  The co-workers seem like a plus at first, but by the end of the day I feel like they’re just people who I will forget about soon.  And some of them are totally lame and bitchy, and some of them are totally drugged out freaks.  A select few have earned the privelige of getting to have real conversations with me.  Shoot, i am exhausted, i’ll type more later.

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   Getting on the internet is becoming a health hazard for me.  Seriously.  Today I was talking to Patrick on IM, a normal convo, a normal activity, when suddenly my screen is attacked.  The pixels discorporte and reform into a gigantic tiki-statue with a word bubble coming out of it’s mouth.  It was an evil Tiki, the kind with green glowing eyes and stone carved crown on his head.  and then he spoke, with the word bubble.  Do you know what it was saying?  “Go to Taco Bell”   Taco Bell?  Taco Bell?  And while my mind did instantly shift to steak quesadeas and soft tacos, Taco Bell needs to realize that giving people heart attacks by developing terrifying pops ups won’t help business.  People who are dead from terror can’t eat cheap mexican food.  I eventually realized that the pop up sprouted from none other then the very AIM buddy list that was on my screen.  How inappropriate.  It was even worse then the really long weenie dog that appeared on my screen a few weeks ago advertising www.weatherchannel.com .   What has advertising come to?

I FUCKING HATE MY LIVING SITUATION RIGHT NOW.  Last night I went to Cheeseburger in Paradise when they had Monday Karaoke.  It was so much fun, and this huge group of hot gay guys was in there.  I was with my parents unfortunately and the owners of Big Daddies, my local bar.  Fuck it.  I sang well, they DJ told me I was a contender to win the $50.00 that night, yes, they pay the best vocalist every monday, and I had to leave right before they announced the prize, AND i didn’t even get to talk to the hot gay guys.  FUCK this shit.  I just want to be myself.  I hate this.

It’s one of those things that really isn’t important, but after seeing it everyday for two months it just starts to piss you off. My Dad said “it’s an impossible situation, I tried to remove it before, but it’s there permanently, or until the weather knocks it down.” I didn’t believe him. What did he know? My skills are vast, climbing, building stuff from sticks, speed, agility. But would these assets be enough? I’m no MacGyver, more like Jonny Quest, only I don’t hang out with a guy who wears a turban or have a scientist father. I would definitely need supplies though. the garage is full of crazy shit. A portable Styrofoam toilet, two shop vacs, an ancient slip and slide, three lawn mowers. My tool selection would be simpler: ropes, gloves, a rake.


I carried the supplies to the side of the house and looked at the situation I had at hand. You see, I have a living room with a big picture window. In the middle of the scenic wooded view there is this tree branch. It fell down a while ago during a storm and wedged itself into another tree, fastening itself, yet dangling in the tackiest of fashions. I had to remove it. and ok it’s not a tree branch. It could be it’s own tree by right, but I had to try. My first though is the source of the wedge. I could climb the tree and knock the branch loose. It’s only about 35 ft. high, branches about 30 ft. up. But I did list climbing as an asset. I harnessed a rope around my waist and put on gloves. then I attached myself to the tree and slowly began inching upwards. I could do this. Spider-Man has nothing on me. In fact, if I could shoot webs I’d just chang…………….FUCK!


So I suck at tying knots. The rope came undone. I fell. That’s when I realized I was only three feet up anyway. Jonny Quest, not Spider-Man. Ok, my second thought is to go all Batman and Robin style. I mean, if the boy wonder can toss a rope up onto a building and scale the wall, surely I can do it to a tree. I found a sturdy stick and attached the end of a rope to it. I wasn’t in boy scouts like my good friend Patrick (although I bet I could have taught the boys a thing or two), so my knot may again have sucked but at least it held. I stepped on the end of the rope as to ensure not to loose it, I threw the stick up, it hit me in the head. Yeah, so I sucked at baseball. I mean I really sucked. Like, you know how girls do chants while they are in the dug out. I was the only one that did chants in the boys league. and I always had to bat last. Anyway, I retrieved the stick and tossed it again, this time tangling it in the dangling branch, not the tree. I pulled, but the stick had wrapped around. Perhaps instead of climbing I could lasso the branch and pull it out! I began to tug on the rope, gently at first, because I know how this stuff ricochets. Pull, pull, nope. It just came untangled and fell. Damn it! There had to be a way. I had to get rid of this branch. I looked over at the rake and didn’t know why I had brought it. What a stupid idea. A rake. What would that do? I started swinging it in the air and broke off as much of the dangling branch as I could. It made me feel somewhat better. Tomorrow I will try again. The branch will come down soon. I swear to it!

I tied up the laces and fastened the clip on my roller blades. It’s tricky getting up the big gravel drive-way, but I have finesse and fantastic agility. I don’t stretch because that would make me feel too professional, like I was doing this for fitness reasons or as a sport or something. I begin slowly, thinking that I don’t want to burn out before I accomplish what I’ve set out to do. I start thinking about what I have to do tomorrow, what today meant in the long run and why I’m alive. It’s not enough. The therapy is no longer working. I long for my partner in skating crime, Lindsay Schuyler. I miss the chatting, the deep monologues, the truth spilling out when you just can’t hold it in. But is that really the problem? If she was here, what would I talk about? My mother’s new shoes, another night at Big Daddies? The problem, my life has become boring. So boring I have to find life elsewhere instead of in my own…life.


I’ve become indepthly invested in television as of late. I have personal feelings for the characters and find myself yelling at them when they walk across my small screen. It starts on Sundays with the Simpsons, who serve as an easy beginning. They don’t make me attached, they are just cartoons after all. It goes on to Arrested Development. This show is smart and funny, including hilarious scenes such as David Cross doing his best Ms.Doubtfire impression and trying to be Mary Poppins at the same time. I love the family and hate them, and Michael Blueth is hot. Next comes Desperate Housewives. Oh god, I’ve found my calling.


I’ve discussed this here before, but it’s a huge goal of mine. I want to play afternoon poker with Gabrielle, Lynette, Brie and Susan. Hell, even with Eddie. The drama is so intense with the murder, the secretly gay kid, the dying mother-in-law, etc. etc. I want to walk onto Wysteria Ln. and cause trouble, or be there for one of my girls. OR I could leave and go to their new neighbors place, Grey’s Anatomy. It’s a hospital drama, it’s E.R. meets Melrose, only without chokers and halter tops (so far). I guess the appeal here is that they are young and unsure like me. Only they have medical degrees. But they have bigger student loans, right? Again, this all still on Sunday.


On Monday I have the challenge. It’s Real World and Road Rules at it’s best. Sluts, drunks, jerks, Christians, spazzes, and everything else. I’ve really come to know and love these bastards. But I can’t wait to see which on them gets kicked off each week. Tuesdays used to be the Real World, but now I’m enthralled with Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I actually watch this one everyday of the week cause it’s on USA religiously. I even tape it sometimes. It’s gotten to the point where I watch it so much on tape that when it’s on real TV I forget and still try to fast forward through the commercials. It’s a mess. But Dect. Benson is an idol. I love her. I’d even go straight I think. I think. ok, no.


Wednesday’s is my new fascination, LOST. I am officially up to speed and craving for Locke to die soon. He scares me and knows too much without sharing. The bastard. And if gets Boone killed I will be really mad. Boone is hot. The secrets here are the best all week. People are nuts when they are stranded on an island. I feel attached, I feel like starving myself so I can join them. I want to not shower and wear a bathing suit with them. Sad. Thursday nights I don’t watch TV. I used to go bowling, but that’s over now. The league ended and I’m too poor to join a new one. Instead I drink with my parents. It’s depressing, but at least it’s free. I also like to watch Roseanne on weekday nights at bedtime. Dan Conner, he is a real trooper.


The weekends I try my best to stay away from TV, which usually includes singing karaoke with d.j. Uncle Buck at Big Daddies. It’s as weird as it sounds. My hits are Desperado and Heartache Tonight. Sometimes I sing Bohemian Rhapsody. Anyway, I wake up Saturday feeling like shit and vow not to go out on Saturday night. I usually watch lots of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit then. It’s on four times in a row. Then the cycle starts over again, it’s back to Sunday.


I want a life again. I want friends. I want people to care about, people to hate, people to laugh with, confide in, get secrets from, tell secrets too, be stupid with, miss when they aren’t around. I just really need someone to be around all the time so we can have inside jokes, good memories, unnecessary Hallmark moments and petty fights which we make up from. I miss that about life. I miss relationships that aren’t with my family. I miss being me, something I felt I haven’t been in two and half months.

I admit I got a later start then what I would have liked, but that’s ok. My Friday night was awesome. Anyway, I got out of bed, brushed my teeth and got a glass of apple juice. My parents were sitting in the big chair in the living room together watching The Top 20 count down on the country station. Country music videos frequently piss me off for no reason at all. My dad asks me about a recent job lead I found, I tell him I have to mail it today. He tells me to do it priority mail. Hence, after I straighten up my room I make a trip to the post office.


I guess I didn’t think before I left the house. The post office closes at noon. It’s 11:05. It’s packed. The line is miles long at least, but I stand in the back, looking headlong into my next 45 minutes of scenery. And then I opened my eyes. In front of me is this guy, probably around 28 or 29. Maybe 30. (but talking about the age of 30 makes me feel like I’m getting old). He wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, he wasn’t mega-built, he didn’t look super rich, but he looked normal. He looked like the sort of guy I plan to end up with. I stood there thinking to myself, “who is this guy” “what’s his story” “what’s he mailing at the post office”? He has a package in his hands, his name is Shawn Combs. hm, like P-Diddy? He’s mailing something to Shannon Johnson. Maybe she’s his old friend from college? Maybe she’s his cousin. She certainly isn’t his girlfriend since I’ve already decided he is marrying me.


“Girls, lets go!” The shout echoes in the Post Office (I keep wanting to capitalize it). This man who looks like he belongs at a Star Wars convention walks over to the ropes creating the line we all stand in. I look forward to notice a little girl in stretch pants and a winter coat straddling the ropes, acting like she is riding a horse or something. That really bothers me. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in a zoo, along with all the other children of the world. She hops off her imaginary pony and rushes over to Daddy who looks like he might beam off the planet and back to the mother ship at any minute. She can’t really run, I think she has her shoes on the wrong feet. “Come on! Let’s go!” Another shout, this one much more maternal. I turn to see the mother. If you’ve ever seen Beauty and the Beast (the Disney version), try to visualize Ms.Potts. Yes, the talking tea kettle voiced by Angela Lansbury. Now if that tea pot woman had been chipped a little, not cleaned in years, had old tea stains and a few strands of yarn on top of it, then it would look just like the lady at the Post Office. She had a snout, I swear. Or, a spout I suppose. She was perfectly round. She was terrifying. I wanted to throw down my envelopes I was mailing and rush to my car. She waddled over by me and Shawn (my future husband). Behind us was a little shelf, I am guessing so you can assemble boxes or write addresses while your in line. She goes ahead of Shawn two people and cut back to the shelf. She wobbles downward, but she doesn’t fall (cause weebles don’t fall down, duh). “Let’s go Shelinda!” She pulls a little girl out from underneath the shelf. I hadn’t even seen her there. Where did this child come from? I looked up at Shawn who seemed just as baffled as I. Shelinda, which is a terrible name (really, stop reading and say it out loud a few times, it’s gross). She clearly has F.A.S or shaken baby syndrome, though my bet say she has both. He left eye wanders and she looks like her best friend would be a spider. She rushes out of the post office really fast, like she is afraid of the public or something. Probably a result of such a stupid name and such scary parents.


At this point I had seen enough. I had to write about this family. The post office on a Saturday morning is just crowded and uncomfortable anyway. I looked up at Shawn, he wasn’t paying attention, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. I had figured out by the signs hanging by the desk that if I got my envelopes in the mailbox by 2:00pm I’d be just as fast as priority mail, since tomorrow was Sunday and all. I got out of the huge line, which hadn’t moved at all and moved to the automated stamp machine. Much easier. Machines always do what you want them to do, and they don’t look like Ms.Potts or have F.A.S. I got my stamps, put my envelopes