Tacky and Unrefined, yet Not Very Delightful

If you just saw a busload of busload of blind people get off the bus, get the fuck out of the way. They're blind. They cannot see you when you stand in their path. That's why they have on dark glasses and sticks. Believe it or not they're not all Neo from the Matrix imitators.

You don't get the right to turn your nose up because he bumped into you. Take your tacky Ed Hardy luggage (Jesus Christ, that man makes lugagge?) and move out of the way.

My Hate-It List for Today

I hate men's feet.

I hate men's feet that are gross.

I hate gross men's feet.

I hate gross men's gross feet. Especially those who refuse to wear socks. Even with sandals.

I hate rain.

I hate weddings,

I hate the bus station.

I hate my hair.

I hate the sweater I have on.

I hate my pants too.

I probably hate everything but because I hate caring at this point I cannot make an evaluative statement about everything. Just know that I probably hate that too.

Ah, the Joys of Singledom.

The thing about being single and almost 30 (Gasp!) is that it's not the same as it was when you were 25 and single or 22 and single. When you're 22 and single the only time people ask you if you have a boyfriend is when you're about to seal the deal and both parties want to evaluate the risk of partner repercussions. You have to honestly weigh the benefits of getting it on and having to fight with a disgruntled, pissed off partner at a later date. But if no one else is in the picture the risk of the sex becomes much less and depending on your outlook is either more or less fun that way.

At 25 people don't ask if you're single. They ask if you have a boyfriend. Then if you're my mother you proceed to ask if you have a girlfriend. But when you reply to the negative in both regards they smile and acknowledge that you're enjoying life and not weighing yourself down with the stress of managing a significant other. Unless you're my mother and then you see the lives of your yet unborn grandchildren flash before your eyes.

David Sedaris writes that his brother once said: 'Motherfucker, I ain't seen pussy in so long I'd throw stones at it.' While I'm not sure why one would throw stones at something you haven't had in a while I'm in the same boat, well substitute male genitalia. And I think it's a great visual. This is why on a particular Saturday evening I found myself face to face, sucking face with a bartender from my favorite bar trying to figure out what exactly was wrong with me. It's not that I don't find him attractive, it's not that we don't have things in common. I like gin and he gives it to me. But the issue lies in the fact that at a certain point I no longer see men as much as I look at them and evaluate the degree to which they could help me with my little problem. It's not that I'm desperate, I'm bored. And tired. If one more person asks me if I've got a boyfriend and then ask why not when I don't reply in the affirmative, I'm bound for the funny farm. I understand that we as humans are designed (Bad word choice, but work with me.) to be with someone. At this point I've been single long enough that I need to consider that I may be single for a while and maybe a committed relationship isn't for me. Maybe I'm supposed to not be involved. What if I'm supposed to be single so if someday I'm at the bank while it's being robbed I can sacrifice myself in lieu of the bank robber killing the new mom?

Okay so that's a little far-fetched but the point is that if I sit down and seriously evaluate my feelings on the matter I find that I'm not as panicked about it as I should be. It's seriously difficult for me to think about having a boyfriend because I descend into a panic when I'm faced with the option of having to talk to someone who has the least bit of interest in me. Hysteria. Panic. Anxiety. It's seriously not a fun time. I think it has to do with the fact that I'd then have to relinquish control but that's a different post entirely. But I cannot get past the guilt that comes along with just getting the job done because every once and a while you just need to get the job done. So when found face to face alone in the dark with your favorite bartender you're aggravated. Because out of the two of you, he shouldn't be the one who can't make up his mind. I'm supposed to be the wishy-washy one, I'm wishy-washy. To me it's not a matter of if we do or don't. Honestly I don't care either way, but make a fucking decision. I've got to go to bed.

My Strange Magnetic Field.

I need to ingest more heavy inorganic metals or something because every piece of electronic equipment I have dealt with in the last little while has kicked the bucket. Except for the confocal, and that's the way we like it.

Here is a list of the electronic issues I've had in the last two weeks:

Ahem.

1. There was the whole DVD burner dying. Not a slow quick death but a long drawn-out ordeal in which it's function gradually just stopped.

2. When I got the new burner it promptly burned 3 DVD's and then quit for 2 days. (I've found that if you let it rest between burnings it behaves quite well.)

3. The battery in Department truck. But that could be because it sat all summer without being driven.

4. For some reason Hulu won't work for me anymore. It tells me to connect to the internet in the player window while showing the rest of the page. Which usually means I'm connected to the interwebs. And yes I cleared my browser cache.

5. My printer which has never misbehaved ever. Ever suddenly couldn't pick up the paper yesterday.

6. The poster printer thought about not behaving for about 20 minutes this morning but I gave it the stink eye and it decided it was in its best interest to work.

My mother has always sworn that every computer problem she's ever had is my fault. I didn't even have to be in the room for the computer to hiss and fizz and bang. But it could be that she just doesn't like me too.

Needless to say something is off about me.

But I guess that's a moot point.

The Koo-Koo Banana Crackers Yahoos at Yahoo

The horoscope writer at Yahoo has gone off the deep end. So much so that I am thinking about writing a letter of concern to the folks at Yahoo. My favorite theory is that the normal horoscope writer left her position to start a psychic hotline and they've had to pawn off the responsibilities of the horoscopes onto the underwriter for the inspirational writing dude at Yahoo. Here is my horoscope for today:

It's hard to imagine you lacking imagination. Actually, it's impossible to imagine. So now, don't worry -- there's no need to imagine you lacking imagination, because you're so imaginative. You just won't have time for anything else (like imagining lacking imagination). You're fielding great ideas left and right, and the ones you like you're holding on to. You'll implement them all in good time. Yes, all in good time.

Here is my horoscope from yesterday:

There's something new up ahead, and you think you've gotten a glimpse of what it might be. Is it a new project? A new apartment? A new love? A new lease on life? New energy? A new sport? A new car? A used car with a new car smell, thanks to somebody's bright idea to sell a spray that smells like a new car? It could be exciting, whatever it is. 

I'm not one of those people that directs their life from their horoscope and frankly, I'm concerned for the people that do. Read both of the above horoscopes and you'll find one thing in common, that they don't actually say anything. And they don't actually say anything worse than they normally don't actually say anything which is hard to imagine because you'd think that horoscopes should actually say things, important things, things that matter, things that direct, things that encourage, things that discourage, or things that look like they're encouraging but the subtext is that they're really discouraging. Needless to say, it's odd. 

A lesson in Dichotomy from Muddy the Mudskipper

In my freshman English honors class (I know, I know, I was smart once. Seriously.) there was this guy Andy. Andy had two aggravating characteristics. One being that he looked exactly like Muddy the Mudskipper from the Ren & Stimpy show. It's really hard to think about Emily Dickinson when 'Don't Whiz on the Electric Fence' is on repeat in your head. The second aggravating thing about Andy was that his favorite word was dichotomy. Everything was dichotomous. Or characters exemplified a dichotomous nature. Dichotomy, dichotomy, dichotomy. It took me three fourths of a semester to actually look it up because I refused to on a matter of principle, but one day he actually did get a 'That's a good point Andy' from the professor so I thought it might help. Needless to say his usage only escalated from there and we were all tremendously fucking grateful there was only a quarter of a semester left.

Anyways, I'm in a very punchy mood today. Mostly because I've had the Golgothan touch this week but that's beside the point. I was talking to a friend of mine about the imminent street festival downtown and he was aking if I was going and I believe I said something like 'Hell No. I moved downtown to get away from the degenerates of this town; I do not relish spending an entire day in their presence. I spend enough of my spare time at the bus station to satiate my thirst for the masses.' Then I just went ahead and saddled the high horse and rode it for all it was worth.

Then I realized that 'Fucking Muddy' was right!

People are extremely dichotomous. (Or at least I am.) Maybe he was onto something or maybe he was ahead of his time and realized something about the nature of people that our young minds weren't able to fathom yet. That as freshmen in college we were so convinced of the constancy of our nature that the idea of any kind of duality in our person was unheard of. We hadn't yet failed at anything and our faith wasn't tested and our experiences went without grounding.

Then again, he may just be a stupid mudskipping fuck and I may just be crazy.

Fat Girls in Hooker Shoes

Here's the problem with fat girls in hooker shoes. It's not that they're trying too hard or trying to overcompensate for being chunky or for having too much junk in the trunk. It's not the fact those shoes are hideous with their bedazzled strapiness and platform soles. I don't even mind that the shirt you're wearing with the pucci print clashes horribly with your camo handbag. We'll also ignore that your shoes are adorned with pink rhinestones.

Homegirl does get kudos for not having butterflies on her shoes and not having one of those mini bookbags for a purse.

My problem with the whole situation is that it defies the physical laws of nature. If your feet look like blood sausages that have been crammed into little miniature strappy bedazzled tourniquets then it has to be next to impossible for you to remain upright. I would surmise that the enormity of your nether regions brings your center of gravity closer to the ground thus enabling you to wear your hooker shoes without toppling over. How your ankles don't become impacted I'll never know.