1. I do have something hilarious to blog, but it's going to take me a little time to wrap my head around the entire story. Also, it involves my fifteen minutes of "fame" that JUST. WON'T. DIE. So this needs to be kept under wraps for a few more days. Eventually, I'll spill.
2. I have officially run out of profiles that humor me on MySpace. I really peaked early w. the pseudo-MPD/schizo buck-toothed brain damaged* amateur swimsuit model (yes) from the hometown, ("Interests: Modeling, Boyz, Chiropracting"), but I was hoping to find something more. Alas. It seems it is not to be.
3. How does one translate conversations that are so funny in real time into a blog entry? One blogyear later, and color me stumped. Somehow deep in my very soul I feel people need to know about the N. and I's Friday night conversation, entitled: "What It Must Be Like to Go Through Pirate Family Therapy," but I just don't know how to pull it off. ("Yarrrr, me father made me walk the plank and me mother never listened to my inner child, yarrrr.")
It all started because there is a family therapy center in Old Town that had jars of treats in the window, assumedly to bribe families into talking. Hard candy? Sure. Gotcha. Gum? Cool. Twizzlers? Yes. Understood. Ritz Crackers? Um, okay?
"That's for when it's the parrots turn to emote. Yarr."
Sigh. Had to be there.
Kitchen is in mass-destruction mode. Rotted wood/ brittle masonite/layer upon layer of "harvest gold" linoleum. Like: atom bomb. This involves moving the appliances, which have not been moved (no exaggeration) since 1984. It is, in a word, foul. I am expecting to come home to the most awesome display of home improvement this side of crappy TLC programming. My expectations are high.
My rubber chicken order came in. Hint, if you order 5 or more, you get a free gift.
Pls leave your name, number, brief message as to how best employ vampire teeth. Not just any old vamp teeth, WOLFMAN vampire teeth. I'm thinking a quiet night of free drinks 'n nickel slots in the LV, some "me" time, sporting teeth for maximum wolfwoman fright. I'm kind of feeling Circus Circus.
* not juvy hyperbole-stee. she really hit he rhead or something, at least taht's what her mom claims.