I mock you with my monkey pants*

My greatest dream is not, as you might think, to one day own a penguin. It's not that I will one day save the world from zombie domination. It's not even that one day the government will be all, "marry as many people as you want to," and so I will marry John Krasinski AND Jake Gyllenhaal and we'll all live in a house together, sort of like Three's Company but with fewer hijinks. No. My greatest dream has always been that one day, sometime in the future when I'm a grown-up, I will have a book published. I don't even care if it's a terrible book that only my parents buy. I just want to go to the bookstore and be able to see a book WITH MY NAME ON IT.

It scares me, though, when I think that, "oh holy shit, TODAY is the future . . . I AM (technically) a grown up," and I start hyperventilating because I'M RUNNING OUT OF TIME! THERE'S NO TIME! THERE'S NEVER ANY TIME!

Then I stop. Close my eyes. Force myself to breathe. And once the threat of passing out has been neutralized, I tell myself to stop being such a lazy asshole and go freaking write already. I've been making myself write at 300 words a day for the past week or two, and wouldn't you know it? I now have 5000 words. OF A WHOLE STORY. And sure, most of these 5000 words are probably complete shit. But it's a start, shitty as it may be, and I suppose that's all I can do.

PS: In slightly related news, look at the shirt Heidi got for me! I am so set to save the world from zombie domination.

*now I am quoting Buffy the Vampire Slayer . . . wtf?

help me, Internets, you're my only hope

I can't watch the Lost alternate endings, because I work for Satan and Satan hates internet videos. Can someone please tell me what they were? Please?

Please?

It's like a cow's opinion. It just doesn't matter. It's moo.

We haven't talked about TV in a while, have we? Does that scare you? I mean, I used to have a lot of thoughts and opinions about TV but now? Not so much. To be honest with you, Internets, I haven't really been watching that much TV. The strike, it hath cured me of my addiction! All hail the strike!

I'm kidding. But I haven't been watching as much TV as I used to. And I'm not as invested in the shows I do watch. Used to be, when a show like, say, LOST was on? I had to have complete silence and no one was allowed to talk to me during the entire hour and during the commercials, I'd sit on the sofa clutching my heart because OH MY GOD WHAT IF SAWYER DIES? Also, I didn't want to miss any of the parts where Jack and Kate are making kissy faces. Unless Jack was acting like a big, stupid doody-head, which is a lot of the time, like when he tries to take his own appendix out (wtf, Jack?), and also why does Hurley have to be so sad all the time? Dude. I love Hurley. Um. Yeah. Anyway, now I'll get up and actually do stuff during commercials. Although, I still feel a little ragey when someone talks to me while the show is on. I can't help it. I'm not very smart, so I need to really pay attention to everything or else I'll have absolutely no idea what's going on.

But then came Top Chef and now I find myself emotionally invested in a reality show but I DON'T CARE, because I freaking LOVE this show. I love watching people cook, so Top Chef is sort of like food porn. I got way, way angry last week when Dale got kicked off (um, spoiler alert) but last night's episode was sweet, sweet revenge, because the douchiest douche to have ever douched finally, FINALLY, packed his stupid douchey knives and went home. Douche. We hates him, precious*. All that needs to happen now is for Greasy Lisa to lose and then I don't care who wins. But I hope it's Stephanie. And not just because she looks JUST LIKE this girl I went to college with, who we called "Pledge," because . . . I don't remember, but whatever, MY POINT IS, Spike is gone and it was awesome. Truth.

*new low, Jennie

what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man

MSN is one of my Great Work Distractions, mostly because they change the links on their page all day long. Today, one of the articles is The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master. And while I lack the proper plumbing to be a man, I decided to see how I stack up, starting with numbers 1 through 20.

1. Give advice that matters in one sentence.

I'm not good with the advice. Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?

2. Tell if someone is lying.

I can do this! Everyone is a liar. True story.

3. Take a photo.

Easy. Point camera, push button.

4. Score a baseball game.

Um. Count the runs, right?

5. Name a book that matters.

I'm sorry, I cannot take this one seriously because this is what the article said: "The Catcher in the Rye does not matter."

EXCUSE ME? The Catcher in the Rye DOES NOT MATTER?!? I'm going to assume that was a typo, otherwise fuck you, article!

6. Know at least one musical group as well as is possible.

I suppose I could learn more about Rivers Cuomo.

7. Cook meat somewhere other than the grill.

OH MY GOD, I CAN ACTUALLY DO THIS.

8. Not monopolize the conversation.

I try not to do this, unless the conversation turns to The Office, in which case I can't help myself.

9. Write a letter.

I write the shit out of letters.

10. Buy a suit.

Um.

11. Swim three different strokes. Doggie paddle doesn't count.

Can I have water wings?

12. Show respect without being a suck-up.

Eff you.

13. Throw a punch.

I don't think I've ever punched anyone, really. I've always assumed that, should I need to fight someone, my fighting skills will simply appear.

14. Chop down a tree.

I would never chop down a tree because I love them.

15. Calculate square footage.

I passed 6th grade math, so I think I'm good here.

16. Tie a bow tie.

Shit.

17. Make one drink, in large batches, very well.

Does crack juice count?

18. Speak a foreign language.

Does pig latin count?

19. Approach a woman out of his league.

Hmm, I'm beginning to see why this article doesn't really apply to me.

20. Sew a button.

Uh-oh.

To be continued (unless I forget). Anyway, how did you guys stack up?

can you tell me why you have been so-o-o-o-o saa-aaa-aaad?

Today sucks, you guys. Remember a long time ago (on a blog far, far away) when I explained why Tuesday was the worst day of the week? Well. Allow me to explain again, because I'm too lazy to go back and find that post. See, Monday automatically blows, because it's Monday and you're tired (well, I'm tired) and cranky and busy catching up on work, but you EXPECT that from a Monday. Where do you think "looks like somebody's got a case of the Mondays," came from? Also, has anyone ever said that to you? Someone said it to me once and I punched them in the babymaker.

Anyway. Wednesday is sort of awesome because it's Hump Day, meaning the week is half over and also you get to say "hump" a lot. Thursday is almost Friday, which makes it easier to get through PLUS ALSO The Office is on. Friday IS Friday and most of the time I'm so happy on Friday, I'm all, "I want to have your babies, Friday." True story. Saturday and Sunday are self-explanatory, although Sunday sort of sucks because right around 6 o'clock is when the end-of-the-weekend depression starts sinking in. But it's still not enough to ruin the ENTIRE day.

Tuesday, however, oh Tuesday. Tuesday is just there. It's too blah to hate it with any real sort of passion and it drags on and on until I have to poke myself in the eyeballs just to stay awake.

Today sucks particularly hard, because not ONLY is it Tuesday, but I didn't work yesterday so it feels like Monday and so it's sort of like Monday and Tuesday have formed an unholy alliance and their main objective is to make me jump out the window. I did accomplish a lot this weekend, though. I wrote some articles, helped my grandma and great-aunt turn 70 (they didn't need much help, it turns out), drank a lot of beer and wine, ate my weight in cookout food, read two books and ONE OF THEM I read in less than 24 hours (my skills, do they frighten you?), made some new friends, and Heidi and I finally beat Rayman. When we finished it, I wandered around the apartment for a while, wondering what to do with myself because it felt like my life's goal had finally been reached. I considered making a new life goal, like climbing Mt. Everest or something, but instead I just started another book. I'm trying to push this other book out of my mind, partly because I HATED IT but mostly because, between that book and a conversation I had over the weekend, I have not been able to turn off my brain. Seriously, it won't shut up. Which meant I couldn't sleep last night which means I'm way tired and all THIS means that today sucks. And now we have come full circle. The circle of suck. It's beautiful, yes?

bright light, bright light!

Much like how you shouldn't feed a mogwai after midnight, I should not be allowed to make decisions after midnight, especially when I've been drinking. Last night, Steve, Heidi, and I were playing Wii and I was coming down from a half-day wine binge, meaning I replaced wine with beer. After a bit of playing (and cursing . . . loudly), someone knocked on the door. Thinking it was someone knocking on the wrong door, we ignored it, but then they knocked again. I went downstairs, peeked out the peephole, and saw a harmless looking (read: drunk) girl standing on our porch. I opened the door a crack and was all, "yes?" and then, you guys . . . WOW.

Girl: Hi! Oh my god, are you guys having a party?
Me: No . . . we're playing Wii.
Girl: Oh my god, THEY'RE PLAYING Wii!
Me: Um . . .
Girl: I'm Nicole.
Me: Hi, Nicole, I'm Jennie.
Nicole: Oh my god, you seem so awesome . . . can we be friends?
Me: Sure!
Nicole: Oh my god, awesome. I live downtown but I'm visiting some friends next door to you.
Me: Oh, are you having fun?
Nicole: Not really. But you seem really awesome.
Me: Well, I'm not gonna lie to you. I AM really awesome.
Nicole: Hahaha, oh my god. I'm Nicole, by the way.
Me: I know, I remember from the first time.
Nicole: Oh my god, you seem so awesome. Like . . . you just seem awesome.
Me: OK . . .

Then she introduced me to three of her friends who were also wandering around outside. I don't remember any of their names, but the guy with the Bullwinkle shirt was carrying around a case of beer. And I didn't want to seem like a bad host (?), so I invited them all up to play Wii with us. I know it sounds ridiculous that I invited a bunch of random strangers into our apartment, but they looked harmless and I can never resist making drunk-one-time-friends with people. Actually, I just wanted them to help us beat the harder levels of Rayman AND THEY TOTALLY DID. It was great, they did all the work and I just sat there drinking beer. If you ask me, that's the only way to play Wii.

It’s so watery. And yet there’s a smack of ham to it.

Yesterday afternoon, while I was sitting around at work, waiting for someone to tell me I could go home early, I opened Google Reader to find that Kat had shared a recipe.

Sidenote: if that sentence didn't make sense, it's because you're not using Google Reader and if you're not using Google Reader, I have to ask, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

Anyway, this is the recipe: Wiener Water Soup. Yes, you read that correctly. Wiener Water Soup. It gets even funnier when you read the ingredients:

1 pkg. wieners
3 c. water

And it gets even FUNNIER when you read the instructions:

Combine wieners and water in a two quart saucepan. Bring to a boil until wieners are cooked. Throw the wieners in the garbage. Serve soup. Serves 3.

You guys, I'm not kidding, when I read this, I had to take a moment. I laughed so hard, I was crying and I was terrified, TERRIFIED, that someone would walk past my office, because I had my head down on my desk and I was clutching my stomach because OH, THE LAUGHTER, IT HURTS! Even now, as I sit here by myself on the sofa, I am laughing SO HARD. Every time I think of it, I start laughing. WIENER WATER SOUP. Something about the combination of those words makes me LOSE MY FREAKING MIND. AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Ahem. I'm going to try to compose myself. So, soon after the Wiener Water Soup (HAHAHAHAHA) episode, someone came around and was all, "you guys can leave at 4," and that's all I needed to hear. I called Heidi on my way out, because I am an asshole who likes to rub my good fortune RIGHT IN YOUR FACE. We talked a while about the Wiener Water Soup, but the topic soon shifted quite a bit:

Me: I have to go pick up my anti-baby pills.
Heidi: Yeah, that's important.
Me: Do you think if I talked to the doctor, she'd give me a hysterectomy?
Heidi: Um, no, I don't think if you talked to the doctor, she'd give you a hysterectomy.
Me: Fine, then I'll go get one in Mexico.
Heidi: Good idea. But what happens in ten years when you decide you want kids?
Me: Ew. And anyway, I'll just freeze some eggs.
Heidi: OK. Are you just gonna go down there and be like, "hey, you on the side of the road, are you a doctor?"
Me: Yes. As long as he has a van.
Heidi: Hahaha.
Me: "His van was so clean!"
Heidi: "He used Purell!"
Me: "And I saw him wash his hands, WHAT MORE DO I NEED?"
Heidi: This is foolproof.
Me: Indeed. On that note, I'm gonna go.

True story. Only I probably won't go to Mexico to get a hysterectomy. Because, duh, I'd go to Canada.

don't drink the Kool-Aid

The first time my great-aunt Marion came to a big family function (Thanksgiving or Christmas or something, I don't know, because I wasn't even close to being born yet ANYWAY), she went into the kitchen and very kindly asked my Grandma Sensenbaugh (say that ten times fast) what she could do to help. My great-grandmother looked at her and said, with an incomparable mix of sarcasm and grace, I imagine, "you can stir the Kool-Aid."

Over the years, (great) Grandma gradually began to trust Aunt Marion with more complicated cooking tasks, but not before "stirring the Kool-Aid," became a family joke. To this day, the person with the least amount of cooking talent is told, "you can stir the Kool-Aid," should they FOOLISHLY attempt to help with the cooking. Although, we don't drink as much Kool-Aid as we do WINE, so maybe we should change it to, "you can pour the wine."

Tomorrow, my parents and aunts and uncles are throwing a 70th birthday party for my Grandma Carolyn. Her twin sister (Marilyn, hee) will be there ALL THE WAY FROM CALIFORNIA because, strangely enough, it's her 70th birthday, too. I think you'll agree that the most important thing is that I'll be there. After all, someone needs to stir the Kool-Aid.

wonder suicide

You guys know how I'm a Wonder Killer, right? If not, look above this post and FEAST YOUR EYES on the banner (thanks, Kat). For, LO, that banner, it dost speaketh the truth.

You probably have your own Wonder Killer. You ask a simple question, like, "I wonder if George Clooney misses his pig?" and Wonder Killer is all, "Yes, he misses his pig quite a bit, actually. Sometimes he writes his pig letters and sends them to Heaven." Or you say, "I wonder if zombies will one day inherit the earth," and Wonder Killer pipes in with, "duh, it hath been foretold for a great many years."

Before any of us could start volunteering with grieving children, we were trained very, very carefully not to tell these kids what to do or ask them outright questions. Instead we use "I Wonder" statements. Like, if the kid is hanging from the ceiling fan, instead of screaming, "GET THE HELL DOWN, DO YOU WANT TO BREAK YOUR NECK?" you'd calmly say, "I wonder if hanging from the ceiling fan is a good idea?" You'd be surprised at how effective this is. It's like you can see the kid's thought process. I imagine it goes something like this: Hmm, I wonder it IS a good idea to hang from the ceiling fan? It sure is fun. I love hanging from stuff. Trees. Monkey bars. And definitely hanging from this ceiling fan. Why isn't she yelling at me? My mom would yell at me. If she's not gonna yell, what's the point? This isn't fun anymore, I'm getting down.

Similarly, it's not like we're going to start asking the kids stuff like, "So, were you angry when your dad died?" Because DAMN, what kid isn't going to completely clam up when faced with a question like that? Instead, we're supposed to pose it like this: "I wonder if anyone was angry when so-and-so died?" It sounds completely ridiculous, I know, but it works. Usually, we're all sitting around coloring or whatever, so if no one says anything, it's not a big deal, and if they DO want to say something . . . it's not an intimidating situation, and usually they keep talking with minimal encouragement.

The problem with these "I Wonder" statements is they're getting into my head. Not only have I become a bit of a Wonderer OUT LOUD, but my every thought is, "I wonder if I should go running tonight?" or "I wonder if I keep talking to this person, my head will explode?" I CAN'T STOP. I have to wonder kill my own wonder EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY and you know what? I'm exhausted.

I think green is kind of whorish.

It was poor planning on my part (story of my life) that led to me running frantically around Meijer at ten o'clock last night holding onto an ice cream cake FOR DEAR LIFE. After volunteering, where we ran out of pizza because HOLY HELL growing boys eat a lot, I ran through Wendy's, went home and ate it, and then remembered that I was in charge of a birthday luncheon today. Eff. I went to Kroger to buy chicken salad and an ice cream cake but Kroger didn't have any ice cream cake. By this time, Dairy Queen was closed and I thought about going to Coldstone, but I couldn't remember if they were open and to be honest? I don't like my coworkers enough to get them an ice cream cake from Coldstone. So off to Meijer I went. I said a little prayer as I walked toward the bakery and cursed the birthday girl for wanting an ice cream cake. Didn't she know I'd wait until the last minute, when no places that sell all sorts of ice cream cakes would be open? At least if she'd picked like . . . chocolate cake, I could have (theoretically) baked it myself. But an ice cream cake? I can barely get ice cream out of the carton without spilling it all over myself, so making an ice cream cake was out of the question.

By the time I got home and put all the groceries away, I barely had the energy to put on my pajamas and flop into bed to catch the tail end of The Office (I heart you, TBS). Surprisingly, I fell asleep right away and didn't wake up until the geese started honking outside this morning. "I wonder why it sounds like they're right next to my window," I thought, and the answer is because they WERE right next to my window. As I walked out to my car, I noticed one of the geese on the roof, honking at a goose on the ground. I think they were either playing King of the Mountain or Red Light/Green Light. Maybe Simon Says. Mother May I?

This has been a long, hard (heh) week and I don't really know why, but I do know if the geese don't STFU already, I'm buying a BB gun.

"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before."

I spent most of last night brooding, stopping every now and then to make a loud declaration of some sort while Heidi and Kelly stared at me and then went back to their conversation. It's hard to hear something about yourself that NOT ONLY do you know in the back of your mind is more than a little bit true, but it's also something that you don't so much like about yourself.

I've always been somewhat shy and slow to open up to anyone. Surrounded by new people, I fight the urge to Mr. Darcy myself in a corner somewhere with my arms folded, looking cross. It's something I struggle with in any new situation and even when I DO manage to push Mr. Darcy out of the way, I'm afraid I go a little Chandler Bing instead, throwing jokes around and deflecting personal questions with a mix of sarcasm and self-deprecation. And when THAT doesn't work, I morph into some strange creature that can only speak in movie quotes or relate everything to a TV show. I'm all, "remember that episode of Friends?" which I can only imagine is very annoying when all someone asked me was my name.

But . . . um, remember that episode of Grey's Anatomy? (Hee.) Burke and Cristina are sitting in the car and he's all, "You don't ask a lot of personal questions . . . and you're very hard to get to know," and she's like, "Yeah . . . your point?" I thought, "Hey, I don't ask a lot of personal questions . . . and I'M very hard to get to know," and I'm beginning to realize that maybe that's OK.

Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try!

I don't know if it was the heels I wore Saturday night or all the dancing, or some combination of the two, but my legs feel like I ran about 12 marathons, all in a row. Every time I stand up, I do an old lady limp before my calves loosen up for me to walk like a normal person. The good part about this is I'm planning on using my pathetic, sore legs as an excuse not to go running tonight. Score!

I did manage to remove all the bobby pins from my hair last night. There weren't 87 of them, like I originally thought, only about 30. I took before and after pictures, for your enjoyment. Because if I don't post embarrassing pictuers of myself on the Internets, who will?

Before:



After:



Heidi said I looked like Albert Einstein, but I think I look more like a Dr. Seuss character. But! I forgot to tell you about the bartender at the wedding. When we got to the country club, I immediately went to check out the bar (what?) and when I saw the bartender, I ran back over to everyone else and was all, "OHMYGODYOUGUYS, go look at the bartender! LOOK LOOK LOOK!" and they did and then looked back at me like, "wtf are you so excited about, psycho?" and I said, "THE BARTENDER LOOKS JUST LIKE ALBERT EINSTEIN OH MY GOD," because he DID look just like Albert Einstein. As if the hot dog bar weren't enough, Nancy and Wayne managed to resurrect Uncle Albert. Best. Wedding. Ever.

D is for delightful, and try and keep your trousers on

I had my hair professionally done for the wedding (reception, whatever) yesterday. It's still up. Yes, I still have wedding hair. I'm trying to work up the strength to take it down, because there are approximately 87 bobby pins in my hair right now. Also, probably an entire can of hair spray.

I know I had a really, really good time because I did not take a single picture. Not even of the hot dog bar. The only time I forget to take pictures is when I am having a ridiculously good time. Well, and sometimes I'm too lazy to get my camera out and ANYWAY, everyone else took a million and a half pictures so I'll just steal those. Good plan.

The party ended around 2 last night, we caught the shuttle to our hotel, and then we broke open the wine that the bride and groom left in our room (party favor) and stayed up until I don't know when. I woke up this morning to the hotel phone ringing. I croaked a hello and whoever it was said, "oh, wrong room," AND THEN the phone rang again later and I was all, "what?" and they said, "oh, were you sleeping?" It was weird. Then it rang two more times and I picked up the phone and hung up without saying anything. At the time, I thought the lobby was just calling the wrong room, but now I'm wondering if it was one of our hotel neighbors getting their revenge for us being loud and obnoxious when we got back last night.

THEN, I had to get up and look presentable for brunch at 10 AM. It was rough. After brunch, I had a family function and that is why I still have wedding hair. I'm sorry this made no sense, but I am way tired and need about a week to recuperate. The end.

Damn you, Andy Bernard!

My thoughts on The Office: WHAT A TEASE. Also. OH MY GOD DWANGELA.

That is all. Last night, I got to work getting stuff ready for this weekend. This WEDDING weekend, if you will. Only minus the wedding. You see, Nancy and Wayne (Wancy) are already married, so Saturday is just the reception. Jimmy Buffett might be there. Probably not though. But there's a VERY SLIGHT CHANCE.

After I went running and sort of packed but not really, I remembered that, although a professional is in charge of my hair, I have to do my own makeup on Saturday. Yikes. So I decided to do a test run, but I probably should not have had all that wine beforehand. I know absolutely nothing about applying makeup, so I'm hoping that on Saturday someone takes pity on me and just does it for me. That would be ideal. If not, I might end up looking like a clown or, you know, not wearing any makeup at all.

Unfortunately, I was told there WILL be chicken-dancing at the reception, but that's a small price to pay for the HOT DOG BAR. You guys, I wish I could tell you just how excited I am to see this thing. I'll probably take more pictures of that than anything else. Well, depending on how big it is. That's what she said. I'm a little worried about my dress, though. It's strapless, and even though I'll be zipped up so tight in it I might not be able to breathe, I'm afraid someone is going to trip and grab my dress and BOOM there I've gone and flashed the entire room. I'm not ready for that kind of exposure.

Anyway, my bridesmaid duties begin at 6 o'clock sharp (ok, sharpish) this evening and don't end until Sunday at noon, at which point I'll be heading to my cousin's confirmation party, so I'll be away from my computer ALL WEEKEND. I'm starting to hyperventilate a little just thinking about it. I thought about trying to bring my laptop so I could hang out with the internet while we were getting ready and stuff, but I think Nancy might kill me. My plans to bring a book were already thwarted, but I'm sneaking one anyway:

Me: Do you think Nancy'd be mad if I brought a book on Saturday?
Heidi: Um, yes?
Me: Really?
Heidi: . . . uh, YEAH, I think she'd be pissed if you read a book at her reception.
Me: Nooooo, not at the RECEPTION, just like while we're getting ready.
Heidi: Ooooooh.
Me: Yeah, just look for me at the corner table behind the hot dog bar . . . I'll be the one with my nose stuck in a book.
Heidi: That would not be good.
Me: No, but you think I can bring a book to read during the day?
Heidi: Oh. Yeah, you'd better not.
Me: But . . .
Heidi: No.

Happy weekend, Internets.

I'm either still asleep or hallucinating, I can't decide

This has been the strangest week. I mean, I saw the Mystery Machine at the gas station the other day and then yesterday, a company wide email went out that said Heater from The Dayton Dragons was coming to our office. Heater is the mascot. He's a dragon. And he wears a baseball uniform. Like the Dragons. The Dragons are not dragons, though. To my knowledge. They don't look like dragons, just regular, men-like, baseball playing types.

Earlier this morning, I heard such snippets of conversation as, "I'm gonna hug the dragon," and "I'll call you when the dragon gets here," and then! Someone yelled, "he's here!" and my boss? She went running out of her office to meet him. RUNNING. I eventually wandered out to the hallway to find this guy:



walking through the lobby, my co-workers gathered around him like he was Figment or something. Which, pfft. Please. Figment would HANDS DOWN kick Heater's ass. And then do a victory dance. And then fly away in his rocketship (duh).

She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.

If I call you very often, then you know I leave never-ending, rambling messages. I try to leave normal messages for people I don't know very well yet (because I want them to, you know, WANT to talk to me) but the people I've known for a long time get to listen to me babble to their voicemail, usually until the lady cuts me off. Heidi knows this better than anyone. For instance, yesterday I called her after work to tell her I was going to the library. Because I was afraid if she got home from work and I wasn't already sitting on the sofa reading, she'd think I got kidnapped by gorillas or something. And don't tell me gorillas would never kidnap me. They're planning something, I just know it.

Anyway, here is the message I left her:

Heeeey, it's me. OH MY GOD, so I just got gas and guess what? Well, first of all, it cost me $40 to fill up my teeny tiny car and THAT'S NOT FAIR. $3.95 for gas? WHAT THE HELL? Anyway, so I was pulling into the gas station and I saw THE MYSTERY MACHINE. THE FREAKING MYSTERY MACHINE. I thought Scooby Doo was gonna jump out, but he didn't. Oh, so I'm on my way to the library because I'm almost done with my book and I can't remember if I have any books I haven't read yet, so clearly I need to get some from the library. I hope my fine isn't too big. It's OK if it is, though. I don't mind paying my library fines and you know why? Because then they can buy more books. And that benefits the entire city, really. I'm such a good person. My irresponsibility means the library can buy more books and then I can read the books and then I can take the books back late and then I can pay my fine and then THEY CAN BUY MORE BOOKS. So, I'm going to the library, I'll see you at home, OK BYE.

That is almost word for word, I think. Heidi is much better at getting to the point. Here was the message she left me in response:

YOU DON'T NEED ANY MORE BOOKS. GET OUT OF THE LIBRARY.

What she doesn't know is, yuh-huh, I do SO need more books, because the other day I stumbled upon THIS LIST and realized with shame, shame, SHAAAAAAME, how few of them I had read. And so I printed the first 50, thinking I'd be able to find at least a couple of them at the library and wouldn't you know it? I found the first four (although, I'd already read one, SCORE) and so I'm starting with #1, Never Let Me Go and I'll tell you what. I could not put that book down last night and I stayed up far too late reading it and I am really sleepy right now, but I don't care. I thought about calling in sick today so I could stay home and read (also because it's raining), but decided against it in case my boss found out and fired me for being a slacker a-hole. After all, I need this job so I can pay my library fines.

Internets, I wish I could quit you

Hey, remember when I said I was quitting my blog? Well, I lied. Sort of. I quit my old blog. I don't know why, really. I mean, I had reasons (they were threefold) that I came up with after the fact, but the truth is, I quit because I thought, "hmm, what would happen if I quit?" and it turns out . . . nothing would happen if I quit.

Since I really like starting new projects (and then forgetting about them), I thought I'd start a new blog. Plus, I was bored. ALSO. My old blog was over FOUR YEARS OLD. That's old! For the internet. I mean, if I had a four-year-old child, I wouldn't just quit it and leave it out in the woods somewhere to fend for itself. Probably. I know it's been less than a week since I "quit" blogging, but not blogging is seriously driving me crazy. Because, and I don't know if anyone remembers this, but a long, long time ago I told Abigail and Kat that the reason I blogged so much is because my mind is like a snake bite. And writing is like sucking out the poison (words). I don't know. It makes a lot more sense in my head.

I'm not doing that crazy thing where I try to blog every day anymore, because what the hell was I thinking? My blog-quitting coincided with reading Bird by Bird, which sort of smacked me on the head a bunch of times and said "WRITE, DAMMIT, WRITE," and so I've been making myself write at least 300 words a day. Like in story form, not just the same word 300 times. Although, if I did write the same word over and over 300 times, I'd probably pick "douchebag." But blogging does not count toward 300 words. It's way easy to write a 300 word blog, because I don't have to worry about it making sense, but 300 words of a story takes a hell of a lot longer. And requires more concentration. But I've been enforcing this 300-word rule for a few days now, and it's going pretty well. I've even been writing over 300 words. Hopefully, I can stick with it. After all, one day I'd like to have more than just How To articles published.

So, yes. I'm a big liar, but at least I'm not a quitter. I could never quit you guys, anyway. Stuff keeps happening and I'm all, "must . . . tell . . . Internets." Plus, I'm going to this wedding on Saturday and there's going to be a hot dog bar and a popcorn machine and a band wearing cheerleader uniforms and let's face it, there are going to be stories. LEGENDARY stories. And I don't think I would ever forgive myself if I didn't tell everyone I know about the magic of this hot dog bar.