HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WRONGGIRL!
In honor of this special occasion, I did what I had to do. That's right! I wrote another poem for you! Here ya go:
Dearest Becky,
Today's your special day
The day you entered the world
In a most unusual way
Imagine a UPS truck driving through an inner tube
That's what you did to your mother
Before suckling from her boob
Since then, many years have past
And with any luck
This will not be your last
I, for one, am happy you're here
Hope you have a great day
And a terrific year!
Happy Birthday!
* * * * *
I told Becky years ago that I would write an LJ post about her, and since she finally bought me the Jamba Juice she promised me around the same time (and it being her birthday and all), I've decided to make good on my word and write an entire post entirely about Becky (in other words: totally boring).
Anatomy of a Failed Courtship (Hoser-Style)
This is how bad my memory is: A couple weeks ago, Becky and I were talking about the first time we met. I couldn't actually remember when that was or what the circumstances were, so she had to fill me in on the details. Unfortunately, for the life of me, I can't remember what she said.
However, one of my earliest memories of Becky was at Big Gay Nick's birthday party at some bar somewhere. Or something. I can't really remember. Anyway, the circumstances are kind of foggy, but strangely enough, I can recall my encounter with Becky that night as if it were yesterday. (Hmm...what did happen yesterday?)
I was sitting on a stool in the corner of the bar, drinking a vodka-cranberry (I had not yet discovered the joy that is The Champagne of Beers). Becky, wearing a strangely alluring gold sparkly shirt of some sort, wandered over to where I was sitting, held up a glass of Sangria, and asked if I was drinking the same.
"Nope," I said, holding up my libation, "Vodka-Cran."
At this point, she began to question my manhood. I thought that was a pretty bold move for someone who hardly knew me, so I asked how many drinks she'd had. She held up two fingers, and I, sensing the opportunity to impress her with wit and charm (neither of which I possess), leaned back in my chair a little, cocked my head playfully to the side, and said: "Two? Or too many?"
I probably would never have seen her again were it not for the fact that she was very good friends with my roommate at the time,
Melanie, and they were both raging alcoholics. They drank every night. I was unemployed at the time and had no excuse not to join them.
Over the course of many drunk evenings, I became somewhat infatuated with Becky. Trying to pin down a reason was difficult. Sure, she was cute and bubbly and fun and endlessly entertaining, but there was also a certain je ne sais quoi that drove me crazy. Desperate to discover what this certain "something" was, I set about "getting to know her better" by asking her a bunch of deep questions, the answers to which would reveal priceless insight into who she was as an individual, except that I kept forgetting what her answers were before the night was even over. One such question, however, and the resulting conversation, has stuck with me ever since:
Hoser: "How old were you when you found out there was no such thing as Santa?"
Becky: "I'm Jewish; my parents didn't lie to me."
Hoser: "You're Jewish?!"
Becky: "Uh-huh."
Hoser: "No way! So you don't celebrate Christmas?"
Becky: "Nope."
Hoser: "Wow. So you don't celebrate Easter then either, huh?"
Becky: "Nooo."
Hoser: [thinks really hard] "...what about Thanksgiving?"
Becky: Yeah, of course.
Hoser: "Okay, okay! Uh, I got one: what about...July 4th?"
I don't know why I was so obsessed with the fact that Becky was Jewish, but I was. My interest level at this point was such that I had to make a move--and by make a move, I mean going to the one person who I can always count on to give me advice that, if followed, will make me look like a douche:
That's right. The Douche.
Douche: "So you like her. Okay, fine. What do you want to do?"
Hoser: "I don't know. Make out with her face, probably. Possibly dry-hump her."
Douche: "Well don't tell me! Tell her!"
Hoser: "What? What I just said?"
Douche: "Yeah. Honesty is always the best policy."
CUT TO:
Hoser: "I just wanna make out with your face and possibly dry-hump you."
Becky: "That's...nice."
My feelings were pretty much out in the open at that point. The only thing I needed to do to make them official was put them down in writing, which I eventually did, in the form of a Friendster Testimonial that went a little something like this:
I have often proclaimed, both publicly
and privately, that I am very much
interested in making out with Becky's
face and possibly dry-humping her while
we're both fully clothed. It's also
worth mentioning that even though she's
a Jew, and I'm a Gentile, we get along
just fine--and if that doesn't bring a
smile to your face, well, then you
probably don't have a face.
Speaking of faces, did I mention I want
to make out with Becky's?
I found out later that her boyfriend read that and wanted to know who I was (presumably to kick my ass). Oh, did I not mention that? Yeah, she had a boyfriend from the very first time I met her. It was a long distance thing though, so I always thought there was a chance that something could happen. At the very least, it made for entertaining banter:
Hoser: "Would you ever cheat on your boyfriend?"
Becky: "Never."
Hoser: "If you guys were broken up, would you do me?"
Becky: "That's a pointless question; we're not breaking up."
Hoser: "How 'bout this? How 'bout you call your boyfriend and tell him that you need to break up with him for the next hour, we'll do stuff, then you can get back together."
Becky: "You wouldn't last an hour with me."
Hoser: "Oh no, of course not! I was actually budgeting about 58 minutes to convince you to have sex with me--two minutes for the actual act."
Becky: [picks up her phone] "Wow. That is a really tempting offer...but no."
Despite the fact that she had a boyfriend who she seemed very much in love with at the time, I was not ready to give up the dream. I went back to The Douche for more words of wisdom:
Douche: "I got three words for you, man: Cyrano de Bergerac."
Hoser: "Who the hell is--oh! Is that that guy with the big nose and stupid hat?"
Douche: "Uh...yeah. But more importantly, he's the ugly guy who wooed with words."
Hoser: "...but didn't he filter those words through a good-looking proxy?"
Douche: "He may have."
Hoser: "You've lost me, Douche. What are you saying?"
Douche: "I'm saying...write her a poem. Chicks dig that shit."
Fancying myself a bit of poet, I went to work on a piece that I was sure would cause Becky to dump her boyfriend and fall hopelessly in love with me. When I was finished, I drove to her house and slipped it in her mail-slot (Ahem. The poem, that is).
Upon retrieving her mail that day, she was faced with this:
ODE TO JEW (YES, YOU)
The sad thing about most girls--regardless of religion or race
Is that they’re rarely more than just a pretty face
And those that do have a personality to share
Are usually fat and ugly, with gobs of unsightly nipple hair
At times, I feel that I’ll just never find the perfect girl
A mate for life, an oyster to my pearl
My friends tell me to give it a rest
And just settle for someone with an IQ of 10 and perfect breasts
I tell them that an incredible girl exists, that they haven’t met
And when they tell me to put my money where my mouth is, I know I’ll win the bet
Because there is a girl who deserves to be held
A girl whose beauty and talent perfectly meld
Her name is Becky... Becky Hirschfeld
Her reaction to the poem was difficult to judge, so I initially denied having written it, but unfortunately for me (though fortunately for Becky) there was only one bearded freak running around San Francisco, sending her creepy poems; and everyone knew who that bearded freak was (Thomas Big Pine).
Eventually I had to let the dream die. Becky was happy with her boyfriend and, apparently, no amount of crass conversation or creepy poem-writing was going to change that. Melanie moved out of the apartment at some point, and with her my access to Becky. I didn't see or hear from Becky for months. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, she called me...asking me for a 'favor'.
Typical chick. Only calls when she needs something.
Anyway, I said "yes" (of course, though I tried my best not to sound enthusiastic about it). She wanted me to help her move some stuff from her old apartment to her new house that she inherited when her grandmother passed away.
We talked a bit in the car between her apartment and the new house:
Hoser: "Why isn't your boyfriend helping you move?"
Becky: "I don't have a boyfriend."
Hoser: "Since when?!"
Becky: "Few months."
Hoser: "Uh, hello?! This is HUGE NEWS! Why didn't you tell me?!"
Becky: "Eh."
Hoser: "Question: How long have I wanted to make out with your face?"
Becky: "Long time."
Hoser: "Surely you can appreciate, then, how this information would be of interest to me!"
Becky: "Eh. You sure you can move that TV all by yourself? It's pretty heavy."
Her new house is absolutely amazing. It sits on top of a hill called Grand View Park and boasts unobstructed, panoramic views of Golden Gate Park, the Pacific Ocean, and the entire Sunset district. I was so taken with the house that I proposed to her on the spot. Apparently I was like the fifth guy who has reacted in this manner upon being given a tour of her new place, so she wasn't very impressed. Given this fact, and given the fact that she was now single, I was forced to pen "Ode to Jew (Part Deux)" in yet another attempt to win her house heart.
Soon after I helped Becky move, the following poem arrived in her mail:
ODE TO JEW (PART DEUX)
If it means anything to you
I’m of the opinion you belong in a zoo
‘Cause you’re way more awesome than a kangaroo
And far more rare than a Boy named Sue
But everyone knows that a cow says ‘Moo’
And everyone knows these feelings aren’t new
Remember when I boldly declared, in 2002
How I wanted to make-out with your face and dry-hump you?
Of course you do-and you did then, too
But still you pretended like you never knew
Through not one boyfriend or two
But a whole fuckin’ slew
So here it is, your final clue:
The ocean is amazing, so lovely and blue
I come over to your house just to admire the view
But I’m not looking at the ocean-I’m looking at you
It's True, Jew. It's True
Now, if I succeed, and make you my boo
Here are just a few of the things I would do:
If you were sick with a cold, or maybe the flu
I’d bring you a bowl of hot kosher stew
I'd pity da foo' who laid a hand on you
Then watch you kick his ass with a little Jew-jitsu
I would be rubber and you could be glue
Just remember to say nice things to me/you
And even if you blew
I'd give each of your performances a glowing review
Hell, I'd speak Hebrew, if you wanted me to
These are the things I would do
For you, Jew. For you.
So when this extended courtship is through
And I’ve done all these super-nice things for you
We can drink brew, get drunk, and screw
Wind up at a non-denominational ceremony for two
Looking into each other’s eyes and saying “I do”
That’s the dream, and I hope it comes true
‘Cause there’s only one girl I’m trying to woo
It's You, Jew. It's You.
I don't have to tell you how much effort I put into that poem--you read it. I also don't have to tell you that it failed to make her swoon--you've read this whole post so far. I was seriously bummed and finally ready to throw in the towel when I recalled something another Jew said to me one time:
Naomi: "You're not Jewish."
Hoser: "Are you breaking up with me?"
Naomi: "Yes."
At this point, I deluded myself into believing that Becky's only hang-up with getting it on with me was the fact that I was a shagitz (or "non-Jewish male" for those of you who, like me, don't speak Yiddish). In one final, desperate attempt at making Becky mine, I set out to bridge the gap between our respective cultures by giving her a--wait for it--Jewish-themed Christmas present!
I was so confident that this idea would work, that I gave The Douche my camera to document the joyous occasion. I presented Becky with her present while The Douche snapped away--crouching, then standing, holding the camera vertically, horizontally, and every angle in between. After the fact, as a result of all his hard work, I was left with over one-hundred blurry photos on my digital camera (thanks, Douche!).
Here are the ones that (sorta) came out:
Hey, Douche! Are you getting this? This is gonna be great!
Merry Christmas! I mean Happy...12th day of Chanukah!
Douche [snapping photos]: "Becky, can I see some gleeful delight? Grrreat...awesome."
I wrapped it myself. I'm one of those 'domestimicated' guys.
Ooh, I'm so nervous! I hope she likes it!
I think she does!
See, it's different activities for all the Jewish holidays!
At last! She's putty in my hands...
Oops, did I say that out loud? And now you're laughing? Uh, yeah, that was a joke...hahaha!
Light the fuckin' Menorah, baby! It's Christmastime in Jew-ville!
* * * * *
I wish I could tell you that the looks of genuine surprise and gratitude on Becky's face in those pictures were real. But alas, she is an aspiring actress and all too good at her craft, I'm afraid. Shortly after these pictures were taken, I took her home. I watched her walk in the door...and walk out of my life.
And then I saw it: there, on the passenger-side floor of my car, was the present I had so lovingly bestowed upon her. She had simply cast it aside, like me, an object unworthy of her attention...
blah blah blah
This post has gotten way out of control (for reals!) and I am simply too tired to keep typing (or proofread or wrap things up with some kind of witty ending that will make you laugh or cry or both). If you read this whole thing, I am truly sorry!
Oh, and Becky, if you read this far: Give me a shot, for Christ's sake! Well...not for Christ's sake obviously. You're Jewish and that wouldn't work, but...Anyway, listen: if you're the wronggirl...I don't want to be right.
Believe that!
P.S. Fuckin' hell, that was long! My wrists are killing me! It might be awhile before the next post. If this upsets you, please blame Becky.
[EDIT: This is all true, but I also wrote it with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. Becky's not nearly as heartless as I make her out to be here (she "accidentally" left her present in my car, for instance). Please don't console me. However, please feel free to spam her journal with Birthday Wishes and "Give Thomas a Chance" messages.]
Dearest Becky,
Today's your special day
The day you entered the world
In a most unusual way
Imagine a UPS truck driving through an inner tube
That's what you did to your mother
Before suckling from her boob
Since then, many years have past
And with any luck
This will not be your last
I, for one, am happy you're here
Hope you have a great day
And a terrific year!
Happy Birthday!
* * * * *
I told Becky years ago that I would write an LJ post about her, and since she finally bought me the Jamba Juice she promised me around the same time (and it being her birthday and all), I've decided to make good on my word and write an entire post entirely about Becky (in other words: totally boring).
Anatomy of a Failed Courtship (Hoser-Style)
This is how bad my memory is: A couple weeks ago, Becky and I were talking about the first time we met. I couldn't actually remember when that was or what the circumstances were, so she had to fill me in on the details. Unfortunately, for the life of me, I can't remember what she said.
However, one of my earliest memories of Becky was at Big Gay Nick's birthday party at some bar somewhere. Or something. I can't really remember. Anyway, the circumstances are kind of foggy, but strangely enough, I can recall my encounter with Becky that night as if it were yesterday. (Hmm...what did happen yesterday?)
I was sitting on a stool in the corner of the bar, drinking a vodka-cranberry (I had not yet discovered the joy that is The Champagne of Beers). Becky, wearing a strangely alluring gold sparkly shirt of some sort, wandered over to where I was sitting, held up a glass of Sangria, and asked if I was drinking the same.
"Nope," I said, holding up my libation, "Vodka-Cran."
At this point, she began to question my manhood. I thought that was a pretty bold move for someone who hardly knew me, so I asked how many drinks she'd had. She held up two fingers, and I, sensing the opportunity to impress her with wit and charm (neither of which I possess), leaned back in my chair a little, cocked my head playfully to the side, and said: "Two? Or too many?"
I probably would never have seen her again were it not for the fact that she was very good friends with my roommate at the time,
Melanie, and they were both raging alcoholics. They drank every night. I was unemployed at the time and had no excuse not to join them.
Over the course of many drunk evenings, I became somewhat infatuated with Becky. Trying to pin down a reason was difficult. Sure, she was cute and bubbly and fun and endlessly entertaining, but there was also a certain je ne sais quoi that drove me crazy. Desperate to discover what this certain "something" was, I set about "getting to know her better" by asking her a bunch of deep questions, the answers to which would reveal priceless insight into who she was as an individual, except that I kept forgetting what her answers were before the night was even over. One such question, however, and the resulting conversation, has stuck with me ever since:
Hoser: "How old were you when you found out there was no such thing as Santa?"
Becky: "I'm Jewish; my parents didn't lie to me."
Hoser: "You're Jewish?!"
Becky: "Uh-huh."
Hoser: "No way! So you don't celebrate Christmas?"
Becky: "Nope."
Hoser: "Wow. So you don't celebrate Easter then either, huh?"
Becky: "Nooo."
Hoser: [thinks really hard] "...what about Thanksgiving?"
Becky: Yeah, of course.
Hoser: "Okay, okay! Uh, I got one: what about...July 4th?"
I don't know why I was so obsessed with the fact that Becky was Jewish, but I was. My interest level at this point was such that I had to make a move--and by make a move, I mean going to the one person who I can always count on to give me advice that, if followed, will make me look like a douche:
That's right. The Douche.
Douche: "So you like her. Okay, fine. What do you want to do?"
Hoser: "I don't know. Make out with her face, probably. Possibly dry-hump her."
Douche: "Well don't tell me! Tell her!"
Hoser: "What? What I just said?"
Douche: "Yeah. Honesty is always the best policy."
CUT TO:
Hoser: "I just wanna make out with your face and possibly dry-hump you."
Becky: "That's...nice."
My feelings were pretty much out in the open at that point. The only thing I needed to do to make them official was put them down in writing, which I eventually did, in the form of a Friendster Testimonial that went a little something like this:
I have often proclaimed, both publicly
and privately, that I am very much
interested in making out with Becky's
face and possibly dry-humping her while
we're both fully clothed. It's also
worth mentioning that even though she's
a Jew, and I'm a Gentile, we get along
just fine--and if that doesn't bring a
smile to your face, well, then you
probably don't have a face.
Speaking of faces, did I mention I want
to make out with Becky's?
I found out later that her boyfriend read that and wanted to know who I was (presumably to kick my ass). Oh, did I not mention that? Yeah, she had a boyfriend from the very first time I met her. It was a long distance thing though, so I always thought there was a chance that something could happen. At the very least, it made for entertaining banter:
Hoser: "Would you ever cheat on your boyfriend?"
Becky: "Never."
Hoser: "If you guys were broken up, would you do me?"
Becky: "That's a pointless question; we're not breaking up."
Hoser: "How 'bout this? How 'bout you call your boyfriend and tell him that you need to break up with him for the next hour, we'll do stuff, then you can get back together."
Becky: "You wouldn't last an hour with me."
Hoser: "Oh no, of course not! I was actually budgeting about 58 minutes to convince you to have sex with me--two minutes for the actual act."
Becky: [picks up her phone] "Wow. That is a really tempting offer...but no."
Despite the fact that she had a boyfriend who she seemed very much in love with at the time, I was not ready to give up the dream. I went back to The Douche for more words of wisdom:
Douche: "I got three words for you, man: Cyrano de Bergerac."
Hoser: "Who the hell is--oh! Is that that guy with the big nose and stupid hat?"
Douche: "Uh...yeah. But more importantly, he's the ugly guy who wooed with words."
Hoser: "...but didn't he filter those words through a good-looking proxy?"
Douche: "He may have."
Hoser: "You've lost me, Douche. What are you saying?"
Douche: "I'm saying...write her a poem. Chicks dig that shit."
Fancying myself a bit of poet, I went to work on a piece that I was sure would cause Becky to dump her boyfriend and fall hopelessly in love with me. When I was finished, I drove to her house and slipped it in her mail-slot (Ahem. The poem, that is).
Upon retrieving her mail that day, she was faced with this:
ODE TO JEW (YES, YOU)
The sad thing about most girls--regardless of religion or race
Is that they’re rarely more than just a pretty face
And those that do have a personality to share
Are usually fat and ugly, with gobs of unsightly nipple hair
At times, I feel that I’ll just never find the perfect girl
A mate for life, an oyster to my pearl
My friends tell me to give it a rest
And just settle for someone with an IQ of 10 and perfect breasts
I tell them that an incredible girl exists, that they haven’t met
And when they tell me to put my money where my mouth is, I know I’ll win the bet
Because there is a girl who deserves to be held
A girl whose beauty and talent perfectly meld
Her name is Becky... Becky Hirschfeld
Her reaction to the poem was difficult to judge, so I initially denied having written it, but unfortunately for me (though fortunately for Becky) there was only one bearded freak running around San Francisco, sending her creepy poems; and everyone knew who that bearded freak was (Thomas Big Pine).
Eventually I had to let the dream die. Becky was happy with her boyfriend and, apparently, no amount of crass conversation or creepy poem-writing was going to change that. Melanie moved out of the apartment at some point, and with her my access to Becky. I didn't see or hear from Becky for months. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, she called me...asking me for a 'favor'.
Typical chick. Only calls when she needs something.
Anyway, I said "yes" (of course, though I tried my best not to sound enthusiastic about it). She wanted me to help her move some stuff from her old apartment to her new house that she inherited when her grandmother passed away.
We talked a bit in the car between her apartment and the new house:
Hoser: "Why isn't your boyfriend helping you move?"
Becky: "I don't have a boyfriend."
Hoser: "Since when?!"
Becky: "Few months."
Hoser: "Uh, hello?! This is HUGE NEWS! Why didn't you tell me?!"
Becky: "Eh."
Hoser: "Question: How long have I wanted to make out with your face?"
Becky: "Long time."
Hoser: "Surely you can appreciate, then, how this information would be of interest to me!"
Becky: "Eh. You sure you can move that TV all by yourself? It's pretty heavy."
Her new house is absolutely amazing. It sits on top of a hill called Grand View Park and boasts unobstructed, panoramic views of Golden Gate Park, the Pacific Ocean, and the entire Sunset district. I was so taken with the house that I proposed to her on the spot. Apparently I was like the fifth guy who has reacted in this manner upon being given a tour of her new place, so she wasn't very impressed. Given this fact, and given the fact that she was now single, I was forced to pen "Ode to Jew (Part Deux)" in yet another attempt to win her house heart.
Soon after I helped Becky move, the following poem arrived in her mail:
ODE TO JEW (PART DEUX)
If it means anything to you
I’m of the opinion you belong in a zoo
‘Cause you’re way more awesome than a kangaroo
And far more rare than a Boy named Sue
But everyone knows that a cow says ‘Moo’
And everyone knows these feelings aren’t new
Remember when I boldly declared, in 2002
How I wanted to make-out with your face and dry-hump you?
Of course you do-and you did then, too
But still you pretended like you never knew
Through not one boyfriend or two
But a whole fuckin’ slew
So here it is, your final clue:
The ocean is amazing, so lovely and blue
I come over to your house just to admire the view
But I’m not looking at the ocean-I’m looking at you
It's True, Jew. It's True
Now, if I succeed, and make you my boo
Here are just a few of the things I would do:
If you were sick with a cold, or maybe the flu
I’d bring you a bowl of hot kosher stew
I'd pity da foo' who laid a hand on you
Then watch you kick his ass with a little Jew-jitsu
I would be rubber and you could be glue
Just remember to say nice things to me/you
And even if you blew
I'd give each of your performances a glowing review
Hell, I'd speak Hebrew, if you wanted me to
These are the things I would do
For you, Jew. For you.
So when this extended courtship is through
And I’ve done all these super-nice things for you
We can drink brew, get drunk, and screw
Wind up at a non-denominational ceremony for two
Looking into each other’s eyes and saying “I do”
That’s the dream, and I hope it comes true
‘Cause there’s only one girl I’m trying to woo
It's You, Jew. It's You.
I don't have to tell you how much effort I put into that poem--you read it. I also don't have to tell you that it failed to make her swoon--you've read this whole post so far. I was seriously bummed and finally ready to throw in the towel when I recalled something another Jew said to me one time:
Naomi: "You're not Jewish."
Hoser: "Are you breaking up with me?"
Naomi: "Yes."
At this point, I deluded myself into believing that Becky's only hang-up with getting it on with me was the fact that I was a shagitz (or "non-Jewish male" for those of you who, like me, don't speak Yiddish). In one final, desperate attempt at making Becky mine, I set out to bridge the gap between our respective cultures by giving her a--wait for it--Jewish-themed Christmas present!
I was so confident that this idea would work, that I gave The Douche my camera to document the joyous occasion. I presented Becky with her present while The Douche snapped away--crouching, then standing, holding the camera vertically, horizontally, and every angle in between. After the fact, as a result of all his hard work, I was left with over one-hundred blurry photos on my digital camera (thanks, Douche!).
Here are the ones that (sorta) came out:
Hey, Douche! Are you getting this? This is gonna be great!
Merry Christmas! I mean Happy...12th day of Chanukah!
Douche [snapping photos]: "Becky, can I see some gleeful delight? Grrreat...awesome."
I wrapped it myself. I'm one of those 'domestimicated' guys.
Ooh, I'm so nervous! I hope she likes it!
I think she does!
See, it's different activities for all the Jewish holidays!
At last! She's putty in my hands...
Oops, did I say that out loud? And now you're laughing? Uh, yeah, that was a joke...hahaha!
Light the fuckin' Menorah, baby! It's Christmastime in Jew-ville!
* * * * *
I wish I could tell you that the looks of genuine surprise and gratitude on Becky's face in those pictures were real. But alas, she is an aspiring actress and all too good at her craft, I'm afraid. Shortly after these pictures were taken, I took her home. I watched her walk in the door...and walk out of my life.
And then I saw it: there, on the passenger-side floor of my car, was the present I had so lovingly bestowed upon her. She had simply cast it aside, like me, an object unworthy of her attention...
blah blah blah
This post has gotten way out of control (for reals!) and I am simply too tired to keep typing (or proofread or wrap things up with some kind of witty ending that will make you laugh or cry or both). If you read this whole thing, I am truly sorry!
Oh, and Becky, if you read this far: Give me a shot, for Christ's sake! Well...not for Christ's sake obviously. You're Jewish and that wouldn't work, but...Anyway, listen: if you're the wronggirl...I don't want to be right.
Believe that!
P.S. Fuckin' hell, that was long! My wrists are killing me! It might be awhile before the next post. If this upsets you, please blame Becky.
[EDIT: This is all true, but I also wrote it with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. Becky's not nearly as heartless as I make her out to be here (she "accidentally" left her present in my car, for instance). Please don't console me. However, please feel free to spam her journal with Birthday Wishes and "Give Thomas a Chance" messages.]