listen to my pooptastic week.
Let's start with me working myself up into a tizzy of retardation over the bookface with Roo on Thursday. Twitching and falling out of our seats both of us. I was playing Ludacris at an inappropriate volume while doing this at my reception desk at work. Although to be fair, I have been working myself up all week. I think it's sleep deprivation. I was all sweating and fidgety on ROBAXACETS earlier in the week. ROBAXACETS.
So, did you know you can fit two beers in a Powerade bottle? You can. I started drinking as soon as I got home. I walked Bowie with my Powerale, and then went to the theatre where my date was like really late. I talked to a dude I knew from a while back, I guess it was necessary for the sake of politeness but basically--totally unnecessary. I can't wait to stop telling people I "work in advertising". I'm a doll, ok? I sit there. That's it.
When we left the theatre, we always see the strip clubs all over that street and we always talk about them. I always ask the same question that I know the answer to. This time he told me about a Mexican stripper, sorry, ex-stripper, who he met somehow and who never called him. He said I call him, but not her. Weird? Then he goes on about how she's hot, and I'd think she's hot, and they're going for coffee next week. OoooK.
My brother's advice? He says, dude is keeping his options open, and making that very clear (to you). You're not special, Gin. Sry. Wut? Judy says men play games. Then the guy texts me a coupla times, and the following day he calls me from his parents' land line out in the land of no cell phone reception to talk about his weekend with his family and driving his deaf grandma around, personal shit. I was not calling, emailing or texting at this point, but I did figure I'd do some shit for his birthday, like other than make out with other people. But wait, my weekend gets better.
Yesterday, fucking yesterday, I drag my ass up to the Cremazie Canadian Tire for a pair of goddamn motherfucking Multi-Terrain Skates. They're huge and boxy and look 100% retarded. They're also cheap ass crappy and a hundred dollars. I buy them, because I am a moron, and as soon as I have them on my feet for FIVE minutes they explode into a gajillion pieces and I eat shit, or I eat shit and they explode into a gajillion pieces. Now I have to go aaaaaalllll the way back there to argue with them. I hate everything.
Since I'm awesome I got reservations at birthday boy's favorite restaurant and made a beef baby. Then we came back to mine and busted a rubber and made a real one. I finished my donated Ativan in order to get to sleep, I was so looking forward to those THREE fricking hours. Aaaaand set my alarm for 6 pm. BUT, I managed to take Bowie out (mais brièvement, and she didn't exactly get fed, either), get schooled, get Plan B'ed and make it here only five minutes late. What does the future hold? Not wondering.
So, did you know you can fit two beers in a Powerade bottle? You can. I started drinking as soon as I got home. I walked Bowie with my Powerale, and then went to the theatre where my date was like really late. I talked to a dude I knew from a while back, I guess it was necessary for the sake of politeness but basically--totally unnecessary. I can't wait to stop telling people I "work in advertising". I'm a doll, ok? I sit there. That's it.
When we left the theatre, we always see the strip clubs all over that street and we always talk about them. I always ask the same question that I know the answer to. This time he told me about a Mexican stripper, sorry, ex-stripper, who he met somehow and who never called him. He said I call him, but not her. Weird? Then he goes on about how she's hot, and I'd think she's hot, and they're going for coffee next week. OoooK.
My brother's advice? He says, dude is keeping his options open, and making that very clear (to you). You're not special, Gin. Sry. Wut? Judy says men play games. Then the guy texts me a coupla times, and the following day he calls me from his parents' land line out in the land of no cell phone reception to talk about his weekend with his family and driving his deaf grandma around, personal shit. I was not calling, emailing or texting at this point, but I did figure I'd do some shit for his birthday, like other than make out with other people. But wait, my weekend gets better.
Yesterday, fucking yesterday, I drag my ass up to the Cremazie Canadian Tire for a pair of goddamn motherfucking Multi-Terrain Skates. They're huge and boxy and look 100% retarded. They're also cheap ass crappy and a hundred dollars. I buy them, because I am a moron, and as soon as I have them on my feet for FIVE minutes they explode into a gajillion pieces and I eat shit, or I eat shit and they explode into a gajillion pieces. Now I have to go aaaaaalllll the way back there to argue with them. I hate everything.
Since I'm awesome I got reservations at birthday boy's favorite restaurant and made a beef baby. Then we came back to mine and busted a rubber and made a real one. I finished my donated Ativan in order to get to sleep, I was so looking forward to those THREE fricking hours. Aaaaand set my alarm for 6 pm. BUT, I managed to take Bowie out (mais brièvement, and she didn't exactly get fed, either), get schooled, get Plan B'ed and make it here only five minutes late. What does the future hold? Not wondering.