My Epidemic

Between all the occupants of my house and I, we have three dogs. One day instead of being a crazy cat lady, I will be the crazy dog lady that dresses her animals in Xmas sweaters. As it is, a fourth dog has invaded the house while a Boston Terrier Rescue program finds her a home. Four dogs. All under 40-lbs. It doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea in a big house, until they all want to sit in your lap. The weight adds up fast when you find yourself under four layers of dog.
The biggest, Mansfield, is probably the fattest Boston terrier I’ve ever encountered. He looks like a black and white pot bellied pig with bat ears, and eyes that always seem to be rolled back in his head…watching you. He eyes you from his position a foot off the floor and you know he’s just waiting for you to turn away so he can tackle you from behind and rifle through your pockets for forgotten candy. But while Mansfield is probably the roughest and most dominate of the dogs, he's also the biggest baby. Lots of dogs are scared of storms, but Manny is terrified. He cries and shakes and tries valiantly to place himself between you and the thunder but then ends up running to hide under the closest piece of furniture when the inevitable BOOM rocks the house. And as it happens, last night there was a huge storm.
As I retreated to bed with my own dog (the smallest of them all) under one arm, I noticed there were two large lumps in my bed. When I put Wookie down and started maneuvering my way towards the mound of pillows, I noticed the unfamiliar bumps were shifting with me. I tossed back the covers to find Mansfield and Wendy (the foster Boston, who is only slightly smaller than Manny) hiding from the thunder. My poor Queen bed had been overrun by hounds.
It took about 20minutes of shifting and maneuvering the whining fatties before I found a small space between the two where I could sleep. Unfortunately, it required my spine being curved into an S-shape for most of the night while Wookie slept wound around my neck like a little black scarf. Normally I wouldn’t have minded having the other dogs sleep with me, except for the fact that they have allergies and tend to snort even when they’re awake. Between Mansfield’s deep snores and Wendy’s short, raspy ones, I got little to no sleep last night.
But the dogs are not the only ones with allergies. Oh no. I’m also allergic to trees and weeds, which makes Spring a hell of a time for me.
When I came home this afternoon for a shower before running to work, I took a short break to greet all the dogs. Wendy’s usual greeting lasts only a few seconds of sniffing and licking particular parts of my face and hands…sometimes the bottoms of my shoes. But today, Wendy thought it necessary to pin me to the floor and lick my entire face several times. I sat patiently for a few moments before I pushed her off and headed for the shower.
About…15 minutes later I started sneezing uncontrollably. My face itched something fierce and my eyes were watering uncontrollably. I thought maybe my face was just dry and I’d sniffed something my body didn’t like, until I went to the bathroom to moisturize and I realized my entire face was swelling…and changing color. Half-an-hour before I was supposed to be downtown and I looked like an Asian tomato with bright red eyes. I started to laugh, then sneeze, then sniff, then sneeze some more, the entire time my face was burning and itching until I wanted to rub it against something like a fucking cat in heat.
I popped my neglected allergy medicine, frantically rubbed some aloevera on my face and hoped for the best. Thankfully, ten minutes later the swelling had stopped and even started to go down some, my face could pass as only mildly flushed if I packed on the makeup and I was driving down to work with my dark sunglasses on to mask my sudden stoner appearance. By the time I reached work my face only looked somewhat bloated (which I blamed on my time of the month) and the itching/sneezing sensation could be avoided with chugging lots of water and subtly massaging my face because of a "crazy migraine." Crisis averted…though Chris thought it was hilarious when I called her in transit. Fucker.
The best I can figure, Wendy was trying to assassinate me so she could take over the bed...
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=826364224169251641

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

Saturday Night continued...
After Sunshine and I had left QT and the infamous Mopping Man to their own devices, we wandered for a time (I don’t really remember how long) until I once again felt the need to visit a ladies room…any ladies room. We’d been causing trouble in South O and had ventured west when I suddenly announced, "I have to pee. A lot." Sunshine, being the crazy badass driver that she is, whipped the car at a gagillion miles an hour into the closest gas station, effectively giving me Drunken Whiplash as I rolled across her front seat.
Now before I describe what happened next, I have to explain that I am not in any way racist or prejudice, except towards Chris. I am, apparently, being indoctrinated into the "ghetto world" through my friends down at work and have recently been obsessed with Bubba Sparx’s song, "Ms. New Booty."
With that said, we careened into the parking lot at warp speed, our windows down, hair blowing in the wind, excited for another gas station adventure, when I noticed three people exiting the establishment. I don’t mean to brag (ahem, but I kind of do) but I have encountered many a prostitute while working downtown and recognized the two voluptuous "ladies" as such, while their companion was obviously an escort of sorts. Thinking back on it, the fella didn’t seem all that menacing in his overall thinness when compared to the barely covered ladies he followed to their shiny SUV. In fact, I have to say I would have bitch-slapped his skinny ass long before I took on the large, working ladies he was standing guard over. But, in my drunkenness, none of this information seemed to penetrate the haze.
Instead, when my gaze landed on the threesome, and my brain seemed to finally catch up, I stuck my head out the window as we pulled into the stall next to theirs and started singing (as loud as possible), "Booty! Booty! Booty! Booty--" I didn’t actually get to the "Rockin’ everywhere" part because at that exact moment Sunshine rolled up all the windows, locked all the doors and was shushing me as loudly as possible while swearing that I was going to get her killed. I burst out laughing, for who knows how long, until I could not ignore the needs of my blatter any longer and fought my door to release me upon the innocent gas station patrons.
Luckily, by the time I had wrestled my drunken ass out of the car, the threesome had moved on.
Instead a new challenge presented itself, two solo Police cars pulling up alongside Sunshine's car. The first officer walked in behind me as I sauntered past the lighters, while the second seemed to be eyeballing Sunshine, who was patiently awaiting my return in her running vehicle.
When the second officer then started to look from Sunshine to me standing inside the door grinning at him, back to Sunshine, she tried signaling me to find the bathroom and stop lingering in the doorway. Unfortunately her frantic hand gestures made little more sense to me at that point than say…German or perhaps binary code. So, I decided the only thing to do in response to her signals was to wave emphatically back, just to let her know I’d atleast been trying to pay attention. I was later told I was waving so hard my head was actually bouncing on my shoulders like a bobble head.
The second officer, still standing between us and watching this exchange, shook his head and laughed as he finally entered the gas station.
Epilogue: I eventually found my way to the bathroom. Anyone standing outside the bathroom of the 42nd Street gas station right off the interstate at around 2AM on last Saturday night, would have only heard my cheerful chanting of ‘Booty, booty, booty, booty’ while I happily relieved myself. Yet another victory for all mankind.

Labels: Drunken Adventures

So there I was, it's about 1 am on a Saturday night. I'd been drinking since about 8:30 and had tried my very first Yager-bomb. (For those who haven't tried one, don't try it late in the night unless you plan on passing out, otherwise you'll be up all damn night.) I'd crammed a number of drinks into the half-hour before last call and was officially drunk off my non-ass. Since I'd broken the seal early in the night we had stopped at a conveniently placed QT for my fourth or fifth potty-break. As I pranced into the gas station alongside Sunshine, waving at everyone that met my eye, I bore witness to the most horrifying sight a drunk person can ever come across...(Insert dramatic duh-Duh-DUH!) a QT employee mopping the entire aisle that led to the bathroom. It was chaos! 'Slick When Wet' signs were everywhere! Mops lay discarded amongst the slimy tile floor! And yes, there were bright orange cones tossed amongst the disorder! Oh, the ANARCHY! It was like a drunken obstacle course! I just knew, KNEW I was going to die.
I turned to Sunshine in slow-motion like in the movies. With my eyes wide, my face pale, I starred at her over my shoulder like seeing the monster chasing you for the very first time, "Oh my GOD! I’m going to die! DIE! I can’t do this! Let’s go somewhere else."
"Where else?"
"I don’t know! Dear God, just take me somewhere without mops!"
She laughed and non-too-gently pushed me toward the wet terrain, "You’ll make it. Just don’t run."
Okay. Don’t run. Easy, right? Right. I glared at the Mopping-Man convinced he’d orchestrated the entire set-up in order to knock me off. He looked back at me with an innocent, blank face.
I picked my way slowly at first, one foot after the other on my tiptoes. Stepping over one mop, then a cone, then dodging quickly to the right a sign that seemed to be waiting for me to loose my footing and come crashing down on top of it. Each time I’d reach a stretch of tile without some foreign bright-colored obstacle, I’d sprint the few feet before returning to my slow deliberate trek across the land of the mop.
As I reached the home stretch, I heard Sunshine, still on the far side of the gas station, chuckling to the Mopping Man (TRAITOR!), "Don’t worry, I won’t flutter across like my friend."
When I once again reached dry land, I celebrated my incredible physical prowess. Hooray! I had conquered my new arch-nemesis, the QT Mopping Man, and quite possibly saved the entire world.
Epilogue: When I once again emerged from the QT potty, Mopping Man had disappeared, no doubt hiding his face from the shame. Sunshine and I thought it best to walk the long way past the QT Fountain Machine and Icees instead of braving the Slick Mop Maze again, possibly giving Mopping Man another chance to strike…

Labels: Drunken Adventures

Every once in awhile something happens at work that suddenly reminds me that I work with a bunch of pre-metapausal soccer moms. While that normally has no baring on our easy friendships, these sudden reminders leave me reeling. For example:
The only male on our shift, we shall call him Crazy Bob, has a tendency to be a little obsessive compulsive while at the same time clinically deranged. When Michael Jackson was acquitted of his latest pervey charges, Crazy Bob designated it MJ Day and would randomly moonwalk past my cubicle or grab his crouch and squeal. That’s just Crazy Bob. You either accept that that’s the way he rolls or trade to another shift. Anyway, like I said Crazy Bob is anal retentive about certain things, but mostly he’s obsessed with the shredder.
One day, a few of the ladies decided to unplug the shredder while he was in the bathroom and watch the impending explosion. They waited patiently until he found some document that needed immediate shredding and peered around the corners of their cubicles as he fiddled with the buttons and cursed dramatically under his breath. After a few moments of muffled snickering, my boss jumped out from behind her larger, more important, cubicle wall and shouted, "You got punked!" The whole office burst out laughing as Crazy Bob tried to appear unruffled.
As I sat there watching the whole scene unfold, my eyes got wide and I felt the color drain from my face. I turned to the only other employee under 35 and found her starring desperately back at me with the same horrified expression. Apparently we had unwittingly crossed over into Dilbert-Land. When had my 20-something life become some crappy office cartoon? And what Ashton knock-off would ever incorporate a shredder into their Punked episode? It was at that moment that I decided I would not be working in a cubicle for the rest of my life. And by the look on my friend’s face, she had made the same promise to herself.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?

This post on The Company Bitch blog, cracks me up everytime I read it:
http://thecompanybitch.blogspot.com/2006/05/re-boyfriend-always-surprises-me-with.html
It's a sort of twisted fusion between Dilbert and Sex And The City. Totally worth a look at.

Labels: Guest Appearances

Louis, Angels In America "It's like the Mark of Cain, stupid, right, but it won't heal and every morning I see it and I think, Biblical things, Mark of Cain, Judas Iscariot and his silver and his noose, people who...in betraying what they love betray what's truest in themselves, I feel...nothing but cold for myself."

Nancy Astor "I am the kind of woman I would run from."

Jhumpa Lahiri, Interpreter of Maladies "While the astronauts, heroes forever, spent mere hours on the moon, I have remained in this new world for nearly thirty years. I know that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first. Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination."

Chris had been dating this guy, who we shall refer to as Asshole, for about 2 1/2 years. Their semi-long-distance relationship (classified as such since they were about an hour drive away) hit a downward spiral when Asshole announced he'd been offered a job three hours away. They both realized it wasn't going to work since they already had problems with 1/3 of that distance but decided not to speak of it and enjoy the last few months they would get together. Unfortunately, Asshole seemed to have other ideas while Chris was trying desperately to preserve the relationship.
A few weeks ago, Asshole was supposed to come in town but never showed. She called, emailed, talked to his mother (yes, he still lives with his mother) but received no answers or callbacks. Chris figured it was over and took it surprisingly well. As we all do when a relationship is over, she made the decision to either glorify the time they had together and wish it never ended, or see the reality of her situation and be happy it was over. Chris, being the genius she is, cried for a day or two and was done with the pity-party. She was sad, but ultimately relieved because he'd saved her any lingering regret she may have had.
It seemed that Chris' only problem with the situation was that she still hadn't finished paying off the loan for his Xmas present and that he had stashed a tool she needed for work. She emailed one last time asking for the it back but again, the spineless toad did not reply.
Last week, while we were chatting about absolutely nothing in the way that chicks do, she was checking her mail and found a Fed-Ex package. When she realized it was from Asshole, she burst out laughing at the sheer cowardice of it. But she was also a little suspicious of the size of the package considering the tool she wanted back was relatively small and the package was the size of a shoebox. When she ripped open the package (with me holding my breath on the other end of the line) she found her tool...and a box of tampons she'd left at his house for emergencies. Needless to say, we laughed till we cried.
"What a fucking pussy," I screamed, scaring the guy in the car next to me.
"Who does that," Chris asked.
"A fucking pussy, obviously."
"Well, yeah. Obviously. Damn, he spent ten bucks to send me tampons."
"Hope they're worth it."
"Oh," She laughed, "they are so worth it."
"You should put them on a shelf with his name on it so you remember not to date fucking pussies."
"Good call."
With the exception of a chick night filled with drinking the last of Asshole's wine he'd left at her house, Chris was officially over it. There are few times you can say you are truly proud of your friends (especially mine), but I am happy to say that the night Chris was passed out on my couch with the last of the wine settling at the bottom of her glass, was one of those really proud moments.

PS Tampons are for fucking pussies. You're dead to us, Asshole.

Labels: All things Vagina

I haven't spoken to Boyfriend in a few weeks since I announced I couldn't possibly be conned into taking him back again. Problem is I apparently wasn't clear enough in the 'breaking up' announcement because he assumed that once classes ended, we'd be making wild monkey sex again. And in all honesty, I kind of was hoping all would be well again also, but classes ended two weeks ago and there has been no wild monkey sex.
So Boyfriend and I have been in this weird pause mode. Neither of us have really stepped up to figure out what's going on. And while I would love things to go back to their originally happy state, at this point I would settle for just knowing our official status. If we're broken up, I'd just like to know. But the thing about Boyfriend is that he really doesn't believe we are having problems (which we so are) and has decided to ignore the telltale signs. I on the other hand am ready to rip my goddamn hair out. I hate this half-way break up bullshit. That's the problem with 4-year relationships. They just won't die!
So last Friday when my cell rang at 2AM with his 'I'm A King' ring, I answered a little confused...to find that his delightfully chubby friend was drunk dialing my ass. I listened as Delightfully Chubby relayed the slurred story of their night at home doing nothing but drinking cheap beer and playing Madden.
When I asked where Boyfriend was (I could hear someone in the background trying to suppress masculine giggles) he informed me that Boyfriend was in bed since he had an early morning. I asked who was giggling and he yelled into the phone that Boyfriend's other friend (who I refer to as "The Lesbian" since he and Boyfriend are attached at the hip but refuse to acknowledge their gay relationship and got mad when I kept referring to him as "Sally") was also drunk. After a few minutes of undecipherable chattering on both their parts in which I was brought into the conversation randomly, I decided it was time to let them go and asked if they needed anything else.
At this point, Delightfully Chubby declared that Boyfriend was still "really, so, incredibly in love with you." I listened as DC went on and on about how Boyfriend has pictures of us everywhere in his new apartment and all he does is talk about how much he misses me.
"Oh yeah? So why hasn't he gotten off his dead ass and called me? Apparently, it isn't that hard, DC," I said meaningfully. DC laughed for awhile until he decided he'd done his duty as a good friend and shifted into drunk-and-horny mode. I could still hear Lesbian in the background laughing hysterically about something when DC started telling me how hot I am. No sorry, how "so crazy sexy you are. I mean your boobs...they're so great. I mean all big and --"
I interrupted before he got anymore graphic about my, admittedly great, boobs, "Hey DC, does Boyfriend know you're calling me?"
"Hell no. He'd kill me. I stole his phone when he fell asleep so I could call you and see what you're doin tonight."
"Sleeping. Or atleast I was trying to before...Look, DC I've got a long day tomorrow, I've got to go--"
"Yeah, you wouldn't want me anyway. Not after Boyfriend. He was getting out of the shower the other day and I saw his di--"
"DC! I really have to go. If you want to talk about Boyfriend's dick talk to Lesbian. I'm sure he's seen it plenty."
"Yeah. Totally. But you should call Boyfriend. He's really bummed."
"Don't worry, I'll definitely be calling him tomorrow."
"Really? Awesome. Tell him I talked you into it."
"Yeah, no problem."
I called Boyfriend the next day and relayed the conversation as he sat next to DC recovering on his couch. Boyfriend laughed a little but tended to growl more than anything, then started swearing his undying, loyal love to me. That's when I started to growl and informed him that his drunk friends were apparently capable of picking up his phone and calling me, but his undying love couldn't muster the balls to do the same. That's where the conversation ended.
Haven't talked to him since.
Which still leaves me officially fucked in trying to decipher our status, but apparently my boobs look really great. Atleast I've got that going for me.

Labels: All things Vagina, Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

For maybe a few months now, there has been this phantom smell that sporadically makes itself known throughout my apartment. It seems to linger for a moment or two in the kitchen then make its way toward the living room. Me, being the sloppy college student that I am, took these appropriate steps to finding the source...I do not recommend any of them except perhaps the drunken chick night:
1. Peeked in the trash can and concluded it had to be the two-week old chinese at the bottom. Took the trash out. Didn't help.
2. Sniffed at all the dishes in my sink. Decided it wasn't any of them. Left the dishes in the sink.
3. Ignored the smell.
4. Decided I had lost the battle with nemesis, Phatom Smell. Determined to live with it.
5. Couldn't eat at apartment for two weeks because of Phantom Smell's victory.
6. Sniffed dog. Not dog.
7. Had drunken Chris over for chick night, heard her complain all night that she was going to puke. Argued that it was the entire bottle of wine she had consumed. Had to finally confess that the Phantom Smell had struck again.
8. Finally went back to the trash can. Glanced under the current trash bag and found a moldy glob of something or another that seemed to be the source of the Phantom Smell's power.
9. Squirted down trashcan thereby forever killing the Phantom Smell.

My mother has this odd habit...actually the more I think about it the more I realize she'd be really odd if she didn't try to set me up with every available penis she encounters...all the same, this time she went too far.
My little brother plays baseball for our local highschool. (He's the stud of the team by the way.) One of his summer coaches happens to be one of my old classmates. In highschool, I had a bit of a crush on this particular coach until I realized he was a grade-A douchebag and, very maturely, decided instead to hate him. After being dragged to a game last summer, I ran into Lil Bro's Coach and made polite chit-chat. No big deal...or was it? (Insert dramatic duh-Duh-DUH music)
Fast forward to about eight months ago when I received a random Facebook message from said Coach. (For you Facebook virgins, picture a college MySpace.com with lots of drunken photos.) We kept up an awkward penpal relationship, chatting mostly on neutral ground about eachother's families and playing the "Who's had babies and gotten fat" game. All was well until last week, Coach came in town for Lil Bro's graduation and State tournament. Suddenly, Mother is begging me to take the week off from work to "recover from finals" (like she really gives a shit) and to "maybe come to a few ball games...for your Dad...he misses you." So, me being the fabulous, loving daughter that I am, make an appearance at a few games as requested. Then I get lured into dinner afterward with my family and some of the team, ahem, three times. Coach just happens to be there, every time. Plausible. Not likely, but I hadn't yet caught onto the evil scheming going on right under my very nose.
Two nights ago, I was talking to Mother when she casually brought up how nice of a guy Coach is. I nodded slowly, the rusted gears in my brain finally shifting into motion. Then she mentioned that I should call him some night and see if he wants to go out. I made a face. Seeing my confused/pained/pissed expression, she launched into a long, elaborate speech about how she's so happy I'm not with Boyfriend anymore so now I can date Coach...get married...and breed some pups...ASAP. Needless to say, I choked on my drink. Married? MARRIED!
"Are you shitting me?" I replied gracefully.
She looked offended, "No. Why not? He's a nice boy--"
"I'm not questioning Coach! I know Coach! Who the hell are you? You're obviously not my Mother, the birth control Nazi. What have you done with her?"
She blinked at me.
"You can't be serious. You're not. Are you? No. You can't be. Stop looking at me like that. You're not seriously suggesting I marry Coach?"
No answer.
"Jesus, Mother! I'm 21!"
She glared at me for the rest of the night, obviously pissed that her evil plan hadn't worked out the way she'd intended.
But it doesn't end there! Oh no. I caught up with Lil Brother and jokingly made reference to Mother's deranged plotting and he was all like, "Yeah, got that memo about a year ago. Didn't you know?" At that point I sort of started to screech.
It isn't that Coach hasn't matured, cause he totally has. (Especially physically. I mean damn. Haven't seen biceps like that in ages.) But it was that my entire family had been plotting behind my back for nearly a year. Boyfriend and I are still trying to figure out our status and the family is busy marrying me off to some other guy. At one point Mother actually referred to Coach as "the perfect son-in-law." I wanted to cry...and puke...and cry.

Up until a few months ago (about 6 to be honest) my college life thus far had been relatively mild. I'd been in a long term relationship with a great, quirky guy. Was part of a chick-trio that deserved to be immortalized in some form of media or another. And wasn't much into the party scene. In retrospect I think the substantial change in one of these areas sort of had a domino effect on the rest and quickly knocked my clean way of living completely on its ass.
See, the Boyfriend and I hit a tragic slump with his sudden increase in hours at his physically taxing job. I know, the 'I've got to work late' line is so clichéd and I should have been on my guard for the signs of a lame cheater, but I knew for a fact he was working the hours he said he was. (Trust me, I looked into it.) Thus the problem became, what to do with all my downtime when the Boyfriend is too tired to go out/crash on the couch without drooling/have wild all-day sexcapades? So, like most chicks, I turned to my two best partners in crime for support.
For the sake of anonymity, I've decided to name them after the tv characters I think they are the most alike. The first will be Sam, as in Samantha Jones the slutty, obnoxious blonde from Sex In The City. Trust me when I say that besides her character being blonde, out of her 20's and a Manhattanite, the two are freakishly alike. My second partner in crime, and frequently the one I spend the most time with, shall from now on be referred to as Chris. If you haven't actually scene Cameron Diaz as Christina Walters in The Sweetest Thing, I suggest your own version of our plans last weekend which included a bottle of red wine and a dvd of said Diaz flick. A failsafe formula for a good time. Chris not only looks like a tall, blonde movie star, but she's got that totally fun loving personality that (if she weren't my bestfriend) would otherwise make me hate her for being so cool. (Seriously, go get that movie. It's so worth it.)
The three of us individually seem to intimidate people pretty easily, whether it be by looks or the force of our personalities. Together...we tend to scare strangers into moving to other tables in restaurants. Like I said, I'm just waiting for an HBO producer to approach us with a contract.
So as Boyfriend and I wound our 4-year relationship into a fucked-up knot, I turned to Chris and Sam for support. At first, they were all too happy to fill my lonesome nights with Smirnoff and Brad Pitt movies. Then their own boytoys felt neglected, school started to get frantic, and I found myself alone more and more often. Thus I took up with some older, single friends at work (By older I mean 30's) and slowly slipped away from Boyfriend, Chris and Sam. I found myself drinking and going out more, and paying less and less attention to school. Being as I'm on scholarship, none of this was good.
So here I am. Six very long months away from the life I've lived for four years, and the people that meant so much to me. After a sudden realization a few weeks ago in the office of my long-time physician, I realized that the physical symptoms I'd been trying to resolve with antibiotics were indicative of the emotional obstacle course I'd been trying to maneuver. Apparently, I have depression. Since I've actually suffered from it before when my family suffered from a tragic loss, I was surprised I hadn't recognized the symptoms. I guess I was too busy suffering from the illness (Fuck you Tom Cruise, metal illness does exist.) to actually analyze the symptoms. Thus the existence of this blog.
When last I dealt with the disease (Now I'm flipping the bird at you, Cruise.), I kept a journal and wrote letters to friends to keep myself centered until I felt right again. While Chris and I regularly vent to eachother, I feel like maybe blog-venting is a better idea than dumping all my bullshit on her shoulders. She's got shit of her own to deal with.
So here's my blog. A place to relay my random adventures. To document my friends and I's morbid personalities. And hopefully, my own personal Anti-Depression flotation device.
Enjoy.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings, The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)