Beat me to the punch!

Satomi Kobayashi and Mikako Ichikawa nosh down on fresh lobster in Naoko Ogigami’s new film, “Glasses.”

Okay, Japan totally stole my idea for "food porn"--no, not what you think (you pervs)--just videos of people eating really good food. And by stole, I really mean, realized the genre of film in which I was born to star. Note to Toyko casting directors: I am currently available for any and all projects, excluding those involving a) cauliflower; b) bananas; and c) really vinegary wings.

Two characters in Glasses eat shaved ice at the “food porn” film’s climactic moment.

This Would Be A Good Name For A Band That Would Be Influenced By Slipknot And Creed and Maybe Feature A 7th Runnerup From American Idol as Lead Singer

PARALYSIS

Coming soon to the Everett Events Center, as the first of four opening bands.

What's in a name?

If you look up the meaning of my first name, this is what you get:

Maria
Gender: Girl
Origin: Hebrew
Meaning: Bitter

Which could not be more perfect. Because I am a girl, and I am totally meant to be Jewish/marry into the religion and my head is shaped like a dreidel, as evidenced in earlier post, and I am the MOST bitter person in the motherfucking universe.

I spend my nights lying awake, waiting/praying for the Tylenol PM coursing through my veins to kick in, pushing my cat away as she tries to walk directly across my breasts for the 70th time that minute because it really fucking hurts and there are way less sensitive parts of my body she could ford, or she could just JUMP, I'm not that fat and she is a goddamn animal and animals jump. I lie there regretting every decision I have ever made in my life, while simultaneously cursing things that I should be way, way, way over. Sometimes there are tears.
Example of something I should be done with: High school play casting decisions.

And I don't know why it's so hard to just let things go! And I can kind of separate myself from my angst and try to convince my racing, fevered mind that in the grand scheme of things it's not that big a deal, in 10 or 20 years it won't matter, but guess what?

10 years ago: a friend (and we are still friends) told me that because I couldn't unwrap a Starburst wrapper with my tongue, I would be a bad kisser. This snotty proclamation has rung in my ears every single time i've made out with a guy, at least while sober. And it becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.
Conclusion: STILL BITTER. It matters.

20 years ago: my grandma (RIP) on a regular basis attempted to make my brother feel better about being displaced from his only child throne by dangling Tootsie Roll Pops in front of me and saying "do you want one, Maria? do you? Well, only BIG BOYS can have them" and then handing it off to my brother, ignoring my cries for justice.
Conclusion: STILL BITTER. It matters.

Example of something it's ok I'm still bitter about: Having places of employment lie to me and promise way cooler opportunities/growth that never happen.
Example of something I should be done with: My rejection from NYU, received right around (for true bitterness, I like to remember it as "on") my 17th birthday. But seriously, FUCK YOU NYU. And I hate anyone who gets to go there, and after that grim day I never watched "Felicity" again. Runner up: Not getting any money from my second choice school. So, fuck you Fordham.

The thing about bitterness is that it seems it be in it's own weird little category... like it's not so much an anger management issue, because I don't punch walls or beat on animals or anything, and it's not really depression, which leads me to believe it is just entitlement, which is a generation wide issue, and therefore not my fault. Because let's be honest, nothing is.

The best thing in the world...

You know how most days are pretty sucky, but sometimes you hit a little gem that makes life bearable. Well, this, my friends, is it:

Man or woman, I will marry the person who has this tat. Best part is, ole JJ would probably hate this.

Reasons why my boyfriend will likely leave me in the next few days...

-I throw irrational fits because I can't find a seat at a bar.
-I throw irrational fits because I can't drink a margarita or eat mexican food at a give second.
-I have an extraordinarily low tolerance for clutter--including people.
-I'm pretty bad at sharing a bed and am convinced that no bed is big enough for two people to share.
-I talk in the middle of scary/suspensefuly/violent movies to reassure myself and ruin the best parts.
-I often discuss my repulsion to little children.
-I often pee with the bathroom door open.
-I insist on talking about the fact that my little brother has a hot friend.
-I wake him up from peaceful slumber to kill a spider, that isn't really that big, knowing that he hates spiders and i'm just lazy.
-I constantly talk about spontaneously moving to different countries...
-Then follow it up with equally ridiculous grad school schemes that often involve intimate encounters with other men.
-I complain for hours about going to his memorial day barbecues.
-I have a hard time staying at home.
-I sort of hate lingerie.
-Ditto on much of anything else.

Number Crunch

Time spent performing various activities per year. All calculations have been rounded to the nearest decimal.

• Talking about how bloated I feel: 624 minutes/10.4 hours
• Avoiding eye contact with street clowns, Juggalos and the recently converted: 624 minutes/10.4 hours
  
• Listening to Creedence's Chronicle: 7800 minutes/130 hours
• Watching Two and a Half Men while eating tuna straight from the can, without commercial breaks: 1196 minutes/ 20 hours
• ", with commercial breaks: 1560 minutes/26 hours
• Listening to my mother ask the kitties what they want for dinner (FISHIES or TURKEY-LURKEY???) over the phone: 234 minutes/3.9 hours
  
• Doing no. 2: 3650 minutes/60.8 hours
• Reading tips on "Finding My Inner Woman Warrior" in O Magazine on line at the grocery store: 104 minutes/1.7 hours
• Pretending to have read Proust: 92 minutes/1.5 hours
  

An Ode To Every Guy In Seattle

In college you played acoustic guitar
And wished you were John Mayer
Now you realize how lame that was
And pretend to be into Slayer*

You completed the six year plan
And moved back in with your dad
You can only stay at my place
Because I'm not allowed at your pad

We can only go to dive bars
Because you think they're "realer"
You leave me waiting on the street
While you meet your coke dealer

You spend your days smoking
ensuring you're always blazed
Showing up late at your job
With a pocket full of jays

You've grown your beard out
It suits your plaid shirts so well
Aging hipster or rapist?
We can't really tell

You want to bone lots of girls
And not commit with just one
So you turn into a douchebag
And act confused once they're done

All this is excused
Because you're "into the arts"
You gently stroke your labret piercing
A new pseuso relationship starts

You're not hot but kind of funny
You roll your eyes at what's not hip
God how I want to punch your stupid face
And knock the PBR foam from your lip




* ironically, of course

In Case You Wondered What I Meant By Fried Spiders

Adorable small Cambodian girl to me: You like spider?

Jerk American Me: No! gross, no. Please, god.

Adorable small Cambodian girl : Why? See! I like spider! (Eats one to demonstrate)

Culturally Sensitive Me: (dancing immaturely away as though she has burst into flames) Awesome! No, that is... awesome. I'm sure it's good, I just... no. I will give you 2387648536254 riel if you move the spiders. Can I buy this mango? Has it touched spiders?

If Stag-Party was a movie, it would be this:

I'm totes the lady that says, "We have our own rules here!"

As Promised...

Why I don't need to do drugs...

...because animals like this exist.

Sloth Bears!

Pissed off Otters!

Pandas!
Obese Hippos!

Tis truly a wonderful world.

something else I think I have

psychic abilities, because when I saw an email from my mom in my inbox entitled "FW:FW:FW:FW: 16 Signs You're Having A Bad Day!" I was like, GUARANTEED this is going to involve pictures of cats looking unhappy. Guess who's right, again.

I think I have...

Diabetes!




Seriously. I'm worried. Because I went on a date with a guy who has type 1 diabetes a few weeks ago, and he tested my blood at dinner and I was way above normal... I was 191, or possibly 171, and the normal is like, 110. And TODAY my boss was like, "man, you drink a lot of water. And you are always in the bathroom." I could have pointed her towards my last depressing post to explain how the work bathroom is my Crying Place, and so I am there every 25 minutes, but the truth of the matter is I totally am peeing every time I go to cry. And I do drink a LOT of water. Not only that but I like, crave it, and panic when water is not accessible/not in my hand in bottle form. And on the occasions when I have attempted to restrict my water intake in order to hopefully limit my peeing ( like every marathon bus trip taken in Southeast Asia) it hasn't worked at all... instead I have just become a thirst-crazed shell of a person, feeling my hummingbird heard beat against my chest while I attempt to swallow despite the hot air burning my parched throat, PRAYING that the bus will stop in time for me to run past the hordes of young Cambodian girls selling, I swear to god, giant fried spiders and reach the squat toilet in time. Then I return to the bus, feeling good for like 20 minutes, not even minding the Khmer version of "My Humps" that has been cranked up to maximum volume, and I allow myself a sip... one tiny, minimal sip... of sweet, sweet water, and before you know it my bladder feels like it's going to explode and I am whimpering, clawing at the windows for release once more.

So as you can see, it's a vicious cycle, and one that has been going on for YEARS. When I lived in Australia, I would frequently wake up in the middle of the night and down like, 2 Nalgene bottles in 10 minutes and still be dying of thirst. I went to the doctor and he listened to my symptoms before issuing his decree: "sounds like someone's got diabetes!" As I left the office, terrified, my mobile phone rang... an international number. It was my father calling me to tell me Elliott Smith had died. It seemed like the Worst Day Ever.

Anyway, I didn't end up having diabetes then, and Elliott Smith lives on in our memories and in the poster he autographed for me when I was 16 and stood outside Showbox to meet him even though I didn't have tickets because I'm that hardcore (and by the way have I told you in the last two days how I saw Death Cab when they were like, opening for someone in Bellingham and the show cost $3? Bring your chair closer to Granny's side so she can regale you with tales of her attempts at being an "alternative" teen)... I doubt I have diabetes now, but I will probably awkwardly bring it up at my next doctor's appointment so she can roll her eyes ever so slightly and add it to the List Of Things I Though I Had, joining the ranks of chlamydia, HIV, and gout.

Shut In

Day 11 off work.
Highlight of day: Getting up at 8:30am. Taking "nap" at 9:30 am.
Highlight of week: Going on cat safari with parents. Counted number of cats we could find on porches while driving around tacoma. Final tally: 38.

bored

I am so bored I want to die so I could be bodybagged out of work. Like I am so bored I wish my appendix would burst so I could leave work. I wish my car would burst into flames so I could leave work. I wish the FBI would burst into work and arrest someone in conjunction with a child porn ring so I could leave work amidst all the excitement. I wish there would be an earthquake so we would all be evacuated and I could leave work. I wish my water would break and I would give birth to a baby I didn't even know I was pregnant with so I could leave work. I am now 100% positive that I know every bit of celebrity gossip ever and have viewed every LOLcat ever created and have fake planned out unrealistic trip after unrealistic trip and seen every piece of clothing that would totally make me look fat ever shilled online and STILL i am so bored that on my frequent trips to the bathroom I inevitably burst into tears as soon as I am in the relative privacy of a stall while obese coworkers tap their feet impatiently outside. Because i am SO BORED and thusly spend all day revisiting in my mind the many, many hideously embarrassing or humiliating things I have done in my life and regretting every choice I have ever made, such as going to college, accepting this employment, and living through infancy.
Also frequent IM conversations like the following:

Maria: i fucking hate everyone SO MUCH. like i can't even explain
Brittany: oh god same
Maria: i hope everyone dies.
Brittany: seriously.


Lights at the end of my tunnel:
- going to Target to buy a mini vacuum
- someday getting my tax return so I can use it to pay off my credit card bills that I have wracked up from long days of online shopping while bored out of my fucking mind
- acquiring many more cats, as I've decided that for every six months I don't have sex, I am going to get a new one. 5 months, 1 week to go.
- not getting skin cancer, because it's not like i can even see the sun, or a window for that matter, from the dark ice locker where I sit and will be sitting ALL SUMMER LONG.

sweet christ, the future looks bleak.

Holla at ya?

I'm in D.C. this week and I just got the best holler ever from two rastafarians in a garbage truck. I heard some yell "hey," I turned around and then the best line ever was uttered:

"Girl, that tight little ass deserves a big ole rock!"

Followed by, "I hope yo man lays it on you smooth!"

My self-esteem has never been higher, even if the first comment is a total fallacy.

Also, I have come to the conclusion that staying in D.C. is like one long, sweaty hangover. Look forward to an epic photo album--including bear sloths!--from the National Zoo, coming soon.

Famous

Courtesy of The Stranger. And yes, I am sure.

Revelations

a lifetime affinity for Jewish men, explained?

:(

I bought these:

and look like this:

Is this why Jordan Catalano won't love me? Discuss in the girls room with Rayanne and Rickie.

Jerkface

These are a just a few things that I really hate listening to other people talk about... YET I talk about them all the time and expect others to listen/be intrigued. Inspired by listening to my own uninspired ramblings and thinking about how I would never want to be my friend.

• Long, endless dream narratives, followed by a personal interpretation. ESPECIALLY when told by children because they are always lying.
  
  
• Stories of traffic jams and encounters, especially if they are told using salt shakers, discarded pieces of food, or sleeping animals as placeholders for the cars and their actions.
  
  
• Diet/exercise regime of any kind.
  
  
• The deep ways in which an individual relates to a fictional character or song lyrics that seem reminiscent of their own lives. I myself especially like to do this with My So Called Life*, as I am clearly exactly like Angela Chase and constantly getting fucked around by various Jordan Catalanos. But god, he is hot and worth it.
  
  *I do plan to mention MSCL in every post ever, if you were wondering.

Venn Diagrams

Eating Healthy + Exercise = Innovative methods a fellow I dated suggested I enlist in order to lose some weight, "not that I think you're like, really fat or anything, because I probably wouldn't have sex with a fat girl" *

"You must be really tired" + "Wow, you look different without makeup" = Subtle ways my co-workers have let me know I look like shit today.

Having a guy point out how many tampons I have in my purse with a grossed out expression + Thinking, "man, Angela Chase's mom is a fucking bitch" while watching My So Called Life = Things that happened to me for the first time when I was twelve, and again yesterday.

A dumpster behind Jack in the Box + the dressing room of a strip club = things I'm pretty sure my car smells like right now

"I am allowed to wear jeans to work" + "I really don't care about the WNBA"= Two statements that my parents just completely refuse to believe.

The new McDonalds "southern style chicken sandwich" + a meditation retreat = things I REALLY want to try, but would probably regret halfway through.

Hangs head in shame....

Email correspondence with a co-worker (read from bottom to top):

From: Me
To: Co-worker Redacted

It's really just an ironic slang used to mock frat boys.
Sigh...well, now when the "youngsters" come skateboardin' and jive-talking on your block you can listen with confidence and know that "Totes for real, bra" = "totally, for real, brother."

-----Original Message-----
From: Co-worker Redacted
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:44 AM
To: Me
Subject: RE:

Uh, no. clearly, I'm not hip enough for such slang!

-----Original Message-----
From: Me
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:37 AM
To: Co-worker Redacted
Subject: RE:

Okay, really? You've heard someone use "totes" instead of totally before.

-----Original Message-----
From: Co-worker Redacted
Sent: Monday, May 12, 2008 9:37 AM
To: Me
Subject: RE:

Totes?

-----Original Message-----
From: Me
Sent: Friday, May 09, 2008 5:13 PM
To: Co-worker Redacted
Subject: Re:

Yep! Totes heard about it this morning and was like, "aiiieee..."
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

-----Original Message-----
From: Name Redacted
Date: Fri, 9 May 2008 17:02:13
To: Me and Another
Subject:

Ok, did you both hear *Name Redacted* tell me that he watches the Gilmore Girls??

Not So Irrational Fears

In anticipation of my first official day of unemployment:

1. I quit my job at the least secure time, economically speaking, in America's recent history. Over a cup of reasonably priced (for now) coffee, my eavesdropping hones in on the following phrases: "Credit crunch," "sub-prime (add preferred noun)" and "indentured servitude." Noticing my sullen demeanor and quickly deteriorating personal hygiene, my landlords skip the formalities and evict me without notice.

2. As far as my grandmother is concerned, it becomes easier to blame my lack of boyfriend/ambitions to have a family on an "alternative lifestyle." This is fine, until daily newspaper clippings for the Ellen Degeneres show from the "Up and Coming!!!" section of the Tacoma News Tribune start showing up in my mailbox by the kilo.

3. I am spotted by a bigwig Hollywood talent scout at an area Claim Jumper's. Over fistfuls of turkey pot pie, the scout convinces me to sign a contract for a here-so-far unnamed reality show. Thereafter, I become the first contestant voted off "Who Wants a Mailorder Wife?!?" I quickly redeem myself by becoming the featured contestant on "The Bachlorette: Courting Corey Haim."

4. Jonathan Taylor Thomas dies in a horrible accident, and I am the only witness.

...and this will be the last thing you see...

In honor of all those who have done the walk of shame...
...which reminds me, I've got a couple of years old Carhardt jacket I have yet to return...

Speaking of.... A Hilarious Helen Keller Joke (taunting karma)

Q: Why was Helen Keller such a bad driver?
A: Because she's a woman.

Stag Party Diagnosis

I'm not a hypochondriac like the rest of my fellow marksmen (I don't really get colds, yeast infections, bronchitis, heart murmurs, kidney stones, UTIs, or scurvy and if I did I probably wouldn't know it), but this morning got me thinking. Staring at my work computer screen, my eyes seriously won't focus. As in, my eyes will digest part of the screen but all the words are looking pretty funny/fuzzy. I've been squinting for about two hours now and I have a headache.

Being a doctor's daughter, I'm pretty cause/solution-oriented so here's a list I brainstormed as to why this may be occurring:

• I'm going blind and God wants me to join the ranks of Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder as a blind pianist sensation--knowing that I already do a fantastic black pianist/Rev. Jesse Jackson impersonation.
• I've finally shot my liver and developed optic cirrhosis.
• I don't eat fruit and my mom always said that would bite me in the ass.
• The blogging I've done for my job has been so terrible lately my mind is rejecting it somaticly.
• I'm waking up from the Matrix?
  
• Living in Seattle has given me an aversion to the light and i'm actually turning into a vampire. Possible evidence: I did have to have my canines filed when I was little.
  
• I'm about to have a "donnie darko-esque" daylight hallucination...DAHHH!!! plane crash!!!
• Karma is about to kick my ass for thinking Helen Keller jokes are funny.
• The lead paint that coats the windows of my apartment has been venting into my eyes at night. Can you get lead poisoning in your eyes?
• I have syphilis?
  
• The tequila shot I vaguely remember taking last Saturday may have been moonshine?
• My ophthalmologist always told me to wear my glasses more, which I refuse to do since I live with the shame of a child that wore glasses since the age of five with bendy backs.
• I haven't had my prescription updated in two years.
• I haven't changed my two-week contacts since Christmas.

Shoot, anyone know where I can get Hugh Laurie's number?

Office Haikus

Waking Up
Alarm's metal song
Red eyes stare down the mirror
Sweet lord, take me now.

Arriving at Work
Ratty hair down back
Hair pin swings from a split end
Others turn away

Office Talk
"Thank god it's Friday"
I hear from all around me
Monkeys chatter too

Sitting at Desk
Playing with pierced nose
"That's why it gets infected"
But I cannot stop.

Back to Work from Lunch
A frantic car ride
Salt water taffy binging
Cat hair covers me

Mind Wanders
Naming all the states
Phone must be covered in germs
I'd kill men for gum

Mid-Afternoon
Downing fifth diet coke
Caffeine courses through my blood
Does not quell the rage

Think Before You Speak

Something that many people don't know about me is that I know a LOT of information about a choice few subjects, such as: eating disorders, current hairstyles incorporating bangs, the heights of male celebrities, the X-men, and PRISON. What qualifies me as a prison expert? A few things. When I had cable, I watched The Shawshank Redemption everytime it was on TNT, which is a LOT. I got Oz on Netflix until I decided to start watching My So Called Life instead. And my grandpa was in Sing Sing back in the day and during frequent bouts of psychosis would regale his eager grandchildren with lurid tales of what it was like to be a Depression-era jailbird. And then there's my own experience. Flash back to age 13. My parents force me to attend an inaugaral Girls of Promise program for 8th and 9th graders, citing the brochure's promises of increased self esteem and achievement. Despite my fervent protests, I am dropped off at the meeting point and spirited away to Orcas Island, where my own personal version of the Stanford Prison Experiment began. One of my 14 year old cabinmates had a baby; another had come because her only other option was Juvie. Another asked me, "what's the worst thing you've ever done?" and I lied and said I had smoked a cigarette and she said, "once I smoked heroin." Which, in retrospect may have been a lie, but I observed someone take one of her Starburst without asking and bitch FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT, so I'm going on record as saying I believe it. My second week there two girls ganged up on and beat the shit out of another because she cut them in line to get pancakes. I sent my parents panicked notes begging for release and spent nights lying awake staring a picture of my beloved cat, wondering if I would make it home alive to see her.
Clearly, I made it through the experience, and I managed to avoid confrontation, because I essentially became the 13 year old version of a prison bitch. In that, I surrendered seats when I was told to, I shared my candy freely, and I never, ever made eye contact. This is how I know that if I were to go to federal prison, I would immediately regress to that state of mind, which is basically, "I will do whatever you want if you don't hit me in the face." And if that meant eating box, then I guess I would eat box. And on that you can quote me.

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Why I should just bite the bullet and marry Slats...

I love a character.

No, that's not quite right, I love individuals that are so utterly ridiculous, they defy being limited to the definition of characters.

Maybe it comes from my years slogging away toffee nut lattes, but I grew to love customers that became literal service industry archetypes. AKA, horrendously smelly meth-addicted trucker who always commented on the fact that I have a mole on my chest and talked about doing meth and how coffee kept him off meth for a couple more hours. OR, Enormously obese women who always talked about being hideously obese, but always ordered Venti Breves. OR, the paint-huffer (literally you could see the ring of color around most of his face) who aways tried to steal sugar and at one point defecated in front of me in an alley. OR, my building's security guard who I suspect to be an ex-con and who one day I found using the ladies restroom and when I ask him why responded, "for a change."

Yes, I am sort of obsessed with these people.

And that's why I've decided the only way I can be happy is to commit myself to the only man that encompasses all the above archetypes:

Thankfully, there's now a website to help me. And, apparently, his real name is Chris!!

Why I Don't Deserve To Be Loved

Scene: a public bathroom. Someone else, hidden in blissful anonymity behind a stall door, is clearly biding their time until everyone leaves so they can perform a #2. Time after time I find myself taking an extra long time washing my hands/fixing my hair/throwing on a few extra coats of mascara just to make them squirm. And on the way out I long to kick their stall door and hiss, "I know what you're planning to do. And it's DISGUSTING."

May (awkward or what you will) day

I work downtown, which comes with its own unique collection of delights and defeats: The ways to spend my money unreasonably are endless, overprice sandwiches and bums abound, hoodrats from Bellevue prance throughout the streets with merry abandon, traffic is always unbearable and there's generally a lot white people around.

Not so today, my friends. Today is May Day and the suits are scared.

How scared? Well, I've only gotten about 20 different emails from 20 different organizations proclaiming gloom and doom due to the fact that the Seattle longshoremen skipped work and there are a bunch of Mexicans downtown. These emails have ranged from the incredibly racist to the just plain apocalyptic. Here's a sampling:

From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me

WARNING: May Day Rally Downtown Today.
As many as 7,000 people will converge in downtown. Leave your offices before 3:30 p.m. if you are worried about your commute. Traffic looks to be terrible this afternoon.

____

From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me

ATTENTION: Due to the May Day protests, a large portion of our building's janitorial staff will not be working tonight. Please do not be alarmed if you find your offices unvacuumed tomorrow morning. We are working to find support janitorial services in this time of need. We appreciate your cooperation and apologize for the inconvenience.

____

From: My Boss
To: Me

In the past, this march has created traffic nightmares for folks.
Feel free to leave early to avoid the traffic (or to join the march, if that's your thing.)
I'll probably cut out a bit early myself to catch the Ms game.

____

Yes, my friends, we live in truly troubled times.

Sick Day!

Friends, is there anything better than a Sick Day? While I believe Pete & Pete was amongst the first to pay the Sick Day a fitting tribute (the enlightened will recall the episode where Little Pete feigns illness after doctoring a can of tapioca... plaque candy, President Eisenhower, and an always appreciated cameo by LL Cool J follow), I'll join the ranks and offer my own. For your reading pleasure, here is a manifest of how I chose to spend my very own Sick Day yesterday:

6:00 AM: Wake up. Get the joe brewing, scratch myself while listening to Morning Edition.
6:20 AM: Decide I'm feeling a little under the weather. Consult WebMD while drinking said joe to see if it might be terminal.
7:30 AM: Narrow down potential ailments to gout, ALS or syphillis. Call in to work.
7:35 AM: Eat some waffles, smoke some Pall Malls.
9:00 AM: Phone mother. Mother wonders why I'm calling her at such an odd hour, and I inform her about Sick Day. "Didn't you just quit your job?" mother asks. I immediately start crying and hang up the phone.
9:03 AM: Call mother back. "I'm sorry," I say. "It's just... I..." I start sobbing again. My mom calms me down by singing "Cracklin' Rosie" and letting me talk to our cat Snowy over the phone. I feel a little sleepy.
10 AM: Take nap. Have what would've been a sex dream about teevee's Rider Strong, except we didn't do it, just made out hella. Totally gave him my digits.
3PM: Wake up in a groggy haze. Consider showering, putting on a bra, brushing my hair. Decide against all three, and instead leave my apartment in full greasy forehead and pit-stained glory to get a sandwich.
4 PM: Return home. Create nice trail between bathroom and couch in trash and clothes-strewn bachelor jungle. Feel a little sleepy.
4:23 PM: Watch Disc 3, Season 4 of the motherfucking wire. Feel me?
9:35 PM: Eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. Pass out with remote still in my hand.