For the romantically impaired
Current mood: crappy
Category: I got sinus pain, UUUUGGGGH. Romance and Relationships

Preface:

First and foremost, what a man will never fully understand about women is that we have this cattiness that's inherently bred through our DNA.  By this I don't mean to imply that all women will resort to clawing you, pulling hair and/or prone to premenstrual drama.  My intention is to define the difference between men and women. 

Here is an example:  When a man sees his friend with a beautiful woman, he might say to himself, "That's cool.  I need me a nice lady like that."  On the flip side, a woman might see another woman with an attentive handsome man and be like, "I need me THAT man right there." 

The bond between a man and his friends is stronger than most women with their friends.*  Before women start leaving me comments trying to say different consider this: Ladies, how many times has a homegirl dissed you for a man?  How many times did you talk smack behind her back about her after that?  Another example: how many times have you tripped out a man when he asked about one of your ex-homegirls by going, "THAT BITCH?"  And then he's like, "gaaaaah!! I was just asking!!" 
Long winded point: as with most everything else, a woman's ideas of what is romantic will be different than a man's sometimes because we think in a totally different fashion.

With all that said, here's a list of shit to help you out with your game:

Flowers are nice, but not too extravagant.  If you want to do extravagant it solely has to be for her to show off, like a huge bouquet that arrives at her work in full view of coworkers.  A single rose can go a long way, but only if it leads to something else—like if it's given at the start of a romantic night.  Leaving it to wilt in a hot car doesn't have the same effect.

DO NOT: ever get the plastic flowers from 7-11. 

Perfume is nice.  A good way to judge if a woman will like it: sniff—does it smell like whore?  If so, put it back on the sales counter and walk away.  Unless your lady is a whore.  And if that is the case, you need a lot more help than this list.

DO NOT: ever get perfume from a drug store.

Candies aren't really romantic.  In fact most food items aren't, however they can be romantic if you bring food as part of an activity to do together.  Examples: dinner at a fancy restaurant, bringing take-out when she's sick, etc.

DO NOT: expect her to be thrilled that you take her somewhere if it got a drive-thru.

Clothing and lingerie is nice, but—AND I STRESS you must know her size.  If it's too big or too small you'll mess up either way and somehow imply that she's fat.  If it is too big, you obviously think she's a heifer, and if it is too small she'll think that's the size you want her to really be. 

DO NOT: ever ask your mom where she shops and then go to that store.  Your lady does NOT want to dress like your mom.

Shoes are a safe bet because even if their slimy-stripper slutty, she can always just wear them in the room for you.

DO NOT: ask her to wear the "in-the-room" shoes in public.  Chances are her coworkers will talk smack for wearing clear heels at work.  That is, unless she wears some stank ass spicy perfume, and or works at an establishment where those kind of shoes are part of the uniform (see perfume, above).

Subtopic: Dates

Anything with music is cool because it will probably involve dancing, which will involve the two of you touching.  And plus, you know what they say: a person dances as well as they do other things…

DO NOT: take her to any club that solely plays music from before you both were born unless you are both professional ballroom dancers. 

A movie can be alright as long as that isn't the whole focus of the night, because you have no interaction at all while watching a movie.  If you are trying to be romantic and can't afford dinner and a movie, you're gonna have to nix the movies and think up something a little more creative, like a stroll through an art gallery or something (HELLA cost efficient, and it says you have a little class).  Safe bets: scary movies (she'll grab you), and/or thrillers.  A thriller (think Bourne Identity) will keep you talking afterwards.

DO NOT:  take her to see a chick flick/romance.  Maybe she'll even argue about that, but it's a real cock-blocker to watch a movie where a woman starts to look at you and realize that you aren't ANYTHING like Mr. Wonderful on the movie screen.  A tearjerker will wet her eyes, and not other areas.  TRUST. 

A dinner date must have the following: It must be a place where you have to be seated and give a tip, unless it is the most bomb ass hole in the wall joint with food that will make you want to slap your momma.  The second one is more of a gamble though, because if she don't like the food, all she'll remember is that you took her to a hole in the wall.

DO NOT:  yes, you have to be seated at Denny's, and yes, you should tip there.  But most chain restaurants suck. 

A social gathering, or party can be cool but it follows the same rule of thumb as the movies i.e., it's not gonna score any romantic points at all if that's the main focus of the night.  Watching you get drunk and talking to your friend about, "MEMBER THAT TIME…?"  won't get her in the mood to slip on them "in-the-room shoes" for you.

DO NOT: invite friends to meet you at the location of your date.  It'll be painfully obvious that her company isn't enough for you. 

2^nd Subtopic: General behavior

Tell her how much she turns you on.  Women have to do a lot more than men usually do to maintain their pretty appearance.  You don't have to be a romantic poet to let her know that you appreciate what she does.  Even if you rub your cock on her arm while she's at the computer desk she will know that you noticed, and that is our intention anyways.  That you notice, not the Arabian goggles on her forearm.

DO NOT: put your cock in her face while she's still asleep or just waking up.  That aint the same thing.

Finally, and most importantly—the most valuable romantic tip I can give you is to open up to her.  Even if it is hard for you to express your touchy feely side, you got to do it.  Holding things in will inevitably surface in other ways.  And chances are, all those other ways will just get you in trouble. 

DO NOT: talk bad about your ex or compare relationship war stories.  It's one thing to open up about how your past relationships might have affected you.  It is another to talk about all the things you hope we won't do just like the one you can't stop thinking of.

* Although rare, tight friendships between women aren't impossible, okay SNIZZATCHES?!?!

Currently listening : As Daylight Dies By Killswitch Engage Release date: 21 November, 2006

4:23 PM - 14 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

I AM CORNHOLIO!!!!! AAARRRRGGGGGHH!!!
Category: Blogging

Starbucks deals legal crank!!! 

Currently listening : Hell’s Kitchen By Andre Nickatina Release date: 22 January, 2002

9:59 AM - 8 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

another of the random list series
Current mood: anxious
Category: Quiz/Survey

things that scare me.  But like, dumb-scary, not like ninjas-killing-my-family-scary:

10.  pubic hairs in restrooms.  Like even if its at a friends house, and then its like, "ILL.  I don't want to think of my homies pubes, much less kick them out my sight while I meditate."  Yuck.  They'll touch my shoes.  ILL.

9.  rural areas, or long stretches between freeways.  I think of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and long for my neighborhoods where I can't find parkings and wake up to the clown horns of paleteros.

8. Bills, and paying interest on dumb shit like food that I digested and flushed into the Alviso bay over 4 months ago.

7. Time.  Especially in relation to fucked up experimentation with self given haircuts.

6. what my kids might tell school staff and/or their future therapists.  I mean, even though I try to do my best by them, that is what makes it suck more, you know?  Like, what if I spent all this time love and effort and they still grow up to be whores or something?  That would suck. 

5. getting busted at work for looking at something ridiculous that I didn't intend to look at, like forwarded emails of Britney Spear's scarred snatch.

4. Falling down in public. It hasn't happened for a while.  But whats sad is that I don't drink, so the times I've fallen were (mostly) stone sober.

3. embarrassing pictures of me through random phases I went through.  And don't try and act like Im the only one.  Theres some other poor bitch out there sporting head to toe LA Gear, or some 30 plus guy with a mullet that had lines shaved into the side.  You ain't got to lie, Craig.

2. my husband joking that he's gonna break up with me as soon as our youngest turns eighteen.  It isn't funny, fucker!

and finally.... 1. Douche chills (I mean, I've heard).

Currently reading : Good Advice for Young Trendy People of All Ages By Jennifer Blowdryer Release date: 10 February, 2005

8:38 PM - 16 Comments - 15 Kudos - Add Comment

For the local peeps: I got this in an email...
Category: Parties and Nightlife

11:45 AM - 11 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

okay, a real blog this time
Category: Quiz/Survey

Actually authored by me in blog mode, an interview with myself:

What's crackalacking, Ms. Loks?  It's been a while since our last interview, hasn't it?
Me: What up, foo.  I guess.

How has your life changed since then?
Me: Well, I dropped a few friends, and gained some others.  I lost a little weight, and finally rastled myself from the evil grips of Ice Reyna (my former boss), I started an english class (critical thinking, not as a second language) which is going alright, and I've entered a blissful second honeymoon stage with mi viejo.  All good shit, I guess.

That's cool.  I must warn you, this interview might be more on the serious tip in comparison to the last one...
Me: oh, you're gonna dig deep into the psyche of Ms. Loks?  Psh, you can't throw no dead kittens on my porch, ey.  You ain't no Barbara Walters.

I'm surprised you know who that is.
Me: Fuck you, ey.

SO ANYWAYS, in light of all the good shit you've listed above-- or perhaps thinking beyond it-- do you ever fantasize of having a different kind of life?
Me: No.  Honestly, I've tried, but fantasies never get off the ground for me because I'm so close to it.  To the ground I mean, not the fantasies.  I dunno.  I guess I know shit can't change beyond what I can change, and I'm cool with that. 

That sounds pretty wise.  Have you ever had to start over in life?
Me: Yeah, when I busted out the loony bin.  EEEEHHHHH!! Just kidding.  ... .. .you think?

You mentioned your friends first in your list of recent changes.  Tell me about your friends.  Who do you think would talk shit about you behind your back?
Me: Kottdam, you don't play do you?  Andy.  Just kidding.  Yoli.  EEEHHHH!  Hell if I know.  They all prolly do.  They be like, "what a dork, she blogs."

That's pretty funny.  Who do you think is more of a loser, those who blog, or those who read blogs?
Me: fuck you, bitch.

Alrighty then.  What talent do you possess that no one else in your social group can ever imagine matching?
Me: my chola ninja skills surpass anything you can fathom.

When did you bust out the loony bin again?
Me: whatever.  Try me, bitch.

You do realize that you are talking to yourself, right?
Me: get back to the interview, bitch.

MMmkay.  If you had to rid yourself of all your friends and retain only three, who would they be and why? 
Me: you trying to get me jumped?  I guess the three that are reading this right now.  EEEEHHHHHH!!!

No I'm not trying to get you jumped.  We'll change the subject then.  Tell me about this second honeymoon phase.
Me: Well, as I told some of the snatcholas recently, certain veteranas in my life have always said, "mija, just wait until you turn thirty.  The sex is way better after thirty!"  And I'd just cringe like, "eww. old people choning down? yuk!"  But I must say, there does seem to be a blooming of the panoche after thirty.  Can't explain it, but i'm not complaining either.

And I'm sure your vato won't be, huh?  Do you think that's why your prior relationships have failed?  Because you hadn't "bloomed"?
Me: WHA??  Naw, man!! Prior relationships didn't work out because I was with some assholes.  I'm lucky to have the one I have now. 

The one what-- asshole?
Me: CHATA! He's not always an ass. In fact, I been loving the shit out of him recently.

Gross. No one wants to read about that.  In terms of your marriage (and try not to be all cochina about it), what do you think is better-- a messed up home life with good appearances, or a good home life that everyone thought was messed up?
Me: The second choice because I don't give a fuck what people think.

Gah.  You get all touchy quick.
Me: well, your'e asking about some personal shit!

Maybe I should come from a more general angle.  When you meet someone, anyone for the first time, which do you absorb first: words, tone and delivery, or body language?
Me: Tone and delivery, because that is usually the reason cited when I place someone on my shit list.

Significance, self-worth, or security-- which is more important?
Me: self-worth, because the others don't come along without it.

hmm, another very grown up answer.  So if someone was talking shit behind your back, would you want to know what they were saying, or remain blissfully ignorant?
Me: WHY? WHO'S TALKING SHIT?

Uh, if I knew, you would, genius.  Answer the question.
Me: Honestly, I'd want to know-- but I wouldn't really do anything about it.  First of all, if someone gots something to say to me, they'd say it to me instead of other people.  If they tell someone else, they obviously don't want my response, so it isn't my problem.  Let a bitch talk some shit to my face though...

And then what?
Me: You testing me?  I guess it depends on what it is.  Call me some names and get in my face and I'll just prolly do the same.  Talk some shit, or threaten my kids, and I can't be responsible for my actions cause you asked for it.

Who's opinion do you least respect, and why?
Me: Um, if I don't care enough to value their opinion, I wouldn't care enough to remember their name. 

You're a fucking hard subject.  Okay, let's do some word associations.  Pick one over the other: Intention or action?
Me: Action Jackson!

Participate or observe?
Me: observe and talk shit.

Chaos or order?
Me: you sound like that foo from Actor's Studio.  One makes way for the other, always in circles.  I'm native american, and I'll tell you all about that shit over a peace pipe.

Now or later?
Me: Jolly ranchers

You're answering all wrong, but whatever. I want to eventually post this shit.  So, Long or short?
Me: Please, girl.

bwahahaa!! I know, huh? Top or bottom?
Me: Bottom. ILLLL!!!!

Spit or swallow?
Me: I'm just trying to get my own nut on.

Fine.  I give up.  Here are some frivolous questions.  If you got a car with a license place with the number "666" in it, would you ask for another plate?
Me: ESTOOOOPIT!! No!  I'd light a black candle to make sure that shit keeps running.

If you had to kill one, which would you rather kill a clown or a mime?
Me: Prolly a mime, because the idea of a dead clown somehow seems more scary.

What computer password did you use once that no one would ever guess?
Me: I'm not gonna tell you that!  I don't care if you did read all the way down here!

Just wanted to see if you are awake... What TV commercial makes you laugh?
Me: "awake", yeah right. I like the antidepressant commercials.  My recent favorite goes, "who does depression hurt?" then it cuts to a sad looking dog.  What the fuck is that?  Let's take pills to keep the dog happy?  That's funny!

What is your favorite way to waste time?
You're reading it. 

2:39 PM - 23 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

My face on the side of a milk carton (not my words)
Category: Blogging

Sorry bitches, but I been crazy busy.  I got a big ass research paper I been working on about the shitty health care that inmates in California State Prisons receive (no punchline).  But since I care, here you can read one of my favorite pieces by one of my favorite authors, David Sedaris (I think I might be the Rooster of my family...).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You Can't Kill the Rooster
When I was young, my father was transferred and our family moved from western New York State, to Raleigh, North Carolina.  IBM had relocated a great many northerners, and together we made relentless fun of our new neighbors and their pokey, backward way of life.  Rumors circulated that the locals ran stills out of their toolsheds and referred to their house cats as "good eatin'."  Our parents discouraged us from using the titles "ma'am" or "sir" when addressing a teacher or shopkeeper.  Tobacco was acceptable in the form of a cigarette, but should any of us experiment with plug or snuff, we would automatically be disinherited.  Mountain Dew was forbidden, and our speech was monitored for the slightest hint of a Raleigh accent.  Use the word "y'all," and before you knew it, you'd find yourself in a haystack French kissing an underage goat.  Along with grits and hush puppies, the abbreviated form of you all was a dangerous step on an insidious path leading straight to the doors of the Baptist church.
We might not have been the wealthiest people in town, but at least we weren't one of them.
Our family remained free from outside influence until 1968, when my mother gave birth to my brother, Paul, a North Carolina native who has since grown to become both my father's best ally and worst nightmare.  Here was a child who, by the time he had reached the second grade, spoke much like the toothless fishermen casting their nets into Albemarle Sound.  This is the grown man who now phones his father to say, "Motherfucker, I ain't seen pussy in so long, I'd throw stones at it."
My brother's voice, like my own, is high pitched and girlish.  Telephone solicitors frequently ask to speak to our husbands, or request that we put our mommies on the line.  The Raleigh accent is soft, and beautifully cadenced, but my brother's is a more complex hybrid, informed by his professional relationships with marble-mouthed, deep-country work crews and his abiding love of hard-core rap music.  He talks so fast that even his friends have a hard time understanding him.  It's like listening to a foreigner and deciphering only shit, motherfucker, bitch and the single phrase You can't kill the Rooster.
"The Rooster" is what Paul calls himself when he's feeling threatened.  Asked how he came up with that name, he says only, "Certain motherfuckers think they can fuck with my shit, but you can't kill the Rooster.  You might can fuck him up sometimes, but, bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking Rooster.  You know what I'm saying?"
It often seems that my brother and I were raised in two completely different households.  He's eleven years younger than I am, and by the time he reached high school, the rest of us had all left home.  When I was young, we weren't allowed to say "shut up," but once the Rooster hit puberty it had become acceptable to shout, "Shut your fucking hole."  The drug laws had changed as well.  "No smoking pot" became "no smoking pot in the house," before it finally petered out to "please don't smoke any more pot in the living room." 
My mother was, for the most part, delighted with my brother and regarded him with the bemused curiosity of a brood hen discovering she has hatched a completely different species.  "I think it was very nice of Paul to give me this vase," she once said, arranging a bouquet of wildflowers into the skull-shaped bong my brother had left on the dining-room table.  "It's nontraditional, but that's the Rooster's way.  He's a free spirit, and we're lucky to have him."
Like most everyone else in our suburban neighborhood, we were raised to meet a certain standard.  My father expected me to attend an Ivy League university, where I'd make straight A's, play football, and spend my off-hours strumming guitar with the student jazz combo.  My inability to throw a football was exceeded only by my inability to master the guitar.  My grades were average at best, and eventually I learned to live with my father's disappointment.  Fortunately there were six of us children, and it was easy to get lost in the crowd.  My sisters and I managed to sneak beneath the wire of his expectations, but we worried about my brother, who was seen as the family's last hope. 
From the age of ten, Paul was being dressed in Brooks brothers suits, and tiny clip-on rep ties.  He endured trumpet lessons, soccer camp, church-sponsored basketball tournaments, and after-school sessions with well-meaning tutors who would politely change the subject when asked about the Rooster's chances of getting into Yale or Princeton.  Fast and well-coordinated, Paul enjoyed sports but not enough to take them seriously.  School failed to interest him on any level, and the neighbors were greatly relieved when he finally retired his trumpet.  His response to our father's impossible and endless demands has, over time, become something of a mantra.  Short and sweet, repeated at a fever pitch, it goes simply, "Fuck it," or on one of his more articulate days, "Fuck it, motherfucker.  That shit don't mean fuck to me."
My brother politely ma'ams and sirs all strangers but refers to friends and family, his father included as either "bitch" or "motherfucker."  Friends are appalled at the way he speaks to his only remaining parent.  The two of them once visited my sister Amy and me in New York City, and we celebrated with a dinner party.  When my father complained about his aching feet, the Rooster set down his two-liter bottle of Moutain Dew and removed a fistful of prime rib from his mouth, saying, "Bitch you need to have them ugly ass bunions shaved down is what you need to do.  But you can't do shit about it tonight, so lighten up, motherfucker." 
All eyes went to my father, who chuckled, saying only, "Well, I guess you have a point." 
A stranger might reasonably interpret my brother's language as a lack of respect, and view my father's response as a form of shameful surrender.  This, though, would be missing the subtle beauty of their relationship.
My father is the type who once recited a bawdy limerick saying, "A woman I know who's quite blunt/had a bear trap installed in her... Oh, you know.  It's a base, vernacular word for the vagina."  He can absolutely kill a joke.  When pushed to his limit, this is a man who shouts, "Fudge," a man who curses drivers with a shake of his fist and hearty, "G.D. you!"  I've never known him to swear, yet he and my brother seem to have found a common language that eludes the rest of us. 
My father likes to talk about money.  Spending doesn't interest him in the least, especially as he grows older.  He prefers money as a concept and often uses terms such as annuity and fiduciary, words definately not listed in the dictionary of mindless entertainment.  It puts my ears to sleep, but still, when he talks I pretend to listen to him, if only because it seems like the mature thing to do.  When my father talks finance to my brother, Paul will cut him off saying, "Fuck the stock talk, hoss, I ain't investing shit."  This rarely ends the economics lecture, but my brother wins bonus points for boldly voicing his uninterest, just as my father would do were someone to corner him and talk about Buddhism or the return of the clog.  The two of them are unapologetically blunt.  It's a quality my father admires so much, he's able to ignore the foul language completely.  "That Paul," he says, "now there's a guy who knows how to communicate." 
When words fail him, the Rooster has been known to communicate with fists, which, though quick and solid, are no larger than a couple of tangerines.  At five foot four, he's shorter than I am, stocky but not exactly intimidating.  The year he turned thirty, we celebrated Christmas at the home of my older sister Lisa.  Paul arrived a few hours late with scraped palms and a black eye.  There had been some encounter at a bar, but the details were sketchy. 
"Some motherfucker told me to get the fuck out of his motherfucking face, so I said, 'Fuck off, fuckface.'"
"Then what?"
"Then he turned away and I reached up and punched him on the back of his motherfucking neck."
"What happened next?"
"What the fuck do you think happened next, bitch?  I ran like hell and the motherfucker caught up with me in the fucking parking lot.  He was all beefy, all flexed up and shit.  The motherfucker had a taste for blood and he just pummeled my ass."
"When did he stop?"
My brother tapped his fingertips against the tabletop for a few moments before saying, "I'm guessing he stopped when he was fucking finished."
The physical pain had passed, but it bothered Paul that his face was "all lopsided and shit for the fucking holidays."  That said, he retreated to the bathroom with my sister Amy's makeup kit and returned to the table with two black eyes, the second drawn on with mascara.  This seemed to please him, and he wore his matching bruises for the rest of the evening. 
"Did you get a load of that fake black eye?" my father asked.  "That guy ought to do make up for the movies.  I'm telling you, the kid's a real artist."
Unlike the rest of us, the Rooster has always enjoyed our father's support and encouragement.  With the dream of college officially dead and buried, he sent my brother to technical school, hoping he might develop an interest in computers.  Three weeks into the semester, Paul dropped out, and my father, convinced that his son's lawn-mowing skills bordered on genius, set him up in the landscaping business.  "I've seen him in action, and what he does is establish a pattern, and really tackle it!"
Eventually my brother fell into the floor-sanding business.  It's hard work, but he enjoys the satisfaction that comes with a well-finished rec room.  He thoughtfully called his company Silly P's Hardwood Floors, Silly P being the name he would have chosen were he a rap star.  When my father suggested the word silly might frighten away some of the upper-tier customers, Paul considered changing the name to Silly Fucking P's Hardwood Floors.  The work puts him in contact with plumbers and carpenters from such towns as Bunn and Clayton, men who offer dating advice such as, "If she's old enough to bleed, she's old enough to breed."
"Old enough to what?" my father asks.  "Oh, Paul, those aren't the sort of people you need to be associating with.  What are you doing with hayseeds like that?  The goal is to better yourself.  Meet some intellectuals.  Read a book!" 
After all these years my father has never understood that we, his children, tend to gravitate toward the very people he's spent his life warning us about.  Most of us have left town, but my brother remains in Raleigh.  He was there when our mother died, and still, years later, continues to help our father grieve: "The past is gone, hoss.  What you need now is some motherfucking pussy."  While my sisters and I offer our sympathy long-distance, Paul is the one who arrives at our father's house on Thanksgiving day, offering to prepare traditional Greek dishes to the best of his ability.  It is a fact that he once made a tray of spanakopita using Pam rather than melted butter.  Still, though, at least he tries. 
When a hurricane damaged my father's house, my brother rushed over with a gas grill, three coolers full of beer, and an enormous Fuck-It Bucket-- a plastic pail filled with jawbreakers and bite sized candy bars.  ("When shit brings you down, just say 'fuck it,'and eat yourself some motherfucking candy.")  There was no electricity for close to a week.  The yard was practically cleared of trees, and rain fell through the dozens of holes punched into the roof.  It was a difficult time, but the two of them stuck it out, my brother placing his small, scarred hand on my father's shoulder to say, "Bitch, I'm here to tell you that it's going to be all right.  We'll get through this shit, motherfucker, just you wait."

Currently listening : Hell's Kitchen By Andre Nickatina Release date: 22 January, 2002

8:57 PM - 13 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

thinking out loud... or out type, or whatever.
Category: Life

okay, by Tuesday I'm supposed to have read 3 essays, have an analysis written out of one of them, and then Thursday I need to have this big paper done on virtue and morality.  It would be so much easier just to stay stupid.
Then on Tuesday-- Halloween itself-- besides me going to class after work, I think Johnny has to work in the evening.  So I have to take the kids trick or treating, which he usually does.  This sucks because:
1.) he always takes them, so its kind of breaking a tradition.
2.) Maya wants to take a friend this year, so I got the added responsibility of keeping a 3rd, unrelated baby hoodrat alive and intact.
3.) I fucking got school.  I hope it don't get dark quick.

5:01 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

not a real blog...
Category: MySpace

I been out the loop for a minute 'cause my kid almost had a surgery, and then at the lastest minute it didn't happen.  In preparation for the almost-surgery, I was out of school for a week, and had a shitload of work to catch up on. 
I'll get back on track soon...

8:27 AM - 5 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

interpretations, anyone?
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

I stayed home sick from work today.
I'm on the fence about going to school tonight or not. 
Sleeping in late, I dreamt that I was at a KISS (lame' platform boots, not the burnout radio station) concert, and some little metalhead boy sitting next to me wouldn't stop talking about school. 
But what does it meeeean??

11:18 AM - 20 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Quote of Monday, October 2nd 2006

I'M ADDING SNUFFLE!!!
-Me

9:17 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment