I'm still standing. Like Elton.

The updation station over in these parts has been out of tune. I just can't seem to nail down a topic to discuss, or a story to share. Most of my thoughts have been consumed with work, boyfriend, work, holidays, boyfriend, work, blah blah blah. I can't tell the work stories, for fear of getting my walking papers handed to me, and I don't WANT to tell the boyfriend stories all the time, because I think some of the moments are better left to just us. Blabbing about all of our time together, or chats, or whatnot just doesn't seem right for some reason. Weird, I know, since I typically over share. But, whatever.

My routine has gotten to be pretty bland up in these parts. I need to spice it up somehow, but at this point, the only spice I can think of is salt, via my sweaty body after a fat run at the Y. I've got too much time on my hands, and it's getting depressing. I definitely miss my posse of friends that I left behind in my old city, and that's really been coming to light lately. I don't have folks like that here on a regular basis. The main man and his bro provide for hella laughs, but that isn't a daily thing, ya know? We live over an hour apart, so those moments have some days in between them. And, well, he's a guy, so it's not the same as having a girlfriend around all the time that knows exactly what you mean when you're simply raising an eyebrow. Crapadoody, ya know?

Leftover pizza and my other main man, Dog the Bounty Hunter, are calling, so I'm outski.

Freakme Friday

I'm out the door for our office Christmas party, but first I need to buy a pie. For the party.

Earlier today, I was out of the office for a party. In my pie.

Sorry, that's about all I can think of right now.

I love pie parties. And parties with pies.

FINALLY

Hello, readers. I mean, mom.

I've been without internet in my methplex for almost two weeks, due to a tragic mac charger breakdown, courtesy of my asshole dog. The bitch broke my charger, and when my battery died, I was without my lifeline. Mac supplies aren't sold ANYWHERE in the town where I reside, so I was forced to order a charger off of bestbuy.com. Well, in my haste, I ordered the wrong one.

Back to the fucking drawing board.

A few days later, I tracked down the right apparatus, and placed my order, making sure to FedEx 2 Day that cock sucker. And, finally, today, my life has returned to normal.

Since my last update, I went on my first deer hunting adventure. My job was to spread my scent through a tree grove, and obviously, spreading my scent is already one of my strengths, so the outing was a success. I threw my scent around in hopes of scaring a doe, a deer, a female deer out of a tree grove, so that she'd run directly towards my big hunk of man meat, and meet her maker via bow and arrow. We didn't have any luck, but at least I broke my deer hunting cherry, and duh, that counts for something.

The holiday spirit hasn't captured me whatsoever. I despise Christmas music, I have zero decorations up, and my shopping isn't getting done. I'm pretty tickled about getting my stocking stuffed this year, and fashioning underwear made of mistletoe, but other than that, fuck it. I'm too distracted to put effort into any HO HO HO besides myself. Twatever, man.

In other news, I've started watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship on purpose. I've lost my god damn mind.

Yowza

Tonight is the last night of my Turkey Tot Hotdish Extravaganza away from work and the real world. My nonsexual soul mate has been attached to my hip since Tuesday evening, and we've been setting the Dakotas on fire, that's fo sho. I've had more Bud Lights in my system these past few days than I have during the past 10 months combined, and amazingly, I've lived to tell about it. She flies back to her homeland tomorrow, and I'm already dreading the impending silence that she'll leave behind. No more belching, name calling, and creative cursing. Sigh...

Tomorrow night at this time, I'll be curled up on my couch in the fetal position with my phone back in my hand, texting my life away to my favorite Texan Two-Stepper, wondering where the time went. Internet friends are the new black. Everyone should have one.

A Merry Maid

Yesterday was a big day, folks.

My dear friend, Aimee, asked me to be the maid of honor in her September, 2007 wedding. Naturally, she asked me via text, and I responded via text, because that's how we roll.

It's going to be a swanky affair - sounds like me and the rest of the girlies are wearing black. I'm fucking pumped. My hurr is on the grow, and Operation: MAID OF HONOR BODY will start in March. Until then, I'll rely on my loose stool via Adderall to keep my figure in line.

I've gotta search the internet and poll my friends to see what Maids do. I know I'll hold flowers, straighten out the dress, throw some parties, and give a stellar speech, but I've gotta see what else the job entails. I mean, I don't care if I have to wipe her ass, I'm there. This is a huge honor, and I can't wait to strut down the aisle right before she does. Hell yeah.

Textual Healing

I love text messaging. If I could have a device that was only good for typing words to my friends and family, I'd snap that sumbitch up in a heartbeat. Screw voices and volume and sound and tone and all of that crap - I just wanna type.

I've always been a bit of a wacko when it comes to phone calls. Even back in high school, I had certain friends who I would have considered my BEST friends who I never talked to on the phone, because I was too nervous to call their house and have their dad or brother answer. Why? Who knows. I especially hate calling people whom I've NEVER talked to on the phone, because I don't know what to expect - are they full of pregnant pauses and awkward silences? Will they talk a mile a minute and never let me get a word in edge wise? Will I catch them at a bad time and sense the annoyance in their voice? I hate it, man! Stuff like that actually brings out the loose stool in my innards. No lie.

I love being able to shoot random one liners out to folks as well. Nothing makes me happier than being able to share the play by play of a bowel movement with my friends and family, via a two sentence message sent through the Verizon Wireless airwaves.

The manfriend and I love to text, too. I've always been annoyed with couples who call each other a minimum of 15 fucking times a day, just to check in or talk about something completely unnecessary. Get bent! Instead of doing that whole "what are you doing/nothing/what are you doing/nothing" exchange, we can zip each other a simple message like, "No time for a shower this morning. Lots of wet wipes. I'm disgusto magnifico." Or, "My farts....wow! Wish u were here!" I mean, why sandwich the good lines between all of that other conversation filler gunk? Might as well get straight to the point, even if the point is farts and wet wipes.

I wonder what's next. Technology is always one upping itself, so there's bound to be something far more spectacular than words on little screens making it's debut before too long. Scent messaging? I hope not. I'd disconnect my service and hook up a land line faster than you can say overage charges. Maybe someone will finally invent a cell phone that comes with a remote. I'd lock that sucker on vibrate and call myself until my minutes ran out if I had something like that. Hells yeah. Don't pretend you wouldn't turn your Motorola Razr in for a fine piece of machinery like that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tickle my keypad. Emmitt Smith just won Dancing With the Stars, and I need to blow up some phones.

Close Fucking Call

I took the opportunity today to have my buzzard plucked, seeing as how Veteran's Day was being observed and I had the entire day off. And, well, seeing as how TOMORROW is the actual Veteran's Day, and I'll be saluting my wonderful veteran, I figured now was a good time to get my wax on. It's the least I can do to show my appreciation for his effort at protecting our country, ya know?

I cruised on up to the salon, eagerly texting him to announce that Operation: Vagina Freedom was about to commence, and strutted my freshly showered self into the lobby. All was right with the world as my 'beautician', Jane, escorted me back into the top secret world of bush waxing, and had me grab a seat as she prepped her room for the return of my cho-cha. Well, as I rounded the corner to plop my ass onto a piece of couch, there stood the mother of two of my high school friends, and immediately, my heart plummeted to the bottoms of my old school Nike's.

Immediately, I turned the tables and struck up a conversation about having the day off and loving my government job and the weather and her plans for the day and the Vikings and gas prices and Thanksgiving and Britney Spears and country music and anything else under the sun that would prevent her from asking me WHY EXACTLY I WAS AT THE SPA. I guess I could have stuttered and spat and stumbled and said that I was just getting my eyebrows waxed, but seriously, who goes to the spa for that and only that? My pulse raced and my palms sweat during our entire two minute conversation, and I'm pretty sure the heavens opened and I heard angels break into chorus when she said she needed to use the bathroom. Phew! SAVED!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of having a hairless wookie, but I'd prefer to broadcast that fact to strangers on the internet as opposed to people I'll continue to see until one or both of us expire. Well, now, that's not true. I DO talk about it in person with my friends and confidants, but I don't think a woman who has known me since elementary school needs to have a visual of what's going on with my genitalia. Ish. If word got out in my hometown, they'd probably think I'd joined a sex offender cult, and that I was earning extra cash by shooting porno movies. That's just how folks roll over in that neck of the woods.

I made it out of the spa a little lighter and without having to utter the word "Brazilian" to anyone other than Crazy Jane, and for that I am thankful. My piss flaps have their game face on again, and tomorrow they're going to salute the shorts of one very randy soldier. Happy Veteran's Day, all.