You've got no clue where you're going with this...

...but you're going to draw it out as long as possible so you can feel like you haven't been neglecting your blog.

You're hoping you won't be late on rent, but you have a feeling that nothing you do at this point is going to make a difference. Luckily, The-Landlordette is pretty cool, so you don't think she'll have a problem with it being a few days late.

Prom was a few days ago and with La Missa by your side in the amazing dress you made her, you two owned prom in the face. Oh, and then there was The-Beautiful-Boy, but that's a story that needs to be figured out before you say anything official sounding.

Damnit you feel lame. You'll be back later.

You may have been a bit lax as of late...

...but you have excuses! But alas, like rectums, most people do.

You've been very busy trying too keep up with the Kardashian's, but your version of a "sex tape" isn't going that well. Damn her and her perfect body/face/personality.

WoW is time consuming too...

Not to mention you haven't worked at The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors in days. So, you're poor now too. But you digress... Damnit.

You've been listening to a (space) lot of music lately...

...but you haven't found anything new. If this were high school you wouldn't be so disconcerted, you would just call up The-Amazin'-Asian and ask her whats new on her iPod, but seeing how this most certainly is not high school (though it has magically retained all of it's stupid-ness in all of it's stupid glory), you've been desperately seeking new music solo. You've come to two possible conclusions: a. new music sucks, or b. your tastes have changed (you did download some Peter Frampton earlier). Either way, your glad The-Amazin'-Asian is yours for the summer.

Speaking of summer, You're tan now. And you planning on being even more tan later. You're gonna be B-L-A-C-K by the time fall rolls aroud. You're gonna be so B-L-A-C-K, Santa's gonna give you crack for Christmas.

You're not snarky, whatever that is...

...but you don't fail to see the irony in your punishment. Yes, that's right, at The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors you can be punished. You must admit, when you were told about your "write-up" it took you every bit of... Well...Everything you have to not laugh. To make a long situation short, you said you wouldn't vacuum and well... It wasn't taken very well. Hence your week-long vacuuming punishment.

Wow... Worst story ever.

You apologize for the misplaced wit.

Six-Foot-Seven is IMing you. Six-Foot-Seven is your "greatest unknown". You know that's the most incredibly lame thing you could have ever concocted, but at the time, it seemed poetic. It seemed appropriate in your 18-year-old-mind. He ended your not-relationship due to the ex he still lived with and subsequently was still loved. Suffice it to say, it didn't go very well.

So... You've kind of got nothing more to say, but you wish you did. Damnit.

You're not sure why...

...but you're a bit nervous about the wildfire your 2nd-Person-Crap is becoming. It's spreading faster than your legs around a football player. What you meant was...

Your so worth it 5-hour shift last night was the last time you worked with The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old. Yes, you're sad, but, who knows. Maybe her not-replacement will know the truth about tuberculosis. Because it's SO not worms. Who has worms in their lungs? Eww.

Speaking of being fired... You're not. But once The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old tells The-Manager about your slight rape innuendo in regards to her hunk of a hubby, you may be. The-Hunky-Hetero will be yours. All you need is a sex change.

Speaking of relationships you're going to accidentally destroy. Your Conflicted-Gay-Christian-Friend has moved on to round two with his football player. You're going to call him later and tell him how to make the football player cry. You always found that to be amazingly fun in High School. Back then. "What? You love me? Fag..."

Moving on... You're sick of being sick. All this coughing and sinus pressure has turned you into some sort of heterosexual couch-salad. Why doesn't that sound right? Anyhow. You're currently blogging in a 3-sizes-too-large tee-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. Normally, by this hour in the morning, you'd already be doing lines off the back of James St. James' hand while telling Michale Alig that he looks "Fabulous!"

But you digress. Contrary to popular belief, not everyone can be a Club Kid. Try as you might, you're simply the worst homosexual ever. Damnit.

You're not sick...

...but, well, nothing witty here, kids. You're sick.

You had no clue that it was possible for one person to produce such a large amount phlegm. It's amazing how even that word looks gross.

Oh, and if anyone could tell you why it is you can't stop coughing only when you're sleeping you'd warn them loudly to explain from a distance, because only you can resist this sickness and you don't want to be a murderer.

However...

If you were even in a Battle Royale-type situation, you so would. You watched Battle Royale last night and loved it.

Moving on... You're going to call The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors in a little while to see what time you're supposed to work today. In all actuality you're calling to see if you still have a job, because after Sunday (which followed the vacuum-less Saturday) you're none too sure.

Then, after (possibly) working tonight The-Not-So-Gay-Trio is heading over to your mother's house to watch Sweeney Todd with her and your sister. Yay!

But you digress... Not all problems can be solved with a Sondheim musical. But this one can.

You don't hate everyone...

...but you're pretty damn close.

You woke up yesterday to a nose full of snot and a head full of pressure. You're never sick, so by comparison, you're completely sure you're going to die before the day is out. So, you jump in your car and go put your last $3 in your gas tank so you can get to work and just as you're about to hit the bridge, 1,000,000 blue lights began to sparkle in your rear view mirror. You thought it was an alien abduction, but you digress. It was just a Copper who had come from Planet-Ass-Hole to destroy your life. Said Copper accomplished his goal of life destroying by giving you 3 tickets in one go.

And then, after accusing you of drunk driving, administering sobriety tests (plural), searching your car, and taking your licence plates (plural) he offers you a ride back to your apartment. You politely decline with the softly spoken words: "No thank you. You've helped enough for one day."

After that whole debacle you decide to call The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors and inform The-Manager that you'll be in shortly, sans dignity, add 3 new assholes. You were greeted by some sort of accusatory "Blah Blah Blah Vacuum" statement to which you responded: "Wow... Thank you for your sympathy. Have a great day."

Whether or not you still have a job is not exactly apparent, how ever when you call tomorrow to ask what time you work you're sure it will be made clear.

You haven't sailed the world, or seen it's wonders...

...but the Dardanelles sound amazing.

Much, much more amazing than The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors.

You're not exactly angry, however you are far from pleased. You're incredibly tired of being smiled at when you're present and defamed when you're not. You love your fame. It's not that you really mind being called the world's worst worker or the world's worst employee because, let's face it, your salary is not nearly enough to inspire the act of working-ness that The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors apparently requires. Wait, did you use the word "salary"? You meant loose change.

Anyway...

You're not incredibly offended, it's just that you hate when people use The-F-Word and then turn it around and reveal it to be nothing more than some tactic. By the way...

The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors is not some cut-throat 5,000,000-story tall New York firm. Quite the opposite.

All your saying is that anyone who has used The-F-Word in your regards should take note of whether or not you have used it in return. It's not that you don't LOVE drama, you just...

Abhor it.

But you digress...

You just didn't expect to be encountering this kinda of childish crap. Especially after the whole D.F.Z. (Drama Free Zone) speech you received during your very first interview.

You're not pointing any fingers, but if you did, you so have 5.

You're not exactly sure what got into you...

...but you're sorry. You didn't mean to get all heavy back there. You just can't help yourself sometimes. You're sleepless for Seattle. You know it's better not to talk about it, but you felt that after the abridged, 18-wheeler that is La-Historia-Du-Ex's you should probably throw in some background information on Sleepless-For-Seattle and The-Gemini.

Sleepless-For-Seattle is the one thing that kept you from murdering The-German-Whore-Ex. Back Then. During the last three or so months of your relationship with The-German-Whore-Ex, Sleepless-For-Seattle was your only friend. The only person, other than The-German-Whore-Ex, who you ever spoke to. Once you finally had enough of The-German-Whore-Ex you left and you and Sleepless-For-Seattle were closer than ever. Until The-Gemini.

The-Gemini reared his ugly heads the day before you were supposed to fly off to visit, and more than likely marry, Sleepless-For-Seattle. The-Gemini pulled some strange fabric (Felt?) over your eyes in the instant before you first spotted him and you ended up completely blowing any chance of ever having a trusting relationship with Sleepless-For-Seattle.

Worst. Day. Ever.

But you digress. Sleepless-For-Seattle would say something along the lines of: "Life is what you make it." or "Listen to me. I'm all frustratingly wise, and I still love you in spite of everything you've done because I see how amazing you could be." or "I love you."

You hate it when he says that. It may be truth, but it's still nothing you need to hear. Damnit.

Gangsters don't kill...

...but, well, you lied.

Well they tried to kill you on your way home from work. You can easily distinguish between red and green, but as you learned today, Gangsters can not. You were nearly t-boned by two blinging Gangsters in a purple cadillac with superdupershiny 1,000,000 inch wheels.

Fortunately a nearby Paladin cast Divine Intervention and the Gangster's super high crit rate was rendered null.

World of Warcraft reference FTW!

WoW... Talk about sobering.

Sleepless-For-Seattle just IMed you and you're nothing short of confused. Sleepless-For-Seattle is pretty much the reason you smoke. He is also who you "left" for The-Gemini, who you actually left for The-Boyfriend. Sleepless-For-Seattle and yourself have been keeping your Not-Relationship going for the better part of three years now. He calls you randomly. You IM him on occasion. And without fail you always end up talking about how Stupid-For-Seattle became Sleepless-For-Seattle. You have never known exactly how to say your sorry to him, and even though you know he'll never read this, you truly are sorry for the way things turned out.

Every time you talk to Sleepless-For-Seattle you hate him a little more. But you digress. You only try to hate him.

You wish you didn't know that it's really yourself you hate a little more every time you talk to him. Damnit.