You're not one to boast...

...but the amazing wall paper paint thing you've almost completed in your living room is fabulous. Correction: Fagulous.

It's like dark victorian meets Beach-Heads.

Moving on...

Your mother decided that today was the best day to being discussing how The-Boyfriend was going to be paying her for the car he intends to buy; With you. This was the first thing she did to make you angry. Why is it that she can't, you don't know, talk to The-Boyfriend about he will be paying her? She then continued to say that, if it was convienent, not even ok, but if it was convient for me to discuss with her at my 2B-1B-2B. The very same 2B-1B-2B you don't want her to know the location of.

But you digress. The-Boyfriend is home.

You're not all about routine...

...but seeing as today is the first in three days that you've gotten up early enough and decided to brave the outdoors of your porch, you're going to post a blog. Like you usually do.

The search for a Home-Sweet-Hovel has come to a surprising end. Your Home-Sweet-Hovel is not so much a hovel as it is fucking sweet. The 2B-1B-2B (2 Bedroom, 1 Bath, 2 Block ('s from the beach)) is coming along very well, and with the addition of a couch and the most amazing recliner you've ever seen, your living room actually appears to be livable. Albeit , you're still waiting for your electricity to be turned on (it should be on sometime today), the information that you can have cable, phone, and internet for a mere $167.23/month (which puts you at about $275/month per person living in said apartment) sans installation fee, equipment fee, and the first month's bill has saved you any potential heartache.

Not to mention your new ProtoPipe. Amazing.

You've been having alot of heart burn as of late. You hardly even have the time to eat, much less suffer the consiquences. But you digress. All you can do now is pop Tums like the old pro you are.

Miss-15-Going-On-40 (your younger and only actual sister) ended her endless relationship with The-Kid-With-the-Penis-Haircut. You were very surprised by the incredible lack of crying. And subsiquent seeming lack of care. Oh well... She did learn from the best. On with the show.

You've been having far too many good times at The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors to recant in one sitting, however you will attempt to retell a few in this one.

Or not.

The-Boyfriend in all his zombie-morning-glory has arisen from the land of the dead.

Pictures coming soon. You're not sure whats wrong with this Crap-Top but you're gonna fucking fix it.

You're not one to post salacious things...

...but, in this case, you're going to make an exception.

The-Owner raises rabbits. To eat.

She owns a pet store, where she sells rabbits as pet, and in her personal time, she raises rabbits. To eat. Its not that you're incapeable of getting over this fact, you just don't want to.

But you digress. Who the hell does that?

The-Girl-With-The-HUGE-Ass says: "And theres (The-Owner)... Walkin' around (The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors) sayin' 'Oh! Who's a cute bun-bun!? I'm gonna go home and eat your mommy!"

And she so will. Damnit.

You're not the worst homosexual ever...

...but, well... Yeah. You are.

When The-Super-Hot-Duck-Hunting-Redneck came into The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors today, you found yourself instantly thinking of ways to drug/rape/tie up the poor man. He would have had to have died after the incident, but well... The little sacrifices we all have to make to be with You. Oh well....

So much has happened to you over the past week.

Your house hunt has come to an abrupt stand still seeing as none of the members of The-Not-So-Gay-Trio have any clue as to the next move to make. The-CC has give you the middle finger.

They have made it clear that they do not, under any circumstances, want The-Not-So-Gay-Trio. So naturally, you have agreed to go look at a potential Home-Sweet-Hovel, which is just a stones throw from The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old's house, in the next county over; The-Other-CC. No, that was not a shudder. That was the sound you make when you digress.

Moving on...

You've got to gather your thoughts more before you can turn them into a blog. Damnit.

You're not one to give "shoutouts"...

...but The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old just gave you a midnight, drunken phone call. She invited The-Manager over for diner and it all went CH3CH2OH from there.

You love chemistry. But not as much as you love The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old and The-Manager; and alcohol.

Pure, unadulterated, drunken love. But you digress.

You're not an alcoholic, but the average person wouldn't know it. 20 or so shots later, you can still type. And carry a decent phone conversation.

SUPER ACQUAINTANCES! ASSEMBLE!

You're not one to tease...

...but the bigger, and subsequently better, blog is still forthcoming.

Look forward to tales of The-Owner gone thief, Your eye almost falling out, and puppies dropped on their heads.

You're not one to support inter-friendly dating...

...but according to La Missa and The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever you are.

They have merged to become... La Gay! The newest celebrity couple everyone will be talking about!

You drew a rendition of the new couple in Paint:

You wish them the best of luck! Damnit.

It's not that you don't love The-Dirty-Diner...

...but even for a dirty diner, The-Dirty-Diner's service is lacking.

You were surprised the last time you ordered during work (being yesterday) when the older woman who handles the bills angrily told you that you needed to have money more closely resembling your bill. You gave her $20 for you bill of $9.58. You're sorry to say, but if that math escapes someone, then... You actually don't have a snappy insult for that. You guess its just thoes damn Christians. God + Intelligence = Not possible?

But you digress.

Some people obviously don't hold basic skills in as high regard as you do. Or for that matter, as highly as the 7-year-old who came into The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors 15 minuets ago. Damnit.

You're not one to get your hopes up...

...but the Home-Sweet-Hovel approval status has been upgraded from 'maybe' to 'pseudo-approved' meaning that all The-Pseudo-Nice-Lady-With-Vibrating-Eyebrows needs to approve The-Not-So-Gay-Trio for the aforementioned Home-Sweet-Hovel is proof of income, which all 3 members of The-Not-So-Gay-Trio have already completed (though not in triplicate) and attached photocopies of their respective driver's licences too.

The-Not-So-Gay-Trio strikes hard, fast, and accurately. But they do it with style.

Speaking of style. Your Gay-Fat self has been reduced to a single pair of not-so-blue-jeans and a single pair of cut-off manpris; which are much like capris, only baggy and on a guy. It's not that this is unusual for you. You usually tend to favor anywhere from 1 to 3 leg coverings of your collection of 20-something at any given time. It's just that you feel like people notice. It's not that you care, it's just that you're not sure if people realize that you totally wash your leg coverings ever other day. But you digress.

You work at 2 today. So you're going to need to start getting ready sometime soon. You're meeting La Missa after work for coffee and a preliminary sketching of her gown at The-Dirty-Diner. You fully intend on drinking at least 3 cups of coffee and eating pancakes. Damnit.

You're not a thief...

... but according to The-Owner someone who works for her is.

Apparently $100 was missing from the bank deposit and... That's about it.

As to who would be stupid enough to steal exatly $100, you're not sure, but you are 103.7% sure that someone can't count. But you digress.

$1, $2, $3, $4... $4! OMG! $100 is missing! Aww poopin' scoop. Damnit.

You're not one to post, post pre-event post...

...but, you couldn't not.

About an hour ago you went into The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors to pick up your checklet. Not quite a check, but it will do.

When you enter the shop you notice a mass of soaking wet towels sitting around the waste of space that is the brick pond in the shop.

According to The-Owner something happened to one of the fountains over the night and soaked about $500 worth of merchandise. The only reason you find this blog-worthy is because you so warned The-Owner about the condition of her fountains. And you love saying you told someone so.

Moving on...

The news just announced that there is new information on The-Lane-Bryant-Killer. This is the first you've heard of said killer. Naturally you laughed your ass off. Whoever came up with the name The-Lane-Bryant-Killer is obviously a Fatty-Hater. But you digress. Perhaps you're just jaded. You won't be laughing when theres a Gay-Fat-Killer. Damnit.

You're not one to post pre-event...

...but you are for today.

You, The-Boyfriend, and The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever visited Chalk and Gibbs yesterday. Again.

The-Pseudo-Nice-Lady-With-Vibrating-Eyebrows took $45 dollars from The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever and promised a decision on your Home-Sweet-Hovel by today at noon.

You're more hungry than afraid at the moment, so naturally you let the former feel like the latter and decide to eat alot. But you digress. There's no food in you mother's house. Damnit.

You weren't scared...

...but you so were.

With all of the not done things at The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors last night, you were sure you were gonna walk out today with about 7 new assholes.

However, your quick apology in addition to your 7-minuets-too-long explanation as to why the not done things were not done; all on top of your insanely sound defense to the super creepy guy (who was mentioned in your 03/08/08 blog) who returned with a mountain of complaints.

You OWNED the bitching. In the face.

AND...

...managed to remember to blog about the job offer you got yesterday from The-Lady-With-The-Kids-And-Husband.

The-Lady-With-The-Kids-And-Husband offered you a job at Fin's. A.K.A. The-Five-Star-Restaurant-Run-By-17-Year-Old-Girls. Most confusing of all you were offered a Management position. At 19. Humm... But you digress. You must take what you can get. Even if what you can get comes with a complimentary rain-cloud and occasional lightning. Damnit.

You're not nostalgic...

...but sometimes, you can be.

You saw The-Amazin'-Asian today for the first time in months. You haven't spoken to her in a while, but it was just like old times... Only not. Not different in a bad way, just... Kind of more mature. It's amazing what some time apart will do for a relationship.

6 hours away from The-Boyfriend or 3 months away from The-Amazin'-Asian. Either way, the benefit that time gives is unmeasurable.

You genuinely enjoyed sitting in The-Dirty-Diner talking life with The-Amazin'-Asian and La-Missa. It was just like old times, and as much as you hate to admit it, you miss the old days. They were golden.

You worked with The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old today. Of course you enjoyed yourself, however in the process of enjoying yourself you kinda sotra neglected to clean the rodent cages and finish assembling the terrarium The-Owner asked you to assemble. So yeah... You're gonna hear it tomorrow and you know it. However, your penis seems to grant you some sort of immunity from any real angry-ish reactions to your forgetfulness or general antics. For this you're glad.

The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever went back to Chalk and Gibbs. Again. And again The-Pseudo-Nice-Lady-With-Vibrating-Eyebrows told him that she had yet to formulate a decision. Fantastic. Sooooo... You digress.

You're just goingto have to wait, which you hate to do. Damnit.

You like birds...

...but you'll be damned if 10 new birds at The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors on top of an 8 hour day is your idea of fun.

It's not that 8 ours is a long time, it's just hard to keep answering the same questions. posed by the same people who came in a few days ago. In the pet industry, once is most certainly not enough.

Specifically speaking; The-Cunttacular-D'ouch-Bag. This woman comes in several times a week for, seemingly, one purpose. To drag her screaming child, Fatty-McFat-Fat, around the shop telling her no. You suspect that Fatty-McFat-Fat is asking her mother quietly if she can eat the various animals she looks at. It's a shame that The-Cunttacular-D'ouch-Bag would tell your boss if you made fun of her. But you digress. They go to chruch together. Yet another reason Jesus sucks.

The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever went by Chalk and Gibbs today to check on whether or not The-Not-So-Gay-Trio shall have a Home-Sweet-Hovel. To your unsurprise they denied The-Not-So-Gay-Trio... But you don't take no for an answer. So you called to find out why The-Pseudo-Nice-Lady-With-Vibrating-Eyebrows used the N word.

As it turns out, your 3-guy-2-bedroom story didn't go over so well. So, you decided that honestly was the best policy, in this case; And you came clean. You told her about The-Boyfriend. You told her about how you have known The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever for the better part of forever. AND you told her about how between the three of you you hold 6 jobs, so money isn't and object.

Quote: "I'll get back to you tomorrow. Now I'm not promising anything, but I am heavily reconsidering my decision."

Yay!

You knew the gay card would get the job done.

You had better get this apartment or you're gonna have to hurt someone. Damnit.

Your'e not protective...

...but when it comes to the girls you work with, you really are.

A few creepy guys came into work today and were super disrespectful and creepy towards The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old and The-Girl-With-The-HUGE-Ass. It made you angry but you handled it well this time. You didn't say anything abrasive or rude, but you were super angry nonetheless.

And in other news The-Hot-Italian-Dad came into The-Little-Shop-of-Whorrors today along with The-Could-Be-Girlfriend-or-Daughter. The whole situation is incredibly confusing. If she's his daughter, she's old and their very close. And if she's his girlfriend, then she's way to young for him.

You have no clue where you're going with this. Damnit.

You don't post for shockfactor...

Buuuuut...

Come on.

This is hilarious.

Paris' vajayjay is itchy.

You love it.

You find punishing fish immoral...

...but on occasion, you do it any how.

Your Fain Tail Guppy decided that it would be fun to pick on your Pearl Scale Oranda; Fat little goldfish who can't swim very well.

So... You gave him some time with Mr. Betta.

Problem Solved.

Your apartment hunt has continued into the night. The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Ever has decided to expose himself, again, to the horrors of not only trying to find a place to live, but doing it with homosexuals. Silly fags; Always decorating something.

You were told by The-Pseudo-Nice-Lady-With-Vibrating-Eyebrows at Chalk and Gibbs to fuck off; Just not in so many words. Basically: "Were gonna wait 'till Tuesday to tell you your credit sucks so hard it makes Paris look like an amature."

Moving on...

You're feeling screwed, but you digress. Damnit.

You shouldn't even have tried...

...but you need a place to live. Fast.

You, The-Boyfriend, and The-Gayest-Straight-Man-Alive all applied for an apartment today. You're pretty sure your not going to get it, seeing as all of your credit scores are shot, but hey, what else did you have to do on a Friday?

And thats the extent of it. Damnit.

You've never killed a Christian...

...but after today, who could blame you if you did?

A Power-Tool came into work today. A Christian-Power-Tool. Enough said. You lied. You think the power of Christ should have compelled him to borrow a very sharp cross and do bad things to himself. His wrists specifically.

Anyhow...

Christian Siriano won Project Runway yesterday and this makes you happy. Your love/hate relationship with him has only been furthered.

Moving on...

Your Gay-Fat self is very, very hungry but you digress. Eating makes you fat. Fat makes you sad. Sad turns you into a Christian-Power-Tool. Something along the lines of a battery operated cross. It's like a screwdriver, only religious. They used one to fix Jesus after the who nail incident.

So...

The-Extremely-Hot-and-Young-Looking-32-Year-Old you work with proved you wrong today.About tuberculosis of all things. You were rather taken aback. You were convinced that it was some sort of internal psoriasis of the lungs, but... As it turns out, it's actually some sort of worm/cyst deal.

Quote: "Dude, come on... I only know, like, 10 things and this is one of them. Don't kill this for me."

Your still not completely convinced, but whatever.

If Google says its true, it must be.

Google is about the only thing you've ever truly had faith in. Damnit.

You dont do this often...

...but you did today.

You enjoy random acts of kindness, but usually from a distance; And you don't ever enjoy random acts of kindness that could jeopardize your job. But you did today.

A woman from The-Would-Be-Surfshop-on-the-Beach called your work today and asked for a reference; A reference for The-Girl-Who-Called-You-Fat. Ok, so she called you fat in middle school, when you were fat, but that's not the point. The point is that because of this girl, her Mother*, and your Step-Mother, you're now stuck in this strange pseudo-reality of never being skinny enough. Never.

Even though you're totally not even Gay-Fat.

Anyhow, the woman from The-Would-Be-Surfshop-on-the-Beach then heard "the most amazing reference she had ever received for a prospective employee."

From your mouth.
Through a phone line.
To her ear.
About The-Girl-Who-Called-You-Fat.

You realized just as you were about to trash the hell out of The-Girl-Who-Called-You-Fat that after the horrible thing her Mother* did recently, it probably wasn't even her talking way back in middle school. When you were fat.

You realized that people cant choose their parents or the values that said parents attempt to instill; And after the long, heart-felt conversation you had with The-Manager about how The-Girl-Who-Called-You-Fat is trying to be a better person came rushing back, you realized that today was your first, genuine, conscious act of random kindness and forgiveness. All at once.

Though you don't always show it, you're not as stubborn as you appear, and you like that.

*- The-Girl-Who-Called-You-Fat's Mother also happens to be the cuntbag who walked into your work and told The-Manager (who just happens to be quite awesome) that you were gay. Duh. Oh, and one other thing; that you had fellated your former employer, The-Hot-Australian-Sushi-Chef-Who-Was-Trained-in-Germany, for a good reference. You should have, but you didn't. Damnit.

You cant say you didnt see it coming...

...but you wish you could.

Your curiosity got the best of you. You had to click it. You shouldn't have been on that part of craigslist in the first place, but you digress. The-Boyfriend will never find out anyhow (as if you're cheating, lol).

And you're hoping really, really hard that The-Ex-Gone-BFF will keep his mouth shut about the naked picture of you that The-German-Whore-Ex is using to get gay-ass.

You're contemplating calling the police because you were 17 when that picture was taken.

But... You won't.

You're just gonna write a witty blog entry about it. Damnit.