Contemplating songs about the weather channel.

My therapist says I don't need a man to validate me, I just need to have sex with him on the couch in his office for 200 euros an hour. So yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for asking.

There is one thing though (and I'm pretty sure this won't violate any confidentiality), The Boy and I could never have worked out anyway. How do I know? Well, firstly he lives on the other side of the world (and yes, I do realize Switzerland is not technically the other side of the world , but for all intents and purposes it might as well be) and secondly, because he walks around the house while brushing his teeth, instead of just standing in the bathroom in front of the sink. You know, like a normal person. Bastard. It freaks me out, and it’s probably the most irrational fear I have but when I'm washing my face (because sometimes my face gets that 'not so fresh feeling', ok?) or brushing my teeth I'm constantly afraid someone is going to sneak up behind me and bash my skull into the sink and kill me, so obviously I can’t have somebody walking around when I’m doing all these secret things that involve me bending over the sink. It may be a result of watching too many horror movies or maybe it's because one time someone actually did that to me and I died and dying is not as fun as you might think, especially if you have to clean up after.

So, I’ve decided I’m done with The Boy and I now have no choice but to focus on my dear, sweet, sexy mailman again. And I might have gotten a little too drunk yesterday and sent him an inappropriate message, despite some appropriate advice telling me it would be a Bad Idea. And it may have read something like:

"Dear Mr. Mailman, the truth is I have always been in love with you and I know you're married and you have 9 children and you're my mailman, but you're so gentle when you put my magazines in my mailbox, making sure not to tear a single page, and I suspect you have always loved me, too, so let's not fight it any longer, let's be together, today, now, I want to rip your mailman uniform off you and have hot mailman sex with you in your mail truck and if I can't have you I see no reason to continue this charade of a life I am living. Please be my baby's daddy. I don't need chocolates or flowers, just you (in full mailman uniform as mentioned), me and your mail truck. "

Now, I fully understand this may backfire and I’m at serious risk of not receiving my mail ever again. But then maybe, just maybe he’ll ask me to be his Mail Wife and live happily ever after with him in Mail Land.

And why should the good times stop now that Monday is looming on the horizon? Why, damn it, why? It shouldn't, exactly, I couldn't agree more, you are so intelligent, this is why I keep you around, I love you. Umm. Wait, what just happened? Where was I? Oh yeah, tomorrow, in honor of my mailman I will be practicing a very impressive experimental dance choreography, expressing my undying love for him of course.
Lovely.

A plus tard is not au revoir

I have a problem. I know, you're probably thinking no f@#king kidding crazy girl, but this is a different kind of problem. And I swear there will be no mention here of Kelly, Brenda, Dylan, Steve, Donna, David, and let's not forget Nat, because Nat makes the pie after all.

I finally said goodbye to The Boy two days ago. The send-off turned a little boozy and teary where I cried a bit onto his shirt and then we had sex. Which was nice.

I'm just a litttle emotional right now, like this morning when I watched The Little Mermaid and I just couldn't stop crying in that OHMYGODSHE'SAMERMAID!SHELIVESUNDERTHESEA!IHOPESHEGETSTHEHANDSOMEPRINCE! kinda way. I think I'm only hours away from going Kathy-Bates-In-Misery crazy

Really, what's a girl to do? Go on a drinking binge? Have gratuitous sex? Bake a batch of my World Famous Bailey's Peanutbutter and M&M's Cookies? In the nude? Run away to Boston, home of two really cute boys and one really cute girl, and I'm not sure, but maybe even a pizza place, for a few days? What I ask you, what?

Either way, I decided to make ice cream, because making ice cream is comforting, it makes me think there is a reason for living, a greater good even. Only... when I opened the freezer I underestimated my own super human strength and hit myself in the head with the freezer door, which left a big red mark, which will in all probability later turn black and blue, which will in turn cause someone to refer me to som kind of Woman's Shelter, which will only remind me that, no, I do not HAVE a husband. Not even a wife-beating one. I am all alone. *Sob* And the vicious cycle never, ever ends, because later I will realize that in all the pain and wonder of it all I forgot to make the ice cream.

I can only hope that I will not become The Crazy Cat Woman of the neighborhood. The one that smells like cat litter and spends all of her social security check on cat food for Fluffy, Muffy, Buffy, Kitty, Smitty, Smokey, Pokey, Mr. Whiskers, and Snowball.

Liquor in the front, poker in the rear

I was going to wait until I actually had a baby or was at least expecting a child sometime in the near future to say this, but I just couldn't hold it in any longer, it was eating me up inside, or maybe that's all the Goldfish I have been consuming. Whatever, today I declared my love to The Boy in the usual junior high fashion that I use to declare my love - I told him I wanted to have his babies. Mostly because I didn’t want him to be mad at me because I killed his keyboard (it was apparently not ok, it is now apparently defunct. Who knew keyboards don’t like cherry coke? Did you? Really?) I kept waiting for him to spontaneously burst into flames, because of the implication of an over-active, calculated and eager biological clock preying on his uncharacteristic submission to monogamy.
He never did, he was not impressed. He must get that a lot.

Anyway, now that I'm over that *Sob* two things occurred to me. (I know you're on the edge of your seat, your eyes are watering, your teeth are grinding, your stomach is in knots, well maybe you should up your meds, but this is about me, let's get back to me, me, me, and me, ending your suspense.)

The first thing that occurred to me was there are many, many uses for salad tongs, and yet this utensil gets very little recognition and this makes me want to weep openly for my mommy, I don't think this has anything to do with the fact that I was conceived with the help of some salad tongs, but my therapist says maybe. You can use them to toss salad, to get salad out of the bowl, to put place salad from the bowl onto your plate, to pick up monkey poop, to braid your hair (As Seen On TV), to scratch your back, to scratch your upstairs neighbor's giraffe's back, to keep wild cats away, to dig through the dirt if you get buried alive (this is why I have specified in my will that I wish to be buried with my salad tongs. In case a certain someone, who stand to inherit my millions someone "accidentally" buries me when I am really not dead), to get out of a speeding ticket ("Sorry, officer, these salad tongs fell on the floor of the car and pressed the gas pedal down"), to be your new best friend (BFF! Me and Salad Tongiee!), to jump start your car made out of salad, etc, etc, I think you see what I'm saying. You do, don't you?

The second thing is Mad Cow just means the cows are mad - angry mad, not crazy mad. This whole "deadly disease, infected cows, ban on beef" thing was something the cows thought up at a cow poker game one night while discussing ways to avoid slaughter (the band and the act of being killed, thanks for asking) and get back at those of us partaking of their beefy goodness.
Beau The Cow said "Hey, I know, I'll pretend like I'm going mental, remember when we saw Girl Interrupted on Movie Night? I'll just take my cue from that, and then Murray The Cow can shock my cow heart with the barbed wire from the fence over there when they're not looking and make me appear to die, like in that other movie we saw, Flatliners!". And that's how it all began. Worked like a charm, too. Good thing I'm here to tell you that it's all a big cow conspiracy and you can go get your usual quadruple bypass pounder with cheese at lunch today. Enjoy, and really, don't worry about getting holes in your brain. And even if say, it was true, which it's not, it's just the result of a few angry cows who saw a few too many movies, who cares, Keifer Sutherland and Julia Roberts would bring you back to life, and you'd have something to talk about at parties. Which is really all that matters. Isn't it?

I know you want me (to adopt you)

I have to say Switzerland suits me. I’m thinking it’s probably the abundance of delicious chocolate that’s making me feel right at home. Because when you think about it, and I mean really think about it, life... is like a box of chocolates.

And I don’t mean a cheap, thoughtless, perfunctory gift that no one ever asks for, unreturnable because all you get back is another box of chocolates so that you're stuck with mostly undefinable whipped mint crap, mindlessly wolfed down when there's nothing else to eat while you're watching the game and sure, once is a while you get a peanut butter cup or an English toffee but it's gone too fast and the taste is fleeting, but in the end, you are left with nothing but broken bits filled with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts, which, if you are desperate enough to eat, leaves nothing but an empty box of useless brown paper. (Now isn't that just the longest sentence you've ever read)

No, I mean "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you gonna get" and vanilla ice-cream is like good literature (not sure myself what I mean by that…)

(Is it ok that I dropped my late dinner of blueberry muffin crumbs and diet cherry coke all over Alex' keyboard just now? I should probably be asking the keyboard that, but I am so not in the mood for his holier than thou attitude, so just tell me, is it ok? I mean, really? Everything still seems to be functioning, I haven't seen any sparks yet, and sparks would mean trouble so lack of sparkage is good, no? Yes? Yeah, I'm even confusing myself now.)

Well, it’s either the chocolates or The Boy. But I have to go now, we're busy brushing his 80's music loving Pandacat's teeth and writing each other erotic haikus and drawing nude sketches of each other minus the eroticism and nudity.

Short of money and low on cash

So it has been brought to my attention that I have been a bit angry lately. Sorry. I blame lack of sleep and Jewish people for that.

Wait.. NO I don't blame Jewish people...that's the angry me talking again.
Oh dear Bob whats wrong with me? I like Jewish people...they are nice and I like those hats they wear.

I will try to be nicer from now on, classes are out and I passed (duh) and we all know what that means! Tis the season to empty your savings account, head to Mexico, buy a large cache of cocaine, hide it in your friends' body cavities, and send them back across the border in a separate car, just in case.

Another thing about summer though is that it seems like right near mid June/July, the fat kids start coming out again. (I've got nothing against fat kids. Really. I'm a big enough person that I don't judge books by their cover and yada, yada, yada...)but my guess is that after a month or two of summer, they have forgotten how awkward and humiliating social settings are for them. Must be uncomfortable though, what with the chubbrubb and all.

T'es trop bonne, Madame

Do not mind this entry as I am drunk (yes, at three in the afternoon, I am indeed a disgrace...) Also, my template got messed up "because of high bandwith usage" or whatever the fuck that means. Anyway, because of this and because I am what is commonly refered to as "An Angry Drunk" I am not exactly in the best of moods.

I have the hiccups.
Probably because I am drunk but also because I've decided to live more dangerously. And as we all know that means: drink water out of the wrong side of the glass when you don't even have the hiccups.

And if you want to live really dangerously, drink vodka out of the wrong side of the glass when you don't even have hiccups. And if you want to live really, really dangerously, drink rum out of a the wrong side of a bowl when you don't even have the hiccups. And if you want to live really, really, really dangerously, don't drink anything any way out of any thing when you have the hiccups. Just sit there in your hiccupiness and hiccup.

Either way, I'm going to stop right here, because you cannot believe how long it took me to get this entry typed in moderately acceptable spelling....

I am so drunk right now I need a nap, really.
Either that or pass out right here.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Russian figure skaters everywhere

As I sit here at my desk, it has dawned on me that I'm a Hair Flipper. (Yes, I flip my hair like an annoying little girlie girl, and I do it incessantly). Judge Judy would surely yell at me if I was in her courtroom.

From there on it’s pretty much a given: I’m an incredibly annoying person, but I feel in a sharing mood so I’ll give you some more reasons, just for the hell of it…

I always put the ice cube trays back in the freezer empty. I'm still hoping that there is an Ice Cube Fairy that will flutter in and fill them for me, probably with special Fairy Water out of some remote Fairy Spring like something you might see in Rainbow Land (home of your heroine and mine, Rainbow Brite), and then leave a trail of sparkle Fairy Dust on her way out. (Am I expecting too much again?)

I'm also incapable of washing my hair with out getting shampoo in my eyes and I just learned that Beethoven's favorite meal was macaroni and cheese (It must be true, I read it on my paper towels! All paper towels should in my opinion provide some sort of intellectual stimulation. And yes, by intellectual stimulation I mean pictures of puppies and frogs and Charlie Brown cartoons and the like. Because everyone knows people who own plain paper towels are a.)Devil Worshippers, b.)Blind, or c.) Blind Devil Worshippers.)

That is all.

Sandals do not grow on trees

If you were standing in the right place at the right time tonight you would have heard the following sentence escape from my mouth: "There's a rumbly in my tumbly." The right place being the street corner I turn tricks on, of course. And the right time being 8:47pm and 20 seconds.

Okay, so it might not technically be the first time I've uttered those words it might have just slipped out once or twice before in my sleep (I do actually talk in my sleep, even more so than in my waking hours and yes, that IS possible...), but who can really say, other than the SandMan. And how creepy is that name anyway, The SandMan, it's like he was a reject for Candyman so he goes around putting things in our eyes at night, and wow, I really hope I'm not the only one who knows about the SandMan or else you're probably all thinking I've totally lost my marbles, aren't you? (you should really work on your psychic connection to me, you are missing out on a LOT of chicken recipes and Chicken Soup For The Ass stories).

But let's move on, shall we? Because I have important things on my mind. Like the fact that my brain is now filled with fluff, I woke up inside a tree this morning and I'm turning a golden shade of yellow.

You’ll be glad to know I now have this new found appreciation of honey. No, not you, honey. Food, honey. (at least I think it's food anyway. Or is it more of a condiment? Who cares? Not me.). Surely this can only mean Winnie The Pooh Is Trapped Inside My Body and so I have taken to walking around in a red t-shirt that shows my belly. And nothing else. Because bears don't need no stinking pants, okay?

Well, ok, not really. I wear pants. I just wanted to make sure you knew how serious this Winnie the Pooh inhabiting my body thing is. Because it's serious. Yeah, it is. Any moment now I could say "Oh Bother" go deep into the forest in back of my house in search of The Hundred Acre Wood, and make friends with a pig, a tiger, a rabbit, a donkey and owl.

This might not sound like a problem to some of you, but what happens when I get stuck in a honey tree or my head is lodged in a honey pot? What then, damn it? Who is going to save me? Who???

A utopian carrot guides the brainwashed donkey

I think I may have been insulted by a three year old. I know, I know, I have all the maternal instincts of a dragon lizard (given a chance, they eat their young) and am therefore necessarily "doomed to a life of regretful yearning", and I will definitely become "a shrivelled, twisted and vicious old woman driven by resentment and bitterness." (There is also usually mention of cats. Not sure where the cats come into it - some sort of bizarre contraceptive process?) Whatever, I'd still rather shave my head with a cheese grater while chewing on tinfoil than have kids, but my point was that just like a typical male, he calls me and then after a minute whines "I don't wan tawk him any-mowa, I tawk to him morrow" as he hands the phone to his mom.

Yeah, that's right. He called me a him. So what. He has issues, clearly. I mean we're talking about a boy who drinks out of a sippycup, is afraid of Curious George and allways has jam on his hands (even when there isn't any jam in the house, he get's jam on his hands. I can't deal with jam-hands.). Whatever,  I DO have a big lesbian following, and for whatever reasons they show me love and I'm never going to shun, disrespect or neglect anybody who shows me genuine non-psychotic love, so maybe I DO have a little butch in me.