My intense self-introspection has lead to three important things:
1) Sleeping more than five or six hours a night is unnecessary and only makes one lethargic and headachy. It is not easier to wake up early in the morning after nine hours than it is to wake up after a square five or five and ½. Plus one gets all sluggy and fat feeling. I had a dear friend once who (during exams) said, “Sleep is like cheesecake. If you don’t eat cheesecake, you don’t miss it. But if you have a little cheesecake, all you want is more.” He was a smart guy. Don’t remember his name, but he was smart. Just kidding, it was Mike. Cheesecake makes you fat. (Stef is also suffering from Heroin, cocaine, marijuana and meth withdrawal at this time. Her nonsensical talk about sleep and not needing it is because she has the shakes and can’t actually sleep. KP on the other hand is not. She functions just fine on 5, 6, 7, 8, or 12 hours of sleep. She likes to eat cheesecake too. And I’m pretty sure Mike was talking about sex, not cheesecake.)
2) Neil Diamond RULES. He is the greatest, hairiest, most prolific and, um, clever songwriter still currently alive. “No one cares at all, not even the chair.” So true! His voice is the audio equivalent of a double-tall almond mocha with an extra shot of espresso, served just a little too hot and covered with melty whipped cream and a little bit of honey, plus a cigarette, plus Jewish, plus Brooklyn, plus chest hair. This fascination started back in the fall, but it’s only grown and flourished. Street cred be damned, Neil Diamond rules. He rules bigtime. I have three words and one Roman numeral for you: Hot August Nights II. Reach out your hand, brother!
3) I think I might quit my job at the bookstore and become a kungfu master…but I’d be a Samurai too though, if I had a problem getting into China or something.
So I could tell you about all the excellent things us girls have been up to lately, I could make up some more COMPLETELY fictional tales about our MADE UP slutface friend Kasey, and the gauntlet of dick she’s been running from Grand Rapids to the Mason-Dixon line, or I could use this space to put up a bunch of my windbag opinions about highly debatable social topics and (hopefully) encourage equally narcissistic, self-indulgent and faux-intelligent commentary. But you can do that on every other site on the internet. Can’t we just talk? We never talk anymore. It reminds me of the time that fish called that guy at his desk and was all “what do you mean you’re not coming?” and the guy is like “I told you not to call me here” and the fish is like “but it’s Saturday.” The fish is right. I can do all three, but quid pro quo y’all, hollar back! And to the fish, you can call me any time.
For the cool things we’ve been doing, KP and Austin channeled Ike and Tina (sans the domestic violence, or so I think, she told me those bruises were from falling down the stairs into the garage where a bunch of blunt rusty tools fell on her arms and eyes) and taught Proud Mary a thing or two (it’s “pumped a lot of ‘tane,” not ‘tang. Ohhh oops). KP also channels, uh, Glenn Danzig during her version of “Purple Rain.” I assure you, if Price were dead he’d be rolling around in his purple-lacquered pink fur-lined coffin. It was awesome, though. Tried BrickRoad Pizza for the first time and unless you’re a vegan who is DEFINITELY, FOR SURE NOT A VAMPIRE, it isn’t worth the money. Why does everybody always link “artisan pizza” to “made up completely of garlic”? Jeez. Anybody want to make out?
We also started the Blue and Silver Car Club with our new friend Dan, who is the president because his car is a classic. KP and I are currently in deliberations over who will be available to take dictation.
Kasey, our 100% derived, completely imaginary, totally non-existent, earnestly illusory, fictional friend and her (also with no connection to reality) easy friend Beth want to go to Quebec for New Years, so we’ll resume the story there. Jean-luc-francois-paul-jean-patrice-antony-larry Du Cavallier, here we come! Donnez-moi gross bisses, mon Hercules Canadienne! Je suis tres facile!
And now for the forum topics: the lazy sub-language of cell phone texting and dateless nerdball gamers that is infecting the youth of this country is deteriorating the English language to illegible rubbish (please disregard the made-up words on this site, the freedom within the language to allow such flexibility is simply being exercised, that’s all). Can’t we at least keep letters and numbers separate? Don’t ever tell me to call u later, or ask me what I want 2 do 4 dinner. Come on. Besides, I just 8. Ridiculous. This is all Cosmopolitan Magazine’s fault. (Actually, KP blames Tiger Beat) Lemme just run this convo by my peeps, K? I’m ‘viewing for a new profesh so I can crib enough benjamins to jet to a real vacay with my guy and BFF. Let me just quick wipe the vomit off these Jimmy Choo’s. (KP: BTW, In defense of text messaging, they only give you like 160 characters. That is like totally not enough when I have to explain how Morgan, my new boyfriend, just broke up with me on myspace and now defriended me on facebook. I mean I have to abrev so whatev.)
Or maybe we could talk about Jurassic Fight Club instead? Is it really as awesome as it sounds?
Hockey, Friday night, 7pm followed immediately by Mega 80’s and some sweet flashdance moves by KP. Who’s down??
