"My mother, that's who I need"

I'd like to address the following comment from last Tuesday's post about my parents abandoning me on my sixth birthday to go to Monte Carlo:

So when I first read that, I was like, "BAHA, amazing pop culture reference. You are my new best friend," and replied saying as much. But then as the day went on, I started worrying, "Wait, maybe Jocelyn wasn't excited that my life shares a common thread with Troop Beverly Hills and really was accusing me of trying to pass off a TP storyline as my own...?" And let me tell you something: nothing gets my goat more than people accusing me of shenanigans. Because why would I lie to you? Why would I make shit up? Do you know how much effort it takes to make shit up? Too much. That's why this isn't Meg McBlogger's well-researched, Regency Era murder-mystery blog; it's Meg McBlogger's "today I choked on cantaloupe and played with my Aspie's Clip. It was a day," blog. One of these things is easier than the other.

(Side note: Speaking of accusations of shenanigans, about a year ago I got an email from a guy asking if I was actually "a real person," and it was the biggest mindfuck I'd ever experienced. My reply derailed at an almost impressive rate: "Dear [Said Guy]: I'm pretty sure I'm a real person. Or as a real as anyone can be sure they are. Because I suppose there's always a chance that none of this is actually happening and this is a simulated reality created by machines like in the Matrix, or we exist only in the complex fantasies of a kid with Down's Syndrome like in St. Elsewhere, in which case, no, I don't exist, but that means that that you don't exist either, so why would you be questioning my existence in the first place?" And that's when I had a panic attack and ran away from my computer like a small child because someone who has as many anxiety problems as I do should never think about that much about their own existence. But for the record: I am a real person. I am a real person, who just took a real Klonopin. While doing real breathing exercises. In a real hot shower.)

So, yes, I was pissed, but I was willing to let it go because I'm working on this new thing where I don't let blog comments and/or emails control my life to the point where I'm calling Tulane Chris on a semi-regular basis with bad acid reflux in the Self-Help section of Barnes & Noble asking him to bring me Zantac and hold me. But then I went out to dinner with my parents tonight and my mom was like, "CAN YOU BELEIVE SOMEONE ACCUSED YOU OF MAKING UP THE MONTE CARLO STORY?!?!" and it opened up that can of worms all over again. But thankfully for all of us, I recieved this email about an hour ago:

From: mom  

Subject: monte carlo

hi meg, 

you know that i don't like to invade your professional life, but i feel that i have to set the record straight for your readers. here goes.  

i realize that much of the time meg lives in her own world, a world inhabited by helper monkeys and fox dogs, and we love her for it. however, her tale of woe regarding a certain trip to monte carlo is absolutely factual. come on, readers, did you really think that things like that only happen in movies? i do take exception to the term "vacation". it was a business trip. a really nice business trip, but business none the less. despite all of the trials and tribulations, real or merely perceived, you survived. do you even remember that i went to england by myself when you were two years old, leaving you with...of all people... your father?! mothers do go away, meg, but most of the time, we do come back. i love you like a peacock loves rice krispies. 

mom mcb

(Hehehe...she threw in an inside joke. Peacocks.)

OK, look: I know my mom was trying to have my back there—and bless her heart for doing so—however, there are a few points I'd like to address:

1.) Diane: you are a lambchop for referring to this little goat 'n pony show as my "professional life". I know we've had our differences (specifically that you abandoned me on my sixth birthday to stretch out on a yacht like a cat in the sun for two weeks while I went on a hunger strike and contemplated the meaning of life,) but you're the best.

2.) Maybe I wouldn't have to live in my own world if this one didn't suck so much. (HAHAHAHA! I legitamtely just laughed-out-loud at my own emo-ness. That felt like something Dawn would say on Buffy.) (← Fag.)

3.) A BUSINESS TRIP. A "BUSINESS" TRIP. Are you kidding me? a.) What business is Dad in that he just has to jet set off to Monte Carlo for weeks on end or else he'll lose his job? MI6? Formula-1? High-stakes poker? Last time I checked he was in HR. b.) OK, let's just say hypothetically I'm willing to accept that Dad did have a business trip in Monte Carlo because it was the late 80's and everyone was going on lavish business trips and doing rails off their DeLoreans, it still doesn't make a lick of difference! You were gone for two weeks: one week was supposedly for "business" and one week was for funzies. My birthday fell on funzies. FUNZIES, MOM—FUNZIES.

4.) Your trip to England in no way compares to Monte Carlo. (God, how obnoxious do we sound right now? I'm 10 seconds away from deleting this entire post, throwing Turtle Rapes Shoe up for tomorrow and working this out in an emergency therapy session where they already think I'm a middle-class piece of shit just by virtue of being there.) First of all, as you yourself pointed out, you went to England. Not you and Dad, just you. And while I agree that Dad demonstrates a "unique" level of responsibility with his children (i.e. the time he paid me $5 to snort a line of fresh cracked pepper, I did, and subsequently burst into tears, ran upstairs and shoved a Q-tip so far up my nose I thought I was going to give myself a labotomy,) at least AN parent was there! If I couldn't have been with both of my parents on my sixth birthday, one would have been acceptable. Because you know what wasn't acceptable? Spending my birthday with some Bible-thumping Army wife who was all, "HEY, HALF-BREED JEW HEATHEN! GUESS WHAT I GOT YOU FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? HORN POLISH AND A NOSE JOB! SEE YOU IN HEL!" Six. Years. Young.

5.) I don't actually have a fifth point, I just prefer to go out on odd numbers.

So. Yeah. Thank you for having my back slash I still don't forgive you slash you never apologized slash if you did, I wouldn't forgive you. So, you know, food for thought.

At least we'll always have that Girl Scouts orienteering trip when you got overzealous and took me and my troop on a short cut through the canyon, only to discover that the bridge was out, so I—cocky from my gymnastics lessons—decided to walk across a fallen tree to get to the other side and fix it, which was a good plan until I twisted my ankle and got stuck halfway across (classic Meg), but ever the loving mother and fearless troop leader, you conquered your fear of heights to get across the tree, save me, and ultimately SAVE THE DAY.

And attracted by your newfound confidence, Craig T. Nelson decided he wanted to hit that again.

THE AND.

Queer Abby: This is too much for a Monday.

Woooo! So, it's currently 12:40am on Monday morning and I've been helping with merchandising at work since 3:30 this afternoon, which sucks because I have to be back in for my next shift later this morning. (Later this morning actually = noon. "Later in the early-to-mid afternoon" just didn't have the same dramatic effect. ) Needless to say, I'm extremely cracked out at the moment, so I'm going to ask you all to bear down and bear with. Because at the moment I feel like Apu when he worked a 96-hour shift straight and convinced himself that he was some kind of hummingbird:

So. Queer Abby. Weekly advice column. Amy answers your questions for reals. I give you half-baked, cracked-out advice that helps no one. LET'S GET IT ON!

dear queer abby,

well. my roommate and i lived together through most of college and have lived together for two years out of school. we were bffl^maxest in college and for awhile after. however: just after we graduated, she started dating this guy who is an idiot. she acts like an idiot around him bc she doesn't want to emasculate him in any way. she's gradually become Obsessed with talking about life goals and what everyone wants out of life, and figuring out what it means to be a "twenty-something" in this really limited vocabulary that sounds like a middle school assembly presentation on teenage self esteem. she spent the first few months out of college unemployed and then got the job that is perfect for her, which is great(!), but she's still really insecure and constantly talks up her position to the point of lying about her responsibilities and making it sound like she's running the company. recently, a friend was talking about his promotion to a specific position, and my roomie's response wasn't congrats, but rather, me too! (not in a 'just kidding' way), when she definitely was not promoted and her company doesn't even have that position.

so. needless to say at this point, we're not renewing our lease because i basically started freezing her out a few months ago when i just couldn't deal. i tried talking with her about the more superficial problems, but it didn't really fix anything and she was clearly really hurt by it. we used to be such good friends, and i feel bad jumping ship (like many of our other friends have), but i just feel like we're speaking different languages these days. is there anything i can do to salvage this friendship? is this what growing apart is? can i help her somehow? what if i'm the crazy one?

thanks! you and meg (and tulane chris) are the best!

- short a bffl in dc

Dear SBD,

Yea, I think it’s safe to say you two are growing apart. You might totally grow back together eventually, but you can’t make that happen, you have to just let time sort it out. Trying to force things only creates friction. So, at this point, the best thing you can do to salvage the friendship is recognize and accept the limitations of it. You have to let her be who she is and, likewise, you have to do your own thing.

Not living together should help a lot. That’s not to say you’ll all the sudden be besties again, but you’ll resent each other a lot less if you aren’t forced to spend more time with one another than you’d choose to. Obvi, anyone can change, so you don’t have to write her off completely— in fact, you can still be a good influence on her if you remain friends and offer support and positive reinforcement when it’s due. But, for the sake of both of you, only be as close with her as you can without getting too aggregated, and don’t count on her changing in all the ways you’d hope. You may grow back together, or you may continue to drift apart, but if you can be cool and realistic about it in the meantime, there’s a much better chance that, either way, you won’t end up totally hating each other.

Girl: PREACH. I've been there. And it blows. Here's the thing: when you're in college, you're in this protective little bubble of Natty Light and pre-paid meal plans and lounging around watching Buffy with your roommate in your favorite pair of booty shorts and everything is safe and fine and wonderful. But then you graduate and you and your friends are flung in different directions into the Real World and it's sink or swim time. And much like prison or a tour of 'Nam, being thrown into the Real World changes you. Because you kind of have to re-figure out who you are and where you fit in and guess what? Sometimes you fuck it up. And sometimes your friends fuck it up. Or in my case, sometimes you both fuck it up.

Exactly one year and three months after I graduated college, I sat down, did an in-depth audit of the person I'd become, and the final figure I came up with was this: OOOF. I did not like who I was. At all. So much so that I said "nuts to this", scrapped the life I had created for myself in New York, moved back home and completely started over from square one. It sucked and it was hard, but Christ I'm glad I did it. So maybe your friend will wake up one day and realize that she's a hot fucking mess who’s probably a 40 away from catching Hepatitis C in the back of a cab because it temporarily makes her forget how much she hates herself (rhymes with Schmeg and ends with McBlogger…), or maybe she'll continue being a giant douchebag and guess what you gotta do then? Act like a bulimic a the night before prom and purge.

Because sometimes friends change for the worse, dude. It sucks, but it's true. And there's no point in keeping them around if they blow and don't show any signs of changing. I'm not saying like, "Ohhh. I asked my friend to get me a Red Stripe, not a Heineken. PURGE!!!!!1" I'm saying if your friend has become a person that you don't like and is negatively affecting your life, purge her out of your inner circle. Maybe down the line you'll meet up and be friends again because life is wacky like that, but there's no point in keeping a subpar friend around when I'm sure you've got other grade-A ones. It's insulting to them.

Let’s overshare, shall we? When I was going through my "troubles" in New York, most of my friends stood by me through thick and thin. And then there was the one who didn't. Why? Because she had become the kind of person who was so concerned with being well-liked and having her life appear superficially perfect that she didn't want to risk standing up for me and entangling herself in my problems, despite the fact that we were roommates and had been best friend since 4th grade. Sucked. I took her out to lunch one day and explicitly told her that to get through what I was going through, I needed her to be there for me. Which is when she very matter-of-factly informed me that she “knew it made her a bad person, but she just couldn't.” Again, sucked. But that was the end of that and I haven't talked to her since.

If you had told me that that would have happened in May of 2007, I would have never believed you in a million years. But it happened because people change and unfortunately it's not always for the better. You can't control which friends it happens to, but you can control how much you let it affect your life. I could have kept that friend around because we had been friends forever and she was practically my sister, but...why? You wouldn't keep an abusive boyfriend in your life just because you "had you some times" and “feel bad jumping ship,” would you? Friendships are relationships just like romantic relationships are relationships and when one has turned toxic, you gotta put it to bed before Lifetime makes a movie about you starring Tori Spelling with the word “trapped” somewhere in the title.

God. That was really heavy and kind of a downer. I apologize. Hm...TURTLE RAPES SHOE TIME!!!!!!!1

Dear Queer Abby,

I am socially awkward. Painfully so. I get out of breath in social situations, I can't focus on what people are saying, and I even see paying the cashier at Safeway as a major social success. I really, really, truly want to stop caring about what people think. Because, in the end, I could care less. And yes, when I'm with my friends, that's a different story. They know me, and I can make those outrageous jokes, and I can be myself. But when I'm with others, it's like having to be this different person, even though I know we're essentially all the same. For example, the way I'm writing is not how I would speak or interact with you. I'm a fucking mess.

What's more, I'm in a Master's program for teaching secondary ed. I just met my mentor teacher today and she's very bubbly and nice, but she could see through the awkwardness. I could tell that I worried her. I have massive doubts as a to-be English teacher (because don't you need confidence to inspire your students?). Though, I'm extremely creative and my lesson plans really are fun. When I taught early ed, it was great -- I was a good, confident teacher after the first few weeks. But for years I've been all nerves. In high school, I was president of drama club and outgoing and people admired me. After I transitioned, I have no idea what really happened. Now, I'm fumbling everywhere, and I lack massive confidence and self-esteem. I'm sick of obsessing on this topic. What tools can you suggest to be less self-conscious of others? Fake it 'til I make it? Or, should I just be my awkward self and let go? How do you even let go?

-My Lower Back Constantly Hurts Because I'm Stressed

Drinking copious amounts of vodka usually does the trick for me…

But generally, it’s just a practice thing. I know it’s hard to force yourself into doing something you’re not immediately comfortable with, but it’s a self-perpetuating cycle; the more you withdrawal from social situations the worse it will get. So, you just have to keep incrementally pushing your limits and be patient with yourself. For example, have a few good friends that you know really well over to your house a few times à then eventually start inviting them to bring guests and then start organizing small groups to go out else where, etc. You may actually find that having a hand in the planning makes you feel more confident and comfortable... But if you don’t like that role, just join in when your friends organize something that you’re relatively comfortable with and commit to progressively engaging more people each time.

And seriously, there are things that can really help you get past some of those hurdles originally, including but not limited to booze… I‘m typically reluctant to suggest this route outright, but if it’s as bad as you say it is and you have insurance, you might consider seeing a psychiatrist. Anti-anxiety medication like Ativan, Xanax or Klonopin can help reduce the crippling discomfort until you get to a point where social situations feel a little more natural to you. And in the meantime, or if you prefer not taking meds, talk to someone about it. Whether it’s a therapist, good friend or sibling, they can support you in pushing your boundaries, or call you out if your making excuses. Also, try exercise.

Finally, don’t take yourself so seriously. The way you feel is totally natural, but no one expects you to be perfect. Besides, we usually end up remembering the stupid shit we do far longer than anyone else does. In fact, trust me, they’re usually too busy worrying about what other people think of them to pay all that much attention to you anyway. I promise.

xoxoxo,

abby

I used to be debilitatingly awkward, but I'd like to think that I've now reached a certain level of charmingly awkward. Here's what worked for me:

1.) Sweet Lady Prescription Pills. I used to take a pu-pu platter of anti-anxiety meds and anti-depressants, but I've since overcome my anxiety and now am just working on the depression. HEY-O, SMALL VICTORIES! As far as anxiety goes, Klonopin worked for me like magic. Just be careful because it can be habit-forming. And by habit-forming, I mean awesome. Specifically when mixed with a wee bit of alcohol. But don't mix with copious amounts of pot and alcohol or you'll stand up to go to the bathroom one night at the Reef, fall directly back down and blackout in front of God, your country and all of your friends. Then you'll come-to in the back of a cab with your friend Andrew and actually request that he not to let you die that night, before promptly blacking out again. Then I think there's some vomiting thrown in there for good measure and I believe at one point your roommate comes home to find you passed out on the bed while Andrew tries to take your unnecessarily complicated lace-up boots off, which is when he'll shout, "IT'S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!" and your roommate will freak out and yell at him to get out and you'll have a good giggle in your half-coherent state and woooo! God I miss college.

2.) Therapy. Because your therapist will have better suggestions that "don't mix Sweet Lady Prescription Pills with pot."

3.) Own it. I could fill an entire blog with stories of my awkwardness. And I do. Everyday. And now people ask me how to not be awkward. THE AWKWARD, BECOMES THE AWKWARDEE…? Nope. Still awkward.

4.) Like Amy said, practice. You know what really helped me become more outgoing? Bartending. I know it was only for the hottest of hot seconds, but having your income rely on being able to successfully shoot the shit with strangers really forces you out of your shell. The same old men would come into the bar everyday around 4 o'clock, grab a stool, order a drink and just stare at me, waiting to be entertained. I had no idea how to handle it at first. I'd be like, "SO. OBAMA. PRESIDENT NOW. BLACK. MAKE COUNTRY. GOOD?" But then the more and more I did it, the more I realized that it's actually not that hard to make conversation with strangers. You know why? Because people like to talk about themselves. A lot. So just ask them questions and let them do all the work. It's so formulaic, it's stupid: Ask question -> Listen to answer -> Ask follow-up question -> Relate their answer to your own life -> Bonding moment, bonding moment, bonding moment -> Wash, rinse, repeat.

Plus, the more you do it, the less scary it is and the more outgoing you'll become. Whether I'm at a party where I don't really know anyone or just talking to customers at work, I follow that same formula. "I see you went on a Capitol tour; did you like it? Where are you visiting from? Oh, that's cool, my roommate in college was from Ohio. How long are you in town for? Are you enjoying yourself? Insert joke about the weather here. OK, well enjoy the rest of your stay!" BOOM. Social success. And we both know how socially retarded I am, so it can't be that hard.

But then again, painfully awkward shit still happens to me all the time, so maybe we’re both just fucked? Welp, glad to help!

Got a question that you'd like Queer Abby to answer? Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com! RIGHT NOW.

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- For all of you Monday night TLC fans, the following is an email I got from my sister yesterday afternoon:

"I think I need an Intervention because I'm Obsessed with Hoarders...SEE?! See what I did there??"

...That's genuinely the funniest thing I've read in at least a month. So there's that.

- I've got an incredibly huge thing for bike messengers. They're dirty and sweaty and have sexy tattoos, bulging calf muscles, scruffy beards and one pant leg is always rolled up slightly higher than the other. I don't know what it is about that combination that gets me all hot and bothered, but holy fixed gear—it does. I actually looked into becoming a bike messenger during The Great Job Hunt of '08 in an effort to make money and infiltrate their inner circle. It seemed like a great idea until I found out that a large part of their job is physically moving oneself from one place to another in a quick and timely fashion. That's not really my scene. I'm more into sitting at my desk trying not to get a urinary tract infection while I muster up the energy needed to physically get up and go to the bathroom. More to the point, a bike messenger came into my office this morning to pick up a package and yowzah—he was the hottest person I have ever seen in real life.

That's not him. That's what comes up when you do a google image search for "hot bike messenger," but you get the point. (And you're welcome.) The second he rounded the corner and came into my office, I pardoned myself, ran into the back room and thanked god that this wasn't one of those mornings where I wake up at 8:57am and army crawl my way from my bed to the metro, dressing in whatever clothes and spare scraps I can find along the way. Because of all the mornings not to look homeless, this was definitely one of them. Now, normally when bike messengers come into the office, I'm a hot giggly mess who can only speak in broken English, but today I was on the ball. I managed to get out both "thank you" AND "you too!" without stuttering, spitting or blacking out and hitting my head on the way down. When Hottie Bike Messenger started to walk away from my desk with my package (bwahaha hehe oh my!) I declared it a personal victory and continued browsing through my iphone, looking for the picture I was going to use in today's post. PER CHANCE, the next photo I flipped to was this little doozie of Evie curled up in my mom's arms over Christmas break:

And oh...my...just and gentle God. I was in no way prepared for the extreme adorableness that is that photograph. I mean, look at her little chin resting on my mom's arm!!! And that spicy little chicken wing all curled up, tucked beside her!!!!!!1 I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, a noise flew was flying out of my mouth that can only be described as a cross between "AWWWWWWWWWWWW" and the cliché French "HAWH HAWH HAWH" laugh. "I'm sorry?" Hottie Bike Messenger asked as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, thinking I was still talking to him. "Oh.....no. I [points down to iphone] there was this picture. Of a cat. It's not a big deal. I'm sorry, that's all. You can go now." Hottie Bike Messenger nodded once, turned back around quickly walked out of the office and out of my life forever. So. Good. I meet the man of my dreams on a day when I'm actually looking presentable and I manage to alienate him and make him think I'm a Creepy Cat Lady in one felt swoop. That's cool. I'm not really into having sex anyway.

- Speaking of having sex, if you're reading this and happen to be a bike messenger living in the greater Washington, DC area or know someone who is—I don't want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me, but I also don't not want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me. Let's just say I've got good credit, live near a bank and am very discreet and just leave it at that, shall we? Good. meg@2birds1blog.com.

- Also, speaking of Evie! Did you know that when I was home for Christmas, I found out that my parents bought her from a woman in central New Jersey who they're 99.4% sure is a Neo-Nazi? I don't know why, but this makes the mythology of Evie McBlogger that much more rich to me. Plus, knowing she's part Jersey Neo-Nazi also makes reading Ambien & Evie a much more complex experience that I think is worth another go.

- You know when you save an inside joke as a draft in your phone because you don't want to forget it, but forget it anyway and then when you discover it like, years later it's that much more funny because it's aged like a fine wine? Well that's what happened with this conversation between me and my dad that's been saved in my old phone since April of 2008:

Dad: I don't want to say Jimmy Buffet's a one-trick-pony...

Me: And yet, you just did.

Dad: Well let's just say he made an entire career off of the concept of an incredibly gay town on the tip of Florida.

I am now speaking directly to my future hypothetical children—Maybelle and Henry von Hottie Bike Messenger: You are to read, print and save this blog post until the day I day because that, and only that, is what I want engraved on my tombstone. In 44-point Trajan. Do that for mumsy. Thanks!

- It's been a while since I've done a "You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?" feature, but that's not due to lack of feather ruffling. Because my feathers have been a-rufflin', friends. My panties are in a twist. My bonnet is full of bees. My...thing is all...jacket up...? Point being: I'm pissed off. Specifically, I'm pissed off at two distinct groups of people. And let me tell you, there is a special place in hell reserved for these people. When Hitler and Pol Pot organize their 10th Annual Seventh Circle of Hell Block Party, these are the people they'll send evites to:
1.) People who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines at the gym
and
2.) People who lean against the metro pole during rush hour

I genuinely have trouble putting into words how irritating I find these people. I've been wanting to do a blog post on them both for quite some time, but every time I start writing it, I get legitimately flustered and overwhelmed and have to stop before I have a brain aneurysm.

Let's start with people at the gym who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines—what the fuck is wrong with you people? There are signs literally everywhere telling you not to do exactly what you're doing. And these signs aren't just afterthoughts jotted down on a post-it note, haphazardly slapped on the mirror. They're typed, printed, framed and nailed to the wall. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure this rule is known, so maybe it's a good idea you respect it. You know, THIS RULE THAT ALL GYMS IN AMERICA HAVE. Don't act like you don't know what's up. And by the way, it is a rule. If you were to take the time to glance up from your John Grisham novel and read the sign that's posted directly in front of your fat fucking face, you'll see that it's not suggested you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not encouraged that you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not preferred that you respect the 30-minute time limit; it's a RULE. I don't mean to be a total Terry Cooper all fallin' in love with the rules or whatever, but that rule is in place for a specific reason—nobody has time to stand around the gym for 45 minutes while you leisurely stroll on the treadmill reading Us Weeklys from the past five weeks. The gym is the kind of heinous place you just want to get in, get out and be done with. I mean, we all have places to go; homes to get home to; episodes of Intervention waiting for us. And you're holding shit up with your own selfishness. You are a Selfish Shellfish and it fucking pisses me off!

Sit down and let me tell you a true story from my life. When I go to the gym, I have a specific routine I like to do: I start with 30 minutes on the elliptical and end with 30 minutes on the arc trainer. The other day I got to the gym and it was oddly packed. I walked past the ellipticals to scope out how much time people had left to see if it was more time efficient to wait or if I should switch up my routine and do the arc trainer first (shudder, shudder). Irritatingly enough, most people had like 18-20 minutes left except for one girl who had 48 MINUTES LEFT! 48 MINUTES! And she was already sweating like a bitch when I got there which I can only assume means she had been there for a while! She also had this huge test prep book draped all over her machine, papers flying everywhere, her jacket and bag strewn about like she fuckin' owned the place—I mean, what the fuck is going on here?! This isn't your apartment; you can't just set up shop and hunker down for the night! And I can understand this behavior if it's 9 o'clock at night and the place is practically empty, but this was seriously at 6:15 in the evening. You could not pick a busier time to raise a leg, spray a machine and make it yours for the night. And I know this has nothing to do with anything, but she was offensively ugly. There, I said it. I know, I know, I'm a horrible human being and I'm no prize piece either and blah blah blah, but seriously—that bitch had a face on her head. And that face looked like scrambled eggs. And for whatever reason it made the situation that much more irritating to be in. By the time I was done with the arc trainer and needed an elliptical, they were all still in use! Including, of course, by Head-Face Girl who had been there for the past babillion years! The fuck?! So then, of course, I was put in a position where I had to decide if I was going to say something to her or not. Did I? Of course not. Because then I'd be That Guy. Did I say something to the manager? No. Because then I'd be That Guy^max. I just don't appreciate being in the position where I have to choose between letting an inconsiderate A-fuck win or risk being That Guy. Because nobody in that situation wins and it's just not fair.

Christ. Now I'm all riled up just in time for Boss #2 to come in for the day. I'll attack Metro Pole Humpers tomorrow...Lord knows I just don't have the strength now. Time to lower my blood pressure with 'Ole Faithful: