I got dragged to the ballet last night

Actually. I begged and pleaded to go. I happen to like the ballet.

However, I realize at this point of my venture, I still do not have the adult capicity to appreciate it as adults do. Even from the mezzanine, I was distracted by the size of Pan's junk during the our performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream. And then, I got distracted by the fact that we were viewing a Midsummer Night's Dream during the first week of fall.


And then, things went steadily downward as the prostitutes entered the balcony midway through the first act.

Possible tattoo options

WE HOPE YOU ARE SATISFIED WITH YOUR PRODUCT. IF NOT, WE WILL CHEERFULLY REFUND YOUR MONEY.

I wonder if I could get it done in Old English?

Essentially, me in a nutshell

I got my corndog.

Yesterday could have ended badly. Very badly. I drove home from work the other day on a nearly empty tank of gas. I had no money to put more gas in it and that was a good enough excuse as any to take a day off of work...because there wasn't really a way for me to get there.

Later that evening, a two good friends of mine sensed there was something very wrong with me on my end of the universe and knew to call me. So they did. I got an invite to spend the night over with the both of them, whittling down the remains of the day watching The Breakfast Club and eating junk food and bitching about relationships with two of the straightest men on earth.

Come hell or high water, I was making it there somehow or another.

Fate wanted me there because my gas tank, which was clearly as empty as I left it when I got home from work that evening, made it all the way back north without a hitch. Blessed be.

It was a good evening that took the blues away for a while. Party #1 filled up my gas tank so I could make it through the week and then some. While I wasn't looking, party #2 slipped $500 dollars in cash in my purse to get me through the rest of the month and then some. From that point on, I vowed never to bitch about my relationships ever again. This whole time, I had two of the best boyfriends on the planet.

The previous guy promised me corndogs and never got them for me. These two guys gave me the means to buy them for myself. So, I bought one for dinner.

And, it...was...delicious.

Look at me! I'm the human punching bag.

Can't talk now. Busy pulling knives out of my back. As Judd Apatow would say,"How can you still keep fucking me in the ass when your dick is still there from the last time."

My sentiments exactly.

Songs from my sweetheart, the drunk.

One day, someone will tell me they love me when they aren't innebriated. Just once, I'd like to be told I'm loved while I'm not holding their hair back hovering above a toilet in between bouts of vomiting. Just once.

Or perhaps I could settle for the interloping periods of "I love you's" and vomit if we were in a more romantic setting.

Oh, sweet sassafrass.

Oh, sweet sassafrass

I'm trying to market myself a new catchphrase. How does that one work out for you? I would apply it to situations that have me perplexed in such a way that would have me nearly speechless. But I wouldn't be speechless. I would be saying, "Oh, sweet sassafrass."

I hope you like it, because there's a lot of things that have me perplexed on a daily basis. On an hourly basis.

Kaboom.

I've just gotten back from eating brunch with my friends. We had dim sum. I am now a near comatose kind of full. I could easily go "kaboom." And then, everyone could have dumplings if they missed out.

Today pales in comparison to yesterday.

In fact, it was the exact opposite of yesterday. Yesterday was grand and glorious. Today was a bag of cocks.

Yesterday, I was in such great spirits, I imbibed in some to commemorate such a wonderful day.

So far this evening, my dog has greeted me by laying at my feet. And then farting on them. And then retreating. A poetic ending to match the goings on of the day.

I watched enough sitcoms to know someone's going to be waiting around a corner to provide me with the old adage, "If you don't have anything nice to say..."

I don't have anything nice to say. I won't say anything. This will keep commiting homicide.

I've got nothing.

A lot happened today. Too much excitement and too much exhaustion. That's all.

My to do (or rather, my not to do, list is pretty fucked.

On a neatly penned list authored by my friend and co-written by my other friend entitled "How Khanh should behave during her interview and things she shouldn't do beforehand" is a clearly scribed note stating,"No smoking before going in. She can wait until after, and then, she can have as many cigarettes as she wants."

I've smoked half the pack this evening out of shear nerves. I'll go to that interview with a sultry lounge act voice that will seduce her into giving me that job. I will walk out and finish the rest of that pack.

I'm pretty pathetic. My friends remind me of this in not so subtle ways.

Tomorrow

I'm going to ace this job interview by faking a winning personality. Luckily for me, my future employer will not be reading my blogs which reflects otherwise. I'm safe and secure in knowing this because nobody reads my blog.

He loves me...he loves me not.

I still don't have my corndog, though. Just a whole lot of empty promises that he'll get me one.

Something that would tip the dial towards happy.

I would very much appreciate a corn dog right about now.

Why the promise of youth keeps me sane on my job.

The kid has cerebal palsy. It makes him frail and weak of body, not of mind. Still, this doesn't stop general society from assuming otherwise.

He's generally one of the coolest kids on the planet, so I decided to join him during his lunch to shoot the shit. I didn't have to, but with very few exceptions, my co-workers don't provide nearly as much engaging conversation as he does on my lunch break. Plus, he lets me trade my granola bars for his mom's homemade applesauce. It's a win win situation.

While thoroughly entrenched in a conversation about world domination not being depicted accurately enough in action films, a particularly irritating co-worker interrupted us to say hello.

Upon greeting me, she shook my hand. Upon saying hello to him, she patted him on the head. He shot me a dirty look as soon as her back was turned to him and I promptly responded by cutting the conversation short with her. We said our goodbyes, and off she went to annoy someone else.

Before I could make any apologies, he looks me dead in the face and says, "I think I'll ram her with my walker the next time she does that. I'd feel better, and she's too clueless to think it was anything but an accident." I made him promise me that he wouldn't do it unless I was around to see it.

Seeing as my day wasn't going to get any better than that, after putting in another hour or so of work, I just went home. The mysterious migrane that started as soon as arrived at work, magically dissappeared as soon as I turned the key in my ignition.

In preparation for that time when the zombies might take over.

I run. Very poorly. Old ladies trucking their grandchildren in trolleys pass me up like strong gusts of wind. Sometimes, they knock me over. I fall down a lot. I pray my tears will still continue to look like the rest of the sweat running down my face.

Thank god the zombies walk as slowly as they do, because that would be the only thing keeping my brains from being eaten.

Musings on my life thus far.

This is my niece. This is my niece in her play kitchen. Her play kitchen comes with faux granite countertops and a deluxe brushed chrome microwave.

My kitchen comes with none of this. In fact, my microwave hasn't ever worked since I moved into my place.

My niece looks deliriously happy, doesn't she? I wonder if I aspire to have a kitchen like she does and achieve it, I'd be happy someday?

I bet her microwave even makes faux mac and cheese better than my real microwave could.

In Utah

It's illegal to cause a catastrophe. Since catastrophes great or small, account for at least 20% of my daily activities, I see this as a problem. I have now edited the list in my composition book I made in elementary school of things to do before I die. It once read "to visit each of the fifty states in the United States of America. " Now it says "to visit 49 out of 50 states because Utah is now dead to me."

That's a shame. I imagined the snow globe I would have picked up there would have been lovely.

Normally, I don't sleep with women.

She would have been to proverbial exception to the rule. But, I let that ship pass through the night as I watched her belly dance away from me through the crowd. Instead, I went to sleep in a drunken haze...my dreams reenacted from scenes from The Hunger. Only, the title roles were filled by me and the belly dancer who's name I never got.

I woke up in last night's clothing. There was still blood on them. Still not mine.

This isn't the first time.

Last night, I came home with somebody else's blood on me. Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?