There is something very wrong with a world in which I am neither a rockstar nor a fairy princess.

Look. I have a touch of PMS, which means I’m horny and antsy. Add to that the fact that I’ve somehow forgotten to go to bed before three A.M. these past two nights, and I didn’t sleep at all on Sunday night, and there you have me disintegrating before your eyes like that Nazi at the end of The Temple of Doom movie.

All right, I get it. I’m fertile.

My uterus is a total Jersey slutbag named Cyndi, did you know? If I could, I’d grab her by her big hair and ram her face against a brick wall so abruptly that the lollipop she’s undoubtedly sucking on would emerge through the back of her cranium. I’m just saying.

I’m not sure how a girl from Jersey came to be lodged in my abdomen. She probably hitched a ride with some trucker. Bitch. Last month, she woke me up from a sound sleep with awful cramps that made me puke. I’m hoping she’s learned some subtlety since then.

Okay, enough. Sorry.

What I really need, is sleep (she says, with no intention of going to bed anytime soon). I don’t know why, but responding to cues pertaining to normal human functions, like eating and sleeping, is a battle for me. But, tonight! Tonight, I sleep! I swear to you.

Let’s stuff this entry with even more cliché diary fuel, shall we?

My stupid, boring, easy, and perfectly pleasant job is driving me crazy. I think I have a stress fracture from overusing the three-hole punch. I spend at least 3 hours daily playing minesweeper, and every time I start a game, the song “Nightswimming” starts playing in my head, with the alternate lyrics “Minesweeping.” Try it! (Brilliant idea, © Luvabeans.)

A few weeks ago, my boss went on vacation. Upon his return, he regaled me with stories of he and his wife lounging around a pool with aged socialites nicknamed things like Buffy, Muffy, Weezie, and, I swear to God, fucking POOKY. Those are NICKNAMES. These women CHOOSE to be named after poodles.

My boss is a very nice gentleman, but I don’t understand his world at all. He moans about his Mercedes problems while I sop up anecdotes about lunatics on public transit. And that’s fine. When he and my other boss take me out for lunch next week, in observance of Administrative Professionals Week, I’m gonna order five courses of jewelry. Unless Cyndi demands something like French fries dipped in egg yolk and pickle juice, which she probably will. Bitch.

There is something very wrong with a world in which people with lovely names like Kelly are not rockstars or fairy princesses, and disposable income is liberally dispersed among Flopsies, Mopsies, and Cottontails.

So, while I’m being all superbloggy and self-indulgent … I got a brand new piece of spam today, from a mystery woman named Agnes Goodman, with the subject “your father playing with his Gay soulmate.” I think that’s hilarious.

What, is Agnes trying to taunt me? What kind of fucked up marketing angle is she coming from? She obviously doesn’t know my dad. The Gays make him kind of uncomfortable, as much as he’d hate to admit it.

He’s gotten a lot better since learning that a number of my and my sister’s friends, whom he adores, are gay. I honestly think he’d be overjoyed if I were to fall in love with my friend Sarah. I think she’d be kind of happy about it, too, but that’s another story.

I have an inkling as to whom would be my dad’s Gay (I love the capitalization) soulmate, but neither of them would ever own up to his forbidden love for the other. Oh, how sad. How very Thorn Birds. My heart breaks for them, but I guess it works out for my mom, as long as she doesn’t receive any bean-spilling emails from Agnes Goodman.

My friend Nikki, in San Francisco, has those wordy magnets that allow you to scatter obnoxiously pithy phrases across your refrigerator. Since my recent visit, my two favorite magnet mini-compositions have been stuck in my head even more than “Minesweeping.”

1. “His shirt rules like that movie.
2. “Like fire behind rock is that casserole.”

Poetry. I’m looking to use “rules like that movie” at every opportunity.

Presents might improve my mood. I want a diamond-studded pony that poops money.

Sleep would help me focus, though. And that’s free.

God, I’m so annoying today.

I’m out. Rock and/or roll, kids. You rule like that movie. Like fire behind rock are my readers.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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