* * * *

I was biking yesterday along the lakefront, when a girl carelessly darted out in front of me without looking. Now, I'm a frequent biker, and am very good about anticipating the possible maneuvers of other bikes/people in my path, and have never had an accident. But this girl sprinted across my path like a squirrel in front of a fuckin' 16-wheeler; but, seeing how she was a girl and not a rodent, and I am a woman and not a truck, I swerved so as to avoid missing her, despite the fact that SHE WAS THE RECKLESS ONE, FUCKIN' DAMMIT!

So, little bitch left the scene virtually unscathed, (I grazed her leg in my earthbound plummet,) I fell on the path and scittered across the lane, leaving a generous amount of my flesh caught up on the gravelly hooks of the pavement behind me.

I lay on my side for a few seconds, bleeding and a little stunned. I got up, and turned to see if the girl was okay. She had made it to the other side of the path, and was looking back at her friends, rubbing her leg and saying, with this big shit-eating grin on her face, "DAMN! That shit HURTS!"

I think her friends apologized on her behalf, and then, I swear to God, they went right back to darting to and fro across the bike path.

Fucking motherfucking fucking fucker, sure, I'm scabby and a little sore, but somebody could have been very seriously hurt. I understand that accidents happen, and admit that if I was not an active cyclist myself, I might not be as wary as I am about bike-traffic-laws, but CHRIST ALMIGHTY, that shit was STUPID, and it FUCKING PISSED ME OFF.

I ran after the little cunt and choked her with my bike chain. Her head is now on a pike between my handlebars, with flashing lights embedded in her eyeballs, to serve as a warning for all others stupid enough to disregard the amount of caution appropriate for dealing with QUICKLY MOVING VEHICLES, WHETHER THEY HAVE ENGINES OR NOT. MOTHERFUCKER.

I hate her.

* * * *

There's this boy I'm seeing, MK, who's definitely cute, smart and nice and sort of dorky, and just argumentative enough, in a way that makes me suspect that socially, we're very different people. (He's an only child, and it's getting pretty obvious.) But we seem pretty well matched as far as humor and intellect are concerned, so if any arguments surface, they're bound to be obnoxiously inconclusive and kind of fun.

So, things are going pretty swimmingly except for the fact that he's leaving the city, the state, and, in fact, the region, at the end of August. So, that's a bummer, but it makes things pretty definite in regards to the wonky guesswork that's normally involved in dating, and, as with all things, que sera, sera. And it's fun and (mostly) stress-free, but nonetheless genuine, so far.

So, this weekend, he and I went to a party at his friends' house, where we tasted no fewer than 16 kinds of wine in effort to help two of his friends decide what kind of white wine, red wine, and champagne to pour at their wedding.

MK got completely bleary-eyed drunk in one of those awful "everything you've drunk in the past three hours hits you like a wrecking ball" inebriation fits, and had to be driven to his place and helped to bed by yours truly. Once there, he took a moment to slur "I like yer nailpolish"* (Thank you) and "You're rrreeeeaaaaallllyyy cute," (So are you) before nibbling on my thigh for a few seconds, and stumbling immediately to the bathroom to vomit profusely.

I'm trying to avoid the temptation of making any self-effacing mental connections between the thigh-nibbling and subsequent vomiting.

But, anyway, I'm thinking that maybe the fact that I left a party early to drive his drunk ass home, in HIS car, no less, somewhat escalates my status among his friends from "girl" to "that girl MK's seeing."

No, actually, they called me "Kelly." ALREADY!

* * * *

Computer pyrotechnics?

Bicycle collisions?

Kelly dating somebody rather consistently???

Must be armageddon. Y'all best fetch your umbrellas.

You know, I've been thinking, I'm going to start a make-out club. The rules have yet to be hashed out, because once I started thinking about it, the possible legistics and liabilities got dicier and dicier, but I'll keep you posted.

See, I'd like to make it an equal-opportunity make-out club, but that's bound to be a disaster because certain "types" won't respond to other "types" that pursue them. And while I think it's important that everyone have access to some regular nookie on a day-to-day basis, I don't want to create a club that will be responsible for the same awful feelings of rejection that people feel at middle school dances. I basically just want to build a cave with lots of cushiony, couple-sized, cubby holes, where people can grope and kiss and cuddle in a semi-innocent manner.

Maybe I'll play some of Donovan's greatest hits in the background. Maybe there will be a fog machine. Maybe there should be a fogging section, and a non-fogging section.

Maybe it'll be an exclusive, invitation-only make-out club; maybe it'll be open to all. In case of the former, membership will be free, because: CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'RE HOT AND I'VE DEEMED YOU MAKE-OUT WORTHY!

In case of the latter: I'll charge a small amount of dues, just enough to keep the coffee table stocked with breath-spray, and the fridge loaded up with Boone's Farm strawberry wine.

Oh, I'm torn. Because, see, everyone's make-out worthy.

So far, I've come up with RULE NUMBER ONE OF MAKE-OUT CLUB, which is, YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT MAKE-OUT CLUB, and I don't really feel good about that rule, because I totally stole it.

Thank you. I'll keep you posted regarding further developments.

* "I like your nailpolish" might be the most random drunk-compliment a man has ever paid me.

Congratulations to Craig on his 31st day of cigarette-free livin'. I think that's pretty fucking cool. A full month, even though, technically, it could have been counted as a full month at the 28, 29, and/or 30 day points, which, when they came and went, were no less cool. But, let's face it, in terms of months, 28-day February totally wishes it was 31-day July. Dig?

So, anyway. I think that's a feat even more astounding than being deemed make-out worthy, and that Craig should be congratulated. Happy smoke-free month to Craig, who has far more will-power than I do.

Maybe if, say, you live down the hall from him, you could bring him a congratulatory pie or something. Dig?

Dig.

~ Last Five Entries ~

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

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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