The kept woman

First thing's first: my gorgeous friend Crystal must've read my post a few weeks ago and took it to heart because she and Big C will no longer be doing it. If you've read his drunken ramblings lately, you might know that they aren't seeing each other anymore.

I can't have any opinions on it because they're both my friends and stuff -- I'm desperately trying to not turn out like the pushy Mexican mother I am destined to become, thus the refraining from opining -- but I'm disappointed that it didn't work out for both of them. She came to pick up her things yesterday and she won't be coming 'round for a while and I'm left with the "aw, that sucks" kind of feeling. It won't be the same anymore, but eh, that's life.

In other news, I've had this terrific strain of the flu that I think has been really fun and thanks so much, work ladies, who came to work sick, coughing and sneezing all over the papers and office machines, spreading your germs and blessing me with this awesome crud that's been an absolute joy to live through. Happy Valentine's to you, bitches. I hope you appreciate MY Valentine's gift to you -- going to work sick all week and doing everything you've done for me in hopes of spreading this crud back to you and making the world a big stinkin' snotty place. You're welcome.

"So, deconstructionist, tell me what's really bothering you?" says the little snot goblin on my shoulder. "I'm sick, motherfucker. Sick of everything."

I soooooo want to bitch about work, but the truth is that I don't want to turn this blog into my "work kevetch fest" -- that's a luxury I do not want to indulge in. It's kind of like not masturbating whenever you have the house to yourself. Just because you can do it doesn't mean it's always necessary. Besides, if I allowed myself to just pour out every detailed reason why I want to leave my job onto this blog, it would be sullied forever and I'm afraid that when I look back on it in a few months when one day I don't feel like posting and browse through the archives, I might find out that I'm a fickle, immature schmuck who is never happy and I should just grow the fuck up and accept that work is stupid and boring and will always be stupid and boring and if I want money to do the fun things that I do (use Internet, eat, drink wine), I need to work. End of story. Wait, girls can be schmucks, right?

Maybe I'm just pissed off that no one ever told me that work sucks. Or maybe I was told, but I refused to believe it. It would be so freaking awesome to be a kept woman. Wait before you judge, though -- let me explain what I mean.

First of all, for me to be a kept woman, my man would have to work and make enough money for the both of us to live. By living, I mean being able to pay rent, bills, buy food and have enough money left over to save (ha, yeah right!) and/or for a monthly shopping trip of $50-200. I desperately need new clothes or shoes about once a month, you see. I blame the weight loss. Before you start hating me and saying, "what a brat, what nerve! I can't believe she's saying these things" just wait (and be glad I'm being honest with you -- not too many people are honest about what they want). I'd work, too, but not the kind of work I do now, which is soul-crushing and mind-numbing. I'd work freelance writing/editing jobs that only last from two weeks to six months, because that's about the time it takes for me to be sick of any job. It would be ideal -- I do a job for a set fee, move on and everyone's happy. The end. That's why I need my man to work a steady job -- for insurance in case there's an extended period of time that I don't work, during which I would be a home maker slash novelist slash rock star. See? It's really simple. This plan just requires some team work.

Fuck my career, fuck the real world, fuck the lot of it -- I'm too lazy to deal with it and I refuse to accept that my life can be any less awesome than my pretend-kept woman life.

Did I mention that I've decided to go back to school in the fall? This is probably the first big decision I've made entirely on my own, without feeling the need to due to pressure from my parents, society, grandparents, etc. This idea was born from my brain. I'll go into it later, when I'm not coughing up a lung and making rice (in that order).

Start your Saturday morning off right

As he got up from the couch to heat up a slice of last night's pizza, Matt indulged me with this gem:

"I hate it when parents brag about how smart their kids are. If your three-year-old can do something better than you and you're standing there laughing, you should be ashamed...not proud."

Hold the cream -- I'd like some cynicism in my coffee please.

Top ten reasons to quit smoking

1.) They say it's bad for you.
2.) Your teeth end up looking like popcorn kernels.
3.) You run the risk of small children throwing stones at you chanting, "dirty lung, dirty lung!"
4.) It's expensive.
5.) You have to brush your teeth extra hard before you go to the dentist because you don't want her to know you smoke.
6.) People are slightly intimidated by the cloud of smoke that surrounds you. They think you're the devil.
7.) You age quickly. The horror!
8.) You have to clear your throat before you answer the phone.
9.) When you're in bed with your significant other, they tell you your hair smells like toast.
10.) Ashes are a bitch to clean off the carpet.

This is the year, my dearies -- the year I quit. But never fear -- I will still find a way to intimidate people with the cloud of smoke.