I Don't Know Why I Wanted A Gong Instead Of A Doorbell.

So I wrote the last post after having been to The Dubliner, The Libertine, and The Blarney Stone. Apparently, I only go to bars with "The" in the name. I remember vaguely having written it, but that gong thing was news to me when I re-read it. I am very proud that I managed to spellcheck. I forget to in text messaging with T9 and then I end up sending people stuff like "I already frank too much to in anywhere."

I saw a new legless homeless guy. I named him Carl. I have no idea what happened to Legless Joe. That makes me sad. Also, Starbucks hates me. I am only worthy to drink their wares, not to stand behind the counter and listen to the 9,482,316th Swarley joke. I told you people I don't interview well. This other advertising agency hates me too. That interview went better than any interview I have had since that time Pat and I talked about shoes for 30 minutes and then she took me to her boss whose first question was "When can you start?" I have no idea what specifically about me they hated. I asked. I got a bureaucratic non-answer. Hmm, what is wrong with me? I feel the need to make a list.

ReadBecca's Faults

Superhumanly messy
Impatient
Moody
Supremely irritable
Interviews poorly
Doesn't iron anything
Procrastinates
Perfectionist
Hasn't had sex in five years

Crap, I have to cut the list short. The Tuesday night coffee house entertainment is setting up and I can't stay here and listen to any singer-songwriter bullshit. I can barely stand the Sirius coffee house channel they play here at WRC (White Rock Coffee. Fuck Starbucks.). There is no need for a mellow acoustic cover of any Van Halen song, especially Jump. The grocery store I used to shop at that closed played The Clash and Oingo Boingo. Minyard's rocked.

Hey, guess what. Tomorrow night Stef's taking me to see The Police. Wooooooooooooooooo!

Remember, kids, don't frank and drive.

I Promised Stef Her Quote Would Be The Headline, But I Already Lost The Paper She Wrote It On.

It was a two-parter. I know the second part was "We're bringing the shit to town." I think the first part rhymed. Anyhow.

Chad the bartender at The Libertine looks as much like Colin Farrell as anybody I've seen in person so I'd totally bang him, but nah, I won't.

We told so many stories tonight, I've lost my voice. Awesome. I had a roast beef sandwich and a debate with Ashley about what a bad idea it is to shack up with someone. She thinks it's a good idea to have a "trial period" and I say that's what fucking dating is for. Unless I got a rock and a date set, I'm not fucking cohabitating. Shut up. I know I'm saying fuck a lot. It's very late and all I have to keep me warm is a Big Gulp.

Woo! Blogging in bed is so much more than I thought it would be. I get to blog braless! Anything I can do braless is at least 20% more fun than stuff that requires foundation garments. I stand by that statement.

I hate Conway Twitty. I thought that should be made clear. I probably should have mentioned it earlier. I know this next bit may cause me to be escorted to the Mason-Dixon line, but I don't like George Jones either. I do, however, enjoy the boys of Oak Ridge, so that might save my ass. To this day, I still can't believe I actually went to A&M. How was I never stoned to death in the village square? It's a friggin' mystery.

Any joke with Christopher Walken as the punch line is 20% funnier than any competing joke. I also stand by that statement.

Note to dude pretending not to be looking at condoms at 7-11: I totally know you're buying condoms. Stop pretending to look at cough drops. You could be actually using said condoms by now.

I have GOT to stop playing Mah Jong online. I am out of control and need an intervention. Someone book Oprah and make plans to ambush me on national television. It's the only way I'll take the situation seriously.

Someday when I'm stable enough to commit to a house, I'm going to have a big brass gong instead of a doorbell. It's going to ROCK.

And...SCENE.

I Love You, The Ghost Whisperer.

Oh God help me today I drank a Pepsi.

I have a list of shows to watch on DVD this summer. Heroes. Studio 60. The Sopranos even though the last time I did that, they totally freaked my shit out.

Ow! My hippocampus!

The hippocampus is part of the brain but I can't picture anything but hippos in t-shirts and carrying backpacks and walking around all hungover.

Hmm. These TV lawyers are dumb. I could totally be Ironsides if I were a TV lawyer. Note to self: don't watch TV and ReadBecca simultaneously. Unsucessful posts are the result. Resluts. Ha. That never gets old.

Contrary to popular belief, tortelloni contains no tortoises of any kind whatsoever.

I'm still in love with Lloyd Dobbler. And his Malibu. And his matchbook. And hanging out at the Gas n' Sip.

Why is it always Munchausen's Syndrome by proxy? Jebus, why don't they throw in an evil twin? Or babies switched at birth? Whatever. Again, note to self: no blogging with the TV on in future. Duly noted.

Free With Purchase!

I finished Daniel Deronda. It wasn't worth it. I read Marie Antoinette and The Boleyn Inheritance. I pre-ordered Harry Potter. I didn't know you had to stay until the end of the credits at Pirates so don't tell me. I'm going back and making them let me watch the last 15 minutes again. I want to see creepy Kevin Costner. Um, and I have a crush on Leonardo Dicaprio. I know. Titanic was nearly ten years ago. So I'm a decade late. I don't care what you say about my 'Nardo. Yeah, I bought the Vanity Fair. What of it? He was freakin' awesome in The Departed and I loved that he called what's her face who married Chaucer and they saved Djimon Hounsou, who is so awesome that having a crush on him is just ridiculous and possibly an abomination in the eyes of the Lord because he deserves more than a mere giggly crush from some idiot woman who once had a crush on Colin Farrell who doesn't even belong in the same paragraph as Djimon Hounsou and so I apologize, Djimon, for my inarticulate and inappropriate mentioning of a hot Irish guy with issues which may or may not have been worked out in a Costa Rican rehab after wrapping Miami Vice, which was better than I thought it would be and confirmed my opinion that long hair on a guy is gross, even though I used to like it, but what do I know, I have a crush on Leo and I'm 36.

Crap, I May Have Cursed Myself.

So I locked myself out of Stef's house. In my pj bottoms and a wifebeater, under which I was not wearing a bra. And I wasn't wearing shoes. And my phone was inside. I went to Matt's instead of the neighbor's. I didn't feel like explaining who I was to strangers, especially with visible nipples. Then I gave the locksmith the wrong address. He eventually showed up anyway. But he was supremely and profoundly unskilled. I swear he had never picked any sort of lock. He began to rely on brute force, which I decided I could have done myself for free. That's when I cursed myself.

I told him I was pregnant and nauseated so he would leave. And then I wouldn't pay him. We had a fight in the front yard. Then he finally left without saying good-bye. Funny, that's the same thing that happened the last time I told a man I thought I was pregnant. (I wasn't.)

Don't worry, I got in the house. I owe Stef a window.

You people will have no excuse for not reading ReadBecca anymore. I have no excuses left due to the purchase of the laptop I am right this second typing away on. I'm even wireless. It was just impossible not to have one. Sort of like how I resisted buying a DVD player for so long and I broke down when I couldn't watch the movies I wanted to see because they don't make them on VHS.

I really don't have much to fill you in on. Except I saw the butchest drag queen ever in the parking lot at Target in too-small women's summer slides. He wanted to be dainty so badly.

I'm still a genius. I pulled A's in both my spring classes. I can't remember the last time I worked so hard for it. God knows I never tried that hard the first time I went to college. I actually gave a shit the second time I went to college, but I still got a couple B's. (Hey, I can't concentrate when I'm all in love and shit.) The third time around I am stone cold serious about it. I want to be A-number one, top of the heap, A-number one (Why does Frank repeat himself?) so even though I did get the A, it was only a 91 point something and that totally pisses me off. Unacceptable. If I'm not perfect, what's the friggin' point? (Highlight that sentence. It'll be on the final.) So I was bummed about my A. I did better in Algebra for Dummies. I didn't even need the extra credit points.

My coffee addiction may soon rival my fountain Coke addiction. Nothing smaller than a venti will do. And I suck that sucker down like nobody's business. Then I want more. They should make a patch. A flavored patch. Mmmm, orange mocha.

Like a month ago I had two sex dreams in one day, one during regular sleep and one with my nap. Awesome. I slept 14 hours last night.

I thought I had a date on the books a few weeks ago, but I had to reschedule around finals and he hasn't texted back since. He's younger. Oh crap, I forgot he knows about this blog. Shit. Eff it. I'm leaving it in.

My little brother is going to be a father. I think he's going to be freakin' great at it. I'm so glad they are expecting. They had trouble and had to intervene medically. They even moved to a different state where insurance would cover it. So I'm so happy they were successful after all that. My other brother is shacked up with his baby mama. Their kid is the youngest of five. Good luck with all of that.

Let's see, what else? I got a massage. And a facial. I need to get my bangs cut. I want to do it partly because they're irritating me and partly so I can say to my gay stylist Adam, "Hey, I need you to bang me." Damn, I'm funny.

It's pledge drive time on PBS. Send them a check. I would, but I just bought a computer. What am I, made of money?

I will be talking a lot about Developmental Psychology in the next month. And not because I'm back in therapy. (You wish.) That's first up in summer school. Then I will mention anatomy and physiology again. I still know where the thymus is. The amygdala is the fear center of the brain. See how I combined subjects there? I keep telling you I'm a genius.

Do me a favor and light a candle for me and help me reverse the curse. Or knock wood or handle a snake or whatever it is that you do spiritually. I mean, I know I can't get pregnant from a sex dream, and God knows nothing else is going on, but still. Mary wasn't expecting it either. I'm pretty sure not even the Pope would believe me, but you can't be too careful. Seriously, let this cup pass from my lips. I got enough issues without an immaculate conception. I'm pretty sure I'd get written out of the story anyway. Me and Mary Magdalene could totally hang out under the Louvre. I even saw the spot I'll be in. I took pictures. I've always wanted to walk around that joint all by myself without anyone else in the way. Conceiving the messiah is a long way to go just to look at art alone.

I heard a phrase recently that I can't get out of my head. There's something there I can't get enough of. I wrote it down and put it in my change purse. I'm not saying what it is. If I tell anyone, I don't think I'll be able to do with it what I think I might be supposed to. Weird. But Famous Author Guy probably wouldn't tell you, and he wrote three books so he must know something I don't.

Stef has a theory that since I got text messaging on my phone, I stopped writing. I think she's right. I write fantastic texts. I even punctuate. I get pissed all the time because I'm restricted to 160 characters. It's like writing haiku. Fuck haiku. Ha. That would make a great text.