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.
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