he'll keep calling me, he'll keep calling me until i come over. he'll make me feel guilty. this is uh... this is ridiculous, ok i'll go, i'll go...

I am Cameron. In his car. On his was to Ferris’ house. Sick. Angry. Beating head against steering wheel. Getting out of the car and jumping up and down, kicking rocks. Getting back in the car. Turning the key.

If I knew how to insert a fucking picture here, I would. And it would be of Cameron. Angst ridden and cold stricken. My poster child. (M's good deed for the day: showing me how to post pretty pictures.)

Remember that big decision I had to make? WELL. Made it. Decided not to take the offer on the store. Decided not to sell it right now. Decided to stay super glued to M’s fucking left side. Am trying to pep talk my way into giving a damn if we are out of toilet paper or coffee or if we are even OPEN for god’s sake. It’s too early to tell if it’s working.

I wanted to sell it. I didn’t know how badly until I was on the phone leaving a voicemail message that said “we have decided to not take your offer.” I could literally feel myself beating down what little self-preservation instinct I have left. But M didn’t want to sell it. He thought the deal was sketchy. We have to agree on stuff like this, big fucking huge stuff like this. So YEAH. Didn’t sell it.

Why does no ALWAYS FUCKING ALWAYS trump yes?

My only escape plan is to get a JOB. ANY job apparently as I am on my way to accepting an offer that I know if I think about too much, I won’t be able to do. If I did think it through too much, I’m apt to sit in my car that first morning. Sick. Angry. Beating head against steering wheel. Getting in and out of the car. Yeah, you get the picture.

I think that with the help of a very friendly Canadian boy, I have come to realize something that may prove to be helpful. I AM A TWO YEAR OLD.

Here is what I think of most jelly beans: no good.

Here is what I think of any asian dish containing huge amounts of golden fried tofu: yes, please.

Here is what I’m wondering right now: Do I have to give Kurt Vonnegut credit for completely ripping off his trademark sentence structure?

I am mentally planning a “I Finally Weigh Less Than My Driver’s License Says I Do” party. I will make people wear nametags that either confess or boast their weight differential from that little piece of plastic that lets them get into bars. HELLO MY NAME IS +15 POUNDS! I will decorate the house like a DMV! I will give eye exams! I will make people wait in line to get beer! It will be a night of total debauchery that will FURTHER clinch my title as Worst Neighbor In The Condo Association! Thank you!! Thank you very much!

I can’t set a date for that little shin-ding just yet as I still weigh 3.5 pounds more than I claim to. But watch out! Because I don’t eat much anymore and when I do, it’s usually cheese puffs. And apparently cheese puffs are magic diet pills masquerading as baked puffy tubes coated in an orange powder that kinda reminds you of cheese!

Here is what I think of the new super skinny Anna Nicole Smith: yikes.

On Sunday, I flew between fits of pissed offness and being all cool and collected. And by cool and collected, I mean crying. The fits culminated in a huge, unorganized pile of M’s sheeit at the bottom of the basement stairs. He stopped by when I was calmer, and by calmer, I actually mean calmer this time. I told him that there was a very special object d’amour in that heap, and he should be careful to not throw it out, on accident anyway. He could throw it away on purpose if he wanted. He asked me why, other than the obvious reasons, I would include that little gifty in the sizeable pile. I said it was mainly due to the obvious. He said, “oh.”

Here is where I wanted to be a two year old:

I WANTED to pitch a fit. I WANTED to march down stairs, climb around on the mountain of clothes and DVDs and D sized batteries and fish out said object d’amour and throw it at him. I WANTED to stomp aforementioned object into little bits. I WANTED to come up with a plan so SHOCKING he would just absolutely HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING.

!!!!

But nope. I did none of the above. Instead, I was stoic. And by that I mean I was just crying enough for my eyes to be glassy.

I babysat today. No poop or spit up made it onto me. The mark of a good afternoon.

I want to write haiku but I’m having a hard time summing up the situations I find myself in lately to a mere 17 syllables. ESPECIALLY when I want “fucking fuckety fuck you” in every one. That gets to be pretty limiting.

Here is what I think of journal entries that drag on and on for 20 pages: the end.