He's working his way up to those

Late night, long distance car rides inspire secret confessions.
"I have been to over six Backstreet Boys concerts." A friend told me as we discussed what the appeal of boy bands had been in the first place.
"I never saw the Backstreet Boys in concert." I told her. "But my best friend while growing-up did. She said she cried when they came out onto the stage. I laughed at her because I am sensitive like that."
I don't really have any secrets to confess. Not anything that is worth mentioning. The best I could come up with was confiding that I had taken flute lessons for 15 years. I lead a relatively tame life, there are no Backstreet Boys concerts hidden away with the skeletons in my closet. In fact, there aren't actually any skeletons in my closet, only a blow-up doll named Mr. Stud (one whom is not anatomically correct) who lost his legs in the war. He sits there, waiting. Maybe like R. Kelly, except without the golden showers for minors.


What do you want from me fish?

Months of neglect and yet Stephen Harper and Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note are still thriving.
I knew this would happen. The minute I no longer want something it seems to decide it suddenly wants me. Like Destiny's Child, my fish are survivors. They're not going to give up (what?). They're not going to stop (what?). They're going to work harder (what?).
They spend their days swimming around in circles and when I walk by they suddenly stop. Their eyes follow me, as I slowly make my way around the clutter of my bedroom, in a way that gives me goose bumps. I have started having nightmares in which Stephen Harper flings himself out of my aquarium and starts to suck my soul right out of my body. It's my own fault. All of it. I should have known better than to buy fish. I am not a fish kind of person. I like things that do exactly what I want, exactly when I want them to. The fish refuse to live when I want them to (even though I leave them inspiring notes about my love for them and desire for them to live), and then they refuse to die when I passively wish it on them (do not worry.. I still feed them and ensure their water is clean). Maybe I should place an add in the paper. You know.. One of those "free to a good home.. or someone who is hungry and is willing to eat tiny, domesticated tropical fish."


Brushing the Dog : Part One

No matter how much I vacuum, no matter how many times I sweep, my floors are constantly covered in dog hair. I knew my dog would shed when the weather got warmer, but I didn't think he would take it upon himself to lay me a carpet. So when I decided to brush the dog today I anticipated that there would be lots of hair, but I didn't really think there would literally be enough hair to create another dog.

Yet, that is exactly what the dog delivered. A pile of hair bigger than the cat. How is it that he still has any hair left? How is it that if I ran my hand over his back right this second I would still come away with more hair? It seems so unfair that there are some dogs who have no hair at all and yet the dog is walking around with enough for two (at the very least).
Basically there is still so much brushing required that I decided to take a break tonight and start fresh tomorrow. My arms are tired and the dog is about ready to smack me upside the head.


Bicycle of my Dreams

Just a subtle hint for anyone who may or may not be related to me.. Or someone who just would like to buy me stuff. I like it when people show their affection for me by buying me material things. It is the bicycle of my dreams, after all. If it were pink, it would be god sent. I love it. I want to print off a picture of it and put it under my pillow so that I will have dreams about it. As it is, I have to satisfy myself by thinking of all the awesome things I would do with it. First I would put a white basket on the front, and then a nice bell (mostly because it is law, but also because bells are awesome). And then I would take my bike and ride it every where. To school. To work. To the mall. To the houses of friends. It is the kind of bike I could ride while wearing a skirt (with a pair of bike shorts underneath for the duration of the trip, just to be safe).
It is made by this manufacturer.


Hottest Person Ever

It is past three in the morning and I am sitting in my bed, in my underwear, eating a tuna fish sandwich. On the night stand to my left sits a glass of water that has been there for at least a week. Worse than that is that sometimes, when I wake-up dazed and thirsty, I actually drink from it. On the night stand to my right there sits an empty jug of orange juice. I drained the last drops of liquid out of it a few minutes ago, and have since been staring at it as if it were the most interesting thing I have ever set my eyes on as I chew. While typing this entry with one hand, I dropped a piece of tuna into the bottomless abyss that is my cleavage. My immediate instinct was to look around me to ensure that I was in fact alone, and then dig right down there to retrieve the piece of tuna and pop it into my mouth.
It is times like these that I know without a doubt why I am still single.