HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANYWHERE BUT HERE!

One year later, and on the 335th post, I'm still up and kicking. No evil bitch nasties parodying my brain jumble. No Technorati profile. You don't know me. And that's okay.

I'm not all that interesting. I'm sitting here, taking a break from my schoolwork because I'm tired of writing down things that I already know and have no interest in sharing. (My term paper is about Diabetes. Assigned by the Professor. Go figure.) I'm drinking the last of my 2003 Bogle Petite Syrah, and I'm patiently waiting for my sweet Z to return with a one serving sample of Tylenol PM.

I just finished crying because I'm too stressed to successfully give a BJ. Dammit. I'm a pro. Ferizzle My Nizzle. When I'm anxious my hands shake and I can't feel my left hand or my left foot's toes. I'm such a Type A Competitive Bitch. It's pretty mind-altering when I can't complete a task. I feel inferior. And Afraid.

My first house closes next week, and I'm feverishly trying to pack up my nasty house. No furniture really to speak of, just a lot of books, rocks, baking supplies I never use (pastry chefs on diets don't make for very good amateur cooks), Z's blue pottery, a treadmill, strange hippie art from antique shops, more books....

I packed up 14 boxes labelled "Classics and Bookshelf" the other day. I read too damned much. If I ran more, or played more, maybe I would be a much less stressed out person. But no. It's my duty to make my way through the public library that will soon be my basement.

Sad part is, I can't remember what I've read. I usually have to re-read through Chapter 2 or so before I have it figured out and I decide to read the book again. What use is a book if you can't remember if you have read it? I chucked Anna Karenina at the wall the other day...and Don Quixote...

Better watch out. I'm going to break out the Castaneda, hook myself up with some Alice in Wonderland, and housepaint next weekend. For real, yo. We're going 1997 old school. We'll even hunt down the other Monty. Laugh. It was funny.

Shout out to my brothas and sistas. You keep me real, yo. Keep checkin my shit and tellin me I'm whacked. I need it.

Happy Birthday.




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