–Looks hot in oversized volleyball t-shirts from the early ’90s.
–Still thinks it’s cool to wear multicolored boxers around the house and even while out shopping, because my friends and I did it during fifth grade softball and Friday Night Fever.
–Knows the difference between Leinenkeugel’s and Dortmunder.
–Memorizes entire guide books to foreign cities (and then quizzes people).
–Encourages me to eat loads of crap (and then asks me if I’ve gained weight).
–Insists on only buying clothing that is “classic and basic.”
–Appreciates Matisse and buys Matisse-esque greeting cards.
–Enjoys Chuckles candy.
–Considers walking on the beach a workout.
–Sends Care Bears videos and Kirschbaum’s cookies.
–Hides Fannie Mae chocolates in secret cabinets around the house and snacks on them like a mouse.
–Refrains from freaking out and asking constantly about the mice in my apartment.

Them: Oh, you live there?
Me: Yep. You live there?
Them: No, we just hang out here sometimes.
Me: Oh, okay. So creepy.

(huge pause)

At this moment, I’m teaching myself the difference between authorial diegesis and auctorial mimesis. That wasn’t a typo. Apparently they’re really different. No offense, grad schoolers, but I’m getting an increasingly oppressive feeling that the professors teach us this crap just because they feel really embarrassed that they’re the only ones who know it. It’s that dorky.

Here’s the dilemma: I could learn anything I get “taught” in grad school by simply reading books. It’s mostly profound realizations based on acquired knowledge, with the realizations being the things that count (at least for me). But I probably wouldn’t read the books unless I was paying for classes.

But now that I was by myself I was in VERY important company. I set up shop on a nice rusty plank and did the unattractive pose where I expose all of my limbs (but not the nasty middle part) at once. “This is great,” I thought - or something much more creative.

But suddenly, some bitch from the building trounces upstairs and stands IN my SUN while she unfolds her totally amazing fold-out lawn chair that she got on sale at CVS. I was so jealous. “Wow, I’m so jealous,” I said. ” “Yeah, thanks - ten dollars at CVS!” Okay. That was basically the extent of our conversation. She was kind of boring.

It’s true: I am obsessed with Ellen. I love her. I simultaneously am totally happy for her and completely jealous. I want to have her life, but somehow be me instead. I’m guessing that wouldn’t work. Ellen just stuffed a Mexican donkey figurine’s face into tortilla chips on her show. See? That is funny. I love how she never sold out and relied on idiotic sexual humor to be funny. After initially flipping out after she came out, the masses actually like her now. They must have gotten the memo that queer is in. Awesome. Anyway, I love it. Go Ellen.

Also, notice that Ellen is not pitting out in the above photo. This is probably the main difference between Ellen and me. I’ve always wondered if celebrities or other high-powered individuals are using this elaborate contraption or secret deodorant that prevents any sweating whatsoever. I am convinced that these people use, like, 20 layers of nude-colored paint to keep the moisture locked, or wrap ace bandages or sports tape around the underarm. (There I go again with the high school athletics.) I would try either method, seriously.

Pit stains are so horrible. I know it shouldn’t matter, but they are kind of universally regarded as a human weakness. You see a guy on the street with gaping wet marks. Oh GROSS, you just bumped into him, shoulder to shoulder! Nasty!

The silent interaction goes something like this.

You: Oh, sorry. (pause) Ewwwh. I’m actually starting to pit out myself. Good thing I’m wearing black.

Pit stains: (gives dirty look) What are you looking at? I know I have pit stains. Don’t you think that if I had a sweater I’d cover them up? Ha. You look like you could be pitting out there yourself.

You: WHY is he looking at me like that? OMG, can he tell just by looking at my face? Am I giving it away?

Pit stains: This sucks. Maybe I should try Mitchum.

You: Mitchum doesn’t work. I would know.

OH MY GOD. I just typed “pitting out” in Google image search and the very first picture to come up was one from MY college website. That is so pathetic. I seem to have labeled the photo “pitting_out,” as if that was a reasonable way to distinguish that one from any of the other pictures taken that year.

If you think about it, though, it’s pretty presumptuous to assume you’re in a bitchy mood if no one is around. Isn’t bitchiness by nature contingent on at least some sort of human interaction? Can you be in a bitchy mood if you’ve been sitting by yourself for six hours straight, alternating between thinking about making cheesy noodles and actually making cheesy noodles? Sure, I FEEL bitchy right now. But I always feel like this. Maybe I’m kidding myself, and I actually feel “artistic,” or “drained,” or even “contemplative.” (All standard Live Journal options.) In order to truthfully classify my current mood as “bitchy,” I’d need to have someone call or IM me and make a proper assessment of my reaction to life beyond Annie (LBA). And I don’t really fucking have time for that right now. Fucking annoying people.

I think I can select “bitchy” now.

Can I say “fuck” this often on this site? I guess I’m about to find out.

That’s another thing. Despite my self-proclaimed “web-savvy” image, I am totally clueless as to this basic blog process which apparently millions of “users” have mastered by age 18. I would also like to thank Live Journal for making me feel like even more of a “user” than I already am.

The Snowman is totally staring at me. I think he is a user, too.

I’m guessing most people who read this will be on during work, or “normal” hours. Just an FYI: my posts will all occur during the abnormal realm of 1 a.m. - 7 a.m. I have a medical condition that requires I only be a productive member of society during that frame. People who write blogs supposedly “for their readers,” but really for themselves, are productive members of society. I am glad I now qualify. For a minute, this one time, I was getting worried. I was sitting on my couch for six hours straight, thinking about cheesy noodles. It occurred to me that maybe my life was worthless. But suddenly, a That ’70s Show rerun came on FOX and the feeling just vanished! That was close. I hope to never feel that way again.

Since I don’t have any friends with blogs, I guess I won’t be getting comments. If you’re reading this, you can still comment. It just comes up as anonymous or something. So state your name. Or don’t. See if I care. Losers.