Shafted. And not in the good way.

Let me elaborate on that last post.
I have just been given the shaft by the guy I was talking about in an earlier post and I am, of course, not happy.

He has decided he has too much going on in his life to get involved with someone but wants to be friends and who knows what will happen down the road...yaddah blah...yaddah blah.

Right.

And I am really an Irish Setter in a wig.

He has spent nearly a month making and breaking plans with me and when we finally manage to keep a date he suddenly realizes he can't handle getting involved with anyone right now. Fantastic. Had his realization come a little earlier, there was a very cute (although inebriated) young man who I would have been a lot more responsive to when he asked if he could blow on my neck (See? My job can be interesting.).
No. I would not have let him do that...I won't lie, I thought about it briefly, but no. However, I would have been more apt to arrange a sober meeting.
But no. I was all hung up on Mr. Indecisive. And now the cute neck blower is gone. Never to return. Dammit.
Isn't that just how it goes?
Like I said. Monkeys. It would be a lot simpler.

This will be brief.

If guys are the ones with the balls, then why don't they use them?
That's all I want to know.

Yet another update. I can't seem to stop.

Hey y'all,

It's odd how I had blogging impotence for so long but then after one random quickie I'm ready and rearin' to go more often than ever. Must have been something I ate...or had prescribed to me.
The little blue pill of posting genius. A modern medical marvel (Man, I love alliteration-can you tell?)

Anyhow, I have news! Guess who is going to see Phantom of the Opera live next month.
I'll give you a hint: It's not your friendly neightborhood Spiderman. Well, I suppose it could be. I mean, he does have that secret identity after all. Crafty bastard. He could be any one of the many audience members. But no--IT'S ME! I am going.
I'll take a moment now to let you all go green with jealousy.......4...3...2...1.
Ok. Now for the even cooler part.
That's right. I said even cooler.

I know what you're thinking. You are thinking, "You are a crazy, insane fool. It can't get any cooler."
Oh-but it can-and it does.

Are you ready for this?

The cast of the show will be staying in the building that I work and live in.
A real. Live. Broadway. Cast. Here. In my building. How cool is that?
I'll probably get to meet them and everything. This job rules. I will never complain about doing graveyard shift again (Ok, that's a lie. I totally will.).

*insert clever segue here*

So, I crossed yet another thing off my "Things to do before I die" list last night, and this one was way cooler than peeing in a park.

I rode a motorcycle.

It was extremely cool-terrifying when I realized just how close you are to being flung to your doom onto the solid, unforgiving pavement and having your skin grated like cheese by ragged gravel at any moment--but extremely cool none the less. It was such an awesome rush. I'd love to do it again.

You think I'm kidding. But no. The common sense part of my brain is not registering at all on this one.

I guess as long as I am having fun, the possiblity of death, dismemberment or severe maiming isn't really a factor in my decision. You really don't have to get up all that early in the morning to pull one over on my survival instinct.
It seems I am easily tricked into fatal situations. Just convince me that it'll be fun and I'm there.

I'd make a terrible superhero.
Go figure.

"Forbidden" or just fucked up?

Hola amigas and amigos,

Breaking news: The Princess bought TP. I repeat. The Princess bought TP.
I am overjoyed. Paper towel is just too scratchy.

On top of this, she has begun to talk to me more lately. I still don't see us staying up nights to giggle about boys while braiding each others's hair (and that is only partly because I am crap at braiding hair.) but it is something.

Speaking of boys (Shut up. A bad segue is still a segue.), there is one somewhat present in my lil' ol' life right now. Sort of. It's hard to explain...but I shall try, seeing as how I did bring it up.

(He is quite cute, has tattoos, a goatee and plays guitar. Num.)

It is a complicated matter that I promised I wouldn't talk about...so, all I will say is that I met him on the job and it is technically against the rules for us to date. More for him than me I think. He could be fired, but I don't think I could. I don't really know.

Now, the whole "forbidden" thing sounds exciting, but I have found it's really not. Especially when both your schedules seem to work out to never having the same time free.
"Forbidden" is not sexy. "Forbidden" is the ultimate cock block.
I would rather be getting some while publicly cheered on by 100 overly enthusiastic cheerleaders with his boss and co-workers at the top of the cheering pyramid , than mysteriously lying low and not getting any. At all.
I suppose this whole thing could be more fun if he felt like sneaking around at the risk of getting caught. But he cares about his job. Go figure. :P

At this rate, the name of my blog will never change...

Ok, I joke. I mean, yeah, I'd love to get some-who wouldn't? But I do genuinely like the guy from what I've gotten to know of him. It is seriously frustrating that I hardly even get to talk to him on the phone.
It's my own damn fault though. I went after him when I knew the rules.
But, in my own defense ...I didn't actually think he'd like me back! That almost never happens.

Nothing is ever simple is it?
If it were, we would all still be monkeys and my biggest problem would be getting at the fleas in my hard to reach places.

You're scratching your head now, but the profoundity of this statement will hit you later today.

Mark my words.

The great TP fiasco.

Bonjourno ma bellisima audience,

It has been brought to my attention that I have a job where I sit at a computer all night long, and, therefore, have no excuse not to update.Since I can't readily think of any excuses, I'll concede that point.
Here is your update, you heckler.

I have now moved into my summer room on the tenth floor. Good view and good roommates (these things are not necessarily related).

The girl I live beside is kind of high maitenance and hardly talks to me or the other girls. And she never replaces the toilet paper. Ever. Why? No clue. I assume she uses it from time to time. At least, I really hope so. Although, lately I have noticed the roll has looked suspiciously untouched from the last time I have used it. Odd. I suppose it's even odder that I noticed that.

Perhaps she uses a different method of excretion. One that doesn't require toilet paper. That might explain why she doesn't feel obligated to replace the sad, empty cardboard roll. Or maybe she sneaks her own in everytime she uses the bathroom. That would be weird. But I suppose that fact that I am fixating on this is a little weird too.

She even brought her own furniture, including a big vanity with a mirror and her own bed (not that I can blame her for that one. Residence beds are iffy at the best of times. Why else would they be made of vinyl plastic?). Her res one now sits in the living room blocking my access to the internet plug in.

Still. She is better than Slutty McBurps-Too-Much.
I shall dub her, The Princess.

There is your update. Not too exciting was it? You get what you ask for.

Ciao.