Thinking...
I've been thinking, mulling, wondering. That's what miserable rainy Sundays are best for, and God knows I have enough to think about with the events of the last week. I have about seven blogs half-written in my head, but none that I'm certain I'll post. Not because I have any sort of fear or hesitation about putting so much vulnerability out for the world to gape at, but more in an effort to spare those it might cause a moment's sadness for.
But then, what good does any of that do....? If there's anything I've learned recently, it's that you simply can't protect someone from pain, no matter how much you love them, no matter how much you want to. But still, I feel I have to try.
So, I guess we'll see how much of my current mental and emotional state I allow to dribble out into my blog like so much Olestra-induced anal leakage. But for today, I think I'll just keep with the mulling.
Tomorrow, I'm kidnapping the tall kid and taking him away. Away from everything.
Wish we could stay there. Somehow stay in the limbo of "away" and not have to revisit reality. At least, for awhile.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
Friday, March 28, 2003
This morning...
It dawned chilly, damp, and grey. For the first time in almost a week, I reached over and slapped the "snooze" button on my alarm clock. It read 5:00 am, which isn't really accurate, since I keep it set 20 minutes fast. (Tends to get me out of bed earlier--it's just a way to trick my psyche into believing it's less early than it really is, I guess...) I think I slept. I don't remember watching the L.E.D. blink 1, 2, 3 am. So, I must have.
Plod to the shower, inhaling the fumes from the 2 new vinyl shower curtains which have replaced the cloth ones my departing roommate made off with (without warning!) last night.
Plod back to bedroom, new contacts in the wrong eyes. Oops. Put on old jeans, old top. Comfy comfort stuff to wear for a few hours of work. Hell, I would actually have put on my track pants if they weren't already at Sean's. (And I never thought that day would come...) Blow-dry hair straight so it won't curl and frizz later. Fuck the makeup. I'll calmly field the "are you sick?" questions.
Coffee from Dunk's on the way to the T. Why is it that it tastes so good when some employees make it, and so awful when others do? Is it all about the sugar and cream to coffee ratio? Or is it more than that?
Forego shuttle bus from T stop to work and hoof it instead. Stop at Panera for a bagel. I will eat it. I swear, I will eat it. I think I'm still full from the meatball sub that was forced upon me last night. But, I'll eat it. Eventually.
The beginning of the end, or maybe the end of the beginning. Maybe both. At the very least, some sort of climax...
He kissed me last night, the way he used to, the way he does. With a smirky self-satisfied cat-who-ate-the-canary grin afterwards. Ha ha! I have kissed you!
And for a fleeting second that somehow stretched thin into this morning, I thought maybe it will be Ok...maybe the dust will settle, maybe some semblance of normalcy will return. And I know, from personal experience, that it will.
But I'm still allowed to bang my head against things and say fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, right?
It dawned chilly, damp, and grey. For the first time in almost a week, I reached over and slapped the "snooze" button on my alarm clock. It read 5:00 am, which isn't really accurate, since I keep it set 20 minutes fast. (Tends to get me out of bed earlier--it's just a way to trick my psyche into believing it's less early than it really is, I guess...) I think I slept. I don't remember watching the L.E.D. blink 1, 2, 3 am. So, I must have.
Plod to the shower, inhaling the fumes from the 2 new vinyl shower curtains which have replaced the cloth ones my departing roommate made off with (without warning!) last night.
Plod back to bedroom, new contacts in the wrong eyes. Oops. Put on old jeans, old top. Comfy comfort stuff to wear for a few hours of work. Hell, I would actually have put on my track pants if they weren't already at Sean's. (And I never thought that day would come...) Blow-dry hair straight so it won't curl and frizz later. Fuck the makeup. I'll calmly field the "are you sick?" questions.
Coffee from Dunk's on the way to the T. Why is it that it tastes so good when some employees make it, and so awful when others do? Is it all about the sugar and cream to coffee ratio? Or is it more than that?
Forego shuttle bus from T stop to work and hoof it instead. Stop at Panera for a bagel. I will eat it. I swear, I will eat it. I think I'm still full from the meatball sub that was forced upon me last night. But, I'll eat it. Eventually.
The beginning of the end, or maybe the end of the beginning. Maybe both. At the very least, some sort of climax...
He kissed me last night, the way he used to, the way he does. With a smirky self-satisfied cat-who-ate-the-canary grin afterwards. Ha ha! I have kissed you!
And for a fleeting second that somehow stretched thin into this morning, I thought maybe it will be Ok...maybe the dust will settle, maybe some semblance of normalcy will return. And I know, from personal experience, that it will.
But I'm still allowed to bang my head against things and say fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, right?
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Meandering Brain Thursday
Do you ever report for work as usual, all the while wishing you were at some previous job that you hated at the time? Not to say you actually want the job back, you just would prefer to be there today.
Well, today I'm having that feeling with my old Engineer Babysitter gig for a defense contracter in Maryland. It'd be nice to see my old friends Mike and Lynn (neither of whom work there anymore...), maybe grab a sushi lunch with the other Mike, Todd, and Lynn's (now-husband) boyfriend Paul (who threw great parties!). Hell, I wouldn't even mind playing receptionist. Answering phones? Sorting mail? Scheduling conference rooms? Sparkling for the clients? No sweat--I gotcha covered!
I did hate the way I was "stuck" behind that front desk, though. Having to call someone to ask for a break was more than a bit demeaning.
Now, I guess business is booming. Defense contractors likey the war. Although I guess they've potentially lost some contracts with their client Iraq. I'm sure the DOD would consider that some sort of conflict of interest or something.
But yeah, I'm strangely nostalgic for that today.
Or even my old gig waiting tables at the brewpub in downtown Cleveland. Wow, that rocked. I used to do the lunch shift on weekdays, which (when business was good) would yield 50 bucks for 2 or 3 hours of work. Not a ton of money, but it was plenty for my needs. Weekends were slow. The kitchen guys (and girls!) loved me and would make me special breakfasts and lunches. The bartenders were my friends and hooked me up with free beers and shots. We got a "shift beer" after every shift we worked--for free. Summers, I'd work a split lunch "phase" shift--where I'd get cut right after business died down--usually right about the time the Indians game started (the Jake--that's Jacob's Field--was RIGHT nearby). I'd leave work, buy tickets for the already-started game at $5 a pop, and go take in a tribe game! Ahhh.
God, I miss those days. Not that I hate my job now (although I do), but more that, at those points in my life, my dissatisfaction seemed less pressing. I was young; I had plenty of time to find a "real job". I was in college, I was supposed to do crappy things like wait tables. Now, I'm less than 2 months from a Master's Degree. Sixty-five grand in debt is supposed to automatically exempt you from having to work crappy, unsatisfying jobs. Or, so I thought. That was long ago, in the pre-Sept. 11 days when I clutched my various acceptance letters to my chest and had the luxury of getting to pick and choose what I really wanted. I always just assumed it would be the same with jobs.
Ha! What really drove the fact that jobs are wicked scarce home for me was the process (which is still ongoing...) of trying to find a roommate to replace the one who's leaving. Out of all the people we've interviewed, only 2 have an actual job. Some are getting laid off, some just can't find a job, some are working at Starbucks to make ends meet. It's all been enough to make me thankful for my trained chimpanzee job, which at least allows me luxuries like a Dunkin Donuts coffee and the ability to pay my rent on time.
So, I guess I'm grateful. Sort of. In a grudging sort of way.
But a few sushi lunches wouldn't do me any harm.
Do you ever report for work as usual, all the while wishing you were at some previous job that you hated at the time? Not to say you actually want the job back, you just would prefer to be there today.
Well, today I'm having that feeling with my old Engineer Babysitter gig for a defense contracter in Maryland. It'd be nice to see my old friends Mike and Lynn (neither of whom work there anymore...), maybe grab a sushi lunch with the other Mike, Todd, and Lynn's (now-husband) boyfriend Paul (who threw great parties!). Hell, I wouldn't even mind playing receptionist. Answering phones? Sorting mail? Scheduling conference rooms? Sparkling for the clients? No sweat--I gotcha covered!
I did hate the way I was "stuck" behind that front desk, though. Having to call someone to ask for a break was more than a bit demeaning.
Now, I guess business is booming. Defense contractors likey the war. Although I guess they've potentially lost some contracts with their client Iraq. I'm sure the DOD would consider that some sort of conflict of interest or something.
But yeah, I'm strangely nostalgic for that today.
Or even my old gig waiting tables at the brewpub in downtown Cleveland. Wow, that rocked. I used to do the lunch shift on weekdays, which (when business was good) would yield 50 bucks for 2 or 3 hours of work. Not a ton of money, but it was plenty for my needs. Weekends were slow. The kitchen guys (and girls!) loved me and would make me special breakfasts and lunches. The bartenders were my friends and hooked me up with free beers and shots. We got a "shift beer" after every shift we worked--for free. Summers, I'd work a split lunch "phase" shift--where I'd get cut right after business died down--usually right about the time the Indians game started (the Jake--that's Jacob's Field--was RIGHT nearby). I'd leave work, buy tickets for the already-started game at $5 a pop, and go take in a tribe game! Ahhh.
God, I miss those days. Not that I hate my job now (although I do), but more that, at those points in my life, my dissatisfaction seemed less pressing. I was young; I had plenty of time to find a "real job". I was in college, I was supposed to do crappy things like wait tables. Now, I'm less than 2 months from a Master's Degree. Sixty-five grand in debt is supposed to automatically exempt you from having to work crappy, unsatisfying jobs. Or, so I thought. That was long ago, in the pre-Sept. 11 days when I clutched my various acceptance letters to my chest and had the luxury of getting to pick and choose what I really wanted. I always just assumed it would be the same with jobs.
Ha! What really drove the fact that jobs are wicked scarce home for me was the process (which is still ongoing...) of trying to find a roommate to replace the one who's leaving. Out of all the people we've interviewed, only 2 have an actual job. Some are getting laid off, some just can't find a job, some are working at Starbucks to make ends meet. It's all been enough to make me thankful for my trained chimpanzee job, which at least allows me luxuries like a Dunkin Donuts coffee and the ability to pay my rent on time.
So, I guess I'm grateful. Sort of. In a grudging sort of way.
But a few sushi lunches wouldn't do me any harm.
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Thankful
That I don't live in a place where poverty is so rampant that I'm willing to climb into a hole filled with raw sewage to retrieve something for a $13 reward.
That I don't live in a place where poverty is so rampant that I'm willing to climb into a hole filled with raw sewage to retrieve something for a $13 reward.
First Date
She was late getting there. She walked in spurting some story about "having to give a guy directions" and giving him the wrong directions. He was more than a little taken aback when she hugged him. She wasn't sure about his ponytail. He wasn't sure how big her boobs were. He spilled her beer on her. She threw her neck out playing air hockey and was barely able to move for days. He asked her out again by making a second date the stakes in a Skee-Ball game. He won. He jokingly acted like he was going to throw pad thai at the restaurant. He actually did throw pad thai at the restaurant. He drove her home and made fun of the many flights of stairs to her apartment. He walked up them anyway. She joked that her car was on the "top ten most stolen" list. It was stolen the next day.
What do you do with a date like that?
Well, if you're ME, you (eventually!) fall in love with the guy. Happy anniversary, honey!
(I think it was the pad thai that did me in....)
She was late getting there. She walked in spurting some story about "having to give a guy directions" and giving him the wrong directions. He was more than a little taken aback when she hugged him. She wasn't sure about his ponytail. He wasn't sure how big her boobs were. He spilled her beer on her. She threw her neck out playing air hockey and was barely able to move for days. He asked her out again by making a second date the stakes in a Skee-Ball game. He won. He jokingly acted like he was going to throw pad thai at the restaurant. He actually did throw pad thai at the restaurant. He drove her home and made fun of the many flights of stairs to her apartment. He walked up them anyway. She joked that her car was on the "top ten most stolen" list. It was stolen the next day.
What do you do with a date like that?
Well, if you're ME, you (eventually!) fall in love with the guy. Happy anniversary, honey!
(I think it was the pad thai that did me in....)
Monday, March 17, 2003
St. Patrick's Day
Witness the sad transition. *sigh*
2003: Sit in cubicle. Wear jeans and grey top. Type stuff. Eat whatever coworkers have brought to "celebrate". Hope scratch tickets coworkers all went in for win. Blink sleepily, having been up till 11 pm making cupcakes for boyfriend.
2002: Attend parade in Southie with Brandy, who's visiting from Mary-Land. Hit Sunset in Allston for lunchie/dinner and beer. Avoid the crowds elsewhere.
2001: Walk around Cleveland half-asleep (still recovering from Spring Break trip to New Orleans!). Drink green beer and watch bands at the Hard Rock. Make a quick trip to the Flats to take in some more action. Meet up with a bunch of guys we took pictures with at the same place last year. Take pictures again. Watch parade downtown, go home at midday utterly exhausted.
2000: Bust out of bed at 6:30 am because friends have already arrived at apartment and are banging on door, demanding we leave to start drinking. Go to virtually every single remotely Irish bar in the greater Cleveland area. Consider entering Guinness chugging contest at the Harp. Pass around the green lipstick. Meet guys at Fado and take pictures with them. Visit outdoor beer gardens (despite bone-chilling cold) at Fado, Rascal House, Panini's, Dick's Last Resort. Steal a leprechaun from a bar and walk streets of downtown Cleveland shouting "I've got a leprechaun!" in a psuedo-Irish-accent. Eat various greasy concoctions throughout day. Get Italian at an upscale place for dinner despite being three sheets to the wind. Wear giant silly hats to keep warm at parade.
1999: Wake up early to start drinking! Can't seem to budge some friends from bed. Go to the Flats with the early birds and spend the morning at a radio-sponsored event at Dick's, drinking scads of free beer and gathering free tacky green things. Win green hostess snowballs for throwing a leprechaun through a basketball hoop. Run back to campus for class. Decide to say "screw class" for the day and drink a GIANT beer at Rascal House instead. Run to work the lunch shift at work. Try not to let on that I'm completely shit-faced to manager. Serve all friends (21 or not) when they come to visit. Make a ton of money flirting with parade-goers. Leave at 2:00 to catch the parade. Continue drinking and debauchery until night. Pass out in a sea of crappy plastic green things.
Witness the sad transition. *sigh*
2003: Sit in cubicle. Wear jeans and grey top. Type stuff. Eat whatever coworkers have brought to "celebrate". Hope scratch tickets coworkers all went in for win. Blink sleepily, having been up till 11 pm making cupcakes for boyfriend.
2002: Attend parade in Southie with Brandy, who's visiting from Mary-Land. Hit Sunset in Allston for lunchie/dinner and beer. Avoid the crowds elsewhere.
2001: Walk around Cleveland half-asleep (still recovering from Spring Break trip to New Orleans!). Drink green beer and watch bands at the Hard Rock. Make a quick trip to the Flats to take in some more action. Meet up with a bunch of guys we took pictures with at the same place last year. Take pictures again. Watch parade downtown, go home at midday utterly exhausted.
2000: Bust out of bed at 6:30 am because friends have already arrived at apartment and are banging on door, demanding we leave to start drinking. Go to virtually every single remotely Irish bar in the greater Cleveland area. Consider entering Guinness chugging contest at the Harp. Pass around the green lipstick. Meet guys at Fado and take pictures with them. Visit outdoor beer gardens (despite bone-chilling cold) at Fado, Rascal House, Panini's, Dick's Last Resort. Steal a leprechaun from a bar and walk streets of downtown Cleveland shouting "I've got a leprechaun!" in a psuedo-Irish-accent. Eat various greasy concoctions throughout day. Get Italian at an upscale place for dinner despite being three sheets to the wind. Wear giant silly hats to keep warm at parade.
1999: Wake up early to start drinking! Can't seem to budge some friends from bed. Go to the Flats with the early birds and spend the morning at a radio-sponsored event at Dick's, drinking scads of free beer and gathering free tacky green things. Win green hostess snowballs for throwing a leprechaun through a basketball hoop. Run back to campus for class. Decide to say "screw class" for the day and drink a GIANT beer at Rascal House instead. Run to work the lunch shift at work. Try not to let on that I'm completely shit-faced to manager. Serve all friends (21 or not) when they come to visit. Make a ton of money flirting with parade-goers. Leave at 2:00 to catch the parade. Continue drinking and debauchery until night. Pass out in a sea of crappy plastic green things.
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Monday, March 10, 2003
Email (excerpt) of the Day
My thanks for the profoundly sage Brandy for the following comment:
There is love and then there is adult love.
Love is just the intense feelings for someone and
thinking that "love" will conquer all (by itself, I may add).
Whereas, adult love is that willingness to go through
oogy discussions to create a workable union out of two
unique people. It's the, I'll move my lamp to
accomodate your ugly naugahyde couch if you accept
that I eat soy ice cream kind of compromise. It's the,
I accept your man-pile of dirty undies if you accept
that hanging pantyhose gives the bathroom ambiance
kind of compromise.
Couldn't'a said it better myself.
My thanks for the profoundly sage Brandy for the following comment:
There is love and then there is adult love.
Love is just the intense feelings for someone and
thinking that "love" will conquer all (by itself, I may add).
Whereas, adult love is that willingness to go through
oogy discussions to create a workable union out of two
unique people. It's the, I'll move my lamp to
accomodate your ugly naugahyde couch if you accept
that I eat soy ice cream kind of compromise. It's the,
I accept your man-pile of dirty undies if you accept
that hanging pantyhose gives the bathroom ambiance
kind of compromise.
Couldn't'a said it better myself.
Friday, March 07, 2003
Moral Dilemma
The other night, while at the gym peddling away on the bikety-bike, I was perusing a copy of the magazine Jane (which is pretty much my favorite shallow-gal mag, if only because it's chock full of sarcasm and never takes itself too seriously...), when I came across an article about female sex offenders. Hmm---female sex offenders? How compelling. So, I read the article.
Some of the offenders in the court mandated "support group" the author of the article had written about were people who had molested their 5 and 7 year old neices and nephews, babysat for youngsters they forced to touch them before giving them dinner; things of that nature that just turned my stomach.
But then there were a few that fell into a kind of "grey area" to me. I was torn about whether or not they were true cases of "molestation" or not.
In one of those, a completely regretful woman confessed that, when she was 17, she had been involved in a yearlong sexual relationship with her 14-year old stepbrother. When her mother caught them putting their clothes back on after one such interlude, the boy cried "rape!".
Now, was it? I'm not so sure. If it were a 17-year old guy and a 14-year-old girl, would the same issue arise? Yes, I agree that it may have been "taking advantage" to some degree, and in general a not so good thing; but I'm not sure I'd classify it in the same way as someone getting his or her jollies from a 6-year-old.
In the same grey area I placed incidences of high school teachers sleeping with their students. Not exactly morally "Ok", but not as clearly "wrong" as other actions, either. I mean, a teacher should know better than to get involved with his or her students in that manner. But, when I was in high school, I was having sex. Not with teachers, mind you, but sex all the same. And yes, I was too young and inexperienced to really understand the implications of something like sleeping with a teacher; but I was of the age of "consent". Similarly, when I was 22 or 23 (as many teachers are), I made some bad choices in who I slept with. I never slept with a high school kid, but I made bad, inexperienced choices.
In some cases, they referenced high school teachers that slept with 18-year-olds. Ok, icky. But is it really "molestation"? Or just a bad choice? I personally sure as hell wouldn't sleep with a guy 4 or 5 years younger than me NOW, and I certainly wouldn't have then, but maybe that's just me....
Anyone have any opinions?
The other night, while at the gym peddling away on the bikety-bike, I was perusing a copy of the magazine Jane (which is pretty much my favorite shallow-gal mag, if only because it's chock full of sarcasm and never takes itself too seriously...), when I came across an article about female sex offenders. Hmm---female sex offenders? How compelling. So, I read the article.
Some of the offenders in the court mandated "support group" the author of the article had written about were people who had molested their 5 and 7 year old neices and nephews, babysat for youngsters they forced to touch them before giving them dinner; things of that nature that just turned my stomach.
But then there were a few that fell into a kind of "grey area" to me. I was torn about whether or not they were true cases of "molestation" or not.
In one of those, a completely regretful woman confessed that, when she was 17, she had been involved in a yearlong sexual relationship with her 14-year old stepbrother. When her mother caught them putting their clothes back on after one such interlude, the boy cried "rape!".
Now, was it? I'm not so sure. If it were a 17-year old guy and a 14-year-old girl, would the same issue arise? Yes, I agree that it may have been "taking advantage" to some degree, and in general a not so good thing; but I'm not sure I'd classify it in the same way as someone getting his or her jollies from a 6-year-old.
In the same grey area I placed incidences of high school teachers sleeping with their students. Not exactly morally "Ok", but not as clearly "wrong" as other actions, either. I mean, a teacher should know better than to get involved with his or her students in that manner. But, when I was in high school, I was having sex. Not with teachers, mind you, but sex all the same. And yes, I was too young and inexperienced to really understand the implications of something like sleeping with a teacher; but I was of the age of "consent". Similarly, when I was 22 or 23 (as many teachers are), I made some bad choices in who I slept with. I never slept with a high school kid, but I made bad, inexperienced choices.
In some cases, they referenced high school teachers that slept with 18-year-olds. Ok, icky. But is it really "molestation"? Or just a bad choice? I personally sure as hell wouldn't sleep with a guy 4 or 5 years younger than me NOW, and I certainly wouldn't have then, but maybe that's just me....
Anyone have any opinions?
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
A Time of Great Upheaval
The residents of my apartment are engaged in various types of tumultuous emotional issues of the life-altering variety.
Well, except for me.
Roommate #1:
Was engaged to a wonderful, sweet guy. We had all been friends for about a year before they started seeing each other, and I adored him--he was such a generous, understanding, fun person. Originally from Saudi Arabia, he had lived in the Boston area for quite a few years (the guy even had a distinctly American accent!), and was pretty much as "Americanized" as you can imagine.
Or at least, it would have appeared so.
He had to move back overseas after he finished school--to return to Lebanon, where his father is an Ambassador. He was miserable at the prospect of going, but felt it was "best". He and my roommate have been doing the long-distance thing ever since, meeting up in Paris or London every few months or so; counting the days till she was finished with grad school and would join him first in Lebanon, then eventually in a more hospitable, probably European country. His family knew of the engagement and was supposedly helping to ease the process of moving to another country--helping with visas, job prospects, etc.
Cut to last week, when she (the roommate) began calling me at work in tears, saying he was "acting weird".
Cut to a few days ago, when she burst into the kitchen where I was making myself a delectable bagel dinner, screamed "He's ENGAGED!!!", and hurled the phone across the room.
Engaged. Yep. More than that, actually. His parents have arranged a marriage for him, drawn up the "paperwork" (whatever that means...) and accepted a dowry. A dowry. And I guess he thought he could just neglect to mention it to her, and perhaps it would go away. "My parents just will never accept you", he implored.
She's lucky she didn't go to visit them and have a strange accident, we say.
I told her she wins, hands-down, any "my bad breakup" story contest. Wins.
So, that's roommate #1. Roommate #2 is just moving out to move into an apartment with her boyfriend. That seems so much less interesting now, somehow.
But sheesh, I'm watching my back.
The residents of my apartment are engaged in various types of tumultuous emotional issues of the life-altering variety.
Well, except for me.
Roommate #1:
Was engaged to a wonderful, sweet guy. We had all been friends for about a year before they started seeing each other, and I adored him--he was such a generous, understanding, fun person. Originally from Saudi Arabia, he had lived in the Boston area for quite a few years (the guy even had a distinctly American accent!), and was pretty much as "Americanized" as you can imagine.
Or at least, it would have appeared so.
He had to move back overseas after he finished school--to return to Lebanon, where his father is an Ambassador. He was miserable at the prospect of going, but felt it was "best". He and my roommate have been doing the long-distance thing ever since, meeting up in Paris or London every few months or so; counting the days till she was finished with grad school and would join him first in Lebanon, then eventually in a more hospitable, probably European country. His family knew of the engagement and was supposedly helping to ease the process of moving to another country--helping with visas, job prospects, etc.
Cut to last week, when she (the roommate) began calling me at work in tears, saying he was "acting weird".
Cut to a few days ago, when she burst into the kitchen where I was making myself a delectable bagel dinner, screamed "He's ENGAGED!!!", and hurled the phone across the room.
Engaged. Yep. More than that, actually. His parents have arranged a marriage for him, drawn up the "paperwork" (whatever that means...) and accepted a dowry. A dowry. And I guess he thought he could just neglect to mention it to her, and perhaps it would go away. "My parents just will never accept you", he implored.
She's lucky she didn't go to visit them and have a strange accident, we say.
I told her she wins, hands-down, any "my bad breakup" story contest. Wins.
So, that's roommate #1. Roommate #2 is just moving out to move into an apartment with her boyfriend. That seems so much less interesting now, somehow.
But sheesh, I'm watching my back.
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