Saturday, August 27, 2005

Lies, Lies and More Lies

Ambition sucks. Ambition is highly overrated. Whoever said ambition is noble or some other crap like that needs to be shot. Ambition is the reason I'm chained to the house this beautiful Saturday evening (well that and I'm looking like Buckwheat's cousin). Ambition made me think I could handle two aerobics classes back to back. Ambition has rendered me an invalid.
I know I said that I'm perfectly content to be a fat cow, but after careful consideration I've determined that I'm just too shallow to start shopping for plus sizes. The fact that I live with The Curly Haired Stick Figure doesn't help my body image issues, either. I tried losing weight by adopting her diet of fruit snacks and Faygo Root Beer, but it left me feeling a little less than satiated. As a mere mortal I've got to do it the old fashioned way: sweat and junk food deprivation. Goodbye Haggen Daaz, hello Stair Master!
With a recovered body (read the previous post) and renewed motivation I woke up this morning at 8 a.m. to go to a 9 a.m. cardio kickboxing class. I spent an hour throwing jabs, right hooks, and left uppercuts at exercise induced mirages of my boss and The Idiot Who Made Me Cry. I especially enjoyed kicking out their knee caps and throwing an elbow to their skulls. By the end of class I was sufficiently sweaty and out of breath and ready to go home. As I gathered my keys, membership card, and empty water bottle the instructor mentioned something about staying for the next class, Body Step. Of course I completely ignored her since I had burned the obligatory 450 calories for the day. I walked out of the group fitness studio and what happened next is sort of a blur. What I do remember is seeing a poster advertising the newest craze in fitness, Body Step. It's step aerobics without all the stupid dance moves that have people looking like rejects from a Richard Simmons' video. Hmmm, doesn't sound totally heinous. I don't know how or why it happened, but I asked the instructor for more details. She proceeds to tell me that the class is a lot of fun and how it's designed for strength and conditioning training. So far it sounds good. I ask her, "Does it hurt?" She says, "Hurt? No!! It's just a really good good workout. Plus it really tones the hips and thighs." Tones hips and thighs? Ding ding ding ding ding!!! She just said the magic words to get me to refill my water bottle, set up my step and get ready for another class. I was feeling a bit worn out from kickboxing class, but desperation to fit into the skinny jeans trumps muscle fatigue any day. Besides, she said it doesn't hurt.
The beginning strains of Brittany Spear's "Toxic" filled the room signifying the start of class. I should've known I had bitten off more than I could chew when the step together step combination in the warm-up proved to be a bit too complex for me. Still, I persevered, spurred on by the allure of smaller thighs. We get through the warm-up and stretching and into the strengthening and conditioning. That lying heffer was so full of shit! It hurt and it hurt badly. She's having us squat and lunge and fly across the step to the extended version of "Yeah" sped up on meth amphetamines. To add insult to injury she keeps telling us to kick up the intensity by power jumping off the step after every move. The best I could muster was a feeble stumble that might have resembled a bunny hop. Yet still I press on. As the hell continues that fibbing tramp starts adding dance moves into routine. I distinctly remember being told there would be no dancing. Shit, I may be Black, but I can't do this shit. Step, kick, cha cha cha...WTF!! The white chicks in class had more rhythm and coordination than I did. I was looking like a crackhead doing the Harlem shake. Why in the hell am I doing this crap? Oh that's right, those infernal skinny jeans. Class finally ended and after all that pain and suffering my thighs were no smaller than they were before class. I'd been hoodwinked.
Things went from bad to worse when I got home. All of that exercise rendered my limbs useless. I've since lost all feeling (except for pain) in both arms. My abs are so worn out that it hurts to breathe. I get a charlie horse in my inner thighs every time I attempt to cross my legs. It seems as though I have to keep inflicting this shit upon myself before I see even minimal results. If exercise is supposedly so damn good for us, then why has it left me in need of a full body cast and traction? Somebody has made a lot of money feeding that propaganda to the masses, but now I know what fat people everywhere know. Physical fitness is BULLSHIT!

Friday, August 26, 2005


I am currently walking around looking like I had an encounter with an erratic vibrator. But don't worry, I haven't seen any action from B.O.B. in a while. The reason why I have an imaginary pole up my ass is because I made the mistake of trying to lose weight.
This all started 9 months ago when my favorite jeans started chanting "HELL NO! WE WON'T GO!" once they reached my hips. I knew this was a problem, but I let it go. All I needed to do was lose a few pounds and they would fit again. Fast forward 4 months later and those pants still don't fit, aren't close to fitting, and I'm starting to wonder if they ever will fit again. The final straw came this past weekend while trying on crop pants in the fitting room at BCBG. Now BCBG does ego sizing better than any brand out there, but even they couldn't make a size 10 that gets over my ever expanding rump. Right then and there I decided I needed to get back into shape. And I needed to do it by any means necessary. That's it! I'm getting a personal trainer.
I'm all fired up and motivated now. So Monday morning I march right into the gym, go up to the front desk and tell them, "I want a trainer!!" When I sit down with one of the Personal Training Coordinators I let her know that I want results and I want them fast. I need a trainer who's insane. I want someone who I'm gonna hate. I want someone that's gonna kick my lazy butt into shape. Oh yeah, and I want to start immediately. So the lady writes all this down and tells me she'll review the list of trainers to see who is available and have one of them call me that evening. Around 7 p.m I get a call from one of the trainers. We chat about my goals and time availability and then decide to meet at 6 a.m. the next morning. So far so good.
The next day I'm up before the butt crack of dawn and arrive 10 minutes before my scheduled appointment. I warm up by jogging a couple of laps on the track and stretching out. I'm ready to go! At 6 a.m. sharp I meet my trainer. He looked cool. Tall guy with an athletic build and a friendly smile. Little did I know that I had been paired with Satan's Henchman In Charge of Torture. That Fascist dictator took extreme pleasure from my extreme pain. I have the feeling that he was taking out all of the frustrations from his childhood on me. I could just see it in eyes. Mommy wouldn't give me a cookie...5 more reps for Liz. Santa didn't bring me a bike...add another 20 pound weight plate for Liz. Prom date wouldn't give me a hand job...15 more crunches for Liz. He wouldn't even stop when halfway through the workout I told him he was about 2 seconds away from seeing my breakfast on his Nikes. He just looked at me and said, "That's nice, keep lifting, you've got 8 more to go." At 7:10 I limped back to my car, drove home, and put myself to bed.
The next day I wake up to pain coursing through every fiber of my body. Everything from my back to my abs to my thighs was aching. I couldn't even stand, let alone walk. Stairs were completely out of the question. The worst pain was in my ass. Every time I attempted to sit it felt as though I was getting kicked in each cheek with a steel toe boot. The lean and plop method of sitting often used by pregnant women had to be employed just to get on the toilet seat. I didn't ask for this!! I said I wanted a trainer who was insane, not criminally psychotic. I said I wanted a trainer who will kick my butt into shape, not try to kill me. I said I wanted a trainer who will make me hate them, not make me want to hire a hitman. The most bullshit part of this is that I'm actually paying Satan's Minion to do this to me. I'm beginning to think that getting back into my skinny jeans isn't worth it. Screw it, I'll just be a fat cow. MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


The male species seems to have a bone to pick with women. Lately it seems I can't go anywhere without some guy saying, "Yo, why do chicks go to the club, if they don't want a man to holla?" Men just do NOT get it. It doesn't seem to matter how many times it is explained or how slowly a woman speaks when explaining, they just can't wrap their little brains around the idea. We go to the club to kick it with our girls, get our drink on, and dance our little behinds off to songs that degrade us. It has NOTHING to do with you! Since it seems as though this a really difficult concept for men to comprehend, I'm going to answer several frequently asked questions. Hopefully this will once and for all end the incessant whining.
Question #1: If you don't want men to try and holla why do you dress that way?
The way a woman dresses when she leaves the house has nothing to do with trying to attract a man, and everything to do with how she wants to feel about herself. Yes, I put on my tightest jeans, my lowest cut top, the come fuck me heels, and sexify my hair just for me and me alone. It is not an invitation for any man to palm my ass, talk to my chest, or breathe their hot breath on the back of my neck. Sorry guys, but the sexy is for me, not for you. I'm not trying to attract some guy that probably only looks good under minimal lighting.
Question #2: Why you gonna let a guy buy you a drink if you ain't interested?
Now this is just a dumb question. Why would I pay $10 or more for a drink when someone else is willing to do that for me? I didn't ask him to buy me that beverage, he offered. It's his fault for thinking that drink somehow bought him a friend for the night. Here's a suggestion, if you don't want to spend money to get nothing in return, stop offering to buy us drinks. Wait, scratch that. Don't stop offering, just stop complaining.
Question #3: Why don't ya'll dance when you're in the club?
Actually, we do dance. We dance in a circle with each other. It's fun, we like it, don't question it. To be honest the circle dancing eases us into dancing with men. First we dance in the circle, then we move on to the testosterone. Stop trying to rush the process.
Question #4: If you want to dance, why turn guys down when they ask you to dance?
Let's get something straight. Most men do not ask a woman to dance. Pointing to your crotch while wiggling your hips and telling me to come shake it right there is NOT an invitation to dance. Nor is sneaking up on me from behind and poking me in the rear with Mr. Weasel. Oftentimes it's all about the approach, and oftentimes your approach sucks. Plus, just because we want to back it up on someone, doesn't mean that just anyone will do. Even though I'm not looking for a relationship on the dance floor, giving Quasimodo's twin the same treatment the driver's seat of my car gets whenever "Some Cut" comes on the radio isn't gonna happen. Although a dance is just a dance, part of the fun is pretending it's something more. For the 3 minutes and 50 seconds that I'm grinding my little money maker on his nether regions, we're together. He holds my waist, I throw naughty glances over my shoulder, we act like we actually know and like each other. When the song is over, so is the fantasy. He goes back into the sea of nameless faceless men and I adjust my top and go back to the circle from whence I came. It's like playing make believe for a few minutes. I don't know too many women that like to pretend with dudes that got hit with an ugly brick. Plus, the ugly ones never know you're just pretending.
I hope this list of FAQs clears up any and all questions any male has regarding women in the club. And to be honest, even if it doesn't, who cares!! We're women, and our rationale doesn't have to seem rational to men. So Black girls, you dress like a Hunt's Point professional whenever you go to the club! White girls, you make out with each other on the dance floor while your boyfriends watch! Hispanic girls, you do the merengue with one another instead of that short greasy Mexican. And Asian girls, hhhmmmm....well I don't really know what the hell ya'll are doing, but just keep on doing it. We're women, and if it makes sense to us, that's all that really matters anyways.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Sister to Sister

Dear Star,
I think there is something you should know. I don't quite know how to tell you this. Alright, I'm gonna let you in a little secret. Are you alone? Okay, here it is. Star, you're husband is GAY! Aww, whatever! This ain't a secret. In fact, Star, you seem to be the ONLY person who doesn't know that he's gay. Star, look at him. Go on, really look at him. There is not a straight man alive who sits up that straight while showing everyone his crotch. No straight man's jeans would fit that tightly either. Let's examine some more evidence. I mean, do I really have to point out the obvious?! Just look at him. He just screams, "I'm HERE, I'M QUEER!!" Oh Honey, why can't you see what we see.
I realize that you have been deluding yourself for a while, so this may come as a shock to you. But I think that deep down, you know that EVERYONE is right. If you were wondering why you've never actually had sex with your husband, it's because he thinks your vagina is icky. Oh there, there, Star. Don't take it personally, he thinks ALL vaginas are icky, not just yours. This explains so much! The excessive toiletries, the hair styling, the time he spends with that guy 'Twan, everything!!
Girl, don't feel bad. You are NOT the first desperate woman over 35 to be turned into a fag hag. You're in great company. Let's see, there's Diana Ross and Liza Minelli. You're in the company of legends! A Supreme and an Oscar winner. Look at it like this. Knowledge is power. Now you can go warn others before they turn into you. In fact, you could help out poor Katie Holmes. She's about 2 words away from becoming Tom Cruise's 3rd official beard. Help the poor girl. Help her.
Star, the reason I'm telling you all of this is because I care. It hurts to me to see you gushing about your ring, your wedding, and "your" man on The View everyday. It especially hurts whenever the camera pans to your co-hosts looking at you with eyes that are saying, "Riiiiiiiiiiight." Actually, everyone on the set is looking at you that way. Someone needed to tell you the truth, instead of just laughing at you behind your back. Now I know it's going to be difficult being all alone again, but you can do it. Dry your eyes, put on that wig, and cake on that make-up and you go out there and find you a man (preferably one who's NOT into other men).
In Sisterly Love,

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Cuckoo Cuckoo

I'm listening to the Emancipation of Mimi ad nauseam. It has suddenly dawned on me that Mariah Carey has issues. Really deep seeded, personal issues. And I'm not just talking about that stint she did in the looney bin a couple years ago. Wait, excuse me I mean her 6 month "hospitalization for exhaustion." Honestly, I don't even know why people were surprised about the whole situation. Just listen to her music, the signs were there the whole time. That bitch is crazy.
Have you ever really paid attention to what she's saying? I mean really, really paid attention. Alright, take that song "Always Be My Baby." Yeah, I know you've heard it a thousand times, but I bet you totally missed the fact that Mariah is a freakin psycho ass broad. Don't let the dulcet tones of her voice fool you into thinking that it's just an ordinary love song. Hell no it ain't! Mariah Carey is a stalker. Check out these lyrics: "You'll always be a part of me/I'm part of you indefinitely/oh Boy, you know you can't escape me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby/It'll linger on/time can't erase a feeling this strong/there's no way you're ever gonna shake me/oooohh Darling, cause you'll always be my baby." Looks kind of scary when you see it in print now doesn't it. Personally, it conjures images of Mariah being carried away from the object of her affection in a straight jacket, with those light brown locks flying everywhere, as she's kicking and screaming, "NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!!!!! NO WAY YOU'RE NEVER GONNA SHAKE ME!!! YOOOOOOUUUUUUU AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAALLLLLLLWAYS BEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
Don't get me wrong, a little bit of stalking is normal. There's not a single red-blooded woman alive who hasn't stalked a man to some extent (remember Denial is not just a river in Egypt). I'll be the first to admit to it. Back in high school I was butt crazy in love with this boy who had a lazy eye and a receding hairline. Oh, he was so fine!! I used to make my older brother drive by his home really slowly so I could maybe catch a glimpse of him coming out the house. I don't do stuff like that anymore. Nowadays what I'll do is come into town without telling a guy. Then I'll call up one of his friends (but not good enough friends to call him and tell him we spoke). In the course of conversation, I'll ask what's going on for the evening, weekend, or whatever. When I get the goods on where stuff is gonna pop off, I casually ask who's expected to be where. Nine times out of ten, the friend will tell me where old boy will more than likely be. After that all I have to do is call one of my girls to come along as a buffer, put on something that shows plenty of cleavage or thigh (not both, cause that looks so desperate), show up at the designated location, and "accidentally" bump into the object of my affection. This is perfectly NORMAL and ACCEPTABLE behavior. It can't even be considered stalking because the person doesn't feel stalked. What Mariah is raving about, on the other hand, is definite cause for a restraining order. If someone said that stuff to me, I wouldn't want them within 500 feet of me. I'm telling you, the chick is just CRAZY!!

Wednesday, August 17, 2005


Beeeeeeeeeeeeep Beeeeeeeep Beeeeeeep This is a test of the Recently Updated Blog System. If this were a real update to my blog my pithy rantings about the thoughts in my demented head would follow. However, this is only a test. Thank you.


Don't judge me. I want to be a video girl. Yep, that's right, I want to be one of those chicks that everyone sees on BET shaking their ass in music videos. I too want to climb on top of a red Caddy and jiggle my ass on it's roof. Wait, I hear the ice cream man. I'll be right back. Mmmmkay, remind me to never again run barefoot down a half paved street in pursuit of a rinky dink ice cream van (yeah I said van, not truck) that doesn't even have the decency to stock 10 cent rainbow gumballs and blowpops. Trifling bastards.
Now, back to the lecture at hand: my upcoming video girl career. After watching the making of Sean Paul's new clip for "We Be Burnin" on BET's Access Granted I'm so positive that I'm more than qualified. I can gyrate with the best of them. I'm especially adept at running my hands across my writhing body while giving sultry stares to anyone who glances in my direction. I can also pop it, drop it, pick it back up, then bend it over and shake it (I follow Lil' John's instructions well). The wardrobe isn't a problem either. My underwear only half covers my ass anyways, and a t-shirt and panties is my favorite outfit.
Some might say that I'd be wasting my Ivy League education if I left my job counting Cheerios to be the newest addition to 50 Cent's next video shoot, but I disagree. I honestly think I'm wasting my talents now. My butt ain't always gonna look this good so I might as well get paid for it now. Plus, I spend countless hours watching the current video hoes (oops I mean entertainers) doing their thing and then practicing in the mirror. Besides Candice from Lloyd Bank's "On Fire" video has a law degree from Northwestern* and that cost way more than my piddling Bachelor of Science in Policy Analysis and Management (whatever that is). That chick is a lawyer, and if she's not too good to walk out of a hot tub dripping wet in 2 scraps of cloth resembling a bikini, well then damn it, neither am I!!!
Just so that there is no confusion, I have no intention of being just anybody's video chick. You won't catch me doing low budget videos for the likes of Webbie, Mike Jones, and Won G. Oh no, I'm high class with mine. Only the top selling rappers like 50, Ludacris, and Jigga can pour Cristal all over my chest. Cause I respect myself, damn it!

*King Magazine - March 2005 Issue

Saturday, August 13, 2005

You Again?

I've been dating the same man since I was 18 years old. Sure, over the years he's had different names, but still in all, it's the same man. Who is he? Why none other than Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now. Say word? You dated him too? The dude that can't call, can't email, can't see you, can't function because he's going through some shit. Wow, and all this time I thought I was the only woman he was with. Cheating ass bastard.
Some shit comes in all types of different degrees, but the two most common types are Ex-Girlfriend/Baby Mamma Drama and Broke Ass Nigga Issues. It's all about those Broke Ass Niggas for me!! In my own defense, let me just say that I do NOT intentionally date financially challenged men. They don't appear to have money issues in the beginning. This is not to say that they come off as ballers, cause I have never been lucky enough to find me one of those. But they don't fit the typical scrub stereotype either; meaning they have a job, a place to live besides Momma's basement, and a reasonable mode of transportation. Heck, they've even taken me out to eat and let me supersize and everything. Definitely not the actions of a man who's hurting for cash.
My first exposure to Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now came when I was 18 years old and started seeing Sweet but Sporadically Employed Boy. Now when we met he had a promising career as a UPS stockboy, but that gig ended about 2 months into the courtship. From that point on, he never held a steady job. The less he worked, the more I heard, "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't call. "I'm going through some shit right now." He doesn't come visit me (he lived 2 hours away). "I'm going through some shit right now." I knew for damn sure he was going through some shit when he asked me to let him hold some money from my hard earned financial aid refund check.
Even though I broke up with Sweet But Sporadically Employed Boy after a few short months, I kept on dating Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now Cause I'm a Broke Ass Nigga. Let's see...there was Broke Ass Auto Mechanic, Broke Ass Student, Broke Ass Property Owner, Broke Ass County Employee. You name it, he was broke. But I was always the last one to figure it out. Looking back, I should've known something was wrong because when we would go out he would pay for everything in cash. He might as well just put it in neon lights. "Broke Ass Nigga who's about to be going through some shit." If a man pays for dinner, a movie, popcorn, soda, and jujubees without once pulling out a credit card, RUN, don't walk, to the nearest exit and never look back. More than likely if he's carrying cash like that, he doesn't even have a bank account. If Visa, Mastercard, American Express, and Discover won't take a chance on his broke ass, why should I.
I have to admit that oftentimes, I wasn't even feeling Mr. I'm Going Through Some Shit Right Now like that. Actually, I didn't feel much of an attachment until he started going through some shit. All of a sudden he's hanging on to the bottom rung, and I'm experiencing this uncontrollable urge to be there for him. It's funny because when I think he's just being a prick and ignoring me I'm ready to say screw him. But the second I find out that he's "going through some shit right now," I morph into Captain Save a Scrub. Obviously I'd been listening to way too many rap songs about Shorty standing by her nigga when he ain't have nothing and blah blah blah. Somehow I got hoodwinked by every rapper (and the cluck clucks like Ashanti and Charli Baltimore backing them up) running around extolling the virtues of being a down ass chick. In reality, what exactly is the benefit in being by dude's side when he's going through some shit? You help him get the keys to that V.6 and then what? Oh yeah, that's right. He starts fucking them girls, but don't worry cause he's gonna get right back.
I'm not trying to invalidate the issues people go through. However, going through some shit is not an excuse to effectively check out for an indefinite period of time. Basically saying that you're "going through some shit" is a crock of shit. Unless you're homeless or in jail, going through some shit doesn't prevent someone from living their life. I go through shit all the time. Hell, every month I go through shit for 5 days straight, but you don't see me hiding under a rock until everything is okay. Not communicating for days on end is completely unacceptable. And 5 orgasms in one night is NOT going to make us forget that we ain't seen or heard from you in damn near 10 days. Well at least not entirely.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Crack Kills

I think I now know how a crackhead feels. You don't want to get high, but like Pookie said, "That shit just be callin, man." Well my drug of choice called at 12:08 a.m. and I answered. I swear I didn't mean to fall off the wagon so soon. I had just received my 48 hour sobriety pin and I was going for 72. The phone rang while I was laying on my couch dozing in and out of sleep while watching Sideways. Mr. Can't Get Right in Chicago was supposed to be calling, so without even looking at the caller ID I picked up. Wrong move there, Lizzie. "Hey, did you forget about me?" he says. SHIT!! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Wrong Y chromosome. Not him, anyone but him!! Hang up, STAT!! "No, I didn't forget about you." Shouldn't have said that.
You can learn a lot during a 15 minute conversation with The Idiot Who Made You Cry. I learned that he and the perfectly nice woman with the big hips are seeing other people now. I learned that I have a place to stay the next time I come home. I learned that he was worried about me when I didn't call. I learned that he's planning a trip to my neck of the woods later this month. I also learned that I am completely incapable of having a backbone where he is concerned. How difficult is it to just say that I'm sleeping and I can't talk right now. Or even better, say that I don't want to speak at all, period. He could totally sense that something was wrong with me and kept asking what's the problem. I don't quite know how to tell him that HE is the problem. How do you tell someone that? Especially if technically, besides existing, they haven't done anything wrong (at least not lately).
This wasn't intentional. I didn't mean to pick up his call. I didn't even know it was him. He no longer has a distinctive ringtone since I decided that playing "99 problems but a bitch ain't one" whenever he calls was a tad juvenile. Until 12:08 in the morning, I was doing just fine not speaking to him. Withdrawal symptoms were minimal. It only took 15 minutes, but that's all down the drain. I already know where this is going. Damn, I should've looked at that caller ID.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005


Thank God for unlimited text messages. I text messaged damn near everyone in my phone book with the good news. I finally did it!! I was finally able to do what I couldn't do for the past 3 years!!! I deleted him.
I turned my cell off Sunday night because the battery was basically dead. When I woke up Monday morning and turned my phone on it immediately went off with a voicemail notification. So I check my messages as I'm brushing my teeth. The recorded voice lady is saying some crap that I'm not paying attention to, when all of a sudden I hear a voice that I recognize but can't place. Then he says it. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." WHAT!! I'm so NOT expecting him to call. He hasn't called in a month. I press repeat. "Liz, this is The Idiot Who Made You Cry. Call me back. Lata." Repeat ".....Call me back. Lata." Repeat "...Call me back.." Repeat "...Call me back.." Arrggghhhhh. DELETE! Now what?
I didn’t call back. I have no clue what he wants or if he wants anything at all. I’m past the point of caring really. I won’t pretend that part of me doesn’t want to speak to this man. I will readily admit that a big part of me does. But that is the last thing I need to do right now. Getting sucked back into the abyss that is me and him is pointless. I didn't quite get that when he broke up with me via voicemail and then didn't speak to me for 10 months. I missed the memo again when I wound up in his bed a year and a half later only to not speak to him afterwards. And I wasn't quite grasping the concept when him saying, "I want to see you when you come home," turned into watching the NBA finals with him and his new girlfriend. But I think I've finally got it now. And it only took me three years to figure it out (I wasn't in the gifted classes for nothing ya know). This isn't going to work out. It's the same damn thing over and over again. We start getting remotely close, he disappears. In 3 years the story has never changed and it never will.
For so long I thought that whenever he came back in my life (sometimes with a little help from me...okay damn near all the time) after being absent for weeks or months that I had won some sort of victory. I mean, he contacted ME first, not the other way around. So of course if he initiated contact, he must want something, right! Ummm, how about WRONG! He never wants anything. The second I make myself available again, he's suddenly unavailable. I'm home for weeks and barely see him. The second I leave he's calling me to ask when I'm coming back. He never wants me around unless I'm not around. It drives me crazy.
The worst part about it all is that I blame myself. I let him do this to me. I may be really good at not calling him, but I'm really bad at not picking up the phone when he calls me. I answer the IMs, I return the phone calls, I go to his place to kick it whenever he invites me. I just keep it going. The strange thing is that if I'm honest with myself I don't want to be with him. Seriously! I don't! I talk to him and hang out with him because I genuinely do like him as a person. I want to be friends with him. He's a great guy and we get along splendidly. There's just this thing between us that gets in the way. It's always been there and it doesn't go away. The more we hang out the more obvious that thing becomes. But all that chemistry is just a bridge going nowhere. I don't know why I even get my hopes up and start thinking that maybe for once in his life he'll drink his ackrite and stop acting like an overgrown toddler. But I do, and he always disappoints me. Why stay on this ride when it keeps making me ill? So this is where I get off. I'm done. He's sending me instant messages now, "Hello....Hello....Hello....You there?...." Oh well. DELETE.

Monday, August 08, 2005


The U.S. has been fighting this war in Iraq for about 2 years now give or take a year or 2. Our ever effective leader, G-dub, was on the hunt for WMDs, Weapons of Mass Destruction. But little did he know that the WMDs aren't in Iraq at all. Oh no, the weapon of mass destruction that can do the most damage has been sitting right under Bush's nose right here in the USA. And what pretell would this WMD be? None other than AOL Instant Messenger. And the worst part of this whole sordid ordeal is that AIM has been doing unspeakable damage for years and no one has tried to stop it.
AIM's treachery first became apparent to me my sophomore year of college. I was away from campus my 2nd semester doing an internship at the state capitol. Since free nationwide long distance didn't exist in those days, I had to use Instant Messenger to keep in touch with my friends at school. One night I was chatting with my friend, let's call him Jock Boy. So we're chatting up a storm when out of nowhere he takes offense to something I've said (I can't remember what it was...that was 5 years ago). Now I'm sitting there thinking relax it's a freakin joke, obviously. Little did I know that sarcasm doesn't translate well via instant messenger. Next thing I know he's bringing up OLD shit from 10 months ago and we're having the worst instant message fight in the history of AIM. I'm talking CAPS lock and everything!!! Needless to say we didn't speak for weeks and it took us months to get back to how we used to be. Now that I think about it, I don't think we've ever truly gotten back to the way we were before that night. AOL Instant Messenger destroyed us.
I see AIM ruining lives everyday. Normal, well adjusted women are becoming crazed baboons all because of AOL Instant Messenger. Anyone who has ever dated has played the "I'm not speaking to him until he speaks to me first" game. The rules are simple under absolutely no circumstance are you to call, email, instant message, or contact him in any way shape or form until he does so first. This game is usually played once at least 3 conversations have been initiated by you without one from him. Before the advent of AIM, the telephone was the only tool of emotional torture used. But AOL decided that 1 wasn't enough. Oh no, women needed more ways to feel the neglect. Enter the Buddy List. No weapon in the history of dating warfare has been more lethal. You can see him there. You know he's at home. There's no away message, the screen name isn't dim. He's there, happily chatting the hours away with EVERYONE else but YOU!! And the worst part is, you know he sees your screen name too, he's just choosing not to run his mouse over your name and double click. It's as if he wants you to know that he's purposely ignoring you. If that wasn't enough AOL likes to twist the knife even more with those damn IM sounds. Everytime that door slams shut you gotta check the Buddy List to make sure that man did not just log off without saying nathan for the past 2 hours. Now you could end your torture by logging off, but that's not gonna happen. Cause what if he all of sudden wanted to send you an IM but you weren't logged on. We can't have that now, can we. Another option is to just block him so you don't see him online, but the problem with that is he can't see you online either, and he must be able to see you are online and available just in case. So you decide the best way to end the torture is to just take him off your buddy list so you don't have to see him there. However, without fail, within 72 hours of you removing his name from your list you get the notification from AOL that sHiTHead2005 is sending you an Instant Message. And without fail we accept. AIM is a crafty son-of-a-bitch, because the second you click Accept, sHiTHead2005 goes right back on your buddy list and the cycle begins all over again.
It's sad that our government is much more concerned about terrorists and nuclear and biological weapons. The real terrorists are right here at home and they use their WMD at leisure. They fire away from college computer labs, public libraries, home offices, EVERYWHERE. But have Bush, the Cabinet, or Congress called for any widespread campaign to snuff them out? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Probably cause they're using AIM themselves. Freakin terrorist bastards.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005


Spoiled, rich bottle blondes who all look alike, with a combined IQ of about 12, saying like at least eleventy times in the same sentence, flipping their hair, and traipsing around Daddy's house for approximately 30 minutes every Tuesday night at 10. I'm so hooked. La la la Laguna!!! I LOVE Laguna Beach. I love watching a bunch of rich white high school kids that live on the other side of the country. These teens are so vapid they make Paris Hilton look like Socrates. I can't get enough of the drama that is Laguna Beach. Because I have no life out here in Grand Rapids, MI, I just live vicariously through my Laguna friends. I think I've broken half the Commandents watching this show. Thou shalt not covet (or something like that). Well let me tell you, I'm coveting LC's house like a mugghhh!! I'm coveting her wardrobe and her car too. It's not right that someone who can't even vote gets to wear clothes I can't even afford. Thou shalt not lust (is that one of them?). Well I'm lusting after that fine piece of white meat Stephen. Don't tell anyone I said this, but those pouty lips and that bird chest make me just a wee bit moist. Kristin and LC aren't the only ones that wanna tap that. Oh and before you say anything, that boy is 18 so that makes molesting him perfectly legal. Speaking of Kristin and LC, I just don't get why Stephen waffles between the two of them. Sure, Kristin is a "hot" party girl with big boobs and skirts shorter than the time it takes J Lo to get married and divorced, but LC would drink Stephen's bathwater. That's gotta count for something, right? LC has made staring longinly at a boy who doesn't want her into an artform. Let's applaud that woman! And much as I want to hate on her, I can't. Hell, I want to be her. That bitch has her own theme song ("we've got more bounce in California than all of ya'll combined...). How tight is that? I want my own theme song that'll play everywhere I go! She dumped Stephen cause she started dating someone else while they were still together, and dude still wants her. That chick must got gold b/w her legs cause that dude's whipped. Not to mention that this girl is dumber than rocks and still managed to make it to her senior year of high school. I'm in awe of her really.
Season 2 just started and I'm still getting used to the new cast members. Here's what I know so far. Casey's got more extensions than AT&T, but she lives in a phat ass crib. Jessica's nose is wide open over her boyfriend Jason who's trying to bang Alex M.'s back out. There are other folks who I can't remember right now, but I'll be sure to get to know them too. Stay tuned...