ten levels of greatness

My newish friend J is pretty awesome, and he has a blog. Ellen just alerted me to this archived gem: Expert's Guide to the Ten Levels of Hangover. If I had a hangover right now, I'd be cursing him for making my head hurt from laughing so hard. An excerpt:

LEVEL 1
Really not a "hangover" at all. You were drinking last night (probably just a few beers) and this morning you are thirsty and a little groggy. While you would prefer to avoid, say, bright sunlight and loud construction sites, you're really just one slice of toast and a glass of ginger ale away from feeling 100%. Even mentioning a hangover right now makes you a sixteen year-old girl. From Connecticut.

Keep up the good work, J.

is that a telephoto lens in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Today was the day for beautiful long-haired boys. The Scruffy Brit and I walked off our respective hangovers on the beach in the very deserted Coney Island where the sun was shining and the sand was dirty. He took lots of pictures with his fancy camera while I held his lens cap and danced around trying to keep warm. He's kinda dreamy. And that's all I'm going to say about that at this juncture.


Later on, Ellen and I were going to the Broken Social Scene concert so I went over to her apartment beforehand. Doors were supposed to open at 8, so we arrived at what we thought was a cautious 9:20. Turns out they'd been playing for over an hour upon our arrival, while we'd been watching the first two episodes of Lost, eating arepas, and freezing our asses off for the sake of cheap caffeinated malt liquor. Missing the majority of the performance of my current favorite band...for the second time: smooth move, Ex-lax.


I was so upset I wanted to cry, but then the couple songs we managed to catch were so heart-wrenching-in-a-good-way I wanted to cry so it all evened out in the end. At one point I counted fifteen musicians on the stage including five brass players, five maraca players, two guitarists, three or so vocalists, and two drummers including my favorite band member and future husband John Crossingham. I might have to attempt sneaking into tomorrow's sold out performance. I don't know why a little Canadian jam band brings me so much joy, but I'm glad it does.

new blog

Since my creative urges run much deeper than this here website, I have decided to branch out with my blogging. As of January 27th, 2006, I am a co-author of the blog www.soakingwetpanties2006.blogspot.com along with Ellen as "ham sandwich" and Gael as "fish taco." I am "egg salad." We write about lunch. All the time. We're expecting a book deal within the year.

nothin' like a little january afternoon sun

I finally bothered to learn how to use that sophisticated self-timer feature. National Geographic should be knocking down my door any day now.

Have I mentioned yet how much I love not doing the 9-5? Yes? About 18 times too many? So much so that I've gotten really fucking annoying? Oops, sorry. But I love it so much. I don't think it'll ever get old. Just being outside and breathing in the crisp winter air today made me so happy. (Except for the air within a half-block radius of Gray's Papaya, which just made me want to abort my turkey sandwich mission for a couple hot dogs.)

self-absorbed, sure, who isn't? exhibitionist, hells no.

Early this morning (errr, I suppose it was technically the afternoon) as my fellow waiter, the cute executive chef (uh oh...but unmarried this time!), and I were awaiting our first table, two folks who were way overdressed for the neighborhood entered the restaurant. I was so excited to have something to do other than clean the dried milk goo off the espresso machine steamer spigot thing for the third time that I ignored that fact and ran up to them with menus.

"Two for lun..."

"Wereyouherewhenthe ROOF COLLAPSED??" she asked.

"Oh, uh, yeah I was."

"What did it SOUND like? Was it REALLY LOUD? I heard it was like gunshots!"

"Actually I didn't hear anything. We were pretty busy then."

"Well can you just tell us what you saw?! What it was like to be here?!"

"Um, I guess so, sure. Well all of a sudden there were some fire trucks, and lots of people standing around watching stuff, even though you couldn't see anything..."

At this point her companion revealed a gigantic NY1 camera, and I concurrently disappeared behind the chef and blushed like a schoolgirl. He said he wasn't there until later, the waiter shared my lack of desire to be on mediocre local television, though for more sophisticated reasons, and we were off the hook. The poor NY1 folks just wanted to talk to someone who wasn't a rabbi, they told us. We told them to talk to Teany.

out of commission

Due to an understaffing situation, I have basically been living at the restaurant, making time only for a little drinkin'. Which is alright, because I like it there and I'm broke as a joke and they pay me and drinking is fun. But I can barely manage to speak in complete sentences that don't involve the words pecorino or sangiovese. So now that I'm finally home I'm just gonna flip between Skating With Celebrities and Antiques Roadshow, and hopefully I'll be semi-alive by the end of the week, when I have two, count 'em, TWO, days off. IN A ROW.

gael's dog alice, the new love of my life, is so cute i could eat her

Now who can tell me the most awesome part of this picture? (which I stole from Gael's Flickr...thanks, G) There is only one answer, and it is neither my winter pallor, the scottie dog, the empty Heineken, nor that blue cold cream-esque jar.

i really hate...

...people who describe themselves, first and foremost, as "artists." No, you are a dog walker and like to throw paint around/play bass guitar/not eat for three days in your free time. Or, you actually make a living doing something creative and then you are a designer/illustrator/synchronized swimmer/whatever. A couple years ago I went on a date with a painter dude (and full-time flower shop worker) who used his self-described "artist" status in reference to everything. I would mention my affinity for spinach and mushroom pizza, and he would say, "Well, as an artist, I prefer pepperoni." Vomit. Needless to say, as an artist, he did not get laid that night. (Though maybe if he'd been hotter...)

Ah well, at least the rampant use of the "artist" descriptor makes it much easier for me to weed through potential roommates on Craigslist.

And now, as a waitress, I am going to bed because I'm working 12 shifts in the next 12 days.

new blog obsession (blogsession?)

Behold, justalittleguy:

Armadillos are like Junior Mints. Wait, no, more like sexy librarians. No, I got it, Armadillos are like koopa troopers. Yeah. There're all hard on the outside with big ears and a bad attitude, but once you get to know them, they're really nice and cute and they have hopes and fears just like the rest of us. Ya know?

Like cute overload, only funny. And a whole lot better.

ho-leeee crap.

I realize now that I should have perhaps heeded the words of the amazingly good hairstylist when he suggested I just add a ton of highlights to my natural dark blonde base color. I was too curious about how I'd look blondie blonde to listen to him, but I'm sure I'd have loved it and gotten over that feeling. Nevertheless, what's done is done, and it's just hair, and I'm not saying I hate it per se. It's just so...blonde. (this picture actually doesn't do the blondeness justice since my overhead light is missing two bulbs)

The best part of the whole experience was the stylist himself, who works out of his Lower East Side apartment, charged me 1/4 of the salon cost when he saw my meager lunch-shift waitress earnings, and regaled me with stories about his celebrity clients including Brit Brit back when she was hot and, currently, Janice Fuckin' Dickinson.

better than temping

It is very difficult for me to say what I'm about to say. Ahem, here goes. I...like...my...job. Weird. I know it's a little premature to make such a grand, fantastical statement, and I know certain things about food service tend to get real annoying real quick, but the simple truth is that I will take juicing lemons and oranges in the basement with the prep cooks while listening to reggaeton over entering pointless numbers into pointless spreadsheets while wearing biz cazh any day. There are just so many good things that were absent in all of my previous employment situations. The employees, like, talk to each other and joke around and have fun. I am surrounded by wine and cheese. The floor to ceiling windows comprising two walls of the restaurant make for prime hipster-watching when things are slow. When things are not slow, time goes by really fast. I get to wear JEANS. Oftentimes, actual thinking is required. The majority of my friends and my friends' friends live within a five block radius. My coworkers and bosses are friendly, interesting people. Free espresso.

That last perk is actually coming in quite handy. The only downside to all of this madness is that I seem to have forgotten how to sleep again. I'm sure once I get settled my neurons will go back to normal human functioning, but for now, I'm just a delirious, sleep-deprived freakazoid. But at least I'm a happy freakazoid. Tonight's "anything but sleep activities" included finally jumping on the flickr bandwagon. I decided to start with my favorite Chile/Argentina pictures, since I was there not practicing my really bad Spanish with the sis exactly one year ago. If you have flickr, please add me as your friend (is that what people do?) because I don't really know how it works and am too lazy to figure it out, even though it's probably the most user friendly website I've ever seen. Thanks.

and doug

I love my sister, especially when she sends me emails like this:

The Lowe Family, a Brady Bunch type music group, is going to perform in Marshfield. The Lowes have seven children and their names are Korinne, Kami, Kara, Kendra, Kayli, Kysha, and Doug.

Please, see for yourself.

oh sweet mother of jesus

Remind me to never become a scoopnyc copywriter.

DFL

Last night Ellen and I went with some friends to Black and White's trivia night. We thought maybe we'd win and get a ton of free beer. Instead, we paid for all our beer and came in dead fucking last, as the NYU nerdbombers who had yet to sprout facial hair snickerd at the nearby table. For our pathetic efforts the bar awarded us with the Evita soundtrack on vinyl.


Giddy about our very special loser prize, we made buddies with the bartenders and got some freebies anyway. Also, E and I will be hosting trivia night on Tuesday, February 28th. I'd suggest you start studying up on burrito ingredients, contemporary art, and Canadian indie rock bands.

inspired by the first episode of the latest season of "the bachelor," the saddest show ever made. shut up I don't have cable.

I don't think I'm going to see my shrink anymore. Neither I nor my parents can afford spending $500 a month for me to talk to someone with a PhD and a big leather couch once a week. And, besides, I'm pretty good at analyzing myself and there's the whole Internets to talk to. Why I feel the need to share the dirty details of my life with the world and find no shame in doing so, I have no fucking clue, other than it somehow makes me feel better.

So first up, since it's rather fresh on my mind and I never got comfortable enough with the shrink to talk about it much, let's discuss Gina + Boys/Men/Dudes/British Hand Models. Although I discovered a good purpose for the above when I was seven years old and climbing my Catholic school playground's firepole one fateful afternoon (there's an Alanis Morissette lyric in there somewhere,) I never actually kissed a boy until I was 17 and a half. This was due to a combination of factors, including profound shyness, the pressing and pointless need to be high school valedictorian, and a rather unfortunate choice of hairstyles. It is probably no coincidence that Boyfriend Number One came towards the end of my senior year when I was footloose and fancy free after getting into Columbia and had grown out my curly bangs. It was a big time for me. Not only did I pass a milestone most people reach in middle school, I also mustered the courage to wear a bikini and a thin-strapped tank top. I felt deeply uncomfortable with all of those things as they were happening, but once they did the lion was unleashed.

Boyfriend Number One broke up with me that summer when he found out I'd kissed my gay boy friend in a Franzia-fueled game of Truth of Dare. I was upset and tried to win him back (I did) only to all but forget about him when I went away to college. Oh college. I learned so damn much in college, none of it involving primary source texts considered to constitute the Western Canon. Though I learned lots of things, including the dangers of Long Island Iced Tea and credit cards, this is all about the boys. So, Boyfriend Number Two came along early on in my freshman year when I woke up confused in his bed one morning after a few too many of the aforementioned beverage. Over the next two years I experienced real mind-blowing love, the pain of losing it and staying in bed for two days staring at the ceiling while listening to the same Jeff Buckley song over and over, getting it back and taking it for granted, and throwing it away for the selfish but necessary purpose of sowing my wild oats.

I am, apparently, still in the oat-sowing stage. The oats have grown considerably since the latter half of college when I mistakenly thought that sleeping with someone instantly would make them my boyfriend, for the simple reason that, hey, it worked the first time. This knowledge has not at all deterred me from sleeping with people instantly, but it's given me important perspective when doing so. I am fortunate enough that most guys who've made out with me have wanted to again (often many agains) so I've only twice had to deal with the nauseating pain of being blatantly used (but that's a whole nother story.) This has resulted in all manner of quasi-things, the synthesis of which has finally taught me something. I can be 94% comfortable prancing around naked, drunk or not, in front of someone I barely know, yet having to communicate with the lucky fellow in a sober state brings my inherent shyness on like gangbusters. I've come a long way from being 17 when I quite literally ran away after that first kiss, but, for some reason, I still have an amazingly hard time being normal after a hookup. If I'm not that into the dude, I am mostly unbothered by this fact, but if I am (which, presently, requires unavailability on the part of the dude,) I become painfully aware of it. What was once a detailed and hilarious story when told to my friends becomes "so, um, there was this thing, and, uh, it happened, and it was pretty funny, heh...so, um, what do you normally eat for breakfast?"

For a long time, one of my favorite activities was to beat myself up for this awkwardness until I'd find someone else to distract myself with and start the cycle all over again. Last year, I successfully managed to stop the "find someone else" part and enjoy some quality time free of any thoughts about men (thoughts about sex, of course, remained healthily constant.) This year, I'm going to stop the beating myself up part, because I'm good enough, smart enough, and gosh darnit people like me. And if Boyfriends One and Two plowed through my awkwardness at its 18-year-old peak, surely, when my oats are all sown by about age 34, someone else will too.

harebrained ideas

Due to the whole mid-twenties angst shebang, I am generally either listless and bored or excitable and in love with everything. There is no Middle Path (perhaps I just need a little yoga? silent camp?). When I'm in the latter state, I will go to great lengths to keep myself entertained.

Now, this may come as a shock, but, occasionally, I can be a wee bit impulsive. Once a seemingly brilliant idea pops into my head (eating meat for the first time in eight years, visiting my sis in South America despite an extreme lack of funds, going home for a week without asking my boss) it's pretty much going to happen immediately. Except for that almost-getting-fired incident, it's all worked out in my favor (mmm bacon.) I don't know exactly why I decided to dye my hair, but I did. So tomorrow Ellen and I are going under the chemicals, she to go brown and I to go blonde. Like, blonde blonde. This should reduce the frequency of the "are you sisters?" question by at least 80%. Okay, probably more like 55%. Damn Olsen twins/Simpson spawn/Hilton sisters. I have no idea if I'm going to love it, tolerate it, or hate it, since I've never had the proverbial balls to fully dye my hair before and all I really have to go on are these pictures from Halloween 2003, when I devolved from Marilyn Monroe to Courtney Love as I got progressively drunker and Drone was a rather convincing Unironic Trucker, courtesy of the acid-washed jean jacket I picked up for $0.25 at Saint Vincent's Thrift Store back in ol' Marshfield.

"the best thing to wear for the day"

While my keyboard spent yesterday drying out under the radiator, I spent yesterday drying out at Ellen's and Drone's. The keyboard never fully recovered from it's excessive booze consumption (a new keyboard was probably long overdue anyway, though the raspberry jam wedged between the C and D keys was charming and all) but I finally have, thanks to some quality movie watching and not drinking for 24 whole hours (the two glasses of wine with our thai delivery dinner totally don't count.)

In case you need Netflix inspiration, first up was Croupier, in which Clive Owen is a hot-looking autobiographical novel writer and former gambling addict who spends his time writing, croupier-ing, banging girls who are not his live-in girlfriend, and looking hot. Naturally, death and mayhem ensue. Quite entertaining and exposes the fine line between the writer as himself and the writer as a character. (Or something . . . it's been a long time since my liberal arts degree.) Next up was the end of 13 Going on 30 at Drone's. Jennifer Garner wasn't quite as nauseating as I thought she'd be, and I didn't see enough of the rest to provide any further commentary. This 12-year-old girl fave was followed with the end of one of my alltime childhood favorites, The Neverending Story. Though I had to laugh at the cheesiness of some of the most serious, climactic moments, it was in more of an "awwww, that's precious" way than a snarky one. And dancing with Drone to the fantastically 80's synthesizer theme song was certainly an early highlight of 2006. Then it was back to Ellen's, where we had saved the best for last. Throughout Grey Gardens I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cover my eyes. It's a 1975 documentary about Big Edie and Little Edie Bouvier Beale, the aunt and cousin of Jackie Kennedy, who live in virtual isolation in a decrepit, raccoon-infested East Hampton estate and are pretty close to batshit insane. While this is something you really must see for yourself, I think the jist of the film is best captured in the following exchange:

Edith 'Big Edie' Bouvier Beale: Oh, look. That cat's going to the bathroom right behind my portrait.
Edith 'Little Edie' Bouvier Beale: Ughh, how awful.
Edith 'Big Edie' Bouvier Beale: No, I'm glad. I'm glad somebody's doing something that they want to do!

In the "special features," mega-fan Todd Oldham describes Grey Gardens as "like watching a car wreck, only more compelling," which is a pretty accurate analogy. The Edies' fashion choices (think sweaters used as head scarves and, curiously, bathing suits) also belong in record books. Speaking of fashion, interspersed throughout all of the above were episodes of Strangers With Candy. While the comedy is hit or miss, it's all worth it just to see Amy Sedaris' incredible assortment of hideous, ill-fitting, high-waisted pants.

And now it's off to waitress training day number two. Surely I will have no trouble memorizing the entire written-in-Italian menu in the next 45 minutes.

greetings from r's house

Due to unforseen very-late-night activities with the Scruffy Brit (who is, technically, Canadian!), I am unable to use my computer for typing purposes. Blogging will be on hold until the beer evaporates from my keyboard.

from the fucked up files of mrs. basil e. frankweiler

I've spent the last two weeks lying around at my parents' house and my own feeling crappy, bored, and useless, primarily because my phone remained silent and my inbox empty. No one wanted me! I had nothing to do! (Besides watching five episodes of Iron Chef America in a row and drinking.) Now today, all of a sudden, I am in high demand.

I woke up at the ungodly hour of 8:30 to go to my dog grooming "interview tryout" which turned into a "fill out an application while talking about experience and leaving after five minutes to the owner's cries of 'You're the only person I've seen with any experience! Please start working for me full-time immediately!'". Then I proceeded to the Gap to find a plain white button down shirt for my waitress training. No such thing existed in the women's department (aren't cheap plain white shirts the purpose of the Gap?), but, ladies, take note. Little boys shirts from Gap Kids fit like a dream and are $25 or less AND are made with Stain Resistant GapShield Nano-tex Fabric. Which anyone who knows me at all knows is a huge bonus. (I bought a blue one too.)

ANYWAY, while in the fitting room, I got a text from Cute British Good Kisser Dude who was otherwise about to fall off my radar. Nice. Then on my walk home I got a call from one of the medical research jobs I applied to weeks ago asking me to come interview next week. NOW they call me. I proceeded home to rest up for waitress training, which, go figure, turned out to be great. The restaurants' atmosphere is the perfect combo of casual and bustling, the staff were all nice, friendly, and charmingly vulgar, and my shift culminated in a tasting of all the white wines-by-the-glass and the salati.

I arrived home in a state of buzzed, cheesy, olive oily bliss, and decided that, now that I'm getting paid, it was finally time to open my mailbox. Amid the usual shitty catalogs and coupon booklets was an envelope marked "State of New York United Court System - Offical Business, Open Immediately." No no no no no. When I was working in mind-numbing office jobs I was dying to get called for jury duty. Now that I've just started a job that will pay me well and make me happy . . . not so much.

Everything up to that point today was good. I have filled my "flirty text message exchange with someone I would like to make out with again" quota. I have multiple employment opporunities and get to pick my favorite. And now, NOW of all times, the State of New York wants to fuck it all up. I must return their damn form within 10 days as required by law. And here's where I ask you all to provide your tried, true, or theoretical "get out of jury duty" tricks. I have never longed so much to have, in the past, been convicted of a felony.

somebody up there likes you

When I am not traditionally 9-5 M-F employed, my bedtime jumps from 11:00 pm to at least 3:00 a.m. in a matter of days. Tonight I tried to fight it and hit the hay early at 1:30 since I have my Paid Dog Groomer Trainee "interview tryout" tomorrow morning, but it was not to be and after an hour I fell prey to a cigarette and the remains of the $4.99 bottle of champagne I'd meant to bring to new friend G's New Year's Eve party (you know how I roll, G.) Whenever I'm lying in bed trying to sleep but I can't, I think "deep thoughts" that devolve into really realistic but slightly distorted dreamlike thoughts that turn into either real sleep or crying when the alarm clock goes off and I'm still awake.

Tonight I only made it to the "deep thoughts" stage, and the thoughts were influenced by my perusal of Wired Magazine in an attempt to bore myself to sleep. Not that Wired is particularly boring. In fact, it is quite a well orchestrated journalistic endeavor. It's just that my techonological interest and know-how pretty much ends with my two-year old iPod's shuffle feature. Anyway, the latest issue of Wired features picture-heavy stories (I'm all about pictures with my text) called "The Coolest Rooms on the Planet" and "The 50 Best Robots Ever" (of course, the teenybopper titles are an ironic contrast to the supernerd content of the articles.) While reading about dishwashers that can sense the dirtiness of the dishes within in order to adjust water pressure and temperature accordingly and hot-pink-dress-clad ballroom dancing androids that can predict their human partner's movements (from Japan, duh) I realized that, hey, humans have created some pretty unthinkably amazing things. And then I realized that my current aspirations include not breaking any corks when I serve wine to yupsters and learning the standard styling procedure of a Yorkie's ear hair.

Earlier this week Fat Asian Baby sent me a link to the New York Times obituary for her grandfather. It popped into my very awake brain tonight and I thought that having one of those long obituaries in the New York Times is not a bad life goal. If you've done things so significant that one of the most esteemed publications on Earth pays someone to tell the world about your departure from it, that's kinda neat. You had a sizable impact. Although in the grand scheme of the universe your impact is probably close to absolute zilch . . . but I wasn't in bed long enough to get into all of that. So for now I'm just going to shoot for "happy at least slightly more often than unhappy" and suggest that you pick up Kurt Vonnegut's breakout novel Sirens of Titan because it's really fucking good and will beautifully and weirdly tell you the meaning of life.

jesus loves me

Today has turned out pretty much as anticipated, except.....I GOT A (@#*&$^#@-ING JOB! The manager of the laidback and casual yet cool popular restaurant with great overpriced food and solid pay at which I interviewed last week finally got back to me and I start training at the end of this week. Since I've trained for other similar jobs in the past and failed to get to the point of getting paid, I'm not going to jump the gun with excitement just yet, but I have a good feeling about this one. In a matter of weeks, I just might be taking care of all your late night Lower East Side cured meat and unpasteurized cheese needs.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming. And by that I do mean Dr. Phil and Oprah until Ellen shows up for wine, burritos, and basic cable crime and medical dramas.

(If anyone can figure out how to successfully play Urgent!, the public toilet maintenance game, I will be seriously impressed.)

anything but temping

So I've applied for some jobs lately. Some I've considered as a means to an end, some just sounded fun, and some looked like they'd abolish my credit card debt in a matter of days. I've heard nothing back from the majority, had interviews for a couple, and am in limbo for others. I don't care so much what thing(s) I end up doing for money, so long as a., I find a longish-term somewhat stable gig, like, now, and b., No. More. Temping.

Jobs I Have Applied For Or Seriously Considered In The Last Few Months

*Those editorial assistant/intern positions on Mediabistro and Ed2010 that don't mention a need for pesky "experience" and/or "writing samples" and to which about 200 other desperate, connection-deprived wannabes have applied.

*Equally poorly paying psychology and medical research assistant jobs that involve interviewing crazy people (yes!) and, frequently, phlebotomy (no!).

*A live-in farmhand at an upstate polo/horse farm.

*A paid part time pet groomer trainee (*fingers firmly crossed*).

*A high class escort, ads for which are impossible to ignore on the Craigslist "et cetera" jobs page. It's not so much the sex with rich strangers that bothers me. Afterall, I've had sex with plenty of characters I've known for a matter of hours and NOT been paid for it, and I already whored myself out for over a year, in the figurative sense, to the world of finance. It's the cheeseball websites and trashy lingerie photos that my inner aesthete simply cannot abide.

*A waitress. These jobs are not that easy to get in ol' NYC. Well okay, they probably are, but I'm a total slave to my tastes and personality and will only work somewhere laidback and casual yet cool with quality (and overpriced, of course) food and a fun client base, no "NY experience" requirement, an implied guarantee of at least $100 per shift, and at least two hot male bartenders and/or cooks.

And if nothing works out soon, there's always World Toilet College:

World Toilet Organization (WTO) has started World Toilet College (WTC) because there was a need for an independent world body to ensure that the best standards in Toilet Design, Cleanliness, Maintenance, Quality of Work and Sanitation Technologies are kept.

Though considering how often I clean my bathroom, I probably won't be getting a scholarship.

happy new year?

A year ago today a college student was living in my studio and I was at my parents' house about to head down to Miami to hang out with the Canadian and his various quirky Haitian relatives before heading down to South America for some quality time with the sis before heading back to New York for god-knows-what. God-knows-what turned out to be a four-month residence in Ithaca, a stint as a decent yet somewhat balance-challenged waitress, enough time to develop a nearly equal loathing of unemployment and soul-sucking office work, and a very good but very expensive shrink. Now here I am, back at the same apartment I left a year ago, forced by Pope Gregory XIII to think about how far I've come (*snort*) and where I might be headed.

The only thing I know about 2006 with absolute certainty is that I have absolutely no clue as to what I might be doing a year from now. While some could view this as exciting and/or interesting, for the time being it's just scary. Because I don't even know what I might be doing tomorrow. While yes, there is a very good chance that tomorrow I might continue the depressing broke unemployed person's routine of waking up, leaving the house for coffee, food, and the crossword puzzle, alternatively napping and watching television until it's time to eat again, avoiding the bill-filled mailbox on the way in from the sandwich run, then watching more television until it's time to sleep, there is always a slight chance that something good could come of last week's minimal effort to find interesting employment. Or I could get hit by a bus. Or win the lottery. You never really know. Oh wait I don't play the lottery. Dang.