I have not looked up any pictures today

I wonder if it is a coincidence that these 100-calorie packs of preztels have way less salt than they should. I can't decide if they taste stale or if the salt has just fallen off of them because they don't have any fat holding it on, but I am certain that it isn't the lack of salt that makes their calorie content lower. I think.
I wish I could remember to bring change with me to the library because not-salty-enough pretzels with water instead of a Coke almost seems like punishment. But I am going to keep eating them. Just in case, you know, I did do something wrong.
As an officially registered graduate student, I can tell you that I don't feel an ounce smarter than an undergraduate student. Just painfully aware that being out of school for 15 months has resulted in some seriously atrophied thinking muscles. I haven't been reading enough, which I am usually most aware of when I am trying to convey a complex emotion to someone and can't quite spit it out. I am at a loss for words most of the time these days (also see previous posting about Gossip Freeze Syndrome). I am also aware I have not been reading enough because I picked up the first book of Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty triology to reread and am feeling my writer's muscles begin to stretch and flinch. Not to dog Anne Rice or anything, she is a good writer, but it says something about my lack of intellectual activity as of late if it takes a hard core BDSM book to awaken my word nerd. Or, perhaps it is just another telling example of how all you have to do is wave a wiener my way, and I wake up. Which brings me to another point, that I am determined to earn enough degrees so that I am allowed to teach a literature course and do nothing but discuss sexual innuendo and say wiener with textual support.

P1: I want some more Peanut M&Ms

When I read Perez Hilton, my brain freezes up. When I read McSweeney's, it thaws out.
I should spend less time curious about the wealthy and underfed.

5 Word Game, because things in the 'brary are slow

The ground was burning the soles of her feet. She opened the mailbox and timidly reached in, careful not to touch the black metal sides which had reached scorching temperatures in the dead summer sunshine. Tip-toeing back towards the house, a little bit of Happy creeped up inside of her. It was a familiar comfort to have the blue sky pressing the heat down on her. The front door slammed behind her, she tossed the mail on the floor and went straight for the bar. This kind of weather called for rocks in her whiskey. She sat on the divan where her dog lounged belly up, begging for something cool or maybe a good scratching since Cool somethings were sparse that day. The pit bull’s alligator jaw was impressively taut beneath her hand. She stroked it once and let the dog know, “it is fucking hot outside.” What else was there to do but lay still and dream about ice cream?

W1:Are your hands big enough?

I think it should be noted that my quadriceps are becoming larger and more defined by the day. If you are lucky enough to get to experience them in person, feel free to compliment their shapeliness. Maybe I will let you touch them.

While Driving, because that is when I do some of my best thinking

It is time that I admit that on occassion I am effected by the sorts of biologically influenced emotions most staunch feminists refuse to acknowledge. Usually, I am on their side, arguing with the loudest of them that biology does not dictate my role in society, my fate, or my decision making skills. While biology may define my sex, it does not define my gender. However, in recent months I have caught myself several times saying, "I would have his babies." I intend this to be a complimentary suggestion, a variation on the theme "I Want to Ride Him Like a Trick Pony." The sticky part of this is that I mean it. I have actually considered, fantasized about, and planned the genetic superiority of children I would have with certain individuals. I never would have said or believed this nonsense three years ago. As much as I complain about everyone around me growing up, getting married, and having real babies, the truth is that I have sensed the desire to reproduce. This desire is usually driven by my overactive libido and a good smelling man, but I cannot deny any longer that I have felt the urge to make babies. The worst part is that it seems hypocritical in light of my past (and present) behavior, not to mention the aformentioned bit about how I refuse to let silly biology tell me how I should live my life. Somehow I have to figure out how I can continue to live with my mind leading the way but keeping my body satisfied and Convention crying in the dust.

B2: Working a full 8-hour day (sans 18-hour Playtex bra because those things are just matronly)

Plus, I don't want to wear a bra by the same company that makes my tampons. I guess I am ungrateful considering Playtex wants to cover ALL of my feminine needs, but the fact is that I don't like it when anyone is that eager to help. If they really care about my feminine needs, then hook me up with a Boner-On-Call, or passes to the photoshoot for that new delicious GAP ad featuring my favorite man in the morning. That is a need being unfulfilled at the moment, Playtex. Otherwise, I am just going to continue using your hygiene products and ignoring your undergarment line because the thought of being swaddled inside and out by Playtex just icks me out.

B1: The cheese boy likes my hooters in my Vespa T

There is nothing like a cruise around town on a summer night with your favorite puppy to make you feel pretty damn good.

B1: So desirable even I can't control their powers

Struggling through the haze of a hangover is like being one of those cursed pirates who is alive but doesn't experience any sensations. I stare at faces, but they don’t make sense. I can’t seem to grip any thoughts for longer than a slippery second. My guts are rumbling, and I know I should be drinking more water. But it is a struggle to take a drink and not puke it back up. I am trying my best to think of something significant to say, but all that comes to mind is that I am lucky I made it to work on time and in one piece. So here I sit, all broken hearted, came to work but only farted. This is officially the Summer of Insignificance and I am doing my damndest to keep things interesting. Things would be so much simpler if I didn't bore so easily.

No Idea: I am lucky I got a bra on

Who has two thumbs and is drunk in the library? That would be me. Yes, me. Some people are born without their 46th chromosome. I was born without self control. I don't have any facial disfigurations, but I can guaran-goddamn-tee you that I suffer a whole string of consequences due to my lack of self-control. Holy butt fucking hell, I suffer.

B2: Full of Pei Wei

The best part of a good rock show is the way it sparks that feeling deep down that you have something great to achieve.
Incubus totally rocked my face off. They were all very polite in the meet and greet: I want to take Mike and put him in my pocket forever, Ben is totally perfect and I wonder if he is taking applications for kick ass, busty, librarian girlfriends, Brandon is pretty in a perfume ad kind of way (he didn't win me over until he did this total body thrust at the microphone stand and that is when I decided I would give him my last drink ticket), Chris's dreds are enviable, Jose has the sweetest smile you have ever seen on a soft-spoken drummer. There were more couples practicing PDA than I would have liked, but other than that, 'twas a good experience. I highly recommend experiencing Incubus live.
Chuck just came and sat down beside me. He sure is a sweet boy, with his passionate eye contact and extra furry neck. It is time for some puppy kisses.
Oh, and 7 points on my Propriety Card for not saying anything inappropriate to the band (except for telling them they probably shouldn't be drawing on the linen tablecloth as it didn't look disposable to me).

Observation

The way Andy Roddick grunts when he plays tennis makes me go uhhhhh. The way he smiles at the ESPY awards makes me go mmmmmmmm.

W1: It's raining in Utah

If my Mini Cooper were an Autobot, I am certain that it would brush its teeth regularly and do a lot of head spins whenever I played JT.

B1: I am in the salty holy land

Saturday I attended a party wearing a shirt that requires a safety pin to remain modest. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring a safety pin with me. Double unfortunately, the party was attended by no less than 6 devout Mormons, family members of my gracious hosts. Dock two points off my Propriety Card for not changing shirts, give the Mormons 2 points each for not trying to save me whilst I enjoyed my Wild Turkey and played the Wii with my hooters hanging out.

B1: I will fart you right out of the bed

I love GEORGE! because he laughs when I threaten to do this. Anyhow, I was at the airport today. At the airport there was a small child who answered to the name Harley. This child, Harley, who was ironically quite heavy set, had a serious staring problem. Somewhere in her rather short education, Harley was told that by staring at someone she could make friends. Harley stunk of french fries, I imagine because there were several crusted on her face and one was dissolving in her mouth. I did not care for her or her older sister who kept head butting me whenever Shrek 2 playing on her portable DVD player made her laugh. I was in no way encourage to reproduce any time soon.
I am in Utah. I think I like it here. Chuck received me with some kisses. This made me happy.

B2: Beer causes headaches

I am 24 years old. My ID was rejected at a bar last night because it was expired by three weeks. I am 24 years old and I could not get served. Did I feel like a dumbass? Yes. Did the fact that I was the oldest person in the group add to the embarassment? Yes. We opted to go to a bar where the bartender does magic tricks, none of which included magically renewing my license. Nonetheless, I believe that the only way to make your bar more fun is to make your bartender a magician.

B2: MyTits, Inc.

I just filled out my official paperwork...I am once again a part of Corporate America. At least I am not just an intern this time, although that was a really good excuse not to do stuff or when I really messed shit up. This cubicle is less depressing than the last because it is closer to a huge window. It's grayness is just as gray, though. I will be glad when they get my set-up set up because the only thing sadder than a cubicle is a cubicle with nothing but a laptop, some Post-Its, and a bottle of WhiteOut.
One bonus of Corporate America: free beer. We are having a German brew fest this afternoon celebrating some huge deal we signed. I am so glad our Fat Cats like to party.

B1: I just discovered a stain on my hoodie

I am beginning to think I should not have eaten the whole bag of peanut M&Ms, because while they were chocolatey and satisfying, I now feel a little sick.
My boobs got me into no trouble at all this weekend. Isn't that sad? Although, on Saturday night they looked mighty tasty in my new navy blue cotton dress with the v-neck. I wish someone would ask me to a garden party so I could wear the dress with my red platform shoes and just wait for a studly someone to be drawn to the shimmer of my cleavage. Then he could offer me a cocktail and a twirl around the yard to the tune of the magical waltz playing in both of our minds but silent to the rest of the fools sulking in the itchy grass in their wrinkled Bermuda shorts swigging Arbor Mist. I know red platforms are not traditional garden party footwear, but a wedge is much safer than a stiletto, not to mention my red ones are pretty kick ass.

B1: Breaking library rules in my flip flops

For the first day in a very long time, I woke up to a sunny morning, and I don't see a threatening cloud anywhere on the horizon. Is it real? Has summer arrived, albeit extremely tardy? Are the Days of Sweaty Boobs knocking on my door, ready to slick up my cleavage and dampen my bra? I am pleased...

After a very large sloppy joe last night, I decided that I would watch some Intervention. I think that my problems with fried food and cheap beer really fade in the shadow of a man's crack addiction that led him to steal his 8 year-old nephew's PlayStation for drug money.

P1:Screaming child in lobby makes me want to throw books

(Score 5 points on my Propriety Card for not throwing book at aformentioned screaming child) If you are feeling on edge, I suggest you eat some Peanut M&Ms. They really help.

A Little Truth

John Mayer was put on this earth to wake me up.
(here's why: I am the meanest person you know in the morning. I have had actual urges to physically harm my own mother in the morning. The only way I have found to self-soothe is to listen to John Mayer. Any of his albums will do. I actually sing along sometimes. That is a feat. Or is it fate? Will he someday soothe me into sunlight by humming into my neck and giving me a friendly nudge? Only time will tell. As it stands, his albums are enough to make me want to take off my clothes, lie prone on a towering, cold, Marble Slab of Sacrifice and offer myself up to The Sword That is His Penis.)

B1: A smudge of special sauce, because that Big Mac was extra sloppy

I started a new job today, hence the celebratory sloppy Big Mac. Yes, I celebrate with fast food. Greasy, cheesy, God bless America fast food. But I can top that steaming, slippery pile of patriotism. I celebrated Independence Day in the most American way I knew:

In a swimming pool. Toss in some ice cold High Life and a couple of beach balls and you've got yourself a guaranteed good time. Oh, and don't forget Mom. Mom, who thought that if she drank her bottle of wine only half a glass at a time she wouldn't get drunk. There was an abundance of penis talk, fiesta dip, and Mom refilling her little plastic cup. Sugar Butt Angel Face took part in the fun, too.

As for my peaches, they were glorious in red Esther Williams lycra, although a little itchy by the end of the night. Mosquitoes have no regard for holidays.

Observation

Finishing my cardio is way more fun when there is a beefcake on the treadmill in front of me. Also note: don't be the girl grooving on the Stairmaster, no matter how good Mr. JT sounds when he asks you to call him Daddy.

B1: Happy not to be squeezed into the sports bra at the moment

My hooters found themselves submerged in a salt water hot tub this weekend. Twas nice. There is nothing quite as satisfying as sitting in a hot tub, drinking Rumplemints, and watching porn. Well, the porn was shortlived because the hag who lives at the house and is supposedly married to my friend turned it off. Later, when I was jumping on the trampoline drunk (insert thanks to guardian angels here for not letting me bounce smooth the fuck off and snap my neck, because while that would be kind of a funny way to go, I don't want to die in my Esther Williams swimsuit, it could bruise her rep and she doesn't deserve that), the Hag climbed on and decided she and I should have a heart to heart. This mainly consisted of her telling me she wishes her husband would fuck her more and that is why she turned off the porn. Umm...would you like to screw someone who turned off your porn in the middle of your hot tub party? I sure wouldn't.