who stole my cheese? and bread? and sausage? and olives?

so last night my gf and my roommate (not the mumu donning one, the other one) decided to order pizza for dinner. we had the usual debate about toppings, piled the money together, and placed the order.

then my gf wanted me to go upstairs with her and hang out with her while she played a ninja assassin video game. 5 minutes passed and the ninja of nappy-nap time crept up on me and got me with a shuriken of slumber.

45 minutes later, i wake up. i ask my gf if the pizza is here yet, and she says that she hasn't heard anything from my roommate who was taking care of the pizza delivery.

so i go downstairs to find out.

turns out, the pizza got there 20 minutes ago, and was completely eaten 15 minutes ago, save that one misshapen, narrow piece in every pizza, the one everyone systematically avoids grabbing because it's too narrow to have any actual toppings on it.

i asked why she didn't tell us when it got there and her answer was:

"i didn't call you down because it got all gobbled up."

oh. of course.

i asked her if she was joking, and where she was hiding the pizza, but then she just looked down at the floor and it dawned on me that this wasn't a joke. it was serious.

when i asked how she managed to eat an entire extra-large pizza by herself, she informed me that she had INVITED FRIENDS OVER TO EAT IT WITH HER.

"but, don't worry, they gave me money."

oh. well as long as you capitalized on the endeavor...

awesome.

so now i'm out money for a pizza i didn't get to eat, and i'm still starving.

i also get the pleasure of informing my gf that alison 1) didn't let us know when the pizza had arrived, 2) invited other ppl over to eat it, and 3) there is nothing left but the bastard slice that is now cold and mostly stripped of toppings.

awesome.

somewhere, a dog barked

a wise man and Pilgrim once said:

"so it goes"

i echo that sentiment

i had way too many of whatever and now this

I snaked my arm on through the beer bottle, amphetamine, deodorant, and not much left of a non-sweetened smoothie to get to the mouse just to type this.

lying in the bathtub, my eyes focused on some grime on the bathtub rim. I looked closer and it was not grime, but hair. Two big pieces, arranged like the eyebrows of some surprised young fellow who caught his girlie with her tools, operation in full swing. Under them were two, tiny, almost invisible hairs—their children! One seemed to be sliding down back into the tub while the other reached out to desperately save it. Unfortunately, it was the kind of reach one does when one knows that extending the arm is one hundred percent futile to the rescue and extends itself in the face of failure as a final gesture, sweeping the entirety of its very soul to some how bring to life some miserable mutant, some deformed, deranged, empirical imprint of the tragic separation that has just occurred to some tiny hair, one the yellowish ledge, on the side of my bathtub.

That simple crisis, the separation of a friend, a loved one, so easily played out on my bathtub ledge brought me here to this key board, snaking my arm around this empty tea cup, seroquel to hammer out how I feel so fucking pissed off that a damned little hair on the side of my bathtub can cry out in such unadorned, honest-to-goodness-true and naked pain, while I cannot.

Instead I am shackled; i am confined to distance myself from such clichés, such plebian pleasures, for fear of being exposed for what I am and what I am not.

What I am: sad.

And

What I am not: a clever writer, analyst, or thinker.

For I envy a hair.

click here

http://www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com/2007_08_01_hotchickswithdouchebags_archive.html

on the MAX, somewhere near pioneer square

"we need to do something quick"

"yeah, i saw him with that starbucks coffee--he's completely sold out."

"he's so out of the band."

"micheal said he'd never take a dime for his music."

"yeah, but wouldn't that be taking all the fun out of it?"

"i guess. last night was crazy, wasn't it?"

"yeah, i really need to upload those pics to myspace."

stand up, please

originally written by Robert Nelson, the following fictional conversation takes place between a father and child:

"What's a Rameumptom, Daddy?"

"Well, the Book of Mormon says it was a place where the Zoramites stood to worship and pray."

"But my Primary teacher said it was a tower that evil people used."

"I can see how someone could think that. The Book of Mormon says it was a place for standing which was 'high above the head' and only one person at a time could go up there."

"Was it like the speaker's stand in the church?"

"A speaker's stand? You mean a pulpit? Yes, I suppose it was. In fact, the word 'Rameumptom' means 'the holy stand.'"

"What's so evil about a holy stand, Daddy?"

"Well, it wasn't the stand that was evil. It was how it was used. The people gathered there in their synagogue. . ."

"What's a synagogue?"

"Just a different word for chapel or church, honey."

"Oh."

"They'd gather in their synagogue one day a week."

"Which day, Daddy?"

"I don't know, honey. It just says 'one day,' and they called it 'the day of the Lord.'"

"It must have been Sunday."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because Sunday is the Lord's day."

"Well, maybe it was. . . Anyway, they'd gather there and whoever wanted to worship would go and stand on the top of the Rameumptom."

"Could anyone go up there?"

"Well, no, that was part of the problem. Apparently, they had to wear the right clothes. . . "

"You mean like us when we wear Sunday clothes, Daddy?"

"Well, not exactly, but in a way, yes, I suppose. Some of us might have a hard time accepting certain kinds of clothes or people in sacrament meeting. But we wear our Sunday clothes to help us be reverent, don't we?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"So anyway, where was I?"

"They went to the top of the Rameumptom. . ."

"Yes, they would go up and worship God by thanking him for making them so special."

"Were they bearing their testimonies?"

"Well, uh, I guess maybe they were in a way, but they weren't true testimonies."

"How come?"

"Because they were too proud."

"What do you mean 'proud,' Daddy?"

"Well, they would talk about how they were 'a chosen and holy people.'"

"My Primary teacher said Mormons are the chosen people and we're a special generation."

"Yes, honey, but that's different."

"How?"

"Because we are."

"Oh."

"Besides they were very, very proud about how much better they were than everyone else, because they didn't believe the 'foolish traditions' of their neighbors."

"What does that mean, Daddy?"

"It means that they believed everyone else was wrong and they alone were right."

"Isn't that what we believe?"

"But it's different."

"How?"

"Because we are right, honey."

"Oh."

"Everyone would stand and say the same thing. . ."

"That sounds like testimony meeting to me."

"Don't be irreverent."

"Sorry."

"Then after it was all over, they would go home and never speak about God until the next day of the Lord when they'd gather at the holy stand again."

"Isn't that like us, Daddy?"

"No honey, we have Family Home Evening."

"Oh."

heart

"mommy says love is when you put a boy's wiener in your mouf and your nay-nay gets all gooey."

"i don't think i'll ever be in love"