Dudes. It’s 3:58am. I have to be leaving my house around 8:30am in order to go to that city I hate.

After I arrive in the city, Union Square to be specific, I will be dancing from 10am till approximately 3:30pm. Not nonstop, no, but still. (I’m going to be on TV! On the chinese channel! heehee).

After that lovely adventure, I get to go directly to my Sunday evening gig because this Sunday I have to be there around 5. And then, I get to work from around 5pm till around 1:30am! And then I get to drive home, where I will arrive approximately 2:30am!

Also, I have not yet packed for the dance performance or for the activities that come later in the day. So why the hell am I sitting here reading blogs and taking the time to type this entry?

It’s a mystery to me! I hope I wake up when my alarm goes off.

p.s. dating secrets and magic words and stuff coming sometime after today, the BUSIEST DAY EVER.

p.p.s. “busiest” is really a wacky word when you take the time to stare at it. especially when it’s all capitalized and shouty and stuff.

Okay, yo. I have been meaning to do this for a few weeks now, but because I am freaking lazy I put it off until now.

I’m going to start a new category here that has to do with a hitherto taboo subject for me: DATING.

However, due to my bordering-on-pathological paranoia, I am going to be password protecting all those entries. Mostly because I am sure that somebody, somewhere, sometime is going to find this journal and read things they were NEVER MEANT TO READ.

So. There’s not much of a trick to getting the password. Ask and you shall receive.

I’m not planning on denying anyone, except for people I’ve been on dates with. Even if you’re a lurker, or a part-time reader, please drop me a line. I promise I’ll share.

Maybe in the future I will become less paranoid? No, I’ll probably just start another journal, with another pseudonym, and be paranoid about telling you guys about it because you might accidentally reference this journal. And THEN what!?

So. Password! I’ll be giving it out as soon as, uh, I write something under that heading. Or as soon as you start asking.

Okay, don’t be that girl! Seriously, you don’t wanna be that girl!

Ohhhh, honey, you are that girl. [sighs and laughter]

Overheard at: Bar last night. Girl who normally works as a bartender, but who was (greatly) enjoying her night off, drunkenly drops and breaks a glass.

While the broom and dustpan were fetched, Girl apologizes far too profusely, then drops to her hands and knees and starts picking up the pieces of glass.

When she wouldn’t quit after repeated attempts to make her stop picking up the glass with her bare hands, the “that girl” line was tried. She only stopped when they told her she actually was “that girl”.

Yo. I just got home from DJing in San Francisco. Afterwards I got so lost that it took me 45 minutes to escape the city. I hate San Francisco!

Also I have dance rehearsal at TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING. As in, 5 hours and 13 minutes from now. And I don’t know where it is, so I may actually have to wake up more than 10 minutes before rehearsal in order to arrive on time. Why must life be so difficult?

Anyway. If you would like to see a picture of my muscle-y self dolled up in a skimpy go-go dancer outfit from last weekend, let me know and I will direct you to the appropriate webpage.

p.s. I thought I fixed the time warp problem, but despite all indications that the correct time should be published with my entry, it is STILL 32 MINUTES SLOW. I GIVE UP.

1. There is a dent on the back passenger’s side door.
2. The “check engine” light comes on consistently but intermittently, and never when a professional car person should see it.
3. The dashboard lights do not work, so it is impossible to see your speed or rpms at nighttime.
4. They don’t work because of an electrical problem that would cost $200 to diagnose, so they will remain non-functional forever as far as I am concerned.
5. She has 244,259 miles on her.
6. She is 11 years old.
7. Her driver’s side headlight cover is broken.
8. The glove compartment cannot be opened.
9. The car manual is in the glove compartment.
10. The battery had to be replaced recently.
11. When the battery is replaced, a special code is needed to reactivate the radio inside.
12. The special code for the radio is written in the car manual.

I love you anyway, red jetta! I love you just the way you are!

Janeville.

Would you buy clothes from a store named Plainville? I mean, Janeville?

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Seen at: local mall.

You look like you’d be really fun to have sex with after a few drinks!

Overheard at: a karoke bar earlier this week.

Dude was actually saying this to some girl. It remains unclear whether he meant after he had drinks or after she had drinks.

He followed it all up by submitting a survey to the nearby gals:

“Is a guy better at sex when he’s (a) sober, (b) had a few drinks, (c) totally plastered?”

He then listened intently to all our answers, as though he were actually going to use them as his own guidelines.

Feel free to guess what mine was.

So, not only are my shoulders so massively cut and RIPPED that men everywhere are shrinking away in embarassment over their own, inferior shoulders, but they are also COVERED IN ZITS. What the hell?! This is totally freaking me out. It’s been happening for at least two months and I’m not really sure they’re zits, but they are definitely totally irritating motherfuckers that look like zits and itch like hell. All the time. Really, they itch ALL the time. So I absentmindedly scratch them, and that draws EVEN MORE attention to the shoulders of doom.

For awhile, back when it was 1,437 degrees (fahrenheit) every effing day, I thought that maybe it was something like a heat rash. But it’s cooled off somewhat, and it’s still happening and it’s making me very sad.

I just looked in the mirror and I noticed all these itty bitty scars on my shoulders from me scratching the little bumps to death. I am going to go plunge a knife into my eyes now, so I don’t have to look at the disaster that is my shoulders anymore.

Why, world, why? What are these bumps? Why won’t they leave me?

Pole dancing can really kick your ass. Honestly, I am quite strong and in shape, and it’s hard! So satisfying, though.

I’m having a minor life crisis, as usual. I mean, my life wholly consists of crisis after crisis, so it’s not particularly stress-inducing - not any more than normal. And as usual, more angst follows; please feel more than welcome to skip it.

(blah, blah, more blah…)

Sistah is arriving in town TWO FULL DAYS EARLIER than expected! Talk about putting a kink in yer plans. Anyway, I already warned her of what awaits: a messy house, a lack of clean sheets and a food shortage. But she’s still coming! Heh heh heh. So her visit will be fun, cause now she has lots more time to hang out. Hooray.

Also, I started pole-dancing classes today.

That’s about it!