My boyfriend's girlfriend and more

So I googled (really, I don't have a problem) my professor's girlfriend. Are you kidding me? I hope she DOES get the job. I may not have a fancy philosophy degree and I may not have lived in England and Scotland among other fun places, but I do know that I could not only kick her ass, I'm way cuter than her. And really, it's all about how cute one is, isn't it? WELL, ISN'T IT? Shut. Up. I could probably beat her at blowjobs and a game of Scrabble.

Tonight's Ludacris. My Swell underwear are soaked. Sopping. Wet. I can't wait. I hope that he has it on his song list to do - Get the Fuck Back, Coming 2 America and oh gush! I hope he does 'em all. As it turns out, David Banner of the "Like a Pimp" fame, will be opening up. Before Chingy? This is gonna be something. And then tomorrow I get my hair did and I don't have to go to either job so perhaps it'll be a good day to do things that should be done before my 3 o'clock i.e. my damn taxes. Speaking of, I'm scared to do them. I have a creepy feeling burning in my loins that I'm gonna owe and I'm gonna owe like a mother fucker. Stupid unemployment. DAMN YOU MISSOURI NARAL. Among other things, I believe it's time I properly washed my truck. I noticed this morning that somehow a pickle (in a wrapper!) got into the bed of Chippy. Last time I checked, I didn't purchase a wrapped pickle. I'll blame it on the undergrads - everything can mostly be blamed on them if you ask me on the right day. But seriously, a pickle? Am I supposed to pick it up and throw it out? I didn't even put it in there and well, I don't think that it just somehow got lifted up in the breeze and landed there. No, I don't think that at all. But it's there and it's gonna stay put. I don't know how to assess the situation properly and I refuse to rid of it on my own. Hell no. I'll see how long it can stay. Maybe when I'm driving past cars, they'll smell pickles and wonder why. I'll be the keeper of that particular juicy secret. It'll be a cucumber by the time I'm finished with it.

America's Next Top Model. How is it that they let Tyra record a song in a studio? Seriously. That song sounds like a song I've heard before sung by none other than Beyonce "my body's too bootylicious for ya babe" Knowles. What I did though, as a test, I turned the mute on during the debut of her video (I know and I can't) and it was much better watching her just be pretty than have to listen to such dro as well. Sometimes, it's better to just stick to what you know: being so pretty with glow-y boobs. She's good at that, no one can take that away from her. Unless you're a gay man, seriously straight woman, you should want to have sex with her. No, for real. I'm including sticks that don't even like black-ish people. She's undeniably pretty. But she shouldn't sing.

Pizza. I'm not saying any more on the subject other than I could eat this particular Eye-talian food for each and every single meal. It's perfection.

I'll find the proper tax forms online NOW!

Taxation Station.

what?

Three

Pain hit me this morning like a brick would my head (I'm assuming and being hella melodramatic).......that alarm clock is relentless. Last night at work, I thought that I was either:

A. going to shoot Bill the Manager in the eyes OR
B. going to shoot myself in the eyes

It was the "big" Fat Tuesday parade which, luckily, started off at the Tap Room (home of Schlafly Beer!!!) so all the creeps were out. And I'm not one to judge - okay, I totally am - but I am so anti-Mardi Gras activities that it's almost mean. I just don't get it. The idea of drinking is great and the idea of dog parades is neat too, but I just can't. It ends up being a big Hoosier Amateur Night Festival and well, none of that adds up to anything but me getting gang-banged and murdered at 9th and Russell. That's not an option. So, after my horrible night at work ("ma'am? where's the bathroom?" "fuck YOU! stop calling me 'ma'am' and read the gaddampt sign!!!") I treated myself to a drink down at my favorite and most reliable bar. Turns out, some craptastic band was playing and the boys I made follow me down there had to pay the $8 cover that I stealthily avoided (ME: Do you want me to pay for real? HER: No), we barely had a spot to own and that's always bad for me because I'm the girl who likes to let all that alcohol just sit in and settle so when I finally stand up to pee or go and dry hump some poor sap, I'm to the floor. And then, I guess my bestest fake pretend boyfriend, was being all protective of me and way more protective than usual (fun fact! he totally cleared the back steps to my building with his friend because my landlord is a bastard and they don't do the back. "I'm sorry Jennifer, we just don't DO the back." they don't own the back of the building???? I digress) because it is Black History Month after all, so I should always win for these 29 days. HAPPY LEAP YEAR!!!! Anyhooter, my bestest fake pretend boyfriend asked me to take his bestest friend over to some girl with pigtails (PIGTAILS!) sitting up high on some thing so he could, i don't know, talk to a girl because apparently this bestest friend never leaves the house and needs to at least feel the "excitement" that is talking to a stranger. And I'm not typing this with any traces of anger or negativity, I'm being fucking literal. Okay. So I somehow talk him into going over to this girl and I walk faster (he's drunk, I'm on beer #1) so I can slide up to her and go, "Hi. I'm about to introduce you to my friend's friend and you need to be nice because he never does shit like this and he's not a dick and it's not creepy so please please please don't be a dick." It all worked out and then it was over and he got nervous and wanted to go home so we went back to "Our Spot" where some douches had taken up residence and that's when I got nervous. My boy was all talking trash about how it was MY seat and it's Black History Month and whoa, it was weird. He ended up moving, another one of his friends took The Seat I Could Give Two Shits About and then my boy bought us all a round of tequila shots. Let's get one thing clear: I will drink all the jagermeister in the land, but I do not really "drink" tequila any longer. Tequila drinks me. So, I hold onto the little glass and wonder how it happened, doesn't he know that I'm not supposed to drink this shit, let alone on a school night? But down it went. And here I sit on Buttermilk Hill, who could blame me, cry my fill..........seriously. That is the beginning of a song from Concert Choir in high school. The hell? So I'm not making sense. Look. There's only two of you that I can think of who read this and you know damn well that I rarely make sense, especially in the form of words that come out of my fingers to the keyboard and magically appear on the screen. How DID we get here?

So there's that. My hair's dirty, I'm not feeling so hungover any longer although I'm hella tired, I've been mostly wasting the day away doing really stupid things that I shouldn't get paid for and I should smoke. At least I made it to work on time - take THAT boy, take THAT! and I managed to take a shower AND I prepared my lunch which was purely delightful.

FUCK! the reflex is on. pause for lusting about john taylor............

I love this web station. I really do. I also love the taste of a pretzel rod. It makes me feel like I'm snacking on a salt stick (oh! Seabiscuit!) and well, that's the motherfucking JAM!

FUN (to me) FACTS!:

1. my nails are so chippy (oh hi chippy!) and weird, i need to fix them for my night of steamy passion with luda
2. so far this month, i've sent out 653 work-related emails
3. i totally lost on my bid for the pink, short sleeved izod shirt on eBay
4. i'm hopefully going to triumph on the other izod, slightly more orangina in color, but still with the pink and the short sleeves that i've got a bid on
5. sometimes it's hard to think all academia all the time
6. i don't have a BA in anything, well, maybe in making people feel guilty
7. my dick is so oozing with pre-come because i don't have to show my face at the tap room until next tuesday
8. i should really go ahead and install pagemaker 7.0 on my computer since i'm not doing anything but this, typing because i like to type, not because i have anything to ever say

Snap into a Slim Jim!

Get into my car!

This weekend I went to this little store called "DOTS." They sell "fashion clothes" at less than fashion prices. Think: J. Lo-esque sweatsuits, clear purses etc. I went there under the advice of a big boobed friend of mine who I saw on Friday night at my Moonlighting Job. I said, "how the hell do you keep those things under wraps?" She told me to try out DOTS as well, my girls could always use a good lifting. So, I went. The thing that she recommended to me can't be called a bra OR a tank top. It's a bra/tank top. Or something. And it was $10 so I felt compelled to buy. I picked out this garish pink one with some kind of applique on the above-my-left-boob part and then later on that day, went back and got the simple, boring non-appliqued beige one. Let's call it a Boob Shield. Let's call it The Hardest Thing To Take Off. Let's call it The Hardest Thing To Put On. Let's call it The Binding Bulletproof Tank. Seriously. I guess it's reminiscent of a smaller chested girl's push up bra with the padding but this thing FITS ON MY HEAD. No, seriously. I can almost get my head into one of the "cups." I'm not bragging or complaining, I'm stating hard core facts. It's scary.

Oh!
You: "How'd the make up sesh' go on Saturday afternoon?"
Me: "Great! Thanks for asking!"

Besides a 45 minute delay, I have no complaints about my dawg's maneuvering of my face. I mean, it was nice. I don't know how he can handle dealing with freaks and putting make up on them, but he does good work. I also walked away with a new gloss (told ya!), a lipstick and some kind of lip pot thing with color action in it. I'm such a boy. And a new compact. I'm almost complete.

But not really. Some hard things happened to me as well. No, for real. Sex & the City concluded it's run after such a nice, loving time last night. I thought that I wasn't gonna cry because I'm such a motherfucking hard ass, but when Harry showed Charlotte pics of "their baby," that did it. Which is weird, since I hate babies so much. And then when Magda gave Miranda that little on the forehead kiss, fuck me if I didn't FEEL the tears running down my face. Those girls. I'm gonna miss them. I feel like I'm gonna miss them THE MOST. Another hard thing that happened was the fact that my big crush is getting crushed. It's a professional crush too. A grown up crush if you will. Why? Because he's a PROFESSOR, you guys. And not only is he a professor, he's also the Director of the Philosophy-Neuroscience Program. That's big time for a girl like me. Usually my crushes barely work and completed (MAYBE) high school and might have a driver's license, but it's not like they have a (registered) car that they can drive. And I'm not complaining about my less professional crushes, I'm pointing out some obvious things here that can't be overlooked. So, yea, back in September or soon after I started working at my Day Job, I realized that one man should be mine. That man with the 3 names, that man with the glasses, that man with the dorkiest walk in the whole entire world, that man with the Latin-esque name, that man with the English accent. I mean, when confirming a meeting I was trying to set up, he wrote back that it was in his DIARY. Who says that? Anyway. The heartache is that I found out today from my boss who knows that our love is real is that he's not single. THE NERVE! And, the real headbanger is, he's NOT gay. See, I thought that, at the very least, if he wasn't totally firing on me via email, he had to be gay. Turns out, he's not gay, he's got a girlfriend! And they want to hire her! No. Bye. And I don't even work in the same department. Maybe it'll be good if she's here. I can stalk her. Well, stalking sounds a bit cruel. I can lurk and stuff. Ya know, be a total creepshow. I'm so pissed though! He was my last chance! There are no other for real babes here on campus. Well, maybe there's an unsuspecting undergrad................

The Oscars are almost near. Here's where I am on my nominated films list. That is, here's what I've seen:

Seabiscuit
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King
Monster
Mystic River
Thirteen
Lost in Translation
Pirates of the Caribbean
The Last Samurai
Big Fish

That's WEAK. BUT, I rented Finding Nemo, American Splendor and Once upon a time in Mexico (only for the candy, only for the candy) AND I now own Whale Rider so that's 3 more. If I can knock out Cold Mountain, I'm considering myself golden. How apropos.

I'm going to see Ludacris in mere DAYS people, days. I'm gonna try and sleep with him. And I'll prove it when I come knocking at your doors with his semen running down my thighs. How will you know it's Luda's though? Cause it'll smell like HOTlanta. Bet.

Late late from coming home from a night of drinking with my friend, we found on the blessed boob tube an infomercial about make up. In fact, it was about the Most Sought After Makeup Artist In The World, Alexis Vogel. Has anyone seen this? Anyone? How bout you? All of her "clients" end up with the Pam Anderson Lee look. That is, cat eyes, peachy cheeks and that in-your-face ouch look that is the lip liner heavily lining your lips surrounding a glossy lip. Alexis' thing is that she did the former Baywatch babe's make up and well, that look stuck and now we ALL must have it. For 4 easy installments of $39 or something, you too can look like you wish you could get away with wearing that look. It comes with an instructional video though. I can't imagine. And the thing is, for real, only the former wife of Tommy Lee can really get away with that Playboy look. Well, other Playboy bunnies can too, but "normal folk" just can't. It ends up looking weird. Like that "illusion" that your lips are bigger by putting gloss in between that dip on your upper lip? It really looks like someone splooged on your face and that's the one spot you forgot to clean up. We couldn't change the channel though. So riveting, so very. You can google her and see the perfection that is her classic look. I'd link it, but I have to pee.