My friend Jessica is in town for about a week or so, prior to her deployment to another country for the next three years. Really, her husband is being deployed, but she's along for the ride, because she pretty much married into it, for better or worse. Therefore, since she's been back, I've been debating politics and the lack of art in popular American cinema and literature (though I don't care to call books without artistic merit "literature").
I have to work in less than two hours, but I'm unfortunately so wired on coffee that I haven't been able to sleep in the ninety or so minutes that I've been home. As such, I've decided to take this opportunity to once again remind and assure my three readers that I'm not dead. Not that anything bad has happened to me that might in the remotest of possibilities cause my death, although when Joe Black came knocking at my door, I lied and told him that he was looking for the fifty-something redneck next door. With any luck, I fooled him.
I don't understand the attraction people have to Mischa Barton. She's waify. I hate waify. Sarah Michelle Gellar up until about the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer looked way better than she did in later seasons, when she really seemed to thin out to the point where I started wondering if Freddie Prinze had put her on the Atkins diet. Better example of Sarah Michelle Gellar would have to be Cruel Intentions, but that's just because we all love a bad girl; especially one who would ever use the line, "You can put it anywhere." ... I don't care whether or not she means it, but it takes quite a girl to say something like that.
I have a tentative date with a girl for sometime in the future that has yet to be determined, provided mutually beneficial schedules can be found. In other words, sometime around June, I'm probably going out on a date. I didn't ask, really. I would have, really; no seriously, I would have, but Jessica got tired of listening to me talk to the girl about everything except going out on a date, and took my cell phone from me and proceeded to inform the girl in question that she should drop all of her plans and go out with me sometime, because I'm a very nice guy. Jessica can say this sort of thing, because she's married and lives in another state, and therefore doesn't have enough time to spend with me, so as to find out how nice a guy I'm really not. In any case, I've got a date that will be scheduled and rescheduled six times over before I actually go out on it. This is how my life works.
Unfortunately, this date means that I have to break the promise to myself that the next girl that I go out with will be Eliza Dushku. Sadly, reality had to set in sometime.
Today's payday, and I'm supposed to go out drinking with Jessica tonight, although there's a real lack of anything to do in the area. The bar scene out here really sucks if you don't feel like playing NTN trivia, I'm not sure where a good place for karaoke is any night other than Monday, and Five Year Jacket is about a week from losing its place on my sidebar because Kevin's not in the band anymore. Oh, I'm sure they're still a great and fun time, but it's just not the band that I bootlegged down in Seneca. This probably means a trip out to Tavern on the Fox, where they have the best Guinness that I've had in northern Illinois (coming in fairly close to Fat Jack's in Bloomington).
I've been looking at the notion of sticking sponsors up on my site, since I think that I'd be able to make something on the level of about fifty cents a month. If I didn't have to write that up as taxable income, you'd be seeing ads on this site for Viagra and -I would hope- ads for various "XXX" websites that would prominently feature the boobies that you don't find here. ... Speaking of which, I recently watched the trailer for XXX: State of the Union; the sequel so bad that even Vin Diesel wouldn't do it. Yes, it's probably even worse than Chronicles of Riddick.
Anyway, I have to be at work in 63 minutes, so I think that sleep is out of the question at this point. If I'm lucky, I'm not going to have to deal with a broken photo-developer, but I'm almost positive that I will, since the people that seem to want to work in Tarzhay's photo-lab-thing are people who don't give a shit about their customers or their customers' pictures; they just want the easiest job in the store. And it is the easiest job in the store, until I deem it necessary to vote them off the island because they're absolutely fucking incompetent; which is probably going to be the case today. I hate those fuckers, why does the company keep insisting we train more people in a department where three of us have been running the desk for a month without a problem? Because they're fuckwads, that's why.
Anyway, one of these days, I'm going to get perilously close to having boobies here, as we're going to talk about Bloomington's own Eden Prairie (there's a word that looks wrong any way you spell it), the Eastland Mall; home to attractive internet models who don't get naked. You're damn right; I'm going to sell out.