This Little Game Called Amnesia

I invented the best game this weekend while I was in Chicago. It's called "Amnesia."

To play the game, you need another person who you want to make fun of and/or annoy. For me that person was Dave.

This is how the game works:

Me: I have amnesia. Who are you?
Dave: It's me, babe. I'm the love of your life.
Me: You? Come on.
Dave: Seriously.
Me: You must be my crazy neighbor or something.
Dave: No, really. We're in love.
Me: No, really. We're not.
Dave: I don't like this game.

I played this game with him several times this weekend and cracked myself up in the process. "I have amnesia," I would declare at any given moment. Then, "Ha! Ha! Ha!" I would start laughing before I even got to the second line. (The second line being, "Babe, you have to say that you are the love of my life after I ask, 'who are you?'").

Taking into consideration how funny I am, I reminded him of a great idea I had for a reality show. The reality show would consist of me being drunk and making fun of people. I am really funny when I'm drunk. He countered that I might be the only one laughing. Anyway, I highly recommend playing Amnesia with a loved one.

Oh, and here's another game. The game of "27," I guess you could call it. I played this one on the train this morning with the Skeeze whilst trying to decide if I should move to Chicago. This decision will never be made, by the way. Here's 27:

Me: "On the one hand, I'm already 27. I should probably think about settling down with someone and popping out some kids."
Me: "On the other hand, I'm only 27. There's no need to pick up my life and settle down just yet."

When I offer this kind of logic and anti-logic to Dave, he says, "You act like Chicago is some ho-dunk town; like I'm asking you to move to Ohio or something." Compared to NYC, though, everywhere is a ho-dunk town.

Sick

I got food poisoning. Probably bad karma for pretending I'm Frank Bruni, the NY Times food writer, when I go out to eat.

I'll tell you more about that when I return...

Kitlers!

I am officially obsessed with Kitlers.

"What the hell is a 'Kitler'?" one might ask. Well, I’m glad one did.

A Kitler is, by definition, "a cat that looks like Hitler." I ran across a link to this website (CatsThatLookLikeHitler.com) yesterday and seriously had to gag myself so I wouldn’t laugh too loud in the office. I spent a good 45 minutes on the site narrowing down my fave picks to two (pictured). Kitlers #917 and #934 definitely take the kitler kake. I then sent these pics to everyone I know, raving about the site. Their responses?

"Clearly you have a lot going on today?"
"Busy I take it?"
"As bored as you are, just thank God that you aren't bored enough to create a site like this."

It's not that I'm not bored enough, it's that I'm not brilliant enough! People that don't like Kitlers are clearly unimaginative and/or very anal. "But you shouldn't support Hitler. He was mean." Come on now. There is clearly a difference between supporting Hitler and supporting cats that have mustaches. Sheesh.

As a disclaimer, I don’t own a kitler. However, I still felt compelled to write a letter to the editor of the site thanking him for this fine public service. He truly is contributing to society. Please visit his site. Thank you.

I Got My Tarot Cards Read. Trippy.

Friday night was my cousin's thirtieth birthday party. In sync with our family's notorious bad luck, the weather was horrendous and half of her guests couldn't make it. Still, about twenty people came and we all drank way too much.

A friend of mine was supposed to come in from New Orleans but couldn't get into the city, so I had the luxury of stealing his hotel room for the weekend. When I got home from the party, I closed the curtains in the room, laid in bed and did not leave until this morning. I was so lazy that I didn't bother to brush my teeth for two days, nor brush my hair after showering. It's not that I didn't want to brush my teeth, it was moreover that I forgot my toothpaste and didn't feel like calling down to have the front desk deliver some to me. That would have involved human contact, which I wasn't necessarily interested in. As for brushing my hair, hell, I wasn't seeing anyone.

But back to the party. There was a tarot card reader there and I decided that I'd try it out. I've never been to a psychic or had my palms read or any of that. I rarely even read my horoscope. Here's what she said:

1). You're working on a project and you're thinking about quitting it. Don't. (This is true. I've been so disgruntled that I've been thinking about giving up on the project I've been working on. I haven't talked about it much.)

2). You're dating someone but there's a block.

3). Whatever that block is, you need to let it go and give him another chance.

4). This whole situation is affecting your project. It's also making you, no offense, really shallow lately.

5). You're thinking about taking a journey or going somewhere. You need to do that. It will be a spiritual journey and it will be realy good for the project.

6). When you move you're going to meet someone else and that's who you're going to end up with. It's not the guy you're with now.

7). You're ultimately seeking truth.

Wow. That's pretty deep shit. Especially since I was 8 drinks deep and one of my cousin's drunk colleagues was passed out next to me with his fly unzipped.

Dirty Little Secret # 39085095802385fgs

I made the following confession to my Publisher friend yesterday:

"I listened to 'The Da Vinci Code' on audiobook. I vowed to never read the book based on the first 5 pages of simple writing and the fact that everyone loved it, but now I'm addicted. Don’t tell anyone."

This was his response:

"Oh, you are going to have to figure out some way to bribe me if you don’t want me telling people that you are addicted to Da Vinci. Seriously though, I read that book in a single sitting (on a flight to London) and was totally enraptured while I was reading it. At the end of the flight, because I felt so guilty about liking it, I saw a woman eyeing it so I just gave it to her. That way at least, I balanced out the fact that I actually paid Riverhead and Dan Brown for that book."

I’m fully repenting for my sin by sending this confession to Post Secret or Secret Deodorant (who coincidentally stole the former's idea and turned it into a lackluster marketing campaign. Yawn.)

Conspiracy Theories

Regarding Paulo C's Cousin:
The Skeeze posed a very interesting/important question about Paulo C’s cousin’s undeniable reek this morning on the subway:

“Is there some kind of device that could measure the aura of Paulo C’s cousin’s smell?”

“Yeah, your nose.”

“No, I mean something that would turn it purple so that we could see it coming from a mile away.”

“Oh, like that stuff that you put into a pool so that you can see when someone pees?"

"Exactly."

"She really does smell. We can keep the windows open now that it’s getting warm outside.”

“Yes, but it’s pretty amazing how fast she can wipe out clean air. Seconds, I say!”

“What incredible powers she has. She’s basically a Superhero... The Incredible Stink!”

“Or like Pigpen, that little dirty character on Charlie Brown.”

“Oh, that’s good. Pigpen plus the Tasmanian devil cartoon guy. She swirls around and induces fear in everyone with an olfactory system.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Considering the gravity of this conversation, one might deduce that our weekend was not very eventful.

Regarding My New Stalker from Monaco:
My new stalker (who is an ex-summer fling) called me a good 17 times. He then followed up to let me know that I’m the best telephone screener he knows. I can imagine he knows quite a few.

Regarding Dave:
Dave has turned me into quite the psycho, which I find hilarious because I pride myself on being the "cool girlfriend."

Not only did I break up with Dave, take him back, break up with him, take him back and then decide I was moving to Chicago*, I've come up with some theories.

Theory #1: Dave is talking to his ex-girlfriend on his land line, rather than his cellphone.
Theory #2: If I do, in fact, move there, Dave will be happy letting me sit around bored on the weekend while he goes out with his friends (and, of course, his ex)
Theory #3: Since Dave hasn't told his friend that we're together, he is effectively single when they go out. He hooks up with other chicks.

Like I said, I've gone nuts. Do I actually believe any of the above? Absolutely. The worst part of it all is that I know I've gone mad.

*As of today, I’m still moving to Chicago. Tomorrow is a totally different story though.

Vindicated

My boss just referred to herself as "old and soggy."

Other things that are old and soggy:
-Astronaut Lisa Nowak's diaper after 900 miles on the open road.
-James Brown's unburied body after almost 80 days of being preserved in a "climate controlled" room
-The monkey brains that the Vietnamese consider a delicacy

Just Old:
-Dave walking in front of me in public, despite me asking him not to on several ocassions
-Dave not saying bye when he signs off IM, despite me asking him to do so on several ocassions
-Dave not having told his bestfriend that we're dating yet, despite me asking him to do so on several ocassions
-Dave's excuses for all of the above

Just Soggy:
-The socks that I took off yesterday morning after not changing them for two days
-The piece of toilet paper that I use to wipe Paulo C.'s cousin's piss off the toilet seat
-The umbrella that someone left by my office door for me to steal

Not Pregnant, Just Lazy

My sister wrote me just now saying, "Yo, G! You haven't written anything since the other day when I asked if you were preggars. Write back and tell me what's up."

I wrote back, "Not pregnant, wish I was. Just lazy. Writing now."

Over the last few days, I've consistently skipped out of work to drink. Finally, I asked myself, "Is this normal? Do most bored almost-executives do this? Does this mean that I'm an alcoholic?" Then I realized I'm not an alcoholic, I just have a boring job and hang around with a friend who is a very bad influence (this is what my friends' parents used to say about me in high school. Me! Can you believe?)

Dave just had a second interview with a New York-based job. He'll find out if he got it today or tomorrow. Bring on the pregnancy! I told him that I'm going apartment shopping for us this weekend. We finally decided we'd move in together based on the fact that we annoy the hell out of each other from afar, may as well do it in close proximity. Plus, I'll save on rent and he'll have a live-in cook. I don't do dishes, fold or wash laundry however.

In related, I had a great interview on Tuesday. Well, at least I thought it was great. I walked out beaming at the thought of my own corporate credit card with which I can take friends, I mean clients, out for lunches, drinks, etc. Then I realized a few of my fatal errors:

-Mentioning the fact that the "dynamic between my boss and I was broken"
-Mentioning that in five years I hope to be a novelist. Read: Not working for you. Bitch.
-Being all together way too cocky and confident
-Mentioning the fact that I owned my own mag by the time I was 23 (people like to hire robots; resist mentioning independent endeavors always)
-Wearing a see-through shirt that surely made her cringe with jealousy. [Read below about the girls' recent growth spurt]

It was my only out folks. While I'm not totally certain that I didn't get the job, I figure if she doesn't call by tomorrow, I'm shit out of luck.

My Boobs are Growing Out of Control!

Thanks for takin' care of that, brother...

I have no idea why this is, but I have a few guesses:

-I'm pregnant (with quadruplets)

-I eat 4 day-old salmon that has developed, amongst other things, boob growth hormones.

-God is smiling down upon me for all of my benevolent contributions to society

-Good karma for the same

-Someone has a stellar reverse voodoo doll with which they are bringing much joy to my life

-I eat like a damn pig and all the weight is going to my boobs and ass (us quarter Puerto Ricans just got it like that)

-Evolution. Darwin and good ol' Mother Nature want me to attract more mates; have more sex; produce many Gigi-like offspring