Please sign my petition. Thanks.

I don't have much to report today, seeing as how last night consisted simply of D arriving and then dinner at Artisanal. So yummy. Carpaccio of Hamachi, Truffled Trout and Lamb with a dried caper rub or something like that.

I promise that next week will be a lot better than this week. Cesar laid it out flat for me: I'm slippin'. Sorry about that.

Details and apologies aside though, I have serious matters to deal with here:

I want to start an online petition for D to move here, seeing as how - oh - I can't live without him.

No big deal.

So, I'm going to need your help. Now that my comments are open, why don't you be a dear and travel down yonder to write a little note to D telling him that he should move here?

Here are the roadblocks:

-He owns a place in Chicago (very nice - for what he pays there, he could get a small, yet nice studio here. BUT, he could sublease it for a year or so then move back to it. Problem solved.)
-He hates NYC (minor detail)
-His dad is sick (This is the only one that makes me feel guilty asking him to move)
-All his friends are there

Here are the upsides:

-I'm here.

Shit, so maybe the scales are tipped a bit more toward Chicago. But, I just want a year. Oh yeah, and I don't want him to move in with me so comments regarding how shitty it is to move in together don't apply.

Thanks all. I'm sure this will be really effective, as are most petitions.

ha ha.

Comments finally open... and other mediocre updates

Here are some tidbits from life lately, in case you are interested and stuff.

D will be at my house in approximately 8 hours: Yayy! This news is great enough to have its own whole entry. Alas, I realize that it might not be interesting to anyone but me. And if it were, that would be kind of weird anyway.

A new dis from a new magazine is in the works: I submitted work to another household magazine (to be revealed after I get dissed), which means I should have a fresh denial letter for you all soon. I could possibly publish a coffee table book if I receive enough of these. Actually, that's a pretty good idea (which I am copywriting right now, by publishing it publicly - so get off it). If any of you have some denial letters from any magazines other than MAD, CRACKED, JANE, or McSweeney's, send them my way. I'll start an archive and give you credit for it if I ever do publish it. I'm serious.

I went out with Cak last night: She finally told me the whole story on her lousy, cheating boyfriend. The cheating episode she has always alluded to was not, as I thought, played out with some random chick. No, no, no - even worse. Three weeks after he and Cak started dating, the dirtball boyfriend went on vacation with his WIFE (to be fair, they were seperated, but still...), and got her pregnant! That is why Cak is so insecure. But this is not an excuse for her insecurity. She's a dumb ass for going back to him. Wow.

Today in Chosen: I haven't mentioned Chosen at all lately, which probably explains my surge in traffic (and by "surge in traffic," I mean 20-30 visitors/day). I got a text message from him the other day that said he slammed his finger and probably wouldn't be able to update his blog this week. I volunteered to guest blog for him and contributed this idea for my guest post. The little bastard loved the idea so much, he went ahead and wrote it himself, despite his pancaked finger. At least he gave me credit though. In addition, he sent me a follow-up text message last night:

"5 hours at the hospital yesterday, a tetnus shot, minor finger surgery, then back to the office at 9 pm with a numb finger. Regurgitate that biyatch!"

Well played, Chosen!

*By the way, Chosen just read his post and was dismayed that I didn't mention he just got accepted into Harvard's MBA program. Well, he did. Go Chosen. In his own words: "Btw...just got into Harvard yesterday! Go me. I am so smart" Then he asked me to guess what movie his quote was from.

Roommate on his best behavior: My roommate contacted me shortly after I wrote yesterday's post and asked me if I was plannig to move out. I told him the deal and he broke down saying the reason he hasn't been talking to me is because he's seriously depressed about his job situation; that he's broke and 30 and can't seem to get a job. Now call me a wimp, but I felt bad. Especially because I posted the 8 or 9 different career paths he mentioned. Needless to say, I'll probably be staying in my apartment.

Greetings from my SuperStalker: Now, it might seem a little odd that I've developed a friendly relationship with my SuperStalker, but trust me, what they say about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer, is pretty right on. Thusly:

"Sorry about my lack of communication. I know we had agreed on a SLA (Stalking Level Agreement), and I have not been meeting it lately. I've been too busy being creepy in real life, to take my efforts online."

My Glamorous Job: One of my new pen pals told me that my job sounds glamorous. I hope I have not given anyone else that completely misconstrued idea. My job is so not glamorous.

Today in Cesar: Cesar should be getting a couple of job offers today. Neither of those will be glamorous either. However, he will now have less time to criticize my blog. Jerk.

Ex-Boyfriend's New Girlfriend: I promised you all the other day that I would return for comment on the fact that my ex, M, is dating a girl who has vision problems. This was part of Cesar's big campaign for me to "spice up the ol' blog [because it's getting boring]." However, the situation does not interest me enough to respond by saying rude things about how the only way he could get this new chick is if she can't see him. Plus, that would just be wrong.

Alright. That's all from me. Oh yeah, comments will be left open from now on, so feel free to, ummm, comment.

The Apartment Hunt: Day 1

The apartment hunt is officially on.

As mentioned previously, I hate my roommate. So, instead of moping around and feeling sorry for myself (which, coincidentally, is what I did Monday and Sunday), I've decided to take matters into my own hands. You see, I'm not on the lease, so treating me like shit is a not a wise decision on his part. I should also pat myself on the back for a few of the [many] other kind gestures I've made that similarly make me wonder what his problem is: Hooking him up with my friends in the legal field when he mentioned wanting a job in that area, referring real estate clients to him knowing that he works on commission only, and maintaing an overall sunny disposition to which he returns home to daily. Not to mention, making sure there is always coffee and cream, buying the toilet paper twice in a row without mentioning that—"yo, it's your turn, jerk"—and taking out the recycling even though none of it is mine. Do I want a cookie? Maybe. At the very least, a scrap. Mainly because these are things that don't usually bug me, but might drive him to insanity if he were in my position. He's OCD. No joke.

I should have known early on in the game that Ken was going to be a problem roommate. His previous roommate mentioned—casually and on several different occassions—that Ken was moody. But, my apartment is killer, so I didn't want to hear it. None of it.

All of this brings me to my apartment hunt. I went to look at a studio last night a few blocks up from me. The landlord's asking $1,275/month, which is actually quite reasonable, but not something that I would currently pay. I told him to call me if he'll take $1,150 for it. After all, the view out the window is a McDonald's. I didn't even know that place still exhisted. Of course, I am one of the biggest food snobs you'll ever meet, so this isn't as odd as it sounds.

My friend Jewels and I are going to look at a 2 bedroom on the upper, upper westside that costs $1,250/month, i.e. $625 each. For that price, I'm not too concerned whether I like the place or not. I don't care if there are cops permanently trolling the block at night—you know, because of "recent incidents." And I don't care that the crappiest subway line in NYC is the only one that ventures my way. I'd be saving $500/month, which would be put toward trips to Brazil and the like. Not a bad trade off at all.

These and a few other 'maybes', are what I found after my first day of looking. When I returned to my building last night, my neighbor told me that Ken knows I'm looking to move out. Upon entering my apartment, and in a shocking turn of events, Ken was actually being pleasant. By pleasant I mean, greeting me upon walking in the door, speaking, and making jokes. Yes, yes, you might think that greeting your roommate and talking to your roommate are obligatory duties, but it has been 2 weeks since he and I last spoke. Evidently this is a talent he can turn on and off at will because once he heard that I might be leaving, he—ta da—is no longer a mute. Oh, and this morning he made coffee and put my favorite cup and a spoon out for me. He is really, really making a compelling effort here.

But, no—I can not fall for his momentary charms! He did this last time I threatened to move out and I fell for it. He's not going to change! I must remain strong. I can not take him back. I am too good for him. It's over!

New Reader Bio (With Foreword): #3 in a Series

Before you get to meet Paulina—a non-trash talkin' Chinese woman*—I have to extend a little apology. You see, Cesar and D both think I'm getting a little boring lately; depending too much on other people's letters and correspondence for material. Cesar said, "G--you're really slipping lately," and D commented that, "Baby, I'll read anything you write. No matter how good or bad...or boring," both of which made me feel just a bit tingly inside. After all, I love when people think I'm lazy and boring.

Anyway, Cesar really thinks it would be a good idea for me to broach the subject of my ex dating a supermodel with seeing disabilities (that bastard has always had a knack for achieving the impossible. I hate him for this. He deserves no happiness in this world). Cesar also suggested that I write about the time I was interviewing for a publicist position with Time Warner Books and right after my would-be boss shared in on the fact that some of her author clients have demands such as Chilean Seabass for their dogs, I rolled my eyes and said, "Whatever—who the hell do they think they are?" But, that's about the gist of the story, so there ya go. Well, that, and the fact that I don't currently work for Time Warner Books, I guess. All of this is to say, I'll be back sometime today to bitch about the ex. And, maybe I'll add a dash of bitters to the roommate situation. That's that. This is Paulina. Make her feel at home.

"You are very welcome to post that picture I sent. Glad you like it (although you really don't have to be polite sugar pie). The totality of it is actually nude. Hehe"

Name: Paulina Lilian Chow
Born: Friday 26th April 1985
Sign: Taurus sun, Cancer moon, Libra rising
Occupation: Proprietor and principal beneficiary of Aid for Struggling Students / High Priestess for Catholic Appreciation of Tantric Living
Skills: Pouting and getting my way
Collects: Sexy lingerie, older men
Vices: Fantasizing about God then cheating on Him with my boyfriend and loving it

*A rare breed, indeed. But, not one that does not exist, evidently.

Chinese Women Talk a Lot of Trash: A Polite Rebuttal

Advance thanks to Paulina, who—since writing—has learned that exploiting stereotypes is fun for the whole family!

Actually, Paulina is the latest in my list of Pen pals, which brings me back to 4th grade when I wrote regularly to a girl in Senegal. Ah, those were the good ol' days.

As for having anything against Chinese people, I don't. I just think it's pretty damn funny to place blame on an entire culture for the actions of only a few. To be fair, I invite you to return the favor. If you have any unfair generalizations about Spanish, Puertorican, German Jews, bring 'em on!

On that note, I'm going to get my eyebrows waxed again this week... You know what that means, right? Another fun episode of Chinese Women Talk a Lot of Trash will be hitting your computer screen soon.

That's enough from me. I'll pass the mic to Paulina*:

GiGi-

I checked out your blog, which I enjoyed reading very much until I got to the posts "Chinese Women Talk A Lot of Trash". Now, I am Chinese myself and though not particularly patriotic, nor fussed about political correctness, I must say that it sounded like you were making quite an unfair sweeping generalization there. Then again, I don't live in New York so I wouldn't have the chance to verify whether or not your Chinese female population are the most enlightened bunch. Although I am quite determined to show you that not all Chinese women talk trash through this communication (I could not find a guestbook to sign on your site so excuse me for intrusively writing you an email as such)!

Hope you are not going to take this as an accusation because it really is not (well, perhaps you would think I am talking trash here, too). It will be nice to hear from you. Keep posting.

Best regards,
Paulina

*Paulina's 'new reader bio' will be up shortly.

I Hate My Roommate

Instead of telling you exactly how much I hate him, I'll give you a list of occupations he's threatened to pursue in the last 3 months (He's 29 years old, mind you):

1) Lawyer (transactions, not litigation)

2) Personal Shopper (But one who only caters to women who are visiting NYC from out of town, over 40 and are accompanying their husbands who happen to be here on business)

3) Interior Designer (He's straight. It just won't work out)

4) Police officer (Thinks he'll jump in and start as a lieutenant because he has a law degree)

5) Fireman (Instant chicks, bra! Yeah, pass the beer bong, dude!)

6) Real estate office manager (He has a job offer but won't commit...because he's getting younger daily and has other options on the table. I mean, really...)

7) Author - you know, like of a *novel* (I really hate him for even mentioning that option)

8) Husband of a Rich Woman (Duh.)

I'm sure there are more, but he disgusts me way too much to give him any further thought. On that note, if any of you live in Manhattan and have an extra room available, like, now - email me. I might be interested.

In completely unrelated news, I'm thinking about opening up the blog to comments here soon, so keep visiting. I haven't yet this far because I was getting too many advertisements. I'd like to keep out the riff-raff too, if you know what I mean. I'm running a classy establishment here. Wink, wink.

Carrie's Voodoo Box Regains its Umph.

I mentioned my friend Carrie's useless voodoo box a while back. She's had some problems with guys, confidence and money as of late. And, quite frankly, the box in which she has placed so much faith (not to mention, a lock of hair) has failed her like a religion for way too long. Well, evidently, it has stepped up to the plate and reclaimed its manhood, because this is the text message I got from her on Friday morning:

On my way 2 San Fran. 2 nights. 2 suitcases. 1 containing 5 pairs of high heels. Money 2 burn. Hold me back. Lady on the loose!

There's no moral to this story. This is just an update. Have fun, my bestfriend and sister!

A brief summary of me (by someone who is not me!)

My new friend*, Chad, in Bahrain summarized my site like this:

• Life Regurgitated for your Chewing Pleasure
  Because she writes great, delivers a marvelously bitchy wit, and takes photos of the back of her head!

Can you really ask for more than that? No, no—you just can't.


*Anyone who links to me is automatically my friend. Really. Keep that in mind—all of this can be yours. We can even go shopping on the weekends, grab a relaxing coffee drink or eat multi-flavored rice puddings with multiple scrumptious toppings. Yummy.

How I Know I'm a Geek...

It wasn't ever a question in my mind that I'm a geek, but these 4 incidents confirm the fact if ever I'm in doubt.


1) I get along with geeky people:

At last night's dinner meeting, I met a group of people who I usually only work with over email as they are based all over the country. Over email they are dry, dry, dry. But, over a cocktail bar they were quite different.

2) I enjoy geeky ideas:

I got lucky with my table selection. The guy and girl I was sitting next to indulged in the hosted bar probably even more than I did. The girl was a bit younger than me, but heads up her company's division, so it was great to hear her talking about the hot little numbers in the crowd. She kept on spotting wedding rings, which is a practice I don't yet partake in. But that's because I'm taken myself, so a guy's status doesn't affect me. We were all pretty surprised by the good looking turnout and we shared tidbits of gossip we knew about the others. Evidently we have some lushes, some cheaters, some geeks, some kiss asses, etc... The usual stats for a meeting. Since we're in publishing, it wasn't long until we had created a future gossip magazine about our organization. It's title will be:

Can I have some of your meat? You can have some of my fish.

Perhaps a bit long, but very appropriate. These were the lines passed between myself and one of my new colleagues.

3) I thought this was funny:

The above mentioned colleage is an Indian guy who recited what he considers his most promising pick-up line duet. It is usually performed with one of his white friends, but he improvised:

White guy: I am the sugar
Colleague: And, I am the spice

Colleague: I am the curry
White guy: And, I am the rice

Colleague: I am the naan
White guy: And, I am beyond... (Here, the speaker puts his hands out as if to symbolize endless possibilities).

I asked him if that really worked for him? He said it does, but I have my doubts.

4) My Sister Told Me So:*

"I have been so busy that I have not been able to read your dailyblog...until now - WHO THINKS YOU ARE UGLY??? What a fag. He is probably the ugliest person you have ever seen, thus the need to hide behind acomputer and make (lame, I might add) judgments about others. Although,this is kind of a tricky situation for you...your rebuttal must have been hard as everything we hate about him; rude, cyber friend junky, dork, funny but not...are all the things that make you great. LOL. He just needed some damn material. You know the feeling. If given the chance...he'd fuck. FORSURE. hahahahaha, anyway. That was not the best picture of you either."

*This is the last time Mr. Yeats will get play on my site. He got a lot of cyber-ass from me this week.

Greetings from Grenada, Death to Gilmore Yeats and a SuperStalker Funeral Update.

Since I'm stuck in meetings all this week, I must hash out some more trusty emails from my archives.

Trust me though—this isn't some haphazardly-organized crap collage. Rather, it's a very rigid, *themed* crap collage. That's right, the theme is Death. But, I'm not talkin' death in a goth way. More like death in a rebirth sort of way. Symbolic. Kinda like Jesus rising from the dead, only not nearly as deep. That said...

In the first scene, we encounter Cesar and his girlfriend, Candie. Candie is about to embark upon the dissection of a dead body for one of her med school classes in Grenada (it's a country, evidently). The following scene finds us with bigmammajamma, a fellow commentator for The Bastardly, who similarly dispises Mr. Yeats and wishes him dead. Finally, we hear from my SuperStalker who writes from the toilet in his hotel room—it being his temporary lodging while attending an out-of-state funeral.

Scene 1

Cesar: "We went out to dinner last night. There isn't much in the way of restaurants, but the food was good, spicy. We're going to have some wine after Candie gets back from playing with dead bodies today."

Candie: "Hey GiGi. It's Candie now. It is so fun to play with dead bodies. They are the delight of the day and night. Actually, I got to look at dead mens' peepees today... aaah the joys of dead men... I don't think that I am going to let [Cesar] come back to NY. He is too cute for that place. Have a great day GiGi."

Scene 2

"So, I saw the little interaction between you and Gilmore on the bastardly comments of the bastardly lady of the day. Wow, I've already said bastardly 2 times. Make that 3. Anyway, don't sweat his comments. Gilmore is a sad specimen of a human being who usually spends his time making horribly nasty comments about whoever happens to be under fire. However, he usually confines his comments to being a disgustingly bigoted racist asshole.

"All of his posts include his lovely racist diatribe. I'm just trying to show you how he is a completely vile human being. I usually call him out on what a piece of shit he is. The Lena post is, most likely, the only instance in which I agreed with him. You know, about the girl seeming like she was super impressed with the fact that she was smoking weed. Anyway, hopefully, looking at these other posts will give you more fodder for making fun of him on your blog. By the way, I started reading your blog last week after I saw a link for it on the bastardly and I think you are hysterical. I love your new line about the strap-on balls. Classic. I'll have to use it on my husband sometime. Additionally, I think you're pretty and that the people that commented yesterday were just being assholes. Oh, if you do decide to look up Gilmore Yeats' lovely comments, I post as badmammajamma. Keep up the good work on your blog and don't worry about the shitheads!!"

Scene 3

"Your blog is still very dear to me, and although bitchy, I think I like your style of bitchiness. If it were possible, I would never leave my room. It is so much safer, then having to deal with the outside world which is full of strange people...

"Funerals are funerals, glad you have avoided going to one. Most of its just small talk around a dead body with the undertone of trying to compare oneself to another to see whose life is less crappy! The only good thing is the car ride which gave me time to think up 4 new Mass Questions to send out to people. So far I've been hitting up the religious blog rolls, but have been getting back scriptures as responses when I ask for advice on my "lesbian" relationship. Go figure. Expect one of the Q's to be posted next week if I can get enough responses.

"The usual is going on with me. Just work drama and sleep deprivation. Fortunately there is wifi in the hotel. Oddly enough the strongest signal in the room is while sitting on the toilet.

Some ladies are here, and I never refuse a lady in need ;)"

People think I'm ugly!

Woohoo!

Click HERE for the resounding evidence

This is some good material, for sure. And yes, it's true. I am a pretty heinous individual. Yawn.



I mean, really? How could anyone think that I (refer to my picture above*) am anything less than stunning?

I'm especially fond of "Gilmore Yeats'" comments. Gilmore, by the way, is an internet blog-writer psychologist by trade. He or she or whatever it is diagnoses the internet's finest writers—uh hem—via comment boards and open forums. I have my opinions about this but, hell, I'll let Gilmore have its day. Here is the first of its 2 comments (I've bolded the especially telling symptoms it has pointed out):

"Wow. Gigi is suffering from what’s called “delusions of grandeur”. Gee, I wonder if she hangs out with ugly dudes who worship her, because she’s average looking? I’ve seen it a hundred times. I feel bad for her. She obviously has nothing meaningful in her life, and has to rely on attention from others to be satisfied with herself. I hope she can live past 40, but with the impending anorexia and requisite drug addiction for her needy/depressed personality type, she’ll be lucky to see 40 (Though she looks 45).

I mean, seriously, we’ve all seen this type of girl. Men do not take them seriously because they present themselves so poorly and sluttily. Sure, you have a few orgasms from a few drunken one-nighters, but you will be one lonely, sad, disheveled pile of human debris in a few years. The clock is ticking, she’ll never have kids, or a family. Guys don’t want to marry a skank.

Gil out."

Hmmm...Is that you Dr. Phil? Nope. It's Dr. Gil!
Isn't that just precious?

Then Gil returns for one last sentiment: "I pray for your death with every string of my soul."

That is some seriously deep shit. It prays for my death. Prays? Like, to God? Wow! (And to think, I usually just ask for money and stuff...)

Ironically, someone who accuses me of "having nothing meaningful in [my] life," spends its time posting novel length comments on random internet sites. Looking for new clients? Could be.

An interesting tactic, indeed. Maybe even a respectable one. After all, everyone's gotta pay the bills somehow. My hat goes off to you, Dr. Gil.

Now, be a dear and hook me up with some Prozac and some other of your sweet goodies for the mind. I'm in the market for some depression meds. You just ruined me. (Wink, Wink) Woe is me...

*Update: Thomas Westerburg writes, "I can't believe you let Gilmore get to you! And then you post a picture of his mother! That's low."

There's a difference between letting someone get to you and being at a loss for good material. And, I must say, this is definitely good material.

Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash, Episode 3

On our way from Union Square to SoHo this weekend, my sister conned me into stopping at some tented jewelry kiosk to look at some rings. As you might expect, the guy working there surrounded us like a fly on shit, making sure he could assist us and maybe even seal the deal on some of his goods.

Calm down, already.

I saw him walk away and pass off his babysitting responsibilies to a woman colleague. She—a heavyset, flannel shirt-wearin', Chinese bull dyke—stood almost on top of me with her hands behind her back, adding non-requested commentary to our conversations (Does this method really work for you? I tend to doubt it).

It was annoying threefold:
1) No one invited her to our party
2) My sister and I don't exactly come off as criminals
3) The bull dyke could have stood another 3 feet back as to not smother me, and still manage to catch us in our stealing act, had stealing even been our intention.

It wasn't. We weren't planning to run off with a plastic rings treasure chest.

My sister and I didn't refrain from our terse commentary (that which narrates all of our adventures) due to present company. I asked Rachel if she liked a necklace I picked up or if she thought it looked cheap?

"Yeah, it looks like you got it here," she replied.

Nuff said. We were in a tent, after all.

I then pulled a ring out of its little velvet cubby, only to realize that it was huge.

I commented that, "This is for a guy's big toe."

That's when the Chinese bull dyke stepped in. She had obviously heard enough.

"Not all people are as fortunate as you. People come in all shapes and sizes. We have to make jewelery for everyone."

What I thought: Geez, you really told me, lady. I feel so bad for making such a heartless comment. You are so benevolent and I -- I am just a stuck up, self-centered American whose knowledge is limited only to my tight knit, group of petite cronies. The rest of my day will be spent in guilt, while your day will no doubt be spent basking in the glory that results from having enlightened such a simpleton being, such am I.

What I said: "Yes," I replied. "And you've made sure to make a ring for a guy's big toe. So, what's the problem?"

What I should have said: Refer to "What I thought."

At that point, I stopped looking at her jewelry. There was no reason for me to buy anything from her. Hell, we were surrounded by about 20 other tents having exactly the same sweat factory-produced goods. That simple economic detail in mind, she should have backed off and agreed with me that, yes, the ring could fit on a big man's toe... because it could. Instead of sharing hatred, we could have shared a cup of tea; perhaps a little chuckle. This seems the more appropriate response seeing as how the comment was for the sake of jest and our own entertainment, not for her offense nor listening pleasure. Furthermore, if she wouldn't have been right on top of me—employing a stance that assumed guilt despite the existance of a crime—our dear bull dyke here wouldn't have even been privy to a comment that was never intended for her listening pleasure.

Despite the content though, I do have to give her credit for talkin' her trash in English. The previous offenders did all their trash-talkin' in Cantonese and Mandarin. Vietnamese? Maybe that too.

After giving it some thought, however, I don't think this woman knew a lick of Cantonese, Mandarin or Vietnamese. Unfortunately, her inclination to talk trash in English was simply by default.

'Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash' is a continuous series. To catch up on your reading, venture here.

New Reader Bio: #2 in a series of (hopefully) many

Contrary to popular belief, this is not your typical self-centered blog. No, no, no - I'm building a community here. It is a family-oriented, self-helping, positive energy-filled ... umm, cult.

The next person in contention to drink the punch will be:


Name: Thomas S. Westberg
Born: Year of the monkey
Sign: Libra
Hair: Thinning gracefully (yeah right)
Eyes: Bloodshot
City/State of Residence: Purgatory
Occupation: Burnout... no, Producer/Songwriter
Skills: Tracking people down, cooking
Vices: Alcohol, expensive things, gambling, reading
Collects: Pornography, animal hides (no relation between the two)

Remember to say hi to him when you trip over him, his 6 wives, and his 46 kids on your way to the communal bathroom at night. He's a congenial lad, for sure.

Stay tuned: Another episode of Chinese Women Talk a lot of Trash is coming soon to a neighborhood near you!

Shameless Self-Promotion: Who? Me? Never.

I'm a simple woman with simple needs. It doesn't really take too much to please me. Just say nice things about me and I'm a happy camper. Hell, it saves me the time I would have wasted doing it myself.

A new reader (whose Bio I will post later in the day) mentions dear GiGi while pontificating upon a current fashion trend that he would prefer dead.

So, without further ado:

Sausage is what you get

[Click on the title above to visit his blog]

Since I'm obviously busy doing other things (being multi-talented is a pain in the ass I tell you), let me point you in the direction of another great(er) blog:

regurgitatedlife.blogspot.com tells it like it is. Hostess GiGi's got some mean writing chops, she can kick ass when needed, but also take it like the bitch she is.

In other news... I'm still waiting for the "boots on the outside"-phenomenon to die and go away. While it doesn't affect me directly, I wonder if these girl know that it requires 1. a great ass, 2. a suitable pair of jeans, and 3. a great ass, to pull it off without looking like a sausage.

People looking for grillz find me instead.

This person, however, was looking for fake, cheap grillz. Not the high end, blingified grillz D and I are wearing below.

Oh yeah, I sent the grillz picture to my friend who works for Nelly's clothing company, Applebottoms. She forwarded it to everyone in her office except Nelly. I guess she doesn't have confidence in my ability to star in a rap video, but I won't let her opinion spoil my dreams.* Hopefully someone in her office will notice my blatant potential and pass it to the right person. Sigh. So close, yet still so very far.

That's all. Thought I'd share.

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*I don't want to be in a rap video.

"My New Line" gets a rave review. In Related News: I'm tired and drunk.

A fan with refined taste and a craving for the finer things in life, writes in regarding my new line.

Now, I know I'm being really lazy, and perhaps even a bit greedy, for just posting his letter instead of telling everybody about Jewtopia, the hysterical and stereotype-infested off-Broadway play that D and I went to see last night (Yes, I firmly embrace stereotypes as a source of humor). But, the letter is a good one and let's just say D and I over-indulged last night. I despise going out on school nights, but like I tell D, I have to be heavily drugged to put up with him, so, well, yeah... I'm pretty not sober right now.

On that note, here's the letter:

GiGi,

I don't know if you've seen Ray (the movie), but there's this scene where two of the chicks in the band trade pleasantries:

Ray Charles: From now on we're gonna sing a four part harmony. Ethel, I want you to sing alto. Margie, I want you to sing tenor. Pat, soprano, and Mary Ann, bass.

Mary Ann Fisher: I ain't no bass. I'm a soprano.

Margie Hendricks: I'll sing bass. Where we come from we can sing anything.

Mary Ann Fisher: We talking about singing, sugar, not hog calling.

Fathead Newman: Oh that's cold.

I don't know, I guess you actually have to be watching the movie, and maybe do some time in the ghetto (which I did), to fall off your chair laughing at the execution of that last line. Today's blog entry produced a similar reaction.

"Do you want me to strap on some balls and be the man in this relationship? Because I will."

Brilliant. Hilarious. And, fuck, that's cold.

Sincerely,
real342 AKA bufflo AKA the name in the From: field

My New Line

Okay, I'm telling you my new line for when you're man is misbehaving like D was the other day.

I should mention that D and I get along great and don't usually argue. Also, I'm not self-righteous enough to use this line regularly, but on occasion, a man is entitled to a proper status report.

Now that the disclaimers are out of the way, here's a brief background clip.

I mentioned before that D is the friend of a guy I dated 4 years ago. Well, we haven't told my ex yet and the other day I was thinking that, hell, maybe we should go ahead and take care of that. D didn't want to though because he's the one who will have to handle damage control. Both he and my ex live in Chicago and my ex is not at all understanding about these things. He's extremely conservative, etc... Plus, D is friends with all of my ex's brothers, who are similarly stubborn and hardheaded. They are a different kind of people, to say the least.

Well, when the subject came up, I was PMS'n, which I do very well, and I refused to drop the topic. D argued that he didn't want to say anything yet because of the above. We went back and forth--me bitching because it won't make it any better if we wait a year. D bitching because he's the one who's going to have to deal with it.

Then came the line:

"Do you want me to strap on some balls and be the man in this relationship? Because I will."

D was furious. I thought I'd kick him while he was down and throw in a little: "You act so macho, but you can't even take care of this. Literally, where are my strap-on balls?"

I calmed down after this, because really, I'm not ready to lose my ex's friendship. I actually even feel bad about this situation - not because it's necessarily wrong, but because it would hurt him.

But, all of that is gushy and besides the point. The point is this: Every time D opens up his mouth and spews out the wrong comment, I just ask him where my balls are. He shuts up pretty quick. I really suggest you try it out, or, if you're a guy, don't provoke its removal from the arsenal.

D and I got grillz

Okay, not really, but isn't this funny? I went through the whole online grillz catalogue to pick out these babies. I wanted the most bling possible so that my mouf would be sparklin'. I told D that I know all them hoes is going to try and creep up on his ass, but he's gotz to be loyal to his shorty. (I am so not ghetto, it hurts)

D comes into town in two hours, so I'm all flustered. I have a new line I'm going to share with everybody tomorrow. It's really an effective way to piss the boys off. It was with great chagrin that I discovered it, so come back soon, ya hear?

Chinese women talk a lot of trash

Episode #1

My dad and I were in China Town walking around. Dad needed a little water so we stopped into a random grocery shop.

"How much for a water?" asks my dad.

"5 dolla," answers the lady.

Now, obviously my dad knows this is overpriced, but he's dying of thirst so he pulls out the cash.

As he does so, the ladies begin speaking to one another in Cantonese, straight-faced and monotone -- as is oft the case when they're talking trash. Of course they wouldn't expect that my dad -- light-haired and fair skinned -- speaks fluent Cantonese.

So, when he hears one of them say: "This stupid American is actually going to give me $5 for a bottle of water," he responds in Cantonese, "How much do you usually charge?"

They laugh in embarrassment and give him the water bottle for free.

Episode #2

Yesterday I went to get my eyebrows waxed. While I was there, I decided to get a pedicure. I was sitting right next to someone else who was getting a pedicure so our two ladies were speaking to one another throughout in some Chinese dialect. If what my lady said to me was in any way a reflection of their conversation, I imagine their conversation broached the following topics:

Try to upsell her. She's a dumb, rich American.

[Upselling then ensued. I fell for it, opting for the "mosturizing pomegranate" pedicure, which was no more than some salty stuff slabbed on my legs and rubbed around. In my defense, the girl next to me had a much better lady who was massaging every little individual toe. That's what I thought I was getting sold on.]

Ha! She fell for that. Now offer her the 10-minute massage.

[Offering of the 10-minute massage took place. I declined. The girl next to me fell for it]

Your girl has hairy ass legs.

[I really do. I told D that I can tell how long he's been away by the length of hair on my legs. He thought I was kidding. I wasn't. Anyway, I told the lady I was going to go home to shave before the pedicure and she insisted I stay now. She wanted to lock this deal down, baby! Big bucks!]

Offer her the 10-minute massage again. This time employ the sullen puppy-dog look.

[Again I declined. Chinese puppy dogs aren't my cup-o-tea. Plus, if my "leg massage" was any indication of what the 10-minute massage was like, I was out.]

These ladies were of a very non-discreet breed. I have to give some credit to my dad's ladies. If he didn't speak Cantonese, we would have had no idea they were talkin' shit. As for mine, they were basically pointing at my legs, laughing, and talking shit. Very subtle, ladies. I'm sure I'll be back.

Premature Conclusion

Stuff like this makes me kind of wonder about those Chinese symbols people get tattooed on their backs. I imagine that they don't really say "Tranquility," "Strength," or "Independent." Probably something more along the lines of "This dumb American thinks this symbol means 'Tranquility,' 'Strength,' or 'Independent.'"

Chinese Women Talk A Lot of Trash

GiGi Presents: Innovative German Advertisers

I have won Germany's affection with my stalker articles below. If you take a gander up top (I have pasted it into the body as well in case it changes), you'll notice that my Google ad is a German one. That's right, I'm international now, baby!

Germany's very concise satellite, verbalization system* picked up the words "stop" and "stalking" and decided that my blog would be an appropriate place to advertise whatever the hell this is:

DSA Amsterdam Stalking stoppen? Unieke methode! Bekend van televisie. 020-5616236
Ads by Goooooogle

I couldn't agree more. I bring business to the masses.


*I made this system up, as it turns out.

Boyfriend Exit Interviews

I received an email with the subject line: "Hey Bro, I found the coolest site..."

When I opened it, it was no more than one of those incognito flea markets of cheap viagra, penis enlargement pills, and some other girth-enhancement, hair growth, sexual substances for which I'm not currently in the market.

However, I've always thought it would be funny to forward one of these emails to a few of my ex-boyfriends with a little note; something along the lines of, "Hey M - I saw this and it immediately reminded me of you. Fancy that! So, how's life? Kisses."

But, I figure that if I do that I won't be able to get them to fill out my new ex-boyfriend exit interview. That's right. I've come up with the dating equivalent of the corporate exit interview. Well-run businesses and organizations conduct interviews with their employees when they leave the company. Essentially it's to find out how they can improve the environment for future employees, but it's too a way to find out the dirt on some of the current employees; namely management or other higher-ups.

Anyway, my boyfriend exit interview will provide similar insight. General questions such as:

Why are you leaving?
What would have made the 'working' environment more desirable?
What suggestions do you have for the person who fills your position? In terms of increasing longevity therein?
Was their a single, isolated incident that prompted the final decision? Or was this something that built up over time?
How long have you been thinking about leaving?
Had you been looking for other 'positions' while 'on the clock'?
What can this company do to ensure the happiness of future employees?

The survey would be much longer than this, of course. There would be essay questions, mulitiple-choicers, fill-in-the-blanks, etc...

The way I see it, I have so many exes that I could actually compile the information, create a database and dub it "proprietary research" in attempt to market it to self-help authors everywhere.

Really. I think the best way to pull this off is to get an account with survey monkey and send the link to all my exes. That way it will be anonymous and they will give me their most honest answers. Maybe.

Stay tuned. I really might go through with this one. It seems like it might even be lucrative. And, not that I have a bunch of free time on my hands -- wink, wink-- it might give me something to do.

Please note: This idea has been patented, trademarked, copywritten, stamped with a very pretty little wax symbol and sent to myself in a package that has yet to be opened (a poor artists' trick I picked up along the way)... So, hands off!

I forgot all about this picture...

My cousin wrote this to me yesterday:

My friend was on the Mama Mexico website and saw our picture (go to mamamexico.com/page1.htm and scroll down). Too funny....when he told me he saw me on a website....I panicked thinking it would be some scandalous picture of me dancing at a club having one of my random hook-up moments...

Ahhh...Typical sentiments of dear cousin Sara.

After having this picture taken, I emailed it over to Mama Mexicos. Seeing as how their grubby little manager decided to sneak into it, I figured they'd post it. What a little rat he was, by the way. Anyhow, I never checked back to see if they had posted it. Evidently they did.

[From left going clockwise: CAK, Shauna, scumbag manager guy, Matthew Lesko, GiGi, Cousin Sara, & Chosen's ghost]

I can't write much more today. I think I'm getting a kidney infection. I've had one before and they are so unpleasant. Last time I got one, I was living in a sorority house. I think I managed to wake up every single girl living there crying in the middle of the night. The fact that I am even aware of a sensation in my kidney right now (it is throbbing) is not a good thing. My insurance hasn't kicked in so I'm pretty screwed.

Remind me to tell you about the phone call from my sister this morning at 1:30. Pretty ridiculous. I'll write that one from the emergency room later tonight...

Welcome Back, Superstalker!

My stalker has redeemed himself, so the bidding for a new stalker is officially closed. Thank you to all of those who applied. Evidently yesterday's post was no less effective than a Bat Signal shining over Gotham City, for I have been rescued from my stalker-less despair by none other than...my stalker! Here are the senitments that led me to reconsider his position as my official stalker:

Gigi,
I had no idea you felt that way about me. Even stalkers need some kind of sign the stalking relationship has a future. Messages on their "client's" blog that details the fear or strangeness felt from the relationship are a great joy and encouragement to read. Sending emails just isn't quite enough for me. I like the ability to leave comments on my "client's" blog. However you have removed that option. Why is that?

Do you like one sided dialogues which no one can publicly comment on? I used to disallow comments on my blog because I thought people would second guess my advice. But after many angry emails from my readers I came to realize people love to comment, and their views are quite wonderful even if they are dissenting from mine.
It's up to you if you want this relationship to continue or not. I am willing to reorganize my sidebar and add you to the category "currently stalking" if you wish.

Let me know your decision as I can only stalk so many people, spots are limited, reserve yours today!

Morris
http://askmorris.blogspot.com/

As for his question about the comments, I think we all know the answer to that one. I am so damned self-involved that I can't bare the thought of sharing the spotlight with anyone else.

And by "spotlight," I mean an audience of maybe 4 - 100 readers on any given day.

They don't clap.

When a stalker stops stalking...

For a good amount of time, I had my very own stalker. Nothing dangerous. If anything, it was flattering. When my stalker found out about my blog he gave me a link on his blog. The link was placed under the heading, "Future Wives."

I recently visited his site to pay homage to my glorious link and, to my surprise, it had relocated to its new home under the heading, "People Who Make Me Want to Vomit."

As it turns out, a girl can become quite attached to her stalker, so I wrote to find out what happened:

I thought I was a future wife? Now, I make you want to vomit? Very interesting. Do tell...

His response:

I removed that category because I am trying to create a more family friendly atmosphere at my site. Besides you come off as too much of a bitch for my tastes.

Well, I guess that's that.

As it turns out, I am now in the market for a new cyber stalker. The job requires you to send me an occasional random email that makes absolutely no sense to the common man, and that you provide me with a link on your blog. It's just that simple.

Applications are being accepted at all participating locations.

Carrie's Voodoo Box

Since moving from California to New York, I've kept in good contact with a friend, Carrie, who I used to work with. She's slightly older than me, wise, and, for lack of a better description, very quasi-spiritual. There's a lot of this going on in San Diego -- this self-reliant spiritualism. People there tend to be more "tuned-in" with them selves than people elsewhere, making them able to more effectively interact with their surroundings. Whatever that means. I'd say the phenomenon arose as a biproduct of not wanting to partake in a particular religion (for reasons such as services are boring and the rules are too restrictive) mixed with the guilt associated with having been raised in a religious family, but now neglecting structured practices. These things culminate into a need for established beliefs. This new spirituality is the solution. Of course, I could be completely wrong.

Either way, I like to be around her. In fact, she's the person I went to with my neverending, yet recently ended, guy crises. This is partially because she was non-judgmental, but mostly because she would say something completely brilliant, such as, "If a guy doesn't recognize how fabuluous you are, he isn't worth your time. That, and he's obviously an idiot." You know -- complete idealistic bullshit that was absolutely perfect at the moment.

I've only lived in New York for 3 months now, but within that period she has gone somewhat insane, neglecting all of the cardinal rules she established in these discussions. About a month before I left she started dating this guy Mike, who was her definitive opposite. Small town, inexperienced with all things edgy, conservative, and also, not especially smitten by her like she was him. The red flags raised at the onset, which I imagine is the reason she fell so hard.

Anyway, I started getting crazed text messages from her. Some that were to me and some that she had written to him and then forwarded to me. The tone was usually self-righteous; her telling him that she deserved more, she was too good for this treatment, etc... The obvious advice was to leave him, but to a rebellious individual like her, this type of advice is simply fodder to stay. The topics covered in her string of texts were:

- A messy episode on his bed and his simultaneous freak out
- His inability to understand her, or his lack of desire in that same vein
- Her wanting to get fake stripper boobs
- Him neglecting her feelings
- Him asking her if she could come over for dinner, then never calling.
- Him consistently showing up late night
- Him recently announcing that he's moving to L.A.
- Her making a voodoo doll of him
- Her having her own voodoo box that she consults in times of need.

The last subject is one that was broached in a text message I received from her just last night. I've been on a voodoo doll kick myself as of late - well, at least I've been trying to figure out who owns the one that has been pissing on my social life lately - so I was particularly sensitive to her concerns. The text, which followed her mention of wanting to make a doll in his likeness, read:

I actually keep a voodoo box 4 myself with special trinkets, money, lists of aspirations, treats, and yes, some of my hair. I look at it when I want to connect.

I don't know that there is a moral of this story, rather than the obvious: she needs to move on. But, all things considered, I've never met anyone who owns a voodoo box. Judging from everything that's going on, however, I'm going to guess that the thing doesn't work any real miracles. Maybe it's just the spiritual alternative to what stuctured religions call prayer.

The Weekend's Double Personality

I love the weekends because I get to go out and get housed, spend time with my friends, not work, all that. I hate the weekends because no one is updating their sites.

Isn't that sick?

I have no life. Yes I do.

"I don't think you really understand what a blog is..."

So, I work at a PR firm. Evidently some of the publicists recently discovered these nifty little things called blogs. Quite frankly, I think they discovered them about two weeks ago when NY Magazine did an expose on the topic, but it might have even been a few days later when Slate.com "outed" blogs, stating their opinion that the popularity of blogs has indeed peaked. Either way...

Since I stole the office's copy of NY Mag for my own personal use, yesterday one of the other publicists thought my punishment should be to make her a list of political blogs for her to pitch a story to. I felt horrible as I've been meaning to bring it back, so I got a hold of the article and made such a list. The article she was pitching was posted on the internet yesterday morning, meaning that it was already too late to get proper coverage. It had been up too long by the time she was going to pitch it. This morning I checked all the blogs she pitched to and informed her that none of them had picked it up.

Now, let me back up before I get to the part where she tells me that I don't really understand what a blog is.

Before pitching the article yesterday, her, me and another of our colleagues had a discussion on the effectiveness of blogs and the exposure they can or might offer.

I sided with the argument that the exposure was invaluable; that people are making millions of dollars off of blogs and that some get more eyes than many print media outlets could ever dream of.

Our colleague said that I am younger than her, so I might know better than her (true, true), but she thinks it might be a bad idea to post one of our client's articles on a blog because of what the moderator and/or readers might say about it.

The girl with the account in question opted to pitch the article last night. Again, way too late to get it attention as it was originally posted yesterday morning.

So, anyway, I went into her office and told her that none of the blogs picked it up. I told her it might be wise to give blogs the heads up the night before the article in question is posted, so that the moderators can feel that they're "breaking the news," as this is how bloggers like to do things.

She argued that she couldn't do it the night before because she just received word of her client's article yesterday and she pitched it yesterday. Then she said it: "Well, I don't think you really understand what a blog is... If you don't know how blogs work, they usually link to other articles."

"Um yeah, I understand that, but they like to do so in a timely manner..." I refuted.

She got offended, clearly thinking that I was saying she wasn't working fast enough. Nope, not my point at all. In reality, what I was trying to do was suggest a better way to tap into this medium. That? Get the article and its link the day before.

"I'm not going to argue with you on this." She added.

Okay. That's probaby in your best interest because I'm pretty much right, and, well..."


Update: She has since apologized and asked for my advice. Good girl.

Niche Psychosis

There is only one rational explanation for the fact that people are really pissed at me lately. But, since I don't do the whole rational thing very well, I've dismissed that option in lieu of its more paranormal next of kin:

- The cosmos are seriously misaligned this month.
- I'm suddenly reaping what I sewed a few lives back.
- I am putting out some evil vibe that's getting boomeranged right back at me with sonic speed.
- Someone's got a pretty accurately crafted voodoo doll of me at their desk. It is poked often.

Truth be told, if any of my friends are ever to have this many people pissed off at them at one time, my first reaction is not sympathy. Instead, I ask 'em what the hell they did to piss everyone off? So, I tried the same tactic on myself and...nothin'. I did nothin'.

Well, maybe I did something, but nothing deservant of hatred and threats.

Here's the deal. One of my comedian friends runs a blog, which began as an Online Petition Requesting that Jennifer Love Hewitt Pose for Playboy. It has since evolved into a basic, fake celebrity, Open-Letters type blog, that still pays homage to Ms. Hewitt when relevant data is available. To describe the blog in two adjectives: innocent and hysterical.

Coincidentally, one of Cesar's friends in L.A. sent him a picture of herself with Jennifer Love Hewitt. I knew my friend would love to post the picture (where Hewitt is actually holding a dog), so I asked Cesar for permission to send it his way. He gave me the thumbs up and couldn't wait until the new post came out so that he could send it over to his supposedly good-humored L.A. connection.

Long story short, my comedian friend posted the pic alongside a compelling argument that Hewitt should pose for Playboy -- if not for her fans, then for the little doggies of the world. Cesar forwarded the post to his friend and she went nuts, writing threatening emails to Cesar, my comedian friend, and to me. For the sake of brevity, I'm just posting the one I received (it probably being least harsh of the bunch):

GiGi,

This is L***-- cesar's friend. i have to ask you to ask your friend to remove the photo of my dog and i from that blog page, which you are credited as providing*. it was taken by a [name of a L.A. based magazine] staff photographer. i will personally have some explaining to do, and i am sure legal will become involved if it gets around.

on a personal note, i'm actually kind of insulted you would pass it on to someone for this kind of thing before checking. i appreciate a good joke... but this is just kinda lame.

thanks,
l***

My intial reactions were thus:

- Your magazine has staff photographers? Wow, must be nice. We used to use students.

- In the grand scheme of things, L***, nobody knows or cares who you are, so don't worry about it. It's not that deep.

- Live a little. Laugh. Calm down.

- Did you just call my friend's blog lame? Psycho.

- If you snort your Prozac, it will react a lot quicker than downing it with, say, water and a meal.

I wrote back to Cesar, "Your friend's a bitch. I thought I was psychotic. At least my psychosis is centralized (meaning it only affects one area of my life: dating). Hers is all over the damn place."

While I realize this is no compliment to myself, I did conclude two things:

A). There are people out there who are way more psychotic than I am.
B). I just coined a new psychosociological term: Niche Psychosis.

That said, I am available for interviews, quotes and licensing deals.



*My friend credited me for contributing the picture. Big deal.

Forced Entry

I'm a bit stressed out by the neediness of my expanding reading audience. You see, it has grown to an enviable 20-30 people a day. This is nothing to take lightly, mind you. Especially because most are return visitors. And, I might add that each of them, like you, hangs onto my every syllable and lives vicariously through my every word. Of course, I can see the appeal. I live quite the glamorous life. I dredge myself up every day at 7 a.m., write, go into the office, work out, write more, get denied by publishers, drink it off, and occassionally hang out with my long distance boyfriend. What can I say? I'm basically a rockstar.

On top of catering to my visitors, I probably provide the sites that I link to an additional 2-3 hits per day. What would they do if I chose to not write one day simply because I hadn't slept in 48 hours? If I deprived them of those expected and coveted hits? As you can see, I am a very important part of this life-granting food chain. Oh, how the pressure is mounting...

I usually sit down every morning with something clever to say; something I know will leave my loyal readers with a bounce in their collective step for the remainder of the day. But today, I am tired. I didn't sleep at all last night. I had anxiety dreams about work. I received a call from an annoying friend. I dreaded waking up early to go to the gym. I dreaded not waking up early to go to the gym. I dreaded being awake until the point that I'm supposed to either wake-up or not wake-up to go to the gym—all of this with insomniatic precision. I made the mistake of anticipating the emails I'd receive at work today. I traveled to the couch and back, hoping the new environment would provoke sleep. It didn't.

Anyway, the point is, today I have but a list of topics that, under normal circumstances, I would discuss in full detail. But, today, no.

List:

- I received my first Bastardly whore story submission last night. Within this submission lived the phrase "Plowing that Piggy." I could expand, but again, no...

- Some annoying girl on the subway yesterday—instead of simply moving out of the way so that new passengers could board—chose to get loud, voicing repeatedly her opinion that, "People need to learn to say excuse me. It works, you know?!" Look, bitch: I hate to break it to you, but they're not the ones in the way. Got it? Now, shut up.

- One of the guys who I'm starting the new site with just launched a new blog. Hilarious. Go there: Steve L Kneivel

- My roommate got a new wine key. That was the gist of our conversation this morning. I'm pretty sure he hates me.

- D comes tomorrow. Yayy!

- Cak—my friend who has serious issues with her sleezeball boyfriend—has two dates this week with people who are not said sleezeball boyfriend. Nevertheless, she'll be flying out to Houston to see her sleezeball boyfriend this weekend. One might argue here that she is, in fact, the sleezeball for dating other guys. Yeah, one might...

- My sister made me sign up for a MySpace account because she wanted to add me as a friend. You know, so that it would look like she actually has some. My other sister calls it a "MyGeek" account, yet is begging for my password so she can stalk people. She's a riot.

- My good friend and her boyfriend are moving into my building, to an apartment directly below me. This would be perfect if the whole boyfriend element of this fact was eliminated. Party? I doubt it.

- The receptionist where I work had this genius idea yesterday: She was going to buy a cot and put it under the table in the mail room. Then she was going to invest in a long table cloth so that we could all take turns sleeping on the cot under the table hidden by the table cloth. This idea must be adopted immediately.

As for now, I'm going to sleep at my desk. Have a good day all.