The Trouble Is…

My local Walmart is notorious for being ghetto. I know that ghetto isn’t a politically correct word, but before you criticize me realize I use this word so infrequently that I am not a threat to your sensibilities. Go jump down someone else’s throat, and stop using the word ’suck’, because I bet you do.

Whoops, that was a tangent. So as we walked through the parking lot, listening to the noise of sirens, trunk-rattling beats, babies crying, women hitting their children, and birds screeching (none of this is exaggerated), we gave each other that look. The look that means, hey, look at us. Remember this because we may not come out alive. Everytime we go in there.

What did we buy? Tredsafe shoes for work, two pairs. 50 dollars bled out of my hand for those. A work shirt for Wade, a Sterilite drawerset for his guitar doodads, which I hate the look of but is temporary, and a case of water. Out of 25 registers, like 6 were open of course, so we ended up in a line behind 4 people, with 4 separate transactions. Two 20-something girls dressed in shorts and spaghetti strap shirts were in line in front of us, and I caught a bit of French. I was quite taken aback by this, because….well, they’re French. In Florida, not so much a shocker. In Walmart in the ghetto, a little bit. Especially in Tampa. I don’t think of Tampa as a resort town. At all. As a matter of fact, it sort of isn’t glitzy and clean at all.

I don’t think there was a point to this story at all. Except that I survived another trip to Wally World.

Back to my conversation about sex in IM with Damon. Ooohh.

As from Vive Le Vegan.

Yummy breakfast. The recipes is actually Raspberry Oatmeal, but all I had was mixed.

I don’t really watch TV. I know, I know, everyone says that because they’re embarassed at the TV they do watch. But really, I don’t. I have channels 1 through 23 in my basic cable TV package, aka, the package the apartment complex pays for so I don’t have to pay for shit.

At my friends house last night, she had the NBC show Last Comic Standing tivoed. So we watched it. Few laughs, nothing special. Apparently that chick Aliza is the shit. I disagree. She’s not funny because she thinks she is funny.

When the  boyfriend and I got home last night, as we sometimes do, we laid in bed next to each other, me with my book, him watching TV/playing guitar, me poking him, him poking me back. The season finale of Last Comic Standing came on and I realized something: Aliza won because of her giant, pretty knockers.

I could not stop staring at her tits the WHOLE time, does anyone else have this problem when it comes to her? She’s NOT FUNNY. Her boobs are GREAT. I want to stick my face in between them to comfort her after I tell her that she isn’t fucking funny. And also, you won this show because America voted for your boobs. How does that make you feel?

Next year, maybe we’ll vote for a guy who looks like Johnny Depp. I’d be okay with that.

Also, sidenote: Aliza isn’t particularly hot. She just has lovely breasts…..there is a difference.

And if you deny this post, you deny yourself. Youtube that shit. Its transfixing.

Really I shouldn’t be complaining that my apartment complex has a team of people that care of the lawn. I really shouldn’t. But, I do find it irritating when they do it at 8:30 in the morning on a Thursday. Better than a Saturday I guess, because normal people sleep in on Saturday.

It does make sense. I’ve moved plenty of lawn. You don’t want to do at 12pm or 2pm. Morning is good so its not balls hot. But I can’t remember that when I’m in bed. And when the noise wakes me up, I roll over to adjust and my cat is like, “Sweet, I’ve been waiting for hours for you to get up. Now you are. Let’s start the day with your our favorite ritual. Me sitting like an anvil on your chest and you rubbing down my neck.” Then she chirps, jumps on my lap, kneads me down and plops down with her face 4 inches away from mine and starts purring.

Yes, I do think she says all that. I’ve had several people, non-cat people, ask me “Why cats?” I’m not a strict dog person or cat person. When I was a kid I got a long with dogs because they’re dogs, and they’re friendly. They’re outside. Cats are in windows and don’t like to be pet by 8 year olds. So, as a wise kid, I declared myself a dog person. When I got older and met my friend Julie, who had 2-3 cats, I started to appreciate them more. Then when my mum got a cat called Blinkie, who was attached to me legs, I loved them more. Cats would seem like they don’t do anything, but they do. Endless entertainment. Hours. Comfort, especially when you’re sad or you have a tummyache. They talk to you, directly. If you say Hi, they say Hi.

Watching them walk around is entertainment enough for me, because I project what they’re thinking into sentence form. “Walking over here, to inspect this table leg because goodness me I’ve NEVER seen it before, oh, got an itch, scratchity-scratchity, hm, Wade is on the couch, I don’t feel like being pet, so I’m going to walk over by the back door, ooh, time to lick my crotch, lick lick lick, ok, man I’m tired time to nap!”

So a blog post bitching about my apartment complex, which is always fun, turned into a post about the merits of owning a cat. Whoop.

I’m going to go try get the boyfriend out of bed. We’re off today, and I want to be with him. Preferably while conscious though.

Hello, internet. Been a while. I’ve been reading books, not blog posts, which explains my absence.

Congratulations Damon, to getting married. I didn’t know the date of the wedd, and I got the invite like 4 days before it, so no card. Snot happening. Enjoy the sex. A lot. Gimme the lo dizzle.

I have updated my theme again, as my OCD is prone to allow me. I cooked Shepherds Pie for dinner, with some Bisto gravy. Now thats all done, I’m off to bed. I twittered, too. Whoop whoop.