I am trying to imagine a world without the Internet. And when I do, the inner workings of my head scream the shrillest most disturbing screech. Without the Internet, there would and COULD actually be MORE human beings actually OUT farting and shopping.
I just returned from a four hour shopping extravaganza. And I’m about damn ready to puke. But I can’t puke because I don’t have ONE drop of solid food in my stomach. I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s tuna.
I visited all of the following stores (for reasons I can not go into until after Christmas):
Filene’s Basment, DSW, The Goth Store on Third Avenue, the OTHER Goth store on Third Avenue (you know, the one right next to the mother ship), Forbidden Planet, Canal Jeans, FCUK, The outside shopping thing on Union Square, A shoe store (I don’t know the name), PC Richards (or whatever his name is), some card shop, and, lastly, but so not leastly, MACY’s on 34th street.
AND HOLY SWEET NESTOR THE LONG EARED XMAS DONKEY, Macy’s sucks during the holidays. What a nightmare. What an absolute conscious nightmare. It was even worse than the one I had just before I woke up this morning. That was the one where my parents were trying to force me into marrying someone like [if not the actual] Arnold Schwarzenegger. And when I kept saying, “I don’t like that man. He’s not my type! I like this other man named TobyJoe!” they insisted. And it became horrible when I realized that I might have to spend my life with something other than TobyJoe, thereby giving him to someone else, luckier. And as funny as the alternative may seem to you, I woke up in a cold sweat, whimpering.
Macy’s sucked. Macy was almost worse than marrying Arnold Schwarzenegger and giving up TobyJoe.
And here I am, home again, with only THREE presents.
But, alas, NOW I must eat.
Wow, you really got around today. Don’t eat the kitties, no matter how hungry you are, and no matter how much your mom doesn’t want any more cats.
She’s all talk. I forgot to mention I went to a kitty shelter and there is mewing with her name all over it.
Don’t even THINK about it!!
I can’t even type. There is mewing with her name all over it? What in the hell does that mean?
And if you had married Arnold, I’d be the assistant to the Governor now driving around Southern California in a cool pimped out street rod by now.
you can’t marry arnold
didn’t you see pumping iron?
he’s so gay. the only reason why he’s with maria shriver is because she’s a skeleton, and he’s assured of being poked by something every once in a while.
I did not see pumping iron, but arnold s, quite honestly, makes me sick to my stomach. I’m not a fan of muscular men, I must say. Never have been. I guess that makes me sort of weird.
No, you are right on mihow. Any man who can’t put his arms all the way down is not my type.
Gina, i called you back. I do believe I have your number written down wrong, btw. Somewhere, however, you have a message from me to you not minutes after you left yours. I think it was left at su casa.
Someday, we will speak! I swear!