Monday Bear

So my dear friend Zephyr is usually a counselor at Girl Scout Camp right about this time of year, but decided to take this summer off to explore herself.  To join the Peace Corps. To write a cookbook.  Catch up on school and take a few classes at MTSU.  To avoid cleaning my house, and because I missed her, I wrote her a letter the other day on one of those giant pieces of papers they wrap your fragile stuff in when you buy it.  In this case, it was a flower pot.

And Zephyr, please don’t read this until you get the letter, as that would defeat the purpose of the letter.

Anywho, here is the letter:

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or Hey, Are You Going to Wizzie Man?

or Hey.  Give Me Some Fucking Weed.

or Hey.  Give Me Some Fucking Crepes.

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So my New Years resolution is to keep track of mine and Matthew’s money (ours?), because I don’t right now. And if someone were to steal my identity, I wouldn’t even realize it.

Because I’m that loaded.

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So last night, I had this funny dream where I was watching a concert at this wave pool, and there were many stoners. I needn’t worry about my safety though, because Gary Coleman and Emanuel Lewis were my body guards, following me around with guns and whatnot.

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So the other day, I was in McCallie, and I remembered that I hadn’t pooped in over 24 hours. Then I thought about blogging, because I blog about pooping. Then I thought about what I needed to blog. Then I thought about how just about every time I start a new blog, I have to stop to poop. Then I had to poop. It was a miracle.

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So I had to read this really horrible book for English called Things Fall Apart. It’s a classic, apparently. I prefer to call it Shit Happens In Africa, because that’s really what it’s all about. Just like the Hokey Pokey.

Also, I had a Chemistry test on Monday. I thought it was going to be on Thursday, but it turns out that I don’t even have Chemistry on Thursdays.

Whoops.

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So I just realized that I could never have a pager. You know why? Because I never call people back. If you’ve ever called me, I’ve probably not called you back. Don’t take it personally; I just tend not to call people back, just like some people tend to bite their nails or poop themselves. It’s just a bad habit.

My mom used to have a beeper when she was a social worker. I was seven. I thought that was just too cool, so I saved up my money and got a plastic beeper filled with bubblegum. (more…)

So one of my friends, who just happened to be a lady of colour, told me why alot of black girls don’t like me. It’s because black guys like me. Black guys like me because:

a.) I have red hair, and
b.) I’m shaped like a skinny black girl.

She says they don’t like me because we’re stealing their men and whatnot. That’s kind of a gay reason not to like someone, but I suppose it’s kind of like how it kind of bothers me when Matt says things about other girls, unless the other girl is my friend.

Kind of.

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So I had this dream a long time ago, probably the day after I last blogged. I’ve had many a lesbonic dream in my day, but this one wasn’t even sexual. This woman asked me to marry her. She wasn’t an ugly dyke or anything, but just very lesbonic. Kind of like me a year ago. Except I didn’t like girls. And I still don’t.
But at any rate, this chick proposed to me, and of course I said no, because:

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So many of you know my love of the Muppets, especially Kermie.� Nothing can keep me away from my Kermie.� Welp, I’ve got these Muppets panties– they came in a pack of 5.� When I’m sitting around in my undies, I do this thing where I stick my hand down the leg of my undawears� until my whole hand and some of my arm is sticking out of the leg (yeah, it’s weird, but the ones who do this know what I’m talking about).
Welp, I was doing this the other day in my Muppets panties, and my roommate came in.� As we conversed, I began talking with my hands, therefore ripping the hell out of my panties.� I was highly saddened, but I can still wear them.� They’ll just be period panties now.

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