Things That Would Make Me Happy In The Immediate Future

  1. Going to Moose Factory, Ontario this year—for vacation. Preferably with friends.
  2. A Moose Factory t-shirt, whether I make it to Moose Factory or not.
  3. A job where I edit, even if it’s only 50% of the time and the other 50% is administrative or web-related.
  4. A constant—or fairly constant—stream of pay checks.
  5. More time to sit at home and do the things I like to do.

Hell Hath No Coffee

In other news, Starsucks is raising their coffee prices by one whole nickel. While this shouldn’t affect Seattle residents given the large quantity of quality coffee shops, the rest of the nation is spewing hellfire from its collective mouth. Expect to find a protest outside one of the twenty local Starsucks down the street from your home and/or place of employment.


The other day, while riding the bus, a trio of Junior High boys stretched their ungainly limbs out in the back. In young-pitched, cracking voices, they talked about normal Junior High things: music, video games, music, more music, teachers. Nothing about girls, as their voices were still too frightening to hope for such a commodity.

The bus made one of its last stops in the family-centric neighborhood before moving onto the University Ghetto, and the boys swaggered off. In passing, I was stricken by how abnormally they were dressed. Flannel shirts thrown atop over-sized t-shirts, slightly baggy jeans, hair that was long and hadn’t been washed in three days. It was exactly how everyone—and especially me—dressed when I was their age. Not a detail was off.

Junior High was a decade ago for me. Granted, when I’m nearing fifty, those ten years will seem like nothing. However, it feels like it was an eon ago. And in the fashion and pop culture world, ten years is an eon.

So why are Junior High students dressing like they did ten years ago? You can’t even consider the Grunge era vintage at this point, hence it can’t be in vogue. Granted, everyone in Seattle used to dress that way (sans the unwashed hair) years before the rest of the world coined the word “grunge.” But since that time, Seattle has quickly become a world of $200 REI jackets, GAP jeans, Pottery Barn-furnished lofts, and a pair of Birkenstocks or Danskos to tone down the Yuppification and add an air of authenticity to the look. Grunge faded here when it died throughout the rest of the country. What was once a way of life became a passing pop-culture fad.

To have seen “grunge” resurrected amidst the corporate whore attitude of “New Seattle” was rather comforting, leaving me with a twinge of hope that Seattle’s future may in fact not be a grayer shade of the Bay Area’s bland and soulless tech industry.


I get food addictions that must be sated. When I was a student, I was addicted to the elusive poppy seed muffins in the campus cafes.

Latetly, it’s been a chocolate crossiant from the cafe near my good job. However, the chocolate crossiant was merely a “chocolate crossiant” the first time I tried it. The second time, it was a ham crossiant. The past five or so times, it has been a crossiant with a teasing hint of chocolate. But today, it was a Super Mega Deluxe Chocolate Crossiant!

There was so much chocolate packed into this crossiant that my heart began beating rapidly with the first bite. It made quick, bounding leaps into my rib cage, much in the same manner as my former pet rabbit when being barked at by a certain honery Westie. It’s times like today when I really can forgive the cafe for selling ham crossiants and empty, lackluster chocolate crossiants.

Not Real Classifieds

But wouldn’t it be cool if they were?

WANTED: steadfast person with quick organizational skills and willing to work 3 hours a week. Duties include sawing, heaving and farting. Starting pay is 9 dollars per hour. Please apply in person at: 12 down third street.

LOST: Our dodo, Patricia, was lost on the corner of Mother and Dresden streets. She is red and fuchsia and very shiny. Reward of 12 dollars is offered for her safe return.

hairy prostitute looking for work. i am willing to heave and hold for 3 dollars per hour. I am very skilled at barfing as well. I can provide odiferous character references.

That last one is worthy of classified section of the Stranger. By the way, these came from a madlib generator I randomly found whilst searching for something totally unrelated.


As you can witness from here, here, and even here, this happened again. Yes, I held a short-lived reign of drunken terror on the blogosphere that will forever be visible for anyone—including future employers. If you think that was bad, feel fortunate you weren’t the waiter who was nearly impaled to death by my hand as I shot it up in the air at the exact moment he was trying to clear my dishes from the table.

The orange juice has been overflowething from mine cup, but I don’t have plans to lay in bed and moan all day long. Probably because I was mostly drunk on wine this time. For some reason, I can handle wine better than beer the next morning.

For the record, I also didn’t gain five pounds from last night. Only two. Go wine!

Off record: Expect another post really soon. I would like to bump that one that mentions the tampon wrapper off the front page as soon as poosible.

Drunk Dial #333: The Future Mrs. Pratt*

Me:”Omigod! It’s the future Mrs. Pratt! Omigod! I can’t tell you what an honor it is to speak with you!”

My friend laughed. “You’re drunk dialing me, again! You were supposed to call on Wednesday!” she said.

“I know, I know! I’m such a horrible person. But: Omifuckingod! You’re getting married!”

She had just told me today over the interwebs that she was not officially officially getting married in a year in Budapest. I.e. they weren’t quite engaged, but they’ve made the plans. I.e. The cheap bastard hasn’t given her a ring yet, but they’ve made the plans.**

Me, again: “Duuuuude! I am so fuckin’ drunk!”

Her: “I can tell…”

Me: “Are you drunk yet?”

Her: “Of course! I’m an architect! A drunken architect! Not only do I have an image to uphold, but I’ve also earned the title of ‘Professional Drunk Bastard’.”

Me: “I can’t wait ’till you come and visit! I’m gonna have to buy you a round of drinks to celebrate the ‘not official official engagement!”

Her: laughter.

Me; “Duuuuude, seriously! I haven’t even met this guy yet. I’ve only seen his picture! He still has to pass my test of ‘appropriate husband material for my ‘twin’***.”

Her: “This is such a deep and meaningful drunken conversation!”

Me: “As if you could expect any less!?! We’re fuckin’ toasted. The both of us! We should solve the mystery of the universe while we’re at it!”

Her: “Don’t forget the mystery of humankind existence! We’ll totally be able to solve that shit in a matter of seconds.”

Me: “Duuuuude. Let’s start right now! The number 47…”****

*I doubt this is #333, but three is my lucky number, so three threes must be super-lucky. And considering the subject matter of this call, I’d say super-luck is appropriate!

**This is all my drunken interpretation, of course, so pay no heed to it.

***She is totally my twin who has been seperated from me at birth. In a metaphorical, “I’m Whitey-McWhite and she’s Mexican but we still say the same things at the same time, even when we first met” sort of way.

****It’s probably best not to pay much heed to this entire post, other than for laughs. Afterall, it’s about a drunk dial, written while I was drunk. I cannot verify the accuracy of the above, though I do remember drunk dialing said friend and talking about her engagement.

Voice of Reason

Why is it that while drunk, my drunken voice of reason seems more reasonable than my sober voice of reason? Witness:

“OMG! I should lock the door because I’m taking a shower during in close proximity to the time that Tyler and our friend Jeff will be here. Wait! If I lock the door and happen to drunkenly slip in the shower and knock myself out, there’s no way that Tyler can help me. Besides, it’d probably take him 30 minutes of playing Super Smash Bros. with Jeff before he realized something was wrong. I should keep the door unlocked because it’s obvious that someone’s taking a shower in here with the water running and the only person brazen enough to walk in the bathroom is Tyler, who’s seen my naked wet breasts on more than one occasion and whom also happens to live here.”

“OMG! I shouldn’t drink this last glass of wine because I had the equivalent of a half a bottle of wine already, and I will soon be going out to a bar with friends to have beer and fatty foodstuffs! But, it’s such a waste of wine! NO! NO! I must resist because if I drink this wine here and now, I will probably start puking after my first glass of beer. And that’s no good because I have a drunken writer image to uphold. And no one will believe me when I describe how little food and how much wine I’ve consumed before 6 o’clock in the evening. And then I’ll make an utter fool of myself and my drunken writer image will be on shaky ground! OMG NO!”

“OMG! There’s a brown spot on the toilet bowl that I have only partially noticed during the past week (i.e. the last friday when I got piss drunk on beer and my intestines sorely regretted it in the morning)! I should clean that small but obvious spot with the toilet bowl brush right now because it’s likely that Tyler and our friend Jeff will be here soon and Jeff may need to use the toilet. Because Jeff is a man and not a woman, it’s also likely that he will be staring into the toilet bowl. Wait! Women also stare into the toilet because they are inherently cleaner than men! I should clean the toilet right now just in case Tyler brings home a woman as well!”

“OMG! There’s old laundry on the bathroom floor! I must clean the panties up right now because Tyler and our friend Jeff will be here soon and Jeff may need to use the bathroom! It’s totally not proper for a lady to leave her used panties on the bathroom floor—especially in the presence of a guest. Tyler’s boxers are totally expected, because … well… he’s Tyler. And everyone knows how Tyler is now. But my panties? Totally inexcusable. I should put those somewhere totally hidden. Not the dirty clothes pile in the bedroom because Mary has a tendency to walk into the room and leave the door wide open so everyone can see the mess we hide in here. But, instead, the washing machine! OMG! I’m so fuckin’ brilliant! No guest is ever going to look in our washing machine because it’s a freakin’ washing machine and that’s where dirty panties go. And then there’s the fact that there’s a big freakin’ noisy double doorage blocking the washing machine, so if a guest in our has happened to have a dirty panty fetish, I’d hear when the opened the doors and would have plenty of time to scream loudly and expose their nasty dirty panty fetish!”

“OMG! There’s a tiny piece of tampon wrapper on the floor that is bright yellow! How the hell did I miss this?!? OMG! I need to clean that up right now. But not only that, I must flush it down the toilet in case Tyler and our friend Jeff—who will be here soon—come in and Jeff needs to use the bathroom! Must immediately obliterate all evidence of being a woman!”

“OMG! I need to stop writting this crazy drunken blog post and put clothes on because Tyler and our friend Jeff will be here soon and I don’t want anyone other than Tyler to see me buck naked—save for a towel on my head—while I frantically type this post out as I sit on the bed. That’s just totally gross and sexual and a sight only for my boyfriend whom I share an apartment with. And the dog, because the dog doesn’t give a damn about anything other than food, pissing on the grass outside, and attention.”

“OMG! This post needs no edits! Wait! That’s because I’m super freakin’ drunk and my standard of quality has gone about 50% lower than usual! OMGLOL!”

Far From Wholesome

The best spam commentor to visit this blog: “Wholesome Gucci.”

Almost wants to make me remove the comment from my junk filter in Movable Type. Almost.

No More Beer

It’s a vow I keep making to myself of late. I spend a fun evening with The Manflesh and our friends, consume five times more beer than everyone combined, make a drunken-fool out of myself, spill orange juice and vodka on my pants repeatedly, and somehow make it home with all of my possessions in tact and in my hand. The next morning, I wake up five pounds heavier and with a displeased stomach that imitates an active volcano. I spend the rest of the day in bed, drinking orange juice, and moaning to myself. “No more beer,” I vow, meaning that from that day forward, I will only get piss-drunk with hard alcohol.

But because I’m unemployed (without unemployment benefits, I might add) I spend my days bored at home. Not depressed, miraculously—but bored nonetheless. Being unemployed with no money is most definitely the worst punishment one can suffer, because something as simple as getting out of the house and going to a cafe becomes an unattainable expense. After a week of being holed up in my confined apartment, applying to an endless sea of job applications that never lead to an interview, I look forward to the next weekend when The Manflesh and I meet up with friends. As soon as the first pitcher of beer is bought, my vow is broken and my lesson remains unlearned.