[.He's a Rebel.]

All right,

I've got these problems with Jack. His diet (because he's the largest mini-rex the Vet has EVER seen), is going okay but his attitude is slowly making me want to eat glass shards and possibly use whatever is left over to stick in my eyes. People seem to believe that I am just being hard on my little guy, and that he is actually a sweet little darling angel thing. He is most certainly not. He is just plotty. But nobody believes me.
He does not listen to me.
If you tell him 'get over here, I thought you were about to burst..., and no we are NOT having a snack, because you weigh as much as a Volkswagen.'....
That will not work. He won’t even look at you.
If you clap your hands and say, “Maybe there is a rabbit in the other room, under the bed, that I forgot about! Let’s look together!”, he does not take the bait. And if you try to bend over and pick him up, he let kicks, scratches and squeaks, because JACK IS STARVE, and JACK DOES NOT WANT TO LEAVE FOOD BOX. Food Box is only hope of Jack.
In reality, of course, JACK IS LIE. In fact, JACK IS NOT LOSE ANY WEIGHT AT ALL SINCE DIET START. But he’ll never tell you that, and in the meantime, he’s got me on the horns of a short, brown dilemma, because....I feel so bad. Everytime I come home he's on his tippy toes looking for just a small goldfish cracker, rice chex or corn chip. He has all this hope, and in his big, brown eyes he's saying "lookit mommy! I'm doing the tricks you and daddy taught me". I squash these hopes.
He still marks his territory.
And this "territory" happens to be in the corner of my kitchen behind the kitchen table. Dean and I cannot take our eyes off him for more than 10 minutes without returning to the kitchen to find 50 little poops and a small puddle of pee. It's disgusting. And he needs to run around, I don't want him to be locked inside his cage for hours upon hours. Some days all I want to do is relax and watch a movie, or my favorite tv show, and not worry. But I cannot ignore him.
The one time I ignore Jack will be the one time he has explosive diarrhea someplace inconvenient and novel, like in my hair. And so, every night, I continue to let him out, and he continues to make a beeline for the kitchen table, and I continue to wonder how it is that I so often get outsmarted by a creature who regularly eats his own poop.

And that is why I drink, the end.

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[.Ferris Beuller, You're My Hero.]

I have nothing to say. Hi! Nothing! ahaha.ha.

Still. I'm kind of bored, so I figured I'd write something anyway. You all know how I get.
And...nothing else!
I've been busy, though. Sort of. And this is where I make another confession, but one that is startlingly less interesting than the poop confession of the last confessional entry, though it was deleted but...well, really, I can't top the poop confession. Which is a good thing, I suppose. You'll never know anyhow.

But anyway. So one of my friends (HI Meeker!) sent me an email a couple of days ago wondering where in the hell I was, because I didn't visit his apartment in 'yoville' (yes, I'm a facebook nerd) and I finally had to admit that I have gotten myself this very embarrassing new hobby, that I picked up by accident, in the style of a nasty viral infection.

And, see, (now is where I explain myself to try to make this sound normal. Pay attention) it all started because I hate the radio, HATE YOU, RADIO. All Arizona stations are desperate to appeal to either the 16-28 year old immature male group, so it's all "Fear Factor" and trying to swallow animal testicles at eight in the morning, which...no, OR it's going for whatever Lifetime-movie lovers (which...okay, sometimes me, but shut up) want to hear, which includes stories of love and togetherness and weddings on the beach (gayyyy), interrupted occasionally by Tales Of Children On The Brink Of Death But Who Were Then Saved By The Dog. And even that I could handle, if they didn't feel the need to punctuate an already interesting (shut UP, I said) radio story with snippets of EASY LISTENING MUSIC. I mean...have you heard this? Do you know what I'm talking about? Someone is talking, and then the station will cut away from that to play a few seconds of some heart-wrenching song, and then, WHUMP, back to the interview? It's disconcerting. I HATE. Here's an example:

Radio Caller: So, the dog was whining for me to follow him, and I finally decided I'd better turn off the Springer and go on upstairs...
Sudden CutAway Fairy: Did you ever knooooow that you're my heeeeeeeeeeeeroooooooo?
Caller: ...and there was the baby, sitting in the middle of the floor, just chewing away on something...
CutAway Fairy: Did I ever TELL you YOU'RE MY HEEEEEEEEEEERO? You're EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING, I WISH I COULD BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Caller: ...and THAT'S when I saw that the baby was eating from the big box of broken glass I like to keep next to his crib!
CutAway Fairy: Walkin' on, walkin' on, broken glaaaaaaaaaaaass!

And so forth. I'm guessing this isn't just an Arizona thing, but it has finally, permanently driven me away from the radio. And don't get me started on the AM stations. Just...don't. And I love me some Simon & Garfunkel, but it doesn't hold my attention the way that babies who eat boxes of glass shards might. I need comedy! I need to LAUGH. So what's a girl to do?

I started writing my own song parodies.

I was kind of embarrassed about this new hobby, because let's just go ahead and admit that it puts me squarely in nerd category. But that's all right, 'cuz someday soon I'll be famous, all over your local radio station, perhaps even star in a 'straight to tv' movie (y'know, like UHF) I'll spread around the world like a bad case of Herpes.

*Sigh*...
Friends, there comes a time in everyone's life when one has to look the potato of injustice right in the eye.
I've been reading a lot of junk about Gun Control lately, I think it's a bunch of malarky.
Gun control is for wimps and commies. Listen, let's get one thing straight-
Guns don't kill people. I do.
I would love to own a gun.
I'd give up my Coach bag for a gun.
But unfortunatly stupid people own guns. The ones that simply cannot master the instructions, the code. THE FREAKING SAFETY RULES.
Here's one: Never point the gun at anything you are not willing to destroy. and;
All guns are always loaded. So don't be playing Russian Roulette.
Wow, I'm sorry. I don't even know HOW I got into that subject. Maybe because all my liberal, democrat friends keep ranting about Gun Control, Abortion & Gay Rights. Whatev. I'm not that conservative. I am pro-life and pro-gay rights. So no hate mail, k?

Ahh, anyway. I have nothing else to say. Nothing new to report. Actually, what I have is an unusual problem. It is a problem of so much unusualness that I am going to ask you all to tell me what, precisely, you would do if faced with this problem. Now, I warn you. Just because this problem is unusual does not mean that it is not stupid. It is. This problem is completely lame.
I cannot... grap the concept of time.
It's becoming a serious problem that I have come to realize is destroying my entire being.
that and bad telelvision.
Blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.

-C

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