I'm like Buffalo Bill! But without the dress made of skin.

You know, when he's walking around (in "Silence of the Lambs" for those of you who are like WTF?!) dressed up like a woman and he's all checkin' himself out and he goes, "Would you do me?  I'd do me." Or something to that effect - don't quote me because it's been a minute since I've watched that. 

Except that was me walking around in my work clothes, checkin' myself out in the bathroom mirror at my office like, "Would you hire me?  I'd hire me."  Don't you guys do that?  No?  Oh.  Well then.

Me (to MEH):  Last night, I emailed the managing editor of Seattle Magazine about an internship there, so I'm hoping she writes me back today and sends me an application.

MEH:  "Thank the High Holy Jesus you emailed, TAB. We'd love to offer you a job!"

Me:  I would jizz my pants if she did, but I'm actually just hoping she'll let me apply for the internship.  "I will kill your enemies if you let me have this internship.  Or just fetch coffee if you want to be all 'by the books' about it."

MEH:  Ha ha.

Me:  "My point is, I'm flexible....because I took yoga and ballet and gymnastics when I was younger.  If that offends you, please forward this letter to any male editor on staff."

MEH:  lol

Me:  "Or lesbian.  Like I said, I'm flexible."
 
You guys, my cover letter is *practically* written.

This post already makes me judge myself, so you don't need to.

Apparently William and Kate adopted a penguin at the Chelsea Zoo.  Reason #2,000,000 why I want to be a princess:  everyone lets you have ridiculous pets and no one bats an eye.  "Oh, Princess TAB has a bathtub full of sharks?  No worries, she's trying to impact depleted populations from shark finning.  It's so environmental!"

It's mornings like this that I'm reminded of something my Friend With Great Hair said about MEH and I.  "It's not that you're bad seeds, but you'll never grow into a fruitful tree."  I want that on my business cards.

Day two of my detox is going okay, though I realize now that I'm addicted to dairy.  I've been fantasizing about big, drippy ice cream cones for two solid days (yep, both days of this detox) and alternately recognizing and respecting that I could never be vegan because I would probably kill someone for even the lowliest slice of Kraft American cheese.

Freaking judgmental ice cream mofo. 

Also, hey, why did everyone hate "Sucker Punch"?  I liked it a lot.  I ask because I'm currently listening to the soundtrack and I have a hard time splitting my focus today.  Maybe it's the lack of ice cream in my diet.

It's so scientific!

The Average Broad: (Discussing Cameron Diaz in her 'thriller' The Box. Or The Button. Or whatever that movie was called, where there was a button in a box and a million dollars to kill someone or something.) Sometimes I really like her and sometimes she annoys me.

MEH: She hasn't annoyed me yet.

TAB: Well, you want to be up in her box, which means there's a brain chemical that makes you more easily able to deal with her annoyances. It's in all men. You can tolerate crazy, obnoxious, annoying broads if you want/think you're gonna get up in that box. The brain chemical, I'll call it 'letsbonerone,' is released when you see a beautiful woman and she starts talking about things like her last manicure and her cat's behavior. It enables you to tune her out in favor of envisioning her naked and further put up with things that would otherwise make you bitch slap her and go "STOP TALKING!"

MEH: My God! You nailed it on the spot (no pun intended).

TAB: It's tantamount to the brain chemical in females called 'wealthogen,' which gives women the ability to ignore how ugly and wrinkly a man is, provided that he has money. It also heightens one's ability to hallucinate beautiful men during sex.

MEH: Put the will on the headboard. Makes the sex easier.

TAB: Yes, exactly. I think I need some wealthogen injections. Don't think I have enough.

MEH: If you work here, you definitely don't have enough.

Eggnog totally weirds me out.

I've had a couple random ideas about what I wanted to post since it's December and the holidays and all, but I haven't had time to sit down and write anything.

Sorry, Santa, yes, that was a lie. I have the time but I just haven't felt like any of my ideas have been good enough. Someone once told me I needed to work on my self-esteem. I've also been told that I'm a narcissistic, intellectual snob who's smart but definitely not smart enough to be an intellectual snob about it. Thanks a lot, college, that's all I was using you for anyway. The point is that maybe I need to work on my self-esteem and maybe I'm a narcissist and a snob. I just don't know how to please you people.

Anyway, I don't really have any point to this, so I'll give you a ten minute sample of things on my mind this time of year.

Me: I feel like I should decorate my office a little for Xmas but I don't want to have to take it down if they move me.

MEH: Hmm, I believe you should decorate your cup with alcoholic eggnog while all that gets sorted out.

Me: I will take the cup of alcoholic eggnog without the eggnog.

MEH: Right, whiskey it is.

Me: I feel like eggnog is what chickens would lactate if they had nipples and alcoholism. It sort of creeps me out.

MEH: Wow.

Me: Sorry. Hope I didn't just ruin the 'nog for you.

MEH: Nah, I hate eggnog. I never thought about alcoholic nipples, although now I am, and I'm revising my perfect woman.

French Godzilla Vous Tuera!

I have a hard time telling stories sometimes because I get anxiety about "cutting to the chase." You might think that's weird, but I lay a lot of the blame at the feet of minor ADD. My conversations, text messages, email exchanges and the like often take rather bizarre twists and turns and it's hard for me to deliver the punchline without the context of what built up to it. Sort of like...

"I was talking to my Friend With Great Hair the other day and we decided that she should have an Angry Vagina Party. I suggested stapling bread to a shirt and going as a yeast infection," I would say.

"Uh. Angry Vagina Party? TAB, are you on medication?"

So now I have to go back and EXPLAIN that the reason for wanting to throw an Angry Vagina Party is because Friend With Great Hair wrote a short play about a woman whose vagina has a separate personality and divulges all of the protagonist's sexual secrets. It's quite hilarious and will probably win a Tony when they make it into a musical. You see the genesis of wearing a bread-blouse to a party, right? Good. Also, I'm not on medication, in case you were wondering.

Anyway, I had to tell you that story to explain the birth of French Godzilla. Yesterday, I was in the midst of a text conversation with someone, and the conversation turned to the French. I get the feeling he's a bit anti-French, but I tend to love them for their snottiness and artistic flair and for giving me crepes and lingerie and cafe au lait and la tour Eiffel avec toutes les belles lumières! Although, I said to him, I can do without the surrendering and the existentialism. J.P. Sartre, you really chap my ass. He added, "...and the nuclear testing."

Huh.

Regardless of the fact that France only has like 200-something atmospheric and underground nuclear tests and the US has racked up well over 1,000, I agreed with him. Helloooo, French people, have you BEEN to French Polynesia? What is *wrong* with you that you want to perform underwater tests RIGHT THERE in paradise? Ohh la la, mon dieu. Quel dommage!

But in a jovial sort of manner, I told him it would only be a few years before French Polynesian Godzilla emerged, so it couldn't be all that bad anyway... mainly because I'm going to tame that mofo, saddle him up and ride off into the sunset. Probably to set up on some French Polynesian island where I will then rule as Queen TAB, sci-fi cowgirl and ruler of sea mutants. French Godzilla will enforce the laws of my land and bring me crepes and wine.

I told MEH about my plan and he was on board, too. You guys are totally invited.

Big Brother Google and The Spam Scam

I have 5 email addresses. I know. The thing is, they're all for different purposes. Yeah, I'm very aware it's a little excessive, but guess what? I'm from the Me Generation, and I like to feel that important. Just kidding. I hate having 5 email addresses. Mostly because I'm convinced that Google has it in for me.

(It is not unfounded paranoia!)

"Do you know what?" I said to MEH this morning, "I think my email is plotting against me. Let me just tell you, it is bent upon destroying me with fear-mongering spam. If I wake up in the morning and think, Man, I am getting a little squishier around the middle parts, I will inevitably have 50 diet and weight loss spam emails - it's like my email just wants to reinforce my insecurities. And then, if I think, Oh, I would really like to go out on a date and make out with a cute boy, my email will be like, LOOK HOW AWESOME DATING WEBSITES ARE!!! JOIN FIVE OF THEM NOW OR PREPARE TO DIE A LONELY OLD MAID. FEEL VALIDATED WITH YOUR ONLINE DATING PROFILE!"

MEH said that Google was like big brother.

"That explains why if I have just paid my bills, my email is like, "You know how you have no money right now? That's okay. Look at all these cute shoes and Victoria's Secret sales! Debt is for pussies! Look! Sales! Do you have a $600 copper mixing bowl? WHY NOT?! Don't worry, we've got one here for you! It's right here! Just pull out that Visa... You need this to have a fulfilled life, TAB."

"Maybe Google is self-aware now," MEH agreed.

"Wonderful. As if it wasn't troubling enough to have robot spider dreams, let's throw in the Gmail conspiracy. GOOGLE KNOWS YOUR DEEPEST, DARKEST FEARS... and will email you advertisements about them."

"Things you didn't know you didn't, Google does," MEH contributed.

"Like, 'Hey, I know you're afraid of ants, but did you know they can also lift like 50 times their body weight? Can you imagine what that would be like if there were GIANT ANTS? Better stock up on Raid in bulk this weekend just in case! Here's a coupon for 5 cents off!"

You may think I'm paranoid, but I'm onto you, Google. Sure, I'm gonna go buy the Raid because the possibility of giant mutant ants actually does terrify me and you may be laughing now, but you just wait until the techologicapocalypse (I am totally copyrighting that term, bitches) befalls us and you'll come crawling back to me and my bunker and my bulk cans of Raid and Bruce Campbell will probably be there waiting for the zombies to show up, and you'll be like, "Hey... hey, TAB, remember all the good times we had searching for lolcat pictures while you were at work? Those were good times, man... so, listen, is there any room in that bunker for me?" And I will reflect for a moment, smile, and hand you an advertisement for discount bomb shelters from Home Depot.

Checkmate.

Okay, so Google: 2, TAB: 0

The Average Broad: *dude*

MEH: *yes?*

TAB: now the ads for my blog that say "make potassium nitrate"

TAB: isn't that how you make a bomb?!

MEH: lmao

TAB: GOOGLE THINKS I AM A TERRORIST

MEH: time to photoshop an image of you with a hand grenade, a sword and a green bandana obscuring your face...and sunglasses

TAB: is that seriously how you make a bomb?

TAB: i have no idea

MEH: i have no idea. im not a terrorist like you

MEH: lol dont google it either or you'll end up on a govt no fly list

TAB: I KNOW OMFG THEY ALREADY THINK I'M A TERRORIST BECAUSE OF GOOGLE

TAB: now i can't look it up or they'll *know*

In other news, I probably shouldn't have had beers at lunch.

Google:1, TAB: 0

The Average Broad: you are not going to believe this. on my google ads box on my blog, there is an ad for "how to make booby traps"

MEH: nice!

The Average Broad: how the hell did google generate that?

MEH: booby traps will come handy in the zombie apocalypse

The Average Broad: where do i say anything about booby traps?

The Average Broad: they post ads based on your post content

The Average Broad: like, there are a lot of ads about bartending

The Average Broad: and alcohol and stuff

MEH: haha you lush

The Average Broad: why yes, pot, i AM black

The Average Broad: i mean, i feel like google jumped the gun here and now i *have* to post something about booby traps

The Average Broad: otherwise it's FALSE ADVERTISING

The Average Broad: do you see how they did that there? google has effectively made me their bitch. first china made google *their* bitch, and now google's taking it out on the little people

The Average Broad: WELL PLAYED, GOOGLE.

MEH: dude, i never understood the meaning of that kettle saying

The Average Broad: the pot calling the kettle black. because they are both black, and probably racist

MEH: yeah, i knew the racist undertone

MEH: like shit telling vomit it stinks

The Average Broad: oh wow, that is a decidedly more visceral version

The Average Broad: but yeah, same thing

MEH: hah

The Average Broad: maybe i will just post a blog with this conversation, since i've already talked about booby traps and therefore met my quota according to google

MEH: perfect

MEH: boobs

The Average Broad: NOW it's perfect, right?

MEH: i wanted you to get more diverse advertising

The Average Broad: do you think it'll be bras or porn now?

MEH: porn. it'll go well with the booze ads

The Average Broad: i'm glad you and google *finally* understand me.

The Average Recap!

Okay, as it turns out, I'm not dead. I sort of thought I was on Monday when my epic death plague hangover triggered an equally epic death migraine, but long story short, my absence from my little blogiverse has been a result of various important other things, like EM's birthday a week or so ago. Also, it's summer, and as we all know, summer is the time when the surrounding heat creeps into your body and leeches into your brain like, "Hey! It's hot! We don't want to do anything! Screw laundry! Screw grocery shopping! Screw responsibility! This is beer drinkin' weather and we're going to make you too lethargic to get off your lazy, sweaty butt and accomplish anything. Even blogging, the laziest of all writing exercises. Not. Gonna. Do. It."

Additionally, the sad facts are that I haven't really had much entertainment to share. Eharmony guy, music journalist guy and hot musician have pretty much gone the way of the buffalo, TOL and I are still on pleasant but ever-more-distant terms (good... I guess?), work is still as soul-sucking as it was last month and most of my extra writing has been funneled into one larger project approved by the Writer's Workshop of Death (inclusive of MEH and Friend With Great Hair). EM and EM's boyfriend are still doing well and planning on visiting EM's boyfriend's family in the nether regions of the States in July which will most likely leave me bored and alone in the apartment for a month, but also able to sit around in my underwear without fear of impropriety or social repercussion.

Ahh, stability - a blessing and a curse.

To Recap:

1. The Average Broad: not dead.

2. Everything is pretty much the same.

3. Oh, I think I'm gonna get a bbq this weekend. Omg. BBQ. ::swoon::

4. Have you ever seen banana flavored ice cream? I don't think I have, but I wonder what it would be like to have a banana flavored banana split.

5. Also, I'm going to learn to surf this summer. Hell yes.

Maybe I'm Just Loud.

The Recap:

As it stands, I have no idea how my date went last night. "How is this possible?" you may ask. "Weren't you there? Aren't you the only person who would know how your date went? Well, other than the Journalist Guy?"

Of course. Journalist Guy, though completely sweet and gentlemanly and nice, appears to be quite shy. "I just don't talk much," he admitted at one point. Generally, I'm uneasy around shy, reserved types because I've a very outgoing person. (Re: other words tossed around have been "loud" and "obnoxious" and even "aggressive") It's not that I have any kind of problem with quieter types, it's just that I tend to attract people with the same level of energy, so sitting across from a perfectly lovely person who merely smiles at my bad puns and ridiculous stories and probing questions (ha ha, I said "probe") makes me nervous, and I say dumb things when I'm nervous.

In short, if he calls, will I go out with him again? Of course. Will I totally understand if he doesn't ever call again and thinks of me as the girl who spent 5 minutes talking to the waiter about fried cheese and tequila? Yep. Like so many things, it's a coin toss.

In other news:
- oh my god. Did I wake up in some parallel universe where time moves ultra slow today? WHY IS TODAY GOING BY SO SLOWLY?!
- The Bestie will be joining me next Wednesday evening and I couldn't be more excited. I haven't seen her since Christmas.
- Today is free coffee day at Starbucks, so I have had way more caffeine than normal, or safe. I think my legs are vibrating.
- MEH and I have been discussing, at length, the impending geologically-induced apocalypse. Earthquakes, volcanoes... WTF, Earth?! Take some pepto and chill.

Thoughts Before A Date

I have a date tonight with another L.A. music journalist-type. Noting the rather alarming ratio of my bad dates to good dates, I feel that this could really go either way to the extreme. My time with eharmony guy is usually fun, but I've never felt anything to the extreme such as, "You're the choicest of fellows. Let's gallop down the aisle and squirt out some babies," or "You repulse me in ways I cannot even begin to describe." Things are lovely, and mellow.

Here are the reasons why I feel tonight will be Dating X-TREME:

1. I met this journalist fellow at an editorial networking event when I was two Jack and Cokes in and trying to strike up conversations with anyone within a 10-foot radius. Probably quite loudly, and probably giggling rather insanely at my jokes falling flat with everyone else. Having whiskey for dinner usually impairs my judgment of people, but to be fair, I am a horribly naive judge of character as it is. My hazy opinions from a slightly-intoxicated state are thus null and void.

2. My initial impressions of Journalist Guy were: "why is he sitting alone at a networking event?" "why does he frown so much?" and then upon talking to him: "he does not laugh at my jokes or humor, but he does not run from me either" "is he being bitter or is his humor extra dry?" and finally: "I just spent an hour trying to make this odd man laugh" "is now a good time for a dead baby joke? Did he just judge me for loving the Gaga? Did he really just ask for my number?"

3. Sweet but *super* awkward voicemail. Funny but judgmental text messages about my love of The Distillers. However, proposed the date without hesitation and confidently said he would pick me up at 8. I like that he took the initiative and didn't do the whole "What time do you wanna go? 7? Is 6 too early? 9? Where do you wanna eat? What kind of food do you like? How are you at making decisions?" but am also concerned about *possible* pretentious and/or Type A leanings.

Other things on my mind about this event:
- Should I drink beforehand?
- Can I wait that long to eat dinner?
- Maybe I should eat beforehand.
- Now that I know he doesn't like the Gaga and The Distillers, that's all I feel like listening to right now. This may mean there is something bratty deep within my soul.
- I can't remember what shoes he was wearing at the networking thing. For those of you confused by this, trust me when I tell you I can tell more about a man by the style of his shoes than after an hour of conversation with him.

I've spoken to EM and MEH about this and they both have a wait-and-see 'tude about it. And so we shall.

Most days I am happily single. Today is not one of those days.

I went to an engagement party this weekend with EM and EM's boyfriend. It was EM's best friend from high school, so I've known her by proxy practically just as long, and she's getting married to her girlfriend this summer and moving to a random southern state to go live as happily ever after as you can in a random southern state. I congratulated EM's friend and her fiancee, who were both so obviously happy, shoveled some heavily frosted cake in my face and washed it all down with Guinness. EM, EM's boyfriend and I then piled back in the car and sat through northbound traffic heading home to LA, all while my hormones tap danced around my lady-parts, making me feel very melancholy.

Sometimes, when you're single and crazy like me, happy couples nauseate and irritate you, despite how fabulous you are (and I am) for no reason other than that they're privy to some echelon of happiness not quite achievable for single people. It's worse when not-single people want to put an end to your singleness because they feel it's their responsibility, as evidenced by an encounter MEH described to me with his friends this weekend.

"I hate it. Even the etymology of it - 'the fix-up' - like we're broken!" I said indignantly to MEH.

"I know!" He indignantly agreed with me. Indignantly.

"I'm not broken," I repeated to My Friend With Great Hair after explaining the story to her, too.

"You're not broken," she agreed.

Then another engaged coworker came into my office, grinning from ear to ear and I irrationally wanted to punch him for no reason other than that he was happy.

Maybe I am broken.

TAB: Expert Bad Decision Maker.

Sometimes, My Friend With Great Hair comes into my office for little chats that will inevitably turn into long, depressing discussions about our parallel love lives. I usually end up bitching, whining and complaining about TOL and she ends up relating it to her last disaster relationship and by the end of a 5 minute, "Hey! How are you today?" conversation, it's like we're those two old guys at the bar crying in their beers about "the one that got away" - but much less awesome because 1. we are not guys, 2. we don't have beers in front of us, and 3. we are the ones the others were getting away from. (Suck it, grammar)

Yesterday, I mentioned to My Friend With Great Hair that I was considering the possibility of continuing to date eHarmony guy in an effort to get over TOL, and hedged the suggestion that maybe defriending TOL on Facebook (I'm not that connected, mostly...) was a bad life choice because now I just *wonder.* (I defriended TOL some time ago when I saw ambiguous, passive-aggressive status updates that may or may not be related to me and what we once were and it drove me closer to insane than I was before.)

"TAB," Friend With Great Hair said, "I don't think you're ready to Facebook him again. I think he still writes about you, and it won't help you get over him."

This, of course, sent me into girly panic mode like only patent leather heels and new nail polish and Guinness on sale can do. I wanted to know what he had said, and when, and if it was related to the last time I mistakenly texted him. Friend With Great Hair sighed, clearly convinced this would do me no good whatsoever, but she showed me the updates anyway.

From the day he texted me after I deleted his number and I responded with "who is this?" even though I already knew: something about how quickly one forgets or moves on or whatever passive aggressive nonsense he usually writes. Not only does this do me no good, but I can't tell if it *is* good.

"I think he's sad," Friend With Great Hair said because she's also a great friend. "I think he misses you."

This, in turn, made me sad. I caved and texted him. We ran our familiar emotional gamut going from happy to him being a dbag to me being pissed at him, and pissed at myself for caving and texting him. Now I'm irritated AND confused, which are scientifically proven to be excellent drinking conditions.

"You should come out with me," Friend With Great Hair said, implying that I should join her WeHo lesbifriends and have a "therapeutic" lesbian evening, instead of continuing to date eHarmony guy. I explained the situation to MEH at work this morning.

"Don't go crazy bi-chick on me," he bemoaned.

"I can't," I said. "I'm a testosterone junkie. Hey... :: lightbulb moment:: ...maybe that's why I date dbags."

"That's exactly it," MEH said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Isn't it disconcerting that I used to have an advice column?

Beware the D-listers.

Living in L.A. sounds so glamorous, doesn't it? Sometimes, when I tell people I live in Los Angeles (if they're not from or familiar with the city) they think it's red carpets and Brangelina sightings at Coffee Bean every day. On occasion (read: when it involves getting a free drink and/or food thing), I will admit that I perpetuate this delusion. Sometimes it's just better to roll with it than to destroy someone's vision of such a charmed lifestyle. When I was studying abroad in the UK some years ago, The OC was stupid popular and everyone at the pub/club got excited upon hearing that I hailed from this state (nevermind that Orange County is hours away from my former college) and repeatedly asked if I knew anyone famous. To be fair, I was sure karma would kick my ass if I lied, so I would politely inform them that Cali is a huge state and no, Seth didn't live next door to me. Towards the end of my time across the pond, however, I didn't see any karmic benefit to being honest and found myself telling lavish stories about how Marissa and I went to elementary school together and scoring free booze because of it. Dude, things are expensive in the UK and you gotta get creative, savvy?

Anyway, the truth of the matter is that 1. L.A. is 98% D-list actors, 2. you will encounter them and 3. they will act like they are A-list actors and be complete dbags most of the time.

The proof I have to support my bubble-popping statements (sorry, non-Angelenos) is numerous enough that I considered turning it into a book, until I realized no one wants to read a book about dbags. (Get that, Miley?) I draw from a LOT of sources because the only thing anyone here really cares about is who you know, and let me tell you, the people I know have to deal with the D-listers every day. Most recent examples:

1. Today, MEH informed me that he went to cover a club/label party and upon approaching a D-list actor (who may or may not have been on Boston Legal) for 5 minutes of his time and a short quote about the event, D-lister Dbag turned him down and walked away all without making eye contact. Perhaps he needed his manager to help him formulate a thought, which brings me to...

2. Not so recent, but funny nonetheless, during my stint at an L.A.-based magazine, there happened to be an event during L.A. Fashion Week, in which The Average Broad was glamorously stationed as the guest list girl (insert collective groan and facepalm from my fellow low-on-the-totem-pole intern friends) and was stuck dealing with a D-lister who, I kid you not, introduced himself to everyone as "SoandSo, from the CBS show Moonlight," which, I later found out, involved a guest spot on ONE episode. The show is canceled, I think, but it was new at the time and after whining about not receiving a gift bag from the event (crappy gift bag at that, not like it's the Oscars here) and forcing his overpaid and lecherous manager on me to secure said crappy gift bag, proceeded to call my (at the time) red hair "sassy" and ended with "I could show you around the set sometime." Well, D-lister, I thought, I could show you my fist in your face, but you look like the type who would press charges.

3. Being a fanfreakingtastic makeup artist, EM has dealt with some doozies in her line of work. A couple weeks ago, she texted me about working with some "I'm-a-hotshot" actor-type who, as it turns out, was on Buffy the Vampire Slayer for maybe two minutes of screen time total. I don't think he's done anything since, but he definitely classifies as a dbag D-lister who was an arrogant-rude-guy to EM when she was trying to do her job, as in, make him look good. Brill idea, D-lister, to piss off the makeup artist who has the ability to make you look like a pimpled, wrinkly assface on camera. Ever the professional, EM kept it classy, but we had a fine time texting about it later.

Here's the deal. L.A. is about appearances so it wants you to think it's really all red carpets and Brangelina sightings, when it's really a pretty filthy city with a lot of selfish, stupid people who only really want to talk to you if you can help them get somewhere in life. I'd be totally happy to dish more celeb gossip, too, if you could just tell that friend you know at that one magazine that I'm looking to fill that superb EA posish. If you hear from her, call me and we'll do lunch.

I make bad decisions.

Today, I feel the horrible effects of a creative rut. In an effort to find something entertaining to post today, I scrolled through some old emails between MEH and I and accidentally stumbled upon old email exchanges with TOL. I glanced at them, and they made me so sad I felt ill. I didn't delete them. I should, but I can't really bring myself to. Emails from the day that he left still break my heart.

How annoying. I need to be over it already.

My heart hurts.

Bowling With Napalm

Sometimes at work, I stave off boredom by entertaining myself with my coworkers. I know you're thinking that my glorious grid monkey job could not possibly be boring, but you'd be wrong. Below is one of the conversations that I had today with my close friend/coworker/fellow writer, MEH.

The Average Broad: I really want to try to get press coverage of punk rock bowling this year. I think I'm gonna email the press guy and see if we can get hooked up.
The Average Broad: I def don't want to bowl, but hot damn, it would be sweet to cover that lineup
MEH: bowling's fun!
The Average Broad: bowling is the worst of the white trash sports
MEH: I thought that honor belonged to nascar
The Average Broad: no, it's right above frog gigging. NASCAR at least has the possibility of explosions. Get out of here unless that bowling ball is filled with napalm.
MEH: only explosions I've seen at nascar events is the condiments rack letting out too much mustard/ketchup
The Average Broad: that sounded vaguely like food porn, and I didn't say it happened EVERY time.
MEH: MONEYSHOT!
The Average Broad: that makes me want to steer clear of condiments.

TGIF: Thank Gaga It's Friday.

For some reason, I've been having a lot of dreams about Dita von Teese lately. This is weird in itself because for the most part, I never remember my dreams. I guess when your subconscious has you making out with a famous burlesque dancer and your Dad walks in, there's something odd going on. I do remember her having a great red lipstick, though.

"Let's take stock of my love life, shall we?" I asked a close friend of mine today. "I'm having homosexually inspired dreams of Dita von Teese, the closest thing I have to a relationship is the video game time I'm logging in with Kratos from God of War, and the one potential date is with a guy from eHarmony who thinks I'm some kind of 'bad girl.'" He was sympathetic. Another friend, however, suggested I just get a cat and be done with it. Maybe I'll start knitting or scrapbooking, too. Screw it.

In other news, I'm 98% sure my office thinks my job is useless, evidenced by the fact that my bosses keep trying to stick me with random tasks that have nothing to do with my job description. Perhaps I'm supposed to represent some sort of catch-all, like that junk drawer you have in your kitchen - or in my case, entire bedroom. Regardless, it's irritating because most (okay, some) of the time, I work really hard and frankly, I don't have time to be your junk drawer. I'm protesting by blogging at work. Suck it. One day, I'll hear back from one the countless editorial jobs that I've applied to in New York and this won't matter.

Bad things about today:

-I forgot my lunch today, thought I lost my glasses yesterday, and am having memory problems in general which makes me feel like I'm closing in on some younger strain of Alzheimer's.

-Random realizations about my ridiculous love life.

-Still no news about Mamma-San's most recent cancer scan.

-P.S. I'm really hungry because I forgot my lunch.

Good things about today:

- I'm wearing my new nOir spike rings from Gilt.com that would leave horrible dents in a person's face, should I choose to punch them.

- I'm going out with EM and her boyfriend to his productions wrap party, where EM and I will get to play Surly Artsy Types, drink in the corner, and judge people.

-No cancer news is *usually* good news.

Okay, divide and conquer. It's Friday, let's stick with the good things.