out for the count


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Wednesday, May 21, 2003

I should really never mention anything from my dreams again.

Have I ever told you about how much I love David Letterman? No? Ahh. Well, then...let me just say that Letterman is the most adorable, lovable, hilarious, double-breasted-suit-wearing man I've ever seen. I try to catch his show at least once or twice a week, and it never disappoints me.

I'm not even ashamed to admit that my first sexual dream was about Dave. And if that man can perform in real life anything approaching the studly caliber he was at in my dream, then he must make some lady very happy. I'm sure you could've lived without knowing that, but deal.

Friday, May 16, 2003

Don't fuck with my toothbrush.

Steve bought a $60 bottle of tequila and two cases of Sol last night. A good time was had by all, except when Mike picked on my Sonicare (which we all know is near and dear to my heart). "You have a mechanical toothbrush [hysterical laughter]. What the fuck, an electrical [interupted by more hysterical laughter] toothbrush!" We drank like it was our job. And I'd like to add, just in case anyone is keeping score, that I can hold my alcohol like a little fucking champion. Must be that Irish blood.

My only complaints are that my lungs are cashed and I have a raging case of the day-after-drunk stupids. In lab I was a clumsy fool; I kept knocking everything over. Even worse, I kept adding the wrong chemicals to the right reactions. I'm suprised they even let me in the lab, much less actually touch things.

Alright, nap time...

Sunday, May 11, 2003

We're young, free, healthy, wealthy and wise.

I totally just watched Beverly Hills 90210: The Reunion. And I'm not ashamed to say that I enjoyed it. Well, save for the last two minutes when they played the sentimental montage with Will You Remember Me blasting in the background. Touching, really. Bah.

Don't be suprised if I bust out with some scrunchees and lime green leggings tomorrow. I'm money like that.

Monday, May 05, 2003

Last night, I had the most absolutely horrifying nightmare ever - about comic book characters. I've never experienced a feeling of relief that can compare to one that washed over me when I woke up and realized it was only a dream. And get this...I was afraid to get out of bed to go pee. I just couldn't shake the thought of the Green Goblin reaching up from the toilet to grab me by my ass and pull me in. Serioulsy. You'd never believe what a scary fucker he is. Alright. Fine. Maybe I'm just a pussy.

I shouldn't have watched that interview with Stan Lee.

Monday, April 28, 2003

Sent with love, from Edinbourgh

I love the post-doc in my lab because whenever I'm having a bad day, she says stuff like "Aye, someone should tell Jessie to pull her knickers up; I can see her bumcrack," and "A wee bit less arse would be peerfict." And when I'm just about to rip my hair out from sheer frustration, she chirps in "Feck this shite, let's go get a pint," at 12pm on a Monday afternoon.

Nevermind the fact that I can't understand her half the time...the half that I do get is worth all the collective perfect American English in the whole of Shands. She's totally full of wisdom.

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Misinformed by the Misinformer

Yesterday, some fuckwit told me that President Bush had been shot by a fanatical protester. So I rush home, thinking that the very state of Republican politics is in jeopardy and wondering why I hadn't heard about it earlier. I turn on the TV, expecting that our regularly scheduled programming would be interupted by footage of Bush's brain being blown out the back of his head (which you know they'd have AND play repeatedly on national television). After no sign of reports regarding Bush, I got sidetracked wondering why stations would show live coverage of his torturous, mind-numbing speeches wherein he stands there looking like an inbred, confused puppy dog and yet won't keep us in the know regarding the gory details of his assassination...

Then I realized that I'm obviously the fuckwit in this scenario for believing such a fuckwit in the first place. Thank you, Captain MENSA.

Sunday, April 20, 2003

Maybe it's God discuised as Micheal Jordan.

Last night, I had a dream that Micheal Jordan was my tennis coach. Now, I could name about twenty things that are terribly wrong with this picture, but just bare with me. So, MJ was my tennis coach and one of my best friends. He was also very close with my chemistry professor, who I happened to be dating. Yes, we were one big happy family. Me, MJ, and Dr. Martin. There was this tournament coming up and I was trying to get in shape for it - practicing and working out and what not. But everytime I started to practice, someone from the chemistry department would interupt to tell me that I needed to get a work permit to work in the lab the next day. It turns out that ol' Dr. Martin kept sending people over there to check on Mr. Jordan and me because he suspected we were having an affair. That totally wasn't the case, but you can see how that would put a strain on a budding athlete's relationship with her coach. So the tournament came and I lost. MJ cried and blamed himself and promised me that he wouldn't return to basketball until I had become the "best damn tennis player in the world."

I woke up after that to the phone ringing and told my boy Steve that I couldn't talk because Micheal Jordan was waiting on the courts for me. Seeing as how I have no recollction of that, I'm gonna go ahead and assume I was still asleep.

What have we learned from all this? Regardless of all the speculative hoopla and joking pertaining to Micheal Jordan's "last" NBA game, he will, in fact, definitely not be returning to the NBA because it will take 30 lifetimes to turn me into a tennis champion.

Monday, April 14, 2003

Blondie says "Touch me and draw back a nub."

I took my dog to the vet yesterday morning where she was inspected, detected, and injected. Two nice young ladies drew some blood, gave her shots, clipped her nails, and checked her ears. She's totally pissed and still pouting. I can't even coax her towards me with those bacon flavored treats, so this is serious. I think she's making plans to run away. She'll be talking to the cat one second and then I'll walk over and they hush to whispers. Uh huh. Fucking animal conspiracy. Lucky for me, a blind dog can't get far without her seeing-eye person.

Saturday, April 12, 2003

I forgot to mention...

A couple of months ago when Susana and I were searching for a house, we found this perfect little place. It was adorable, from the outside at least; we never got to look around inside it. When the realitor knocked on the door, who else was standing in the living room but Mr. I'm-too-sexy-for-my-shirt-so-I-should-take-it-off-for-Lindsey-and-make-babies-with-her, himself. My urge to jump on top of him was counter-acted by the disappointment I felt for not being able to rent the house (they had decided to resign their lease).

He looked like he was up to something very suspicious.
Sometime last winter, I met this guy at the Grogg House that looks exactly like Johnny Depp. We talked for an hour or two and he asked for my phone number. Now, this might not mean much to most of you, but only because you're all blind and don't realize that Mr. Depp is one of the two sexiest men alive (Matthew McConaughey being the other). So, anyways...yesterday when I was walking from Shands back to the south side of campus, I ran into said twin. He stopped me and asked if I remembered him and told me he still had my phone number tacked up on his bulliten board.
I couldn't remember his name and I didn't bother asking.
But man, the things I could do to that boy...

Thursday, April 10, 2003

Never is a promise and you can't afford to lie.

I'm nervous that Stephen's moving back home. I know that, eventually, I'll run into his sarcastic ass and I don't wanna see him. The only results of any interaction between the two of us are bad noise and misunderstanding. Not too hard to believe considering this is the same person that once bitched at me for sending him a birthday present. Freak.

All the same, I still don't think I'd mind being called Mrs. R. (You know what I'm talking about, Susi.)


Tuesday, April 08, 2003

Have you met the twins?

On Friday, after a long talk over three or four pitchers, Trista decided that it was time to pack up the serious discussion and spend some time naming her breasts. So after an hour of asking everyone in the bar for suggestions, she finally settled upon her first idea: Mary Kate and Ashley. So, yes. I drank too much and Trista bastardized the names of two innocent little girls. Good times.
What did Willy J. have to say?

Well, now. That's none of your god-damn business. No, really...it was a pleasure seeing him and in spite of all the sardonic comments I make at his expense, I admire him as a leader and a diplomat (even if his values are a bit skewed in the direction of his penis). His lecture was on how to work towards peace and good relations with the countries in Southeast Asia and in the Middle East.

That's enough. Maybe I'll write more about it later.

Thursday, April 03, 2003

This Month's Centerfold: ex-President William Clinton

Today, at 3pm, I'm going to watch Bill Clinton speak. Bill Clinton, yo. I'm quite excited. Shut up, you would be too.

Clinton's Profile:

Famous first: 1st elected president to be impeached
Reason he's so smart today: didn't inhale
Favorite activity: slow head received from under his desk
Key to success: boxer-briefs (they provide more support)
Turn-ons: berets, full lips, saving trees, and talking about peace
Turn-offs: Republicans

It totally goes without saying that he was the best president ever. Who else left their "legacy" while thoroughly entertaining America every step of the way? Nevermind. The point is that Willy is a swell guy and you are very jealous that you aren't going to watch his lecture.

Wednesday, April 02, 2003

We're in good hands...

"I've got 30 cannons, and I'm shooting them all. I never shot so much in my life. I need some more bullets."

- LT. COL. BILL BENNETT, commander of the 101st Division's artillery unit, 60 miles from Baghdad

Wednesday, March 26, 2003

My grandmother smoked cigarettes for 60 years. By the time she was 80, the sound of her breathing had become a low whistle, a rhythmic wheeze as she forced air through her lungs, accompanied by the occasional hacking of a seasoned smoker. Lately, my air conditioner has been coughing and wheezing like my grandmother used to. I don't know how to make it stop.

You think maybe this is a divine sign from beyond that my grandmother is trying to communicate with me? Just a thought.

Tuesday, March 25, 2003

Shut up and make me a turkey pot pie, bitch...

I was peacefully napping earlier this evening, dreaming of teddy bears and rainbows, when the phone woke me up. When I picked up, my darling mother was singing into the other end. Sweet, sweet tunes. "Lindsey, you need to get off your ass." (Do wop do wa.) "You have to start working harder." (La, la, la, la.) "I don't understand what you're doing with all your time." (And the colored girls went "doo da do doo doo da do doo.") I'm baffled. Two jobs, 15 credit hours, double major, volunteer work, 3.75. I mean, really, I'm not a fucking kung fu ninja. There are only 24 hours in a day. If she really knew what was best for me, she'd tell me to stay up late, forget to eat breakfast, not wash behind my ears or in my belly button, get liquored up every night, have casual sex with every attractive stranger I meet, and skip my classes and shifts like a champion. Yes. And then, she'd send me a check for a million dollars. I bet your mothers do all that stuff.