So, unless you've been living under a rock, you know that Michael Jackson died.

Kind of a bummer, I really enjoyed some of his music.

That being said, Farrah Fawcett died yesterday too, and if I were her, I'd be right pissed that the King Of Pop took some of my "Died before my time" thunder away.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think that either should be ignored. They were both icons.

But I made the mistake of watching the news and had to suffer through fifteen minutes of Michael Jackson's death. Look, it's his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's a bunch of people who don't have all their teeth standing outside of his place in Gary, Indiana. Look, it's someone no one has ever heard of talking about how much he liked Michael Jackson. Look, it's some drunk white guy stepping between the reporter and the camera in Gary, Indiana.

Farrah Fawcett was mentioned as almost an after thought, and on one network not at all. Well played, guys.

I dunno, the media circus surrounding celebrity deaths has always kind of bothered me. It's impossible to grieve for your loved one with a camera in your face. Standing a reporter outside a place where a famous person lived when they were seven isn't news. It's obnoxious.

Can we get back to real news, like President Obama killing a fly in a fit of murderous rage, already?

Busy busy busy busy busy.

I've been so busy writing that I'm exhausted. I've been in meetings for Something-Awesome-That-I-Can't-Openly-Discuss-Yet, polishing up my proposal and query letter, waiting for a new contract and trying not to fall asleep at my "real" job which is sucking the life out of me.

I just want to wake up and write.

That's all. Perfect job for me.

All this other going to the office and getting yelled at sucks balls and I'm sick of it. Bah.

But good things are happening! Soon enough, I suppose.

Now, someone bring me some sesame chicken and a nap.

Sorry sorry, I know I am a little late with this one.

My internet is shut off at home until the next time I get paid (God knows when that is), so I'm kind of stuck using the net at work only. It sucks balls, but I suppose it's a lot of uninterrupted writing time.

Anyway, I know I'm a day late, but Happy Father's Day to all the Daddys out there.

Whee!

I'm super excited. I'm still in the middle of what I'm going to refer to as the Great Literary Agent Hunt of 2009, but there's some good news!

Turns out, a rocking author/speaker/TV/Whatever else she does person wants to use an excerpt of my stuff in her upcoming book! I'm pretty stoked. I don't want to give away too much information yet, but when I can I will.

It is nice to know that someone seems to think my writing is worth publishing, in any capacity. Especially someone who lives in Australia. It's one thing for people in your own circle to say you don't suck, but for someone I have no ties to, who lives on the other side of the world saying I don't suck? Well shit, I'll take it.

You don't have to hang around here long to know that I've got some serious asthma, and some other weird ass lung issues that cause me to be somewhat miserable a good portion of the time.

I don't feel sorry for myself, it's just one of those things I deal with. I don't go places with smoke, I don't allow people to smoke in my car, but generally I'm not an asshole about it. It's not the rest of the world's problem that I have crappy lungs.

That being said, I'm still kind of an asshole. When I can't breathe it makes me crabby, which I'm used to. But god help everyone if I haven't had any sleep. I turn into a colossal bitch, and I have been known to make people cry. I'm not kidding. I made a politician tear up because I was tired, and god damn it he started it. I do not fuck around when I'm tired.

In my apartment complex, it's against the rules to have any sort of grill anywhere near the building. No one ever really listens, and that's fine. However, there is this particular Mexican family that lives in an adjacent building that likes to grill right under my windows.

The first time, I nicely asked them if they could move about six feet to the left. And when I say "nicely", I mean just that. I am always nice at first. I told them I wasn't trying to be a pain, and I explained my lung situation and how the smoke gets into my apartment and makes me very sick.

He tells me they are almost done. Fair enough.

It happens again. I ask them again, very nicely, if they could inch it over. Again I explain that I have very bad asthma, I am very allergic to the smoke and I will wind up in the emergency room.

Again he tells me that he's sorry, he forgot. Does not move an inch.

The other day, he's grilling again. I don't know if that's the only way he knows how to cook or what, but again right under my window.

And again I walk down there and ask nicely if they could move just six feet over from my window.

This time, he looks at me and promptly tells me to fuck myself.

Well OK then. I walked back upstairs, while he proceeded to grill under my window for four fucking hours. I don't know much about this kind of thing, but I'm pretty sure after four hours whatever the hell you were cooking is done. He could've stuck an entire cow on that thing and it would be done in less time.

And because of that, I was up all night doing breathing treatments and popping steroids so I could stop wheezing. Trying to prevent a trip to the Emergency Room.

This does not make me happy. Staying up all night strung out on steroids is only fun if you're a profesional baseball player.

As I was hauling my sick ass to work, I noticed. The grill was still there. Under my window. But Paco was nowhere to be found. He left it under my window. Insult to injury.

Now, I am not a vengeful person. I am one of those people who is nice until I'm just not anymore. And I did ask him nice three times. The forth time I do not ask and I am not nice. But I'd never do anything to anyone else's property that I'd admit on a public forum.

All I know is that the grill is now missing, and I can only assume that someone who was angry with the owner maybe left a note saying "Please Pick This Up" on it after dragging it over to the dumpster. But that's pure speculation as I'd never, ever do anything like that.

So I think my neighbor learned a few important life lessons that day.
1. You should pick up your things after you're done using them.
2. Being a good neighbor only makes your life easier.
3. Don't ever piss me off when I'm sick and tired. It only ends in tears.
4. Don't pick on people who wake up earlier than you do.
5. You should be careful who you tell to fuck off.

So, in response to his suggestion when I asked him the third time to please move, I feel the need to say the following:

Fuck me? Fuck me? Oh no, my little bean eating friend. Fuck you.

Well shit!

I was having a bad day and being all crabby and bitchy, because it's what I do.

Some people paint, others sing, I bitch about random shit.

But Brian Smith, (Not Bryant!) ruined that. Because that's what he does, he's a ruiner. He ruined a perfectly good bad mood.

Nothing like sitting around and getting a text message of "I just saw your blog on TV".
Which generally means one of two things: The FBI is looking for me or...ok fine, it only means one thing.

Turns out Brian got me an early birthday present and got me Tweekerchick.com.
And, in a tribute to the greatest song ever made, he also got me Bigbootybitchwhothinkssheistheshit.com

Yea, he's hard to love sometimes.

Anyway, the show is pretty bad ass. This particular one is how to break out of police grade handcuffs. Not that I'd ever know anything about that or ever have any use for that particular skill stop looking at me that way.

If you want to skip to awesome check out the 7 minute mark, but I'm putting the entire thing because if you're reading my blog, chances are the info will come in handy.

By far one of the coolest things that's happened to me.

I've got some seriously awesome friends.

Thanks Brian, you're the best.

Now I have all this extra energy to write that book (FINE. Find and agent and write a book, rub it in), and hopefully get back to work at Tame The Bear!

While you're here, check out Blood Guts and Shiny Things. I've really been digging it lately.

So I did it.

I busted my ass all weekend, and wrote sixty-seven pages of a proposal. It seems like a lot, but when you're writing a book with fifty chapters, it's really not.

Anyhooter, it was a long weekend. Went through 2 cases of diet coke, and I ran out of coffee early in to Saturday morning. The sad thing, is that it's still not done. However, now that I have the chapter outline out of the way, the rest is smooth sailing.

At least that's what I Thought.

Sixty-seven pages. Two pages longer than my senior thesis in college, done in about 48 hours (taking into account the amount of time I screwed around on the Internet instead of working).

I finished at 9:14 PM.

And I was thrilled.

Nothing sounds better than printing that bad boy, taking a purple pen to it, editing it and being done with it so I can find someone to buy my book.

I was wrong.

Sixty-two pages into the print job, things are fine.

Page Sixty-Fucking-Two comes along, and I run out of toner. No biggie, I always keep another on hand. Pop the new one in there, click resume...and nothing.

Cancel the job and start a new one for pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven.

Nothing.

Wash rinse repeat.

I do this a few times and finally, FINALLY something prints.

It's pages sixty-fucking-two to sixty-fucking-seven!

Well, sort of. Now it's only printing roughly every other line.

My eye has been twitching since. Any ideas?

I'm going to finish my book proposal today, come hell or high water.

The part that's taking forever is the chapter outlines...there are fifty chapters! Yes, I know, I've done it to myself.

I have finally put my finger on what's taken me so long.

Meeblings.

They have ruined any chance I had of productivity for awhile. Cute little addicting things that go "Meep!"

Don't say I didn't warn you.

I've been spending more and more of my time on Twitter , and because of that I've been lucky enough to chat with more than a few literary agents, publishers, editors and what have you.

And they have subsequently scared the bejeezus out of me.

Jesus Christ on a Crutch, they can be terribly scary people (Unless they are planning on representing, publishing, etc. me, in which case, total kittens. All of them.)

If you've ever met me, you'd know that I've got a set of brass plated balls the size of Miami, and it takes a special kind of person to give me pause. They've managed to do it.

Their blogs and tweets are intimidating to say the least, especially if you're a newer writer. It's always a new blog post on what some other writer did terribly wrong, as a lesson to the rest of us. I suppose they aren't paid to be sunshine and butterflies, and I'm sure a good majority of their day is filled with sifting through misspelled bullshit. At the same time, for a writer who is wet behind the ears, they can be the most terrifying people on earth.

Common sense says if you have a good idea/manuscript/proposal/set of boobs you should have no problem presenting it to an agent. Common sense also says I should stop wearing five inch heels three weeks after I broke three of my toes, but you don't see me doing that either.

My proposal is an adaptation of a piece I wrote that was published internationally, has had over a million readers on my dinky little blog alone, and has a following on Facebook that's 40,000 strong. (Forty-thousand people! Humbling, really.) I know that my book will be faboosh, and even better, marketable.

Knowing that doesn't make it any less intimidating sending it off to industry professionals to tear apart though.

The truth is, writing a proposal for other people to tear apart is scary. Writing a book is entirely more personal than I had ever anticipated, and at some level, it's really difficult to separate myself from the manuscript. It becomes an extension of yourself, and the idea of putting that out there so other people can judge it makes me incredibly nervous. However it's par the course, and I'm alright with that. I'd be concerned if it didn't scare me. Good things can be scary. Good things that can get you out of a shitty job and into a position where you can do something you love every day can be worse.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a proposal to finish and a Zanax to take.

I don't know if anyone caught the newest Burn Notice, but holy shit was it fab.

I never wanted my blog to be one of those sites where people come and talk about TV in such a serious way that it sucks all the fun out of it, so I'll keep it for what it is as a whole: Mindless entertainment that will only make my ass bigger.

That being said, the season premiere was so fucking good I felt like I needed a cigarette afterwards. Michael Westin is our generation's MacGyver but with way better hair and Armani suits, and for anyone who likes good looking men, you can't beat him in a prison jumpsuit working out. Just saying.

Plus, it's got Bruce Campbell. How can you go wrong?

Let me tell you. Fiona.

I love the character. She's bad assery, and I would not fuck with a person who would throw a block of C4 at someones head, regardless of it's stability.

However, can we get her to eat something? Please?
She is getting so thin that it's almost distracting to the story lines.

The show is in it's third season, she can afford a burger by now, Jesus H Christ. She's a great character and it would really throw a wrench in the works if she starved to death.

I am not having a good morning.

Which is really nothing new or exciting on a work day, but I digress.

I was doing my hair this morning, because I got it cut in a way that dictates I have to blow dry it every fucking day. Not my best call, but it's uber cute.

Long with chunky layers and side swept bangs. Very Ashlee Simpson when her hair was good. But again, not my point.

I know I live a high stress life, mostly because I'm just like my mother and if there's something on the planet to worry about, I'll find it and freak out about it. When you get us together, it's like a race to see who can give themselves a bleeding ulcer first.

This morning while I was busy making my bangs all side swept, and worrying whether or not I'd ever get a new contract, sell my book proposal, finish the book proposal, find someone who will tolerate me, get married, and find the perfect shoes something in the mirror caught my eye.

I have a grey fucking hair.

Well, I had a grey fucking hair, as my initial reaction was to scream "What the fuck?!" and pluck it out so fast I almost went back in time.

I am not happy. I'm turning 27 in August, and I don't feel that old. Not even close. But apparently the wrinkle on my forehead (That no one can notice but me but as soon as I get on my feet I fully plan on Botox-ing the shit out of), and my hair think otherwise.

I will not age gracefully and you can't make me.

Suck on that.

I've been cranking away at the book proposal, if only so I can get the hell out of my job. Why, you ask, do I hate my job so much? (Maybe you didn't ask. But I'm the only blogger around here, so pipe down). Because it's sales.

I suck balls at sales. The next person who tells me that they can teach me to be good at sales is going to spend the rest of the workday sewing up the new orifice I will tear them. There seems to be some misunderstanding. It's not that I hate sales because I'm bad at it. I'm bad at it because I hate it. I don't want to be good at it.

So, dear Literary Agents, Publishers, Etc:

Please save me from this hell.

Kisses,
Clare


Until then, I've been tinkering around the Internet, and I found some awesomely hilarious links that I will share with you here so it appears that I've actually written something of substance, which, if you've read this far you can tell that I certainly have not.

The first one is just what the title says. Goths in Hot Weather.

For my readers that are as mean as I am, here are the 10 most inappropriate Helen Keller things online. I can't believe you'd laugh at those. What the hell is wrong with you?

I've finally found myself a nice, good man in Chicago I'd be willing to date.

I'm super stoked about Drag Me To Hell, because I dig horror movies, and I love Sam Raimi even more. So here are his 5 Most Disturbing Moments. Sadly, Emo Spideman seems to have been left off of the list.

And finally, to make your work life a little more colorful, let's let the CIA take us on a little trip.

I was laying in bed last night when I realized that there's something I really hate that seems to have escaped my post from last night. How I missed this, what with recent media events, I'll never know but I'm fixing it now.

Whether it's the fact that she is a huge famewhoring cunt, or the fact that she pimps out her children, marriage and family for media attention, or just her stupid face, I can't tell you, but Kate Gosselin deserves a nod on my things that piss me off.

I'm pretty sure it's mostly the blatant exploitation of her children for a quick buck that pisses me off, considering that if Octo-Mom has taught us anything it's that it's alright to be devoid of all talent, style and redeeming qualities as long as you are fertile enough to have more than six kids in one sitting. I suppose sponging off of your offspring and ruining any chance of them growing up as normal well adjusted human beings is a hell of a lot easier than a nine to five, but the rest of us don't have to be happy about it. I can't wait until they turn into teenagers, band together and revolt agaisnt her using a high priced lawyer and divorce her stupid ass just like her husband should. Oh snap, I went there.

So Kate, if you ever happen to read this: You're a bitch and no one likes you. And by the way, your hair looks stupid.

Ive had a hard time finding things to write about because I've been so wrapped up in my book proposal. However, my friend over at Insatiable Blathering inspired me to start writing today with her list of things that piss her off.

So here is my list.

Shortened considerably. After all the Internet is only so big.

1. My Boss pulling me into his office for a lecture when I'm obviously on my way to the bathroom.

There are two things in the office when you walk down that hall. The door to leave, and the bathroom. Do I have my purse, sunglasses and car keys? No? Then I'm going to the goddamn bathroom, leave me alone. If you pull me into your office again when I'm going to the bathroom, I will pee in your office. Do not test me.


2. Not getting paid on time.

Believe it or not, convincing Com Ed not to turn off my power, Dish not to turn off my TV, and ATT not to axe my Internet is not my idea of fun.


3. The Black Eyed Peas.

Really? Boom Boom Pow? It sounds like names a frat boy would give his genitalia.

4.Heidi Montag

I don't know what it is about her. Maybe it's that she's not that cute and is still hotter than me. Maybe it's her douche baggy boyfriend. Maybe it's that she just wimped out of a reality show, when the proceeds go to charity, because it was too hard and she's a sniveling bitch who has never had to work for anything in her life.

Regardless of the reason, this picture of her makes me laugh my fucking ass off every time. Thanks to Matt-T over at Stealing Happy Hours for letting me steal the picture.


5. Not having dental insurance.

Twenty six years, totally covered. The minute I work at a place without dental? I chip a tooth. In front. Thanks God, I needed that.


6. Cops who ask me if I know why they pulled me over.

Here's the thing. There are measures in place to prevent people from incriminating themselves in a court of law. However, get me on the side of the road with a police officer, and suddenly every criminal activity I've ever engaged in comes flying out of my cake hole. After I run the list of legitimate reasons he probably pulled me over (ie: I was speeding, I didn't use my turn signal, I crossed 4 lanes of traffic, and I didn't yield back there) nine times out of fucking ten it's something I have no idea is even wrong. Like the fact that my tail light is out. Again.

By that point, it's too late to change your answer. Trust me, I've tried.


7. Family Guy jumping the shark.

I definitely preferred Family Guy over American Dad, but I was wrong. Family Guy seems to have turned into a half an hour game of "Let's see if we can beat Stewie being queer into the ground and then make horribly offensive jokes just for the sake of seeing if we can get away with it. Fuck being funny!" The notable exception being the most recent episode, and the only reason that gets a pass is because if you want to get technical about it, Stephen King was the genius behind the entire episode.

American Dad has been passed the torch, which makes me wrong and I hate being wrong.


8. Being told "You don't understand what I'm saying" when I disagree with someone.

Here's the thing. I'm not stupid. I understand what you're saying. I comprehend it. I just think you're wrong. And how much of a dickhead are you to imply that if I think you're wrong I'm obviously too stupid to get what you're saying?

Here's the answer: A huge dickhead. Huge.


Wow. I feel a ton better now. Time to write more of the proposal so I can quit my shitty job and spend my life entertaining the masses!

I have been at my parent's place for the past week or so (save a quick trek to FL), and thus far it's been pretty uneventful.

My Dad has been in Southern Illinois working, so most of the week it's just me and my Mom, in the country outside of Indianapolis.

All we have for protection is a 7 pound Pomeranian (fine. 9 pounds, but she's got a thyroid issue), and a Shih Tzu that is afraid of everything, including but not limited to loud noises, the remote control, when people snap their gum, and squeaky toys.

What could possibly go wrong?

So last night when I woke up at 3 in the morning by my mom saying "I need your help", I naturally assumed that something was very wrong. I rolled out of bed, and realized a few things in very short order, the first of which was that the gun cabinet was all the way across the house.

The second being that I don't have the key.

Far be it for me to leave my mother in whatever situation was currently unfolding, I grabbed the knife I keep in my purse and snuck down the hallway to the outside door.
And yes, I keep a knife in my purse stop looking at me like that.

Just outside the door stood my mother, staring at one side of the fence, wielding a flashlight.

On the other side of the fence stood my 7 pound (Fine. 9. But she's fluffy.) Pomeranian, and my Emo Shih Tzu, cornering what is the biggest goddamn possum I've ever seen.

There's not much I know about possums. I know enough to know that they are nocturnal, this one was bigger than my 7 pound (Fine, 9. But she's sensitive about it) dog, and this one was pissed the fuck off. And my dog was not about to let this go. Which our purposes was not a really good thing because I have a general rule about being within about twelve feet of any wild animal that's snapping its teeth and hissing. Call me crazy.

Turns out my dog's comfort zone to angry potentially rabid nocturnal marsupials is about eleven feet and six inches closer than mine is.

A half an hour of her barking at this thing while it hisses and snaps passes. I bribed her with squeaky toys, a ride in the car (which worked on the other dog, which I will now refer to as "my favorite"), a promise that her favorite person was here, and even that it was time to eat.

Nothing.

There stood my 7 pound (9. But really, she's got a glandular issue) Pomeranian, saving the house from the Evil Possum Of Doom at 3 in the morning.

Finally, I got out the bag of treats. Shook it a little bit, and true to form she came barrelling at me as fast as her little chicken legs would carry her. I scooped her up and carried her inside, where she spent the rest of the night staring at me like "How dare you use my weakness against me". Turns out that inside that little 7 pound (Fine. 9. She's fat, ok?!) body, is a fat kid. Thank god for that, or I'd still be out in the back lawn trying to convince my retarded dog to come inside.

So that's been my vacation thus far. Instead of writing my book proposal, I've been dealing with an overweight dog and a rabid possum.

I should've gone to Vegas.

I got my ass kicked.

For any of you that have met me, you probably have been waiting for this day for a long time. You're all good friends.

I went to the Music As A Weapon tour, and rocked out to Killswitch Engage, Lacuna Coil and Disturbed. I am a huge metal freak, and I am an even bigger live music fan. To me a good heavy metal show is the closest thing you can get to talking to God. With pants on, anyway.

It was bad ass all around, but things got a little wild and I left with three broken toes, a hairline fracture of one of the small obnoxious bones in my hand, and a black eye. I honestly don't know where the shiner came from, you would really think I'd remember getting socked in the eye, but I digress.

My toes are all taped and I am walking with a limp, my fingers are taped and wrapped, and I have a black eye, so right now I just ooze sex. I know, you're probably touching yourself right now. Stop it, you'll go blind.

I was at the gas station the other day, bruised, limping and gimpy, and this guy kept staring at me. First he looked at my foot, then my hand, then finally my eye. He did this three or four times, really taking it in.

He looked a little harder at my hand, and squinted a little and looked at my eye again.

Finally he walks up to me, takes it all in one more time, pauses, and says...

"...So you're married?"

Not going to lie, it took me a second, but holy shit if I didn't fall over laughing.
Kudos to you random gas station guy, you made my day.

Yes, I know. I'm a shitty blogger.

However, I've been busy! Yet another writing gig fell through (sensing a theme here?) so I decided fuck it, I'm going to write a book.

Yea, I know. But in my defense, I chose the one thing I wrote that's a clear winner to start with. That's all I can say at this point.

Because my only marketable quality is writing, it's either this or be stuck in a job I hate that underpays me like whoa. (Sometimes I think I'd take a job at McDonalds over this, if they would match my 401k, and I was allowed to be hired back. I'm not. Long story for a different time.) They say living off of Ramen builds character, I say I have enough character, I'd much prefer cable.

However: Finding a lit agent sucks balls. Finding a publisher sucks balls. Etc. You'd think it'd be easier, considering I found out there's a group on facebook about the 50 mistakes that has, I shit you not, 36,000 people in it (That is not a typo), and there was that whole being published in popular magazines thing. But who's counting?

I guess if it was easy, everyone would do it.

I've gone through so many websites even trying to make a shortlist of agents that I kind of want to die. Chances are, they will all tell me to fuck myself. But I have no doubt at some point, I'll find the perfect one. Who will look at my proposal and realize that I'm the shit.

And before anyone tells me that writing doesn't pay, I say fuck you. It pays for some people, the key is being one of them. Somehow, when I start thinking of my day job as just a temporary thing until this book thing pans out, it doesn't seem as bad.

I know I say this a lot, but I will try to update more! Pinkie swear.

Holy crap it's been awhile! I've been crazy busy over at Tame the Bear.

Not much has changed in my life really. Got laid off, only to be rehired, then laid off again. Shortly after that I spent quite a bit of time explaining to men in black suits that I was only kidding when I told that particular employer if they didn't knock it the fuck off I was going to go on a shooting rampage. Everyone knows I'm far too lazy for a shooting rampage.

Instead I was kicking around new career paths. So far I've not had much luck, but I hear with this economy that is typical.

Stripping seemed like a good plan, I mean good cash money every night? Then I realized that it required actually taking off my clothing in public. I barely get naked in the shower, and barring that no one is going to pay to see my pasty ass naked. So much for that idea.

I tried to take my diploma back to my college. I figure, I don't use the thing anyway and if I return it maybe they'll give me back some of my $100,000. And I was wrong. And no longer allowed on the premises.

I found a job that would be perfect for me. Apparently, some people will pay you thousands to look pretty and show up at parties. Unfortunately, this only applies if you're Paris Hilton. In my case, turns out the only way anyone is going to pay me to show up at a party is because I'm part of the waitstaff.

In my next life, screw this. I'm going to make sure my talents are marketable ones.

Hope you guys are all doing well and the recession hasn't kicked your asses as much as it's kicked mine. Remember, it's only temporary and things will get better. And if they don't? There's always that shooting rampage I mentioned before.

I know I've not been updating a lot. I suck ass sometimes.

Got laid off from my favorite job and that sucks major balls.

But I DID just sign on to start writing somewhere else.

Obviously, I'll still be posting here (if I ever remember, shit), but you can also get TweekerChick goodness over at www.tamethebear.tv


Bookmark it.

I'm excited today!

Instead of going to the office, I get to go downtown.

It's strange. I am going to spend the day working, and working sucks, but sometimes the change of scenery is great.

Afterwards, I am going to wander around the city for awhile.

If anyone sees me wandering the city after midnight, I'm lost, hail me a cab home.


Yay!

I just spent a good part of my morning watching a show called "Secret Lives Of The Mega Rich" on VH1. Now, I'd be lying if I said I didn't like my fair share of trashy television, but I'm starting to think I should shift my trashy television viewing habits away from watching things about supremely wealthy people.

Why, you ask? (Or maybe not, but like I've said before, I don't see any other bloggers around here so pipe down).

Because no one ever died from watching insanely thin people piss away money on shit that they will never be able to afford.

I spent my morning watching a flaming homosexual drop $220,000 on a shopping spree. I watched the CEO from Bodog casino spend as much on a vacation. I saw 5 million dollar car collections, hotel rooms worth forty four thousand dollars a night (More than I make in a single year).

I then spent the rest of the morning pondering what makes them so much different than the rest of us (besides their bloated wallets and sense of self importance).

The more I thought, the more I realized that there's nothing different about them. Nothing. If you ignore the ones that are born into it, they just seem to be an exceptionally lucky group of people.

That being said, I totally want to be lucky! The only other defining factor is that most of them seem to have a decided lack of common sense. There was a pool with gold at the bottom. Shit, half of my jewelry isn't real gold.

Fuck those people in their asses.

Unless I somehow get lucky and find myself surrounded by them, in which case we can just pretend this never happened.

So, I was talking to Puzzy this morning and he managed to point something very important out to me. This whole Governor of Illinois impeachment trial starts today, and I think I owe it to my readers to share in the knowledge I have received.

Thankyou Puzzy, for making so clear what I couldn't put my finger on before.

Just sayin.

It's a pretty well known fact at this point that I am at my best when I'm single.

However, my friends aren't necessarily the same. Bless them, I adore them, but it really does take a special kind of person to not only work best single, but prefer it. They always tend to be on the lookout for the next new and exciting dating fad. Speed dating, blind dates, and now, Internet dating.

It was inevitable, and they are having some pretty decent success. Thus it was a matter of time before one brought it up to me as a good idea. And being a good friend, I have managed to not laugh in their faces. Internet dating is not exactly the best idea for someone like me, it's only a matter of time until someone connects it with this blog and then the 50 things and you find my parts dismembered in a trash bag behind Dominicks.

This is the part where I learned a very important life lesson. It doesn't matter how much logic you use, if you're up against four twenty-something women who think they are right, you are going to lose. And I did. To stop the lecturing about how I'm not getting any younger, I caved and agreed to start working on a profile.

I made it 30 seconds and quit. They give you this whole space to describe who you are and what you want, and I realized that if I was to actually tell the truth, I really will be single for the rest of my life.

Describe yourself:
5'7'' brunette with a bad attitude who likes to work out consistently for a week, quit for two, and start again for another week. Likes nature provided it doesn't require actually spending any time outdoors. Likes going out, unless its a week day, I'm tired, or there's a Burn Notice marathon on. Generally too busy to see you during the week, and too exhausted to on the weekend.

Love going to clubs, but refuses to drive in the city and will most likely wind up impossibly drunk making out with the homosexual bartender who looks like Carson from Queer Eye. Prefers an intelligent guy, hopefully one that is smart enough for a lively debate as long as in the end he agrees that I am always right. I also enjoy cheap beer and expensive shoes. Still best friends with most of my exes, most of whom are incredibly attractive.

I am also best friends with the guy I lost my virginity to, and I refuse to stop kissing him on the lips as a greeting despite the fact that we in no way want anything to do with each other sexually. I also perpetually chew gum, have bad asthma and have been known to destroy entire cities when denied the exorbitant amounts of diet coke it requires to keep me marginally friendly. I'm cold all the time, even in the summer, and no I will not turn down the heat/the air conditioner on.

I also yell at my TV, talk through movies, and make fun of people like it's my goddamn job.

Describe what you're looking for in a partner:
Michael Westin


See where there's a problem?

I had a moment last night.

I was told at 11:00 AM on Friday that I had to work the entire weekend and I had to cancel my trip to Iowa to see my best friend.

Needless to say, this did not thrill me.

So I called my best friend to apologize. The conversation that followed was so hilarious that I actually wrote it down verbatim.

Clare: Hey Shawnie.
Shawn: Hey.
Clare: I am SO sorry but my boss is a giant fucking DILDO and I have to fucking work all fucking week...
Shawn: Clare.
Clare: I'm so sorr...
Shawn: CLARE. I'm in the middle of a toy store, and you're on speaker.


Whoops.

It's New Years Eve!


It kind of snuck up on me this year.

Sadly, this year will not be spent with Bond, Dennis, The Dolphin and others. (They will have to get stranded on the side of the road with someone else this year).

This year will be spent getting Drunk with a Capital "D" with a friend from College. You will never find a better drinking buddy than this guy, and I'm eternally excited because we are almost physically incapable of behaving ourselves when we hang out.

And I need that kind of debauchery.

Anyway, Happy New Year guys. Be safe tonight, there's more partying to do in 2009.

So I'm at work, and the filing cabinet is locked.

No one seems to have a key to what is possibly the shittiest padlock I have ever seen. (I have luggage that is more secure, but I digress).

The CEO and head of marketing were arguing over OMG WHAT DO WE DO, and quite honestly it was throwing off my flow with this website I've been working on.

So I walked over there while they were arguing, picked the lock with one paperclip (It was that shitty of a lock) went back to my desk and started typing like nothing happened.

They were AMAZED by this display of talent (Seriously I didn't even have to bend the paper clip. I can pick a lock but this took absolutely no skill short of shoving a paperclip in and turning).

"Where did you learn that?!" Well, my parents locked up the booze when I was younger, and people put far too much faith in padlocks.

I don't know what got into me, but my response was "My cellmate taught me".


He does not think I am funny.

I'm stalling.

Not that this is new or exciting.

It's crunch time at work and I can't seem to get motivated to finish this stupid website. The worst part? It theoretically won't be difficult at this point.

Instead? I played bloons all morning and then picked a padlock. The padlock wasn't even protecting anything, I just wanted to see if I could still do it.

Pathetic.

If I was like this during college I'd still be there.

Yea yea, I'm a few days late, but I was in Indiana with no Internets or cellphone reception.

Eat it.


Anyhooter, Merry Christmas, or whatever it is you celebrate.

When I was little, I thought that Christmas was when Jesus came out of his cave. If he saw his shadow, it meant 6 weeks of Easter.

Good news for all of you church going folks, Jesus didn't see his shadow so you're only on the hook for one Easter Sunday.

I hope Santa brought you everything on your list this year!

I am being an emo, emo bitch today.

I need to update this more often, but the holidays have kicked my ass.

Laid off, unlaid off, contracts, family crises, websites to fix, etc, and I just haven't had any time to even think lately.

Then I realized last month, that my best friends little girl, Skylar, is 1.

ONE.

As in, 365 days old. (More now). And It occurred to me, that I haven't seen much of her.

Some Aunt Clare I am.

Moving back to Iowa isn't an option, and my family is in Indiana, so being in Chicago is pretty well right between them, but right between them doesn't really mean too much when you're not with them.

It's probably the typical holiday stress, combined with a smidge of Seasonal Affective Disorder. (Yea, yea I know. I used to think it was crap too, and then my mom pointed out that my otherwise happy go lucky Grandfather gets the same way. I was pissed. I can't even get a real mental illness.) But right now, I want my best friend.

And that's not to say that I don't love my friends here, I do. They are ALL great. WONDERFUL. But it's not the same as Shawn. And sometimes when the world feels like it's closing in, the only thing that will fix it is a Shawnie hug. That's the greatest part about my best friend. He's got these super long arms that like, wrap around you nineteen times.

At least I know they miss me too. I have it on good authority that when my friend D left here last time, she teared up. When her fiance asked her about it, she threatened to leave him on the side of the road, so if she asks, she's never cried and I have no idea what the hell you people are talking about.

It's usually not such a bad drive, but my car is leaking oil now and I don't have the four million dollars it will cost to fix it, so I'm pretty sure it won't make it. So bless my friend Steve's heart, he's driving me out to Iowa this weekend. He's driving his car, in the winter, to Iowa so I can see my insane friends that he's never met.

I do have a lot to look forward to, because on New Years, one of my FAVORITE people from college is coming to party. Only, I have no idea where we'd go. Obviously, around the Chicagoland area, and the holidays have not left my checking account in a good place, so anything that's not nine thousand dollars would be super.

Any ideas, Interwebs?

In the mean time, I promise I'll take some midol.

So, today is Tuesday, which means it's the best day of my week.

Why?

Because I can finally figure out What the hell is going on in this week's episode of NCIS.

Yes, it bothers me that much. And the show has been removed from all spoiler sites, which is slowly killing my soul. The thing is, I'd watch it anyway, but I can't wait to know what happened! It's the one show I never miss, and not just because I want to see Michael Weatherly without a shirt on holding a gun. Because that would be shallow.

Moving on.

I'm in the market for some new writing gigs and that seems to be taking up a majority of my online time, which sucks balls. That, and I'm kicking around the idea of a screen play.

No, I've never written one.

No, I have no idea what I'm doing.

No, it wasn't my idea.

Yes, I think I can pull it off.

I hope.

No, I don't have any titles picked out. Although I do kind of like "TweekerChick: The Movie". All 6 people who read this thing would definitely line up for that one.

I'm eternally happy that the election is over. However, now I get to listen to endless bickering about how Obama is going to take all of our guns and money. Like with the Iraq situation and the current economy, he's going to sit his black ass in the White House and say "Yep. The guns? Gotta go."

Who knows though, I've been wrong before.

Ugh. I should probably actually do work today.

More updates soon!

I'm supposed to be working but instead I decided to post here real quick.

Don't forget, election day is tomorrow. Get off your asses, leave your Mom's basement for a few minutes and vote. It is important.

Don't believe the hype, either

Halloween is my favorite holiday, ever.

And not just because of the lame excuse everyone gives. "I like it because I can dress up and be something different!" "I like it because no one judges me!".

Fuck that.

I love Halloween because it's one gigantic party, and because everyone is dressed like an idiot or a slut, they all loosen up.

This Halloween, I decided that I was going to celebrate the way the Pagans intended. By dressing like a slut and drinking myself into a coma.

I went to a dive bar with a big group of girls and had a great time.

I spent most of the night having my ass grabbed by the random hot female bartender who looks like Christina Applegate. The rest of the night was kind of a blur, fueled by a shit load of beer.

I vaguely remember making out with a pilot, a Greek, and a girl. And a pickle.

I made out. With a pickle.

And I gave him my number. Which is not something I usually do. He's called me 6 times since Halloween. I barely remember talking to him. If I was drunk enough to give a total stranger my cellphone number, there is no way in hell I'm going to remember what we talked about.

He wants to meet up sometime and hang out. Which creates a problem.

What exactly do you say to the pickle you drunkenly made out with? "Hi, you look less green and phallic today"? Only me.

Next Halloween, someone take my cell phone away.

The more I hear about the Fall TV Lineups, the more I realize it's all the same shit rehashed over and over again. Sure, there's the Show That Started It All, but shortly thereafter there are 29 shows just like it with a little twist. 

So after some tireless research* I came up with the mix of shows every network is using this fall for it's lineup. 

*A highly scientific study done while I was stranded on the couch for  a week with pneumonia and nothing better to do. 

1. Some person somewhere has some sort of abnormality or special ability. Will this person who lives a normal life just like the rest of us despite being leaps and bounds more beautiful than any of us manage to overcome the fact that they're different and use their ability for good? Or will they slip in to evil? This show tends to be punctuated by the phrase "I'm not normal!" or "I just want to be normal!".  Which tends to be enough for normal people to want to reach through the television set and strangle them.

2. An elite team of forensic scientists/investigators/detectives/hyper observant people solve crimes that puzzle the FBI/CIA/local cops in less than an hour, with time for the foregin/exotic looking team member to rebuke the frat boy team member much to the joy of the nerdy computer geek team member in a way that makes the tough yet lovable team leader smile warmly instead of telling them to get the fuck back to work. 

3. A bunch of gorgeous women will spend an hour of your time sitting around drinking expensive coffee, and chatting about relationship issues that no one actually has. The premise for this show is simple and foolproof. Take The View, make the actors more attractive, and in between bitching and moaning about things no one cares about, throw in a steamy love affair with the gardener, so the normal women all over America who live in a huge house in Suburbia and sleep with their gardeners can relate. All one of them. Apparently the pilot for the more realistic show of "single women who live in shitty apartments and make bad decisions after drinking" was axed by the network. 

4. A team of psychics will cavort around in the dark, informing all of America about their Solar Plexus, and overreacting when they hear static over a radio. The real excitement comes when one of them looks at the thermometer and notices...THE TEMPERATURE HAS DROPPED. This is must see TV, people. It's not every day you get to see someone in flowy netural colored clothing so affected by the climate.

5. An elite team of people who have very important jobs as surgeons/nuclear physicists/police men go about their normal day, which are so ironic and hilarious the rest of us wonder why we never became surgeons/nuclear physicists/police men because the job is so obviously simple, they have the entire day to play hilarious pranks on each other.

6. A handful of super successful executives live at the office, which is apparently located in a magical land where the secretary sleeps with you and no one seems to notice that you keep a bottle of bourbon in your desk.

7. A group of quirky friends with a variety of odd low paying jobs somehow manage to  live in a very nice loft in a major city despite being paid next to nothing, and muddle through and subsequently destroy relationships most of us would love to have, finally settling on one of their equally quirky and original friends to settle down with, and then break up with, and then settle down with again.

8. Finally! A game show involving nothing but pure luck and basic intelligence, allowing any asshole with a mullet and enough knowledge to finish the sentence "Duck Duck _____" to make more money in a half an hour than you will in your entire life, and then piss it all away on scratch off tickets and booze.

9. Police men from various parts of the world are filmed doing their jobs. Which, if this show tells us anything, involves more encounters with topless coeds than it does actual criminals. Keep up the good work, guys. I'm sure the cops who get shot at on a regular basis appreciate your sacrifices.

10. A man/car/employee/criminal is busted cheating/slamming/stealing/robbing on his girlfriend/into another car/from the store/a bank on hidden camera. The ensuing cluster fuck is caught on film! If it's a really high class show, a psychic will be involved.

And they say being a TV executive is hard, I've got this shit on lockdown.

I'm penning a longer post for today, but you might notice I had to change the format for the comments. Nothing major, you now have to be logged in to leave comments. 

Yea, I'm not a fan either.

However, I've had some problems the past few months with some harassment, and what the authorities refer to as "stalking". Hopefully I'll be able to loosen the reigns again soon, because I hate to stifle the voices that like to tell me that I'm wrong.

That being said, if the situation doesn't clear up, the next step is to moderate all comments, which is something I want to avoid. Mostly because I've never deleted a comment that painted me in a bad light, and I don't feel like dealing with those accusations now. 

That and it's a whole lot of fucking work I just don't want to deal with. 

Life has been interesting lately, I know I haven't been around. 

I need to find a new part time job (layoffs),  I've been sick, and a few minutes ago my boyfriend decided to dump me.

Awesome timing. 

It's partially my fault: I'm busy all the time lately and I've not had time for myself, not to mention anyone else. 

I'll give him props, it was one of the more creative breakup speeches I've ever heard. He's not blaming me but he's not taking any responsibility for himself. That works, I suppose. 

Maybe it was one of those things, maybe we are better off as friends and instead of dealing with that I subconciously acted like an asshole. 

But I can't get too upset I suppose. Sometimes life sucks. 

I just wish he'd stop being salty about it. 

For the past 8 years (literally) every single month I go to my doctor and get the same 5 prescriptions. They are the same thing every time: inhaled steroid, ritalin (2 bottles, 5 and 10 mgs), an albuterol inhaler, and allegra D. The inhaled steroids, and Ritalin are some pretty heavy scripts.

I went in yesterday with my little stack of prescriptions, written by the same doctor at the same time like he does EVERY MONTH FOR THE PAST 8 YEARS.

The pharmacist goes ahead and fills the steriod, the ritalin, and the allegra D.

She then tells me that she can't fill the inhaler (Which I absolutely 100% CAN NOT be without)

We have the following conversation:
PharmacyLady: I can't fill this the signature doesn't match.
Me: It should, call my doctor.
PharmacyLady: I did.
Me: And?
PharmacyLady: They said they signed it, but I need a valid prescription.
Me: If they signed it wouldn't that make it a valid prescription?
PharmacyLady: If they signed it. I'm not convinced they did.
Me: Can I have the prescription back then?
PharmacyLady: I can't give you back a forged prescription.
Me: Excuse me?
PharmacyLady: This is obviously a forged prescription.
Me: You're actually going to let me walk out of here with steriods and speed, but not an inhaler.
PharmacyLady: Its not valid.
Me: You're right. Fuck oxycodone, valium, vicodin, xanax, percoset...Ive been forging ALBUTEROL prescriptions for 8 years and getting high off of it. I mean really, THATS the primo shit. Call the Feds, you caught me.

I then took my toys and left. Called my doctor who has known me literally my entire life to get a new one.
"Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you, did you tell the pharmacist you've been forging prescriptions for 8 years?"

You've got to be kidding me.

Speechless. I am. Speechless.

It was a joke, which I thought was blatantly obvious by my use of the phrase "That's the primo shit". Seriously, like I'd forge albuterol. If I'm gonna get blown off of illegally obtained prescription meds, I'm getting high off of acne cream and antacids, bitches.

Today is awesome.

I just had a long, meaningful conversation with key people in our organization.

There were charts and graphs and awesomeness.

It was about a half an hour long.


So you can imagine my joy when I got back to my desk and found out that my fly was unzipped.


At least I wore underpants today.

Part of the problem with getting old is the realization that you can't actually do all of the things you were told you could as a kid.

My generation (most of us anyhow), grew up being told there was absolutely nothing on the planet that we couldn't do. So you have fear of enclosed spaces and heights, it's OK Billy, you can still be an astronaut. It's no big deal that Sally looks like she got hit in the face with a shovel, she can still model! As long as she puts her mind to it.

That's the phrase it ends with. "Put your mind to it.".

The more I think about it, the more that phrase is a phenomenal load of bullshit that people have been feeding into for years.

And lately, it's really been chapping my ass. I have been looking for a new career lately, and I'm always met with the same response when I tell people why.

"You can be good at sales, you just have to put your mind to it".

By that logic, I could also be a brilliant neurosurgeon, Lindsay Lohan's next girlfriend, or a nuclear physicist.

Not gonna happen.

It occurred to me that I started this job to get out of sales, and they forced me back into it because of the market, despite my telling them honestly and openly that I sucked balls at it. So I'm getting tired of feeling guilty for sucking exactly as much as I told them I would.

Instead of putting my mind to it, I've decided to put my mind to something else: moving on to a place where I'm happy. And that, my friends, is a gigantic pain in the ass.

Maybe I've been in recruiting too long, or maybe I'm just bitter, but I have the absolute hardest time giving a flying shit about the interviews I go on. It's not that I don't want the job, I absolutely do, but I have apparently reached this point in life where they are no longer any source of stress. I was more stressed out on the commute to get there than I was during the actual interview.

Maybe that's a good thing, maybe that's the universe's way of telling me that I'm doing the right thing by moving on to something I actually want to do.

Either way, as long as I don't have to hear the phrase "put your mind to it", I'm in.

(Check out the links later on today, I'm in the process of updating them.)

Hey there!

I haven't done one of these since college, but I am drunk and I am blogging.

And it is awesome.

Kudos to Steve, who lets me be drunk and amazing at his house 

steve rocks my socks that way.

YAY for steve. I had tequila.

That is all.

I just had a very disheartening discussion about my blog with my friend Eric.

Not only do I not post enough, it seems, but I have done him a great disservice.

In his own words:


[11:44] Eric: You need to update your blog.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: It Is.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: I updated yesterday.
[11:44] Eric: Incorrectamundo.
[11:44] Eric: In all your entries throughout the entire blog, I find myself mentioned exactly 0 times.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: Awww.
[11:45] Eric: If Dicky McBoner can get mentioned, so can I.

My most sincere apologies if anyone else was offended by this grievous error.

I've never been one to make a huge deal out of my birthday.

I don't demand candles, or a huge cake (unless Jeffery Donovan or Vin Diesel is jumping out of it, in which case I want my goddamn cake), or presents.

All I really care about is that the people I care about give me a call, an email, an IM, something.

My birthday was yesterday. Again, it was almost a non event. I saw The Dark Knight (incredible movie, see it, seriously), had a few drinks and went to bed. Nothing huge.

I got a shitload of emails, IMs, forum posts and text messages all wishing me a happy birthday, which is awesome. Well, awesome as long as they weren't from Mikey, who has resorted to starting every one of our conversations with the phrase "HA HA YOU'RE OLD!" and "God loves me best!"

Not one of those emails, IMs, forum posts and text messages came from my friends back home. Not. One. Understand, I've known some of those people for going on 12 years now. If I was to forget their birthday there would be absolute hell to pay. Not one of them called me. Not even my best friend (who is apologetic as hell). The rest? Haven't heard from them.

And I am pissed.

For 364 days of the year, I deal with their issues, neuroses, bullshit and drama which a lot of the time is the result of their own actions. I'm supportive even when I want to strangle them. I take calls at all hours of the night, I give good solid advice and I don't blow smoke up their asses.

To make matters worse? I made it easy for every one of them. A few days before my birthday I even reminded them. I mean for fucks sake.

One day a year, just one, I expect them to pick up the phone first. That's all. I don't want a parade, I don't want diamonds (ok thats a lie), I don't want parties and cake, all I ask is that they flip open the same fucking cellphone they call me on to unload all their stupid, bullshit, petty problems and let me know that they appreciate me, just for a fucking second. Just a "hey, thanks for listening to me ramble on about my engagement/best friend/boyfriend/girlfriend/job."

It may sound selfish, but if I'm not important enough to call once a fucking year, then I'm certainly not important enough to field phone calls about their daily lives, engagements, weddings, best friend, boyfriends, girlfriends, jobs, and so on. It all seems so clear now.

I wrote a few days ago about knowing who my real friends are, and I apparently do now. And when I stop answering their calls? They'll figure out who their real friends are. I'm through giving a shit about people who care less about me. Call it a birthday present to myself.

I recently got a crash course in figuring out who my real friends are.

My Grandpa Max was taken to the hospital about 2 months ago with a massive aortic aneurysm. Things were not looking good, the place I was getting ready to drive to was flooding badly and I was not ok.
Insult to injury, I had to break plans with my Sexy Friend who I will refer to from here on out as Sexy Mc Longrod. Why? Because I want to.

My Grandpa Max taught me to drive a stick shift when I was 10. He used to chaperone field trips with me and my sister when we were little, and would give us all the answers to those stupid worksheets and let us run around and learn on our own. He's the best Grandpa you could ever ask for, so I was so far from alright that it wasn't funny.

So what does Sexy Mc Longrod do? He drives 2 hours from Bloomington to give me a big hug. This despite the fact that I hadn't showered. That, readers, is a good friend.

He just wrapped his arms around me and let me cry for a good half an hour. He didn't say anything, just scratched my head and kissed me on the top of the head. Which is what I needed.

Somehow we got started talking about family. And I told him the truth, that my Daddy was a Navy Seal.

The conversation went something like this:
SMLR: Your dad was a SEAL?
Me: Yep.
SMLR: He's probably watching us right now.
Me: Yep. From Texas, he's got the cross hairs on your forehead right now.
SMLR: :Looks left, looks right, pokes my boob:
Me: I'm sure he'll be calling in a few to tell you that the bullet is on it's way from Texas.

Then, and I swear to god this is true, my cell phone rings.

It was my father, who has never in his life called me for anything ever, calling to see what I was doing.

I'm surprised Sexy Mc Longrod didn't dive off the couch and hide.

That alone is not why he's an awesome guy.

This is why.

I don't cry, ever. I don't ever let people see me cry, so I hate it. And when I went to drop him off at the car, I warned him "Don't you ever tell anyone about this".

His response?

He looked me right in the eye and said "Or what? You'll cry about it?"

And that's why he's awesome. Because for a second there, everything was fine.

Thankyou, Sexy Mc Longrod. Couldn't have gotten through it without you love.

I was supposed to write my entry on my sexy friend who took care of me when my Grandpa took ill. Actually, I was supposed to write my entry on my Grandpa being sick.

But it's going to have to wait.

Why?

Because now I'm sick.

Despite it being fucking the middle of July, I have managed to acquire bronchitis and a bitching sinus infection. And let me tell you, I am one big ball of sexy right now. Nothing says "do me baby" like phlegm.

I'm usually a pretty good sick person. I have been since I was a little girl, my Mom tells me stories about how I'd be about 5 years old, sick, telling her not to worry and insisting she went back to bed. She said I was so stubborn about it she'd eventually go back to bed. Even at 5 apparently there was no point in arguing with me.

However, this sinus infection has knocked me off my ass. I can't come up with any sort of original thought, and I kind of want to jab a pencil into my head to let some of the pressure out. (Don't worry, I'm not going to. And for those of you about to make the obvious joke, don't. I'm sick and I bite).

Plan for the rest of the night: take a handful of pills and go back to sleep.

I'll be back at it soon. Pinkie swear.

I finally got to meet up with Ben and his friend I'll call T, because I'm sure he doesn't want name checked on this little blog here.

It was a great time. We got into the city late after seeing my friend Bdub, and met up with Ben just as the bars were starting to close.

For most people, that means "Time to go home". Unless you're me. Then it means "Find a bar that's open until 4." Which is exactly what we did.

Because it took so long for us to finally meet up with each other, I was pretty well loaded by the time I saw him. I almost want to apologize to them, because lord only knows that I am a force to be dealt with when I have a pushup bra and a blood alcohol level over that of zero.

It was the typical Chicago night, girls dancing on a stage making out, me going into the bathroom with all my clothes on, leaving with my shirt off and a hickey, me kissing everyone I saw and asking Ben if it was considered cheating if it was with a girl, you know, the normal shit you have to deal with when you give me tequila.

Despite all the debauchery, the best moment of the night happened at the end. All the cute little blonde girls in their cute little trendy outfits were pouring out of the bars and trying to hail cabs in shoes that were way too tall for them while trying not to throw up.

And then Ben said what is quite possibly the funniest thing I have ever heard about my city.

"I have never seen so many trashy women in one place."

And that is what he gets for hanging out with me.

Hopefully he comes back to visit so I can dance on the bar with him.

You guys are probably wondering where I've been.

I've been pretty sick recently, and then my grandfather was in ICU for a bit. In the mean time, Ive been trying to get my finances and such in order.

No worries, I've been writing in the mean time, I just haven't typed it all out yet.

Tomorrow is going to rock so ridiculously hard.

I've been a reader of This Blog for quite awhile now. After a few emails back and forth I got to know the guy behind it (as well as you can between emails and the occasional IM).

So you can imagine my excitement when he said he's coming to Chicago for a Sox game. Do the Sox suck? Of course they do. But that means I get to meet up with one of the funniest guys on the planet.

Fucking score.

Like one of my friends said. "He's survived cancer, Clare. Don't you think he's suffered enough?".

If he wants to hang out with me, I think its obvious that the answer is "No."

Hopefully one of us gets a good story out of it. Both of us if we manage to stay out of the clink.

I think the majority of my friends back home have lost their minds. Seriously.

I woke up this morning to my friend D screeching into my cell phone. If history has told me anything, D being up early means one thing: She has done something stupid.

Now, she's one of my best friends and I feel comfortable calling her a dumb ass on the internet, because this is nothing I haven't said to her face regularly throughout our friendship. I love her, but if there is any possible way she can either break something or hurt herself, she will. It makes life interesting, and is the reason we don't allow her near fire.

But I digress.

She called me this morning shrieking like one of the girls on Flava of Love because her boyfriend proposed to her. As in, my clumsy, weird, irrefutably bitchy friend is getting married.

Part of me is really happy for her, the other part of me that is over protective is going "You've been with him less than 5 months." Being one of her best friends, I balls out told her that.

Her response? "Clare, it's one of those things you just know."

One of those things you just know. Says the girl who can barely keep from setting herself on fire when she goes on smoke breaks.

The thing is, I am happy for her. It's just strange. My best friend is a daddy. D is getting married. Other friends have careers. I'm just wondering when the hell we all grew up.

We've gone from tattoos, drugs, and keggers to careers, babies and marriage. It's not a bad thing, bit part of me misses the lack of responsibility.

Anyway, congrats D. May you make his life a living hell for many many years to come.

I know this is late, I'm a chode like that.

Happy late birthday to my heterolifemate.

You're the best friend a cranky blogger could ever ask for, and I love you.

Oh, and you're old.

I feel weird.

And that's not because I had a lot of tequila and some vodka tonight.

It's because of a guy. Yea, write that one down.

Of all people, I feel strange over a guy. And it's not what you think.

He actually likes me back and that to me is absolutely bizarre. I've spent countless hours wanting my ex back so badly that this completely blindsided me. And it's the weirdest thing ever.

He wants to do things with me. In public. That don't require drugs, alcohol and a low cut shirt. Or public indecency charges. He's met my best friend and my best friend didn't hit him in the face. He's met most of my best friends save my heterolifemate, and they all absolutely adore him. He makes me laugh, and I haven't laughed in a long time.

So whats the problem?

He likes me.

I know, how fucked up can you be Clare?

He met me a few days before some medical shit, when I was puffy on prednisone. And he still called me the next day (despite my not putting out!). And he likes me in the morning when I'm grumpy and refuse to speak to anyone. And he likes me when my eyeliner is halfway down my cheeks because I've been drinking and that's what happens when I drink. And he thinks it's cute that I'm difficult. He likes that I'm stubborn and obnoxious and a huge pain in the ass. He likes me despite the fact that I forget to eat for days at a time and sometimes my left eyebrow twitches from stress.

And I'm not sure because I wasn't ready for any of this. At all. I never thought I'd ever find one guy who liked the way I hate pickles, and only liked certain kinds of mustard. And when that one guy left I was sure that it was just it and I'd never find that again, and here it is, and it's all I can do not to completely fuck it up.

The worst part? I think he might feel the same way. His boss had to tell him to stop purposely ruining whatever it is we had. It's easy to say it's no big thing when he's not around, but when I get near him I smile. And it's been a long time since I've done that.

Oh dear lord, what have I gotten myself into?

Dear Hollywood:

I understand that this is most likely going to be hard for you to understand amid the marijuana smoke and cocaine high. And although I'm sure the fact that most of you are slowly starving to death is just hell on your concentration, I think you can handle it. But for those of you that are already too bitchy without a cigarette, I'll make this fast.

The rate in which you are all popping out children is alarming, to say the least. It occurs to me that you all may not realize that despite what Angelina would have you think, children don't actually come from countries halfway across the globe with names you can't pronounce.

One would assume that this entire Jayme Lynn debacle would have made the majority of you sit back for a moment and think "Self, why did that happen?" and furthermore "Self, how can I keep from having a child that will most likely wind up retarded simply because it shares half of my DNA."

Because y'all have been up to this point completely unable to figure it out, let me help you.

Stop having sex.

For most people I'd suggest using birth control, but since it seems to have completely flown over your heads, I'm going to operate under the assumption that something as complicated as taking a pill everyday or wearing a condom would only confuse you. After all, you're not paid to be smart or talented, just pretty.

Oh, and speaking of pretty, pregnancy makes you fat.

Is there something in the water in LA? Seriously? Because you are the most fertile group of people on the fucking planet. The problem being there are maybe 9 of you that should be reproducing.

I don't necessarily buy the idea that you all need to be married to have children, but at the same time is the idea of birth control completely lost on you? I mean you think birth control will make you gain weight? Try pregnancy.

What bothers me the most is that it's a trend. Where I come from sleeping with someone without protection makes you stupid.

In Short: It's a miracle more of you don't have herpes, for the love of christ stop having sex with each other, and everyone pray. Ashlee Simpson having a child is surely a sign that th e 4 horsemen of the apocalypse will be here shortly.

Love and Kisses

Me

PS. Stop getting tattoos in stupid places.