I fear I could be Fugly.

So yesterday, a rather famous hairstylist got his hands on my head.... I now have straight hair and mid-length bangs. I feel like I look like CRAP and am hence forth depressed, and committing to finding hats, headbands and the like to recover.

SOB.

Better Late than Never: Blogaversary! Holiday Edition Part 2

Hi All. I am back from the frigid north, you thought I would forget blogaversary, didn't you? NEVER. So here it is, you know the drill, enjoy. Or Don't. Whatever

1. My favorite ornaments are these small satined stuffed bears that are in skittles colors. I probably picked them out at age 3, in Pic'n'Save. They are a little ratty and faded. I don't care. I L.O.V.E the bears.

2. I have never ever been the kid that gets up early to look at presents. Every year my mom has to wake me up... I think it annoys her. Ha. It's not like the presents are going somewhere.

3. We eat Christmas Breakfast, not Christmas Dinner, at our house. Probably, because my mom didn't see the point in whipping up a big dinner for 2.

4. The strangest Christmas I ever experienced, was Vegas, senior year of college. I was going to visit my then boyfriend and pretty much hung out on the strip Christmas night, one would think...meh, it's Christmas, I am not going to gamble the nights away. But. Nooooooooooooooo. People were out in full force, happily dragging their kids from slot to slot. (Yes. Nate. I know you had a great jolly time in Vegas during your delayed flight, but frankly, you are weird)

5. My christmas stocking rocks. One year, my mom thought "oh, I will just get her a new one... so cute." I pretty much threatened to boycott christmas if my dang stocking was not found and put up.... it's mine, I have had it for 25 years, I am having it for 25 more. No body touches Red.... or Santa gets it.

Happy Belated Holidays and Happy Birthday Jesus (Of course, for accuracies’ sake... never let it be said this blog is inaccurate, I will point out Jesus was probably born around Aug/Sept during the time of census and harvest (hence the reason for all the animals in the manger etc.) and not in the middle of winter)

Back in the Saddle

Well it is 7:20, and I am sitting in the middle of the airport with my ridiculously overpriced bottle of water (R.O.B.W) contemplating life. At 12 oz for $3.00, it better be water that makes me thinner, smarter, and married to Tom Brady. Never one to let an opportunity for random blog musings go unfulfilled, I have broken out my computer.

Reflexively, I always check out the people who I get on a plane with, after all you never know who you are going to be plummeting to your death with.

As I sit here with R.O.B.W my mind wanders to the myth of the airplane hottie. You know the great hope of every flight: that you will get seated next to a hot guy/girl on the plane. You will chat, exchange numbers etc…. after all what is a more low pressure situation then talking to someone with the knowledge that in 3 hours you never have to see them again unless you want to. I am here today to dispel said myth. When has it ever happened to you, personally, I mean we have all heard the stories, but that’s what they are stories… just like the story of the mythical unicorn or the rarer “guy who likes talking on the phone.” Now before anyone sends me random emails I realize there are hot people in the world, those people have ridden on planes before, therefore the lore of the airplane hottie is true. Except it is not, every time that I get on a plane, I get stuck with 3 people: the old (fat) man, the late 20’s/early 30’s career guy in khaki’s

Aside, as a rule, I FREAKING hate khaki pants…they look like someone let you out of suburbia in an ill fitting school uniform. Um, what about ill fitting slightly dirty colored pants and a wrinkled generic Costco brand polo sounds like a good plan. Not to mention, this apparently is the uniform of the Northwest, and frat guys the world over, so I get to spend the next 5 days seeing it over and over and over…

As pleasant a digression that was, lets jump back on point, where was I? Ah yes, early career guy, who looks like his workouts consist of lifting the fork to his face and who spends the whole dang flight talking to me (or more specifically talking to my boobs) about… his car, his job or his fraternity. And the married family guy, my favorite of the three, because all he wants to do is read his magazine or talk about his kids. Oddly enough, I never get seated next to girls.

This flight I am apparently going to be sitting next to a man in Khaki’s, a Red Polo and a Santa hat… I will let you know how it goes, but I am pretty sure he wants to talk to me about the good ol'days at the alma mater.

Tom Brady is SINGLE...

There is no point to that announcement other than to say... YAY.

So this weekend was.... interesting to say the least. In brief, there was a car accident, a man who may or may not have thought I was a very expensive hooker, a trip to the ghettoist ER ever, a crazed Christmas pagent; complete with dancing freaking monkey (which as you know was DEFINITELY apart of the Nativity, with the dancing monkey as Jesus clapped his wee baby hands in delight...insert derisive eyeroll here); a snowday... where I broke off some sweet baby Oprah like wisdom to my high school helpers, and I finished off with a rockin' concert by a dear friend of mine.

What... you don't want the brief version of the stories....ha. Well I am happy to oblige. Where to start. Well, since we here at the Blog never want to be accused of being dull, so we are going to start smack dab in the middle.

On Saturday night, I went to the annual Wilson Christmas Party. I had just gotten a new grey mini dress to honor the occassion, and well because I had gotten these stellar knee high boots two weeks ago, and now I am pretty much just building outfits around them. Grey Mini Dress, this really cute black top, I think I need formal shorts to go with... the fact that I said formal shorts should be enough for Morgan to wonder if I am drinking...the answer is no, but I digress. Anywho, I had just gotten comfortable and was chatting up a friend that I see approximately 2 times a year. When my phone rings, yeah. Hysterical Roommate, Line ONE. She had crashed her car and was in an ambulance incoherantly sobbing and trying to tell me where she was. When I finally calmed her down, I got to chat up a nice young paramedic, who directed me to Pacifica Hospital in LA. Not knowing where that was I grabbed my friend Luz and immediately left to go get her. (For the record, my roommate is fine, her ex-boyfriend is a *in the words of my friend Ben* a Douche and decidedly a stupid face in my estimation, because my roommate is hot and awesome)

Yeah, Pacifica Hospital is a *county* hospital.... in LA that typically means it is pretty much means it looks like a reject from a really bad depressing movie and is generally underfunded and poorly mangaged. When we got there, we got nametags with smiley faces and a black crossed out "hi my name is" and in it's place a crudely written "ER, accident visitor". Hooray. So I get there, and I can't go into see the roommate, whom I have already promised to kill as long as she was okay. The lovely techs there at the ER stopped and stared at me as I walked in... along with some police officers, who started to follow me . I thought to myself "oh, caring peace officers, so good of you to watch me walk in as this is a somewhat scary area." Then I realized that it wasn't that I looked like I need an escort, it was that by this hospitals standards, I looked like an escort (for the record MOM, I wasn't wearing anything slutty, it was the dang boots) Great. I finally got into see the roommate, and she was fine, THANK GOD, because the honor of killing her was going to have to go to ME. Apparently, she was driving and her phone rang and when she went to grab it, she hopped a curb and went into some bushes... the Paramedics brought her in because she had panicked and passed out, so she had to get a CT. Meanwhile, my friend kept calling me for directions to the party... which meant everytime my phone rang, I had to do a sprint for the exit doors so that the old mean security guard didn't throw me outof the hospital. And yes, friend knew I was at the ER and called anyway, over and over... good thing I REALLY love her.

Right, now let's move backwards in time to Thursday night, when I got taken to a Christmas pagent... indeed possibly the worst christmas pagent of all time. So I get invited by new boy to pagent. I figure what the heck, might be interesting. Uh... it was a spectacle of bad taste and extreme christian wackiness. So we get there and I gather the whole premise was now, the nativity story PLUS your favorite holiday music danced to by a bunch of hopped up teenagers... all loosely held together by a story line involving a........ Bus Driving Pastor who was going to BUS DRIVING PASTOR SCHOOL(would that be Jesus's Greyhound Pastoral School or more of a city effort with Government funding??? Cause I know that when I hop on a bus {wait pause for a moment and pretend I actually go on the bus} all I really want is my freaking bus driver waxing poetic about Jesus, and I am a fan o' Jesus.) WTF. No Really. WTF. So as we are sitting there, with a MINI blimp with the name of the church floating above our heads. They transition from "Let it snow" to Mary coming out with a live baby (who one hopes was mute otherwise he is now blind and deaf) singing about what child is this. At this point, the roughly half Jewish side of my lineage, recoils in abject horror. Ah... it is odd when your mothers sensiblities start hitting you. So, I am randomly cracking jokes because to take this "christmas" story serious would require either me smoking crack or humor. When they transitioned from "What Child is This" to..... A DANCING MOTHERFRACKING MONKEY. Um...eh..ah... yeah... I still can't really comprehend this happened, so that is all I am going to say. So we get to the end of the "christmas story" which basically ends with the alcoholic father discovering he was wrong and being cured of alcoholism (which after this play I might take up) and a big finale number. You'd think it was over right... RIGHT... how does one top a DANCING MOTHERFRACKING MONKEY.... ah... with Forced Conversion.... Everyone had to bow there head and repeat, that they believed in Jesus, then they asked for a show of hands to see how successful they were.... and this ladies and gentlemen is why all my non-christian friends think church is full of people who aren't sane.

Flash Forward to Sunday... I work at kids church at my sane church, and they brought in snow for the kids to play in. It was a great time.... for the children. I spent most of my days dealing with five year olds making ice balls and launching them at each other and going down what should have been a sleding area, but quickly, due to the heat, became an ice luge that the kids would step on to to "sled" fall and slide down thereby knocking over 5 other children, it was like bowling with live kids. HA. The kids loved it, all of them were wet, dirty and snotty.... AWESOME.

On my kids church team, I have 4 high schoolers, they always give me the latest in their drama, mostly because I despense such wisdom as "Look, I wasn't a whore in High School and neither should you" and of course "for real, you need to stay the eff out of it" and then there is the perennial favorite "Yeah, having slumber parties together is how accidental sex happens, I suggest you find, I dunno, a new birthday idea," and they wonder why I am not a youth leader. For the record , it is because in general, except for the like 8 I like, I despise high schoolers and because the youth leaders at my church have actual biblical wisdom to dispense, I have practical guidance... like don't be a ho at halloween... doing drugs seems like an expensive habit and really... girls jeans are for GIRLS. Anyways, I got a HS newbie this week, and he was super "my life is over" because his girlfriend of 3 months, is being all weird and emotional. So I ask, how old is she... he is like 14... hahaha, I told him... good luck, girls don't know anything til 24 ish... and he was like "But why... she said she loved me" so I gave it to him with the crushing presence of REALITY..."buddy, this relationship isn't gonna last past winter formal, suck it up and go hang out with your boys... other girls will come around,"

"Am I sure?" choke and sob

"Yeah buddy, you will be fine, nobody taps out at 17... buck up and go play some video games or whatever kids these days do," I said... then "uh... maybe I should give you some biblical crap to consider how about... In the begining god created light or whatever."


He wasn't sure at first, he thought if he got super depressed she would feel bad and come back to him...when I stopped laughing (which he eventually started doing because he relized the wisdom of my words or because he got nervous,) I sent him off to go play with one of the other kids new Playstation3.

Finally, shout out to Mr. Jeremy Graham, JP and others...who played a rockin', I repeat rockin' christmas bluesfest. You guys were so AWESOME... it made me wanna learn to play something other than the radio.

Miss Communication.

Warning... not so much funny in this blog... more rambling stream of consciousness.
Or something like that.

It is funny how much sense I make when I am not discussing my own life... I am an excellent communicator, for the love, I work in communications... and as previously discussed in the Blog, I have embraced my inner baby oprah, giving out relational, professional and general advice, just like Santa does at Christmas... and yet, I am utterly at a loss on how to handle my own life at times. I wonder if it is because I am still growing into my own skin, or perhaps more aptly it is because I have a really really really hard time embracing things that don't make sense to me.

Let me be more specific, accidental or no, I have this vision of how friendships should work, how relationships work, how dates work, how god works, how families work, etc.... and when things don't resemble what I see in my head, I either a) reject them as inadequate or b) analyze them till I can break them into things I understand. Maybe it is because growing up (and this is so not a criticism Mom) I didn't always have what I wanted so I made up reasons in my head why I didn't and how they would work if I did, maybe it is reflective of my need for emotional orderliness. For example, in the family in my head the way families work is that the Dad works, the mom stays home and they all go to church together like happy, suburbanites and in my head, boy/girl relationships always go, boy meets girl, they become best of friends, and one day he falls head over heels for girl... they get married (see how families work for the rest) and God works like this, if you are good enough and you try your hardest to be a good christian, then your life doesn't get messed up... you get a mom and a dad, and a great job and things just work... Now rationally, before anyone says anything... I realize that this is not necessarily the case... I know sometimes you just play the cards dealt, it's not like all those kids in Africa who are starving, did something wrong, or don't work hard at being "good." Which as J pointed out... is subjective. But somedays, most days in my head... I think I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out the combination to life that gives me the life I built in my head... which probably makes me insane, idealistic or overtly hopeful... probably all 3.

The other day a friend said that my problem is that I categorize things and life doesn't have categories. It is probably true since it sounds like something one of my boys would say, For the newbies (waves to Azina) my boys are 3 friends of mine from college nicknamed on the blog as (Jase, J and the Ex) who I have been friends with for a long long time and as such know me really really well and whose advise I usually listen to above all others (unless it totally goes against my jesus loving reasoning)... mostly because I know they love me regardless of what I choose, will tell me the truth even when it really hurts and because I know they would go to the mat for me over and over if I asked.

I don't know if that is necessarily a bad thing, wanting categories, look at how much easier it makes things: War = Bad, Food = Good, Giant Romantic Moments = Good, Break-ups = Bad.

It seems like to me a rational response to a world that is full of dynamic relations (in this case, dynamic is being used in a web form, meaning constantly changing and shifting) as opposed to static (which means something is fixed and not capable of action or change.) Besides to me, I think when I leave something undefined... I admit that I can't understand it, and that bothers me... not understand things... (a completely seperate issue, my defence mechanism of reverting to being smart as a self-identifier)

I guess this whole categorizing things ends up hurting me in the long run especially since I am beginning to think, most people don't think like I do. I sure as hell know my boys don't. They are perfectly happy to ride things out... all while I am trying to organize it into something probably reflecting something that has an easy solution or at the very least, a solution.

I am open to thoughts on this, perhaps you think I am being overtly simplistic, or that I am just being stupid or maybe a little of what I said made sense... I dunno. But hey whatever.

I promise the next blog will be more humorous... I am sure the scathing recap of my time at the craziest christmas pagent ever will amuse.

Hate is a Strong Word, but I Really, Really, Really Don't Like You.

Just so you all know, that song is fantastic, when shouted by your roommate to her non-existant (well, non-call backy) boyfriend as you drive her home, drunk as hell, from the Karaoke Bar.

Good Times.

Let's recap shall we.

Well yesterday, it was Monday, and Monday is Karaoke Night. We had decided to go out on Monday, after unilaterally deciding that a. Boys Suck, b. Josh (roomies bf) sucks and c. We were too pretty to wait on a guy to realize how awesome we were. (Ahem, if you are reading this blog and you are a guy, chances are I am not talking about you sucking, because hey how could you suck, you are reading the blog...) The best part about living at my house is that we are utterly supportive of each others likes and dislikes. For example, if I go on a bad date, or the guy I like doesn't treat me great or the BF stops calling (like he did yesterday) or she feels sad, the other will complete fall into line with either the he's so awesome mindset, or we hate all boys and must go out and remind each other how awesome we are mindset.... so while I don't have any severe boy trama, I wholeheartedly concur that boys suck, josh sucks, and we were too pretty to be treated like crap. So we got dressed and went out.

Round One-(I was the designated driver, so my round one was Diet Coke, Roomie- Miller Light and a Shot of Patron (double))- Our waitress LisaMarie was super cool she brought chilled double shots, and listened to my roommate rant for ten minutes on how she gets treated like crap, and I inspire apathy (pronounced after 2 shots of patron as a-pap-athy, by the roomie and aside... truly, is there anything worse than a guy being all Meh-y about you, it totally cuts down on self-worth, apparently LisaMarie and I have the same issue... the boys like us, but not enough to write songs about us, which seems like a stupid thing to want, but seriously, I WISH I could inspire boys to write rage songs, but apparently, not) and the roomie got up to sing a little Fiona Apple "Limp". Forget Alanis Morrissette, Fiona Apple has the market cornered on girl music...

Round 2- (Iced Water-Me, Kamakazzee Shots and another shot of Patron for the Roomie) The bitter bitter girl rantings (roomie) continuted, only at this point they got a little funny. The we started playing "I Wish." "I wish," is a game that the roomie and I invented a little over 2 years ago when we had crap jobs. One person starts with a wish that is just never going to happen and the other has to raise said wish.
"Well, I wish that everything in the world was free just for us,"
Roomie-"well, I wish that XXXX wasn't a stupid face,"
Me- "I wish, Tom Brady, would fall in love with me and tell me I am the smartest most bestest girl in the world."
Roomie- "HA, well I WISH, that I had 3 million dollars, and I could have a new car and clothes, plus tongiht Josh will stand out side of our house with a boombox tears in his eyes and declare his undying love"...
Then we laugh about the never going to happen of it all... yes, we are slightly ridiculous at times.
LisaMarie even joined in... You rock LisaMarie.
Roomie sings, Hook by Blues Traveler

Round 3 -(Ice for me. Kamakazee Shots for the Roomie... JM, Nate, Ben*nate's brother*, Scott and Roxy--- beers) Nor is a happy girl at this point, happy and enraged. Funtastic. When all of a sudden JM thinks it's a great idea to ask the roomie, where is the BF. For the record gents, if you see a girl with several shot glasses in front of her,furiously writing down Fiona Apple or Alanis songs, DO NOT ASK WHERE HER BF IS. Clearly. So JM buys round 4 of the roomie's booze. Patron.
JM sings Taking Back Sunday.
Around this time, a girl kills the whole Karoke Computer System by wanting to sing Paris Hilton stars are blind. So the bar helps out by acapellaing, Jingle Bells and then for equalities sake... the Driedal Song. HA... Ben provides amusement by cracking my roommate and me up with stupid stories about nate.

Round 4 (Nothing for me. Double Chilled Patron and Miller Light for Roomie) Around this time, the roomie wanted the phone I took away from her back. Thankfully, friends don't let friends drunk dial and RANT. Around this time, the roomie and I thought it would be a great idea to peel off beer labels and wear them as eye patches, so we could be the Beer pirate twins, (hahaha, when I do supportive, I go all the way supportive. Love it.) General chit chat around the table includes Nate's hitting on Paris Hilton Girl, why Ben was crazy as a young guy, ASVAB scores and helicopters. All had while we wore beer pirate patches.
Nor talks Ben into doing Micheal and Janet Jackson's Scream.

Round 5 (nothing for Me... roomie is still working on Miller Light) Drunk Roomie with me as backup sings... Salt-n-peppa "none of your business" I am not really sure if I was Salt or Peppa, but my job was to say None of you Business... loudly at the right intervals.... HA... We did get raucous applause, it could have been cause we were so bad... whatever.

Round 6 (water here, more Miller or maybe the same Miller for Roomie) Drunk Roomie and Ben preform Scream... complete with running man, ass shaking and a little slithering. Ben didn't know the words but he made up for it with style, pizzazz and a complete willingness to make a fool out of himself. Frankly, I find those qualities admirable in a man... Ben. Whereever you are. You Rock and you are more than welcome to crash Karaoke anytime.

Finally Nate closed out the night for us, with a "livin' la vida loca," back up dancers (that would be me and roomie) included. He put Ricky Martin to shame.

Then we took off for home, roomie yelling the song and me trying to keep her drunk ass in the car. Off to McDonalds we went, for some super sized fries.... I would tell you the story of the McDonalds drive through, but I want to save something for another day. But be aware, the McDonalds story involves a poor server named Luis and my roommate dang near breaking up his marriage. Ha.

A modern day bra-burning, only not, because that would be expensive.

I had a not so fun Sunday, for some reason I couldn't shake this feeling that something was off... you know how they say that your twenties are supposed wild and crazy and fun.... but most days it feels as though my twenties are crazy, work filled and sometimes fun. Perhaps it's me. Anyways, so I called on of my boys to talk it out, or at least engage in idle chit chat until I felt better. (By the way TBS, I see you blatently ripping off my life with this "my boys" show, bitches) I love that I can call my boys and actually not feel bad about talking to them on the phone, usually with guys you have about 5 minutes to capture there interest, and that is assuming they want to touch you inappropriately, because otherwise they won't get on the phone with you. So we were talking about football (my poor Tom Brady got slaughtered) and this new girl he is dating, and the date that I had gone on recently. The date I had gone on was an accidental date, you know the kind where you sorta find out mid-way through it that you are out on a date.... which I think is just a testiment to the type of guys I deal with out here in LA.

Sidenote- WTF is wrong with you, that you actually passively go on dates, this is the christian method of dating.... the "hangout." As in let's you and me, "hangout" one on one, and I will pay for dinner etc, but we are totally just "hanging out"... um, what do you think a date is genius.

Anyways, in the middle of this conversation with the Ex, whom the blog knows and loves, I realized, that half the crap that I stress about, I bring upon myself. I overanalyze and overworry myself into more trama than it's worth, which by the way is a v. meh thing to do. So new challenge for me, I am doing the things I like, I want and I am done with the rest (A modern day bra burning).... we will see how this all falls out in the next week. But so far so good, I told SFCW to kiss it this morning, it felt liberating.

In other news, you know you live in Los Angeles when the standard "what do you give your mail person for xmas story" actually becomes "what do you give your stylist, for the holidays"

BWAH...

Drunk Dials are Fun.

So last night, I came home from a holiday party, hopped on my email and sent out a quick note to my friends and prepared for bed, because I was super super sick to my stomach. When the phone rang... here is a transcript of the conversation:

"Hello"<---that is me
"HElllllllllllllllllllllo.whhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooo.................-----, heyhiitsme" <---- Roomie
"---, what are you doing"
"---, whaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooo, a;lkdnfe;ne tequila....click"

Cue 5 Minutes later
ring
"whahhhhhhhoooooo, Meh. Hi, IsmDrunk, sdrunk.....wkane;lkn ioe yay"
"---, for real, I am going to bed. CLICK"

5 minutes later
"whaooooooooooooooooooooo, crash, hahahahah, bar-cardi"
"Dude, you are so stupid face, stop calling"
"Stupid face is the meanest thing ever, take it back..."
Then a 5 minute discussion on stupid face happened. uh... wtf is wrong with me, drunk people don't like logic.

Note, friends never let friends drunk dial... We are still waiting on word if her and the boyfriend broke up, again.

All I want for Christmas... is to NEVER SING KARAOKE again.

On Mondays, every once in awhile, I go to karaoke... in the past, I never sang on stage, I heartily sang along with people on stage, I clapped for excellent preformances by my friends and I hang out... in general a good time. However, yesterday I actually sang. It was midst my "singing" I had a REVELATION.

I have absolutely NO DESIRE to ever be on stage... not acting, not singing, not dancing, not poetry reading, nothing.

Which is odd. Consider: I am no one's idea of a low-maintenance girl... I, in general, love attention, I love people and talking and being silly with my roommate...for the love, I work in communications, I have given speeches to groups, held press conferences, and given interviews for situations I would rather not be interviewed for....

And yet...put me on a (karaoke) stage and I start freaking out... and by freaking out I mean getting deathly silent and looking out in horror. It is like reverso world (no, I have no idea if reverso world exists, but for arguements sake we will call it Noom) where you put the shy people on at karoke and 2 choruses in, all of a sudden they are writhing, emotive messes, singing some ode to Mariah Carey... high kicks, ass shaking, ear holding, wailers. Meanwhile, I stand there playing with my fingers behind my back and hope to god, the song is almost over. I don't think most of my friends get how absolutely horrifing it was for me to be on any sort of stage that involves singing.... it may be my inner stoic Englishness from my grandparents or the fact that I try not to run around doing things I know I am gonna be horrible at... but yeah... karaoke = bad.

Other thoughts: I would like to take this moment to say, I have a much greater appreciation for those that can karaoke... call me, I love your work. I would also like to say... "no, Morgan, I will not karaoke again just so you can see it"
And give a shout out to those who drink Guinness, which I discovered last night is Irish for "mud we place in a can with a tab and sell to unsuspecting stupid faces" or gaelic for "sludge," latin for "Optimus Disgustus." You guys have tougher stomach's than I, drink on, friends, drink on.

Finally, to Nate... who forever changed NIN "Closer" with your holiday rendition... I am pretty sure you found the true heart or Reznor's song... I am also pretty sure somewhere Santa is crying.

Instant Message is the smoking gun of DEATH in my friendships.

So... I cut myself off today, it's been hard, since I currently am more addicted than Britney is to bad taste. What is it you say, well from the title you can see... it is INSTANT MESSAGING. Whoever thought it was a good idea to give women (or by women... I mean me) a way of INSTANTLY contacting others when she is bored, wants attention, or other such things, was a very very bad man (actually a man couldn't have thought up instant message... no man wants to be contacted constantly... this v. bad plan was thought up by a woman) It starts off so slow... a hi here, a What's up there, and then all of a sudden I find myself posting long diatribes and theorys to friends who actually NEED to do work at their jobs... but love me enough to try and stick with me in the middle of conversations that not only NEVER should be had over IM, I am willing to bet probably NEVER should have been discussed ever (sidenote... sorry Scott, Ben, Leanne, Chrissie, James, and Jon Mark, you guys get super friends awards!... super super aside, most of these peeps are boys, boys have no problems using IM, because boys only say something when they have to or for funny's sake.... damn me and my chatty cathy ways)

IM is dangerous for a multitude of reasons, but for me... part of it is tone... you can't read tone in an IM and I am totally that chick that reads tone wrong...plus, again that whole constant talking thing... there really isn't much to say all day to anyone.... and yet... I tried.

It took an intervention to get me to quit IM...all 3 of my boys, sent me this message (paraphrased) If I talk to you anymore on this thing, I swear I am going to start hating you... this thing is killing our friendship more than any of your other eccentricities (I believe the actual phrase was overthought out girl panic moments) over the LAST 8 years, I don't even talk to my GIRLFRIEND this much.

Followed up by... Quoted-- "I say this with love... but shut the fuck up." (sorry ma, it was a quote)

When your closest friends are itching to kill you, it's time to quit. So I removed the IM hardware from my computer this morning... and I'm jonesing... for outside communications... for the chance to discuss stupid things like life, love and toast.... but they say the first days are the hardest, so hopefully I get by...
I have to before I actually IM my friends into oblivion...