Day: I’ve lost count.  Mood: get my happy ass on a plane PRONTO.

We made it over the river and through the woods to Grandma’s in time for a dinner of CORNISH GAME HENS last night.  You know, the mini chickens that royalty ate a lot in the time of castles and kings and moats and arranged marriages?  Needless to say, I was quite excited.  Apparently one is to eat these with a fork and knife, cut meat, eat it, repeat– you know, like a regular meal.  I however took this new culinary delight as an excuse to go balls to the wall and tear this beast apart with my hands, silverware, ice pick; really anything to get to the deeeelish stuffing inside.  Unfortunately my grandparents had not only the neighbors over as dinner guests but also their pastor and wife.  None of the newbies talked to me much, just kind of politely nodded as my mother explained that she tried her damndest to raise me as a lady, but something malfunctioned along the way and I can now burp louder than NPH and sit as though straddling a cruise ship.  My bad.

We’ve been drinking bloody mary’s since about noon, putting together another God-forsaken puzzle a la Thanksgiving.  Finally about  three hours and only 10 pieces in we looked at each other and said, “WHY do we do this again?!” And no one could come up with a valid reason so just said Fuck It.  (Correction: my grandmother did not say “fuck” anything.  I am the only one who curses like a sailor.  This is a bad habit I should at some point address.  One time at my job  over the summer the most stonerish, strung out, greased up, dropped out kid I worked with turned to me and goes, “You swear more than anyone I know.”  SORRY.  I will now try to weave “frick” into my vernacular for the new year.)

My grandfather is now trying to pass my grandmother a chocolate covered cherry via his mouth.  You may be barfing, but really, I was thinking about this today: they are an excellent example of keeping the spark alive.  These two touch lips more than any over-20 couple I know.  He says he’s going out to the store, she tells him how much she’ll miss him while he’s gone and then they do some slightly stomach-turning PDA in front of the grandchildren.  When I’m their age (which is still really quite young) I only hope to be half as in love with my significant other as these two are.  It probably helps that they spend three months of every year in Hawaii, doing nothing but I don’t even wanna know in a condo on the beach– I know I’d be more pleasant to those around me if my happy ass was soaking up the sun in the dead of winter.

OH GUESS WHAT my grades came in today.  As always, I am an academic rockstar.  This whole college thing really isn’t as hard as it’s cracked up to be, or at least most of the time I’m too not sober to care.  Today one of my loyal readers told me my blog would make an excellent movie.  Well DUH.  Who would play me?  Me, of course.  Or maybe Lindsay Lohan.  I love her.  While the rest of America has given up on her, I’m still gunning for a comeback that would put Britney to shame (don’t even get me started on her– while I love her, that “comeback” is nothing more than the most contrived, puppeteered, record some whiny cat-sounding sounds over a too-heavy dance beat and call it a hit media circus bullshit to happen since the first time she had a Number One.  BUT I DIGRESS.)

Happy birthday to my aunt, Sheila– should she be reading.

Happy Christmas, kiddos– I’m off to PLAY MONOPOLY with my family, how FREAKING jealous of me are you?  Ooooh I’m sure there’s Christmas cookies somewhere.  Perhaps if I disappear to the “garage” to get “Monopoly pieces” and I come back covered in crumbs they won’t suspect anything…

Why am I the only person who answers in lecture when the professor asks what beastiality or necrophilia is?  (It’s a class on the First Amendment, we were defining “prurient interests”…)  Apparently I have no problem shouting “Sex with animals!” and “Sex with dead people!” in a roomful of 100+ people.

Did you hear about the former Miss Argentina who DIED during her recent cosmetic surgery?  The not even 40-year-old mother of twins had a pulmonary embolism during her butt surgery.  She died for the perfect ass.  So, so sad.  I am quite anti-plastic surgery, for myself.  Friends have had it and it was great for them, fabulous.  While I wouldn’t mind a magic lipo fairy (or if I were to wake up with boobs that could actually be discerned from an adolescent boys’), those things are pipe dreams, and I’d never actually pay for them or put my life in danger for a better body.  Most of my issues are in my head anyway, so those thousands of dollars would be better spent on a shrink.  There’s a documentary Killer at Large about America’s obesity epidemic, and it opens with a TWELVE-YEAR-OLD girl undergoing liposuction.  She gained it back.  Went across the border to Mexico for lap band surgery.  I’m going to change the subject now, lest I begin an unstoppable diatribe on healthy eating and GETTING OFF YOUR ASS and playing outside at the ripe old age of 12.

We are now listening to George Carlin’s “Seven Dirty Words” bit in class.  My professor loves writing “bad” words on the board.  Hey, it keeps us from falling to sleep (and yes, I’m blogging during class.  I have faith that if George Carlin is on the final, I’ll be able to come up with a few of my favorite obscenities to put in the short answer section.)

Today is my half birthday.  Give me presents, I don’t care if they’re half presents.

It is also World AIDs Day.  90 people get the swine flu & everyone wants to wear a mask; millions of people have AIDs and no one wants to wear a condom.  In the words of my wise mother, wrap it before you tap it.  Or erm, get tapped?  There is free HIV & AIDs testing on campus today.  I will not be taking advantage of this, mostly because you would need a male figure to at least look in your general direction once a century to have some sort of sexually transmitted disease.  Also, I give blood on the reg and I would hope the ol’ blood center would have called me up by now if my donated fluids were killing people.

You know what I can’t do anymore?  Sleep.  The ol’ gray matter cannot shut off, racked with anxiety over how I will move out of my apartment, if the girl who’s “90% sure” she can sublease it will ever e-mail me back, where I’ll put all my furniture, how underprepared I am to go to Germany, how I have Christmas presents for only one of my family members, how I have no money to buy Christmas presents for the other family members, on and on and ON.  Also, the new Weezer song was stuck in my head.  And that horrible “3″ song by Britney Spears which sounds like someone recorded a damn cat in a microwave.

Dear Brittney, when you have class for over an hour, DO NOT DRINK lots of coffee beforehand.  10 minutes left.  Either the clock or my bladder will win, and at this point, I really am not sure which.