journal
contact
credits
View My Stats, bitch.
Seriously, though, blah blah dull. Although I was involved in a high-speed chase yesterday, it was only peripheral in that the individual who was in flight used me like an orange cone in a bike rodeo. He was a fugitive from the Border Patrol, which is probably the most boring branch of law enforcement. I know this because there is no CSI: Border Patrol yet. He was tearing down the side of the road in his red pickup (required by law, because it’s Texas, y’all), then swoop swish he was around me, screaming down the driveway of EduMart on the wrong side. Then came the green and white SUV to trap him in the cul-de-sac that is the EduMart parking lot (Henry: it’s what we call a “car park.”) and then another to catch him in the squeeze play. So that was exciting.
Then later the same day I felt dizzy and queasy and wanted to go home, but I compensated by staying at work and not really accomplishing a damn thing. I not only have writer’s block, I think I’m getting reader’s block as well. So I didn’t accomplish anything on my “To Do” list (1. Find list.) and went to bed early.
So this person at work whom I’ve written about before because she was in Square State with us and was drunk and stoned the whole time has now just disappeared – fallen off the face of EduMart. I think she’s in rehab. I hope so, since the only alternative I can think of is “kidnapped by aliens” due to my writer’s/reader’s block. No one will talk about it.
I was right about who would win Hell’s Kitchen, so I’m going to try to continue my streak in a small way by predicting that this week Patrice will be kicked off Supernova due to the fact that she just sang a song of her own composition and was off key the whole time. Shortly, Toby will follow. And then Storm or Lukas. Or Lukas then Storm. I don’t know, the future is hazy. So I see the final 3 as Dilana, Ryan, and Magni. Which brings me to Gilby Clarke. Who the fuck is he? I haven’t seen that much blow comb action since 1983.
And can we talk about Project Runway? I don’t know who’s going home next, but if Uli (or is it Ulli?) isn’t in the finals, I’ll kiss a nerdy economist with no ass whatsoever. Of my choice. After last week, Kayne isn’t safe. Robert is boring. NoTitsRedhead is too predicatable. TattooNeck and Vincent are both creepy, and Vincent’s stuff sucks ass. That Twiggy thing was scary. Michael’s stuff is OK, but not stellar.
And in ACTUAL news that actually MATTERS, San Antonio teachers are once again being held to some weird standard – female teachers may no longer wear Capri pants or open-toed shoes. Now, I am no fan of the Capri pant unless the wearer is young enough to refer to them as pedal pushers, but what the fuck? It’s fucking HOT here. No hoochie clothes? Fine. Yay, as a matter of fact. No sandals? Ya know, I’m also not a fan of other people’s bare feet – feet totally gross me out, and I’d be just as likely to wear a cabbage on my head as sandals, but I know I’m weird about feet and hello? Sandals? What’s next? A whole frickin state that refuses to acknowledge evolution? Oh, hi, Kansas.