There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Must Hate Job.

OK, it's late, but I'm going out on a limb now (an hour and 15 minutes early) and saying that I really want Michael to win Hell's Kitchen. Oh, my, am I lame, or what?

See, I like Ralph, but I don't dislike Michael just because he's different. People with tattoos and piercings don't scare me -- that's why I was well-suited to teaching high school (the reason I'm not well-suited to teach high school is that I need to pay my mortgage and bills and shit). He's different because he's creative, but that doesn't make him odd or weird or dangerous. I don't want people thinking that I'm an asshat because I have 47 piercings or because I'm a flabby-armed spanking machine. Which I don't have, but I may be becoming. Frankly, I don't trust a person in a creative position who is very normal and who conforms. They might have skilz that kilz, but that's not always what gets you there.

I'm just saying: I'd rather eat in Michael's kitchen than Ralph's. Ralph might be fun to drink with.

Speaking of drinking, Friday night was a fabulous example of Drinking Inertia. I stopped drinking at 9, but I was drunker and drunker as time flowed by. So we were out with my new friend LoudGirl and her beau, RadioBoy. It was a hoot, except that I just couldn't put the brakes on the dizzy and the queasy. They have a hot tub, but the dog didn't jump in til after we left, and they'll probably never want to come to my house because they have a HOT TUB. Which seems addictive. RadioBoy told some sphincter-splitting stories about his father, but you can't repeat them in writing, because the voice and accent are essential to the character development.

Anyway, I still hate my job, so I've got that going for me...

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