You can suck it too Cincinnati

Good People of the Internet! I come bearing news of my terrible, no good, very bad weekend.

First there was this.

Yeah. That still smarts, actually. We were up the whole game! AND WE LOST BY A POINT! I really...can't talk about it.


Then back to Heinz Field I went on Sunday, I was optimistic. I was not worried. I was sure that a Steelers' victory over a sub par Oakland Raiders team was sure to be the aloe to my Pitt loss wound (still...might cry a little over that. ONE POINT.) It would soothe my weary football soul.

And then. Well, I think we all know what happened.

I don't blame myself.

I'm not sure who I blame. I blame the state of Ohio, for sure. I still partially blame WVU (because they always deserve a little blame). I blame Pitt for making me think this would be the year they wouldn't break my heart (Let's recap this year shall we? Final Four? Fail. Sugar Bowl? Fail). I blame the cold weather for being cold. But mostly I blame Heinz Field for not producing the right mojo.

All I know is that Troy would have never let this happen.

I sat in the cold for two days straight for what? For nothing.

There's always next year, right?

Boo.

I'm okay with just voting Uganda off the planet

So, normally, my rants in this blog are contained to things that range from mildly ridiculous to full out ridiculous with some shout outs to Pitt (WTF WAS THE BACKYARD BRAWL ABOUT BILL STULL?!?) interspersed with some love letters to things/people/places I love. I came close once to ranting in all seriousness about Roman Polanski, and while it still makes me irate (HE RAPED A THIRTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL. Roman Polanski, GDIAF. Seriously.) I have stumbled across something that deserves my ire and righteous indignation.

First, before I bring my wrath down upon those who surely deserve it, let's give a rousing round of applause to one Mr. John Marcotte of San Francisco, California. I, for one, want one of those t-shirts with the bride and groom chained together. Make note of that. It's on my Christmas list.


Moving on.

I know I place people on my "Dead to Me" list. And that's all relatively fun and games, but this guy? Pastor Rick Warren? Can go fuck himself.

Apparently, the Ugandan government is pushing for an "Anti-Homosexuality" bill. The penalty for being gay? Lifetime imprisonment. And if you have HIV or AIDS or have sex with a minor or a disability? Death.

Oh yeah, we've come a long way. Hats off to you progressive thinkers in Uganda.

And this douche bag? Pastor Rick?

He said this:

"The fundamental dignity of every person, our right to be free, and the freedom to make moral choices are gifts endowed by God, our creator. However, it is not my personal calling as a pastor in America to comment or interfere in the political process of other nations."


You are a man of God, right? Fuck you. And then after being called out on not condemning the Ugandan government for what is clearly a huge, giant human rights violation (not to mention what should be a huge moral violation, particularly if you claim to love a God that is fair and forgiving, but that's just semantics, right?), he goes on Twitter (for the love of God. TWITTER), and tweets a fairly inaccurate and awfully snarky response: "Globally last yr 146,000 Christians were put to death because of their faith. No one, except Christians, said anything."

Where exactly are you getting your statistics from?

But moreover, I'm sorry? Does that make it okay to condemn to death 500,000 Ugandans because their sexual preference doesn't match up with your own?

I could go on, but I think the nice Wonkette reader, queeraselvis v 2.0, said it best:

"And on the night He was betrayed, Jesus took a bowl of lightly salted poisoned rat dicks and, after blessing it, gave it to Rick Warren and said, 'Take, eat. Do this in remembrance of me.'"

"I knew a vampire once. Cute as a bug. Teeth all sharpened."

Dear New Orleans,


I miss you already.

Remember that time that I came to visit? Remember how we drank Hurricanes at Pat O'Briens and sang along to some rad songs with the piano player? Do you remember the awesome guy playing the tin tray? I LOVED HIM. Almost as much as I love you.

It was a great time, wasn't it New Orleans? Did you have fun too?

There was the swamp tour! ("If a snake gets in the boat, just lift up your feet, we'll get him out." "By we, he really means he right?") And the gators! All those gators! Remember the Swamp Kittens and how Sarah fed them her Doritos? That was fun, wasn't it New Orleans?

And the French Quarter! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVED THE FRENCH QUARTER?! Bourbon and Toulouse and Chartres? Even though Bourbon street smelled like vomit and booze and urine. And even though the number of strip clubs seemed to outnumber everything else. And even when I paid 8.50 for a Blue Moon. Because it only took about a Hurricane and a half before I was good and sloshed. AND I DIDN'T EVEN GET A HANGOVER. Not once, New Orleans. Do you understand how rare that is? HOW WONDERFUL?

And then the cemetery tour! And Priestess Miriam's House O' Voodoo. Remember how our tour guide told us to peek in through windows and doors? REMEMBER HOW CREEPY/AWESOME THAT WAS?! Remember how she dropped us off in front of Armstrong Park where two tourists had been stabbed for their camera? She was crazy, New Orleans, but damn charming.

And the streetcars, New Orleans! And the World War II Museum! AND THE PAT O'BRIEN'S HURRICANES!

I miss you New Orleans. I miss your booze and your Swamp Kittens. I miss that awesome dinner we had at Coop's and the Mango Mangos every four feet on Bourbon. I miss them gators, and Muffalettas at Central Grocery. Mmmm. Muffalettas. I miss the Hotel St. Marie (but not that non-door to our bathroom). I miss the super creepy guy asking us if we want our fortunes read by Jackson Square.

I will visit again, New Orleans, hopefully soon.

Save some gator jerky and frozen daiquiris for me.


Love,

Lisa

I'm not above begging. Or blackmail.

Dear Guillermo Del Toro,

I did not know who you were. Apparently you directed the second Blade movie. I have only ever seen the first one. And also, I did a little research (thank you Google!) and found you also directed Pan's Labyrinth. Friend, I dug that movie a whole lot. But still, you were a mystery to me. An enigma. But you wrote a book. And one of my favorite new regulars let me borrow your book.

And I liked it, Guillermo (can I call you that? Or would you prefer Mr. Del Toro?). I liked it a lot. In fact, I could not put it down.

I did not realize, Guillermo, that it was the first book in a trilogy. Also, I did not realize YOU HAD NOT PUBLISHED THE SECOND AND THIRD BOOK. ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!?

See, G, I promised myself after waiting two years between H.Potters that I would not do that to myself anymore. I am not very patient, Mr. Del Toro. I am a big fan of instant gratification, and I DO NOT LIKE WAITING FOR SECOND AND THIRD BOOKS TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS.

I know that this is not all your fault. I know that part of this is Paul's fault for giving me a book that was one part of an unfinished trilogy. And not telling me this prior to my reading it. You cannot be held accountable for that part in all of this.

BUT I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. So get your act together, Guillermo. Start writing. See, because I don't know if you know this, but you kind of left everything up in the air. They call those cliffhangers.

I DO NOT LIKE CLIFFHANGERS.

You seem like a reasonable person (actually I have nothing to base this on, this is pure speculation). I'm sure you can figure out a way to hurry up and get the next book published BEFORE I DO SOMETHING WE BOTH REGRET.

I swore, Guillermo, I swore I WOULD NOT GET THIS ATTACHED TO CHARACTERS WHEN I HAD NO IDEA WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO THEM. If you break my heart like J.K. Rowlings did, I will probably die (WHY FRED, WHY?!?). Just so you know.

Shame on you, sir. For shame. For being so DAMN AWESOME. And for writing a book about vampires that is so much better than that garbage that Stephanie Meyers puked up (I cannot blame her inferior writing on her being a Mormon because Orson Scott Card was a Mormon too, and we both know that Ender's Game kicked some serious ass).

I hope even now, as I write this, you are feverishly writing to finish the trilogy. Oh Guillermo! Think of the children. One child in particular. Me. Think about me. START WRITING.

FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY IN THIS WORLD START WRITING.

That is all.

Love, Lisa

Nice turn signal!

You know what's not cool?

PEOPLE WHO CANNOT DRIVE WHO TRY TO DRIVE AND WHO IN DOING SO DRIVE ME CRAZY.

Yes.

I have come to the conclusion that most of the residents in Pittsburgh, but definitely ninety percent of those people living in Aspinwall/Fox Chapel/Sharpsburg, really, really, don't know how to drive.

Old Lady in the blue Buick, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME? I'm sorry that you are too little to see over the steering wheel. Also, I am sorry that you have a car that is approximately the size of a small yacht, but Old Lady, you almost killed me today. Please, stop driving on Route 28. See, I have my lane, and you have your lane, and YOU DON'T ACTUALLY NEED TO BE IN MY LANE, SO STAY IN YOURS!

I need to have a message board on the outside of my car. It can have pre-programmed messages for the masses. Such as "Nice turn signal asshat" and "What are you doing!? You could have gone like twelve times!" Someone invent that for me. I will buy two of them. One for the front and one for the back. I will use it all the time. I will even try to contain myself to very few mean names and I cannot promise anything, but I will try not to use sarcasm too much.

Seriously, though, Old Buick Lady. You're on my list.

Oh Mama, I'm in fear for my life

I spent the weekend at Heinz Field. I think everyone will agree that this is not a bad way to spend the weekend. In fact, a weekend spent at Heinz Field is made of absolute win.

Started on Saturday at nine in the morning. Mimosas and chili. And maybe some beer. Maybe a lot of beer. Maybe so much beer that when the score was 21-7 I told someone it was tied. ("Uh. We've scored twice more." "When did that happen?!?!")

Here is what I learned: when you start drinking nine a.m. you kind of feel like you want to die by six in the evening. I don't know how alcoholics do it. Morning drinking is kind of bad news bears.

But oh! When they play "Sweet Caroline" ("Sweet Caroline...Let's go Pitt! Good times never felt so good...Go Pitt! Go Pitt! Go Pitt!"), my heart swells a little bit. I realize that Neil Diamond has nothing to do with football or the Pitt Panthers, but that song has long been a bar favorite. And bars have alcohol and football games have drunks, so really it makes sense.

And then Steelers football. All those black and gold towels waving and all that Styx playing. And all those Brett Favre sacks. If anyone has a sack coming it's Brett "I'm a drama queen" Favre. (And that last one? Harrison's sack in the last five seconds of the game? Beautiful. It was like poetry in motion.)

It's a beautiful way to spend a fall weekend.

Get up off of that thing and dance til you feel better

I like spontaneous dance parties.

They're pretty much my favorite thing ever.

My dance moves are pretty famous, most notably the "Octopus," that shit will be sweeping the nation. Also my rain dance has been known to reduce mere mortals to tears. I'm thinking of trying out for the next season of So You Think You Can Dance.

There's something about flailing around, looking kind of like someone drowning, that brings a smile to my face. I don't think you need to be good to have fun dancing. I don't think not being good should ever stop someone from dancing. I think you just have to move your body the way that it wants to move and have fun doing it.

I like to dance around in a circle with my hands in the air. It makes me happy. I don't really care that I look like a fool. I'm pretty sure that's half the fun.

I like to twirl and dip and do the sprinkler and the shopping cart. I like to look like the kids in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Pig Pen rocks my world. He just sort of shakes his head back and forth. That's amazing.

This is why I don't care for dance clubs. Those people take themselves way too seriously. I don't really care for people who take themselves too seriously. Life is kind of a bummer sometimes. It's best not to take anything too seriously. Going out to a club, dressed in some skimpy outfit and grinding up next to some drunk stranger? Not my idea of a good time.

Now some David Bowie "Magic Dance" and a dance move that vaguely resembles having a seizure? That's so much better.

Maybe the dog can find water. I mean, dogs can find pot and bombs, so I'm sure they can find water

Know who is on my list?

ABC.

For being so freaking awesome.

Damn it ABC.

First FlashFoward? Now Lost? (Although to be accurate, those two shows should be flipped. I'm a little late coming to the party for Lost).

Bob is also on my list. Also for being awesome. He let me borrow the first two seasons of Lost. Now I'm hooked. Damn it Bob. (Reminds me of a great Bob story. When all the seasons of Gilmore Girls were being passed around the Bou, he came to me one morning and without so much of a greeting said, "Rory loses her virginity to Dean doesn't she? No! Jess! No! Dean! You know what? I don't want to know." And then walked away).

How am I supposed to do anything productive when there are Lost episodes to be watched? And Jack Shepard to look at? AND HURLEY! I LOVE HURLEY SO MUCH IT MAKES ME WANT TO DIE.

This is no good. I did not need this, ABC. Why can't you be more like NBC and have like one or two good shows and then suck at life otherwise? (Although, NBC, you are also on my list because of the latest Office. The wedding? Jim cutting off his tie? Killed me dead).

I have to go to work, ABC. And now all I will be thinking about is Locke and Sun and Claire, poor Claire, and stupid Shannon who is stupid (and who was also in the movie Taken , where she is also stupid. And runs funny. And screams a whole lot. And cries. And is stupid), and Boone who has really pretty eyes.

I will never forgive you, ABC. I hate what you have reduced me to. You and DVR. In cahoots. I HAVEN'T READ A BOOK IN TWO DAYS, ABC! YOU ARE TURNING MY MIND INTO MUSH AND I'M A WILLING PARTICIPANT. Can't you put more garbage on television? Can't you just keep putting Dancing with the Stars on? I know how to turn that off. You and your captivating television can suck it.

Are you too good for your home?!

I'm no IT expert. Never claimed to be. My favorite solution when dealing with rogue electronics is to plead with the offending object for a little while, hit it a couple of times, cry a little, and then repeat.

My computer is being lame pants. That's the only way I know how to describe it. One day it's totally all right with being connected to the interwebs and the next day FALSE YOU WILL NOT CONNECT TO THE INTERWEBS.

What's that all about Dell?

I'm currently not on my own computer (and if I get caught there will be hell to pay). My computer connected last night but this morning? Not so much. WTF computer?

Alas. My computer is telling me in its gentle way that it has little time left. BUT I DO NOT CARE. Connect to the internet! How hard is that?! I've restarted like seven times. SEVEN. That's an absurd amount of times to restart.

Don't computers WANT to connect to the internet? Isn't that really their goal in life? Why has my computer decided to be a slacker who has no real goal in life other than to see how many marshmallows it can fit in its mouth at one time? Will I come home one day to see the computer laying on the couch with a beer in one hand and cheese curl dust all over it?

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?

I know I once said that the Check Engine Light is worse than the Blue Screen of Death.

I might just have to disagree with that.

Because this sucks too.

STUPID COMPUTER. JUST CONNECT TO THE INTERNET.

I'm going to restart it one more time.

After all, eighth times the charm.

Hey! It's the guy from "Shakespeare in Love!"

I love fall. I love the leaves changing, I love football, I love sweaters and pumpkins and Halloween and Thanksgiving. I think everyone is aware of my love for Hocus Pocus.

And I love the start of new television seasons.

Here's the thing. I am not ashamed of being a giant tv addict. The invention of DVR is right up there in my book with the invention of electricity and anti-biotics. I love books for their ability to transport you to another place, and television, good television, is the lazier way to do that.

So with that being said. Flash Forward? Yes. Just. Yes.

Everyone and their mother is talking about this show. With good reason. It's a crazy awesome concept. And it's good. So far it totally kept my interest (which is saying something. I have a very short attention span and have been known to be a skimmer. I used to skim my school reading, I sometimes skim movies, and I often skim television shows. DVR owns my soul).

Point is? It's just as awesome as everyone says it is. I didn't fast forward through any of it. Not once.

"D. Gibbons is a bad man." WTF. That line right there just hooked me FOR LIFE.

Do yourself a favor. Go online and find the first two episodes and watch. This show wins at life.

Mmm, tasty.

Did you hear that a man in the Outer Banks was eaten by a shark a few weeks ago?

THE OUTER BANKS? That's like way north. I expect these things to happen off the coast of Florida or in Australia (number one fear about Australia? The alarming and massive amount of things that will kill you just by being NEAR you), but North Carolina? That's not right. My biggest worry about North Carolina beaches should be jellyfish (jellyfish are in my category of "why do they exist?" What good are they? They just make people hurt. Bad form, Jellyfish, bad form).

Sharks, like caves, are one of those things that I think no one in the their right mind is not totally terrified of.

THEY EAT PEOPLE. (I hear people are not that tasty, and so they eat people is not exactly accurate, more like they attack people and chomp on them a while and then those poor people bleed to death. Still, details. The fact remains that if you run into a shark odds are you are not making it out of that situation intact.)

Sharks are bad news. Let's not forget that. They are serious business.

I thought all people were aware to avoid sharks like the plague. And then I read this.

HE RISKED HIS ARM TO SAVE A SHARK?!?

WHAT?

I have no words for you Crazy, Australian Dude. I know things are different Down Under. I know that you have learned to not be afraid of things that most other people are afraid of. But you had to stick your arm down the shark's throat to save it?

ARE YOU NUTS?!

Did you all miss Jaws? Did you forget that they will RIP YOU TO SHREDS?!

My worst fear?

Meeting a Cave Shark. It probably exists. That son-of-a-bitch the Goblin Shark exists, there's probably no way that the Cave Shark is also not real.

There's a lesson here, people. Sharks are bad news. Let's stop making them fun characters in Disney movies ("Hello, Bruce!"). Let's stop trying to bring sympathy to the most deranged and terrifying creature on this planet.

What happened?!

Oh Pitt. Oh my dear, sweet Pitt. WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!

You lost to NC STATE?!

Is this Bill Stull's fault? You may or may not know how I feel about Bill Stull. Fine, he's an okay guy, probably kind of a tool bag, as most quarterbacks tend to be (I'm looking at you Big Ben), but he is a TERRIBLE football player. Get him off the field, let Sunseri try his luck instead. Anything is better than Bill "I once played in the worst Bowl Game of all time and lost" Stull.

NC State should have been a piece of easy, peasy pie.

YOU LOST AFTER BEING UP THE WHOLE DAMN GAME?!

Oh Pitt. Oh my beloved alma mater. You haven't hurt me this badly since you lost in the Elite Eight (it's okay Jamie Dixon. I still love you and forgive you for that).

I looked past the 3-0 loss in that stupid Bowl Game last year. I looked past the rotten seasons under a couple of rotten coaches with rotten quarterbacks. I looked past the fact that we were once a football powerhouse the likes of which produced Mike Ditka, Tony Dorsett, and Dan Marino. I looked past Mark Nordenberg's hair piece.

YOU LOST TO NC STATE?!

We were 3-0 Pitt.

I'm going to be angry about this for a little while. You understand Pitt, I know you do. Just let me have my cooling off period. In two weeks, when you are back at Heinz Field, I will have forgiven you.

But this week, Pitt, I'm angry.

Worse? I'm disappointed.

Yes, Virginia, there is an Obama

The G-20 is a-coming to town.

While this means massive road delays, horrible traffic, office closings, school closings, and potential DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER, it also makes people bust out the creativity.

Such the email that my mom's friend Steve sent:


Is it me or have they totally commercialized the G-20? I wish we could just go back to the old traditions of the G-20. It was about families, not all of this consumerism. I want the old traditions. My mother on the eve of G-20 would make 12 different types of fish and we would have to try them all, even if they not have been a favorite of ours. Then we would sit around and my dad would read, "It was the Night Before the G-20." Oh how we used hang on every word about who was being gassed and who was flinging excrement at who. They we would settle into our beds for a long September's nap with visions of the National Guardsmen dancing on our heads.

We never had all of the expensive presents that kids have today. We would hang out our G-2o protest masks and we would get an orange, yes, an orange. We were happy for it, those were simpler times to be sure. Remember when the malls actually started selling G-20 items in September and not right after Easter in April! Have we lost the meaning of the G-20? And oh those holiday specials! We would wait all year to see "It's the G-20 Charlie Brown" on CBS, we didn't have DVD players and 200 channels constantly showing Frosty the Guardsman or "How the Grinch Stole Items to Use at the Protestor's Confinement Pen at the G-20."


Remember the baking? We didn't go the store and get dozens of pre-made G-20 cookies, no, we helped my mom to make them using our little world leader's and unidentified poor people cookie cutters.

Can't we just for one, have a simple G-20?

This year as you carve the roast beast for your own G-20 feast, take a moment and think back to when hearing I'LL Be Home for the G-20" was only played in September not starting in March!

This email is made of awesome.

I couldn't help but craft my own response to this, which is also as followed:

I'm sorry that you old folks had to make do with an orange and had to wait to see "The Island of Misfit World Leaders" on a black and white television. But guess what? WE CALL THIS PROGRESS! Stop your whining about G-20's past and start living in the NOW. We have a black president, for God's sake. Change has come to America! Yes, the commercialism of the G-20 has gotten out of hand. Yes, we need to sit back and remember what the G-20 is all about. We need to remember those wise men stumbling through the desert with incense bought at Pier One and promises of stable economies. They followed that bright star into the night only to find it was a 727, did it stop them?! DID THEY WHINE ABOUT STORE BOUGHT COOKIES!? IS IT THE YOUNG PEOPLE'S FAULT THAT WE ARE BETTER AT TIME MANAGEMENT?!

Listen, folks, we need to remember that on that cold, early autumn night all those moons ago, men and women met to discuss the economies and had poop thrown at them. We celebrate them. It doesn't matter if the cookies are home-made, or if the television specials are watched on DVD or network TV. It doesn't matter if we begin to celebrate a week in advance or seven months. What matters is we celebrate at all.

Yes, Virginia, there is an Obama.

But Steve, oh Steve, he saw my response and raised it a notch:

You know. After re-reading this, maybe she is right. The G-20 doesn't come from a store, it doesn't come wrapped in boxes or bows, no the G-20 maybe, maybe is about a little bit more. Thanks Lisa, Thanks......

No, Steve. Thank you.

Caves, friends, are not the answer.

Caves are bad news.

There are things that live in caves that do not need sunlight to exist.

That's not right.

Who wants to go spelunking? Not me, certainly. Nothing good can come of caves. Have you ever seen a movie where people go into caves and come out all happy and cheerful and all "let's go in that cave again!"?

No! You haven't ever seen a movie like that. BECAUSE THEY DON'T EXIST. PEOPLE WHO GO INTO CAVES DO NOT COME OUT HAPPY! THEY DO NOT COME OUT AT ALL!

At the zoo there are these fish that live in caves. They have eye sockets but no eyeballs. WTF!?! WHAT IN THE HELL KIND OF WORLD DO WE LIVE IN THAT THERE ARE FISH THAT HAVE EYE SOCKETS BUT NO EYES?!?

Evolution, man, it's messed up.

So no, I do not want to go into the cave at North Park where there may or may not be mythological creatures that want to kill me dead. No, I do not want to go 'sploring the deep, dark crevices where there may or may not be things that DO NOT HAVE EYES.

I will stay outside the cave, thank you very much. I know that it is safe outside. I know that the creatures/plants/things outside the cave have eyes and need sunshine to live.

And honestly, I don't think I am alone in my cave fear. It afflicts many. At least one in every four people are afraid of caves(note: this statistic is made up.) And yes, maybe my fear of caves stems from the movie Beaches (that song? The one where they come out of a cave and put on those scary masks at the end? Oh Industry? I was never the same after that scene), but that does not make cave fear any less legit.

Jen once asked me if I would live in a cave with James Franco, and I answered yes. And I would. But James Franco is a smart dude. He's probably also afraid of caves, so it's a moot point.

Caves are whack, friends. Let's hang out in this open field instead.

Smell that? That's the smell of football season.

Dear Steelers,

Tonight is the first game of the season. Win or lose, I will love you forever. But I'd really like us to win. So you know, Ben, no interceptions, please. And James Harrison? Keep on keepin' on. You rock my socks off, dude.

And Troy? Oh Troy. I love you a ridiculous amount. You and your soft voice and your crazy hair. I love that you aren't anywhere near the ball and then BAM! The ball's in your hands.

And Rooney family? I love you too. You with all your classiness, and your Pittsburgh pride. You with your Obama love, and your ambassadorship to Ireland. (Is ambassadorship a real word?)

I know you are going to win, Steelers. Because some Titan players stepped on the Terrible Towel and ended up watching the Superbowl from their couches at home. AND NO ONE STEPS ON THE TERRIBLE TOWEL AND GETS AWAY WITH IT. Don't worry Steelers, this year we're going to bring home the Lombardi trophy a seventh time.

I love you Steelers. I am so glad to see you again.

Love,
Lisa

There's a reason that Ebay and Evil sound alike

Once upon a time I was addicted to Ebay.

It was a dark time in my life. It happened freshman year of college. My competitive side came out, and I would find myself outbidding people on things I didn't even want just so they couldn't have it. I bought DVD's like nobody's business. It started innocently enough. I will just look for textbooks, I said. I will just look for things for school, I said.

THAT'S HOW IT STARTS.

I sold my soul to Ebay for a cheap copy of some bootlegged season one OC DVD's. (Terrible purchase, those bootlegged copies of The OC. The sound and the mouths didn't match up most of the time. It was like watching a badly dubbed Japanese movie only sans all the fun ninjas).

I've been Ebay clean and sober now for some years, but I recently had to search for something that would have been available no where else but Ebay.

It's like giving an alcoholic a little sip of wine.

One sip, you say. It won't hurt, you say. You'll stay on the wagon, you say.

THE WAGON IS SLIPPERY AND DANGEROUS AND MAKES SHARP TURNS SOMETIMES.

Oh Ebay, I wish I knew how to quit you.

Earth is a sham

Dear Disney-

Fuck you.

You know what you did.

The polar bear dad?

Really?

WHY DID THE BABY ELEPHANT HAVE TO FOLLOW HIS MOTHER'S TRACKS THE WRONG WAY?

WHY ARE YOU DEAD INSIDE?

Why couldn't the cameraman throw that bear some fish? DON'T PULL THAT CIRCLE OF LIFE CRAP ON ME.

Disney, what is wrong with you?

Dumbo wasn't bad enough?

You had to go and make this documentary? This depress-umentary?

YOU CAN SUCK IT DISNEY.

Love,

Lisa

I jogged

The Drive-In is the greatest place on earth.

Two movies for six dollars?

Popcorn and a drink for less than three dollars?

SIGN ME THE HELL UP.

Why have Drive-Ins become so endangered? Who decided that they should become obsolete? Because that person is the devil. Honestly, if you don't love the Drive-In you are probably a terrorist.

DO YOU HATE AMERICA TOO!?!?

But if you are going to do the Drive-In, you really have to do it in style. And in style, I mean a tricked out, 1970's giant van with track lighting and no backseats.

Big Momma is her name. Being awesome is her game.

Why can't I live at the Drive-In? I could live in Big Momma. Fo' sho'.

I should write a love missive to the Drive-In, it would go something like this:

Dearest Drive In- You make my soul happy. I love your Luma Loons, and your dollar popcorn. I love your gravel lots, and the way that the stones crunch under my feet when I am jogging to the bathroom. When I am not with you, I feel like crying all the time. I LOVE YOU DRIVE IN. PLEASE DO NOT STAY AWAY FOR TOO LONG. Love, Lisa.


Amazing.

Drive-In, I miss you already.


P.S. Meghan Sauce. My cup runneth over.

I put a spell on you

Things that I love today:

1. The stop sign at the bottom of the hill near my house now has a sign that says, "Opposing traffic does not stop." I've only been waiting for this for like fifteen and a half years. (Lies. Probably like five and a half. Since the time an old nun flipped my mother the bird because she didn't realize we didn't have a stop sign. But semantics, you know?)

2. Potential thunderstorms. I will quickly add this to the list of things that I do not love if it does not happen. Come on Tropical Storm Danny. Bring it, bitch. Unleash some fury!

3. Clean, new rooms. Furniture is in the right rooms, boxes are unpacked. I have all my books on one set of bookshelves now and it's so full that I actually heard it groan yesterday when I mentioned the Half Price bookstore. Ye of little faith, Bookshelves, we can still cram more on.

4. The Exchange. Movies for a $2.50. Amazing. If only they had Speed 2 my life would be complete.


Things I do not love today:

1. Potential thunderstorms not reaching their potential. If you can't make it seem like the apocalypse is approaching you can suck it.

2. John Krasinksi is engaged. Sad. He's super cute. And I guess it's better than him marrying someone like Scarlett Johansson (WTF Ryan Reynolds?!?! She did a cover of Tom Waits songs. TOM WAITS! There is not a single person on God's green earth that should cover Tom Waits songs, and certainly not SCARLETT JOHANSSON. I've said it once, I'll say it again. Only very few people should be allowed to sing and act. David Bowie. Bette Midler- due to one of my all-time faves Hocus Pocus- but until Scarlett Johansson can prove she's more than just a mediocre actress who has had the luck of picking some pretty awesome roles, I will NOT allow her to sing/act. PICK ONE OR THE OTHER SCARLETT).

Emily Blunt, I swear to God, if you record an album of Tom Waits covers I WILL FREAK MY SHIT.

But as Michael Scott once said, "BFD, engaged ain't married." So there's that.

3. Bruises. Man, I have bruises like all over me. Not cool, skin, not cool. Also, colds. Colds are the worst thing since non-sliced bread.


Eh. Probably more things should go on my things I do not like list. War. Famine. Paying bills. Car insurance. Interviews. But I'm le tired.

Seriously though. Hocus Pocus is a good flick.

Home improvement is whack

There are some things that are only fun in theory.

Like painting.

Painting is fun for about thirty seven seconds. That is not an approximation. That is a scientific fact.

Then?

Not so much fun. But there's paint on the walls and you have to finish and PAINTING IS SO LAME.

HOW DO PEOPLE DO THIS FOR A LIVING!?!

I suppose it helps if the room is empty. Which it was not. And I guess it helps to use a ladder instead of a chair. And maybe it helps to NOT BE PAINTING OVER BRIGHT PURPLE. AND NOT BE SIMULTANEOUSLY DYING OF THE BUBONIC PLAGUE.

The Bubonic Plague is also something that is only fun in theory. Or...you know, not fun.

I have paint in my hair.

I DO NOT CARE FOR THIS.

I'm going to go have a Capri Sun and calm the fuck down.

Painting is for lame-o's.

Oh Rexy, you're so sexy!

Maybe it's because I am no longer a thirteen year old girl, but I am so sick of the Twilight garbage.

Sammi was watching "The Teen Choice Awards" and that stupid movie and Miley Stupid Cyrus won like fifteen awards each. And yeah, okay, the TCA's, as I will now refer to them, are no Academy Awards. And yeah, okay, it's probably the only awards either the cast of Twilight or Miley Cyrus will ever win, and so yeah, okay, let them have their one ounce of success in the cruel world of Hollywood, but give me a break.

I like that people have taken to calling them Twitards. Or Twitwits. Or any version of that. I read the series. But really, really those books suck. SUCK. The main character is whiny, and one-dimensional, and the books basically go like this: tripping, having Edward catch her, thinking Edward is so dreamy, oh no bad vamps want to kills us, repeat.

I read an article comparing it to Harry Potter. COMPARING IT TO HARRY POTTER. That's like comparing the debating skills of a first grader against Obama. Or a three year old playing a toy piano against Bach. FOR REALS?!

How many movies do you think they're going to be able to churn out before people get bored? Because I'm bored already.

HP fo' life, fools.

(And if you can't name the movie that the title of this post came from, you and I are no longer friends...)

"I will pay you a dollar NOT to eat that."

I'm sure you have heard of "Stuff on my cat."

Mary and I thought of something even BETTER.

Granted, what seems better at five in the morning on five hours of sleep does tend to not seem as great a few hours and a nap later, but still, this idea is going to catch on.

Stuff...wait for it...ON A LID.

Done.

Amazing.

So far we have "toppings on a lid." A magnificent work of modern art so tastefully (and I mean tastefully, I helped myself to some of Mary's creation once she was done and we had admired it for a few minutes) arranged out of Snickers pieces, Andies candies, mini-marshmallows, and cookies crumbs, using caramel drizzle as glue.

Some of our other genuis ideas included "tip jar on a lid," "muffin pack on a lid," "receipt tape on a lid," and "lighter on a lid."

Very few ideas are so good that they will change the way that we see things and think about things. It's not a stretch to say that one day we will refer to time as pre-stuff on a lid and post-stuff on a lid. It's well within the realm of possibilities.

But then again, this idea came after several cups of coffee and Mary asking me how much I would pay her to eat a ball of receipt paper, so maybe it's not a guaranteed success....

DOOM

Some days it feels like the Universe has taken a giant crap on your head.

I call these "Cry over Chicken Days."

This is a reference to a day in which the Universe decided to make me the butt of it's joke. I stepped in a puddle, I missed the elevator in Benedum (which, Pitt students will know, means waiting FOREVER to get another one), I was late for class because of the elevator, I had a pop quiz which I failed, and I was about thisclose to breaking down. But I prevailed, and finally made it home to make myself something to eat. I decided on chicken.

Mistake number one.

As I was taking the defrosted chicken from the microwave to the stove, the Universe decided that it wasn't done with me yet. I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Universe: Lisa, you fail at life.
Lisa: I'm sorry Universe! Just let me eat my chicken and then I'll retire to my bedroom and crawl into bed.
Universe: False. You should have never gotten out of bed this morning. You will not eat that chicken. You do not deserve that chicken.
DOOOOOOM.

And the chicken slid off the plate and onto the floor.

And I slid onto the floor and cried.

I'm not sure how exactly long I sat on the floor and cried. I know that I did not eat the chicken. I know that I ate a pop-tart instead and crawled into bed and lamented my epic failure for the day.

But there are just some days when all you can do is cry over chicken.

It's all right. Cry over that chicken. Let the Universe crap all over you.

Tomorrow will be better.

But tomorrow, I'll stick to beef.

It was always burning since the world's been turning

Friends are great, aren't they? (Insert sarcasm here). Because they remember times that sometimes you'd very much like to forget.



For example, while I don't remember, apparently I once sent a text message to Jen claiming that Billy Joel owned my soul. I don't doubt it happened. Billy Joel does kind of own my soul. Plus, he didn't start the fire, so there's that too. Billy Joel happens to land on my list of a-okay Double Namers.



While I was amused by this reminder of a text I most likely (read: definitely) sent while kind of intoxicated (on milk, obviously, because Yoo-Hoo is the strongest drink I put in my body), I was suddenly struck by a horrifying thought.



What other things do my friends remember that I don't?



And! What can I remember about them in retaliation?



Because isn't that what friendship is about? Gandhi once said "an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind," but what did Gandhi know? Besides how to peacefully win a rebellion and how to lead his people and all of that. Yeah, yeah, Gandhi. Show off. I also once led my people in a non-violent political protest (okay, so yes, that never happened. But I did wear an Obama bracelet AND made a t-shirt with a donkey that said "A Change Will Do You Good." Where's my recognition? Where's MY Nobel Peace Prize?)



Friendship is about collecting as much dirt on them so to counterbalance the dirt they are collecting on you. In a successful friendship a balance must be maintained at all times.



And you thought friendship was about enjoying each other's company?



False.


So my friends, save those text messages. Tag those pictures on the great FB. Remember the time that I told someone during Hurricane Ivan that it wasn't raining.


But remember, I know things about you too. Lots of things. Things that would make your grandmothers blush.


It's going to be a long friendship.

What's with today, today?

I am instantly distrustful of anyone with double first names.

Charles Thomas. Henry Nicholas. John James.

Case in point. Shannon Elizabeth. What good has she ever done? American Pie? Oh yeah, I'm glad we have that contribution to cinematic greatness.

There are a few that I let slide by. Nina Simone. All right. Etta James. Okay. (Apparently in jazz, it's better to have double names).

And while we're on the subject (but not really), there are some people I'd like to talk to about their fifteen minutes being up fourteen minutes ago.

Lindsay Lohan. Are you even still relevant? Your latest film couldn't even make it to cinematic release. That shit was on ABC Family. Go home Lindsay Lohan. We don't want you here anymore.

Next, Miley Cyrus. Please. The clock is counting down on you, friend. The thing is, Miley, you aren't all that talented. And eventually those screaming fans of yours are going to grow up, I mean wise up, and realize that you can't hold a note. And you don't write your own songs. And you aren't that talented. Miley, I'm just looking out for you. You don't want to become another Lindsay Lohan, do you? It's time for you to take your leave. And take the Jonas brothers with you.

Speidi? WTF? There are no words for how much I loathe you. I don't even know you. I don't understand why you are famous or why there are pictures of you in magazines and why I NEED TO KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I hate that I know who you are. I hate you almost as much as I hate horse face Ann Coulter, and that's saying something. WHY ARE YOU STILL ON MY TELEVISION? (but oh! Thought of another double first namer who I DO actually adore. Spencer Tracy! Spencer Tracy is ANGRY at you Speidi for besmirching the good name of Spencers everywhere).

And finally, Sarah Palin. Oh Sarah...remember last summer? Remember when they announced you as the Republican vice presidential nominee and everyone was talking about what a political coup that was for the McCain campaign? Remember when you hadn't opened your mouth yet, or talked to Katie Couric and we all thought you were a threat to the great Obama run of 2008? Do you remember? Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. You were relevant last summer. But Sarah, it's 2009 now. Please, stay in Alaska. Or if you absolutely need to leave Alaska, please stay on Fox News. You used up your fifteen minutes already. Move on.

Le sigh

My computer is reaching the end of his days.

It's a sad state of affairs, because me and good old Dell have been through a lot together. We traveled abroad, we wrote some good school papers, some not so good school papers. We've fought the Blue Screen of Death together and came out victorious. We discovered music we liked, we listened to music we were ashamed we liked. We got addicted to Snood and Ebay together, and then went through a twelve-step program to quit.

And even though Dell has lost his quotations key, and he's not as fast as he once was. Even though the "K" key is not working like it should, and he's started to show the signs of aging, I am going to be saddened and disheartened when he bites the dust (please don't bite the dust yet, Dell. I need to get a new job first).

He's fought the good fight, and now it's (almost) time for him to rest.

So here's to Dell! He might not be as flashy or as fast as the new 'puters that threaten to replace him and make him obsolete, but he's been a good pal.

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

There are few things more heinous than the check engine light.

Only one comes to mind, and that is the Blue Screen of Death. The Blue Screen of Death represents retched despair and hopelessness to all good computer using people of the world. But I would argue that the BSoD has nothing on the Check Engine Light. In fact, if the BSoD and the CEL were villains, the CEL would be like Darth Vader and the BSoD would be Cruella de Ville. Who is really afraid of Cruella de Ville? I mean, besides puppies?

Both are equally horrible, but the check engine light could be awful, could be nothing, and this is the worst part of the CEL. What if it's really bad? And your car stops? And you are stranded on the side of the road? Miles from civilization? And zombies come? Or mass murderers? Or what if zombie mass murderers come? WHAT THEN?

The Blue Screen of Death might make your life inconvenient, but it will never put you in mortal danger.

Moon River

I've been reading some, as I am prone to do now and again, and this week it's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

I want to go to Savannah. No, that is wrong. I need to go to Savannah.

I want to be Southern (never thought I'd say that). I want to drink mint juleps and talk with a slow, drawl and maybe even hit up a cotillion or two or four.

I want to go to there.

Like yesterday.

I have the travel bug again. It always hits after I've been somewhere fabulous or even remotely fabulous, or even just not Pittsburgh. And while I want to go to Savannah, to be honest I just want to go anywhere.

I want to be Samantha Brown. I want to work for the Travel Channel and see cool places and tell people about them. I want to go on crusies for free and I want to eat weird foods in weird places and I want to be Samantha Brown. Is her job available? Or you know, does she need a sidekick? Because I think all great heros and heroines need sidekicks. I'll be the Robin to her Batman, the Tonto to her Lone Ranger. The Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.

Or! We could be more like partners. I'll be Calvin and she can be Hobbes. Kavalier to her Clay. Whatever. As long as I get to eat exotic foods in exotic places, damn it!

I would try to find someone to try out for Amazing Race with me, but let's be honest. The minute they want me to climb something tall or climb into something small, I'm liable to tell Phil that he can suck it. (Is Phil's job available? I could totally do that. Uh, Joe and....Joe? You're team number one!)

I have a feeling I'm SOL on the whole taking Samantha Brown's job thing. And Phil, well, it seems as if his job is fairly safe. Damn it.

But as for Savannah?

Save a bottle of bourbon for me. I'm going to make it there if it kills me.

Where is Old Zealand?

What's up with Andorra? Is it even a real country? Has anyone ever been to Andorra? I know that it may or may not be located in Europe. I think that they are happy, healthy people. Maybe they have universal health care? Can you vacation in Andorra? Do they call them Andorrans?

Seriously, good people of Andorra, argue your cause. Because I think you might be an imaginary country used to test the geographical and historical skills of the rest of the world. And we fail. Epically.

Back in the day, when they were dividing up the former Soviet bloc, I think they got a little name crazy and had all these great country names and no actual countries to bestow them on. So we ended up with fake countries. So small that you can't even locate it on a map. Andorra. Malta. San Marino. All an elaborate hoax. Well played, Europe, well played.


And while we're on the subject of geographic oddities, what's New Zealand's deal? What continent are they considered a part of? Not Australia, right, because Australia is a continent and a country. That's their big claim to fame (as my good friend Jodi commented, "I think we're getting ripped off"). So, Asia then? Is Asia just collecting countries now? Soon they'll have the whole set!

There's a Jersey in England somewhere, hence the "New" part. There's a regular old Mexico. So New Mexico makes sense, but what happened to the Zealand? Who decided it was new?

I'd like to go to New Zealand, despite the fact that it's so pretty that it literally makes me want to die, but maybe I'd like to check out the Old Zealand first. You know, for comparison sake.

You know where in the world Carmen Sandiego is? She's totally hiding out in Zealand, which is off the coast of Andorra. No one's ever going to find her there.

Where are we?

I was ten minutes late to a fifteen minute wedding.

It probably should be noted that I am generally ten minutes early OR late for all things. I can never arrive on time. This time it happened to be ten minutes late. Apparently, a very important ten minutes.

We slid into the pew just in time to see the "I do's." The more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me what perfect timing this was. We merely skipped all the fluff and got right to the meat of it. Weddings are too long anyway. The church looked like the inside of Noah's Ark. Only, as Andrea pointed out, if Noah's Ark collided with The Poseidon Adventure. We wonder why we have terrible luck, this is why. I have been known to mock church inside church, and I really think God is pissed. Plus, I don't think He likes fornicators. At least that's what I've been told.

The most often heard phrase from me all night was, "Where are we?"

The answer? The middle of East Kabumfuck Nowhere. Population: 2.

There was a man whittling on his front porch as we passed. Whittling. Who knew people even did that anymore? And the road turned into dirt at one point. My GPS's head exploded. (I want a GPS that will yell at me, not just "recalculating route" but one that will go, "Bitch! Where the hell are you going? I told you left! I'm done with this shit.")

The view from the top was unbelievable. Mountains everywhere. But still, I decided the minute I heard a banjo I was getting the hell out of there. Congratulations Johnny and Heather. See ya. You be chopped up into a million pieces, I'm going back to the city.

The reception was fun. Beer and jell-o shots and Andrea almost breaking an ankle (actually, the jury is still out on that one. Might be broken. Looked pretty swollen. There's a lesson here kids: don't play wiffle ball in heels) and fire dancing. All in all, a fun time was had. And then I had to drive back down the scary, freaky dark, dirt road back to civilization.

I'm happy to back in the city. Where there are buildings instead of barns, and people instead of cows. As the great Ben Lee once said, "I was thinking about the city, it's living proof people need to be together."

Well said, Ben.

Chicken on a Stick is divine.

Is there anything better than music, chicken on a stick, a giant ass cup of lemonade and some good pals?

It makes me love summer. And Pittsburgh. It was hard to imagine loving Pittsburgh more, but there you are. Plus we had a fun van ride in which everyone but me was convinced that the garage we parked in began getting smaller the higher we went. (False. It did not. It was an optical illusion. We were not Alice, this is not Wonderland.)


Plus, did I mention chicken on a stick? Everything is better on a stick. Chicken. Chocolate covered strawberries. Chocolate covered mallows. Veggies. Popsicles. Things on sticks rock. It's a proven fact that 100% of people enjoy food more when it comes on a stick (Note: this fact has only been proven by me in a field study where I asked exactly one person if they preferred food on a stick. And that person may or may not have been myself.)


I pretty much love everything this night chooses to be.

You, sir, are dead to me.

I have an ever growing list of things/people/corporations that are dead to me.

This hockey playoff season has offered up just more and more opportunities to add to this list.

First, I was told I was being harsh by placing Bill Cowher on my Dead to Me list. But now, now, I am chiseling his name in stone. Bill Cowher, you can suck it. You and your freakishly tall and athletic daughters and wife can stay down in whatever Carolina you call home now. I think I can safely speak for the whole city of Pittsburgh when I say, good riddance.

Second, and probably most importantly, Marion Hossa. You, sir, are dead to me. You can take your stupid red beard and your stupid Red Wings and suck it.

Actually, the whole city of Detroit can suck it. Up until this point I've felt sorry for you. Come football season you have to cheer for the Lions, and that's just lame, but now? You've earned your spot on the DtM list. Go join Bill Cowher and make some drinks and hang out, because you're going to be on there awhile.

Hi-ya!

There are questions that vex me.



Such as, is there anything more badass than a ninja? They're totally badass. They can probably kill you with their pinkies. Maybe just even their baby toes. Not even their big toes. Amateurs can kill you with their big toes. Only a ninja can slice you in half with their little toe.



And why do they keep letting M. Night Shyamalan make movies? They aren't good. And they keep getting worse. The Happening? Really? Because I love Zooey and Marky Mark and his funky bunch, but that movie sucked. Maybe more than any movie has ever sucked ever. There have been worse movies, I'm sure (I'm looking at you Zohan), but no one making say, The Love Guru was under any kind of delusion that they were making a good, or even decent movie. They were fully aware that it probably sucked huge donkey balls. But M. Night thinks his movies are good. And that's what makes them so bad.


Do you think Dick Cheney eats babies for breakfast? He might. He's pretty much the embodiment of all that is wrong in this world. And why won't he go away? Can't he join Horse Face Ann Coulter and slink off into the evil GOP lair to plot world domination once again? He's obviously been foiled by an adversary much smarter and more awesome than he (I tip my hat at you Mr. Obama), isn't it time for him to go somewhere that's not here? Why, oh why, must I still have to hear about him? Go away, Dick. Go AWAY.


Why can't I huggle a lion? Why will it eat me if I try to be his friend? Simba totally wouldn't eat me. We'd be pals. I'd like to be the lion at the zoo's pal. We can hang out and talk about how lame the leopard is. I think we could be good friends given an opportunity.


I would not like to see a ninja on the street. But I would if I was with my friend the Lion. And together all three of us could hunt down Dick Cheney and shove him and Ann Coulter and Bill O'Reilly on a boat and send them out to sea. I don't want harm to befall them. I just want them off my television and out of my newspapers. And maybe somehow they could all lose the ability to talk. I'd like that. A lot.


And seriously, M. Night. Stop trying to be clever. Just. Stop. Please. No more movies.

This blog is brought to you by the letter L. And the number 1.

I made a startling, and quite honestly all together unwelcome, observation.

I may be getting dumber.

Without constant stimulation, I think my brain might be turning into nothing more than mush. Actually, it's probably more Jell-o like than mush, because I still remember the words to the theme song of the "Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire" which gives me minimal hope that some things are being retained.

I find myself being stumped with even the most basic math. 1+1=what? 2? Someone find me a calculator. (Side note: What I can do with a calculator is write out the words boobs and boobless, which is still as funny as it was in fifth grade. Boobs is a funny word. So is poop. Double oo's get me every time.)

Whereas in college I would often choose movies which would stimulate me intellectually, I now choose movies staring Keanu Reeves.

It's terrible, and something must be done. I cannot let any more brain cells drift away into obscurity only to be replaced by the words to some Beyonce song. I must save myself from myself. Read Proust instead of Jodi Picault. Listen to Vivaldi instead of Kanye.

I think I've figured out a five step plan. Which is as follows:

1. Learn a new language. I figure the good people at Rosetta Stone can help me out with this one. Polish maybe? Brush up on my French? (and by brush up, obviously I mean relearn everything that has fallen out of my brain in the six years since I was in high school). I could try to learn Arabic and get a job with the CIA. I'm pretty stealth. Like a ninja. Only clumsier.

2. Read War and Peace. The whole damn thing. Not just the beginning chapters and the last page, but every word in between. And then read Ulysses. And not just use them as paper weights or carry them around just so people think I'm smart. I want to actually be smart.

3. Teach myself to play violin. Nothing's classier than the violin. Smart people play the violin. And then they debate the merits of the teachings of Nietzche over a glass of red wine. I can totally do that. Probably.

4. Stop watching So You Think You Can Dance and watch CSPAN more often. I have a secret theory that those senators go a little crazy right when they think no one's watching. They have Champagne Fridays and make margs for Hump Day. They just assume people are flipping right past CSPAN. False! I will be watching. Senator Spector from Pennsylvania, I saw you beat Senator Kerry at flip cup. He's been practicing, I'd watch out.

5. Learn how to do chemistry. And not just basic chemistry, but like the really serious stuff. I want to know more than just the periodic table. I want to tell you the point of the periodic table. It's not just so college students can replace it with types of alcohol and hang it on their walls. It has a point. I just don't know what that is.


This plan is going to save me. Save my brain cells. I'm going to be a Arabic speaking, CSPAN loving, violin playing, chemist who loves her some Tolstoy.

Or else, DVR So You Think You Can Dance for me while I go listen to the latest Britney Spears song and I'll watch it after I read the last Twilight. If I kill off enough brain cells maybe I won't miss the ones I've lost.