Okay, so...I hate to do this. I'm going to lower the bar. I will be leaping over my comfort zone by commenting on a subject that I don't often comment on:

Farting.

Let me preface this entry with some cold, hard facts. I do not fart. I've never farted in my life. My Mom has also never farted...ever. Just FYI.

But apparently a lot of people in this world DO fart--and it's gross. AND it seems to be happening allllll around me. All the time.

Saturday: I'm sitting on the Red Line, minding my own business, when this creepy guy who is sitting a few seats to the side of me gets up to exit at the Addison stop. As the doors open and he exits, a foul, pungeant odor remains in the train. A guy directly across from me looks up from his book with a face that can only be described as a mixture between absolute nausea and raging hostility. THEN he looks at ME with this face, as if he's the judge, jury, and executioner. Um, it wasn't ME!? Do I look like the kind of person that would do such a foul and heinous thing? I don't think so...

I don't get it. Why did that evil man fart? Why wouldn't he have waited until he was out in the open air where NOBODY would have noticed? No, instead he did it right next to me so that when anyone opted to take a seat in my general area, they would immediately stop, turn around, and go to the other side of the train. PEOPLE, IT WAS NOT ME. Dammit.

Ugh.

Saturday night: Just trying to enjoy myself at Chicago's local watering hole and, trust me, this happens almost every night I've ever been out, someone in the bar, and in my general vicinity, decides to fart...with everyone noticing it and commenting and scurrying...good lord. WHY? Why did you do that?

I'm the kind of person who doesn't think farting is funny. If one of my friends did it in my presence, I wouldn't laugh. I would frown. If someone I was dating did it in my presence, I would dump them. Immediately. It's disgusting, it's weird, and it's typically always unnecessary.

Today: I'm sitting on the bus, on my way to work...I plopped down next to a rather large lady who takes up her entire seat plus a little bit of my own. I was kind of annoyed because she was reading the Redeye and apparently needed to see both pages at the same time, so with the paper spread wide open her elbow was about 2.5 centimeters from my chin. Anyway, I'm perusing my iPod, looking for Goldfrapp's Crystalline Green, when all of a sudden this OTHER large lady is shimmying her way down the bus aisle and then plops down in a seat a few rows ahead of me. Well when she plops, she PLOPS because at the exact moment her big booty hit the seat a horrifying and loud chainsaw-esque rumble ripped loose. Okay...so maybe her pants ripped, maybe the bus engine roared vigorously...I don't know, but to me it sounded like she farted ferociously upon impact. It happens apparently. Now, I wasn't the only commuter who noticed this. This lady sitting across from the suspected farter looked over at her with her mouth wide open. She totally looked like the type of lady that is examining everybody's behavior and is by no means afraid to show her distaste of others, and rightfully so in this instance.

Myself, on the other hand, was amused only because

A: I couldn't smell anything, and
B: Because I noticed a couple of other commuters laughing silently, too

For the rest of the bus trip I had to put my head down because it was extremely obvious that I kept replaying the situation in my head. The lady next to me kept ruffling her newspaper in my face, so at times I tensed up and began an inner-lecture of what I would like to say to her if I cared enough about her widespread arms. I do that all the time: whenever I'm mad about something I write very strongly worded letters of dissatisfaction in my head. It just helps me cope.

Anyway, so another reason I was laughing about this incident was due to the fact that I realized I was surrounded by people farting. Everywhere. Everywhere I go, someone is letting loose and not looking back.

It's wrong, it's vile, and it's embarrassing and uncomfortable for those who are left in the dust. IT WASN'T ME!

I swear.

It's Monday...I woke up today being barely able to open my eyes. My alarm went off at 7:37 am to which I promptly hit snooze. Eight minutes later the alarm went off again...and again I immediately, and somewhat more forcefully hit snooze. At 7:53 I just looked at the clock, weighing my options of how I could remain in bed...should I call my boss and ask to work from home, should I call my boss and tell her I'm coming in late, should I just lay here and not do anything...? I closed my eyes for a brief second, even though I all-too-well knew the risks that came with doing such a thing--there was a VERY good chance that I wouldn't reopen my eyes until two hours later, and then immediately endure a mild heart attack.

Honk.

Someone honked their car horn outside and amazingly I heard it from 15 floors up. Uh, thanks for that. I typically hate drivers that honk their horns, but this time it was actually quite helpful.

I knew I had to get up. It was 7:57. Sumner, get your lazy ass up. I need to be on the bus by 8:45 and I shave on Mondays therefore every extra minute helps.

Ugh. Mondays. I decided that since today is Monday and I'm overly tired and overly grump-ola that I would use my remaining negative energy to list things that I hate:

I hate when people eat a bag of chips and finish them off by lifting the bag to their mouth and guzzling the microscopic pieces that hide in the corners. Are you that hungry or are you just that nasty? Throw the bag away. Jesus-mary-and-joseph, I'll buy you another bag if you're so desperate for food.

I hate seeing satellite dishes. I feel like that, what with this being the year 2008 and all, that obnoxious satellite dishes should be a thing of the past. How is it that I still see those large, stupid dishes on every deck and rooftop in Chicago? Where is the technology, Dish Network, where is the technology?

I hate when gay men refer to other gay men as a "she." No, you're both men, so own up to the gender, cut the sass-factor, and butch it up a bit, will ya.

I hate when people write "Thx" as a way to write "Thanks"...take the extra 4 milliseconds and spell the word out already. It's one syllable.

I hate wrappers, of any sort, and I hate when they're not properly disposed of. Especially candy bar wrappers. Gross. If I see slimey chocolate remnants molded to the sides there's a very good chance I'll vomit.

I hate necklace beads. More importantly I hate people that KEEP necklace beads. I don't know where those beads came from, I don't know what you had to do to earn them, and I don't know why you're choosing to hang on to the memory by keeping them. I'll call Oriental Trading and buy you 5,000 more beads for a nickel if you promise to throw away the nasty beads hanging from your bed post.

I especially hate the beads that have attachments/have attachments that glow on them. I'll hate you 50,000 times more if you keep those.

I hate anything Paris Hilton-related. That includes Nicole Richie, that includes the hotel, that includes that's hot. Such a waste.

I hate the fact that I have the song "Rock the Cradle of Love" stuck in my head for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I haven't heard the song recently, I don't have the song on my iTunes, and I haven't listened to my "80's Monster Rock" CD for quite a few years now.

I hate folding clean laundry. Actually, I hate all laundry equally.

Do you hate anything? I know I have more hateful-hates but my zero patience level with thinking about this subject has really come full force. Gotta go.

You are what you eat.

I've been researching the website of the HSUS (Human Society of the United States) and have learned a lot of bittersweet information. While it's sad to read about the inhumane and deplorable conditions/treatment of animals in our country and elsewhere, it's also empowering to know that YOU can make a difference.

It's about what we eat,
It's about what we buy,
It's about what we don't know,
It's about what we don't do,
but most importantly, it's about what we can DO.

Go to the site, learn about what's happening, and make a difference.

Click here to link to the HSUS

Holy F.

Okay, umm...just got back from Florida vacay and I'm a little sad to be back in Chicago. Here are the reasons why:

So Kellz and I embarked on our journey to the FL via TED, the United Airlines alternative that neither of us had ever heard of. So, our 2.5 hour flight was filled with gossip, screaming children, and "easy" crossword puzzles. Thank god Kelly brought extra snacks along for the ride (all of which I opened and ate most of while she was sleeping) because the miniature pretzels just weren't cutting it. Whatever happened to the days where you received NORMAL-sized pretzels or STANDARD-sized cans of soda or juice? Now you get mini-pretzels and Dixie cups of OJ, which, I'm sorry, but was mostly ice. Ugh. TED!

Anyway, we arrived in FL Wednesday evening and quickly met up with our wonderful friend Mollz at the baggage claim. She whisks us to her home, geckos running everywhere, and FINALLY our vacation starts.

FIRST STOP: Applebee's. Yes, yes. The finest quality dining experience you can get in the entire US of A. But this just wasn't ANY Applebee's, this is an Applebee's with flare. It was KARAOKE NIGHT AT APPLEBEE'S. Yes. I kid you not. Not only were we served all-you-can-eat-nachos and other assortments of grease and trans fat, we were enlightened with the soulful sounds of drunk fat girls screaming into the microphone with their nerdy, skinny white boyfriends ready to sing every Uncle Kracker song ever composed. How cute. Even cuter was the DJ/Emcee--mullet and all, which he decided to comb his slick, oily locks during our dinner, forcing Molly to vomit profusely. Such a waste of a good meal! He even tried to get Molly and Kelly to sing a duet. Well, with that charming smile and his fat beer belly, I barely understood why they refused. Ugh, unfortunately that night had to come to an end at some point, so we walked out the door only to find a group of nicely dressed Mormons standing outside of Molly's car. For some reason, Kelly thought it was gang-related and quickly hollered out, "Oh shit, fart!" She meant to say, "Oh shit, fight!" but after an evening full of people who looked like farts and sang like projectile diarrhea, her slip-up made perfect sense.

Thursday morning, Kellz and I woke up to the melodic sounds of Molly slamming every door in the house while getting ready for work. As soon as that beyotch left the house, we got a few peaceful hours of rest before a very BUSY day of vacay. Sidenote: Kelly and I woke up staring at each other's beautiful faces and decided that next time, we should keep the room as dark as possible in the mornings to prevent this kind of awakening from happening in the future. Yikes. Neither of us are morning people. Anyway, we put on our faces (and clothes, wink wink Kellz) and went for a walk around beautiful Tampa. We stopped by the local Publix grocery store for some fruit to which I bought peaches and Kellz bought oranges. Interesting, I know! It should be known that I bought two peaches, and my first one wasn't that good at all where as the second was simply delicious. Weird how that happens, I know...

So, later, Thursday becomes a bust because it starts raining. Mollz came home from work around noon and we decided to go to the mall and all three of us ended up purchasing matching aviators. Success! It was really quite fierce.

So then we sampled some beers at this restaurant and I would like to note that Molly was drunk after one beer. I'm just saying...

So later that night it's STILL raining, so we go to the store and buy lots of food and snacks to munch on and then watched Lipstick Jungle...and to my surprise, it was really good and I'll be watching it again. However, Molly, the true drunk that she is, kept taking pulls off of the Bacardi jug that we bought, and before we knew it, she's drunk and disappears to her bedroom. All we heard was her door slam shut (surprise).

What a boozehound.

Friday was a great, fabulous, fun day. So, Kelly and I go out on our ritual walk around Tampa and both of us came back from it sunburnt beyond belief. Who knew? After all, neither of us had seen sunlight for the last 6 months in Chicago. We were walking vampires. Oh, and for future reference, everyone should be aware of the gecko crisis in Tampa. There are thousands of little geckos running around EVERYWHERE. I hated them all...each and every one. They scurried underneath every footstep of mine, forcing me to freak out at almost a minute by minute basis. There should be an ordinance about being forced to kill them. Population control, helloooooooo....

Anyway.

The rest of the day we relaxed pool side and took in some rays until we left on a road trip to West Palm Beach. We hopped in Molly's Sebring and took off for the adventure of a lifetime. We stopped at plenty of gas stations for candy, pop, and dirty restroom utilization. We even saw a guy come in one gas station without a shirt on. I thought that was a service-no no? I'm surprised he had shoes/teeth.

During the car ride, and after yodeling some blasts from the pasts, we decided to give each other aliases, should we need them later:

Molly: JLo
Ryan: Rainbow
Kelly: Snow White (later to become Mu Kat)

It just made sense.

So we get to the bustling, beautiful city and took residence in a Holiday Inn for the night, where we immediately encountered a Bill Clinton look-alike. He kept following us around, it seemed, but we also think he was drunk and looking for a good time. We let that situation alone. So we met up with Molly's bf and headed out to a great ocean-side restaurant for dinner and drinks and then of course Molly and I had to run and jump in the ocean at midnight, hoping the entire time that Girls Gone Wild would be looking for us. I lost my sandals amid the seaweed momentarily but found them and continued on with the night. We went to a very trendy, fun club and had some drinks and shenanigans. We bopped to the music, waited entirely too long for our drinks, and then ended the night with two drunk Italian men harassing Molly and Kelly and later hate-criming me. According to the Italians, we were all up to no good. Kelly and Molly were accused of liking black men and I was accused of rattling my head at them. They said to me "Don't rattle your head if you can't back it up." Whatever that meant. I was within inches of a fight, but due to my muscular physique and no-nonsense attitude, I scared them off. Or perhaps it was Molly who scared them off since she started waving her finger in the air and chased after them with her shoe in hand. Either or.

So, Molly, Kelly, and I left the club at bar close and began walking the streets looking for those Italian haters--we weren't finished fighting apparently. Then low and behold these OTHER foreigners stopped us. Two of them tried to get Kelly and I to guess their nationality while the other creeped on Molly and tried to give her his phone number. They were WAY too foreign for us to handle and we were WAY to hungry to keep talking to them. I mean, c'mon, one of them was wearing under-armor as a shirt. Beat it. (Oh, and they were Bulgarian, come to find out.)

Saturday was just as ridiculous. First of all, I ate at McDonald's with Kelly, and if anyone knows me, they know I NEVER eat at McDonald's. I must say that I did enjoy my chicken McNuggets. I wish I would have ordered the 20 piece. So after that fat fun, Kelly and I went to the beautiful beach on A1A Avenue. Yes, straight from Ice Ice Baby (A1A, beach front avenue! Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis...) Molly and her bf were shopping for stuff for their new beautiful apartment in Boynton. At the beach, Kelly and I got some good sun, Kelly sang acapella and sounded VERY similar to a hungry seagull, I swam pretty far out into the ocean until I remembered that sharks and jellyfish lived in the ocean and I freaked myself out and made a quick, desperate exit back to land. We saw some lady looking for treasure on the beach, all decked out with her metal detector and digging tools. She was on a serious hunt. I collected some seashells like the 70 year old grandmother that I am. I plan to glue them to the edge of my bathroom mirror as a decorative, nautical border. I can't wait. Now all I need is a fish net to hang in the corner. Kellz and I eventually got tired of being sun-worshippers, as well as irritated with the sand storm that coated every part of our bodies (even the places we didn't know existed) with sand molecules, and decided to mosey down the touristy streets of Palm beach. We wanted to get ice cream at this cool walk-up place called Doc's, but were quickly informed that they only accepted cash. I don't have any idea what cash is either, but I also was informed that I could get it at an ATM down the street. This ATM happened to be at a store called Tommy's and WOW, cool place. We walked in and it had this weird, gas station-vibe, even though I'm pretty sure they didn't sell gas. They sold everything you would find in a gas station AND more--cell phones, asian food, Native American novelty items, etc. Well, both Kelly and I had to use the unisex bathroom, and it too was special. Inside the bathroom was a bunch of bikes and a dolly-thing...you know that thing that you carry stuff with? Right in the middle of the bathroom. It was weird peeing in front of these items, but we had no real choice in the matter. While I was in the bathroom, some crazy black guy asked Kelly if she was a model. I mean, clearly she is, but it was entirely random. Then when I came out of the john, the crazy black man accused me of being her boyfriend and that he didn't want to fight me for her, or as he put it, he wasn't going to "come to blows." I would have told the man that he could TAKE her, but he left very quickly. So, we ventured back to Doc's and I had a banana split the size of my head. It was delicious.

Later that night we went to an Italian restaurant and gorged on homemade mozzarella sticks and other great food and then went to Ft. Lauderdale for some more shenanigans. I was sitting with Molly and Kelly, watching people dance and whatnot, until I caught sight of this massive booty that was swirling and shaking wildly, as if it had a mind of its own. No, no...as if it was it's OWN PERSON. Just a butt...doing all kinds of crazy movements. This butt came entirely too close to my face and I almost lost my life. It was really quite bizarre.

On Sunday we went back to the beach for more sun time and we encountered a broken meter, a very "refreshing" ocean temperature, more sand, and some great photo ops. We eventually drove our beach bums back to Tampa...complete with more gas stations, more candy and pop, and yet another rare fast food encounter--Arby's. I'll say no more.

Monday, Kelly and I got back onto TED and waved goodbye to Molly, Florida, and 1,000,000 geckos. It was so sad, but luckily for us, our easy crosswords puzzles (i.e. three letter word for writing utencil) and miniature snacks helped us cope.

Great times, great memories...

I'll miss you Mollz, I'll miss you warm, sunshiney days, but to the geckos...I hope you all die.

I've been in a non-blog mood lately. Well, at least for the last few days. Every time I think about writing something, I veto the idea. For one reason or another...

But fear not, it's ME after all, and weird stuff comes to me and happens to me and invades my mind on a semi-regular basis, so, I'll be "back."

Plus, I'm going to Florida today for some much needed R&R...and SUN. Thank god. See you on the flip side.

It sort of freaks me out that today is leap year or "leap day," as I like to refer to it, and I have no real sense of what this day even means.

Do you?

I'm going to Google it, since I love Googling, and find out what happens on a leap year, if anything. I'm only doing this since Mike asked me "What happens if you're born on a leap year?" and I said, "Good question. I don't know."

I can't NOT know something. Problem! *red light* ERR ERR ERR!

****STANDBY****

Okay, so I Googled it and the results are IN!...as well as far less interesting than I had hoped. So, a leap year occurs once every four years in the month of February and its only purpose is to keep the calendar year in tune with the Earth's orbit around the sun.

Chillen's that are born on a leap year (the 29th) celebrate their birthday on either the 28th or March 1st, whichever day seems more appropriate based on the time of their birth.

Boo. Hiss. I was secretly hoping a leap year involved ancient Chinese folklore, but nooooo, there's a scientific explanation for everything.

Leap year sucks.

I can't wait until Cinco de Mayo--my personal favorite holiday, or should I say a real holiday where we celebrate the memory of Saint Margarita.

Okay, let's put all of this Obama/Clinton stuff behind for a moment and let's look at something much more absurd. Today, on MSNBC's website, I read an article about Ashley "The Tiz" Tisdale (from High School Music and The Suite Life of Zach & Cody...and you know you've seen both) that really gave me a good, haughty laugh--I love being amused by the utterly insane and shallow world we live in. At any rate, this is a prime example of why teenage girls have no sense of self-confidence:



By Courtney Hazlett
The Scoop
updated 10:25 p.m. CT, Wed., Feb. 27, 2008
When “High School Musical” star Ashley Tisdale’s doll was unveiled last month at the TIA Toy Fair in New York City — complete with outfits based on the 22-year-old’s music video and red-carpet looks — there was one problem. The doll hardly looks like the new Ashley; it resembles the “High School Musical” star before her nose job last November, according to some who’ve seen then doll.

“The width of the doll’s nose and the nostrils look like her nose pre-surgery,” cosmetic surgeon Dr. Patrick Abergel, who doesn’t treat the star, told In Touch Weekly.

Hopefully, Ashley’s fans won’t mind: “Ashley feels great about her new nose now that it’s finally healed,” an insider told the mag.





Um...really? Is this REALLY an actual article? Yes, yes it is. Let's break this down for a second--somebody actually looked at Ashley's doll's nose and said, "Hey, something's not right here...that's Ashley's old nose! Alert the presses!"

Here are my thoughts: a;sdlkfja;ldskfj

It's a DOLL. Its nose looks like...a NOSE. The last time I checked, the Tiz's nose wasn't some large, freakish abnormality that was so hideous and unforgettable that it could instantaneously be recognized on the face of a miniature plastic doll that was molded in her image. Unless the Tiz is a long lost cousin of Gonzo (Muppet Babies version), her old nose looked like every other nose on this planet. Regardless, her nosejob wasn't even performed to mask it's freakish-ness, since, according to the Tiz who probably knows her nose best, it was done to alleviate a deviated septum.

In reality, people should be less worried about old noses on new dolls and more worried about being pillaged and plundered by Obama-nazis. Put your magnifying glass and measuring tape away, Dr. Abergel, you have bigger issues to worry about.

PS. Don't you feel like Obama-nazis think that they're going to live in some magical land if Obama is elected President? I like to envision it like the Mickey Mouse version of Jack and the Beanstalk, appropriately titled Mickey and the Beanstalk. You know, where we swim around in chocolate pudding and take naps in jewelry boxes and munch on life-sized purple grapes that are just so succulent and juicy that we can't keep our hands off of them?

Strategically, I've given myself a few days before responding to (or blogging about) a rather irritating occurence that happened last week. After a week of sleeping on the issue, my previous, riotous response has slightly fizzled and I'm pretty much over the subject as a whole, but I still feel the need to write down my thoughts as a means of closure. So, here it goes...

A couple of weeks ago, I was on the bus on my way to work when an interview in the Red Eye newspaper really caught my eye (and for those of you that don't know what I'm talking about, the Red Eye is a free, daily entertainment newspaper produced by the Chicago Tribune that features celebrity media, Chicago happenings, restaurants, and bars, and a few editorial columns contributed by various writers). However, this particular interview did not catch my eye in a good way. I'll let you read it first before I continue the story. This clipping was taken from the online Red Eye archive, click to view (sorry if it's hard to read):



Now, after reading this article I thought to myself, "What a completely ridiculous and obnoxious interview. The interview wasn't even about Josh Kelley, it was about his wife, Katherine Heigl. What a dumb fuck this Liz Crokin person is!"

Typically, I'm in support of the articles I read in the Red Eye and frequently offer up my opinion to the columnists in a positive or constuctive manner--but this time was different. So, I contacted Liz to share my "sentiment" with her:

Dear Ms. Crokin,

In reference to your article in the Monday, February 11th edition of the Red Eye, your interview with Josh Kelley was extremely ridiculous and rather offensive to Mr. Kelley. Not only were your questions completely bland and amateur, but strangely nearly all were focused on Katherine Heigl, who, for some reason, earned her fair share of the media spotlight last year. And with this article you shamelessly continued the trend. In my opinion, you're either a really bad interviewer or a HUGE Heigl fan because amid all of your out of context, Heigl-inspired questions, the one question that seemingly pertained to Josh (inspiration for his CD) was, again, twisted to evoke info about his superstar wife. Nice!

Let's face it, Josh Kelley is not a huge name in the music industry and I'm almost certain he would have LOVED it if a reporter started asking him questions about himself, his music, and/or his interests—not his wife's. Yet, you managed to follow in the footsteps of the typical/annoying paparazzo by overtly asking a respected and talented artist questions that have nothing to do with anything besides gossipy, tabloidy garbage.

As if the heading of "Hanging with Mr. Heigl" wasn't distasteful enough, you even asked him how he felt about his '99 Dodge Durango being broken into. Wow, great question--I'm sure he was elated to be robbed and even more elated for you to share the fact that he still drives a '99 Durango. Very smart.

I'm surprised he even posed with you demonstrating a "Rock on!" hand gesture instead of a "FU!" hand gesture. The latter would have been more appropriate.

Sincerely,

Ryan Sumner
Lakeview, 25

I mean, really, don't interview a musician by solely asking him questions about his even-more-famous and newsworthy superstar wife. And the heading? WOW. Offensive. By publishing this interview, Liz presents her journalist mindset to the likes of a lazy stay-at-home mom who lets her two-year-old swim in the pool unattended while she's on the couch popping bon bons, trolling through Tivo, and screaming bloody rage at the TV during Grey's Anatomy.

But it gets better. Here's what Liz wrote back to me in response to my email:

"Must've been a slow day at work!"

Yep, that's it. That's all she wrote. And that's what perturbs me the most. She didn't defend herself, she didn't defend her interview, she didn't defend anything...it was almost as if she was saying, "Hey, your work must really be slow if you're taking the time to write to me about this STUPID article I wrote (and was paid to write), sorry you took the time to read it, you moron!"

At least that's what she's saying to me in my head. Her dim-witted response only further proves that not only is she a terrible columnist and interviewer, she lacks any credibility as being serious about it and taking ownership of her material. She doesn't care about the absolute shit she submits to the Red Eye nor does she consider that Red Eye readers will probably associate her name with a consistently lackluster and poorly written column. Or, at least, I will. What an amazing Tribune employee!

And even better...she has a blog that she blatantly advertises everywhere! And it's equally as stupid, self-defaming, and masochistic as her columns. I won't even do her a favor by posting her blog address, afterall, it's a piss-poor carbon copy of PerezHilton.com where she gives us her opinion on celebrites and such...except her posts are like 2-3 sentences long--a truly great read! But c'mon, Liz, if you can write...prove it. You have yet to even try.

Long story, short: I hate that Liz Crokin, and her little blog, too.

Okay, so I'm going political again. Only because I'm annoyed. Yes, annoyed. So, let me first set the tone with this little factoid: I like Obama. I think he is an excellent candidate for the presidency, and if he wins, I'd be very eager to see what he can do for this country. However, I'm backing Hillary. I think she's an even more excellent candidate for the presidency. I think she's smarter, I think she's more experienced, I think she has better plans for our country other than the simple platform of "change." Unfortunately, Hillary doesn't have the generational vote like Obama since, seemingly, many young voters think Obama is cool, therefore he'd be a good president. I don't know if that's the case, but I will say that if Obama beats Hillary, I would gladly give him my vote. However, in the meantime, go Hillary.

Anyway, my real annoyance stems from this plagiarism deal. I'm SO incredibly disheartened and irritated with the fact that both Obama and his followers are completely blowing over the fact that, so far, two of Obama's speeches have demonstrated BLATANT plagiarism. Let me bold it to make my point even more clear: blatant plagiarism. There is no way around it. There's no lessening, there's no overlooking, there's no argument about it. His speeches were plagiarized. Not only were the exact words plagiarized, but crudely enough, the DELIVERY was plagiarized--down to the exact enunciation and dramatic pauses in between. It's truly absurd, and I imagine a little heartbreaking for the Obama crowd to see and hear. The fact of the matter is, there's video, audio, and written proof that these words were not Obama's, but in fact Deval Patrick's from his own campaign speeches that were effectively used over a year ago.

BUT, in his own defense, of course, Obama eventually addressed the situation by saying, yes, I used words from Patrick's speeches, but he's a friend of mine, and he said I could, and he endorses me, and others have done it in the past, so NO BIG DEAL.

No, no, Mr. Obama--big deal.

It's plagiarism. Plagiarism is not allowed on any publishing or legal platform ANYWHERE. Including speeches for a presidential campaign. I know, weird, right? You can't plagiarize those? You can't take someone else's words, use them as your own (and to your benefit), without any mention of borrowing these words and whom they belong to, and take credit for it? That sucks!

It does suck, but what sucks even more is:

After the fact that it was brought to the nation's attention that Obama plagiarized, all of a sudden, Patrick is credited as the rightful owner of those inspirational words and phrases. Is it due to the fact that the seriousness of Obama's overt plagiarism was brought into the national spotlight by the political media? Perhaps. Evidently though, it's NOT because Obama decided to rightfully give proper credit to Patrick for his amazing ideology from the get-go...since they were Patrick's words and all. Not Obama's, as he would have liked it to originally seem.

What's funny now is Obama's rebuttal. He is carelessly avoiding the issue (and probably strategically avoiding it since he knows exactly what he's done--wasn't he a professor and a lawyer, after all?) as well as avoiding acknowledgement of what he didn't do to make these rip-off and unoriginal speeches acceptable for him to communicate. It's as if Obama doesn't care. After all, Hillary supposedly did all kinds of questionable "copying" of other people's words and political cliches, too. BAD HILLARY! I mean, Obama DID tell the truth about his plagiarism...eventually. So move on, America. OBAMA IS GOOD!

That's offensive.

As an English major, this doesn't fly with me at all. It's downright disturbing and unfair, and quite honestly it makes my blood boil due to the simple fact that NO ONE would be given such a quick, swift "no big deal" free pass for plagiarizing. Especially Hillary.

If a student writes paper after paper for an English course and has a solid track record of doing very well on all of his papers, until one day he is desperate enough to use some text from his friend's paper. Well, he uses that text, doesn't credit his friend or whomever the text came from, turns the paper in as his own, then waits to see what happens. The next day, the teacher finds out that the student's paper was plagiarized and says, HEY, this paper is plagiarized. It cannot be turned in and you are kicked out of this class for even attempting to pass it off as your own.

The student CANNOT say, wait a minute, but my friend told me I could use his material, and sure I didn't credit him, but it's no big deal because lots of people plagiarize and I'm a really good student otherwise! Let's forget about it, shall we?

Um, no. Let's not forget about it.

That student would still fail the class, that student would still be kicked out of school, and perhaps even worse, that student's reputation is highly tarnished as being deceiving, disingenuous, and a cheater.

That's how it works, folks. That's plagiarism. Obama plagiarized. If you're going to blatantly use someone else's words as your own, then you have to give that person proper credit...not scapegoat the accusation, not overlook that it even happened, and certainly not to point the finger at your rival as a means to say, "she did it, too, and here's how!"

Obama is supposed to be the great communicator. He's supposed to bring people together through his words and ideas. He's supposed to be Mr. Morality. He's supposed to be the best President ever.

If Obama wants to be any of those things, then he needs to own up to his faults in a respectable and dignified manner. NOT in the scapegoating manner both he and his campaigners/followers are treating this very serious issue.

It is what it is. Own up.

Readers, remember...

Lose: to misplace, to be defeated

Loose: not tight, promiscuous

Example 1 (Bad)

Your favorite presidential candidate is loosing to mine! Ha ha!

Example 2 (Good)

I always seem to lose my cell phone on the nights I drink Tequila.

Example 3 (Sounds good to me)

Give Ryan Sumner your money.



Class dismissed.

So, I was perusing blogs the other day and noticed that a LOT of people are posting video blogs. You know, just them, a camera, and their thoughts all unscripted and unrehearsed...supposedly. And it's semi-interesting, although it's semi-not interesting because blogs are supposed to be in the written form, no? The only example of a legit video "blog" I can think of is when they do it on the Real World, and hardly even then because ALL reality TV is, to some extent, fake, so I don't necessarily think it's a valid example. Plus, the whole time they're in the "confessional" it's only captures them crying, making out, or being drunk. Actually, probably all three.

Seriously, retarded. Anyway, back to my original point. Video posts are sweeping Facebook, MySpace, and other social networking sites like crazy. It's kind of fun, but it's also kind of creepy. I mean, anyone can be watching you, looking at you, studying you...and that's an ENTIRE step beyond someone reading your inner-most personal thoughts, right?

...

I think it is.

I mean, it's one thing for you to read what I'm thinking, it's another for you to see me thinking and then verbalizing my thoughts. Why don't you just invite yourself over to my apartment and watch me load the dishwasher while singing "These Words" by Natasha Bedingfield?

When will the voyeurism stop and when will the need for me to put myself out there stop? I'm a writer, afterall, I should be writing books about other people, mostly fictional people that have no reflection on my day-to-day state of being.

RIGHT?

I don't know why I'm even talking about this, I don't have a computer that is even remotely capable of producing video. I'd have to buy a webcam and I'm SO not doing that. Weird. I'd have to get a Macbook, which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but um I'm trying to stay OUT of debt, not face first in it.

I'm not sure what the point of this blog is, but just remember: video killed the radio star.

Is it just me, or is Kanye West completely self-obsessed? Like...crazy, pompously, annoyingly, unapologetically self-obsessed?

I mean, props to him for his success and all (which is owed in large part to Daft Punk, just sayin) but, wow, is he THAT good to the extent where he can demand reverence?

You can be my black JC tonight, Kanye.

Tone it down, diva.

On this cold, winter night I lay here in bed with my laptop open; slow songs play in the background and outside my window the city glows in the sky. Tonight I lay here, dispensing advice on love like a real authority...or, at the very least, like a person who's dabbled in the subject a time or two before.

But I do this only because someone anonymously asked how I deal with heartbreak. How I moved on?

Interesting question.

I don't know that I've ever moved on. Heartbreak endures, it's a feeling that remains unchanged, untouched after the dust settles. For me, it takes only a familiar song to make me flash back to a very real moment where my love life changed in an instant. I can remember how it felt, I can remember how it hurt.

Just when you think you're over it, like you're a new man and it's a new day, it takes one memory, one dream, one second to have the pain resurface in your soul all over again. All of a sudden, time hasn't turned and you haven't moved on quite as much as you originally thought.

But you know what?

Life goes on. Whether you're ready or not, you've removed yourself from a situation that you didn't or couldn't be in any longer. Or perhaps, as much as it sucks, you were removed from the situation. Either way, a part of your life stopped. But just because it stopped it doesn't mean the love, the feelings, the memories wither and die. They remain, and the dust settles.

...until it happens again, like the vicious, vicious cycle love is.

All of my ex's hold a piece of me, and I, them. I like that. In some way, it makes you stronger, bigger, and hopefully, a little wiser. In some sense, I know what I want as far as "love" goes. But I'm also not afraid to make a mistake, to take a chance and lose. Whether I find love or not, well, that remains to be unseen. In the meantime, I truly believe that the people I have loved before give me the strength and desire to love again.

And I will.

You've heard it's better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Well, it's true.

Just because your heart is broken, doesn't mean the beat stops, too.

Actually...

the beat goes on.

Have you ever choked on a hiccup? I just did and it seriously hurt. I don't know exactly how the mechanics of that works...but God works in mysterious ways.

I also heard that she moves in mysterious ways.

Sorry...that just came to me. I'm listening to my "Easy on the Ears" playlist on iTunes. It's got anything from Radiohead to Diana Ross. Imogen to Whitney Houston. Stuff that sits pretty in my head. Makes me sing a little.

That cozy, comfortable stuff.

I wanna run to you. Sing it, Whit.

And okay. I'm totally going to reveal myself in a big way by letting you in on a little guilty pleasure of mine.

Um...

Have you heard the song "Headlines" by the Spice Girls? I have, and I love it. I like it a lot. One time on the bus, I seriously played that song back to back atleast 5 times. I mean, I've always liked the Spice Girls...more so as people than artists (I really like Mel B, Mel C, and Emma...I think they're kind of funny and nice).

Anyway, I was telling this to my sister and she said she never really heard the song before, but saw the video for it and thought it was the dumbest thing she's ever seen...well, next to Heidi Montag's new video. I guess she didn't even hear the song because she was so lost in watching the girls strut around and pose in lingerie for three and a half endless minutes.

So, don't watch the video. But do listen to the song if you already haven't. I like it.

Ooooh...I Want To Break Free by Queen just came on. I love that song, too. Did you ever see the Pepsi(?) commercial with people working at the grocery store dancing around? I always saw the commercial at the movie theater before the movie started. It was so clever and catchy. Loved it.

I gotta find it now. Hold on. Okay, nevermind. I just watched the video for it and it wasn't as cool as I thought it was. And it was for Coke C2. Whatever that is.

But speaking of good Pepsi commercials...uh this is my all-time favorite:



I can barely watch it though without having a stroke about how much I miss the old Britney.

COME BACK.

According to the news, almost 98 million people watched the Superbowl.

...and I wasn't one of them. Take THAT, Nielsen!

And, today is Super Tuesday where I could cast my vote for either the first female or "black" presidential candidate.

...and I'm not registered to vote in the city of Chicago. Take THAT, Lady Liberty!

But seriously...I'll take this opportunity to talk a few politics with you. And SIDENOTE this is a rarity because I only talk politics with my Mom because she and I generally have the same thoughts about everything.

...um...

I really don't feel like Obama is up to par with being President. I really don't.

------------->insert cricket chirp here<---------------

Now, before you arrange for my tar and feathering in a public square...read further. I do, however, enjoy Obama. I think he is a great speaker, has great ideas, and is an all-around great person. I don't think that he is capable of running the entire country though. I am wholeheartedly unconvinced that he has the depth and experience to deal with every facet of our nations problems and challenges, like universal healthcare, education, the economy, and national security. I really don't. On the other hand, I feel like he is capable of prioritizing civil liberties and facilitating a country-wide focus on equality. He has strengths, important ones, but he's not presidential material. Not yet. He'd make an excellent Vice President.

Go Hillary.

I don't know how I stumbled upon this, but I'm glad I did.

Guidos Gone Wild: Dance-Off

Some girl with a fine sense of observation and wit challenges a couple of guidos to a dance-off. Yes...I especially love the shyer guido who has the coolest pair of jeans I've ever seen, as well as a minimalist, intermittent style of dancing...it's quite interesting.

Guidos

Add to My Profile | More Videos

I'm considering adopting a second little pup to join the Sumner family. I'm doing this for several reasons:

A) Buster needs a brother.
B) The pup is coming from an adoption/rescue agency and he needs a nice home.
C) I slowly want to become a cat lady...except with dogs, and in male form, of course.

Thoughts? If I were to get this pup, I'd name him Truman. His current name is "Zippy" and that's simply not happening on my dime. I haven't adopted/even seen the dog yet, but let me know what you think.

So, I know an incredibly insane amount of people go to Starbucks and I too find myself there on occasion. I'm not a coffee drinker at all, nor do I do any of the lattes, espressos, or whatever else they offer. I go there for food (surprise!). They have this cookie called a Toffee Almond Bar. It's SO good. I really don't have any other point to this paragraph besides the fact that I wanted to get it off my chest about how much I LOVE the toffee almond bar. Sidenote: I just looked up the nutrition info for it (because I do that to almost everything I consume) and it has 400 calories and 19 grams of fat. HOLY SHIT. Good thing I only have one once a month. Call a crane.

Actually, I try not to obsess over nutrition because what's the point in eating if we're going to nit-pick it to death? I mean, am I eating to merely sustain life? No. I'm eating because I f'in want to. F yeah! And F you, society (!), don't mess with my f'in body image! Glad I got that off my f'in chest...

At any rate, somehow I got to thinking about ice cream last night. I LOVE ice cream. I think my favorite kind of ice cream would be from Dairy Queen and it would be a banana split with chocolate, caramel, and strawberry syrup. Perfect. Or better yet a blizzard, but I can never decide what topping to get, so I always order a split because it's delicious and there isn't too much heavy decision-making involved. IF I do get a blizzard though, I really like their new waffle-cone variation. Supreme. But alas, I haven't eaten at a DQ since June. Oh, and if you ever eat at a DQ with "Hot Eats" you should try their cheeseburgers. They're really, really good for some reason. I also really like Coldstone Creamery ice cream...but, I'm sorry, the singing and the chanting? Stop it, that stuff makes me uncomfortable.

Oh, and I love cake. I borrowed some of my boss' hand lotion this morning and it was a butternut creme kind, and WOAH it smelled like cake. And that smell sent me back to like my 6th birthday party in which pictures reveal that only immediate family members were invited? I think it's because I didn't have any friends. Anyway, cake. Delicious. And don't even get me started talking about donuts. They're my all time favorite thing. I think I just talked about that not too long ago so I won't repeat myself. One would think I'm some fat blob but in reality I'm quite spectacular.

I should probably keep this blog interesting, I mean, apparently I have readers coming in from Norway, South Africa, Germany, Australia, and South America (hola, mambo, hoizit, konnichi wa, gutten tag, hei, hi--just giving an international shout-out, oh, and hey Mollz in Tampa, FL...I think 'hi' in your part of the woods would be, wassup ma hizzle nizzle grizzle bitch).

Anyway, back to the razzle dazzle, I was on the escalator today and I thought about the trauma that would ensue if I fell at any point in time. I seriously hate falling, and I hate when other people fall, too. Yes, sometimes it's funny, but in most instances it's traumatizing for me to see people fall. Not only is it humiliating, but it's also dangerous. I should form some kind of support group for people who have fallen in the public eye. If you fall at home--tough shit. Get up. But if you fall in a place where someone saw it happen, then I am here for you, pick a shoulder. One time I fell down about 7 rows of bleachers at a high school basketball game and I personally will never get over it. I mean, I had to get up and shrug it off as "stupid me, I'm perfectly A-okay, thank you, thank you, and for my next trick..." but in real life I was on the verge of tears thinking "oh.my.god how f'ing humiliating, and I think my legs are broke, how am I even going to get out of this gym?!?!?!?" I thought for sure that on my first step toward the exit my leg would snap in half and then I'd fall again.

Movie theaters make me relive the experience too because the potential of me tripping down the dimly lit stairs is SO high. Give me some light, movie people! Atleast if I fall it wouldn't be as bad because it'd be so dark that most people wouldn't see it and I could sort of crawl out the door or something. Ugh...

I really need to be on some kind of prescription drug for my anxiety in dealing with these semi-fictional situations. It's bad enough that I walk at a snail's pace everywhere I go in fear of falling, but what if there was a snake in my bed and it bit me repeatedly? Or what if a bug lunged at my face from on top of the refridgerator and it had 1,000 legs? Or what if when I close the bathroom medicine cabinet mirror I saw in the reflection someone standing behind me?

In any of those situations, I would die. My heart would stop, and I would die.

1-800-MEDS-NOW, ryansumner calling...

Daft Punk was booming in the background and I was listening to their lyrics...albeit there aren't typically many to choose from, but the lyrics to this one song in particular made me think a little. It went...

The primetime of your life
Now
Live it
The primetime of your life.

boom boom boom boom boom boom boom boom

Good point. I really, really think this is the "primetime" of my life and that I am living it. BUT, that's not to say that things aren't going to keep getting interesting in my life. This isn't a scenario where if I stay in one night or one weekend then I'm WASTING my life away, or something dramatic like that. It's just, how should I say it, if opportunity arises...take it? Or, maybe I should do the things that are in the back of my head saying "do me, do me, do me."

One of those "do me's" is to quit my job and travel the world for a year. I don't know if I'm quite ready to do that just yet...but I want to. I mean, this is coming from the same kid that has never even left the country. All the more tempting...

Anyone want to come with? I think the proper motivation could prove wonders.

Seven world wonders, even.

Update: Last night I dreamt about donuts. They were everywhere. And they had sprinkles. My favorite.

I promise this blog isn't going to turn into a dream journal, because...yeah, retarded. But I just wanted to share that because donuts hold a very special place in my heart.

And hips.

I thought I would kill some time and release some things that were on my mind...

Last night I was talking in my sleep at an ALARMING rate. For anyone that might have slept with me (the possibilities here are endless) then you may or may not have witnessed this before. For some reason I've been dreaming a lot lately...and the dreams are so vivid that I start talking out loud in response to whatever was happening in my dream. Then, in mid-sentence, I would wake up yet still keep saying whatever it was that I had to say...and with conviction. Like, I was perfectly conscious, but yet I still had to get it all out. Bouncing in and out of the REM cycle was not about to stop me from speaking my peace. It was really bizarre. And in many of these outbursts, I was literally scolding someone. Like, my finger was waving around in the air and everything. It was so so weird and I'm beginning to think that I have a problem. Oh god, once a long time ago I woke up hysterically screaming and crying (and I don't remember why) and my significant other at the time woke up and goes, "What the FUCK is your problem!?!?!?!?!"

Isn't that sweet?

So anyway, for some reason unbeknownst to me, that happened a lot last night (minus the significant other because that can was kicked to the curb many moons ago).

So, here's another story that will show you what a nut-case I am. Oh, side note, every time I try to type the word "results" it comes out as "resluts." Literally...like every time I type it, that always happens, whether I want it to or not. Well, I guess I wouldn't want it to...but you get the drift.

Anyway, so I'll let you into my life a little bit. Typically, Monday thru Friday I work out. Yes, I know, hard to believe. But I work out in the gym of my apartment building, where I'll lift weights or run on the treadmill or do the elliptical and so on. But before I go to that gym, I do some stuff in my actual apartment, too. I have this stretch band thing that I use to stretch with and a weight I use to do some minor weight lifting with and etc. So, to set the stage, one side of my apartment is like all floor-to-ceiling windows, and I keep the blinds all the way open because I'm on the 15th floor and I have a beautiful view of downtown Chicago and the lake and whatnot. So when I work out, I usually face the windows and look out just to like...have a visual. What's weird is that on the next block over from my building there are two other apartment buildings that face me...and these buildings are like 30-55 floors high. So when I work out I always feel like the residents of those buildings are watching me, because I can totally see into their apartments so duh, they can obviously see into mine. And I've always had the morbid idea of getting binoculars or a telescope or something and getting a little closer look at what really is going on in these buildings. BUT, I haven't done that and I probably never will. Because...creepy.

So anyway, who's to say that other people haven't ventured OVER that line and are actually watching me? You really never know. People do weird things in the privacy of their own home all of the time. I mean, hello, look at naked, fat guy on Friends. The Friends cast were all relatively normal people who watched this naked, fat guy do stuff in his apartment. Therefore, I always assume there is a CROWD of people watching me while I work out, and really, who could blame them?

Anyway, so while I'm working out I feel 10,000 eyes on me. So when I'm done working out and am getting ready to go to the 1st floor to go to the actual gym, I typically leave my door unlocked because I really don't want to take my keys with. I'm always afraid I'll forget them or lose them and then be locked out of my apartment. And I don't want to keep them in my pocket because if I'm running then they jingle annoyingly and if I put them in the little treadmill cup holder thing or whatever, I guarantee I'll forget them in there and then there will be that awkward moment where you have to come back and interrupt the person using the treadmill after you and so on and so forth...and yes, I really think about these situations. So, the easiest thing to do is to just leave my door unlocked...I mean, I'm not leaving the building or anything, so it shouldn't be that big of a deal.

WELL, low and behold, this creates another problem because when I'm working out I go into this complete zone of just thinking about things waaaay too much. So, mid bench press of 70 lbs, thank you very much, I start thinking...what if one of the crazy stalker people from one of the neighboring buildings that watches me in my apartment is SO crazy that they watch me, via high-powered zoom telescope, see that I left my apartment and that I didn't lock the door, and then while I'm in the gym downstairs, they somehow sneak into my building and apartment and hide somewhere really clever and then try to kill me when I come back!!!!!!!!!

RYAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS!!!!! URGENT URGENT URGENT

OH.MY.GOD. So this thought consumes my entire existance and completely puts my workout to an end. I mean, the idea seems so smart and ridiculously clever, it has to be real. Then I thought, Ryan, you're just being crazy again. Stop it. So I was going to brush over the idea because I was obviously just over-thinking the entire situation, but then I started thinking again. I thought, okay, I can already see this as a Dateline special with Stone Phillips reporting..."Now for a tragic story--25 year old Ryan Sumner of Chicago would have never imagined that leaving his apartment door unlocked while he was out would be dangerous, but as it turns out, it ended up costing him his life. Here's how the story unfolds..."

And you KNOW you always hear segues like that on the news.

I mean, I couldn't be one of them--I saw it coming! Never ignore your gut instinct, right?! So I raced back up to my apartment...so scared, too...and frantically started checking in every closet, behind the shower curtain, under my bed and so on, completely expecting for someone to jump out at me and start stabbing me repeatedly.

My life is exhausting.

But obviously, I lived to tell the story...and many more to come.

What is wrong with me...

I just watched a video montage of a kid lighting farts.

I hate when people fart.



Especially on purpose.

People from Texas make me seriously ill.

First it was the Dixie Chicks. Now it's Jessica Simpson. I mean, seriously, does the word bandwagon come to mind in any of this? And it's not like it's just a couple of hicks hopping in their rusty pick-up trucks, shooting off their rifles, and hootin and hollerin about all of this bullshit...it's everyday people like you and I, except with an erratically deranged ownership of Texan principles and values.

The Dixie Chicks made one comment about what a dumbass Bush is (and yes, nowadays no one would combat that opinion) and were systematically crucified as being non-American, untalented bimbo sluts who needed to suffer financially and emotionally for their non-traditional beliefs and Texan disloyalty.

Wow.

Now, Jessica Simpson goes to one football game to root on her alleged boyfriend...who just so happens to be the ad-happy QB Tony Romo...where he has a shitty game and the Cowboys end up NOT being the best team ever, and it's her fault. Not Romo's, not the Cowboys', but Jessica's. Texas, once again, is banding together and is anti-Jessica because she's such bad luck, causing Romo to be "distracted" and single-handily cursing the team from EVER playing well again. Damn that Jessica!

Riiiiiiight.

I guess I'll be positive and look at the situation as Texas sticking to their loyal, good ol'boy belief system. Or something like that. If you mess with one of their own (oh wait, both Simpson and the Chicks are from Texas, I guess that doesn't help my point) then that's when they stick together and witch hunt! All in the name that is patriotic- and spurs-n-boots-related!

It's sickening.

Just because both GWBush and the Cowboys suck, doesn't mean it's acceptable, nor comprehensible to socially isolate the supposed evil-doers.

Does anyone get me? I mean...really. It's like they're the new KKK.

Don't go to Texas. I would even go as far to say don't have a southern accent.

Birds of a feather...

That brain.

Those scrubs.

The white.

Life

And death.

In your hands.

Weak in the knees.

Whether I like it or not.

I'm sitting in bed thinking...and yes, it's 9:45 p.m. and I'm already in bed...about stuff that I want. Here it goes:

-To be around my friends more often
-To work somewhere I love, not just somewhere that pays well
-To be around my family all of the time without the strain of travel and timing
-To learn what [sic] means because it drives me crazy that I don't know yet nor have I investigated
-To travel out of the country this year
-To step outside the boundries that I set for myself
-To be in a healthy, happy relationship with myself
-To try a new hairstyle
-To buy more shoes
-To stop buying things for my apartment, even though it makes me happy, so I guess I'm torn on this issue. Nevermind.
-To start reading books that I enjoy, and maybe, just maybe...start seeing movies more regularly. I haven't seen about...ohh, 93% of the movies that are in existance
-To learn how to get what I want
-To have a TV in my room because I hate falling asleep to the still of the night
-To stop drinking loads of wine at dinner and then black out at 10 pm when the real fun starts
-To find that perfect spare change bowl--all of my change is sitting on a shelf in my closet and it literally is driving me insane and I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and reflect upon how irritated I am about the whole situation
-To embrace fiction
-To stop reading Perez Hilton--he is the personification of unabashed, vile toxic waste
-To find the perfect pair of glasses
-To eat donuts more regularly and not feel horrible about it--if I enjoy it, then why not?
-To warm up to the idea that I'm getting older and more mature--it's scary
-To have a second dog
-To have the Will & Grace complete DVD collection--I love Karen.
-To come to terms with my average height
-To revel in the fact that I have the most amazing family and friends ever and to never, never take them for granted
-To sleeping less and enjoying the world more
-To kiss more babies--two new Sumners will be coming into the world this year
-To let go and let God
-To try new foods--so far so good
-To ask my Dad to pop popcorn more often because I know he loves the fact that I enjoy his homemade kind so much
-To ride an elephant
-To paint my own artwork and have it mean something
-To get ice cream more often
-To feel that feeling...you know the one
-To live
-To laugh
-To love
with you

and

-To be the best of me

This blog is really strange. I've had a range of people give a range of opinions about it.

My little blog-traffic-ticker tells me that, on average, my blog is visited over 172 times a day, and over 300 on the days I post something new.

I'm impressed, but also puzzled.

Sometimes people email or call me and ask what I was talking about, or whom I'm talking about, or what my point is...

This blog is for me. It's not my pulpit.

It's my window.

You come here for whatever reason, so enjoy.

Bask.

Don't fight it. And don't fight me because I'm sure to lose.

I'm a lover.

And like the great Carly Simon once said (or perhaps Janet Jackson if you're nasty)

You're so vain,
You probably think this song is about you...
Don't you?
Don't you.

It's so weird that LC and I have something in common: this is exactly what my conversations sound like after a couple glasses of cheap white wine...

I don't know how or why it happens, but it does sometimes.

You came unexpectedly, we exchanged, I saw you smile.

Like time hadn't lapsed, feelings weren't previously hurt, distance never grew.

The feelings were real. So real.

You didn't hesitate to make me feel close to you.

Because I did. Maybe too close.

If I only see you in a dream--that's okay.

It was nice.


Come back soon.

Hey yall it's Paula Deen and ta-day we're cookin up some southern-style grits-n'bits with a side of mashed pa'taters! Ooooh yall, it's gunna be so gooood!

Paula's accent is SO out of control on her show. Why do I know this? Because I'm watching the food network at 5:32 a.m. and I can't pull myself away from the force that is her accent. It's disgustingly moronic and makes people from the South seem REALLY stupid (that's assuming Southerners even claim her).

But what do I care, and more importantly, why am I awake at 5:33 a.m.? Weird story, brace yourself.

For starters, I'm in Galva right now. I've been here since the 22nd and will continue to be here until the 30th. That's a lot of quality family time, I know. I have this weird urgency to be around my family WHENEVER I can. We're like that.

So, I'm on vacation from work until the 3rd and am basking in all that is Christmas and laziness in G-ville until it's time to go back to Chicago.

Anyway, so a lot of "firsts" have happened to me during my time here in Galva. The first first is that I'm horrendously ill. Okay ummm....I'm NEVER sick. I'm always disease and bacteria free and whenever I do get sick it's a major, major event because it so rarely happens. AND if it does happen, it's always an illness that's to the EXTREME. Never a slight cold, never a cough, never a tummy ache. I don't even know what a tummy ache feels like. If my tummy has ever ached it's because I had severe food poisoning or was out-of-control drunk or a pesky thing I call liver failure. Other than that, I never have tummy aches.

Well, somehow I've managed to get the flu. It's been a veryyyy ugly scene and I have no understanding of how it chose me. I mean, no one around me has the flu and there's no plague going around Galva right now except teen pregnancy.

But somehow the flu manages to find me. And let me tell you, it's been an awful experience. Food has no meaning and water just adds to the drama. I feel like my stomach is a big cauldron that's brewing over the top, so whenever I drink water it just adds to the boil and makes things even worse. So yes, two of the main necessities to sustaining life hold no significance to me. I am, however, able to breathe so the whole inhale, exhale, oxygen thing has kept my pulse steady. Such a saving grace.

Another first is that I slept with my clothes on last night. It was a really strange experience. Some fam came over last night and we did even more gift exchanging and whatnot, so I thought it necessary to atleast make myself be presentable and fully-clothed, so I put on some duds, put some gel in my hair, and flashed the mirror a winning smile. Perfect. So I'm doing the whole scene when I start to feel like I'm going to pass out. So I get up, leave the party, go upstairs, and lay down in bed.

Um, I must have literally passed out in bed because I woke up 6 hours later. It was like 3 a.m. and I still have all of my clothes on. Does this bother me? Usually, but for some reason I was perfectly fine with the thought of having about 9 articles of clothing on, including shoes, and remained in bed. Every time I tossed and turned I thought to myself-THIS IS SO WEIRD. I HAVE ALL OF MY CLOTHES ON. DO SOMETHING.

In addition, the entire time my body felt like a drying sponge that desperately needed moisture in order to maintain a heartbeat. But do I get myself some water?

NO.

I can't move.

I'm drying up.

Plus, it was as hot as a bitch in my room because the heat was on full blast for whatever reason, so I was sweating out the last remaining beads of moisture I had in my body...probably due to the fact that I was fully-clothed and under about 90 blankets.

And the entire time all I could think about was:

A) Jumping into a pool full of orange Gatorade and electrolytes, and
B) the song, O Come All Ye Faithful.

I have no idea why that song was stuck in my head, but in my mind I kept belting out, OH COME LET US ADORE HIM!

So there I was, fully-dressed, drying up, incapable of movement, internally singing Christmas songs, and hosting a bladder full of urine that I was trying to overlook because if I even looked at a toilet I'd puke instantaneously.

About an hour ago I managed to take off all of my clothes. Does that excite you? It shouldn't because my body hasn't seen water, let alone soap in about 2.5 days.

Yes, these are the conditions that I allow myself to dwell in. My family is concerned and are probably contacting a priest as we speak.

Please let me be possessed, that would make much more sense.

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel completely ugly and inadequate?

Today is the day.

Kelly: I find it really weird that you have a scarf wrapped around your head like a hat.
Ryan: Old women don't find it weird!
Kelly: You're not an old woman.
Ryan: Well...the person on the elevator didn't find it weird either.
Kelly: It still sounds weird.
Ryan: You sound weird.
Kelly: I have to go.
Click.

There's always so much mumbo-jumbo about love being cold, warm, light, dark...it's stupid, really.

I sleep alone all the time and am constantly cold. Doesn't mean I'm without.

Buster keeps me warm.

I barely see the light of day anymore and it's always dark when I desperately need to see, but does it matter?

No.

The blue glare from my alarm clock pulls a double trick...a cold blue read but yet a bright light guide.

I turn the tone down so that I can sleep better, it's darker, but when I dream about snakes the leftover light helps me see that they're really not there.

Winter.

So blue.

And snakes.

So scary.

GUESS WHAT I JUST REALIZED?

I'm becoming a complete stalker. Yes, you heard it here first.

Why do I find myself watching other people's video facebook wallposts? Or is it Facebook video wallposts? Either way, they're not to me, they're not about me, and sometimes...I don't even know who the people are that are on them.

But do I watch them?

YES.

a;lksdfj

It's really a bad thing. These social networking sites are so out of control. Wait a second...I'M OUT OF CONTROL. That's the real truth.

I'm way too nosey for my own good. I need less information, people...less information.

Mind ya bizz.

What fun would there be in life if we never took any risks?

Let me restate that because it's painting an entirely different picture than my personal philosophy...

Okay, so, risks. I'm torn. Shit, I can't even restate that sentence because I can't make up my mind. I mean, I don't take risks. Ever. I hate them. If something sounds risky, I'm out. Usually...

I typically fear the unknown. I'm a scared, scared boy. But I'm also a man. I live my life day-to-day doing what I have to do to survive, and at some points, to be happy.

I also like knowing, seeing, experiencing new things. How would I get anywhere without being blind? I feel my way, I put myself out, I take a step forward. I'm there.

And it's good.

But to fly by the seat of my pants is a big mistake. I've learned it a time or two as of late. Bad idea. Super bad. Don't do it.

But I wouldn't be where I am today without assuming the risks I have in the past. Yes, it's been a sucky migration from the good to bad, bad to good, and yes, I just said sucky.

Are fate and risk related? Am I screwing with fate with every decision I make? What if I change my mind about things a thousand times? Does my fate remain untouched? Oh man, best of luck to me.

I hope I don't get hit by a bus.

I hate it when people fart in a bar.

That shit stanks.

Sometimes I wish that I could live at home. Forever.

It's strange, I know, but every time I go home to see the family, I have such a hard time coming back to my apartment. Sure I have Buster and a lot of great friends to keep me company in Chicago, but there's something about being at home that is so comforting and relaxing and warm...it's hard to leave.

And I'm usually never homesick--but lately I have been.

I'm OK with that, too. I can go home any time I want and I can spend as much time with my family as I need to, and that helps.

I hate to admit that I'm a HUGE Momma's boy, but I SO am.

Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change that fact for the world. I'm so so lucky to have such a strong relationship with my parents. They mean the world to me, as do the rest of the Sumner clan.

I'm a grown man, I take care of my own responsibilities, I pay my own bills, I lead my own life...

But damn, it's so nice to skip all of that and just sit at the kitchen table and talk to my parents about life and all of its blessings and shortcomings.

Wait...

Getting homesick again.

I'm cold.

And tired.

Amid winter, I feel...like smiling.

I feel like my life, for once, is circulating.

The O. The big O.

I control it. I keep it. I maintain.

I feel...like I've achieved something.

This smile is real, you know.

The mirror knows me. And I it.

I see the best even when the best didn't see me.

And still I smile. A real smile.

I smile not in looking back, but looking ahead.

It's great, isn't it? This.

This life.

It keeps giving.




This gift.

I was walking outside today and a Christmas tune shuffled its way onto my Ipod. It was sad, but merry at the same time. Please come home for Christmas. It made me think about love.

It makes me a little jealous that I don't have any. Well, I shouldn't say that. It's not that I don't have love. I have plenty of love.

Yet, no one to love as my own.

At the same time, I'm not lonely. Not depressed.

Just not in love.

I'd really like to be in love, though. To have someone that I connect with. Someone who's here. With me.

There are so many people on the scene, looking for...well I don't know what they're looking for, but it usually doesn't align with my own intentions.

I want to skip that scene. Be above it. Be blind to it all.

My focus, my energy on one person.

My person.

Until then, love is but a warm dream on a very cold night.

So, I'm typically non-Facebook-loving and today is no exception. While I do use Facebook to communicate with my friends and such, I still feel like it's a very shady, sneaky site that is capitalizing off of boredom. I mean, really, who in their right mind really wants people to know SO much about them? Every move you make on Facebook is monitored and recorded, and if you elect to, people can read about your activity just by logging on.

At the same time, it's the users who give the site its power. The minute someone breaks up with someone, I swear, their first strategic move is to log-on and change their relationship status on Facebook. They don't call their Mom, they don't sob into a pillow. Boom! Facebook it.

And wall posts. Oh my god, so ingenious. I love it when people communicate six or seven times a day via Facebook wall posts. Almost as if it were an instant messaging device. Seriously. Call these people to communicate to them, or better yet, make it a 3D experience!

I'm not playing innocent here, I've done ALL of these things and more, but why do I do it? I seriously have no idea. Brainwashed? A generational norm? A generational expectancy? Convenience?

Who knows. But I want to slap my hand every time I find myself using Facebook to look at the world.

And what's up with those gifts? Seriously, a dollar? It costs a dollar to give someone a stupid little graphic the size of a stamp? And they say there's a "limited edition"...like they're actual, physical gifts? No, they're not. AT ALL. They're something that can be replicated an infinite amount of times and would never cost a single cent in any market imaginable. Yet Facebook makes it possible to charge someone A DOLLAR for one.

And people buy them.

Do college students have such disposable incomes that they can be like, "Oh that graphic of a vodka shot is TOTALLY worth this measly dollar that's just lying around in my bank account."

SERIOUSLY PEOPLE.

Take that dollar and give it to a bum on the street if that's your attitude. Any way the bum chooses to spend that dollar will be more worthwhile than giving it to Zuckenburg or whoever that teen billionaire is. Or better yet, don't use it and wait for something WORTHWHILE to spend it on. Send it to Darfur, they could be using some vodka shot graphics right about now.

Better yet, send it to me.

I'm sorry, but if I hear one more story about that stupid Iggy dog that Ellen Degeneres has been boo-hooing about and ET has been exclusively covering for weeks post-eviction, I'm going to...do something.

I don't know what, but it will be something.

Seriously people, there's a plethora of things to be worried about, and some stupid dog that has been bounced from a few homes isn't worthy of our time or attention.

I'm sure whatever mansion that dog winds up in will be perfectly adequate.

Besides, he ain't got no bills to pay!

That's the real world talking...

I'm so disheartened and disgusted by the details of San Francisco's oil spill. Bunker oil is the crudest and most polluting oil available, yet the oil industry is both consuming and transporting this oil globally. Not to forget the simple carelessness of the tanker's captain has caused major, irreversible damage to our ecosystem, our wildlife, and our future. And this is only one spill out of the hundreds of spills within the last 5 years.

Many may not know this but I am extremely conscious and protective of the state of our world's environment. With our current loser President, issues concerning the environment have been overlooked, under-budgeted, and greatly disregarded.

I really need to research the stance of each presidential candidate concerning environmental issues, plans to help the welfare of wildlife and subsequent ecosystems, as well as strategic leadership goals to combat the effects of global warming. Of course, it would be easier to choose a candidate if Al Gore would inform me of his decision to run for President or as Vice President, because wherever he goes or whomever he backs, I will do the same.

There are MANY important issues that we need to follow carefully, however year after year environment-friendly or -concious presidential candidates are seen as the weak, unpopular, non-priority, or all together unimportant vote. The environment IS important. This world's integrity is what keeps us here, its what hosts all of our world's other problems like war, immigration, health care, and the fight for equality.

Vote with the environment in mind. If our environment crumbles, who really cares about civility?

Kill me now.

What's with all the baby names like Sophia, Isabella, or EmmaLee?

What happened to Meg, Patty, or Crystal?

Oh god, that reminds me. One time my sister was grounded because she used too much ketchup on her meatloaf! Ah ha ha.

I knew it was going to happen, too. My sister poured like the hugest BLOB of ketchup on her plate to dip her meatloaf into. My Dad goes, "If you don't use every last bit of that ketchup, you're grounded!"

She, of course, couldn't even come close to using it all because she used that much. So she was grounded for like a week.

My brothers and I laughed when she marched up to her room and bawled! We all shared a bedroom at this point in time so it was really annoying when she was still crying while I was trying to sleep. I threw a Pound Puppy at her and she snapped back QUIT ITTTTTTTTTT using a devil voice while still in a crying rage!

Such a baby.

My taste buds are finally developing.

I knew this to be true when the other day I had a little bit of mayonnaise on my finger and I licked it off without hesitation. That's a huge stride considering I used to despise mayonnaise in the worst way possible. But for some reason, over the last year or so, I somehow embraced it. And now apparently I'm okay with it in its rawest form. What's weird is that I sometimes hesitate to lick extra ketchup off my finger...and I love ketchup...just not raw. Calling condiments raw is weird, I know, but it's the only way I can explain it. So is licking stuff off your fingers, but apparently I do that alot, too.

That reminds me. When I was little and lived in the country, I used to be babysat by my neighbor down the road whom my sister and I lovingly referred to as "Grandma" even though she wasn't our real Grandma. She was, however, the Grandma of the other kids who lived right next to her, and since they all called her Grandma...we did too. I think those kids secretely hated my sister and I for this. Oh and many other reasons...

Anyway, so for lunch we ate Kraft macaroni and cheese and boiled hot dogs with ketchup almost every single day.

Everyday.

Not because that's the only food Grandma had in her cupboard, but because that's all my sister and I would eat. Literally. We were such brats. So, one day, we were all eating lunch (me, my sister, and Duane and Janet, the real grandchildren of Grandma). All of a sudden, Duane was like, "I'm not finishing lunch, I'm sick and tired of eating hot dogs!" Holy cow, Grandma turned around and snapped back, "You'll eat every last bite, ya little shit!" I'll never forget her little carpal'd finger pointing at his nose.

Now, before you call DCFS, Grandma was a very warm and loving old lady. She treated my sister and I like royalty and made us feel comfortable and loved at all times. However, it seemed like she was a little sick of her grandchildren, mostly because she had to watch those two brats for free.

So, I'll never forget that head turn, snap, and finger point. It was priceless. But that's not the point.

Duane stood his ground and just sat there with a half eaten hot dog on his plate. He looked at the ceiling, looked at the ground, pretended to read the magnets on the fridge even though they were way too far away to read, perfect eyesight or not. Grandma noticed his resistance, got up, took a bottle of ketchup (and I'll never forget this either, the brand of ketchup she bought was always spelled Catsup) and she poured the ketchup all over his plate in a contemporary design.

She then goes, "Clean your plate, Duane!" ...meaning Duane had to lick the ketchup off the plate with his tongue! All of it. Nauseating!

We perhaps should have called DCFS.

Anyway, what's even weirder was that Grandma had an old ice cream bucket that she kept by the door for "scraps." Anytime that my sister and I didn't finish our meal, we got to put the food in the scraps bucket. Grandma was also always peeling apples and potatoes and put the peelings in the bucket, too. (One time I was so hungry that I ate a few apple peelings straight from the scrap bucket. I did it even though I knew better...I was just hungry.) Well the real treat was that at the end of the day before we had to walk down the road back to our house, Grandma would take my sister to the pig pen and we would get to feed the piggies all of our scraps. Such a treat. Duane and Janet had to take a nap while we did this. HaHa, suckers!

Oh, one time a pig bit me! I tried to pick up this semi-newborn piggy and OH MY GOD that pig squealed so loud and ferociously, then the little sucker bit my arm! Hard, too! I started crying and Grandma somehow scaled the fence to come save me in the pig pen. I lied and told Grandma that the pig kicked me in the ribs, so she rushed me to the hospital which was like a hundred miles away since we lived out in the middle of a corn field. I only told her this because my Mom worked at the hospital and I wanted some M&M's that she kept in a jar at her desk.

I liked the green ones.

So life consuming. Why though?

I'd ask Oprah, but I feel like her response would be too lengthy and...personal.

I feel like it's behind every thought I have, every decision I make, every glimpse.

It's there, and it's annoying, and most times it's completely unnecessary.

When you look, you see what it is, or you see what you want it to be, and within it's walls there are things you're okay with, but more often its the things you hate or the things that detract.

But isn't it beautiful? It's supposed to be...even though I'd be a liar if I said they were all beautiful, no matter what it looked like.

But mine is different. Obviously.

Another day in, another sacrifice, another downfall, another bad decision, another step in the right direction.

Do they ever add up or is it a consistent plateau of disappointment...or a plateau of "almost there"...

And so FUN when you're out with others. It's the worst. It's a basis, a starting point.

And that's so very wrong for so many reasons.

But it's still there, and I still feel it, and I still see it.

I see it in others, and I see it in myself, and I just want it to go away and stop interuppting spontaneity.

I'm so close I can taste it, which can go either way.

I had a really weird dream last night. Well, maybe weird isn't the best word to describe it...I'll just say that it was an awakening. Yes, perfect. An awakening. So, all I really have to say is:

To the people in my life, thank you.

My family
John
Bennett
Jordan
Molly
Kelly
Molly C.

You're special.

I noticed the other day that Subway girl is going goth. Actually, let me explain Subway girl first. Um, she's not known for her intelligence. One time she made my sandwich without gloves on, and then when she rang me up at the cash register she used gloves. I didn't say anything about the whole thing because she only charged me $2.17 for my sandwich, chips, and drink...and looked at me as if this price was completely accurate. So, I let it slide and took advantage of the deal.

But that's not even the point; her attitude towards customers is of complete disinterest. You know, like a "what do you need" type tude. I want to be like, uh, Subway girl, I realize you're making 12 cents an hour, but you're giving the food I eat bad vibes and I'm not going to pay for a negative sandwich. So just smile at me and ask if I would like double meat. To which the answer is no.

Remember how I was just griping about the Walgreen's people being rude and disinterested? Well, she's not to that extreme but I group them together. I mean, I live in Chicago which has the largest sales tax in America and the least these workers could do is appreciate my business. C'mon!

Anyway, so I went to Subway last night and Subway girl was working, and I was a little depressed she hasn't recognized me yet. I mean, I have a wonderful relationship with Michelle at Panera on Fairbanks and Ohio. I go in there every morning before work and order the same thing: a cinnamon crunch bagel, sliced and toasted, to go. When Michelle sees me walk through the door, she gets my order ready and gets me to the front of the check out line. AND she tells me to TAKE CARE as I leave. She and I have a great relationship, and that's the kind of service I'd like to have.

What's even weirder is that when I went to Mezza for lunch the other day, which I do frequent quite often, one of the ladies who I didn't even recognize, remembered me somehow and goes "spicy chicken pita on wheat?" I was amazed. I didn't even know I stood out at that place and I probably hadn't even been there for a week.

I want this kind of treatment everywhere I go. I want people to know what I want, and then give it to me! With a smile.

Anyway, Subway girl. So I noticed last night that Subway girl now has a piercing in her lip. So when she says "And for you..." it's more like "Blah and fob you" because she's like conscious of the ring in her lip when she speaks so her lips stick together or something weird like that. And she added some fake extensions to her ponytail that hang over her shoulder. Neon pink ones, nonetheless. Very WalMart hair aisle. They kind of look like tentacles. Very Bratz.

OH GOD one time I ordered something with bacon on it and she microwaved the bacon for two minutes. They came out completely nuked agent orange style.

OH GOD one time I was at Subway in Iowa City and I was lucky enough to get some new kid that just started working there, and when I ordered a Subway Melt, he totally put on like 8 strips of bacon (heaven), thinking that it was a free-for-all topping or something because we all know that they have stringent quantity rules at Subway like...every 6 inch gets four slices of whatever meat, and the footlong gets eight, and if it's tuna then it's only two scoops, and so on and so forth.

OH GOD which reminds me, back to when I was at Mezza, the chick whose job it was to place the meat on the pita, was TOTALLY giving out large portions of meat on every pita. EXCEPT WHEN IT CAME TO MINE, she actually thought she put too much on and she ended up taking some off! I was so pissed. I thought I didn't get enough as it was, and then she goes and takes some off! Ugh!

It was so not fair.

Anyway back to Subway girl. Um...I have to go.

Now, what's weird about this is that I was actually at the club "Barracuda" in NYC when Candis Cayne performed the actual number for the "God Warrior" herself, which is what she is referring to and re-enacting in this video. The God Warrior, her husband, and her daughter Ashley sat next to John, Robbie, and I at the club, and were surprisingly interested in talking to us. Later we met Candis...whose fingers were abnormally long but she was still very nice, and strangely pretty.

Quite a memory.

Here are some thoughts I've been having lately:

-I'll never quite be able to understand electronic technology. The intelligence needed to hook up a tv, dvd player, home theatre system, and Tivo to succinctly harmonize in unison together is beyond my ability. The locations of all those wires sometimes keeps me up at night.

-Are grey walls too aesthetically-cold? Also, despite being an English major, I'm never confident in my ability to spell "grey" appropriately. I'm googling it right...now.

-Grey can be spelled either way, apparently, though I'm still uncomfortable with it's versatile usage.

-I really wish I liked coffee. But I really don't. At all. Coffee smells great, it's effects are great, and coffee houses are the most popular things since the invention of Kleenex. But I'm missing out. Because I don't like coffee. Not even the pretend kinds.

-SO often, gay men are SO dirty.

-Eye contact is a very critical and important means of communication/body language. I'm AWFUL at eye contact with strangers. How is it done effectively? I'd rather turn my head and NOT make potential eye contact, because sometimes eye contact is perceived as staring, or even worse, as a signal. Effective eye contact. HOW? Help...

-I need to invest in Lasik technology or perhaps utilize my vision benefits at work, since I'm paying for it anyway, because I could barely see Kathy Griffin's face last weekend and I was reasonably close. My eye sight is THAT bad. Squinting is perceived as glaring...which further complicates my eye contact issue. I'm not giving you the evil eye, I'm trying to see if you're ugly or not.

-I think people, for whatever reason, underestimate what a good catch I am. I could be with myself forever.

-Why are red carpets so glamorous? Doesn't it make you feel like you're walking through blood? Or lava?

-I don't know why, but hamburgers run through my mind allll the time.

-I greatly overlooked the necessity of having a variety of shoes.

-Sunday should always be a day of sleeping in, a good brunch, laundry, and watching a movie you've already seen.

-If I hear one more person talk about how their interests include "working out" I'm going to kill myself, or others. Including their trainer...or spotter. Or even the front desk receptionist. Get a life.

-Do you ever sympathize for the chickens that are riding in the back of those semis? I do. Aren't they cold? And hello, a little cramped.

-The people working at Walgreens need to be nicer. Just because you hate your job doesn't mean that you shouldn't offer me a bag to carry my pack of gum that I just purchased. Thank you. And yes, I want the receipt.

I'm tired of your lies,
I'm tired of your games,
I'm tired of both your Great Danes.

And another thing, I don't like your Moms
And another thing, I don't like your car.

You got a bad haircut
And your house smells weird.

And I'm tired of,
I'm tired of
you calling off our wedding.