Give thanks for this, why don't you.

Yeah so the fucking workweek is over.

Rejoicing ensues.

Well, rejoicing for everyone but my dad. Yeah, so excluding that grody bastard, the rest of us shmucks working for the man every day got got the fuck out of dodge and high talied it out of work.

After I finish writing this entry, I'm going to live it up a little and take a nap. Oooh, what an exciting friday for me.

You want this life, but you can't have it.

Last night while on the phone with my boyfriend, Frank, he asks me, "Do you know what you're doing for Thanksgiving?" I was like, "Um, no." Would you believe he invited me over his house for thanksgiving food? Well y to the a to the motherfucking y!!!

(That spells yay, by the way.)

Fun, fun. A not-alone thanksgiving with people who aren't my family. Yay! That was uber-nice of him. Frank made a statment about his dad probabally not knowing that I'm black. That made me laugh, I mean, a part of me hopes he doesn't mention anything, that way I can see that shocked look in his dad's eyes when Frank hits the door with this black chick. That'll be great.

Sometimes it doesn't dawn on me that other people don't know that we're "different." I mean, I was talking to one of my co-workers about Frank a month or so ago, and I said, "Here, look, here's a picture," and you shoulda seen the eyes bug out. I'm like, ??? I know it's not a good picture, but damn. Ohhhh... yeah... interracial.

I honestly forget that the label, "interracial" applies to our relationship at all. I mean, even with all the tastless racial jokes that are spewed out between us (And some of them are pretty bad. I say nigger, a lot... oh yeah, I'm the black one, in case you didn't know.)

I'm excited about thanksgiving, but last night I had a breif can't-sleep period where I got nervous. Over the past year, I've met el sistero (Who is awesome, by the way--She's the only person I've ever met who can make frank shut up without physically restraining him), but I've never met his dad. So I proceded to get really nervous.

Choice selections of mental anguish from breif moments of nervous non-sleepage: "What will I wear?" "How will I do my hair?" "Should I bring something?" and my personal favorite, "Aaahh!!" (Yeah, that's some serious anguish) After a few minutes I calmed down, but I, miss "Social instigator," herself am marginally nervous about eating dinner at my boyfriend's house on thanksgiving.

I suppose that's what you normal people call, "normal." People do get nervous, right?

At some point I'll discuss all this junk with Frank, but for the time being, I'll be all, aaahh.

I have another half-finished entry which I'll post later. It's about 13 year old boys... but not my dad.

So, It's nap time.

hearts and butterflies,

pam

Written, Friday, Nov. 21, 2003 at around: 2:30 PM

Damn kids and their music.

Oh, and another thing-- if you have music playing on your personal website-- take it off. For the love of god, it so isn't 1996 anymore. Websites have come a long way from looking like this to this and (god forbid) this (then) to this(now).

Yes Wil, that music sucks announcment goes for your page too.

That shit's annoying, my fellow internet developers.

Music will not only encourage me to immediatley close the window, but I'll never visit your site again.

...

Oh, today is "Hello Day." Say hello to someone, or you could just do what I've been doing and instead of saying hello.... give people the finger. The ultimate results are much more interesting.

hearts & butterflies,

pam

Written, Friday, Nov. 21, 2003 at around: 2:20 PM

You know who you are.

You!

Sitting there, reading this with no remorse for what you've done. You know good and damn well that we all heard your shamless bellows of gas-passing while you were in the ladies room.

I mean, if your ass sounds like a fog-horn, it's hard to miss.

But I'm not upset about farting noises, no. We all make farting noises when taking a shit, and if you gotta go in the public toilet, then that's fine. I have no hate in my cold, cold, heart for those who publicly fart.

I do, however, have a special place hidden, far, away deep in the chasams of my colin for the girls who take a nasty, rotten, foul shit in the public bathroom, and refuse to show their shame publicly by grabbing the damn bottle of lysol, and preventing the stench from hovering.

Come on, man, we all know it was you, in the third from the last stall, blowin' up the damn toilet, and making the tiny grunting noise while pooting it out.

Splash.

All you have to do is pick up the spray, and take responsiblity for the stink you created.

A public service, brought to you by,

pam