Tuesday, August 29, 2006

French Tattoos.

“Oh wise TDG, Friend, Confidant, Driver of a fantastic vehicle... knower of many things...for years I have wanted a tattoo, but been unsure of what to have permanently imprinted on my body. Then upon hitting my *gulp* thirties I realized that the time may have come and gone. My sister imparted these words of wisdom "Loser, your nickname is Dragonfly - get an effing dragonfly!" So... Should I get one... and where?” ~Dragonfly

It’s never too late to get a tattoo…until the moment after you get it. Then it’s too late to change your mind. They are forever, and even when removed they leave your skin icky and not aesthetically pleasing. The only time when it’s not possible for a tattoo to possibly not be a mistake is the day before you die. If you are not 100% sure you want one, don’t get it. As for what you want and where, you are the one who has to live with it. I would suggest a place other than your forehead. Good luck! ;-)

“Should I bite the bullet and take Term 3 of my French class even though I told off my teacher after level 2??? Keeping in mind it is the same teacher for level 3???”~Dragonfly

How badly did you tell her off, and how badly do you really want to take Term 3 of French? If the answer is “not that badly” and “Pretty badly” then take it again. Bring her an apple and apologize for blowing off steam, and blame it on your period.

Life Lessons

“Why do you think I procrastinate on cleaning my room (barracks room) so much, but yet keep a clean apartment when I have one?”~ Angel Girl

Have you ever heard the phase, “Don’t shit where you eat?” The Urban Dictionary defines it as “do not have romantic relationships with any co-workers" Basically, you don't want to make yourself uncomfortable (by potentially having a romantic relationship get ugly, or "shitting") at the place where you work ("where you eat").”

I personally think it has another definition. If it doesn’t, I’m going make it up right now. In fact, I might switch it around a bit.

Right now your barracks are where you stay, but it isn’t yours. It’s not your space, so therefore you don’t really care about it. It’s not a place where you are going to invite friends over and have a drink. Your apartment is.

Your apartment represents all that you are about. People come over and see what you represent by your apartment, and only a single video game-playing bachelor doesn’t care about a messy apartment.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like a failure when I can’t keep 950 square feet clean. It’s a reflection on me.

But no one sees your barracks, so who the fuck cares? Am I right?

“What's the absolutely worst thing you've ever eaten?”~ Rodlyman

I’ll give you the worst thing I ever drank, and the worst thing I’ve ever eaten…although technically they were both drinks.

The worst thing I’ve ever drank was “The Lemonade” from The Master Cleanse Diet. It’s a drink consisting of:

1. Hot Water
2. The Juice of 2 Lemons
3. Cayenne Pepper
4. Maple Syrup

It was the most disgusting thing ever. On the second day of the diet I got acid reflux so bad I had to stop. That crap was burning my esophagus, and to this day when I think of that drink my throat hurts.

The worst thing I’ve ever “eaten” was a Quail Egg Shooter at a sushi bar. It was just like swallowing a raw egg…and all the icky goodness that comes with it. I'm always up for trying new things at the sushi bar, but I'll never try that again!

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Ewww, Stinky

"Have you ever worn patchouli?"~Jamie

That reminds me of a great story;

My mom tried to go to her college class back in the day, and a police officer stopped her. He said to her "I'm sorry, but you can't go in there."

"You don't understand, I have a test in 15 minutes." My mother said.

"No...you don't understand; There is a riot going on on campus, and we can't let anyone in there."

Now, my mother has an agenda. She's bold. She's fearless.

Or maybe she's just crazy. But I choose to think she was/is Bold! Fearless! She had a test she needed to get to, so she told the policeman off, and walked to her class. Her professor wasn't there, and the test was put off. But she was there!

Later in life she would walk through a riot to get me from work, and I appreciated her boldness ever since. You see, my mom was fabulous hippie. True, she never walked in a protest, but she had the fashion side down pat. She only washed her jet black hair once a week, and she worked at a shoe store for a stint, so she had fabulous shoes. She had style, she had flair...and she kept everything. So earlier in my life I was a fabulous 60's throwback in my wooden wedge shoes and my bell bottoms.

But sadly, both my mother and I have an aversion to certain fabrics. So everything we shared from the good old sixties was cotton or cotton-like. Hemp, or patchouli, was far too itchy.

So, No. Never wore it. Even though I'm half hippie.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Death Machines

A few days ago I was driving down the freeway. It was unusually uncrowded, and I came upon a cement mixer. I was in the fast lane and the mixer was in the slow lane, but it was going fast enough I stayed behind it about 4 or 5 car lengths.

Then, suddenly, a cloud of dust exploded out of the bottom of the cement mixer and I watched like it was slow motion; the blown tire wrapped itself around the wheel base once more before pulling free and shooting out from underneath the truck.

It was headed straight for my brand new windshield.

I slammed on my brakes and felt my car fishtail. I let up on the brakes and straightened myself out. The remains of the tire had come within feet of my windshield. I finally came out of the dust and watched the mixer pull over and the driver get out to examine the damage.

These sort of things always happen to me, and I always say that God hates me, but my Lover Boy always says that if I had only done something different the result wouldn't be the same.

The night I told him about my accident he said, "Okay. It's official; God hates you."