Overthunk

(BTW, I fucking hate George Thorogood. And the Destroyers.) (Why the hell did I think he was dead? Turns out he isn't.) Anyway, I do drink alone. But every time I tell someone that, they gasp to themselves and think it's something horrible. I also drive my car alone, try on ridiculous bras alone, do breast self-examinations alone, clean my garage alone.... when you live with only your roommate and your dog, you do lots of things alone. So if I come home and feel like having wine with dinner, guess what I do? I have some. I don't call 15 friends to see if someone can come over to keep me from falling into an alcoholic abyss. Besides, I'm not REALLY alone... my pug's always home and he could run for help if needed. Long as he didn't drink too much of the beer that spilled on the floor when I keeled over (that last bit was of course, a fictional account). Crap, I have a bigger problem with eating cookies than I do drinking, and I do that alone LO

And no, I don't mean the Freudian dream. I mean standing in the geographic middle of Wal-Mart trying on panties over your panties in case the last test driver had post-coital drip. We've all done it, sometime. And it's weird. I always have this fear that the fire alarm's going to go off and the shantytown of dressing stalls will fill up with smoke and collapse, sending me running for my car with only one boob half tucked into a hot pink and black bra and panty set I have no business buying. Either that or the security guys take turns laughing at the fat woman's ass hanging out of a cheap 2X thong.

OK, I admit it. I'm a tired-of-being-so-damn-single computer geek, so to meet men, I have a personal ad up. (Once you finish laughing, I can go on.) The ad's served its purpose on several occasions, but nothing's stuck yet. Anyway, on this ad, there's a counter to tell you how many times your ad has been viewed. And this weekend, * ~~~ ``` ~ ~~ * * * ** ^^ ~~~ I HIT 1000!!! *** ~~~ `` * ~~~ ``` ~ ~~ * * * Oddly, instead of being depressed about this scientific quantification of my rejection by the opposite sex, I kind of feel like dancing a little dance or having some cake or something. Maybe cause it means I am absolutely, undeniably unique and without parallel. ;) Or not. In any case, for now, arriba spinsterhood!

For the past several years, I've taken it upon myself to plan my own birthday celebration, because I'm not that fond of surprises and figured that way I wouldn't be disappointed. And I've had some fun ones. But this year, I didn't plan anything... went to a work Christmas party on the day of, actually. The milestone is that I wasn't secretly whiny that no one else did anything either. :) I'm getting old (34) or cynical, or both. But I am more content. And this is good.

It never happens that I go on an amazing, fun date. But today I did. With a funny, gentlemanly cuddly bear of a fellow with a smartass sense of humor. We were walking along downtown, he picks something up off the ground, and hands it to me. "Wanna screw?" he says. In my hand, was in fact, a screw. :) Just a testament to the interesting nature of the universe...

Journeying to work and back today brought a whole crop of odd sights. This morning I pulled through the ol' fast food drive-thru (spelling that correctly, as drive-through? seems wrong) for a couple of greasy-but-cheap croissanwiches. In the interest of time I didn't request that the spongy puck of egg be removed from each sandwich. So, after pulling away, I partly unmade the 'sanwiches, DIY style, and got to witness the flight trajectory of an eggy disc when flung from a car window. At a speed of perhaps 7 mph, the disc angled up, making a slight "woosh" sound as it began to cut through the air. However, the disc soon lost speed and momentum, angling back down to its point of departure and flabbily flopping into the wet, muddy gutter. After work, the odd sights continued. Passing the fairgrounds, I spied a 40ish man wearing a dingy white ski jacket and carrying a yellow, rectangular pack on his back with a DART logo. Peering out the top of the pack w

Frisco's an exurb of Dallas and there's a mall there. In it's a somewhat posh, wanna-be-chi-chi eatery. Which it might be, if they didn't hire bumpkins. Yesterday, I went there for lunch, along with some other womenfolk. Got waited on by a hazel-eyed charmer of 18 or 19, whose aggressive brand of "charm" involved trying to use his amateurish high-school-football-player-style flirting on us in an attempt to get a better tip (think dumb jokes, and loud, fake laughter). He kept addressing my friend and I (we're over 30) as "girls," which irritated. When my friend complained, he, in a smarmy-sarcastic, angry tone said, "Oh, I could easily change that to LADY or MA'AM!" wielding the word "ma'am" as some kind of noxious weapon. Suffice it to say we asked for someone else to wait on us, whom we also proceeded to school in not attacking a table of innocent diners with what you find to be undeniable hotness or an awesome co

Unrelated to the last post, that is. 1. How fucked up must it be to see your face all over everywhere, when you know you murdered someone and you tried to play it off? and 2. Seems to me humanity has changed little since the screaming of the crowds at the Salem witch trials, or the Spanish Inquisition. Guilty or innocent, we delight in judging others and watching as they burn. Now, back to our regularly scheduled nonsense posts about nothing.

Near-busted a gut this morning in traffic after hearing that dear Jesse Jackson was traveling up to NJ to pray with some displaced casino workers... and truly, bless him, because I was unaware that God was cool with people finding their life's work in a gamblin' den. He should open an Employment Hotline for Out-of-Work Whores, Bookies, Highwaymen and Drunks, just to make sure no one's left out. I mean, think about it: if we don't care for our unemployed vice workers in this country, who will?

I am AOL Expressions crazy. Meaning I jack with the font/wallpaper/sound/icon of my IM on a regular basis. Much to the dismay of my less fontabulous friends. However, there is now a pumpkin smiley available which, while cute, suffers from Gaping Maw Punkin Fu (i.e. it sits in the window, grinning as its toothless mouth lurches open repeatedly until you type it off the window). Maybe it's just an attempt to be cute/scary at once. If so, it succeeds. Man, I miss reading Joe Bob Briggs in the newspaper. Fortunately, he has a website. If you miss him too, or if you know not of whence I speak, avail yourself of the glory of Joe Bob (aka John Bloom): www.joebobbriggs.com . Oh, and I stole the tacked-on "Fu" from him as well. And Gaping Maw Punkin Fu is fun to say. Try it a time or three.

As a monument to the weariness of the working class, I give you the following: After work today, I went to a lovely eating place with a lovely pal o' mine and ordered a steak which had an accompanying choice of potato. To my ears, the description of the potato options sounded like, "Baked, mashed or French Rice." "French Rice," I replied. Seconds went by as I still didn't notice my IQ points slipping out one ear and pooling onto the floor. My friend pointed out, "I think he said French Fries ." On later examination, the thought occurred to me that maybe when servers are taking your order, they're not writing down what you're asking for, but rather their opinion of you. In my case, the clean cut, helpful young man must've been scribbling " re TARD ed " across his green and white lined pad. In any case, terminally exhausted of the world, you are my kin. I feel you.

Oddly, today I had an incident on the road which makes me wonder if I am just being told by the universe to get over the whole being called fat thing. I'm driving along, this woman is behind me, not paying attention so she doesn't slow down until the last second, meanwhile leaning on the horn (blaming me for traffic?) even though everyone else on the entire highway is slowing down. She gets way too close to my tail, swerves over to the left onto the shoulder, then cuts back in front of me, flips me off and makes a gesture with both arms like she's saying how fat I am. So remember kids, as long as the driver you're blaming is fat, all your actions are excused on the road. It's carte fucking blanche, fat folk!

"Why do people ruin perfectly good haunted house stories with fucking?" -- Anony the Mous (reacting to some bad erotica)

Ever envision yourself just punching some cutoff driver in the head at a stoplight? Or, slamming rude grocery store women with a can of baked beans after they force you aside in the canned foods aisle? Yes, this is unbecoming and hardly appropriate in our age of fretting over a wrongly turned breath at one of another cultural persuasion. But the images flagrantly present themselves in my head, nonetheless. The first time I recall it happening, I was maybe 16. Being a large mammal, I was walking down some street in Washington D.C. on a trip and some guy shouted something out about how I'd better move my fat ass out of the road, cause he didn't know how he was gonna miss it, or something. Anyway, I like rocks and I just happened to have a nice, smooth round granite rock in my hand, that probably weighed 5 pounds. Enough to brain someone with through the back window of a pickup truck, surely. As the truck slowly pulled past, I envisioned myself hurling it with Olympic pre

Maybe it's a subtle form of OCD, but from time to time I get this INTENSE need to listen to particular songs or albums over and over and over and over and over and over... and sometimes I remember old songs or hear them and I MUST go out and buy them so that I can practice this obsessive behaviour with them. It's like the world is not going to be quite right until I hear the song. And hear it again. And again. And again. It's a hunger. A need. It's weird, I know. But it is there nonetheless. Always has been. Right now, the need manifests itself for the song "Beautiful Night" by the Burden Brothers. I think it kind of just expresses my views on the Universe right now at this moment in time. It's a positive, yet not naive, song. Read the lyrics below or check out a sound snippet here: http://www.theburdenbrothers.com/music.html Beautiful Night by The Burden Brothers It's a beautiful night for being lonely A beautiful night for being afraid

Driving in traffic today, I got behind an 18-wheeler semi truck with a sign on the back that stated simply, in red, capital letters: SHOW ME YOUR HOOTERS. This poses a few queries in my mind, even if in no one else's: 1. Does that work? Are there women out there who'll strip off their tank tops and let boobies flap in the wind just free for the asking? 2. If one was going to entertain such a notion, how do you maintain control of your own vehicle whilst freeing said hooters? Philosophical questions such as these boggle the mind, and will likely puzzle scientists and theologians for millenia to come.

If you haven't yet, catch the Perseids, an annual meteor shower happening for the next couple of weeks and visible from almost anywhere in the U.S. Round about 20 minutes ago, I saw the biggest falling star I've EVER seen just sitting out back waiting for the pup to poo.... clear, distinct, lengthy for a meteor streak, gorgeous. The stuff from which wishes are made. Thus, in an indirect way, a very earthbound experience led me to one of the more memorable stargazing experiences I have yet had. What a mingling of opposites. So I charge you: go forth, see comet tail, and make wishes! :)

Yep, that's a picture of cherries. Something summery I've been driven to consume, of late. Take in i ts scarlet, juicy, lush, ripe goodness nestled right there in the glass bowl, beautiful to almost all the senses we possess. Something clearly symbolic about it. Forget apples. These may have been eaten in Eden. Puts me in mind of that William Carlos Williams poem about being sorry to have eaten all the plums. Oops, I've gone derivative. :)

About six days ago, I participated in a market research study on potato chips. Well, of COURSE for money. $65, to be exact. On the way in, I and some of my fellow professional consumers became addled as to how to get into the building where the group was held, as after striding about the glass-walled canyon along the Tollway, we found 4 beautiful revolving doors and one side entrance, all locked. "Try to hustle, they're starting," the cell-phoned lady said. "But! but! Never mind," my mental antagonist railed. But hustle we all did, through the parking garage and up to the 8th floor of the glinting building to make our $32.50 per hour. There were 18 participants, all with numbered nametags. "Stay in number order!" they insisted as we filed into the room, complete with TV/VCR, board meeting chart paper, 2-way mirrors, three-pronged receiving antenna setup on a nearby table, and keypads below our seats. I and my fellow latefolk comprised the b

Man, if The Naming wasn't the very essence of this endeavor... For probably two hours, I obsessed and very pointedly overthought the title of this blog. If it wasn't for Overthunk coming along, I'd still be digging myself deeper into a chasmic hole of overanalysis and indecision. However, Namings are very important. And I didn't want to count myself among Those Who Have Named Poorly. And in the end, It named Itself. Overthunk: short, sledgehammer, and possibly ignorant. Welcome. :)