This is a placeholder until I can make my mind move towards words that mean something.

I made a smoothie today.

With spinach. I feel pretty powerful about it.

I’m also working on a little art project involving the Highlander and Pixels. Until then, behold the stupid fan art I made yesterday because I am a ridiculous person. A ridiculous GENIUS person.

I did not get the internship at io9 I applied for. Probably because I write sentences which end in prepositions. And sentence fragments. I do that too. Usually.

I’m a little wounded about this and spent yesterday afternoon licking my pen wielders (hands, for you mortals) and staring into my soul. It was pretty dusty. Note to self: use Pledge on soul.

I know only losers quit when the chips are down so I will not give up, but GOD I WANT TO GIVE UP SO BADLY. <—–loser.

I’m not sure what to do with myself now. The journalism community is a, er, strange one: withholding, jealous, and incapable of returning emails to anyone in a timely manner. Jobs are scarce and the competition is overwhelming and peopled by Harvard degree shaped young persons with perfect comma placement and diamond encrusted resumes. All I have is an over active imagination and a jar of pennies. It’s a really big jar of pennies, though so that’s…something. Right?

It was 100 degrees in San Francisco yesterday but we DID NOT PANIC. Instead, we bought about thirty fans and placed them strategically about the hot, hot apartment. Then we left.

In other news, Patrick Coleman (food editor-in-charge-or-something-super-important from the Mercury) was here this weekend and asked me out (not in that way internet) for burritos and I was forced to decline. This made me so sad because although I give him shit on Blogtown ALL THE TIME he still wants to be my friend for some unknown reason and now I want to hug him. Right now. Patrick, get ready to be hugged.

And when Rob Simonsen (music writer for the Mercury) was in town last week-ish we had a dog emergency and I was forced to decline there, too. AAAAND his friend and my Twitter friend Michael “Plumpy” Plump keeps asking me to get ice cream and I keep saying no because I am an asshole. Who says no to ice cream with Plumpy? Communists, that’s who.

All this declining of thoughtful invitations has been circumstantial, yes, but I have to admit I’m feeling less than social again. I don’t know why. I haven’t felt like blogging either, obviously. Usually, this would be because I felt anxious or fat or whatever, but that’s not it. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Effexor. Maybe it’s San Francisco. Getting out helps, I know.

We went to a Giant’s game on Saturday and I had chosen the option to send the tickets to my cell phone because yay technology! Before we left I plugged my phone in to charge it and well, you can see where I’m going with this….I thought Dane was going to strangle me with the dirty limbs of a poor person when we got to the park and I realized I’d forgotten my phone but then suddenly an angel appeared before us in the guise of a middle aged ex ballplayer sports fan guy and gave us two tickets on the lower deck. For reals. FOR REALS.

Thank you, Giant’s jersey wearing Oakley sunglasses sporting middle aged hair parted down the middle guy. You saved our marriage.

I’m playing Bioshock.

Go about your business.

We went to dinner with some work people last night. I had an arugula salad and a little warm goat cheese with apples and toasted bread. The goat cheese came in this Bunsen Burner type contraption which kept the cheese gooey by heating it with a tea light. Clever! Also, good to know that in the event of a machine uprising we’ll be able to eat warm cheese without the aid of electricity. SUCK IT ROBOTS.

I also had three margaritas. Well, I shared the third margarita with Dane but this was still many more margaritas than I’ve had in months and I was a little tiny bit voluble and vociferous and vehement. I was also vorple with my sword but that is neither here nor there.

Anyway, I think I ranted at Dane for like eleven hours about my idea to make a Highlander comic (I’M SERIOUS DARK HORSE CALL ME) and my inability to focus on blogging right now because I’m trying to write for other people and so blogging for myself sounds so…meh. Also I talked about my hair. Obviously.

So, there is a new Wordpress theme which magically transforms your blog into a Twitter-y experience: more like a conversation and less like a peep show. A peep show of the MIND. And of the UNDERWEAR.

Dane SAYS he’s going to install it for me this weekend but we’ll see how that goes. Sometimes he promises me the moon but only delivers the stars which makes me sad because I had planned my whole wardrobe around a moon theme and stars won’t really, you know, go with anything I have and also I think I’m allergic to stars and other space made fabrics anyway so I probably should have asked for something more practical like a cinemascope or a baby bear. Oh well, the more you know, I guess.

I might still be high from that weed pill I took last night. (KIDDING FUTURE EMPLOYERS)

And here is a picture of me in the ladies’ room at Luna Park Kitchen. And confidential to our friend Robert of Shoes on Powerlines, I tweeted it. Oh yes I did because TWITTER IS AWESOME.

#twitterfight !

This week has been a total nightmare and if it weren’t for Twitter, monetary help from family (humiliating), and my precious precious Effexor I would probably be murdering myself right now. I know there is another word for doing that but for the LIFE OF ME I can’t remember what it is. (See what I did there? With the words?)

Anyway, let’s just say that no matter how solid and warm fuzzy feeling you think a friendship is, when it comes to business ALWAYS SIGN A CONTRACT. Also and just TOTALLY unrelated: people are dicks.

Moving on, I applied for something awesome a couple of days ago and Ferik Penriksen sent a reference letter out informing the awesome people of my skillz in regards to spelling (obviously), hair hygiene, and feline photography. I don’t see how I can lose.

I haven’t heard back from said people though so I will just obsessively tweet my fears and woe feelings away until the nice people either tell me yes or I never hear from them and am forced to eat my weight in ice cream to make the pain go away. DELICIOUS.

Also, that would be 125 pounds in ice cream.

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh God. I am a liar. Thank Internet for the Twitter and the Blogpresses or I would be murdering myself again. DAMN IT WHAT IS THAT WORD?

Sui..sigh…Sulemon dull.

SULEMON DOLL. NADYA SULEMON DOLL. Yes, I would be doing that.

#uprise

Sexyish Secretaryish.

(This was all I had in my closet)

My Sexy Secretary name is Kiala Vagina and my boss is well, Mr. Dane Hesselballs. We’re working on a whole thing. It’s not WEIRD okay because we’re regular married instead of opposite married. #christianlogic #oppositelogic #notregularlogic #bullshit

I need a twittervention.

I have an irrational fear of being told what to do. In my particular effed up psyche this results in a constant state of anxiety and over alertness like a cat in a field surrounded by predators, butterflies, and dustbunnies. Basically, I’m constantly at def con one waiting for the other shoe to drop and shoring up the levees in an effort to not ever be told I did something wrong which would KILL me with the killing words. (SO MANY METAPHORS)

And God forbid someone tries to tell me to do something. Ferik Penriksen once told me I had to call him ON THE TELEPHONE and I moved to San Francisco in retaliation.

In Catholic School I was in detention more often than not for quietly rebelling against the dress code or whatever. And I got kicked out of preschool for my inability to nap. So I have, what they call, a history. Of pointless rebellion.

Anyway, I have no point to this post. Consider it a warning. Or, conversely, a fable. Of pointless rebellion.

Oh goddammit. I’m just going to write a book. I’m tired of all this waffling* about what to do with my writing words.

Title and subject suggestions in the comments please.

*I do believe in waffles just like the Bible says. I don’t believe in opposite waffles, though. No offense.

YOU GUYS. San Francisco has beaches! WHY DID NONE OF YOU TELL ME ABOUT THIS?

Yesterday, at about half past feeling sick from the oppressive heat and humidity, Dane and I said, “fuck it” and took ZZ to the beach. We figured we’d eat sand for dinner and spend food money on a zipcar instead. A zipcar with AIR CONDITIONING. It was glorious.

I took a cold shower first and put my wet hair back in a bun, threw on a dress and some sandals and sprinted to the car. And by “sprinted” I mean “flipflopped slowly but with determination towards the only thing keeping me from ripping Dane’s head off and using it as a parasol.”

So we drove to the beach, parked and let ZZ loose to chase seagulls and poop happily in the sand. I was a little worried about how she’d feel about the water because she has an unnatural fear of baths and rain and wet sidewalks. Weird, I know. She’s very delicate, our ZZ. Even when she has the gas, it’s delicate gas.

But man, she loved the shit out of the ocean. She ran up and down the beach with Dane, her little golden sausage body jiggling and bouncing in a not unerotic manner (what?) and chased the tides in and out and attacked the seaweed and scared the crap out of the little kids (YES). And then some old hippy woman with a white fanny pack (not ironic) and Reebok High Tops (again, not ironic) walked by and gave ZZ the glad eye. I saw the hippy tense up and so I warned Dane that the lady had that “Oh, your dog is so beautiful, I had a dog like that for 18 years but she died yesterday can I hug her with my face” look about her and sure enough the lady bellied up to us (and I swear the word sounds came from inside her fanny pack but that was probably just the ocean air making me hallucinate) and her fanny pack said, “Is that a golden retriever? My grand kids have a golden retriever and they are such lovely dogs and oh I just have to pet her hello sweetie OH MY CHRIST SHE TRIED TO BITE MY FACE OFF!” And then the fanny pack ran away away crying or laughing or something terrible and scary like that.

People. Stop trying to touch my dog, okay? She doesn’t try to touch you.

ALSO, I saw many many youngish brunette hipster girls in bikinis with belly fat and squishy thighs and all manner of pale, not perfect, normal lady bodies and this made me so happy that I might go buy a bikini. We’ll see. I’ll try to keep you updated.

BONERS! Sorry. I’ve been on Twitter too long, obviously.