Sitting in a coffee shop (I'll admit it, it was a starbucks), I ws thinking about the phrase 'flipping you shit' 'cause I use it all the time.  Who came up with this phrase?  I find it slightly distrurbing that my favorite excuse for insulting someone or thing is that I am just 'flippin them shit.'  Was this at one time a literal term, like on a farm?  Like a bunch of cowboys being asses and flipping horse shit on some other poor cowboy and saying 'what?  i'm just flipping you shit.  calm down.'  I'd hate to have shit flipped on me.  If fact, i'd be down right pissed and I'd tackle that pissant and rub their face in said flipped shit.  But, I am always flippin people shit, and it surprises me that people take offense to me joking around.  I always state the shit flipping I am doing, like I it is okay for me to make fun of them, or that I am instantly obsolved of all insults and mean remarks.  So I asked myself what would I NOT mind being flipped with.  Marshmallow fluff.  I wouldn't care if I was flipped marshmallow fluff.  I tried it out at the starbucks, insulting the overly cheery barista boy, and following it up with 'i'm just flippin you marshmallow fluff.'  He gave me the weirdest look.  Either, way I'm not gonna win.  I probably shouldn't say anything.

Literally working on my 11th cup of coffee, I know this because I only brew a 4 cup pot at a time.  This is in hopes that I will stop my coffee consumption at the first 4 cup pot and also because my gigantic glasses hold precisely 4 cups of black sludge with Splenda, no cream/milk/dilutions.  I'm on my third pot, 3/4's done with the cup.  One cup on my coffee is like 3 of someone else's inferior brew.  I want my coffee so strong you cannot see through it; that is the first indication of a good cup, complete opacity.

I was perusing the B4M website and it's insane how much has change and what predictibly has remained the same.  Joe's got a ladyfriend, shiet!  Pheonix sent Ness a hokey pokey Elmo, shiet!  Cavutto still has the same pictures up, shiet!  And Cappy's got herself some bottle-opening Reefs, shiet!  I remember a time when I would spend a good 6 hours on this joint.  Whoa. 

I was thinking about what I want for Christmas, and I want a Sonicare toothbrush.  I have wanted this dental hygiene implement for the past 4 Christmas' and still have yet to receive it.  I also previously asked for a robe all of those Christmas' and ended up breaking down and purchasing it myself.  I really want the Sonicare tooth brush though.  Or some SPD bike shoes.  I think I'm not gonna get the toothbrush again.  Damn. 

Why people quit their amazing high-paying jobs with great benefits and power-tripping priviledges to open a doggy daycare in LA.  You're brain literally tries seeping out of your ears some days and you realize you'd be a hundred times happier and have a good 5-7 additional hours to spend sleeping and you don't actually need that fat bank account.  I was drunkenly stumbling home after a depressingly short yet alarmingly draining work day and I made the above realizations.  I wasn't actually drunk, I was having a moment of extremely low blood sugar caused by my brian trying to focus, thus not leaving my office and all that I could reach was cookies all damn day, and I was dehydrated because my coffee pot is closer than my water jug.  Needless to say, it was a sorry state of mind, but all I wanted to do was get my spin certification and be a Spin Coach.  Spin Coach Chy!  All I'd have to worry about is maintaining a high a perky ass to bounce a quarter off of, and making sure the morbidly obese girl in the corner that is red-faced and sweating like a stuck pig does keel over on her bike and make a coronary run towards heart failure.  That's all.  Life would be good.

My job is just too much stress for no reward.  I cop a huge attitude, and think it's justified because I'm the only one getting their ass outta bed and into work at 6:30 on mornings I don't hit the gym and 7:15 on morning I do.  Yet I'm still there at 5:30, and if it weren't for the fact that I have a gorgeous and great boyfriend who may just want to see me occassionally, I'd be there later.  I have 6 days till Christmas and all I have managed to purchase was a singular leather jacket that I promptly gave to the recipient because the thought of sneaking back to the store, purchasing it, taking it home, wrapping and taking it back to the man that is standing IN FRONT OF ME was too much effort, time and thought.  Here you go, Merry Christmas, done.  I just want to be able to leave my job at work, and enjoy my sisters, my dad and step mom.  I don't want to lay awake in the middle of the night wondering if I forgot someone, something and tomorrow one of my clients is going to call me and tell me their bank account was frozen and they didn't buy presents for their 15 Jersey kids and the mortgage is already in arrears and they no food.  I know I put it on myself, but it don't make it go away. 

I love the constant pressure of work, I know I'll need to be challenged at whatever I end up doing, but at least by then hopefully I'll be making my own hours and be able to use my Mariners knowledge to smack some smarts into Bivasi.  And have the dough to fly my brother out for a week long Mariner's/Yankees baseball binge.  I feel that I have almost mastered tax law, without passing the bar, and I want to learn other parts of law to be able to market myself better while funding my insanely expensive tuition I am anticipating, but I'll never make it to law school if I don't cut back, let alone learn another market.  The rate I'm going, I'll be lucky to see one Mariners game this year, although, they are starting to look remarkably like the Royals right now.  Did anyone see they let go PINEIRO!!!!!!!  And, with my luck, it'll be the RSox against M's playing like they are 29 out 30 ranked MLB franchises on my birthday and I will cry 'cause no Pineiro, no playoff hopes, no REAL baseball in Seatle.  I love baseball.

If I became a spin coach, Spin Coach Chy, I'd probably end up trying to have an intellectual conversation with some gym rat whose concern with bicep measurements was temporarily interupted by his remembering the spin coach has an ass to bounce a quarter off of, and stumbled into my perky cardio bike hell.  He'll think my thoughts on tax and immigration are a come on and I'll end up a statistic.  Maybe I'll stick with law.

The big 'ol turkey day scares me like none other.  Everytime November hits, I'm like a scared child for 3 good months.  There is no other time in which not only is it acceptable to gorge yourself, it is encouraged.  November 1st comes and all the sudden people are spouting off paragraph long menus, intricatedly created dishes with the sole intent to make you loosen your belt, unbutton those jeans, over eat, gain 15 pounds in 37 minutes.  Thanksgiving not only means eating copious amounts of food, it also means eating this in front of others.  I hate eating in front of others, but strangely only around the end of the year.  I don't care if it's family or friends, or complete strangers.  I'd rather sit back like a fly on the wall, plate empty, entirely unnoticed, oking at others as the talk and laugh, all through the endless repeatitive motion of fork-to-mouth, fork-to-mouth. 

This year I had the unfortunately occassion of spending thanksgiving in the company of complete strangers.  I didn't want to be there, I dreaded it like the plague, but attended for a close friend.  A day centered around cooking, eating, socializing.  I was in heaven.  It was complete hell.  I'm obsessed with food in an entirely unhealthy way.  I covet it like a worshipper to a diety; purseing acknowledgement of unwavering respect and adulation, ceaseless journey to finally become worthy of their blessing.  Yet, I am certain I do not need it.  So I fixate. Other people's eating habits become fascinating.  Like I can learn what it is like to be 'normal' just by observing those that are 'normal.'  "She subsists on carbs and jelly, hmmm."  "He eats shakes and wafers, interesting."  Everyday is puncuated by what I ate, what I didn't eat; in other words when I was strong, when I was weak.  I come home and recreate my day for those that ask in what I feel others would think is important.  Everytime someone asks me how my day was, I want to say something along the lines of: "I had miso soup and nothing else, pat me on the back!" or "I can't even tell you everything I ate, I had so much.  I'm depressed."  Purely pathetic.

I intentionally turned down the offer to bring home leftovers, stating instead that my family will bring home plenty, there will just not be enough room.  Knowing that if I did, I'd awake at 1 in the morning, hungry, but not physically.  Hungry only becuase I know there is food , dazed walking to fridge, eating turkey-ham-marshmallowed-yam-cranberry-mashed-potato sandwiches in the dark.  A slim triangle of light seeping from the refridgerator, cutting through the dark kitchen, illuminating me.  A crazed lady with the mentality of an ex-con, recently escaped from starvation penitentiary.  Dramatic, yes.  But aren't we all dramatists; beneath the cranial interiors of the skull, through the gray matter of brains, deep in the firing synapses we create and star in the melodramas of our lives.  My just happens to be on the stage of a plate, pie and cottage cheese my supporting actors.  We sway and twirl in choreographed dances, all saying "i need you/i don't need you."  Geez, I can't wait for Christmas dinner.

Addiction.  My step-Ma introduced me to CSI: Miami and I have an addiction now.  Full fledged.  Day after turkey day is CSI: Miami marathon and I have been watching since, I dunno, 11:00-ish.  I love the horrible acting by David Caruso, he's just so, so, so Barry White-faux-deep-voice-serious-all-the-time fake.  LOVE IT!  And how many red-headed lead characters do you know.  NONE, that's right.  Okay, maybe one,b ut still, they are a minority when it comes to high-drama cop show stars. 

Can we pay beautiful respect to Eric Delko for half a second?  Grr. 

And I've got a HUGE sweet spot for goofy nerds, so I think it's serious infatuation with Ryan Wolfe right now, although, I have to say, he needs more screen time.  He's a dork, he's a smarty, he's a smart-ass! 

CSI: Miami is great.  I'm not a huge t.v. person either, but for some reason I just can't get enough.  Maybe I'm morphing into a couch potato.  I better purchase Tony Little's Gazelle so I can work out during my endless crime show marathons.  I have been known to simultaneously watch CSI the original, and CSI: Miami.  I even watch SVU.  Dweeb.  Ooooo, Horatio's on!

A client called me yesterday and made me feel like the biggest idiot ever.  And I hate that.  I hate feeling inferior, especially in the intelligence area, and double especially when it's a commercial fisherman that is making me feel that way.  He didn't actually say thing and I didn't say anything that would lead anyone that I am lacking in the brains department, but just yelling at someone, losing your cool and all-out shouting makes me feel dumb. 

I pride myself on being extremely cool, dipolmatic, knowledged and even keel when I talk to my clients.  I always feel like another person comes out because normally I'm a ditz, klutz, loud-mouthed goof ball.  But to clients you'd think that I get my kicks out of chess and botany, the most emotion drive outburst is a smile showing teeth at a small child.  This dude yesterday made me lose my cool and it made feel like I'm not good at what I do, or I should be doing something else that doesn't involve communicating with other human beings.  The entire office heard me shouting at this guy, other people were sticking their heads in my office to look at my beet-red face and mouth questions like 'are you okay?' and 'what's wrong?'  Sometime during the conversation I composed myself, lowered my voice and tried to present rationale to this guy.  The whole time he just yells and yells and yells, won't let me tell him how I can help, what he needs to do, he just basically repeats the same three questions and calls me a liar.  Only once did he call me a liar, but boy, that chaps my ass.  Hate being called a liar.  I courteously told him I was tired of listening to him yell, we weren't getting anywhere and would he call back and talk to the owner when he returned from his hunting trip. 

That damn dude called back, was transfered to my attorney and was an entirely different guy.  Sweet as pie, said things like "I am your puppy dog, tell me what I have to do."  "My balls are between my legs, I am scared."  Furious.  So friggen furious, I wanted to start the yelling match all over again knowing he was lying.  The worst was, the attorney got the info out of him, calmed him down and actually made progress.  A day later I feel like a failure.  Why couldn't I have done that?  I know he needed to vent and it's not as cathartic to yell unless the other person is yellng too.  That's where I came in, but a truly successfull person should be able to yell, scream, allow the other person to vent, calm, satiate, and make progress.  I got the first part, now I think I need angermanagment.

The attorney and I essentially played the tax debt equivalent of good cop/bad cop, but if I was truly good at relations, I would have done the whole damn things myself.  So now I feel less-than-average on the intelligence quotient.

if I had the chance to be invisible for one night, it would be Sunday night before the Giants play.  I would sneak in and touch their heinies.  It would be so cool!  I would start with Shockey, then Burress, Kiwanuka, Feely...Then I would sneak into the Patriots locker room and touch Brady's heinie.  And oogle him.  I love me some hot man-toosh.

Although I prefer baseball to football, baseball does not require as much physical fitness.  Football players are always running, and squating and being tackled and that makes for a very nice toosh. 

I love that Sierra mist Cranberry commercial.  So funny.  Made me laugh out loud.  Guess that does constitute funny.

I've a grunter at my gym.  I just so happen to know the dude, and I never noticed his grunting before, but all the sudden, grunt grunt grunt.  All the time.  Drives me crazy!  I've been cracking nasty comments about how weak he is if he has to grunt while working with the free weights, but nothing has stopped.  Come to think of it, I think my gym is being over run by grunters.  A few weeks ago a bodybuilding dude I know showed up to my yoga class class grunting like a drunken rhino.  Soon the whole place will sound like a hog farm.  Sheesh.  What is the fitness world coming to?

The holiday hawk.  Funny crap

Now that is a phrase that I should incorporate into my life.  Or at least I need someone, somewhere to tell someone else a story about me and have that phrase (as part of my description) uttered during that conversation.  As in "So, you know that girl, Chy?  We were heading to that new club for a night out, right? And I show up at her house and she comes out dressed in an amazingly chic and unique outfit that accentuated her eyes, armed with a torch.  I tell you, everytime we hang out, the shit hits the fan."  Or something like that. 

I'd be more intimidating if I spontaneously showed up places armed with a torch.  "Why you carrying a torch, Chy?"  "Oh you know.  It's gonna be dark in about 6 hours.  Just thinking ahead."  Or "Last night I couldn't find my keys in my purse, tonight I brought my own light source.  Or "Firelight is more flattering, duh."  Myriad of rhetorical comments do I carry in my arsenal.  As a 5'2 lady of average looks and above average intelligence, you gotta be snappy with the balderdash.  At least no one will call me unprepared if I'm armed with a torch.  Probably look taller too.

I'm thinking law school.  Seriously thinking this may be my next career step.  Currently I have the extremely impressive (joke) big-wig job of paralegal in tax law, and now I'm thinking that simply isn't good enough.  Better than a paralegal, not to mention more prestigious, challenging and high paying would be to bite the bullet, fork over the hefty pocket change, say good bye to any pipe dream of a social life and pursue the Bar.  So, I'm mulling it over.  Like spicy wine.

I'm concerned with how well I would do in such a highly competitive academic arena that would be my daily life.  I have never felt the need to challenge myself intellectually, and I have nevr been challenged.  This would be an incredibly valuable learning experience, not just as a career move, or step on a path towards a career, but to learn how well I work under this competitive pressure.  I like to think that I am non-comfrontational/competitive, but I know I am.  Professional success acheived by others BURNS me.  I ignite with a fire of jealousy, knowing that I not only could acheive that kind of success, but I could do it better, faster, smarter.  It's not that I thinkt hat I just friggen rule in all respects, but I hold myself to a higher standard.  But essentially, I have done nothing to reach that standard.  Really, every day that goes by in which I do not have a set career path or goal is what I consider a failed day, a waste of time.

One of my clients told me today about his daughter who wanted to become a paralegal, but instead she fell in love, got married and really didn't amount to anything professionally.  Not that I look down on that, but it's not me.  I assured him that I had no aspirations of a personal life.  When I future plan my life (which is a daily occurance), I only envision my professional accomplishments.  I see myself in a profession that I love, that occupies my time, and makes me feel fulfilled.  I don't need dinner parties and social gatherings, not that I would turn them down, but what is important is to feel important in what I do.  Right now, my job makes me feel invaluable, mostly because of my particular situation.  But ultimately, I want to continue that kind of fulfillment thoughout my life.  I won't achieve the same kind of felt effect in other part of my life.  I must show that I amount to something.  I think I would be a great lawyer, and it would challenge me for decades.  It's an ever evolving field, and once passing the bar I can move from tax law to family law to immigration law to corporate law and if I really wanted to make some money and lose all respect for myself, criminal law.  I'm thinking.

I always wanted to write though.  I always wanted to do something in a literary creative field; editing, publishing, journalism, etc.  I do make a damn intimidating and beautiful breach-of-contract letter though.

I think people on elevators are weird.  Unless you get on with me or after me, it's too easy for me to assume you live on the friggen thing.

So, I hop on the elevator today and some dude is on there.  We've got cool little tv's on our ele that you can stare at to postpone eye contact and/or communication with other human beings temporarily.  As soon as I jump on the thing, this dude (who I will assume lives on the friggen thing) says "Welp, Gates bought something else today."  I had just gotten back from a smoke break, so I was feeling pretty good and I launch into this shpeel:  "Whoa.  Really?!?!  I hope he bought a small third world country.  You know, if he was smart, he'd buy a small third world country, nuke it to oblivion and turn it into a kumquat orchard.  The whole thing.  Then he could name it Kumquatia, and the people who work the third-world-country-turned-kumquat-orchard would be called Kumquatians, and they would be happy to work in the orchards all the time.  See, kumquats are delicious and under-rated.  The women would smell like kumquats and the hills would be alive with the sights of kumquats.  Children would worship the kumquats.  And with so many kumquats, he'd probably end world hunger, thus ending strife, bringing about a new era of world peace.  I have the answer to world peace, but the Man doesn't wanna listen.  That's why I'm just a paralegal, and Gate's won't buy a third world country."

I skipped merrily off the ele.  That's when I realized, the people on the ele aren't weird, it's me.  I just assume they are because they aren't like me and therefore must be strange.  I hope I don't run into that dude again.  I'd make for one weird ele ride.

I've propelled myself out of a cozy and good smelling bed for 110 degree torture.  Every day I decide to go to Bikram class I think I really am a masochist. 

I haven't Bikram'd in a while, so I tried to temper myself back into the tropical posing arena by attending my buddy Craig's Hot Yoga class at the gym.  Craig is an amazing teacher.  He knew I had injured my ankle pretty badly so he spent the class offering up variations and checking in on me, without distracting the class.  But, this class had the unfortunate luck of having a grunter in attendence.  Oh man, it was a Seinfeld-ien kind a class.

Now that I had the grunter I feel like lightning will strick twice.  My first Birkam class I was exposed to a Jolly Santa Clause-sized man in a white speedo.  Equiped with a beard and hairy chest, he didn't work out.  He just laid on his mat watching us.  Uber-creepy.  It was so incredibly hard to concentrate when Gruntee was making downward dog love to the friggen floor.  I had to leave early because I just couldn't hold poses.  It would be so much harder in Bikram, at least during Hot Yoga at the gym, you don't feel like a friggen zen hostage.  I feel if I left Bikram early, I'd become a yoga outcast.  Shunned by others, I would wander the streets of Seattle, teal yoga mat on my back, knocking at doors trying to convince someone to let me practice.  "Please ma'am, I'm just a lowly yoga student....."

Birkam, gah! I can't believe i pay for this torture.  But I only say the prior to class.  Afterwards when I smell like a jock strap and look like a sweaty wrinkly red Umpa-Lumpa, I'll be feeling pretty damn proud of myself.

I unfortunately am one of those that has to take the time to consider their acheivements.  It hits me like a ton of bricks in the middle of a movie, in the middle of downtown Seattle, and ruins an otherwise mediocre year.

I don't consider my achievements.  They are falsities, afflicted events that effect other's lives more than mine, leaving me 23 and unhappy; ruminating over 'what might have been's and 'maybe if's.  My ill-fated efforts have ruined the lives of my siblings.  Scratch that, ruined what could have been great lives of my siblings.  Who knows; my siblings could have cured cancer, but because of my big-mouth, may not amount to more than sowing a row of oats and 15 right-wing conservative children.  Fantastic.  Way to do my part. 

There are time in which I attempt internal deliberation, I try to figure what lead me to this point.  I do it every day and I consider it entirely selfish.  Who am I to put myself before others?  I have been doing this since I had recollection and where has it gotten me?  To Seattle, debating whether my brother's unhappiness and my mother's neediness and my step-mother's addiction are cause of me.  Why did I turn out this way?  Why am I so afflicted by some unknown, yet entirely acknowledge quandry?  Why can I not conquer what consumes me?  I'm not weak, nor ill-educated.  I know that no matter what acheivements I may accomplish in the course of my life, I will never erradicate the memories of my past.  I realize I am not trying to impress my sister, succeed my mom or generate respect from my brother.  I am only trying to out do myself and the unattainable level I have set.  I realized just why I do not think I deserve respect or generosity or integrity; which is because I already decided I'm unfit.  Sad.

I like to think that you are in charge of everything (and I do mean everything) that happens to you in your life.  I just don't believe in placing blame on others.  Unhappy with your childhood, well, maybe you shoulda got out there and played for once in your meager life.  Unhappy with your job, weight, house, personality, spouse, children, state of affairs?  Well, get off your lazy complaining ass and DO something about it.  So when it hit me that those around me were entirely able to blame majority of their problems and therefore unadequate lives on a simple answer I happened to give in the company of one woman and one man when i was 11, well, it just kinda knocks you on your ass.  I am crushed.  No wonder I stumple around looking for the Virgin Mary of all occupations that will end world hunger AND enable me to spoil my siblings beyond compare with worldly possessions.  Because I am a) selfish beyond reasoning and b) I have few lifetimes worth of guilt I carry around. 

If giving the chance, I'd walk back to that Virginia house of hell if it meant my brother would acknowledge his potential and my sister didn't have to go the a private Christian college in MN and my step-mother didn't have one hell of an addiction.  Nothing is worth the daily regret. 

I went outside for a little late-night smoke break (because contrary to popular belief, 8 is late to me) and I was looking into my kitchen while walking up my driveway, and the shadows looked like someone was upstairs in my kitchen creeping around.  Freaked me OUT!  I'm the only one home, all alone, and I had exited via the back door on the bottom level of my house, so it is completely fesible that someone could be upstairs and I would have no idea.  And I don't believe in locking my doors (I live dangerously!) and I'm always oblivious to my surroundings and sounds.  So creeped out now.  I should start using precautionary measures for my own safety.  I prefer being alone in my home, I don't like roommates or people in general, and I assumed that I would live to an age where I could afford to purchase a nice sized living area that I could wander around alone.  Something about walking around a multiple-roomed home that you have all to yourself.  I'd love the solitude.  Maybe I don't like to share.  But, I'll end up maimed if I don't start locking the doors.  I should get a guard dog.  Nah.  Sharing with a dog would be too much for me.  Great, I have sufficiently creeped myself and now I'm all hyped and anxious, anticipating a dirty axe-murder to come lumbering down the stairs any moment.  I should have never watched Texas Chainsaw Massacre alone in the dark.  That crap really happened!

Also creepy, gay guys that wink at you.  Well not creepy, but what is up with that.  I got a a buddy, Josh who is of the homosexual variety and he is constantly winking at me.  Light my cig, wink.  Say hi, wink.  Ask a question, wink.  I'm always thinking, WTF Josh, knock that crap off.  It's strange.  I used ot be a winker, but people we misinterpreting it, so I ceased the winking.  That winking wanker.

I'm gonna be a NY ganster for Halloween, complete with a fedora and a tommy gun.  Pinstripes and a ves and a big 'ol tie.  I should practice my Italian mob accent, and use terms like "swim with the fishes."  Ooooo, can't wait!  Badass!

I had a dream that I wrote a blog about mustard.  French's plain 'ol boring primary color mustard, with the squeeze tip that crusts over, but is the perfect tip for applying shapes and designs to hotdogs and sandwiches.  Mustard is the best condiment, not that artery-cloging white lard like substance.  So disgusting, I won't even justify it's presence by writing it name.  Gross.  Although, I know Natanis lives the stuff.  And I had an uncle that would literally eat it with a spoon.  It doesn't even have a taste. 

Anyway, the dream, all I remember is a hotdog (in bun) flying through the sky.  A giant hotdog, and I'm applying a perfect squiggly line of yellowy mustard goodness down the middle.  I would go as far as to say this hotdog was a model hotdog.  I hope it was one of the tofu dogs; I don't eat horse hooves and rat that they generously throw in other hotdogs.  Now, I want a hotdog.  A vegetarian dog. 

I woke in a grouchy mood, which isn't me.  I went to bed in an even worse mood, but that was more of an depressed/sad and want to read a book and eat Arby's food all night mood.  This morning I woke insanely early because my stupid foot is THROBBING.  It is hurting more this morning than any other day since the intial pain-fest.  So I hop on the 'puter to make my sports picks for tomorrows games, but nothing is leaping out at me, which sucks.  I thought I'd research the teams, maybe learn something.  Firing the 'ol synapses also perks me up.  But no.  Still in a lame ass mood.

Well Muse came on the Sirius radio and I'm am almost in a better mood.  It more of acknowledging an attempt may be made in the next three and a half hours to perk myself up.  Like a light at the end of a 374km tunnel.  It's there.  It's just gonna take a long time to get there.  I may have to go buy myself a new set of really nice sheets to cheer myself up, 'cause the divine ones know I ain't buying high-heeled beautiful stilletos anytime soon.  Ironically, I purchased two new pair of insanely high and deliciously gorgeous shoes the day before I sprained my ankle.  I look at fondly with a touch of grief everytime I open my closet.  The are prominently displayed.  One day.  One day.

I wonder if Arby's a) has breakfast and b) delivers.  I'm thinking not, I may have to settle for meusli.

Oh and thank you Muse for the perk.

I'm in the market for a bike.  I want a really cool one, and considering the time frame for my stupid ankle, I'll be biking before I'll be jogging.  Lame.  Anyways, I've been searching on craigslist for bikes 'cause you can find some sweet crap on their for a minimal price.  I thought I should get a touring bike so I can throw some saddle bags on it and go for a long ride and the seats are comfy for distance and the tires aren't crazy wide like a mountain bike.  But, I saw some insane vintage Schwinns that I would pimp around the Seattle area like crazy.  Example:

Is that not sweet???  And it needs some restorative work done considering it's been sitting in some dudes garage for the past two decades.   I'd love a little bike project.  I've never done any kind of work to a bike before, but dude.  It's a friggen bike.  I can learn, I'm handy with my hands, there hasn't been a project on my car or tother such that I haven't been able to tackle.  I need this bike.

The Giants had an amazing game yesterday.  It was so intense I was biting my nails.  Intense!  The place I went to watch the game ruled because it seriously had every game on, and there was a Browns community there too.   Which struck me as odd 'cause the Browns are poopy.  Like their colors.  But I wanted very much to see Palmer and the Bengals kicked the poopy Browns so I was happy.  Seriously though, the Giants game.  Insane.  And, I was 4 for 4 yesterday on my football game piks.  I highly recommend everyone go to sportspickspros.com and see my name on the top of the cool person list.  I rule.

I ended up doing something really cool.  I stepped of the curb and sprained my ankle.  It's swollen to size of a melon and has changed some pretty psychadelic colors that just don't seem natural.  And it hurts.  Bad.  So what did I do?  I decided to walk all over Seattle in an effort to walk it off.  I think i just made it worse 'cause I had to give up on walking.  When crossing the street seems like crossing the English Channel with no arms, it's probably not a good thing.  And my buddy had to carry me.  That is probably the only thing I'm scared of, being picked up.  But he kinda pulled a fireman thing and before my swollen ankled retardedness could react, I was halfway to the pub.  Now I still can't walk.  I feel lame.  I've never sprained my ankle.  I met another Giants fan at the bar yesterday, and for some reason he was telling me that he's broken his ankle a couple of time and it hurts more to sprain it than break it.  About 2 hours later I was hobbling around and he gave me a call from the ER 'cause when he left the bar, he re-broke his ankle.  Yesterday was not a good day for mentally challenged Giants fan to be walking around. 

I'm so rambling.  Check out my cool person status.  My life has meaning for the week.

Goodness, I'm a geek.  I get so excited about little things, and I'm so friggin excited about Sunday, that I may burst.  Or fart.  Maybe I'm gassy.

I have precious few buddies that I can talk sports with, or enjoy sports in the company of (case in point:my best friend John asked if I would be clapping "that loud the entire game'" the moment we sat down to watch the Red Sox/Mariners game on my birthday. Two months ago and I'm still fuming) and tomorrow, I'm getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to take a bus into downtown Seattle, perch my heinie on a bar stool and talk sports.  Watch sports.  YELL sports!!!  And the festivities begin at 10 am.  I've only got two buddies that will hold full-fledged baseball conversations with me and one that is a good football fan.  I have fandangled him into a day of football.  And maybe a few glimpses at one the Yankee/Red Sox doulbleheader. I almost wish Saturday was done so I can run off and watch the games.  Almost.

Also, I made some picks on Timbo's site, so I have to see how my games play out.  Sundays and Mondays are turning into my favorite days of the week.  Sunday football, monday night football on ESPN.  I'm giddy.  Like a girl.  Which I am. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!