In honor of high school... "You know what I like about these high school girls? We keep gettin' older and they just stay the same age." --Dazed and Confused Now that's quality comedy.

On labels--Already, my amateur blogging friends are getting a lot more site hits per day than me, so I am trying to beef up on the comedy. The M.s and I have discussed several times how I can't be both a hipster and a hippy. I refer to myself as a plain-clothes hippy. M1 suggested that I am a "huppy." The marriage of hippy and yuppy. I am young and urban it's true, but I'm not professional. I'm a mess. I mean, if I really had a life, would I be writing this blog all the time? At least my friend Patrick is in China and can make cultural notes. My activities include writing my weekly fan club letter, walking my dog, and monitoring the overall quality of TBS-- the superstation, if you will.

But really, how is this funny? I wonder if I have performance anxiety.

Maybe I will just be candid like a friend of mine on his blog. I think he scored a cyberfan out of it.

So tonight, I went to Dave and Buster's with my gang and we spent an exhorbitant amount of money, in return for which, we have full stomachs, a kermit doll, a sticky hand, a train whistle, two monkeys and one elephant that bite when you pull this trigger thing and I think a whoopee cushion. Whoopee! Also, I got a good dose of violence playing all of those gun games. I made it to the AA minor leagues in the video batting cage and lost continuously on Wheel of Fortune. A mirror of my life, really. On top of which, one of my friends is about as drunk as I've ever seen him. He drinks Cape Cods like water, but then, he drinks Diet Coke the same way (something about keeping his girlish figure or so...). However, one thing I learned from this is that vodka and train whistles don't really mix. (My mom got me one in Alaska, where I suppose they have trains. I was only 10 though, and not so much the vodka drinker.) I mean, all I wanted to do was use my sticky hand on the dashboard, but M2 kept saying belligerent things while laying in the back of M1's Cavalier (cuh-val-yay) and blowing a train whistle in our ears, repeatedly telling us that all of his ex-gfs ruined his life. Hmm.

Anywho, I am talking to him right now and he tells me that he will hook up with ANYONE, meaning of course even the most hideous woman on Earth, and then he asks me to come over. What a compliment. Really. I am staying here cozily wrapped up in my pjs. His fan, from what he says, is anxious to jump his cyberbody. How come no one writes me emails? Man, no one even leaves comments on my site. Thanks... for nothing.

So Dave and Buster's, for those of you who know Houston, is along this strip of clubs on Richmond that is mildly ridonculous on weekends. We get out of D & B's at around 1:30 and not only is it like 90 degrees ( a fact completely uninfluenced by the next detail), but also, there are 90 million people with pimped out cars teeming on both sides of the boulevard. We're talking giant mufflers, ginormous spoilers, and neon undercarriages. Hydraulics even. You can't really go wrong. They even have the chicky-boom music that my new upstairs neighbor is so fond of. The two M.s say that there is no such thing as chicky-boom music, but some of you out there know what I am talking about. C'mon.

I suck. I am going back to Clown U. I hope you're happy, M2. You, with the fan.

I'm crazy 'bout a Mercury. Driving a stick shift (a 5-speed, to the layperson) is, I feel, an important skill in life. If a car is available, you will never be stranded. You can look cool to...whoever, and most importantly, you can get better gas mileage. The two M.s took me out to learn today with the understanding that they were not to yell at me. Success! I got super-nervous and my limbs turned to jelly, but other than that, all was well. Sorry my blog is so boring. I will think of something good to put eventually, but in the meantime, you can just ostracize me in the comments section. By the way, here is a poem I like by G's sister called Stick Shift. She is going to be really famous someday and I will say that I read her stuff back in the old UBlue.

I will crush you, like a thing that you crush. I hate getting these stupid send-a-crush deals. They're obviously fake. No one emails me at my yahoo address except for strangers and this email definitely said "Someone you know has a crush on you." People! Must we draw out my misery? I get it! Leave me alone, you sick, sick capitalists. Sorry my comments section isn't up yet, but I am not so good with the javascript. Eh.

WWMPD? You've seen the bracelets: WWJD. You've seen the t-shirts with some clever re-arrangement of the "No Fear" logo. (I am not, of course, indicating that anything pertaining to the 'No Fear' logo is in anyway clever.) You've also seen the parodies: What would Jesus drink? Yes, well those have nothing to do with what I have to say except for their use on bumper stickers and trendy teen paraphenalia. Recently, while driving on Main Street, I saw a car that had a sticker that said Mean People Need Love Too. I have (and so have you, really) also seen: Mean people suck, Nice people swallow, Mean people this and that. All very vulgar and rather humorless. My question is-- what do mean people do? For those of you who know me (and I pray to God that that's most of the people reading this...), you'll recall that I have dealt with the following this week: suckiest former landlord EVER and random, mean, yelling man at the dog park. You'll also recall that both of these peops made me cry. Now while I like to pass myself off as (I have a rep to protect after all), a mean person and therefore laugh at "Mean people need love too," I realize that I am WAY nicer than a lot of people. So really mean people, what are you out there doing? Oh man, I am really gonna have to work on not posting such convoluted stuff or I am for sure gonna get the gong. Readers:sorry.

We don't want any magazines. I am pretty sure that my school is selling our email addresses. I realize perfectly well that by linking you to my school that you too could be one of the thousands that now solicits me for a new Dodge, cellular phone service, and my favorite so far-- breast augmentation. However, at this point, Rice has whored me out so much, that you may as well have my email address, too. Actually, best not to post it. Don't email me please. It's likely I don't like you. Ha.

I talk to myself. You know, I am a big fan of these little units of 'blog. It's like all the fun you could want in a little capsule. I got a mini-recorder to "write" notes to self whilst in the car. So far I have discovered that I am both bitter and that I talk to myself too much. Very bad signs. This isn't that great of an entry, but it's my first one, so ease up, Tiger.