The smell of wine and cheap perfume....

I've never tried writing a blog post drunk. Better late than never, bitches.

I wish I did not come home and immediately think to myself, "Heyyyy, what can I eat?!"

It goes without saying, but it is really not a preferable thing to run into someone you had completely forgotten existed in the first place and then have to make small talk. "Soooo what are you doing these days?...........Wow that sounds really interesting! That's so great for you!..........Oh well actually I'm _________..........Yeah you know how it is..........Totally.........So-and-so is doing nothing with himself? Wow that's such a shock! He was always such a go-getter!............" And so on and so forth. Yes, it goes without saying, but these conversations are completely unnecessary and annoying.
"I wish it had gone without saying, but you don't seem to shut up, do you???"

A shitty bar in a shitty suburb is a completely unacceptable place to have a bartender pull the "charge 3 top shelf shots on your tab and pretend like you won't know you didn't order them" move on you. This is of course operating under the assumption that said bartender does not remember making out with you in that doorway 4 years ago. Because you sure don't.... Which gives YOU plenty to be OK with about in terms of you blowing off his phonecalls for the next month. Ummmm hypothetically speaking of course.

The whole tab-paying fiasco prevented me from really enjoying the Naked Lady Game extravaganza. Another strike against you, Ireland's.

The booze always hits me right as I get home, thus preventing me from using it as an excuse for saying/doing things I really want to do but should not under normal circumstances. Well, as an effective excuse anyway.

My parents were supposed to tape Dexter for me all these weeks that I have been sans Showtime. I think they got weeks 2 and 5. Um...thanks.

The Nets suck. I was able to get that much from the crappy little TVs at Ireland's. So did my roto team tonight. But that didn't stop Ass Clown (see below) from offering me Ricky Davis for Ben Wallace straight up. Go fuck yourself, Ass Clown. Go fuck yourself a lot.

OK, I don't know if anyone reads this (except for my one adorable stalker...hey you!) but if anyone does, and happens to be aware of what exactly a "super 2" is and what that means in terms of arbitration eligibility...I would really appreciate a tip. "A super 2 is treated the same as a 3+" means something to me...only not really. I get the concept but what the hell do those things mean? Consider this my plea.

Not to be a downer, but...I found out tonight my grandmother has breast cancer. TBD whether or not it's operable. Fingers crossed. Love you Nan.... :(