write me, my dog (writememydog) wrote,
write me, my dog

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this SEEMS like a rather sober entry. but cat shit is a metaphor

Today defies normal journals. It absolutely has to be a writememydog. (parts, anyway).

My day, as most do, began with Brad Pitt and the smell of cat shit.
I woke up to the screaming of my dear mother. As usual (or at least, as what had over the past few weeks become usual) she was railing at me to get my ass up and get a job. That seemed to be the primary purpose of my existance, with my parents. Get work so you can get money so you can get out of debt with all that car related shit (damn Mr. Evil. it was peer pressure, I swear ;P ). So eventually I woke up, and the very very very first thing I did was put 12 Monkeys in the DVD player. I'd bought it the night before without ever having seen it, and suffice to say, I am glad I took the risk. Already, I'm taking mannerisms from Brad Pitt's role (which is a scary scary thing). I seem to do that a lot. I take lots of stuff from Brad Pitt and incorporate it into my own personality. Sometimes I wonder if my anti-consumer ideas stem actually from my own observations or from Tyler Durden.

Anyway, so I'm filling out applications and watching 12 Monkeys when I fall asleep. I wake up an hour or so later, when I catch a whiff of what smells like cat shit. Great, I think. First they spray everywhere, despite their balls getting lopped off since we first had 'em, and now they shit in the deepest darkest corners of every room. I love cats. So I went a-searching for the mysterious steamy pile of poo that was somewhere in the room, but despite my nose, I was unable to find it. I looked everywhere. Under futons, chairs, computers, even the dormant empty cans lying everywhere. No sign of any cat shit. And eventually my nose got used to the scent, so it went undiscovered.

So I fill out more applications, and then head out. I first go to P.F. Chang a "China bistro," which is basically a Chinese O'Charlie's with an ego. I sit around and wait for an extended period of time for someone to come talk to me. I tap my feet, fiddle with me fingers, stare at the ugly mongul statues, all in anticipation of this skinny guy with icy blue eyes named Sonny to come talk to me. And talk to me he does. In fact, the interview goes quite well. I make him laugh and so forth, and even though I cannot legally serve alcohol, methinks the guy was thinking of breaking a few federal codes. :D And then he sniffs.
"Do you smell cat shit?" he asks me.
The interview was pretty much over right there.

So then I went over to Cafe Coco, which is where the Carrie-Anne Moss SUPERbabe with tattoos works. Nono, I don't have a crush on her, she's just my fuckin DREAM GIRL, physically. She looks like Carrie-Anne-Fuckin MOss!! SHE HAS SEXY TATTOOS!! SHE LOOK LIKE CARRIE-ANNE-FUCKIN MOSS!! Nuff said?
*drowns in a pool of own drool*
Ahem. So anyway, I walk in there, and I'm chilling with my homie Emily, whose one supercool girl. She's real shocked by my haircut, but then again, I'M the one that screamed the first two mornings I woke up and saw myself in the mirror. So I can't exactly blame her. No one else really seems to notice, but she's sorta the only one I know well. I'm working my way up to becoming a regular.
So I briefly seperate myself from Emily, to get myself a drink, where Gillian (that's the unbelievably gorgeous server's name) is serving. Now, I'm not expecting too much from her aside from the usual, "What can I get ya, hun?" She has never been particularly personable to me, and I could never quite figure out why. Haven't complained too much, though; its a rather shallow crush, so I don't particularly mind her being bitter.
So I go up and give her my drink order, and she asks me "For here or to go," and all that jazz. So she's getting my order ready, and she says, "You got your hair cut."
Can you say, holy mother FUCK.
This means she has taken notice of me before, which I had observed, but figured (and was probably right at the time) was more of a contemptable noticing look. But she has noticed my existance, and, not only that, but has recognized me even without all the hair in my face. That's more than I can say for most FRIENDS of mine.
And of course, I'm no Fonzi or anything, I'm not cool AT ALL (I don't know if you've picked up on that). So I say, "Woah, you remembered." And she smiles. SHE SMILES. I'm not sure I've seen her smile before. But she has SMILED and it was in response to ME SAYING SOMETHING.
And she pours my drink, and says, "I like short hair."
She says, "I like short hair."
She says, "I like short hair," as she pours a drink for me.
Her hair is black with a couple of purple streaked hairs. Its held up on either side of her part in true messy but sexy rock fashion; sort of like an anime character. Her eyes are contrasted to her skin with dark eye liner, and the piercing blue of her pupils. Sort of like Sonny's, only sexy instead of heartless. Her tattoos move with her heartbeat, live an endlessly flowing passionate dance. She looks down into the glass as she presses a button on her Bartender 2000 gun, flooding the glass with Dr. Pepper.
She says, "I like short hair."
Okay. So maybe I make a bigger deal out of it than it was.
"Yeah, I'm kind of liking it too," I say, in true FUCKIN DORKUS fashion. And she takes my moolah, gives me change and I walk away.
"Sherri?" I hear her say behind me. "Do you smell cat shit?"
I sit with Emily and we complain about a girl that's obsessing over me.

heh, actually, Emily and I talk about a lot of things. She's a cool kid. She';s going to be making a documentary on an Angry Hobo that hangs out in front of the Ben and Jerry's where she works. IN fact, She's helping me get a job at that wonderful Ben and Jerry's. $7.00 an hour (more than minimum wage) PLUS tips, not to mention the uncensored satellite radio that plays over the intercom system, and often times plays songs like Nine Inch Nails "Closer" to warp the fragile pliable minds of small children eating ice cream cones.
I can't wait to work there.
And the smell of waffle cones managed to overwhelm the smell of cat shit, so I probably will do well. :D

And that's all that is fit to write about. Plus its late, and this is already too damn long.

And on a sidenote, me and a friend are gonna open an auction website where people can make joke auctions. We're calling it e-Spray. The first items for bid will be the amateur wild sex video tapes we made with Carrie-Anne Moss and Brad Pitt. And also midget porn.

Dear God give me a shower,
Mr. Danger
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