I don’t want to pack my stuff. I want to wiggle my nose or something and make it all magically put itself into boxes. And while it is packing itself, I will wiggle my nose again and make Taye Diggs appear to massage my back. You know, because I will need to relax after all that hard work. And when Taye Diggs is done giving me a back massage, he will then give me 50 million dollars and then he will finally realize that Idina is kind of frightening looking (albeit amazing, but he will forget about that, because he will be blinded by love and adoration for me) and he will propose to me instead. Yep.
Also, Pete Yorn is coming to Freebird on November 4th. If this whole damn move weren’t bleeding me dry, I would totally be going. Feel free to donate to the “Criz hearts Pete Yorn” Fund. (I prefer large bills, but if you can produce Taye Diggs, all will be forgiven.)
I actually did speak with D for about two and a half hours last night. It went very, very well. As much as I like hearing the news about her family (seriously, it is like a soap opera!) and everything, I think my favorite part of the conversation was this:
D: And I think you’ll be happy to know that I am no longer a Rebulican.
Me: OH! You can tip strippers now?! That’s awesome!
Because everyone knows that tipping is essential.
So, for the second night in a row, I have gotten about four hours of sleep and I am starting to feel delirious. Not to mention that the coffee that I got from the café this morning tastes like they have been using the same coffee filter for a week and this is the last bit that they could get out of it (and still get away with calling it coffee) before changing it. That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna drink it. That just means, I will bitch about it until someone goes to Starbucks and comes back with something acceptable for me. (I won’t hold my breath on that one.)
“Boy to Avoid circa 2001-2005” has been emailing me for the last few days too. Which is not only a bit irritating, but also disturbing. He insists on talking to me about the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album. I keep telling him that, although Anthony Kiedis holds a special place in my heart for that whole “Under the Bridge” hotness, I haven’t been able to get into the Peppers since Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Dave Navarro killed the band. He did. His runny eyeliner and lack of talent sucked the soul out of the band. I mean really, remember “Rollercoaster”? What the hell WAS that?
Okay...that's really all I got.