I’m having intense writer’s block this week.
I have absolutely nothing to write about so I thought I’d just start an entry with no clue as to where it is going.
I’m a little hungry.
I’m waiting for the oven to heat up and then I will put in a Tombstone Thin Crust Pepperoni pizza.
12 minutes at 375.
I’m not sure if that’s the directed cooking instructions. I just made that up.
I have been eating more Tombstone pizzas than I really should, given that I’m trying to lose at least some of my bulbous ass. However, it’s not like I eat the whole thing. Usually four pieces. And I pull off the pepperoni slices.
So why don’t I just buy a cheese Tombstone Thin Crust pizza and be done with it? Simple. Tombstone puts little tiny chopped up pieces of pepperoni in the sauce for their pepperoni pizzas and I like that. It’s not overly gross.
Pepperoni sort of remind me of men’s nipples.
Really orange greasy men’s nipples.
Anyway, if I’m a good little Weetabix, I then ziploc baggie the rest of the pizza and put it in the refrigerator, to be eaten cold on the way out the door to work.
Lately I’ve been more lax. There is a decimated pizza sitting in the living room and another sitting on Esteban’s computer desk.
I am such a horrible wifely thing. I think I need a wife of my own. I just don’t do domestic. I am really a boy with boobs and a wiggle in my walk. That is all.
Esteban said last night, “Hey Weet, why don’t you take care of all these pizza soldiers around here.”
I don’t know what that meant either, but I thought it was funny.
That Esteban… he’s pretty funny sometimes. Not always, mind you, but sometimes.
I’ve been trying to con compliments out of him recently. “Why do you love me?” I ask. The best answer I’ve gotten so far is “Wow, I think you have road kill in your stomach because your breath is truly foul.”
He said he also admired the fact that my body is not covered in oozing sores.
I think the genetic dysfunctional part of my psyche was hoping to hear something like “I want to eat your cancer when it turns black” or something. This is what being together for 12 years will do to a relationship. Or maybe just listening to too much Nirvana.
Actually, that’s rather unlike me to ask such questions. I must be getting that monthly moodiness. I’ve been told that it’s the only time I act like a stereotypical girl.
The next thing you know, I’ll be saying “Do I look fat in this?”
I never ask that question. I know that the answer is and should be “Yes”. Because I am. No big. That’s just me. Chubby round sex goddess extraordinaire.
With limited domestic potential.
PoorYorick suggested that I should get a woman to come in and clean my house. I responded that I have but they keep running away.
That was funnier when I typed it directly to him in the chat window I guess.
He has my stamp of approval, that Poor Yorick. If you are a single clever nubile woman with cute glasses, perhaps you should cover him with kisses. He’d like that.
There…. I told you, Poor Yorick… I drop your name in this thing all the time.
Oh, also check out MyChai who is a hit slut and would really appreciate your perusal. Also, he’s got a link to the freakiest picture I’ve ever seen on this page. It made me scream out loud. It frightened little Tilly. It made Chelsea go “mrrrr”.
Actually, Tilly is by no means a small cat. She is a gordo kitty. She is the kitty that ate Cleveland.
She is like a cat from Night of the Lepus if, you know, it were about cats instead of bunny rabbits.
That movie rocked though.
It had the doctor from the original Star Trek in it. In a mustache.
The first time I ever saw it, my insanely beautiful college roommate Kassandra and I watched it in our nearly empty dorm room the day before we moved out of the dorms. She was eating all of the food in our cupboard and fridge to get rid of it. She ate a bologna, peanut butter, and baked bean sandwich. On wheat bread. So there were were… empty concrete shoebox room, watching killer bunny rabbits, and there’s a beautiful blonde Madonna-lookalike eating the most grotesque concoction known to man.
I haven’t let her forget it to this day.
She’s pregnant right now. I sent her a box of cheese last night. She lives in New Mexico.
That is the kind of stuff you get in a free write entry. Crazy word pictures about bologna.
Chelsea says “mrrroww”.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to JournalCon 2002 in San Franscisco this year. Not that I’m terribly interesting in the convention aspect of it. I just want to travel. I announced that I was going to it wherever it was (the choices being Austin or San Francisco) and Esteban shrugged and said “Whatever.”
I must announce that I’m going to England one of these days.
Chauffi will be there.
Not England. San Franscisco.
You: Ok Weetabix, this entry really blows the ass off the dog… can you just go back to talking about funny farts and ass splinters? Cripes…. I surfed in looking for naked pictures of Allyson Hannigan only to find none, at least you could make me laugh or something.
Um….
Fart.
There.
That was very funny, non?
You: Yeah, right, I’m going to UncleBob’s site now where at least he’ll talk about his dog’s ass problem or his kid humping his face… that shit’s funny.
Um…
Writer’s block is a bitch, ok?
Sheesh.
Chelsea said “Mrrow” again.
Esteban said to tell you that he had so much gas that it was making him nauseous. He reports that it was one of the truly most satisfying farts of his life.
And the sad thing is that he actually told me he could write that. That’s how hard up I am right now.
Now he’s having a Meow-Off with the cat.
Welcome to my life.
Oven’s warmed up, so going to stick the pizza in now. Have a great night.
