Thursday, June 29, 2006

ThePeach and TigerCat Do Not Enjoy Canada Day

TigerCat is coming to visit me, Universitytown, my new apartment, and my satan-kitty this weekend!! Words cannot describe my excitement.



But I guess they’ll have to.

This weekend also happens to be Canada Day. Unlike most normal Canadians, my sister and I tend not to enjoy July 1st all that much. We usually find it anti-climactic and disappointing - like our birthdays, or Christmas, or sex with strangers.

Maybe it’s because of some of our past Canada Day experiences, or TigerCat’s phobia of fireworks…

July 1st, 1987: Downtown.
Tiger-Peach Mom: Look, girls! Look at the pretty fireworks!
2-year old TigerCat: *blood curdling screams and hysterical sobbing* MY EAWS! DEY HUWT MY EAWS SO BAD! *blood curdling screams*
5-year old Peach: I want a beavertail!!!
Tiger-Peach Mom: You already ate 2. No. You’ll get sick.
5-year old Peach: I HATE YOU!!! WHY DON’T YOU DIE??!!! *hysterical crying*
2-year old TigerCat: *sob* WHYYYYY??? FIWEWORKS SOOOO SCAWWY!! AHHHHH! *pees herself*
5-year old Peach: *throws up on own shirt* I HATE CANADA DAY!!!

July 1st, 1990: Downtown.
Tiger-Peach Mom: Look, girls! Face-painting! Let’s get in line!
Coors-Light (the temporary step-father): I’ll be in the beer tent. I’ll be there all day. Drinking. Don’t look for me until you need me to drive you and your 2 young children home. Drunk.
5-year old TigerCat: It’s hooooot out! I no feel so good! *throws up from heat stroke*
8-year old Peach: I want a beavertail!
*30 minutes of waiting in line later*
Tiger-Peach Mom: Ok, girls! Now you can get your faces painted!
Us: YAYYYY!!!
Face-painter: Sorry girls, we just ran out of face-paint. Would you like a temporary tattoo instead?
8-year old Peach: *sob* YOU RUINED CANADA DAY!!!
5-year old TigerCat: *blood-curdling screams* I WANT MY FACE PAINTED!!!
Tiger-Peach Mom: Come on girls, we can still go watch the fireworks.
5-year old TigerCat: NOOOOOOOOOOO!! GOD NOOOOOOO!!!
8-year old Peach: I HATE CANADA DAY!!!

July 1st, 1994: Downtown.
Tiger-Peach Mom: I’ll be in the beer tent all day with Coors Light. Peach, take care of TigerCat. Hold her hand. TigerCat, hold on to Peach’s hand or I’m making you wear the kiddy-leash.
9-year old TigerCat: Fuck you.
Tiger-Peach Mom: WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY!!???
9-year old TigerCat: I HATE COORS LIGHT AND I HATE YOU!!!
Tiger-Peach Mom: You’ll feel differently when we get married next month *blissfully unaware of the events that will take place at her wedding: see “I would do anything for love” – January Archives*
CoorsLight: Children, shut-up.
12-year old Peach: Come on Tiger-Cat, let’s go get beavertails.
*in line for beavertails*
12-year old Peach: I hope I have enough baby-sitting money for this.
9-year old TigerCat: *sniffle* There are a lot of bees here. I’m afraid of bees!!!
Beavertail Seller: Sorry little girl, you’re 2 dollars short. I’m afraid I can’t give you this Beavertail.
12-year old Peach: *sob*
9-year old TigerCat: *gets stung by bee*
12-year old Peach: I HATE CANADA DAY!

July 1st, 2001: Home.
Tiger-Peach Mom: *sob* Do you think CoorsLight would take me back?
19-year old Peach: Well, he’s living with the woman he cheated on you with. I’m guessing no. Where’s TigerCat?
Tiger-Peach Mom: *unscrews bottle of anti-depressants* Downstairs, watching tv.
*Peach goes downstairs*
19-year old Peach: Hey man. Where’s your boyfriend? I thought you two were spending Canada Day together?
16-year old TigerCat: We had a fight. Now he’s driving around with his friends shooting pedestrians with paint-guns and I’m stuck down here because if I go upstairs, mom will try to talk to me. Aren’t you supposed to be downtown with that guy you’re sleeping with?
19-year old Peach: He started yelling at me when I told him that I wasn’t going to sleep with him so long as he stayed together with his girlfriend, and I got scared and got out of his car at a red light and took a bus home.
16-year old TigerCat:…Jesus, we suck.
19-year old Peach: *takes remote* I think they’re showing the fireworks on CBC.
16-year old TigerCat: NOOOOOO!! GOD NOOOOOO!!
Tiger-Peach Mom: *sob* Will one of you girls give me a hug? Please?
19-year old Peach: I HATE CANADA DAY!!!

Things started getting better in the last few years, I have to admit that much. Like 2 years ago, when TigerCat spent her summer with me in Universitytown and we got really, really stoned and wandered the downtown:

July 1st, 2004: Universitytown, downtown.
TigerCat: *hysterical laughter*
ThePeach: *hysterical laughter*
TigerCat: I don’t know why I was ever afraid of fireworks. Tonight’s fireworks were so very beautiful and artistic. My eyes, like, gave them a standing ovation. I never felt so good in my life. Fireworks…wow….the beauty of them!!!
ThePeach: Look, I made up a new walk! You have to move to the beat of the music – with your walk!!
TigerCat: What music?
ThePeach: Listen carefully…it’s the music of the night.
TigerCat: I totally hear it now.
ThePeach: Do the walk with me. In unison, we shall walk the walk of music.
*TigerCat and ThePeach move lyrically, gracefully through the downtown park*
TigerCat: Make me a promise now: we never stop doing the walk.
ThePeach: I promise.
TigerCat: Oh my god, look at the wheel-barrow beside that person’s boat!
ThePeach: Get in it! I shall push you through the park to the beat of the music!
*ThePeach pushes TigerCat around in a wheel-barrow*
Boat-owner: HEY! THOSE GIRLS ARE STEALING MY WHEEL-BARROW!
TigerCat/ThePeach: RRRRRUUUUUUNNNN!!!

And we did run. We ran all the way to Tim Hortons, where we ordered a dozen donuts and ate them all. Apparently, TigerCat and I are only able to enjoy Canada Day when we’re drunk or high or both. That shouldn’t be a problem this weekend, as our plans are to sit on a patio drinking margaritas until it’s time to get high and watch the fireworks. Too bad they don’t have beavertails in fucking Universitytown.

I HATE CANADA DAY!!!

ThePeach

Monday, June 26, 2006

I Spy With My Little Eye: Not So Subtle Hinting

FauxHawk and I had the following conversation this weekend:

FauxHawk: You know, I read somewhere that 40% of people with blogs get into trouble with either their work or their romantic partners as a result of the content on their sites.

ThePeach:...is that so?

FauxHawk: I'm just saying.

ThePeach: I guess I'll stop blogging about TheBoss so much.

I'm a real treat.

ThePeach

Friday, June 23, 2006

ThePeach is a Home-Wrecker?

My day hasn't gotten off to a very good start.

First of all, I was up late last night doing readings for my fucking english courses. The kitten napped in an angelic little bundle at my feet the entire time, purring like a little motor and twitching as he dreamt of attacking shit - most likely, my feet or TheHippie's hair. He woke up as I got up to go to bed and looked at me with the crazy-eyes. He got the tail-twitch. He shivered in excitement...

ThePeach: Milo...don't do it. Don't. Peach is sleepy. Peach will kick you.
Milo: FUCK YOU, LADY!! *ATTACK!!!*

He spent the next 2 hours trying to eat my feet. I was literally walking from the living-room to the bedroom dragging the kitten by his teeth. He burrowed his little devil-fangs into my achilles-tendon and didn't let go until he fell asleep on my face at 4am.

He's a joy.

At 8am, I jolted out of my sleep to the sound of my cell phone ringing:

peach-cell: RING!
ThePeach: Whuzza? Shmeh *cough* huh? shmehhhh. zzz...
Milo: *ATTACK!!!*
peach-cell: RING!
ThePeach: Satan? zzz...
Milo: *ATTACK!!!*
peach-cell: RIIING!
ThePeach: Somebody better fucking be dead. *picks up* Hello??
TheBoss: Peach!!! You awake??!
ThePeach: NO. I mean...*looks at clock*...yes, I'm just eating breakfast.
TheBoss: You have to walk past the book store on your way to work, right?
ThePeach: Only if I want to go 20 minutes out of my way in the opposite direction.
TheBoss: Great, I need you to pick up 2 books for me.
ThePeach:...ok.
TheBoss: Ok, they are "The 7 Principles for Making Marriage Work" and "Divorce Busting".
ThePeach:...are you serious?
TheBoss: I don't have any cash so I'll have to pay you Monday. LATAH!!! *hangs up*
Milo: *ATTACK!!!*

For the love of all that is holy and pure. I need to find new work. Now.

After that phone call I went back to bed for an hour, where I had vivid dreams about chinese whore-houses. Again. (Hey, I can't even explain the way my conscious mind works, let alone my unconscious).

I did not pick up the books. I will order them online.

Jesus hates me.

ThePeach

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Another Day, Another MotherFucking Dollar

I had an interesting e-mail exchange with TheBoss on Monday evening. It had been a stressful day, and I was feeling a little guilty for being a curt bitch with him. Like when he asked me where all the cookies went…

TheBoss: Whoa! Where are all the cookies!? PEEEEAAACH, YOU FATTY!!
ThePeach: Your kids ate all the cookies, actually.
TheBoss: My kids?
ThePeach: Yes, when I babysit them for you every day. And your oldest takes 8 at a time. 4 for her and 4 for her boyfriend.
TheBoss: I don’t believe you!!!
ThePeach: YOUR KIDS ATE ALL THE DAMNED COOKIES!!! STOP CALLING ME FAT, YOU’RE GIVING ME A DAMNED COMPLEX!!
TheBoss: teehee!
ThePeach: *puts on headphones and turns around*

Ya…I’m a bitch. But he had it coming a mile back.

Anyway, here is the email exchange we had that evening, pasted word for word:

From: TheBoss
To: ThePeach
Subject: Chill

Peach,

Deep breaths.

- TheBoss

From: ThePeach
To: TheBoss
Subject: RE: Chill

Boss,

Sorry for my foul mood today. I’ve been a little stressed out, but I apologize.

- ThePeach

From:TheBoss
To: ThePeach
Subject: RE:RE:Chill

Peach,

I like your "mood". You are quite cute when you are cranky.

- TheBoss


????!!!!

I feel dirty. Bad dirty.

ThePeach

Monday, June 19, 2006


If you listen closely, you can hear beautiful lesbian harmony. That's me in the front - I like it in the bow. Posted by Picasa

ThePeach Detoxes For a Week – Pah-raiiiise Jeeeeebus!

Anyone who reads my blog with some consistency knows that I like to dabble in the sauce. You might also know that I enjoy a fine toke of the pot from time to time. If you’ve read all of my stories, you might surmise that I’m a raging drunken pothead who tends to pick fight with strangers (“WHO ARE YOU CALLING A WHORE!?”) and feel up my hot friends (“Smell my hair…it’s ok to like it”) before going home and ravaging FauxHawk between rounds of vomiting and violent crying (WHYYYY GODDDD??!!! Oh, how I love the shout-vom) – nightly. You might be right, my friends. You might be right…

And up until last Saturday, it didn’t bother me one sweet fuck.

But last Saturday, I reached rock-bottom.

That Friday was WeeOne’s last night in UniversityTown (saaaad!). We celebrated by getting out of our mind, down on the floor, can’t get up, can’t stop laughing, can’t breathe, can’t walk home, can’t count change so you tip the cabbie $10 HIGH. Praise Allah were we ever HIGH. It was me, WeeOne, Cleavage, and TheHippie and our best friends: chips, chocolate, “Old School” and Mr. GreenJeans – the precious Bong. It was the best night ever. We watched “Old School” twice in a row because, you know, it seemed right. I remember claiming that I’d let Vince Vaughan rape me and everyone agreed. I remember “swimming” on the air mattress we were sitting on and everyone agreeing that it was the most beautiful swim ever. I remember that we made the best high-snack ever: fruit dipped in chocolate. And chips…also dipped in chocolate. It satisfied every sensation that a high person could ever desire: salty, sweet, crunchy, soft. It was, in a word, beautiful.

I remember getting home at 3:00am and lying in bed in a terrified stupor for 2 hours, convinced that the sound of the drippy tap in my kitchen was actually the sound of 2 or 3 rapists walking around my house trying to find something to rape. Despite the fact that I repeatedly got out of bed to check on the tap. The ‘noids….not so beautiful.

I woke up on Saturday 7/8ths dead. I have never had a hangover so bad. Every muscle in my body ached with the effort of trying to push out the THC. The world was moving in slow motion. I was nauseous, dizzy, confused, and still half-high. I started making poor decisions right away. Survival instinct kicked in and I knew that I would need to eat at some point. I knew my fridge contained icing and vodka. I would need to go to the store. Hey, since the store was right beside the gym – I should go there, too. Not because I felt the urge to exercise – my GOD no. No no no. No. But because I felt that if I didn’t somehow sweat out some THC, I would die of toxicity.

So, hungover, hardly functioning, still half-high, and crying with the effort of putting on pants, I made my first two poor decisions:

Go to store.
Go to gym.

I stumbled my way to the store in sweats and sunglasses, the uniform of hungover whores the world over. I took a loaf of bread off the shelf, deciding I could live off bread for the next week. I got in line at the checkout, and started sweating profusely. I couldn’t handle all the people, noise, lights, and standing up I had forced myself into. I started encouraging myself that I could do it: “Ok, peach. Just put the bread in front of the lady and take your debit card out of your purse. You can do this. Don’t talk to anyone. Just push your pin into the debit machine and get the fuck out of here. You can do this”. When people started looking at me, I realized that I had been speaking aloud. I purchased my bread and left.

I walked across the street to the gym. I drank 2 bottles of water sitting down in the change room, occasionally with my head between my knees. I stumbled to the elliptical, making my one smart decision of the day: that I would probably die on the treadmill. Somehow, in a miracle of science, I elliptical’d for 20 minutes without seeing the light. I figured that I wouldn’t push the miracle and got up to go, which is when I stumbled into one of FauxHawk’s friends: TheRadiologist. I was sweating way more than anyone else in the gym, and panting like a bitch in heat. I also had a ringing in my ears and couldn’t walk in a straight line. TheRadiologist tried to carry on a normal conversation with me, quickly realized that I was fucked, laughed, stop laughing and became concerned, and told me to go home. I’m sure FauxHawk got a nice little email in Central America recommending that I go into rehab immediately.

I made it home and remembered that I promised TheNurse that I would go to a friend’s birthday with her at 6. Oh, gentle jesus no. No No No. No. I made the decision right there that I would be detoxing that night. Then I thought – well, why don’t I make it a whole week? Give my body a chance to recover? Perhaps lose some of the 5 pounds that I gained while FauxHawk was gone? Regain some liver function? Some dignity?

Day 1 of Detox: The infamous hangover. I go to the birthday party still completely fucked up from the night before. I sit alone on the couch in a corner of the room and force myself to eat a hamburger. I try not to talk to people. They scare me. They get drunk. I start sobering up, FINALLY. At 11pm, I cab home and go to bed.
Conclusion: Detox = precious, precious sleep.

Day 2 of Detox: Shopping with TheHippie. See “This is Your Brain on Drugs”.
Conclusion: Pot has affected my short term memory.

Day 3 of Detox: Black-out. I assume I went to work, came home, went to bed. I think I went to the gym, because there were soggy lulus on my floor the next morning.
Conclusion: Detox has affected my short term memory.

Day 4 of Detox: Work sucks my testicles. I hate TheBoss. See “Yet Another Meeting With TheBoss”.
Conclusion: This might be why I drink.

Day 5 of Detox: Lesbian play. I take TheHippie, naturally. She shows up in a dress and I joke that she’s only going with me to pick up. I’m a bitch. On the way, a car with a pair of hot guys drives by and TheHippie comments that they’re probably going to the play, too. I look closer and realize that the hot guys are in fact butch women. TheHippie has dyke-dar. The audience is all lesbians. It is a sea of motorcycle helmets and hemp. TheHippie and I are the youngest, hottest lesbian couple. ThePlay is actually fantastic and I laugh and cry along with the rest of the lesbians. I feel empowered. On the way out, I sigh and tell TheHippie that I wish I were a lesbian for real, since it seems so nice.
Conclusion: It’s not just the sauce.

Day 6 of Detox: Joyous day!! A secretary in my office bakes me a cake in celebration of nothing! It is chocolatey and delicious and all mine. I eat it all day/night. I take it home with me so TheBoss won’t eat it and take the one joy I have out of my life. I go to the gym with TheHippie and weigh myself: I lost 3 pounds! The Detox is working! I go home and celebrate by eating cake with TheNurse.
Conclusion: Cake is the new sauce.

Day 7 of Detox: Relapse. TheBoss forces me to go for a drink with him after work. I immediately start saying inappropriate things to people in the throaty voice. I cut myself off at 1 drink and reassure myself that one slip-up doesn’t matter. TheHippie tells me that business drinks don’t count. We celebrate detox by making BBQ and watching “Cheaper By The Dozen” on TBS. I promise not to tell anyone how we spent our Friday night. I’m a liar and a whore.
Conclusion: Detox Fridays are lame.

Day 8 of Detox: The real test – a day at the cottage. Nothing says “drink, motherfucker!” like a day sitting on a floating dock in the sunshine. I resist. I still say inappropriate things in the throaty voice to TheNurse’s friends and shock and scare them. I sunburn. TheHippie and I go for a canoe trip and sing paddle songs in beautiful lesbian harmony when we’re out of earshot of the others. I promise not to tell anyone. I’m a liar and a whore. TheNurse's friend BigHarv ruins the moment by tipping the canoe. I threaten to kick his fucking ass multiple times.
Conclusion: I’m still inappropriate, full of rage, and oddly lesbian without the aid of alcohol.

Huzzah! I did it, bitches. One whole week clean.

I feel dirty, like I cheated on my lover alcohol with my dirty mistress sobriety. But I did lose 4 pounds. I did not regain any dignity.

To celebrate, I eat pie.

ThePeach

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Yet Another Meeting With TheBoss

I just had a meeting with TheBoss this morning. It started out as pretty typical, with him frantically asking me to do something for him and me soothing him and reminding him that I did it 2 weeks ago, and then him telling me that I’m DA BOMB. But then…things got…weird…

TheBoss: Your hair is very pretty today!
ThePeach: Why, thank you!
TheBoss: You did something different to it.
ThePeach: It’s dry. I’m getting a haircut today and I want to look nice for the hairdresser. (by the way, to the mens out there: this is perfectly reasonable logic).
TheBoss: Don’t change it!! It looks so good the way it is!
ThePeach:…right…
TheBoss: You’ve been working out, too, haven’t you?
ThePeach: Umm well I guess I went to the gym yesterday.
TheBoss: SHOW ME YOUR MUSCLES!!!
ThePeach: excuse me?
TheBoss: FLEX YOUR ARMS! Teehee!!
ThePeach: *thinks: theeeere it is*…ok *flexes arms*
TheBoss: Somebody better call a plumber, BECAUSE THOSE PIPES ARE ABOUT TO EXPLODE!!! *frantic giggling fit*
ThePeach:…thanks?
TheBoss: Good for you for working your arms! You know what else working your arms will do?
ThePeach: *oh jesus christ* what?
TheBoss *whispers* make your breasts even firmer *winks*
ThePeach: *awkward silence*
TheBoss: TeeHee!!

Ya…so that was my meeting. I’m not used to so many (awkward/creepy/embarrassing/harassing) compliments from him. Usually he just pinches my almost non-existent side-fat and calls me a tubby.

My conclusion: TheBoss wants something that he knows I will hate. Hopefully it doesn’t involve ass sex, but I can’t be sure. Most likely, he’ll ask me this afternoon to write him a paper that he’ll publish under his name. again.

I’d almost rather take it up the pooper.

ThePeach

Monday, June 12, 2006

This is Your Brain on Drugs

TheHippie and I went to the mall yesterday. On the way there, we had the following conversation:

ThePeach: So, the commie newspaper I work for wants me to review a lesbian play on Wednesday night.
TheHippie: A lesbian play?
ThePeach: Ya. It’s a play about a lesbian who gets breast cancer. It’s a 1-woman show. It has the potential to be the worst. play. ever.
TheHippie:…I think it sounds good.
ThePeach: Ok, so you want to come with me!?
TheHippie:*throaty voice* Damned right I do!
ThePeach: Huzzah! Here’s to dykeing it out on Wednesday!
TheHippie: To Wednesday!


On the way home from the mall, about 2 hours later – after trying on every pair of pants in every store and deciding that clothes are made for stick insects and that the 90’s didn’t really need to make a fashion comeback (a denim vest? In the gap? Really?) – we had the following conversation:

ThePeach: So, do you want to watch Canada’s Next Top Model with me on Wednesday?
TheHippie: *throaty voice* Damned right I do!
ThePeach: Sweet yo, I love that fucking show!
TheHippie: Me too!! You said it’s on Wednesday night?
ThePeach: Ya.
TheHippie:…I feel like there’s something I’m supposed to do on Wednesday…but what?
ThePeach:..hmm…
*5 minutes of puzzled thought elapse*
ThePeach: *eureka* You’re supposed to go to the dyke play on Wednesday. With me.
TheHippie: Shit. That was it.

We really need to stop smoking pot.

ThePeach

Saturday, June 10, 2006


Here's another picture of my little hellion. He's such a bad-ass. I'd like to point out that I don't make a habit out of dressing up animals. Frankly, animals dressed as humans scare the shit out of me. Them, and midgets. But the vet gave Milo the bandana for being so good, a.k.a. not shitting all over him. It's like the lollipop for pets. Except that instead of joy and deliciousness, it brings them shame and annoyance. Fun for me is the best kind of fun!
 Posted by Picasa

Friday, June 09, 2006

ThePeach and TheAmazon are Reunited: German Wine and Memory Loss Ensue

My friends have been bugging me to put up a post about our last weekend, but I’ve been stalling because – and this is unusual for me – I was so drunk that my memory of the night is a whole lot of blanks and intermittent random memories that I can’t quite piece together. But, to appease them, I will now attempt to piece together the night based on my (probably inaccurate) memories and the stories TheNurse has told me. Rummy has a memory of steel.

I shall call this night: I Think It Was The Best Night Ever, But I Might be Remembering Scenes From A Movie.

The weekend started with my friend TheAmazon (formerly known as Xena) coming to visit me in my new apartment. TheAmazon and I went to high-school together and were pretty much inseparable for a few years – that is, until we moved to separate cities and hardly saw each other for 5 years. But alas – we reunited. For one shit-storm of a weekend.

TheAmazon showed up Saturday afternoon in a dizzying whirl of perfume, mad cleavage, and loud music. The first thing she did in my new place is set up her music, crank some Shakira, and drive us to the LCBO for some sauce. We decided – poorly – that we should get one huge mothafucka of a bottle of cheap german wine with a name that I can’t remember, but I think sounded like Hochentaller. We got home and cracked it around 6. Then I remembered that I had to do laundry, unless of course I wanted to wear my one remaining clean shirt out that night. Since the shirt in question is a sleeveless, fake rhinestone encrusted, lace-up cow-boy print tshirt that my mom bought me in Arizona (TheNurse, upon helping me move my clothes on moving day: “Ya…maybe that should go in the ‘donate’ pile”), I hurried to the Laundromat. By the time I had to pick up my freshly laundered and dried clothes an hour later, I was smashed. I zig-zagged the entire way there, running through the pouring rain, and then had a 15 minute conversation with the crusty hobo who owns the place. Because apparently German wine makes me social. Who knew?

At some point or another, TheAmazon and I decided that we should probably eat dinner. We also decided that we should get whored up for dinner. Hair freshly straightened, makeup carefully lacquered, cleave gracefully displayed – we headed to a nearby restaurant. I’m sure they knew we were drunk as skunks. Probably when we were ordering and TheAmazon made fun of me and I called her A DIRTY FUCKING POON-TRAP and then we burst out laughing and fell into each other’s arms. Ya, that probably gave us away. Stealth. Stealth.

After dinner, it was back to my place for more of Germany’s best and to await the arrival of TheNurse and TheHussy. Once they arrived (“wow…you guys are drunk” “HAVE SOME GERMAN WINE, YOU DIRTY POONTRAPS!”), we all piled into a cab and sped off to meet WeeOne and Cleavage at WeeOne’s house. Luckily, they had already been drinking for quite a while and were thus prepared for our behaviour.

TheAmazon unscrewed the twist-top off our german wine (classy!!) and we got back down to business. Now, here is where things start to go a little fuzzy, but damnit I’ll do my best! I’m committed to my cause.

Here are the rest of my memories/TheNurse’s memories of the evening:

We started talking about lesbians. Cleavage started getting very enthusiastic. To express said enthusiasm, Cleavage tried to bite my nipple off. I was scared. TheAmazon admitted that she had experienced a lesbian encounter. I was intrigued. Cleavage shivered with joy. Cleavage might be a lesbian. I still love Cleavage. Just not tender lesbian love.

TheAmazon and I finished the Hochentaller.

To express my acceptance of TheAmazon’s past lesbian experiences, I walked over to her and humped her face. WeeOne captured the touching moment on film.

We called a cab to get to the club. They sent a station wagon with a backwards-facing back-seat. We all fought over who got to sit there, and TheNurse and I won. We were filled with joy for the entire 3 minute cab ride. We took pictures.

At the club, Cleavage bought all her drinks with money that she stole out of the tips at the bar. Cleavage might be a klepto. I still love Cleavage. Just not tender klepto love.

TheAmazon and I had made a deal that we would not buy our own drinks that night. To get us started, she started grinding some mens. One of them back-packed me. He did not buy me drinks, but he did sweat all over my back and try to feel me up. TheNurse captured the touching moment on film. Later, TheAmazon disappeared with one of the mens who had been buying her drinks all night, and did not reappear for a good 2 hours. She swears nothing happened. I believe her, mainly because she hearts her boyfriend. But I do wonder what the fuck she did to that mens. Seduced him, killed him, and stole his wallet? Perhaps.

During her absence, a mens started dancing with me. He was wearing a long-sleeved, skin-tight, teal-coloured wool sweater. In a dance bar. He did not sweat on my back. He might have been magical. He put his hand on my boobie. A classy girl, at this point in the night, would have slapped teal-sweater boy and stormed away. I am not classy.

ThePeach: IF YOU’RE GOING TO TRY TO TOUCH MY TITS YOU MIGHT AS WELL BUY ME A FUCKING DRINK!

He did. Then I stormed away. I like using mens.

TheTool, TheNurse’s ex, showed up. Again. I would swear that he follows her, except that UniversityTown has like 3 bars. I do not remember if they fought, but I will assume yes.

WeeOne and I ended up alone on the dance floor at some point. We danced like whores, as usual. Now, I have some strange (and wonderful?) power that attracts black men to me when I go dancing. I don’t get it. I may never get it. I don’t have a booty. I don’t shake my non-booty particularly well. But every time I go out dancing, black guys hit on me. TheAmazon’s friends, who I met once 3 years ago, still refer to me as “that chick that the black guys kept trying to make out with all night”. TheNurse started documenting the occurrences on her camera this year and, one time when we were out and, lo and behold, a black guy came up to me from behind – we both thought he seemed familiar. So she looked through her camera and found a picture of the same guy dancing with me at a different club a few months earlier. Now I’m starting to wonder if I really do attract black men, or if the same black guy keeps hitting on me and I’m too racist to tell the difference. But anyway, if anyone can explain the black-man/peach phenomenon to me, please do so. (ps – I’m not racist. Just ignorant.). Anyway, as WeeOne and I were dancing, a circle of mens starting closing in on us. Because I apparently attract black men, they were mainly black (it was like a moment out of sesame street. How many negroes are trying to back-pack ThePeach? 1 negro, 2 negro, 3 negroes! 3 negroes!). This is odd also because there are probably only 3 black people in all of Universitytown. WeeOne turned to me and whispered: “Ethnics make me nervous”. I laughed. We were backpacked. A good time was had by all.

TheAmazon came back from wherever the fuck she had been. To celebrate, we drank.

Somehow, it became 2:30am. Holy blackout, batman!

Because it was pouring rain, some bitches stole TheNurse’s and TheHussy’s coats. I hate bitches. We ran through the downpour to get our favourite after-bar snack: dirty pooter. By which I mean greasy poutine. Because it is Universitytown, we could not get a cab. Being the princess I am, I refused to walk home in the rain and made us wait in the 24-hour grocery store for half an hour for a cab that never came. TheHussy, TheNurse, and TheAmazon made a run for it. I followed angrily behind. I hate rain. A car full of mens drove by and the following scene occurred:

TheNurse: *shouts* wanna drive us home??
TheAmazon: I’LL SHOW YOU MY TITS!!
Mens-mobile: *slows down*
TheNurse: What, you have to think about it??
TheAmazon: I’LL SHOW YOU MY TITS!!
Mens-mobile: *goes into reverse*
All: sweet.

So, we got into an unknown car full of strange mens. And we weren’t even gang-raped! They drove us home and somehow we started talking about pubic hair:

Random Mens: I like it all shaved off on my women.
TheHussy: I’m sorry, do you shave your ball-sack? Do you shave your shaft? Do you shave your asshole and the space between your ball-sack and your asshole?
Random Mens:…no.
TheHussy: Ya, that’s what I thought.

They dropped us off and TheAmazon ran in front on the car, stood in the headlights, and flashed the mens her tatties. Then we all ran to my house and hid on the porch so that they wouldn’t know which house we had gone into. Well, this was our thinking. In reality we all crouched in front of the door in plain view. And TheAmazon stood up and flashed the mens-mobile as it drove off. Stealth. Stealth.

I don’t know what happened after this but I woke up at 12:30 with a raging headache and a craving for greasy eggs so I took TheAmazon to a diner around the corner from where I live. We looked and felt like total bags of ass. Our 60 year-old waitress looked and sounded like she slept in the gutter, which cheered us up some. On our way out of the restaurant, the waitress sped by us and headed towards the bar (this is 2pm on a Sunday, folks) and shouted at us: YOU LADIES HAD YOUR TEA TIME, NOW I’M GOING FOR SOME BEEEEEER TIME!

It could be me in 40 years.

ThePeach

Thursday, June 08, 2006

ThePeach and QueenB Have Very Different Daddy-Issues

So I got this mass email from my friend QueenB last week. Remember how I told you that she has the best parents ever? Observe:

Dear friends,

So....it's 1am and I'm still up - why? Because it's supposed to be 35 degrees this week and my Dad just left my house after installing my air conditioner and buying me patio furniture (for my birthday)...He called @ 9:30pm and said he was driving to Toronto and was here by 11:30pm and just left (approx home arrival time 3am and he will be up by 6am). His response "This is what I do for my princess" even after arguing with him not to.....and that is why I do not date...be cause no one else in their right minds would do these fucking things....urghhh...I love my Dad.

- QueenB

Here is what I wrote back to her:

Dear QueenB,

Your dad: installs you an AC in the middle of the night so that you will survive the heat wave.

My dad: promised to help me move (moving day is today) 2 weeks ago, hasn't answered his phone in 7 days. I presume he is drunk.

This is why I CAN'T STOP DATING.

Daddy doesn't love me!

- ThePeach

So ya...my dad conveniently "forgot" to help me move and my boyfriend was too busy lying on a beach in central america working on his jew-tan. But don't feel bad for ThePeach. TheNurse, who is my actual boyfriend, helped me lug heavy shit up and down stairs all day. Then, to thank her, I took her out for lunch. It's just what a good girlfriend does for her helpful boyfriend.

Take-home lesson: You can't rely on mens. You can only rely on the chickas in your life who are your replacement mens.

This might be why I have trust issues.

ThePeach

ps - to be fair, FauxHawk helped me assemble my futon before he left for the tropics. The instructions were in french. If it weren't for his help, I would be watching tv on a milk crate. Tabernac!

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

ThePeach Has A Headache…And The Only Cure is More Cowbell

OR: ThePeach is a Prophet
Better Known as: ThePeach Wastes all Her Time at Work on MSN with ThePilot

I pasted this conversation verbatim out of my msn history this afternoon. The only things I changed were our msn names, which contained our real-person names. I don’t normally do this, but I felt that this conversation was too beautiful in all its randomness to not be immortalized forever in blog format. So, here it is:

The setting: ThePeach’s office/ThePilot’s home
Time: 2pm Universitytown time, 12pm Fort ChaChing Time
Plot: read the title to the post. I’m lazy. You is bitches.

ThePilot:: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
so have your friends all told you not to be friends with me any more yet?

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
ha no no

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
work is eating my soul today

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
and how are you?

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
i just woke up

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
my soul is yet uneaten

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
there's a whole day ahead of me though!

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
ah, virgin sole

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
lucky

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
oh don't worry

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
the tribulations of life will nibble at it yet

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
hahahahaha best junk email ever

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
it's from 'Behung Forlover'

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
why he's my best friend!

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
i have a pounding headache and the flicker of flourescent lights combined with the flicker of my computer screen and no ventilation in here makes me want to stab myself

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
lol but you just managed to cheer me up

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
i have an uncanny knack for that

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
me and Behung, anyways

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
ha

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
we're a dynamic duo

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
Forlover...that's my favourite part of his name

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
it's sensual

thepilot :: another tremendously successful pants shopping expedition, courtesy of the double x chromosome says:
i'll change my name if you want

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
i think you ought to

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
ThePilot Forlover

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
it works

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
hahaha

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
maybe THAT'S my problem!

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
so it turns out the QuikAir girl has a boyfriend

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
awwww

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
i'm now convinced there is not a single single girl in this town anywhere

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
well shit

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
you might have to start dating unhappily married women

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
*sigh*

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
at least they'll fuck like animals

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
hahaha jesus

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
thumbs up?

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
thumbs up!

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
so ya...my head hurts

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
And the the cure? more cowbell

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
i mean...advil.

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
hahaha i was like ummmmmmm

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
i do hope you know what i was talking about, tho

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
actually that went straight over my head

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
bear with me, i just woke up

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
seriously?

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
ha you know the SNL skit with "more cowbell"?

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
it's a classic...they do "don't fear the reaper"

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
i've never really watched SNL

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
thus explaining my ignorance of 'more cowbell'

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
http://www.itsfunnyhoney.com/video/155/more_cowbell

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
learn, learn

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
hahaha thus solving the work/headache problem

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
why yes!

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
my god...the cure really IS more cowbell

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
I am a prophet

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
hahahaha

thepilot - the name's Forlover....Behung Forlover says:
love.

ThePeach - summer = yes. says:
love!


And now, my headache is gone. I also managed to waste a solid hour at work.

I’ve got a fever…and the only cure is…Will Ferrell.

ThePeach

Monday, June 05, 2006

The Magical Moment Where ThePeach Met ThePilot

By now the name “ThePilot” should be familiar to most of my readers. If not, go through the comments on most of my entries and you will find witty remarks left by him – quite possibly my most faithful reader. ThePilot is the person who convinced me to start keeping a blog, actually. He was always so entertained by the stories I would tell him about my life that he thought I should share them with the world. And thus, thepeachpits was born.

ThePilot and I went to high school together. Then he went to live in white-ville to attend pretentiousU and become, among other things (like trendy, preppy, and every hot chick’s best friend) a pilot. Now he lives in Fort Cha-Ching and works for an airline.

ThePilot and I have a long, colourful history. He is betrothed as my future husband, first of all. When we’re both 40, bitter, and dried up, we’re going to realize that we loved each other all along and live sarcastically ever after with our army of attack-cats. Obviously we’ll do it all the time, but never for procreation. If, by god’s will, we do create a spawn then we’ll have to drown it in a sack in the creek behind our house to SAVE THE WORLD FROM ITS EVIL. You see, ThePilot is – personality-wise – the male version of me. And we bring out the worst in each other. Most conversations that occur between the two of us are so riddled with bitterness and sarcasm that – somewhere – a baby screams and a kitten dies everytime we communicate. I’m pretty sure, at least.

Now you know a little bit about ThePilot.

The story of our coming together is delightful.

It was grade 10, I believe. I am positive that it was biology class, because I remember being bored, sad, and hungry. Next to me, a dark-haired, athletic, skinny boy sat brooding. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. I gave him the half-smile. He turned to me and, in a moment that would link our souls in harmony forever, asked:

ThePilot: Did you sneeze when you put on your mascara this morning? Your under-eyes look really dark.
ThePeach:…fuck you.

It was, as they say, Magic.

The friendship grew from there. Bonding over our hatred of science, most people, and our mutual love of TNG (“Crusher is hot. I have a woman-crush on her. I’d totally do her.” “You…you…you…are so amazing. Marry me when we’re 40 and dried up.” “Deal”.), ThePilot and ThePeach grew to love each other. Platonically. In a pervy “I’d do you but it would be too much like doing myself…but I’d still do you” kind of way. Almost every day after school for a long time, ThePilot would drive me home in Nancy (his poor little car, now dead and gone) and I’d serve him popcorn and ice cream (“this way you can balance the sugar with the salt and eat more of each!” “You….you….you…are so amazing. Marry me when we’re 40 and dried up.” Deal.”) as we’d watch TNG and bitch about people we hated. I’d try to help him understand girls:

ThePeach: So you see, the reason you’re not getting laid is because you are nice. Girls like assholes. But only assholes who they think they can change into nice guys. Or at least less ass-holey guys. Girls pretty much only put out for assholes with attitude. But not too much attitude. Confidence is key. But not too much confidence. You want to be an ass who isn’t really an ass. And we should probably go pants shopping for you.
ThePilot: *writes this down furiously* …sooo….I should be an ass?
ThePeach: forget it, we’re fucked.

In hindsight, I have probably hindered him more than I have helped him.

In return, he helped me sort out some problems with the men in my life:

ThePeach: *crying* and then he broke up with me!
ThePilot: Good, he sucked. What the fuck were you thinking?
ThePeach: *sob* I loved him!
ThePilot: You dated for 2 months. Shut your cry-hole.
ThePeach: *sob* it’s because I’M FAT!!!
ThePilot: *mutters curse words under his breath* Ya, and I’m a virile sex-machine. Listen to me, you little hottie: stop crying. I need you to help me shop for pants.
ThePeach: *sniff* ok.

Our friendship is pretty much exactly the same now, except that we bitch over msn instead of in person. He is still painfully blunt with me:

ThePeach: Did you like my blog entry today?
ThePilot: Yes, but in your comments all you’re effectively doing is e-whacking back and forth with your friends. It’s like you’re all so insecure that you have to compliment each other constantly, and frankly, it’s unappealing.
ThePeach:…fuck you.

It’s still magic.

ThePeach

Thursday, June 01, 2006

A Solitary Day in the Life of ThePeach

The only problem with living alone and working in an isolated lab is that some days I go entire days without seeing another human being. Sometimes I go days without speaking, except of course when I talk to myself (“dinner, dinner, dinner, what should I make for dinner? Grilled cheese? Again? Why yes, I think I will! I like cheese!”). But then it’s only under my breath, and when I do use my actual voice later on I am surprised and pleased at the sound of it: the talking voice means I am with people.

I never said I wasn’t a loser occasionally.

Although I did have some brief periods of human interaction today, it was a typical solitary day. Sad to me, amusing to you! And because I am a whore for readership, I will recount the events of my day in blog format instead of writing my essay. Also, I am starting to feel threatened by the daily remarks I get from my friends about how I don’t update my blog enough. For instance, a while ago I saw TigerCat sign into msn and, excited at the prospect of interacting with a human, I awkwardly typed a greeting:

ThePeach: Werd up, negro.
TigerCat: What?
ThePeach:…nothing…sometimes I forget how to talk to people…how are you doing?
TigerCat: My sub-letter is a cunt-whore. I want to go watch tv but she’s down there.
ThePeach: Shatty. What is she doing this summer?
TigerCat: Fucking everyone but her boyfriend, dirtying the house up, being a general stupitone, leaving her shoes butt-fuck everywhere…I just kick them down the hall now.
ThePeach: You should live alone, like me. Then the only cunt-whore you’ll have to deal with is yourself. Or better yet, come live WITH me! *thinks: oh god, so alone. So very alone*
TigerCat: Ya…I have to go to University…and work…and the last time we lived together all we did was smoke the pot and eat the pie and lose the jobs and gain the fats.
ThePeach: My god, it was beautiful.
TigerCat: It really, really was. So ya…I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but you haven’t updated your blog since Wednesday.
ThePeach: Ya, I know.
TigerCat: Do you know that it’s now Sunday?
ThePeach: I do.
TigerCat: Ok…just making sure that you know that it’s been 5 days now.
ThePeach: I am aware.
TigerCat: Ok…just making sure.
ThePeach: Ok.
TigerCat: Ok.
*5 minutes elapse*
ThePeach: So, I got a package in the mail yesterday, and I was super excited until I realized that it was from Mom and she sent me a braided pink belt that was on clearance at the Gap.
TigerCat: UPDATE YOUR FUCKING BLOG!

That hag. I loves her, though. Anyway, here are the events of my solitary day:


7:30am: Kitten licks my eyelids. I swear at kitten and put it on the floor.

7:31am: Kitten walks on my face. I swear at kitten and put it on the floor.

7:32am: Kitten curls up on my neck and I lie perfectly still hoping it will go back to sleep. It does. I, however, am now stuck in this position and want to turn over. I can’t. I am momentarily annoyed, but then – the sweet release of sleep.

8:00am: alarm goes off, which scares Kitten. Kitten expresses fear by biting my arm and then running like a bat out of hell to god knows where. Probably the seventh circle of hell.

8:30am: I actually get out of bed.

8:45am: toast and life-fuel: caffeine. I also use this time to check all 3 of my email accounts to see if anyone loves me. Apparently lots of people love me, but they have names like “PP_ENLRGR”, “WIFE_WANTS_COCK” and “TheBoss” (god how I love waking up to porno spam and frantic requests to pick up my boss’ kid from school that day).

9:00am: Shower. I haven’t figured out how to change the settings on my showerhead in my new apartment yet, and the stream of pressured water that jets out of that fucker can only be described as nipple-chaffingly sharp.

10:00am: Arrive at work. No one is in the office. Thus I can delve into the box of cookies the boss left for us at 10am without feeling shamed.

10:05am-10:30am: Check all 3 email addresses again. Check my blog for comments. Hate my readers for not commenting. Hate myself for not updating in so long that people probably forget to read my blog anymore. Forgive my readers. Forgive myself.

10:30am: Read google news to see if FauxHawk has been eaten by sharks/attacked by locals/mugged by smelly hookers in Guatemala, where he is currently backpacking. I feel immense relief that there are no headlines involving backpacking deaths in Central America. I figure that, in the tragic event that any of these are true, google news will be the first to tell me! But yes, FauxHawk is gone for a month to backpack in Central America. He’s traveling with TOP, which – by the way – stands for TitsofPower. Yes, my bf is traveling with hottest chick I know, but she is also awesome so my only worry is that FauxHawk, after spending so much time with someone so naturally hawt, will come back wondering why I don’t wake up in the morning looking like a chick in a beer commercial instead of a surly bag-lady.

But, I’m slightly less concerned after receiving this email from TOP:

“ well, here we are in flores, guatemala sweating our asses off in a tiny little internet cafe and i can´t decide who smells worse, me or fauxhawk or the spanish guy we saw sleeping on the street (sad to say, it might be me...and the streets here ain´t pretty!)”

11:00am-12:30pm: TheBoss runs into the lab, sees me eating a cookie and grabs my side-fat in jest. I tell him to go fuck himself. In my mind. In reality I smile and ask him how he’s doing:

TheBoss: I’m good, I’m good. Tonight I’m going to put the kids to bed early and finally have a date with my wife.
ThePeach: That’s nice.
TheBoss: Maybe we’ll rent a movie!!!
ThePeach: You should!
TheBoss: And maybe we’ll fuck around for a while!!
ThePeach:…ya…
TheBoss: I have to run. Oh, and you know those 20 boxes of data in the back room?
ThePeach:…yes.
TheBoss: go through them and find a form that a girl filled out for a study like 2 years ago I think. I forget her name. And the name of the study. I think her last name might be Thompson. Or Smith. Something like that. And stop eating cookies, you’re going to get fat!!
ThePeach:…why do you buy them for me?
TheBoss: See you latah!!!

I spend the next hour sorting through boxes. I find nothing. To console myself, I eat a cookie – with an eye on the door so that I can hurl it across the room if TheBoss comes back.

12:30-1:30: Lunch! a.k.a leftover rice because I haven’t done groceries in weeks. a.k.a sitting at my desk in silence because – really – where the fuck else would I go to eat? The staff lounge where the old ladies can give me the evil eye and judge me for wearing a tank top instead of support hose and pumps? The benches out back where the sketchy janitors can smoke and spit on me? Fuck that shit! I choose solitude and google news.

1:30-2:00: ??? It’s quite possible that I blacked out from boredom.

2:00: Surprise visit from WeeOne!!!! She brings me an iced beverage from Starbucks, where she works. Tears of gratitude fill my eyes; refreshing caffeinated beverage temporarily fills the void in my life. WeeOne is the hero of the hour.

2:10-3:00: Bitch to everyone I know on msn about how much I hate my job. Do very little work. Tell everyone how much I want to go home. They ask why I don’t go home. I can think of no reason.

3:00: Go home. Clean the kitten’s shitter. Kitten thinks bag of its own shit is hilarious toy/possible snack. Bag of shit goes into outdoor garbage-can, where Kitten can’t eat it. But raccoons/squirrels can. And will.

4:00: Chiropractor appointment. Am glad for the touch of another human, even if it’s just the hands of a francophone chiro on my spine knobbies. 23 Days until FauxHawk gets back from his fucking trip.

4:15: Pleasant surprise! Run into TheNurse in the waiting room on my way out! We are both cripped from our jobs; she from turning fatties over to clean their bedsores, and me from hunching over my keyboard refreshing my email. We walk home together. The whole 1 block.

4:20-5:30: Attempt to write essay. Decide Shakespeare was probably a trannie. Decline to use that as my thesis.

5:30: Dinner! (“dinner, dinner, dinner, what should I make for dinner? Grilled cheese? Again? Why yes, I think I will! I like cheese!”).

6:00-9:00: Work on essay. Call mom to get help with essay. Realize I am smarter than my mom. Hang up. Laugh triumphantly. End up using her idea as my thesis after all. Shake my fist at irony.

9:00: Intense hunger. Almost cry when I think I ran out of microwave popcorn, aka crack for women who live alone. Immense joy and relief when I locate popcorn in another cupboard! Almost cry for real at how sad that little crisis was.

9:00-10:00: I watch “So you think you can dance” on Fox. Laugh out loud at the fatties.

10:00: Sit back down at computer to work on essay. I spend an hour and a half updating my blog instead.

And that is what my days are like when I hardly see another human. Now that I have a cat my metamorphis into a hermit is almost complete. All I need is a tattered housecoat and lady side-burns.

It’s still better than living with TheBitches.

ThePeach