I'm Fine? Not Really.

"You ask me about the trouble with girls? How many weeks do you have? They may not be the mental space cases that Sex & the City has you think but they sure can pull some sudden moves that have you wish it was you and the remote for the day."

-Me

I'm the midst of packing and shaving for this weekend. By now, you know that means I will be in Indiana with a very nice shorn set of balls and a Batman t-shirt. Be glad I'm not a stoner. That would mean I'll be driving with a suitcase carrying only an oven mitt, action figures, 1 sock, and batteries, always size 'AA.'

It's also here that I have confusion riding within. Chicago might be next weekend thanks to Sara's favorite author being in town for a book tour. Christopher Rice. I've heard of him but nothing comes forth from me in regards to writings. This Chicago trip has me wondering if we can pull this off. Work, for me, ends in the evening but it's a 1 hour 19 minute drive to Indiana afterwards. Gonna have to feed me some major sugar snacks to keep me alive at night as we head on up to a majorly crazy city where lardasses are very welcome.

3 words: Deep dish pizza.

As I said, I haven't a clue as to much about Christopher Rice so I might have to check something out. I've always loved getting signatures from famous people. While many get star struck, it's always been my way of thinking to see these people from the humanistic point of view. Battlestar Galactica's Number Six, Tricia Helfer, was nice to chat with and, yes, she's tall. While everyone else was in line to meet people from an X-Files spin-off, I had to meet the supermodel I was always curious about. Nice girl but I worry about what kind of impression I gave off. 5 people in a small car for 10 hours during one of the hottest days of the year can call out some major B. fucking O.

The sexiest in Battlestar Galactica? Not Tricia but Grace Park. Oh, how this cylon can make me wonder if being a toaster is worth it just for a shot at playing with her wires.

Basically, it's the usual. Work's running me ragged to the point that I sleep later. My time spent in the grocery store this morning has me wondering if I'm losing my niceness. 2 little kids in front of me were annoying around their mother that I wanted to pick them up and toss them into the next aisle. Would have been funny if it were caught on camera.

"Yes! Cylons do exist! Footage at 11."

Lucky for me, the mother didn't want me to be behind her as she bought tampons and a bra. Look away, boy, while my daughter plays with my titty holsters. Toothbrush and batteries were all I needed. I'm such an asshole towards my teeth that it's always got to be electric. I'm pretty sure someone once thought I was using a vibrator in the bathroom.

Since when does being the wife of a former president grant you more reason to be voted as president? If it's not the color of Obama's skin, why do you keep pointing out that he's black, Hilary?

I know I haven't talked much about life in the gym. A lot of my friends have started going to the new gym that opened up. It's like a herd of muscle obsessed D+ students done got up and left for a wet t-shirt contest. Just me with Tamallah, Richard, Derek, and various weirdos that pop up every now and then. Today, I got stared at by 3 Mexicans that wish they had muscles like mine.

So, I'm bored and off to email Sara back about Chicago and London. I'm not a cylon. I'm just built that way and almost as strong. One of the nicest things Sara said was that I'm required to go with her to one of those major heavy metal concerts because I'm 'protection.' I'll be just that til someone plays the Scooby-Doo theme song and away I go to watch. Happy twats all around.