Yessssss

Aha! I have succeeded! I diminished that enormous left border somewhat. Quake in your boots, all you bits of wasted space out there -- I will fill you all with useless crap! All of you! Yes -- YOU! Muwahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. On my blog, as in my apartment, no space goes uncluttered. I hate that about myself sometimes.

As for that evil locked box (see last post) -- someone suggested to me today that I make it a little friend -- my own, tiny locked box, to sit next to it. I like that. I was trying to think of some amusing response to the box, but each thing I could think of involved opening it, which I don't really want to do. Well, ok, some part of me definitely wants to, but a good part of me doesn't.

Locked boxes

I'd like to tell my boyfriend "don't EVER leave me at home alone with a locked box for four months again!" -- but, well, then he'd know I'm going crazy over the locked huge box (ok it's a trunk) under our guest bed. Oh yes, if I knew I could open it without leaving any evidence, I'd have a serious problem. Boy would I want to, but I of course wouldn't want to violate him like that. (I was going to replace "him" with "his trust" but then I thought, "trust? what trust? he locked the F*()ing box!!!") In fact, I'd probably be sitting in front of it twitching right now, frozen between morality and my embarrassingly stereotypical freakish-girl tendencies.

So, what the haddock is in the box!?!?!? (Yes, I was thinking about Spongebob and Mr. Krabs just then.) He needed me to find something for him, under that bed, while he was still in VA on his way to Baghdad, and the existence of the locked box was mentioned (by me), along with something like "what, did you think I'd steal something?" He may have mumbled something about "well maybe there's something in there I might want to give you some day." I think that was BS though. I think a long time ago, he once thought about giving me something secret, but at this point, after this much time, I think it's too late for that. BOy, don't *I* sound the psycho girly one again? This is what happens when I have half a glass of red wine with dinner and watch "The Dead Zone." Who would've thought that little freaky skinny Anthony Michael Hall (ala Breakfast Club from 1980-something) would've grown up to be a big strong HOT MAN?!?! And I ramble aimlessly again.

Oh, wait, can I just say how stupid this freaking layout is? What's with the wasted space in the margins?!?!? No purpose whatsoever. Yes, having, oh, 2 or 3 degrees in engineering (2 of them electrical), I should know html by now and have a whizbang custom blog setup. But I don't. So there. I have other fish to fry. A saying I learned from a man who messed me up big time in college, btw. More on him some other time, if I have wine with dinner again, and feel like typing and publishing some damning stories.

Damn, some people take their blogs seriously!

Yikes. I was just looking at a few blogs on this ring I joined, perhaps stupidly. Some people really take their blogs quite seriously. I can't imagine anyone else is reading this, but if you are, I sure hope you didn't come here looking for any consistent demonstration of intelligence or wit or whatnot....

Now, mind you, this blog is less organized than even *I* would like it to be. Take that last sentence for instance -- I can't even see how it's connected nicely to this post. I think I was trying to say sorry, I really crave organization, intelligence, and wit in my life, but at the moment I'm lacking in the motivation department, which frustrates me too.

I hate cropped pants!

So it seems ridiculous that with all that's been going on in my life, the thing that finally brought me back here and inspired me to bother to write an entry was, CROPPED PANTS. I hate them. Cropped pants, capris pants, whatever the F you decide to call them, I think they're worthless. Unless you have some reason to need them, like you're going to be wading for an extended period of time. Although still, I say, wear a normal pair of pants and roll the suckers up. That way, you've still got a useful pair of pants when you're NOT wading or otherwise doing something that MIGHT justify cropped pants. Of course, if I were a skinny, sexy-ankled 18 year-old, I might not have these feelings of animosity toward an arguably innocent article of clothing. But really, long pants are so much more flattering, as they create a nice long line, blah blah blah. Not to mention the fact that they are CLEARLY superior for protection from such environmental hazards as insects that might harbor some horrible virus, or at the very least cause you to itch like a fiend. Why the hell am I blabbering on about PANTS when I have things like a boyfriend in Iraq, a sick father selling the house I grew up in, and, on the good side, a devilishly cute new kitten!

So, here is a photo of boyfriend AND of Ferris, my new kitten and temporary boyfriend substitute (only in that he is the target of my need to love, in an innocent way, for you sickos out there. AND, he greets me at the door with love (or at least purring) when I come home). (OK, so it's a photo of kitten and a photo of the boyfriend, vs a photo of kitten and BF, to get technical.)