"Ch-ch-ch-Changin'!"

David Bowie, I think...

Last night, I was rudely awakened by pounding on what sounded like my door. We've had the same domestic violence couple living next door for the past year or two and usually what sounds like our door is usually theirs. Oddly enough, it WAS our door and it was being pushed and beat and rubbed on by an unknown dude. He said nothing but he was definitely becoming one with our door until he passed out on the back patio. "WTF?!" My sister and I both whisper at each other. I call 911.

The cop is really nice to the guy even though it takes a good 15 minutes to wake him up. Yes, he slept through the gigantic flashlight pounded on the wooden deck and periodic shouted serenades of "HEY POLICE! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" The guy was shnockered... however you spell it. Trashed, NASTY drunk as I've never actually seen in person. After some halfway lucid conversation between the two, we learn our perp's name is Matt and he's from SANphrupheoh. "Whale's Vagina, you say?" The cop smirks. Matt counters with a very drunken headbutt to our door and a "huh?" We giggle with our ears pressed against our door, not unlike our friend, Matt.

The cop asks for his ID and 23yo Matt soon becomes drunken, underage Josh who redecorated out doormat with what appeared to be semi-digested chicken wings. The cop recoils in horror. The stench is pretty bad even through our closed door. Matty Josh groans and retches some more and slurs that the "chick" that lives here got him trashed and he lives in our apartment number. Right. Who's the cop going to believe, two groggy, pj'ed chicks, who have obviously not been out drinking or you? We still have no idea how he thinks he lives here or why he would be able to get in without a key.

We wait while EMS discusses our location for the next 20 minutes. I don't blame them, though. The cop came in through our front patio and out the back, stepping over sleeping beauty. Our complex is uh... complex.

Mr. EMS is not so nice to Matty Josh. He makes a lot of fun of him. I will admit it was funny but Mr. EMS was sort of an asshole, but having been woken up at 2:30 am to a half-dead, disgusting dude knocking on my door, I'm giving Mr. EMS some credit. Matty Jo Josh Jim Bob is WAY past drunk as we learn from the BAC detector thingie. If we wouldn't have called 911, he might have been dead in the morning.

Now, we've lived in the same condo for 8+ years now and this has NEVER happened to this extent. Some people think our apartment is our neighbors but it's usually at a reasonable hour and not usually so entertaining. The way I see it on my funny scale: Embarassed coherant people <>

Having non-violent, half-dead guys showing up at my door for the first time in 9 years (or 12 if you count the other 3 when I lived nearby) could be an omen that perhaps my luck is changing. Hot damn I didn't even have to go downtown for this kind of after party, it comes to me!

“But if it's your mind that's wanderin' It'll fall in line…

Aw honey help me pick up the change” ~ Wilco, Pick Up the Change.



How dare work get in the way of this blog! I mean, really, what is with employment, anyways?

With its ever-growing myriad of tasks that await me each morning…

And the holidays that I so enjoy having time off for…

Followed by two snow days created by an awesome ice storm…

And its paychecks that I’ve become so accustomed to…

You know, the very ones that pay for the internet connection that I use to post this blog…Oh, wait! Yes, it might just be important to keep both and have to sideline some of the blog posting from time to time.

I think that the break was also necessary for me to gather my thoughts. You see, they’ve been restless and impatient and irritable- and flakey. I will not deny they’ve been flakier than a croissant or that roommate I had a few years ago who SWORE up and down that she was anything BUT flakey. I’m not that girl; I own my absentmindedness.

Focusing those thoughts, roping them in after having let them roam free for the past month or so has been a pain in the ass. This girl didn’t even finish her Christmas shopping until two days before Christmas- lovingly referred to in my family as “Christmas Eve Squared,” and poor Limey… he’s still waiting for his. The bad-ass knit beanie that I started yesterday. Yes, January 21st.

Believe me, I’ve been trying to figure out what the is up with me. This is what I’ve come up with:

You know how some people refer to a lesser as a poor man’s something or other? American Eagle is the poor man’s Abercrombie and Fitch? K-Fed is the poor man’s… Eminem or Kato Cailin?

Sometimes we are the poor man’s version of ourselves. It’s almost like a cycle that is completely random and asymmetrical. No one can forecast this storm that comes in and keeps everything just damp enough that you slip every other step that you take. The storm that keeps your mind abuzz when it is trying ever so hard to nestle itself sleepily under the duvet.

I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Nothing at all. Right now, life is peachy, yet the poor man’s Scarlett has been bumped up from being my understudy.

Fuck you, poor man’s Scarlett. I’m taking back over!