It seems I unintentionally picked an excellent day to have nothing to say – my DNS is broken. Half the planet can see my website, the other half cannot. For example:

• I can access it from work, but not from home
• It’s working on Darren’s side of Richmond, but not Jen’s
• Half a block away it’s working great
• It won’t load in Florida or Texas, but Arizona is fine
• Alberta and Nova Scotia are OK, Commercial Drive and New Westminster are not

Wacky! I hope it’ll be fixed soon. I don’t like it when things are broken.

I feel like I should have some sort of secret to share with the people who actually CAN see this. Um .. let’s see. Secrets I haven’t already told .. oh, I know. A few weeks ago I accidentally stole a tube of lip balm from London Drugs because the girl didn’t see it roll into the bag. I saw it fall in, but I thought she had already scanned it – it wasn’t until I looked at the recipet later that night that I realized my criminal ways. The secret is that I don’t feel all that guilty, because the checkout girl was a total bitch. Does this make me a bad person?

I’m clearly not afraid of being caught with smooth, glossy contraband lips – I went back to the same London Drugs last night to pick up my new lens:

There is a lot of stuff on my desk.

Most people would have the decency to be ashamed.

It’s much more fun to not be “most people”.

We had a party at Miranda and Reilly’s on Valentine’s Day. It was a riotous affair – everyone brought delicious food, the alcohol was flowing, and we were in high spirits. We were all feeling pretty silly, and the addition of new people to our growing circle of friends did little to curb our enthusiasm for ourselves. We were all generally thrilled with our lives and delighted to be the awesome yuppie hipsters we are, and the evening was loud and boisterous and naughty.

Did I mention naughty? We were in especially fine form that night. There was cleavage everywhere you looked, and a large portion of the evening featured several readings for group enjoyment. The Super Mario Brothers Craigslist ad was read aloud, which led to a reciting of this post and a long discussion about the Potato Farm. Pictures were shared, stories were told, and a great time was had by all.

Well, almost all.

At some point in the evening, another couple joined our party. These people were new to us – they were friends of the friends that our friends had brought along, so they were pretty far removed from our group dynamic. We are a welcoming people, so we joyfully included the newcomers in our conversations. The gentleman had brought a case of Dude Beer, which quickly enamored him to the beer drinkers, and the girl was petite and displaying cleavage that rivaled mine. Clearly, these were kindred spirits.

Or were they?

Dude Guy and Small Girl stayed for a bit, then made their exit – it was Valentine’s Day and they had “plans”, so we bid them a fond farewell and continued the festivities. We sensed that Small Girl was a little uncomfortable, but we chalked it up to the conversations we had in their presence:

• The Potato Farm story, with pictures
• Tom of Finland
• The Rules

.. to name a few.

We assumed she was much more delicate than her cleavage let on, and changed her name to Offended Girl – we had offended her with our naughty talk, and she had to take her leave of us. We probably should have tried to apologize, but we were just amused – we had offended someone so badly she had to leave the room! Hilarious!

Oh, if only.

After Valentine’s Day, we adopted the couple that Chris and Monica brought over as our shiny new friends and have been hanging out with them on a semi-regular basis. Dude Guy and Offended Girl had long since faded away to an amusing anecdote, but they resurfaced on Saturday night – after helping Darren move that day, the group reconvened at our usual bar in Gastown. Our new friends had in turn invited several of THEIR friends, and amongst them were Dude Guy and Offended Girl – who had not known the outing had originated from Miranda and Reilly. They arrived, said their hellos down the length of the table, then FROZE – it’s US! Oh, their delicate sensibilities!

It was just assumed that Offended Girl was still feeling some residual offense from Valentine’s Day, but the truth quickly and hilariously came out: she wasn’t afraid of us because we were raunchy; she was afraid of us because she thought we were all SWINGERS.

Miranda immediately texted those of us that were not in attendance that evening – she thought we were swingers who regularly swapped partners with each other and everyone else within our grasp! We quickly went over the events of the Valentine’s Party, and the pieces fell into place:

• Stories about the Potato Farm
• Planning a group visit to the Potato Farm
• .. and trying to convince the rest of the group to come with us
• Tanya repeatedly telling the group that SHE wasn’t into that sort of thing (implying that the rest of us are)
• .. my coming up with, reciting, and blogging about The Rules
• Animated discussions about The Rules
• The extreme level of comfort we have with each other
• The extreme level of filth I routinely bring to the most innocent of conversations
• Talking about how much we missed Darren and what state his penis would be in if it were here
• Twittering the juicier parts of the evening with the hash tag #hipsterVD

Shit, she totally thought we were swingers.

Most people would have the decency to be ashamed.

But this is fucking *hilarious*.

Who wants to have a key party?!

It’s extremely hard to take your morning seriously when your alarm clock decides to wake you up to the Space Channel 5 theme.

It’s Friday and it’s payday, so I’m getting a long-overdue haircut today. I’ll probably dye my hair tonight or tomorrow – I have a trifecta of roots showing, and it’s pissing me off. I think I should just declare it Makeover Friday and be done with it – there are a dozen painful beautifying procedures I fairly desperately need, made evident by my rejection for the Molson Canada 2010 Mural Project.

Molson Canada is collecting pictures of people to put on a mural cheering on the athletes for the 2010 Olympics next year. I was bored and had nothing better to do, so I submitted a photo – and was promptly rejected by the Committee of High Beauty Standards.

Yeah, that made me feel just super. I am too ugly to be shrunken down to a mere pixel and plastered all over the country. You wouldn’t even be able to make my evidently hideous mug out of the thousands of submissions, yet I am TOO HORRIBLY DEFORMED to take part in this project. I’m sorry I’m not “mural pretty” enough for you bastards. Why don’t I just go crawl into a HOLE and DIE? Would THAT make you happy, you communist jerks??

I’d love to be able to come back with “my MOM thinks I’m pretty”, but I know she doesn’t. Fine. I’m not attractive enough to sell crappy beer. I know when I’m not wanted. You can’t market Mama Cass; is that it? You people make me SICK.

Okay, I know I was most likely rejected because the rules state you cannot have any logos or names in the picture, and this is what I submitted:

too ugly for beer

For all intents and purposes, “DeeAy” IS a brand – it’s me. I’ll probably try again with another picture, one that doesn’t have my name all over it in giant Swedish letters. If I get rejected again .. well, I’ll probably just go die in a fire seeing as that’s what they want.

I am both amused and mortified that I was rejected by Molson Canada.

There are few things more damaging to my self-esteem than walking into an elevator already occupied by a fucking supermodel. Dear girl who was on my elevator: I hate you. You are impossibly tall and blonde and skinny and you seriously looked as though you were heading to Milan to do a little turn on the catwalk (on the catwalk yeah). I already know that I’m funny looking, but until I had to get on the elevator with you, I was perfectly fine with my plaid sneakers, denim skirt, black leggings, blue shirt with sparkly thread done up in the back with a bright green organza ribbon, huge sunglasses and green headphones. Compared to you, though, I look like a clown. You made me feel as ridiculous as I look, which is saying a lot because I always look ridiculous but I rarely feel my conventional shortcomings (much to the chagrin of the people who have to be seen with me).

I’m going to go home and crawl under the bed now.

Stupid supermodels, making the rest of us feel bad.

I have nothing to say today, so I asked around for a topic generator. Catherine sent me this one, which has generated the following topics for me:

Atom Fusion: I think it’s just awesome. Atoms are pretty great, so naturally the only thing better than one atom would be two (or MORE) atoms fused together in some way. My mind is blown just thinking about how wikked sick that would be!

Scatting in Music: …

9th SS Panzer Division Hohenstaufen: Not nearly as good as the 7th.

Avoiding the Flue: Duck.

The Secret Life of Benjamin Franklin: Pimpin’ ain’t easy.

Okay, that is clearly not working for me. I might as well just post the crap I wrote this morning about my day-long wardrobe malfunction:

Getting dressed this morning was a frickin’ comedy of errors.

It’s nice out, so I wanted to wear a skirt. No problem – open closet, get skirt, put it on. I’m having one of those picky mornings though, and I couldn’t find a top to wear with my bottom so I gave up on the skirt and put on a dress. Easy! Except I couldn’t find the little jacket thing I normally wear with that dress, so off it came. Fine, I’ll wear jeans. I pulled some on and looked for a shirt. Same problem as before – I hate my entire closet – so I gave up and pulled on a couple of old, comfortable favourites. Clothed but not necessarily satisfied, I went into the living room to find my watch and keys. As I shoved my phone into my pocket, I heard something riiiiiiiiiip – did I mention that my shirt was an *old* favourite? The material disintegrated in the arm, leaving giant holes that can’t be fixed. I had to bail on the shirt, and finally yanked a hazard-free cardigan out of my closet. I am not impressed with this turn of events – not only is my bedroom floor an epic disaster due to my indecisive nature; I now hate every piece of clothing I own. Normally I’d purge the offending items and go shopping, but I have a trip coming up next month and I’m trying to save money so I’ll just have to look like a hobo for the unforeseeable future.

It doesn’t help that I spilled sweet n’ sour sauce all down the front of my white tank top. Twice.

I should give up now.

My weekend was an utter cockslap, but I am actually feeling pretty good right now. It might be the caffeine, or the bacon, or the inspiration power rock streaming from my iPhone, but whatever the cause – I’m feeling good. I will try to hang onto this feeling.

Oh, I think I know what it is. I’m out of my normal brain medication, so I took some stuff I found in the bathroom closet – expired, double strength and prescribed to someone else. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Abuse someone else’s medication in the pursuit of happiness?

I suppose I should put up a disclaimer that I’m not *really* abusing anything, except the facts don’t do me any face-saving justice – the straight truth is that these aren’t my pills, and a smarter person who didn’t spend most of their weekend alternately giddy and hating the universe would probably have made the time to get a refill. Oh well. Maybe what I needed all along was to increase my dosage. I seem to be much less dissatisfied with my life at the moment – maybe passionless and boring isn’t so bad after all!

There is a sad shriveled lemon on my desk. It is depressing me, so into the garbage it goes.

Today I am wildly erratic and irrelevant, but my shirt has a dragon on it and also some waves and flowers and a pagoda or two.

You know, it’s a good thing that I’m not planning on running for office anytime soon. If people are scandalized by mildly racy pictures, I can only image the heart attacks that would follow should I announce my intentions to seek out any sort of power. It would be kind of fun, though: I wonder how far I could get as a cleavage-baring, scooter-riding, baby-hating, drug-abusing, abortion-having, swear-happy, unphotogenic funny-looking fat girl.

I haven’t actively watched any CSI-type murder shows in some time now, but that apparently doesn’t stop me from trying to plan the perfect murder. It’s probably not a good thing that I spent a good chunk of my morning thinking about the frozen ham I just took out of the freezer, and how it would make an awesome head-basher, then wondering if they would ever be able to trace the distinctive indentations in the skull to the frozen ham hock – especially if I cook and eat the evidence for Sunday dinner.

I could never be a criminal mastermind – I would want to tell people exactly how I pulled off this awesome crime, and then I’d go to jail where they wouldn’t let me on the internet.

Err, and it would be bad to take a life and stuff.

But mostly, I’d miss the internet.

Also, “Death by Ham” would be a great band name.