I just found out that the cute girl who lives three floors above me is a Junior at USF, is majoring in criminology, belongs to a sorority and works as a stripper three days a week where (she says) she averages a thousand dollars each week. Also, she just broke up with her boyfriend before kicking him out of her apartment (just a few minutes ago). I got to see their final exchange, during which he said, “You’re a stupid bitch” and she replied, “At least I’m not flunking out, you little asshole.” So there you go. Apartment living. You just can’t beat it.

An acquaintance of mine asked me how it is that I find the time to write consistently when I have a job. She stated that she has problems writing when worried (which she said happens to her quite a bit). She wanted tips or something. I just shrugged and told her that she might as well have asked me how I manage to eat everyday, or when I find the time to sleep. She didn’t get it. No one gets it. I enjoy this, guys. I need it. That’s it. With or without an audience, I’m doing this everyday. Some of it sucks, some of it doesn’t. All I can say is thanks for reading.

I recently learned that I’m such an asshole, even when I try to help people I end up royally pissing them off. And, though I found it hard to believe that someone who never met me was able to sum up this phenomenon, fellow PIC blogger Chad Chamley did it in two sentences. Apparently, I’m like “a little kid who draws a picture for you on your living room wall. He may piss you off, but he means well.” I asked my friend Tom if that was indeed what I was like, and he nodded and without expression said, “pretty much.” So, um, I guess, ah… thanks, Chad.

And now, because this is obviously one of those entries where I babble on about myself without the use of such tools as logic, fluidity or poignancy, I leave you with the following pickup line, which Dave the Bartender used without success:

“Damn baby, I want to be the reason for your first abortion.”

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