Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

I consider myself lucky to be alive today, people.

As I awoke this morning, before my alarm went off (which I fucking hate with a stabbing passion), the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was my cat, Ike, sitting on the pillow right next to my face and staring at me.

It looked similar to this, but much, much more sinister.

I am pretty sure he was concocting a plan to kill me while I sleep because I haven't let him watch Queer Eye For The Straight Guy lately. I think he is also dissatisfied with the lack of cats in the porn I watch.

Wrong kind of pussy, I suppose.

Needless to say, I was paralyzed with fear for a few moments, until I slapped myself and realized I outweigh this cat by at least 20 pounds, and I could probably take him if it really came down to it. Well... maybe I could take him. He might be gay, but he's a tough bitch. I have a scar across my right boob to prove it (and there are *no* pictures of that).

My other stupid cat, Boo, saved the day by tangling herself in my blinds YET AGAIN, which distracted Ike, so I could jump out of bed and haul ass to the shower.

Foiled again, you fluffy caniving bastard.

I better set the tivo to record Queer Eye and not push my luck.

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Today, Celestia cried at work.

I know, I know. This is so surprising. It seems that her vacation next week (thank god for five whole Celestia-free days) will be without her ugly friend Butterface, who she planned it with, and she was so sad about it, that she cried all day and ended up asking HR Boss if she could go home because she just "didn't feel like being there."

HR Boss laughed and told her to go back to her desk and work.

Which made her cry more.

I am sure she will be happy tomorrow, though, when she sees the nice card Margie and I got for her to celebrate the arrival of her menses for May (if you didn't read a couple entries ago - and why the fuck wouldn't you? - I noticed she had tomorrow's date marked on her calendar to start her period. This both baffles and amuses me). It has a sassy black chick on the front sitting outside of a cafe, looking all carefree and independent in an "I don't need no man to complete me" kind of way. Inside, it says "Girl, at times like these, we gotta stick together. Keep your head up, sista!"

I kid you not. If I had a scanner, I would have taken a picture of it, but I don't. I don't know where the hell Margie found that card, but it is classic.

Strangely enough, Hallmark doesn't make a card for starting your period.

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Because I am addicted to crap, I tivo'd Dr. Phil interviewing Pat O'Brien after his triumphant return from rehab. I don't care if that guy cures cancer, everytime I see him, I am going to think of the voicemails.

Is it bad that I get so excited when celebrities make such huge asses of themselves? Because it really does just make me giddy. Like a leetle guhl.

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I live in the ghetto. Where I live, cars are always blasting their music, and it's only two types: mariachi, or super bass-heavy rap. Well, I can't let this happen all the time, so I purposely make sure that when I get close to home, my little Corolla is bumping the wicked sounds of The Monkees, or Abba, or Wham, or whatever cheesy cd I have in my car at the time.

Today, when I pulled up from work, I had my windows down, and I had "Daydream Believer" up as loud as it would go. A couple of the 756 people that live in the house across the street were standing outside, and the less-scary looking one yelled "What the fuck is up with your shitty music, man? That shit fuckin' sucks. I can't fuckin' stand that shit." Do you kiss your mother, grandmother, sisters, cousins, and fourteen aunts that you live with, with that mouth?

I almost enjoy pissing him off.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.