Proper work conversation.

As I type this from my bedroom in my apartment, I can hear fucking mariachi music blaring like they're playing live in my house.

Goddamn the ghetto. This is pretty commonplace as the weather warms up and it gets closer to summer. My neighbors in the house across the street (all 726 of them) invite 1500 more of their relatives over and have a bbq.

Most of the time I don't care about it, but sometimes enough is enough already, and I retaliate by turning up Tom Jones' Greatest Hits as loud as my stereo will go. Nothing says "pass me another cerveza and cook up that carne asada" like "It's Not Unusual."

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More stupidity in the media: I was reading this article on People magazine online about how silicone breast implants are legal again, and that women may be getting those instead of the saline implants. They cited Pamela Anderson, and said "Anderson won't comment on what type of implants - if any - she has."

If any?? Do they think there's a possibility those volleyballs on her chest might be natural?

Or anything else on her, for that matter?

It clearly takes no brains to be an entertainment journalist. I am in the wrong line of work.

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My company has baseball and basketball season tickets. Usually, the baseball tickets are available for employees to use, but Mr. Big Shot NEVER lets anyone use his Lakers or Clippers tickets. His Clipper tickets are on the floor, and his Laker tickets are good enough that you can touch Jack Nicholson. He uses those to take his friends and show off what a big shot he (thinks) is. Eh, I'd probably do the same.

So, Chris sent out an email to the office that said "blah blah blah days of Dodger tickets are available. Let me know if you want them." I almost always grab the Friday night games, because even though I don't really like to watch it on tv, I love going to a ball game.

I used to be an obsessed Dodger fan as a kid, which was fueled by my lusty crush on Steve Sax - which is pretty much why I watch all sports, at least initially - the men. I had the blue satin jacket, hats, and shirts. During the summer, my Dad always used to take the day off of work and we would go to the game. I miss those days.

I replied to Chris' email that I wanted last night's tickets. Plus, they were playing the Anaheim Angels of The OC from Los Angeles In California, or whatever the fuck they're called now. He told me I could have them, but after, he told me he also told Fajita, another co-worker, that he could have them, too. Being that neither Fajita or I are complete assholes, and since there's four tickets, instead of fighting for them, we split them. He was going to bring his girlfriend, and I was going to bring my friend Colm, which I was nervous about, because as much as Fajita and I get along at work, he's never seen me outside of work, let alone with a drunken Irishman.

We were joking about the game at my desk yesterday, which resulted in me getting called in to the boss' office.

Thanks, Celestia, you bitter, sense of humor-less whore.

Andria: Dude, what are the Angels called now?
Fajita: I think it's the Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. But I am not sure.
Chris: Maybe they should be the Disneyland Angels.
Andria: Disney doesn't own the Angels anymore.

Chris starts suggesting all these dumb names, and the last one was what got me in trouble.

Chris: Maybe Michael Jackson could buy them, and they'd be Michael Jackson's Angels.
Andria: Wouldn't that have to be a little league team?
Fajita: Oh boy.
Andria: Exactly.
Chris: Andria, I think you're going to hell.

Celestia overheard that, and told HR Boss that I was making child molester jokes, and that she didn't think it was appropriate "for the corporate office." She, of course, didn't explain the conversation entirely, she just said I was making jokes about molesting little boys. Fucking bitch.

When I explained it, my boss didn't care. She just told me to watch for Celestia next time.

You know, the conversation Chris and I had earlier in the day was WAY more worth a scolding than a dumb Michael Jackson joke. We talked about anal sex, the proper moment to stick a finger up a guy's ass during a blowjob, and midget porn. That, I will admit, is not wholly appropriate for the corporate office. Now that I think about it, most of our conversations sound like that.

Goddamn, I am such a lady.

When we met Fajita at the game, I met his girlfriend, Cherry for the first time. When Fajita was first hired, I was absolutely certain that he was gay. And I am usually right about such things. But, since he has a girlfriend and a kid on the way, I will assume he's straight. He's just a fabulous dresser. And maticulous. And a fanatical work-out guy. And a little tiny bit effeminate.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Colm had about 30 beers at the game, and with his Irish tongue, managed to offend Cherry, who in spite of her out-of-wedlock-living-in-sin-impending motherhood, is quite a conservative girl. When he called the peanut guy a "fucking cunt" for ignoring his request, I think her jaw dropped to the ground. It also didn't help when he asked Fajita what it was like working with a "that fucking toerag Celestia."

Good times.

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I am supposed to go to dinner with Jason and his *gag* girlfriend tonight. I don't want to do this. I have no respect for this girl, and I can't sit and act fake for an hour or two, and pretend I don't think she's a giant retard.

Jason tried to be serious with her once before, which was one of the few times when he gave me the "let's just be friends with no sex" speech. But it lasted all of about two weeks. Because as much as he liked everything else about her, she was uptight and boring in the sack. Rather than experimenting with sexual adventure, she told Jason he could do that stuff with other people, she just didn't want to know about it.

How boring, you ask? No blowjobs. EVER. It's all missionary, all the time.

Maybe she's changed her ways, and became a dirty whore, I don't know. But now the fucker wants me to go and hang out with them, and that makes me uncomfortable.

I need to find a way to get out of this.

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Since I have talked about sex throughout this entry, I will close by saying I have had some of my raciest dreams ever in the last few weeks. Like crazy, graphic, groping myself in my sleep, waking up turned on dreams.

The only bad thing about these dreams is waking up alone. I am tired of being single. I am frustrated. I am tired of random guys that don't mean more than a good time for a few hours at a time.

Jesus. Am I becoming a mature adult?