The DSL is up and running!

Speaking of running, check out a good cause: Out For Blood

My friend Karin is killing her body to raise money for blood cancer awareness, education, and prevention. Show her some love in the financial sense.

This stuff affects your life and you don't even realize it.

R.I.P. Stanley.

Where is my internet service?

I had a doctor's appointment, an MRI, another doctor's appoint, a surgical procedure and a followup in a shorter amount of time than it took to get DSL.

And I STILL DON'T HAVE OPERATING DSL. Naturally, I'm a little pissed.

So I'm venting the way I vent best. In haiku.


How is your service?
DSL can kiss my ass.
Suck it long and hard.


Stop asking questions.
I have told you everything.
Just. Fix. The. Problem.


Their internet works.
Am I in the Twilight Zone?
Monsters on Maple?


You provide one thing.
And you can't even do that.
How are you open?

If it were legal.
I would blow up your HQ.
And dance on ashes.

Suck my biggest toe.
After I run a few miles.
Cause my knee is fixed.

Did I say that I had Internet at home?

Apparently I was misinformed.

Four times.

Avoid ATT DSL if you can. It's really not worth the wires it runs through.

Nouning is really fun.

"Let's party."

A pretty common phrase, right? You've probably said it yourself a few times, or at least tried some variation of it.

Face it. "Party" is no longer just a noun. It's a verb now. And quite the verb, actually.

I party. You party. He/she/it parties. We party. They party.

Let's go partying.

Last night, my friends and I partied.

Any English language snob would turn up his nose (or perhaps vomit with disgust) and declare that using "party" as a verb is a complete tragedy. That English as we know it is being bastardized and soon we'll all be speaking monosyllabically to one another in caves.

I wish I had a more intelligent response. But I'm too busy blogging*.

Think about it. The beauty of language is that it's constantly evolving. After all, we don't all speak ye olde English on a dialy basis, do we? That stuff died a soldier's death long ago.

I saw tweak the lexicon. Create new words. And stretch definitions as far as they can stretch.

Within reason, of course. We don't all want to sound like yokels.

* Oh! 'Dis!

Let's blog in under a minute!

Holy crap, I'm so excited.

I finally finally FINALLY have internet at my humble abode.

So I can blog again right before bed.

That's when I prefer to write. It's my high-time, if you will.

Not "high" as in on drugs, but "high" as in "super-awesome."

Be prepared, my loves, for the Queen is back.

Walking hurts.

Walking hurts.

Walking shouldn't hurt.

Walking should be easy by now.

After getting cut up, sewn up, worked out, walking should be a cinch.

And it isn't.

My doctor wants to see me on Thursday.

He's going to tell me why walking hurts.

And how much more cutting up, sewing up, and working out will make walking normal.

And until then, I'm not okay.

How old are we?

Had lunch with my coworkers today.

It was a pretty typical lunch. Eight of us. Four pizzas (thin crust). Two cars. Nothing out of the ordinary.

My group left first. The other group had cigarettes before heading back. As my car drove past, someone commented, "They're busy talking to the owner."

Didn't think anything of it.

Got back to the office and was getting settled when I hear, "Yeah, she's here."

My boss and two other male coworkers enter. They hand me a business card. "The owner said to give this to you."

What?

"Are you serious?" I asked.

I took the card and saw a name, a phone number, and the following message:
If you don't have a boyfriend... Call me?

"Are you fucking with me?" I asked.

They started laughing. "Seriously, guys, are you making this up?"

They weren't. And they thought it was the funniest thing in the world.

Apparently, Mr. Restaurant Owner asked the group if I had a boyfriend. My boss wanted to answer, "Well, she has a daddy." Mr. Restaurant Owner is a little older than me. And by little, I'm thinking twenty years.

Not that a twenty-years difference is a problem. The fact that I'm in a relationship, though, is.

And the fact that he sort of passed a note. If only he'd included a check yes/no option.

Okay, not really.

All in all, I'm flattered. But now I've get to endure the teasings of my male counterparts for the next month. Or at least until something else exciting happens around here.


UPDATE: Is it Hit-On-Veronica day? Some dude just asked me out on a date using Facebook. I suspect my coworkers may be behind this. Or at least I hope so.