My dad on Corvettes and compact discs:

Just needed the reminder.

Dream road trip.

I mean, this is the most efficient route, right?

Nichole: i want to get a new tattoo next week
Nichole: inner thigh
Michelle: nice you should get one that’s a picture of a tasmanian devil giving the finger and playing hockey and maybe taking a pee
Nichole: imagine going in to fuck a girl
Nichole: and she’s all classy and shit
Nichole: then in her inner thigh she has Taz taking a piss
Michelle: like wearing a habs jersey
Nichole: you KNOW she’d be DTF
Michelle: bitch would be so fucking cool

I mean, I hate to rag on the big girls out there, but doesn’t Kelly Clarkson totally look like Cathy, of comic strip fame?

AACK!

amirite?

I was feeling super grumpy today so I looked at a bunch of photos that make me happy and these are two of my favourites from the week Nichole and I spent 168 hours together–that’s 24 hours a day, seven days straight. We slept in the same bed the whole time, shared a phone, and even had our first sort-of fight.

Here’s what I wrote in my diary* the night I realized I could spend the rest of my life with this girl:

nichole and i pulled a total stepbrothers moment and bumped into each other in the bathroom that joins our rooms, and we were both wearing oversized airbrushed tshirts and i think that’s when i realized that we’re soulmates and/or hilarious.

here we are having a sleepover aka lan party because we’ve in love it’s actually really disgusting

When I first met her I was super nervous because she’s really pretty and I didn’t want her to think i was gross. Anyway, our one year love anniversary is coming up. Should I get her a gift yes/no/maybe?

* okay so I wrote it in our blog wtvr.

With my first American paycheque I bought myself:

- a haircut, my first in 10 months

- new shoes, desperately needed

- two dresses, unnecessarily

- this postcard, an impulse buy at the Rose Bowl. I was killing time by thumbing though a bin of yellowed landscapes, until then this little gem of stoner-artist perfection came stumbling into my hands. And what a model of composition! I’ll bet one of those Marxist neo-craft communes made a killing off this print back in their day. Good on them.

I’m putting it on my fridge as a reminder to call my parents–and pay my rent. (Because when I do go home I’ll be pretty down-and-out; let’s be real.)

- oh, and I bought a lemonade, too. I was pretty thirsty.

My sister is so great, I don’t even care if she thinks Facebook messages are the best way to reach me.

Last night I dreamt my hair was cut off. I woke up exhausted.

According to the internet, it’s some loss of power / female castration thing–I mean, I did fall asleep reading Female Chauvinist Pigs, which works off one of the most annoying theses I’ve ever read. I probably drifted off into some argumentative dream rage and scissored out of spite.

But as someone who has never really valued hair, I feel sort of exempt from the collective unconscious. (Actually, I can’t stand when someone touches their hair. It drives me crazy.)

Anyway, female betrayal and loss of power are just the myth. It’s not the hair that exhausted me, but I know what I should cut off.

I have the sweetest cold ever and I’m trying to power through it, unmedicated–just ride the mucus wave or something–but it’s just been a disaster so far.

I woke up this morning to discover an email I had drafted on my Blackberry, probably during some work-dream haze, asking my boss,

Wait, do you really think we should advertise on Danielle Steele novels?

Really glad I couldn’t find the “send” button on that one.

Ugh I feel horrible and I just want to sit around feeling sorry for myself but I can’t because my entire head is gigantic and Precious Moments-esque. WAH.