I got fired from that dumb smoothie place.

I've never been fired before. It wasn't like it is in the movies. But then, there are rarely short, ugly, scary football players in the movies. And that's a good thing.

Seriously though, don't get fired! It's not glamorous or righteous at all. And my dismissal was so sudden and abrupt, I didn't get to do any of the bad things I always said I'd do if I knew I was gunna quit, or get canned. Like have dirty hooker sex on all the surfaces. Or put meth in the yogurt. Or trash the place.

So the sun sets on that particular chapter of my work history, and rises on a new, and better one.


Fuck, I don't wanna write on this thing anymore. AMAGAAAAAD, I'm losing it guys.

I'm losing the Will To Blog.


It'll come back, don't you fuss.

Man, I remember back in the day when a really exhilerating night consisted of downing one too many screwdrivers and getting the courage to dance on the mini-stage at a gay bar. I'd come home feeling all mega-adventurous: "I can't believe I DID that, I'm so fucking FREEEEE!" Then I'd vomit and pass out and wake up the next morning regretting everything about the evening except the really funny episode of Boy Meets World I'd watched before I left the house.

Until recently, I'd have to pop atleast three caps, makeout with atleast three different boys, and have sex with at least two of them for my night to be anything out of the ordinary.

Of course, now that I have my Super Magic Ultra Number One Happy Time Snuggle Bunny Sugar Lips, my Saturday nights are no longer quite as risky. And yet, a trillion times more satisfying. Go figure, huh.


Don't you hate when you make a friend, and, they're a really good friend, and you spend a LOT of time with that friend, and they become one of your best friends, and you even live together for awhile... and then, one day, you realize...

That they've become a fucking MISERABLE DOUCHEBAG so convinced that their pathetic, unhappy way of life is the kind that everyone should be living, that they totally cut themselves off from the people that loved them the most because those people refuse to be all angsty and wallow in self-pity all day long?

No? Well lemme tell ya. It kinda sucks. Losing a friend is always shitty. This particular scenario I currently find myself in, however, is uncannily vicious. But I'm pretty much tired of pussy-footing around him, holding my tongue because I don't want to start shit. At last I can unleash all my fury unto him for his stupidity and total refusal to make a better life for himself, emotionally, anyways. And I gotta say, it's gunna be pretty sweet.


Now, because I have little else to contribute, I'm going to tell you about how my sex life is SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOURS. (Unless you're one of my close compadres, because I know the sex you have is fuckin awesome, as you all have spectacular taste in men.) (... ... Um, also, if you're part of mah Krew, and don't really feel like reading details of my sexual escapades, you can totally stop reading here, I fully understand.)

So, Super Magic Ultra Number One Happy Time Snuggle Bunny Sugar Lips, or, S.M.U.N.O.H.Y.S.B.S.L, as I like to call him, has serious fucking skills in the sack. You wouldn't think it to look at him, with his youthful blue eyes, sweet smile, and nerdy glasses. But maaa-aan. Dude can fuck like no one I've ever encountered. I've had more ridonkulously intense orgasms in the past three weeks than I've had in... well in probably my entire sexual history. And he loves it! He fucking LOVES being sweet to me aaalmost as much as likes The Big O for himself. One of the Yucky Ones used to proffess a love of making me come, that it was his passion, and yet, he rarely EVER did, but just assumed that he had in fact - as per always! - succeeded in doing just so, after he climaxed maaaaaaaaybe fifteen minutes post "I'm gunna fuck you aaaaaall night long."

Listen, everyone, I'm really sorry for doing this, because I fucking loooaathe people who boast and chatter about their respective lovebirds with very little care or concern as to your level of interest in such a subject, but I need to do it. I know that many of you, near and dear to my heart as you are, have lately undergone more than your share of frustration at the hands of a stupid, stupid boy, and truly trust me when I say that in no way do I desire to rub my happiness in your face, nor do I believe my situation untouchable from the many circumstances that inflicted your respective relationships, and indeed those of many before us. But I just... I guess I just really want you to know all the things that this boy does for me.

I mean... he listens to me. He really, really listens to me; doesn't use what I'm talking about as a segway for something to tell me about him. He asks me questions, about the things that I like and the person I am; what I want for myself in life, and my favourite kinds of music. Not only does he ask these questions, but he truly pays attention to the answers - he REMEMBERS things, to a fucking tee. Heh, he retains the shit that I say way more than I even do myself. He comes to visit me at work atleast twice a day, always with that smile on his face and kind words on his lips. And he'll take me anywhere. Anywhere I need to be, he's at my side to bring me there, almost entirely regardless of his situation. When he looks at me.. he really sees me. I'm not a fuck toy, or a manifestation of some deep-seeded fantasy of the sexy school teacher he used to masturbate to. I'm the person I've always longed to be to a man, yet thought totally impossible of being. He loves me.

I guess it's a bit hard for me to really convey how... foreign these feelings that I have for him are. Try... try imagining having come to - and in fact, enjoying - the realization that at this point in your life, you simply would not involve yourself in a relationship. You're 87% sure that it's the last thing you need or want, and are totally enjoying fucking whomever you see fit, with absolutely no one to answer to or reprecussions for what you do. It's wicked fun and entirely care-free. The independence and empowerment are exhileratingly thrilling. You know that men are for one thing only - your friends and family and everyone else are who you draw your support and affection from.

And then, like, imagine meeting, by some retarded stroke of what I can only refer to as LUCK, this boy who just pretty much does and is almost everything you've secretly wished for.

BLINDSIGHTED!!

When you're totally fuckin taken by suprise in a way that just really wasn't possible, it kinda breaks your brain. I dunno... I think at this point I'm probably not making a whole lot of sense. This isn't where I saw this thing going - the post, I mean. I should go back and proof read it; delete most of, I bet. But it's done, and I'm not entirely convinced that I actually care what it turns out as.

A POX ON YOU INTERNET, YOU HAVE GRANTED US TOO MUCH POWER.

I'm totally alive, and totally wanting to write about shit, but I just DOON'T HAVE THE POOWUR!

Meaning I'll get to it soon.

Keep on truckin,

Caro.

I so adore closing my store when I open the next morning.

Because I can fuck the dog so friggin royally. Although with our newly installed survelance system, I'm sure that I will, in due time, recieve some variation of slack about my aforementioned screwing of the pooch.

But fuck em, I do whut ah WAN'.


I pretty much loathe Everybody Loves Raymond. I have been watching it every day for almost two months, due to Madre's undying love for TBS, and because I can't bring myself to make her part with it, even for the duration of the show. Which, I should add, is on like, THREE TIMES IN A ROW, every fucking night. The thing is, I like Ray Romano. I thought for the the longest time that he was East-Indian, instead of Italian. He's kind of sexy, I think. In a really... you know, non-obvious way.

But I hate the show, because despite it's occasionally funny moments, it boasts the most irritating cast of characters in the history of situation comedies. His wife, his mother, his father, his brother, even the character Romano plays - they're all fucking douchebags. The whole lot of em. The show should be called Everybody Loves This Buncha Douchebags.

... Man am I ever clever.


I was under the impression that I was going to have an extended period of time to sit here and dig up shit to transform into hilarious and shiney pearls of wisdom, but I have just made some vague plans for the rest of my evening, and as such must depart, so to ready myself.


Peace out playas.

Day one today at The Place of Books. Having previous experience in such a setting, I shelved like a motherfucking bitch-whore.

I... don't know why I used that term as a positive.

But shelving is great. It's totally like those puzzles where you have to piece a picture together by sliding the little squares around. Though much, much easier. I can never solve those fucking things.

So I'm beginning the first stages of what will be a MASSIVE rearrangement of part of the fiction section, when Miss T walks by, glances down at what I'm doing, and stops.

"Um. Are you leaving those there?"

"... Pshhh. No. I was just setting them there so I could get these other ones in."

"Oh thank god, you almost gave me a heart attack! I was like, 'Steele does NOT belong next to Sparks!'"

"Haha, I know, huh?!"

She continues on.

... Man, I was sooo gunna leave those there. I'm a little terrified that I will be working under Nazi reign during the most stressful time of the year. At Chapters it was a little better; there were literally a hundred employees, and as such blame was difficult to delegate. Here, there are like, ten. So if something gets fucked up, we are all. Going. To pay.


If I'm not getting nailed to the MAX in the next 15 minutes, I am going to kill everyone withinin a ten-foot radius.

Blog-a-log-a-ding-dong!


What's that? Accesso permanente del Internet?

Sì, i miei amici!

That's friggin right, I can now blog from the Maxi Pad. Which is going to cause such a ruckus, since Mia Madre is as huge a fan of the information superhighway as I am. We will squabble over it like so many squirrels over so many nuts.

I don't suppose I have much to report, although I'm finding this whole monogamy thing to be quite an interesting change of pace. I've never done it before, and while I was fully expecting to be chomping at the bit, having a boy as sweet as mine, who can do things to me that this one can, is really pretty much the coolest thing ever.


So, the stay with Mia Padre was pretty much the worst thing ever. Uh, that is, the aftermath. I almost killed his fish. I didn't check the mail, OR walk the dog. The latter of which defecated all over the house, and which I then proceeded to not clean up properly, because, ew, that shit smells bad. Pun intended. And condoms? Unused and otherwise? Yeah, I left em aaaall over the place. I swear to GOD though, I really thought I hadn't. Padre came home and was all, "So... you're cut."

He had a miserable time in the Dominicana Rupublica. My father is the only person on the planet physically capable of being unhappy in a tropical paradise. It's actually kind of impressive.

Yes, well, I really must head in the direction of my bed, which has laid unslept-in for almost a fortnight. I have an early meeting with my may-unnn.


Sogni dolci, pubblici delicati.


OH, and turns out, Gilmore Girls is actually really cute and only slightly irritating. Who knew!

If anyone attempts to ask me what a love rhombus is, I'm going to explode your brain with my Super Magic Exploding powers that you totally know I have. So don't fuck with that.

Hmm, what tales to spin you on this frosty, November eve...

Perhaps a bit on Rave Life? Sure.

Raves - or, parties, as they are called by those in the know to avoid the negative connotations that surround the term 'rave' - are beautiful things. They truly are, because everything is happiness. The music and people and drugs; everything is happy, and there is very little belligerence or discord. ...Although there is a lot of vomitting. And at the end of the night, almost everyone goes home and gets their respective MDMA-fried brains fucked right out.

But, with all that awesomeness, parties can be a pretty scary place to be. A bad trip can take you to some really awful places, both physically and emotionally. It's so easy to feel alone and trapped, which is actually the worst thing ever, especially when you're high, and horny as all fuck. That happened to D, last weekend at the Halloween rave; it's happened to us all, I think, at least once, and it forever taints every experience you have thereafter. You tell yourself that it ain't gunna, that it was just that night, you know, what the fuck ever. But the next time, there's always that memory of the awfulness hovering around up there, and a lot of the time, you end up totally sabatoging yourself with that memory. It's fuckin sick.

Woo, brain farts!


So, I have a boyfriend. It's delicious and perplexing, and so... NOT WHAT I WAS EXPECTING. Oh please, I know that that's what they say. "Never when you expect it," I fucking know. And yet here it is, and like... I don't know what to do with myself, I just really don't.

The dog got into all the pizza boxes that I left lying around here. Massacred, they were. Strewn about the kitchen, bent and bitten every which way. If they were anything other than greasy food containers, it might almost be a little bit sad..

Greetings.

Welcome, to The Love Rhombus.

This is a brief continuation of a web log that used to exist, and that I loved and was awesome, but had to be shutdown, due to unwanted readers.

Everything was deleted; destroyed; stricken from the record.

Which is kinda fuckin lame because... it was good shit, and served as a reminder to me of some of the things I've done with my life - small, unremarkable things; the memories of which will probably get swept away altogether in time - and I no longer have any proof that those things ever really happened at all.

But who gives a shit. I start anew.


The name's Caro. Come join The Love Rhombus, won't you?