Buy me a leather jacket..

And we begin ... I'm standing in the drive way, I may or may not be smoking something illegal. I can hear the unrelenting wail of sirens on Danforth. A parking-enforcement car slows down. And shines a light into the interior of my '91 Escort. And I think, "Oh shit. I better move my car off the street! I'm gonna get a ticket!" I wonder who they were looking for. And more importantly, what did they do?

A little this, a little rant, some tears.. typical Tuesday night.

So what the eff, apparently I joined match.com in a moment of insecurity and alcohol-fuelled weakness. I'm better than that. But I guess it is the summer of YES!! trying new things, etc. Plus it's kind of fun talking to strangers and writing emails. And since I think this is absolutely ridiculous, I've only been logging on whilst under the influence. I got nothing to lose. Just gonna be myself. In other news, my store won a sales contest a million years ago, and I finally recieved my $40 gift card to Shoppers Drugmart. Seriously, have been waiting forever for that damn thing. I'm nearly out of mousse, leave-in conditioner and deoderant, my roots are starting to show, I'm out of nailpolish remover (my dad asked if people call me 'Chippy'), and I've been using "Forever Tan: After Sun" because I've run out of lotion. So the gift cards finally arrive Friday. I'm gearin up to leave work and just BLOW it all at once. I check the email before I leave... and the gift cards were not activated. And we're still playing the waiting game... This is all meaningless fodder. Vacation starts Friday, 3pm... He can always make me tear up.

Well don't you worry, don't worry, no don't worry mama..

I've decided to have a quarter-life crisis. I'm happy living my life according to the infinite wisdom of The Steve Miller Band in the inspiational lyrics from the band's masterpeice, The Joker. But blame it on the whisky, blame it on the beer, blame it on reading Generation me, blame it on the pot, blame it on fuckin a lot. Generation Me keeps talking about the quarter-life crisis. And it got me thinking. My job? Sucks. Bank account? Sucks. Car? Sucks. Apartment? Sucks. Education? Sucks. Love life? Sucks. (Lovin' life? Awesome!) And I ain't gettin any younger... But I don't care. I'm happy living my life as a joker and midnight toker. I'm happy gettin my lovin on the run. Some people call me a space cowboy. Some call me the ganster of love. Some people call me Ronnie (eee-eee)! I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. I do play my music in the sun! But why don't I care? Shouldn't I care? Is there something wrong with me, that I can be happy with this, lot in life. I can't even fit in with Generation Me. Which lead to the quarter-life crisis. Maybe I do care. And maybe I am unhappy. I ain't gettin any younger. So I signed up with match.com

Because I'm a sell-out

4 things I never thought I would use the Internet for, and were vehemontly and morally opposed to: 1. Facebook (but I can connect with old friends!! and search for sources!) 2. Twitter (but I can follow all the news outlets and stay in the know!! also want to know what Conan is up to) 3. Blogging (uhhh.... it increases my online presence, and helps me develop my voice!) 4. Online dating (I'm drunk and lonely. leave me alone. momma likes to get laid, but momma needs love, more importantly.)