This journal is (mostly) friends only. If you'd like to be added, just let me know!

Last night/this morning (what? Neither of us like doing real work), the ridiculously hilarious negiplease and I wrote the most brilliant play in the history of ever. It started, like all good things do, with Posh and Becks.



For those of you not in the know, Madame Tussauds has an exhibit featuring Posh and Becks as Joseph and Mary in their nativity scene, with a host of other entertaining supporting players. I've been obsessing over this story, as I want Posh and Becks figurines for my nativity set.

We then wondered what really went down that night and the rest, as the kids say, is history.

The Cast

Joseph: David Beckham
Mary: Victoria Posh Spice Beckham
Angel: Kylie Minogue
Wise Man 1: George W. Bush
Wise Man 2: The Duke of Edinburgh
Wise Man 3: Tony Blair
Shepherd 1: Samuel L. Jackson
Shepherd 2: Hugh Grant
Shepherd 3: Graham Norton

( Away in a manger, no crib for his bed, the little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head )

What the hell is going on today, people?

Ol' Dirty Bastard Died. I don't even know what to say, except that I hope his thirteen children all get financially taken care of, and not just the three that he called his favorites.

Star Jones got married.

Dick Cheney's heart is acting up again. Is it 2000 again?

I saw a woman wearing white jeans after Labor Day. And, really, white jeans after 1984 is just not something that we need to be vibing, all right?

CVS was out of Diet Coke. Granted, the walk to the grocery store was approximately one extra minute, but still, in what world is that normal?!

I'm really, really confused.

Last week, in my politics class, I had to do an oral presentation and hand in an outline with my thesis, sources, etc.

My professor handed it back tonight and said, with a chuckle, "Very thorough. You're very similar to my daughter."

Unsure whether or not that was a good or bad thing, I decided to hope for the best and said thank you.

"Yeah," he added, "she's one of those overachieving types. I bet you're bossy."

He chuckled again and went along his merry way, leaving me to wonder if I give off some sort of bossy vibe.

After class, over a cup of coffee, I explained the situation to my friend Nicole. "Bossy! Can you believe it? Bossy. I'm not bossy."

She had suddenly become engrossed in taking the wrapper off of her bottle of Diet Pepsi. "Oh, no," she said, not looking up, "you're not."

It was becoming obvious that my professor was onto something and I decided to seek confirmation from the one person who wouldn't lie to me. No, not my parents, they lie to me all the time. I meant Adam.

"Am I bossy?"

"What?"

"Am I bossy?"

"No, you're not bossy. Not bossy at all. You're..."

Here, he paused for a long time and I was convinced after a while that he had hung up. Finally, he finished, "You're very definite."

Hmph.

I suppose you've all figured out since you've been reading my journal that I'm not one for relaxation. The laid-back, serene kind of life drives me mad. And I do everything very fast, I walk fast, work fast, talk fast, think fast.

All things considered, it's hardly surprising that I'm so comfortable in my little Northeastern bubble.

I've been this way since childhood-highly organized and uptight. My parents used to be mystified by my fondness for putting various items in shopping bags scattered across the house when I was a toddler. They were even more mystified by my penchant for dressing up like Dorothy Gale while doing it, but that is neither here nor there.

I knew what was in every bag, be it napkins, toys, boxes of cereal or small appliances. My parents would ask where the remote was, and I'd toddle upstairs to the Bloomingdales bag I kept it in, and I would bring it down to them.

My parents thought this was simply hilarious and used it as a party trick to show people who came over (my repetoire also included saying the Pledge of Allegiance and counting to twenty in Italian). My aunt Lourdes actively participated in this ritual and gave me all of her shopping bags to put things in.

And my father, in some sort of misguided attempt to instill independence in me, would ask me to organize his desk or sock drawer or his notebooks.

(This bizarre behavior is a big reason why people should not be allowed to have children before they turn 25. Allowing your three year old daughter to do work? I ask you.)

I took on my new responsibilities with gusto and, eventually, started organizing my mother's pens while she did her translation work and folded socks while watching MTV (I had a crazy crush on Bruce Springsteen) and color coordinating bottles of nail polish.

And nobody ever thought this was strange.

Once you become used to your own systematic way of organizing things, it becomes hard to deal with people who fuck things up people who don't organize things the same way. Let me provide you with a few quick examples:

Example One

Mallory sits at a table, coloring a poster in kindergarten. A girl named JoJo sits down and the teacher asks Mallory to share her poster with JoJo. JoJo does not color in the lines

Mallory: Um
JoJo: Oh, look, green! (Scribbles frantically)
Mallory: (Cries}

Example Two

Mallory is organizing change from her piggybank. Her brother James, one at the time, crawls over

Mallory: James-
James: (Moves a pile of pennies)
Mallory: JAMES WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOOOING?! (Cries}

Example Three

Mallory is doing a group project in fifth grade

Carol: Can I write on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Jill: Can I glue the pictures on the poster?
Mallory: No.
Carol: Can I color-
Mallory: No.

Perhaps bossy is a good descriptor after all.

I discussed this with my father today and he laughed it off saying. The following discussion is verbatim and rather disturbing.

Papa Dukes: Your mother and I didn't know what the hell we were doing with you. You seemed smart enough, we decided to let you try it all out by yourself.
Mallory: And you turned me into an obsessive compulsive freak.
Papa Dukes: That's why we kept having kids, we're determined to get it right at one point. Well, that and we figured there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: Boy, that takes me back to when you were fifteen. Somebody would ask you to pass the pepper, and you'd burst into tears.
Mallory: I'm hanging up.
Papa Dukes: "I don't want to hand you the pepper, don't you get it? God! Nobody understaaaaaaands me!"
Mallory: I hate you.
Papa Dukes: And then you'd slam the door.
(Dial tone)

The man inserts Raising Arizona quotes into everyday conversation. I'm lucky I wound up this normal. After all, it's not about admitting your flaws, it's about finding the appropriate persons to place the blame on. In this case, it all rests on my bizarro parents.

It's been an utterly insane week for the denizens of Hollywood, no? This much concentrated hilarity could ultimately be harmful to the environment, so it only comes along once in a while.

I guess we should begin with Britney's wedding. Or faux wedding, whatever the case may be, it's not like she knows the difference, meth colors your perception of reality. Springing a surprise ceremony on guests and making lil sis Jamie Lynne cry. Pimp sweatsuits. Chicken fingers. Phil Collins cds. Four (!) wardrobe changes after the ceremony. Kevin carrying the bride out of a club, presumably because she couldn’t do it herself. Kevin crying when he saw Britney in her “Wicked” lingerie. Allegations of a faux wedding. Rumors that Kevin correctly used the word “wed” in a People magazine interview. It’s like watching somebody’s acid trip, you simply cannot make this stuff up.

Lynne is either a)drinking herself into a coma or b)Trying her best to get Britney's money her daughter out of a bad situation.

( I bet she's already suggested an anullment. )

In preparation for the release of Shall We Dance?, Jennifer Lopez appeared on Diane Sawyer's show for an interview with Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon. Jennifer Lopez on Diana Sawyer was a thing of utter brilliance. For starters, she had about fourteen pounds of makeup on. Her mascara alone probably weighed more than her husband does. She also insisted on being lit differently from Richard Gere and Susan Sarandon and the camera lens was Vaslined like wo. And she still looked like she could be Susan Sarandon’s older sister, despite Susan being twenty years her senior. She acted like a dizzy ass, basically, calling herself “Bronxy” and claiming not to have used the word flutterbug in an interview, despite the interview being on tape. Whatevah, Jen. The highpoint of the interview, though, had to be Richard Gere asking Jen about Marc Anthony’s kids. When she responded that he did, indeed, have other kids, Richard asked how old they are. Y’all, deer in headlights does not even describe. She had no clue and you could almost see her trying to remember what her assistant told her about these weird kid before she answered.

( J. Lo don't know nothin' about babies )

Gwyneth Paltrow is the new spokesmodel for the Damiani jewelry line that her ex lovah Brad Pitt designs wedding bands for. Brilliant.
( Chris Martin Must Be Thrilled )

50 Cent tries to prolong his fifteen minutes of fame with a semi-autobiographical movie role, much in the manner of his boytoy mentor Eminem.

( Surely I can't be alone in thinking that Mad Marshall is a bit jellus? )

All of this, plus:

Star Jones takes tack to a whole new level, asking for people to sponsor her wedding to her dapper darling. I guess she needs to save all of her money to pay her fiancé to go along with this charade.

And the return of America's Next Top Model! The very first episode of ANTM had no HotNigel (Pout) and, criminally, no Janice (Boo!) but lots of drama. There was the eating disorder fight between Eva The Diva and Amy-who, I’m sorry, was 90 pounds soaking wet, she was being awfully generous with claiming to be 115. There was J. Alexander in pigtails and a pink do-rag laughing at the wannabes. There was almost a dance-off. There was a bar fight, with glasses being thrown and a girl screaming “Bitch poured beer on my weave!”. It? Was awesome.

In conclusion, this week? Was the the most awesome week ever.

Man, Britney, you're pure class.

I don't know whether to laugh or feel bad. No, that's not totally true, I already laughed a lot.

Sweet.

Haw-haw, I'm married!

Could Momma Spears be any happier?

Well, who wouldn't be proud to marry a man with such, uh, classy friends?

Hott!

I mean, I never thought she was particularly bright, but hot damn, this may be the dumbest thing I've seen since Mariah got all prostitutey on TRL, or at least since the last time she got married, back in January.

So bored. And when I am bored and feeling random, a poll is the funnest thing to do.

Poll #339056 Yet Another Random Mallory Poll
Open to: All, results viewable to: All

Favorite Mush Mouthed, Slurring Rapper?

Speaking of 50 Cent, my feelings on him can be summed up thusly:

Janet Jackson's biggest mistake

Best Show On The WB

Best Victoria's Secret Model?

Most Smackable Magazine Editor

Most Shocking Las Vegas Posse Scandal

Most undeserving Oscar winner of the past decade?

Favorite Full House Character?

Nick Cannon: Is he, in fact, hilarious?

Favorite Madge Incarnation

If you invited ODB/Dirt McGirt to your dinner party, what do you think he'd talk about?

Who is the best 80s television orphan?

The best of Aaron Sorkin:

What exactly is Kelis's Milkshake?

VoicePost 801K 3:16

(no transcription available)

I hope that the sound of my babbling does not drive anyone totally insane.

****

Thank you to all of you who participated in yesterday's poll, the results were quite interesting.

( Analysis )

Okay, I'm off to do that work now, for real. Or at least attempt to. Or pretend to attempt to.

Mallory's Pop Culture Roundup is a new feature that I'm bringing to you kind people, where I read magazines and watch TV for you so that you won't have to. You can thank me later.

Allure

Cover Model: Jessica Simpson.
Initial Thoughts: "Ew, why does Heidi Klum look so ugly? Oh, ew. Ew. Jessica Simpson on the cover of my magazine. Ew."
( Alluring Allure... )

American Idol

Initial Thoughts: "Wow, Season Three of American Idol just keeps getting more and more exciting!!!111 Oh, wait. No. No, it doesn't."

( Tonight, on American Idol... )

Okay, I cheated a little here, as I only watched half of AI, in order to watch America's Next Top Model, but I won't give the full recap, as our West Coast viewers don't need to be spoiled just yet.

America's Next Top Model

Initial Thoughts: "Oh, ANTM! Why do you have to end? Whyyyyyyyyyy?"

( You Are Still In the Running to Become America's Next Top Model... )

Bazaar

Cover Model: Sarah Jessica Parker.
Initial Thoughts: "Eeee! SJP! I love her!"

( How Bazaar, How Bazaar )

Cosmopolitan

Cover Model: Mischa Barton.
Initial Thoughts: "She's really only 17?"

( Cosmopolitan. Sexing Things Up Since The 70s )

In other news, the hot topic of conversation these days has been my resemblance to a certain supermodel by the name of Gisele. If by "resemblance" you mean "Maybe kind of look similar if you glance really quickly. While squinting". And if by "hot topic" you mean "discussed by three people". And it's only in certain pictures like this one and this one. But you know what? No matter how far fetched this compliment is, I am enjoying it and milking it for all that it's worth. Because I can.

We didn't have classes today because of advisement day. And when I met with my advisor, she called me anal retentive. Just because my schedules were written very neatly! Okay, and maybe there was a slight case of color-coding going on in the course booklet. What? Color coding is fun.

::sobs::

Whatever, Anal retentive is the new pink.

Setting: Creative Writing, Albertus Hall, Thursday afternoon.

Assignment: A poem.

A tall girl, dressed in an outfit highly reminiscent of Jennifer Lopez, replete with a beaded bandana, sits at her desk, licking a lollipop. The surrounding desks are filled with people of the emo, hipster type. Picture all black, a beret and a Che Guevara shirt. Very scary.

Professor Megan: I think that we’ll begin with our poems today. Do I have any volunteers to go first?

ALF 1: I’ll, go, Megan. (Somberly reads poem about an anti-abortion rally, symbolized by a pacifier, ending with a tear trickling down her cheek, forcing her to take off her thick black glasses to wipe the tear away)

Megan: Well, that was very moving. Let’s hear some feedback.

ALFS 2 through 16: (Shower compliments)

Megan: Mallory, what did you think?

Mallory: Well, I read something very similar to that poem in Cosmo.

ALFS 1 through 16: (Silence)

ALF 1: Cosmo?

Mallory: Yes, you know, Cosmopolitan, the magazine?

ALF 1: That’s not a real magazine. There are no distinguished writers.

Megan: Well, what did you think of the language?

Mallory: I thought that the use of the pacifier was, like, way too obvious. (Snaps gum)

Megan: Interesting. Well, who wants to go next?

ALF 2: (Raises his hand as if it pained him to do so). I’ll read. (Read poem about a leaf falling off of a tree)

Mallory: (Clears throat, rolls eyes, taps pen on the desk)

Megan: Wow. Who wants to comment?

ALF 3: That was just, you know, so tortured. The imagery was just so perfect.

Mallory: (Snaps gum)

ALF 4: What I particularly liked was that the falling leaf was green, meaning that it was young and fell of in spring. It was a very good metaphor for a child’s death.

Mallory: (Sighs)

Megan: Mallory, let’s hear yours. First, let’s see the picture that inspired you.

Mallory: Sure! I was really moved by this picture (Holds up picture of Bennifer on the cover of People Magazine) Lots of emotion in it, you know? (Reads poem)

ALFS 1 through 16: (Stunned silence. Jaws open. Violent hatred and seething disgust in their eyes)

Megan: Well, let’s get some feedback.

ALFS 1 through 16: (Stunned silence)

ALF 5: (Wincing) Jennifer Lopez is an unusual choice of inspiration.

Mallory: Yes, but the picture is just so deep.

Megan: Anybody else?

ALF 6: I think that this buys into the myth of celebrity.

Mallory: What’s the myth of celebrity?

ALFS 1 through 16: (Silence)

Megan: Well, let’s move on.

(The remaining ALFs read stories about pain, loss, hatred, depression. Mallory stares at the ceiling, blows bubbles with her gum and taps her fingernails on the desk)

Megan: Well, those poems were very interesting. I think that some of you might want to work on broadening your horizons. Keep that in mind when you do your portfolio. Let’s move on to fiction.

Class is then assigned an activity where you write an opening line for a short story. The lines will then be put in a hat and you are required to choose one at random and later write a story beginning with that line.

Mallory’s Written Line: "Brandy McDougal's high heels clicked as she walked down the hallway, her Tiffany bracelet glistening in the light and a craving for a caramel martini in her mind"

Mallory’s Chosen Line: “She’s dead, and I’m here, alone”

Mallory has decided that the she in question will be either her poodle Fifi, or her handbag. Either way, it should be excellent.

Dear Daddy,

You've been a decent father to me for the last twenty years, I admit, and it pains me to tell you this, but the truth must come out at once. Mock neck turtlenecks are not, and never have been in fashion. They're called "Mock" for a reason. I feel that, as your daughter, it falls unto me to save you the embarrassment of not only spending money on mock turtlenecks, but wearing them in public. It's the least I could do.

Love,
Mallory

***

Dear ALFS in my Creative Writing Class,

You've made me miserable for weeks; you must have caught onto that by now. In case you're a little on the slow side, my groans and eyerolls are indicative of the fact that I, Mallory, do not like you.

So tomorrow, I'm going to make you pay for making me miserable. I'm going to read a poem from the perspective of Jennifer Lopez. I am going to read this poem while dressed in cargo pants, a tank top, a newsboy cap, big hoop earrings and possibly a bandana, if the hat doesn't work out, which it probably won't, since I can't pull of hats as well as some people, plus it may mess up my purdy hair. I'm going to show you how real I am, and you're going to get it, youknowwhatimean? You know what I mean. You'll get it, and you'll rue the day you pissed me off and made me feel all faux and not real.

( The World Premiere of the J. Lo Poem next, on TRL )

Hopefully after reading this, you will be too distraught and disturbed to make some sort of pretentious remarks about the flavor of my poem. Bitch, I know the flavor, and it's body bling and Courvesiour. I cannot wait to see your pierced, pale and goateed faces tomorrow afternoon.

Glittering and Carrie Bradshawily yours,

Mallory

***

Dear Boy Sitting Next to me in the Library,

The cologne that they sell at CVS, like KoolWater for Him, is ten dollars for a reason. You may have also noticed that they don't stock it in the aisle with body wash. So maybe tomorrow you shouldn't bathe in it. You should also think about throwing it out.

Affectionately,

The Girl sitting next to you with the noseplugs.
(Mallory)

***

Dear Health Services,

When I drop off a letter that says, yes, I have indeed received the meningitis vaccination and tell you as I hand you it that, yes, I have received the meningitis vaccination and here is proof from my doctor, it probably stands to reason that I have received the damn vaccination, so stop putting letters in my mailbox telling me to get the damn shot.

Thanks,

Mallory
(Who has received the meningitis vaccine)

***

Dear Leon Who Lives Upstairs,

You so skanky! And stop listening to mariachi music early in the morning. It's not making you any friends.

Although, perhaps that's why girls are attracted to you. It's certainly not your name. Or your face. Or your smarts.

Totally Skeeved Out,

Mallory

***

Dear ATT&T Wireless,

Please stop text messaging me to let me know that I can now stand in Belgium and call someone in France for less than eight thousand dollars.

Thank You!

Mallory
(Who does not plan on going to Belgium any time soon)

***

Dear Derek,

Marry me?

Love, Mallory.

***

Dear Nomar,

Marry me?

Love, Mallory

PS: Don't tell Derek.

***

Dear Makers of Starburst,

I love you people. Your Tropical Starburts are divine. So divine, in fact, that nearly an entire bag has been consumed in the last five hours. It's quite possible that they are addicting. Should I ever need to go to Sugar Rehab, I'll take your asses to court.

But keep the fruity goodness coming, please!

Fruitfully and Tropically,

Mallory

***

Dear Girl In My Biology Class,

I'm sorry for making fun of you last semester for having an ugly nose ring. Your face isn't quite as, um, well, yes, you look better without it.

Regretfully,

Mallory

***

Dear Mike Meyers,

Why did you think it would be fun to make a live-action version of The Cat in the Hat? Catching a quick glimpse of your visage in the costume scarred me for life. I may seek therapy.

Terrified,

Mallory

***

Dear Dining Hall,

Traditionally, soup is supposed to be served hot, or warm, at the very least. So I wasn't all too thrilled with the choice of Cold Cream of Broccoli Soup or Freezing Chicken and Rice Soup at dinner today.

Hungrily,

Mallory

***

Dear Makeup Industry,

Please work on inventing better concealer, or at least something that will cover up the bags under my eyes. Urchin is not in this year.

But props on the pale green eyeliner!

Sincerely,
Mallory
(Who was not in a barroom brawl, but is just suffering from lack of sleep)
(And possible anemia)
(And definite hypochondria)

***

Dear Pat O'Brien,

No one likes you on Access Hollywood. It's doubtful that anybody would like you as governor of South Dakota. At least with Arnold, we can make all sorts of bad puns about him and his job. What are we going to call you, The Boringnor? No. Not fun.

Wishing you the best,

Mallory

***

Dear Fox Baseball,

Please hire me. Please? I have a nicer voice than any of your so-called anchors, and I will even work on slowing my speech down and inhaling every once in a while.

I can tell what pitches are thrown and I know all sorts of stats and history. Plus, I'm kind of cute.

Think it over!

Baseball Fanatically and Knowledgeably,

Mallory

***

Dear Evil Early American Lit Professor,

Assigning eight assignments to be turned in over the course of ten days is beyond not cool. It is actually illegal in most states.

I hate you.

Bitchily,
Mallory

***

Dear God,

I was going to make the obligatory "Are you there? It's me, Mallory" joke, but I figured that you get that a lot, and it would be nice of me to spare you.

So why do you hate me, exactly? Was I some sort of tyrant in a past life? Or did you just pick me randomly to make miserable? Will I ever end this string of bad luck? Or am I destined to a life of black cats and broken mirrors? Because all of this work, on top of petty melodrama and not so petty melodrama and being unfortunately saddled the name meaning unlucky seems like such a cruel joke to play on me.

Also, am I going to Hell? I mean, seriously. I am? Oh, okay.

Devoutly Yours,

Mallory Anne Veronica (I'm very religious, can't you tell, God?)

(I need all the brownie points I can get, don't I?)

***

( Baseball Ranting Ahead, Look Away If You Should Be So Inclined )

A Non-Sports entry to come in moments, I promise.

I was inspired by pasunepipe to make an admission that people are often surprised about.

I, Mallory, am a baseball fan.

Perhaps "fan" isn't the right word. But it's certainly the least stalkerish of the words I came up with, and I don't feel like having an entire baseball team file a restraining order against me at the moment.

But the point remains. I am obsessed with baseball.

What do you mean by obsessed?

I mean that I can recite the rosters of most baseball teams and, with my favorite team, can name the height, weight and numbers of all of the players and I know an insane amount of statistics that date back to, um, a few years ago. Like that Derek Jeter hit .310 with 78 rbi and 10 homeruns in his rookie year. And much more, but I'll quit while I'm ahead, because it's kind of embarrassing, the amount of stuff I know.

When people find out that I am a baseball fan, they respond in one of two ways.

But you like, like, all of that Hollywood stuff. You like movies

or

But you're, like, a girl.


Apparently, I have two strikes against me, which leads to nice long conversations with people about how I probably know more than they do. They don't believe me. I prove it. They shut up.

It's a nice little pattern.

When I was thirteen, I cut out pictures of Derek Jeter from magazines and newspapers and hung them up on the back of my door. I used to buy baseball cards, pick the good ones out and sell the rest to unsuspecting kids who didn't know better, until my mom asked what the source of my income was and made me stop. She's a killjoy.

I love baseball season. It makes me happy.

So if you see a girl in a Yankees jersy and visor walking down the street tomorrow, it's me. Well, if you're in Albany. In any other place, it's just some random girl in a Yankees jersey and visor, who probably isn't as cool as I am.

Say it loud-I'm a Baseball Fan, and I'm Proud.

So you know how there are certain things that don't happen to normal people? They just happen to me?

Well, let me tell you about what happened to me last night.

SGA and I went to the mall last night so that he could buy a birthday present for his grandmother, and then we went out to dinner. Basic stuff.

Then on the way back to Sex God Manor, he suggested that we rent a movie at this little film store in town. I was fine with that. We finally agreed that we should get The Pianist because he had never seen it, and I wanted to see it again, but I can't watch it by myself because it was too emotional for me to sit in a room alone and watch. I'm strange, remember?

So SGA sees his high school gym teacher in the video store and refuses to go in and talk to him because I guess the gym teacher is one of those long winded types who make huge speeches about how sports are more important than life and Adam didn't want to tell him that he stopped playing lacrosse. Or something.

Being the nice girl I am, I went in to get the movie myself.

I couldn't find it. I looked in every conceivable section-New Releases, Drama, Foreign Films, even this shoddy looking Award Winning section that they had set up. It was nowhere to be found.

I made my way up to the counter to ask where the movie could be. I should point out that it rained every time I got out of the car, so I resembled a drowned cat and, yes, I wear flip flops in the rain, so I was wet and uncomfortable.

The boy working at the register was stoned. Obviously stoned. And had a green mohawk. He was slightly scary.

Mallory: Hi, would you happen to have The Pianist? I couldn't find it anywhere.
Stoned Boy: (Raises eyebrows) What?
Mallory: (Babbles) Blah blah looked, can't find it, blah blah, I don't know where it would be.
Stoned Boy: Heh.
Stoned Boy #2: (Leers) Heh.
Stoned Boy: Can you get it for her?
Stoned Boy #2: (Raises eyebrows) Yeah, yeah. We keep that downstairs. I'll get it for you. (Shakes head)
Mallory: Hmmmm.

Stoned Boy #2 was gone for quite a while, so I spent the time snapping my gum, fiddling with my rings and generally avoiding Stoned Boy, who was staring at me like some sort of freak.

Mallory: Hmmmm.

Finally, Stoned Boy #2 returns, hands me a DVD and looks down at the floor, his face as red as his fugly ass red capri pants.

Dude, what the hell?

I looked down at the movie in my hands.

OH!

I suddenly understood the commotion, for instead of The Pianist with Adrien Brody on the cover, I was holding in my hands The Penis and the Hosebeast with a woman in Dee Snider makeup and a leather bra with a blow job face was staring at me.

I almost dropped the movie and started laughing so hard that other people in the store stared at me. I could barely breathe.

Finally, I calmed down and explained that I had asked for The Pianist, not The Penis and Stoned Boy stared at me disdainfully and told me that "Well, if you had, like, said it correctly, we could have found it. It's in the Black and White section."

I started to explain that it is filmed in color, but cut my losses, checked the movie out, and ran out of the store like a bat out of hell.

SGA was happy to see me, because his gym teacher had spotted him and engaged him in conversation anyway, so I was an excuse to leave. He asked what took me so long, so I started to explain, but when I got up to the Hosebeast part, I realized that I couldn't say penis in front of him.

How immature? It was like I was four again.

So I looked out the window, and whispered the word "Penis" as quietly as I could.

He cracked up, both at my stupidity and the entire debacle in the movie store and said, quote, "You crack me up, you know that?"

Hmmm.

So we watched the movie, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, cried, came back and cried some more, even though I rarely, if ever, cry in front of people, then watched tv for a while.

Then I said that I should go home, he told me I shouldn't, we argued, and I wound up sleeping over his house.

In the guest room, people. Mind out of the gutter.

Today marks one month since Sex God Adam asked for my phone number. Interesting, no?

Yeah, I know. No.

In other news not related to SGA or Porn movies, the grandparents are really incredibly frustrating. My grandmother remarked to my mother, who cannot stand her, by the way, that I'm quite clever and I should act it. What? Yeah, I know, stupid, right? She also said that my brother James is the best looking one in the family, since he got all of my father's genes. Crazy!

Now I'm at work, and I'm bored and tired. Someone please entertain me!