There hasn't been much good news around these parts lately: it's been all car-related crime sprees, poor surgical outlooks and the fact that the only groove I've been able to get into has been the ass groove I've worn in my bed. But today, a minor victory. Today, not only did I beat an old lady while walking down the street (I should probably say "passed an old lady" or "blew by an old lady leaving her in a cloud of dust and wonder"), but she gave me a little nod as if to say, "Carry on, soldier. I can see that your train is bound for glory and I will not stand in the way of such greatness. Nay, it is a privilege to have been out-paced by such a fine specimen of human potential such as yourself." (Translation: I walked faster than an old broad with a cane and she stopped to let me past). But still! In days past, I would have struggled mightily to pass the old woman and she might have cussed me out in the process (see here). Today, however, I smoked up behind her (that didn't come out right either) and she stopped and gave me a little wave with her cane to let me on through. Progress!
In other news, Steph and Adrian are staying with me while my parents are in San Francisco. I need to be babysat in case I break into the liquor cabinet. No, actually it's because I have never liked to stay in my parent's house by myself, which, yes, makes me a giant wussy (or something that rhymes with wussy). But, seriously, staying alone in my parents' house is like being in a very tame horror movie. It was built in 1908 and often you hear footsteps when no one's home, doorknobs turn rapidly and doors open and close really quickly. My uncle won't stay over because one time he slept in the attic bedroom and heard voices all night. Plus, there seems to be a mini crime spree going on lately around these parts, and I figure I should have other people around on account of the fact that I can't run from danger. (A. says I need a gun. I disagree).
Anyhow, Steph and I watched "(500) Days of Summer" and I realized two things: a) I am probably a hipster. Damn. b) I should probably start dressing better. What if I meet my soul mate while out and about and he mistakes me for a homeless person because of my sweatpants? (Maybe that cop was my soul mate). What if I end up spending my life singing songs to my house plants simply because I chose to wear sweatpants on some day in Starbucks and my soul mate took one look at me and thought, "I wonder if she injects heroin into her feet" as opposed to, "Hey, I kind of dig Amazon chicks?" Damn. I guess it's worth it to risk a concussion to put on skinny jeans.