Grape Nuts and a Knife does NOT make you a Serial Killer...

...But it makes for a dangerous breakfast option.

This guy was caught in New London, CT--where NTI is. Creepy. There was one night where one of the girls saw a man peeping into their window. I think this guy had already been caught, but I remember thinking, "Who would come here to kill people? There's 30 theatre students, woo woo." Although now that I think about it, there have been many times where killing 30 theatre students seemed like a palatable idea. I bet I could think of 30 right now.

Now they're debating whether or not to put him to death.

He wants to die. I think he should be kept alive as long as possible, knitting sweaters for old people on Medicare. Or made to do data entry at M*A*C.

"Your crimes are too horrendous to count. There shall be no mercy. You must enter this employee survey thousands and thousands of times over until you can distinguish between all the 2,903,890 types of lip glosses we have here."

That'll kill him soon enough. Or turn his brain to mush where he can't hurt anyone anymore. He'll just be in a corner, rocking back and forth, muttering "zoom lash mascara...russian red lipstick...prrrr lip glass..."

[ed note: Those are, in fact, real M*A*C cosmetics]

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So I'm the only one in my little section here today. Lots of responsibility I have today, so what do I do? I research this new serial killer. But because the chick who is supposed to help me is out sick today, they don't expect me to get everything done, so I'm going to do what I can while still preserving my sanity.

Mmmmm...there's nothing like the smell of misappropriation of funds to get me going in the morning. I now think fraud is the best part of waking up.

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Last night I came to realization that I don't hang out with girls too often in New York. Yesterday, I was gazing upon Journal Entries Past [sigh...Porn and Chocolate and her little broken heart--somebody, give that girl a Zoloft--quick], and I realized that I now always hang out with guys. I've always had a lot of guy friends, but this is the first time I noticed anytime I do something it is with:
-Conor
-Daniel
-Devon
-Ryan
-The FlatPlex boys
What's with that? Perhaps because my girls are so fabulous and amazing, I don't feel the need to replace them. And, aside from Conor, the men in my life have always been replacable, if not disposable. Last night I hung out with the top three and a gay guy that Conor had brought for Devon (too flame-tastic for Devon's taste) and we watched the OC (Conor's guilty pleasure) and smoked a helluva lot of pot. Daniel and I had to discuss play drama earlier. Amelia had to back out, and with the first rehearsal on Sunday, Daniel and I were trying to figure out what to do next. If it comes down to it, I'm going to step in, but Amelia had made a suggestion for a girl she thought would replace her well. So we'll see.

Wait. I went backwards in the evening.

Seriously. I'm so OCD/ADD it's hilarious.

A parody of myself--

"Today the most important thing in the world happened to me. It was like a gift from the heavens. I stepped outside my apartment into the cold and----OOOOO....shiny object!"

My parody of my OCD/ADD got me off track.

Which was spurred on by the fact that I digressed earlier.

How did I ever do so well in school? I'll pontificate on that one later.

To finish off the evening in the correct order, we must take a pause to....

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Check in with Porn and Chocolate's 40 Days of Reckoning:

Day 3. OK, so as Conor and Cory (Mr. Flame-thrower) left our place, Conor crawls onto my bed to give me my requisite hug and kiss upon departure. He kisses me and pulls back, with the most devilish grin on his face.

"What?"

"I know how to make this really hard for you. It'll be good for me because I need to do it and more importantly, it will break you."

The boy is on top of me. SHIT. This is the problem with having someone know you as well as Conor knows me, down to the very graphic details. It'd probably even make Sleazy blush to know how much Conor knew about our sex life. [ed note: This is another digression. Editor apologizes for the haphazard entry that apparently has been started without a clear destination in mind and too much coffee in the bloodstream. Editor will put the Author back in her cage now]

He's going to kiss my neck. It's my Achilles' neck. [Editor also apologizes for the pathetic attempt at a pun or some pun-related literary device. Editor will take the cattle prod to the Author, now that Author is securely in her cage.]

This is not fair on a number of different levels:
-2 weeks since I've had sex
-3 days since I've masturbated (I think a week is the longest I've gone)
-most importantly, I'm high--which if there ever was a "ON" switch to my sex drive, kissing my neck while I smoke a joint would quite possibly be the perfect way to bend my will.

Bastard. I threaten to kick him in the balls. I fight back.

"OK OK OK. I won't." [He goes in to kiss my cheek]
"NO! I don't trust you."
[He gives a pouty face]
"No."
"Let me just kiss your forehead."
"Get the hell away from me."

So I've realized my biggest battle in all of this is going to be Conor. He's determined to torture me. Boo, Conor.

But it almost worked. Even the thought of having my neck kissed made me uncomfortable. I had to keep my hands where I could see them (to be fair, I was really high and there was a really hot make out scene on TV--I'm not totally in heat or anything).

This may be a little harder than I thought.

Hmph. I'm going to eat pizza now.