We don't need no water, let the Motherfucka Burn...

So I'm at the Super Bowl party (lame Super Bowl, I must say--I felt I was watching KHS go at it like the Powder Puff game--I'd rather watch Lindsey Enselmo) and Cliff and various Dartmouth-ers are there (more on the boy in a moment) and they're gossiping about people they know. Just to set up the scene:

Cliff: I hear she has...[near whisper] anal sex.

I bust out laughing.

This is what I love about that statement (well, ONE of the things). I love when people are so uncomfortable saying a phrase like "anal sex," "vibrator," or "I love you," that they say it quietly. Except, for the fact, that you are telling a story and you say it loud enough so everyone hears it anyway. So you might as well scream it. How does saying it quietly effect anything? In fact, especially with anal sex, if you don't articulate it enough then you're left having to pantomine it. And that's even more uncomfortable.

Oh yeah, so what about my Magical Mystery Crush? Well, here's how it lays out. He's either:

-gay (which would just be too creepy with so many male closeted friends)
-WAY too into football (and when we chatted on Friday, he said he loathed both teams with a passion)
-asexual (which obviously would be a BAD match for me, given my propensity for such activities)
-into some other girl to where the attentions of both Amelia (who also has a crush on him)and I are lost on him. This is probably the most likely.

So I did what any girl in my situation does. I got massively fucked-up, hoping somehow this would make Paul McCartney singing "Live and Let Die" more interesting. It didn't. It made me wish not only to be home watching the Charmed Marathon, but also to have a James Bond marathon on the flip.

Shit. Fire drill.

Wow. Haven't done one of those since high school. Weird. And considering the fact that this office lost some of its staff (the Enforcement Division of the NYSE used to be located in the World Trade Center), I thought everyone seemed very calm and collected about it. Maybe it's just me that jumps oh-so-quickly to the Post-Tramautic flashbacks. And I just had a little surgery. God, I'm a pussy.

[ed note: Subject did not, in fact, have a panic attack during the fire drill. The statement was made due to Subject's habit of having panic attacks, but not in regards to fire. The Subject was thinking everyone else handles Trauma far better than she]

But we just practice the fire drill to get us into the hallway. So if a fire does break out, I can get myself there and that's apparently where I will be incinerated. Excellent. Good to know.

Well, it's been an hour at work and nothing to do. And now some just came in. I have no idea if anything more interesting happened this weekend, but I'm pretty sure it didn't. I suppose it's good to alternate Epic Weekends, yes?