What prescription beer goggles do you wear?

I no longer trust my taste in men after a few shots of vodka. I went out last night to the bar and saw one of the hottest guy I've seen in a while. He looked partial Italian, with a little bit of grunge. He wasn't the typical southern white boy that are a dime a dozen around these parts, which was highly appealing. His Ohio upbringing may be the reason for his flavorful looks.

He entered the bar and right away I was floored by his hotness. When we walked by him in the patio, I stopped my friends and asked, "Is that guy behind me cute? I can't tell? Are you sure he's cute? You know how I get these days" YAY! Happy day. My friends agreed on tall Italian's attractiveness so I went in for the kill, of course, after I ordered another drink.

I learned that both his nipples are pierced and that he isn't good with remembering names, especially mine. He easily succumbs to peer pressure when his female friends yell at him to take them home and likes to drink-n-drive. In addition, he has ugly fifty year old friends that take down girls' numbers that he meets at the bar when he doesn't have his phone on him. Do I smell bullshit?

Tall Italian, next time you hang out at a bar, pretend you don't speak English. I liked you a lot better when I didn't know anything about you.

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Drunk girls are funny. Drunk guys are aggravating.

Inebriated males yell, grope, and pee everywhere. They are disgusting and unattractive in their unconscious phase of intoxication. Guys stumbling in the parking lot look idiotic and tend to repulse females faster than the first five minutes of Fear Factor. Additionaly, when drunk men speak , their breath smells and their hands roam in restricted female areas. They have poor aiming skills when going to the bathroom and their lack of consideration for flushing or putting the toilet seat down needs to be remedied. Furthermore, when they're wasted, they tend to stalk females and invite themselves over to girls' apartments.

If you're a male who gets drunk on a regular basis, please have a friend look out for your ass. We want someone to stop you from coming home with us and peeing on our bathroom floors.

I found my stalkee's cube!

I was on my way to get some ice when I decided to peruse the third floor in search for hot guy's office. Thinking that no one would be at work at 8 on a Friday morning, I went on my mission. I walked real fast assuming that he would be at the other end of the floor and I ran right past him in his "office." I had to make a quick u-wee and pretend to speak with Reginald, hot guy's cube neighbor, about something pertinent. So what if the important issue was about me doing modeling for his side fashion line. At least hot guy will think that I'm in high demand around here.

I guess hot guy is not accomplished enough to have a private enclosure, but that means I can meander abouts and stare at him in his cube without him noticing. I feel kind of dirty spying on him, but this is motivation to wake up in the morning and come to work. Planning my To Do list around my stalking schedule will keep me entertained during the tedious work day. I just hope he doesn't find out that when I migrate to the third floor, its not to refill my sixth cup of tea, but to check out his nice ass.

Have you done any internet stalking lately? If I run into a cute guy in the building and want to know his stats, I immediately hit the internet and begin doing a search.

There is this good looking fella that works upstairs in the Career Management dept. At first, I figured he was just another cute, but loserish MBA student, except I ran into him in employee break room (which is a very nice facility if I may say so myself). Hmm, was he a MBA avoiding communal fountain water by sneaking around employee-only rooms to get a taste of sweet succulent filtered water?

When I got back to my office, I logged onto our homepage, clicked on the upstairs department's link, check around for his face, and low and behold, there was Alexander. Thank you human resources for forcing all employees to have our pictures taken. You have brought me one step closer to finding my future ex-husband.

I go to the bathroom a lot. I spread my bathroom uses throughout the building to keep my colon activated behavior inconspicuous. I don't want to be known as the poopy girl around the office.

Well, I don't think I've fooled my office cleaning lady, Roberta. She sees me come out of the bathroom every 15 minutes. Sometimes, I try to trick her by going to the upstairs bathroom if she's cleaning the one by my office. Except this morning, I ran into her as I was leaving the second floor ladies room and she was arriving to clean it. Damn Roberta and her quick maneuvering of her cleaning supplies.

My visits to the restrooms are probably the reason she is still employed. They need one person devoted only to sanitize the stalls and stockpile TP in all the bathrooms of the East Wing.

But I promise I only make a number ones here.

Just recently, I was given a nice present from a North Carolina highway patrol officer. Officer Manual bestowed me with a wonderful speeding ticket. He was so unfriendly and disagreeing, I truly felt like it was my special day. Not only was I on my way to move into my new apartment with all my crap crammed into my car, I was lost and didn't know how to get to the new crib. Officer Manual decided to award me with a reminder of why I should have bought that radar detector I was checking out at Best Buy the previous weekend.

I forked over a huge sum of money to some lawyers to take care of my little gift. I wanted to make sure that I didn't get any points on my insurance because there was no way in hell I'm going to be paying a higher premium just cause some asshole thought I was going 71 in a 55. I think good ole pal Officer Manual had a broken radar detector because I was driving on a uphill ramp with about 400 pounds of apartment stuff weighing down my car.

I am no longer allowed to follow the unwritten rule that sane drivers follow: "5-10 miles over the speed limit in the left lane is a-okay." If I am ever speeding on a 55 mph highway and get pulled by a cop again, my license will be revoked. I have a tendency to ride someone's ass without even trying, so now I force myself to consciously make sure that I'm traveling only 4 miles over the speed limit.

Call me grandma. I am now the vehicle operator I once loathed. I am that person that follows the speed limit and slows down the speed of traffic. I am that driver that travels 30 mph on campus and forces you to pass me in a one lane road. I am that freak that drives around with a radar detector, but travels as fast as old Grandpa behind the wheel of a Cadillac. I am that person who I once gave the finger and screamed obscenities to during my fits of rage.

Oh, sometimes I think about the days when I used to swerve within the lanes, throw my hands up in the air, and cursed at old people. But now it's only a pipe-dream. My reality is that of passing cars and angry stares. If you see me in my burgundy Explorer, you may pass me, but please refrain from giving me the middle finger. Thanks.

I am in a very bad mood and not funny today. I just wrote a blog entry, but then the text disappeared when this site asked me to 'sign in again' Damn you Blogger security.

I hate flu shots. Thanks to the vaccine, I am cranky, lethargic, and listless. My body is using my expendable energy to create antibodies that will prevent me from getting violently ill this winter.

I am having a terrible afternoon. I was fixin salads for tomorrow's lunch when I accidentally knocked over the dish soap into the bowl full of veges. I rinsed the lettuce in hopes that the kitchen cleanser didn't permeate my salads, but the little sudsies wouldn't wash away. The sight of soapy greenery did not tickle my taste buds so I had throw it all away. After the lunch-making fiasco, I cooked up some dinner. I took a few bites, sat the dish on the coffee table to type something, and knocked over my dinner onto my just-vacuumed floor.

I hate flu shots. They make me grumpy, unfunny, and spastic.

I am locked out of my office this morning.

I got to work bright and early at 6:30am since I have a doctor's appointment and wanted to get some work done before I ventured down to the hospital. My lab is highly protected and only allows entrance to individuals with granted card access . People are required to swipe their ID card before they can open the door and step into my area. I get at least 45 seconds to close my IM boxes and pornography pages before anyone has a chance to catch what I'm doing. Peons without pre-approved access must wait until I get off my ass to walk to the door before they can speak with the almighty guardian of the lab, me. Sometimes, if it is someone I really detest, I walk reaaalll slow and smile.

This restricted card access is great, but not on mornings when I am denied from the very place I call my second home. For times like this, I have a manual key that unlocks the door built by the same people of Fort Knox Designs. However, the ghetto key is not working this morning. I called the Campus Police, the Card Office, the building managers, but no avail. It's too damn early for anyone to be at work, especially on a Monday.

My lunch and hot tea are sitting on the floor in front of my door, waiting to enter my beloved office. But until the Office Gods decide to unlock the gates, let's have a picnic brunch in hallway by my office. I've got salad and tea, you bring dessert and a crowbar.

Have you ever gone to get your hair cut and obsessed about how short it is even though the stylist only cut about a milimeter off the ends? You think to yourself that you should have said one inch instead of two inches you wanted. Well, to remedy this recurring predicament, I will attempt to trim my own hair tonight. Hopefully, when I finish, I won't end up looking like I let my two year old cousin try out my new scissors on my nappy hair.