I feel only slightly bad saying this, but WHAT THE FUCK! Why do I ALWAYS pick the machine at the gym (like how I throw that in there? like I work out allllllll the time, riiight) where the smelly farty guy is in front of me? So every time he farts :::queue, hot guy walking by::: it seems like I could be the guilty party. I try to make pleading eyes but I think that only incrimiates me more. Don't get me wrong, everyone farts, this I know. I fart. But I don't fart at the gym, especially when they're deadly.

Which kind of but not really reminds me of 10th grade chemistry class and learning about molecules and my teacher Mrs. Zande (who, coincidentally, would light a match randomly during class, and answer to our puzzled looks, "I just farted, that's all.") told us that when someone puts lotion on and you can smell it across the room, that the molecules are actually like floating around the room and you are ingesting them into your system. That's how smelling works. Or something equally as scientific-sounding.

Which then led the class loudmouth and not-afraid-to-be-crude-in-a-Catholic-high-school girl to blurt out "So when you go into the bathroom right after someone's taken a shit, you're actually like eating it?"

We all wanted to die right then and there. I still do. Shudder.

Which then reminds me of another high school memory, in which I signed up for Women in Lit, with reserve. Marian was already "feminist" enough for me, the last thing I wanted was to have to read Charlotte Bronte or Emily Dickens or OH MY GOD CAN YOU TELL I HAVE NO IDEA WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT. IS THERE EVEN AN EMILY DICKENS. So anyway, we ended up with this really fucking cool teacher who was only there for 1 semester, sort of in a temporary job to help the school out. The Grammys had been on the night before, and it was the year Jennifer Lopez wore that green dress that tied down near her girlie bits.

My teacher, who told us to call her Patty, was floored. She was just raving on and on about what must have been going through her head when she wore that and knew that there were girls like us watching, who, no, we didn't have J-Lo posters and weren't the "young impressionable 13 year old crowd" that all the FCC and whoever worries about with Britney and Christina and JLo being the ho's that they are. No, we were the kind that were 17, 18, just growing into our sexuality and realizing the more subtle societal pressures of dressing one way or doing something for a man or just being someone you're not. ANYWAY, point of my story, she all of a sudden just blurted out, "It's like she put that dress on and just wanted to say 'FUCK ME!'" and we all just about died.

The looks on our faces... yeah we were in high school, and said "fuck" on a regular basis, but in the confines of that parochial school, we were pretty prude. It was such an awesome moment, an adult talking to us like the adults we were about to become. She was a cool teacher, I wonder if she still swears in front of teenagers and ponders what pop stars think when they wear things during award ceremonies.

Well now, I've done and made myself look about 10 IQ points stupider with this one, I'll admit. My parents are in Florida and called me at work from the beach today, saying it was eighty. Jerks. It's nice to be home alone, but it does get a little boring. The dog is like killing me with her loneliness, she walks around the house practically sobbing that her family left her. I'm not even joking.

Okay, I leave you now (I promise!) with a joke, I heard on 89x. I figure, I'm already crude as hell with this one, just take it full circle and deliver.

"What's the difference between a pizza and Courtney Love?"


"Guys want to eat a pizza."