Damn You, Gaga

I really, really wanted to hate Lady Gaga. I mean I really wanted to hate her: the bitch kept walking around outside in flesh colored leotards with bows made out of her own hair atop her head.

But, alas, she has officially grown on me. It started when I saw her live at the House of Blues (she can actually sing, which was pretty shocking), and then grew with the tea cup she kept toting around, and then she had to go and dress like a giant used tampon for the VMAs, and there was no going back for me. And now I just saw the video for "Paparazzi", and all of that insanity + Eric from TrueBlood = I Love Lady Gaga.


Minnie Mouse get-up and all.

I Am A Magnet

Like the title implies, I am a magnet for a variety of interesting things, including - but not limited to:

1. Guidos
2. Insane People
3. Potentially Violent Insane People
4. Alcoholics
5. Short, Rotund, Poorly Tattooed Women That Hate Me
6. Hot British Men in Clubs

Okay so #6 is a good thing (god save the queen, was it a good thing), but the rest of it? Not so much. Today I dealt with a death threat aimed at my 14 year old, toothless, harmless, just-shaved-so-is-absurdly-ridiculous-looking dog by a woman in her 40s who then proceeded to throw a tantrum that would make a toddler feel awkward, right after having my aura and energy cleansed by a cashier at Vitamin World. I'm not entirely sure if the last thing is a good one or not, though if I don't wake up tomorrow, we'll all have the answer to that one.

It's like they can always find me; like the flock magnetic North and boom! there I am, just waiting for them, like a Statue of Liberty for the fucking insane. And the Italians from Jersey (or the ones who wish they were from Jersey, if you can even contemplate such a thing) with enough hair gel on their being to choke all of the bottle blonds down the Shore.

At any rate, no work for me today, so that lowered the violence quota exponentially.