Laid Back, Down To Earth, Hate Drama, Just Like To Have Fun.

Since this is the Internet, I think that's what I'm supposed to say. I don't know that I've ever visited an online personal profile that didn't include dumb crap like that. It's the new walks-on-the-beach boiler plate. You know what, if every damn person on MyFace (I think that's what we'd have if Myspace mated with the FB) really acted the way they described themselves in their About Me sections, there would be no road rage, no poverty, no sadness, no stress, and no divorces. There would probably also be not MyFace.

One step beyond stupid shit like that, is the Conversation In A Can. That's where you talk about your major, your siblings, your hometown, any socially adventageous activities you could furnish photographic evidence of your participation in if pressed, your job, and all the places you've visited that require a passport. I've been on enough of these first dates to have the template down. I'd be charming and point out that, OMG, It's Such A Template. Then everyone fell in love with me, like instantly, so I had to dial down all the charm.

So guess what, I'm going against the MyFace Generation's social grain, and I'm not going to talk about how I just love the feeling of sand in my toes and the sound of terminally ill children laughing. I'll be specific.

I'm *single, living in the basement of a house in a sweet part of town. The rest of the house is occupied by my favorite people in the world. I have a job that occasionally makes me want to rip out my own throat and hang myself or others with it. But most of the time, it is all I want it to be. What do I do? Chandler Bing's job. I'm a transponster.

I split the rent with the upstairs folks. My best friend, Meeshy, her husband, Boog, and their baby, Lolo. Sorry, I know those are  bad blog-aliases (sp?); They were an affront to my sensibilities too. But it makes me feel less exploitative. Of course, that'll probably last about seven minutes, because I have a way of slipping, and still not catching myself until I've already Published Post. Oh and the fact that I splash pictures of their kid all over my page with reckless abandon. They're too nice to tell me to please quit posting pedo-bait of their angelic kid. So lucky you. You'll probably see a lot of "LoLo" (tee hee! That is so not her real name).

My divorce should be final, like, whenever. I have no problems learning about cute, single guys you know, who might have a blog or a NOT-TRITE MyFace profile I can preview to prep myself for the amazing, Edward-and-Bella dates [I figured while you're still licking the wounds of your sensibilities from the last atrocity, I'd throw that in there] that I'll be going on. Please, enlighten me. I've been a decent human being for these past few years, so I've forgotten (literally, no hyperbole) how to look at/for guys. 

That said, I'm going to do this right. By "right" I mean slowly, and with much crappy quilt-making, and foot-pampering, and Friends-watching and reading of classic novels I cliffsnoted in high school, and blog-reading of the most celibate kind.

I am going to eat a lot of Five Guys LCBs, and drink a lot of Diet Pepsi, and enjoy lots of Junior Mints and chocolate pastries (Papa Johns, you guys, just...just trust me). I'm going to be like Lolo's nanny, but in this case, a nanny that has a full time job and never nannies, and hangs out with mommy at night.

I might even write, a lot, and publish a novel about my awesomeness, and make millions of dollars. 

Or just start a pet photography business.

*This is a work in progress, but I'm visualizing myself there, for quantum science purposes only.