The boyfriend and I went to Calgary this weekend for my cousins Wedding Reception and by the time we made it back home it was about 6 PM on Sunday night.   The only food that was left in the house was leftover meatloaf which I thought would make a good dinner for the two of us.  I went to the fridge, after I fed Loki, and could not locate the meatloaf.  I asked boyfriend if he knew what happened to the meatloaf and he responded “I ate it.”

“When?”

“Just now”

“How did you manage to eat the meatloaf without me noticing?”

“I ate it while you were unpacking.”

Evil bugger. 

Then he had the audacity to say “Oh, it’s your turn to cook tonight.”

“But, you said you just ate!”

“I still need to eat dinner; the meatloaf was just a snack.”

Grumble grumble. 

So at 6:30 PM on Sunday I ventured out and got groceries for the week. After I got home with the groceries I noticed an unsightly and exceptionally large poo in the cats litter box.  As I am an ever diligent and caring Kitten Mother, I cleaned up her litter box immediately.  But when I went to go get more litter I discovered, to my dismay, that we were compleatly out of litter.

I looked at Loki.  She looked back.  Then she tiled her head and meowed as if to say “I am going to poo on your bed if you don’t get me some more litter.”

I believed her. 

So at 8:30 PM on Sunday night I ventured out again to see if Petsmart was open.  Of course it was only a fever dream of mine to assume a sensible business would be open at that time.  In the distance I glimpsed the monstrosity that was Walmart and innocently thought it the answer to my desperate need, I said (to myself) “I am sure they will have some kitty litter there.” 

This was my third mistake of the evening (the first was leaving the fridge unattended the second was to have the audacity to run out of kitty litter).  Be warned: many more misatakes were to come.

Frist of all: let me set the record straight.  I do not like Wal-Mart.  I avidly try not to shop there.  It’s a gregarious institution with inferior products that people flock to under the guise of savings.  What those people do not know is that Wal-Mart is actually in the business of stealing your soul and no amount of rolled back prices can get your soul back. 

Nevertheless, I was desperate, as so many who shop at Wal-Mart are, and the look on my cats face played though my minds-eye.  I knew I had to break down. 

I entered the establishment/small-independent-country of Wal-Mart and immediately was taken aback at the sheer size of everything.  I was overwhelmed by the number of aisles that I would have to sort though, the cavernous ceilings, and the large buttocks of the individuals shopping there.  I was also amused and dismayed at the fact that right inside the door there was a Tim Horton’s and no more then 50 feet from the door in the parking lot there was another Tim Horton’s.  Suddenly the size of the Wal-Mart patrons made sense.  

After a lengthy trek I finally found the pet section, in the far back corner of the building.  I tracked down the litter brand I wanted and saw the up scaled size of kitty litter for a less then it would cost to buy two of the smaller sizesand naturally went for the large quantity.  Part of my soul leaked from my pours.  I grabbed the inconveniently sized and exceptionally heavy box of kitty litter and swung my way back and forth towards the cashiers. 

By the time I made it to cashier alleyway I was sweating, tired, and sore.  I was not in the best mind set.  My exhaustion was making me prone to bad decisions.  I looked around and  saw 100 tills but only 4 were lit up.  I then saw that the 26 items or less (yes 26 items not 10 or 12 like normal stores, WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TRY AND BE NORMAL WAL-MART????) line had about 500 people in it so made my way over to a line with only 20 people with 26 items or more. 

The lines were all fanned out far back from the actual tills; I personally couldn't even see the physical till I was lined up at.  I was simply going on faith that at the end of this line was a surly teenager that would ring in my large and heavy item.  Obviously everyone else in my line was making that same assumption.  The waiting dragged on and on and the lines did not seem to be moving very effectively, so like cows in line for slaughter, the Wal-Martians started to get restless.  Some of the other line patrons were trying to catch my eye in order to start a conversation (likely a conversation complaining about the queue they were willingly in to save a bit of money on toilet paper).  In order to avoid this unwanted interaction, I hastily sat on my kitty litter box and fumbled though my purse.  When I was fumbling, I noticed the lady in front of me started to creep towards the till, look around wildly, and start to act very anxious.  In response to her anxiousness I looked around and noticed that the light at the till I was queued up at was not on. 

Blasphemy! I fumed (internally).  I should probably get into another line. 

But the lady in from of me was no so reserved.  She made her way to the front of the line again.  I am unsure what she saw, perhaps the anti-Christ or perhaps the sullen teenager putting up a closed sign, nevertheless she looked like she was going to blow a gasket. 

Suddenly she yelled: “Oh no you don’t, you are not leaving!  I have been waiting for 20 minutes” she had, I was her witness “you are NOT leaving!” 

I don’t know how the surly teenager reacted to the yelling directed at her (my response, in the same situation, would have been to burst spontaneously into tears), but the yelling lady heartlessly responded with “Go get your manager, I WANT YOUR MANAGER! You are not closing a line that 50 people are lined up at!”  She tried looking back at me for some sign of solidarity but I only pulled my head into my purse looking desperately for a magic portal to another dimension.  She turned back to the surly teenager and yelled “get your manager!!”

Then the man from the couple in front of the yelling woman made a “shhhhing” noise towards the yelling lady.  The yelling lady lost it.  She turned to him and yelled “Don’t shhh me!  You may be able to shush your wife, BUT NOT ME!”

Suddenly I didn't care if my cat pooed on my bed. 

Shushing man then said “Lets just figure out what is going to happen before we start yelling” the yelling woman was having none of that, she replied with a surly “well you can’t shhhh me! I won't take it!" she turned back to the teenage cashier "and your still not leaving” pointing at the girl “GET YOUR MANAGER!” Ironically to complete the second demand the cashier would have to disobey the first demand.  No one seemed to think my laughing at that moment was appropriate.

After my inappropriate fit of laughter, I received a cold dead stare from the yelling woman.  If my hands weren't occupied with the kitty litter, I would have stuck my head in my purse to look for my dignity (it was probably next to my courage and lip chap).  Because my head cannot actually fit inside my tiny purse, I grabbed my massive box of kitty litter and decided to make my way for the express line. No one else moved from the line, thus there was still about 50 people waiting in a line without a cashier. 

I swayed over to the express line and re-queued.  As the minutes ticked away I felt my soul plunging deeper into Wal-Mart’s pocket. 

The speakers overhead desperately pleaded for the on duty manager to go to till 16. 

I watched 50 back-to-back advertisements for the boring looking new Julia Robert/Tom Hanks movie. 

In the distance a woman was yelling at a sullen teenager. 

Fifty people were still in the line I left. 

And quite suddenly I started to have lusty feelings towards the sullen teenage boy that was running the express line till. 

I blame this lust on the it the dwindling state of my soul. No soul equals bad decisions.  I consoled my guilty conscious by reasoning that since I had been in line for a life time, I was sure that boyfriend thought I was dead and had already gone through the appropriate mourning process and moved on. 

I tried to mentally scold myself, as the object of my lust was likely an underage sullen teenage boy.  Damn his perfect skin and slightly tussled medium blond hair.  I just knew that this was Wal-Mart’s way of breaking me so my soul just flew into their sticky corporate fingers!   But that insolent guilty voice in the back of my head knew that my lust stemmed from the fact that I always have liked tall, blond, young looking men.  This voice reasoned that this was probably why I was dating a 27 year old that didn’t look a day over 18.  Blast your reason, inner voice!

I quickly tried to put my head in my purse, in case anyone in line with me could read minds; then I scooted over to the express line manned by an exceptionally fat teenage girl and just stared at her unblinking.  Out of sight out fo lust.  She must have though I was pretty crazy looking, but as she worked at Wal-Mart I felt it was not within her right to judge me.  After another 20 minutes, I was freed from that torturous institution, sans one soul.   

Wal-Mart: 1. 

Me: -1 (one extra point was docked off for having lustrous thoughts about a sullen teenager boy).

There is nothing worse then having to get up in the morning, this is why I set multiple alarms in many location throughout the room in order to wake me.  In recent months however, there has only been one alarm of concern in my household.

A few months ago the boyfriend and I took a big step and added a beautiful little adopted 7 month old cat to our family.  We had gone to the Edmonton Humane Society to just look but fell in love with a lovely little striped and spotted short haired tabby cat.

For a reason unknown to all involved, the Human Society had given her the name Brobocop, like Robocop with Bro in the front.  Later on, boyfriend and I sat down and had a chat with our new kitty and asked her how attached she was to the name Brobocop and she said “meow meow meow” which we took for an affirmation that the name was horrid and she wanted us to give her a new one.

We figured that Loki would be the best name as it was plainly clear she was a mischief maker and we might as well go with the flow.  Little did we know how truly fiendish this cat of ours is.

Loki’s most prevalent quality is perseverance in the face of adversity.  Normally that adversity is us not getting up to feed her when she wants to be fed.  The time she wants to be fed is 4 in the morning.  Ridiculous! I am not even that good at being up at 6:30 AM to get to work on time.  In fact, quite often I am not on time…. But that’s a story for another time.

Sleeping is pretty much my super power.

Loki is a smart fiend and has figured that when I sleep I am dead to the world and it is not a good idea to wake me up suddenly (I tend to try and attack things that wake me up suddenly, namely my alarm clock and the boyfriend).  Thus she sets her sights on the boyfriend.  She has a three step process to waking him.  First, she will waltz on over and stand on his chest and proceed to stare at him.  She will just stare at him, with her paws firmly planted on his collar bones.  I think she implements some sort of mind meld to bring him to a conscious state.  I don’t put telepathy out of her reach. In fact I think she may be further along the cat evolutionary line.

"Your puny human mind stands no chance against my feline mind meld".

Usually he will wake up at this point and stare into those vast, unending green eyes and say “ah!  God Loki, not now go back to bed.”  She doesn't like this, not one bit.

Angered she will strike out and without claws will slap boyfriend in the face, as if saying “bad boy” and stare at him more vigorously.

"Meow meow meow rrrreeeooow (Translation: get the fuck up punk.)"

At this point if he doesn't get up she initiates plan B and attacks his buttock.  Boyfriend sleeps naked, her claws are sharp and this never ends well.  On occasion the naked butt attacks don’t work and boyfriend manages to hide away under the covers well enough that her devil claws cannot reach him.  So she is forced to wait, silently, until the perfect time comes up for her to initiate her ultimate way of getting boyfriend up.  She waits till his alarm goes off for the first time at 5 AM and before he can turn it off she runs and sits on top of the clock so he cannot hit snooze.  By now he is forced to get up and remove her from the clock, in order to do this he must remove himself from his protective cocoon.  If boyfriend doesn't immediately get ready to go and feed her she will then revisit attack plan b.

To Loki’s great dismay, this ritualized attack plan only works with boyfriend present.  Two weeks ago boyfriend left to go back to his childhood home, Lac La Biche, to partake in the barbaric task of fishing.  How he finds it stimulating, I will never know.

Now nothing short of the end of the world will get me up before 9 on a day when I don’t have to and if left to my own devices I have been known to stave off hunger in order to sleep past noon.  Loki would have none of that.

Her tactics with me are quite different and far less direct then with boyfriend.  At first she circles around me like a shark surrounding its prey.  My bed has a ledge so she travels along it three quarters of the way on the other fourth of a quarter she walks over top of me.  Eventually she doesn't walk over me but instead will lie down directly over top of my neck.  Now this may not see like a bad thing --it’s just a nice soft kitty lying directly on my wind pipe.  But eventually you can’t ignore the fact that you’re slowly loosing the ability to breath.  Then to top it all off she does the very worst thing a cat can do: lick your face.  Sandpaper much?  Seriously moisturize your tong cat, your killing me!  If I ignore her or shove her off of me then she will just start the circling process again and this time she will sit on my face this is especially true if I hide under the blankets.

In sum she is the most devilish of feinds and the only alarm clock that I have owned, to date, that has tried to suffocate me.

She is essentially the reincarnation of Hitler.

I have some pretty lavish spending habits.  I blame this on my suburban middle-class upbringing in a “bubble city” (which is a small well off city located outside a greater metropolis but without any of the big cities more unsightly things like slums and “population diversity” (Now don’t get me wrong I am not trying to be a snob nor do I even like saying those types of things, but I stand by my description of the city where I was born/raised and my upbringing as fair and accurate)). 

Back to the point, my spending habits are atrocious.  Now if you don’t count my 40 + dress collection (which I recently scaled down) I tend to spend most of my money on food.  I like me some good tasty delectable food and it is because of my lavish love for delectable morsels of yum that I tend blow my limited not-allocated-for-something-that-keeps-my-house-heated-and-bills-paid funds.   

Eventually the good times always come to an end.

For me the good times of frivolous spending ended when I moved in with the boyfriend last year.  Yes, even I recognized that my spending habits had to change, even if I did it while kicking and screaming.  Boyfriend had a look at my finances one fateful day and unceremoniously had a fit.  He made outlandish accusations about my “irresponsible behaviour” and how I had “no foresight” and would “drive myself into a debt house”.  He’s so over dramatic.

“You spent 15 dollars at three different coffee stores -- in one day!!??”

“Love, coffee is very important to me.  You know this.  Good coffee even more so.  You don’t realize this because of your irrational hate for hot caffeinated beverages, but there are different types of coffee needed at different times in the day.  In the morning a nice mild blend coffee and a scone from Second Cup, at noon you need a nice skim latte from Starbucks and to end the work day you need a strong roast from the local deli from the cafeteria at work.”

Despite my very logical reasoning he had this intense look of horror on his face. 

After that he cracked the whip down, in the only way he knew how, by revving up his passive aggressiveness.  It is important to note, I am a very open and emotionally expressive extrovert.  Thus boyfriend turning more into himself and engaging in his passive aggressive “I am not mad at you” “or “I’m not trying to tell you what to do” when in fact he really is drives me up the wall and brings out the crazy insane person within me, which is never a good thing. 

I had to cave, or go to jail for boyfriend slaughter.   In retrospect boyfriend's behaviour was only one in a long line of interventions I have already had by those who love me in regard to my spending.  It probably wasn’t them, it was me. 

Now we have week long meal plans instead of random whim days and “ham week” over something new and exciting every day.  This is why I eat leftovers for lunch even though I don’t like leftovers and why I steal coffee from the “coffee fund” pot (which I do not pay into) that the receptionists have at work (I steal their milk from the fridge too).

This is also what led to the great hording of plastic cutlery of 2011.  You see, there are many problems with bringing leftovers for lunch: 1) leftovers are yuckers and never taste as good as the first time around, and 2) I never bring cutlery.  To be more accurate, I am strongly discouraged from bringing metal cutlery to work with me as I apparently “never bring it back” which is not true, I bring it back, I just loose the bag I put it in somewhere in the house before I reach the kitchen.  How, you ask?  This I do not know.  I am useless when I am tired and I am always tired after work and the commute home, that hour after I come home from work before I mentally become alert again is a daze of confusion and mystery.  I often find myself waking from my confusion, curled into the fetal position in my bed.

Because of my lack of foresight (hmmm why does that sound familiar?) when I am making my lunch I must improvise when I get to work and, once again, realize I am without even plastic cutlery.  In those instances, I have resorted to eating my food with my fingers (I washed my hands before), but that leads to awkward looks from people passing by my cubical.  Another downfall to finger eating is that it leads to burnt fingers as I am also impatient when it comes to getting my food in my belly. 

Other times I have gone out in search of plastic cutlery in the office kitchenette.  A little known fact that I have learned over the years is that office workers guard their plastic cutlery very closely.  Even the big boxes of plastic cutlery that the office buys for retirement events and the like; when the even is over the receptionists lock the extra cutlery and plates away from prying interns such as me.  They literally lock them away in a cupboard. 

This is why I don’t feel bad about stealing their coffee.  Bastards.

The great hording of plastic cutlery occurred one fine day when I was innocently passing by a retirement tea being set up, I stepped inside to say “ola” to one of the workers that I knew and when no one was looking, I started madly stealing the plastic forks, knives, and spoons.  I probably got away with a dozen or so and madly so as I had to run away while hiding the cutlery under my shirt.  This was the start of my cutlery stash and clear sign of my excellent survival instinct. 

Rest assured that if the apocalypse occurred and everyday life was ripped asunder, that I would likely be the one to start the hording and create a post-apocalyptic society that revels in all the various sins human kind can indulge in. 

Well, a girl can dream anyways.

I have only been pulled over three times in my life. Now I am sure some of you think that three times is actually a lot of times but it really isn’t when you think about it, three times, in your whole life? That’s not bad. I am not a delinquent. So say we all. Damnit, say it, I want you all to say it!

The first time was during my year off between High School and University. The night previous I had partying hard at a friend’s house and spent the night. The morning of the incident, we ate hangover food and watched Big Fish, immediately after I headed home. It was about mid morning and I was frazzled. Tired from the long night out, my head was pounding from the hangover and from crying for the entire duration of the movie. I was in my PJs, hair frazzled, eyes rimmed red. I looked like an escapee from a mental institution. I was just making my way through suburbia and then BAM, blue and red lights flashing in my rear view mirror.

I had no idea what was going on, I was going about 45 clicks. Eventually, the police officer moseyed on over and asked if I knew I was going 45 in a school zone (that was only 30). I was shocked, this was a school zone? I looked around and saw no school until the cop pointed to a dilapidated building off to the right. The fact that this building was a school just showed how sketchy this area really was and made me quite concerned about the education of the youth from this neighbourhood.

“But,” I countered, “its Sunday, why would a school zone be active on a Sunday?”

“It is not Sunday” the cop said, looking concerned. “It’s Tuesday.”

I did not know how to take that bit of information.

Tuesday you say? Where did those two days go? Did I party that hard that I lost an entire chunk of my week, when did I work next? Was I going to be fired from my job for missing work, did I miss work? Why did my head hurt so much?

Everything was unclear.

During the confused conversation with the police office, I was ripping my car apart looking for my wallet. To my dismay no wallet was to be found, I was certain I had left it at my friend’s house. This fact really concerned me, as I had recently come to the conclusion that this neighbourhood was quite sketchy.

I tried explaining this to the police officer but the combined experience of the lost two days, the missing wallet, and the stress of being pulled over cracked me. Like a piece of glass. I broke down and started sobbing and sobbing uncontrollably. It was pretty easy, Big Fish and all the sadness that it caused was still fresh in my mind. I was just a small push from tears canyon and it is not a pretty place to be.

In a spasm of tears and convulsions, I confessed that I did not have my license that it was at my friend’s house only a few moments away from this very location. I begged the cop to let me go get it and that I would come right back and he could write me a ticket. But he seemed quite anxious to get away from me and just let me go with a warning as long as when I came back this way I was not speeding.

The second time I was pulled over, I was in University. I was going about 50 clicks down a much nicer street, in a much nicer area, that also happened to be a school zone. Though this was time the school zone was clearly marked. I remember that I was eating a rice-crispy square I had purchased from Cargo and James, it was an amazing rice crispy square. I was going the speed limit for the non school hours, it was 5:20 PM and school was out hours ago. Apparently the school zone in this area is good till sundown, which was, and still is, the stupidest thing I ever heard. To my credit, I at least knew that it was a school day.

There was no big hoopla this time, I got pulled over, I held it together (in retrospect, this was probably a mistake) and took my ticket.

Later when I went to pay my ticket the lady at the front counter said that I couldn’t just pay the ticket that I needed to go see the judge. I quickly stated that I DID NOT want to see any judge I would pay my fine and be done with things. But she insisted I see a judge to talk about my ticket.

I was freaking out by this point, thinking I was going to be given time in addition to my exuberant fine. By the time I was called into the judge’s office I was about as much of a wreck as anyone could be and I was about ready to confess to any crime (traffic related or not).

Apparently they have you talk with the judge to see if they can reduce down your fine or demerits (he remove the demerits but kept the fine). Which begs the question, why do they do this? I mean the best way to prevent someone from doing something again, if it is their first time, is to make the experience as unpleasant as possible so they always remember the consequence for their action. Such a flawed system.

The third and final time I was pulled over was just three days ago. This time, I was not in a school zone. Since those two incidents from my younger more naive days, I find myself avoiding school zones at all times of the day no matter what day it is. I have learned my lesson. School zones are evil places where police fester.

This time I was not speeding. In fact, I was going under the speed limit because it was raining and non-perfect driving conditions scare me (if you have been in my car you know why). Without any semblance for why I was pulled over, the fear started to consume me. I waited. The rain poured down. My legs, which were pushed down on the break and clutch, were jumping up and down uncontrollably like a jackrabbit. I started to sweat (or more appropriately, I restarted sweating, as I had just come from Yoga). In time the police office knocked on my window and I rolled it down, splashing rain inside my car.

“I pulled you over” he started, getting right down to the point “because this car is not registered.”

My car wasn’t registered? This was a new one.  I handed him my license (learned that lesson too) and started to fumble through my glove compartment for my registration and insurance. I pulled many documents out and started sorting though them. Apparently, I never throw out my old copies. Eventually I found the registration and low and behold, expired… yesterday. Upon further examination, I realized I also never added my new insurance card that I got in the mail last month my glove box.

So here I was, sitting with the rain splashing down on me and my cars inside, a police office standing over top of me, with nothing but outdated or non-existent documents in my hands. What could I do but confess that I did not realize my registration was expired and that I was stupid enough to not put my new insurance card in my glove box. I hoped for lenience or time to grab my documentation. The police officer simply glared at me, took my license and said he would see what he could do.

I was freaking the shit out. I could imagine that not having one of three standard pieces of identification (license, registration, proof of insurance) was bad enough but not have two. I was convinced that the cop would think I stole the car. That he would think I was actually a criminal, probably a drug runner as I drove a really sketchy old car and was shaking and sweating like a mad demon.

Should I bolt and hide out? No, that wouldn’t do, my car barley went over 80 without having the shakes. Furthermore, I was convinced that no one would take me in, as I was such a fool. My parents would say, “we told you to keep track of important events like this, your such a child, not really a responsible adult at all” and boyfriend would say “you’re an idiot, why am I even with you?” and would leave me. My life was over. I was ruined.

The police officer returned.

“You know,” he began “I don’t have to prove that you don’t have insurance, you have to prove to me that you have insurance. The fine for not having insurance is 2800 dollars and we impound your vehicle.”

I stared blankly. Sweat was beading down my face. The only thought that passed through my mind was: I should try and take him down and hide the body. The rain will cover my tracks.

I couldn't afford a 2800 dollar fee and the cost to get my car out of impoundment. Who could afford that! No one! That’s why they make it so high! Those bastards learned their lesson too!

I would like to point out at this time that I do have insurance. I pay far too much for insurance! I really just forgot to put my new card in my car.

Then he hands me a ticket…. for 230 dollars for not registering my car.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning for the insurance but I have to give you a ticket for not having your car registered.” Relief like you would never know flushed over me.

Then to add insult to injury he holds up my license and looks at it says “but this picture doesn’t really look anything like you.” What? Really, that’s prosperous. I haven’t changed the way I look for years. My kinder garden teacher recognized me when I was walking down the street one day. I pulled back my hair and took off my glasses. “No, still doesn’t look like you”. The sweats started up again.

“Um” I said “the picture is like 10 years old.”

“Hmmm” …..“okay” He handed me back my documentation “go pay you fine and you drive carefully.”

What an ordeal.

The moral of the story, ladies and gentlemen: register your freakin’ car THE MOMENT you get the notice and ALWAYS check to make sure you have you license, insurance, and registration on you in your car before you go out on your merry way.

Or else you end up like me.

The end.

Almonds, ulgh.  They always give me such a stomach ache after I eat a gregarious amount of them.  Despite this fact, I just ate such a exceedingly large amount of almonds while sitting at my desk working away.  Why would I eat something that causes me endless abdominal discomfort?  Well there is something you need to know about me: I’m a bit of a masochist.  It’s just how I roll.  I do things that tend to cause myself paint in the future, bu at the time of doing the activity I pay little regard to these future consequences.  Thrill seeking activities, rough sports, risky food eating, these are but a few of my favourite things.  I am actually amazed I haven’t landed myself in jail yet or the hospital more frequently. 

The most pressing questions that can follow up my unashamed confession of masochism are: why eat a gregarious amount of the almonds, why not a small amount to tempt your pallet?  An amount just shy of the amount that makes your stomach ache?  Well, there is another thing I must confess: my will power is a tiny insignificant pathetic spec of dirt.  I like to think that this second confession actually stems from the enormous amount of will power I exert everyday towards not consuming two specific substances: chocolate (of which, I am allergic) and alcohol (of which, I have a hideous addiction too).  Not consuming these two substances is profoundly beneficial to my well being and likely has great sway on the fact that I have not landed myself in jail or the hospital.  None-the-less my defaults define me as a person and while I am have been very good at not consuming these two items (chocolate 13+ year, alcohol 4+ years) I am a complete sucker for everything else tempting (case and point: Hagen Daas Coffee Flavoured Ice Cream).

Now that I have introduced my finer qualities, I am sure that this is the picture of me that you have in your mind:

Pleasant, no?  I would like to advocate that I in fact have many nice qualities and when I think really hard and can come up with a list I will certainly post that list here to counter the above confession.

As this is my first bog post, I felt a bit of an introduction was warranted.  To anyone new who doesn’t know me well this has likely been a sad and shocking revelation, turn away, now, if you can.  As most everyone who would read my blog probably knows me in a non-computer related way, I felt it necessary to provide a refresher into what you were getting into by committing to read my blog.

*cricket noises*

Ah yes, alone again.