The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

You know that "balls in the bottle" theory regarding the enhanced machismo exhibited by a guy who’s been drinking?  Well, the same rings true for all those who use email.  I’ve noticed that people who couldn’t be nicer to you in person will send snide, nasty little emails to two seconds later. 

I don’t know if it’s because you can say how you feel without confronting someone, and put the nail in the coffin by cc’ing God and everyone (something which the people in my company rrrrelish in doing), but it’s a diseased habit, I tells you.

If you have something to say to me, say it to my fucking face.

That said, "The Shining" was the first scary movie I’ve ever seen.

If it weren’t for my bonecrushing fear of rejection, I bet I’d date a lot more.

Sugar has been driving me bonkers now that J. Co’s gone.  She insists on being with me wherever I go, bathroom included.  If you’re up for catsitting an aggressive, but absolutely beautiful kitty, hit me up, nigga.

I feel like the spirit of Death itself today.  I wish I could just pass on, and be done with it.  The only thing that got me into work this morning was knowing that I could take a nap at lunchtime.

The holiday weekend wiped me out.  You would think that would be a good thing, but it really wasn’t.  While Friday night at L’End Up was fun from what I can remember, I called not one, not two, but three people to ask if they wanted to come with, and they could not (you know who you are!).  The rest of the weekend was spent doing illegal things, tending to the painfully needy Sugar, and watching this awesome indie movie called "Clean".  (Ironic, yes.)

What exactly does the term "hot mess" mean?  Hot, but not?  A sloppy hottie?  I’m lost.

I miss playing Head Up, 7 Up.

I once had a roommate in college who shat in his pants, then washed them out in the bathroom sink. 

We were living in off-campus housing, and I remember being in my room when suddenly this horrible smell stirred me from my studies.  It smelled like a sewage line had broken. 

Curious, I opened the door to my room and ventured out into the hallway to the sound of the faucet running.  And there was my roommate, washing his shorts in the sink.  He was this gay asshole who looked like a demonic Ricky Schroeder.  And he gave me this bashful gay grin, and said, "I shit in my pants" by way of explanation.

"Oh," I responded, before backtracking to my room and closing the door.

Today, he’s a lawyer, which is perfect, because he had to be one of the most two-faced people I’ve ever met.  And the shittiest.

J Co’s semi-surprise birthday soiree was a smash Saturday night.  It was a semi-surprise because she actually made the reservations, but we (well, most of us) brought presents, as well, and I had her older brother come up from LA.  We dined and drank in excess, and it was good times, noodle salad all around.  Even when I departed early and ended up heading in the direction of the Marina, I got to take the trolley home circa midnight.  There are all these blurry pictures on my cell phone of me being moved by, say, an alley, and taking a picture.

The party continued early on Sunday morning, and on into the evening.  I’ve drunk so much, I feel like my lower intestine is disintegrating.  Prayfully, I’ll have enough energy (and cash) for this Memorial Day weekend.  I’ve taken Friday off for good measure.

I’ve had this rather sickly, apprehensive feeling all day today.  It may well be the diet pills.  I skipped them yesterday since I was already miserable enough with a hangover.

You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if I just keeled over and died any moment?  A bit pissed, maybe, but not surprised.  Isn’t that sad?

Have a happy weekend!

I wish life were like a Jonny McGovern Gay Pimp video.

Nextbus.com rules.

I know Joe Francis, the guy behind "Girls Gone Wild", is a total schmuck, but he’s also really hot.

It’s all about mixed drinks, and enough Aleve for the next morning to get you through.

"Paying bills is unnatural."
–J. Co

And truer words were never spoken.

I don’t know how I manage to forget paying my credit card bills, and then I get charged a late fee, which then causes me to go over my limit, adding on an overlimit fee. It’s downright infuriating.

And why do I always seem to run out of the bare essentials–facial moisturizer, eye cream, Glucosamine with Chondroitin, et. al.–all around the same time? I mean, they cost a pretty penny, and I prefer to purchase them intermittently throughout the month, and not bankrupt myself by buying them all at once.

Jerry Falwell is dead.  It doesn’t matter.  Another wicked religious zealot who misuses the name of Christ will rise in his place.  It’s not so much that the world is a fucked-up place, as the people who live in it are a fucked-up people.

There’s a difference between guilt and shame.  Shame is guilt without justification.  Guilt is a very checks-and-balances emotion that keeps us morally in check, providing a nauseous sense of discomfort when we do wrong.

My toes itch.

BevMo is my new favorite store…and I don’t mean for their many varieties of cups and nibbly things, but for the bevy of lovely, low-priced liquors they hawk.  Good times!

I’m so glad that the three black girls who can actually sing were in the top four of "American Idol".  I still haven’t gotten over when LaToya London was booted in season three.

I have tomorrow off.  I plan to sleep, drink, and clean.  And maybe bond a bit with Sugar.  She’s become afraid of her toys, lately, but still meows at 5:00 in the morning for attention.  Keerist!

In a move of distinct environmentalist fascism, SF is implementing an ordinace that requires grocers to only single-bag groceries.  While I’m all for saving the environment, this is a triumph against common sense since how can one bag hold, for instance, a jumbo bottle of beach and a mega-jug of Tanqueray (not uncommon purchases in my grocery shopping excursions).

I’m also sick of getting the barest hint of disdain from the hippie cashiers at Real Foods or Whole Foods or whatever the hell it is when I ask for a plastic bag.  Unlike the upper crust of San Franciscans, I walk my ass to wherever I need to go or go by bus.  I don’t drive in my little SUV, circle the block eight hundred times for a parking place, then think I’m doing my due diligence as a citizen of Planet Earth by producing my own nylon bags at the checkout line.

Besides which, I reuse my grocery bags as trash bags at home, or use them to bring my lunch to work.  So leave me the hell alone, let me bag the shit I buy with my own money the way I want, and double up, please.