The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Next week I hit the big three-oh.  Not so much of a big whoop considering I still feel like I’m sixteen most of the time.  At least in spirit.  I can see the thirtiness in my face (and, dare I say, body), but that’s why God invented Botox.

I figured I’d take this opportunity to commemorate my twenties, raging as they were.  It all started my junior year of college, the same time I ditched my nasty clique of bad fags to befriend an emo/goth/rockabilly/whatevs crowd of cool straight folks. 

By the time I hit twenty one and twenty two, I’d made the painful transition from college grad to bonafide adult, and had to find a job and an apartment.  The only good part was that I was finally in Frisco.

By twenty three, I had a boyfriend and had moved in with him.  Still, the mix of partying too hard without and not acting enough like an adult, not to mention not really being the best boyfriend on record, pushed me through a real learning phase that led to my mid-twenties.

That would be the time I’d say I really came into my own, and became more comfortable in my own skin.  And certainly more mature, and less selfish, and more thoughtful of others.  Add to that, a dramatic roommate situation that nearly bankrupt me, the departure of Holla Scholar to grad school, and yet another house move to my current place that all constituted my late twenties, and here I is.

Tumultuous?  A bit.  Fun?  At times.  Would I do it again?  That’s okay.

Raise your glasses to your thirites, niccas.

I cut my sober workweek short and began my weekend early last night by sipping on some wild cherry cocktails, then gluing glow-in-the-dark stars to my ceiling while watching Snoop Dog vids on MTV.  Then I dreamt that you could apply for membership at Walmart and they would give you $700. (Don’t read in to it.  I read on MSN yesterday that Walmart is losing its momentum and decreasing in popularity; and I’m broke.)

My coworker brought her adorable little white Maltese toy dog to work today.  His name is Chin Chu.  He’s been frolicking around the office all day today.  And he just took a nap on my lap.  I’m planning a dog napping.

It finally rained today.  Yay!

You may consider this a vulgar entry, but I hasten to point out that the majority of diseases begin in the colon.  Or so I heard on TV.  So keeping that puppy clean is of the utmost importance.

Firstly, if you’re using a public toilet, do a good wipedown of the seat before you sit.  Then, you want to lay down a good three toilet seat covers to adequately cover the rim and keep the raw porcelain for touching your nates. 

Then, after you do the deed, you want to do a triad-wipe down: a dry, wet, and final wipe.  Dry is the initial one, and is self explanatory.  Wet involves wetting the tissue or using a wet wipe, like for babies.  Then a final wipe to wrap things up and assure as much cleanliness down there as can come at the time.  If you want to be really zealous, add a dab of soap at the wet wipe.  This may require a second wipe with just water to clear the suds, though.

Follow this procedure, and you will find yourself free of tire streaks and uncomely smells in your britches.  And the world will be a better place.

Happy crapping!

Bad:
My kidneys hurt. 

Good:
I’ve stopped drinking on weekdays.

Bad:
I feel fat. 

Good:
The lack of drinking and exercising, when it happens, has helped to begin slightly slimming me down.

Bad:
My butt itches. 

Good:
I just scratched it.

Bad:
I’m tired. 

Good:
I’m taking a nap at lunch.

Bad:
Our apartment is a mess, and I don’t have the energy to clean it when I get home. 

Good:
I plan to get some drink power on Friday night and do a whirlwind clean streak before Tiff Tiff arrives.

Bad:
I’m always hot. 

Good:
Maybe it means my body’s soon to give out, and I can finally die.

Bad:
I’s po’. 

Good:
We’re getting raises and equity increases this month.

Bad:
I have to go to the DMV next week to get my driver’s license renewed. 

Good:
Nothing good can ever come from going to the DMV.  What are you mad?

I just love "Ugly Betty".  It’s got a great, interweaving storyline, the characters are endearing and well-developed, it is outrageous without being disingenuous, and you’re always on the edge of your seat wanting to know what happens next.  I hope it stays that way.

No one tell me anymore secrets.  I cannot nor do I care to keep them secret anymore.  It’s too hard, and I’m too drunk most of the time to keep things mentally cooped up from being set free and said openly.

When did they start allowing the word "shit" on TV?  How did that become acceptable by FCC regulations? 

Could you last for a week and a half on a hundred dollars alone?

I live for "TMZ" now that it’s on TV.

I’m addicted to those Kettle Chips salt and vinegar chips.  Too delish.

Dear cashiers of America:

If you work the till of a store that provide cash back with ATM purchases, and you don’t happen to have enough cash in your drawer for my request, I don’t give a fucking fuck.  Don’t get all in a dither, and listlessly whine, "Oh, I don’t have enough…" or "I’m not sure I have that much…" or "Oh, I’m going to have to call someone."  I do not give a flying cockshit, ’cause it’s not my job to worry about how much money you have in your drawer.  It’s yours.  And if you don’t have enough to cover the purchase, then don’t fucking tell me about it, because I don’t care if you drop dead on the spot.  Just give me my money.  Why should I care that you’re a slipshod, half-assed employee, and can’t keep on top of your shit?  I’ve just been debited a sizable sum of money from my account, and now you, as the proprietor, need to make good on it. 

Thanks in advance.

No, not the kind you’re thinking of. The kind where you wake up in the morning, are still 3/4 of the way asleep, take a pooh, it doesn’t all flush, so you flush the toilet again, and it threatens to breach the brim and surge on over.  Which is what happened to me this morning.  Sure woke my ass up.  Quite disgusting.

I was once peeing in the bathroom of a Target when I was a wee lad, when I splashed my jeans.  A sizable amoeba of urine marked my crotch.  I exited the lavatory to meet my family, and fumed on and on about how the sink in the bathroom was broken, and had soaked me. 

Rrrrrrright.

Well, I certainly made up for my weekday streak of sobriety this past weekend.

It began Friday evening after work when some co-workers and I did mojitos at Amber before segueing to Chardonnay at Burgermeister.  I can proudly say I did not partake of the burgers and fries despite my inebriated state. 

Then Saturday, J. Co and I boozed up in an effort to hit up the Love Parade only to be dissed by a certain Irish bar wench.  *ahem*

And yesterday, Melissika came down for the Folsom St. Fair.  I counted seventeen peni, two pairs of bressises, and zero funginas.  We say Kelly perform her hit "Shoes" to the raving crowd.  And topped the night off with delicious veggie pizza and red wine at Uncle Vito’s.  Their pizza is so good, I dream about it at night.

Now we go back to water, green tea, and pomegranate juice ’til Friday comes ’round again.