There is absolutely no way I can ever top my last entry, so I think I'll just follow it up with complete and total (which is a pretty redundant expression) crap.

So I'm obsessed with reading everyone's profile on my buddy list, regardless if I have/have never talked to them. I also never, EVER remove someone from it.

Uh, Megan, why do you have people on your buddy list who you've never talked to?

I could explain my reasoning -- but I'd have to go to such extremes to dumb it down for you, and that would just be a waste of both yours and my valuable time, dear peon. You will never understand my complex thought process because it is clearly eons ahead of the collective thoughts of your generation.

And by "your generation" I mean "my generation."

Anyway.

So I was reading Ed's* (a.k.a. my biggest dating mistake) profile.

He used the phrase "peace out, hit the cell bitches" in his away message.

It's funny that a phrase like that could get my gears a-turnin', but it has.

I mean, in a way, "hit the cell" can be construed as a valid concept.

All of the cells in our body are constantly rebuilding and in the process "hitting" each other. I. Guess.

But telling one of your esteemed bitches to actually "hit your cell?" Hit one individual cell on the vast network of constant mitosis!? That's a lofty request.

It is highly improbable that I could ever have the capability to just hit ONE of your many, ever-changing cells.

I would need such a complex microscope and tiny poking device -- it would just take forever and I really don't think it's ever going to happen.

I hate to break it to you, but short of a microbiologist with a lot of free time, nobody is ever going to hit your cell.

How can you even ask that of someone. That's like saying, "hey, could you find my needle for me? Oh, yeah, it's in that huge haystack over there. You know, the one with all the straw and no needles."

God. I totally should've dumped him instead.

*I have to mention this every time I mention Ed, because a large portion of my self-esteem was debased when he traded me in for an angry, sexually confused meanie. I mean, imagine getting rejected by a guy who still wears JNCO DRAGON PANTS, listens to techno music, and uses the phrase "hit the cell, bitches" in all seriousness.

Oh, and you're me, so you're awesome and hot, and the reason why he dumps you is because "he's bored with you, and just not attracted to you anymore."

My ego shriveled like a penis in cold water.

Speaking of shriveled wang, what I have to mention is that his penis looks exactly like Alf's nose, minus all impressive size and coloring, and he's got the libido of a sixty year old man. Meaning on a good day, it takes him forty-five minutes to get it up.

And no, that is not based my experience. I only went down on him once, and it only took fifteen minutes. Not bad for a first timer, I'd say.

Oh, also, he has no idea how to appease the vag.

That's all.

Oh no wait, one more thing -- he wears JNCO DRAGON PANTS.

Okay.

Every time I tell someone that, I feel a little better about myself. Thank you for enduring my immaturity. Heehaw.

And now back to your regularly scheduled internet.

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