SELFABSORBED.ME

Dear Christmas Cookbook Gift,

Wow it was such a surprise when I opened you. I was so excited at first looking at the packaging thinking I was finally getting a signed copy of 'Where I Came From'. But then I disocvered you, an entire book, filled with Betty Crocker's best.

Now I don't know who this Betty woman is. But I do know one thing. She seems like a pretty selfish bitch to me. Telling me all about having to make "torts" and "cakes" and "boiling water." Making me feel like I am the kind of woman who should invest my time and energy into things like "baking" . Well Betty, let me tell you, the more you try and tell me how to bake, the more I realize I am going to figure out exactly which book store you came from so I can return your red colored ass and get something more useful, such as a book on how to kill myself with rubber bands.

The problem is Betty, your instructional guides require me to do things that I refuse to do on a normal day, things such as 'go to the grocery store'... 'make lists'... 'be prepared'....I consider showing up to my ex boyfriend's house fully sedated on percocets, 'being prepared'.

I tried to make your lemon bunt cake only once and I was halfway through writing down 'lemon' when I realized, what am I doing? I bake the way Anna Nicole solves math equations in Heaven....pretty much never. And I refuse to feel pressure just because a woman named 'Betty' tells me to go do so. I don't even like the name Betty. I knew a Betty once and she was the biggest cunt I'd ever met. So excuse me Betty if I don't feel like ripping open your magical paper pages and discovering just one more thing I have failed at learning in life. You know who used to cook? Dinosaurs. Dinosaur wives used to cook along with people in the BC era and women with names like 'Pearl'. So if you don't mind Betty, I am going to go order myself a nice plate of California rolls from Haru, right after I go give you to some poor homeless kid of the street who needs a cook book way more than I.

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So the holidays can be a very confusing time in a relationship. So many things going on, decisions as whether to meet the parents, not meet the parents, exchange gifts, not exchange gifts…normally I do the right thing and make sure to break up right before the holidays and then quickly resume the relationship after new years is over. Listen, I don’t want to buy you a gift, I don’t even want to kiss you during New Years. I want to spend my new years how most people spend it, drunk in a dirty bar bathroom, puking up yams on the hand towel lady named Rosetta, whom I keep referring to as ‘Ruby Red’.

If you are one of the unlucky people however to be involved in a relationship during this time of the year I think a few Holiday rules need to be laid out.

Rule #1- Thou shall never buy their significant other a ‘vacation’ Buying someone a vacation as a gift is the end of your relationship. It is like playing Russian Roulette with a bad ear infection, you will always lose. My friend Christine bought her boyfriend a trip to the Bahamas, they broke up three weeks later…my friend Adam bought his girlfriend a tip to Aruba and she sleep with his best friend the next night. Trust me, buying someone a vacation as a gift is like giving an 8 year old a loaded handgun, it’s only fun for the first minute or two and then eventually, someone gets hurt.

Rule #2- Thou shall never subject your significant other to your family unless you are married/engaged/under contract. Your family is never as normal as you think they are. In fact they are probably about as amusing as any Tim Allen movie ever created. My parents are the nicest people, but they are still a bunch of conservative republicans, so if you don’t enjoy scotch and a good game of ‘find grandma’s pearls in the oriental rugs’, then I would suggest you not stop by for a visit.

Rule #3- Thou shall never send mutual holiday cards with your significant other. Do you think it’s not bad enough I have to get mutual birthday cards from ‘Both of Us’, please don’t subject me to your holiday happiness as well. And please don’t include on the inside notes how the two of you went around picking apples, or Christmas trees, or making popcorn strands or some shit like that and then sat in your stockings near a fireplaces reading stories from the Bible to each other. Dear Lord Jesus, the card you sent with the sad puppy dog face in a holiday hat was bad enough, I almost vomited up all my red wine and percocets just seeing the damn cover. I don’t need to hear about how you ‘Both Wish Me Peace Love and Joy’…I wish both of you a nasty cause of the bubonic plague if you send me anymore of that shit.

Because I am lazy this week
And because this is genius

I'm just a regular everyday normal girl and my parents are nice people motherf*cker!

So many online profiles contain inspirational quotes that say, “Dream Big!”. Everywhere you look people are telling you to, “Dream Big!” Go out, get what you want, reach for the stars, and remember To “Dream Big!”…But you know what? I prefer to “Dream Small!” In fact sometimes I like to ‘Dream Tiny!” I think if I Dream Small, then guess what? I will have already achieved my dreams! I dream about making enough money to afford a quality plastic razor, maybe not a fancy one, maybe just one with a nice moisturizing strip, or with even a grip-like handle that has suction, just so that I can shave my legs finally! And then I look down and realize, “Look! All my dreams have come true! I DO own a razor! And it DOES have a moisture strip!” This is why I Dream Miniature. Why do I want to Dream Big and set myself up for failure? I like to dream about obtainable things like recording TLC’s A Baby Story on my DVR finally. ...DONE! Wow, life is good. I encourage you all to Dream Tiny! Because Tiny Dreams do come true!

Apparently the Jews love a good rap! Benji K is an old colleague of mine, an exceptionally good writer and outrageously good looking....I fainted when I first saw him...either that or I was really really drunk...and passed out.
http://djbenji.blogspot.com/2007/12/kims-hanukkah-rap.html#links

Last night a member of the male species emerged from our bathroom and proclaimed, “Well if I ever get shot or fatally wounded and am bleeding profusely I know there will be enough pads and tampons to save me and an entire army…” My roommates and I just stared at him.

Yes, I admit it; living with all women in a sorority style apartment is like swimming in the waters of a fallopian tube. There is enough estrogen in our place to make anyone want to curl up on the pink sofa with a nice Anne Geddes posters and cry. But the thing I have discovered is men also run in similar patterns.

Looking dapper young man, now where is Eduardo to get me another sassafrass on the rocks

There is nothing I like more then a good ol’ Thursday night happy hour….of course there is a good old fashioned spanking, but that is a whole other column altogether. Thursday may just be the perfect night to go out drinking. There is only one day left in the work week and everyone can show up and get sloshed in their suits and pantyhose. There is nothing better then a drunk person in loafers and an alligator sweater, or in my household we like to call it, ‘being Republican’. Dressing racy on a Thursday night involves unbuttoning your top two buttons and sometimes the naughtier girls even take off their tights. Saturday night you can show up half naked in a plastic bikini with tassels and it's perfectly fine, but Thursday you better show up in some slacks damnit and they better be pressed.

When I was without a job during the summer of 2004, otherwise known as ‘when life was good and suicide wasn’t an option’, I remember getting dressed up like I had a job just to go out to the bars. I would put on my khaki’s best and show up to meet my friends for drinks like I had just come from the office. I would even maybe spill a bit of coffee on the side of my knee, just for authenticity. Sometimes at the bar I would get on my cell phone and yell things like, “Yeah, those TPS reports, I need them, by tomorrow! And go fax me some…ugh, things…Eduardo! Yes boy stop questioning me and go do it now!..” And normally that was right about the time my grandpa would hang up the phone on me.

I was very insecure that summer about not having a job and when guys would ask me what I do for a living I had the whole, “a little bit of this, a little bit of that” speech down… Only later did I learn that is what most drug dealers say as well. I would also say I had “meetings” to go to with Ellen…and by “Ellen” I did mean, the actual show ‘Ellen’.

One of my good friends and I met through a love of gin and tonics in Midtown East. We bonded over Thursday night alcoholism and let me say, we have been friends ever since. And when we discovered we also shared a love for mozzarella sticks it was all I could do to not cry at the bar and give her a huge hug…but I didn’t, only because that might mess up the sweater tied around my neck...I mean hey, it was Thursday.

I was delayed on a flight out before Christmas during 2005 and then had layover in Philadelphia. When the plane finally boarded, we sat on the runway for an hour before the pilot came on with an overhead announcement “As some of you folks may be aware of, our flight crew is going to be unable to complete this trip due to overtime regulations…and ah soo ahh, you are going to have to get your bags and get off the plane...”

I sat straight up in my seat, which clearly was not erect enough. “WHAT! Are you kidding me? I don’t need a flight crew, I need a pilot! That’s all I need. I don’t need some retard to hand out pretzels ….who needs snack packs? If anyone doesn’t already know how to operate their goddamn air mask, get the fuck off the plane and let the rest of us go with the pilot!"
I was asked to get off the plane.

So I get emails from readers regarding things they have seen, heard or done that reminds them of me. Normally these emails I receive consist of bad-date stories, random musings and penis enlargements… As far as the last topic goes all I have to say is; HotAss69, how DO you know me so well?

One of the emails I received last week is from an avid reader of mine out of the great country of Los Angeles. She recently had a friend visit NY and sent her this email upon return. She then forwarded the email on to me, because, like I have always said before, when you think of horrible drunken nights and sexual embarrassment, I do hope you think of ME.

Email Below:

My sister was in New York a week or so ago and met this guy at some bar. They really seemed to hit it off, he works in some health-related field and graduated from Hopkins and my sister is attending Hopkins right now for her Masters in Public Health. They talk a lot and end up meeting the next night for dinner. He of course tries to get her to come back to his place. She says no, she really has to get back to her friend's house she's staying at in Hoboken. He asks if he can take the subway with her to Hoboken? She responds by saying this makes no sense. He then says, ‘what about a cab?’ Of course this makes even less sense, but he decides to take a cab with her to Hoboken to drop her off. During the cab ride, he whips it out and says, "Just a little kiss?" My sister responds, “You think I am giving you a blow job in a cab on my way to New Jersey? I don't think so!”

My response to the email above:

First off, let me start by saying I think it is rude, embarrassing, disgusting and gross…..that your sister did not give up the goods! I mean, did he not buy your sister dinner? Did he not sit and listen to her chat on and on about things like “her education” all night? Dinner is a lot. He must get something for that right? There are rules here and expectations to abide by. Questions I need to know the answer to might be- How much was the dinner? Was there any type of wine bought at dinner? Was it bought by bottle or by glass? For every ten dollars spent I believe one item of clothing does need to be removed. It is listed in some contract somewhere. You can start with socks. And once you get in the actual cab with a boy there is no turning back, you might as well throw all your clothes off now you whore and say goodbye to those dreams of ever working as head Sister Sally at the Mormon church in Utah because you are well on your way to a life of sin… and by a “life of sin” I do mean, “an apartment in Murray Hill”.

If you can spot which scene I am in, in the Trailer below, I will pay you a million dollars...I will give you a hint, I am white.

Dear Upstairs Neighbor;

I get it.
You have sex.
My understanding of your sex life is actually far more comprehensive then my understanding of my own sex life. Every night I wake up to the sound of your headboard slamming against the beams above my wall. Your sex is timely as well, always around 2am on the dot. Is it scheduled in your Blackberry? Normally I am right in the middle of my usual 2am dream which consists of Arctic Penguins and a bunch of British people in a pool. Regardless, you do have a consist rhythm which is, thankfully for me, only about eight pumps long, and then it is over. You also like to have sex at 7am, which has actually become a better tool for waking me up in the morning then my actual alarm now. But last Sunday, on the DAY OF JESUS MAY I REMIND YOU, at 2pm when I was trying to watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, your bed was hitting the wall harder than a coke-heads jaw. I was sitting there thinking, OK, enough, I get it. I mean, for the love of Jesus, you must have sex what 14? Maybe even 18 times a week? 18 times A WEEK? I think 18 times would be a good YEAR for me. I was tempted that bright sunny Sunday afternoon to walk upstairs and bang on your door screaming, “I GET IT! YOU HAVE SEX! I GET IT, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST ALMIGHTY, LET THE WALL REST, THE WALL IS HURTING! THE BEAMS NEED A DAY OFF!” How much sex do you need to be having? I suggest one time a year. How about that? How about you read some books? Or invest in a hobby, such as darts, or chess? I also have some face masks and old teeth retainers that, when worn, I have found as a very preventative tool for ever having any sex ever again. Maybe you need a good show to watch at night? May I suggest CSI Miami? TLC’s A Baby Story? Or even ESPN’s How to Catch a Fish? And as much as I loved hearing your eight pumps in all their glory this morning, I have to say, I could do without. So please dear Neighbor, appease me and next time you feel like causing all the beams in my ceiling to shake and crack, remember that picking up a methamphetamine habit would be much more considerate.
Thank you,

Your Neighbor Below,

NYC Ponderings

Walking around Macy’s this morning, spraying myself with every perfume imaginable; until I had enough alcohol doused on me to be completely flammable, I realized something truly magical…being kid-free and husband-free is like winning the lottery. I have no one to spend my money on other than myself. If I want to skip out on buying groceries this month in lieu of the new Cole Han limited edition leather, then damnit all, I will….Because who cares, it’s my spending account. What else would I be spending my money on anyway? Donations to Darfur? Homeless children’s education? Feeding the supermodels?

See the problem with having a family, also known as, “people you care about”, is all your money goes right to them. Got a baby? And not one of those diaper-less, food-less babies (they make those now, right?) Well there goes that money you were saving for the new leather coat! That baby will prevent you and your new leather coat from ever having a lavish love affair together. Damn that baby! Doesn’t he know how greedy he is? Can he not eat for just one day?

Husbands are even worse. You have to dress them and feed them and pretend like you enjoy spending 200 bucks on mid season tickets to watch some loser throw some ball at some other loser wearing tight pants, while you aren’t even watching the game, because instead you are freezing your ass off in some enormous parking lot just because you decided to leave halfway through to pop a squat between two parked cars and then got your coathood strings stuck under the muffler of one of those alleged parked cars….I’m sorry..what? Wait? Were we talking about something? Um yes, so do you know what I enjoy spending my money on…things that don’t involve anyone else but myself. I like to know my bank account is exactly where it should be...tied up in plastic, lots and lots of plastic.

-When did they decide to let Hillary run for office? Women can’t run for office! They get menstruation! I read somewhere their periods attract bears. Bears can smell the menstruation. And well, that is just great, you hear that? Bears. Now you're putting the White House and presumably the whole country in jeopardy!

-Where did polyester go? What happened to that nice itchy fiber that shirts and some well priced slacks used to be made out of? I want to go to a nightclub, see some Latin person dancing and walk over like I know what I’m doing on the dance-floor because, hey, I am wearing polyester. And maybe this Latin guy doesn’t really want to dance with me just because of this synthetic fiber I am wearing. Maybe he hasn’t answered any of my calls, or respond to any of my letters, or even to the candy-gram…and God only knows what happened to the kitten I got for him…cause he definitely didn't keep it, and I know for sure I am not raising the goddamn thing.

-Why do women want to date guys who have experience? Why aren’t women going after guys who have never had any experience with a woman before, whose closest experience was the one time his dentist leaned so far over her chair that her boob almost knocked him in the face and he went home and told all his friends he got to second base during a root canal? I think all girls should want to have sex with virgins... I think a guy’s first time might be his best time too. You think that too right? Don’t you? Well I knew it… you know what? I knew that you'd react that way and I knew that you would want to lead him through his first sexual encounter will all the compassion and care that someone would give to their soulmate.


-Because I said so! I already mentioned on numerous occasions that I may not be the marrying type! Can't you understand! Do we all have to settle down? I don’t even like the phrase settling down. I don’t want to settle and especially not down. But then here comes all these boys who are wondering what I am doing for the rest of my life. Do you ever wonder how somebody could even like you? The biggest problem in marriage is that he wants me around. And I can't even accept that? I don't think I can accept pure love. Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond… only it doesn't last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.

In a quaint little bookstore downtown yesterday, I saw this little girl standing in front of the shelves. She was in raggedy clothes, holes in the bottom of her lace shoes. She was desperately trying to reach up to grab a pink-colored book from a middle shelf. Her mother, no-where in site. All alone she stood, her little hands reaching towards the cover, which was now almost in her grasp. And as I stood, watching her, all I could think was, "You're in my way bitch, get out of the fucking way before I throw that book at your dirty face."

WHY?

WHY?

-Why do personal trainers in gyms like to use made-up terms to confuse you? Terms like “cardiovascular”, “fitness” and “aerobic activity”. By using these terms they can convince you to stand in the middle of the gym on top of a neon plastic ball, doing crunches, while swinging a jump rope. Let’s call personal training what it really is…making you look like an asshole.

-Why do you always have one friend whom you can never explain what it is they do and the more you try to explain what they do, the more confused you get? “Oh yeah Mike works with computers at this company, he rewires things, I mean he uses wires, well there are wires in the computer and he touches them… I think he touches the wires…maybe he just has other people touch the wires…I don’t know, maybe he doesn’t even see the wires, maybe he is just in a backroom somewhere studying what the wires might look like, I don’t really know..” Until you are eventually like, “Yeah fuck it, I have no idea what Mike does.”

-Why it is that one friend can never find the place is it you are going to, no matter what you do to try and help them. Even if you MapQuest the place for them, draw a diagram, highlight the route, drive their car there yourself, put them in a wheelchair and wheel them right in front of the building, they will still sit there and go, “Umm… yeah I have no idea where this place is.”

-Why can I not cook any kind of food in the microwave at work, because it is inevitable that everyone is going to want to make a comment about it. People come out of their office to try and see who is cooking something the minute any type of smell is produced. Your co-workers feel the need of actually take guesses at what the smell is, until you finally have to be like, “Dude, it’s popcorn...”

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And finally, in case you missed it...

Anndddd she’s back.

Slightly tired. Mostly hungover. Mainly satisfied. Loved ever minute that I actually remember, I do know I ended up stealing Poland springs water bottles from someone’s limo and apparently pissed off a small delivery boy and two 411 operators. All in all I would say it was a success.

I would like to start off this week talking about one of the numerous things in life that keep me awake at night. Song lyrics. Sometimes I am not quote sure who is writing these songs, but I understand some of them about as much as I understand why my dad polishes the loafers he only wears indoors, but hey, some things are left only for Jesus to understand I guess.

Below are some lyrics that have kept me awake many nights.

R . Kelly - Ignition
“Can I get a toot toot and a beep beep...”
Wait, what? You want me to what? Beep? Toot? What? RK are you trying to be modest and not use the real words? Considering you ate out a girl’s ass and wrote a song about it? Really? I am not sure I know how to beep or toot... does the beep involve me being on my back with my arms tied to my sides?

Ashanti – Always On Time
“I’m not always there when you call, but I’m always on time…”
If you weren’t there to pick up the phone when he called, how the hell did you get there on time?

Mary J Blige - Be Without You
“Call the radio if you just cant be without your baby..”
I don’t even have the station's phone number and what station is this anyway? What if I am listening to a CD right now? Because if I call the radio station the receptionist will answer the phone and do what? Find my baby? How did I lose my baby to begin with? Are we talking about an actual baby here?

Whitney Houston- Your Love
"It would take an eternity to break us. Even the chains of Amistad couldn't hold us..."
The CHAINS OF AMISTAD? Seriously? Maybe we being a TAD dramatic here?

I own that dress

But back to my original thought, you should all know that Saturday night if you find me laying in a gated bush in the Meatpacking district, wearing some kind of glitter heels and a tierra, just know, I probably look better than last year.

Over the weekend at a lovely little place some people like to call, "New Jersey", at a wedding for my old college roommate, I did the unthinkable and actually dove in to catch the bouquet. According to one of the bridesmaids I apparently turned around and said something along the lines of, "Out of my way bitches," as I ran in to get it.

The irony of it is that marriage is not in the picture anytime soon for me. In actuality, as much as I date, I am starting to think as each year goes by I understand less and less about men. I used to know a lot about them, a few years back I remember thinking men were a breeze, a Final Exam in Division 101 when I had already aced Calculus. In second grade there was a boy named Tommy who used to follow me around on the playground. He was always trying to sit with me and talk to me, until one day he tried to cut me on the monkey bars and I had a big girl name Elsa go over and pull him off by the ankles until he finally let go and plunged face first into a pile of sand. Tommy didn't follow me around too much after that.

There is this scene in the movie Picture Perfect where Jennifer Aniston is standing in a marble bathroom yelling to her friend, "I don't get what went wrong...things were so simple for so long, I liked men, men liked me..but somewhere in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up..."

Every year I understood a little bit more than I do now, so essentially if I date myself all the way back to being a fetus I was in complete control right around embryo stage.

There are certain things I get such as; going out, talking to boys, going to dinners... then right after that is about when I get completely lost. It is as though after the first few dates suddenly I have wandered into some unknown desert where I am walking around holding a sandy map and a broken compass going, "wasn't I just on a main road about 2 blocks ago...?"

My last relationship, less than a year ago, was with a boy named John who tried to take me home to meet his mom and dad...after we had been dating for one week. John actually wanted to have a "real relationship" and do things like...talk about our feelings...the kinda crap that makes my stomach churn. I remember he almost cried when we rented the movie 'Serendipity" together, I still get nauseous just thinking about it.

And yet on the other hand when I date guys who only show interest in seeing what kind of comforter and sheets I own, I cant help but think I am at a loss. How did I end up on this road? Where is the middle ground? Why can't I get rest somewhere on the divider? I like men, men like me, but in the last year or so everything has just gotten so, screwed up...now if I could only find my way out of this desert...

This is exactly how I feel about baseball too

Last year when all the world seemed calm and serene and Britney Spears still had an ounce of dignity left, I myself spent a fall season learning some important lessons about a little thing I like to call "sports"...now being that I live with all women and think eating cookie dough at 3am while crying during a cotton commercial is normal, sports in essence is never really a big topic...that is of course, until a couple of us went and did the unthinkable last year and got boyfriends. The minute you get a boyfriend you suddenly realize not understanding sports is like not understanding how to unzip Levi's high waisted black Jeans...you don't really want to know, but eventually you are just forced into it.

I had wandered down the street into a little sports bar where there was a sea of team jerseys everywhere and men with arms outstretched in the air, waving them frantically at the TV screen. It was so packed if my seat got pushed any closer to the bar I would officially have been able to rest my boobs on top comfortably. It was an enchanted day of baseball and I was revealing in all its glory next to hundreds of men who were drunk and spilling beer all over themselves…it was a magical moment.

I yelled just like how they yelled, I booed how they booed, clapped when they clapped...peed how they...wait, what?...Essentially, I had no fucking idea what was going on.

I remember earlier in the summer being at my friend Jeff’s apartment, watching the Yankees and trying to play this little game I like to call 'pretend like you know what is actually going on'.

They flashed Chris Ray’s profile across the screen and I began yelling, “Go Chris! Yeah yeah yeah!” I could see my friend Jeff staring at me as though I had just cut off his left testicle. “KIM…Do you LIKE the Orioles??” (Umm, who? what? Oreos? Yeah I like Oreos why?) What was I supposed to tell him? I was cheering just for the sake of cheering? Because I thought it was the right moment to scream something?
Our conversation went something like:

“KIM, why are you cheering for Chris Ray, stop cheering for Chris, you don’t even know what the fuck you’re cheering about and he is not even a Yankee.”

“Well fine, if you put it that way, then fine I won't cheer anymore, I just thought that…”

“How about you cheer for the Yankees, Kim?? How about that one? Can you just follow the color of the uniforms? Is that too much to ask? Kim, the Yankees have on the uniforms that say NEW YORK…can you follow that?”

Now I wait for the cheer. I see a game going on and I sit there thinking.. wait for it…wait for it…wait for it… and then as the bar beings to roar all of a sudden I am screaming, yelling and throwing my shoes at the TV just like everyone else… people throw shoes, right?

Last weekend I made the fatale mistake of renting, ‘The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’, thinking it was going to be ‘cute’. About an hour into it I felt like if I endured anymore estrogen my ovaries would explode, as my uterus tried to commit suicide off the edge of my fallopian tubes.

One day, in a magical land called, "Neiman Marcus", there lived a little girl named Cynthia. And in this magical land, Cynthia was allowed to purchase 200 dollar tank tops, drink champagne and berate minimum wage sales employees, all without anyone judging her.

The last time I visited a well known WJ, or whore-joint as it is known to the Bible followers, I was halfway through my Corona when I looked around and thought, “Wow, I look pretty…mature…for this crowd.” Every girl in there was wearing her sorority t-shirt and daring her Delta-Gamma-UV-Ray sisters to hop on the bar with her to perform that dance routine they learned to Christina Agulera’s Diiirty. All I could think was, “You will never be able to dance in those shoes! You need good comfort shoes… with insoles like mine! And why are your jeans so tight! Those are some damn tight jeans ladies!”

I used to live in an apartment on 80th street that was about the size of a cubical and my roommate Molly’s and my bedroom were separated by essentially a sheet of poster board. Lifestyles of the rich and famous for sure. Molly had a boyfriend at the time who was a merchant marine who used to come over to our place and turn on the Discovery channel and watch shows about ships…and water…and things made with screws and metal…it was all very upsetting for me.

Walking up my apartment's treacherous two flights of stairs last night with my roommate, I went on what can only be called a typical ‘Kim Tyrant’, or ‘Temper Tantrum’ for the Harvard graduates out there. I was yelling all the way up the stairs about something that has bothered me since the dawn of time, and that dawn of time clearly being October 29th, 1981 when I was born. Hello people, pay attention here.