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I’m stalked by a wedding singer. This is no joking matter. It should be, but it’s not. I started getting emails from this very persistent man last week. My name is quite common and I don’t have a fiancee named Ryan, so until today I’ve ignored them. However, this particular email leaves me wondering if perhaps I should find this other Sarah and warn her of impending wedding day doom. If this is the way he writes, what can he possibly offer her musically?
Poor, poor Sarah…

Sarah,
I Wanted to make sure that you got all of my e-mails of the other day, with attached information about my service. I also wanted to mentiones that I listed an error on your sign-up forrm. FOr your price quote (in yellow highlight collor) i described the rate that included trave ling timeto and from Newburgh. That was from a previous contract that I wrote up earlier that day, and did not delete itfrom my deleted. I attach the right one for you now. Talk to you soon…
Sincerely,
Lee W.

“When are we going to get crunk and hit skins?”

This was a text message a 23 year old sent me last night.

Where to start…

1) Never am I going to get crunk and hit skins with a kid. 2) Get crunk and hit skins? Are you kidding me–who says that? Oh wait, twenty fucking three year olds, that’s who!

Dear Nicotine,

I saw you at the drugstore last night, and I was oh so tempted to toss you in my cart and take you home. I love any new product and one that promises “a neat and tidy nicotine fix” by delivering you into my system via hand gel seemed like a dream come true. Only I don’t smoke, and not for lack of trying.

Remember when I first bought you? You were packed into little tiny Capri cigarettes. The box had pink on it, so I overlooked the granny image and went for it. After one afternoon of smoking on the porch with a neighbor, I quit you. Even at the age of 21 I had commitment issues.

I forgot about you for a while, and then I found Midge. When I met her the two of you were already best of friends. Feeling left out I tried you again. This time in the form of a white trash Newport with a tiny mint Altoid tucked in my cheek to hide the smoky flavor. I tolerated you on occasion, but sadly couldn’t form an addiction.

Two years ago you re-entered my life–this time in the form of a patch. A friend of mine was trying to kick you out of his life… can you imagine? I convinced him that I needed you and he carefully applied the patch on my back. Minutes later I was on the floor of the bathroom puking my guts out. Oh, Nicotine, why do you hate me so? I’d love to lather up my hands with the clean cool gel, all while getting a fix. But I’m sure you can understand why I put you back on the shelf and walked away. Maybe in another life…

Love,
Sarah

I decided to use my best coping skills and go on an afternoon bender. If that didn’t fix my horrible weekend, nothing would. Heading to the grocery store for supplies I find myself growing excited for my afternoon in. How could it not make me feel better? I could catch up on my Tivo, wander around in boxers and my ratty Social Distortion tank top all while drinking boozie smoothies.

Yay, things were looking up!

I got home and started making a beautiful raspberry lemon smoothie when my blender crapped out. And if that weren’t enough, in one final moment of glory the blender shot a pink mixture all over my kitchen.

Fuck today. I’m going to bed; It’s too exhausting to be awake.

I had a good snuggle with Ike on Sunday. Midge has two men in her life now, so being a good best friend she shares. Having something so sweet in my arms leaves me sorta craving a baby. But I’m well aware that craving a baby is much more dangerous then craving chocolate peanut butter ice cream. From what I understand it’s much easier to work off one serving of ice cream then nine months of baby. Besides I promised my Mom today I’d wait until I was 35 to have a baby out of wedlock. She says that gives her sufficient time to find me a husband. I have my doubts, but if she wants to make a hobby out of my social life who am I to stop her?