I am currently going through a crisis. I tried talking to my roommates about said dilemma-- but the Fresh Prince totally called the outcome of that converstion with his 90's hit "Parents Just Don't Understand" . . . ugh!
In wanting to take some initiative on behalf of my own dreamz (see previous post), after my two hour lunch, I tried jotting down ideas outside the office, in my Anne Frank-esque (minus the annex and lack of a round brush) journal, but was getting ugly (worse than his normal face) looks from the homeless (?) man (again, ?) that tries to lure our office cat into his Saturn every-fucking-day. [We all know Tyrone should just (1) offer that feline some candy; (2) tell it that his puppy is lost and he needs help finding it; or (3) alert the cat that its parents were just in a freak accident and he's supposed to pick him up-- any one of those will get whoever right into your backseat, or so I've heard]
Anyway, that leaves me (us), here, living & breathing this two-part question:
1. Do I invite Raven to my birthday weekend gala blowout rager? Yes, no question! But . . .
2. How in the name of Jesus am I supposed to get Raven-Symone Pearlman to come to my birthday party when we haven't gotten our weaves tightened together or teamed up for soulja boy in the club?
I ask you, in the very gravest seriousness, how do I get to be best friends with my future best friend? And let me also be quite plain-- I am not a Paula Abdul fan, nor have I ever been . . . so don't even think of being the asshole that tells me to dress in monochromatic hot pink and overdose on pills outside her palatial estate. I don't even have an exact address, plus that's obvi a last resort. But how is Raven ever going to know, you know, how really super adorable and majorly funny and smart and a good shopper I am? Its not my fault she's the perfect role model and someone that would be so good to take endless CosmoGirl! quizzes with! I certainly can't have Raven realizing we don't know each other upon looking at my note and tossing it aside like a message from some commoner or some obsessed pre-teen fan! That thought makes me physically ill.
I'm left with little recourse. I always get what I want, I mean really and truly want (not like "Monopoly" want, more about that later) so I'm going to have to really put this Mensa-certified grey matter (if you will, and I did) to work.
And before you even say it, unlike Raven, I'm not psychic . . . so that rules out sending her a message osmotically! . . . nor am I American Indian (no offense, but thank God for small favors), therefore I can't use smoke signals, any type of animal transport, and we all know that declaring a war on "her people" for stealing "my land" is way too overdone . . . plus I doubt I even have the plums to really scalp anyone!
Maybe a hymnal . . . I'll research that (like five minutes ago.) "Sing low sweet chariot"-- yes? Don't tell me I was that stoned for the entire four years of high school history. For the time being, I'll have to change my M.O. to WWHTD? [For those without little sisters to read you history books aloud in an English accent, that obvi stands for What Would Harriet Tubman Do?]
That's it! It came to me before I even finished tying this 'kerchief on my head!
Underground tunnels with friendly stops along the way! Hello cakewalk!
Now, I'm not sure if I'll have the time or faculties (I won't even pretend that I know where the North Star is . . .) to embark on such a journey; plus, I hate any activity in which I can't lay back and criticize with a glass of Crystal Light/Rum. Furthermore, I gave up menial labor for Lent (which is why I'm blogging when I should be working).
Bottom line? Good start-- no . . . great start, but keep 'em coming, Harriet.
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