I suppose I should start writing before I sober up, huh? Well, not that I'm particularly drunk this evening, aside from the fact that I'm probably particularly drunk this evening.

Mark Sheppard: Unamused by your science fiction antics since 1993.

These things happen when your local grocery store gets sold and the buyers (who seem to be particularly low businessmen) decide that they're going to slowly get rid of the once impeccable beer selection. These sorts of things make you buy several (okay, fine, two) large bottles of beer for future consumption. These are the sorts of things that drive a man a little... crazy.

These are the sorts of things that drive a man to- dare I say it?- rule the world!

 Okay, fine, I don't KNOW that that's what they're doing, but the variety in 20 oz. containers has dropped precipitously since they reopened. We've already lost People's Porter (which was somewhere around $4 for a 20 oz bottle of the good shit), as well as some other beers, I'm sure. Maybe they're figuring out what people like, but they've got the old staff and can probably figure it out without having to redo figures from scratch. But, hey, I doubt anybody here wants to hear my bitch about beer for hours on end (which, given my writing pace these days, is probably a vast underestimate of how long this would actually take).

Great, now my foot itches. It's probably a fungus of some sort. YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE, BI-LO (yes, it's a Bi-Lo now. It was the MEETING STREET... PIGGLY WIGGLY. You think I'm joking with that name. You clearly never made it to the MEETING STREET... PIGGLY WIGGLY.)? YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE?

Apparently, tonight is brought to you by fangirls and homoeroticism and Rob's hatred of that which replaced the MEETING STREET... PIGGLY WIGGLY.

Okay, okay. Everybody. Let's just hold on a minute. I might get to a real topic in a few minutes (because, yeah, THAT'S a likely outcome of this evening), but until then, I'd like to let you know that I've found something called "Write or Die 2." Apparently, it tracks your writing progress and delivers incentives based on whether or not you meet your hourly word goal. Unfortunately, I don't think it has a writing advice generator to help with writer's block, which is a shame. Hence, you know, my starting that sentence with "unfortunately." Did you not see what I wrote there? Are you not hanging on my every word in this blog? What is wrong with you?

Oh, that's right- you're probably a productive member of society with better things to do than to listen to me yammer on about beer and grocery stores and the like. You sassy bitch, you. And now, in an attempt to find a good image search for "sassy," I came across a grown man Haley Joel Osment without his shirt on. Gotta say, makes me feel a WHOLE lot better about my eating habits.

The ladies love the gaunt look, right?

Unfortunately, he seems to have better hair than I do, and he makes a mean smoothie, I guess? Of course, if we're going to talk at all at length about Haley Joel Osment, that requires talking about Girlfriend The First, which I guess means we're going for a solid trifecta of "Goddammit, Rob." That is, we've got: 1.) breaking a rule (no talking about ex girlfriends), 2.) making another goddamned list (what am I, Buzzfeed/Jezebel/Cracked/whatever else on the internet insists on using lists? At least I'm not Up "Hey, here's a question with which we obviously want to guilt you into saying yes" worthy), and 3.) delivering on an old promised post.

That's right.

We're getting into...

THE WORST AND/OR MOST BLEAKLY HILARIOUS WAYS TO GET DUMPED (in something of a chronological order, I guess? I mean, there isn't really a clear winner for most fucked up, because dang.)

But first I'll elaborate on that Haley Joel Osment comment. See, back in the end of 6th grade, when Rob went by Robbie and was just a terribly awkward kid who wore hair gel for Pete's sake, he apparently looked a little bit like Haley Joel Osment. A paler, somewhat creepier Haley Joel Osment. (Note: There would have been a picture from that period here, but the Blogger wasn't too happy about me trying to do that. Whoops.)

Personally, I never much saw the resemblance, but at least a few people did. One of whom was Girlfriend the First, henceforth known as Lucille. Lucille apparently had a bit of a 6th grade crush on Haley Joel Osment, and I guess I was the nearest thing to it? Look, I was a much shyer person in sixth grade, and I sorta went with the flow? Anyhoo, on with the breakups.


1. A letter

Yeah, this one sounds vaguely romantic, right? "My dearest Fuckface, I hate you and your body odor. Your family is terrible, and you never look at me during. The ties that bind my cute friend to you seem to be infinite and are forged by such that only omnipotence must break, but seriously- get your goddamned action figures out of my apartment before I eBay their plastic asses."

Sullivan Carrue never retrieved his action figures, as he claimed that "The bitch is crazy."

This one actually happened to me twice. Once, it was a relationship where I was frankly being a shitty boyfriend and not making time for the special lady, because high school and video games. What, you thought there would be a better excuse there? Okay, fine, also Robbie's crippling fear of using the phone to actually call someone (he could play receptionist with the best of them) and lack of a good cell phone.

That's right, baby. Thirty-seven cents a minute, and a battery that weighs more than the casing. Can it fit into my pocket? Only if I wear my special pants.

That one was snail mail, which I guess I kinda respect a little more? I mean, it's still an incredibly inefficient means of terminating a relationship, but you're at least putting in the effort to write a decent letter, put it in an addressed envelope, put a stamp on it, and leave it in a mailbox. That takes a certain perverse and weird sort of cajones.

You know, like this, but involving more postal workers.

The first time, though, was with Lucille. So, one day, I'm going into homeroom, having gelled my hair and probably wearing some sort of open button down shirt (because this was probably still 1999, and I was about to party appropriately). I think I was actually in homeroom at the time when one of Lucille's friends comes up to me and hands me a folded up piece of paper.

Mind you, Lucille is in a different homeroom that is literally like a door down. She could have come and been like, "Hey, Rob, let's talk." She could have handed me the note herself. If memory serves, I was probably like, "Oh, hey, I wonder why Lucille's friend Short Round wants to talk to me. Why am I getting a note? Clearly it must be a matter of some urgency, as I do not recall ever receiving a note before this moment, and because I have not yet tasted alcohol, my memory is pretty fucking impressive. Let's open this note and- Oh. Um. Wow. Well, I guess I sorta saw that coming, but. Geez. This day is not off to a great start." Oh, wait, that was seventh grade. There was nothing about that year that was particularly positive, because seventh grade is where dreams go to die cold and miserable deaths.

Run now, while you still can, children. Don't make the mistakes I did.

I mean, what? There is almost no way in which that could be less personal and feasible with modern communication. I say almost because I guess e-mail? Instant messaging and text are both terrible, but at least those allow for a potential conversation. An incredibly awkward conversation, yes, because what do you actually say? "Well, I'm sorry you-" No. Nope. That goes in a different one, because THAT SHIT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. I know, right? Maybe there's some shock and surprise in there?

Why are you surprised? Why? Really? You've already read about the date of no fewer than five blaring red flags (yes, flags don't usually blare, but in this case, we're making an exception) before we even got to the choking bit. I think we've pretty well established that Rob's (much less Robbie's) ability to take a hint that, "Hey, maybe this one just isn't worth it," is practically nonexistent.

Anyway, but at least with one of the non-"Hey, here's a note" methods, there's some sort of mutual closure going on. Also, for the record- pretty much sobered up. Wenh wanh.

Of course, about a week later, we patched things up (somewhat- I think she expressed interest and I caved, thus starting a theme in relationships that lasted for about ten more years) and limped along for a few more months before she made the play that earns number 2, which I guess I'll cover tomorrow, because it's late and I think I'm pretty close to being set with my word count if I can just bang out a few more measly words.

Huh. I guess we actually did find a topic for the evening. Who knew?

Strong work, gentlemen. Promotions all around.