2003-06-04 - 12:45 p.m.

The cheese stands alone.

Yes indeed, said cheese is ch-chillin' in the crisper, with nary a vegetable or slice of tofurkey in sight. He just sits there, day after day, alone in the crisper drawer, watching the television on mute and ordering pizza*. He's a lazy s-o-b. (I'll say it, I'm not afraid.) LAZY STUPID CHEESE! Sheesh.

*My diary drips with under-the-table references. Try and spot them as we move forward, it'll be fun! It'll be like you're watching She-Ra and trying to find that hidden guy at the end of every episode! Remember him? That was good times! And so shall this be. I not only entertain, I challenge. I am a veritable word crostic. And now that we have established this, let us fully cut these apron strings and move forward out of tv land.

HAPPY HAIR DANCE:

So I cut off all my hair.

This probably means nothing to you, puzzled reader, as the only thing you know about me and my girly locks is that I have to wear a wig to work. So now I shall explain. I work as a security guard at a nursing home (I know, I know, a bottomless well of humor from which we shall drink heartily in the near future, don't fret!) and the reason for my brown wig is to prevent the "old people" (PC indeed) from wigging. (Get it? My wig prevents wigging! Hey where are you going? Puns are fun!) You see, up until two days ago, I had a long pink mohawk.

Groovy? Oh baby, it was better than groovy. It was family-picnic mayhem.

And now it is gone.

I must say that getting it "gone" was so much fun that I'm still on a high. I got to chop off all my super-long hair with little-kid scissors! No professional hair stylists for me, OH NO! Just a choppity-chop clickety-click of the scissors and my hair was on the floor. The only other time I have experienced such Hair Freedom was when I was six and I took the scissors to my bangs in an unfriendly I-just-wanna-cut-off-a-hunk way. So this was like that minus the yelling, head-shaking parent and the unfortunate, glaringly obvious bald spot.

So now it is short (think Billy Idol) and my inner-dyke is doing the cabbage patch all over the place. I look fifteen, and for some reason this pleases me to no end. Dualities abound! Uncomfortable it's-a-young-boy-oh-my-god-his-breasts-are-huge-and-he's-wearing-a-short-skirt reactions. Yippee. Sexual screwage fills me with glee. Aren't I the dainty one?

MY HONEY NUT CHEERIOS ARE TALKING TO ME*:

The other day I went to the cupboard to get myself a big ol' bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios ('cause every once in a while I just need to be one with the Honey Bee and his delicious grainy circles of goodness) and what did I behold but a MESSAGE on the box. A message? For me? I looked around the kitchen to make sure I was alone, and then I investigated further. It was true. There, above the "To Open Lift This Tab" message, was another message. A wiser message.

"Tomorrow is coming, but yesterday's gone."

A message from the Honey Bee himself! I could barely keep myself from eating the box, lest it fall into the wrong hands. He was right! Tomorrow IS coming and yes, ibid, yesterday IS gone. OH THE WISDOM. Thank you General Mills! Thank you for your Stoner words of observation. My life will be forever changed. Cereal and words to live by.

Sheesh, and double-sheesh.

*So if Rice Krispies make the "snap" "crackle" "pop" sounds, what sounds do cheerios make? Something akin to whale bellowing, perhaps?

That is all for today gentle readers. I could write much-much more but I am hungry, Hungry Like A Wolf.

Until next time, grab your decoder rings and join me in the hunt for hidden messages.

-The Fanged Faerie reminds you to drink your Ovaltine.

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