Grace searching for her Will...

Congratulate me. No, really. I've finally given up on the idea of ever having a decent boyfriend. It's impossible. My dream guy doesn't exist. It's as simple as that, but it's taken me a long time to realize it. And honestly--I was never really THAT fussy. I've always been very open in terms of who I have chosen to date. He didn't have to be of a certain race or religion. He didn't have to be a certain height or have a specific hair color. But it doesn't matter anyway because I've officially thrown in the proverbial towel. I have tried the dating sites. I'll admit it. Whatever. Who hasn't nowadays, right? If you're lucky enough to have someone nice and you haven't had to resort to that level of fucking misery, consider yourself blessed. Lemmie tell ya kids--in case you hadn't heard already, lots of disappointment in THAT catagory. I have fully accepted--after two terrible serious relationships and countless other less serious relationships--that I am destined to be single for good. I'm not quite okay with it just yet, but I'm getting there. Fortunately, I like cats. Because I will likely have a couple dozen when I'm an old spinster, this is a good thing. Gotta have something to keep me company. Anyway, I was watching a "Will and Grace" rerun last night on television and realized something--that what I want. I want to shack up with a cool gay guy with awesome taste in clothing, gourmet food and drapery. I want to go antiques shopping with my boy FRIEND. It's much less complicated, you see. And since I'm not completely houndog-butt ugly, I'm pretty sure I can snag some ass whenever I feel the need, so no worries there. So, any gay men takers? Will!? Where are you?!

Bob Barker hates me.

So I'm pretty sure Bob Barker hates me.

I've been having some weird dreams lately. I must get these dreams off my chest.

DREAM #1

I am in the audience on "The Price is Right." And the announcer calls my name and let me tell you--I am fucking EXCITED. You don't even know. I mean, I'm spazzin' out, screaming as I run down the aisle and into my designated spot. I have on all the Bob Barker gear--the "I spay and neuter my pets" t-shirt, the Plinko baseball cap, even earrings with Bob Barker's face on them.

So I'm in my little front stage spot and notice that Bob Barker has the most disgusted look on his face. He was FINE up until I arrived to contestants' row. Now, he is obviously extremely agitated.

And the fucker won't let me bid.

He actually skipped over my spot when it was time for the bidding. I calmly allowed this to go on a couple of times, but then I finally spoke up for myself and asked if I could finally be allowed to bid on the next prize. Bob Barker sternly says, "Fine." I bid on the very next prize and win it (it was a very nice recliner, by the way). I run up on stage, still extremely excited to meet Bob Barker, despite his negativity.

I gave Bob Barker a kiss on the cheek, as countless other women have done in the past. He looks at me as if he is so very close to slugging me square between the eyes and disgustingly wipes his cheek with his hand. I ignore this negativity yet again, eager to see the awesome award I am eligible to win.

"What game am I playing, Bob!? What prize do I have the chance to win!?"

All he says is, "Look over there, stupid" and the announcer guy screams, "Karen, you have the chance to win...a BOX OF JUNK!!!"

The curtain rises and there is an enormous cardboard box--the approximate size of my home entertainment center--filled with actual junk. I see nothing but banged up pots and pans, banana peels and old car parts sticking out of the box.

I look at Bob confused and ask him, "Bob, what's the deal? Most people win cars and trips and living room sets. I don't understand."

Bob replies, "It's all because I like other people and hate you."

DREAM #2

This one is much shorter and not quite as weird, but still--it involves Bob Barker and his loathing of yours truly. I am simply sitting on my sofa at home, watching "The Price is Right" and Bob Barker gets right up close to the camera, so that you can pretty much only see his face. He is wearing a very pissed off look. He then says, "Karen. You fucking SUCK. You are a waste of life. I hate you. I hope you die soon."

So, my conclusion is this: Bob is trying to send me telepathic warnings about how much he despises me.

I will heed your warnings, Mr Barker. I will stay away.

Jesus.

Conclusion? Jesus is most definitely MAGIC.

Fuck you, 25.

I turned 25 years old today.

It sucks.

I feel so fucking old. A quarter-century. What the fuck. I was only learning to drive a few years ago. Oh, wait. That was a decade ago.

I hate that shit can now be measured in decades. Or half-decades. This can't be happening.

Ah well. At least I get ice cream cake when I get home.