Have you ever been scooting home late at night when you pass a girl stopped at an intersection, also on a scooter? Then you realize that she's riding a black scooter and wearing a black and white plaid jacket, meanwhile you are riding a red scooter and wearing a red and black plaid jacket? Have you then noticed she pulls out from the intersection and proceeds to scoot behind you along your same course home, through a combination of multiple twists and turns, thus convincing you that she's some sort of sociopath upset with your striking similarities and hell bent on doing you harm to ensure her dominance in the scooter-jacket-matching realm? And then you force yourself to giggle for being so silly? But then you let out a little pee when the angel of death on a black scooter is still following you after you take an overly complex, fake out turn around City Market? And you curse your cheap plaid jacket from tween mail order Delia's; you simply cannot believe that your inability to buy real coats like real women from real stores like Banana Republic or Club Monaco or some shit is going to be the reason behind your inescapable dismemberment and demise? And then all of a sudden she turns right down a side street and disappears, going to her happy home that happens to be near your apartment? You've totally done this, yeah? You have?! Oh, whew!

Starting tomorrow I'm working in a new office and new area, therefore adopting an entirely new commute and bus route. State Route 520, we've sure been through some times. I'll leave it at that (you sassy, crowded bitch). Sound Transit Route 545, we too have been through times. It hasn't always been pretty, but from my calculations I've spent about 720 hours either on you or waiting for you. If that doesn't equal a serious relationship, I don't know what does. So as a salute to our time together, I bring you a visual commemoration of one of my favorite aspects of bus riding; sleeping strangers.

1. Denial. "At first, we tend to deny the loss has taken place, and may withdraw from our usual social contacts. This stage may last a few moments, or longer". You're not really gone, silly sandwich. I can still feel your grainy bread on my fingers. How could I still have pieces of you in my teeth if you didn't exist? Stop pretending. Don't talk to me right now office mate!! My sandwich is pretending to be gone.

2. Anger. "The grieving person may then be furious at the person who inflicted the hurt, or at the world, for letting it happen. He may be angry with himself for letting the event take place, even if, realistically, nothing could have stopped it." I just cannot believe I ate you so fast. What's wrong with me?? I wasn't even that hungry, I absolutely could have waited another 30 minutes. So stupid, so rash, am I! You weren't even that good anyway! Nobody wants plain turkey and cheese sandwiches! Even the trench coat albino guy around the corner eats better lunches than you, sandwich.

3. Bargaining. "Now the grieving person may make bargains with God, asking, 'If I do this, will you take away the loss?'" OkayokayOKAY. You know I was just kidding. I'm still hungry. God, if you give me my sandwich back I won't eat my 3:15 break time pretzels. And I'll only have one Fresca a day for the rest of the week. Just don't let my sandwich be gone. I'm not ready to go back to work. Do we have a deal? I'm not ready!!

4. Depression. "The person feels numb, although anger and sadness may remain underneath." *staring at my monitors like they're magic eye posters and not talking for 20 minutes.

5. Acceptance. "This is when the anger, sadness and mourning have tapered off. The person simply accepts the reality of the loss." La-la-la. I wonder if BWE has any updates? OMG wtf is wrong with Stephen Baldwin??

Sunday nights = the brutal, forced consciousness of the misalignment between your hopes and desires, and reality.

How can you go so fast, weekend? You're always such a fleeting blur of Smart Start, Jameson and DVR fast forwarding. You're all that is good in the world. And yet you leave me…time and time again. You whisper sweet nothings in my ear. You let me sleep in. You let me toot toot, vroom vroom on scoot. Sometimes you tease me with embraces of sunshine. You make so many heartfelt promises, weekend. You're all that is possible; my ray of light, potential, and possibility. And then you disappear, leaving me and Sunday night staring at each other in awkward desolation.

Hey Sunday Night, learn some subtlety and tone it down a notch would ya? I'm well aware of the fact that in a few short hours I'm going to be bleary eyed and crammed on a bus next to a guy reading shit like this. Stop rubbing it in my face. Why don't you make yourself useful and at least come up with some good anecdotes to sum up my weekend during awkward small talk, coffee room questioning. That way I can stop pure panic mumbling in my morning depression haze. Stop reminding me of items on my todo list that didn't get crossed off. Stop reminding me how much money I spent. Stop nagging me to make my sandwich for tomorrow and pack my gym bag. Stop making me fold socks. Stop being such a dick!!

I initially wasn't going to write about the Bruce show, for fear my website is completely becoming Backstreets. Then I realized I don't care. I'm the queen of the castle around here. Deal with it.

The L.A. Sports Arena seemed like an obscure venue choice, but upon investigation he has a history of performing there and whipping it into a "joint that don't disappoint" and a "dump that jumps". Which he proceeded to do again, of course. He was wearing actual denim colored denim! But don't worry, the vest was present and in full glory. Clarence Clemmons' bejewled floor length duster was epic. Patty wasn't there…frown face. And no, I don't want to talk about it.

Such joy! The E Street experience really is something special. Energy and emotion and excitement! Enthusiastic. Extravagant. Extraordinary. Effervescent. Effluvium. What? The Badlands and Born To Run bookends of badness delivered as always. Outlaw Pete was the only good new song, but was extra super as it involved a cowboy hat. Seeds and Johnny 99 were even more delightful than I had hoped. Racing in The Streets was heart-wrenching and at least 45 minutes long. The Spirit In The Night and Waiting On a Sunny Day singalongs made me smile. After a lot of soul searching, I'm thinking I'm Goin' Down miiiiight have been my favorite of the night. I have a soft spot for anything from Born in the U.S.A. He played Downbound Train in Glendale on this tour. If he would have dropped that on L.A., I would have spontaneously combusted (after fainting and vomiting). I digress. Encore. Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out was as good as ever, and American Land was floor stompingly rad and should have been switched with Rosalita to be the final song. Rosalita, I don't know how to tell you this so I'm just going to come right out and say it. You're kind of boring. Sorry.

The problem with having two consecutive shows in a city is it's impossible for me not to compare notes with the following night. I don't want to take anything away from Wednesday night's MAGICAL AWESOMENESS, but it should be noted that just based on set lists, Thursday won. Bitches. They got Candy's Room instead of Darkness On The Edge of Town (just play Streets of Fire already, jesuschrist!!). They got Adam Raised a Cain (!!!) just as a bonus. As much as I lurrrrrrrrve Ghost of Tom Joad, I surely would have traded the already-been-done Tom Morello colab and my nonexistent left nut for Youngstown. They got a Thunder Road bonus in their encore, and traded Rosalita for Glory Days. Bitches.

That said, it was still Bruce. BRUUUUCE!!!!! BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE!!!!!!! BRUUUUCE!! BRUCE!! BRUUUUUCE!!!!! BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I guess my post concert tailspin has officially started. If you need me I'll be back to normal in 6-18 weeks.

Hey little girl, is your daddy gone?

This trip has determined if I ever have a daughter, she will be named Brucille.

Max Weinberg is the hardest working man on planet Earth, end of story.

She's just so genuine. She balances a modest pride of rising to success on her own terms with an understanding that she has to continue to be exhaustive in her understanding and reporting of politics and beyond. She's sharp, appropriately assertive, and nerd girl hilarious. From what I can tell, she wears absolutely terrible clothing in daily life which somehow makes her more endearing, in a "I want call you a cooky lil lesby while giving you a noogie!" kind of way. She has a PhD in Philosophy, nbd. This clip is possibly the best 7 minutes of 2009 thus far.

Yes, I realize drawing her on my iPhone is borderline creepy. I had to take a break from bejewled and it just happened, ok?

Last weekend, The New York Times ran a story in the Fashion & Style section about Diablo Cody and her group of fellow best friend screenwriters, dubbed "The Fempire". The tagline for the story is "An Entourage of Their Own", and it's all about how best friendy, encouraging and supportive they are in a man's world. It kind of reeked of "I bet their menstruation cycles are synced!!!"ness. I subscribe to too many borderline feminist blogs that were immediately abuzz about if the story was exploiting their gender, if their appearance played into their success, and if blahblahblahzzzzzzzzzz.

I was eager to discard the whole thing because, well, it's boring. Especially because I've never seen Juno and never really want to. Until it struck me that the amazingness lies not in their stylish lifestyles, stripper back-stories, or surprising success. I could care less that they're making it in Hollywood; I'm more impressed and excited to learn it is in fact possible to keep the fun girls club going well into your 30's. Rejoice!

The name "Fempire" is stupid. Unless you imagine, as I do, that its invention was immediately followed with a cartwheel contest in the front yard to determine and crown the new Femperor. All of the babble about being the female entourage or answer to the Judd Apatow cadre is nonsense. I also don't care that they're all writers (if you can consider penning 'What Happens in Vegas' writing). I care that they give each other presents like necklaces that say "Fuck My Face" (mine's better). Of course girls support each other! Every girl that made it through freshmen year of college without a product-of-panic serious boyfriend should be lucky enough to know that. The real gem here is seeing that you might not always have to trade immaturity for success. Maybe the road to accomplishment and fulfillment is supposed to be paved with nights where we can't go out because we ate too many flaming hot cheetos.

I'm hopelessly addicted to cereal. It's not really something I enjoy talking about, but it's cowardly and irresponsible to hide from the truth. At any given time I'm hard pressed to tell you the balance of my checking account, the date, or my own middle name; but I always know the near precise bowl amount of cereal and fluid ounce amount of westsoy nonfat plain soymilk I currently have in my apartment. I know which brands are sold at nearly all commercial outlets in a 2-3 mile radius of my house. Almost every Sunday night finds me pregnant with a 5 bowl cereal belly in an attempt to cure the weekend-end blues. It's kinda sick. And delicious.

I don't even eat breakfast, so my ability to keep my consumption rate in the 'ridiculous' category is borderline amazing. I see frosted flakes more as a dessert. Unfortunately it's not usually until I'm four bowls deep before I realize that cereal does, in fact, count as real food.

• Anything with "crunch" in the title is probably awesome, with "crisp" and "clusters" following closely.
• Most cereal naturally has a high level of fiber. Anything that goes out of its way to include the word "bran" in its title is surely trouble.
• As you can see with Raisin Bran Crunch, the power of "crunch" neautralizes the negative "bran", but prevents it from being truly great.
• Flakes beat rice, every time.
• Words like "purified" or "zen" have no place in a cereal title, description, or lifestyle.
• While the stigma of cereal coming in a bag being ghetto is true, I still support them. There's not a ton of variety, but the cereal-state-of-mind encourages you to literally think outside the box.
• Fruit can be good, but only if it appears in a natural state; raisins, dried grapes, cranberries, blueberries. Freeze dried strawberries and the like are an unnatural, untasty, milk staining strain on the rest of the mix.
• Oatmeal is not cereal. It's delicious, but it's not cereal.
• Omar loves the Honey Nut.
• At the bare minimum, a cereal decision should alwaystake into account a) the immediate digestive / bowel consequences and b) the mouth cutting factor. Captain Crunch looks courteous, but he will tear your shit up.

• ESPN's Breakfast Bracket
• Sing a song for me, Applejack
• WTF is this?

• Crazy Collage
• I give you, the coolest kid alive
• Sooo much better than today

• I must go
• Amazing film moment
• Happiest cereal ever

Download the app from iTunes. Then pour one out for the background that almost was.

9:28 PM. Me, Whiskey and Fresca, and Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. Ready….go!

• 4:16 - Don't ever have 5 kids. Seriously.
• 6:22 - Smoking a cigarette on a lounge chair in front of her mom automatically makes 17 year old Christina Applegate seem way older than me.
• 8:33 - The only good place to keep your pizza crusts is a constantly rotating turntable.
• 10:54 - Kenny running up the stairs, slowing, panting, and barely making it to the top is pure poetry. And my adolescence in a nutshell.
• 14:02 - Cause and effect states that if you leave your dead babysitter in a trunk outside of a mortuary, you will receive a beautiful vintage Buick.
• 17:19 - Flipping a Mamma Celeste frozen pizza should be life's primary decision maker.
• 22:08 - If I get laid off, I should remember enthusiastically circling the classifieds must be done in red sharpie.
• 23:26 - JESUS, I NEED A BRIEFCASE.

• 24:23 - Enter Rose. Her unnecessarily convoluted and too fast explanation of the company's process and workings is far less intimidating than it seemed when I was younger. Crap.
• 26:26 - When introducing your male coworkers to others, always close with "and he serves me breakfast in bed".
• 27:20 - The "I'm right on top of that, Rose!" instruction concisely sums up that bullshit is universal.
• 28:45 - Karma overrides cause and effect when the aforementioned Buick is stolen by drag queens. Fate has a sense of humor and an adam's apple.
• 33:40 - You haven't really made it until you're wearing a bejeweled gecko broach.
• 37:52 - David Duchovny with slicked back hair and shoulder pads saying "gidget"? Sure.
• 42:36 - Getting a corgi stoned is not socially responsible.
• 43:46 - Good dates = KELP FIGHT ON THE BEACH!!!
• 45:17 - I used to think Brian was both unattractive and nerdy as hell. Now he comes off as sensitive, insightful and secure. Double crap.
• 49:03 - Gus informs us that "a woman gets older. She ripens. She matures. Juices start flowing". Oh, okay. Wait. What? P.S. I think I have those earrings.
• 51:46 - Rose: "You know how they are. Little boys pretending to be men". Aha!
• 52:07 - OMG, she has one of those screen dividers to change clothes behind!! And it's art deco!!!
• 52:26 - Rose's advice to put cucumber slices on your eyes still resonates as one of the greatest rites of ladyhood.
• 52:53 - Even better dates = store hijinx set to the best song ever made.
• 54:45 - When orchestrating a complex web of lies, saying "I just don't want you to know, okay?" doesn't cut it.
• 57:46 - Holyshit, I think Sue Ellen's shoulder pads are wearing shoulder pads.

*INTERMISSION* Had to take out the DVD and clean what looks like both food and liquid off the disc. Running low on fresca. Looks like it's just you and me, Maker's.

• 57:34 - The derogatory name "quizoid" should be used in heavy rotation. So should the more amorous "stud horse".
• 1:01:08 - Redheaded Rose actually looks lovely in red hues. She just asked Sue Ellen if she ever had a 48 hour orgasm…nbd. "I'm glowing! The man makes me glow, am I glowing?". Being lame can be awesome. So can wearing a somehow french braided topsy tail.
• 1:18 (This is where the time/minutes gets really off and confusing, I stopped trying to figure it out) - The only way ordering a complete home entertainment system with stolen money to be delivered can be cooler, is to answer the door in a pop art dinosaur shirt.
• 1:31:03 - Gus makes it abundantly clear that sexual harassment wasn't just a myth to make PSAs about in 1991. Wait. 91?! Checked the box. 1991. I thought I was like 13 when this came out. I was 8?! Ohchrist. HBO = 5,435. Sarah's Innocence = 0.
• 1:41:05 - Walt falling off the roof is comparable to Goose dying in Top Gun; I just want to fast forward.
• 1:51:10 - Even though Zach bought his moon godess a "zsa zsa diamond ring", there's no way he's straight.
• 1:60:21 - I think I have those earrings too.
• 1:71:41 - Offering your home for a corporate fashion show instead of a real venue is not professional and it's borderline creepy.

• 1:71:55 - It's all coming together!!! Teamwork!
• 1:71:65 - Fashion sketching montages are the soul's oxygen.
• 1:71:40 - Couches need whisking.
• 1:81:22 - Rose looks surprisingly good in a mustard colored sleeve monster.
• 1:81:24 - Unwanted sexual advances are best extinguished via squirt gun.
• 1:81:28 - Rose accepts her skeezy lover's poor behavior with a grain of salt because the show must go on and because that's what a badass would do.
• 1:81:29 - Your friends will always agree to be in a fashion show, without asking any questions. The referee wins, she can kick so high!
• 1:91:22 - Uh oh, MOM'S HOME! They must not have mirrors in Australia. Time to come clean and be absolved!
• 1:91:24 - David Duchovny has a half up ponytail! I can't stop using exclamations!
• 1:91:27 - Rose supports a 17 year old over her Boner BF and scheming employees, because she's yoda wise. And she has a convertible. Of course.
• 1:91:29 - Kenny got his shit together! Sue Ellen got to tell her mom to go to her room! Zach met a new nymphet with his "I'm Maitre D" line! Amazing things happen when little old ladies die!

I'm not going to lie, my notes towards the end get sloppy, less frequent, and less insightful because I got distracted and started playing bejeweled. Because I have the attention span of a child.

Stanley Lambchomp was a regular kid, until one night the bulletin board above his bed fell and flattened him in his sleep. Being the resourceful chap he is, Stanley took advantage of his new 2-dimensional form and now visits friends by being mailed in an envelope! Soon teachers across the world were using Stanley as an inspired assignment to incite letter writing and communication skills. Yay!

My life first intersected with the world of flat kids when my dad was sent a relative's project, Flat Amanda. I took her to Pike Place Market and other tourist traps. We talked. We hugged (carefully). We bonded. I showed her a good time (sorry dad). I was forever sold on flat kids.

As it often does, appreciation soon turned to jealousy. Why do kids get to have all of the fun? I want Clint Eastwood to take me to the Oscars! I want to go to Mexico, I want Samwise Gamgee to awkwardly cover my genitals, and I want to meet Jeff Fisher at what looks very much like a pizza hut!! So I'm asking you, friends, to help. Will you have fun and take pictures? Unlike Stanley I'm not stuck in 1995…I'm leapfrogging the envelopes and going straight to your printer. Print. Color. Cut. Have fun. And send me pictures! I'll post them. And cherish them.

P.S. Try to contain your jealousy regarding my crazy good, mind blowing drawing skills.