It's the Final Countdown...

I'll be back in just about 9 days...  Sorry for making you wait so long, but I'm definitely worth it.

Give Me Just A Little More Time

Right now, I'm in Barcelona.  My European Grand Tour is on it's last month.  And, I promise that when I return to the states, I'll give you the 411 on all of my European adventures.  I have notes on everyday that I've spent over here, so when I get back, I'll write/animate blogs until my whole trip is told.  Just be patient. I return July 11th.  After that...I'm all yours.

"Get Thee to a Nunnery"

Since I've started my European Tour, I've had plenty of eye opening experiences...  So far their are plenty of things that I get to try, but I'm homesick for some of the things I've left behind.

Such as:

   Ranch Dressing (Why does no one know what that is?  It's delicious!)
   Driving
   Friends and Family
   T.V. (only a little)
   Showers
 
and last but not least........

   Internet

That's right.  Since I've been in Europe, I've hardly found any decent internet.  And isn't it funny that today, when I have the best internet connection yet, I happen to be sitting in a nunnery.  That's right!  A nunnery.

Nuns have the fastest internet around.  So if you're looking for some decent time online, take a page from Hamlet and "get thee to a nunnery."

It's too bad I have to leave tomorrow morning.

Well, like I said, good internet is hard to find; so my blogs may be a lot scarcer than I'd like.  I'll try to post regularly, but I'm not making any promises.  It's just too hard.

It's My Birthday Today, But This Post Has Nothing To Do With That

My personality is very…off.  In case you didn’t catch it in my earlier post, I’m going to Europe.

I’m a grad student in the college of International Hospitality, Restaurant and Tourism Management—which ultimately means, international travel.

The dean of our college has given me and a friend full paid grants to study in Italy and Austria for two weeks; however, as the plane tickets are paid for by the college, we’ll be going earlier and staying later than most of the other students.

The friend that is going with me—for all intensive purposes—you guys can consider her my sidekick.  Her name is Kristin; however, for this blog, I’ve decided to call her ‘Patsy’ so that her role in our friendship is clearly defined.  And in case she’s reading this, and she more than likely will… I just have to say, “This is what you get for not making me a homemade cake on my birthday, Patsy.”

Now, back to my original point.  My personality is off.  Why you ask?

I’ve NEVER been on a plane.  EVER.  Which is rather unsettling.  So in order to better prepare myself for the reality of boarding and surviving several different flights—two of which will be across the Atlantic Ocean, I decided to watch Snakes on a Plane, which I had never seen before. 

That is correct.  I said Snakes on a Plane.

So, when the mother-fucking snakes attack the mother-fucking plane, I’ll be ready.  Except, I watched it on television—so… when the monkey-fightin’ snakes attack the Monday-to-Friday plane, I’ll be ready.  By the way, TNT, that was a lame edit.

But nonetheless, I’ll be prepared.

What to pack:  one can of hairspray and a lighter (for a makeshift flame thrower), 

small dog (to distract the hungry anaconda), 

olive oil (to suck out the venom), and How to Fly a Plane for Dummies (for when the pilot dies of multiple snake bites).

Next, I think I’ll watch that episode of the Twilight Zone where the guy looks out of the window and sees a monster on the wing of the plane.

I need to know the best way to react in that situation as well.  Hey, don’t give me that you-are-so-freaking-paranoid look. I just want to be prepared for all possible scenarios.

P.S. -- It really is my birthday, so make any birthday checks payable to cash...

Last Time on The Cheshire Cat's Out of the Bag...

…we left our heroine battling a giant sea-panther with only a conk-spear and her natural charisma. 

Okay, not really, but here are some updates that I meant to give earlier.  I’m sorry I didn’t let you know about them sooner, but I either got busy, wrote a different post, or just plain forgot.

First, with regards to Jet, I have joyous news.  In case you don’t remember Jet, he is the psychotic dog who declared war on me and my clothes.

After a long a tedious battle —with many casualties—Jet finally made a fatal mistake that cost him the war. 

When I first arrived at this apartment, the living room area was devoid of all signs of life.  No posters.  No paintings.  No wall art.  No photographs.  No throw pillows.  No curtains.  Absolutely nothing.

Well, I convinced Jet’s owner, Jasmine, that it would be best if our apartment had some personality; so, we went 50/50 on decorations for the apartment.  One of those decorations happened to be floor length hanging curtains.

As the window, and thus the curtains, are near my room door, Jet mistaked the curtains for one of my possessions and peed on them.  This happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Jasmine, tired of Jet’s pee escapades, sent him back home.

Viva la Tiffany.  Suck it Jet.

The second and final update that I have pertains to Skittles Vodka.

After making the Skittles Vodka, I decided that I was going to taste the rainbow.  I got five different shot glasses and filled each with a different color.  I then began.

I downed them in order red, orange, yellow, green, and then purple. 

After shooting red, I had to continue with the rest quickly, or I wouldn’t have had the strength to continue.  They were AWFUL.

Red = Robitussin

Orange = Ipecac with an Orangy-Zest

Yellow = Lemon Dish Soap (Yes, I’ve had my mouth washed out before)

Green = Pine-Sol

Purple = Grape Cough Syrup

So even though they predominately tasted like medicine and/or cleaning products, the only effects they had were upsetting my stomach and then making me feel disgusted and dirty.

Two "HORS" and a "HO"

Today, my roommates and I decided to shoot some basketball—the only problem is that I haven’t played basketball in about 5 years.

The basketball court is surrounded by apartments, so while we were playing, people took it upon themselves to go out on their balconies and watch our horrible progression. 

I know it must have been funny to watch, as we played Horse.

In case you don’t know how to play Horse, I’ll explain.  If Person A makes a shot, then Person B must make that shot as well or take a letter—H.  If person A misses, then Person B can shoot from wherever they want without penalty if they miss.  If they make it, however, then Person C has to make the shot or receive a letter.  This pattern simply continues in circles until one of the players misses so many shots that they have spelled out H-O-R-S-E.

So, as I said, it must have been funny to watch us play as we continued to call each other by our prospective points.  For example, “ ‘HO!’ You can’t make that shot!” or “You are such a ‘HOR.’ “

As my skills slowly came back, I began to dominate.  In fact, I won every game.  I took personal pleasure in calling both of my roommates “HORS.”  In fact, most games, I was a “HO” while my roommates where the “HORS”—that is, until I won and they became the “HORSE.”

The only thing that upset me about today was that by the time we finished, we had an audience of guys, sitting on the sidelines, giving us pointers on how to play and then laughing at us as we played.

By the time we left, I wanted to patent the basketball bazooka.

That’ll teach you for criticizing my “shooting.”  I may not be as good as shooting hoops as I once was, but I’d still like to consider myself a good shot.

How to Ruin Someone Else's Day While Still Providing Amusement

Today, I decided to go onto my balcony area and relax.    I took a good book and intended to read and get some sun.  This isn’t what happened.  Instead, I had to vacate the balcony in a fit of giggles and odorous vapors.

Here is the set up.

I live on the third floor of my apartment complex which is beside a marshy pond area and a huge farm—and my room is the one on the corner, so from my balcony, I have an uninhibited view.  It’s one of the best views in Columbia—at least I think so.

Today was a B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L day.  Not too hot.  Not too cold.  Not too windy.  Not too humid.  Gorgeous.  So who wouldn’t want to go out onto the balcony and enjoy the day with a good book?

Now, it’s a good thing that I have a sense of humor, or I might have been slightly upset by the disturbance to my relaxation.  Instead, I couldn’t stop laughing.

After sprawling myself out on one of the chairs outside, I began reading my book.

Then, just as I got comfortable, I heard someone from the room under me come outside onto his/her balcony.

*face blurred to protect my unknown neighbor*

I’m not stingy.  I don’t mind sharing my perfect day with another person.  However, that was until I learned the downstairs neighbor’s intent.  As soon as I heard their balcony door close, they let one rip.  I guess they didn’t realize I was upstairs.

Now let me explain.  It wasn’t just a small toot.  Oh, no.  It was a horrible, wet, squishy fart.

I tried to suppress my laughter—as the person downstairs obviously went out onto the balcony to hide the fart from his/her roommates; however, when the toxic fumes reached me, I could barely contain it.

I ran back inside my apartment and fell onto the floor in a fit of giggles.  I really hope the person downstairs didn’t hear my laughter, but I tend to laugh whole-heartedly.  As people who know will attest, my laughter can get extremely loud and out of control. 

And this was one of those occasions.

I’m sorry downstairs neighbor—but even though you destroyed my plans for the day, you also made my day with your impromptu fart.  Therefore—thank you... I guess.

Wonderland?

The only time I’m ever near the “magical” bathroom is when I’m at work.  Therefore, it’s extremely difficult for me to spend as much time as I want exploring the bathroom.  That’s right.  I went back.  And this time, I opened the door.

Yesterday, while I was working, I decided it would be a good time for a bathroom break.  I didn’t have any more filing. I’d finished most of my research tasks.  I had some free time.  So down the hall towards the bathroom I went.

I didn’t really need to use the bathroom all that bad, but I figured I’d get that out of the way before I went up the staircase.

 After my transaction was complete, I washed my hands (because that is important) and mentally prepared myself for the journey ahead.  The mantra constantly repeating in my head:

—What’s behind the door?—

—What’s behind the door?—

—What’s behind the door?—

I moved around the side hallway and into the room full of mirrors. 

—What’s behind the door?—

I even did some disco moves for old time’s sake.

—What’s behind the door?—

Step by grueling step, I climbed.

—What’s behind the door?—

I reached my hand out to touch the door knob.

—What’s behind the door?—

I firmly grasped it and gave it a twist.

—What’s behind the door?—

I flung the door open and…

Now here is where I’m going to stop for a minute and explain something to you.  This is my magical place, and I almost don’t feel like sharing.  Because it wasn’t a janitor’s closet, it was something else. 

I’m only going to tell you now because it would be extremely rude for me to build up anticipation and then let you down.  Besides, that would hardly encourage viewers to follow my blog.  And the more people that follow my blog, the more I feel the need not to disappoint them. 

It’s a vicious cycle.  But I digress…

Now where was I?

Oh yeah…

I flung the door open and entered into the magical bathroom realm.

I’ve decided that the door no longer leads to Narnia, but instead has more in common with Wonderland.

After entering the room, there was a small square roomish area full of five different closed doors—not including the one I’d just come out of; so, there was a total of six doors.  The only other object in the room (no it wasn’t a table with a key on it) was a large drink machine.  And as I stared at the drink machine, I couldn’t help but have Lewis Carroll’s words—“Drink Me”—pop into my head. 

I swear that if there was some money anywhere on me at that moment, I’d have bought a Coke and prepared to shrink. However, it was fortunate that I didn’t have money to waste because in hindsight, I need to save my money for my Grand Tour of Europe.  Every dollar counts.

However, it was at this moment, I realized that I didn’t give myself enough time to explore this magical bathroom world.  I honestly hadn’t expected there to be anything so potentially vast behind the door.  So as my bathroom break was now pushing into indecent limits, I had to return to the office.

Besides, I didn’t want to get lost by going further down the rabbit hole.  If I’d gotten lost, it might have taken hours to get back to work, and I can only imagine the trouble I would have been in. 

Also, there was the nagging notion that maybe I’d end up somewhere I shouldn’t and the Queen of Heart’s would have my head removed.  So before I could forget which of the six doors I’d entered through, I went back into the bathroom and returned to work.

Next time, I think it would be best if I went to the bathroom after I’m finished with work for the day.  That way, I’ll have time to explore without feeling the need to return to work.   Unfortunately, I’ll probably never remember to think about the bathroom when I get off of work, as I’m too busy trying to run out of the office before someone stops me.

Assault and De"Battery"

Sorry I haven’t written in a while.  I’ve been consumed with my schoolwork, and on top of that, I received an all expenses paid grant to study in Italy and Austria over the summer.  I’ve had to get a passport and fill out forms so that I’ll be ready to travel in May.  

After my allotted time in Italy and Austria, I plan on staying longer and getting the full European backpacking experience.  Whenever I get free time, I’ve been planning my Europe trip.  However, in order to fund this excursion, I’ve had to start saving/making money.

Right now, I’m sitting in my grandmother’s living room in the middle of a giant yard sale.  So far I’ve made about $200; however that isn’t my problem.

Does anyone remember Furbies?  Those annoying furry bird-mammals that say random nonsensical phrases. 

Well, there is one out there.  It wouldn’t bother me if it were turned off; however, my 6 and 7 year old cousins continue to turn it on.  So whenever I’m not expecting it, that demonic thing starts talking and scares the crap out of me. 

I hate it. 

They have a little bake sale area outside, where they sell cookies and lemonade.  Except when they take him over there, the stupid Furby starts sneezing.

“AHCHOO!”

I don’t want fake Furby boogers all over the cookies!

And then when they get bored with selling cookies, he’s left over there.  So when I’m walking around—selling different items—I forget that he’s there.  He has a motion sensor, so when I walk by he goes off.

And in case you don’t know what a Furby is, they have these creepy high-pitched voices that are terrifying.

BUT WAIT!  What’s this in my pocket?  Batteries?  Where did I get these?  I’ll tell you where I got them.

When my cousins got distracted and Furby was left defenseless, I snuck up behind him and—I’m ashamed to say—I mugged him.  I ripped his insides out and left him dead and bleeding.

What can I say?  Even though this neighborhood is predominantly little old ladies, you got to watch your back.  You never know when your going to be the victim of an assault and debattery.  

Addictive Substances - Girl Scout Edition

There is something extremely addicting about this time of year.  No it isn’t the warm sunshine.  No, it isn’t the giddy excitement of upcoming summer vacation.  It’s the deliciously minty smell of the elusive Girl Scout.

The rare Girl Scout is only seen once a year.  They hibernate during the colder months and, just before spring, they emerge in mass.  Along with them comes Samoas, Do-Si-Dos, Tagalongs, and—my personal favorite—Thin Mints.

When I get the first whiff of these cookies, I completely lose control.  I just HAVE to get some.  I NEED them.

In my personal opinion, those little Girl Scout girls are demons that have come to tor-“mint” me.  Don’t let their cute little girl shells fool you.

Master Pimps and Drug Dealers don’t have anything on these little girls.  They push their wares, and like an addict, you can’t say no.  And because they only show themselves once a year, you have to buy in bulk.

Personally, I know that my freezer is now so crammed full of Thin Mints that I might have enough to make it happily until July.  Then in July, I’ll reach my last box of addicting goodness.  That last box will have to sustain me for the rest of the time and I’ll be forced savor every mouthful.

You know what?  I’ve already spent too much time away from my cookies, and all this talk of Thin Mints has made me hungry.  I have to go.  I’m going to get my fix…

And Behind the Secret Door in the Hidden Room Is...

I was gonna do today’s blog on the Girl Scouts; however, that was before I found a magical bathroom.

That’s right.  Magical.  Bathroom. 

Almost like the Chamber of Secrets, except I don’t have to go down a toilet.

Today, while at work, I really, really, really, really had to pee.  And, as I am still getting accustomed to the school, I left my desk and wandered randomly down the hall until I found a door with the picture of little woman on it.

After opening the door, it looked like a regular old bathroom; however, I quickly discovered it was so much more.  Behind the sinks and mirrors was a completely separate room full of nothing but full-length mirrors.  I debated on whether to reenact the ballet studio scene from Twilight, but decided on doing some funky 80s dance moves.

While getting my boogie on, I noticed that in the corner was another opening.  So before I could break out the funky chicken, I began to walk towards the opening and realized that there was a staircase.

The need to pee completely forgotten in the discovery of a hidden staircase, I began the ascent.  I was Sleeping Beauty climbing, spellbound, towards my finger prick.  I was conquering Mount Everest.  Blazing a trail up into the unknown.

After reaching the final step, stood a lone door.  As I reached for the door, I stopped with my hand clutched tightly around the handle….

Thoughts raced through my head.  I might have actually found a portal into Narnia!  Or even some way out of the Matrix.  Then again, What if I ended up in Wonderland?  Would Johnny Depp be waiting on the other side?   Maybe Mr. Rochester’s crazy wife, Bertha, was waiting to claw at my face.

Then my more pessimistic/realistic side took over.  What if it was just some boring janitor’s closet?

Stupid Left Brain.  You had to ruin the excitement.

As I stood debating, the need to pee once again took hold and broke the spell that had taken hold of me.  I went back down the stairs and completed my original course of action.

After all, you don't want to enter Narnia with a full bladder.  There aren't really bathrooms in Narnia -- at least not ones with decent plumbing.  And besides, I'd just end up wiping myself with sticks and leaves.  Which is just gross in the first place, but doubly weird because the trees there are alive.  And how awkward would that be -- apologizing to a tree for wiping your... but I digress.

After finishing my business, I decided that I like the idea of the unknown far better than boring certainty.  So I left the bathroom and went back to work before I was tempted to re-climb the stairs and uncover the truth about the secret door.

Besides, I’ve decided to return to the bathroom at a later date, just to see if the secret room still exists.  It was so real, but I might have imagined the whole thing.  I do have an active imagination… and a slightly psychotic personality—at least that’s what people tell me. 

The need to pee may have made me delusional.

However, if some day in the future, my blog mysteriously vanishes and I’m never heard from again, know that I’ve finally opened that door and found something so amazing that I may never come back.

Virtual Villagers

In case you haven’t figure this out by now, I have a bit of an obsessive side.  When I set my mind to do something, I mean, not only to do it, but to do it well.  And this is the only reason I can give for not posting something sooner.

I’m currently on Spring Break, and I decided that with all of my newly discovered free time, I was going to play a computer game.

The game is called Virtual Villagers.  And I’ve become obsessed.

I’ve been so busy making sure that my villagers don’t accidentally kill themselves, that I’ve hardly had time to do anything else.

The plot of the game is that a volcano erupted and destroyed their island, so a bunch of castaways land on a new island and have to discover its secrets.

You start with 5 people and have to build up a thriving colony.

In my opinion, the inbreeding has made my villagers idiots.  They are truly retarded.

In the game, the villagers can learn different skills including: farming, building, researching, healing, and breeding.

Why then, when I’m running out of food, does my Master Scientist stand around and worry about starving to death when he is standing right beside a bountiful berry bush?  His powers of deductive reasoning aren’t worthy of his title of Master Scientist.  Just pick the stupid berries.

And there’s one lady, that if I leave alone for just a second, she gets pregnant.  I’ve aptly named her “The Slut.”

I’ve also given some other villagers appropriate names.  For example:

In the Farming Category:

            Farmer John

            Old MacDonald

            John Deere

In the Building Category:

            Ty Pennington

            Zena Warrior Princess

            Macho Man Randy Savage

In the Scientific Category:

            Professor X

            Marie Curie

            Einstein

            Charles Darwin

In the Healing Category:

            Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman

            Dr. Kevorkian

            Dr. Phil

            Dr. Oz

In the Breeding Category:

            Pimp Daddy

            The Slut

            The Hoe Bag

            Tiger Woods

            Casanova

            Don Juan

Other interesting names include:

            Numb-Nuts

            Afrotastic

            Old Man

So, today, my villagers have finally created a self-sustaining colony; however, I still don’t trust them.  If I leave them alone for too long, they’ll start doing laundry and rain dances instead of useful things like eating.

That’s all for now.  I gotta keep Tiger Woods from getting The Slut and The Hoe Bag pregnant again.

P.S. – Holy Crap!  I just logged back into my game, and while I was away 11 different women got pregnant.  Thanks a lot Tiger.  I know it was you.

And the Academy Award for Best Oscar Prediction Goes to...

My older brother, Gordo, his girlfriend, Brittany, and I usually make bets on who will win the Oscars.  We keep a running tally of who guessed correctly for each of the categories, and then the overall winner gets bragging rights until next year. 

It’s usually a friendly competition, but this year the stakes were raised on the Best Director category.

Gordo and Brittany said Fincher (The Social Network).  I said Hooper (The King’s Speech).

Their reasoning for Fincher:  he deserves it.

My reasoning for Hooper: complex equations involving statistical analysis and even one very intense psychic dream about a crazy gypsy woman named LaQuisha who looked at bird droppings before proclaiming that Hooper would be victorious.

Turns out that statistics and LaQuisha’s bird droppings were right.

And I find this extremely funny because Gordo and Brittany prepared for this night by watching all of the major contenders in all of the major categories.  Which means that they spent lots of money going to theaters to better prepare themselves.  They could practically tell you anything you wanted to know about each of the movies.

I, on the other hand, didn’t watch ANY of the movies.  Not a single one.

Now did that make them more qualified to choose than me.  It should have; however, I like statistics.

See “the Academy”—whoever that includes—hardly ever picks best director based on merits.  They pick the movie that they think should win Best Picture and then Best Director automatically follows.

Therefore, since all three of us agreed that The King’s Speech would win the Oscar for Best Picture, it logically followed that we should vote for Hooper.  But noooo.  They didn’t want to listen to me.  They said I was crazy.  Crazy!  Me!

So just before they announced the winner for Best Director, my brother decides to raise the stakes.  Instead of simple bragging rights, he wagered an expensive bottle of alcohol of the winner’s choice—that Fincher would beat out Hooper.

Guess who’s expecting a nice, expensive bottle of German wine?  In fact, the perfect wine to enjoy with celebratory cheesecake.

P.S.—In case you’re interested in the totals.  I won the bragging rights as well.

Tiffany – 17

Gordo – 14

Brittany - 13

Imitation May Be the Highest Form of Flattery, But I Think Stalking Is a Close Second

Tonight, I was shopping in K-mart when two of the ladies behind the checkout counters said something interesting.  They were talking back and forth about the fact that one of them had a stalker.

I, of course, had to get involved in their conversation.  Apparently, the lady who was checking me out has a stalker.  He continually stops by and asks the other employees about her.  Whether she is working.  What time she gets off.  Stuff like that. 

The other employee was letting my cashier know that the creeper was outside of the store and that she should get an escort to her car later when her shift ended.

How did she get the stalker?  How does that happen?  I worked at a grocery store for three years and no one ever stalked me. 

Sure there was one old lady who kept mistakenly calling me a man even though she was eye level with my blatantly obvious boobage.

But never have I been stalked.  I really want to know how that happens.

Well, as I was leaving, I couldn’t help but look around to see if I could spot the creeper.  And sure enough.  There he was.  I was tempted to go over and ask him why he felt the need to stalk the nice cashier from the store, but something stopped me.

Oh yeah.  I remember what stopped me—the fact that he’s a freaking psycho. 

He even looked the part—Creepy.  Skinny. Hasn’t seen sunlight for years.  Squinty eyes.  The Pervert Smile.  Etc…  You know what I’m talking about—he was that guy!

So after quickly power walking (practically sprinting) to my car, locking the doors, and speeding away, I’m left to wonder about the cashier.  I just hope she made it out okay because that guy rates at a 9.2 on your standard Rapist/Molester scale.

Death Threats are Flattering & Effective

When making a decision about whether or not to continue your blog, you read the comments from your last post and decided to...

A.)  Allow your apartment to get egged (it is an apartment complex, so you really wouldn't be responsible for the mess... and besides, we all know that chickens are the spawn of the devil so you'd be doing the Lord's work).

B.)  Allow a crazed fan to kill you.

C.)  Change your name from Tiffany to Princess Sparkles, move to a new city, and then pray no one finds you.

D.)  Just keep writing the blog.

I think I'll go with D.  


Even though I would find an egg massacre extremely amusing because like I said chickens are evil.  I just don't think the apartment complex would clean it quick enough.  Which means I'd be stuck smelling the rotting corpses of my enemy for about a week.


I also heavily considered C!  However, just by mentioning my alter ego, Princess Sparkles, I kinda ruined the whole plan.


What can I say... "Dance, puppet.  Dance!"

Time For Some Victory Cheesecake

The Challenge is officially over.  This will be the last post of the agreed upon month.  With this post my Right Brain will prevail.  Thus, in order to better mock the logical, reasoning side of my rationale, I would actually like to end the challenge with two posts:

Post 1:

and...

Post 2:

Game over, Left Brain.  You lose.

Them's Fightin' Words

As you know by now, I’m a graduate student at USC.  I’m currently living in an apartment with three other roommates, my dog, and my roommate’s dog.

And now we come to the problem—my roommate’s dog.  The beast has currently dragged me into a psychological warzone.

It all started a couple weeks ago when my roommate decided that because my pet is so well behaved her dog, Jet, could come live with us as well.  With no complains (as I’ve grown up with all sorts of dogs) Jet came to live with us.

It is only now that I’ve determined that Jet is smarter than he looks.  Sure he drools incessantly and barks at dust bunnies, but behind those vacant eyes lies the mind of a master strategist.

Recently, I’ve discovered that Jet responds to the statement, “Do you wanna go for a ride?”  Every time I said this, he would run over to me and begin jumping up and down, while howling in pleasure. 

I thought it was cute, but now I think Jet really expected to go on a ride.  So when I didn’t actually take him anywhere, he began his personal vendetta against me and my clothes.

All of my life, I’ve been told that I shouldn’t leave my clothes on the floor, and now I know why—Jet.  He has begun to sneak into my room when no one is looking, just so that he can pee on my clothes.

He isn’t doing this in anyone else’s room—just mine.  Which is how I know he is trying to make me suffer.

The first casualty in the war was my jeans.  At the time, I didn’t realize that I was being targeted so I continued in blissful ignorance while the evil genius plotted my demise.

The second and third casualties were my backpack and a t-shirt.  They died a joint death, but served the purpose of alerting me to my foe. 

The fourth victim of this war died today and confirmed my fears that Jet is out to get me.

Oh, I am so on to you mister.

After asking Jet “do you wanna go for a ride?” he immediately went into my room and made his move. 

But unbeknownst to Jet, we were actually going to go somewhere.  So when the time came to leave, I went into my room to change clothes.  Seeing an only-worn-once bra on the floor, I decided to put that on. 

Big mistake. 

As soon as I had it half on, the damp urinated truth hit me.  Jet had peed on my bra.

Sure, when I confronted him he looked at me with his stupid drooling face, but I know the truth. 

I know what you are even if your master believes that you’re a big sweetie pie.  You’re evil.  And now that I know the truth—I’m going to get you.

You may have won some battles, but I’m going to win this war.  Even if it means having to pee on your favorite stuffed animal. 

I.  Will.  Win.