Guess what, kids? Today, despite all my best efforts, get this: I actually did something. Terrifying, huh?

Chantel is sitting in my room, being a smartass. She broke up with her boyfriend, and, guess what? I, the Loveless, Valentine-Hating, Terminally Single Creature of the Growr, have zero men falling at my feet and throwing roses. Not one fellow is offering to kill himself in an attempt to please me. Chantel, however? Within two hours of breaking up with said boyfriend, she has acquired another one. Girl gets around, hm?

I just got hit for that last sentence. To make myself feel better, her current beau is a Michigander who plays Dungeons and Dragons and has "issues." For the sake of privacy (and to avoid being beaten to a bloody pulp), I shall not reveal exactly what those issues are. Unless you ask real nice.

Because you love it so much (and it got me lots of hits), I present another:

Snapshots of the Day
Polishing off an entire half of a large pepperoni pizza. (Contrary to what I have said before, I am not 468 pounds, so this is no mean feat.)

Discussing the evolutionary concept of toenails with a D&Ding Michigander (not Chantel's boytoy) over the phone.

Valiantly fighting and losing a war with Wal-Mart pop (you call it soda, I call it pop--name that commercial) machine.

Singing the entire Speed Racer theme song at top volume in a Plymouth for a psychotic 16-year-old South Dakotan girl and a spunky 15-year-old Louisianan boy.

Persuading said Louisianan to admit that he loved me. "Do you love me?" I asked. "Come on, admit it. Do you love me?" "Yes, yes, I do indeed," he replied. Keep in mind that I have never met this boy in my life, had spoken all of fifteen words to him, and I was yammering into a cell phone in a Hy-Vee parking lot. Yes, I am a teleslut. Apparently, he is, too.

Tipping 30%. I rule. I have far too much money to blow. That, and generous tipping makes me feel really rich. Is that pathetic? Nay, I say. Sam, I am.

Painting all of the sides of my Rubik's Cube white. Now, I can play with that godforsaken chunk of hell and not feel quite so stupid.

Arguing about prom. No, I'm not going. ("Yes, you are," snaps Chantel.) No, I'm really not. I refuse to conform to the teenage ideal. That, and I don't have a date. For the curious, the Most Likely Candidate (whom you recognize the identity of if you've been paying any attention at all--if not, shame on you and I hope you burn), already has a date. No prom for Allison.

That's all.

(Disclaimer: Chantel wishes to assert that she is being "wrongly represented" in this post. So, I shall admit that no, she is not a gigantic hussy. She has not had "more boyfriends than she can count." I may or may not be quoting her. Leaning towards the 'may.' "You're so evil," Chantel opines. "All in the name of truth and justice and honest reporting!" I cry.)