Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Another episode of... Ex Boyfriend Theatre

Ok, I had a really long thing about Stalker Tony all written out- my first felon, and all. But decided it really isn't funny when it's written out. Sorry. Although I will give this much advice-

1. Beware any dude who says he's a poet. Be doubly warned if he's been "published" in one of those "1000 best poems" volumes that come out every other week.

2. If someone threatens to throw themselves off the Mallory Square Pier if you won't go see them, go ahead and let them. It's only 3 feet to the water.

3. Ask for a handwriting sample. If he writes like Charles Manson, chances are, he's probably got a swastika carved SOMEWHERE on his skull.

4. If he keeps calling your voicemail long after you've told him to get bent, just so he can "hear your voice", it's time to change your phone number.

5. If you live in the Keys, the Monroe County Sheriff's Office Website is the cheapest thrill you can get on the internet. You never know who you'll find in there. It's great for screening potential dates too.

With that said... This concludes the trip down ex-boyfriend lane. For now, anyway.

Ooo, but I will leave you with this parting tale.

Picture if you will, Sicily, 1919. Wait. Wrong intro. Let me start again.

Picture if you will, a young Sauce- Short brown hair, bangs, and the biggest red glasses this side of Sally Jessy Raphael. It was a heady time we like to call the late 1980s, and I was... in Like. Yes, my little awkward self had caught the fancy of a young lad named Robbie. Robbie actually did pass me a note which read "Would you go out with me? YES NO" and gave me space to circle my answer. Of course, I did what any self-respecting seventh grader would do. I circled Yes, and I was a lucky lass!

Dear sweet Robbie lived in my development, a few units up the street. He had a penchant for stealing his grandmother's knick-knacks to give me- tokens of his love. During the spring evenings, we'd hold hands as we strolled down the field, and sit on the banks of the wastewater treatment plant (yeah, I know) and look for tadpoles (it wasn't a full on station, just a building, and a little stream- what did I know?) and talk. Oh, what a glorious time.

I can't remember why we broke up, but it probably had something to do with the fact that he liked to kill rabbits. (And was henceforth referred to in my house as "Robbie the Rabbit") ah... sweet romance.


Otherwise, I have nothing funny to report.

Donald Rumsfeld is making me ill. I'd like to see HIM go over and fight this goddamn war without the equipment he needs, and see how he enjoys it.


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