It is what it is.

Possibility that dreamboat boy is an appropriate mode of transport for the anticipated summer cruise through the sea of love: Depressingly low.

Said boy�s proclivity to be ill-used as a bountiful source of wasted time and bad-boy fun: Disturbingly high.

Level of annoyance at my sister�s abrupt and rude dismissal of my proposal that I catch a ride with her and her stupid boyfriend to NYC this weekend: Staggeringly high. What the hell anyway? My presence is not going to exceed the maximum occupancy limit of her vehicle, although it may serve to bounce ye olde conversation meter from levels of atrocious banality to merely the tediously mundane.

Urge I feel to exact some form of retributive justice by entreating her to plant a fat one (old-movie-star-style, i.e. no tongue) on my left butt cheek: Venomously strong.

Number of grill cheese sandwiches I have eaten so far this week: 4

Level of confidence that I will get the new jobbie: Self-deprecatingly low.

Chances that my current position will drive me to forfeit the benefits of steady income in order to preserve a shred of personal/professional integrity: Approaching levels that demand consideration.

Degree to which I wish I had bitten my tongue and sat on my hands last Monday night: ��the funny thing about regret is it�s better to regret something you have done rather than something you haven�t�� (Ahoy there, Satan!)

Number of attempts I gave the light/shadow in the "corner of the room" painting last night before throwing it at the wall and going out for a beer: At least 10.

Number of cheesewater balloons I have figuratively lobbed at unsuspecting but deserving idiot boobs lately: Probably around 6.

Otherwise: Please, please me. I promise to be good.