Decidedly untoward.

So you're gone, officially. I think that you should have probably reached That Place That You're Moving To, which I guess I will have to refer to as That Place In Which You Live from now on.

Already the city seems a little less bright, a little more closed. I tried to go to that coffee shop that we used to go to--not the one where we went, but the older one--but couldn't go in. Also I only had a credit card. I still don't know what's with that whole $7 minimum thing. So maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. I know that it was hard for you, being here. I know that you told me I kept you sane while you lived here.

But maybe you did the same for me. Without having haunt me with spontaneous singing (most of the time). Everyone else seems to think that the best way to cheer me up is through song.

When did I ever give the impression that musical theater lightened my spirits?? WHEN????

Technorati Profile

Passing thoughts on mortality.

My dearest Dr. Rob,

Isn't that a super-pretentious title? I love it.

Anyway, you know what it's in reference to, and we are both aware that there is no inherent pretension in the sentiment. You could be leaving tomorrow. It's not a guarantee or anything, but there's an outside chance that tonight will be the last night you sleep in this city as a resident.

Think about that.

Maybe think about it some more.

Okay, that's good. Enough.

So now that you've thought about it, consider this list of things I will do (or not do) if you agree to stay:

I will fold your underwear for a year (pointedly not commenting on your very obvious skidmarks)
I will promise not to gasp in horror when you make me listen to techno
I will come out even if I have to work early the next day, even if it means paying cover, even if it means dancing with strange men
I will always share my rice krispie treats at the coffee shop--and by this I mean I will only eat my half of the rice krispie treat that you bought
I will never again make you watch baseball on your own television, even if it's playoff season
I will buy your next set of jumper cables when your car dies in 35 below weather, whether they're $45 or not
I will love you forever.

Pretty good, huh? Yeah. I thought so.

I'll probably love you forever whether you stay or not. But I'll feel a lot better about it if you do.

Now That's Class.

I will take you off this Earf.

Dearest darling Dr. Rob,

Today is the one week birthday of our blog. If our blog were a baby, it would be small. And probably do nothing but cry and poop. So it's not an entirely unfitting comparison.

Tomorrow you leave for a job interview in That Place You're Moving To (I am trying not to say its name) and whilst I am excited for you, I can't help but feel a little jealous that you will be in a location where you could safely wear a thong outside due to the weather.

Well. Maybe not safely. Your ass is dangerous.

Anyway, it's another weekend that I'll be working when we could be playing, and another weekend removed from the ever-decreasing pool of time we have together before you leave. If it were for any other reason besides livelihood I would not support this decision.

Tell Ryan in That Place You're Moving To that I said hi. Call me when you get back to the frozen North.

Damn straight. I'm delightful.

So on Monday, after having gotten home from work, I decided to take a walk. At 2 a.m. It was still snowing and really pretty and sparkly outside, so I walked the path that goes through the Art Institute and back around to MCAD. It being 2 a.m. and all, I wasn't really paying attention to whether there was anyone out, because who would be out that late/early on a Monday night?

There was this awesome pile of snow that someone had made while shoveling off the sidewalks, and without thinking I ran and jumped into it. I fell. Of course. But I laughed out loud, because I was so pleased with myself.

That's when I noticed the random dude standing 30 feet away from me, smoking a cigarette outside. Laughing at me. Yeeeeeah.

Spyho - The Blog Birthplace.

This is what I will do to you.

ree-tehll-ee-ay-shun.

Dr. Rob has this tendency to play with his nose. Especially when he's thinking, or being bothered by, something complicated.

Sometimes I think it's just an excuse to pick his nose stealthily while in complete public view.

This is a particularly stellar view of my favorite schnozz in the whole world. And that is seriously saying something, because I have a deep and meaningful love for Adrien Brody based purely on his gorgeous nose.

Look honey! I think I can see a booger.

Diner's Digest.

Homosexual Mother

Tell your gay mom I said thanks.

In defense of my musical tastes.

I feel it only fair to point out that you, Dr. Rob, are the person who encouraged me to expand my musical threshold.

By this I mean that you held my hand when I purchased my first Justin Timberlake c.d.

Justin Timberlake is the antithesis of music snobbery, so take that.

Unless he's cool in that ironic way. Shit.

xoxo
p.p.

The Best Idea We've Ever Had.

Gin?

Text remembered from March of 2007...

"Do you think it's possible to get the gin shits?"

Kitty Klinik?

Kitty Klinik.

DOH-MEE-NAY-SHUN.

My darling Dr. Rob,

I have made several rules regarding my use of our sing-along blog, and I feel it is only fair to let you know what they are.

• I fully intend to refer to you as Dr. Rob in every post. This is mostly because I know that you know that I mean this in a facetious manner, especially because your outgoing voicemail makes me laugh every time I hear it.
• No, I have not yet forgiven you for deserting me in the Arctic Circle. This will be reflected in the (very) cold winter months ahead if I feel pissy and you tell me about how you ran a marathon in spandex and a tube top. This predisposition may wear away with the passage of time.
• I reserve the right to edit your entries if (and only if) they involve texts where I tell you about my bowel movements. Sometimes I intend those words only for you, my charming little fecal matter enthusiast.

Part of me is concerned that we will feel additional pressure to perform in our text messaging in order to 'make the blog'. But the other part of me knows that we are always ridiculous and thus won't really have to put on a show in order to make things interesting.

Your presence at my birthday remains mandatory. Any efforts to weasel out will be met with this response: "I don't understand the question, and I won't respond to it."

Love forever,

Your non-doctoral pusspaw.

Inaugural Post

Dear Katy,

This is our blog to each other, since I am leaving you in the Arctic Tundra to move to the Hell-like Heat.

I will always ask you who composed famous operas, since according to you, these are things I should know already. I expect that you will always keep me posted about the many awkward encounters that you experience in your everyday life.

And remember, "Science is...whatever we want it to be."

Love & Communicable Diseases,
Robby W. H.