A Few Quick Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries Because They Don't Have Conclusions And Just Kind of Abruptly End, Or "Why I'm Not A Terribly Good Writer"

- I'm sorry, but is the world aware of how busy the gym is at 6 o'clock in the morning? Let me back up a bit. So I've been a fair-weather member of the Fitness First gym on L and 19th for the past couple of years and I'm a huge fan. I like it because it's not trendy or complicated. It's a generic gym—you go in, you get your shit done, and you get out. It's like the Shasta cola of workout establishments. I've been calculating for the past few years what I call my gym's "Aspie Hours", or times throughout the day when the least number of people are likely to be there. These hours are roughly the following: 8:30-9:30am, after the nine-to-fivers go to work, before the housewives come in; 1:00-3:30ish, after the lunch rush, before the evening rush, during group classes; and 8:45-10:00pm, after the evening rush, before closing. I particularly like going during the 8:30-9:30am time slot because it's primarily filled with the elderly and I feel like Super Man on my Arc Trainer by comparison. And yet I went in this morning at 6am. I went in as a joke. As a SICK, understated joke—as performance art, really—and it was packed. Packed with fit, perky, fast-moving people who made eye contact. It was disgusting. So. I learned a lesson. Good. Good for me.

- Hi. If I'm going to spend $52 to make my apartment smell like cannabis for 60 hours, I expect to wake up at the end of those 60 hours thigh-deep in chicken bones and half-eaten Hot Pockets with a 50-page opus on my desktop about how time is cyclical titled "SERIOUSLY_DO NOT FUCKING FORGET THIS.doc", not holding an empty 9oz glass jar with the clearest head I've had since I was 14.

- Teresa got a part-time job reporting traffic for the local NBC news station and recently said the following on air: "Reports are coming in of an overturned blueberry truck on I-95 just outside of Baltimore. So if you're headed up that way tonight, it looks like you're headed for a real jam." I bring this up only because I need you to know how incredibly sexually attracted I am to that joke. Not only is it a traffic joke, it's a preservatives joke. I'm wetter than a Slip 'n Slide at a Fourth of July party.

- I came back from the gym this past Monday morning and was about to collapse on my bed and make love to a bagel and an episode of "Fraiser"—as is par for the course—when I overheard my neighbor get into a huge fight with her boyfriend. Or I guess he got into a fight with her because he was doing all of the yelling. And I do mean yelling. I've overheard plenty of neighbors yell at their significant others in my time, but this was some next level shit. This was a sensible blouse and an overcooked meatloaf away from being a Lifetime movie. I couldn't figure out what they were fighting about though because it was one of those situations where all you can hear is a lot of forceful mumbling with the occasional clear word or phrase when someone really wants to drive a point home. Like, "mumblemumblemumble I WAS THE ONE mumblemumblemumble WHILE YOUR ASS mumblemumblemumble FOR FIVE HOURS mumblemumblemumble BECAUSE YOU NEED THE DRAMA." Trying to fill in those blanks is like playing The Burning Bed edition of Mad Libs. It's haunting. Anyway, I didn't know what to do about the situation, or even if I should do anything at all. I just kind of sat there awkwardly shifting my eyes around the room all "ha ha...Roz", hoping things wouldn't escalate to the point where I had to put pants on. I felt badly for her. But mostly I couldn't stop thinking about that "Family Guy" cutaway "Horton Hears Domestic Violence in the Next Apartment and Doesn't Call 911":

So then I obviously watched that clip like sixteen times in a row and just cackled and cackled like an asshole with my bagel dangling out of my mouth while God only knows what was going on next door. I justified this in my head by thinking, "Well, I'm not laughing at her; I'm laughing at what her horrible situation reminds me of." But that still felt...off. 

I find my whole reaction to this situation deeply disturbing because I'd like to think I'm a feminist, yet here my neighbor's boyfriend is yelling at her in a sort of scary way and I just could not give two shits. I mean, I sort of did. I guess I gave AN shit. The concept was horrifying, but you know, we're all adults here. Let's tend to our own flocks. And then the fact that that went through my head horrified me even more because again, feminist. So then I tried justifying that by reminding myself that I hate her. Because I do. I've asked her repeatedly to stop slamming the door behind her when she goes in and out of her apartment because besides it being rude and startling, it rattles our shared wall where I have two plates hanging and if they fall and break I'm going to blast the most offensive German shiza porno that euros can buy every single night between the hours of 3-6am until death do us part. And yet she continues to do it! Day in and day out! So her boyfriend's yelling at her? Good. I have a strongly worded letter I wrote to our condo board that he can read aloud to her as well. So basically, this means that in my own mind, the following is my stance on verbal abuse: VERBAL ABUSE IS STILL ABUSE! ABUSERS ARE COWARDS! REAL MEN DON'T HURT WOMEN! THAT IS UNLESS THAT WOMAN WON'T STOP LETTING THE DOOR SLAM BEHIND HER BECAUSE COME ON LADY!

So in conclusion: I am a horrible human being, I bring down my gender and this great nation, and Libya is a land of contrast. THE END.