[sigh]

I solved the problem of getting the bad numbers and the good phone all aligned, and I called AT&T Wireless to switch my phone service over.

As my %^#&ing luck would have it, the AT&T phone I have to replace my barely-working phone is indeed not an AT&T phone. Despite the fact that it picks up an AT&T signal and clearly displays text saying AT&T on the front of its screen, it�s somehow not an AT&T phone.

If I had local AT&T service, all would be fine. But since I have the national service, this is not a working AT&T phone.

So I switched everything around, and now I have a shiny green case and good numbers on the crappy phone.

I found a friend in Colorado with a working Nokia 3360 who will send it soon. Hopefully this will solve all and I won�t have to tinker with this anymore.

Really. What�s so hard about this?!

Come on now�

I just did the math. My workplace AT&T discount is a total of $117.60 in savings over the rest of my contract. If I left AT&T and signed with Sprint, I�d get a better discount for a total of $201.60. Whereas this is significant savings, I�d still have to pay AT&T $175 to get out of my contract. In sum, switching to Sprint would cost a total of $91 plus the cost of a phone that is Sprint compatible.

Bah humbug!

April 2006, I�m all yours Sprint!

Of course, by then I�ll have another employer, and this discount won�t apply when I switch over. And then since I�m already in AT&T�s system for having the really big employer, I�ll continue to get their discount. Thus I will stay with AT&T.

At least it�ll give me journal blabber for another two year contract after that.

Benito teased me for writing an incomplete entry on how our one-on-one went down at pain(t)ball.

In his words, I �wiffed� that journal entry because I didn�t take the opportunity to expand on what went down.

Apparently I was to talk about how he took refuge in a phone booth because he was so afraid of me. And how I painted the booth with bullets so he couldn�t see me as I landed shots millimeters from his gun, which stuck out about a centimeter from the booth.

(A shot on the gun counts as an out just as much as a shot to the body does. Although a shot to his mask would have been preferable and much more gratifying, we were running short on time and I needed just get the Kill.)

So what we�ve established here:

(1) Benito is afraid of my sharp-shooting to the point that he went into a phone booth to cry.

(2) I�m a shooting strategy genius by blinding him.

And I�m the one who wiffed?

Mmmmokay�

Today is cold. Cold. Cold. Cold.

I wasn�t expecting a 62-degree day, so it�s thrown me off quite a bit today.

I want hot chocolate with melted marshmallows on top so I can dip graham crackers in the creamy liquid.

That and cheese.

But that has nothing to do with it being 62-degrees out. That�s just because cheese tastes so good and I feel like I haven�t had it in so long.

I want a big bowl of it so I can grab a bag of Tostitos and call out tenderly, �Come here, lover,� as I spoon its ooey-gooey loveliness all over some fried tortilla chips before gingerly placing its greatness in my mouth.

That�s how much I want cheese right now.

Again, that has nothing to do with it being 62-degrees outside in the middle of August.

The exes. [sigh] They�re in full force lately.

Mind you, I�ve only had two real boyfriends. One was allowed to stick around for five years, and the other was an on-and-off thing for about nine months. Other than that, everyone�s been a couple weeks here and there (if that) or a single date where I allowed them to attend some event with me with the stipulation that they didn�t attempt to touch me. However, despite this, they won�t go away.

Perhaps there�s 62-degree weather in their locations that�s throwing them off, but someone�s blown around all of them and made them shoot me an email (unanswered), register on my caller ID (also unanswered), or in one case, leave a misleading message in my guestbook (deleted once it was pointed out to me).

I know what these schmucks are doing: Leaving the door open.

Men are absolutely retarded.

If the door was closed, leave it alone. Don�t wedge your foot in as it�s closing. Don�t jimmy it open with a credit card if the lock�s been changed. Don�t slip notes under the door. And oh-goodness-no, don�t send a delivery guy up with a (cheese!!!) pizza to trick a woman into opening the door.

If she�s anything like me, she�ll step on your foot, has a slidey-lock from the inside, a recycle bin for your retarded notes, and a cash tip ready for the delivery guy just in case he slips past her building�s doorman.

Let it be. Now be gone!

I�ve come to the conclusion that I will from here on out throw away any pencil of mine that lacks an eraser. A pencil without an eraser or with one that leaves red streaks is useless! Useless I say!

Much like my hankering for cheese has nothing to do with it being 62-degrees out, the pencil-eraser thing also has nothing to do with anything I was previously talking about.

And on that note (since I see how useless the entry is getting), I�m outta here. �