One of the things about having a web site such as mine is that some of the readers, who are in fact complete strangers, think they know me and what I’m about. As personal as I am on this site, the christa you see on loafe is just a small part of the entire package that is christa. There are very few people know the whole me and those who do—well, they all know who they are. The rest of the world is just background characters to me, extras in a movie scene.
Hmm.
So I realized something tonight sitting in class. Although I was a bit disappointed when I found out I wasn’t having a girl, it is actually a good thing. That way I wouldn’t try to heal my wounds through her. Because in my warped mind, I would’t be raising my daughter, I’d be raising Christa. No good could come of that.
It’s a beautiful thing.
Poetic justice, my friends. That is what game 4 was all about in Montreal Tues. night. The Canadiens should be embarrassed to call themselves a professional hockey team and you know what? They get exactly what they deserve.
You cry wolf over and over again and it’ll come back to bite you in the ass every single time.
Kovalev should hold his head in shame, not only for costing his team the game but for having the gall to put ICE on his “injured” wrist later. Both him and Ribeiro should win some sort Emmy award this year for acting.
It was the most satisfying thing in the world to see the Bruins win that game.
Thursday night, Game 5, back in Boston. Time to say goodbye to these French-Canadien yahoos. Thanks for the memories, see ya next year!
Screw off, Montreal!
I’ve been to the city of Montreal only once in my entire life but I loved it there. It was all frenchy and canadian, the people were genuinely nice and some of the men were so unbelievably sexy and cute, I could have died. It felt like a less obnoxious mini-Paris (not that I’ve ever been).
But there are two things about Montreal hockey that are bugging me right now.
First, big fat crying phony fakers who pretend to be seriously hurt during a major scoring chance for the B’s, and writhe around on the ice in some sort of uncontrollable fit, only to get up a few minutes later and skate idly to the bench, laughing and taunting the other Bruins players. If that stupid fuck was truly injured, then I am the goddamned second coming of christ.
The second thing I don’t like: lousy obnoxious Canadiens fans who boo during the American national anthem. Sure, the US does some boneheaded things, but hockey and the players have nothing to do with that and booing just isn’t cool. BY THE WAY YOU STUPID CANADIENS—an American businessman owns your stupid effing team, so shove it.
Okay, now that is out of the way, I can assure you of a Boston win tonight.
Next order of business: every day on the boston globe web site they feature a particular person’s personal ad. Today’s ad for one Miss Raibraeder reads: “Song or album that puts me in the mood: ‘John Mayer makes me melt. I also love Tim McGraw’s ballads, Garth Brooks and Josh Groban’.”
the boys are beating down her door, I bet.
This lady makes me want to kill myself right now.
And in baby news, I have started to feel the baby move. Nothing major yet, he is still too small to really make powerful movements, but I’m getting little tiny flutterings and waves, like he’s in there doing somersaults and jumping jacks. It sort of radiates from my belly, like butterflies in my stomach, just different. It gives me this rush throughout my whole body. The first night it happened, I was mad at Gordon and being all bitchy. Then the baby moved and I just died. I laid there in bed with my hands on my stomach, grinning like a maniac.