This work is also significant because it features a woman as one of the principal characters.

No, this is not a story about the latest Pearl Jam song. It's more a story about that great Meredith Brooks song (you know, the one about the bitch). What it definitely is, is something that is way too long, and makes no real points except to occupy my time. And completely apropos of nothing. So, basically my typical story. Here goes:

Sometimes, I wish I were a bitch.

Allow me to explain myself. Recently, I was sitting in my apartment, trying not to think about how hungry I was (I was too hungry to cook something), when I hear this knock at my door. This woman is standing there, and explains to me "Hi, my name is Sabrina and my daughter and her friend are just moving in next door. You seem like a normal, helpful guy [apparently she was basing this assessment on the fact that I answered my door fully clothed (although, I was missing my customary hat)], so I was wondering if you could come over to my daughters new place and give us all some advice."

"Sure thing," I replied, hoping to somehow get some free food out of the deal.

"We just moved into this place, and we think it is a total pit. What do you think?"

I looked around, and everything looked more or less okay. There was nothing living or dead in the place, no piles of trash, not really much of anything. There was one beer left in the fridge, which I looked at longingly, but they didn't get the hint. The bedroom was neat, mostly because there was way too much furniture on the floor for there to be any trash anywhere. Okay, there was no bed frames, just mattresses. And there were two desks stacked on top of each other. But things looked pretty normal to me. "What seems to be the problem?" I asked.

"Well look at this place! For starters, there are no frames for the beds, and we've got an extra desk!"

"So put the desk in the hall, and sleep without a bedframe for one night. Carol (the landlord) is a really reasonable person, and she is perfectly willing to move anything in or out that you ask and she can handle. What else is the problem?"

"How about the fridge? Does your fridge have any beer in it? Or is there any rust on the outside? Or is yours this crappy yellow color?"

"The fridge looks fine. Yes, mine is yellow with some rust on it. In fact, mine is coated with some sort of sticky substance on the door. And I _wish_ there was some beer in my fridge."

"Well how about this stove? Yellow and rusty! A disgrace!"

"Looks just like mine, except once again mine is covered with a sticky substance resembling masticated pine tar which someone smeared all over the place with a putty knife. But the burners are clean, so I got no complaints."

"But surely your sofa isn't this bad. How about this sofa?"

"Your sofa looks fine; much better than mine. My sofa is covered with what I can only assume is some new-fangled, space age material which is simultaneously smooth and sticky. And yours does not exude a foul stench, which I am currently trying to get rid of in my place by rolling around on said sofa like an epileptic penguin for 15 minutes before I take a shower each morning. But I got nowhere else to sit, so I manage. Let me guess. There isn't too much left in this room, so I'm guessing you're going to find fault with the AC next."

"Uh-huh. Listen too how loud this thing is!"

"Granted, it is a tad loud. However, yours gives off a pleasant, constant hum, which you will come to appreciate when it drones out the sounds of the drunken, Abercrombie&Fitch-wearing, girlfriend-beating frat boys next door. Mine gives off this high pitched squeal, which resembles, I would suppose, the sound Steve Buscemi would emit while he was having his hair chewed off by some adolescent emu (Sure, any adolescent emu. They're mostly the same anyways). I've just learned to hum really loud when my AC is on. It keeps the place cool. I got no complaints."

"So what do you think we should do? Doesn't this place seem completely unlivable to you?"

"Not at all. I'd offer to switch places with you but I already got all my stuff unpacked. You'll get used to it." And I turned around and left.

The next morning, I'm awakened to the sounds of men swearing, and what sounded like the bumping of furniture. I poke my head out the door to see what is going on. My ears did not fail me, but they did leave out some interesting details. These were actually _sweaty_, _dirty_ men moving furniture. Maybe not so interesting details.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"Well, we went to Carol this morning, and explained our situation to her. She is such a nice lady, she had these men come out and install a new fridge, a new stove, and a new air conditioner. She also took $100 off this month's rent for the inconvenience!"

I was too astounded to do anything except go back to my room and give my fridge a good kick in the shins. It just goes to show the power of bitching, I guess. I try to keep my bitching to a minimum: The only thing I bitch about is bitches who can't stop bitching like they're some sort of new super-bitching machine (The new-and-improved BitchBot 5000, now with a cheery lemon scent! (and flavor crystals)).

When I bitch, I only bitch to my friends. And isn't that what friends are for?

I've got some more bitching stories (and no, I don't mean the mostly-Californian, positive adjective 'bitchen!'), but my finger tips are starting to bleed. So perhaps I'll sign off for now.