An unsuccessful trip to the DI has got to be one of the most depressing things ever. For those of you not native to Utah, Deseret Industries is Utah's version of a mega chain thrift store. DI seems to draw from 2 main demographic pools for employees; the mentally handicapped, and the scary demographic. I commend DI for the former, and am slightly annoyed by the latter. I guess they are just trying to give everyone a chance. Today I saw a guy exiting the dressing room area. There were a pair of dress shoes sitting on the floor of one of the dressing rooms. One of the scary employees gruffly asked the patron, "Hey. Are those your shoes?"
"No," replied the patron.
"They aren't? You didn't just leave them there?"
"Nope."
"Yeah. Sure. Rrrriiight," quoth the asshole, as he was scrutinizing the patron's shoes, as though the guy was really going to trade the nice dress shoes in the dressing room for the disgusting hiking boots with the massive hole in the toe.
Or perhaps he was upset that he would have to return said shoes to their proper place. But since when was that task located outside the parameters of his job? What the hell else does he do in there all day, but put crap away? They certainly aren't washing or cleaning anything in that store, I'll tell you that much.
Which brings me to why being unable to find anything on a DI visit is so annoying. I never feel dirtier than after having rifled through a bunch of clothing at the DI. It all has a distinct, musty odor. Seriously, touching one article of clothing in that store leaves me feeling like I just slapped a leper. I can just mentally visualize all of the bacterial creatures mingling on my hands in an orgy of filth. And my eye always itches while I'm in there. But I am terrified to bring my hand anywhere near my ocular organ, for fear of contracting pink eye. Or maybe blindness.
So, as I walked to my car, rather than leaving with the satisfaction that I a) found a killer article of clothing for less than 6 dollars, b)contributed to the financial autonomy of various handicapped people, and c) probably furthered an alcohol addiction, I just left feeling dirty. I started putting my hands in my coat pockets, but then recoiled as though burned; the last thing I want to do upon leaving DI, was transfer my hand filth into my pockets.
Are there any quality thrift stores in Utah? Ones that won't make me feel alienated and depressed while shopping?
13.3.09
12.3.09
Thirteen
If I could have one wish, it would be to be able to go back in time to visit young George Andrew Fish, circa 12 years old, and implore him to keep writing in his Journal. My second wish would probably be to have infinity packs of Gushers. Followed closely by a cake room. And not just any cake room, mind you. An infinity cake room. A room in which there is a continuous, ever replenishing, constantly changing flow of cake. And having used the word flow, now that I think about it, an actual flow of cake is precisely what I would want. Like a river of cake, slowly meandering through the middle of the room. And when I saw a particular flow that suited my fancy, I would simply lay on my belly and bury my head in it. Or maybe just dig out a chunk with a shovel designated specifically for that purpose. A midget would live in the room, on standby at all times, just waiting to clean that shovel off in between cake scoopings. And to scratch my back, if I asked. But never with the shovel.
But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.
As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.
The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."
Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.
It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."
Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.
But I guess mostly, I just wish I had been a better journal writer.
As I was digging through sundry personal affects in my storage box in my parent's super shed today (I say super shed because this ain't no corrugated metal/plastic piece of crap shed; nothing but bricks and mortar bitches!) I came across my old journal. I also found my old rubber naked mole rat, with which I had a rather weird obsession during my last year of high school. What's wrong with me? If you don't think naked mole rats are fascinating creatures, I don't know what's wrong with you. Also, a 2 dollar bill that I was convinced throughout my entire adolescence was special, and would be worth a far greater sum than 2 dollars some day. I left it in there, just in case. Also, a bunch of crap that I brought home from Argentina. I guess at one point in my life I was convinced that a wine bottle with a severed cow hoof attached to the bottom, wrapped with said hoof-less cow's own shin skin would be a cool thing to have around the house. 20 year old boys are stupid.
The journal was definitely a quality find. A small excerpt, from the mind of 13 year old Fish: "I just got a guitar about a week ago. Me and my friend want to start a band. He plays bass guitar I have a couple of names we could call are selvs. Jive Puppet, Poetic Jive Head, Poetic Meat Head, Poetic Meat Head Jam. Just ideas. Well, my hands are getting tired so I'm going to quit now. Farewell."
Apparently, I was attempting to create a super hybrid band, drawn from the likes of the Meat Puppets, Pearl Jam, and Radiohead. A poetic, meaty band, if you will.
It would appear from a subsequent entry that my band mate Chris Allman wasn't too excited about poetically jamming our heads with meat, and therefore our band was called "Ming Dynasty." I believe Ming Dynasty ultimately had just one song, pitifully recorded to a cassette tape. I found the lyrics in that same entry: "For the time we are the living, but we cannot take what were seeing, we see the world through jaded eyes, its hard to see through all the lies, we see the world through eyes of sorrow, some wont make it till tommarow. We were mont made for this, should we all just die like this? This is no hope for us, we are lost in our lust, in all are greedyness there is no happyness no happyness..."
Personally, I think it was an emo hit waiting to happen. Unfortunately, Chris eventually decided our band was lame and quit. And the name was sooo inferior to my other names. It also didn't help that he lived 30 minutes away, and so we could only practice about one a month. I guess Poetic Meat Head Jam was just never meant to be poetic, or jam.
11.3.09
Orphans
Recently I think everyone has just given up on doing dishes. I guess that it is simply too onerous a task to pick up the heavy, jumbo sized bottle of orange anti bacterial dish soap, and squirt a small amount upon a plate/cup/bowl. Which I can understand completely. I mean, it is quite the stressful venture, attempting to squirt just the perfect amount of soap upon said eating implement. Mentally trying. Too much detergent means too many suds, and an unnecessary amount of chemicals wreaking havoc upon the environment. Plus too much soap makes for a difficult rinsing process, which will add an extra 8-13 seconds to the overall washing experience. Not to mention that wielding the toilet-scrubber-made-dish-scrubber can cause unnecessary elbow and/or wrist trauma, if one were to be overly vigorous with one's scrubbing. And then we have hospital bills to worry about, all in the name of avoiding a rotting, mephitic nightmare in the sink.
I mean, I like sauntering past the sink and nearly passing out from from a nasal assault by a funk redolent of a rotting corpse, just as much as the next asshole.
Am I an asshole because I refuse to clean up after my roommates? I keep my own bowl, spoon, and cup in my cupboard. That is generally the extent of my utensil/dishware usage. I eat cereal. And the occasional quesadilla. And I always wash the plate immediately after quesadilla consumption. It isn't hard. It really bloody isn't.
I guess I am used to living without a dishwasher and a mother, and therefore I have grown accustomed to taking 30 seconds after I eat something and washing it. Do I have a multitude of other flaws? Yes indeed I do. But I am an impeccable dishwasher. Nothing is more frustrating than having the desire to immediately consume something that requires a fork, and realizing that every fork in the house has been discarded and left for dead in the sink, like abandoned Armenian orphans.
Even orphans deserve to be washed once and a while.
I mean, I like sauntering past the sink and nearly passing out from from a nasal assault by a funk redolent of a rotting corpse, just as much as the next asshole.
Am I an asshole because I refuse to clean up after my roommates? I keep my own bowl, spoon, and cup in my cupboard. That is generally the extent of my utensil/dishware usage. I eat cereal. And the occasional quesadilla. And I always wash the plate immediately after quesadilla consumption. It isn't hard. It really bloody isn't.
I guess I am used to living without a dishwasher and a mother, and therefore I have grown accustomed to taking 30 seconds after I eat something and washing it. Do I have a multitude of other flaws? Yes indeed I do. But I am an impeccable dishwasher. Nothing is more frustrating than having the desire to immediately consume something that requires a fork, and realizing that every fork in the house has been discarded and left for dead in the sink, like abandoned Armenian orphans.
Even orphans deserve to be washed once and a while.
10.3.09
Embarrassing.
I would assume that most of you have, at one point in your life, thought of a really stellar gift to give a friend around Christmas time. After putting considerable thought, and possibly even money into said gift, you deliver it to your friend. Your friend then gives you some lame, half assed excuse for a gift. Something in which they put no thought, nor care. At which point you feel snubbed. And hopefully your friend feels embarrassed.
I hope Mr. Obama feels embarrassed.
When you are the leader of the most powerful country on planet earth, not to mention a personally rich man, how on earth are you going to give the bloody Prime Minister of Britain a bunch of DVD's? Are you kidding me? Especially when the man gives you as priceless, and thoughtful a gift as was given to our dear, God-King president. Would it be un-PC to say that was a white trash thing to do?
Perhaps our Lord and Savior was ill aware of the caliber of the gift which he would receive from Mr. Brown.
So what. That isn't the issue.
The issue is, the leader of the free world gave his biggest ally a sack full of DVD's. I believe Mr. Brown's attempts to keep the gift a secret from the press speaks pretty loudly; he was embarrassed to have received such an absurdly ridiculous gift. "Hey Michelle? Do you think Mr. Brown is looking for a change in his cinematic viewing experience? I think as a gift, I'd like to offer him a change from that British crap that he is used to. I want to give him not only a change, or a new hope, but a change in hope. I hope he enjoys this change from what he is accustomed to viewing, and that he can find a new hope in that change. Because, Michelle dear, nothing inspires hope like a night of ET and the Godfather. Now let's change our clothes and go buy some DVD's."
And don't bother bringing up idiotic things George Bush did to insult or offend world leaders. Those things are irrelevant. The question here is, why would Obama snub such an important man? Obama is not an idiot. He wouldn't make a mistake like this. I guess all I am saying, is his recent pandering to the Muslim world, coupled with his snubbing of the Prime Minister, possibly starts to paint a worrisome picture.
Do you really think that had Bashar Al-Asad, or Asif Ali Zardari, or Mohamed Hosni Mubarak visited Mr. Obama, that they'd have left with 25 DVD's?
Call me crazy, but the man worries me. Funny, also, that the story is nowhere to be found on CNN.com. BIG surprise.
I hope Mr. Obama feels embarrassed.
When you are the leader of the most powerful country on planet earth, not to mention a personally rich man, how on earth are you going to give the bloody Prime Minister of Britain a bunch of DVD's? Are you kidding me? Especially when the man gives you as priceless, and thoughtful a gift as was given to our dear, God-King president. Would it be un-PC to say that was a white trash thing to do?
Perhaps our Lord and Savior was ill aware of the caliber of the gift which he would receive from Mr. Brown.
So what. That isn't the issue.
The issue is, the leader of the free world gave his biggest ally a sack full of DVD's. I believe Mr. Brown's attempts to keep the gift a secret from the press speaks pretty loudly; he was embarrassed to have received such an absurdly ridiculous gift. "Hey Michelle? Do you think Mr. Brown is looking for a change in his cinematic viewing experience? I think as a gift, I'd like to offer him a change from that British crap that he is used to. I want to give him not only a change, or a new hope, but a change in hope. I hope he enjoys this change from what he is accustomed to viewing, and that he can find a new hope in that change. Because, Michelle dear, nothing inspires hope like a night of ET and the Godfather. Now let's change our clothes and go buy some DVD's."
And don't bother bringing up idiotic things George Bush did to insult or offend world leaders. Those things are irrelevant. The question here is, why would Obama snub such an important man? Obama is not an idiot. He wouldn't make a mistake like this. I guess all I am saying, is his recent pandering to the Muslim world, coupled with his snubbing of the Prime Minister, possibly starts to paint a worrisome picture.
Do you really think that had Bashar Al-Asad, or Asif Ali Zardari, or Mohamed Hosni Mubarak visited Mr. Obama, that they'd have left with 25 DVD's?
Call me crazy, but the man worries me. Funny, also, that the story is nowhere to be found on CNN.com. BIG surprise.
9.3.09
Flaws
I have really only one flaw that might be keeping me from marriage. I am a phenomenal coward when it comes to dealing with spiders.
Tonight I was showering. For whatever reason, everything important in my life (I only write about supremely important things on this blog, obviously) has been occurring in the shower. I stood with my back to the mist machine, allowing the hot water to scour my neck for a pretty long time. I finally decided to turn around and get down to business. Business being the cleansing part. I realize that could be taken to mean a few different things. Just cleaning.
My eyes instantly latched upon a spider running down a pole that is connected to the shelf that holds all of our cleaning implements. I immediately gasped in a great deal of steam and mist, and lurched for my bottle of Dove brand Beautiful Body Wash, quickly smashing the but end of it over the spider. That horrible, malefic little creature was sent hurdling back behind all of the items upon the shelf. I started moving things around, trying to confirm death.
Upon not finding anything, I looked down and saw it making a b-line for my feet. I scurried to the back of the shower, and that little bastard just scampered towards me. I frantically began kicking water at it, to no immediate avail. That little spider was determined to murder me in the shower. Finally, water over came him. You know you are victorious against a spider when it suddenly crinkles up. Except for sometimes they try to trick you. They crinkle up, and then as soon as you think they are harmless, they scamper away again. I never trust a crinkled up spider. I kept kicking water at it until it was safely down the drain.
I hate this irrational, crippling fear. Whenever I see one I immediately panic. I wasn't always afraid of spiders. Or bugs in general. I recall catching grasshoppers with my hands in elementary school, and storing them in jars. Perhaps this irrational fear was a curse from God, for allowing so many innocent grasshoppers to languish and waste away as specimens in my jars. Or for all of the ants that I burnt with a magnifying glass. I just want me and spiders to get along and be friends again. No more fear, no more animosity.
Or, just stay out of my damn shower.
Tonight I was showering. For whatever reason, everything important in my life (I only write about supremely important things on this blog, obviously) has been occurring in the shower. I stood with my back to the mist machine, allowing the hot water to scour my neck for a pretty long time. I finally decided to turn around and get down to business. Business being the cleansing part. I realize that could be taken to mean a few different things. Just cleaning.
My eyes instantly latched upon a spider running down a pole that is connected to the shelf that holds all of our cleaning implements. I immediately gasped in a great deal of steam and mist, and lurched for my bottle of Dove brand Beautiful Body Wash, quickly smashing the but end of it over the spider. That horrible, malefic little creature was sent hurdling back behind all of the items upon the shelf. I started moving things around, trying to confirm death.
Upon not finding anything, I looked down and saw it making a b-line for my feet. I scurried to the back of the shower, and that little bastard just scampered towards me. I frantically began kicking water at it, to no immediate avail. That little spider was determined to murder me in the shower. Finally, water over came him. You know you are victorious against a spider when it suddenly crinkles up. Except for sometimes they try to trick you. They crinkle up, and then as soon as you think they are harmless, they scamper away again. I never trust a crinkled up spider. I kept kicking water at it until it was safely down the drain.
I hate this irrational, crippling fear. Whenever I see one I immediately panic. I wasn't always afraid of spiders. Or bugs in general. I recall catching grasshoppers with my hands in elementary school, and storing them in jars. Perhaps this irrational fear was a curse from God, for allowing so many innocent grasshoppers to languish and waste away as specimens in my jars. Or for all of the ants that I burnt with a magnifying glass. I just want me and spiders to get along and be friends again. No more fear, no more animosity.
Or, just stay out of my damn shower.
6.3.09
A matter of supreme urgency
After stepping through the stiflingly cold, obnoxious shower mist today, I reached for my poof. I grabbed it by the string, and then gave it a mighty downward swing in order to eject the cold water that had accumulated therein. Upon reaching the apex of the swing, the poof broke free of its strings and plopped upon the bathtub floor.
After a hasty retrieval, as I would dare say that anything beyond feet remaining upon the shower floor for longer than a second is probably a lost cause, I started to wonder at what point one should replace a poof.
Being a recently deflowered ex-virgin in the realm of poofdom, I am still not entirely savvy to poof etiquette. How long might one use a poof before it is time for a replacement? Does the answer depend upon the manner of usage to which the poof is put? If said poof is generally used as a generator of foam, rather than as an exfoliate, is the time frame where one may use it with dignity lengthened? Or does the generaly wet, mold and bacteria fostering nature of the shower area curtail any extra poof-life that might be hoped for upon avoiding actual contact with the filthier regions of the body?
I never knew that the poof commitment was such a multifaceted venture. This I know; I shall never mend my divorce with bar soap. The benefits of poof usage are far too multifarious. Ever since the switch, I have fallen in love, I have been promoted at work and am making way more money, my friend base has increased 10 fold, and my skin is never dry. Albeit only one of those last things is actually true, the switch was entirely worth it. God bless you, Deep Moisture Dove Beauty Body Wash.
But seriously, I need to know what to do about the poof. Was the broken rope a sign that I have neglected for too long a necessary purchase? I don't want any answers from men. If I were to use men as my judge, I would use the poof until it rots apart. I have been in countless showers over the years, and have watched a stifling number of poofs molder and decay with never a thought for replacement. I know there are women who read this blog. I want several opinions so that I can make an educated decision. If I like your answer best, I'll buy you a poof.
This post was such drivel.
After a hasty retrieval, as I would dare say that anything beyond feet remaining upon the shower floor for longer than a second is probably a lost cause, I started to wonder at what point one should replace a poof.
Being a recently deflowered ex-virgin in the realm of poofdom, I am still not entirely savvy to poof etiquette. How long might one use a poof before it is time for a replacement? Does the answer depend upon the manner of usage to which the poof is put? If said poof is generally used as a generator of foam, rather than as an exfoliate, is the time frame where one may use it with dignity lengthened? Or does the generaly wet, mold and bacteria fostering nature of the shower area curtail any extra poof-life that might be hoped for upon avoiding actual contact with the filthier regions of the body?
I never knew that the poof commitment was such a multifaceted venture. This I know; I shall never mend my divorce with bar soap. The benefits of poof usage are far too multifarious. Ever since the switch, I have fallen in love, I have been promoted at work and am making way more money, my friend base has increased 10 fold, and my skin is never dry. Albeit only one of those last things is actually true, the switch was entirely worth it. God bless you, Deep Moisture Dove Beauty Body Wash.
But seriously, I need to know what to do about the poof. Was the broken rope a sign that I have neglected for too long a necessary purchase? I don't want any answers from men. If I were to use men as my judge, I would use the poof until it rots apart. I have been in countless showers over the years, and have watched a stifling number of poofs molder and decay with never a thought for replacement. I know there are women who read this blog. I want several opinions so that I can make an educated decision. If I like your answer best, I'll buy you a poof.
This post was such drivel.
1.3.09
Can i just kill the planet in peace please?
Some "green" products sort of make me want to kill the planet even harder. Like, for instance, the green shower head that one of the roommates decided to install. It curbs the flow of water, forcing a rather large stream through a very small hole, thus causing it to be more of a mist, than an actual shower. This makes entering the shower, especially in the winter, rather unpleasant. As the mist hits the cold bathtub, it is rendered instantly cold. So getting into the shower now involves stepping through a cold mist. This mist also causes the shower curtain to billow. The last thing I want touching my body is that rancid shower curtain. Mostly, due to the fact that it is rancid, but also knowing that said moldy, malodorous curtain has been also latching on to every other unfortunate soul who attempts to bathe at my house. Should I simply install a new shower curtain? Probably. But that still wont solve the flesh-to-curtain orgy going on in there.
Also, the water ejection is super wide. I like a more concentrated stream. And for those of you mentally berating me for being a water-waster, I actually turn on the water pressure about 1/3 of capacity. I don't need the water to scour the skin away from my spine. I just hate this stupid green shower head forcing me to do what I was already doing, and causing the pleasantness of my shower to decrease by at least 62%.
Green roommate also thought it would be a good idea to install "green" light bulbs. The particular bulbs he chose to install, bathe the house in a nice, weak, sickly, yellow glow. I feel like I'm living in an old, dilapidated Ma & Pa store, where they are using a minimal amount of like...20 watt light bulbs in order to cut down cost, and you buy some generic toothpaste from them, just because you want to make certain they'll have enough money for cabbage soup that night. Seriously, I don't want to live with Ma and Pa anymore.
I swear there have to be more eco friendly light bulbs that won't make me feel depressed and alienated in my own house.
Also, the water ejection is super wide. I like a more concentrated stream. And for those of you mentally berating me for being a water-waster, I actually turn on the water pressure about 1/3 of capacity. I don't need the water to scour the skin away from my spine. I just hate this stupid green shower head forcing me to do what I was already doing, and causing the pleasantness of my shower to decrease by at least 62%.
Green roommate also thought it would be a good idea to install "green" light bulbs. The particular bulbs he chose to install, bathe the house in a nice, weak, sickly, yellow glow. I feel like I'm living in an old, dilapidated Ma & Pa store, where they are using a minimal amount of like...20 watt light bulbs in order to cut down cost, and you buy some generic toothpaste from them, just because you want to make certain they'll have enough money for cabbage soup that night. Seriously, I don't want to live with Ma and Pa anymore.
I swear there have to be more eco friendly light bulbs that won't make me feel depressed and alienated in my own house.
Just shut up already jose
I guess missing church because I had to go stand around for 4 hours, coupled with cleaning out a beer fridge that didn't need to be cleaned, in conjunction with reading about all of the reasons and ways that Nazi fascist bastards socially, culturally, and physically murdered de facto several million Jews, has put me in a rather foul mood. And as a little rancid bit of icing on the crap cake, the girl with the most spine curdling laugh on God's green earth is down stairs. Laughing. I've come to prepare and mentally brace myself for that laugh on a weekly basis, each Sunday night. However, no amount of preparation can actually prepare one for this laugh. The cackling fusillade penetrates my room from all the way downstairs, as though my home were constructed of balsa wood. There is no escape.
As I was scooping up a bowl of soup today, and simultaneously ignoring the practically unintelligible Spanish chatter coming from across the counter, I thought about how I wouldn't be mad if I never saw certain people again. Mostly that thought was directed toward the guy across the counter we'll call Jose. Jose enjoys asking me most days why I am ignoring him, and why I am in a bad mood, and where is my boyfriend, and do I like sausages, and do I think the hostess has a nice ass, and whether or not it's fake, and a plethora of sundry obnoxious drivel.
Part of the problem, is I can not hear him well enough to understand half of what he says. The other part, is I can't bring myself to give a damn about what he says, because the majority of it is either repugnant, or annoying. I get the boyfriend question, due to the fact that I have come in to eat with guy friends a few times. Which apparently, in Jose's world of telephone pornography (don't ask) equates to being gay. I try to be civil. I pretend to be in a bad mood whenever I am dipping up soup, or tired, in order to have a valid excuse as to why I don't seem to want to talk to him.
There are a lot of people in my life that, were I to suddenly never see them again, I would be sad, or disappointed, or periodically wonder about what they were doing. Other people, however, I would be more than thrilled if I never had to see them again. Like Jose. And the pestiferous laugher. And Rick Fish, the history teacher who tried to sabotage me. And maybe one specific person who dwells in this house (not you Dan, I love you.)
Genocide puts me in such a bad mood.
As I was scooping up a bowl of soup today, and simultaneously ignoring the practically unintelligible Spanish chatter coming from across the counter, I thought about how I wouldn't be mad if I never saw certain people again. Mostly that thought was directed toward the guy across the counter we'll call Jose. Jose enjoys asking me most days why I am ignoring him, and why I am in a bad mood, and where is my boyfriend, and do I like sausages, and do I think the hostess has a nice ass, and whether or not it's fake, and a plethora of sundry obnoxious drivel.
Part of the problem, is I can not hear him well enough to understand half of what he says. The other part, is I can't bring myself to give a damn about what he says, because the majority of it is either repugnant, or annoying. I get the boyfriend question, due to the fact that I have come in to eat with guy friends a few times. Which apparently, in Jose's world of telephone pornography (don't ask) equates to being gay. I try to be civil. I pretend to be in a bad mood whenever I am dipping up soup, or tired, in order to have a valid excuse as to why I don't seem to want to talk to him.
There are a lot of people in my life that, were I to suddenly never see them again, I would be sad, or disappointed, or periodically wonder about what they were doing. Other people, however, I would be more than thrilled if I never had to see them again. Like Jose. And the pestiferous laugher. And Rick Fish, the history teacher who tried to sabotage me. And maybe one specific person who dwells in this house (not you Dan, I love you.)
Genocide puts me in such a bad mood.
26.2.09
Aaaannnnd 200
So I guess I have been boycotting puke for a pretty long time. I will stop at no ends to avoid vomiting. Even if it means writhing around in nausea and agony, dammit I will do it. I haven't puked since...11, maybe 12? I really can't recall the last time. So, having not done so for so long, I think I have build up a rather irrational fear of puking.
Last evening, I was going to Salt Lake with some friends. For reasons I can not fathom, I thought that eating week old leftovers from Rice King was not a horrible idea. Around midnight, I found that I was rather mistaken. I guess the first clue occurred when I had to have them pull the car over, and upon stopping, flung open the door and then proceeded to retch everything I have ever eaten into the gutter.
That taken care of, we decided it would be prudent to immediately head home. I sat in the back seat, hovering over a cup in case there still happened to be any remnants of Rice King still in my churning belly. I arrived home feeling no better. I decided that puking upon my mattress was less than desirable, so I grabbed my blanket and a pillow, and drug them (and myself) back down the stairs and into the bathroom. My roommate was kind enough to fetch me a rather large bowl in which to puke, so I fell asleep curled up around it. I have no idea how many times I half awoke dry heaving, but it was more than 7.
Around 6:30 I awoke with enough coherence to realize that I probably didn't want to be sleeping upon the bathroom floor any longer. I had the chills and my teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Sitting on the bathroom floor, wedged in between the toilet and the closet, more nauseous than I can ever recall feeling, teeth chattering loudly enough to wake anyone in the house, served to greatly reinforce my desire to never be a junky.
It took me about a half an hour to exit the bathroom and drag my pitiful carcass up on a couch. I would shove the puke bowl a few feet ahead of me on the floor, and then drag myself, the pillow, and blanket a couple feet in the same direction. At which point I would have to pause at wait for the nausea to dissipate to a non-puking threat level. Shove, drag, rest, repeat.
So I learned a few things. Puking...not so bad. Dry heaving, however, is pretty much as abhorrent as I mentally built up puking to be. I also found out that it is possible to survive a horrible bout of vomiting without one's mother there to provide moral support (although secretly I wished she was there rubbing my back and feeding me saltine crackers and coke.) I also learned that I am a much more stalwart and stable puker than I was in my childhood. The last puking evet that I can actually recall, I apparently did a lot of hopping and jumping about as I projected vomit into the toilet, thus causing only about half of it to actually make it in the watery bowl. I guess not having a mommy there to clean it up made me a bit more conscious of my aim.
So I pretty much spent the day in bed, eating Club multi-grain crackers (about 9) and trying to replenish some of the fluids that I had been ejecting, when I wasn't entirely too nauseous to do so. It is currently 8:45, and the sickness has, for the most part, dissipated. I guess I'm glad that my 200th post could mark the advent of such a monumental moment in my life. I knocked down my Berlin wall of puking. My Iron Curtain of vomit has been swept back. I can now be a semi normal human being, and puke somewhat more consistently without fear of the unknown.
Really, I never ever want to puke again.
Last evening, I was going to Salt Lake with some friends. For reasons I can not fathom, I thought that eating week old leftovers from Rice King was not a horrible idea. Around midnight, I found that I was rather mistaken. I guess the first clue occurred when I had to have them pull the car over, and upon stopping, flung open the door and then proceeded to retch everything I have ever eaten into the gutter.
That taken care of, we decided it would be prudent to immediately head home. I sat in the back seat, hovering over a cup in case there still happened to be any remnants of Rice King still in my churning belly. I arrived home feeling no better. I decided that puking upon my mattress was less than desirable, so I grabbed my blanket and a pillow, and drug them (and myself) back down the stairs and into the bathroom. My roommate was kind enough to fetch me a rather large bowl in which to puke, so I fell asleep curled up around it. I have no idea how many times I half awoke dry heaving, but it was more than 7.
Around 6:30 I awoke with enough coherence to realize that I probably didn't want to be sleeping upon the bathroom floor any longer. I had the chills and my teeth were chattering uncontrollably. Sitting on the bathroom floor, wedged in between the toilet and the closet, more nauseous than I can ever recall feeling, teeth chattering loudly enough to wake anyone in the house, served to greatly reinforce my desire to never be a junky.
It took me about a half an hour to exit the bathroom and drag my pitiful carcass up on a couch. I would shove the puke bowl a few feet ahead of me on the floor, and then drag myself, the pillow, and blanket a couple feet in the same direction. At which point I would have to pause at wait for the nausea to dissipate to a non-puking threat level. Shove, drag, rest, repeat.
So I learned a few things. Puking...not so bad. Dry heaving, however, is pretty much as abhorrent as I mentally built up puking to be. I also found out that it is possible to survive a horrible bout of vomiting without one's mother there to provide moral support (although secretly I wished she was there rubbing my back and feeding me saltine crackers and coke.) I also learned that I am a much more stalwart and stable puker than I was in my childhood. The last puking evet that I can actually recall, I apparently did a lot of hopping and jumping about as I projected vomit into the toilet, thus causing only about half of it to actually make it in the watery bowl. I guess not having a mommy there to clean it up made me a bit more conscious of my aim.
So I pretty much spent the day in bed, eating Club multi-grain crackers (about 9) and trying to replenish some of the fluids that I had been ejecting, when I wasn't entirely too nauseous to do so. It is currently 8:45, and the sickness has, for the most part, dissipated. I guess I'm glad that my 200th post could mark the advent of such a monumental moment in my life. I knocked down my Berlin wall of puking. My Iron Curtain of vomit has been swept back. I can now be a semi normal human being, and puke somewhat more consistently without fear of the unknown.
Really, I never ever want to puke again.
23.2.09
Please pass the novocaine
I have not been to the dentist in over 8 years. This thought terrifies me. This terror snares me in a nice little catch 22; I avoid the dentist because I am afraid that my teeth are rotting out of my skull and I may have to therefore be euthanized. However, this dental evasion is likely simply exacerbating the hypothetical pain which I am avoiding.
I recently found out that I have dental insurance. It's time to pay the piper.
I feel though, that I have a rational and explainable fear of the dentist. When I was a young man growing up, I would go get orally worked upon by a stone age caveman witch doctor who had somehow miraculously been granted the appellation "dentist."
I must preface this by saying that I did have 1 good dental experience. That particular time they cranked up the nitrous oxide. Being in a terror induced state of hyperventilation, I sucked a pretty stellar amount of that gas into my lungs and, consequently, my brain. I never enjoyed being drilled upon so much. I was pretty high.
So, 8 years ago, after that previous legal drug induced high, I was rather looking forward to the dentist.
The first problem occurred when the nurse, despite my desperate pleadings, would not crank up the gas high enough to have the magical affects of the previous visit. Perhaps it was the shaking, and the begging for "just a little stronger hit," that made her wary.
So in came Dr. ham fisted neanderthal to apply the Novocaine. My eyes watered as he ruthlessly and repeatedly stabbed that needle all over my gums. That finally over, he sat there for what seemed to be a really inadequate amount of time for the numbness to kick in, and then began drilling. Instant pain shot through my jaw, as that tiny little drill began to penetrate the sensitive enamel of my tooth. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwww."
"Oh. Does that hurt still?"
"No shit," I didn't say.
"Uh huh."
Because that is all one really can say when his mouth is being held open by a metal clamp.
So, then began another round of shots. Again, followed by another inadequate waiting period. And then the drilling. Oh, the wretched drilling. And again, pain.
"Ow ow ow ow owwwwah."
"Still hurts huh?"
"Uh huh."
"Hmm."
So he then again went to town with that insidious, pointy dispenser of Novocaine, seemingly administering twice as many shots as the previous round. This time, he waited a little longer. Finally, the drilling began with no pain. I was, however, numb for a solid 24 hours, rather than the usual 2 or 3. At that point, I vowed never to return to the dentist so long as I lived.
Now, 8 years later, I have realized the folly of that decision. Even though I brush my teeth religiously, I probably have all manner of little creatures dwelling in caves in my teeth. I have such an intense fear of needles, that I am terrified to go back. Lack of dental insurance has served as a good excuse in the past, but I now must face up to my fears, and probably go get a mouth full of silver.
I will bury those little creatures with copper, mercury, and silver-tin alloy, right along with my fears. I can't, however, promise not to cry while doing it.
I recently found out that I have dental insurance. It's time to pay the piper.
I feel though, that I have a rational and explainable fear of the dentist. When I was a young man growing up, I would go get orally worked upon by a stone age caveman witch doctor who had somehow miraculously been granted the appellation "dentist."
I must preface this by saying that I did have 1 good dental experience. That particular time they cranked up the nitrous oxide. Being in a terror induced state of hyperventilation, I sucked a pretty stellar amount of that gas into my lungs and, consequently, my brain. I never enjoyed being drilled upon so much. I was pretty high.
So, 8 years ago, after that previous legal drug induced high, I was rather looking forward to the dentist.
The first problem occurred when the nurse, despite my desperate pleadings, would not crank up the gas high enough to have the magical affects of the previous visit. Perhaps it was the shaking, and the begging for "just a little stronger hit," that made her wary.
So in came Dr. ham fisted neanderthal to apply the Novocaine. My eyes watered as he ruthlessly and repeatedly stabbed that needle all over my gums. That finally over, he sat there for what seemed to be a really inadequate amount of time for the numbness to kick in, and then began drilling. Instant pain shot through my jaw, as that tiny little drill began to penetrate the sensitive enamel of my tooth. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow owwww."
"Oh. Does that hurt still?"
"No shit," I didn't say.
"Uh huh."
Because that is all one really can say when his mouth is being held open by a metal clamp.
So, then began another round of shots. Again, followed by another inadequate waiting period. And then the drilling. Oh, the wretched drilling. And again, pain.
"Ow ow ow ow owwwwah."
"Still hurts huh?"
"Uh huh."
"Hmm."
So he then again went to town with that insidious, pointy dispenser of Novocaine, seemingly administering twice as many shots as the previous round. This time, he waited a little longer. Finally, the drilling began with no pain. I was, however, numb for a solid 24 hours, rather than the usual 2 or 3. At that point, I vowed never to return to the dentist so long as I lived.
Now, 8 years later, I have realized the folly of that decision. Even though I brush my teeth religiously, I probably have all manner of little creatures dwelling in caves in my teeth. I have such an intense fear of needles, that I am terrified to go back. Lack of dental insurance has served as a good excuse in the past, but I now must face up to my fears, and probably go get a mouth full of silver.
I will bury those little creatures with copper, mercury, and silver-tin alloy, right along with my fears. I can't, however, promise not to cry while doing it.
22.2.09
Happiness comes in pairs
I think this would be the longest period of time I have been blogularly dormant. I guess I have been busy? I have been working a lot? I think the main culprit, would be a feeling of rather intense stupidity that has overcome me, due to a book I have been reading.
It has been a really long time since I read a book that completely confounded me. Or one which contains various words per page with which I am unfamiliar, or of which I am completely ignorant the definition. I mean, if I were reading a book about psychology, or sciences, I would expect such a thing. But not from a history book.
I found myself reading entire paragraphs, and after the fact having absolutely no idea what the hell I just read. Seriously, does anybody really use the word animus anymore?
So I think really what I am trying to say here, is that this book has killed my mind, and sucked all of the creative life out of me.
On a completely unrelated note, I have recently realized that I have an addiction, and I just might need an intervention. As a putative fashion snob, I have allowed myself to descend into the rather monetarily deleterious habit of constant, impetuous jean purchases. If ever I try on a pair of expensive jeans that look good and happen to be on sale for 30 dollars or less, I buy them. End of story. This has caused me to amass a collection of at least 24 pairs of jeans. I always just need one more pair of dark jeans. Or just one more pair of blue jeans.
Thinking about this over the last week or so has served simply to elucidate the fact that I am a vain individual. Or am I? Perhaps I simply have a love of jeans. Is that so bad?
One of the most ridiculous things about it, is the fact that I generally wear the same 2 or 3 pairs of jeans most of the time. Although, as I purchase new jeans those 2 or 3 pairs change. I guess I just like to think that if I ever decided not to wear the same jeans 4 days in a row, I could go for 24 days and not ever double up. That makes me feel safe.
I suppose I have always been fashion conscious to a certain extent. But it is interesting to me how I have had a slight paradigm shift over the last few years. A couple of years ago, the thought of being seen wearing the same thing in 2 separate weeks mortified me. I would wake up to get ready for school, and after making the clothing selection for the day, would wrack my brain to try to determine if I had worn those articles at any time during the previous 12-14 days. Now, I have 5 times as many clothing options as I ever had, and I wear virtually the same things over and over. Think I care?
Does anybody really care? As long as something looks good, I don't care how often a person wears it. I only really notice when someone wears something really terrible over and over again. Am I gay?
Do I need help?
It has been a really long time since I read a book that completely confounded me. Or one which contains various words per page with which I am unfamiliar, or of which I am completely ignorant the definition. I mean, if I were reading a book about psychology, or sciences, I would expect such a thing. But not from a history book.
I found myself reading entire paragraphs, and after the fact having absolutely no idea what the hell I just read. Seriously, does anybody really use the word animus anymore?
So I think really what I am trying to say here, is that this book has killed my mind, and sucked all of the creative life out of me.
On a completely unrelated note, I have recently realized that I have an addiction, and I just might need an intervention. As a putative fashion snob, I have allowed myself to descend into the rather monetarily deleterious habit of constant, impetuous jean purchases. If ever I try on a pair of expensive jeans that look good and happen to be on sale for 30 dollars or less, I buy them. End of story. This has caused me to amass a collection of at least 24 pairs of jeans. I always just need one more pair of dark jeans. Or just one more pair of blue jeans.
Thinking about this over the last week or so has served simply to elucidate the fact that I am a vain individual. Or am I? Perhaps I simply have a love of jeans. Is that so bad?
One of the most ridiculous things about it, is the fact that I generally wear the same 2 or 3 pairs of jeans most of the time. Although, as I purchase new jeans those 2 or 3 pairs change. I guess I just like to think that if I ever decided not to wear the same jeans 4 days in a row, I could go for 24 days and not ever double up. That makes me feel safe.
I suppose I have always been fashion conscious to a certain extent. But it is interesting to me how I have had a slight paradigm shift over the last few years. A couple of years ago, the thought of being seen wearing the same thing in 2 separate weeks mortified me. I would wake up to get ready for school, and after making the clothing selection for the day, would wrack my brain to try to determine if I had worn those articles at any time during the previous 12-14 days. Now, I have 5 times as many clothing options as I ever had, and I wear virtually the same things over and over. Think I care?
Does anybody really care? As long as something looks good, I don't care how often a person wears it. I only really notice when someone wears something really terrible over and over again. Am I gay?
Do I need help?
13.2.09
Valentine's day mcnuggets
I think the last time that I really looked forward to Valentines day, was in grade school when we got to make giant heart shaped sacks, hang them from the front of our desks, and await the Valentines to pour in. I mean, what kid didn't feel loved, being bombarded with all manner of tiny photos of Power Rangers, Ninja Turtles, Barbies, Care Bears, and a plethora of other cartoon/toy characters proclaiming their love? Signed by Tommy, or Ashley, or Randy.
It was always so great, every girl and boy in the class desiring me to be their Valentine.
Why has that changed? I mean, not that I want boys to give me Valentines. But why are there not hordes of females proclaiming their love to me through novelty pictures and printed candy messages? I think I am infinitely more attractive now than I was during the grade school years. Baffling.
I mean, common. Right? RIGHT??
Now, instead of being showered with gifts of love, I get to serve food for 12 hours tomorrow, and feel really good about being alone.
If I don't make 200 dollars, I am going to throw myself off a bridge. Probably an overpass, since there are not truly viable suicide water bridges in Utah.
On a random side note, I wish that on Valentines day, McDonald's would print love messages on the chicken Mc'Nuggets. Except for, I would want them to be printed underneath the breading. I can just imagine the excitement one would feel upon skinning the nugget with one's teeth, and then holding that quivering little conglomerate of various chicken meats in one's hand, and reading "Ronald Loves You," dyed in red upon the pasty white nugget flesh.
Happy V day. I mean, tomorrow.
It was always so great, every girl and boy in the class desiring me to be their Valentine.
Why has that changed? I mean, not that I want boys to give me Valentines. But why are there not hordes of females proclaiming their love to me through novelty pictures and printed candy messages? I think I am infinitely more attractive now than I was during the grade school years. Baffling.
I mean, common. Right? RIGHT??
Now, instead of being showered with gifts of love, I get to serve food for 12 hours tomorrow, and feel really good about being alone.
If I don't make 200 dollars, I am going to throw myself off a bridge. Probably an overpass, since there are not truly viable suicide water bridges in Utah.
On a random side note, I wish that on Valentines day, McDonald's would print love messages on the chicken Mc'Nuggets. Except for, I would want them to be printed underneath the breading. I can just imagine the excitement one would feel upon skinning the nugget with one's teeth, and then holding that quivering little conglomerate of various chicken meats in one's hand, and reading "Ronald Loves You," dyed in red upon the pasty white nugget flesh.
Happy V day. I mean, tomorrow.
9.2.09
A kingdom lost
I haven't even turned on my computer since Friday, which I think might be a recent record for me. If I wasn't sitting in bed at noon, undressed and having skipped my class because I forgot to read, typing on said computer, I would pat myself on the back.
On Thursday night I went to a BYU class taught by Brandon Sanderson. In case you are not a science fiction/fantasy geek, (which you most likely aren't) Sanderson is a pretty big deal in the current world of literary nerdery. In fact, he was asked to finish the Wheel of Time series by the late Robert Jordan's wife and publisher. Which, considering it has sold over 40 million copies, and it's the 12th book in the series, blah blah blah, he isn't just your average professor teaching at the Lord's university.
He's a big freaking deal.
He is teaching a class on how to write science fiction/fantasy. I decided to go listen after hearing about it from a friend. While sitting there awaiting his arrival, it was interesting observing the people gathering in the class. They were pretty much everything you would expect from a group of aspiring fantasy authors; World of Warcraft "Horde" t-shirts, lots of cargo jeans, jet black button up shirts, and plenty of greasy hair parted down the middle. A literal hoard of nerdery, if you will.
I don't think I have ever been surrounded by that many people, and felt really confident that I was the most attractive person in the room. In fact I never have, as I don't consider myself to be too far beyond average. I certainly was the only one wearing clothing not purchased from Hot Topic/Mervyn's.
When Mr. Sanderson finally showed up, he was also just about what I had expected; hair parted down the middle with the "wet look," a weird fitting sweater thing that made his body appear somewhat akin to a pear, and quite possibly the most ill fitting jeans I have ever seen a person wear. I don't know if I could have trusted a fantasy author vested any other way.
I guess even when a nerd at heart becomes filthy rich, the nerdery can not be cleansed from his sweet, nerdy heart.
It was wonderful listening to people asking questions about building races of elves, how to create fight scenes, and how to write about dwarves and halflings and keep it original.
Secretly, I loved all of it. I don't care what anybody thinks; I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the science fiction/fantasy genre of literature. I will never, however, have a soft spot for World of Warcraft. Which, unfortunately, precludes me from becoming their king and liaison with the normal world.
On Thursday night I went to a BYU class taught by Brandon Sanderson. In case you are not a science fiction/fantasy geek, (which you most likely aren't) Sanderson is a pretty big deal in the current world of literary nerdery. In fact, he was asked to finish the Wheel of Time series by the late Robert Jordan's wife and publisher. Which, considering it has sold over 40 million copies, and it's the 12th book in the series, blah blah blah, he isn't just your average professor teaching at the Lord's university.
He's a big freaking deal.
He is teaching a class on how to write science fiction/fantasy. I decided to go listen after hearing about it from a friend. While sitting there awaiting his arrival, it was interesting observing the people gathering in the class. They were pretty much everything you would expect from a group of aspiring fantasy authors; World of Warcraft "Horde" t-shirts, lots of cargo jeans, jet black button up shirts, and plenty of greasy hair parted down the middle. A literal hoard of nerdery, if you will.
I don't think I have ever been surrounded by that many people, and felt really confident that I was the most attractive person in the room. In fact I never have, as I don't consider myself to be too far beyond average. I certainly was the only one wearing clothing not purchased from Hot Topic/Mervyn's.
When Mr. Sanderson finally showed up, he was also just about what I had expected; hair parted down the middle with the "wet look," a weird fitting sweater thing that made his body appear somewhat akin to a pear, and quite possibly the most ill fitting jeans I have ever seen a person wear. I don't know if I could have trusted a fantasy author vested any other way.
I guess even when a nerd at heart becomes filthy rich, the nerdery can not be cleansed from his sweet, nerdy heart.
It was wonderful listening to people asking questions about building races of elves, how to create fight scenes, and how to write about dwarves and halflings and keep it original.
Secretly, I loved all of it. I don't care what anybody thinks; I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the science fiction/fantasy genre of literature. I will never, however, have a soft spot for World of Warcraft. Which, unfortunately, precludes me from becoming their king and liaison with the normal world.
5.2.09
Damn you barak obama
The minuscule amount of belly hair that I have is currently being sucked into my laptop fan, causing a rather unique and nerve wracking sensation. It tickles, yet I am filled with fear that if I breathe too deep, too much will suddenly be sucked in, causing the fan to seize up, possibly ripping out a painful portion of that useless man hair.
On a sad note, one of my most favorite dessert eateries has closed its doors. Today, Amanda, Colin, and I were craving Pudding on the Rice. Which, was pretty much exactly like what it sounded; an establishment dedicated entirely to unique and delicious rice pudding concoctions. As Javier (my black Honda civic with euro tail lights) neared said establishment, I screamed a cry of terrible, primal anguish upon seeing all the lights shut off. Pudding on the Rice had been reduced to nothing more than one more hollowed out shell next to a Lan party. How the Lan party (a place where the nerds of the world gather to indulge in all manner of digital nerdery i.e. World of Warcraft)can survive while a place providing the most exquisite of mouthgasims imaginable goes under is simply beyond me. Never again shall Raspberry Rousseau grace my palate with its sweet, decadent goodness.
Damn you economy!
Also, damn you Pudding on the Rice for placing your establishment in at least the 3rd shittiest location for any business in Provo.
And last of all, damn you Barak Obama for not bailing out Pudding on the Rice before she sank into the bitter depths of bankruptcy, from whence no pudding shall ever return.
I just want my Raspberry Rousseau. I NEED IT.
On a sad note, one of my most favorite dessert eateries has closed its doors. Today, Amanda, Colin, and I were craving Pudding on the Rice. Which, was pretty much exactly like what it sounded; an establishment dedicated entirely to unique and delicious rice pudding concoctions. As Javier (my black Honda civic with euro tail lights) neared said establishment, I screamed a cry of terrible, primal anguish upon seeing all the lights shut off. Pudding on the Rice had been reduced to nothing more than one more hollowed out shell next to a Lan party. How the Lan party (a place where the nerds of the world gather to indulge in all manner of digital nerdery i.e. World of Warcraft)can survive while a place providing the most exquisite of mouthgasims imaginable goes under is simply beyond me. Never again shall Raspberry Rousseau grace my palate with its sweet, decadent goodness.
Damn you economy!
Also, damn you Pudding on the Rice for placing your establishment in at least the 3rd shittiest location for any business in Provo.
And last of all, damn you Barak Obama for not bailing out Pudding on the Rice before she sank into the bitter depths of bankruptcy, from whence no pudding shall ever return.
I just want my Raspberry Rousseau. I NEED IT.
1.2.09
Thanks pantene pro-v
The woman in the light blue dress in the center of the photo may not have been in Carrabbas tonight, but her hair sure was.
A couple of husbands and several wives patronized our establishment this evening. If such a thing can be believed, the woman eating in Carrabbas had an even more intense wave than the girl with the uni-brow here. I don't know how they get so much volume. She could have had an entire covey of pigeons living in there and I'd have been none the wiser.
A polygamous covey.
29.1.09
Magic in the water
Upon reading a friend's post, I began to reminisce about classic skating. It is strange to think about how expensive things seemed to be when I was young. I could rarely afford the 3 dollar admission to get in to classic skating. Mostly because, when one is 10-13 years old, one must rely upon the mercies of one's parents for any monetary allowance. I recall my parents being somewhat parsimonious when it came to an allowance. My friends would all get paid for mowing the lawn, but I never did.
It is funny to me that skating around in a circle over and over again for like...7 hours is appealing to anyone. I guess the highly anticipated moment when the lights would suddenly turn green, and then Green Day's "When I Come Around" would come on made it all worth while. And "Cotton Eye Joe."
Actually, what really made Classic skating so great, was the couples and snowball skates. Being a rather stellar nerd, I really had no hope of ever "going with" a girl during my tenure as a junior high student. "Going with," being the term for dating. And by dating, I mean possibly holding a female's hand in the halls at school during lunch, and probably talking on the phone. And maybe even meeting at Classic.
So in anticipation of approximately 12-15 minutes of basically forced hand holding, I would don my coolest t-shirt (probably a "No Rules," or perhaps a nice flannel) and the baggiest jeans my mother would let me wear (likely High-Sierras, or Levi's if I was lucky,) and throw a chain on my wallet. I would make sure my hair was parted in a perfect line, like an ass crack right down the middle of my head.
And of course, I would leave my glasses at home. Because what girl is going to want to skate with some loser with glasses?
I think one of the most interesting things about the couples skates, is that I am fairly certain that I never once talked to nor interacted with a girl after I skated with her. It was like there was some unwritten law, or mystical barrier which barred ex-couples skaters from talking to one another or having any further interaction, besides that of mingling hand sweat to Bryan Adams. And what on earth does one at that age talk to a girl about? "Hey, I'm Andy. I like rollerblading, medieval Lego's, Super Mario and Zelda, and now that I'm in 7th grade, I'm really good at swearing. What kinda damn shit do you like to do?"
I remember one occasion in which my mother picked me up early from Classic. We were all going to a family movie. It was called "Magic in the Water." Of course, I had neglected to wear my glasses, in an attempt to procure my Classic skating soul mate through deception. No way was I going to find her with those wretched gold-rimmed glasses. To this day, I have always wondered just what exactly the magic in the water was. I couldn't see, it was all blurry. Also, how my father was convinced to see that film. What a trooper.
Wait. I just looked it up. There is a picture of a little girl serenely posed upon a giant dinosaur's head, protruding out of a lake. She looks very contemplative. The size of the full moon in the back ground is just preposterous.
It is funny to me that skating around in a circle over and over again for like...7 hours is appealing to anyone. I guess the highly anticipated moment when the lights would suddenly turn green, and then Green Day's "When I Come Around" would come on made it all worth while. And "Cotton Eye Joe."
Actually, what really made Classic skating so great, was the couples and snowball skates. Being a rather stellar nerd, I really had no hope of ever "going with" a girl during my tenure as a junior high student. "Going with," being the term for dating. And by dating, I mean possibly holding a female's hand in the halls at school during lunch, and probably talking on the phone. And maybe even meeting at Classic.
So in anticipation of approximately 12-15 minutes of basically forced hand holding, I would don my coolest t-shirt (probably a "No Rules," or perhaps a nice flannel) and the baggiest jeans my mother would let me wear (likely High-Sierras, or Levi's if I was lucky,) and throw a chain on my wallet. I would make sure my hair was parted in a perfect line, like an ass crack right down the middle of my head.
And of course, I would leave my glasses at home. Because what girl is going to want to skate with some loser with glasses?
I think one of the most interesting things about the couples skates, is that I am fairly certain that I never once talked to nor interacted with a girl after I skated with her. It was like there was some unwritten law, or mystical barrier which barred ex-couples skaters from talking to one another or having any further interaction, besides that of mingling hand sweat to Bryan Adams. And what on earth does one at that age talk to a girl about? "Hey, I'm Andy. I like rollerblading, medieval Lego's, Super Mario and Zelda, and now that I'm in 7th grade, I'm really good at swearing. What kinda damn shit do you like to do?"
I remember one occasion in which my mother picked me up early from Classic. We were all going to a family movie. It was called "Magic in the Water." Of course, I had neglected to wear my glasses, in an attempt to procure my Classic skating soul mate through deception. No way was I going to find her with those wretched gold-rimmed glasses. To this day, I have always wondered just what exactly the magic in the water was. I couldn't see, it was all blurry. Also, how my father was convinced to see that film. What a trooper.
Wait. I just looked it up. There is a picture of a little girl serenely posed upon a giant dinosaur's head, protruding out of a lake. She looks very contemplative. The size of the full moon in the back ground is just preposterous.
25.1.09
Save us obama, from ourselves
There are two things that I really wish would go away.
First, flare jeans. I am astounded by the number of women still wearing that horrendous cut of jean. Please, please for the love of Zeus stop wearing them. I understand that the skinny cut isn't for everyone. But the flare is just down right disgusting. Please girls of the world, if you can't do the skinny, at least wear jeans that fit, with a straight leg. I was walking through the mall yesterday, and the flare was everywhere. I would see packs of girls meandering about, wearing a variety of different jeans. The baggy flare jeans clad females just looked so sloppy. And if you must insist upon wearing them, at least put on something other than cross trainers. Have a little dignity.
I guess on that note, I also really wish the Buckle would go away. I think I die a little inside very time I see someone wearing True Religion jeans, or an Affliction t-shirt. Whenever I pass that store, I just laugh incredulously at the people rifling through the black button up shirts with the huge fuzzy crosses on the back. Or trying on jeans covered in pre-fab holes with a flaming dragon embroidered on the ass. I guess I am just mostly astounded at the prices people are paying for this garbage. To each his own, I suppose.
I was talking about the "Buckle" fashion with a friend at work who is from Mexico. He has pretty great style. We were trying to figure out what to call a person who decks himself out in such clothing, and all we could come up with was a "Mexican sweet bro."
With all of the great music coming out around the world on a weekly—nay—daily basis, I can't understand why anyone is still choosing to listen to Axle Rose's disgusting voice. So, Axle Rose is really the second thing I wish would just go away. I can appreciate Guns and Roses for what it was back in the 80's and early 90's. I can even understand why people who were old enough during that time to be into them still listen to them. What I can't understand, however, are the new fans. Like, the 22 year old guy in my house who is still "getting the Axle out" multiple times per week. His voice crinkles my spine.
Flare jeans, and Axle Rose. And, I suppose, the Buckle. If those three things would but fall off the face of the earth, I think the world would be a much better place. In fact, had Obama included those three items in his presidential "to do" list, I'd not have pissed my vote away on Bob Barr.
Neat.
Disgusting.
What was I talking about, this is awesome. Well worth 200 dollars.
First, flare jeans. I am astounded by the number of women still wearing that horrendous cut of jean. Please, please for the love of Zeus stop wearing them. I understand that the skinny cut isn't for everyone. But the flare is just down right disgusting. Please girls of the world, if you can't do the skinny, at least wear jeans that fit, with a straight leg. I was walking through the mall yesterday, and the flare was everywhere. I would see packs of girls meandering about, wearing a variety of different jeans. The baggy flare jeans clad females just looked so sloppy. And if you must insist upon wearing them, at least put on something other than cross trainers. Have a little dignity.
I guess on that note, I also really wish the Buckle would go away. I think I die a little inside very time I see someone wearing True Religion jeans, or an Affliction t-shirt. Whenever I pass that store, I just laugh incredulously at the people rifling through the black button up shirts with the huge fuzzy crosses on the back. Or trying on jeans covered in pre-fab holes with a flaming dragon embroidered on the ass. I guess I am just mostly astounded at the prices people are paying for this garbage. To each his own, I suppose.
I was talking about the "Buckle" fashion with a friend at work who is from Mexico. He has pretty great style. We were trying to figure out what to call a person who decks himself out in such clothing, and all we could come up with was a "Mexican sweet bro."
With all of the great music coming out around the world on a weekly—nay—daily basis, I can't understand why anyone is still choosing to listen to Axle Rose's disgusting voice. So, Axle Rose is really the second thing I wish would just go away. I can appreciate Guns and Roses for what it was back in the 80's and early 90's. I can even understand why people who were old enough during that time to be into them still listen to them. What I can't understand, however, are the new fans. Like, the 22 year old guy in my house who is still "getting the Axle out" multiple times per week. His voice crinkles my spine.
Flare jeans, and Axle Rose. And, I suppose, the Buckle. If those three things would but fall off the face of the earth, I think the world would be a much better place. In fact, had Obama included those three items in his presidential "to do" list, I'd not have pissed my vote away on Bob Barr.
Neat.
Disgusting.
What was I talking about, this is awesome. Well worth 200 dollars.
19.1.09
Death in a box
I count myself, at the very least, a moderately intelligent human being. So I should have probably deduced that a boxed meal called "Hamburger Helper," whose mascot is a disembodied hand with a face, could probably not be rendered tasty by any changes that I might employ.
I purchased a new George Foreman on account of my old one being constantly and irreparably infected with months of unwashed beef cookings. First, it was the Destroyer, and now someone else has taken up his standard of leaving noxious beef remnants all over my poor Foreman. (On a side note, it seems that the beef eaters are always the ones who refuse to clean their cow drizzlings. Chicken eaters seem to clean up after themselves.)
So, I purchased the new one and told the person I thought was responsible for all of the Foreman beef sludge that the new one was a chicken only device. So today I arose, and the new Foreman was covered in coagulated cow fat. I was pissed, because I wanted to do something with chicken.
I had 2 boxes of Hamburger Helper that have been rotting on my shelf for the last 8 months, which I inherited from Andre when he moved back to Reno. Never one to just randomly buy a lb of hamburger, and thinking that someday I might just grow desperate enough to eat said boxed meals, I never used them nor threw them away. So today I thought that perhaps if I used chicken instead of beef, the meal might be rendered more tasty. Chicken is always an upgrade from hamburger. And pasta, chicken, and cheese sauce...how could that be a bad idea?
Since the Foreman was filthy, I had to resort to using a microwave to thaw, and then a skillet to cook the chicken. Ultimately, the sauce was disgusting, and the chicken was like eating rubber cubes, and sort of tasted like tuna. Rubber tuna cubes, pasta, and a disgusting cheese sauce. Again, I don't know why I expected any different.
I guess I learned that when a meal is already potentially disgusting, adding a healthier ingredient won't magically cause it to be delicious, and will in all actuality probably render the meal even more disgusting. Hamburger Helper was engineered to be unhealthy and full of red meat. I was a fool for trying to make it otherwise.
I would have felt guilty feeding that to a homeless person, so instead shoved it down the gullet of the garbage disposal. I almost felt bad doing even that, as the rotting, mephitic refuse that I normally stuff down there is a definite step up from the death in a box upon which I wasted a pound of chicken.
I purchased a new George Foreman on account of my old one being constantly and irreparably infected with months of unwashed beef cookings. First, it was the Destroyer, and now someone else has taken up his standard of leaving noxious beef remnants all over my poor Foreman. (On a side note, it seems that the beef eaters are always the ones who refuse to clean their cow drizzlings. Chicken eaters seem to clean up after themselves.)
So, I purchased the new one and told the person I thought was responsible for all of the Foreman beef sludge that the new one was a chicken only device. So today I arose, and the new Foreman was covered in coagulated cow fat. I was pissed, because I wanted to do something with chicken.
I had 2 boxes of Hamburger Helper that have been rotting on my shelf for the last 8 months, which I inherited from Andre when he moved back to Reno. Never one to just randomly buy a lb of hamburger, and thinking that someday I might just grow desperate enough to eat said boxed meals, I never used them nor threw them away. So today I thought that perhaps if I used chicken instead of beef, the meal might be rendered more tasty. Chicken is always an upgrade from hamburger. And pasta, chicken, and cheese sauce...how could that be a bad idea?
Since the Foreman was filthy, I had to resort to using a microwave to thaw, and then a skillet to cook the chicken. Ultimately, the sauce was disgusting, and the chicken was like eating rubber cubes, and sort of tasted like tuna. Rubber tuna cubes, pasta, and a disgusting cheese sauce. Again, I don't know why I expected any different.
I guess I learned that when a meal is already potentially disgusting, adding a healthier ingredient won't magically cause it to be delicious, and will in all actuality probably render the meal even more disgusting. Hamburger Helper was engineered to be unhealthy and full of red meat. I was a fool for trying to make it otherwise.
I would have felt guilty feeding that to a homeless person, so instead shoved it down the gullet of the garbage disposal. I almost felt bad doing even that, as the rotting, mephitic refuse that I normally stuff down there is a definite step up from the death in a box upon which I wasted a pound of chicken.
18.1.09
Great things to say from the pulpit
I think that when one is speaking in church, it is a pretty bad idea to say, "So you guys are probably gonna think I'm retarded but..." at any time. One should, as a general rule, probably avoid words such as "retard," or "blows" or "a-hole" at the pulpit (I have heard all of these at one time or another.) But one should especially not say "retard" when there are most definitely no fewer than 7 actual mentally retarded people in the congregation.
So, so awkward.
Oh, and then go on to give an exceedingly incoherent 20 minute talk about...something.
On an unrelated, and rather pitiful note, it would appear that I threw my back out last night making an Italian soda. Oh yes friends, an Italian soda. Wtf. Am I an 80 year old man? Because I certainly feel like one. There must have been something that I did to lead up to it. I mean, the simple act of making an Italian soda and then extending my arm out in an awkward, stretched out fashion could not have been what caused a sudden, horrible pinching feeling to occur in my lower spinal column. I just can't figure out what it could have been.
Except for some awkward church time, I have spent the day lying upon my back, hoping my spine will fix itself in some miraculous fashion. I have to make a living, and I don't think Carrabbas will give me workers comp for throwing out my back while making a bar drink, nevermind the heavy, ice filled glass, the difficult flavor pumping, and then having to extend my arm perfectly perpendicular from my body to place said heavy drink where it might be accessible to my fellow employees. I think I was lifting with my back, rather than my legs. What a retarded thing to do.
So, so awkward.
Oh, and then go on to give an exceedingly incoherent 20 minute talk about...something.
On an unrelated, and rather pitiful note, it would appear that I threw my back out last night making an Italian soda. Oh yes friends, an Italian soda. Wtf. Am I an 80 year old man? Because I certainly feel like one. There must have been something that I did to lead up to it. I mean, the simple act of making an Italian soda and then extending my arm out in an awkward, stretched out fashion could not have been what caused a sudden, horrible pinching feeling to occur in my lower spinal column. I just can't figure out what it could have been.
Except for some awkward church time, I have spent the day lying upon my back, hoping my spine will fix itself in some miraculous fashion. I have to make a living, and I don't think Carrabbas will give me workers comp for throwing out my back while making a bar drink, nevermind the heavy, ice filled glass, the difficult flavor pumping, and then having to extend my arm perfectly perpendicular from my body to place said heavy drink where it might be accessible to my fellow employees. I think I was lifting with my back, rather than my legs. What a retarded thing to do.
14.1.09
Yes, that is a statement
I'm sort of disappointed in poofs.
I've gone my whole life using bar soap. Rarely have I employed the scrubbing power of a rag. Only when I have been super grimy. Which is rare. Because I avoid grime at all costs.
But I've always been somewhat fascinated by the shower poof, and the idea that one would use that in lieu of a bar of soap. First, am I getting comparable cleaning power from a tiny bit of liquid soap, worked into an almost endless supply of lather? Or does rubbing the actual bar of soap on my body act as a far superior cleaning mechanism? Is there sufficient germ/odor killing power in the lather?
I always hate it when I am visiting someone's house, and all they have is body wash and a poof. I guess I feel less violated sharing a bar of soap, than using a hunk of cloth that has been rubbed who knows where, and has consequentially stored who knows what bodily filth. So I always end up using half of the host's bottle of body wash, since I can't use their poof. It's like washing oneself with pump hand soap. Ridiculous.
I was at Andre's house in Reno, and they had this Dove body wash. Really, the only time I have ever not been pissed about having to hand wash myself with body wash; it smelled really really great. So I decided to give up the bar, and go with the poof and the Dove body wash.
I'll have to say that overall, I am disappointed. Washing my armpits with lather from a poof, rather than with the actual bar of soap itself feels rather sub par. I don't become as slippery. I like feeling slippery, and then not. I feel like if I become slippery, and then rinse the slipperyness away, the ensuing post slippery feeling indicates cleanliness. Lather just isn't as slippery.
What the hell am I even writing about.
I've gone my whole life using bar soap. Rarely have I employed the scrubbing power of a rag. Only when I have been super grimy. Which is rare. Because I avoid grime at all costs.
But I've always been somewhat fascinated by the shower poof, and the idea that one would use that in lieu of a bar of soap. First, am I getting comparable cleaning power from a tiny bit of liquid soap, worked into an almost endless supply of lather? Or does rubbing the actual bar of soap on my body act as a far superior cleaning mechanism? Is there sufficient germ/odor killing power in the lather?
I always hate it when I am visiting someone's house, and all they have is body wash and a poof. I guess I feel less violated sharing a bar of soap, than using a hunk of cloth that has been rubbed who knows where, and has consequentially stored who knows what bodily filth. So I always end up using half of the host's bottle of body wash, since I can't use their poof. It's like washing oneself with pump hand soap. Ridiculous.
I was at Andre's house in Reno, and they had this Dove body wash. Really, the only time I have ever not been pissed about having to hand wash myself with body wash; it smelled really really great. So I decided to give up the bar, and go with the poof and the Dove body wash.
I'll have to say that overall, I am disappointed. Washing my armpits with lather from a poof, rather than with the actual bar of soap itself feels rather sub par. I don't become as slippery. I like feeling slippery, and then not. I feel like if I become slippery, and then rinse the slipperyness away, the ensuing post slippery feeling indicates cleanliness. Lather just isn't as slippery.
What the hell am I even writing about.
12.1.09
Poor nesting locations
This just baffles the hell out of me.
Of all the places to store one's toothbrush...I can't imagine a more filthy location. And this isn't some random fluke; I have witnessed this occurrence many times throughout my college life. There is always at least one roommate that doesn't mind leaving his toothbrush in the most deplorable of locations. The sink has got to be (almost) the most filthy part of an unclean bathroom. Layers upon layers of spittle, caked all over the place. Remnants of toilet matter that is ejected into the bathroom atmosphere each time the toilet is flushed, all to come floating down to gently land upon the sink/toothbrush.
I guess the most confusing part, are the ubiquitous safe toothbrush storing locations that exist in any given bathroom, and that a person would choose to use none of them. I mean, if it comes down to it, store it in your room (which is actually what I do.) I started thinking one day about how the small shelf where I was laying my toothbrush had previously nested countless other toothbrushes over the last 400 years that this house has been in existence. I shuddered to think about the layers upon layers of previous tenant's dried mouth juices in which my toothbrush was wallowing. Plus I heard that on myth busters, they proved true that no matter where one places one's toothbrush in a bathroom, said toothbrush never entirely escapes the toilet germ ejaculation.
So maybe I'm a little germ conscious. I am much better than I used to be. Before I lived in Argentina, I would never under any circumstance touch a piece of raw meat. I had a deathly irrational fear of ecolli and salmonella. A piece of uncooked chicken would render me paralyzed with fear. Clean a toilet without gloves? Forget about it. Living in a country where people not only allowed their diseased, scab ridden, hairless dogs to live, but gave them an honored place in the home got me over my fear real quick. One can shake a hand that had previously been petting a diseased dog only so many times before getting slapped in the face by a raw chicken breast seems like no big deal.
So I guess what I am saying, is germs no longer terrify me. However I do have my limits, and leaving a toothbrush on the side of a filthy sink, open to all manner of hand wash splashing, spittings, and toilet sprayings does not fall within them.
9.1.09
Avoiding no dignity through anonymity (part VI i guess)
So every now and then I get verbally attacked on my blog by a hater. And pretty much always anonymously. So very brave of them/you. This morning around 7:45, my peaceful slumber was interrupted by a vibration in my bed. I checked my phone, wondering who was bothering me at that ungodly hour. Turns out it was an email from Mr. Blogger. He notifies me when someone leaves a comment on one of my posts. Every time I see the header "Anonymous" I try to throw up a mental barrier against the ensuing negative criticism. Here's what Mr/Mrs. Anonymous had to say concerning the post "No dignity."
"What would you like someone to do? Hit you? Hello, why don't you quit being such an ass. I don't know who you are, but just by reading your blogs, I can tell you are an ignorant ass. You probably think anyone that is not mormon is probably evil. GROW UP. Why don't you quit complaining about what other people do and worry about yourself. You should have been looking at this roundabout situation in an uplifting manner. LIke maybe you should have been nicer to the person. Especially since you said they must have been scared of the roundabout. Why don't you put other peoples feeling into consideration rather than being an ass to everyone you come into contact with. You know...maybe the guy just lost a loved one...and maybe he was having a hard time dealing with it...and then here you are...and ass that thinks they are better than that person...you are the one with no dignity...or maybe too much...you seem to be quite full of yourself. "
"Huh," I thought.
Then my phone vibrated a second time. Another Anonymous gem. This one, concerning the Gary Coleman post.
"Agian with being an ass...what has Gary Coleman ever done to you? Nothing...sounds like you have some major issues. You are going to be one of those people that die alone."
I was pretty amused. I was clearly dealing with a sensitive creature. I responded to the first, "'You probably think that anyone that is not mormon is probably evil,' just labeled you for the ignorant ass that you are.
In what way was I cruel to this person? I simply honked my horn, and he had the irrational reaction. By turning it into an uplifting situation, are you suggesting that I pulled over afterward, and shared with him a loving message about jesus/roundabout etiquette?
Listen. Dead loved one's, recently acquired STD's, a lost job, having been kicked in the groin less than a half an hour gone--never makes flipping the bird less silly or justified.
And I'll not even go into the sarcasm that you are apparently to daft to grasp. Mr/Mrs. Anonymous."
People do not think before they react. This anonymous person clearly validated my entire point about flipping the bird; people react irrationally. They then do (or in this case say) things without thinking them through first. By labeling me an ignorant ass, and saying many things with the intent to be hurtful, Anonymous has labeled his or herself a rather stellar hypocrite (not to mention sort of an ass.) How did Anonymous know that I wasn't having a bad day, or experiencing the death of a loved one when I was creating the post? Why, instead of telling me I was going to "die alone," did the ever so righteous and apparently helpful Anonymous turn it into an "uplifting situation?" And saying that I probably thought all non-Mormons to be evil is just absurd and ignorantly judgmental. Again, just a big bloody hypocrite.
My response to the Gary Coleman comment; "Man, lighten up. I can scarcely imagine the high strung, tightly wound, stiff behind these bravely anonymous comments.
You may be right though; being a 26 year old un married mormon means I have at least a 93% chance of remaining that way, as I sort of missed the early twenties marriage boat. Due to being an ignorant ass, you see."
I guess there will always be haters. I would love it if, just once, one of them would not do it anonymously. That way I could like...digitally flip them off or something.
"What would you like someone to do? Hit you? Hello, why don't you quit being such an ass. I don't know who you are, but just by reading your blogs, I can tell you are an ignorant ass. You probably think anyone that is not mormon is probably evil. GROW UP. Why don't you quit complaining about what other people do and worry about yourself. You should have been looking at this roundabout situation in an uplifting manner. LIke maybe you should have been nicer to the person. Especially since you said they must have been scared of the roundabout. Why don't you put other peoples feeling into consideration rather than being an ass to everyone you come into contact with. You know...maybe the guy just lost a loved one...and maybe he was having a hard time dealing with it...and then here you are...and ass that thinks they are better than that person...you are the one with no dignity...or maybe too much...you seem to be quite full of yourself. "
"Huh," I thought.
Then my phone vibrated a second time. Another Anonymous gem. This one, concerning the Gary Coleman post.
"Agian with being an ass...what has Gary Coleman ever done to you? Nothing...sounds like you have some major issues. You are going to be one of those people that die alone."
I was pretty amused. I was clearly dealing with a sensitive creature. I responded to the first, "'You probably think that anyone that is not mormon is probably evil,' just labeled you for the ignorant ass that you are.
In what way was I cruel to this person? I simply honked my horn, and he had the irrational reaction. By turning it into an uplifting situation, are you suggesting that I pulled over afterward, and shared with him a loving message about jesus/roundabout etiquette?
Listen. Dead loved one's, recently acquired STD's, a lost job, having been kicked in the groin less than a half an hour gone--never makes flipping the bird less silly or justified.
And I'll not even go into the sarcasm that you are apparently to daft to grasp. Mr/Mrs. Anonymous."
People do not think before they react. This anonymous person clearly validated my entire point about flipping the bird; people react irrationally. They then do (or in this case say) things without thinking them through first. By labeling me an ignorant ass, and saying many things with the intent to be hurtful, Anonymous has labeled his or herself a rather stellar hypocrite (not to mention sort of an ass.) How did Anonymous know that I wasn't having a bad day, or experiencing the death of a loved one when I was creating the post? Why, instead of telling me I was going to "die alone," did the ever so righteous and apparently helpful Anonymous turn it into an "uplifting situation?" And saying that I probably thought all non-Mormons to be evil is just absurd and ignorantly judgmental. Again, just a big bloody hypocrite.
My response to the Gary Coleman comment; "Man, lighten up. I can scarcely imagine the high strung, tightly wound, stiff behind these bravely anonymous comments.
You may be right though; being a 26 year old un married mormon means I have at least a 93% chance of remaining that way, as I sort of missed the early twenties marriage boat. Due to being an ignorant ass, you see."
I guess there will always be haters. I would love it if, just once, one of them would not do it anonymously. That way I could like...digitally flip them off or something.
6.1.09
No dignity part V
Really? I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to come across this as I was in Vegas, since there are so many insta-chapels in that town. I guess I just can't fathom why a person would want to be married in Vegas. It's like sort of putting a hex on the whole thing from the start. I mean, Vegas is the absolute symbol of say anything/do anything/no consequences/no parents/no fidelity/getting married here is a joke. I mean, the idea that a Vegas marriage is going to be long term and meaningful is somewhat laughable. I realize there are exceptions to the rule but...
Come on. Do you really want your wedding photos in front of the uber cliche welcome to Vegas sign? I mean, the girl has a dress, which means they thought about this decision for at least five minutes. Perhaps they should have devoted twenty...
No dignity.
5.1.09
Sniffings
Over the last week or so, I have been busy being other places. I'm going to have to say that snoogling/wrestling/jumping on the air mattress/story book time/giant Costco churro consumption/early morning yelling/arbitrary screaming with little cousin Dylan was my favorite part of the trip. I want a 1.5 year old.
I also really appreciated, while walking through China town, observing several Chinese folk digging their hands into sundry forms of dried sea product (mussels, fishlings, shrimp, etc.) and then shoving their noses into whatever they dug up. Early in the stroll, I passed a fruit stand with the most humongous, delicious looking red grapes I have ever seen. However, after observing the way that the Chinese shamelessly, with no regard for communicable disease, pick up everything with their hands and then shove their noses into it, I was glad I passed. Who knows what they were doing with the grapes. I simply can't fathom how one would desire to place one's nose any closer to those dried fish products than absolutely necessary. I'm a rather tall fellow, and 3-4 feet of nostril to fish product distance just wasn't cutting it. I don't know how China town hasn't been quarantined for a massive hepatitis out break.
Speaking of Asians, yesterday in church a really funny thing happened. There were some new Japanese students in the ward. There was a girl who was sitting about three rows in front of me. As church began, she whipped out her camcorder and started filming. I love being witness to the validation of stereotypes. Especially in church.
A few pictures for my parent's sake.
I also really appreciated, while walking through China town, observing several Chinese folk digging their hands into sundry forms of dried sea product (mussels, fishlings, shrimp, etc.) and then shoving their noses into whatever they dug up. Early in the stroll, I passed a fruit stand with the most humongous, delicious looking red grapes I have ever seen. However, after observing the way that the Chinese shamelessly, with no regard for communicable disease, pick up everything with their hands and then shove their noses into it, I was glad I passed. Who knows what they were doing with the grapes. I simply can't fathom how one would desire to place one's nose any closer to those dried fish products than absolutely necessary. I'm a rather tall fellow, and 3-4 feet of nostril to fish product distance just wasn't cutting it. I don't know how China town hasn't been quarantined for a massive hepatitis out break.
Speaking of Asians, yesterday in church a really funny thing happened. There were some new Japanese students in the ward. There was a girl who was sitting about three rows in front of me. As church began, she whipped out her camcorder and started filming. I love being witness to the validation of stereotypes. Especially in church.
A few pictures for my parent's sake.
1.1.09
Superficial discoveries
I'm sitting in San Francisco, waiting for Adam to get out of the bloody shower. I think my greatest discovery of the trip concerns the womenfolk of this town. Whereas New York has a seemingly disproportionate number of ridiculously gorgeous women as compared to every other place I have been, San Francisco seems to run the opposite direction. I am not saying that there are disproportionate levels of ridiculously ugly women here, only that the attractive female to unattractive female ratio seems to tip heavily towards the latter end.
I realize that attraction is relative, but I am speaking in a rather general, superficial sense. I walked/cycled all over that city yesterday, and only turned my head about 3 times. Not that I was on the prowl for attractive women, mind you. I am simply surprised that San Fran isn't teeming with head turners like New York. I though all cool cities were supposed to be that way. Like on TV. Perhaps the men fall into a similar ratio here; I am not certain. I tend to only check out men when they are with beautiful women, in order to superficially judge whether or not they are attractive enough to be with said beautiful women.
I guess my point is, I should really move here in order to remove a great deal of temptation in my life.
I realize that attraction is relative, but I am speaking in a rather general, superficial sense. I walked/cycled all over that city yesterday, and only turned my head about 3 times. Not that I was on the prowl for attractive women, mind you. I am simply surprised that San Fran isn't teeming with head turners like New York. I though all cool cities were supposed to be that way. Like on TV. Perhaps the men fall into a similar ratio here; I am not certain. I tend to only check out men when they are with beautiful women, in order to superficially judge whether or not they are attractive enough to be with said beautiful women.
I guess my point is, I should really move here in order to remove a great deal of temptation in my life.
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