TGIS

It’s Saturday and I’m awake at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. Yes, I know most of the world is up by now, but we Christians are supposed to be in the world, not of it. My heart is instantly contrite, but the alarm blaring six feet away is not mine, and it shows no remorse.

Josh rolls over and hits the snooze button like a saint. I hear Andrew make a few sleeping position adjustments in the bunk overhead. Two minutes later I’m the only one still awake. If Chris or Michael walked in and asked me what I planned to do today I’d probably say I have to find the flying basketball before the puppies go marching by. Incoherent, yet painfully awake.

The alarm goes off again, beckoning my roommates to join in my vigilant stupor.

Why Josh, why?

Josh rolls over and hits snooze a second time. The bunk shifts and creaks for a few seconds. Quiet. Awake.

The closed blinds over Josh’s bed are growing bright enough to read a book by, and I can sense my opportunity for ever falling back to sleep becoming smaller by the minute. So much pain from that side of the room. I turn my head. Can’t sleep. I pull the blanket over my eyes. Can’t breathe. I turn toward the opposite wall and search for a place to put my arms. That button is a liar.

The alarm starts beeping again, conveniently censoring my thoughts about the situation. This time I don’t look. I pretend to sleep, hoping to lose myself in the role.

Click. Creak.

Silence.

They don’t give Oscars for pretending to be asleep, but I give a stunning performance nonetheless. I’m like Ferris Bueller without the part where he sneaks out of the house. It’s so convincing I could set up Santa Clause for Punk’d. After a few minutes, I’m not even sure it’s an act anymore.

Apparently Josh’s alarm wants to play it safe. Again with the beeping. Again, Josh hits snooze. Andrew rolls over (again).

Silence returns. I find something soothing about the grain of the wood in the bunk above me, and I need soothing right now, so I stare at it and look for faces in the lines—calm, restful faces. It’s so quiet that I can hear the phone start ringing four feet away from my head.

Four feet: that’s closer to Josh than it is to me, but he’s not moving. I wish the phone were closer so I could throw it at him. I almost fall out of bed answering it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Josh there?”

Hmm… let me check.

“Uh… yeah, hang on a sec.” I don’t have to say anything more—my blessed roommate is already sitting up bright-eyed and reaching for the phone like he expected the call.

I’m not listening. I don’t want to know who is calling or why. I only hope that whoever it is wants Josh to come over right away and never come back.

After a few uh-huh’s and a couple all right’s he hangs up the phone and goes back to sleep. But not before turning his alarm off. It’s 8:45. I get out of bed. I’m not feeling very religious anyway.

It's just funny, that's all I'm saying

Sorry about the fuzzy picture. I guess I was laughing too much. This is inside a Rite-Aid in Idaho, just above the pharmacy I believe.

FRP, and if you don't know what that means, DET

I'm posting this only because it's freaking rad, which, incidentally, is the only reason I ever post anything on this site.

MSN Messenger Has Deteriorated...

into a place where Jesse "No Eye" tells me to go away.

Lot's of people used to tell me to go away on MSN Messenger.

This is a new level of lonely.

Spanish Alphabet Math

n + ~ = ñ ("~" is pronounced "yea!")

Let's use it "n" a sentence.

Aww Dip! Daddy bought puddñ.

I Ran Into an Old Classmate a Couple Days Ago

It reminded me of a funny story. We were in eighth grade science class learning the difference between organic and inorganic... the concepts in general. Someone whispered a question to a friend.

"No, the sun's not organic."

(a couple students snicker)

"Right, but... what is the sun made of?"

(someone says plasma, but no one knows what plasma is)

"The sun is made of superheated gasses—mostly hydrogen and helium," our teacher says.

"Oh," says my classmate in a flash of inspiration, "is that why the sun goes down at night, because it runs out of helium?"

Recipe for a Missing Friend

12 2½ inch abalone
1 tbsp. minced fresh ginger
12 oz. fresh spinach, cleaned, stemmed and patted dry
1 bunch fresh chives, cleaned and dried
4 sprigs fresh cilantro
4 fresh basil leaves
¼ cup chicken stock
¾ cup whipping cream
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. Chinese chili sauce
1 tbsp. cornstarch
1 tbsp. cold water
¼ cup butter, cubed
Fresh ground black pepper

After this I'm not really sure what to do. It sorta just happened. I guess maybe you could combine ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Preheat microwave to room temperature, then microwave ingredients on High for 5 1/2 - 6 1/2 minutes or until hot. Careful, let sit for 1 minute before singing "Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) harbor a death wish. (Help help) help, help, help yourself. Hip, hip, horrific are the words we sing. Hip, hip, horrific is our thing. Here's hoping you don't (hoping you don't) become a robot. (Help help) help, help, help, help help, help, help" (serving suggestion courtesy They Might Be Giants).

How to Become a Writer in Two Easy Steps.

It is no large etymological leap to say that writers are people who write. Sometimes I wonder if writing instuctors just say things like that to see how long they can keep a straight face. Surely they know that’s only half of the definition. It’s only common sense to include that, not only do writers write, writers refrain from deleting at least some portion of what they have written.

Sure, They're Cute When They're Little...

But mowing toddlers is a bit extreme, don't you think?

Oh, right.

The headache I've had all day today was caused by the fact that my glasses were dirty. I just cleaned them with dish soap and I'm reminded of what it's like to see. I wonder what it's like to see.