Note to Self # 2

Don't write poems after 10.

p.s. Don't write poems.

This Calls for a Dirty Limerick

I Once Knew a Girl in Marysville

I once knew a girl in Marysville
Who could walk the ridge of an old mill.
She went up for the view,
But she hadn’t a clue
That the workers saw more than her skill.

"I Knew a Girl in Marysville"

Today's word of the day: ridgepole

Definition: (noun) A horizontal beam at the ridge of a roof to which the rafters are attached.

Synonyms: rooftree, ridge

Usage: I knew a girl in Marysville who could walk the ridgepole of a roof.

I know this is a poem, but I'm not sure how it should go exactly.

"I knew a girl in Marysville
who could walk the ridgepole
of a roof."

"I knew a girl
in Marysville
who could walk
the ridgepole of a roof."

"I knew a girl in Marysville who
could walk the ridgepole of
a roof."

Something to think about, innit?
Sorry about all this, but I can explain...
Current mood: ;)
Current music: Lily Allen

Note to Self

That's all.

p.s. Never mind.

Yeah Ya Tryin' ta Tire Me, Tire Me

"I can see you in front of me, front of me
Ya tryin' ta tire me, tire me
Why don't you get from in front of me?"

That's right. I delete span tags to Rage Against the Machine.

What Should Have Been

I can’t stop thinking that this is all happening over a bag of carrot sticks. We were driving to get carrot sticks. An ‘84 Chevy Monte Carlo was not in the plan. Neither was its license plate cover. “I’d rather be golfing,” it said. I must have read that twenty times before it hit us. Me too, I thought, which is funny because I don’t even know how to golf. It’s important to keep your sense of humor at a time like this. Trust me I know.


“I’m sorry, what was that? No, I said we were going to get carrot sticks. A bag of carrot sticks.”


The police are always asking me questions, ever since it happened. What does it matter where we were going?


“Huh? Oh, right.”


Sorry for the interruptions. He’s right though, I’m really not supposed to sit up. “Sir, you need to lie down,” they keep saying. Who says sir anyway? Sorry, where was I? Oh right, golfing… You want to hear something else that’s funny? The biggest lie I’ve ever been told came from a Volkswagen Bus in the intersection outside Piggly Wiggly. I mean, that just sounds funny. I was almost eleven when it happened. My father was headed to a hardware store for wood stain—my father was a carpenter, you know, just like Jesus, except that’s where the resemblance pretty much ended. Three days after he broadsided that Volkswagen in the intersection, my father was still very much dead.

I got my first birthday cake that year, by the way. It wasn’t until later that I found out you’re supposed to make a wish before you blow out the candles, but that was okay; I’d already gotten everything I wanted that year, and I thought I’d learned an important lesson—that lie I was telling you about—that red means stop.

The trouble is, I stopped. According to the Volkswagen, Tiger Woods and his Monte Carlo over there shouldn’t have hit us. I mean, Charles and me.

You’ll have to excuse me again.


“Yes I can hear you, officer. Of course I know I’ve been in an accident. I’m pulling glass out of my hair; I’m very aware that I’ve been in an accident. No, I don’t want to lay back down. Why don’t you stop worrying about me and arrest that man? He should be in handcuffs, not on a stretcher. Whose idea was it to give him a license in the first place? I’m telling you, I’m fine. Are you going to arrest him or what?”


This is ridiculous. It’s hard enough sitting here without having to tell these people how to do their jobs. That man is obviously drunk. It’s barely three in the afternoon. What’s a guy got to go through to be flat out drunk at three in the afternoon?


“Excuse me, officer, what time is it?”


Three forty-five. Not even four and the guy’s so plastered he doesn’t know where he is. And what’s worse, I’m actually not that fond of carrot sticks. No particular reason that I know of, but I haven’t liked carrot sticks since I was five. They were for Charles. I guess in a way I can be glad we never made it to the store, because I’m not sure what I would do with a bag of carrot sticks now.

They aren’t going to tell me, by the way. Charles is dead and they aren’t going to tell me, as if I didn’t already know, as if my arms weren’t still tired from holding him. You’d be surprised how heavy a five year old can be. I couldn’t believe how heavy he was—I’d forgotten how heavy he was.

I know this sounds strange, but I—I don’t remember… ever holding him before the accident. That might sound odd but you’ve got to understand… I loved Charles. I just—I didn’t want him to get hurt. We all have to let go eventually, so why put him through it any more times than necessary? Why rehearse the inevitable? I couldn’t put Charles through that again.

I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this; it’s not going to change anything. But I guess I’ve got to explain myself now. I don’t want you to go away thinking I’m a bad person.

I was Charles’s age when my father started ruining my life. “Father/son bonding time” he called it, “just in case.” On my birthday, nonetheless.

He took my measurements first. Thirty-eight inches long, he said, and twelve inches wide. “A little small for your age, but that’s fine; we’ll save wood.” I remember we always added a few inches to allow for growth. Better to play it safe, he’d say. Five years old and I spent my birthday in the garage with my father, helping him build my own coffin.

Normal families mark off their children’s height on a doorjamb or something. I found out how much I’d grown each year on my birthday, based on the size of the latest coffin. “You never know when your time will come,” he would say. “It never hurts to be prepared.”

I’m sorry, but it’s getting difficult to see and I really need to do something about this bleeding.


“Excuse me.”


I think I’ve ruined this blanket.


“Excuse me. Yes, I think, do you have a bandage or something? It’s just that, the blood keeps running into my eyes. Oh right.”


They don’t want me walking around right now. I hadn’t noticed that’s what I was doing. Just trying to see what’s going on, is all. I can’t seem to find Charles. Did I already tell you about him? I hope he didn’t hear me telling you about the coffins. I’ve never told him about any of that. Only good stories for Charles. Only what should have been. I’m almost certain he was with me a minute ago. I’d hate to think anything happened to him. Hang on; here comes someone with another bandage.


“Thank you. I was just having a hard time seeing, that’s all. I’m looking for someone. Have you seen a little boy around here, five years old? His name is Charles and he was with me in the car but I can’t seem to find him. We were going to get carrot sticks. They’re his favorite.”


You have to excuse me. It’s just that I’ve been in a very serious accident and I have to find Charles. He’s the closest thing to family that I’ve got. If something has happened to him I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. Actually, I think I hear someone calling him now, the policeman over there. He’s coming this way.


“You found Charles? Oh, of course, yes my name is Charles, but I’m looking for Charles. He’s never been on his own and I’m afraid I can’t find him. What’s going on here anyway? Officer I believe that’s my car in the road. Where am… I should be at the store by now.”


I don’t particularly like the way everyone’s looking at me, just so you know. It’s like I’m on display or something. Do you hear sirens? I hope no one’s been hurt.


“What was that? I don’t need you to call anyone for me. No, I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m actually feeling better than I have in a long… oh never mind, you’re right that looks pretty bad. No, I really don’t have any… It’s just me and Charles. It’s been just us for, what… 30 some years now. What? I just told you; he was with me a minute ago.”


They’re not listening, I can tell. Geeze, they sure can fit a lot of stuff in these cars. Is that what you would call them, cars? Vans? What is an ambulance anyway? Oh wow, all right, I guess the needle goes right in the arm there. I expected a warning or something. I hope you don’t mind but I’m probably going to pass out soon, if I haven’t already; It’s been a long day and I can’t hardly think straight anymore. I’m pretty sure though… that I’m not stuck anymore. If you see Charles, tell him it’s okay to grow up now. Tell him I’ll be fine on my own.

Dark Eyes Opened Wide

From his lifeboat perch a towering three feet above an endless expanse of water, Matthew surveyed what remained of his father’s crop in the early morning light. The shifting blanket of fruit billowed gently over the now peaceful, perhaps tired Atlantic Ocean. Here and there a pale yellow orb stood out starkly from what otherwise offered no challenge to the crop’s namesake—orange—surrounded above, below, and on all sides by a continuous expanse of dismal blue sea and sky. Orange, Matthew saw, and blue, and dots of yellow, and the drifting brown body of Edmundo Antunes dos Santos.

“Edmundo!” Matthew called. His voice was shrill with fright.

“Edmundo!”

He reached into the water and scooped up a bobbing orange, then chucked it at the body. It bounced off his chest with a calloused thud.

“Wake up!”

The body rose and fell along with the oranges—silent—a blotchy yellowing brown except for olive green cargo shorts and a bright orange life jacket, and close enough to see his dark eyes opened wide, staring into the blue above as if deep in thought. His right hand clutched a clear plastic carton of water, which sometimes bobbed out of sync with the rest of his body, causing his arm to gesture toward the timid red beginnings of sunrise as if something in that direction might interest the boy in the lifeboat.

Matthew’s face narrowed from desperate to perplexed, then flattened into grave. He leaned over the bow and threw up, wiped his mouth, sat up, and passed out. The morning continued on without him, while Edmundo's eyes kept keen watch on the brightening blue sky.


He’d been staring like that the night before when Matthew walked onto the deck.

“Look’s like a big one,” he’d said, still looking up. “We’ll probably hit it tonight.”

Matthew had come up hoping for stars, but he couldn’t even find the moon behind all the clouds. Every day on this stupid ship was worse than the last. He looked up again with practiced disinterest, then saw that Edmundo was absently peeling an orange.

“Hey Edmundo,” he said, “I’m hungry. Give me that.”

Edmundo didn’t look down. “I’m hungry too.”

“Give it to me!” he yelled. Matthew was too bored to be agreeable. “Give it or I’ll tell my father you stole it!”

Edmundo still gripped the half-peeled orange but now looked at Matthew with disbelief in his eyes, or was it fear? Matthew hoped it was fear. Edmundo was only nine years old, a year younger than Matthew, but he still looked intimidating without his shirt on, and Matthew didn’t like the idea of fighting him with anything more than words if he could help it.

“I’ll tell my father you broke into one of the bins and stole it, and then we’ll see if your dad ever finds another lousy job on a ship again.”

He’d gone too far with that one and he knew it, Edmundo’s father was the most experienced captain in the whole company and a personal friend of the family, but Edmundo let go anyway. He was never one to make trouble for his family, a fact that Matthew used to his advantage as often as possible.

“Here,” said Edmundo. His right hand clutched at his stomach while his left hung limply at his side in defeat. “Can I at least have half?”

Matthew dropped the peel on the deck and sectioned off a piece of the orange, then looked his adversary in the eyes as he chewed the first bite. “Have a nice night, Edmundo,” he said, tagging on his name at the end as if it tasted bitter, then walked inside.

Edmundo was such a pushover, and so eager to please. “Call me Eddie,” he was probably saying.


A gut wrenching cry startled Matthew awake. A hoarse voice yelled frightened pleas from somewhere in the dark.

“Help, I can’t swim! Don’t let me go. I can’t…”

The voice trailed off into silence as Matthew realized it was his own. His body was stiff on the floor of the lifeboat. Tears rolled from his closed eyes down well-beaten paths that joined at one nostril and ran across his cheek. The sea rocked heavier than it had during the day, but much less than the night before. Much less. He listened to the ocean thump against the sides of the boat, then sunk back into sleep under the light of the watching moon.


The sun was beating down through a cloudless sky when Matthew finally woke again. He pushed himself off the boat floor and peered over the edge. Most of the oranges had drifted off somewhere during the night, leaving behind them a whole world of unbroken blue except for a small patch of colors on the horizon that was Edmundo. Matthew reached over the side and grabbed the only two oranges within reach, then turned to inspect the lifeboat while he ate for the first time since the storm, careful not to let any juice drip.

So far he hadn’t left the three feet of floor space between the bow and the closest of three wooden benches. The white benches contrasted sharply to the boat’s faded red floor, which looked about fifteen feet long and five across. Two sets of red oars stretched across the floor underneath the other benches, and a watertight metal case sat in the middle. The box was empty except for a grey metal can marked with black stencil letters. Drinking water.

The boy lunged at the can and brought it out with both hands, clawing at the rim for a way in. The can was heavy for its size and made a deep sloshing sound as he turned it around in his hands, searching for an opening or a tab or anything. He banged it against the metal case, then against a bench, then the boat’s edge. A dent grew in the side of the can but showed no sign of becoming a hole. Matthew eyed one of the oars. They were sharper than the boat’s edge. He held an oar over his head and swung it down against the can. A gush of water shot out in all directions and the can flew from the boat. He dropped to his knees, his eyes and hands scouring the boat floor for whatever moisture was left. Most of the water had collected into a salty puddle under the rear bench. Matthew scrambled forward and sucked up the puddle until he licked at faded red splinters. Nothing was left. He curled up onto his side and coughed violently, grasping his face and stomach and convulsing in the motions of weeping without tears.

Again he pushed himself up and looked out at Edmundo, an orange speck where the sky draped down and reached out beneath the lifeboat. Matthew picked the oar back up and began to row. He winced quietly with every effort and switched hands often as the lifeboat dragged through the water, rocking forward and back on each passing swell, slowly closing the distance between himself and the drifting body.

“I’m coming Eddie,” he shouted. “Wait there.”


A backdrop of gathering clouds was lit bright orange and red by the time Matthew reached the body. As the boat came closer, he could see that Edmundo’s arm was still pointed out from his body, only this time toward the west. A passing swell raised the carton in Edmundo’s hand and caused him to wave at the boat or perhaps swat weakly at one of the gulls fighting for position around his floating body. Matthew paddled harder. He saw now that a gull had landed on Edmundo’s lifejacket and was pecking at his eyes.

“Get back,” Matthew shouted, already hoarse. “Leave him alone.”

The gull gave one last peck at the floating boy’s face and then launched into the air with a squawking protest, narrowly dodging a swing from the oar, which instead hit Edmundo across the temple. Edmundo swung backward, then bobbed forward unfazed. Matthew let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh God, Eddie, I’m sorry.”

His eyes moved to the carton.

“Hang onto that water, Eddie. I’m gonna pull you out.” He set down the oar and gripped both sides of Edmundo’s lifejacket.

“One, two, three.”

He pulled up and back with all of his might, and Edmundo slid into the boat with surprising ease, owing to the fact that his green cargo pants were now gone, along with his torso and lower body. His left arm was missing below the elbow.

“Thank God,” said Matthew, “I didn’t think I’d have the strength to lift you.” His smile faded as his eyes shifted greedily toward the carton. He pried it out of the puffy yellow hand and ripped off the cap, shoving the opening to his cracked mouth and guzzling down its contents against a sudden fit of violent coughing.

Halfway through the carton, Matthew shook his head and looked around as if surprised by his surroundings. His eyes moved from the dripping carton to the bloated remains beside him, widening in horror at its gaping round holes for eyes. Thin streams of blood and salt water dripped from the remains and splashed on the boat’s red splinters, making them look washed and new.

“I’m sorry, Eddie,” he said, ”I don’t know what came over me. I just…”

Matthew paused mid-sentence. He angled his friend’s head back and poured some water down his throat.

“There, that’ll have to do for now. We’ve got to ration our water if we’re going to make it.”

The last traces of red were fading from the darkening blue sky as Matthew picked up the oar and began to paddle west, then stopped and smiled as he remembered something.

“Here you go, Eddie. I saved you an orange.”

Quote of the Year

From "Différance," by Jacques Derrida

"And yet, are not the thought of the meaning or truth of Being, the determination of différance as the ontic-ontological difference, difference thought within the horizon of the question of Being, still intrametaphysical effects of différance?"

Screw You, Blog

Get off my back. Gosh.

Reading, Writing and Arithmetic

I think spelling should be the fourth R.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 2 Number 2

Hey how are you? That's great/too bad. I hope things keep going the way they're going for you/get better soon.

The staff at This Guy would like to take this opportunity to say "scratch that" in reference to last week's newsletter. Since then, the staff has developed a similar yet slightly different (that is to say, similar) plan and has decided to "go ahead and go with that one."

Furthermore, that's all for now.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 2 Number 1

Welcome to about 4:00 p.m. One hopes one is enjoying the day.

We at this guy are excited to announce that an all new, full-length short story will soon be published on The Coolest Address. Portions of this story have already appeared in our publication under the working title "A Lack of Color," which is a bad title for anything but a Death Cab for Cutie song. The full story will be published under a new title in several illustrated "chapters." The chapters will be published in ascending order within minutes of one another so that the entire story will appear on the site in the correct order from top to bottom.

We hope you will check back with us often for this exciting new publication.

Working Title: A Lack of Color, Part 2

He’d been staring at the sky the night before when Matthew walked onto the deck.

“Look’s like a big one coming,” he’d said, still looking up. “We’ll probably hit it tonight.”

Matthew had come up hoping for stars, but he couldn’t even find the moon behind all the clouds. Every day of this stupid voyage was worse than the last. He looked up again with practiced disinterest, then saw that Edmundo was absently peeling an orange.

“Hey Edmundo,” he said, “I’m hungry. Let me have that.”

Edmundo didn’t look down. “I’m hungry too.”

Matthew was too bored to be agreeable. “Give it to me!” he yelled. “Give it or I’ll tell my father you stole it!”

Edmundo still gripped the half-peeled orange but now looked at Matthew with disbelief, or was it fear? Matthew hoped it was fear. For nine years old, Edmundo looked unusually intimidating without a shirt on, and Matthew didn’t like the idea of fighting him with anything more than words, even if he was a year younger.

“I’ll tell my father you broke into one of the bins and stole it, and then we’ll see if your old man ever finds another lousy job on a ship again.”

He’d gone too far with that one and he knew it, Edmundo’s father was the most experienced captain in the whole company and a personal friend of the family, but Edmundo let go anyway. He was never one to make trouble for his father, a fact that Matthew used to his advantage as often as possible.

“Here,” said Edmundo. His right hand clutched at his stomach while his left hung limply at his side in defeat. “Can I at least have half?”

Matthew dropped the peel on the deck and sectioned off a piece of the orange, then looked his adversary in the eyes as he chewed the first bite. “Good night, Edmundo,” he said, tagging on his name at the end in an effort to make it sound stupid, then walked inside.

Edmundo was such a pushover, and so eager to please. “Call me Eddie,” he was probably saying.

A gut wrenching cry startled Matthew awake. A hoarse voice yelled frightened pleas from somewhere in the dark.

“Help, I can’t swim! Don’t let me go. I can’t…”

The voice trailed off into silence as Matthew realized it was his own. His body was stiff on the floor of the lifeboat. Blood and mucus clung thick in the corners of his mouth, chapped from screaming. Tears still rolled from his closed eyes down well-beaten paths that joined at one nostril and ran across his cheek. The sea rocked heavier than it had during the day, but much less than the night before. Much less. He listened to the ocean thump against the sides of the boat, then sunk back into sleep under the light of the watching moon.

Working Title: A Lack of Color, Part 1

From his towering perch a full three feet above an endless expanse of water, Matthew surveyed what remained of his father’s crop in the early morning light. The shifting blanket of color billowed gently over the now peaceful, perhaps tired Atlantic ocean. Here and there a pale yellow orb stood out starkly from what otherwise offered no challenge to the crop’s namesake—orange—surrounded above, below, and on all sides by a continuous expanse of dismal blue sea and sky. Orange, Matthew saw, and blue, and dots of yellow, and the drifting brown body of Edmundo Antunes dos Santos.

“Edmundo!” Matthew called.

He reached into the ocean and scooped up a bobbing orange, then chucked it at the body. It bounced off the naked chest with a calloused thud.

“Edmundo, Wake up!”

The body rose and fell along with the oranges—silent—a blotchy pale brown except for olive green cargo shorts and a bright orange life jacket, and close enough to see his dark eyes opened wide, staring into the blue above as if deep in thought. His right hand clutched a clear plastic carton of water, which sometimes bobbed out of sync with the rest of his body, causing his arm to gesture toward the rising sun as if something in that direction might interest the boy in the lifeboat.

Matthew’s face went from desperate to perplexed, then grave. He leaned over the bow and threw up, wiped his mouth, sat up, and passed out. The morning continued on without him, while Edmundo's eyes kept keen watch on the brightening sky.

Amazing Tattoo Idea #3

Shark being eaten by a Spanish 102 Workbook/Laboratory Manual

Breadsticks

"Are we going to Pat and Oscar's tonight?"
- self

"Yes. At some point."
- Anonymous

"Sick daddy."
- self

In celebration, I have written a poem about breadsticks. This is my poem:

Breadsticks (#1)

Breadsticks,
At Pat and Oscar's,
Are free.

And good.

And have butter on them.

Sentence of the Day from the Word of the Day

"His cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons."

-Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Today:

1) I found a hefty brownie crumb lodged (lodging, rather) on my keyboard between J, K and I.

2) I got it out with two pens—one with a cap and one with a clicker (a to be clicked, rather).

3) I chose not to eat it (even though the rest was good).

4) other

Eleventh Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Eleven*:

K

"K" stands for kohlrabi, which means "a vegetable related to the cabbage, with an edible, turniplike stem." Unfortunately, it could easily be overheard as "coal rabbi," which means "a black, combustible Jewish teacher used as fuel" and poses a significant risk of attracting unwanted attention from entrepreneurial Klansmen. Incidentally, this is the only occurence of the "word" turniplike in the dictionary.

*Latin for "two."

Meet the New Pants, Same as the Old Pants

...except for this whole "pre-worn" fad that we're still dealing with.

My left knee was getting cold so I bought some new jeans for it, but now I look like I have to pee a lot.

Amazing Tattoo Idea #2

Spanish 102 Workbook/Laboratory Manual being eaten by a shark

Five Minutes Ago

Chris: "Wait, what are you guys talking about?"
TG: "The Guitar Hero competition. Have you heard about it?"
Chris: "No."
TG: "Dub, tell him about it."
Dub: "Well, there's going to be a Guitar Hero competition..."
Chris: "Yeah, I heard about that."

A Valentine's Message from Dave Barry

"The discovery that the Valentine heart resembles the prostate gland and not the human heart has MAJOR implications, and not just for people who play bridge (I bid three prostates). It also means that there are thousands, perhaps millions, of hairy men walking around with the word 'Mom' tattooed on a picture of a prostate gland."

Amazing Tattoo Idea #1

New Hampshire license plate

Tenth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Ten*:

J

"J" stands for Jack-a-dandy, which means "a little dandy; a little, foppish, impertinent fellow." That's exactly what it should mean.

*binary for three

Dent

You should have stopped.

You’ll be telling yourself that for a while, until time fades today into distant gray. But today—today is stark black and white. Today the locked front door will frustrate you to tears before you remember the keys still in the ignition, the car still running.

“I hit a deer,” you’ll say. That will explain the dent. That will explain why your arms won’t stop shaking. He’ll pull you close, hold you tight. “There’s nothing you could’ve done,” he’ll say. “Let’s be glad no one’s hurt.”

And that much is true. It has to be true.

Does This Guy Have the Coolest Address (dot blogspot dot com)?

Hey.

I think I can change this blog's URL.

Should I try?

p.s. This has been a readership poll.

Quote of the Day

"That guy is the man." - Jesse Davis

Portrait of a Killer

Journal Entry of the Wet Cushion on the Floor

day 167

They left me outside again. This time in the rain. Things are getting worse every day. Ever since the air cooled, their visits have become irregular at best. It wasn’t so bad with just the cold, but I fear this business with the rain may be a sign of potentially damaging neglect. With each passing day I become increasingly convinced that it is no longer safe for me to stay here.

day 168

I saw him watching me last night. It might have been early morning.

Someone’s been looking in my journal.

day 169

Reading over my last two entries, I find it odd that they cover a span of a couple days though I only started this journal several minutes ago.

day 170

It occurred to me that I don’t know how to read or write. Whoever is writing this journal, it isn’t me. Tomorrow, I go.

I'm Just Stretching Them Out for Someone, I Swear

I found out something awful about myself today (and to think I've been introspective all this time). I'd just finished velcroing a bear-shaped puzzle to the kitchen wall (because, why not?) when I decided that it was time to display the last puzzle I'd built ("Wild Animal Panorama") and also Mod Podged together (as much for the puzzle's preservation as for the smell of Mod Podge [Wet carrots and broccoli; the folks at Bath and Body Works are fools if they've ever been in a craft supply store]).

"Where should I put this puzzle, guys?"

No answer.

I hold it up to a possible location. Michael seems less than pleased.

"It's just kind of a weird place to hang anything," he explains. Dub doesn't look up from the TV, apparently engrossed in a commercial about how patriotic Chevy trucks are.

"Well, what about over here?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

Huh. "Dub, what do you think? Over your desk, or where should I put it?"

Dub hesitates before letting his eyes leave the screen, probably pulled in by the stellar performance of the Swiffer Wet Jet. "Um... over my desk could work, I guess... or maybe in our room somewhere."

"Well, I don't want to put if over your desk if you don't want it there, but if I put it in our room I feel like no one's ever going to see..." Suddenly it hits me. "Oh my gosh, I'm a weird puzzle person, aren't I?"

Michael gives me a look like he just found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. Dub lets out a nervous laugh. I'm feeling dizzy, and my roommates' voices sound muffled and far away. "Well... not exactly," someone says, I'm not sure who. The Bears/Saints game comes back on but Dub isn't watching. Instead he's saying something about how it's not weird to build puzzles at all, so long as you put them back in the box when you're done. Michael mentions that his grandparents are always building puzzles.

Even in that moment, I know I want a puzzle on every wall, as if I were a 12-year-old girl from 1995 and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas. As if I were a 42-year-old mouth breather living in my ailing mother's musty basement and puzzles were pictures of Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and Ritz crackers were decent social skills and acceptable hygiene (because I also wanted some Ritz crackers just then, but I didn't have any). I don't even think building puzzles is all that fun; I just like having them when they are done. It's true. I am a weird puzzle person.

Dub and Michael are still talking, their muffled voices assuring me that it's okay to make mistakes, that everyone gets a little excessive from time to time. "It's not you, it's me," they might as well be saying. I close my eyes, figuring my only hope is to wake up into a world of black and white and find out that it was all just a dream. "And you were there, and you were there, and you were there..." but to no avail—my life really has come to this, and I can tell from the way they're looking at me that my ruby slippers are only making things worse.

turns out

I spoke too soon.

self titled

Should a poem about getting a free burrito in an order of several burritos really be called a poem? I think we're about to find out.

Spending any more time on the title will cause me to miss the sunset. Yes, today we get rain and a sunset.

Chessie looks unmoved by the rumblings outside. Perhaps if the storm moves closer she will don the usual "I hope this won't poke me in the eye" demeanor she displays whenever anyone so much as stretches a rubber band or picks up a letter opener.

But it sounds as if I'm out of luck. God has finished rolling his garbage can out to the street, returned up his heavenly driveway, and shut the gate. I hear only rain, and keyboard.

And computer hum. And rain gutter—either that or there's a bored kid with a bunch of bubble wrap in the back yard. And if so, he's probably the one banging chimes. But I think that's the wind, which, for an invisible force of nature, sucks at stealth.

I hear a small plane chancing the weather overhead (naturally), perhaps challenging it. Neighborhood dogs (really the only type of dog we have around here) are amicably discussing their philosophical ponderings one howl at a time, but far enough away that only unhappy people would dare to mind. Chessie's breaths are making a squeaking noise, and so are mine, which is acceptable when you're breathing through your nose. So pretty much it's loud as heck. All it took for me to notice was a little thunder.

They say that, on a day like this, if you listen very carefully past the rainfall and wind-tossed pine needles and snoring dogs, you will hear the soft call of a good book whispering your name. Actually, no one says that, but I'm going to go read, which is a lot of verbs for such an activity.

Oh Crap*

A friend of mine suggested today that the little things we are doing now could very well be God's way of preparing us for the great things we will do in the future. I pretty much just stepped in dog poop today, so I'm kind of hoping she's wrong.

*third part in the ongoing series, "Posts with Crap in the Title"

Entry in an Ever-Growing List

Colgate flouride toothpaste
Baking soda and peroxide
Whitening
Gel,
In my right eye,
Hurts like hell.

Elmo Whisper in My Ear...

"Elmo, nothing is beyond you,
So let those good thoughts fill your head.
You are furry, proud and red."

Amen.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Jujube

How lovely are your Brach's. I mean, Heide.

These make great ornaments for little Christmas trees. I'll show you some time.

Of course I'm excited.

Write Your Own Caption?

I think this sign is missing a comma.

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.

The More You Try to Qualify...

"Well, the more you try to shave the cat
The more the thing will bite and scratch.
It's best I think to leave it's fur
And to listen to it's silky purr."

-Cake, Tougher Than It Is

See, I Was Listening

My roommate was trying to decide what to wear out to dinner. Others may have called him indecisive. I called him Muse.

As It Turns Out...

Yesterday was this blog's two-year anniversary. Therefore today is actually Making Up for Not Caring About Your Second Year Anniversary Day, You Blog. In honor of not caring about this blog's second anniversary, I am going to take a nap.

HAPPY MAKING UP FOR NOT CARING ABOUT YOUR FIRST YEAR ANNIVERSARY DAY, You Blog

This Year's Resolutions:

1) take a shower today
2) maybe dry off and get dressed and the rest of it

p.s. shut up, I don't have class 'til 12:30.

Rorschach for Stickmen

Remember, right now we're only looking for your first impression.

Ninth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Nine*:

I

"I" stands for Ichthyology, which means "the branch of zoology dealing with fishes." Unfortunately, in conversation the word could easily be misunderstood for "Ick, theology," which means "eww gross, the study of God" and is not welcome in many religious circles. To avoid this and a host of other socially awkward situations, zoologists who specialize in fish should avoid the topic of their occupation altogether and talk about something else, such as politics.

*In recent usage the word "nine" also represented the planet Neptune in the mnemonic, "My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas." However, despite vehement protest from Red Baron the Neptune representative was changed to Nutella after the International Astronomical Union approved a definition for "planet" that excludes Pluto.

This Is What Happens When I Say "Hey Mike," and Michael Pretends Not to Hear Me

Some of those cushions are from the apartment next door.

This Guy is Always Sending Out Newsletters, Volume 1 Number 1

Good atnoon all yea faithful.

The writers of This Guy are currently hard at work on things among other things, but we want to take a moment to make you aware of a few exciting events on the horizon.

Many of you are probably aware that this Friday marks the first annual Two Year Anniversary of our publication. Expect something big and prepare to be disappointed or appointed accordingly.

The construction of "Wild Animal Panorama Puzzle," by Haruo Takino (alternately titled "Noah's Ark Panorama" by those who maintain that hippos ship separately) has hit a blog-worthy (we're highly selective here at TG) snag. Keep your eyes peeled (metaphorically) for "Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part II," out soon.

Finally, the editor would like to acknowledge Anonymous, a frequent contributor of comments, by again, and this time willfully, publishing this fine and oft-used response: "word."

Word indeed, Anonymous. Your word has touched us all.

My Roommate Is the Master of Metaphors... Metaphors Disguised as Similes

"Dub, get a load of this carrot."
"Whoa. It's like, a mini carrot."
"A baby carrot, perhaps?"
"No, it's more like a... like a, Shetland carrot."

My Last Swing at Redemption

Both of you might recognize this story, but it's gone through some pretty heavy revisions "for publication" and, to quote Mitch Hedberg, "I couldn't [expletive] rob you of this one."

Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. She was a year older than me and probably six inches taller, and she lived next door. I was running in the opposite direction.

This all started when I fell in love with baseball back in the first grade, and while childhood loves are often short-lived, my passion for the game was still a problem almost a year later. The sweet, earthy smell of the field, the exhilarating crack of the bat, the electricity in the air on opening day—these were all completely foreign concepts to me. But my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum, so baseball was a way of life.

That’s why, when the neighborhood kids gathered for a game in the street outside our house, I turned off the Nintendo without even saving and raced to get my glove. In my first at-bat I launched the ball almost past the pitcher and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion, then raced toward the first base cone. My lightning speed was deteriorating as I neared the cone, but no one ran to tag me out. No one even tried to stop the ball for that matter, which was rolling past second and still going deep. Everyone just stood there looking across the street.

I turned around to see Beth’s dad knelt beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like a dying buck looking into the eyes of a hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not really sure how that would happen, but I wasn’t really sure how this had happened either.

“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.

“I’m, sorry.” My apology squeezed out awkwardly between labored breaths. Beth looked at me and quit sobbing long enough to gulp down a couple gallons of air, then started up again. “Sorry Beth.” I thought we should maybe take a break and sing the national anthem or something, but baseball isn’t a stop and go ordeal, so we played on. I stayed on first and tried to keep my head in the game while analyzing the last play.

It didn’t make any sense. I wasn’t a baseball expert or anything, but even if there wasn’t a game on TV I always had “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” to study on Nintendo. I didn’t know who Ryne Sandberg was exactly, but I figured he must have been Wayne Gretzky, who everyone knows is the greatest ball player of all time. But that was beside the point. The point was no one holds onto the bat while running the bases. It simply isn’t done. So what had I done wrong?

The rest of the inning went smoothly enough; I even managed to scrape up my right leg before it was over—I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before only hadn’t made it all the way to the base, which was evident by the size of the wound. But I didn’t even go inside for a knee band-aid, I just brushed off the gravel, grabbed my glove and trotted to the edge of the block. Satisfied that I was safely in the outfield, Beth wiped away her last few tears and limped around for a better place to sit.

As the sun sank below our rooftop horizon, I buried my left hand snuggly into the warm leather glove, then spread out the fingers of my right hand and let the cool air drift by. My ears drank in the scuffing sounds of tennis shoes on asphalt, the eager hey batter batter, sw-ing batter batter of the players and the steady conversations of a few watchful parents, who broke here and there into shouts of encouragement. Sure, the blood dripping down my leg was attracting mosquito eaters like a porch light, but that was no big deal, this was baseball.

I stood there and watched four or five kids strike out before someone came to borrow my glove and told me it was time to bat. I nodded and jogged confidently to the plate. After thinking about the accident and I’d come to a conclusion: I’d thrown the bat with too little control and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

The first pitch looked high, but apparently I was just short. Strike one. I closed my eyes to concentrate.

Strike two.

“Keep your eyes on the ball,” my brother shouted.

The pitcher gave me a reassuring nod; he obviously meant business. His arm drew down and back and my eyes locked onto the ball in his hand. The bat hung still over my shoulder. My breathing went silent. The mosquito eaters clung frozen to my leg. What happened next will stay with me forever.

The pitch came at me like a sixth grader off a swing set. I swung hard and grounded it past second, but this time I held onto the bat. I brought the bat back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, then carefully tossed it to my right, then watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I stood and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and I went inside.

Beth Doke went inside too.

Recommended Reading

These guys do good work. Some of them even come into my apartment and borrow towels without bothering to say hi.

I found this article while trying to figure out if I was a mythbuster or an artist. It's not as funny as the other site, but probably more socially relevant.

Quick poll: or is it socially relevant at all? (Make sure you read the "quick poll" part really quickly. That's why it's in italics.)

Finally, this is what I think of whenever I hear the word "genius."

Sorry about that... I mean, this.

Why I'm Glad I Can Mow Lawns

The following is an excerpt from the "author's notes" section of a non-fiction short story I submitted to one of my favorite professors for feedback. Her responses are italicized.

What is your initial impression of the story?
I don't think it succeeds yet at what you're up to.

Do you think this is worth submitting to the Driftwood in its present form?
It needs work.

Most importantly to me, is the story more than just "self-involved navel-gazing?"
no

The World Is a Dangerous Place

This gate will not hesitate to kill you.

Eighth Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Eight*:

H

"H" stands for Hank, which means "a skein of yarn or thread." This is an interesting definition because after reading it you've learned that, whatever a hank is, it's not what you were expecting.

*Incidentally, H is the eighth letter in the alphabet.

Funny to Me

I just deleted an email with the subject line "different keywords, general fewer." I think I just caught spam with its pants down. It was kind of embarrassing.

Seventh Part of a Twenty-Six Part Series

Part Seven*:

G

"G" stands for Galantry, which means "heroic courage," "the behavior of a gallant" or "a courteous act or remark." However, it could be confused for "gal lamprey," which means "an eel-like girl with a jawless, sucking mouth." This is sort of disgusting and is best avoided by using words like "bravery" or "charm."

*The shortest distance between these two points is a line.

Love at First Flight

They met in an elevator.

On a Shoebox

Sometimes one, sometimes three, but it generally works out to two.

mewithoutYou Struck Again

Hence this burning red
Marked by a sadness
They'll look back
and call Joy

Or something like that anyway.

"everything i know i get from wikipedia."

- Abalone In Jade Sauce.

This In at Just This Time

A recent series of readership polls at a popular blog found that readership polls are completely worthless when the readership is not large enough to establish a plurality without including the writer.

"Sometimes I wonder what I'm really doing here," the writer, affectionately called "Two Guns" by no one, really, was overheard saying in his head. "But more often I wonder what [the blog's faithful reader(s)] are doing here. I mean, couldn't they be watching episodes of Freakazoid on YouTube or something?"

Two Guns went on to edit the title of his current post so it didn't end in a preposition, which he noted is actually a noun.

"I guess I get it," he said, regarding the previous sentence. "I'm just not sure it was worth getting."

A Readership Poll Inspired by a Readership Poll Inspired by Felipe Tamayo Collins

Now that my entire readership has been polled, here's another.

Are you a mythbuster or an artist?

A Readership Poll Inspired by Felipe Tamayo Collins

Am I a mythbuster or an artist?

No it isn't.

Craig's List Struck the Matches in Our Hands

To quote a misunderstood not-poet, "We burned you alive."

Fiddle Sticks

I recently switched my laundry from the washer to the dryer. Upon making the switch, I was happy to note that no socks were missing but less pleased to discover that I was in receipt of one (1) additional two-inch long grasshopper thigh and lower leg, intact with knee, for a grand total of one (1) grasshopper leg.

As usual, I hope I don't have a five-legged grasshopper in my underpants.

This Random Thought Has Been Labeled "Significant," and "Random"

Sometimes I wonder if I'd rather be quoted than understood. By "sometimes" I mean "just now."

At $1.75 a Pop, Tops...

why wouldn't you collect bottle caps?

not sure if this is a Haiku for Table at Michael's Birthday Party

Lighting sandy beach—
Craig's List hung you out to dry.
We burned you alive.

I'm Probably Not In Love With Your Daughter, But...

"Some days aren't yours at all."

Why The Natural Isn't About Me

Beth Doke was crying because I’d hit her in the shin with a baseball bat. I was in the height of my love affair with baseball, which started when I was six and was still going strong almost a year later. For me, it wasn’t the smell of the field, or the crack of the bat, or the heroism of the players that made me passionate about the game. For me, baseball was a great game because my big brother collected baseball cards, and some of them came with gum.

But right now I was learning that whenever the neighborhood children were gathering players for a game of street baseball, that was an opportunity I should turn down. During my first at-bat I’d hit the ball and let the bat fly to my left in one sweeping motion. I was too busy with running toward the first base cone to see the impact. When I turned around to see what all the commotion was about, Beth’s dad was kneeled down beside his fallen daughter, looking at me with a strange mix of hate, confusion, and fatherly affection, like how a dying buck might look into the eyes of an approaching hunter he recognized to be his own son. I’m not sure how that would happen, but then again, I wasn’t sure how this had happened either.

Beth Doke was the prettiest, if not the only girl my age in the neighborhood. She must have been six inches taller than I was, with long brown hair and the kind of gymnast build that all but the least fortunate girls have at age seven. She was pretty enough that I knew better than to pay any attention to her if at all possible. It wasn’t okay with anybody that I had hit her in the shin with a bat.

“Andrew, don’t throw the bat after you swing it,” my brother said. He knew so much about baseball.

I said I was sorry, and I was.

They sent me to first base, where I tried to keep my head in the game while thinking about what went wrong with the last play. I’d watched baseball numerous times on TV, both in real life and in “Ryne Sandberg Plays Bases Loaded 3” on Nintendo. I didn’t know exactly who Ryne Sandberg was, but I thought he might have been Wayne Gretzky, who I was pretty sure was a famous baseball player. Whoever he was, everyone on TV threw the bat before they ran, so what had I done wrong?

At some point before my next chance to bat I had scraped up the side of my leg. Maybe I’d tried to slide like I’d seen Gretzky do so many times before. However it happened, it must not have been that traumatic because I was still in the game, and the only reason I even remember this minor detail is because I had to keep brushing away mosquito eaters that were landing on the open wound. It was kind of gross and creepy, but I also recognized that it was totally rad and that I was a man for playing on.

Somewhere around this time I’d also come to a conclusion about the accident: I’d thrown the bat with too little control, and in the wrong direction. Now everyone was counting on me to be awesome, and I wasn’t going to let them down.

The pitches I missed were of no consequence to my long-term memory, but the one that connected will forever stay with me because of what happened next. I held onto the bat. I brought it back in front of me and grasped it in both hands, and then carefully and deliberately tossed it to my right. I watched as the bat quickly closed the gap between where I was standing and Beth Doke’s kneecap. Then I said I was sorry, and went inside.

Beth Doke went inside too.

What I Was Wondering While My Professor Read the Syllabus

Can the word "arbitrary" be spelled incorrectly, or is that impossible by definition?

Nine More to Go

As I approach the end of the hallway,
With arcing path and leaning body
In anticipation of the bend,
My toe looks on with dismay
At the corner blocking his way
And asks,
"Why?"

The New Title, an Explanation

As it turns out, I am usually right. This is true despite popular opinion. In addition, I can generally come up with a reason to be troubled. It's a gift. And finally, modern American adolescence lasts until around age 25. Mine will probably last longer. Although I have yet to determine if I am usually correct in being troubled, all signs point to maybe, save one I haven't seen for a while.

Move Over, Lone Star

It has been decided by myself that no other slogan has been ripped off and misapplied more often than "Got Milk?" not even "Don't Mess With Texas," originally part of an anti-littering campaign, now the key "point" of the vast apologetic propoganda defending that endless expanse of desert, concrete and sewage smells (see also, "Everything's Bigger in Texas").

What brought me to this conclusion? (Surely you must be wondering.)

Not the "Got Jesus?" devotionals, or the "Got Crabs?" memorabilia sold by various seafood restaurants, or even my Pacific Islander friend's "Got Adobo?" t-shirt, as you may have thought. No, today I passed a printer supply truck with the giant white lowercase letters on a black background spelling out "Got Toner?"

That was the kicker.

A Simple Mathematical Equation to Kick Off the Weekend

20 mg Adderall XR + 1,065 ml Mountain Dew = never sleep again

The Cookie of Delphi

I'd assumed that was my chance.

Aside from Potato-Related Contexts...

Am I alone in thinking the expression "keep your eyes peeled" needlessly evokes a disturbingly graphic and unwholesome image in the minds of the vigilant?

Why Elevators Are Better Than Restrooms

Please, Keep Your Comments To Yourselves

Sorry, that was just me lashing out with sarcasm. It's a defense mechanism.

Paddington, Don't Go.

I love you, Paddington. I want to buy all your books. I promise to write you that poem. There's just some other stuff I've got to take care of first. We'll get through this, Paddington.

Weebie Puffin

I just wanted to share this with my loyal readers, I mean, reader.

My Art Professor, on Having His Neighbor Drive Him to the Hospital After He Broke His Hand as a Child:

"My parents were Christian Scientists, so thank God they weren't home."

Today At Lunch I Took an Ultra Mega Green Dietary Supplement, Which Had, Among Other Things, 4167% of My Daily Value of Vitamin B-12 (Cyanocobalamin)

My pee looks like chicken broth.

Puzzles, Part Four of a Three Part Series Told in Two Parts and an Additional Part or, The Additional Part

Yesterday I went to Denio's Roseville Farmers Market and Auction, not to see what was new, mind you, but to accompany a dear friend in need of a new pair of stolen Converse. However, while my friend Josh, who will remain "un"named, was pursuing his particular podiaic preferences, I happened into a nearby store that sold used books and really used books, and various items that probably have collectable value to people who save old q-tips and reuse Big Mac containers.

At first I thought I had gone in because it was hot enough outside to fire an ashtray in your hands, but once I got there I realized that it was fate. This store sold used puzzles.

My search for the perfect puzzle met with early resistance, as I had to step aside twice for the same elderly gentleman to shuffle by and because most of the puzzles promised little more than bald eagles or the daily life of the Amish for what would amount to days of puzzling efforts. But just as I was beginning to give in to the mounting tidal wave of despair, there called out to me from between the Eagle with Trout and Whimsical Kittens, "Zoos & Aquariums of North America" in all its 1000 piece glory.

The title of the piece sat just above a map in the puzzle's center, right where Canada would usually go, and a wise-eyed and aged Panda and his accompaniment of bamboo served to block out Mexico, while the United States of America shown proudly amid a halo of fierce and exotic animals. The border of the piece was a colorful display of zoo and aquarium posters, including the Waikiki Aquarium (home to endangered Hawaiian Monk Seals) and the Denver Zoo (one of the world's largest areas for monkeys and apes). I was pretty excited about paying the $1.75 for this bad boy.

Today I didn't have a whole lot to do. I did some reading, a little bit of moping, and a fair amount of sweating in bed and throwing up. I'm calling the doctor tomorrow. However, in the meantime I also did a lot of thinking about my puzzle while watching the second half of Jurassic Park on A&E.

As an experienced builder of used puzzles, I knew it would be a foolish waste of time to begin building the puzzle without confirming that all 1000 pieces were present. And so I counted. In less than an hour I had all four corner pieces accounted for, and probably 90 percent of the edge pieces in a separate bag, and then I began counting. With every ten pieces I would mark a tally on the bag and then watch a Velociraptor eat someone. After a while of this the raptors began opening doors and I decided I would rather watch Jeff Goldblum stutter than count and categorize scraps of cardboard, so I temporarily ended the count at 170.

Temporarily, that is, until I put the top back on the puzzle box. Temporarily, that is, until I noticed the sticker on the cover, the sticker marked "1 pc missing."

I set the box down, took a sip of water and glared at the box while Laura Dern stumbled around in air ducts and T-Rex decimated the main lobby. I turned off the movie during a commercial and never bothered to see the survivors off the island, even though Jurassic Park was on three times today and I watched the kitchen scene twice. I probably won't even care if Jurassic Park IV sucks. In my opinion, since things have become clear in the last couple of hours, the zoos and aquariums of North America suck.

Just Because I'm Long Winded Doesn't Mean I Talk A Lot

Case in point

I Just Beat Solitaire in One Game

I can't even decide if that counts as playing. I don't even know if that was an accomplishment. I think I need to go write.

Word on the Street

It turns out that Loser24 doesn't care for realtime blogging. Good for him.

The "Easy" Button

So, there I was sitting in an office chair, starring at a computer screen, hoping the phone wouldn't ring, when I noticed the easy button lying on the desk. I'd seen the commercials before, and, oh crap, the phone is ringing.