Have You Ever Thought You Were Having a Debate With Someone, and it Turned Out You Were Actually Just Arguing?

I think I need to be more careful before I open myself up to people. I am beginning to formulate a hypothesis, and part of it includes the idea that many people are not interested in hearing your honest opinion because they percive it as a constant threat to their own. I think I am one of those people sometimes, and you know what, I don't like it.

I Inadvertantly Hit the Enter Key

In regards to the picture below: I intended to inform you (the reader/viewer) that my actual desktop is worse off than my Douglas's desktop (that is, my compy's desktop). To my shock and disbelief, my last photographic attempt also demonstrates that around 80% of my posted photos use the exact same rules of compostion. Finally, I wanted to point out that my mom called, and that I do indeed have a sign that says "Toy Cat Balls," and that it was a birthday present.

I took this picture to document how out of control the icons on my desktop are getting, but, now that I have seen the picture, I have made some new observations, as well as several more trips to the comma key than I am accustomed to making for the benefit of one sentence.

Before a certain bug was intimately introduced to my windshield, I am sure it was what you would call a "juicy bug." Right now I am not sure which part of it you would call the actual bug, but the juicy is all over my windshield.

I have an amazing ability to make my friends look like druggies in all of my pictures, I just thought you might like to know that. Have a good one hehe :)

I Have More in Common with Chickens than I Thought

The following story/soul searching will be presented in the latest edition of student preacher format. Two apparently unrelated tidbits will be introduced; one will be boring but truthful and the other will be entertaining and random. After the two stories are told they will be linked in a way that no one is really sure they ought to be.

I recently came out of a spell of apathy toward all aspects of my life. There is not a precise moment in time that I can point to when it clicked in my mind, but I can narrow it down and say the process took about three days, five conversations and two late assignments.

I have never raised chickens, but I have eaten many, and I like to be familiar with what I am eating, unless what I am eating is mayonnaise-based or has active cultures, in which case I prefer ignorance so that I can enjoy the food. Chickens are not a mayonnaise-based or active culture... toting? food product, so I am familiar with them. On top of that I watch a lot of cartoons. All this is to say that I am under the impression that chickens identify the first living thing (and sometimes not-living thing) they see as their mother, and they follow it as long as they are young enough to do "that sort of thing."

When I hatched from my shell of despondence, the first thing I saw was Splinter Cell 3: Chaos Theory. Now that I care about life again, all I want to do is play a stupid video game. I am not getting caught up in my classes because of a video game. What is that all about?

So where do we go from here? Well, I don't know about you, but I will be doing all of my Optimal Health work, and not playing Splinter Cell.

You are welcome for the happy ending.

Today is 4-20. Here is a pot, and a college student with long hair. Whoa, dude, that is sick man, you're crazy... this is totally like that one movie. You know, the one with that guy who can disappear. Yeah, that chick was hot.

My desk lamp is a dirty cheat, and a thief. I let him into my home, and gave him food off of my table, and this is the thanks I get? It's a good thing for him that it gets dark at night.

This One Didn't Even Make Me Laugh

I finally got around to reading the warning sticker that is adhered to the cord of my desk lamp, and I want to tell you about it, and I think now is a good time... I hope you have a minute.

Please note that the following quotation marks are not being added to designate that I am quoting directly from the sticker. The quotation marks are part of the original document. For clarity I will italicize the quoted portion. The next paragraph will be the cord sticker document in its entirety.

"WARNING" "RISK OF FIRE / INJURY TO PERSONS. Keep away from combustibles. Turn off / unplug to change bulb. Do not touch bulb. Do not operate without complete bulb enclosure in place or if lens is damaged." "THE LAMP SHOULD BE UNPLUGGED BEFORE REPLACING THE BULB." MADE IN CHINA (emphasis added, see above)
("warning sticker" cord: desktop halogen task lamp issue number BJ-91,767)

Forgive me if I failed to site the sticker properly, but there is no entry for warning stickers in my MLA handbook. What I find more appalling is that the sticker is obviously quoting a warning from another source, yet it makes no effort to give any credit to the original author.

I believe something needs to be done about this if the integrity of desk lamp warning stickers is to be maintained. I would go on, but it is late, and I am tired, and I just finished transcribing my desk lamp's warning sticker.

Because I Know Heads of State Read My Blog

Fidel Castro commended the pope today for helping the poor. Way to go Castro, but your funeral still won't be as big. Speaking of funerals, you need to get on that Fidel. Breaking your knee was a good start, but I think the world is ready for the next step.

My Daily Copout in Three Lines

If my life is a song
I’m stuck in the instrumental
And I’m sick of the solo.

Yeah, it's a sonnet, about ham... what's the problem?

Goodbye Easter Ham

I loved you like no other, yon ham.
With happy heart and joyous face
I supped with you and not roast lamb.
And licked my lips with poise and grace.

Extra care I gave to save you
In a Ziploc bag sealed with a kiss.
Oh muse, love with absence indeed grew
Fonder, in dreams of you on Swiss.

But something terrible transpired.
Locked gate separated me and fridge.
My bosom was robbed of all it desired
By a chasm that no man could bridge.

Apart from you in pain I dwell
Here all alone in my hamless hell.

The Deli Giveth and the Deli Taketh Away

"For here or to go?" It is a simple question really, one that I answered many times without ever giving thought to just what it could come to mean. More often than not I answered "to go", never realizing that my very words were being collected and concentrated like drops of caustic venom in a mad scientist's laboratory to one day be spit back in my face, much like a cobra spits into the eyes of an aggressor, or, more aptly, like a mother bird poisons its chicks with her deadly regurgitation.

And what, you ask, might be the first course? A chilled plate of Cold-Blooded Convenience, followed by the new house special: leg of Shattered Expectations slathered in Woebegone sauce.

Apparently proper human decency and Christian love are no longer on the menu at the Point Break Cafe. That's right, the sandwich bar is gone. Gone are the pickles, cucumbers, onions and mushrooms. Gone is the hopeful twinkle I saw in my roommate's eye every time he branched out and ordered roast beef on rye instead of turkey on wheat. Ah, turkey on wheat--our once rapturous and tear-filled reunions have been reduced to the businesslike formality of a trip to the cafeteria; what once was a welcoming path to your delicious embrace is no longer a through street.

This parting took place some time ago, but it was a wound too great and too deep to be treated when it was first dealt. And like the bloody carnage wrought by a bullet must be suppressed by morphine and a torn bed sheet while the enemy presses in, the necessity of moving on forced me to treat my pain with a half-felt joke and a cup of Yoplait.

Well, the healing powers in a serving of dairy only last so long, and as I begin to peel back the blood caked bandages and swab my wound with pre-made ham on croissant, I feel as if buying PBC credit was like investing $150 in a bank that switched from dollars to wampum or in a chicken that switched from eggs to grandma's old L'eggs.

Oh how I long for a second chance, just one more opportunity to answer that ancient question with the knowledge that I now possess. "For Here!" I would shout it to the heavens. I would tear my shirt and beat my breast, pour ashes on my head for another chance to have a freshly made sandwich from the PBC. But for now I can only fill out a comment card from time to time and return to my fruitless search to find something that will fill this provolone-shaped hole in my heart.

I am pretty sure throwing pennies into this fountain prevents your wish from coming true.

I Am Completely Out of Ideas

I have no inspiration and no clue what I am about to write. Don't say I didn't warn you, because what follows will be unedited and uncensored free-flowing stream of thought madness.

I used to spend my time coming up with proverbs like "no rooster can lay quite like a hen." I think that was a good use of my time, considering that I could have been eating things I found on the ground instead.

Last summer during our family reunion my brother and I stayed up until three in the morning laughing about how funny a Bad Dudes movie would be. The walls in the cabin were pretty thin, so my mom also stayed up until three in the morning not laughing about how funny a Bad Dudes movie would be, but I bet it warmed her heart anyway. We were right though, it would be funny. What isn't funny about two bad dudes battling thousands of color-coded ninjas as they run, walk and train hop their way to the White House so they can rescue the president?

I have an interview for covenant group leader in twenty minutes. I guess I should get pretty and head out soon.

Well, that was fun. I hope you had a good time. See you later. I'll miss you. Don't forget to write. Oh yes, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Every Part of Monday Blows Chunks

Working late on Sunday night is not the part that sucks, it's working early on Monday. Which part of early Monday you ask? It's either the right-now part, the 7:30-class-I-havn't-done-the-work-for part, or the rest-of-the-day-after-the-other-two-parts part. I choose all of the above. All of those parts suck equally. They are the perfect trifecta of suck. They suck in ways that I am not aware of because I was raised in a conservative Christian home.

Moral of the story: Life is just an extended metaphore for death.

Is my cat Jabba the Hutt?

How dope are water wings?

Kids get all the breaks. I mean, come on... fun dip? Adults aren't even allowed to eat fun dip, that's why it's called "Adult Onset Diabetes."

Six Shots or None at All

In other news... Hey, I forgot to tell you, something amazing happened on the 18th, at 12:32 p.m.

There, I remembered. Actually, I remembered a few minutes ago, before I signed in and started this post. I had to discuss it with myself first because I really should be working on homework right now, but it can wait... it always does.

So, on the 18th I was having a conversation with a buddy of mine via the latest version of MSN messenger when she was cut off from the internet. I figured she would be back on soon enough, so while I waited I began scanning the room for what I suspected to be a fly that had hit my hand earlier.

Indeed it was a fly, but this was no ordinary fly. I am pretty sure this was the fly from The Fly. This fly had the look of an insect that has been genetically bonded with a cutting-edge scientist who now spends his time being a friggin huge fly and killing people just because he can, since there are no newspapers big enough to end him.

Now, usually I am quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, but on the 18th I was just being an idiot who really wanted to bag a fly big enough to mount above the hearth.

Hang on a sec, I am sick of typing the word "fly" so much, and it is going to come up quite a bit, so from now on I will refer to the creature by its true name: Seth Brundle.

Now, Dr. Brundle wasn't about to go down without a fight. Fortunately, his little brain is not really designed for thinking thoughts any more complex than "100110" so I knew I wasn't up against strategy or anything like that. What Seth did have were wings, courage, and perseverance. Courage and Perseverance, these are important. If I ever decide to actually pour my heart out on this blog, those words will come up again, but for now, suffice to say they will add a good eight minutes to any fly's life, which is about two years in fly years.

He seemed determined to stay on the window, which I thought was a good thing as I proceeded to swing at him with a newspaper (which, as we have already been over, has no effect on gigantic fly people).

Then came my moment of opportunity. Brundle's little mind did not foresee the danger in landing on the edge of the window sill, where the window hits when it opens. My little mind, unfortunately, did not foresee any of the things that glass can do besides not break.

With the strength of a weak and sickly baby ox I slide the window open to crush the Brundle.

Now would be a good time to tell you something about flies. They see in slow motion, and all they care about is not dying, so while I wasn't thinking at all, Seth was on top of things, and dodged my feeble attempt at strategic attack.

The window slammed against the wall and I immediately had a new problem, one I have been alluding to for far too long: a crack in my window that was not there before. Judging by the not-cracked condition of my window in the pre-slam stage, I am forced to conclude that my actions were somehow linked to the now multiple pieces of glass comprising my window.

It was at this point that my manhood was on the line. Seth Brundle, bless his heart, could not be permitted to live, lest I be expelled from my tribe.

I am still in the tribe, so needless to say, Brundle got royally f-ed up.

As Brundle lay twitchy in his shallow grave/my trash can, my friend logged back on and I informed her of the situation. Her response: "Did you get those files I was sending?"

Cool response dude.

Why I Wish I Was Disabled