People who are friends of mine might like to hear that good things occasionally happen to me.
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I told you that I was awake. Two alarms, light, music, and a wake up call. I rule at this waking up shit.
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Hell, I wish that I still had that website. Back in 1994 or 1995 I had a proto-blog until someone sent me an email calling me a “self-absorbed pathetic loser.” Instead of replying, I just deleted everything. You know how you can never come up with a response to something right away, but ten years later you suddenly think of the coldest burn ever while washing your nuts in the shower?
Seriously, if you could help me out, I haven’t yet come up with a good response.
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Just as I was starting to get some homework done, or at least started, or at least resented, I got a text message on my phone. Will the wonders never cease? I mean, holy shit, a month ago my old phone didn’t even get phone messages — I would get a few blocks from home and all of a sudden it would go apeshit with bells and buzzing letting me know that I had a voice mail from my dad and my sisters singing “Happy Birthday” into my voice mail. This is why I don’t call them back — I cannot fucking stand that fucking shit and it is definitely not something that I want to encourage. In any case, my phone told me that I had a message, so I checked it, and it was something like this:
“Which do you prefer, late-night-cake or before-school-cake?”
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I had such a good time at the Doomtree show with Paul and Ashley. The beats were fucking out of control! We stood in line for an hour before getting in. I was cold, so I warmed up with three rapid beers before I started with the jumping around and the throwing of hands in the motherfucking air. I had a concert buzz for the rest of the night — that crazed energy and smile that pushes sweat out of me by the bucketful. I think that it was “Little Kids” by POS that I actually remembered, but I screamed as much as for Har Mar Superstar.
When I got home I cracked open a beer and made the drunk dials that I had promised, but only Melody was around to be bothered by my rambling innuendos. She apparently had a group of ladies over who were debating spitting versus swallowing, and she settled for me once and for all whether or not bus stop woman had been lying to me about the flavor of such a thing. We closed the book on an eleven year mystery. Hooray!
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Zach: “It’s so small!”
Me: “I don’t understand that sentence at all.”
Zach: “You’re not gonna touch that one with a ten foot pole?”
Me. “I could, but, uh…”
Heh. I only posted this so I could test out the livejournal syndication.
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Okay, I have a new idea. It’s like a safe word, except in reverse. I could be out of my mind drunk with a totally nude woman who is blacked out in my bed, and she will sleep comfortably and safely all night, whether or not I get up and go try to sleep on the big chair in the living room. If I don’t get a clear signal (like “hey sailor, big discount for repeat customers”) I’m not doing anything.
However, sometimes ladies like to pretend to be demure. Sometimes they might be interested but be too shy to move my chair right up next to theirs while I am fetching a sweatshirt. Even then, I might be worried that I am seeing an opening where there isn’t one. That’s why I want there to be a trigger word — sort of the opposite of a safe word. So, if she’s ready for the hot Jesse action, she would just say “Jello” very quietly and I would work my magic, confident that in thirty seconds or ten minutes I’m not going to lean in and get the gentle head twist and squinty eyes of a “oh, you thought… uh…” I mean, once you take the initial jump, the rest is just four seconds of falling. After that, a light touch and subsequent gasp of breath or uncomfortable squirming will let me know if her shoulder is off limits (for example).
I would also accept the word “pirate” or just an “arrrrrr, matey, time to swab the poop deck!”
See, I told you that I was feeling better. Tomorrow I swear that I will call to schedule an advising appointment, despite being terrified of the phone.
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Here is my recipe for happiness:
Mini Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
India Pale Ale
Grilled Cheese and Turkey Sammich
Surprisingly, we still have turkey in the fridge. Stan hasn’t been using it to make sandwiches at all, despite having a pristine breast to devour. I took it upon myself to slice it as thinly as I could, then liberated three slices to insert between cheese and bread to form a sandwich. Quick minutes in the pan yielded a moist and melty sammich with crispy bread. I think it was the making that really made me feel better, but the juicy turkey might have had something to do with it.
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My coworker Nick is in some sort of hardcore/death metal band. Somehow I ended up listening to his EP all day yesterday. I mentioned this to a friend last night.
“I was having kind of a crappy day, so I was listening to metal all day. It was amazing.”
“Why were you having a crappy day?”
Really, you can’t answer that with anything like the truth:
“I can see the future, and this afternoon I already knew the end.”
I shouldn’t have said anything at all, but sometimes I say things that will trap me into saying more revealing things, with the intent of forcing myself to be honest. However, I have all sorts of automated sentries that police my speech, and they are sometimes wise to my own tricks. Witness me opening my mouth and just a strained grunt coming out, even though my lips form words. You know, when telling the whole truth would ruin everything but at the same time you simply cannot lie, because even the smallest, whitest lies with the purest of intents are simply impossible to say.
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“Why does everyone think that I’m evil?”
“Well, you are the devil.”
“I suppose there is that.”
“Yeah, but just because you’re more beautiful than God…”
“What? You have got to cut that shit out.”
“I mean, you know, the devil, cast out for his hubris, challenging God, the morning star, that sort of… Ugh.”
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