Hmmm
Shit.
Time for breakfast
I just sent one of the hardest emails I have ever sent. Time to get some eggs in me.
Don’t worry, I’m fine
Despite a rambling and agitated email, I really am fine. I’m not at work any more, so table your requests to Radio K, or just send them directly to me. Okay, no one has any requests, and my rambling and agitated email probably just pissed off the recipient, so now the friendship that I had been trying to brew when it got interrupted by non-dateness is probably ruined too. Of course all my friends are like “she’s fucking crazy!”
Like I can point any fingers on that account.
Yours truly,
Ted
Could be worse
Could be raining
I guess that either Stan or Lisa will be attending Brendan Benson with me, especially since I don’t know anyone else who stole my copy of One Mississippi and played it over and over again in their car.
Or maybe I will go by myself. I need a wingman.
As good ol’ Doc Venture said:
I can no longer deny the world my super greatness!
Apparently, I have to find a new stalker
What does a guy have to do to get his name written on a piece of paper, inserted into a woman’s yoni, taken out the next day, partially burned, hung in the Southwest corner of a room, then buried with two cherries these days?
I wonder if I have burned all my bridges already, or if there are some that I missed.
Waiting is hard
Despite the bombastic nature of my blog, I’m a quiet, relaxed person. I’m actually shy, which I overcome by putting on my comedy face and promoting laughter. I can share words with a confident swagger, but sometimes when I am picking those words for just one person they become much harder to put in order. In a conversation I can just pick up on the tone and topic and run with it. What do you do when contacting a person with unknown expectations? Anyway, I’m doing my best to be relaxed about the whole thing. I hope she’s at least flattered. I’m going to go do something fun in a temperature controlled environment now so I can figure out if I am sweating because of the campfire I have going in my bedroom or if I’m just nervous. At least I get marshmallows. Delicious.
Of course, as I started to write this post a problem developed with Samba on my linux box so I was cut off from music just as I figured out which Mountain Goats song Dallas Orbiter played last night: Back in Black — the Palmcorder Yajna mix. Now there is a singalong song. Everything is fine again, but restarting cost me two hours of music logging that would have put the Mountain Goats up pretty high in my stats. Well, audioscrobbler got it.
No booze jokes today. Sorry it took so long to send that email yesterday.
So… seriously, how was it?
jessepmullan: so I went on a date with a woman from the personals tonight. we had set up the whole walker thing and all, but I mentioned in an email that I was doing a dallas orbiter double header, and she was all “I love dallas orbiter” and I was all “let’s go! awesome!” and then when I was on the way downtown we talked on the phone and she was all “I met greg [the drummer] through the personals!” and I was all “whaaaaaaaaa?”
jessepmullan: hilarity ensued
jessepmullan: shit, I have to put my sheets in the dryer
I measured it. It was only had three ounces of tequila. It was just enough to mess up my typing, but not enough that I can’t retrieve the misplaced keys.
If I put on some semblance of pyjamamamas I can just go sleep on the couch downstairs with the Crazy Quilt and thadaklhsd a;sdfasdfasd
fa sdfasdfa;sldk
a
There’s AC downstairs. It’s hot up here.
Okay, so a little while later I’m a little more sober again, and the honest answer is that I don’t think that she and I clicked very well. Also, I was thinking about someone else for the twenty minutes that I waited in Brits because I wanted that particular reader to show up instead. Great, now I’ve said too much. Maybe I’m not very sober at all.
Sadness is a sweet liqeuer
On paper you’d think that it would be one of the happiest evenings ever. Lisa and Stan finally took some much needed Lisa and Stan time, and I got to babysit Noah. We went to Waite Park at the top of the hill. It might only be the second highest point in Minneapolis, but the open sky and setting sun transported the park and everyone in it to the top of the world.
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Wish You Were Here
What an awesome day! I overslept and was woken up by a tiny distant voice which dragged me out of unconsciousness into a blurry staggering awareness. My head was full of bricks as I leaned over the railing to see Noah at the bottom of the stairs calling for me to wake up. Normally this is just the sort of thing to make me smile and amble genially into the shower, but I had seen the clock even with my glasses off and I knew that I was very late already. Getting to the stairs without my glasses on might give you an indication of how tired I was — I put on my glasses like some people breathe. If you see me without my glasses while I am awake, you should probably worry about me.
Anyway, somehow I managed to transform my morning routine from an hour to just twenty minutes. I then got into my sauna to drive to work. At work I was crabby, Paul was crabby, and I had to work on the designers’ Mac again, where I don’t have a login. That means that my bookmarks are not my own and I can’t run a real mail client that remembers my username and password, so I had to use the U’s awful web mail client. I can’t plug in my mp3 player to charge it, and Paul uses speakers so I have to either tune that out or buy in completely.
When I don’t have my bookmarks in the browser, I view them online, with a redirect script to hide the bookmarks page from prying eyes. This is usually plenty of protection, except, of course, when I go to read the blog of someone who is as obsessive about viewing their web stats as I am, who follows the referrer back to my redirect script and then figures out the domain name so they can read page after page of my blog but not comment and not email. That leaves me only with my robot friends who visit and try to let the world know the wonders of the sites that they represent. Hint: the sites involve cards. I am suddenly deleting 30 of those a day, which makes the comments of random strangers that much more precious.
I was crabby all day, which is the wrong way to get through life. I took a hard nap when I got home, one that was so good it hurt. My hands fell asleep and when I woke up my mouth tasted like hotdogs. Now that’s a power nap! I got a hold of Paul on AIM and we apologized to each other for being crabby jerks. He had been drinking downtown — possibly by himself. Dear Paul: are you okay?
Later, Cake Woman called me. We had a nice chat, but then what? We have a very strange friendship — she’s one of the few people who can make me laugh my ass off, but I’m like a C list friend so we never do anything, especially now that I can’t hook her up with any more free Maibock. She doesn’t read my blog, she’s never seen my photography (except of her cake and that night when I got super really hammered and walked to the Lake of the Isles). Oh well, I’m not gonna mess with anything that nets me free cake and excellent music recommendations.
As you might have guessed, I’m wide awake again, but I think that I will be able to get to sleep soon. Cross your fingers. I think that tomorrow might call for all the songs that make do the Humpty Hump, back to back, at maximum volume. That may lead to me dancing.
Maybe not.
P.S.: Two whole people did the obsessive thing besides me, so I am at least outnumbered. HAha.
PostSecret
Here is one of my favorites:
There was another one, http://photos1.blogger.com/img/296/2612/1024/IMG_2400.jpg, but the site says that I can only put one on my site. Or something. You get to click if you want.
Oh yeah, get to PostSecret through this link: .