Parasite

I don't have anything to write about, but I'm determined to get this writing bug out of my system before it burrows too deep within my intestines and then pops out during breakfast all Alien style. Chen just gave me a suggestion involving something about Tommy (The Who) and a candle, but I'm probably not going to use it. It sounds too much like a deep, thoughtful subject, which is definitely not my style. I'd much rather stick to my specialties: explosions, my many (probably illusory) mental illnesses, and... freaky critters popping out of stomachs during breakfast all Alien style. It's what I know, and I'm stickin' to it. Any reasonable man would do the same.

So anyway... no good explosions today. And no aliens (but that doesn't mean you can stop watching the skies) . Which leaves mental illnesses. I'm pretty sure I've got some, but I've neither the credentials nor the proper state of mind to back that up. I mean, I'm insane. You can't just let insane people go around diagnosing themselves with insanity. What if they're wrong? What crazy logical black holes are you just walking into then? Huh? On the bright side, I'm beginning to convince myself that I'm one of those insane people who will eventually be able to function normally within society. You know, no snapping in the post office, no harvesting and wearing skin, no... well maybe owning some cats, but a number still within the threshold of sanity. Like two, maybe. That's a good number of cats. An honest number. An American number.

I am Stupid

Yesterday was stupid because I was in charge of yesterday and I am stupid. Poor decisions dominated that day, which I won't go into in any detail. Suffice it to say I did not think things out before jumping into the metaphorical pool with a fifteen foot fence and giant sign that says "Danger: Irritable Alligator Infestation. Go away." There is nothing good about irritable alligators. They do not like you, your taste in music, or your girlfriend. If you invite them over for dinner, they will come and be complete asses about it. Anyway, at least I walked away with a new Traffic album that's pretty good. See, there's always a bright side.

I feel the summer that I had planned out disintegrating right in front of me. It's kind of depressing, but I refuse to fall back on daydreaming about going back to St. Louis. I've just gotta pull shit together around here. I've still got like two months. That's enough time to learn German, memorize the internet, and win the lottery, all with enough time on the side to go out on my yacht, surrounded by sexy, exotic women and live entertainment (featuring a special performance by The Captain and Tennille). My guests will all be beautiful, rich, intelligent, funny, respected people and I will be their king.

Another Night, Another Visibly Emerging Psychological Ailment

To attempt a serious post right now would be a disservice to myself, my hordes of readers and devout followers, and indeed, all humanity. I'm just in no mood. I can't say exactly why. Maybe it's the caffeine wearing out, or the diphenhydramine kicking in, or maybe even the Taco Bell starting another pointless brawl with my digestive system. But it's probably none of those. That would be too easy. I'm not even going to try right now. Let a night of dreams about plummeting to my death and my incisors falling out sort out this issue for me. Always does the trick, and for just about anything. My own personal snake oil. If I could bottle and market my dreams, I'd either be a hero or a war criminal. Either one works, as long as it secures a page on Wikipedia with my name on it for decades to come.

To Hell with Productivity

You'd think that starting work at five in the afternoon would give you more time in the morning to be productive and make your coming day, and life, just better in general. To go out there and get things done, damnit. But no. You just sleep an extra 7 hours instead. And dream about hitchhiking to California when halfway there, someone FedEx's you (next business day shipping) two completely different but functioning boom boxes. Naturally, this raises a number of questions. First of all, I'm hitchhiking. I mean, is FedEx monitoring my migration patterns? Did somebody stick a tracking device in one of my molars? Do I now have actual justification for my constant and morbid distrust of every single dentist I've ever gone to? I'm keepin' my eye on you, Dr. Yampolsky. And secondly, who do I know who would pay an extra couple of dollars for next business day shipping?


There were no notable insights today. My day consisted of the strange dream described above, and a good seven hours of mind-numbing kitchen work. One doesn't conceive insight in the kitchen. One conceives pizza. And sometimes breadsticks. I don't know if one could claim that a salad is even conceived. I mean, that's just stupid. It's lettuce in a bowl.

Ups and Downs of Majoring in Engineering

In most respects, it's great. Problem sets rather than papers, final exams instead of... bigger papers. Few classes on Fridays. No language requirement -- in fact, most of my classes I'm genuinely happy about taking. Ready access to expensive, industrial-grade software and cheap, industrial-grade explosive materials. More girls than I know what to do with. Knowledge that after graduation, I'll practically have a job waiting for me, until some damn foreigner sneaks up and runs off with it, like a velociraptor with a juicy, delicious puppy.

But there is a price to pay for this "laid-back" lifestyle. Writing is a useful skill. And while it is not a skill which I ever really mastered in the first place, it's one which I feel I'm beginning to lose out of neglect and, I'm ashamed to say, some pretty blatant misuse. You can only end a sentence with a preposition so many times before none of the guys think it's funny anymore and you're stuck with a nasty little habit. And drunken conversations concerning the nature of bad puns don't technically count as "practice".

With that said, I would like to take this moment to officially offer my public apology to The English Language:
I'm sorry, The English Language. I didn't mean those things I said. I was angry and drunk. I've done a lot of terrible things, and I regret almost all of them. You deserve better. I should never have slept with your roomate out of revenge. That was a terrible idea, The English Language. Terrible. I'm a changed man. I want you -- I need you back. I'm willing to do anything it takes. Within reason. Please, The English Language, let me know your decision at your earliest conveniance. Hugs and Kisses.