Not Really That Bitter

Oh, the Tain...

2006-09-05T23:10:00.000-07:00

I had a wonderful conversation with my good friend Mike today. He is recently back from Japan and loved every naked minute. Who knew? Made peace with a friend, still owe another friend some beer money. My employment at the esteemed Radioshack probably starts tomorrow. However, I am of the belief that this awesome Meat delivery job will come through.

In other news, Elysa DiMauro has better fashion sense than you do. I just thought I'd point that out. She is amazing. In every way possible. I don't know who you is.

Listening to Death Cab, mewing over life. My hands tire of typing so easily. No secretary positions for me, I think. I want to eat bruschetta for the rest of my life. Toasty bread, tomato, basil, garlic, salt/pepper and olive oil? You can't go wrong. I also ate an entire loaf of cinnamon raisin bread today. Maybe that was a bad choice. I think so.

Bed time. Nighty night all.

Yes, Yes Indeedy

2006-09-02T22:10:00.000-07:00

Right. So, for some reason, I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with. Oh wait, maybe it's because I am UNEMPLOYED. I mean, it's not that there aren't jobs out there. I have had offers from such underrated companies as Papa John's, Radio Shack, Heiser Toyota (in the lofty position of "lot attendant") and even the good old boys down at the wharf. What wharf is it of which I speak? Well, good luck with that. I am also looking at stuff at UWM just in case I actually like taking classes there...no offense to any UWM-ers. Even though my interactions with the various faculty have been engaging and not at all depressing, I am still slightly wary of what awaits me in the classroom. I mean, taking classes with froshies? Chris Prosser informs me that I have nothing to worry about, but I am afraid I might get really jaded during discussion and say something stupid and get myself kicked out. I don't know what I could possibly say that is more inflammatory than my usually flagrant comments, but there is always something pissing me off. Actually, that's not really true. I am happy when I am eating, sleeping, playing music or doing the nasty (hahahahaha) or even playing ultimate - heaven forbid. At all other times, I am as reticent as they come. In my freshman seminar (the only one I decided to take...which was a mistake) we did this naming game in which everyone in the class had to associate an adjective with their name. While I am not the best at creating visceral adjectivals to do my bidding, I decided to use reticent, and it stuck with me (my teacher remembers) and to this day, I am not sure if I could have capitalized on it in a bigger way. But we ought to let bygones be bygones, right? ( like all of college)

No, I kid. College wasn't that bad. If I could have worked a bit harder, played a bit less and tried to get Lawrence Burnett fired earlier, perhaps things might have been different. But then again, I might not have had to learn things the hard way, which apparently is something I enjoy doing.

Self-criticism aside, however, we ought to discuss for a minute my odd methods pertaining to OCD. I am totally OCD, but of the lazy persuasion. I want things to be perfect all the time, but am too lazy to actually follow through ever. And by the way, Helen Hunt totally wanted Jack Nicholson's balls from the very start of that stupid movie.

I tried to find a frisbee team yesterday, cause I have been aching for the disc. Frisbee is like sex. If you go without for too long, you start to get tendonitis from not following through on your forehand. Oh well. I think those of you who play ultimate will understand that. Isn't it odd that the motions made for various activities in my life all come down to one gesture (I'll let you all guess what that one is)? Whether it's playing cards or frisbee or pool or polishing the gun, the motion remains the same. Perhaps men are just meant to relate everything to masturbation. I lie a lot...have you guys ever noticed that?

Well, it's not really lying, just stretching the truth. When I consciously align myself with a person, there are certain elements of our relationship I feel need to be stretched, as they are either too boring or too personally scathing to reveal under the pretense of abject veracity. In any case, I tend to say things like "Oh yeah, I used to play soccer." I mean, it's true, but I didn't actually play well. I just kind of fucked around on JV and then quit to play frisbee. And it's the same thing with food too. I like saying "Oh yeah, I just ate like 2 dozen donuts." But I actually didn't. It was probably more like 1 and a half dozen. So I guess you could call that hyperbole that stems from an inherent laziness. Yet, since I am not lazy in covering that laziness with hyperbole when I could just be a boring but truthful person, I find it difficult to reconcile what I think I want with what I actually end up saying. My body's anti-laziness is in direct conflict with what my lazy-ass brain wants to do. It's like when you look at a math problem and "know" how to solve it but don't because you are too lazy. With me, I could probably solve it if I had done a couple like it, but I like to tell myself that I'm smart to intentionally boost my ego (and not become manic depressive? maybe?) and it usually works.

Now I know what you're all thinking...I am really fucking weird. But seriously, who isn't? Everyone has their own little quirks that make then who they are and define how they present themselves to the outside world. If we didn't have quirks, I think the human race would just die out, annihilated by sheer boredom. Good lord, that's depressing. Maybe like that movie, Serenity, where the gobierno injected something (sodium/benzene/beta-inducer concoction?) into the atmosphere of this colony and caused everyone to just shut down.

Whoa. Rant time is OVER for Ross. Maybe it's fun naked time. Call me if this sounds good to you.

The Times, oh the Times

2006-08-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

I think I might end up working for RadioShack. Not bad....commissions, insurance, perhaps even some discounts on neat gear. Who knows. It's nice, though, because hours are flexible and I can do homework for my UW-M classes in the meantime. I really got nothin' these days. I sit in my room at home and look for jobs online...special times. Applying to grad schools is next on my list, as well as finding a teacher here in town.

Right. I'll write more when I am not feeling poopy.

Hello

2006-05-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

Hey guys,

Here is another segment of my spring break trip. I apologize for the length, but it's kind of funny at points. I guess.

Finally, another update

2006-05-01T19:31:00.000-07:00

Day 7

Today is actually day 7, but it seems as though we’ve been on the road a lot longer. Well, what’s happened since then? Friday night, we drove across the Hoover Dam, a feat of modern science unrivaled by even the most technologically advanced of James Bond movies. I swear, we could have been in the next film, although without the wiles and charm of Pierce Brosnan, who might have been one of the best next to Connery. Oh well. The drive up the mountain could have been a case of “fording the mountain pass and my oxen just died…again,” as the car had a bit of trouble chugging around the winding hills that led to the secret government lair. But this was no M5, of course, because we’d have to be in Britain. This was definitely curmudgeonly old Nevada and we were on our way to Las Vegas. As we approached the top of the damn, it was evident that there was some sort of huge conspiracy in progress. Never had we seen such awesomeness: the quad guard towers above the reservoir, the myriad bright lights urging us to keep to the road and the distinct lack of police vehicles, personnel or otherwise. On the drive out, however, after stopping to take some very blurry pictures, the latter estimate was perjured. A car behind us forgot to turn his lights back on as we climbed up and out of the installation. I thought nothing of it for about 5 minutes, until what appeared to be a heavy duty police truck popped out of literally nowhere to stop the insurgent in his tracks. He pulled over and we did not see him again. This was all very amusing, but we were certainly schooled in the great art of deception by the US government, which I suppose happens a lot. After this incident, we glided down the mountainside towards Vegas. I believe myself to have been elucidatory on the subject of Las Vegas’ dejected state in my last post, so I will not bore you here with another rant.

Saturday night, we drove (well, Lee drove…he insisted on it [I guess that’s what happens when you give a man a 24 oz. coffee and a mission]) to Santa Rosa, California, where it was clear that we’d been missing a whole lot in the desolate wastelands of Utah, Arizona, Nevada, Nebraska, Iowa, and Minnesota. Ah, what paradise was afforded to us! Apart from pictures, neither of us had ever seen “wine country” before, but to set foot on the grassy hills peppered with miles of grapevines was almost too much to take in. Now, when you hear about the glorious sunsets and the sun-kissed hills and the sun-blown hair of the sunny-faced California natives, it makes you want to puke. I am the same way, except that being in California, I couldn’t help but play along. We have so many great pictures of brilliantly colored hilltops nestled in the presence of larger tree-covered hilltops and cows and sheep grazing all over the damn place that we could make a photo album and call it “Living in Minnesota BLOWS.” That night, we ended up at my friend Jacob Greenberg’s house in Santa Rosa, where he was kind enough to show us around and give us a roof over our heads for the night. We had a late-night stop at Denny’s, but get this – Denny’s has increased the price of the fabled Grand Slam! Instead of a very affordable, very hip price of $4.99, our total came to a wallet-raping $6.79! What the hell? After I got over the initial shock, however, it became clear that I was full, so life suddenly became happier. The next morning, Sir Greenbej and I woke up at 9:00 (well, I woke up at 8:30, dressed, and then stood at his bedside and watched him snore before poking him with a stick) and rushed off to play Frisbee with some of the aforementioned’s friends from high school. A pleasant surprise awaited to my, um, surprise. Not only did his friends show up, some of whom now played for Frisbee teams across the country, but there were also a fair number of what could be termed “old people” that showed up. Perturbing as that as was at first, the age difference quickly became a non-issue; I observed that most of them played better than I. Humbling, yes, but it made for some exciting ultimate. There was this one dude who was about 6’ 2”, probably mid-40s and had the sweetest break backhand of all time. He could make that sucker do whatever he wanted, and that proved to be a boon for my tem, especially in the end zone. I was a little aggressive at first, which kind of backfired when I went for the D in the end zone and ended up careening into a player from the other team, who just happened to be a fairly attractive female. We did not speak for the rest of the game. Follies aside, however, the game turned out toe be some of the best sunburned three hours of my life this entire break, not only because I got off my non-existent Asian ass, but mostly because I was playing Frisbee in California without a care in the world. No papers hanging over my head, no angry Philip Rhodes to bitch at me about my comps and best of all, sweet Mexican food waiting to be eaten. We stopped at this great place called the Santa Rosa Taqueria, and I ordered a three taco plate with a large class of hibiscus iced tea. The girl that I had brushed ribs with earlier sat down across from me, so for a while it was kind of awkward. Arriving back at Jacob’s house, we picked up Lee (who doesn’t play Frisbee…tsk, tsk, so unfortunate) and headed off to Bodega Bay. I can’t even describe how beautiful that sunset appeared, gently fading over the crystal clear but ice cold waves of the Pacific Ocean. We frolicked for around an hour on the beach, had some pictures taken of us by some drunken middle aged women and then peed on a sculpture made of driftwood and dreams. After singing the Bing Bong Bros. theme song a bunch of times, we headed up the dunes and through the strangely painful beach grass to the car. On the way back along the bay, Jacob told us about the many people who died along the highway…maybe not the best tour guide-type information, but information nonetheless. We stopped at a restaurant and sucked down a tasty, tasty delicacy: barbecued oysters. I ended up licking up the mixture of butter, barbecue sauce, Tabasco sauce and lemon juice left on the plate, they were so good. I am positive that taste cannot be accurately reproduced anywhere but California, which grieves me to no end. We said our goodbyes to Jacob with promises to meet up at school (duh) and in less time it takes for two fish to mate, we were in the car again on the road to Palo Alto.

So that was Sunday. That night, we left Jacob’s house and sailed down the freeway to Stanford, where Nate, my best friend from high school, lives. His residence is a co-op nestled in a grove of buildings on the outskirts of campus, and is home to some pretty sweet people. I had called Nate that morning, and like a good friend, decided not to study for his final (of which he probably ripped a new asshole), opting instead to get drunk with Lee and me. A few minutes after we arrived, we decided that we were hungry, so Nate and I went to the kitchen to make some quesadillas while Lee went to his car for more beer. Apparently the kitchen is an “industrial kitchen,” which means it has to meet certain health requirements to stay in operation. According to Nate, and as I might well have expected, it usually passed. But just barely. We began to fix up the quesadillas and Lee arrived bearing beer. It was at this point that a stunningly gorgeous girl wearing only a leopard-skin coat burst into the kitchen and yelled “Streaking!” This statement was confusing, as Lee and I had thought previously that Carleton was the only place that streaking was prevalent. Apparently not. The funny thing is that she was completely sober. I finished my beer and convinced Nate to come with us (it took some cajoling, but finally he agreed), and we were off. Now, there are some marked differences about streaking at Stanford. First of all, at Carleton, we run though (or play patty-cake, at least during Knights concerts) and don’t stop to register the disgusted/joyous/confused stares given to our disrobed party. At Stanford, however, we walked through 3 floors of one library and 2 of another. WALKED. Had I been sober, this might have been sort of awkward. The other difference came from the surprisingly not skewed gender ratio. At Carleton, and no offense everybody, but we usually have fewer women and they are sometimes [well, mostly] ugly. Contrasts aside, though, the evening was an enjoyable one and we finally turned in at around 2:00am, not completely sober, but very happy. The next morning, we got up around 11 and went to get sushi at Miyake after Nate’s final. As is always the case, the food was fresh and fast. We could use a restaurant like that in Northfield, but unfortunately we are close to the sea like a convicted sex offender is close to a girl’s Catholic high school. We do have “Wiggles and Wok” but I’m pretty sure that the food is as bad as I’ve imagined. In fact, I’m going to start calling it “Wiggles IN Wok.” It’s like that video of some dudes making Cat stew in Malaysia. Amazing.

The reason Lee and I came to California was to visit wine country. After NOT visiting wine country for most of the trip, we finally got to make 1 stop. We would have gone to two wineries, but the second one was very large, ugly and corporate. However, the first one gave us the tastiest fifteen minutes of our trip. The winery was about to close, but we were able to get in a short tasting session. The man who proctored our tasting session was a nice old man who sort of looked like a turtle, and who was very knowledgeable, at least about the wine he was selling. We were given a large glass and four wines to try, all for 5 dollars. In the course of our conversation, the steward found out that I was a musician and he offered me a bonus glass of wine, a gewürztraminer, a bottle of which I ended up purchasing.

Hmmm

2006-03-26T08:44:00.000-08:00

Oh, life, you throw so many curveballs. How can I ever recover from these bruises? I don't know. Maybe I will start an ice cream stand. Or a kegstand. Who the fuck knows.

Today, driving back home to Northfield. Tomorrow, the first class of what ought to be a term filled with drinking, playing frisbee, moping, drinking, yelling at the music department (especially that choir director of mine) and some other crap.

trip stats part 5 coming your way tomorrow.

Tripy McTrip

2006-03-19T01:02:00.000-08:00

Part 3

So there wasn’t a part 1 or a part 2; I was lying. But this is day 4 of our trip westward to the place known as California, or “Arnoldsville.” I’ll give a little recap of what’s happened so far. We began on Wednesday morning in Northfield and had a pretty uneventful drive through the rest of the Midwest. Iowa was flat and depressing because everything is either brown, grey, or filled with shit. Nebraska was even worse, as there came many a point when we felt ready to break down and cry for a spell. After traversing the vast, vast entirety of Nebraska, it was onto Colorado, the state of love. This crossing occurred on the second day. Through the mountains we drove, ever dogged by winding roads and distracted by some of the tightest scenery ever conceived. The car had a bit of trouble going up hills, since it is a Nissan Sentra, the cheaper and uglier cousin to the Civic. However, we did not get stuck on Vail pass, as has been the case with my family and were able to get in and out in less than a day, sort of like Michael Jackson and a local preschool.

While Colorado may be a beautiful state in terms of scenery and environmental feng shui (which, I’ve been told by a reputable source [every Chinese person ever] is fake), it is NOT known for its beautiful women. I swear, every town we visited was worse. I am now led to believe that Colorado is populated by small ugly children, ugly teenage girls who smoke too much and may or may not be pregnant, middle-aged women who have already been divorced 5 times, and old women who are alive either because they don’t have to pay for water (snow is plentiful) or because the cold mountain air preserves their wrinkly-ass bodies. However, I can’t knock this state too much because I used to live there. Oh, the good times, playing all kinds of sports my friends didn’t know asian people knew how to play, looking for crayfish in the river by my private (read: Lutheran) school and getting beat up by people 5 grades ahead of me so I would stop macking on their girlfriends. It was a good life. I also knew this kid named Kory Katsimpalis. He was probably some sort of greek, but I’m not sure. In any case, he would always come to school with a cream cheese and jelly sandwich, a liking to which I took almost immediately. I asked my dad to make me one, a practice which continued until I realized that I was lactose intolerant. The sandwiches, by default, became the ultimate panacea for my every ailment. I stopped being bloated and farting all the time (not), I had better breath and therefore was unable to go around pretending I had the “breath of death,” and I became mentor to a young girl who, strangely enough, followed me around because I told her I was going to teach her how to be a “Judi.” Now that I think of it, she was a bit on the retarded side, because she totally believed me when I told her it was possible to levitate shit and read people’s minds and such. Also, she had obviously never seen Star Wars.

Anyway, on day two, we also went to the Grand Canyon, which I’d seen before (both literally and in my tormented dreams) and bummed around there for a bit. The number of Japanese tourists was mind-boggling. I have never seen so many happy little asian people romping around a national park taking pictures, screaming with joy, or lying on the ground. A few of them looked at me with lust (or was it disdain and then nausea? Who knows…) but then they all got called to the bus. I have decided, in the meantime, that it is inevitable that I will marry a Japanese person, because they are the just the right size. And no, this does not have anything to do with anybody I know. A quick anecdote, tee hee: when we were trying to pull into a parking spot at one of the overlooks, this old dude in the van right next to our would-be space got out of his car and, looking away, stretched for a full 50 seconds before rubbing his eyes and turning to yell at his ugly wife. By this time, I was getting kind of pissy, as I had been driving all freaking morning, and shouted “move your ass, you old coot!” I didn’t really mean for him to hear it, but…he did and looked away shamefully. When we pulled in next to their van, I thought I saw him checking his insulin levels. Actually, that’s not true. I made that last part up. It was -actually his AIDS-O-Meter.

On Friday, we drove though Utah and into Nevada, where we were inaugurated into the ranks of the thousands touched by the gaudiness and mindless shithole that is Las Vegas. Driving the Strip was probably the least fun I’ve ever had in my entire life. The amount of gambling that goes on in that place is made even more pitiful by the many loan shops hiding in between each subsequently flashier casino. I can’t even fathom how anyone would want to come to a place where their money will soon be lost to the owners of giant vaults 200 feet underground (Thank you, Ocean’s 11) and where no amount of gambling will bring it back. Las Vegas is one of the most puzzling oases in the desert wasteland that is middle-western America, a fact due mostly to its draw. I guess that at the core of human nature, there is an instinct that says gambling is ok. It is amazing that the human race has progressed so far, for Vegas is the most decadent example of decadence I have ever witnessed. For those of you with gambling addictions, I would strongly urge you to never, ever, ever set foot in this city. It will ruin you without regard for your age, race, social status, sexual orientation, religion or political preference. The hotel that we stayed at was just a mile way from the Strip, but it was still $65 a night for a shit-tastic room with carpet from the seventies and running water that I swear I had just seen leave the toilet. Also, worst cable selection ever. Well, it wasn’t as bad as our hotel the second night. All we got was this funky British comedy with Norman Lovett (RED DWARF!) and some other fat, ugly folk that I have come to associate with these dry, colorless and mostly unappealing shows. It was either that or watch Richard Simmons as a much more homosexual (and not nearly as talented) Russ Petrika. I miss that bald, spandex wearing man.

Today, day three, I have officially run out of money. I am becoming a bit angry with my co-pilot, because he keeps insisting that we go to SoCal or that we make these detours to see the sights and sounds of California. This would be well and good if I weren’t so broke and if he didn’t know I was so broke. The only reason I agreed to go on this trip was because I couldn’t let my friend down, as he had been planning on this trip. Oh well. At least I can say that I took a real road trip (although there are fewer hot ladies carrying guns and smoking weed in Cali than I had previously imagined). And I’m having a lot of fun being away from school and getting to know this fool better. I just wish I had more money, because that would make shit a lot easier and I would probably less ornery and less ready to kill something/someone/my appetite.

Tonight, we stopped for gas in one of Central California’s mostly Hispanic towns. Gas was cheap (ooh, a measly $2.59…thrills, loves) but the looks that we got were bloody priceless. I went inside the store and put on my best angry asian look, which most of you know to be my every day look, and asked where the pooper was. Surprisingly and to my immediate delight, the bathroom was fully stocked and, for the most part, clean. This much I cannot say for the Starbucks at which we stopped earlier: they were out of toilet paper and the bathroom itself smelled like Trent Lott’s soiled panties: acrid and indicted. In other news, my head has begun to shrink downward, a phenomenon due to the analgesics I’ve been using to get rid of my acne. Something about the drying process, I think. Speaking of drying out, we have been using generously the air conditioning while driving though the abscesses of Utah and Arizona and my lips have become more parched than then the actual seabeds through which we ride. I’ve gone through two things of chapstick and my nalgene has curiously developed a Burt’s Bees-type flavor. It’s terrific.

Because I’m running out of money, my eating habits have been curbed. We have a halfway decent supply of carrots, applesauce, triscuits and flatbread (WASA, Bitches!) but I’ve been constipated to no end for the last two days. I guess that’s what happens when you eat lots of applesauce and toast. I don’t think I’ve had much protein, so I’m becoming slightly anemic (which also makes me constipated for some reason). I swear, constipation is the menstrual cramps of the less-fair sex.

Ok, that’s it for now. I think I’d like to go to sleep now.

If you drove an RV that wouldn't matter...

2006-03-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

Comps all day long, all day strong.

Come see me conduct the Agnus Dei movement from my Requiem in A minor. Concert Hall, Monday, March 6th, 7:15 pm.

Goodbye until tomorrow...

Go to hell, you bastard

2006-03-01T09:42:00.000-08:00

Is what I told the mouse that was in my trashcan this morning. I put him outside and marked him with a large blue x, and the little pipsqueak somehow came back again. I think he likes my garbage, even though it usually contains the following:

apple cores
bills from Carleton...mwahahahaha
mucus filled tissues
Dan Hirsch's cum rags
unsent love letters to my darling sheepglitter
eviction notices from my place in malibu
wrappers from clif bars/power bars
my dreams

I decided to get up this morning on a new pretense: that you can sleep when you're dead. I'm not sure it's the most healthy of mindsets, but it does wake me the fuck up. You know that feeling late at night when you're watching Mr. Show and laughing not because it is funny but because the mouse from your trashcan is tickling your feet? It's that huge knot in the pit of your stomach that tells you you're mortal. Kind of depressing, no? Since we obviously have no way of knowing what came before, we are always stuck in our ways, in the immediacy of the moment and never have the guts to admit that we will someday die. But then you have to recognize that there is obviously a reason that we are alive, whether it is because the human race is programmed to survive or (like me) you were the product of some 15 year-olds fucking around in Eastern South Korea around 1982. Simply put, there is no reason to cut yourself short. If I had a choice between the potential to be anything or being worm food, I would always choose the former. If life really is as absurd as Nietzsche or Camus would believe it to be, then living or not living would seem to take on an equality of status. So it doesn't matter if you're alive or dead. But if you're alive, you might as well make it worthwhile.

Good lord, I need to get laid.

RIP Don Knotts...*sniff

Pour quoi me reveillier?

2006-02-26T20:34:00.000-08:00

Because of COOKIES!!!!!

For serious. Cookies get me up in the morning. My favorite cereal is cookie crisp, but only when I'm the ages of 3-15. Now, my teeth have decalcified to the point that they no longer can tolerate things that are hot and things that are cold. Temperate things = my friend. Like tempered glass. I like glass. Philip Glass. Have you heard Neukolin? Amazing. Also, I discovered that the song Amazon (by Philip Glass) was stolen by Gwen Stefani for "Hollaback Girl." What a terrible person. Could she be more of a stealer-wheeler-dealer? Well maybe not the crack kind. But it is Gwen. She is married to Gavin. I bet their child will have AIDS.

On a more fruitful note, I actually buckled down and worked on my comps today. I even went to the library. But then I remembered why I DON'T go to the library. It makes me sad. And my allergies flair up too. But only when I take a number 2 in the bathroom. NO VENTILATION.

Liar

2006-02-21T22:03:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like sitting at your desk straining your eyes to see a tiny doll (which is supposed to be a representation of you) and then drinking a shot of Myers's rum (disgusting, by the way) to bring yourself back to reality. Thank you, Miss M, for ruining my life for this hour and a half. Boo erns.

It's getting to be that time again. Do you ever get that feeling of the second inversion E major chord leading to a root position IV chord? Maybe you don't. But it's one of the most beautiful in the repertory and makes me tear a little every time I hear it. Blame Strauss. Salome? Indeed.

It never fails. Tonight, I was able to direct rehearsal through the "goodness" of Lawrence Burnett's heart. For some reason or other he felt it necessary to ignore the people I brought in as ringers. Which is ok, because I did so to offset the Singers' women (they are kind of soft...but not weak. I swear...Natalie, I hope you're not reading this right now). Sr. Burnett-0 became more and more pissed as I gradually undermined his authority (even though that happens every day). We got so much done. It was like Jesus had come out from under that huge rock and bitch-slapped him in the face and then given him leprosy. Damn, that playah is good. Sick.

Once again I forgot to take my medication, which was sort of bad, considering I have been in pain all day. Oh well. My baby will be born with narcissism. Oh well.

And it is time to go. More tomorrow, I promise, laddies and lassies. Ruff Ruff. Says Fido.

BURP Says JayCee. Did you know that Jackie Chan hates his guitar playing pussy of a son? Who would have thought? I mean he's fucking Jackie Chan. He probably eats entire llamas for breakfast.

More eggs, please

2006-02-20T23:40:00.000-08:00

In the course of two days: I have been under siege in my room with a psycho man-whore whining outside, I have eaten penis cake, I have awoken to two Asian girls (hot but oh, so dumb) standing at the end of my bed, had an interesting relationship talk with my MLR buddy and had a more than just wonderful talk with a girl I hardly know.

All in all, an eventful weekend. I can only hope this week will live up to it. Well, Lawrence Burnett will feel my wrath either tomorrow or Thursday. So it will be a good week regardless of what else happens.

I'm going to bed. Peace out homies.

2006-02-20T09:10:00.000-08:00

...You have syphilis!

2006-02-20T09:09:00.001-08:00

Self-explanatory.

2006-02-20T09:09:00.000-08:00

"...too much. Stop acting like a whore!" -Mom

2006-02-20T09:05:00.000-08:00

Too cool, eh? I guess you were too cool to come to my wedding. This is why we're not friends and why I bought you that subscription to Marie Claire.

2006-02-20T09:04:00.000-08:00

R U 4 Real? LOL! U R 2 QT! L8R! Chicken choking time.

2006-02-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

I married you for your cake, dammit.

2006-02-20T09:02:00.002-08:00

Like I love a starving camel. With a metal cage and a spit guard.

2006-02-20T09:02:00.001-08:00

You should probably get that checked out...

2006-02-20T09:02:00.000-08:00

Sugar Bun, you know that I love you!

2006-02-20T09:01:00.001-08:00

You have herpes. Again.

2006-02-20T09:01:00.000-08:00

KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNN!!!!!

2006-02-20T09:00:00.000-08:00

With a penguin. Mom, dad, you understand, right? Wait, could we talk this over? Please put down the stapler....noooooooo!!!!!

Big time

2006-02-18T07:55:00.000-08:00

Today, the concerto competition rears it's ugly head. My prediction: a two-way tie between Jessamyn and David, both of whom are amazing at their instruments. As for me, I'm just lucky I get to compete. Competing is fun. But you know what else is fun? Penguins. They are so cuddly and have really small eyes (even though they may seem large).

Let's see...GOP today and then Red Lobster with the family (Hershs, Natalie, Jon, Tatge). Oh yeah. They better damn well have some sort of combination plate. My need for shellfish is absolutely desperate at this point. After that, maybe a party. But definitely getting drunk. It ain't no crime....is it?

Last night, I was asked to join a dance party at like 2 o'clock in the morning. That was.....special? I dunno. They came into my room and accosted me, ripping me out of bed in only my skivvies and then proceeded to drag me into the next room where there were some very fucked up people waiting for me.

Hmmm.....listening to Aaron Kaufman right now. Not bad. A cross between Jewel and Jason Mraz and Howie Day. Now that's interesting.

2006-02-15T23:37:00.000-08:00

I love photoshop. And Carson, too.

This morning I had a good poop

2006-02-15T23:07:00.000-08:00

The title says it all. Also, I watched the entire second season of Scrubs. Does that make me a terrible person? Because I definitely could have done any number of things: written that CLAP article I wanted to write, shot that movie I wanted to film, or even masturbated. However, none of these things happened. Actually, what I really ought to have been doing is practicing piano. That Ms. Melville will probably clip off my balls with those hedge shears she keeps in her cleavage (we all know that most piano teachers are equipped with these things) and then tell me that I will never amount to anything more than a sack of soiled baby diapers.

But I lie and lie and lie. She is a very cool person, but I always seem to let her down because I don't practice. I hope I don't let as many people down as I think I do. If you are one of these people, I probably owe you money/sex. The second one is currently the only feasible option. Bring cigarettes. I can't afford them. See?

Mmmmm. Another shit-tastic meeting with Mr. Lawrence "I can talk for hours and say about three things" Burnett today. He pretty much pissed on me for not showing him my comps earlier. It was "too hard." What I didn't tell him was that I made it difficult on purpose so P. Rhodes wouldn't sodomize me with his shotgun (which I hear he uses to kill squirrels/little people [elves/the Japanese?]). I was very angry. SOOOOO ANGRY.

But now I'm not, because I'm about to eat some more fudge and go on a rampant killing spree through the music department. There's already a knife there.

No, that's not true either. I'm a harmless soul. Like dolphin, only with out a huge blowhole.

I'm done.