[In the name of continuity, I bequeath thee. (I bequeath thee! I bequeath thee!)]
Doesn't it just upset you that we've all been here long enough for me to call this year two? Well, if not, that was the purpose. I'll try harder next time.
And foremost, this is required reading.
Done? You sure? Ok, let's start.
Summer begins anew and, with it, the continuing cycle of life and death. For us, of course, the hope is life without hassle while imposing death on the superbugs that invade our sleepy rural town.
Sometimes things don't go exactly to plan.
For instance, this past weekend my sister and her family came up to visit and heralding their trek was a conspicuous gift. Whence, a wince:
It appears she ran a disinformation campaign on hearing my efforts in the name of science and told my dad that I "loved it". Well, that's true; I did love it, much like I would love having my face burned off.
Thank you so much, flesh-and-blood.
In any event, the conversation naturally drifted to homes and how ours is holding up after 18 years and in my sister's time away. Talk moved to the typical things you only keep one ear to: lawnmowers, snowblowers in storage or the state of the grass. It's at that moment I heard the underpinnings of something far more sinister, spoken in a hushed tone.
My dad had already grabbed the ladder when I heard the laughter from the women of the house. Following outside, I was greeted shortly after opening the back door to a FWOPFWOPFWOPfwopfwopfwopfwopfwop. My head snapped up to see a flitting black streak headed towards the woods and my dad peering over the edge of the roof and down at me.
*laughter from inside the house*
"Yeah, I saw. What the hell are you doing up there?"
"I found out where they get in!"
Well, now, in a year of reconnaisance we appear to have discovered their dastardly base of operations - a seam in the roofing tiles. (Which explains how they tipped off the damn squirrels.) My dad rights himself and comes back down the ladder.
"I can't believe I finally found it!"
I follow behind. "Bats in the belfry!"
"We've got to get them!"
"Bats on the dancefloor!"
"I've got an idea!"
"Bats passing in the night!"
"Let's seal it up!"
"Bat--What? This isn't the Cask of Amontillado! They're sleeping right now!"
"Well, what am I going to do? Go up there with the powerlines at night and try to do it when they're out?"
"Good point. But can't we at least do it at dusk?"
"No. We've got them now." He develops that majestic, steely resolve of words at the most unnecessary times.
Christ, it's not like we need to capitalize on a retreat. One flew out!
In any event, his mind was already made up so up he went and out came a can of God-knows-what for the entombing task. I now sit, in my home, writing to you a week after the fact. My mother has been nervously moving about the house every night since with a flashlight trying to make sure they don't get forced further into the house as a result.
"Kev! Can they get through there?"
(She's looking at a 3-millimeter crack in the attic door.)
"Oh dear lord."
This is a great solution. We're now living with the flying rats.
And even if this works it is only a matter of time before that smell, that putrid wafting of death and cheese comes raining down on us all. Times ten.
Call me Pyrrhus.
the profits of doom
14 years agoKevlar
[In the name of continuity, I bequeath thee. (I bequeath thee! I bequeath thee!)]
14 years agoKevlar
As I began this journal many months ago talking about my gaming habits and have never broached them since... Let today's topic be a temporary return to form.
If you think I'm a bastard here, you should see the snarling beast I turn into in online games. Recent vignettes from Guild Wars:
while on a mission to help rookie players...
*clashing of swords and axes*
Sahaj: Today's Inappropriate Battle Trivia:
*screaming and slashing*
Sahaj: In Antiquity.
*enemy reinforcements arrive, more screaming*
Sahaj: Can anyone tell me who Asclepius is?
*flames fall from the sky*
Sahaj: Anyone?... Bueller?
*running down enemy archers*
Sahaj: Monks, I'm looking at you!
*rookie monk screams, drops dead*
Dead warrior: Shut the hell up.
Dead monk: Ooh, was he a Roman emperor?
Sahaj: No, I'm sorry, the correct answer is....
*cuts down the enemy shaman*
Sahaj: We're in the middle of a goddamn battle!
*resurrects rookies and leads them on*
Warrior: I can't even read that. Do you ever fucking shut up?
Sahaj: Behold, the mighty Frontier tar pits!
*rips chestplate off and runs into the middle of the enemy group*
Sahaj: This is the best nightclub in all of Ascalon.
*dances while 10 Grawl gather around and weakly attack*
Warrior: ...I don't even know what to fucking say.
Monk: I mean, he's helping us out, but wtf.
(Oh, I'm part of the vanguard. The sexy vanguard.)
*mass slaughter ensues*
Sahaj: So back to Asclepius...
*much gnashing of teeth*
Monk: Uh, we're in the middle of a goddamn battle?
*Warrior screams and drops dead again*
Sahaj: MY PEOPLE.
Sahaj: ...You make me so proud. *sniffle*
*cleaves 5 enemies in a single whirling stroke*
(Doing the Pulp Fiction dance.)
Sahaj: Quick! It's Mighty Sahaj's Word Challenge Time! Define:
Warrior: Fuck you.
Sahaj: Well, that would be the proper context, but I'm looking for something a bit more specific.
Monk: Where is the bonus objective on this mission?
Sahaj: Good question.
*Sahaj Haruti waves*
Sahaj: YOU OWE ME 13 DOLLARS YOU SKANK
Warrior: Jesus Christ, I'm leaving.
*tribal axe drops, assigned to Sahaj Haruti*
14 years agoKevlar
This is my attempt at transition.
There's so much to talk to you lovelies about lately that I'm not only getting a backlog of Watchlist activity but also a backlog of journal topics.
And doesn't it bother you when someone doesn't understand that if you use 'not only', you have a contractual grammatical obligation to use 'but also'? That's the goddamned purpose of saying not only. You're implying there's something beyond your logical setup that you want to use as comparis--
Don't make me light your clothes on fire.
Anyway, what the hell was I going to talk about today? Ah, yes. The real weekend topic.
You Are A Fingernail Despot
If we're on the topic of hygeine, can I complain about the seeming insistance of some women to constantly evaluate my fingernails? Look, I understand you may be interested in the whole package. It's nice to be perfectly groomed all around. But why does a bodily component which takes up perhaps 2% surface area comprise 20% of complaints?
I can't get away from it when I date, and I can't even get away from it when I'm not dating.
In fact, I'mma read this to the woman who has most recently done it as a second abstract layer of meaning that until now only I knew about. (And you could care less about.)
Can't I get a moment's peace?! I'm a guy. Why the hell do you care if I cut my nails too short? When I'm not getting in knifefights or fixin'.. that which needs fixin'.. And rolling around in grease for the hell of it, and killing wild boars with my bare hands and being a pirate ninja rodeoclown then maybe I'll get around to proper nail maintenance.
I mean, seriously. The amount of time these women have spent examining my cuticles could have been easily put towards curing something. (All right, that's unfair. I could spend my wasted time too curing... more hangovers. And every day is a blow for science.)
You know what I want to do when I'm single? Not continue to get the girlfriendy comments. You heard me. They're tough hearing when I'm getting sex and they're sure as hell tough hearing when there's no sex in return for the complaints.
(Unless karma catches up with me and I'm entered into the Coitus Bowl 2005 competition in Sweden, or something.)
It's almost making me think people just expect me to be Mr. Smooth. In fact, between some of the comments I get here and the "Oh, not wearing a tie today?" commentary by certain other friends I don't know what else I can do to get back under the radar.
(Keep making posts like this, I guess?)
It got so bad the other day that my best friend's mother in law took me aside and said to me, "You know - when you go on that camping trip you can't bring any ties along. It's not that kind of place for attire."
So I said "Haha, I know, that would be ridiculous..."
"...Because there are so few mirrors in the forest."
number one zero
14 years agoKevlar
..God damn it, stats, stop updating! Don't tell me this is my new full-time job!
..Hrrk. I guess it is. Well, so long as we got that out of the way let me talk to you about a subject very near my heart. A Leviathan husk in the ocean of my courage. A Fezzik to my Vizzini. The goddamned goop to my soup can.
What is that goop, anyway? Sometimes I wonder if I keep rinsing the cans I'm just allowing it to regroup with the other goop cadets in the bowels of the earth for the massive revenge plot.
Anyway, yes, my point. Dentistry. I need to make a dread-filled appointment soon.
It's not that I loathe the idea of dentistry as a profession, nor if you ever saw an open-mouth smile from me you'd see not one but two gold teeth, it's the high Goddamned standards! For someone like me (read: someone with an oral fixation) who went through many years of orthodontics, I find it important to take good care of my teeth.
The flipside to the coin is twofold: the sheer terror of not only the implements in the office, but also the disapproving Talk from the dentist if he spots something he doesn't like.
The Implements: I never mentioned that I have a reflexive defense mechanism for dentists: occasionally when they go without vacuuming the excess from my mouth I just launch liquid out at them. It's not intentional and it's not even from trying to spit; it's just kind of a swallow-reflex that somehow catapults spittle all over them at high velocity. I'm like a dental King Cobra when they're not careful. It especially happens when they've got 35 instruments in my mouth and are trying to ask me complex questions, and I hate those fucking types:
"So, what have you been up to lately?"
"Dfon't you nooo nfot thoo askch opfen-ended qchwestions whenn I'm in the chair?"
"What? I couldn't understand you. Say, have you read War & Peace?"
Hell, maybe it's a defensive aura.
I also love how they use the damn scraper (or Pincer of Devastation as I call it) to press into your teeth. Come on! You're just trying to find a reason to give the Talk, motherfucker. That tool is not designed for fucking with my jawbone. Ok, well, maybe designed for it, but not meant for it.
The Talk: Come on, you know what the Talk is. You know, that angry father kind of speech you get on occasion if the dentist wants some hygeinic aspect improved. I'll bet a lot of you try and avoid the Talk too, don't you? At least at the doctor's office. Isn't it interesting how hard we try before a dental cleaning to really clean up to avoid the Talk? Isn't that the fucking purpose of the cleaning? Why are we spending so much effort to look good for the dentist, when the dentist should be making us look good for everybody else instead of giving that godawful speech?
Do they even need to do a cleaning for me with my shallow need to avoid criticism in the chair? Or do I handle it myself simply in anticipation of arcane dentistry?
Fuckmajumblies, this is pointless. I should pretend to be a dentist myself! Keep outdated magazines around so everyone gets sleepy, then when they come in for the cleaning poke at their teeth and make them upset while yelling about their inflamed gums, or whatever random two-word combination I happen to make up. (see "harpoon, colon") If anyone catches onto the idea that I don't know what I'm doing, I can cancel their appointments due to emergency surgeries. And the rest will already have cleaned their teeth in fear of the Talk so I can cancel their appointments too.
Wait, so I guess it won't really be any different from the real deal. Call me Dr. Foolproof.
oh, heaven's dead
when you get sad
14 years agoKevlar
You have made 1392 posts, 119 journal entries, and 1 forum threads.
You watch 20 users, while 36 watch you.
You have received 10 (mostly positive) mods and given out 14 (mostly positive) mods.
You have made 119 journal entries, with an average of 7.39 comments per entry.
Your most popular journal was .hammer down (Singularity) [2nd person] with 33 comments.
Every 1.98 days you add a new journal, usually on Sunday nights, as with 21 (17.65%) of your journals.
I come back and the place gets a complete facelift. I know I wasn't the only one who said it, but I feel kind of foolish asking for these mod and stat features. Now that they're implemented I can see just how much time I've wasted. As per my luck, I also managed to hit +40 about two days before the Karma reset. Not that it matters.
Also, 36 people watching me? Oh Dear Lord.
Speaking of wasting time, I see folks are already rushing to become the most popular again and get on the front page. Yeah, I missed that. If you find this entertaining as well, feel free to Ditto me. Then I can be a complete hypocrite in addition to your favorite theoretical grammarian.
You never heard of that before? Well, then that makes me your favorite, doesn't it?
I told you I aim low. Now get me a fucking snack cake.
In other news, I will attempt to conquer nature approximately two weeks from today by venturing into the wilderness of New Hampshire. There are rumors of wild, unkempt tattoo beasts in those parts, but I'll be prepared.
Man, if there was a Longest Link statistic in 1.5 I'd win at the Internet.
I'm still learning the new system here so apologies for keeping this short.
...Actually, I'm just also testing to see how much longer I can make my journal posts to torture you with.
No, not yet.
Shit, I don't even have a punchline.
i wonder why she stayed with me
why she enjoyed my vanity
14 years agoKevlar
...So here I sit, after having had a good beer-soaked night and with my square-framed glasses on to talk to you about relationships.
Jesus, it's like I'm regressing.
What I want to say from the start, and I want to make this absolutely clear, is what the fuck? This is your theme to follow.
Time to air dirty laundry-as-explanation.
My ex wants to still be friends and we had talked about that after the break - you know, standard fare. What wasn't standard is the fact that she's still calling me every few days. This is not really a less frequent call schedule than when we were dating, so I'm beginning to wonder if she understands the concept of no longer being together.
It's actually even worse in terms of the conversations we have. She called me the other day and after I picked up and said 'hello?', she went right into 'You wanna hear something funny?'. Why yes, I just did. What's funny is that at least when we were dating you'd give me a fucking greeting when you called.
What's funny is I often hated our inane chats anyway, but at least before I was putting up with it for the sake of the relationship (oh, and the sex).
So why the fuck did I break up with you if I still have to listen to you complain? At least before I could shut you up every day for a few hours at a time. Now I don't even get that!
I mean, shit! Everybody says they want to be friends after they break up! I thought you were lying, just like I was lying! That's the Standard Breakup Lie! Now you're calling me and asking if I want to hang out?! Asking what's going on in my life?!
Why can't I escape? I want to escape!
Look, just, no. I think I need a break-up from this break-up, because it isn't working out.
Think about this for a minute. Can you folks imagine what this conversation is going to be like?
"Look, I just want to say I don't think it's working out for us."
"Yes, um, I know, we're broken up."
"No... See, I mean, the other stuff."
"Oh, you mean the caring friendship that we built and the being involved in each other's lives? Talking isn't working for you?"
That's just it. I think I'm going to end up stabbing my eyes out either way. And the best part is if I stab them out while on the phone, she probably won't even notice the screams and will just keep talking.
Aaaaaahhhh. Just like the good ol' days.
it's a violent pornography
14 years agoKevlar
This is it. I'm graduated.
And by graduated, I mean unemployed.
Well, this isn't entirely true. I had to leave my student job by virtue of graduate policy, and I have a follow-up interview with another place tomorrow already. Today, therefore, is the concise juncture between my school exile and opportunity to work. Some people might like this kind of immediate chance.
...But me? There's so much unemployed stuff I wanted to do! I mean, I've got the unshaven part down. I had the tank top on earlier. I haven't gotten around to daytime TV yet because I've been posting here instead, and I'm certainly working on the 'disgusting food eating in front of the PC' thing. (If I tried to eat Karma, I'd definitely be dead by now.)
On this topic, I've told you about my dad being well - meaning before. But for whatever reason, he either thought it was funny to get me a huge can of Slim Jims the other day or wanted to be nice and get me a random snack.
Well, gee, don't I just complete the picture now in my tanktop and with my processed meat sticks while I browse the site.
So I thought it was kind of funny and ate them the other day, and now he buys me another can because he thought I liked it. (Hey, I was just trying to clear up desk space - kind of like when I eat jewel cases.)
Oh boy! Slim Jims for breakfast! Slim Jims for lunch!
SLIM JIMS AS A HORS' DOURVE SERVED BY ME, CAPTAIN NO JOB!
I'm sure you agree this is disgusting. But if I learned anything from yesterday's experiment where I ate a pound of frozen pasta and seafood, it's that my stomach is a haven of pirate enzymes that can board and break down any royal galleon of fish sticks. (Except for that time I did a shot of diced jalapenos. I used to think I could pass Sputnik through my colon, but that scarred me for life.)
With only a potential day left in my unprofessional, unproductive life, I need to do something stupid and irresponsible! Something that truly makes me unemployed and challenges my pirate spirit!
I've got 40 grams of saturated fat to eat through, twenty-four sticks and a lot of heart. At least before it explodes. Can your favorite asshole pull off eating an entire bucket of concentrated asshole in one morning? Let's find out.
First, wardrobe selection was important. I went with my brand-new Nike Pro Vent workout shirt with superior wicking ability in case of the meat sweats.
I'm focused and ready. The first stick gets chomped down easily and I rip through the next individual, grease-filled casing like an animal. This is too easy!
...Whew. You know how Hume talked about delicacy as the ability to discern every component, every flavor out of the whole? I can taste all kinds of ass. Ass with some kind of chemical spice to it.
Fuckjibblies. The wrappers are starting to pile up like some twisted, post-apocalyptic greaseball, and my stomach is humming along but my mouth definitely doesn't like it. I'mma check the ingredients for bull testicle. Er, not that I know what that tastes like.
That's it. This is now a battle of wills. I can make this happen.
Oh, it's so good!
IT'S SO GOOD!
14 years agoKevlar
Four years. Four years of grinding away on papers and work and losing a little bit of yourself in each. Four years of parties, of drinks and progress and all the things they say will be the most fun of your lifetime.
Victoria. Rhiannon. Dana. Melissa. Sarah. Sam. The one that wanted your shirt off on the quad so she could lick your abs in front of hundreds of people. All the ones you've loved and left and forgotten.
So it all goes downhill from here? You don't plan on it, but if this graduation is any indication...
9:30 AM: "Four years of waiting for this great reward... Four more hours of waiting! Thanks college!" I yell as the group shuffles off the baseball field. It's a cold and overcast day, feeling completely out of place for late May. The thousands move so slowly it seems a black gown and Bataan affair.
9:45 AM: I've moved about 200 feet. Goddamnit. My phone, of course, goes off while walking through the procession. Who am I to not pick up?
"Just graduating, you?"
"Meh, not much-- wait, you mean right now?"
"Yeah, just walking through the crowd right now. Hear the music? Hold on, it looks like everybody's mad at me."
10:00 AM: The president steps forth wearing 30 lbs. of regalia and a gigantic necklace. For the next hour or two the Governor gives a speech, some chairman gives a speech, the president gives another speech and members of the class of 1955 give a speech. Somebody's fucking dog may as well give a speech. I''d call this hell if it weren't so cold.
12:05 PM: Here comes the guest speaker. After ten minutes of listing the prick's accomplishments, he seemed to cut an imposing jib. But the minute he stepped up to the mic and actually stopped grimacing it was more of a Milhouse jib. Man, I've never heard someone so nerdy.
Now, this is graduation. You expect the big speech to have some kind of tie-in - you know, whether it's good or bad. This guy? Ten minutes into the speech he finally gives us the title: The Revised Welfare: Does Work Work? Holy shit, great implication. And should I be taking notes?
Nevermind. I am in hell.
12:25 PM: The man just does not stop. A cacophany of statistics seem to rush from his nose and into the air.
"...The 'leavers', as we'll call them, have shown about a 50/50 split of potential fiscal benefit from welfare-to-work programs..."
Not once has he referred to us or wished us well. The survivors huddle for warmth; an interlocking shield of caps buttressed against the wind and offending noise.
"...calculated through a random distributed sample in a study by myself, and as highlighted in my upcoming book..."
Wow! He just got his 33rd honorary degree and he's promoting his own work.
12:30 PM: He just stopped, almost mid-sentence if you went by his inflection. He just fucking said 'thank you' and walked off. Not once did he ever talk to us. No good luck. A nearby student picks up on my insults and (using his program as a megaphone) begins the heckling.
Oh fuck, there are more speeches.
12:50 PM: The huddled mass gathers around me. "You think you're done?! You think you've earned a diploma? This is a test. When the first person walks up there, bam! Wheel of Pain. Better have your running shoes on."
A nearby student whispers "Only the penitent man will pass." Meanwhile, an older female looks at me wide-eyed. "How do you know that?" she hisses.
"I didn't beat the Wheel last time. Hopefully they took the Fire Ring out this year." I twitch for effect.
"That's how it goes down in today's college, ma'am."
That's how it goes down.
after we go
14 years agoKevlar
"You want a visit for a few minutes? You don't sound ok."
Me: "No, I'm fine."
"Oh, well, I'm going to Becca's later for her daughter's birthday party. You know, I just kind of feel like going out.
Don't feel like being alone tonight."
Oh come on, woman. That's like filling my swimming pool with punji sticks. You really think I'm going to fall for that trap?
I am the booty caller. You, my dear, can only aspire to be the callee. And tonight the phone ain't ringing.
I've made a personal decision to delay watching Star Wars Episode III for as long as possible. Why?
Unlike the rest of you, I plan for this non-watching to be the only discussion I have on the movie because I'd like my childhood to remain intact. And if it's so good, I want to be able to hoarsely whimper "no spoilers" whenever you want to talk about it and we're all in the retirement home because I would find it hilarious to upset you.
Right after I trip you with my walker.
Speaking of retirement, I don't mind tattoos and I think you know this. But the more I hear about body modification the more I begin to disapprove of certain... Types.
Point in case: I've got a friend of a friend who is a very nice man and who also happens to have Light Side and Dark Side tattoos running up each arm. Nice, if that's what you're into. However, he eventually wants to be transformed into Darth Maul. I'm not just talking about laying on some paint and running around in a black velvet bedspread like these other less-than-uber nerds... The man wants to be permanently tattooed in the design of the Sith Lord and also wants to have the horns surgically installed.
Ok. This might look cool. For two weeks. But have you considered it as a life decision? Do you honestly want to wake up every day - 75 years old and with dementia - to a drooping black and red devil face in the mirror?
You'd shit your own pants every day, screaming for the nurse!
And then you'd see your face.
No, when I'm at the age of 75 I want to be virile and flashy, grabbing nursebutt and tripping other patients with ease while I sport my snazzy new tracksuit pants tied off at the shoulders. I don't want to be Devil Man, pushing my grafted horn back up into place after it droops right down under the skin and stretches my eyebrow across my forehead.
And I especially don't want to hear this:
"You want more bean curd... Darth?"
Because man, getting picked on by lunchladies is not cool.
on in five
14 years agoKevlar
Gog bram dis noes.
GOD DAMN THIS NOSE.
I think Jessa gave me something because I'm feeling a sneeze coming on and this isn't good. In fact, you know what's the worst about my sneezes? It's like I'm going tactical, breaching a door - as soon as the first bang hits it just doesn't stop. There's snot in uniform rapelling down the wall, they're coming in through the windows... Flashsnot being tossed down the halls...
Basically it's better if it just don't sneeze at all to try and prevent the onset of Snokatoa. I mean, seriously, can I get something installed to avoid this? Firewall, maybe? Complete nose removal? Facebucket?
Ooh, facebucket. I could load snacks into it on the good days.
Wait, don't lose your focus. You can get through this. This is pre-emptive snaction. Fuck, I can't sneeze and I can't blow, because then it'll be worse. We'll just... Sit here.
Fruck, dat's it. Groing into defrensive mode.
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