Update`

I know I have neglected this place again, but I have an update. I was reading over this lovely dissertation in deprivation today and noticed a post from the past. It has repeated itself where I work. Now, a different lady I work with has been confined to the streamlined low techery of the scooter. I shit you not.

All I can do is shrug my shoulders and wait for another weekend full of studying. I'm stuck in some sort of loop of time where I age but the same things go on over and over, with just a little twist. I swear, if Keanu Reeves comes into my office and starts using his 'I'm a serious actor and not Ted from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, dude' voice, I will go completely insane and take both of you, gentle readers, with me.

Curse my Insensitive Lifesaving Ways!

This really, really cracked me up. I am really, really going to hell.

Spring Cleaning

I have a multitude of things to do, but they are so boring and monotonous that I do not even want to try to begin them. I have to send out my legal disclosures (Chuckie gave a little too much cash to the Miller brewing company one night and subsequently spent the rest of the evening in jail. Another story for another loathsome time.) which is the same three minor infractions of the law written five different ways. Some places wanted case numbers, others rulings, and finally, two wanted a narrative description of my actions and the subsequent outcomes. Jesus, I feel bad enough for doing it in the first place, now I have to shout it out in five different styles to complete strangers? Awesome.

I have another case of the blahs. It is going to get balls out cold where I live over the next couple days, which destroys any motivation I have on going to the gym after work. Also, I weighed myself on Friday and came in at 380 pounds. I usually hover around 375, but I am worried my metabolism has finally given up completely.

Everything has fallen into a stagnant routine that I do not want to be in. I know what I have to do to get out of it, but that calls for even more stagnation. God, I need to go out or something. Sorry to bore all of you, gentle readers. Oh wait, no one reads this anymore. I feel like a hot buttered piece of fail right now.

Facebook You Heinous Bitch Goddess

So, I cancelled my facebook account. Well, I did as much as I could. I made it no longer accessible to either me or anyone else in the world. You never lose your facebook account. It will always be out there, waiting to bring down your political career for friending a porn star or ruining your marriage because one night you just might have been drunk enough to not tell if it really was a woman and not a goat shaped tree stump. Whatever.

In other news, I have rediscovered a timeless pet peeve of mine. Last night, while making steaks for the wife, she decided to microwave a potato. She put it in, and, like all foods she prepares in the microwave, used a preset setting. Well, about four and a half minutes into the five minute cycle, she hits the stop button, takes her potato out, closes the microwave, and walks away. What is left is a thirty second timer staring out at all who dare meet its gaze. Maybe I have some sort of phobia against stopped timers, like they will start up again and doom us all to the inevitable fate we all must face, but in thirty seconds. Maybe I am too damn lazy to read the analog clock in front of me, especially when I am trying to roughly time how long a steak has been in the skillet.

I had asked her before, more than once mind you, to clear the timer when she was done. She never does, so I clear it as soon as she leaves the room with whatever food item she was nuking. Last night was no exception. Unfortunately for the microwave, I had a touch of the roid rage from too much treadmilling at the gym, I ended up hitting the cancel button about four dozen times in two seconds. The wife asked me what was wrong with the microwave. I explained my pet peeve again and she said she would try to hit the cancel button in the future.

This morning, she made oatmeal in the microwave. My life felt like it stalled out four seconds before it ended.

गुड मोर्निंग माय हिंदू फ्रिएंड्स

So, I found this little button that lets you convert your text to Hindi. Awesome! It almost makes me not want to end my life in the hopes that eternal suffering is a little better than earthly complacency. I have been thinking of this blog over the last few days and have decided that I need to rekindle the spark, the spirit, the martini glass of thirty weight that this blog and its predecessor had. In that need, I present a poop story.

I awoke this morning the same way I awoke yesterday morning, ten minutes before the alarm went off and a scorching pain running through my legs. I have been going to the gym for the last two days, subjecting myself to almost twenty five minutes of rigorous three mile an hour walking and superhuman five mile an hour bicycling while jamming out to the greatest band ever, QUEEN. I have to wait an extra thirty minutes after work for a bus that will get me to the gym. By the time I get to the gym, the only thing I want to do is go across the street to the bar, get hammered, and possibly try meth for the first time so I can lose my virginity in a shitty, shitty mensroom. But, I persevere, get my buttermilk ass firmly planted on the exercise bike, and in no time I am listening to the theme from Flash Gordon for the fourteenth time and my heart is ready to explode.

So, every morning (for the last two days anyway), I give a little stretch, pop all of my joints, then try not to cry as I make water while greeting the sunrise. Then, I shower, towel off, put on undergarments and black socks pulled up to my knees, and make the wife some sort of hot breakfast (no pun intended). This morning, I decided to shake things up a bit from the drab scrambled eggs and toast. I thought to myself, 'self, some sort of fusion is needed. What if I combined the scrambled eggs and toast... But how...?' Suddenly, a vision of baguettes and surrender flashed into my head. I dipped the bread into the scrambled egg mixture, then placed the concoction into a buttered pan. I called it French toast.

It paled in comparison to the curry that the wife made the night before. I pondered the comparison of breakfast to dinner foods and how they ranked against each other when they weren't even in the same category, let alone the same time of day. I worked via the scientific method, thinking maybe the nutritional content of the base ingredients decided the superiority of the meal. I thought of chick peas, coriander, curry, and the 5 grams of fiber in the whole wheat pita we used instead of nan bread.

Then, it hit me. I hadn't taken a shit in over two days. My body was holding all it could to keep from losing itself in my exercise routine. I had at least one ounce of hot sauce, jalapeno, or curry equivalent at every meal since then. I don't know about you, but if you eat the right amount of spicy, high fiber foods and wait a day or two, your colon actually screams "Tora! Tora! Tora!" in whale song. At least mine did.

I ran the two steps it took to get from kitchen stove to bathroom toilet, yanked down my boxers, and discovered what a champagne bottle feels during the decork and pour. After what seems an eternity of cascading hot liquids, my fourth eye closed itself to the world yet again, I wiped, and rose. What I beheld in the toilet took me by surprise. A single island of fetid curry, supported by a single beam of Brown that extended into the cave at the bottom of the bowl looked back at me. The crest of the shit volcano on this island looked as if it were mere inches to being even with the toilet seat. I knew this couldn't be true because I checked the back of my wiping hand and found no trace of excreta. As I flushed I said to my self, "Damn, this is why I want to be a lawyer."

One day, gentle reader, I will explain the dangerous and pointless reliance people have on facebook. Until then, no one is going to read this cacophonous creation.

Subconscious Ramblings

Last night I had a dream that I was walking across a university quad with a friend of mine who looked exactly like one of the guys who got killed in the Sopranos. We were trying to formulate an economic plan for the future in these uncertain economic times. We decided on starting a fake power company because we could simply charge a higher price for existing electricity and not have any tangible assets to be seized. We agreed on the plan with a handshake and kept walking.

My friend then proceeded to put on a blindfold and slowly walk behind me. In front of me were a dozen over complicated riding lawn mowers with university employees cutting grass. These machines were regular commercial riding mowers, but instead of 52 inch decks, each mower had a trunk in front with a pair of automatic scissors attached to them, cutting each blade of grass individually.

I am thinking about going to law school. Thinking so hard that I am going to take the admissions exam for a second time in the hopes of improving my score. I am tired of studying, but only have one more month. The wife is excited to move to a more northerly climate and so am I. My only regrets will be leaving the smug security of government benefits and stable income, leaving my two friends and confidants, and leaving the only town I know like the back of my hand. The payoff will be a new city, new friends, and the potential for a steady job in an unpredictable job market.

Maybe I should have just stuck to mowing lawns eight months out of the year and living hand to mouth.

This is the most boring thing that I have written since a paper on Stonehenge in my eighth year in Catholic school. Even the Stonehenge paper had the word 'blood-orgy' in it. I am totally writing a scathing tirade on the dangers of face book next. Maybe that will get me back on the old blogging horse.

Some things

I think I might have a touch of the depression again. I am busy at work, so cannot write much. But, after taking the first pee break of the day twenty minutes before my shift ends, I thought to myself. I don't know what preceded it, but it just kind of popped in there. I was walking back to my desk, empty bladder and downtrodden soul, when I thought to myself, "Does bad poetry ever get ugly people laid?" Well, nonexistent and most gentle of readers, does it?

Sorry Readers, They Got This Depression On

I wonder if anyone still pops in now and again to see if I am up to anything? I think any subsequent heat that this little project in morbidly infantile fallacy has worn off. My apologies to anyone who has been waiting by their monitors for an update. Get a job, losers.

Updates:

I took the law school entrance exam and didn't do too bad on it. I might have to move north and sell my soul for federal loans with no real job prospects when I get out of law school, but what the hell?

The wife and I never got a dog. We did get a kitchen. It has hot and cold running water.

I have established an unhealthy addiction to Legos. Seriously, the wife said she would leave me if she ever woke up late at night, the blue glow of the environmental flourescents beeming under the bedroom door, and me quietly saying "take that Darth Vader, PEW! PEW!" It's odd that she mentioned nothing about the clothespins on the nipples, the dog collar, or the scented candles surrounding the Lego star destroyer.

I've been reading a lot since we haven't had cable in over a year and I no longer need to study for the LSAT. I finished a book in a day and a half. Weird.

How are you doing?