Evolution of a Snowman

Winter has come with vengeance; and in this vengeance she has brought about 10 inches of snow.

and when life gives you snow. . . you make snowmen. . .

At first our snow man was a very vanilla snowman:
Then our snowman evolved. . . With every passing drunkard looking to find some shelter and a pint, our snowman was added to until he had evolved into a rather tall beast capable of human interaction. . . like arguing with Das Piper:

After a while, our snowman grew legs. . . which would have been an awesome step in his evolution had we not gotten him very drunk. His first attempt at walking did not go very well.

Poor guy. . . Better luck next time.


Secret Agents

I have now seen two serious looking men with those clear curly cord things running up their necks to their ears. . . both trying very hard to blend in. . .

I am apparently the only person working the mall today who has noticed.

make that three.

I am wondering if this is some kind of paranoia setting in or if there really are secret agents running around the mall today.


Open letter to my day

Dear Fat Angry Woman;

Next time you are in a store buying a pair of skin tight white leggings, I hope someone walks up to you and starts yelling "NO! NO! That's no good! That won't work!". Just like you did to the poor sap who was buying a knock off bluetooth headset from me.

Dear Smelly People;

I am, from now on, charging you 5$ a minute to talk to you.

Dear Brian;

Thank you for walking by my store so innocently and letting me fulfill my life long dream of heckling a Backstreet Boy.

Dear My Inexplicable Rage;

Thank you for giving me something other than intense boredom to focus on today.


more pearls

Ok, so I have been neglecting this blog. . . I am sorry. The truth is that I am the most boring person in the world, really I am.

Even though I have just returned from an epic magical musical tour of western Canada, and even though I am planning an adventure of greater proportions to Europe, I have absolutely nothing to say.

Or at least, nothing that doesn't amount to long and drawn out, though witty, complaining about my life at work and the people who I meet there.

So I'll just throw some more pearls before swine out there and hope for the best.


Athens boys choir


so long, farewell, kill me before I fall into a never ending loop of julie andrews musical numbers

So It's about an hour or so until Go time. . . I've got everything packed and ready to go.

I just wanted to put it out there that if Knuckletoes comes back without me telling of my being eaten by bears, call the authorities as she's probably killed me.

I suppose the same thing goes for if I tell you that she has been eaten by bears. . . but you should not call the authorities as I am fairly certain that she will have deserved it.

We'll be back, with pictures I am sure, in two weeks.


hairy legs and hippy feet

I love it when people look at my legs.

This sounds like it's going to be a really awkward post, and it just may be, but bare with me because it's not that kind of awkward.

I Love it when people look at my legs. People I don't know. As a woman who doesn't shave I know that if it's a man he's feeling a teeny bit emasculated, and if it's a woman she's feeling a little uncomfortable, or possibly, maybe even more likely, a teeny bit jealous that I do not feel the need to complete this incredibly mundane and unnecessary grooming task.

What I love even more is when people feel the need to comment on what they're seeing:

*cough* excuse me, but your legs are really hairy.

really. . . I hadn't noticed.

Why don't you shave them?

I swear I did this morning, I don't know where all this hair came from!

I am not sure where the compulsion comes from, to point out to strangers the taboos they are perpetrating. . . I am not going to lie and tell you that I do not do it myself. (As you well know if your were at local pub last Saturday night to witness the great Crocks rant of 2008)

Perhaps it is that, as people, we are so absolutely terrified of living outside of the lines of acceptance that we somehow think that these comments are going to be helpful in making sure that said stranger changes their ways and is re-assimilated into our culture so as not to be left behind.

perhaps there is a world wide epidemic of verbal diarrhea.

Either way, I love it.

If people are staring at you, approaching you in random social settings, an/or whispering about you as you walk by. . . you must be doing something right.



This whole working thing is kind of lame.

Just yesterday I was complaining that there was not enough mall traffic to constitute three people working. . . but now I am all alone and I swear to god I am so bored my face is melting.

The worst part about it isn't the boredom though. the worst part by far is most definitely the tunic I have to wear.

At first I was like. "Hells yes I'll where the uber soft cotton waffle weave shirt". . . but I am fast growing to hate it with the burning fiery passion of a thousand exploding suns. it's too big, it's too hot, and is not nearly as comfortable as originally anticipated. I am fairly certain that though I lack curly golden locks, the three bears are going to be demanding their shirt back any moment.

Basically I think it was pretty obvious that this post was more about quelling not only the voices of those who wont stop pestering me to update, but also the intense boredom that I am currently enduring.

I do however, have access to the beautiful wikipedia, where hours of boredom can be quelled by filling my brain with the most useless of inaccurate knowledge.


charmingly simple

Pearls before swine is a great comic. I highly enjoy it. . . and yet somehow it totally freaks me out.

Mostly because every once in a while, Rat steals ideas from inside of my brain. What scares me is that I am not entirely sure how he is getting in there.


Yet another addition to the family!

This may come as a surprise to most, but I have a confession to make.

I am a big fat softy. . .

Ok, so none of you are really all that surprised, but I still don't know how I got myself into this situation.

Actually I do. . . it was Wretched. . . Wretched is always the reason I get into situations like this.

Wretched had decided that she was going to get a cat. . . and had, in her infinite wisdom, decided that I would go along with her to get said cat. . . fine, but I was expecting the humane society. . . not some dirty, smelly waist-land house in the north west end.

So when I saw this little runty, sickly thing living in such squallier how was I supposed to just leave him there?
His name is Bowie. . . He blends in with my apartment. . . he is the most clingy creature I have ever met. . . And even though he is going to grow up to be a snobby soul eating monster one day, I just can't help but love him!Mostly he thinks I am pretty rad too, and has decided that aside from playing with the fish tank, and chasing invisible things around the floor, his favorite thing to do is chill on my lap while I watch cheesy crime drama.


what's in a name.

For mother's day this year, my brother and I decided that it was time to officially make our step mother one of the family. . . as if she wasn't already. . . But to do this we decided to add her last name to our already wide selection of names. . .

I now have 2 more names than john Jacob Jingle Hiemer Schmit. . . 3 if you count Jiggle Hiemer as a hyphenate like some do.

2 less names than Tikki Tikki Tembo Nosherembo Cherri berry Ruchti Pit Berry Pembo.

1 more than I had last week, and many more than I can imagine ever actually needing.

It is 48 characters long, not including spaces.

It takes me nearly 10 seconds to say in a manner that others can understand. . . 4 seconds if I say it as fast as I can.

And takes up 4 lines in a standard text message.

Curious to see if my name was getting too ridiculous for even my standards I did some research to find out who had the longest name in the world.

The longest name used by a person according to the book of world records, was 27 names long, which means that I have 20 names to go before I could compete. . . His parents thought they were funny and gave him a name for every letter in the alphabet. . . Adolph Blaine Charles David Earl Frederick Gerald Hubert Irvin John Kenneth Lloyd Martin Nero Oliver Paul Quincy Randolph Sherman Thomas Uncas Victor William Xerxes Yancy Zeus Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenberdorft Sr. . .


lesbos lesbians need labotomies

lesbos ladies launch lesbian lawsuit

I haven't posted in a while, and I don't really have anything to say anyways. . . but I thought that this artical was something that everyone could have a laugh at.


I know

I know that you are in trouble, even if you don't.

I know you are too young to remember consciously the effect that alcohol had on our family in the early years. For me it is the mere shadow of a memory. It floats on my periphery, elusive and yet menacing like a nightmare you cannot recall. Perhaps this gap in your memory is the reason why you have no knowledge, or care of how your behaviour is hurting yourself or those around you.

I know that you look up to those I have introduced you to, that you are trying, to emulate them. Your illness has glorified them, and their lives, it has hidden from you the dark truths of their lives, the sad look in their eyes. I will live with the guilt the rest of my life; even if I know on some level that you do not need an excuse for your behaviour.

I know that you are more the disease today than the person I knew only a short year ago, that I have known my whole life. I see you fading away, and I miss you Terribly.

I know that you may not realize any of this for years to come, if at all, that I could beg, plead and scream for you to stop only to realize that my words may as well not have existed at all, that the disease would rip them from my lips and throw them to the wind to be sure they never reached you.

Unfortunately this is the only understanding I can muster for you right now. And this understanding does little to quell the sadness, the guilt, the anger, and the overwhelming helplessness that has settled over me.

Good-bye, and good luck.

I love you.


jewish reggae

OMG! this is probably the coolest concept I have ever stumbled across. . .

But, before I continue with this post, I feel as though I may need some kind of disclaimer. . . I am not a racist. . . I know that the fact that I feel I have to say that may, in fact, only add to the evidence against me, but I feel the need to point out that though I am possibly the most offensive person I know, I have all the respect in the world for all cultures and faiths. Honest to blog, my musings about Jewish zombies and the kosher-ness of brains, and the use of random Yiddish words in my day to day life, as well as the following sentiments come from curiosity and fascination with Judaism, and not from any form of dis-respect.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I've been joking for years that I wish I was Jewish, a wish that many have found both fascinating and offensive, but never the less, I have found another thing to add to my list of reasons why I want to be Jewish, the list now looks something like this:

1) I want to be funny

2) I think yamikas are sexy

3) I want to say 'oi vey' and have people take me seriously.

4) bagels are delicious



I am the best big sister ever.

I took my brother's new bike for a spin. . . his brand spankin new 700$ bike for a spin.

I don't think he appreciated it very much.

When we got back he was quite literally standing in front of the open garage in a house coat, tapping his foot and demanding to know where we'd been.

Something tells me that I won't be allowed the key to said garage again any time soon.


pocketbuddha and knuckle toes' grand adventure of epic proportions

It started with an E-mail.

An Email sent in a 'wouldn't this be neat' manner, but with no real hope of making it happen.

but it's been decided, Knuckle toes and I are going here!

Now, of coarse, neither of us owns a car, or even knows how to drive one. And even if we did the tickets to this thing are 200 dollars, and clearly, gas on top of that is simply not going to happen, so we're going to hitch!

It's the weekend after Ness, so we will be dirty, we will be stinky, and we will probably be kind of grumpy. But there is no doubt in our minds that it will be glorious!

We've decided on a strict diet of home made trail bars, power spheres, and Vegan meal replacement bars, along with some fruit leather and beef jerky (for knuckle toes of coarse). We'll be real live outdoors women!

Donations to the cause would be much appreciated, in any form. I want to hear all kinds of adventure stories from people to get me pumped up. . . what I like to call and emotional donation. . . and, only because I know my parents are secretly reading. . . any help you can offer your lay-about daughter would be welcome.

Tom Petty here we come!!!


The subtle public crotch scratch

As with everything else in our world, scratching one's crotch is an activity that holds a crazy gender based double standard.

It's oh so acceptable, even if a little nauseating, for a man to reach down and scratch his sweaty itchy balls while doing most anything. standing in line at the bank, walking down the street, standing outside the pub with a smoke in one hand and their balls in another.

It baffles me for the most part, and often I find myself wondering if it's about more than the itch. Could it be that scratching testicles gives the scratcher some kind of crazy super powers? Is it somehow Hallucinogenic? Does it release endorphins? Or is it that someone has convinced men everywhere that it releases an irresistible pheromone?

The ins and outs, motives and modes of male ball scratching are not, however, what I am writing about today. What I was thinking about is how unfair it is that Women are not afforded the same freedom to itch.

It doesn't happen often, but on those hot sweaty days of summer, usually the days after a little grooming down south, the need to itch is unavoidable. My usual reaction is to excuse myself to the washroom where I can scratch without the disgusted looks of others.

I had thought I was the only one, but apparently this is a problem that many women have dealt with. and so, while walking through the mall, a friend of mine and I started making a list of ways to subtly scratch your crotch in public in the hopes that it would bring a little comfort to women, if not entirely address the double standard issue.

1) the pocket scratch - works best when wearing a long coat, or baggy pants, and involves scratching your itch through your jacket or pants under the guise of searching for pocket change, or warming your hands.

2) Look a rocket! - basically this approach takes the art of misdirection from the magicians and applies it to our current problem. This approach is probably more for those who don't care about the strangers around them, but don't want the person they're speaking with to see. . . basically all you need to do is call your company's attention to something in the other direction for however long it takes you to quietly deal with your problem. some examples include: "check out that guys funny hat.", "Hey isn't that so and so from popular reality show? oh well, it looks like him.", and "look that way for a second while I scratch my crotch."

3) the sit and wiggle - If you are sitting, either in a restaurant, at your desk, or even at the bus stop, or dare i say, on the bus, a little clever wiggling can be enough to quell the desire to scratch until a more appropriate time. to avoid making yourself look twitchy, you can incorporate the wiggling into other movements, like an extra shift or shimmy while moving your chair closer to the table, or a little more twist than really necessary when you turn to look behind you.

4) the crouch scratch - This is best for long uncomfortable shopping strips. By covering the scratch behind a low crouch or bend to 'get a closer look' at the items on lower shelves, it is easy to relieve yourself without drawing any attention to what you're doing.

5) the Fuck you scratch - Just do it! for all intent and purposes this really should not be on a list entitled 'subtle crotch scratching techniques' But this one's for all women out there who are fed up with the double-standards of their gender. . . no matter how questionable the hygiene of it, If they can do it, so can we, scratch a be free sisters.


Fidel's a chick!

Either Knuckle_toes has planted some breath mints to fuck with me, or the gecko's a girl.

The picture is pretty fuzzy, but if you look really closely you will see two little eggs nestled in the mood ships and dirt.

I saw on the discovery channel once that Geckos usually make their nests on walls like spiders. . . but I suppose it could be a difference in kind of gecko or some such thing.

either way I feel like a proud grandmother or something, even though the eggs are probably unfertilized and will never hatch. . . unless Che and Fidel were getting their freak on. . . there's a weird thought.

In other news the frog is missing and presumed dead, this combined with the sudden and mysterious death of Che last week leads me to assume that Fidel went on a pregnant hormonal rampage and killed everything in the tank because they ran out of pickles and peanut-butter flavored crickets.

I hope some kid out there doing a report on communism Googles 'Che and Fidel' and finds this.


squeaky shoe

There once was a shoe that was squeaky,
Worn by a girl who was cheeky.
They arrived at the pub,
But here's the rub,
The others all thought it was geeky.

I am fully aware that that limerick makes little to no sense, but my favorite shoes have developed a small squeak, and i am learning to love it. . . others are not so sure they could love it.

I believe the squeak is a direct result of the 'Jules vs Puddle' incident of two days ago. . . so I cannot blame the shoe, as it was entirely my own stupidity that caused the squeak.

here is a shitty MS paint diagram on how that may have happened. . .


so freakin bored out of my mind.

School's been weird crazy lately. . . but it was brought to my attention that I should update my blog. . . so here I am . . . I am not dead.

happy zombie Jebus day to all.

in honour of the occasion I stole a picture off the internet without the slightest intention of crediting the artist!


Knuckle toes got us a new friend!

This is Che, he is the most awesome lizard ever! he changes colour, and eats bugs, and climbs walls, and other lizardy things; Mostly he just looks at us while we talk to him in cheesy Argentinean accents


I am it again!

Abigail has tagged me for the second meme of the week, but this one is a fun one, the idea being that you grab the book closes to you, flip on over to page 123 and post sentances 5-9.

The closest book to me at that the time was my art history text (Art, A Brief History 3rd addition, Marilyn Stokstand), wich had this to say:

The Pergamon frieze is carved in high relief with deep undercutting that creates dramatic contrasts of light and shade that play over complex forms. Compositionally, the Pergamene sculptors sought to balance opposing forces in three dimentional space along diagonal lines, whereas Greek artists of the fifth century BCE sought equilibrium and control through balanced horizontals and virticals. Some figures in the Pergamon frieze even extend beyond the architectural setting onto the steps, where visitors had to pass them on their way up to the shrine (see sculptural figures at far left, fig. 5-9).

nd then I decided that text books shouldn't count as that was posably the most boring thing anyone has ever written, ever.

so instead I grabbed the closest non-text book, which was Go Diego Go, Rescue Truck Saves The Day, which obviously doesn't have 123 pages, so the next closest one was Self by Yann Martel:

This preluded by PMS so bad they circled at least one day a month when they would "disconnect from reality". This is an arduous feminine normality. It would push anyone to worship the goddess Anaprox. But even in these cases, I feel that the burden remains a meaningful burden.


Hammurabi was totally compensating for something. . .

Is it just me, or is the blatant phallic-ness of the first known codified system of laws funny to anyone else?



I never understood the urge to spend hours teaching pets to do random things.

The way I see it you teach it the basic communication to insure that you can co-exist with it and go about your business.

Everyone knows that it’ll die eventually.

And the more tricks you teach it the more attached you become.

And the more attached you become the more you cry about it when it dies.

And the more you cry about it when it dies the more your friends have to listen to you crying about it when it dies.

And the more your friends have to listen to you crying about it when it dies the more pathetic they secretly think you are.

And the more pathetic they secretly think you are the more they make fun of you mercilessly.

And the more they make fun of you mercilessly the more you avoid them.

And the more you avoid them the more depressed and lonely you get.

And the more depressed and lonely you get the more buying a new puppy looks like a good idea.

And then your back at square one. . . Am I the only one that finds the whole process a gigantic fucking waist of time?

That being said, I am willing to admit that the end result is sometimes amusing/amazing.

Have you ever seen a jack rustle terrier pop 74 balloons in under a minute?


oh noI have been tagged!

wench hit me with the weird, it kinda hurt.

7 random or weird things about the yourself

The rules are as follows:
# Link to the person who tagged you
# Post the rules on your blog.
# Share seven random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog.
# Tag seven random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
# Leave a comment on their blogs so that they know they have been tagged.

my 7 random things:

I think gum pain feels good, when I brush my teeth, which is often, I scrub until it feels tingly and raw. I am aware that this is horrible for my dental hygeine, but I can't stop myself.
I have more names than John Jacob Jingle Heimer Schmit. They take up two lines on my birth certificate.
3)I pretend to appreciate smart humour and dry wit, but I laugh the hardest at dick and fart jokes.
4)Sometimes I think I smell Electricity. I can't describe what it smells like, and I've never met anyone else who can, but it pops up in random places and drives me bonkers.
5)I hate Regis Philban more than I hate fascists, hamsters, mouth-breathers, and just about anything else in the world. whenever I see him on TV I have the sudden urge to kill every living thing in a five block radius before buying a plain ticket to wherever the hell he is and killing him.
6)I have a permanent crack in the nail on my left big toe from when a toy dinosaur was dropped on it at the age of 8.
7)The word 'gush' freaks me out. The reason why is not my story to share, but ever since 3 years ago that word makes me gag, and laugh at the same time. Consiquently, whenever I see children eating 'Gushers' candy, I die a little inside.

This is the part where I am supposed to tag other people, but,

contrary to the suggestion made by the title of this blog, I am not overly popular, and all the seven people I know in the blog-o-sphere have already been tagged. . . and I of coarse assume that there are no tag-backs. . . cause if thier were it would start a never ending vicious cycle of tagging that would no doubt result in a catastrauphic ripping of the space time continuum causing the sun to explode, the arrival of four angry dudes on horses, and the Toronto Maple Leafs actually winning the Stanley cup.

so I'll just say, if anyone who hasn't been tagged reads this, consider yourself tagged.


Pocket.buddha vs The Cricket

Why is it that cool animals, like rhinos or armadillos, have a greater likelihood of becoming extinct than stupid annoying animals that nobody likes?

Like crickets. . . especially the one that has escaped from the Frog's tank and is singing to taunt me from an unknown location.

I have, in the last 3 hours of cricket hunting, named him Stan.

I am sure that Stan was highly enjoying the sight of me stalking around the living room wielding my Logic text book, hyper aware of every movement, looking for the tell-tale scurry of his little cricket feet, ready to strike.

Knuckle-toes sleeps like the dead, and is not only un-effected by Stan's fiendish plan to drive me to the brink of insanity, but is also unaffected to the crashing and swearing of my hunting expedition. For some reason this fact drives me ever closer to going completely nutters.

Having decided that the crafty little bastard had undoubtedly beat me in the hide-and-go-seek round of our game, I decided to move on to the out smarting round, as surely my place in the evolutionary scale of things would give me an edge.

By that, of coarse, I am referring to the fact that I have the interweb.

At first the information found on the all mighty world wide web was decidedly useless. After all, knowing that the chirping sound or "cricket song" is made by the male crickets: "rubbing their forewings against each other." does not exactly help me in figuring out how to make it stop. Nor does knowing that a trained ear could deduce the species, sex, and current action of the cricket by the rate, pitch, and key of the sound. In fact, the idea that some scientist or another intentionally subjected themselves to this torment under the illusion that this information would be useful only infuriated me further.

But finally, after reading through the data available for a half hour or so, I stumbled across the information that cold crickets. . . while not necessarily dead crickets . . . are quiet crickets.

"ha-ha!" I called to Stan, "If your species spent less time singing, and more time inventing stuff you too may have the appropriate amount of sweaters to deal with . . . THIS!" at which point I turned the heat all the way down.

apparently, crickets have some sort of insect equivalent of 'whistle while you work' and have developed some kind of cricket sweater, because now, not only am I still listening to Stan's forewings rubbing together, but now I am cold while I am doing it.

Not to mention exhausted.



It's fucking cold out there. . .

I say that like I wasn't expecting it. This is the Canadian prairies. . . it's always cold this time of year. . . but if you look really closely at the following picture, you will see that it is so cold my dread locks have frost on them. . .


Even though I have lived here my whole life, it still shocks the hell out of me when the temperatures drop this low.

or maybe that's just the physical reaction to the cold air hitting my lung tissue, or my snot freezing my nostrils closed.


Shit List

I was reading some older posts of Schmutzie's and ran into her list of 25 things that "shit her to tears". . . in the midst of reading the list (which I totally agree with the snot build up on children's winter coats thing by the way) I started to realize how sad it is for me that it would be much easier for me to compile a list of things that cheesed me than to write one about things that didn't. . .

I mean, why is it that I can't think of more than ten things that really delight me?

what is it in my brain that makes it easier for the universe to ruin my day than to make it?

With that thought, which has been gnawing at me for almost 24 hours now, and making it incredibly hard to concentrate on much of anything else, I have decided to force myself to think really hard and come up with 25 things that make me happy.

So here it is. . .

1) The kids, Giovanni and Celeste, who I did not carry in my womb but love as though I had.

2) Live music. Out doors, indoors, anywhere, any type.

3) The first sip of coffee in the morning, even if it's bad coffee the first sip is always satisfying.

4) The smell of freshly cut grass in the rain.

5) When you end up talking for hours into the morning after the bars have closed and you've partied yourself out but don't feel like going home, so you find a friend or two, some take out, and a park to sit in until you are ready.

6) Flirting. honest to got witty interesting flirting. not the cheesy 'I want to get in your pants' kind, but the subtle innuendo and word play kind.

7) Bare feet in the grass. You feel free and connected to the earth, but there is also the oddly exhilarating danger element of not knowing if there's a sneaky piece of glass hiding somewhere.

8) cashiers and receptionists who laugh at my stupid jokes. Especially when my friends wont, because when your friends start making fun of your horrible sense of humour you feel as though you have made an Ally of a stranger by making them laugh.

9) The somewhat hurtful, yet undeniably hilarious banter my brother and I get into when we're bored.

10) Lists . . . even if this one is already getting hard when I am not even half way through, lists are none-the-less incredibly satisfying.

11) Books. Having the time to read a book that wasn't assigned to me would be really nice, and when I get there I know it will feel great.

12)Art Galleries, I like art too, but it doesn't have a 100% chance of making you feel warm and fuzzy inside, in fact, I prefer art that doesn't, but I love art galleries, they are quiet and peaceful, and they give me that childish 'grown-up' feeling like when I was a kid and got to run to the store to by milk or something equally as lame.

13) Voting. It makes me feel a little more empowered and a little less guilty about not doing enough for the causes I am passionate about.

14) Crisp, clean, brand spanking new paper, the possibilities are endless.

15) A good pen, to go along with that brand new paper, one that glides smoothly and feels balanced and is weighty in your hand so it makes a good satisfying (but annoying to others) 'thunk' when you tap it against the page while thinking.

16) Individually wrapped pieces of cheese.

17) Making up random stories about the lives of strangers in restaurants, bus stations, bank lines and other such places.

18) Accessories. not entirely because they're shiny, or pretty, though they are, but I like the sound that bracelets make when they shift or hit the table when you put your beer down or go to write something. and the rhythm of dangly earrings when you walk at a brisk and steady pace.

19) listening to people talking and trying to pick up inflections and syntax that are unique, or give away where they've lived or been.

20) Hearing people who don't normally cuss say something vulgar and/or belligerent. Also equally as awesome when people who you think wouldn't or shouldn't cuss do it often, like a priest or elementary school teachers.

21) The fact that my fish is still around after a year of being in my care, in spite of the fact that I intentionally picked the sickliest most retarded looking fish I could find and gave it the unfortunate name of Sushi.

22) A really well made sandwich, with the perfect ratio of sauce to veggies, when the veggies are all crisp and fresh, and the cheese and bread are toasted just the right amount.

23) Cooking new and/or experimental recipes for family and friends.

24) The way a canned carbonated beverage sounds when you open it; with the pop and the hiss and the sizzle and the what not, it sounds refreshing, even though I am not usually partial to sugary pop, or canned beer.

25) the fact that I actually compiled a list of that many things that I like is kind of impressive to me, and I am feeling pretty good about it!

It only took me . . . 2 hours . . . but at least now I have proved to myself, if no one else, that I am not a negative Nelly all of the time.

I have also, however, proved that an entry about the things I like is just as boring to read as an entry of ranting about the stuff I don't . . . so I think I'll stick to what I am good at.


Note to self. . .

The documentary channel is highly addictive. . .

The channel's ability to be incredibly interesting and depressing at the same time is kind of awkward at first but soon becomes oddly comforting.

Seriously, if your ever feeling just a little to good about yourself and the world you live in, and are consequently freaking out your friends by saying things like 'Okey dokey' with a smile and meaning it, flip on over to the documentary channel (which, on the guide, shows up conveniently as DOU CH for some reason) and not only will it inject enough depressing hopelessness into your day to get you back into the comfort zone, but you just may learn something in the mean time.


Happy Frickin' New Year

It's official . . . No matter how harmless my computer desk looks, dismantling and moving it is, and always will be, a two person job.

I am hoping that my random burst of midnight energy, and enthusiasm to fulfill my resolution to get and stay organized, did not permanently compromise the structural integrity of the stupid thing. . . nothing a little glue can't fix right????

I hope so, or this little incident will probably go down in history as another reason why I think new years resolutions are at the very least stupid, and at the very worst bad for one's physical and/or mental health.

Sure, I suppose that some would make the argument that setting goals is an important key for success. . . but most people who say that are just trying to sell books, and all the others are those stupid enough to actually buy them.

My problem with setting goals for the new year is that it will either:

A)turn out to be a huge waist of time as you'll forget about it by February

B)Turn out that the goal set was unrealistic and will turn into a sick, morbid obsession with something you cannot attain.

OR . . .

C)result in the stubbing of your toe and the breaking of your desk.

Either way it's lame and I am here by making my new resolution not to make any more resolutions.