skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I just smell that way.
It's been awhile since I've blogged. Did you miss me? Well, since some of you keep up with me elsewhere, you probably don't miss me too much. I really don't have much to say at the moment. I just wanted to check in. Life is life, pretty much. I'll post something soon.
Oh yeah....
Why did Mickey break up with Minnie?
'Cause Minnie was f@cking Goofy. Badoom-kish!
My spirit doesn't earn a damn cent. My body is the one out there making things happen. Oh sure, there's all those tingly "spirit" feelings and inspirations, but that never really gets the rent paid and the dishes washed. That said, I really feel for my spirit. My spirit tries real hard to enlighten, nurture, and give me some connections that might keep me from going to hell.
I think I have it figured out, though. My spirit is like some '50s TV housewife and my body is the funny, overweight husband that gives her affection when it suits him, brings home the bacon, and beats her when the cameras are off. It really is the best analogy I could come up with.
I've thought about divorce. I mean, I'm not looking to speed things up. There's still much more to explore in this relationship. But, at some point, the spirit has had it with the body, or the body does something stupid, gets old, or just plain screws up.
I tried coming up with a suitable way to wrap this post up, but I got lost in fantasy. I was thinking about how great it would be if my spirit and body did a "Freaky Friday". I think I would learn a lot.
Anyhow, while I'm getting older, I think I can still expect great things from my body. My spirit will always have to figure out life after my body leaves, much like the housewife that takes care of her fat, abusive husband, only to find him dead from a heart attack. Let's hope I've taken out sufficient afterlife insurance and my spirit will get what it deserves.
(Reading this post while listening to the music is recommended.)
I remember it like it was just yesterday. I danced in my room, a dance that only I knew. Wearing only a pink tutu and wrestling shoes, a fine balance of the genders represented there where no one would judge; well, my dad did after walking in on me. When we recall that moment it is known as the "awkward night of surprise".
After our encounter in my room, my dad revealed to me his love of Baryshnikov. I replied "Really, dad? You like ballet too?" He came back, "Hell no! I loved 'White Nights', him and that 'ketchup' fella...er...Hines!"
"Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"Is it ketchup or catsup?"
"I dunno. I prefer ketchup."
"Oh. Well, somewhere I heard that they put more sugar in one of them and that's what made the difference. You ever hear that?"
"I..I, well, yes, somewhere indeed. I believe it was in one of your mother's magazines. She puts them right there beside the toilet and I can't help but read them."
"You know what dad?"
"What son?"
"I've read those magazines too. There's some pretty good ideas in them."
"Yeah? Like, what kind of ideas?"
"Oh, I dunno. It must be neat to be a woman, that's all."
"Son, now believe me when I tell you this, being a woman is hard."
"Well gosh, dad. I don't want to be a girl. I just think that it must be great to do lady stuff once in a while."
"What kind of lady stuff?"
"You know, macrame, trying on clothes, and talking shit about other women."
"But you don't have to be a woman to do those things, son. Why, you and I could do those sorts of things together."
"Really?"
"Really."
"'Black Ketchup'!"
"What's that again?"
"Black Ketchup, it's got Worcestershire sauce and black licorice in it!"
"IS THAT A REAL THING???"
"I HAVE NO IDEA BUT WE'RE GONNA BE EFFING BILLIONAIRES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Aaaaaaaand then we just started shouting at every one in the house, celebrating our victory of genius, broke a bunch of shit, then called the patent office.
The End!
Hells bells my elbow hurts. Well, it hurts less than it did before. For about a month and a half, I've had "tennis elbow". Last week I finally went to see a sports medicine specialist about it, and I have since been doing physical therapy, plus wearing a nifty brace. The weird part is that I don't remember playing tennis.
What I did do to earn this elbow was good ol' repetitive motion. Nope, it wasn't from masturbating; that would be "penis elbow". No, I got this from using a hand truck to haul many heavy things, over and over for a month's time. The reason for my bitching is that I really feel misrepresented by my condition's name. I wasn't all "la dee da" hitting a damn ball around and got hurt.
I know that tennis can be pretty fierce, but the name surely isn't. Why can't it be called "boxer's elbow" or "chin-scratcher tendonitis"? Boxer's elbow would sound better than tennis elbow, but I don't box. Chin-scratcher tendonitis would be more representative of what I do. I am constantly being baffled and like to exhibit my frustrations through a vigorous chin massage, so I think the name fits.
I guess I can just tell people that I have lateral epicondylitis. Maybe then they'll think I'm dying and be nicer to me.
They say a prophet is never appreciated in his homeland. Well, I'm no prophet, but there's a lot of people in my homeland that don't particularly think I'm all that. I sense it may have something to do with my choice of antiperspirant. Anyway, those of you who can't smell what I'm cooking have got to know me through words. The great thing about words is that you can say whatever crazy shit you want, not that I do that.
Well, the point of this post is to honour (eh, check out the spelling ya hosers) my Canadian friends on Canada Day. My dream to celebrate Canada Day was to have Gordon Lightfoot and Rush do a concert together, Joni Mitchell jumping out of a cake at the climax, with Neil Young standing on the side of the stage scowling in disapproval. This is my case for why I should win the PCH superprize, so I can make stuff like this happen.
I think I lost the post there. Okay, my point was that Canadians seem to like me. You know what? I don't just like my Canadians, I loves them! So here's to all of you Canadians that keep me in business. What? I don't get paid to blog??? Well, fuck this then.
HAPPY CANADA DAY!
I do enjoy coming up with silly post titles. As you guessed, it's a parody of that Bonnie Tyler song "Total Eclipse of the Heart". The song is corny as hell, but I think just about everyone has secretly listened to it, sung along with abandon, and then cried like a bitch. Have you seen the video to this song? Holy pancakes! That's some weird-ass shit right there. Let's see...you've got flying choirboys who's eyeballs are replaced with a demonic glow, homoerotic male prep school scenes, wind where there shouldn't be wind, ninjas, and the woman, who I assume is their teacher, is getting all bothered thinking about it all. The end scene shows the Dean introducing her to her new batch of statutory rape hopefuls. I think that the last thing I would want to hear before I was molested by my teacher is "turn around, bright eyes", 'cause "forever is gonna start tonight".
Opinions?
Thanks to Christielli, via another medium, I found out that my birthday is also part of the Fibonacci sequence, which has something to do with the Golden Ratio, which can be used to make spirals, which also describes my life and the aging process. I don't think that referring to my life as a spiral is accurate. I like thinking that this current day in my life just says that I'm perfectly twisted.
I hope all of you are having great days.
I can't believe the weird things that have been going on. That's all I have to say. I hope you all are doing well. In addition to all the crazy going on in the world, I've had a rather bizarre day. It must be the drinking water. Maybe I should start taking acid. I think the world would start making more sense. I'm fine, but just really confused. If I had the patience, I'd explain everything. Yes, I'm a bit frustrated and confused at the moment, so I'm guessing that after you read this post you will be feeling the same way.
Here's a tip: whenever life dishes out WTF moments, just say "wheeeeeeeee!"
Rudyard Kipling once wrote....
but now he's dead so now he don't.
How's everybody doing since I've stopped being a good blogger?
A couple of days ago, I was switching out a UPS backup for a computer that runs a standardized test scanner. The lady that runs the machine was standing by waiting for the machine to power up after I had done this. I had some guys help me move the workstation and they were just hanging around as well. This machine was taking its time and I needed to run to the loo real quick like. So, I go and do my business and when I returned one of the guys says, "Hey, did you know when she misses a period that they pay some guy to come out and fix it?" I couldn't help it. I laughed until I bled internally. The lady turned bright red from embarrassment and tried to clarify that he was referring to the test forms and not her reproductive system.
I don't know what is wrong with me--why I haven't been posting much. Whatever it is, it will work itself out eventually. Then it will work itself back in again and then I will be all distant once more. It's a vicious cycle that probably points to some kind of psychosis. Whatever, right?
I just wanted to get all Stevie Wonder on you guys and say I just called to say I love you. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go pick up my meds.
I'm not dead. I don't even smell bad. Hell, I'm not even afflicted with rigor (subject to change in certain locations). I've just been really busy doing stuff that isn't all that interesting.
You weren't expecting anything like "My time in Space Academy" were you?
