Hi blog. I don't hate you and I've been wanting to update, but whenever I think of something blog-worthy, it slips out of consciousness before I can type it up.
My goal for the next 7 months is to spend 3 of them in the mountains of philmont NM, growing a massive beard and a a stench that will force the UN to send me a strongly worded letter threatening sanctions unless I cease all stench development efforts.
Or, as I told Ron just now:
THill652 (12:13:50 AM):I better fucking get out to philmont this year. Otherwise it's okay to officially refer to me as a fucking douchebag
THill652 (12:14:05 AM):I'll sign a document to that effect, if you wish
I just wanted to notify y'all of that, to make it official and whatnot.
Hopefully this will be the start of reviving a habit. I miss being interesting enough to be worth writing stuff about.
In other news, I've been watching a lot of Battlestar Galactica, METALOCALYPSE, and The A-team on DVD. All of which are freaking awesome. If you do not agree with me, you should be murdered with a rusty nailclipper.
In an interesting bit of coincidence, the Brother Cylons are palyed by the same dude who was a crooked cop in the A-team, Mr. Dean Stockwell. He's an ass in both of them, I'm afraid he's being typecast.
Sooo, while I'm waiting to get into grad school, I'm temping as customer service for a company. I'm real iffy on talking about work, seeing as how being a dick on the interweb can get you fired, but some stuff is just too awesome to let pass by.
Last week, one of the e-mails we answered recieved an autoresponse which read along the lines of:
"I'm sorry, but I'm going in for my annual shock therapy, and will be out of touch for the next two weeks."
annual shock therapy? Who the hell is so screwed up that they need 1000V through their brain stem on a yearly basis? And if you're that screwed up, why the hell are you bugging us with stupid questions when you won't even remember the last month after you get out of the hospital? Frickin crazy people.
I swear, everytime I come up with something to write, it goes away before I can actually reach a keyboard. Arg.
Have any of Y'all seen the Re- Animator or one of it's sequels? They're crappy horror flicks, except really good ones. They're loosely based on a Lovecraft story I've never read, but probably not too closely since 'ol H.P. was never much of a joker. What they are is creepy, funny horror flicks with well produced special effects and a very large fake blood budget. Name me another series that will show you things like heads flying around on bat wings and a rat fighting a zombie penis, I dare you! The third one (Beyond Re-Animator) actually had some really damn good writing for a gratuitous gore-fest.
But really, please tell me if you've seen anything else like that, I'd totally love to watch it.
Today, I was faced with a conundrum, a conundrum of EARTH SHATTERING PROPORTIONS!
I wanted to watch a movie. But, like, I'm going to ozzfest tomorrow, and I have to get in the mood. So it can't be a good movie, it has to be something stupid and violent with preferably demonic themes. Luckily, blockbuster had my back. Blockbuster is my homey like that.
So it boiled down to Nightwatch or Underworld: Crapvolution. They're both vaguely interesting, yet both crappy enough that neither is clearly better than the other. I couldn't decide, a mistake at this point could ruin the rest of my life!
So I decided to leave my fate to the hands of, er, fate. I flipped a coin. Heads: Crazy Russian death shit. Tails: Kate Bekinsale's... tail. The coin said tails, so I shall now spend the rest of the evening wondering how they poured Ms. Bekinstail into those latex pants.
Oh, and if anyone happens to be going to ozzfest, I'll be the dude in the pit wearing a ninja mask. See you there!
My lower lip has been vibrating all day since 10 am. I guess that puree of the US flag through an IV wasn't enough to get rid of all the hantavirus, perhaps I'll have to use stronger measures. Maybe I'll need a full blood replacement. Luckily, I keep a jar of Benjamin Franklin's blood under my bed in case of just such an emergency. I told you I was hardcore.
So I was hoping I'd get the new Wallace and Gromit movie in the mail while Gabby was here. Sadly, Blockbuster took too long. That's okay, I wanted to see the special features anyhow. By the way: If you don't love Wallace and Gromit, I humbly submit that your soul is little more than a whithered husk.
Anyway, fun fact!
Wallace and Gromit single-handedly revived the Wendsleydale cheese factory. It was on the verge of bankrupcy when Wallace mentioned it in "A Close Shave" and completely revived demand for their cheese. Maybe I can get them to mention my blog in their next short...
Uno: The new TOOL album has the best liner art EVAR. I am serious, EVAR. I've bought worse art books for more than the CD costs. Find it on sale, it's worth it for the art alone. Hell, throw away the CD if you're that tasteless, just look at the booklet!
Deux: It's come to my attention that a good friend has NEVER EATEN A BURRITO IN THEIR ENTIRE LIFE! They find the entire concept of mexican food alien and intimidating. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is about the same as if you'd never worn cotton before. How the hell do you manage that! I had to drag them, kicking and screaming to an El Pollo Loco so they could have one. I know that's a mediocre burrito, but we must take baby steps. Soon she'll be ready for onions, and then we can start working our way towards guacamole.
Three-o: My tear duct has been acting wierd lately. Well, I guess it's actually been acting normal, but whatever. Usually, I can blow air through it by pinching my nose, but it hasn't been working lately. I got it to work just now, but it was this blast of air and some tear, but not the usual "hey, my eye tickles" steady breeze. Why you care about this, I dunno, but it's important to take care of your tear ducts.
So, my co-worker Crystal hasn't shown up the last 2 days of work.
CRAP.
Let me explain a little about my job. I started off as the filing-lackey. There were 5 people between the front desk and business staff. Half of them were ladies that were both attractivem, intelligent AND had great senses of humor. That's pretty damn rare in a work place, so depite the fact that the job fucking blew and they were paying me under what they ADMITTED the job should pay (due to budget constraints) I decided to keep it past the first month. Then the first one went and got married, and quit
(I never finished this post, so I'll summarize. Then another one left because it was summer, then the TRULY AWESOME PETRA-LADY quit because she hated the job too and is far too smart to keep wasting her time there. Then they fired the only remaining girl and hired this Crystal chick. She was nice, but didn't show up after the 2nd week, which is what I was blogging about. It turns out this was because she got in a car accident and was too broken to come to work. Sad, but I'm now far away from that horrid job, so it's okay)
The dangly bit of my left earlode has been vibrating all day. Seriously, vibrating. I figure it's one of two things:
1) CANCER
2) One of the people in my "crazy hippy media" class shot me in the ear with a poison dart while I was ignoring the teacher, and I now have the hantavirus coursing through my veins. Commie hantavirus, which is even worse.
Today, I had a day. It wasn't just a day, it was a day where SHIT WENT DOWN!
Mostly, I worked. It's like a 7 hour shift today, which isn't that bad I guess except my job BLOWS. Otherwise, it was a decent day, people weren't bothering me with dumb questions too much thanks to my "SURLY" t-shirt and the pair of pants I had were overly baggy (so baggy, in fact, that I rarely wear them) yet comfy, making my hours of web-surfing/paperwork cozy.
Anyhow, I was doing some filing. Yes, actual work! So I had these, like, file-thingies, and I was putting them in the appropriate "cabinets". I bent over a little and the aforementioned pantaloons decided this was a good moment to remind me why I disliked wearing them so much. They did this by developing a massive tear about a foot long over my ass. I don't have an ass like Steve's, so this was rather embarassing. Did I mention this was at work, with, like, people around? People who could now see the entirety of my ass, a large portion of my thigh and my underwear preference? It was only one or two people, but that's one or two people too many.
Fucking pants. I bet they were fucking commie pants. They weren't even old, worn out or tight. They obviously lacked the moral fibre of a TRUE AMERICAN and so they couldn't handle my glorious, patriot left buttock.
So I had to leave work to go home and get another pair of pants. This time, I got a pair that wasn't part of a goddamn communist conspiracy. Most of the office-folk were amused, but gentle when I returned to the office. However, when I got back to my desk, someone had left the lyrics to this song sitting on my keyboard. I bet whoever did it was a commie. Goddamn commies and their conspiracies!
Yeah, I wanna keep posting. But I say to myself at the end of the day, I say "Travis, what did you do today that was AWESOME?"
And usually my response is something like "Well, I picked my nose in 323 and hit it on the bottom of my seat without getting caught!" So I dunno, consider the last, uh, 18 months "technical difficulties." My only solace is that somewhere out there, there's a webcomics creater that's even lazier than myself.
I met her at a bar, caught her eye across the smoky room and all that. She was all primped and preened, so I bought her a beer. The next three days were a blur of coke, booze and birdseed. That last morning, as I fixed her breakfast, I caught her roosting by the window. I could tell that our time together was ending, so I asked her if maybe we could meet at a park bench again sometime. That's when I caught the look in her eye, knew there was somethng she hadn't told me. I dropped the spatula and asked her "do, do you...?" She couldn't look me in the eye. She hopped out the window and flapped off into the night.
If I don't survive the weekend, tell Zero I love her.
I was running papers around campus today and as I was getting into an elevator I overheard this snippet of conversation:
"..sat down but there was this dent and they started to slide in..."
As the doors closed I noticed that this conversation was made by two rather spectacularly obese women. I gotta admit, my imagination filled in the blanks and I spent most of the elevator ride laughing to myself.
1: The word "finagle" comes from spanish missions in the west. The finagle used to be the standard unit of measurement. It was a large, rectangular box that you bought your grains, provisions etc in units of. Think like buying barrels of oil, you buy per barrell yadda yadda. So if you were a' travelin' you'd come to a mission and need to restock, so you'd buy a couple of finagles of grain and whatever else you needed. The problem was, what with the west being all spread out and whatnot, that it was nigh impossible to enforce the standard size of the finagle. So you might buy 6 finagles of grain at the standard price, then find out when it was delivered that the local finagles were like 2/3 of what a finagle was a supposed to be. Unless you remembered to check the finagle size ahead of time, this was a good way to get screwed over and is the orgigin of "being finagled."
2: I just found a neat little thingy in the Battlestar Galactica pilot. Right after the scene where Starbuck gets thrown in the brig and Edward James Olmowesome talks the XO out of pressing charges, it cuts to some city on another planet. The next cut is looking out the skylight of a house, and it pans down. Spaceships are flying overhead, and as the rooftops are coming into view, what should fly by but the Serenity from Firefly!
Yup, definitely the serenity flying overhead, no doubt about it. Assuming you're geeky enough to care about that, you must now bow down to me as your geek lord.
The new Wallace and Gromit movie. Like, seriously, just AWESOME. I should warn you, however, that since it's a kid's movie there will be a bunch of noisy kids and an utterly lame "short" based off of the even crappier movie Madagascar. Show up like 30 min late and you'll get there just before the movie.
So last night blew. Stick with me here, the sucktitude will take a while.
I was watching season 2 of 24 on DVD at home alone. I was on the last 30 minutes of the last episode of the season. EVERYTHING hinged on these last moments. I have a theaory about how the sniper will actually be an alien, who will give J-Bau (that's how we refer to Jack Bauer on 'tha street') all the information he needs. But he demands Jack's kidney in exchange! But Jack left his scalpel behind when he was tortured and electrocuted 3 hours ago! So J-Bau will have to tear into his own torso with his bare hands and rip out his kidney so he can save the free world! ...But I have no idea what happens, because the power went out right in the middle of an incredibly important moment! The power stayed out too, so I was just marinading in the darkness. I couldn't find a flashlight, so I had to use the screen on my cell phone as long as it was holding out. So I sat there for like 10 minutes. But a cat had just pooed and didn't bother to bury it, so it stank like crazy and I decided to go check that I hadn't just tripped a breaker somehow. So I went outside in my shorts and sandals to go check. The breakers were fine, and everything was out on the street. Well, there was one person's porch light on, but I think that's because they made a deal with the devil.
So I was outside, and I went to open the door. It occured to me at this point that it might have been a good idea to bring my keys with me. Seeing as how the door locks itself whenever it closes and it was most definitely closed. Sooooo, now I'm locked out, missing 24, tripping around in sandals and warmed only by my growing sense of peeved-ness.
So I checked all the doors. All the doors I'd verified were locked earlier in the evening. I checked the windows, but they have this ingenious locking-thingy on the inside, which I couldn't really reach. The only one that wasn't latched on the inside had the window bwhind it locked, oh joy! The landlady, by the way, is Megan's grandmother and almost certainly never there there. I did a couple laps around the house and practiced my lessons from sailor cussin' 305.
After about 20 minutes, I got desperate and tried all the windows again. After 5 minutes of abusing one of the screens, I managed to wedge my hand behind it. It required this uncomfortable hand position resembling a python/crab/cthulhu. But after a minute or two of screen bending/hopefully not breaking I popped it off and the window was thankfully unlocked! I was Free! FREE! Free to sit on my ass the rest of the night!
But the power was still out, so sitting on my ass was a little boring. The cat crap smelled too much to put up with so I grabbed the cat litter so I could bury the smelliness. As I was pouring the litter out in the dark, I noticed that the cat hadn't only not buried the catcrap, it had missed the litterbox entirely! THEN I discovered that the cat had also pooed somewhere I hadn't noticed, because I'd stepped in it. Man, I'm so glad I took my sandals off when I got back inside, because I LOVE the feeling of cat shit between my toes! I ran to the shower and made my sailor cussin' 305 professor proud.
So after a few minutes of poo-wiping and poo-cleaner-application, the room didn't quite reek as much. It still reeked (thanks to ANOTHER poo BEHIND the litterbox I found this morning) but it had reached a point where incense could cover up most of it. The power was still out so I couldn't really clean the poo properly until the vaccum scrubber had power. If you hadn't noticed, I wasn't in a very good mood by this point. I decided to try to cut my losses. So I called a friend, vented, went to bed and prayed it would all be a nightmare in the morning.
Not only have I transferred to an easier major (EE->Psych is like skipping back 3 school grades) but I've also transferred from a hardcore school to a, well, shitty one. I really, really like psych, and that helps a whole lot, but I'm sick of morons monopolizing like half the class with dumb questions because they thought they'd take up psych after reading Jung. In any event, the amount of time I need to spend studying with such low expectations from teachers is rather small. This lets me work too much and take long school days, which is nice, but when I have to pay like $100 for a book full of recycled journal articles that I'll open less than 10 times, it irks me.
So I decided I'd try to hold off this quarter on buying books, to try to nab better prices online and see if I could just...not buy books for a class or two. I gotta buy the books, this is actually one of the most reading intensive quarters I've had in a while, though I think I have time to search for bargains still.
Sooo, we got a request from some property owner to do a reference for two students who had applied to live in this wondrous non-dorm domicile.
Now, I dunno about you guys, but whenever I have to fill out a reference for something, I try to at least make sure it's a good reference. I mean, 90% of the time I can't remember the address for my closest compatriots, but I at LEAST come up with the name of someone who doesn't hate me. Really, I'm just saying, don't go get a reference from a place that each of you owes over $1000 to for like a year or some shit.
So yeah, looks like a certain two students won't be moving out anytime soon. Even better, I think I heard both of their names called out in one of my classes today. With my luck they'll find out about the reference, come and bitch me out at work, then recognize me in class and hire a large, burly man to molest me in a dark alley.
Damn, and I was gonna try to update before a month passed by. Oh well, I'm sure you're used to me dissapointing the two of you by now.
So yeah, it's been a month. Um, Gabby visited and left again. It was fun, I bought too much chocolate and she discovered that Pocky is "F**king addictive!MUNCH MUNCH."
Uhh, aside from that I've been working, filing, pulling my finernails out with at staple remover. Pretty much the same old same old. Gah, and it's kinda late (at least, I'm tired) so I can't think to write about anything. I'll try to update soon. Promise! (because I kinda like breaking promises)
*ahem* sorry for the, uh, having a life. It happens sometimes, I'll try not to do it again.
So on Wednesday I observed something. Something....well it was something. All the cash registers at the on-campus food court are made by the same company. POS Technology co. Yes, all the cash registers in the food court are quite literally POS'es. They're even labelled as such prominently. No breakdown of what POS stands for, nothing. Just POS tech in bold blue lettering. Either they're really clever or they make, well, POS.
Also, you should use your favorite file-stealing program to download Weezer's "We are all on Drugs" video. It's only sorta theirs though, since it's really just their music playing over an 80's metal bamd video. But oh man, the video they chose. You gotta see it.
The other night I was reading, playing games and whatnot, when Zero made this noise.
Lemme be more specific, she made this horrid, painful sort of "DIE MUTHAFUCKA" sorta noise, it was really loud. This is a fightin' sort of ruckus, except like REALLY loud, and went on for a while. By the time I found a flashlight and got out there, Zero was sitting by the window, looking a tad disheveled. But on the far wall there was movement. A possum to be exact, climbing a tiki torch. 1) Zero kicked a possum's ass! 2) Possums can climb straight up a tiki torch. Do not put a tiki torch near your bedroom window unless you want a possum chewing on your face at 3 am.
So about a year ago (geez, has it been that long?!) I managed to run my car aground. Aground here is code for "A Nissan Pathfinder." The forward passenger side of my car was pretty banged up, luckily it was all body panel damage and left the car in fine working condition. My rearview mirror, however, was instantly discombobulated, vaporised and is being inhaled by people in Texas as we speak. I went for months without that mirror (it's legal to be missing one mirror, though not recommended unless you are a professional) and even got used to not looking at the glaring void, sadly bereft of it's comforting, reflective presence.
Then I got it fixed, I saved up, scrounged and spent 2 moths painstakingly doing 90% of the work myself, aside from the paintjob. I was happy, proud and content for the first time in my life! It was right around when I was juuuust getting thoroughly used to having a mirror again when I ran over a flock of turkeys on the freeway. Well, one of a flock, but the important thing is there were goddamn TURKEYS ON THE FREEWAY and one of them stole my mirror. It's turkey cranium popped the mirror clear out of the rest of the assembly. No other damage, but I'd lost my dear mirror again.
The point is that I couldn't keep a frickin mirror attached to the car if my life depended on it.
Now two weeks ago, my brother got T-boned on the street. The driver's side door protrudes several inches into where the door should be, the car is fuXored and my bro is lucky to not be greviously injured. His car is pretty much a total loss at this point.
Except for his rearview mirror. It's flawless, no scratches. The door it's mounted on is twisted like postmodern origami, but the mirror is as untouched as a supermodel in Michael Jackson's bed. It's frickin taunting me, that goddamn mirror. Reflecting my indignation back at me with such scratchless precision it's like a punch in the face.
I think next time I go home i'll take a baseball bat to it. Unless that would affect my brother's insurance claim; then I'll just pee on it. I could blame that on him being scared after the accident.
If you didn't know, I'm back from Indiana. No, I did not die on the flight. Nor was I locked up in the basement, fattened then slaughtered for use in a backyard barbecue. They're actually quite nice out there, though I hear Gary IN is the murder capital of the megaverse. So the point is, I'm back at school. Der schedule blows, I'm stuck in dull classes for 10 hrs T & Th, which means I have to work my ass off MWF to make rent. Luckily, today my horrid math class that I could probably just test out of aside from this "ANOVA" section in the last two weeks got out early today, so I'm futzing around at the computer lab with some thai iced tea. So I'm checking the emails and internets-ing when I decided to re-visit one of the sites I went and typed in.
I accidentally hit the one right below, due to lazy-mousing-hand-itis (It's still dash appreciation month!) and it was....well, it certainly wasn't the site I intended to visit.
Apparently the person who used this computer before me has some filthy interweb habits and doesn't mind, uhh, exploring them at school. Like, a lot of them. Geez.
Ever heard of Whitecastle? Yeah, they're some fancy eastern fast-food chain that has a frozen food brand, a stoner road-trip movie about them and no franchises in California as far as I know.
They also have the scariest meat known to man. I bought some today, after everyone asked me "You want to eat at WHITECASTLE?" and wishing my digestive track good luck. So I went and got a couple burgers. If you aren't familiar with Whitecastle, they've somehow made downsizing a good thing. Their burgers are so tiny they refer to them as "slyders" (the y makes them more EXTREME) and sell them in packs of 4, 10 or 20 like frickin chicken nuggests. Each burger also comes in it's own little cardboard cartridge, like it's ammo or something. This leads me to suspect that they sell some sort of nerf-manufactured burger-gun that allows the munchie-driven hordes to consume at a rate of 15 bpm (burgers-per-minute).
So how are they? Umm, they don't really have "patties" as much as "meat-derived paper/food product." It's about as thick as a pair of credit cards and brittle. It also reminds me of spam somehow. The regular burger consists of some oinion chunks, patty/laminate, a pickle slice and a white-bread bun, which is generally soggy with eldritch-meat-drippings. The taste is...well it's over quickly, thanks to the small size. I guess if you had the munchies they'd be good. Though I also got a "roasted garlic cheeseburger" which was different for two reasons. 1) The swiss-cheese inspired food-product-film. It's actually larger than the meat-paper and envelopes it in it's thick, lipid-esque meltyness. This insulates my taste-buds from the full brunt of the faux-flesh assault and is a good thing. 2) It's more expensive to buy artificial garlic than real garlic. This means they slap a big dollop of roasted garlic in the middle of the bun. I LOVE ROASTED GARLIC. So basically between the cheese-ish insulation and the awsomeness of garlic, I can't taste the rest of the burger, making it a very tasty food-tumor indeed. They also have the same exact fries as Del-Taco except that they don't put salt on them and probably fart on them instead.
Today's dashes have been donated by the Bush-administration to help me celebrate dash-history-appreciation-month.
ANYWAY. We were playing the Sims 2 today (I don't have it, and have always been curious as to how it works). To demonstrate, mon amie started a new family. One was a normal chick, the other was, well, her nose was a giant prosthetic beak. So they move into their new home, all atwitter with excitement at their new lives in Pleasantville. They're admiring the french doors, the patio and the romantic hot-tub on the front lawn.... The hot tub with someone already in it. It's a sim named Travis Hill! He's sitting in their romantic hot-tub, playing metal on the radio! Yes, they have Sim-metal, it's actually more intelligible than the real thing. So he's like "Hello ladies! I heard you were new in town! My wife doesn't seem to be around, so I thought I'd welcome you to the neighborhood!" So they hop in the tub and have a grand old time. Travis-sim is a piiiiimp!
I'm visiting a friend near Chicago over summer break. Her friend is a large Lighthouse fan (well, she's actually pretty slender, but you know what I mean) so they wanna go to a concert on monday. Aside from being milquetoast pseudo-christian soft-rock, I think they're pretty good, so I bought myself a ticket. Though before thinking I had it sent to home instead of Indiana, so I now stand a good chance of crossing paths with my ticket as we traverse the great plains. I called ticket-asster and informed them of this potential calamity. After some 5-10 minutes of blathering back and forth, she said if the unthinkable (actually quite likely) happens then I can just call ahead and they'll probably just keep one at will-call for me.
So I said "Thank you soooo much, miss!" and she said "You're welcome, have a nice night ma'am!"
WTF? Why didn't you guys tell me I totally sound like a chick over the phone? Man, I've been wasting all my time at office jobs when I could've been living it up as a phone sex operator!
So we had to do this big 'ol research project/paper/presentation for my dumb social psychology class. the teacher is incredibly lame, but we have to jump throuhg her hoops, so here goes. My group's subject is HONESTY, and we collected all these surveys checking people's attitudes and willingess to lie.
After we took all the surveys, one of us noted this little addendum on the back of the syllabus that she didn't mention in class. Namely, that we shouldn't do any of our stuff on-campus. How we're supposed to get somewhere else in the middle of the morning in LA during the time allotted for our "field work," I dunno, but that's her dumb little rule. So what're we doing about it? We're lying though our teeth about where we gathered our data.
Warning, the "recording" of Mrs. Bush at the end made Jon Stewart's eye burn. A pidgeon was looking in through the window as I watched it and it's head asploded. Just warning you.
So's I'm just minding my own business, eating pasta (with tasty sauce,by the way, yummeh!) And I had to sneeze/cough in the middle of the bite. You know, one of those things where your respiratory tract is just like "WHOAH, LETS FREAK THE HELL OUT!!1!" Then leaves you spasming for the next minute. Luckily I managed to not spew my food out all over the monitor, but I....well, I dislodged a booger. So then I had to go get a tissue and expel the damn thing, cuz there's nothing worse than having to breathe around a booger. The deed was done, and I had to check. You know you have to, it's one of those guilty pleasures, like smelling your own farts. Anyway, it turned out it was actually... A HUGE CHUNK OF PASTA!!! Yummy! So yeah, I wasted a perfectly good bit O' food on my sinuses, and they didn't even thank me.
P.S. during the writing of this, I sneezed up a chunk of chicken as well. ewwww. I've wasted far too much time and effort writing about what's lodged in my nose. I think I'll go do something more productive, like bang my head against the wall.
Whatever weather is required to foster a lot of static electricity, it has descended upon the greater LA area for the last week or two. Now, usually this is a good thing, as I torture all my friends and family. But now whenever I pet Zero, I pick up a huge charge almost instantly. This means that when I try to scratch her head, I am constantly zapping her ears or nose. She's noticeably afraid of my hands now. Yet she still wants to be petted, so she tries to sneak up on them all ninja-like in hopes they won't sting her little nose. Silly cat, MY HANDS ARE PAIN!
Also, just so you know. Comments are now enabled and can be made by clicking on the time of posting. So now the two of you can once again totally ignore them, yay!
Also also. Despite the fact that they don't worship the devil, I'm really enjoying Kasabian's CD. I'd heartily recommend you get it, they're quite nifty. But their CD has that lame copy protection on it, so remember to hold SHIFT everytime you put it in your computer, or else you won't be able to send it to all your friends.
So last night I hopped into bed. I'd been in there a minute and was just getting comfy when I remembered that I should turn off the bedstand light before really getting to sleep. So I rolled over to turn the lamp off, except by that time it was 6 am.
Apparently I slept well (though if you ask me I was abducted by aliens).
So apparently the new "it" thing among aspiting hip-hop artistes is to do all your business in free-form. You know, in case the guy you're calling happens to own a recording label.
Here's how a call went today at work (Identities have been changed to protect the silly):
Sven: Housing, this is Sven. Not me: Yo, how you doin' brother? Sven: Just peachy, how can I help you? Not me: Check it, I was wondering if you could check out my waitlist status for me (the dorms are horribly impacted, and you pretty much have to wait 2 quarters to get in) Sven: Uhhh, okay, could I get your name? Not me: Yo, this is Gbilla-zilla, mic thrilla, takin a chilla....to ask you how my wait status is. Sven:....Okay, so is "zilla" spelled with 2 Ls? Not me: Nah, G; my ID number is 3 to tha 5 to tha motherfarkin jive and the (further rappin cut to avoid betraying ID numbaz) Sven: Are those "2 thas" numerals or figures of speech? One moment (Enter hold and beaureaucratic wrangling) Sven: Okay sir I have you at number # Not me: Nah, yo. The Ho I talked tow said she'd got muh number bumped up because I applied early, you're givin me the hurly-burly, surely. Sven: I....suppose I am, let me check. (the obligatory hold and breakdance breakdown) Sven: Errr, yeah, she's on the phone, I'll have to give her a message and have her call you back, could I get your mumber? Not me: I'm in the XXX, yo, that's Pittsburg, CA, hey-ay, home of tha numba one killaz and tha dopest rhymez this side of compton. Sven: Ahh, thanks Gbilla-zilla, I'll give this to her post-haste. Not me: Coo, thanks G. Sven: Peace out, homey.
So he was actually a little more clever. But I'm a white guy, no way can I reproduce such phat beats. And it's not my fault, he's the one who had to rap at some guy 300 miles away.
