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Nothing breaks lunchtime boredom like sending a vagina to a friend.

There are only 10 types of people in the world -- those who understand binary, and those who don't. I am having a little trouble waking up this morning. Of course, Monday morning corporate politics are difficult enough without a cloudy head and poor disposition. I would say that I dislike Monday mornings almost as much as I dislike mornings in general, but that wouldn’t make too much sense if my dislikes were additive. The more I dislike Monday mornings specifically, the lower the percentage of overall dislike my general morning dislike would become. It’s a paradox, kinda like dropping a hit of X toward the floor. When the X reaches half way, it has half way to go... then, half of that produces a quarter way to go, etc. Since there are an infinite number of divisions possible, yet only a finite distance to the floor, the problem is asymptotical and one questions if the X ever actually reaches the floor... or is it falling forever? OMG... fuck coffee, I really need a martini.

I'm not in denial... I'm just selective about the reality I choose to accept. How fucking hard is it to take a box of pizza, walk to your car, drive ONE mile down a straight road with no turns and only one stop light, stop at the corner and walk up a straight sidewalk with no shrubbery or steps, ring a doorbell, accept money, and leave? A five year old in Hello Kitty roller skates could have delivered pizza to my entire neighborhood in the time I waited for Domino's answer to Michael Schumacher to arrive. How about the next time I get sick, I'll order a pizza from these guys and by the time it arrives, I'll have a 12" petri of penicillin in a nice cardboard box. Doctors? We don't need no steenking doctors!

It's that overall feeling of... blah. It must be the end of the weekend already. How does this keep happening? I protest!

So I took Camron to Galveston this morning... ugh! I am so not a morning person. We were going to the beach, but I didn’t want to go until I could take Eclair (my beautiful little doggy) with me. We went to Moody Gardens instead. I used to be really into marine biology (the geek in me rears it's ugly head and puffs his chest out). I had five marine tanks when I was in high school. I loved it. I dove big into SCUBA (pun intended) and did a lot of cavern, cave, deep wreck, and reef diving when I lived in Florida. I am still completely fascinated by the ecosystem of the ocean. I spent the entire time at the MG aquarium pyramid thinking repetitively to myself, “this would be so amazing if I were here alone”. Sad, eh? I don’t mean without my sister... I mean without the 43 screaming elementary school kids on field trip running around talking about creative ways to kill the marine life in the exhibits. I mean the toddlers that have parents that wait until nap time to take them to see the oogie-weeto-pooty-wooty-fishies and all they can do is scream at the top of their lungs (which resonates through the enclosed hallways separating the aquariums quite nicely) because they are hungry and tired. I mean the one-eyed, toothless, overall-wearing, backwoods country bumpkin that thinks she's sexy humming the Jaws theme song as loud as she can while standing inside the shark exhibit. Stick a hot poker in my eye. Ahhh! The rainforest was a little better. I always loved that exhibit too... makes me want to travel to Costa Rica.

must... have... coffee...

My ass is couch-bound... rented Spy Game. I am not that big a RR fan, but I like BP... Fight Club rocked (of course, it rocked because of Ed Norton, but don't tell Brad... he might cry). So, while I'm watching my movie of yet-to-be-determined goodness, stick around and check out this pimpadelic shit. If you miss me too much, turn on the lava lamp and listen to the thispageintentionallyleftblank.net soundtrack. Nighters!

I almost forgot... 99.9443% of the time, if you read a poem on this page, I probably wrote it. If I am not the author, I try to link to the author's site or give credit directly. I received this one in an email... no idea who or where it originated, but it isn't mine. I was discussing this with my glass of Crown and we have decided that it should be the Saturday night theme poem. Wouldn't you agree?

"Starkle starkle little twink
Who the hell are you to think
I'm not under what you call
The alchofluence of incohol
I'm just a little slort of sheep
I'm not drunk like thinkle peep
I don't know who is me yet
But the drunker I stand here,
The longer I get
So just give me one more drink to fill my cup
Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up"

Wasn't that nice? We thought so. Anyhoo, since I was in the groove of forgetting things, here is something else I forgot... Lena, I am not 100% on why you were talking about cleavage in Dwayne's office, but here's your request... click, click, boom. Don't ask for any more. Also, I am still getting good feedback on the site. For those that have written, thank you... you are the reason I didn't sit in the garage with the car running tonight and end my blog insecurity once and for all (uh... actually, I don't have a car right now... but since Doc Martin's don't emit carbon monoxide, I embellished a bit... don't hate me). Cheers!

I have been considering remodeling my house (from a tenants perspective)... you know, the whole home theater thing in a (probably fruitless) attempt to keep me at home more and not singing love songs to a Guinness tap or tenderly caressing a three bottle Jager tap. My friend, Stephen, is absolutely obsessed with Austin, TX. If it weren't for his constant mental masturbation surrounding thoughts of moving his worldly possessions to within Austin city limits, he would probably move in here with me. I am sick of paying my rent alone... just too lazy to move. Moving has to be one of the most unpleasant experiences imaginable (next to being burned alive or listening to new country/polka karaoke night when the only instruments are an accordion, bagpipes, and an 8 bit soundcard with cheesy MIDI chord progressions). The experience of moving might just fall into that "hate" category, but then again... I've always felt hate was such a strong word. So, I am about to sign another lease... another year... another 12 months of successful dodging of the moving bullet. Yeah... moving is for suckers!

Pikachu finally gets exactly what the little bastard deserves. Sean, please tell me that you don't like Pokemon. Please God no! Sean... Noooooo!

oh yeah... and since I'm in such a wonderful mood, please let me also mention that I dig that little guestmap thingy (now located at the bottom of the page), but HATE all that advertising shit on there... I'd rather just pay for it. Can't you get one without the crap? Maybe if you leave a stain on it, it'll make me feel better. :-)

Now I'm pissed. What the fuck does someone have to do in this town to get the food they ordered? This happens to me ALL the time. J'adore spicy foodstuff! You name it... if it's hotter'n hell, I probably will enjoy it. So, I took Cam to this Tai place down the street from my house. I order chicken curry... "extra, extra, extra, extra spicy". I even gave our extremely pleasant asian waitress a little wink and said, "you know... traditional style... extra hot... with hopes that she would understand, "make it so hot that it would kill the average whitey with unaccustomed tongue". I wasn't worried. When it comes to eating spicy food, my tongue has ninja skills like a pissed off Yoda (see previous post). Fucking don't-wanna-be-liable-for-throwing-out-plate-of-too-hot-for-customer-food cook decides that my order was too spicy and bumped it back to mild-enough-to-spoon-feed-the-gerber-baby hot. I can think of FIVE other Tai food instances of this happening in the last 18 months. The only thing about these recurring scenario that pisses me off worse than them changing my order to begin with is when they honestly believe they can make it all better by giving you this little alien auotopsy dish of mystery juice with a couple of jalepeño slices and some crushed black pepper floating in it... oh yeah, that's gonna patch things right up for me. FUCK YOU.

Pfft! I just returned from SWEp2. I only have two things to say: first, it was notably better than SWEp1… second (and much, much more important to remember), don’t fucking piss Yoda off. If you see the flic, you too will agree with my theory that Ozzy Osborne is Yoda. Think about it.. Ozzy is this cane carrying mumbler that you have trouble understanding most of the time, but when he gets on stage he transforms into this animated rock legend that does shit you wouldn’t think possible based on his age and normal behavior. Let’s just hope Ozzy rides the crazy train over the mountain with a dime bag of the force in his pocket to keep Lucas from fucking up SWEp3. Ok, I'm hungry now.

Harry Connick Jr. is so damn money.

Where’s the dick you ask? It’s over at Undisturbed. It’s ironic that the dick browser is located on a site named undisturbed when the original pic was quite disturbing (it’s just not as impressive when cut, cropped, and rotated I suppose). LOL. Dwayne received the proper congratulatory treatment last night… ceremonial inebriation. Before too long, Patron shots were flying around like tracer bullets in the jungles of Vietnam. Camron even dove off the deep end and started talking with the dolphins. Uh, oh yeah… “talking with the dolphins” is the phrase that my friends (the ones that know my sister) and I use to describe this 4 octave jump that occurs in her voice when the buzz sets in… absolutely hilarious. I mentioned the band in last nights post… very good. ‘Nuff said. So I was thinking of taking Cam to Moody Gardens this weekend since she’s rollin’ out on Monday. No set plans yet. I am being a complete bum this morning. I should be a better host. Slack me.