It is good to remember how lucky Curt and I really are, all things considered. Everything is fine. I have the luxury of whining because nothing is really wrong. So, I’m thankful.
Finished the first “book” of the Illiad. What’s Greek for “jackass”? :P
It’s increasingly improbable that we’ll have closed on a house before Mad Men starts up again, so I’ve resorted to obsessively checking the AMC website. I Mad-Menned myself into a scene; I call it I Raise You A Donut:
House hunting is exciting, but it’s driving me crazy. I check listings obsessively, and at night I alternate between anxious dreams about work, and equally frantic dreams about not being able to find a house. Alas I am not one of those cool-as-a-cucumber types; I am undone by stress.
But now I’ve got Rick Astley (the I-Still-Can’t-Believe-He’s-Not-Black guy) singing to me over YouTube. GOD, weren’t the ’80s the BEST!!?!!
Hehe. ;)
For the last three and a half hours, Curt has been attempting to beat my score on the third level of Defense Grid: The Awakening, and he has been unable to do it.
BAHAHAH!
And WTH, Kurt. You have a blog! ;)
Why do they not just preface each side’s argument for and against with “Useless lies that won’t help you at all”? :P
Busy at work, vacation unpacked. Perfect time to redo the blog I barely use.
Very sad to hear about the passing of Friend Dodds’ cat, Lord Underfoot. He was a bit cranky as cats usually are – but a good cat, nonetheless. Farewell, little fellow.
Recently broke free from the Reading List and devoured
The pictures here are strange now. They won’t be strange later. Toodle-oo.
Life, what is it but a dream?
“Five to one against and falling…” she said, “four to one against and falling…three to one…two…one…probability factor of one to one…we have normality, I repeat we have normality.” She turned her microphone off – then turned it back on, with a slight smile and continued: “Anything you still can’t cope with is therefore your own problem.”
As Curt pours the last drop of sparkling wine into my booze, I see my life as an alcoholic flash before me. The blind rages, the black-outs, the brilliance born of blistering despair. The eventual vituperative autobiography on wasted youth, which will reach the best seller list on the day that I die. And I will die a glorious death, singing ‘Cheese, glorious cheese!’ as I am wont to do when suffering from extreme exhaustion. With what? With life. With others. With my own self.
I am fond of this idea, though it is unlikely. I lack the will to vomit; I fear vomiting. Alas, another life goal which will go unmet.
We were literally one, tire-screeching, brake-smoking inch away from a car accident tonight. Some asshole kid (in my head it was a kid or a woman, though it was too dark to tell which) decided not to adhere to the ‘stop at a red light’ suggestion and nearly rammed into us going full speed down the road. I yelled some obscenities out the window, and we left. Obscenities: supremely ineffective in solving problems, yet so satisfying.
This event, though interesting, is not the cause of my dark mood. It is merely evidence. Evidence, if you will, of a long string of iniquities perpetrated on the world by assholes. Assholes with names that I see every day, assholes with other names that sit somewhere else in the world, fucking it the hell up. Assholes that drive cars. Assholes that live down the street. Assholes that let their kids scream incessantly rather than parent them. Assholes, assholes, everywhere. And I will admit that I have been worn down. I am done. I don’t care anymore what anyone’s excuse is. I don’t care if I’m wrong. I just want the assholes to leave me the hell alone. To just go away, and take the crusty pollution of their existences with them.
And yet, once upon a time a man stopped by the side of the road to help me change my tire and gave me a bag of avocados, just because he wanted to be nice. And today, a woman went out of her way to open the gate for me to let me in to the apartment complex, just because she wanted to be nice.
My anger cannot remain. I relent, mentally murmuring that it was a bad day, and go to bed.
I was ten minutes late to work today because I couldn’t find my car key, after I made an extra copy yesterday night. Then, while I was looking for it, I knocked my new water bottle over and cracked it. Then, during lunch, after distinctly thinking, “I wonder if this yellow curry would look green on my blue sweater?”, I proceeded to flick an entire spoonful onto my chest (yes, it looked green). Then the day slowly devolved into probably the fifth most stressful day of my entire work-life. Then, in an effort to cheer me up, Curt and I attempted to go bowling. We went to three different bowling alleys: two were having their league night, and the third closed just as we walked up to it.
These things are not so very bad at all. However, let us suffice to say that my blood is currently at least 11.2 fluid ounces more inebriated than it was just a few minutes ago.
And so it goes.
Curt just read me the entire history of punk as it was set down by Wikipedia. This came in response to my telling him I could be punk if I wanted to (I can’t), and him demanding I prove it by naming the lead singer of the Sex Pistols, to which I responded by naming Sexy Sid and his girlfriend Nancy. Not only was he not the singer, but I only knew his name (I know it’s not Sexy Sid; I do not know if he was sexy) because of a dumb early-millennial alternative rap song called “Butterfly” by a one-hit wonder band called Crazy Town. Also, I sat in (read: attempted to nap during) a couple class meetings of the History of Rock during college.
Now that I’ve written an entire paragraph, I have no idea what I was actually going to write. And I’m tired. Sleep.
I watched The Big Lebowski for the first time: brilliant. Farcical, but also profound. I get it. I am officially a fan of the Coen brothers.
Curt is 35 today. :)
Two things that have recently come into my possession: a laminator and a pedometer. The laminator is far more useful than the pedometer. Pedometers, I think, are a bit of a stupidity.
I recently purchased the Greatest Hits of David Bowie. Apparently, he did a cover of “Dancing In The Street”. I really hate that song. I hate the original, I hate the Van Halen version, I hate Bowie’s version. It reminds me of the song “Downtown”, which I also hate. I do, however, really appreciate “China Girl”. ;)
Also, I recently (two minutes ago) learned the Joe Hill is the son of Stephen King! I read Joe Hill’s short story anthology entitled 20th Century Ghosts last year (or two years ago?) — quite enjoyable and imaginative. A couple of his stories were creepier than his father’s. Well done, young King!
Adios.