SOME THOUGHTS ON SOME THINGS
I think ultimately one has to write through the problems. Some people say you shouldn’t force it, and after a look at the usual result, it’s hard not to agree. But that’s a good way for nothing to get done, and I do nothing all the time, and it gets old. The deal is I have nothing here I want to write about right now, as I’m tired, and uninspired, and wary of being crappy and uninteresting, especially to myself. Uninteresting crap is fine for you guys, but it simply won’t do for me! I want to be delighted by myself!
So this isn’t going to be about very much, this post, but I feel I must do it anyway, to get to the next step, hopefully a step of effortless entertainment. I have no silly photos to include, as the camera currently has no batteries and buying batteries is boring. Maybe I’ll just sit here for a moment and wait for a topic to come to me, and then expound upon that topic. Yes, I will do that. The topic that I think of will be in bold, and my thoughts regarding the topic will be in the colors of normal words.
I like these. Every now and then I buy a box of them, and they tend to remain in the apartment for a very long time. Gobstoppers aren’t the kind of thing one tends to scarf. By which I mean eat rapidly, not outfit with wintertime neck apparel. You won’t be confused now that I’ve explained that. I always forget to take the Gobstopper out of my mouth to note that it has changed color. I guess it’s really not that important to me. In the Willy Wonka movie, they change flavor as well. But in real life, candies can only change color. Life will never be as good as movies. They should stop making movies, because it’s too sad in comparison to our everyday thing. Movies are basically drugs. When they’re on, it’s like “hey, this is great!” and then they’re over and it’s like “oh wait, no it isn’t”. Gobstoppers last a long time if you suck ’em, but I can’t handle the tension of hard candies. I just crunch ’em after like 10-15 seconds. Psychologically this probably means I want to bite off my dad’s penis or something weird like that. I like the red ones best!
At my new job I have to use folders a lot. It’s been awhile since folders have been an important part of my life, and I’m glad to see them return. I’m fond of folders. Ironically, however, I am not fold of fonders. I like to put papers in folders, and I like to discuss them. Folders have always been funny to me. Not as funny as wigs, but close. One thing I don’t like about folders is when you get a folder cut. Papers cuts have nothing on folder cuts. The other day I got a Tony’s frozen pizza box cut. That was the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone. It made me want to renounce pizza, God, and fingers. I renounce God almost daily, but pizza and fingers are usually pretty safe from my wrath. Not anymore. I got my eye on you, pizza and fingers. Anyway, folders. Let’s hear it for them. Let’s hear it for the folders. Maybe they’re no Romeo, but they’re my lovin’ one-folder show. That picture of folders above this idiotic paragraph is something I actually nicked from the State of Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services website, ridiculously enough. Wouldn’t it be great if I were incarcerated for stealing a picture of folders from the State of Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services website? I’ll be drinking fermented fruit cocktail brine out of a toilet and unsuccessfully muffling bloodcurdling shrieks of pain and humiliation with a filthy pillowcase in no time! And it’s all thanks to folders!
That show “The Dog Whisperer”
As with most of my lifelong interests, I watched this show just to be stupid and to make fun of it, and ended up wanting to watch as many episodes as possible. That guy doesn’t take any mess from dogs. They bark at him, and he tells them to can it! And they do! Leadership like this is always very striking to me, as I exhibit not one, nay not one, quality that would impel someone to say “Hey, that Jeremy should be looking after children or perhaps running a small business with a modest staff of 8-12”. If I had a show like this, it’d be called “The Dog Mistruster” or “The Dog Fleer”. One thing I hate about dogs is that they always know exactly what they want, and it’s usually something that’s relatively easy to obtain. I hate people like that. It takes me approximately two months of constant contact for me to be able to feel comfortable around a person, but for most dogs I need at least a couple years. Being informed that dogs can “smell fear” certainly didn’t help my feelings toward them. I’ve no doubt that I positively reek of fear. Hopefully, humans will never develop the ability to smell fear, although that’s more for my sake than for the sake of humankind, as I’m told that fear smells like freshly mowed lawns.
Long story short, Cesar Milan has gained a new fan, although truth be told I’ve watched 6 or 7 episodes over a fairly short timespan and I’m already getting kinda sick of it. I’m waiting for him to get really mauled one of these times, but so far it’s just been a LOT of barking and little nips here and there. Another bad thing about the show is that it’s on the National Geographic channel, which wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t insistent on you calling them “Nat Geo” of late. I am not going to call you “Nat Geo”, National Geographic. Perhaps that’s helpful for people who want to discuss you via text messaging (a multitudinous demographic, no doubt), but for people who just want to watch leisurely paced programs about weird stuff that happens outside, it’s embarrassing and crappy-sounding. You are not hip, National Geographic, and you should be proud of that fact.
Iced Tea Spoons
Annie’s relatives are really good about keeping us stocked with antiquated silverware hand-me-downs. A few months ago, the estimable Auntie Mary bequeathed to us a giant Ziplock bag full of fancy old silverware, and among this lot were a good number of spoons with wonderful long, thin handles. We adored them immediately. I think we like them better than our Wii. Ours are much cooler looking than the spoons pictured above, but even so, I would recommend picking up a set regardless of brand. Whatever meal you deign to take with them becomes daintier for their inclusion, be it a tiny bowl of Cocoa Krispies or a blissfully drawn-out serving of tomato soup. Above all, however, their purpose is stirring, and at this important act they are matchless. The reassuring ting of an iced tea spoon against glass is an invigorating promulgation of forthcoming refreshment.
I cannot have garlic anymore. I have to stop.
It’s too bad, cause I love garlic, and I want to eat it all the time. But here’s the thing: last night we got Papa John’s pizza. With this pizza we also got an order of breadsticks. These breadsticks come with three dipping sauces, of which the only one worth bothering with is the garlic sauce. It’s delicious, and so good on the breadsticks. Not having enjoyed Papa John’s breadsticks and sauce for some time, and knowing full well the disastrous effects garlic has on my digestive system, I recklessly and liberally applied the garlic pastewaster to my breadsticks and happily chowed down. Within minutes, I felt an unusually warm fart happening in my pants, following by another. Unpleasant, to be sure, but as the consumption of virtually any food results in my body producing one form of instantaneous rankness or another, I paid it little heed and continued to enjoy my meal.
Ten to fifteen minutes later, I was full and decided to put the rest of the pizza in the refrigerator, where it could gradually become even more delicious in its firm coldness. As I trudged down the hallway, pizza box in hand, I detected a distinctly sludgy sensation in the inner thigh area. Worry surfaced. I deposited the leftovers in the fridge and gingerly tiptoed back to the bedroom to find that, yes, a dark brown stain, mysteriously shaped like my ass, had formed on the bed, on the very spot where I’d formerly been consuming pizza and contentedly sitting in my own waste. Within seconds of consuming a small (but concentrated) amount of garlic, this had happened. The power of garlic had caused me to unknowingly shit on my own bed. It was a very sad evening overall, with a lot of unexpected laundry and awkward moments.
I’ve long had problems of this type with garlic. Once upon a time, an occasionally vegan friend of mine was kind enough to treat me to a tasty meal she had cooked featuring garlic as a key component, and the ensuing farts were so frequent and terrible that after awhile she actually started crying. When it comes to me and garlic, upsetting moisture is seemingly an unavoidable result, and after last night, much as I love how it tastes, I think I’m going to have to abandon it for good. You know what, that’s not true. If I go to someone’s house and they make garlic bread, I’m gonna eat five pieces and shit all over their couch. It’s too good to pass up. Also, has anyone ever eaten so much garlic that you actually felt kind of oddly high afterwards? Annie and I made some kind of crock pot thing once that was loaded with the stuff, and after a couple bowls of that we felt legitimately altered. I don’t think I could ever consider garlic as a viable alternative to recreational drugs (nothing brings down a rave like spastic defecation), but the effects were surprising and slightly interesting in a bloated and smelly kind of way.
That’s it. I have no more thoughts about anything.