Wow, I’m honorable in addition to having rage management problems. Also, I love the picture, which apparently was shot in Predator-vision.
I could agree with this…sort of.
I can’t watch television news anymore. Not because of blandness or bias or anything like that—because the women (it’s always women) who do those financial reports are just too hot. They make my heart and my loins ache with desire, affecting me down in my most secret of places, and it’s just unacceptable.
Wow. Yet another Internet quiz telling me I’m crazy. Maybe I should take this a little more seriously…nah.
I think I must also have anger-management issues.
Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. Now I need to go and hit her with my car and set her apartment building on fire and then beat her to death with her own stereo because I enjoy the poetic justice in that. What a bitch. Also, we’re going out again on Monday.
There’s a woman in my Writing for Television class who I can’t stand. She’s about 10 years older than the majority of us, and she just finished time in the military and is now going to Columbia College in Chicago’s beautiful South Loop. I’m not generally so fatalistic, but I get one person like this in at least one class every semester since I’ve started at Columbia, and I have reached the point where I believe that they are put on this planet for the sole purpose of ruining my life. They do a bang-up job, too.
But, man, I had the chance to make her eat shit and enjoy it. I love it when I get a chance to do that because, honestly, I’m kind of an asshole. And that’s kind of putting it mildly. Just ask women.
I wrote a new story for Fiction Writing. She told us to write a folk tale, and we discussed all the archetypes of folk tales and all that bullshit, and I came up with one that’s simply awful.
It’s weird how I keep thinking about things. Or, to rephrase that slightly so as to actually make sense, I am thinking about certain things that I haven’t thought of for a long time, but suddenly they keep rushing into my head. This is a recurring thing with me: when something bad happens that is pretty much entirely my fault, I start thinking about every single other bad thing that I can remember for which I have either been singularly or partially responsible. Trust me, that’s a lot of stuff—and that’s just the stuff I remember, which I’m sure is maybe 2% of the grand total of horrible chains of events that have been my fault.
I gotta say the new Nirvana album bugs me. I don’t like a few of the song choices, but then again, it’s sort of supposed to be “greatest hits,” and technically, most of these were greatest hits. But there are better songs.
My main beef, though, is with the guy who decided to remaster the songs from the “Unplugged” session and make it sound like a studio recording, with all the “live” mistakes sucked out and no audience ambience (except for applause at the end and some that couldn’t be sucked out of the beginning). It was just kinda stupid.
The “new” song is interesting, though. When I first listened to it, I made the somewhat hasty judgement that it sounds more like a Radiohead song than it does like Nirvana, but when I listened to it again, I was wrong. I could make a horrible pun on either the Radiohead song title “I Might Be Wrong” or on the title of this Nirvana song, “You Know You’re Right,” but I won’t do that.
The strange thing about this week—and, for the record, my weeks start on Thursday and end on Wednesday night, so right now I’m about done—was that I had a birthday. Theoretically it was an important milestone. If we were still living in pre-Vietnam days, I’d be excited that my 21st birthday rather conveniently fell on the very first election day in which I would be legally allowed to participate. But we are living in a more contemporary society, so that exciting milestone came and went, and the excitement was decreased by the very simple fact that there was no election that year. Also, my birthday did not fall on a Tuesday that year.
Now, the most exciting claim I can stake as a result of this birthday is lower insurance premiums. And it’s kind of sad that I do genuinely find the prospect of lower insurance premiums exciting. Instead of being anally raped by a gorilla who periodically receives brain shocks, I will now be gently raped by a tender lover who will periodically nibble on my ear affectionately. I will wonder at that point how a tender lover who smells of lilac could possibly be cleaning out the rim of my anal canal like so many ear-bound Q-tips, and I will dismiss her as some form of hermaphrodite. Hopefully I won’t be wrong.
The best birthday present I got was from the two most irritating and horrible excuses for human beings I have ever met, both of whom happen to tag team me with torture on a weekly basis in Fiction Writing. But on Tuesday, they didn’t show up. Neither of them. I was so thrilled, I actually—dare I say it?—enjoyed a session of Fiction Writing. I didn’t really think those two were the dual sources of pain in the class, but the class environment improved so much in their absence, I guess I misjudged the power of their evil.
My sister got me “The Simpsons” Clue, which earns a close second place, tied with the ph@t c@$h I received from my grandparents.
In last place: the clothes my parents gave me. Granted, I like clothes. Granted, I need clothes because my jeans are shrinking (no, really, it’s the jeans), so it was a thoughtful and practical gift, but it’s not exactly the thing that makes you shout out, “Thank God I’m alive!” I was more hoping that I would receive one—if not both—of the Fiction Twins’ heads in a box. Of course, with my luck, the head would then take possession of my body and force me to do its bidding. But it’d be cool initially.