sand art

And I thought my giant hole in the beach was impressive. It obviously doesn't rival this.

twittering tweeting twit

I tweet on Twitter. I tweeted on Twitter. I twated? I twat? Am I a twit? You twit, you twated. Tweet about my twitter. Tweet on my twat on Twitter. I twittered. You twittered on my tweet. Follow my tweets on Twitter, you twit. Twat on my tweet. Twatter my tweeter. Twitter my twater. You tweetered. Twat my twit. I tweet on Twitter.

one down, 19 more to go - class

http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20311322,00.html

The Duggar family, of the TLC show, 18 Kids and Counting, is welcoming a new grandchild. Wonderful! The oldest child of the Duggar family is starting a family of his own, soon to make his wife squeeze out a litter of mini Duggars of his very own. And since 18 isn't enough for Jim Bob and Michelle, they're going to have one more to make it 19, and it's a Spring baby! How fantastic is that? It's their own little sweat shop of church-going do-gooders. Do-gooder. Hey, if you say it fast enough and slur it the appropriate amount, it almost sounds like Duggar. 

18 people is a lot to take care of. But I suppose, at this point, what's one more, right? The more the merrier. Jim Bob is probably thinking that he needs to give Josh a challenge. I have 18, soon to be 19, to best me, he has to have at least 20. Well, we'll see if Josh is up for it. 

When does it get to the point where the Duggars start producing babies with slight deformities, or mental handicaps? 19 kids?! They must be scraping the bottom of the gene pool at this point. And a child with handicaps is like having 1.5 kids. I can imagine the new season of the show, "19.5 Kids and Counting." But yes, congratulations to both the Duggar fathers, Jim Bob and Joshua. 

So we've covered the paternal side of this whole debacle, now what about those who are doing all the work, Michelle and soon to be Anna? The novelty of this whole "miracle" has to be wearing off. After 2, I would have thought it would be gone. For Anna, it might still be fun and new, but spit out one or two more mush-eating, constantly wailing, up at the ass-crack of dawn, puke machine and it's bound to get a little old. 

And what must their reproductive parts look like? I imagine it's more of a chute than an elasticized tubular tract. But who am I to say? I've never experienced this miracle that is giving birth, and right now, I'm okay with that. 

ma⋅ri⋅jua⋅na - class

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5h6W7KC63V4xxIsSnUT7zLcWc6upwD9B6FADG3

Marijuana. Pot. Grass. Cannabis. Doobie. Dope. Ganja. Reefer. Weed. Call it whatever you want, it is what it is, and a lot of people out there love it. Whether it's through a pipe, a bowl, a joint, vaporizer, blunt, apple bong, regular bong, eaten as a brownie, a cookie, any other baked good, or sipped as tea, tetrahydrocannabinol-loving people everywhere will find a way to administer the drug.

As for its legalization, California would be the first state, which means that right now, it's illegal in fifty states. Yet, people everywhere still take the drug, in whatever form they wish. So a few more will partake once it's legal, right? So what? I think we need to take into consideration the large number already taking it and realize that there's a great deal of effort employed among all those people finding ways to obtain the drug and then administer it. 

To get it means you need a dealer. Who do you go to? What do you pay? How do you go about making the exchange. All these things need to be factored into one or more nights of recreational smoking. Then once you have the tiny packet of cannabis, how do you go about putting it into your body. So much to think about! At this point, I'm thinking, just give it to them. They've put forth enough effort. I almost want to say, "Job well done." They deserve it. For a few puffs there, a few laughs there, and a lot of food consumed after, what's the harm?

California, the state in which marijuana is already sanctioned by the government as long as it's for medicinal purposes, has already made the plunge, even if it is only halfway. Go big or go home, Cali. Just make it fully legal, already. Give all those happy people a reason to really be happy. Enforcement against possession seems to be in vain, regardless of the 847,000 plus marijuana-related arrests made every year. In a state that has 40 million people, most of whom probably use, the number of arrests is a small percentage. 

It'll happen sooner or later. California first, then New York, and it'll sweep the nation just like Tickle-Me Elmo. If that's not an irritating toy, I don't know what is, but light up a joint and listen to that fuzzy, red, stooge cackle, you'll no doubt have the time of your life. They didn't call themselves the Doobie Brothers for nothing.

smart people fun - class

The fun of it stems from the fact that sarcasm escapes many people. Intelligent people can find pleasure at the expense of those unable to grasp the concept. Smart people often don't like stupid people, but here is an instance where it might be fun to have them stick around for a little bit. 

big puffy man - class

Diego Maradona, former Argentine soccer player and current coach of the Argentine national team, has definitely looked better. Is he looking for a great big hug, or just asking someone to punch him as hard as they can?

crosswords are hard - class

I'd like to consider myself as someone with at least half a brain, but every week Will Shortz manages to prove that I may, in fact, only have a quarter of one. 

The Arts section of the New York Times newspaper provides a daily crossword puzzle that progressively gets harder through the week. I'm so hopeful on Mondays that I'll be able to complete it. "Famous tennis player ____ Sampras." C'mon! On one hand, I'm ever so excited that I can fill in four more squares, on the other, I want to be challenged a little bit more. As I run through the list of clues and see the squares continually fill in, my excitement climbs, as I know completion is near. "Nincompoop," and I'm supposed to answer that how? Well, shit! I'm stuck on this one, the down clues aren't helping me at all, and now I've run into this problem where I can't finish the puzzle. This sense of frustration comes over me as well as sadness, disappointment, and inadequacy, really a wonderful way to start off the week. 

I decide to take a break from the words and jump over to the numbers game, give my hand at the new KenKen puzzles the paper provides. For whatever reason, I am able to complete those pretty quickly and consistently. I don't know, maybe it's an Asian thing. (Sudoku comes pretty easily to me too.) But then I'm still left with the unfinished crossword puzzle, and the blank squares and numerous crossed out letters begins to irk me, especially on a Monday! 

There are a few more I know I can answer. "The 'A' in U.A.E." Okay, Arab. Got it. The across clue is "Pants closure," and unless zipper is now spelled, "bipper," I'm pretty sure the answer is "button." I am confidently working my way through some more of these, and things are looking good at this point. But, I go back to the section with "Nincompoop." Ahh. Still, nothing comes to mind. A couple hours at this, and I should probably have thrown in the towel. Alright, if I've not gotten it by this point, I suppose, I never will. (That's the positive attitude.) I know that in store for me on Tuesday will be more frustration and aggravation. As the week continues, I might as well not even look at them. It just becomes an exercise in self deprecation. 

You've bested me again, Will Shortz. I promise you next week will be a different story! Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed, at least. 

caught again?

No, at least not in the same situation, not involving the same people. "Again" only refers to the fact that the incident occurred in a similar environment, the bathroom. I'm finding that many of these experience I deem worthy of talking about happened in the bathroom. What does that say about me? Rhetorical. 

My urge to pee was rather strong at this point. We had sat through two hours of our three-hour-long class, and prior to that class, I had guzzled down a Nalgene full of water. Not the brightest of ideas, but I was thirsty.  So, we finally reach break time, during which I planned to mingle with others in the gallery and then head to the bathroom, in no particular order. I moseyed on downstairs, saw some people, and stopped and said hello. It wasn't until a few minutes later that I finally got a chance to go to the bathroom. It's a small bathroom, consisting of two stalls. One was occupied, so I obviously used the empty one. 

Now this is where things take a turn for the most awkward. I have encountered this situation a few times before, inexplicably so. This is the time gap between the moment you pull your pants down and sit on the toilet seat, to the time that you actually begin to urinate. That gap, filled only by silence, to me, is one of the most painfully awkward moments. And since there is only one other person there, it's either you or her that is going to break that silence. Otherwise, you're just two strangers sitting in a dead quiet room with your pants at your ankles. 

This irked me so much because I'm not one to get bladder shy, but something just wouldn't let me go, even though I urgently had to. It wasn't like the other girl was doing anything either, so there wasn't any reason to really be embarrassed. Usually I'm not. I mean, I wasn't at that time either. Pee hitting water sounds the same no matter what. It's not a particularly weird sound, not unless you're farting throughout the whole time. It just became more of an annoyance than anything else. I pushed, squirmed, did anything that would help expedite the process. Not one trickle, not even the itch of needing to pee was present. This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. 

At this point, the other girl pulls up her pants and flushes. I hadn't heard any liquid hit liquid. It must have been a more solid type of waste she deposited. The only reason I find that worthy of note is because there are many more people who find that action more difficult in a public facility. I am amongst the majority prefer to abstain from doing so. More importantly, at this moment, I was excited about the prospect of being alone in the bathroom. A solitary few seconds awaited me, during which I could freely pee! Hurray! I hear her wash her hands, ever so slowly, wipe them dry and finally head toward the door. I see the light from outside the bathroom. I can't wait. The door shuts. 

Her feet, still visible from where I'm sitting, walk away from the door towards the sink. No! Why hadn't she left?! What could she have possibly forgotten to do? Pick a wedgie, pick her nose, fix her bra? I don't know, but all of those things could've been accomplished outside of the bathroom and done discreetly. For the love of god, just leave. I was running out of time, and break was almost over. So I'm still silently sitting there. She probably thinks I'm constipated as all Hell, and all I want is three seconds to myself to pee. 

Two minutes, or so, go by and she finally leaves the bathroom. I tactfully wait a few more seconds to make sure that she had, in fact, exited the bathroom. She had! Let the peeing begin. Of course, after all the anticipation and waiting, there was little to show for my excitement of being able to pee. A few quick drips, and I was done. But, despite that, was that not the most awful experience?! No. It wasn't. It doesn't quite rival being beaten to a bloody pulp with a 2x4, nor does it rival the pain and suffering from gonorrhea. I suppose it was only mildly uncomfortable. Hmmm. Uncomfortable, nonetheless, and I'd prefer not to go through it again. Think what you will about the triviality of the incident, but the next time you're stuck in a two-stall bathroom, unable to pee for what seems like an eternity, remember this. Then we can talk.

caught in the bathroom

I warn you now, if you are expecting to read a potty-humor-filled blog, then stop right here and click off. This is more about a mildly entertaining incident that occurred in the bathroom. I apologize if you are disappointed. 

Having paid for my private high school and college education, my mother can only expect that my writing skills are above par. I'd like to think so, and I can't be anything but flattered that she comes to me for advice when writing emails, letters, and such. Well, flattered, or taken advantage of. Huh. Anyway, tonight she approached me with a letter that she wanted me to edit. I didn't understand the situation, so I inquired. The retelling of the incident went something like this. 

Apparently, in some schools in New York, it is prohibited to use cellular devices in the bathrooms. Unaware of this rule, my mother enters the bathroom, ends her already brief conversation, and hangs up the phone. This was a three stall bathroom, and the middle stall was the only occupied one, so she takes the stall to the right. As she begins to relieve herself and indulge in a few moments of quiet from her class, the women in the middle stall begins to yell at her. There is to be no cell phone use in the bathroom. The woman finished up and left the restroom. My mom, taken aback, finished up and exited soon after. As the door shut behind her, she was greeted with the face of an angry French woman, the same woman in the neighboring stall. She happened to be the director of the school and took her role as such very seriously. Perhaps a bit too seriously? Yes. While admonishing my mother for disobeying the rules, she directed her attention to each and every sign that indicated that no cell phone usage was allowed. Dear God, woman! My mother's conversation, while in the bathroom, consisted of no more than the salutation, a quick "bye." Berating her, as if she were a child, was completely unnecessary. A gentle reminder of the rules would've sufficed, but when those of authority lack any sense of self confidence are presented with the opportunity to take advantage of that authority, the do. They eat that up like it were candy. 

My first question, upon hearing the story, "Was she peeing or taking a dump?" This question was twofold. First, I wanted to point out the absurdity of the whole situation, and then I also wanted to find out how long she had to lecture my mother. Honestly, I hate when people talk while in the middle of relieving themselves of excess waste. When things are exited you from the bottom, nothing should be exiting from the top. Just let the moment happen in silence. 

My second thought was whether the situation was worth waiting for my mother to finish, to proceed to lecture her. I think not. My mother, disrupting no one else in the building, and wanting only to go to the bathroom, felt embarrassed and mildly violated. 

The letter I was to edit addressed how that woman had made my mother feel. She wanted so much to just tell her off, but she told me that she wanted to maintain a sense of dignity as well. I told her the letter made her sound like a petulant child, throwing a temper tantrum. My revisions remedied that. 

Nothing really else to account about this. I just thought the situation was beyond asinine, and those involved were acting about half a century younger than they were. Two adults, one cell phone, and whole lot of shit. 

it's unfortunate

That's really the nicest way I can put it, unfortunate. The situation has taken a sad, but inevitable turn. I preface this post by saying that this probably isn't the wisest place to discuss such matters, but at this point, I don't care. I don't care if it leaks out and the subject of this post finds out. I don't care if that person becomes infuriated and hunts me down to then smash my face in. I've become rather apathetic to how this person might feel. At this point, if it doesn't get written down somewhere, I will resort to gouging my eyes out with a rusty spoon. So why not share the sentiment with others. I must emphasize the fact that the tone is not from a source of hatred, but an amalgamation of confusion, frustration, and ire. And for the sake of anonymity, I shall call this person Sue. 

I start off by saying that the whole situation is a rather difficult one, progressing to its unfortunate state because of a lack of, I suppose, research. There were three people involved, and all of us were in need of a home. So with a few emails here, and a couple of phone calls there, the three of us came together to become roommates. Huh. We all come from different areas of the country and all have different upbringings. But all of us were under the impression that each of us possessed the skills of a normal human being. Hard lesson learned, assumptions should never be made. Ever. 

My first reaction upon our meeting was a positive one. Regarding appearance, it was not what I expected, but that's neither here nor there. And in terms of personality, it was cool and laid back. An easy-going sort. Okay fine. So we all get along swimmingly. Excited about new people and new places, we remain tolerant of any shortcomings we detect. But when red flags start popping up, maybe I should've had a stronger reaction. 

Flag number one, the trip to Target. I love Target just as much as the next person. It has everything you could want. It's clean, fun, and the aisles are wide enough to squeeze in more than one tiny dwarf. (All those who've experienced a shopping trip to Publix in South Beach know what I am referring to.) Target's a wonderful place. But what can possibly necessitate a 5 hour stay? That's the length of ten sitcom episodes, two full-length feature films, or a full school day. We had already prepared a list of what we needed, and the aisles are labeled. Any discrepancy as to where things are can be easily remedied by the people that work there. I met a helpful lad named Jose who was more than willing to direct me to the linens. All the while, the one who had so generously driven us to the store was patiently waiting, wandering aimlessly for 5 hours. I do believe that there was time for lunch and a quick nap. 

Flag number two occurred at our next group trip. This one was shorter, but still maintaining a decent length at Publix. I must reiterate that the aisles at this store are of an asinine size, making the experience even more excruciating than it would've been had there been ample space for a small bunny. This place provides us with food. Three hours searching for food is certainly superfluous unless you are to hunting wild game. And given that we are in an era of processed foods and packaged goods, hunting and gathering is not required. The decision between store brand foods and name brands should take no more than 5 seconds, the length of a quick pee. But it shouldn't take 3 hours. Again, there were two people waiting ever so patiently for us. 

These incidents occurred during the tolerance stage of being with new people. To clarify, there are a few points during the time in which you meet a new group of people, or an individual. Of course at the beginning, everyone is tolerant of everyone. Flaws are overlooked, and things that you would typically call out are passed by so as not to avoid any sort of arguments. The second stage is characterized by polite confrontation. You hint at, or kindly remark upon the issues that irk you. But never a harsh statement and everyone's feelings are spared. To get to the next stage, there are a few steps that need to be taken. It's a slow progression to reach that third point which can be the tipping point of the whole relationship. The steps are more like silent battles. Each bothersome incident is silently noted and stored somewhere to be later used as fuel and motivation to take action, or ammunition for an ensuing argument, depending on the resulting situation. For us, it became the former. So as the steps are taken to the next stage, and as the incidents accumulate, we reach the threshold. The point at which something needs to be done or said to alter the situation. 

A multitude of incidents took place from stages two to three, but as this is getting rather lengthy, I will spare you those details. The path we chose in the third stage was to request removal. Sue was to no longer live with the the two of us. A quick and easy solution, so we thought. The process of removal is still in progress and has proven to be more of a stress inducer than a resolution to our problems. Silly of me to have expected something simple and unproblematic. Time issues, money issues, and every other sort of issue that could come up, is. It's all sorts of bad, and there is seemingly no light at the end of this tunnel. Only time will tell how this conundrum will be resolved. 

Now that you've been caught up with the situation, a more detailed explanation of the successive steps will be shared. Stay tuned for the adventures, or rather, misadventures of two roommates and their problem called Sue. 

you can still see out of slanted eyes

So I'm Asian. I know it's not glaringly obvious, so I thought I'd just fill you all in. It crossed my mind that the slanted eyes and pin-straight black hair might be a hint, but I realize, an all too subtle one. My name bears a pretty strong resemblance to the raw food sushi, but then again, Brown might throw you off a bit. Tough call. 

But you know what gets me about being Asian? Besides the fact that we all look alike. It's the whole drinking thing. "Oh, it's the Asian glow!" A curse some call it. Take one sip, of even light beer, and we turn bright red. You know what I call it? Fuck you! I'm not drunk! Give me another beer. I used to hate that in college. Five minutes into the party and I'm the one who needs to be "cut off." No! I need to be cut off when I'm bent over hurling out the contents of my stomach and my pants are half way to my ankles. 

The other troubling aspect about being Asian is, as I mentioned before, the slanted eyes and pin-straight black hair, yeah, we've all got them. Of course there are degrees of slant to each individual, and the hair color varies depending on whether you dye it...bright orange. By the way, what the fuck?! You're Asian. You look ridiculous. And you know what other alterations multitudes of Asians go through? Eye-lid fat removal. Yeah! But it's not like, "Gee, my eye-lids are looking pretty fat. I'd better lipo that shit out." No. It's more, "I'm too Asian, and my eyes need bigger creases. I'd better lipo that shit out." And if you don't have enough money to go through such an appearance-enhancing procedure, you can just get some scotch tape and fashion yourself a new set of eyelid creases. Cover it up with some eyeliner, and you're good to go. Again, to address my people, "What the fuck!?"

Oh, right. I'm sorry. We DO all look alike. It's a matter of distinguishing yourself, right? Is that it? From Chinese, to Japanese, Koreans, it's a little hard to tell. To the audience, I ask you, what am I? I bet I'll get all three answers. And you're all wrong! Just look at my eyelids. I've got one with a crease and one without. What does that make me? Fucking weird, that's what! Give me a piece of scotch tape, and I'm whiter than Casper, the fucking ghost. 

I may not be white, but, I do refer to myself as a Twinkie. Hostess. I thought of other baked goods, but this one just seemed so appropriate. It's because I'm so lovable and sweet. Take one bite and the creamy, cakey goodness just makes you melt. I just exude sweetness, right? Yeah. Or it's because I'm white on the inside and yellow on the out. (point to face, "Yellow.") It's not jaundice, it's Japanese. What's your excuse? I'd show you the white, creamy goodness, but this is a family event. PG-13. So, use your imagination, people. 

So that's the first lesson on Asians. So don't fuck it up. Confuse us again and one of us will jump out from the shadows and judo chop you to death. There's a little bit of ninja in every one of us. Yeah. Bet you didn't know that. 

addicting games

My discovery of this game just means that I will never get any work done.

http://www.addictinggames.com/theimpossiblequiz.html

And there's a sequel!

saving face and flatulence

So I'm really hungry. You know that oddly filling feeling you get when you're really hungry. No, I know. It's just gas, but I always feel so full. I can only imagine what those kids in Somalia must feel like... Bloated as all hell. Where do you suppose all that air goes? My first guess, out their asses. Oh c'mon, they've gotta be farting at least three times a minute. 

You know what amazes me about farts? And if you're not laughing at this point,  you have the sense of humor of a stick. Farts are fucking funny! It's smelly air, people! And it's coming out of your rectum!

So, it's that we find them interesting enough to classify and categorize them, based on sound, smell, length. I mean, if anyone was to rip one right now, I guarantee you that 3 out of every 4 people in the room will have some name for it. I know you're all familiar with the SBD. Silent but deadly. Or the less familiar but still unforgettable shard. You feel that need to release the air bubble growing in your ass. Expecting nothing but air, and maybe a dull accompanying sound, you relax your muscles. (fart noise) Awww! (walk around holding ass) Instead, you've gone and shat your pants. Somebody gambled and lost!

And I must be out of the loop with crop dusting. I just found out what it was last year. I'm not saying anything would be different had I known what it was. I'd still be doing it. Now it has a title. No one likes to be called out for making the room smell like shit. But, no one likes to hold in painful gas. Conundrum! But the solution, swiftly walk around the room, spreading out the noxious, pungent odor as you ease out the air from your anus. Obviously there's a method to all of it. One, don't make noise. Dead give away. And secondly, you walk by someone while relieving your bloated self, and a stench is closely following behind you. Someone might pick up on that. No, you've got to be discreet. Walk into spaces, void of human beings. If you begin to smell your own stench, stop and make a disgusted face. "Oh god, do you smell that?!" Ehh, why not? Pin it on the guy next to you. Hey, you've got to do what you've got to do to save face, right? Right. 

diapers

Think back, way back, although for some of you it might not have to be that far back, to a time when toilets were none of your concern. The feeling of needing to pee or defecate was ever so brief compared to the relief felt upon immediate release of excrement. Wasn't that a wonderful memory? Childhood bliss, if you ask me. But then we proceed to the minutes that proceeded the relief, the minutes where you would sit festering in your own waste. You fidget to minimize physical contact with it, but those Huggies are just strapped on too damn tight. Strong discomfort sets in. You waddle yourself to the nearest chair to avoid any dripping down your leg. It's quite the conundrum you've gotten yourself into. Do you cry? No, you couldn't possibly! You wouldn't dare draw that much attention to the fact that the source of the wafting stench that is now pervading the room is your ass. You're in no position to find a wipe and clean yourself up. The heavy load you carry beneath you would undoubtedly stifle your usually graceful crawl. You can see it now, the diaper swaying in the air, side to side, only furthering the pungent odor. You also don't want to sit there for longer than you have to. Your cheeks are pressing down on the feces, and it begins to adhere to your hair follicles and skin. The discomfort is directly related to the amount of excrement, but the level of shame is exponential. All sense of hubris will have to be put aside. The predicament is worsening, and the situation can not be tolerated for much longer.  You must cry out. You yearn for the fresh sent of Johnson and Johnson's baby powder and the feeling of soft dry fabric against your bum. More importantly, you long not to worry about what others are saying as they see you fumble around for a comfortable position. The incessant murmurs and snickering echo in your ears. You can feel their stares boring holes into your skull. They tease you and test your patience. Why can't someone, out of the goodness of their heart, come to check on you? Does not the smell affect them as it does you? 

Well, fear not you untrained, diaper-filling, potty goer. Your troubles are now over with the advent of the kitty litter filled diapers. Can't you see it? The tiny granules fill a tiny pocket in the diaper, strategically placed to maximize waste absorption. It's a brilliant plan not fully thought out. Wade in your fecal matter no more! Urinate till your heart's content because no matter how long you're sitting, no matter how hard your cheeks press against the diaper bottom, there will be no leakage to seep down your leg. No more stench to percolate through the air. 

Unfortunate side effects of this terribly thought out master plan are many in number but minimal in importance. Discomfort sets in as these tightly packed granules scrape against your rear. Chafing may occur along with some drying up of the skin. But it's no matter when you're enabled to relieve yourself of excess waste without moving a muscle. You shake your head in disapproval now, but just you wait. The time will come when that overwhelmingly strong feeling to piss yourself supersedes your strength to hold it in. Then you'll be wishing you'd paid that homeless person on the corner to go into the store to buy you some kitty-litter filled diapers. 

everyone has their role in life

Beckham An Inspiration To Children Who Never Get Put In Game | The Onion - America's Finest News Source

As a soccer fan, and as a person, I appreciated this one. 

life list item # 4

Area Man Just Wants To Throw One Good Punch In His Life | The Onion - America's Finest News Source

One of the most satisfying experiences, so I've been told, is punching someone in the face. Perhaps I'm giving this so-called cathartic feeling a bit too much credit by putting it as number four on my list of things to do before I die. But it's also one that has been given so much hype; I can't help but be intrigued. Unfortunately, it's an Onion article, that is mocking this sentiment, to which I am referring. And, I, on the other hand, am speaking of this matter with true sincerity, albeit very much with a sarcastic tone. Honestly though, for those who haven't experienced the true fulfillment of thrusting your weight into a full-forced punch, thus making contact with the face of one you might dislike.

I feel as though I've made a good segue into my reasoning for deeming punching someone in the face as something to experience. A form of venting. You can't keep things bottled up, people! One good, solid punch will ameliorate all those stress-induced feelings. I'm not a proponent of wildly belligerent physical violence, so don't go beating someone to an unrecognizable, bloody pulp. One punch. That's all it takes. Understandably, there are those few who manage to press your buttons to the point where you don't think you'll be able to hold yourself back. But those are the times you must display great will power and withhold your aggressive behaviors. Let out that one punch. Even if that person has done countless things for the past eight months to piss you off to no end, be the bigger person. (That in and of itself may be the harder task). 

I've gone on, now, for too long discussing the justification for putting punching someone in the face on my life list. By now you've gotten the gist of it all, and I think you will agree. Carl wants to try it, I want to too, and if you haven't done it already, I know you'll want to too. 

a query

While this may seem like a trivial matter to most, to all those breakfast food eaters, it holds a great deal of importance. It is the issue of sacrificing the satisfying crunch of delicious cereals for the sake of not tearing up the roof of one's mouth. While I am quite the proponent of children's lightly sweetened multi-grain cereals, I can't help but wince at the mere thought of a ripped up, bloody palate.  This is not to discredit other cereals that have a propensity to lose their crunch more rapidly, such as plain Cheerios, or Special K, both of which are wonderfully delicious. But for those times that you just crave a lightly sweetened crunch, mixed with a splash of cold milk, what do you do? Do you push through and hope that the satisfaction overshadows the pain, or do you succumb to your low tolerance of pain and nosh on the sogginess that is your bowl of healthy flakes? Or do you just go for the plate of waffles?

branded

my website, potentially

i am a blogger

I am now a blogger, and have nothing to write about. You'd think words would come to me a little bit more easily, as I am studying to be a copywriter, but no. Alright, well this is just going to have to suffice. Energy to think is waning, and any desire to entertain through a pithy quip or two is non-existent. I'm done.