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Postscription - Improving the Way You Improve Our ImprovementBecause steel wool is short for "Fun!" |
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| Sep. 10th, 2006 @ 01:40 am Tiny hammer, enormous nails. | |||
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| I think I hate you. Yes, you. Ha. |
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| Sep. 8th, 2006 @ 11:45 pm Supersize Me made me queasy. | |||
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| The last few days (two days in total - wow, that's a lot of days) I've been being stalked. This would lead most people to think "Finally! Someone has a perverse interest in Chris and now he will leave me alone while dealing with and/or stalking his stalker." You would, however, be wrong. I will not be leaving you alone any more than I have in the past. This is because my stalker is an insect. Oh, it all started out innocently enough. I went into my room yesterday afternoon, and there was a small praying mantis (Preying? I always thought preying, though recent online inquiries tell me otherwise) on the wall just above my desk. I took some pictures of it, but they didn't turn out well because the pictures were taken with the camera in my telephone. I thought that would be then end of it. That night, it was perched above my bed. Centered perfectly above my pillow. It watched me sleep. Or maybe it was sleeping already. Whatever. Today, I saw it on the wall of my shower a little after noontime. Or maybe a little before. I'm not sure. Again, I took some pictures, though I did not take a shower. I am stinky today. Tonight, not more than thirty minutes ago, I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth before going to bed. Well, actually, I went to bed first and realized that my teeth were starting to grow fuzzy sweaters as a result of the chocolate I had eaten, so I went to go brush. While I was brushing my teeth, I decided to shave so that I woulnd't need to in the morning. I got my razor and my shaving gel/cream (Which smells delicious since there is oatmeal or some kind of oat extract in it) out and set them on the counter. I spit out a mouthful of toothpastey spit, and got some water in the sink for the shave, and applied tasty smelling shaving goo. I reached for my razor, and the mantis crawled off of it. It then proceeded to crawl to the back of the faucet where water had leaked to take a drink. I shaved while watching it. Just when I was about done, it decided to climb to the top of the drain-emptying plunger thing. The new picture shows this. I had to wait for it to climb back down to drain the soapy, stubble-filled water. The most odd thing about the whole thing was when I looked at its eyes. They were just sort of a translucent brownish green with a dark pupil-looking thing that seemed to float about freely, like it wasn't fixed to anything. It moved around to look at things, but it also seemed to move to deeper and closer positions seemingly at random. It was kind of creepy. Anyway, I'm all done wasting time with trivial details now and want to go to bed. Hooray, bed! |
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| Mar. 28th, 2006 @ 06:06 pm Counterfiet nickel mastermind says "I enjoy potatoes." | |||
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| I have a job now. I've had it almost three months now, which is six times longer than how long I had my last job! Everyone is proud of me. Roksaburo told me so. Speaking of Roksaburo, he's eating dandelion greens and making munching sounds. Not that you care. Anyway, back to the job. I dispatch abmulances at night. Before you get any idaes of lights and sirens and ambulances zooming to the site of a shooting, slow down and foret that you even thought of the merest idea of starting to have an inclination toward having those ideas. It's a non--emergency medical transportation comapny, so a majority of what I do is take calls from hospitals that are sending patients home, and nursing facilities who are sending patients to doctor appointments. I like my new job. But here's the thing. A thing. Whatever. We have all sorts of stuff that gets scheduled in advance. The evening before, someone has to go through and assign al of those calls to the ambulances, making sure that there's not going to be overtime and that there's enough time to get from one trip to the next without being late. It's kind of like a jigsaw puzzle for which you don't have the box. The other dispatchers who assign the next day's calls are really good at it. [Analogy ahead. Prepare for moderate confusion] They can look at all of those puzzle pieces and see that some are black and some are yellow and some are green and even though they don't have a box, they can say "Oh, it must be a bumblebee flying over some grass" and start assigning calls. Sometimes, part of the way through, they realize that what they're trying to do isn't quite working, like they look at the pieces again and realize "Oh, wait, it's a couple of yellow flowers on a black background, not a bumblebee" and they take apart the start of their bumblebee and assemble a pretty flower in just a few minutes. About once a week, I get to assign the next day's calls. I get the puzzle pieces all together and spend a litle time loooking at them. I'll see the same black and yellow pieces and think "Oh, a bumblebee. Cool." I'll start putting together the bumblebee. The difference is that with me, when it's actually a couple of flowers, and not a bumblebee, I keep going, refusing to see how it could possibly be anything other than a bumblebee. I'll pound pieces into place the way I think they should be in order to look somewhat bumblebee-ish. Sometimes that takes a great deal of force and stubbornness, and faith that the ambulance crew that gets assigned to the bumblebee's tail at 7:00am will be able to make it over to the wing by 8:15am and then back to the head by 9:00am. When I'm done, I have the most retarded looking umblebee ever. I try as hard as I can to pretend that the bumblebee actually looks okay, even though I know that its head isn't supposed to be twisted around backwards, and that one of the wings isn't supposed to be sprouting out of one of the eyes. I guess what I should learn from all of this is that sometimes a bumblebee is really a flower, and that if Roksaburo wants to sleep on top of his dandelion greens, who am I to say that he shouldn't? |
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| Dec. 27th, 2005 @ 11:01 pm Nothing is black or white any more. It's all shades of puce. | |||
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| I know I've made jokes, or comments and observations that I call jokes despite their lack of humor, about Southern California. I've compared it to hell. I've said it's smelly and hot and causes puppies and kittens to explode violently and without warning. Southern California, however, ples in cmparison to the terrors of a place so gorrible that sane people only speak about it in whispers. The darkest place of all. The D M V First, a little history about the DMV for those of you who may not know much about it. The DMV, or Department of Motor Vehicles, came into being upon the passing of Senator F.S. Birdsell's Vehicle Act of 1915. The Vehicle Act of 1915's original title was changed before Congress voted on it, because Birdsell was pretty sure that nobody would read something called "The Vehicle Act of 1915" and that the congressmen were unlikely to pass anything with the original title - Let's Make People Miserable. After it was passed, the D.M.V. was established and grew its soul draining tentacles deep into mearly every city in the country. If you examine the foundation of any D.M.V. building, you will find that it is constructed in a pond of human blood that must be kept full at all times as the D.M.V. has a voracious appetite. But history is boring, so let's fast forward to my recent experience. The experience actually starts before I got to the D.M.V. It starts with the setup as to why I had to go there in the first place. Last week, a police car pulled me over and I assumed it was due to my expired registration, and the little tags on my license plate tell everyone that I haven't taken care of something I should have done months ago. The police officer got out of his car and walked up to my window. He asked for my driver's license, my registration and proof of insurance. After a minute of fumbling, I managed to produce my license, proof of my insurance and my expired registration information. The police officer told me that he pulled me over because my registration was expired. I nodded. He asked if I knew that my registration had expired. I nodded. He asked if I knew that my driver's license had expired at the end of October. I did not nod. He let me off with a warning, telling me to get everything taken care of. I didn't drive at all for fear my license would be revoked by a less nice cop. Today, I went to the D.M.V. to renew my license. In my past experiences, there were lines. Many lines. A person would enter through the front doors and be confronted with a long line. The person would wait in the line until the line ended at a counter with a clerk. The clerk would ask what the person needed, and tell the person that they needed to go to the next line. The person would wait in the next line and eventually be confronted with another clerk ho would give the person forms. The person would fill out the forms and wait in a third line to see a third clerk. The clerk would process tha papers, and the person would have to wait in a fourth line to see a fourth clerk who would give the person the results of the processed forms. The process would take roughly three days to complete. A select few individuals brought in cots, but most people didn't because someone would always cut in line while they were sleeping. This time was different. There was one line to start with. It was short. I only waited five minutes before I saw a clerk. He asked what I needed, then handed me a form and a ticket with G069 on it. I thought things were going well. Only one line and I already had my forms! When I turned away from the counter Inoticed that there were no other lines. There were about twenty people waiting in chairs. I filled out my forms, then sat in one of the many vacant chairs. "No problem," I thought to myself. "I should be out of here in no time. Surely, this is a kinder, gentler D.M.V." As I waited, numbers were being announced every minute or so by a friendly synthesized womanly voice. "Now helping G060 at window 8." That sort of thing. Surely, I was only 9 people away from getting everything taken care of. It went downhill from there. Tivkets were being called seemingly at random, and none of them even started with the letter G. Despite the fact that about one ticket was called per minute, only one chair was vacated every twenty minutes. I'm pretty sure that most of the tickets the called didn't exist and were only announced to give people hope that things might be moving along while their souls were being infected with evil D.M.V. vibes (I was immune since the mummy took my soul a few months back - see previous entries for details). The people that got up probably just left out of frustration, or they somehow realized that their number would never be called. Ever. After a few hours, I went out to my car and got a bottle of white-out and a blue pen. I went back inside and waited for a few tickets to be called. I picked one of them, whited out the numbers on my own ticket, wrote in the new ones and walked up to the clerk who seemed very surprised. I had a ticket though (which she ultimately threw out), so there was nothing she could do but help me. I triumphantly handed her my completed DL44 form and my expired license, and waited for her to review them. She told me that my license odesn't expire until 2006. I am now convinced that the California Highway Patrol is trying to trick people into going to the D.M.V. Once there, they have to wait so long that they either starve to death, or end up in a catatonic state from the D.M.V. vibes, and are drained of their blood in order to feed the buildings. Quite an ingenious plan, but I was too clever for it. Take THAT, The System! |
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| Dec. 7th, 2005 @ 02:16 am Ingenious God-Sized Amphitheaters. (the ingenious amphitheaters, not the ingenious god) | |||
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| Format change today! It's easier than content updates, and almost as frequent this year. |
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| Dec. 3rd, 2005 @ 11:07 pm Headhunting with Megatron and Optimus Prime | |||
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| Something magical has happened. Just weeks ago, I forced myself out of my wonderful warm bed and into the air of a crisp new morning. Not crisp like lettuce, but a cold sort of freshness which puts the chill into one's toes if they happen to walk on a hardwood or linoleum floor on such a crisp monring. It was cold. It was miraculous. This comes after months of living in Ventura County - county motto: "The sweaty left armpit (crotchpit?) of the country." At the coldest, the thermometer there reads "tepid." I survived through heat waves and massive fires which tore through the hills. Hell has nothing on Ventura county, except for brimstone, though the drainage ditch in the back of the apartment complex smelled suspiciously sulfurous. Ventura County has the climate most similar to hell out of all of the microclimates of the world. I moved to Contra Costa County. It gets cold now. I am the happiest person in the world. My toes have got the chill. Everything is wonderful. Except for the neighbors upstairs. All day long, everything is quiet and frequently cool, cold, chilly, nippy or somewhere therabouts. At 11:30 in the evening, activity erupts. A flurry of feet zoom up the stairs outside and the door slams. The loudest bedsprings in the world squeak, then the thumping begins. Toward the bathroom, then back to the bed. Again, springs squeak, drowning out my late evening cartoons. The springs never fully stop moving except when the feet are thumping to or from the bathroom. All the while, there is an incessant pattering of feet through all the other rooms, accompanied by all manner of things crashing about. I have never seen the people who live above me, but by listening to them, I have figured out who they are. I live downstairs from a 350 pound insomniac and 2 to 4 midgets who do battle with each other every night. The following block of text is what it sounds like in my apartment late at night. patterpatterpatterpattCRASH patCRASHrpattersqueaktterpa pattesqueakTHUMPTHUMPsqueak patterpattsqueakTHUMPsqueak pattCRASHpatterpasqueakterp I would write more, but my toes demand warmth, and are frightened that the chill in them will turn them into little toe popsicles that nobody would ever eat. Since I always cave in to the demands of my toes, I will now go to bed, dreaming of samurai swords flashing in the hands of midgets and knowing that I envy them. |
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| Oct. 11th, 2005 @ 02:42 pm Hard-boiled eggs: Just another meal or deadly appetite supressant? | |||
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| Just for today, I'm rescinding my "Nothing's happening, so why are you even reading this" principle. This is a direct result of an odd turn of events in which things happened. A few weeks ago, I went to Universal Studios. We went on a few ride-type-things and ate bad funnel cake. King Kong's breath smelled the way that banana Runts taste. Overall, it was a pretty good day. There was only one thing that disturbed me. While a short, indoor, dark roller coaster based on the movie The Mummy was just getting started, everything was moving pretty slowly, until the mummy, complete with crusty wrappings announced that my soul was now his. Well, not my soul in particular, but the souls of everyone on the ride. At first, I thought about feeling sorry for the mummy, since out of all the souls to own, mine is porbably no one of the best ones to get stuck with. The ride continued and I felt vaguely bad for the undead deity until the very end when we were all treated to a cinematic of the mummy disentegrating due to an eclipse. I don't understand the logic of how an eclipse would be fatal to this mummy who can summon sand minions and demon bugs and who eats people to regain his fleshyness. Anyway, I got to thinking that the mummy never gave my soul back. He turned to dust, and my soul went with it. I was too upset to talk to a staff member about it, so I just went home with a hollow feeling in my... In my place where my soul is usually kept. I think it's near the prostate. The hollow feeling is still there, the whole soul and mummy thing has been on my mind a lot, which is how I got a great idea for an amusement park ride. It would be very similar to the one I was on - a roller coaster where you can't really see anything whizzing around in the dark with cheezy lighting effects and loud noises to try to scare people. Halfway through the ride, the roller coaster will steadily come to a halt, and all the lights will turn on, exposing all the railings and crappy visual effects makers. People will be confused for a bit, and maybe a bit nervous, but not terribly, since the lights will all be on. Nothing bad ever happens when the lights are on. Then, just when the murmers are dying down, a real mummy complete with tissue and muscles, embalming fluid, and stench will saunter jovially out on the track next to the cars. He'll have a large black suitcase in one hand and he'll be cheerfully singing 80's songs to which he won't know most of the words, substituting "la la la" and "Something something" for the actual lyrics. One by one, he'll reach over and steal the souls of the passengers (who are restrained by the safety bars on the ride), interrupting his singing once in a while to comment of the quality of the souls he takes. The souls will go into the suitcase, and he'll happily thank the group before sauntering off. The ride will then continue as normal. After everyone disembarks, they will notice a wolfman attending the kiosk where they can go to buy pictures of themselves on the ride. The woldman will notify them that the mummy gave him the box of souls, and the passengers are able to buy the souls back for a modest fee. I'm a genius. In other news, I got a job and left the job. Two weeks. I'm hardcore. I'm a hardcore genius. Or geniusly hardcore. Or neither. |
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| Jun. 11th, 2005 @ 10:56 pm Do you feel it? That's what Digital Belguim Squid feel like! | |||
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| When most people talk about a dysfunctional home, they're referring to the relationships between the people who reside there - passive-aggressive roomates, self-imposed martyr mothers, schizophrenic grandmothers fraying the entire family's nerves while only one person is left to attempt the futile task of keeping the peace and civility of a "normal" home without realizing that they ARE the norm. Eventaully, the hammer falls, figuratively or literally onto the center of the glass coffee table with the expensive mahogany frame and all hell breaks loose, the mentally ill demonized and deemed too difficult to work with and sent away to second-rate care facilities where the college-intern staff, incompetent to help anyone with their own families disintegrating around them, realize they should've stuck to the hard sciences or, for those who can't hack that, philosophy. These dysfunctional homes are the staple of America. They're the inspiration and focus of over fifty percent of the entertainment industry. They produce and are produced by America - blue-collar workers, laborers, and high-powered executives who marry for economic maneuvering instead of classically romantic ideals. Dysfunctional homes are the backbone, skeleton, circulatory and endocrine systems of out small, limited universe. The country itself is giddy with excitement at the potential of this dysfunction, excited by the imminent collapse of this house of cards being built on a record turntable - hence the phallic protrusion of Florida which, every year, seems to grow more rigid as it fills with more homes falling into dysfunction. My dysfunctional home is different. It's not the people who live in it or their relationships. It's the house itself. Or, rather, the apartment. |
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| Jun. 3rd, 2005 @ 12:06 pm Rats in cages protecting their home turf. | |||
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| I moved. I don't have a job. I need one. I also need a bank account, but that's another story for.. well, not another time, 'cause I'm not going to tell you. It's just another story. Anyway, in hopes of getting a job, here's my resume, in case you're looking to hire someone. Postscripter (Name changed to protect the terribly naive) [email address/phone number] Professional experience 1)Retail a.Played with a pink stuffed bunny rabbit while pretending to help people. b.Did manager's paperwork because there was nothing else to do. 2)Mental Health Stuff a.Slept. b.Told people to go to bed. 3)Retail a.Screwed around while pretending to work. b.Pretended to know what I was doing. 4)Gift Shop a.Played with a bird. b.Played with bigger birds. c.Played with lizards and a big, fat frog. Education 1)Not enough. Skills 1)Divot in my chest (Admittedly not a skill, but still pretty neat, or gross, depending on how you look at it). 2)Affinity for procrastination. 3)A remarkable ability to avoid work while making it look like I'm working very hard. Yep, that's me, in a nutshell. Now, put me on your payroll and give me money! |
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| Dec. 14th, 2004 @ 10:36 pm A dog named Phydeaux. | |||
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| Wait... What? |
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