Friday, August 10, 2012
I hate people who mumble. I can't understand a goddamn word you're saying, and it becomes a grating noise that needs to silenced. I ask for help and it seems like I'm going to get it. So then imagine you want to rearrange something like furniture perhaps. Mumble mumble. Of course it's gibberish, it's mumbling. It's the same damn thing. You do part of the moving, while the other person watches you go to the trouble. It's only then that they decide now is a good time to not mumble. Then I have to go through the trouble of moving something back. If you had just not mumbled from the beginning we wouldn't have this problem. But it's not just the fact someone mumbles, it's that they purposefully let you have difficulties to make you look as foolish as possible. Fuck you.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Note to Self: Avoid Channel 502
I am slightly miffed because I had been hoping to finally catch the fourth episode of Gravity Falls, but I wound up missing half of it because of dinner. I also discovered that the refrigerator clock is off by about a quarter of an hour. No wonder I've been so confused lately. The ending had an unexpectedly shocking revelation. It's sort of the kid's show equivalent of the Winchester brothers seeing their dad walk out of the shadows. After that I decided to surf channels.
Speaking of TV channels, I'm annoyed that the BBC channel is not available where I live. Whenever I scroll over channels in the menu, I always seem to see an episode of Top Gear playing, or possibly Kitchen Nightmares. Without fail, I click the channel knowing full well that television doesn't work like it might in Peter Pan. You can't just start shouting, "I do believe in the BBC channel's availability on my TV! I do believe in the BBC channel's availability on my TV!" and expect that it will become available. Alas. There are certain movie channels, though. Midnight in Paris is on rather frequently. I also get completely thrown off every time I see "The Avengers" on television because it is not actually Marvel's Avengers but something else entirely. Imagine how freaked out I was when I saw the title on some channel before the premiere of Marvel's Avengers. Equally confusing/disappointing is "Black Widow," which is a movie that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Scarlett Johansson or Jeremy Renner. I probably haven't felt this disappointed in a misleading movie title since discovering "The War of the Roses" has nothing to do with the European war between houses of York and Lancaster.
But I digress. I made a discovery of a channel I didn't even know existed. I doubt our provider has it included, but for once it's a channel I'd stay as far away from as humanly possible. It appears to be a sex channel with such hilarious show titles as
The next two have absurd subtitles. Beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that garbage, but I fail to see what could be beautiful about "slut training." In the first place, that's a horrible thing to want to teach/be taught. Secondly, how difficult could it possibly be anyway? Training seems to imply there's some sort of secret technique, passed down through generations. This isn't martial arts. Get the fuck out. How many people actually grow up thinking to themselves "when I grow up, I want to be the greatest slut that ever lived!" If by chance, god hope you aren't, but if you are one of those people, you need to sit down and really, and I do mean really, think about your life. Think about your choices. Have you considered anything else? If people can get paid to not grow corn, I'm sure there are other equally strange career paths for you to take without the social stigma.
Next one is just confusing. "Very $9.99"? What on earth does that mean? For that matter, why bother with the emphasis? See, there's regular $9.99, but we need you to know that this is VERY $9.99. Want to know what else costs $9.99? DVDs, crappy video games, and eBooks. Apparently $9.99 is also the title of a movie about hope, which I hope is not what a sex channel is referencing. That would be quite disheartening and pathetic indeed. The last one is really weird, too. It wasn't enough merely to say "Miami Beach Orgy," was it? No. They had to say "sex orgy," because after all, they wouldn't want their viewers getting confused. God forbid the show be about a music band, or the other definition of an orgy: standing around with people whilst not wearing socks. I've never understood what was up with that definition being so strongly insisted upon by high school students, or why people can't seem to agree on the number of people that constitute an orgy. I was once with a group of friends who argued with one another as to whether an orgy was defined by three people with their shoes/socks off, or four. It was obviously a very important discussion which I can't be bothered to care about because I personally think the most important question to ask yourself is if you're happy doing it.
Speaking of TV channels, I'm annoyed that the BBC channel is not available where I live. Whenever I scroll over channels in the menu, I always seem to see an episode of Top Gear playing, or possibly Kitchen Nightmares. Without fail, I click the channel knowing full well that television doesn't work like it might in Peter Pan. You can't just start shouting, "I do believe in the BBC channel's availability on my TV! I do believe in the BBC channel's availability on my TV!" and expect that it will become available. Alas. There are certain movie channels, though. Midnight in Paris is on rather frequently. I also get completely thrown off every time I see "The Avengers" on television because it is not actually Marvel's Avengers but something else entirely. Imagine how freaked out I was when I saw the title on some channel before the premiere of Marvel's Avengers. Equally confusing/disappointing is "Black Widow," which is a movie that has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with Scarlett Johansson or Jeremy Renner. I probably haven't felt this disappointed in a misleading movie title since discovering "The War of the Roses" has nothing to do with the European war between houses of York and Lancaster.
But I digress. I made a discovery of a channel I didn't even know existed. I doubt our provider has it included, but for once it's a channel I'd stay as far away from as humanly possible. It appears to be a sex channel with such hilarious show titles as
- Hot MILF Masturbators
- 15 Uncensored Orgasms
- Hot & Lonely Masturbating
- Slut Training: Beautiful
- Porn Star Wannabes: Eager
- I'm Home Alone, Wet, and Very $9.99
- Miami Beach Sex Orgy
The next two have absurd subtitles. Beauty in the eye of the beholder and all that garbage, but I fail to see what could be beautiful about "slut training." In the first place, that's a horrible thing to want to teach/be taught. Secondly, how difficult could it possibly be anyway? Training seems to imply there's some sort of secret technique, passed down through generations. This isn't martial arts. Get the fuck out. How many people actually grow up thinking to themselves "when I grow up, I want to be the greatest slut that ever lived!" If by chance, god hope you aren't, but if you are one of those people, you need to sit down and really, and I do mean really, think about your life. Think about your choices. Have you considered anything else? If people can get paid to not grow corn, I'm sure there are other equally strange career paths for you to take without the social stigma.
Next one is just confusing. "Very $9.99"? What on earth does that mean? For that matter, why bother with the emphasis? See, there's regular $9.99, but we need you to know that this is VERY $9.99. Want to know what else costs $9.99? DVDs, crappy video games, and eBooks. Apparently $9.99 is also the title of a movie about hope, which I hope is not what a sex channel is referencing. That would be quite disheartening and pathetic indeed. The last one is really weird, too. It wasn't enough merely to say "Miami Beach Orgy," was it? No. They had to say "sex orgy," because after all, they wouldn't want their viewers getting confused. God forbid the show be about a music band, or the other definition of an orgy: standing around with people whilst not wearing socks. I've never understood what was up with that definition being so strongly insisted upon by high school students, or why people can't seem to agree on the number of people that constitute an orgy. I was once with a group of friends who argued with one another as to whether an orgy was defined by three people with their shoes/socks off, or four. It was obviously a very important discussion which I can't be bothered to care about because I personally think the most important question to ask yourself is if you're happy doing it.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Google Docs Fail
For the longest time, I've had a beef with Google Docs. There's nothing that irritates me more than a a program whose default setting is Arial, font size 11. Excuse you! I can't think of anything more idiotic than a default which is not the Times New Roman, font size 12 format, which is the most widely used font for school-related work. Equally aggravating is the Calibri, font size 11 default for Word. The two of them can both go to typography hell. If they were physical manifestations, I wouldn't put it past myself to pummel the ink out of those fonts with a baseball bat, and then throw them into the lake right by the shoreline of my backyard and watch them sink into the murky depths.
I was doing some writing in Google Docs. There appears to be no page jump feature, and for that matter, I had to manually add pages. The copy paste feature is tedious. In other words, I have actually discovered something more annoying than the newer versions of Word. As impossible as it sounds, I have discovered something at least as horrendous as the ugly font. Google Docs seems to enjoy randomly underlining words in red even if they are correct, or even before I've finished typing the damn word. Today was the final straw:
No, I did not mean that, Google Docs, nor is it correct to use the plural form of "human" when I have clearly marked it as singular. You are officially On Notice for these atrocities.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
I'm a lazy person
Fantastic, I now have a rash on both my arms from all that grass pulling. "It'll build character," he said. Thanks dad. The yard has been mowed, so it would seem that my grass encounter has come to an end.... or it will, just as soon as the stench of this infernal grass is longer detectable.
I wonder if I should do something more productive. As someone once put it, a writer's block is just a fancy way of saying you're lazy. It's much less strain to write a blog that nobody is even going to read than it is to write creatively. Also I need to fill my sketchbook with more pigeons and other such nonsense. Pigeons are all the rage these days. I have a good friend who adores pigeons and other birds. She's lovely, and I thought the pigeon craze was self-contained, but now.... Sometimes pigeons have got nothing to do with her, but I feel like she's secretly the mastermind behind all pigeons. I have too much jumbled in my brain to consider starting another story, but one day I want to write a story about a crazy bird lady.
I wonder if I should do something more productive. As someone once put it, a writer's block is just a fancy way of saying you're lazy. It's much less strain to write a blog that nobody is even going to read than it is to write creatively. Also I need to fill my sketchbook with more pigeons and other such nonsense. Pigeons are all the rage these days. I have a good friend who adores pigeons and other birds. She's lovely, and I thought the pigeon craze was self-contained, but now.... Sometimes pigeons have got nothing to do with her, but I feel like she's secretly the mastermind behind all pigeons. I have too much jumbled in my brain to consider starting another story, but one day I want to write a story about a crazy bird lady.
Weird
I just discovered that you can actually change the published time of your blog posts. In other words you can shuffle the order of your posts, even if it's not chronological! What kind of devilry is this? Can you imagine if someone were to confuse their readers by shuffling the posts around?
The Second Most Tedious Day
As I had feared, my dad wanted me to pull more grass today. He woke me up at around 8 a.m. so that I could get started. Joy of joys. "It builds character," he said. It's good for you," he said. What a crock of nonsense if I ever heard it. I could think of any number of things less tedious that would also be good for me. Apparently grass pulling is the new bicycling (actually I haven't ridden a bike in years). I'm sure going for a long walk would also be good for me, too. Nothing says character building quite as much as ripping out long stalks of grass while strange little bugs nip at exposed flesh.
In a sense it was more bearable despite the aching legs and neck and arms I now had. My sibling offered his music for me to listen to while I worked. He's got good taste in music. I didn't really come across a song I didn't like. I think it made the work go faster, though I still can't figure out what exactly is the deal with this rusty substance that keeps getting all over my hands. It's not from the sod itself, so I guess it's a mystery substance. I also realized that the roots go down a lot deeper than one would think. There were a couple stubborn weeds, and in the few instances where I bothered to actually dig the whole thing up, I saw how far down they went and knew the futility of the struggle.
My limbs reached the uncontrollable shaking stage, and I could hardly walk in a straight line after awhile. Considering I was mostly on my own this time, I did pull up quite a decent amount. Unfortunately the yard, which continues to mock me with its stupid vastness, still has weeds that I'll no doubt have to pull up tomorrow. As if that wasn't bad enough, the crows mocked me from afar with their cawing. I don't want to get my hopes up, but perhaps tomorrow will be the end of this nonsense. I fear it may be too late for my skin, though. The yard has soaked its scent into my bones. I smell like grass, and it's not even the pleasant smell of grass you might expect on a breezy day in spring, or the kind of grass you're imagining when a commercial comes on TV and there's pretty flowers everywhere. It's the kind of grass that makes a person gag. I took a shower and I still came out smelling like grass. This is the worst perfume ever.
In a sense it was more bearable despite the aching legs and neck and arms I now had. My sibling offered his music for me to listen to while I worked. He's got good taste in music. I didn't really come across a song I didn't like. I think it made the work go faster, though I still can't figure out what exactly is the deal with this rusty substance that keeps getting all over my hands. It's not from the sod itself, so I guess it's a mystery substance. I also realized that the roots go down a lot deeper than one would think. There were a couple stubborn weeds, and in the few instances where I bothered to actually dig the whole thing up, I saw how far down they went and knew the futility of the struggle.
My limbs reached the uncontrollable shaking stage, and I could hardly walk in a straight line after awhile. Considering I was mostly on my own this time, I did pull up quite a decent amount. Unfortunately the yard, which continues to mock me with its stupid vastness, still has weeds that I'll no doubt have to pull up tomorrow. As if that wasn't bad enough, the crows mocked me from afar with their cawing. I don't want to get my hopes up, but perhaps tomorrow will be the end of this nonsense. I fear it may be too late for my skin, though. The yard has soaked its scent into my bones. I smell like grass, and it's not even the pleasant smell of grass you might expect on a breezy day in spring, or the kind of grass you're imagining when a commercial comes on TV and there's pretty flowers everywhere. It's the kind of grass that makes a person gag. I took a shower and I still came out smelling like grass. This is the worst perfume ever.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The Most Tedious Day
I've had many points in my life where I've felt bored out of my mind. Today, however, wins a special award for being the most tedious, menial day of them all. I suspect that it will remain so for a very long time. I hope to never again repeat such an incredibly dull experience.
It's been little over a year since our newly constructed house was finished, and recently, the new sod for our backyard was put down. It seemed hunky dory dandy, and yet... soon we noticed there were yellowed patches here and there. The worst of it was that there seemed to be particularly long grass growing. It literally felt like I was looking at a field of grass in the Legend of Zelda. I was soon to discover that, unlike the video game, removing grass was no easy feat.
Today the power cut out in the early morning. Although it was a tad devastating, I had hoped I could read a nice book, or perhaps I could brainstorm story ideas, which I have been terribly neglecting. Alas, for this was not to be. My dad caught my sibling and I lounging about in the kitchen doing nothing in particular (in my case I was munching upon some cornbread crackers), so he decided to give us a "fun" chore. He took us to the backyard and said that we should pull weeds. He demonstrated how to carefully pull out these weeds without also pulling out grass and sod. However, those "weeds" looked suspiciously like grass. It appeared to us both that it was merely grass that happened to be a little taller than the rest. Incidentally, the "normal grass" was also much higher than I was used to seeing. Nevertheless, we had to do it. By hand. I can't think of a more aggravating chore than this.
Interesting side note: there were a lot of mushrooms as well. Just what I always wanted in my new yard!! Complimentary mushrooms!! What are we, hobbits? For some reason the little things bothered me. It wasn't because I imagined they were the deadly Medusoid Mycelium (okay I did imagine it just a bit), but I didn't want to step on them. Progress was quite slow. It wasn't long before we both started abandoning care. Dad was hardly going to notice a few strands of normal grass missing, though admittedly there were a couple moments when, in my haste, I nearly pulled up an entire square of grass. A few pats here and there and it was good as new. I hope. We'd go so much faster if we were slightly less careful, and it seemed absurd that dad would actually check each individual blade of this grass to be sure we had done as he had instructed.
My arms and legs began to ache, then my fingernails and knees. My hands were coated with a rusty-looking soil. I daresay it looked a bit like dried blood. We took a short break, and we were still less than halfway done. The yard, like Russia, remained stupidly big. I guess I should count my blessings that there weren't a great deal of nasty surprises waiting in the grass, such as bugs. The weather could have been worse, but I started to feel the heat once I resumed the task after a quick rest. It'd have felt less pointless if the weeds had actually felt like weeds. Dad appeared on the deck above us, calling out. He said, "Wow, you guys pulled up a lot of grass! .... Grass. ... Weeds." I rather fancy that the slow way he said grass a second time was a sign that somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized on some level that what he had told us to pull up were not weeds. That doubt quickly vanished, of course.
I shall never again look fondly upon the grass cutting pastime in Legend of Zelda. Contrary to what Link would have me believe, one does not simply hack wildly at real grass with a sword. I don't know about anyone else, but I felt that surely, someone somewhere in the world has invented a tool that could pluck individual stalks of grass with more efficiency than crawling around on hands and knees or stooping while shuffling awkwardly and handing plucking them. Not only was the going unbearably slow, I didn't even have the benefit of free money appearing out of nowhere as I got rid of the grass. After my back, neck, and calves started to throb more painfully I asked to be done. The grass is roughly halfway plucked, and I feel unease that we might have to repeat this stupid exercise tomorrow. After a couple solid hours, this is the result of our labor:
It's been little over a year since our newly constructed house was finished, and recently, the new sod for our backyard was put down. It seemed hunky dory dandy, and yet... soon we noticed there were yellowed patches here and there. The worst of it was that there seemed to be particularly long grass growing. It literally felt like I was looking at a field of grass in the Legend of Zelda. I was soon to discover that, unlike the video game, removing grass was no easy feat.
Today the power cut out in the early morning. Although it was a tad devastating, I had hoped I could read a nice book, or perhaps I could brainstorm story ideas, which I have been terribly neglecting. Alas, for this was not to be. My dad caught my sibling and I lounging about in the kitchen doing nothing in particular (in my case I was munching upon some cornbread crackers), so he decided to give us a "fun" chore. He took us to the backyard and said that we should pull weeds. He demonstrated how to carefully pull out these weeds without also pulling out grass and sod. However, those "weeds" looked suspiciously like grass. It appeared to us both that it was merely grass that happened to be a little taller than the rest. Incidentally, the "normal grass" was also much higher than I was used to seeing. Nevertheless, we had to do it. By hand. I can't think of a more aggravating chore than this.
Interesting side note: there were a lot of mushrooms as well. Just what I always wanted in my new yard!! Complimentary mushrooms!! What are we, hobbits? For some reason the little things bothered me. It wasn't because I imagined they were the deadly Medusoid Mycelium (okay I did imagine it just a bit), but I didn't want to step on them. Progress was quite slow. It wasn't long before we both started abandoning care. Dad was hardly going to notice a few strands of normal grass missing, though admittedly there were a couple moments when, in my haste, I nearly pulled up an entire square of grass. A few pats here and there and it was good as new. I hope. We'd go so much faster if we were slightly less careful, and it seemed absurd that dad would actually check each individual blade of this grass to be sure we had done as he had instructed.
My arms and legs began to ache, then my fingernails and knees. My hands were coated with a rusty-looking soil. I daresay it looked a bit like dried blood. We took a short break, and we were still less than halfway done. The yard, like Russia, remained stupidly big. I guess I should count my blessings that there weren't a great deal of nasty surprises waiting in the grass, such as bugs. The weather could have been worse, but I started to feel the heat once I resumed the task after a quick rest. It'd have felt less pointless if the weeds had actually felt like weeds. Dad appeared on the deck above us, calling out. He said, "Wow, you guys pulled up a lot of grass! .... Grass. ... Weeds." I rather fancy that the slow way he said grass a second time was a sign that somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized on some level that what he had told us to pull up were not weeds. That doubt quickly vanished, of course.
I shall never again look fondly upon the grass cutting pastime in Legend of Zelda. Contrary to what Link would have me believe, one does not simply hack wildly at real grass with a sword. I don't know about anyone else, but I felt that surely, someone somewhere in the world has invented a tool that could pluck individual stalks of grass with more efficiency than crawling around on hands and knees or stooping while shuffling awkwardly and handing plucking them. Not only was the going unbearably slow, I didn't even have the benefit of free money appearing out of nowhere as I got rid of the grass. After my back, neck, and calves started to throb more painfully I asked to be done. The grass is roughly halfway plucked, and I feel unease that we might have to repeat this stupid exercise tomorrow. After a couple solid hours, this is the result of our labor:
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Okay I Lied
I'm not always angry or even grumpy. I was watching Anderson Cooper videos on Youtube. Good stuff. He's the only "real news" pundit that I love and respect for some reason. Anyone ever notice how he never seems to age? I bet the secret is in the silver hair. Either that or he's a time lord.
Trojans
I saw a Trojan commercial last night while watching TV. Somehow it was more grating on my ears than the pig commercial. I know the name's derived from Greek mythology, which I personally find silly on that fact alone, but I thought to myself how unfortunate it is that Trojan also happens to be the name of a particularly nasty kind of malware virus. I'd be willing to bet most people would think of the virus first. That would hardly inspire trust in a customer. Instead, have yourself something even more ironic yet also fun:
Captain America condoms. I can only assume these are made of a special vibranium alloy that is nigh impossible to break. And no, I don't have a clue where you might be able to procure these. I'm just a cloud.
Captain America condoms. I can only assume these are made of a special vibranium alloy that is nigh impossible to break. And no, I don't have a clue where you might be able to procure these. I'm just a cloud.
It's Now About Keys
In case the last post wasn't obvious, this is a blog for my rants, concerning anything and everything. I might swear a little, so again, fair warning. I could talk about TV, but maybe later. Why I'm referring to people as if I actually have an audience remains a mystery.
The concept of family is an interesting one because it's so complex. I would be willing to bet most people have had to put up with the aggravations of family. You know what I mean. Nobody will give you peace or privacy even when you've locked your door. Did you know that a house comes with a ridiculous amount of skeleton keys?? At any rate my house did. I have reason to believe that a curse has been placed upon me. For as long as I can remember, I've never had a door which fulfilled its duty as a door. I've moved to different houses a number of times, and each time it was the same. The lock on the doors never succeeded in actually keeping people out. They might as well not exist. Some of you might be saying "But wait, that's not the door's fault. It's the lock that's the problem." THE DOOR AND LOCK ARE ONE. Just like Iron Man, they're inseparable. Well, okay, technically there was some of that, but let's assume that there are no Norman or Obadiah-esque assholes in this analogy. Did you know that you could probably just shove the door open instead of turning the handle? Nobody in my family, except maybe my mom, understands that when a door is locked, you are supposed to go away. Instead they will do everything in their power to barge in and then annoy me as much as possible.
People who make locks on doors need to be fired, by the way. The only reason there's not more break-ins is probably because more people haven't made the connection that you don't need to actually turn the handle to get inside a room. Don't you start!! You were about to perhaps show me some statistics of how break-ins happen. Stuff it. My doors can either be shoved open when locked, not have a lock in the first place, or be easily picked with any of the endless skeleton keys left here. I do mean endless. Okay, I can see that in an emergency, perhaps you would need one of these keys, but it is entirely necessary to have piles of them? What's more, they're stuck in weird places. It's like a scavenger hunt!! Who knows where you'll find one next?! Huh. It's just occurred to me that perhaps I ought not to talk about how easy it is to break into my room. Trust me, there's nothing worthwhile in here. There's also no secret passageway leading to untold riches either.
Somehow this really became a rant about keys. It was going to be something else, but here we are. I don't expect the curse of the locks will be lifted anytime soon. It would be really great if I could just have my problems solved like how they do it in television. The Winchesters would conveniently show up on my doorstep saying, "Hey we just met you, and this is crazy, but there is some fucked up shit going on and you have to believe us. Sammy do the puppy eyes! We're going to need salt and a lot of guns. You're welcome." They'd drive off blaring AC/DC as I watch, and life is all dandy again, at least for me. Sadly the odds of that happening are almost nonexistent. They don't seem to come to Minnesota a lot. In fact I get the eerie feeling that very few people like coming here. I have no basis for this feeling, but I feel it in my gut so it must be true.
The concept of family is an interesting one because it's so complex. I would be willing to bet most people have had to put up with the aggravations of family. You know what I mean. Nobody will give you peace or privacy even when you've locked your door. Did you know that a house comes with a ridiculous amount of skeleton keys?? At any rate my house did. I have reason to believe that a curse has been placed upon me. For as long as I can remember, I've never had a door which fulfilled its duty as a door. I've moved to different houses a number of times, and each time it was the same. The lock on the doors never succeeded in actually keeping people out. They might as well not exist. Some of you might be saying "But wait, that's not the door's fault. It's the lock that's the problem." THE DOOR AND LOCK ARE ONE. Just like Iron Man, they're inseparable. Well, okay, technically there was some of that, but let's assume that there are no Norman or Obadiah-esque assholes in this analogy. Did you know that you could probably just shove the door open instead of turning the handle? Nobody in my family, except maybe my mom, understands that when a door is locked, you are supposed to go away. Instead they will do everything in their power to barge in and then annoy me as much as possible.
People who make locks on doors need to be fired, by the way. The only reason there's not more break-ins is probably because more people haven't made the connection that you don't need to actually turn the handle to get inside a room. Don't you start!! You were about to perhaps show me some statistics of how break-ins happen. Stuff it. My doors can either be shoved open when locked, not have a lock in the first place, or be easily picked with any of the endless skeleton keys left here. I do mean endless. Okay, I can see that in an emergency, perhaps you would need one of these keys, but it is entirely necessary to have piles of them? What's more, they're stuck in weird places. It's like a scavenger hunt!! Who knows where you'll find one next?! Huh. It's just occurred to me that perhaps I ought not to talk about how easy it is to break into my room. Trust me, there's nothing worthwhile in here. There's also no secret passageway leading to untold riches either.
Somehow this really became a rant about keys. It was going to be something else, but here we are. I don't expect the curse of the locks will be lifted anytime soon. It would be really great if I could just have my problems solved like how they do it in television. The Winchesters would conveniently show up on my doorstep saying, "Hey we just met you, and this is crazy, but there is some fucked up shit going on and you have to believe us. Sammy do the puppy eyes! We're going to need salt and a lot of guns. You're welcome." They'd drive off blaring AC/DC as I watch, and life is all dandy again, at least for me. Sadly the odds of that happening are almost nonexistent. They don't seem to come to Minnesota a lot. In fact I get the eerie feeling that very few people like coming here. I have no basis for this feeling, but I feel it in my gut so it must be true.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Hello and what's this?
Is anyone actually reading this? If someone is, in fact, reading, I will ask myself the same question that I've always asked myself since the dawn of time (or since I started using the internet): What on earth are you doing here? How did you get here? It baffles me to no end. I am a cloud person of no particular talents, nor am I particularly witty. Hell, I don't even have the excuse of being ridiculously good looking. In the wise words of a dear friend, "Fuck you, beautiful people. Can't you see I'm TRYING?"
I digress. Anytime I notice a follower, or a lurker, or more likely a slightly curious bystander, I sit and ponder what the hell you were doing that lead you here, to this. I really ought to stop doing this whole thing with the cloud... I would be willing to bet a completely unfounded claim that at least 90% of people who might, for some reason or another, be reading this have no clue what I'm talking about right now. Perhaps you're picturing that guy from the metal band Of Mice & Men, or perhaps you were expecting to see quaint pictures of England. Admittedly that seems like a small, improbable demographic on this site, and maybe you're none of those people. Incidentally this also has nothing remotely to do with the cloud man either, but it was appropriate given what this is all about. Damn, I just ended in a preposition.
I'm not certain if I've always been this way, deep down, but I am now an angry being full of rage. Recently someone told me to embrace it. Then I thought, "Hey. Why not?" I think we all need to be angry sometimes. In my case it's more like a general state of existence, but hey. Who the hell cares? The only purpose here is to be angry. At the bare minimum, I will be grumpy. If you are one of those people who likes positivity, leave now. Actually that raises more questions. If you like positivity, why would you venture into a blog entitled "I'm Always Angry"? I don't need to be cheered up, though. I just think this will be a great way to channel my wrath. It's like therapy. I could either envision some guy I don't like getting stabbed in the face with a knife at Kinko's, or I could write. Perhaps I could do both. Anyway, it's getting late. I must be off to bed.
Edit:
It's occurred to me that perhaps I really shouldn't have tried writing an introduction at an ungodly hour of the night. I'm not really terribly grumpy. I don't bite. Heck, maybe you'll see writing from me if I metaphorically get off my butt to do it. The point is, don't take anything too seriously on this blog.
I digress. Anytime I notice a follower, or a lurker, or more likely a slightly curious bystander, I sit and ponder what the hell you were doing that lead you here, to this. I really ought to stop doing this whole thing with the cloud... I would be willing to bet a completely unfounded claim that at least 90% of people who might, for some reason or another, be reading this have no clue what I'm talking about right now. Perhaps you're picturing that guy from the metal band Of Mice & Men, or perhaps you were expecting to see quaint pictures of England. Admittedly that seems like a small, improbable demographic on this site, and maybe you're none of those people. Incidentally this also has nothing remotely to do with the cloud man either, but it was appropriate given what this is all about. Damn, I just ended in a preposition.
I'm not certain if I've always been this way, deep down, but I am now an angry being full of rage. Recently someone told me to embrace it. Then I thought, "Hey. Why not?" I think we all need to be angry sometimes. In my case it's more like a general state of existence, but hey. Who the hell cares? The only purpose here is to be angry. At the bare minimum, I will be grumpy. If you are one of those people who likes positivity, leave now. Actually that raises more questions. If you like positivity, why would you venture into a blog entitled "I'm Always Angry"? I don't need to be cheered up, though. I just think this will be a great way to channel my wrath. It's like therapy. I could either envision some guy I don't like getting stabbed in the face with a knife at Kinko's, or I could write. Perhaps I could do both. Anyway, it's getting late. I must be off to bed.
Edit:
It's occurred to me that perhaps I really shouldn't have tried writing an introduction at an ungodly hour of the night. I'm not really terribly grumpy. I don't bite. Heck, maybe you'll see writing from me if I metaphorically get off my butt to do it. The point is, don't take anything too seriously on this blog.
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