Quick update to prove that I'm still alive or at least a zombie or something.

My hands...they're completely covered in cake. I scrub and scrub, but it won't. Come. Off. I feel like a modern Lady Macbeth, screaming at this damn spot cake that just won't leave. My keyboard is currently glaring at me as I leave tiny pieces of confectionary droppings everywhere, but it's not like I'm going to let a mess get in the way of my internet fix. When I need a hit, I need a hit.


The weather is incredible right now, and does not feel like February whatsoever. It's warmish and sunny outside, and I should really be enjoying it; instead, what am I doing? Sitting inside in a sweatshirt, covered with a blanket. I have a problem, I'm realizing. And by a problem, I mean a whole slew that should probably be addressed at some point, and sooner would be much more beneficial than later.


I'm taking a quick break from the cake that has dominated the last few days of my life, and I guess I should take advantage of this opportunity to do something like homework or exposing myself to the sunlight for the first time in four months. Nah.


I'll just keep listening to Born This Way with the blinds closed and scrub my hands until they're raw and no evidence of cake is left.

This post really serves no purpose.

It's 10:30 AM and I've already been up for nearly three hours. During this time, I've accomplished absolutely nothing, despite the many things I have to do this weekend. In fact, the only things I've done are listen to Lady Gaga's new single Born This Way over 50 times and eat French toast.


In case some of you don't know, I'm kind of amazing in the kitchen. And no, that's not a euphemism or double entendre or whatever else your sick and disgusting minds have come up with. I do a lot of cooking, but most of my time is spent baking, and I've been enlisted to make a few batches of cake pops this weekend for Valentine's Day. What are cake pops, you ask?


Welcome to the best dessert in the world.


Any type of cake and frosting, coated in chocolate, on a stick. It sounds morbidly obese, but even with the addition of chocolate, they're a lot better for you than eating a whole slice of cake. As long as you only eat one, of course. After all, they're only two to three bite desserts that make you feel like an astronaut while you're eating them. I didn't come up with the idea, but I make them for nearly every holiday, birthday, or major event. And by major event, I mean weekends and sometimes Wednesdays.


So, at some point today, I'll need to take a trip over to the hell that is Winco--a discount warehouse-type store with a horrid name--and brave the crowds of soccer moms, screaming children, and screaming soccer moms. It's the cheapest place in town to get things like flour in bulk, so I set aside my personal fears and reservations about places like it and make the long journey only when it's absolutely necessary.


For now, though, I'm just procrastinating and listening to ~Born This Way~ in my pajamas. I was talking to a friend of mine and found the perfect description for the new season of American Idol. And I quote(myself):

"American Idol is like the straight-A beauty queen that got in an accident because it was texting behind the wheel and now has serious brain damage."

-Drew Meier, February 11 2011

I know this is completely irrelevant to everything else I've written in this post thus far, but seriously, sometimes I just look in the mirror and think, "Dear God, where did this gift come from? From what fertile soil did your genius spring forth?" while stroking the face of my reflection. My uncanny ability to deliver mediocre, nay, ridiculously nonsensical one-liners is truly a gift from God, Shiva, Allah, Vishnu, Chairman Mao, or whatever other deity/communist Chinese dictator you worship/are oppressed by.

You have to know where I've been to understand where I'm forcibly taking you, part 1.

January 21st was the last day I remember being in the real world. I've been struggling, fighting even, to get back since then; I think I might have finally done it. Either that, or someone with more free time than me is playing a very elaborate prank. Normally I enjoy pranks, as I've mentioned in previous posts, but this one could just be a dick move.

You see, I was inspired. I had an idea. I should know by now that the inner mechanics of my mind are dangerous; starting that post was the worst thing I could have ever done. Or maybe the best. Who's to say?

Oh, right. Me. I'm the one writing here.

Back to the adventure I've been on. You see, I started this post; it was about toothbrushes or whatever, I don't really remember. I live my life by the philosophy that if I can't remember something, it probably wasn't that important to begin with, so I don't feel bad for forgetting things like which way pants go on(party in the front, zipper in the back) or if my bank account has any money left in it(the bank just doesn't understand that it's not overdrawing if my purchase is something I absolutely need, like a Chocolate Moose Pillow Pet or blood diamonds).

So here I am, writing about oral hygiene--that's what she said--when everything goes black and I suddenly smell grapefruit. My first reaction was, oh great, I'm having another stroke; I guess that all-salt diet isn't working out. But what could have been seconds, hours, or days later(keeping track of time isn't my forte; that would be sniffing out truffles), I find myself laying in the sand of a beautiful beach, with grapefruit trees as far as the eye can see. "Why grapefruit?," I ask myself; it isn't until much later that I get my answer. I sit up, and while looking out over the water, decide that I should probably get moving.

I can't draw sand. Also, I'm Jack from Lost.

Because I watched every episode of Lost, I realized that venturing into the thick jungle of citrus trees probably wasn't the best idea; if there had been some kind of smoke monster living there, it wouldn't leave the forest for at least the first four or five seasons, which meant I was safe near the water. So, in order to save myself from the main cause of fictional smoke-related death that has nothing to do with cigarettes, I walked along the beach for a while.

Smoke monster or rip in the time-space-grapefruit tree continuum? You decide.

Since I forgot to mention that it was daytime during all of this, I'm telling you now. It was daytime. I'm not going to lay on the imagery here unless it's absolutely necessary, this isn't a J.R.R. Tolkien novel. Deal with it.

As the warm sun began to set, I realized I had no clue what the weather would be like in this place after nightfall. I'd need to find shelter, and soon. Looking at the long stretch of beach on either side of me, I failed to see anything but sprawling dunes of sand. There weren't even any seagulls shitting on everything and annoying me or crabs scurrying across the sand; this place was completely devoid of life. I then wondered, holy shit, was I sent to this place for my complete and total lack of life back home? Is this some kind of punishment for perfecting the art of not moving? Maybe I was to spend the rest of my days alone on this beach, devoid of the things that helped sustain my life on a daily basis.

Out of fear, or perhaps courage, I decided to venture into the jungle. If there's some kind of smoke monster, maybe I can pull a John Locke and stare that thing down like a motherfucker; never mind the fact that it later inhabited his dead body. Don't pay attention to that aspect of the show. Oh, spoiler alert I guess. The show is over, and if you haven't watched it yet, then that's not my fault.

There wasn't really much of note in the first part of the trees; rotting grapefruits, and eventually oranges and lemons, dotted the ground around me as I trudged forward. Why citrus? I didn't understand. I don't even like grapefruit. Oranges are okay, though I love lemons. What if I'm in a coma? Is this my dream? What is wrong with my subconscious that all it can think about is citrus? I had so many questions, and no answers.

The farther I walked, the more I began to question my choice of going into the jungle. Nothing was changing, and I had gone in pretty deep--that's what he said--and there was no way I could find my way back to the beach now. Tired, I sat against a huge tree with grapefruits the size of...I don't know...a baby or something, and began to rest my eyes. It had been a long and confusing day, with the biggest question now shifting from "Where the hell am I, and how did I get here," to "What the fuck is up with all these grapefruits?" I started to doze off, hoping that a grapefruit might fall off the tree and kill me in my sleep, when I heard a huge booming sound. Boom. Boom. Boom. With each boom, the ground shook harder, notifying me that whatever was making that sound was getting closer and closer.

The first boom was so loud and terrifying that I had to consciously stop myself from losing control of every orifice on my body, a harder feat than any of you might expect. The impact of the boom was powerful enough to shake my bones, and I jumped to my feet like a monkey ninja and further adhered to that description as I managed to claw my way up the tree I had been leaning against only moments before. Somehow, despite never having the ability to climb anything in my life before, I managed to scramble to the safety of a low-hanging branch. In my hurry, I had forgotten that standing on a low ladder rung terrifies me, and I was now literally sitting in a tree. My fear of heights being compounded with my fear of the boom monster, for lack of a better name, sent me into a sniffling and crying fit. Clinging to my branch, I began to whimper, which then scared me even more because I realized making noise would probably draw the creature closer, and I basically fell into a huge spiral of fear and involuntary urination.

All the while, the booming grew closer, and the shaking had grown to the point that I was clinging to my branch like a rhesus monkey to a fake mother; the soft one, not the wire one. If you don't get that reference, let me Google that for you. As I held on for both dear life and comfort, the source of the boom revealed itself.

Holy shit.

Reunited and it feels okay. I mean, soooo gooood.

I am a huge disappointment. Why? It's been over a week since I last updated, and it was a lame post about my even lamer school schedule. Where did I go so, so wrong?

I don't know what happened, there's truly no explanation; but every day, I've woken up and searched for inspiration, purposefully seeking out potentially hazardous scenarios to inject myself into just for a couple of laughs and a sub par blog entry. I feel like a whore. A very unsuccessful, unfunny whore.

Finally, I realized, posting something is better than nothing. I'm not some kind of absentee writer that phones in a post every now and then when I feel like. Or at least, I don't want to be. It's not what I intended for this endeavor. Thankfully, as I was doing complete and total mundane tasks not too long ago, a very handsome light bulb went off above my head, and a post idea was thrust to the forefront of my mind like some kind of pelvic convulsion.

Could it really be? Inspiration for a post? Yes, indeed, it was. I felt like ET discovering Reese's Pieces, slowly and methodically repeating the word 'idea' over and over to myself, rolling it around on my tongue like some kind of foreign but tasty intruder(I...dea? Ideeeeaaaa...i...deee...aaaa!). And no, this post is not the aforementioned inspiration, this is only a prelude, precursor, foreword, introduction...whatever. Pick a word. I don't care which one you like best.

Don't get your hopes up about it being the entry-to-end-all-entries. It would be safe to compare me to the Tin Man, rusty and frozen while time continues to move forward without me, only to later be greased up by a foreign girl and some guy with no brain. I have yet to decide who or what represent my saviors in this analogy, so for now we'll just call them "Dorothy" and "Scarecrow." The names came to me in a dream, induced by getting hit in the head by a windowpane in the middle of a tornado. Or maybe that was a movie.

I just realized all my paragraphs get progressively larger in this post. I mean, not anymore, since this one kind of ruined that trend, but up until now, it's an accurate observation.

So, in conclusion, I'll be working on my new post today and probably publish it tomorrow. I have some drawings to do and my tendency to nitpick every little aspect of them until they're perfect usually extends the time it takes to finish from what most would consider normal to ridiculous.

Functioning normally. Kind of. Not really.

Spring semester started today. This means numerous things: I have to wake up at a normal time two days a week, I'm responsible for actual work, and I'm a handful of units closer to never attending school again. After months and months of having nothing productive to do, it's a nice change from what became the norm for me, waking up at noon and hissing at the sight of a productive activity. 

Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely(I can never tell), I currently feel as if I have no body. I'm just a floating brain/head/consciousness, typing with my invisible and nonexistent hands through sheer force of will. Is this what waking up at 7:30 does to a person? Or is it just me? When you're not in school and you have no job, these questions aren't present in your life; your biggest worry is whether or not you have enough Lucky Charms to last the rest of the week.

But never fear, I'm in no real danger of work overload this term. Thanks to the forces of the universe conspiring against me, I managed to miss my registration date by a whopping three weeks, meaning I could only obtain seven units this semester. That's right, seven. Three classes. Music 101 and 102, knocking out my Arts & Humanities requirements, and Introduction to Yoga. I feel like complaining whatsoever about my class schedule this semester is worthy of getting my ass kicked, a punishment I might find myself partaking in if it were to happen. While I'm not sure if I can literally kick my own ass, as it's not something I've ever attempted to do, I'm positive I could provide some assistance to my righteous assailants in causing myself some form of bodily harm.

I attend class from 9:30-12:30  and then 7:30-9:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so it's not as if I'm on campus somewhere north of 10 hours a day, multiple days a week, like many students are. But hey, I'm also not dumb enough to major in something that requires that many obtuse classes. The joke's on you, science and math majors! While you're making your cushy six-figure salary, I'll be enjoying an ample yearly sum of $55,000-$100,000 a year as an accountant. If that's what I choose to do, anyway. Have I mentioned that I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do once I graduate? Because I don't.

Accounting is one option I'm considering pretty seriously. It involves math, a subject I've grown to loathe, but most of it is practical math, something that I somehow manage to excel at. If you stick me in a Statistics or Calculus class, it would be no different than dropping me in the middle of rural China and asking me to communicate and survive. It makes no sense in my mind. But if you apply math to things like money and economics, it clicks. There's no rhyme or reason to this numerical madness, but like many things in my life, you have to be at least a tiny bit insane to understand my special form of cognition. 

My first music class, Music Appreciation, consists of two papers, two tests, and note taking. The papers have to be five pages long, which will take me a grand total of 45 minutes each to speed through(all the while earning an A, I can guarantee), and the tests are open note. My second class is titled Intro to World Music, and is almost identical to the first, with the exceptions being our papers have to be 2-3 pages long, we have 6-10 in-class/take-home quizzes, all of which are open note, and a final that is also open note. Somehow, if all classes could follow this structure, I think a whole lot more people would be interested in obtaining a college education. Unfortunately for me, music classes lend nothing of great value to my major or potential career options, aside from assisting in the destruction of my General Education requirements.

And so, this will be my life until the last week of April. I haven't attended my yoga class yet, but something tells me it's not going to be academically challenging in any way. In a perfect world, yoga would consist of little more than the Child pose, and the teacher would just let me sleep the whole time. Though I suppose that might be asking a little too much.

Left 4 Disappointment 2

I've been playing a lot of Left 4 Dead 2 lately. A lot. Purchasing this game in no way helped calm my preexisting addiction to all things zombie; since its arrival, my dependency on the living dead has only grown stronger. Like some kind of super villain or something.

I finally got around to installing my drawing program on my netbook, hence this drawing and my fucking awesome new banner.

I was playing earlier today(no surprise, to be honest), and my parents were conveniently not home. See, since my netbook can barely handle Minesweeper, I'm unable to play games on here; this means I'm using my parent's desktop to play L4D2. If you're not familiar with my gripes over the desktop, either because your memory is horrible and you should be ashamed or because you haven't been reading my blog very long(which is also horrible and worthy of shame), then let me rehash this topic.

It's roughly three, three and a half years old. It hardly has anything installed, something like 80% of its original memory is still intact. The processor is somewhat above average, I can't remember exactly what it is, but I know it's around 2.6ghz or so. There is no reason for this computer to run slowly. The reality of this situation? It behaves like we've had it for 10+ years. So you might see where my frustrations lie when I try to play my wonderfully modern zombie game.

The game runs, you see; the desktop meets at least the minimum requirements to play it. I checked before I bought it. The problem is that, for some inexplicable reason, the computer decided it would be fun one day to give us the middle finger and run as slowly as it damn well pleases.

So as I was saying before I got sidetracked, I was playing by myself with the volume turned up relatively high because, if you're not familiar with zombie games, it's fun to scare the shit out of yourself when a screaming zombie comes running around a corner and then you begin to wildly fire your gun in any direction. I transition from shrieks of terror to maniacal laughter on a very consistent basis, and I'm sure any person within earshot of my cackles is under the assumption that my family is housing some kind of disturbed mental patient.

Up until this point, I've somehow managed to avoid my parents discovering the sheer brutality within the game, such as when you start throwing your chainsaw around and blood and zombie limbs fly everywhere; I kind of screwed up today in that regard. My parents walked in the house to the sound of the dying screams of zombies, which sent my mother into a state of sheer panic. Before I have a chance to react, they're both standing in the doorway, mouths agape at the on-screen carnage, with my mom asking an eerily calm tone when I decided to become evil.


Now, I've never considered myself to be evil, and in my mind, ridding the world of flesh-craved zombies is anything but evil; I'm pretty sure the Boy Scouts of America give a badge for zombie extermination. And if they don't, they should, because it's nothing short of an exemplary public service. My parents will be happy one day when the world is thrust into a zombie apocalypse and the extensive time I spent sitting behind a screen, hacking at would-be zombies, is what saves our lives. 


I think behind his shock, my dad thought the game looked fun. He kind of stood there and watched me play for a little bit, asking questions about what gun I was using or what the bile jars do(makes one zombie the target of the others, just in case you were wondering), sometimes cringing when my axe(Uh, spellcheck is telling me that 'axe' is not a word. What the hell.) managed to behead the occasional unlucky zombie. Maybe I can convince him to play.


My mom, on the other hand, will continue to wonder where she went wrong with me; a question that started around the time I bit my sister in the stomach. My question to her is, since when is wanting to kill zombies a bad thing? I would understand if the game was called Puppies and Kitties: Total Destruction and consisted of murdering innocent baby animals. That's pretty sadistic. But zombies? Really? Maybe she's infected, and as a zombie, is against the slaughter of her kind.


I'll be keeping my eye on her.

Scrambled eggs.

I woke up at 7:30 this morning to my mother telling me that someone was kind enough to egg my car. How obnoxious. In my mind, the only people that egg cars are 12-year-olds with some kind of inferiority complex, whether that stems from bullying or being unloved by their goldfish. Regardless of the situation, it's still kind of a dick move.

Fortunately for me, whoever did it obviously isn't very smart, because egging someone's car when it's misty, rainy, and foggy outside won't really do a whole lot besides force me to actually wash my car. Typically, egging a car is something you want to do when it's hot and sunny outside, because the egg bakes into the paint and you literally cannot get it out. By the time I got out there to wash it off, most of it had been washed away and only a small patch remained. Ha, morons.

I never really partook in the destruction or defacement of other people's property. Sure, I TP'd a couple houses, but I don't really consider that to be a major offense. I've always thought it would be fun to fork someone's lawn though, because if someone did that to me, I would think it was hilarious; doing it to someone else can only bring more hilarity. I can picture the face(s) of my would-be victim(s), awaking to find their front yard full of...forks. 

Another thing that always seemed fun was filling the yard with dish soap, and then when it rained or the sprinklers turned on, the foam and bubbles would be everywhere. I don't even understand how anyone could be bothered by this, it's almost like snow; have a bubble fight, build a BubbleMan, bitch about shoveling the sidewalk! I might even do this to my own house. Well, probably not, I doubt my parents would be okay with just letting it go away on its own, and I don't want to be the guy outside cleaning up bubbles. I'll look like a schizophrenic.

By the way, person who egged my car, if you're reading this, I hope you feel bad. Not about making me wash my car, because as I alluded to earlier, I needed to do it sooner or later; no, that is not the issue. The problem I have with your ovum affront on my 14-year-old Acura CL with an already shitty paint job is that I got woken up at seven-fucking-thirty. I went to sleep at 2:30. This is not cool. Do you know what it's like to be standing in the middle of your street before 8 AM with a bucket and sponge, washing your car in penguin pants, a t-shirt, and slippers? No, you will never know that kind of humiliation.

I think the worst part of it was, I planned on having eggs for breakfast this morning. Instead, I had oatmeal. I hope you feel guilty.