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.

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.

Beyonce doesn't know what she's talking about.

If you're familiar with pop music, then you probably know the song "Irreplaceable," by Beyonce Knowles. In reality, she's singing the song to a guy; probably not Jay-Z. To make the song more fun, in my mind, I like to think she's singing it to her vacation weave. While the two are truly inseparable, it's fun to imagine that their relationship might be tumultuous at times and Bey has enough money that the occasional warning about buying a new lacefront is no idle threat.


I, on the other hand, would never threaten my most prized and valued possessions with potential replacement; in fact, there's a handful that I can't get through a normal day without.

My phone

When I wake up, I check it. When I eat breakfast, I check it. When I breathe, I check it. It's my main lifeline to the outside world, and even more so now that my laptop decided to abandon me. It's beautiful and makes seagull noises, a service that nothing else in my life can provide, barring an actual seagull becoming part of my everyday life.

My wii

I love my wii; I play it nearly every day. The sheer number of hours this thing has consumed of my life should probably be embarrassing, but my complete lack of shame has thankfully stopped that from happening. While Brawl has been my consistent obsession since I bought the console, Just Dance 2 has taken up a lot of my time in recent weeks. Sure, I can dance to Ke$ha and Donna Summer in my room whenever I want, but the game makes it slightly less weird; I'm doing it for points.

My tablet

Probably one of the best Christmas gifts I've ever gotten, I try to draw and write nearly every single day. It's a good creative outlet, and I never get tired of drawing myself riding on dinosaurs.  Viacom, if you're looking for an endorsement, look no further; I'm ready to whore myself out for whatever you're willing to pay me. On a slightly unrelated note, so far, everything I care about most is white. I wonder what that says about me.

Blankets

More specifically, the leopard print blanket I carry everywhere. It's warm, it makes me look like a pimp, and my cat likes me a whole lot more when I'm draped in what appears to be her cousin. I've answered the door on more than one occasion while it's wrapped around me like a cocoon, and the looks I've gotten from total strangers are truly Kodak moments.

Cereal

Aside from nacho cheese, cereal is my favorite food group. It is truly everything anybody needs to survive. When I get to the cereal aisle in the grocery store, I immediately transform into a five year old; buying a box of cereal I want is like waking up on Christmas morning and finding out every day for the rest of your life is going to be your birthday, and everybody will give you anything your tiny heart has ever desired. There is no better feeling on this planet.

Chloe

My cat. She both loves and despises me more than any other living thing on this planet. When she chooses to be awake, she follows me everywhere, and can never seem to get enough attention; when I choose for her to be awake, I feel she wants nothing more than for me to be dead. She's a total badass, and has killed probably thousands of animals, including snakes and jackrabbits.

What is something you can't get through the day without?

Things that aren't cool.

Eyes

People touching their eyes is only slightly more horrible than this drawing. Hands are hard to draw, okay? I feel like, somehow, nature anticipated the onset of this fear and gave me perfect vision. I guess if my vision suddenly deteriorates, glasses are always an option, but contacts would absolutely be out of the question. Touching my eye? No, nope, no way. Not gonna happen. I can't explain why this freaks me out so much, but every time I see somebody touch their eye, or nearly touch their eye, or...things with eyes...I go into a thrashing fit until they're not doing it anymore. I can't handle it.

My body wash

Okay, I get that based on precedence, it seems like I have a serious aversion to bathing. That's not the case. I like taking showers, I like being clean, I just have a hard time finding the motivation to actually move sometimes. That, and the fact that my body wash is like rubbing yourself with congealed sand. It's Dove, so you'd think their experience in the soap industry would help avoid catastrophes like this, but no. It was the biggest and cheapest bottle of body wash Target had at the time, and since I don't have a job anymore, it seemed like a deal I wouldn't regret.

Think again, Drew.

It has the texture of fine sand mixed in with animal fat; goopy and rough. Plus, the lid likes to slam shut on its own, which tends to happen in mid-squeeze. Every single time, it shoots blobs of "soap" directly into my eyes, and it hurts. Words cannot express how much I hate this stuff. I'm going to use it all, because not only am I stubborn, but I spent the money and I'm too poor to waste it and buy new stuff. Trust me, I'm not happy about it whatsoever. I understand now why it was so cheap to begin with. Nobody wanted it, and I fell for their stupid ploy to pass on what can only be described as a grainy lipid to unsuspecting customers.

Christina Aguilera

Maybe I'm being harsh, I don't know. Hatred is the horse blinder of the emotional world. If you want to hear my reasoning for why I dislike her so much, go ahead and read this. I won't rehash everything again, but I really, really wanted to post that drawing. In spite of the contents, it's truly nothing short of a masterpiece.

Mouth issues

Personally, a nice smile is one of the biggest things I notice when I'm judging someone's attractiveness. I get that some people don't have the money to fix their teeth or whatever, but I can't help that it just bothers me. And there's a difference between teeth that aren't perfect, and teeth that could allow someone to eat an apple through a picket fence. If you have difficulty closing your mouth or speaking correctly because of your dental situation, it's time to take out a loan and get that shit fixed.

Bad breath, on the other hand, is something that I have yet to learn how to tolerate. Somehow, I always manage to attract people with breath as rancid as the box of month old pasta I found crammed behind my desk last night(I truly have no idea how it managed to fall back there and not be noticed for as long as it was. I didn't even smell it; I happened to be cleaning my room and threw it out before it developed sentient life and tried to murder me in my sleep). It seems like the people that should respect personal space the most have no concept of personal space at all, because not only are they attracted to me for whatever reason, but they think it's necessary to maintain a distance of roughly three inches from my face at all times during the conversation.

Attempting to remain interested in the conversation is next to impossible, because the entire time, I'm screaming at them in my head and doing my best to not lose consciousness from the noxious fumes being exhaled directly onto my unprotected face.

Hot weather

Hot weather is the bane of my existence. Not only is it uncool, but it's uncool. Every year, when summer rolls around, I become even more unproductive than I already am, something I truly didn't think possible. In my ideal world, the temperature would never go above 75 Fahrenheit and everybody would get out of my way on the road, because I know how to drive and they don't.

I can't decide who's the bigger ass hole, the sun or society; society, because it decided that it's normal to function during the day when it's freaking hot outside, or the sun, for making it freaking hot outside.

Leave a comment or six and tell me some stuff you would consider lame!

I'm Like a Hot, Dinosaur Bath.

If you were to meet me in person, you'd realize a couple things pretty quickly. Well, maybe not quickly; I might have to explain things in a totally roundabout and confusing way first. But eventually, you'd come to at least one realization. Maybe.

When I was a kid, I loved baths. Especially bubble baths. Something about turning myself into a tiny, naked Santa Claus was too awesome to turn down. In a manner lacking any coordination, I would simultaneously throw my favorite bath toys into the tub, and then almost immediately after, throw myself in like I was an Olympic diver trying to beat out Soviet Russia for the gold, potentially furthering Cold War tensions but giving the folks back home something to cheer about. I never discovered the correlation between flooding the bottom two inches of the bathroom and my mother's inexplicable frustration that was directed at me the rest of the day after my baths.

Somewhere between my feet leaving the ground and my body breaking the surface of the water, I would realize that I was about to land on a bunch of pointy, plastic dinosaurs. And these dinosaurs were prepared to stab me like a bunch of knives, still pissed off at the universe for their meteoric demise. Looking back on it, this was really a dramatic reenactment of the dinosaurs' actual extinction. Or a really bad movie sequel, something called "Extinction 2: Revenge of the Velociraptors."

I did this more than once. I never learned. Every time I landed on the dinosaurs, I cried. My repeated insistence on impaling myself would truly be a wonderful case study in behavioral conditioning; more specifically, the fact that behavioral conditioning didn't seem to apply to me. But I was a resilient kid when it came to enjoying bath time; it didn't take me long to stop crying and start making hats and beards out of the bubbles.

Now, stick with me here. This analogy is going to make almost no sense, but it's the best way(questionable) I can describe myself and my sense of humor. I'm a lot like this bath scenario; at first glance, I seem really nice and calm beneath the surface. I am the bubbles that my six year old self coveted so highly, the bubbles that made me rip my Batman pajamas off at a rate that thankfully did not result in a career of stripping. As you get to know me, you realize...wow, his sense of humor is kind of mean. Ow. Wait, why does this hurt. Crap, did I seriously just land on an ankylosaur? You understand that, much like the toys, my sense of humor is all in fun, but it still sucks when your ass comes down full-force on a t-rex tail.

But the bite of my humor is quick, and you get used to it after a while. You get used to accidentally shifting onto a stegosaurus spike every now and then, and for the most part, the capacity to frolic amongst the bubbles and transform into some kind of weird, reptile-obsessed Benjamin Button is no longer hampered.

If that story did not help you understand my personality at all, then we're both having the same issue. I feel like I know myself worse now than I did before I started this post. 

On a side note, looking back on my time spent with inanimate animal-shaped objects, a lot of things make sense now; for example, I have a series of drawings of myself with my imaginary t-rex companion, Dante. 

Why I chose to name him after a lunar crater is some kind of unforeseen irony that I didn't anticipate at the time of Dante's inception, but it's too late now to change his name to something potentially less insulting to the history of his species.

On a slightly unrelated but completely astonishing note, check out a drawing I did of one of my best friends Johana riding a giant catfish:

She has an irrational fear of catfish, because apparently some of them get big enough to eat people or something, so I named it Spock after her favorite Star Trek character. I don't know if it made the catfish less frightening to her, but I thought the concept was worthy of some kind of Nobel Peace Prize for human-catfish relations. Though the reality of that idea is absurd, because from what Johana has told me, catfish are entirely opposed to rational discussion. But if they ever have a change of hear, I feel like my drawing has opened the door.

My Cloven Hoof Problem

Everyone has at least one thing they struggle with. For many, it's smoking or overeating. For others, it's an addiction to zombie dinosaur fan fiction or living in a gas station bathroom because you found a spider in your apartment and it disappeared, and there's no way you can go back there until you know that thing is dead and isn't breeding thousands of children that are going to crawl on you when you fall asleep.. Whatever the severity of your problem is, we all wake up and face a certain challenge every day.


While I have a whole host of issues to choose from, my most crippling debilitation is writing zombie dinosaur fan fiction social anxiety. For those of you that don't suffer from this delightful condition, let me paint you a picture. Imagine everything you do in your daily life, such as talking to people or leaving your house, and then add a thick layer of lipid fear to those scenarios. Think you're gonna go to the store today? HA, no, there's someone there waiting to judge you for walking around in penguin pajamas because taking a shower requires too much effort, and the towels are all the way over there.

That phone's ringing? Well, it's about to go to voice mail, because the moment you answer, you're going to start babbling like an idiot, sputtering one incoherent sentence after another, until the person on the other line realizes they've just reached some sort of invalid who should not be allowed to answer the phone. 

Personally, the main things that I find terrifying are phones and jobs. Which is not exactly what I would consider convenient things to be afraid of. You need a job to afford things like food and new computers, and phones to communicate with the world outside of your four-walled safety blanket.

Why are phones scary? I have no clue. There's something about answering a phone and talking to a total stranger that gives me a combination of indigestion and flop sweat. Caller ID helps, but if the number is blocked or I don't recognize it, I go through a complete and total rundown of every possible outcome as I decide whether or not to answer the phone. What if it's a Nigerian prince calling to tell me I just inherited millions of dollars? Then I should probably answer it, I've always wanted millions of dollars. But on the other hand, what if it's someone just waiting on the other line to insult and judge me for daring to answer the phone?

In my mind, it's usually the latter. In reality, it's never the former. My aversion to phones might be explained when I realize that answering it is in no way beneficial to me, and in an attempt to keep my 20-year laziness streak running, I have now formed a spine-chilling fear of doing anything I don't absolutely have to do.

At 20 years old, I have only had one job. I worked at a grocery store called Trader Joe's for about nine months, and while I plan on dedicating at least one post to the things I encountered there, it deserves mention in this post in particular.

Have you noticed a lot of alliteration so far? It's bothering me, but not enough to go back and change anything. Laziness has defeated my self criticism this round.

So while I worked there, I had what I would call daily panic attacks as I woke up and realized I had work that day. I would spend hours hyperventilating and sweating profusely as I mentally prepared myself for customers asking if the corned beef had any pork in it, and in case you're wondering, no, it did not. 

Something about working with a combination of managers potentially judging me for not working hard enough and customers judging me for trying my hardest to appear unafraid of them, even though my uncontrollable nervousness and deer-in-the-headlights look every time one of them approached me probably gave it away, had me in a state of panic on a regular basis.

If that poorly drawn deer does not permanently welcome me into your heart out of adoration and sympathy, then I don't know what will.

I won't get into the details of what led to my quitting that job, since I might be saving that for a future post, but the above is a very detailed reenactment of what happened on an almost daily basis. Now that I no longer have a job, I'm left with a very small amount of constantly-dwindling funds in my bank account. Finding another job terrifies me more than I'm comfortable to admit, but it has allowed me to waste even more time doodling for you.

So now, I'm left with either living a life of dependency and hoboism, or facing my fears and finding a new job at some point. For the time being, I'm trying to find ways to get paid for being a recluse. I'm wondering if it's possible to put "hermit" on a job application. It would most likely hurt me more than help me, because I doubt a potential employer would find me very appealing once I started to explain the likenesses between myself and Boo Radley, minus the dendrophilia and penchant for children.

My Parents Are Weirder Than Your Parents. Unfortunately.

One of the joys of living at home past adulthood is realizing all the strange things your parents do that you didn't really notice as a kid. My mom, like many parents, is technologically illiterate, thus depends on me to show her how to do things like attach a picture to an email roughly six hundred times and explain that the computer running slowly is not because our internet speed is lacking, but because she doesn't seem to think having somewhere around 15 Internet Explorer windows open at one time should be a problem(I have multiple frustrations with this particular scenario. One, that she insists on using Internet Explorer, the browser equivalent of using a boat anchor to keep yourself afloat, and two, that in the year 2010, I have to constantly explain what the internet is). 


Based on the knowledge above, her computer habits should come as no surprise to me. Let me go down a short list of things she likes to do.


1. Go to her home page between every website.


2. Type "Google" into Yahoo! Search.


3. To further elaborate on the above scenario, she searches for absolutely everything, e.g. Macy's, Amazon, eBay, what have you. The concept of an address bar is completely nonexistent in her universe.


4. Bookmarks everything, because it's apparently impossible to return to a website through any other means.

This is after I spent an entire day with her, repeatedly demonstrating how to delete a file. I think she cleaned out somewhere around 1,000.

5. Turns the volume all the way up every time she gets on the computer, and then scares herself when something starts playing and asks why the volume is so loud.

6. Thinks you have to sign into an email account to access the internet, and becomes distraught when somebody signs her out because "she's going to lose her favorites."

But technology is not the only thing that brings out her quirks. My mom probably has severe OCD, because her penchant for cleanliness is unmatched by anybody else I've ever met. The amount of times she wipes down counters has turned into a drinking game for my family. Dinner parties usually turn into a drunken affair. Every time she realizes we're watching her wipe down the sink, she has this guilty look on her face like a kid that was just caught trying to sneak a cookie before dinner, or something equally cliche.

Note the dishrag. Also, in reality, there would NOT be a puddle of water on the floor because my mom's worst fear is getting water on the floor. This is a dramatization.

My dad is no champion of normalcy himself. Much more carefree than my mother, he tends to venture into the embarrassing territory of "I have no shame," making inappropriate jokes and changing lyrics to songs he feels better fit the current situation. The inspiration for this post actually occurred tonight; my parents and I are sick, just one of the many perks of living in a relatively small house with three people, and I eat breakfast food almost entirely when I'm ill, so I made some awesome French toast for us(come to think of it, I pretty much eat nothing but breakfast food, it's no longer exclusive to mornings and sickness. I just realized that if you read that sentence quickly, it would say something about morning sickness. I'm not pregnant.). While eating our French toast, my parents turned on Wheel of Fortune, because they love game shows in a way that is usually reserved for 80 year olds. 

Seriously, they analyze the hell out of game shows. My mom is usually visibly upset for the people that don't win anything. If you read through my posts and wonder why I'm so abnormal, this post should give you a few good reasons.

So anyway, we're watching Wheel of Fortune, and one puzzle is categorized under 'lyrics' and turns out to say "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day," a line from the song "My Girl" by The Temptations. Immediately, both my parents start singing the song, and trust me, neither of them should be singing. My mom takes this opportunity to direct her singing at our cat, who could not care less if she tried, while my dad decides to take artistic license and change the words "my girl" to "french toast." In case you're having a hard time thinking of how the lyrics go, and you really want to know how absurd it is, allow me to help you.

I've got sunshine

On a cloudy day.

When it's cold outside,

I've got the month of May.

Well, I guess you'll say

What can make me feel this way?

My girl. (My girl, my girl) French toast. (French toast, French toast)

Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl) French toast. (French toast)

I've got so much honey

The bees envy me.

I've got a sweeter song

Than the birds in the trees.

Well, I guess you'll say

What can make me feel this way?

My girl. (My girl, my girl) French toast. (French toast, French toast)

Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl) French toast. (French toast)

Ooooh, Hoooo.

Hey, hey, hey.

Hey, hey, hey.

I don't need no money,

Fortune or fame.

I've got all the riches, baby,

One man can claim.

Well, I guess you'll say

What can make me feel this way?

My girl. (My girl, my girl) French toast. (French toast, French toast)

Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl) French toast. (French toast)

Talkin' bout my girl. French toast.

I've got sushine on cloudy day

With my girl. French toast.

I've even got the month of May

With my girl French toast. 

He sang the whole song. This kind of insanity is what my daily life consists of. 

Live blogging moment: I'm currently listening to them analyze "What Not To Wear" in the living room, a show that could not be broken down any further if TLC hired Ernest Walton and John Cockroft, the first men to split the atom.

Live blogging moment #2: My dad just walked in the room, snapped his fingers at me, and in some kind of Solid Snake/Barry White impression, said "That's what I'm talking about." I don't know what, or why, or...why? What? I don't know what to think anymore.

I need my own place.

Update 12/11/10: My dad tried to convince me to go Christmas shopping with him today, despite the fact that both of us are completely done shopping for the season. When I told him I didn't want to go, and asked why he did, he just sang "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" and called me Ebenezer Meier.