A cold balcony at the Quality Inn.

I recently realized that there are several things I will never experience in life. For example I will never give birth. I will never know what it feels like to murder someone. I will never know the rush of ecstasy that comes from pushing a syringe into my vein and injecting heroine into it. I will never know what it feels like to sleep in outer space, being completely weightless. I know I won't experience some of these things due to conscious choices I make but the fact remains that I will be deprived (and in some instances: deprive myself) of certain experiences. I just thought it was interesting.

Turn Left at the Painted Indian Face

I'm currently sitting, alone, at a table in a hotel room checking my email and listening to a large group of girls celebrate their friends' last night of virginity and...singleness. In addition to the fact that it's freezing cold in this room, despite the heater that's raging in a hopeless attempt to warm these quarters, I'm typing with cut fingers that refuse to heal. I've hardly slept in the past few days, though I shouldn't complain seeing as Michelle slept for only an hour last night.
I have little reason to write tonight. I suppose I simply feel the need to update anyone who might find their way onto this site.
There's an inevitable longing for summer that comes to those who choose to live in places with extremely harsh and dreary winters. Every winter, without fail, I get sick of the ugly scenery, the frigid temperatures, the unforgiving lack of sunlight, the depression of winter. Luckily I work a job that requires a minimal amount of thought, so I have plenty of time to daydream about warmer weather and all it entails. Only a couple more months of this hell before we've earned another few months of heaven.

Filth the Female Condition

I'm sorry, it's gone too far. I can't take anymore of this fecal matter. That stupid b!@#$ Stephanie Meyer has to be sorted out. They turn women into giddy little morons, and that's just infringing on male territory. Listen ladies, we've got the moron thing covered, we don't need your sad attempts at trying to stoop to our level.
Every time I hear women talk about the Twilight series they begin to sound less and less intelligent and more and more like ditsy, pathetic, air-headed high school girls who lack any novel personality traits. From what I hear (from my wife who is addicted to the abomination), the writing in these books is not even good. Turns out the author just throws in largish words to make it look like she's good at writing. Apparently the one thing she is good at, other than bringing people down, is making the reader (and the demographic of which is female) feel like a high school girl with a crush, which explains how the readers act when they talk about the books.
What happened to good literature? What happened to the Catcher in the Rye, 1984, and Small Island? What happened to Tyler Durden, Boo Radley, and Soup?
What kills me most is when women think that men would like these books. Yes, it has been known to happen, but for the most part these books are for women. They were written by a woman for other women. Men don't write about sparkly, shimmering vampires. For guys, vampires don't sparkle, vampires don't shimmer.
I'll probably write more on this as it continues to bother me, but for now I'm tired and losing my train of thought.

The Blender out-golfed the Puma.

Last night I found out that some people, even those closest to me, may not be aware of something that has always been a large part of my life and who I am as a person. This saddened me and I feel the need to bring this funfact to the attention of all three people who read the crap I write. Alright, so here it is: I love Koolaid.
Since I was a young chap sucking on the stretched out neck of my t-shirt I've loved the stuff. For years Grape was the ruling champion in the fight for the coveted position of favorite flavor. That was until one faithful summer morning 6 years ago when I stumbled upon Mango. Actually I don't remember exactly when I met Mango, but we've been thoroughly fond of one another since. For years and years Koolaid has been my primary source of nutrition, a fact that seems to have taken those closest to me unawares.
I suppose it's not their fault. I go through stages of foods. Such phases include but aren't limited to: Mint Hershey Kisses (which were ingested in disgusting quantities), Koolaid, KitKats, ButterFingers, Baby Ruths, doughnuts, granola bars, bananas, toast, popsicles, Rice Krispy Treats (a personal favorite), and the current obsession: peanut butter (by the spoonful).
All of these have a very special place in my heart and stomach.

There aren't enough mint brownies to keep from eating my hand.

Here's the thing about the subconscious: I don't buy it. I obviously don't know that much about it but it seems a little too fantastical for me to swallow. If I do in fact have a subconscious making decisions without my consent, having thoughts without my being aware, and doing things in secret from my world of conscious thought, then I'm a little creeped out. It's like there's another person inside of me, someone who's keeping things from me. That's just plain weird. This idea sounds more like Dissociative Identity Disorder (formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder).
Maybe I've got it all wrong. In fact this is highly likely. Obviously there are things that the body does without conscious thought like the beating of the heart, the maintaining of certain bodily functions that, were it up to actual conscious thought to initiate, we wouldn't last very long. But is that proof enough for the existence of a part of my mind that is doing things and influencing and motivating my decisions without my being aware of it? Just let the insanity sink in. I think I'm just tired so I'm talking crazy.

"Nothing else will fit right,
Or seem so directly applied,
Than fitted shirt hung on me,
Fitted shirt alright..."
-Spoon

This is one of my favorite Spoon songs. And it's also an eternal truth. Throughout my entire life I've had dress shirts that were too big; the sleeves big enough to fit two or three of my arms through at once, the shirt ballooning and bunching up around my waist and torso...hideous and uncomfortable. I'd find and purchase random fitted shirts now and then, but it was always difficult to find a white one, which would be of most use.
Yesterday I purchased a white fitted dress shirt. It fits perfectly. It's hard to fully explain the elation that comes from wearing clothes that actually fit. Hoorah and kudos for clothes that aren't mass produced to hang off of various body types, but are made with care and purpose for individuals who enjoy clothes that fit right.

The Death of Conscience

When I was young I loved animals. Then my parent's got a shitzu and my feelings changed. Maybe it's because I just woke up but this video made me so angry, so I thought I would share it. You should know that this footage isn't appropriate for kids. I don't know how to put this video on my page, so you might have to copy and paste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2p6lyRZ66-s