The Trouble Is…

To "ac", I would have emailed you back but for some reason either the email address you entered doesn't work, or my email client sucks. Or yours does. 

I didn't like Bamboo Shoots because I got bored in the middle of it. I don't think it was their performance, I thought it was their song. I get the part about talent, innovative stuff, etc, but….I didn't like it. I wasn't floored by it all, which I thought that having won a contest, they should have done that.

Why am I posting this? Because I think its important to respond to comments, and the fact that email doesn't seem to work is making my eye tick.

So, there ya go. 

Do you remember the computers back in the 80s that had the black screen and neon green text in Courier font?

I'm totally experiencing that right now, and it serves as a muse.

I have a program called Darkroom, and essentially it is Notepad with default settings of black/green/Courier, and simple key commands for FullScreen and off. I realize that Notepad already does this, and Word expands to fullscreen, but I think the act of clicking this open sort of makes me sit in a mindset of "Ready, Set, Write!"
You should totally try it. When your screen is black, it may inspire you to fill it. And words are always good, unless you do it horribly. It makes me want to write my book.

Wade and I got caught in the trap that is the Oprah show today. We were trying to leave, get in the car, away, when Oprah asked her audience about what shape your poop is supposed to be and then we were both just hopelessly hooked. As my best friend will attest to, I have a habit, for some unknown reason, of talking about bowel movements. This, I think comes from my dad, who is an owner of an incredibly flatulent bottom, complete with a persistent plumbers crack and an after-cackle, that explodes after his ass-explosion rapes your nostrils. And mouth. Yes, it's that bad. So, it could be possible that my ability to converse easily about your poop, my shit, his rectum and her fart comes from an everyday habit of ducking for cover when my dad would look around suspiciously and ask, "Is there a duck in here?"

Oprah and one of her many biatches, Dr. Oz, posed a question to the audience: What shape should your poop be? A. Pebble-shaped. B. Pancake-shaped. C. S-shaped. or D. I really don't look.
All of these seriously boggled my mind, for reasons I will discuss.
A. Pebble shaped. In order for me to consider my poop pebble-shaped, it would have to resemble a pebble, with intricate lines and scratches, with a surface of crags and different sizes. Pebble-shaped would also lead me to believe that you had to squeeze your shit out hard, into little nuggets, so that would make you constipated. Wrong.
B. Pancake-shaped. Well, whatthefuck can I say to this one? Are you serious? Is this the obvious-wrong answer, because I would think that D would be. Wade turned to me and said, "Yeah, my poop is pancake-shaped if I popped a squat and shit on a frying pan.." Exactly. Wrong.
C. S-shaped. S-shaped? What happened to the good ol' fashoned muthafuckin' log? I've never analyzed the specific curve in my shit before, so this one boggled my mind, too.. But maybe I'm like the person that said their shit was pancake-shaped—fucking nuts. Maybe.
D. I really don't look. Bullshit you don't look. Sometimes when I shit and the magnitude of what I excreted hits me (mentally), I run and tell Wade and hope to share in my feat. Usually he tells me, "Go away, ew, you're nuts." You must always look at your poop. How do you dispose of TP? This is complete madness. Stupid.

Turns out, C was correct. The next time I poop I'm examing the S-curve.

Also,
200 orgasms a year will add 6 years onto your life, apparently. They didn't specify for how many years you'd have to have 200 per year.
There's an organ called the omentum that stores fat. Even if you're 30 pounds overweight, theres a big fleshy fat veil in your body that is pretty gross.
The numeric figure of your blood pressure is more important than your weight and cholesterol.
You drink enough water when your urine is clear enough to read through.

And thats all I care to tell about the Oprah show. You want some Oprah, watch some Oprah. Suffer through it yourself.

A band I'm watching on Conan called Bamboo Shoots apparently won a contest through MTVU. 1600 or so bands tried out for this best college band contest, and these guys won.
I'm not too impressed.
That either says something shitty about the college music scene, or something shitty about MTVU.
I'm totally going for the latter, how about you?

Oh, God. Now I just saw a commercial for NBC's new crap show, America's Got Talent. David Hasselhoff is going to be host, alongside Sharon Osbourne.

I don't know when turned into such a celeb-couture culture. I missed out on the trend that went that way, because I don't give a shit about Paris' beaver or Angelina's newest child from which poorest country. I do care about Paris' going to jail. She's famous for being dumb, spoiled, and a brat, and people are giving a shit about her going to jail. They should give a shit, and throw it at her while she's behind bars. If she doesn't go to jail, something in me will break. Our justic system is corrupt enough, lets not throw it in our face.

I'm quite tired today.
And I'm using a new program called Darkroom to write in. It's quite cool. You know how in the old movies, I always think of It, when the guy is writing the book on the old IBM computer, Courier Green text on a completely black screen? That's what I have going on now.
Yesterday I purchased a vacuum. You will know this if you read my previous post.
I stayed up until 4am cleaning. And watching the movie Eragon. It sucked, by the way. I told Wade not to watch it, because it would just ruin the story for him.
I'm quite suprised at myself. Its only 11PM, and I'm already winding down. Lack of thoughts, thus, this post shall end here.
Blogging is a nice respite from everything. Sometimes I wish I could reach out to more readers, and then other times, when I'm feeling hermitty, I'd rather no one read this for the sake of my privacy and unneccessary criticism.
Time to watch some bad stand up.

Wade's been working overnights for about a week. I think.

It sucks. A lot.

He goes to work at night, comes home in the morning, sleeps until I have to go to work, and then the cycle continues.

I never realized, and I still didn't, how much having a companion around you all the time is awesome.

Someone to bounce ideas off of, crack horrible jokes with, and whine to.

Example : earlier, with my newly purchased vacuum (which is superbly domestically awesome), we made a digderidoo. Sort of. As I unraveled the hose, it made a really cool noise, so, as Wade and I are in the habit of sharing things with each other that make cool noises, I gave it to him to play with. He proceeded to blow in it, and it sounded pretty authentic. Then we took turns huffing into it to make each others cheeks blow up, and we hummed the LOTR theme into it, and recited the "pickles in my pussy" line from Dane Cook into each others ears. And other crap. And cracked up at our genius.

See? How can you do this when the other is gone? This reason alone is enough to argue that overnights blow. And time apart is always time missed, made sucky, and hard to sleep through.

As a result, I piled a bunch of crap in front of the door to make it more difficult for him to leave. And I brewed a pot of coffee at the last minute, to make him stick around for that. And then I rolled off the couch on purpose and feigned injury in hopes that he'd stay.

It didn't work. Wade's a smart guy, and didn't fall for my ploys.
But, if you date a guy who has never seen these schemes before, try it. It may work for you, and maybe your significant other will spontaneously stay home with you.