April 3rd, 2007

type type type

Make no mistake: I actually hate everything

If I had known when I was a zygote that there would come a point in my life where the idea of ordering a pizza would become some immense, insurmountable luxury, I would have undoubtedly handcuffed myself to the uterine lining and refused to come out until someone with a modicum of authority looked down and realized: "Dude that is effed up right there."

I am at times lazy and at most times reclusive; these qualities make for a powerful one-two punch that render it mostly undesirable to leave my house if I don't have to. However, few things inspire me with the get-up-and-go to, you know, get up and go to the store more than seeing the prices of ordering a pizza.

So, begrudgingly, I left my house and got in my car, only to realize that, yes, as I had feared, all of the outside was conspiring to kill me. This may, actually, be due to the fact that I was talking mad ess about the outside the other day. I actually had this conversation:

"You should open a window."

"Why would I do that?" (<--this one is me.)

"Because it's nice outside and it will make your house smell like springtime."

"But it's well documented that I hate the springtime. Additionally, I hate outside."

"But you'd still be inside."

"But I want inside to be as little like outside as possible. That's WHY I'M INSIDE. DO NOT BRING THE OUTSIDE INSIDE."

I imagine that it was for this reason that the outside had piled itself up into a giant, black, cumulent mass of imminent death that was rumbling toward my head like a drunken bull on roller skates. But my body demanded food, of which there was none in my house.

Could I outstrip the thunder? Could I outpace the lightning?

I safely made it into the store with as little incident as possible. However, once inside, I remembered why I typically limit my goings-out to the store to a time after midnight, when only the fatties and harelips emerge to shop. Because there were a million and a thousand people all up in my grill and more in the lines.

Were they concerned that food would run out as a result of this climatic apocalypse rambling toward us? I mean, I was mildly concerned by this. Is that why all these people needed beer and toilet paper all of a sudden? It may be. It may be.

Regardless, I got my groceries (incidentally, I was able to buy THREE pizzas and FOUR boxes of egg rolls for less than what it would have cost me to order one pizza) and headed for the door. The problem with heading for the door is, once you've reached it, you're probably going to go outside. And what's outside? OUTSIDE IS OUTSIDE.

And outside rained down on me like a bag of icy hammers. Most people tried to wait out the storm under the eaves of the store. Not me, man. I needed some pizza in my mouth and subsequently my belly, so I trotted straight out to my car, conveniently parked not anywhere close to the door.

FACT: on a day when the sun is all like, "Dude I am a thousand degrees" rain can still fall on you and be like, "ice cold lol." This is a stone cold nature fact I never saw on TLC.

Long story short, I got in my car soaking wet and freezing, and then subsequently almost died no fewer than three times trying to drive home. Then I gorged myself on pizza and made myself unhappy. Suffice it to say, I totally hate everything, you included (sorry).


A young girl today told me that I look like a guy from American Idol. I had little response to this, as my TV doesn't work and so I don't watch anything ever, least of all American Idol.

But it turns out she meant this guy:

I...should probably not have eaten all that pizza.


I had a dude post a comment on my MySpace page that totally messed up all the code in the rest of my comments, and I tried to fix it, but actually made things worse.

I contacted the technical staff at MySpace. No dice so far. This was, you know, like three days ago? Basically I'm mad about that? I don't know what the point of this section was.


Someone on the Bendis board proposed that the greatest possible book ever would be a collaboration between Bendis and Michael Turner. I decided that rather than read that, I would prefer to collect a book that wasn't even a book, but was in fact a portal opening to another dimension where there was nothing but disembodied fists punching me in my face and chest.


I finally saw 300 this past weekend. I basically liked it, but my friend Paul complained that it was little more than empty spectacle. I'm not exactly sure what movie it was he thought we were going to see.

I'd like to see Grindhouse, but I don't foresee my schedule allowing me time to do that until the time continuum loops back around and it actually is the 70s again.


Okay, I'm out, basically.