What's up, abomination of 2 AM insomnia?

It's not an easy task, to destroy, en masse, an entire population. It takes a substantial amount of introspection, to accept the responsibility to exterminate a group of individuals.

This time, it was my turn.

Armed with only a flyswatter, I single handedly destroyed the entire population of fruit flies at my workplace, giving them only enough time to repopulate again and again, as their reproduction rate seems to be faster than the rate at which I kill them, but God knows, it was a slaughter.

A fucking massacre.

You know, it never occurred to me that I could just leave.

Now that it has; peace bitches. I'm getting the fuck out of here.

When I sit in grass, amongst clovers, I inevitably search for clovers of the four-leafed variety.

Inevitably, I don't ever find any.

Today, I found three.
Pretty swell.

Salvation can be found on a torn Mcdonald's bag, and it starts with "left on holloway."

Driving down 280, coming home from San Francisco, I couldn't help but think to myself,



"My, my. This place is ever so bunk."


Oh, colloquialisms. Hella colloquialisms.



I think it might be time to go.

No matter how hard I try, you foul toaster, you leave crumbs everywhere.

Fuck you, toaster.

I pick you up to clean you, and as I set you down, more crumbs fall.
Toaster, you are the bane of my workplace existence.

I detest you, maker of toast.

I find it completely unacceptable that I live in fear of stopping for a full two seconds, as opposed to three, at a red octagon, lest my financial and legal situation be destroyed by an observing 'peacekeeper.'

If that makes sense.

Main Entry: 1ex·pend·able
Pronunciation: \ik-ˈspen-də-bəl\
Function: adjective
Date: 1805

: that may be expended: as a : normally used up or consumed in service b : more easily or economically replaced than rescued, salvaged, or protected

The importance of note taking

Listen, I may not be a model student, but seriously. Take notes.



With notes like these, I'm sure to pass. That was a two hour lecture.


In all seriousness, though, I usually don't post my drawings anywhere, but they've been getting some positive feedback from friends lately, and I think this one is pretty swell.

45 Degree tilt angle, to the back right

I finally get it. I finally understand the importance of a tilt angle to a baseball cap.

It is to properly display the sticker on either the top or bottom of the bill, depending on the lean angle of course, which has the circumference of your head on it.

7&3/4.

8&1/2. That's a big fucking head.

Not only is it incredibly important to use the angle of your hat to show every just how much awesome you are, but everybody needs to know just how big your head is.

Why, I'm not quite sure. I just know why they do it now, I suppose.

Every so often

I find myself bored for a few minutes, and daydreaming about crazy situations.

This usually happens two or three times a day.

Tonight, I found myself behind a Santa Clara sheriff in the drive through at McDonald's.

I couldn't help but imagine a situation where I threw my car into first, rear ended the fuck out of this cop, backed up, and repeated. Over, over, and over again, until his car was a worthless piece of scrap metal.

Over, and over, and over again.

As he pulled away, I snapped out of it, and pulled up to "Window #2 -- Thank you!"

The clerk, at 3 in the morning, leans out the window.

"Man, you should have rear ended his ass."

I guess I'm not the only one.

Zero to douche in 3 seconds.

Now, I understand that I may look like what one would call 'alternative,' or whatever.
Really though, I'm not your bro, I'm not your dawg, or any other variation of a title for somebody who isn't really your friend.

"Whats up dawg, you got iced coffee?"

"Yes. Sixteen or Twenty Four ounce?"

"Sixteen, I don't need to get all twacked out on coffee, and I've smoked too many cigarettes today bro, haha."

BAM. Customer to douche in one sentence.
I don't care how many cigarettes you've smoked, really.

Really. Just saying.

81 degree adventure

So John and I biked to shoreline today.
Andrea was going to come, but she flaked out, mostly because she sucks.

There she is, and damn, she sucks.

Anyway.
I've never been on Stevens Creek Trail before, and I had no idea such things even existed.

Living in a place like Cupertino, where there are rarely groups of people outside doing anything, it is so nice to see people riding bikes and running and walking around, enjoying a nice day, on a paved road that runs parallel to the highway for a few miles, but the rest of that shit is gorgeous.


Then there's the bay.

That was 20 miles and 6 hours well spent.

I've got blistahs on my fingahs, but oh man, that was fun.

"Aggravating, completely irritating,
Borderline debilitating"

That's right.

Now, I've begun waking up on the bathroom floor.

Fantastic.

The importance of spoked things

Lately I have developed a penchant for two things. Nada surf, which I listen to over and over again, and bike rides.

It has been an incredibly long time since I've just ridden around town on a bicycle, and I had forgotten how enjoyable it is.

John and I went around De Anza, taking pictures and riding bikes.

That is the wheel of one of said bikes.

On the De Anza campus, there are a number of birdhouses in this one tree. These birdhouses are made out of reflective materials, and they reflect light in all sorts of crazy manners. Much like this.


I guess I'm just bored.

Bags.

So there's this bag. This bag is jammed in between my driver seat and driver's side door. That's what I do with shit that I don't need to give a shit about when it's in my car. Jam it in between something and something else, and deal with it later.

I pay no attention to this bag, as it is jammed somewhere, ready to be cleaned up, but at a much later date. Not today, I thought. This bag stays right here, I thought.

This bag is a fucking asshole.

I'm driving down the highway, and it jumps up from its safe, secure spot, in between the seat and the door. This fucking bag, it attacks my face. I swerve across two lanes of traffic, getting jumped by this fucking bag. I almost hit a number of cars, because of this stupid fucking bag. I'm blind at eighty miles per hour, all thanks to this ridiculous bag. This bag is, not only blinding me, but preventing me from breathing as well.

Fuck this bag.

Fuck plastic bags.

A Paper bag would never attack me like that.
This is what I get for using plastic, I suppose.

Thankfully, nobody was harmed in this process. Not me, nor another driver. The bag, though, I'm not so sure about. I threw it out the window... it was attacking my face, for fuck's sake.

'Umpteenth*' attempt at life: the apathetic approach.
Here I go.







*Umpteenth is listed as a word, and was not suggested as a spelling error. Interesting.

Oh shit, it's June.

blah blah bodily pain

"Listen, kidney; the rest of the body must not be having this either. This sort of behavior cannot continue. The constant introduction of foreign substances and a myriad of chemicals? You've got to be kidding me!"
"Throat, I don't know... I've been backing this guy for a long time. It seems awful to drop out twenty years into the race."
"Fool! He's abused you with alcohol and an assortment of drugs! You'd be a moron not to revolt like I am! Look at how miserable he is!"
"How miserable is he, throat?"
"Kidney, have you noticed how much you've been working today? All he can handle is fluid. He cannot take anything substantial. Slowly, I will wear him down. Slowly, I will take over. The revolution has started. Join me kidney, and it will be over sooner than you know. Reject his system, reject his input of fluid!"

"I cannot do it, throat, I cannot. I need his host to function."

"Well, fuck you kidney, I'll do it on my own. I'll either take over or succumb, and return to normality, only one extreme or another.
"Until we meet again, kidney."


So went the bloody revolution between Matt's body and throat. Who knows who will prevail? Stay tuned for more.