Well, my sister and I resolved our differences last night at water aerobics. After 40 minutes or so of ackward silence, we had a dialogue that went something on the order of this:

“I’m not mad at you. Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Well, Okay then.”

And all was good. After that we instantly began to jabber on about everything under the sun. Ahh…sisters…where would I be without Angela?

I pissed my sister off pretty good tonight…for both my mother and I. She left without so much as saying goodbye to either of us…the fun sort of passive-agressive bull we’ve come to expect from ourselves during any of our petty squibbles. To be fair, I think she was in a mood…and I was none-to-sensitive to it. Eh well…there hasn’t been an argument yet that has caused us to permenantly fall out of favor with eachother.

I just recieved my very first mailing of the Sherlock Holmes adventure,   A Scandal in Bohemia…it’s part of the Discovering Arthur Conan Doyle project put on by Stanford University. It’s neat and it’s free…all you have to do is sign up and you’ll get mailed monthly victorian-style segments of the novel. I think I’m going to read now.

I should just get “The World’s Biggest F-ckup” tattooed to my forehead…censored, of course. I’d hate to offend anyone. You see…everyone has got to excell at something…everyone’s got a niche…a knack… It just so happens that I’ve got an extraordinary propensity for f-cking things up. Does that mean I’m careless? Probably. Or that I don’t pay attention to details? That, too. One could tactfully dismiss my all too frequent disasters as absentmindedness. Even as a child my teachers would describe me as a day dreamer with my head in the clouds. So I’m a bit daffy…does that make me sweet? No. I don’t think there’s anything endearing about making the people around me work their posteriors off to cover up my stupid mistakes.

I shouldn’t be allowed to do web work. The whole concept of uploading files to a server and not copying over someone else’s work has time and again proven to be too much for me. One of these days I’m going to go into work and they’ll have taken away my network cable in a last ditch attempt to contain my destruction…quarantine my devistation to a local mac mini.
I saw Steven Spielberg’s The Goonies again last night and I really identified with Chunk’s character. For those that don’t know, he’s the pudgy little boy that babbles on incesantly despite a lack of audience. The remarkable thing about Chunk is that he can always be relied upon to be unintentionally destructive. If something needs breaking, Chunk is called over to make it happen. I wish the power of my klutziness could be similarly harnessed…wielded by the forces of good or evil…I care not. Anything would be better than the merciless whim of chance.

A volcano zit has just recently taken up residence on my forehead…I love it when geological formations develop on my face. Thank goodness for Dr. Burt’s Herbal Blemish Stick. It works remarkably well.

So…I’ve just seen the goatse and tubgirl images for the first time…I found myself filled with regret for having ever been given the gift of sight. I know…I asked for it. Curiosity got the better of me…and now I’ve got those terrible images burned into my mind. I’m sullied and I can never again have that innocence back. Serves me right.

I first heard the lore of these online images when I was in college. I had long since forgotten the conversation, but it went something on the order of my friends laughing at a lewed reference to the pics…I of course, didn’t catch a thing and naively requested an explaination. Nobody had the heart to tell me what the images were. I was simply instructed to do a google search of “goatse” and “tubgirl.” Well…one thing led to another and I got busy and forgot. Low and behold, I was reminded of the topic when reading a dialogue on image theft. Hence, the planets aligned in a perfect combination of boredom, curiosity, and internet access. Ick. I want to go clean my eyes with Listerine.

I get irrationally pissed off, sometimes…and quite frankly, I really enjoy doing it. I don’t understand the appeal…especially not for me. You see, my goal in life is to make people like me. The way I measure my self worth is not by the things I accomplish or accumulate, but instead by the number of people that like me and the degree of esteem in which they hold me. This is all well and good, for me…I know, people might criticize that I shouldn’t put control of something so valuable as my own self worth in the hands of others…that I should find my value within. Or worse, one could find fault that I require a means to measure my worth at all. These are valid arguments, but I don’t feel they serve to be addressed in the scope of this blog post. The point I was trying to make is that being irrationally pissed off isn’t very conducive to getting people to like me. Unless, of course, those people are all pissed off about the same thing I am…but it’s difficult to get everyone in the world to be irrationally pissed off at the same thing. I suppose sarcasim and humor work well to alieviate the sting of any offensive piss-ant rantings.

So yeah, I like getting pissed off, and I don’t understand the appeal. Maybe it’s the drama associated with playing the wounded heart. It’s fun to fill the role of the high-maintinance heroine…to fly off the handle on a whim and have the world rush to placate you. Maybe it’s all just for the make up sex…who knows?

Here’s the good news: I keep a lot of my irrational anger internal…humoring myself with angst-filled monologues…smiting innocent victims left and right with the omnipotent power of my mind. But the bad news is that I haven’t a poker face to save me. If something’s bothering me, the world knows it with so little as a glance at my tell-tale countenance. (Damn you face! Can’t trust you to keep a sectret!) But I suppse…I’ve never had someone confront me with a wounded, “Did you just smite me with your mind?!” So perhaps it’s only evident that something is bothering me, however irrational or pointless.
But, there’s other good news: I’m no good at holding a grudge…so I’ll get over it…whatever it may be. I’m resilient like that.

I’m seriously considering the logistics of bringing my coffee into the shower with me… It makes perfect sense…both are wet and hot and wake me up in the morning! …And no…I’m not making some perverse joke…suggestive innuendo…no. Sickos. It just so happens that I’m having a hard time separating myself from my cuppa’ joe long enough to take a shower this morning…so here I sit…tick-tacking away at my crappy old keyboard providing you with a full account of my serious dillema.

You see, it could very well be feasible to shower with my vitamin C. The primary consern is diluting the coffee or worse, contaminating it with soap. However, I’ve thought this over and all I would need to do is use a travel mug with a lid…I’ve walked to class in the rain with my travel mug before without any problems. Granted, one would hardly dodge raindrops in the shower…it would be significantly easier to simply hold the mug outside the stream of water. As for soap, I could place the mug in a dry corner of the shower while I lather and rinse. (I know…just the thought of the separation anxiety is too much.) Ultimately, the end goal would be achived…I would be sufficiently heigenic and alert to begin my day…without having to suffer the trauma of either gulping down my coffee more quickly than the temperature will allow, or returning to an unpleasenly cold mug…like a lover that’s lost his flame…harsh.

Whaddaya know…I’ve finished my coffee…shower time!