WTF!?

What the FUCK, Microsoft? WHAT. THE. FUCK.

After four more hours of gameplay last night, Fet and I beat Halo 3. Right when the end sequence is starting, the fucking XBox tells me that the disc is fucking unreadable. UNREADABLE! So we saw nothing. NOTHING! So disappointed. So now, I'm gonna have to beat the entire last chapter again.

On a semi-related note, why is Cortana able to leap from the disc where she is housed into the fucking computer through the air. COMPUTER PROGRAMS SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO DO THAT.

SRT #56

So I went to the mall to trade in some DS games and get Halo 3. Unfortunately for me, the Kids Foot Locker is right next to the game store I use. On the way from the store to the mall exit, I made the mistake of glancing to my left and seeing these SUPER SHINY SHOES. These pictures do not do the shininess justice. They really are GLORIOUSLY BLINDING.*

Le sigh. Despite the things that make me like these, namely:

1. SHINY
2. GREEN
3. HIGH TOPS,

I think I am going to return them. Even though the dunks that get the most play out of me are my high ones, I don't know if it's worth it to keep these. They are currently in the back of my car awaiting judgement. Do I keep them as an homage to the Catherine that has died? As a rebellion against this creature that loves boat shoes and button down shirts? Do I return them as a potential waste of space in my already Foot Locker warehouse type room? As a concession to this preppy dictator that has made every wardrobe decision for the past six (?) months? What do I do?

I don't know how to feel.


* I apologize for my abuse of the Caps Lock, but I really mean it.

Hermit Mode

Just when I was starting to socialize again, Halo 3 comes out. Goodbye, world. I will see you in a couple of weeks (months?).

SRT #55

I got a wrong number this afternoon, and the guy on the other side was actually polite. New and different, I know. When it was clear that we did not know each other, he asked who I was, to which I responded, "Hey, man. You called me. Who are you." He laughed and said something that sounded like Brent.* It instantly became clear that this was, indeed, an error on his part. He promptly apologized, I said, "No problem," and all was well.

And then my phone rang within the next minute. Same number calling. I pick up again and inform him of his mistake. He apologizes and asks me to confirm the number he's been trying to call. It is, indeed, my number, but unfortunately, I am not who he wishes to speak to. He apologized again** and hung up.

This is really new and different for me. Usually wrong numbers are big jerks who somehow blame me for owning someone else's phone number, or they act as though I'm the one running around misdialing calls. I once spent five minutes on the phone going through this routine over and over:

Jerk: Who is this?
Me: You called me. Who is this?
Jerk: No. Who is THIS?
Me: I am the owner of this phone. Who is this?

I was much too stubborn to hang up and admit defeat. Clearly, the other person is a bigger jerk than I am. In any case, I hope this will become an ongoing trend. Strangers being polite to one another. Anything is possible.


* Perhaps Brad? Something with a "B."
** Again!

I'm Going to Disagree

So why do I have a picture of a fatty up, you may ask? No, I do not personally know this fatty, and really, if I wanted to look at a fatty, all I need to do is find a mirror. (I had to get the self-deprecation out of the way before it someone else did it. You know who you are. I win.) I saw it a couple of weeks ago on the Nordstrom website. I was just browsing around the sales and this thing assaulted my eyes. The problem is not so much the model, or even what she's wearing. The problem is that this model cannot possibly be that size. Clearly, she has a pillow or something similar wrapped around her torso so as to fill out that suit.

Is this really necessary, Nordstrom? Could you not find any reasonably attractive people that will actually fit this suit? I know that such people exist, I have seen them wandering about this land. I vehemently disagree with this model casting. It's not right. Just get a plus sized model for christsakes. They need to eat too. Clearly, if they didn't have that urgent need to make a living/eat, they wouldn't be plus sized models, would they? So Nordstrom, take pity. Feed a model that needs the work and save this tiny model from having to wear a fatty suit. Ok? Iappreciateitthanksbye!

Solomons Island

Crabbing is weak there now. It makes my heart cry.

I Need To Decide My Life Soon

I'm feeling especially bloggy today, and my brother posted a link to a career placement something or other that I just finished. Here's my top ten plus highlights:

1. Desktop Publisher
2. Lobbyist
3. Animator
4. Cartoonist / Comic Illustrator
5. Criminologist
6. Gerontologist
7. Fashion Designer
8. Probation / Parole Officer
9. Director of Photography
10. Set Designer

12. Addictions Counselor
14. Clergy
21. Critic
25. Translator
33. Marriage and Family Therapist
37. Sport Psychology Consultant
39. Politician

Some of these are actually quite hilarious. Clergy?! Really, after God's recent treatment of me, I THINK NOT. I guess I'd enjoy being a translator, if not for that pesky lack of multilingual skills. Parole officer? Criminals scare me. It doesn't matter if you're a rapist or a billionaire humanitarian serving time for avenging his murdered family. I don't care if you did really hard time or spent it dancing to Sister Act music. I'm crossing the street if I know you did time. I know this is a sort of terrible/bigoted stance, but that's how it is. Some of these really are absurd. The most, however, must be Addiction Counselor. It is only my fear of criminals that has kept me from finding new and exciting addictions. I have quite the addictive personality. It can only be attributed to divine intervention that I never picked up some terrible drug habit, a lifestyle which was quite available to me.

Hm, perhaps this divine intervention is the cause for God's spite? Have I never thanked Him (Her? Shim?) for the guidance away from addictions more terrible than shoes? If not, I'd like to post an official THANK YOU for such aid. I appreciate it, I really do. I mean, if all my money went to drugs, how could I afford these?

ADDENDUM
I was about to hit publish, when I reached inside of my jacket pocket and found the Vanilla Mint Coffee lip balm that I thought I had lost a while ago. THANKS, GOD! YOU'RE AWESOME!

ADDENDUM #2
Another reason for thanks: My hair is kinda awesome today. I didn't put any product in it post straightening, and yet it's super awesome. Like, suprisingly awesome. It's perfectly floppy without being out of control. :D Thanks, God!

And the Onslaught Continues

I was feeling lazy this morning so I stayed in bed for an extra twenty minutes, planning to catch the 7:40 bus as opposed to my usual 7:20. Unfortunately for me, traffic was backed up all the way to where I need to cross the highway to get to the stop. I just missed the 7:40 and had to wait for the 8:00. So annoying. I'm sitting at the stop, minding my own business, playing Super Puzzle Fighter II on my cell when other people start to arrive. So this random dude sits on the same bench (there's only one for this particular stop) at a respectable distance. I have my headphones in, and I'm destroying some loser in SPFII, officially, I am incommunicado with the outside world.

Of course, this tranquility lasts only until I hear murmurings that seem to be pointed in my general direction. I ignore them, thinking I'm hearing things, or perhaps I'm just catching snippets from some conversation outside of my visual range. The murmurings come again, forcing me to look around. The dude sitting on the bench is asking if I just bought new shoes and pointing to the Downtown Locker Room bag that I have sitting in front of me.* "No, it's just an old bag."** I return to my game.

For a visual image, he's a ratty thing. He looks about 18-19ish, braces, super unkempt hair. He's wearing fucked up black Air Force Ones, a GINORMOUS t-shirt, and dirty jeans. He is not cute. I'm not saying dudes need to be perfectly put together at all times; there is such a thing as attractively disheveled and this was not it. It was as though he spent the night painting a fence, and on a whim decided to take the bus into DC this morning. He needs:

1. A haircut,
2. A shower,
3. A washer/dryer,
4. A tailor, and
   
5. A speech therapist. (I can't stand such poor enunciation.)

The bus finally gets there and I pick my favorite seat. It is perfectly situated to facilitate sleeping. I try to sleep, and I succeed for the most part. Unfortunately, I'd already been awake long enough to make it difficult to stay asleep for the entire ride, which was super long with excessive traffic everywhere until we crossed the border into DC. What generally happens on the bus is that as people get off the bus, people sitting next to each other will split up so that each pair of seats has only one person. This is nothing personal, it's just a desire to spread out as space becomes available. I get on at the first stop and get off at the last, so I'm in a position where I never have to move. However, at the second to last stop, the guy from the bench gets up and sits next to me.

This is not a good omen. This just isn't done on my bus route. There are rules about this sort of thing. Unless you are friends with the person, you do not get up to sit next to them, and even then, if there are adjacent seat pairs that are empty, you sit in a different seat pair close enough to talk, but far enough for sprawling out a bit. He proceeds to ask me random questions to which I provide one/two word responses while gazing out the window.

Him: What time is is?
Me: 9:30
Him: So you ride out here everyday?
Me: No. (Actual answer: Yes, just not at this time normally.)
Him: So you work in DC?
Me: Sure.
Him: So you shop at Downtown Locker Room a lot?
Me: Not really. (Actual answer: I used to a lot, but not as often lately.)
Him: So where do you work?
Me: Government stuff. (Actual answer: Not government stuff.)

Thankfully, he stops with the questions about thirty seconds before the last stop. He tries to initiate no more conversation. I really don't know what I did to deserve all this punishment. First the iPod dies on me, then I miss an awesome photo opportunity, and now this. God, what did I do to offend you so terribly?

At least I have another reason to catch the earlier buses.


* I bought some tiny SpongeBob Squarepants Dunks for my friend's new baby. So adorable. So shiny. So yellow. So awesome.
** Every couple of workdays, I show up with a bag full of english muffins/bagels, cream cheese, and a lot of whatever frozen dinners are on sale at Safeway. It's cheaper than buying lunch everyday, but easier than actually making lunch.

SRT #54

God officially has some sort of vendetta against me. Yesterday, during my after-work walk, the ONE TIME I don't have my camera out and ready to go, a GIANT RED SHOE drives down the street. I'm so mad.

The End Times

Official Time of Death: 8:52 PM, September 10, 2007

I have no words.

You're Testing Me. I Get It.

Today, my iPod decided that he is sad. While sitting on the bus, I was suddenly overwhelmed with silence in the middle of "I'm Not a Player." Much like tuberculosis, or obesity, the sadness was contagious, and now I, too, am sad. Upon doing some sort of reset thing that has worked in the past, he simply reiterated its sadness and then told me use iTunes to restore it, in no less than three languages. Oh, how iPod thinks I am worldy and educated in such jibberjabber! Despite my repeated dropping and abuse, he has persevered for so long, but this assumption of knowing languages I do not may be the first sign of an illness that I cannot cure.

I truly fear that my iPod will never recover from this blow. The electric Prozac/Morphine of iTunes may do nothing to stop the path to destruction that he seems intent on. Over the past few months, he's been a little slower to wake up in the morning. He needs a bit of encouragement when syncing up with iTunes. His battery life is no where near where it used to be. Is this truly the end? Could a year and half of hard living caught up to iPod so quickly?

Unbeknownst to iPod, I've begun looking at his newer, younger, prettier brother: the iPod Classic. I am severely tempted to get one. Perhaps Nigel will take custody of iPod for the duration of his life while I start a new life with Classic. I am conflicted. I do not wish to take up with a new iPod while mine still lives, but I have needs. I am only human.

The main problem facing me now is my damned embargo. The 160 gig classic is $349. God. That is a glorious pair of shoes. I really believe that God is testing me now. After my declaration of embargo He probably snickered and thought,"Embargo, eh?* Let's see how well you do with this!" And then ZAP. My iPod is on its deathbed. I must resist. I must explore all ways to keep this iPod alive. Like that Schiavo chick, I will keep this thing on life support for as long as possible. I can only hope against hope that he pulls through.**

* Apparently, God is Canadian.
** Is this in bad taste? Has an appropriate amount of time passed for me to say this? Is this reference perhaps the final nail in the coffin God is constructing for my iPod?

Dear Lord, Grant Me Strength

I have a problem. It's not so much an issue I need to resolve or something that needs to go away, as with many of my friends' problems, but something that I lack. In addition to this, it is not merely a single thing that I lack, but a combination of things that will inevitably lead to my destruction:

1. I have no stuff. Now, plenty of people have this problem. Homeless people, for one, and perhaps monks, and they seem to get along just fine. However, this does not bode well for me as...

2. I have no impulse control. In my profile, I say that I have poor impulse control. This is quite the understatement. I don't even think it qualifies as impulse control. It is a mere whisper of self-control; the vague apparition of an impulse control that once was, but will never be again. Combined with my lack of stuff, it's always dangerous for me to enter any kind of store. Or go on the internet. Or open my eyes. Shit is dangerous. "But how is this harmful?" you ask. Oh, I will tell you, faithful reader. I will. It is...

3. My lack of money.

I'm not broke, but I have places my money needs to go. Like into my car payments, or IRA shit that I don't really get, but I vaguely understand that I will need in order to eat when I am old, decrepit, and unemployed.* I need to eat, and I eat a lot. It can actually be quite obscene. Where does a 115 pound Filipino thing even put that much food? (Answer: In her FUPA.) My car also needs to eat, but he doesn't eat that much (thank God). I really do have few things I have to pay for, and I have never not been able to meet these demands. However, in the past year, I have developed a love of stuff that is new and different. It is not simply a love of shoes (which has also, much to my shame, been altered slightly) but a love of STUFF.

Jackets and jeans and shoes and shirts and gadgetry all at once. It's terrible. It really is. My AmEx card hates me from all the wear and tear it undergoes, but American Express loves me. Or they will when my 0% interest stops at the end of the year. ** I can recite my credit card number/security code/expiration date with no thought whatsoever. I can mime typing these numbers in without a number pad. That is how ingrained often this care is used. They love me so much that they more than quadrupled my original limit. I was horrified at this removal of one spending barrier. It's a slippery slope, my friends. A slippery slope indeed.

I am now known quite well amongst certain circles of my endless string of embargos, which are promptly broken whenever I encounter a new pretty/shiny/awesome thing-that-I-must-have-immediately. A couple of weekends ago it was cufflinks (so awesome!), before that it was more Threadless shirts, preceded by random gadgetry, preceded by a new jacket, preceded by new shoes, and so on. Each of these purchases resulted in my claiming an embargo. None lasted for more than ten days. In fact, after the cufflinks, I declared embargo. This was the last weekend of August. On Wednesday, I ordered a couple of shirts online. (They arrived yesterday. SO FAST! But also too big, alas, they must be exchanged.) So I am declaring embargo again.

OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT
I am on embargo until my car is one year old or when it hits 10,000 miles, whichever comes first. I'm currently at about 9100 miles, but I've been quite stingy about driving lately, so the former option will likely come first. Hopefully, this embargo will take hold. If all goes well, my desires for things will try their best to escape from the confines of my mind, much like starving Cubans brave the terrible sea for the shores of Florida.

Pray for me. And for my wallet.


* Assuming that I actually overcome a set of conditions that makes this a semi-unreachable goal.
** I absolutely refuse to pay interest on anything though. So I must gain control by then.