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 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Turning from the Dark Side ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** < This is where I'll insert a cool new blog description. Someday. > |
I promised mood indigo  I'd do this survey. I might do the longer one too, but it all depends on how effectively I can procrastinate today.If I were a... 1. Month: December 2. Day of the week: Friday 3. Fime of day: 1PM 4. Planet: Jupiter 5. Sea animal: Killer Whale 6. Direction: North 7. Piece of furniture: Couch 8. Historical figure: Richard the Lion-Hearted 9. Liquid: Anti-freeze 10. Stone: Marble 11. Tree: Red Oak 12. Bird: Albatross 13. Tool: Sledgehammer 14. Flower/plant: Cactus 15. Kind of weather: Clear winter day, 40 degrees 16. Musical instrument: Trombone 17. Animal: Polar Bear 18. Color: Forest Green 19. Emotion: Anxious 20. Vegetable: Potato 21. Sound: Grumble 22. Car: Chevy Avalanche 23. Song: "The Star Spangled Banner" by Francis Scott Key 24. Poem: "The Hungry Bear That Goes with Me" by Delmore Schwarz 25. Food: Roast Beef 26. Place: My office 27. Material: Wool 28. Taste: Bittersweet 29. Religion: Calvinist 30. Word: Problematic 31. Object: Fencepost 32. Body part: Shoulders 33. Facial expression: Grimace 34. Subject in school: Math 35. Cartoon character: Darkwing Duck 36. Shape: Trapezoid 37. Number: Three |
| I got a good night's sleep last night. I suspect I had plenty of dreams, but only one of them is memorable. Most likely it was influenced by the only two ladies I got to see in a bra and panties last night. It was one of those dreams that you can't recognize as a dream because you're so deep in slumberland and the images are so clear. It was also one of those dreams you're damn glad that you think is real. In fact, when you finally wake up, you wish you were still dreaming. Granted in this case I'm just as happy to wake up with Jodi lying beside me, but in the dream she wasn't asleep. I was walking down a corridor somewhere, and Jodi popped out of a doorway wearing nothing but a towel. Ah, the first woman I saw in underwear last night. She pulled back the towel and beckoned me to follow her into the shower. I shall not go into detail with this dream, despite my storytelling instinct demanding that I do so. Suffice it to say the dream thus far was true to life, and I was fully enjoying it. The details are none of your damn business. I followed her into a huge stall-like shower with blue walls and a single shower head in the center of the stall. Jodi shed her towel as I began stripping down. But we weren't alone. Already letting the water run over her body was the second woman I had seen in bra and panties last night. I won't bother to describe her either. You've probably all seen her anyway. In fact, I saw her not once or twice, but at least three times in her underwear last night. The season finale of "Desperate Housewives" certainly did not have a video shortage of Eva Longoria in her lacy unmentionables. Although in my dream she wasn't even wearing those. My dreamself found the whole thing somewhat ironic since I'm not all that attracted to her. Though I definitely wasn't going to object to her presence in our shower. Nor did I object when Jodi and Eva decided to shower together. In fact I was a rather enthralled observer as they soaped each other up and rubbed each other down. I can't remember the dream clearly enough to remember if passionate kissing was involved, but for the sake of my typical guy imagination and my reader's fascination I'll pretend that there was. Full mouth to mouth kissing. Maybe even a little tongue. Though I had ceased undressing to watch this spectacle, my clothes miraculously vanished. Around this time I realized I was dreaming, and though that barely lessened the enjoyment, it did wonders for erasing my inhibitions. I moved in closer just as they began grinding against each other in stripperesque glory. Soon my hands were a part of the slippery-smooth tangling and groping. And then my damned alarm clock went off. Isn't that how it always happens? Shit. I told Jodi about the dream immediately. Now I just have to convince her that we can at least reenact two thirds of the dream. Frankly that last third doesn't interest me even a fraction of how much Jodi's third interests me. |
| I've been at work for about 2 hours now, and not a minute has gone by that I haven't been pining. I miss her something fierce today. Monday's are always the worst, presumably because they follow continuous weekend time together. Today is especially bad though. That C-note she sent this morning is probably the culprit. It made me all mushy and gooey inside, in a good way mind you, but now I can't focus. My mind is functioning, but it's plagued with images of cuddling and caressing. Someone better entertain me today or I'm going to make you all nauseous talking about my amazing wife-to-be. |
I've been perusing the entries in my "Invalid Item"  contest. Now I remember why I don't tend to host contests. Thank goodness this one will take all of 30 seconds to judge, because I don't think I could waste more than 10 minutes of my time on mind-numbing entries. If these entries were coming in as short stories I'd be sending out suggestions to go back to school and graduate the fifth grade. Granted there are a few gems in there, but overall the entries are horrifying. The only positive I can draw from it is the validation I get from being reminded just how much smarter, funnier, and wittier I am than a large portion of the population. I hate tooting my own horn, except when farting, but... I take that back; I love tooting my own horn. Yes, a few of the entries are clever and made me laugh, and some are downright hilarious, but the others... I think my IQ dropped thirty points just from reading them. I suppose I endanger my chances of ever running another successful contest by writing this entry, but frankly I don't care. It's embarrassing to all the Writing.com people with more than six brain cells. For the handful of funny ones, there are at least as many that my dog Zeus could have pissed in the snow. In writing this though, I just came to a revelation. Glancing over my "Invalid Item" contest I noticed a whole slew of clever and hilarious "entries." There are also some people who completely missed the point and wrote utter crap, but the hilarity far outweighs the crud for that "contest." I put contest in quotes because I think everyone knows by now that it's just a joke, not a real contest. If you didn't realize that, I'd suggest finding a way to trick the mule into kicking you in the head a second time. It might jar things back into place. If you donated Gift Points to that contest, you either realized the hilarity of the parody and thought it should be rewarded, or you're a brainless dolt that thought you'd be kind and contribute to a newbie's contest. For the first group, I'd like to say thank you for appreciating a clever mockery. For the second group, I'd like to point out that there's a sucker born every minute. But I digress... That "contest" has a whole slew of clever entries. The Chuck Norris is an abysmal showing thus far. So what's the difference between the two, besides the obvious content? The answer is simple: Gift Points. The Slacker contest is a pure parody that offers no discernible prizes. The Chucky boy contest is the real deal, a humorous activity that rewards the best of the best with Writing.com's favorite form of currency. And that of course means one thing: the money-grubbing shitheads are all over it. Granted not all, or even most, of the entries in the Norris contest are from Gift Point whores, but several certainly are. They're the same assclowns that leave idiotic, and often painfully short and incoherent entries in every GP-rewarding contest they can find. They need their GP fixes, so they throw as much non-coordinating crap together that they can and stuff it into a forum post in a horrid effort to win GPs. The depressing thing is sometimes they actually win. On occasion they are the only ones to enter a contest and win by default. Worse yet, some contests are hosted by idiots who really aren't qualified to read bed-time stories to their unfortunate children. They'll pick winners from the host of craptacular entries with no rhyme or reason. So because these GP whores win now and again, we reinforce their behavior. We encourage their shitty ass entries that our three-year-olds could have scribbled on the back of Pizza Hut placemats. Contests all over Writing.com are riddled with these greedy time wasters. As a judge, I ignore them. Yup, I do. I'm not the least bit impartial when it comes to their entries. I glace at the first two lines, peg them for the GP whores they are, and move on to the next entry. I have no qualms whatsoever about saying this, because the only possible result could be I offend them, and they stop entering my contests. That's win-win for me. But guess what; they won't get offended and they won't stop entering all the contests. They're too dumb to spot a blatant insult, and they're too damned greedy to give up their GP-grubbing ways. I could call them a babbling imbecile right to their face, and they'd give me some quizzical look, mention something about it not being very nice, and then tell me what a bad day they're having and how they entered my contest. (Speaking of which, ever notice how these morons always also tell you they just entered your contest? As if you couldn't see that for yourself.) That's the one thing to love about stupid people. Without them, life wouldn't be quite so annoying, but it wouldn't be as much fun either. |
| Ah, yes, it's that one day of the year where I try to act like I'm a good son but inevitably fall flat on my face because I have no clue what my mother, or any mother for that matter, would want on this most exalted of holidays. When we were little, my father would buy mom plants on our behalf. Hanging plants were cool, but sometimes, most times actually, he'd buy plants and flowers that needed to be planted. Our duty as mom's kids were to then help plant them. Entering adolescent manhood is not a good time in your life to enjoy planting flowers with your mom all day on a Sunday. I had TV to be watching, comic books to be reading, and Sega Genesis games to be playing. It cramped my style. I rebelled against it, as any teenage boy is wont to do. Looking back on it, it was a pretty rotten thing to do. But the truth is I did plenty of rotten things back then. That's just what boys do. After that came years of overpriced and extravagant Mother's Day gifts. I refused to buy the cliche hanging and/or potted plants, partly because it seemed so unoriginal and cold to me and partly because I had no clue which plant my mother would have wanted. I don't know a good plant when I see one. Nor do I know what colors go with what. So instead I'd get my mom something expensive that I knew she wanted or I'd get her some gift certificate to one of those home stores she loves so much. Sometimes I couldn't think of a suitable gift, so I wouldn't get her anything at all. My father would always make sure I felt like total shit on those days. Just to spite him I'd act like I didn't want to get her anything and didn't figure she wanted anything. It was on the bottom scale of rotten, but Beckwith men have a healthy dose of pride. The truth is I just didn't know what to get, and I was too damned embarrassed to admit it. This Mother's Day things are a bit tight, so I had to get creative. My damned sister was boasting about the rotisserie oven, or however the hell you spell that, she got for my mom. I could have bought that too if I had no bills and the US government was sending me checks to pay for schooling. Come to think of it, that's exactly the situation I was in back in college. That's not the case anymore though, so instead I offered to cook my famous shrimp scampi for dinner, a treat my mother has not yet experienced. Tonight Jodi and I are going over with the shrimp et al, and hopefully I'll score some points on the mediocre son scale. I know it's not nearly good enough for the "good son" scale, but I figure it's at least mediocre. The coup de grace though is the farting monkey card I got her. Beat that, you fancy rotisserie oven! On a side note, I noticed that elizm446's handle today is "Mia loves her mommy." Mia has a mother? I honestly thought she was just spawned somewhere or crawled out of a swamp one day or something. I guess I just thought her "birth" was analogous to some kind of fungus. |
Friday night was poker night. I play poker as many Friday nights as I can. But getting a game together isn't always easy. Sure enough, this Friday was lacking in the usual players. It turned out that was rather fortunate, because I was able to parlay Friday night into a heads-up match for all the marbles. I wasn't playing money, which is also lucky because I would have lost every dollar bill I had. Though I would have been paying for lap dances instead of bets.  By now you're no doubt very confused, which is exactly where I like my readers. At this point though you should be thankful for the confusion, because in the grand scheme of things it's not so bad an emotion when weighed against things like nausea, revulsion, and horror. Of course that's where I'm going with this. Friday afternoon Jodi and I met after work and did a little shopping. We bought an oversized deck of cards at Target. The cards are easily three times as large as a standard playing deck. We figured playing poker with this near-sighted deck would be amusing. But the problem is we didn't have a game to play since everyone was out and about or lying sick in bed. Bastards. I had to try the new cards out though. That meant playing a heads-up match in the comfort of our living room. But how does a young couple, soon to be married, play heads-up poker and manage to keep it interesting? I shuffled the oversized deck, divied out a nice share of poker chips, and poured us some wine. Jodi had to be a little tipsy to play strip poker. I on the other hand knew I don't lose at poker. The rules were simple. We were ultimately playing for chips. The player with all the chips at the end was the winner. My prize was to be a private dance, and hers was a full body massage. But just to make it interesting, each hand that was shown down by both players resulted in the removal of one item of clothing. The poker was fast and furious and I was running over the table. I was scooping all the big pots and folding before the river on the cheap ones. One hand I looked down at 5 2 and tried to bluff my way to victory. Jodi called me before the flop, on the flop, and on the turn. The river fell and was I still only holding 5 high. She checked to me, and I weighed the options. If I bet, how much could I bet? A small to medium bet and she'd call, forcing me to turn over my bluff and shed my pants. If bet a huge amount, she'd likely fold. But suppose she called? Then I'd be shedding my pants and looking for the massage oils. Truth be told I like giving those massages and it was win-win for me either way, but I like to win too damned much. So I did the only thing I could do. I threw my cards into the mark. I could have checked and thrown no more chips in, but then my pants were coming off. So I tossed my hand away and let her take the pot. Not a good strategy in real poker, but in strip poker I'd call it ingenious. Sometimes my genius even amazes me. I whittled Jodi down to a tiny pile of chips and a large pile of clothes on the floor. And then I took pitty and slow-played two pair. She caught a straight on the river and doubled up. And then she doubled up again. And again. Cards started falling her way. The wine was setting in and she got aggressive. I mean at poker, you perverts! She started stealing pots from me. I could read her and put her on a hand, but I just didn't have the cards to call her. Pretty soon my pile of clothes was getting bigger. It culminated in the greatest hand I've ever played. Jodi had made a huge comeback and had almost pulled even with me in chips. I was in the big blind with 2 4 of spades. Jodi called the big blind, and the flop came down 3 6 4, with two spades. I had flopped middle pair with a flush draw. Jodi bet out into the pot. Normally with that kind of hand and that kind of draw I would have raised an aggressive opponent. But this time I chose to smooth call because I had the sense that Jodi had something and I wasn't going to push her off the hand. The turn came down a 5 of spades. Only hours of poker playing against thousands of opponents kept me from bursting as I made my straight flush, only the third one I've made in my life. I had the nuts. And only a higher straight flush could beat me on the river. The chances of that happening were almost nill. She bet out into me, and I smooth called again. I thought about raising, but I wanted her to take one last stab on the river. I don't remember what the river was, but she bet into me a third time. I thought about it for a minute, trying to determine how I could extract the most from her chip stack. I looked her square in the face, that same face that mesmerizes me and makes me warm inside every time I see it. She was more than a bit tipsy by now, having downed her second glass of wine. We were both also more than ready for the post-game celebration, and I saw what I needed in her expression. She was in this hand big time. She had something and she wasn't going to give it up. I calmly said "All in" and prayed she'd call. Almost immediately she called. I didn't even wait to see her cards before I announced "I've got a straight flush," and I flipped my cards over. She exclaimed some curse word and said "I have a straight." We counted out the chips, and I had her covered, even in her uncovered state. Before we even got an official count on her chips, I was dimming the lights and lighting the candles. What happened after that is none of your freakin' business! Suffice it to say it was the best poker game of my life. |
| Mwahahahaha! You clicked on the link to this blog thinking I actually updated didn't you? Sucker. I actually don't have an entry for you. Life is exceedingly happy, and I don't have anything to write about except the daily routine. Some people think that they just need to keep writing during those spells, detailing the day's events and expressing their general demeanor. I have just one word for that: boring. I refuse to bore my readers with regaling tales of paint drying, uneventful family visits, heart-wrenching tales of exercise, etc. Some people need to write about that stuff just to keep writing, and they should. It's their journal afterall, and the point of a journal is to record life during the course of the journal. It's a writing exercise, a record-keeping activity, and a cathartic experience for some. But that ain't my blog. My blog is for my readers. My blog is meant to entertain. I've never written for myself, and I likely never will. Yeah, yeah, I'm a selfless guy, I know. In any case, this blog is dedicated to entries readers enjoy, not ones they skim because they're bored to tears, not ones that prompt cheesy little blog comments that include phrases like "I hope," "hang in there," "Wow," "Congratulations," "Way to go," etc. That's just not me. So until I come up with something interesting to write about, deal with it. Take solace in the fact that those "Update Your Blog" emails are really starting to piss me off. In my blog hiatus, I've been reading a lot of other blogs. It would seem that no one is very entertaining of late. I've found that happiness is great to experience but doesn't make for good reading material. That's why I make it my mission to piss people off. Anger, now that's entertaining. My instigating behavior is a great service to blog readers everywhere. My mission has been failing of late though, so I've decided to bring the entertainment to me. Get to work:
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| For those of you atending convention, I don't do hugs. In fact, if I don't like you, I'm much more likely to spit in your eye just because I can. *cough* Mia *cough* |
| We're taking problematic content on the road and spreading the good word... or whole slew of profane and inane words, as the case may be. Jodi's going to let me out of my cage this summer and even take away the electric collar. (Please remember that those are purely metaphors, not twisted doggy bondage references.) We're taking a road trip. Convention 2006 here we come! She went behind my back and contacted The StoryMaster  about registering for the Convention late. She's figured out a way we can attend, and after a promising conversation with her supervisor today, we're planning our July weekend of mayhem. I was sleighted to go to Convention 2005 and even paid most of the fees, but a cancer scare with my mom and some severe depression put an end to that. Fitting that my first and only convention would be with Jodi.The reason for this entry is three-fold. Firstly, I'm excited and so I simply had to chronicle it. Secondly, I'm at my parents house while Jodi is gallavanting with my sister and her friend over some ridiculous dancestep video. I can hear the banging upstairs as they practice their best Britney Spears imitations. She asked me if I wanted to learn too, but I've already split the crotch out of enough of my pants running for fly balls. Besides, my parents' house doesn't have steel girders supporting the second story. Finally, I'm warning all the other convention attendees. Prepare for at least a couple problematic episodes. They might be as simple as inappropriate nose pickings or flagrant sarcasm, but at least once I'm promising something problematic. And don't try to fool me; you'd be disappointed if I didn't do something. I'll probably embarrass Jodi, so I'm sure she'll rein me in a little. It amazes me how embarrassed she gets when I start belting out Elton John songs in the grocery store or when dance in the aisles of KMart in typical uncoordinated, white guy fashion. I don't think she approves of the shopping cart races either. Perusing the list of attendees, I don't see too many familiar names, which is unfortunate, but I do recognize just enough to be fun. I also see some names that I'll probably piss off. It's going to be so freakin' awesome. There's a lot of poker players in there too, and I'm working on Zoo - Salted and Roasted to forsake his family ties and bring he and Marv, which is even more poker fodder. We simply must get a game going. I'll even play for play money, something I really don't do anymore. Those after hours when everyone is drunk off their gourd and elizm446 is making passes at the coat rack just before she passes out on the salad bar, I'll be boring people with poker minutia and swapping strategies. Normally when I do that around here, it's usually to my brother who generally punches me in the gut when he gets sick of it. I don't think anyone at Convention will do that... actually a brawl would be pretty cool. A great big Writing.com mosh pit. This thing is so going to rock! Huh? Oh, Jodi just told me that doesn't happen. Wusses. They haven't met me yet.  |
| This entry prompt came from Shannon, but you all already know that because you've seen it a million places already. Nonetheless it's rather creative and I'm sick of those damned Update Your Blog emails, so here it goes. Please excuse her disturbing lack of capitalization. I could amend it I suppose, but frankly I'm too lazy. to start, travel backward through the history of your journal and choose the entries numbered 6, 25, 74, 120, 182, 199, 201, 239, 276, 344, 361 and 398. (if you don't have enough entries in your current journal, you can either use a previous journal that's been filled, or modify the numbers i've chosen--by changing or removing the digits in the hundreds place--to generate numbers that'll work for you.) 6: "Invalid Entry" 25: "Invalid Entry" 74: "Invalid Entry" 120: "Invalid Entry" 182: "Invalid Entry" 199: "Invalid Entry" 201: "Invalid Entry" 239: "Invalid Entry" 244: "Invalid Entry" 261: "Invalid Entry" 276: "Invalid Entry" 298: "Invalid Entry" now, the questions. this thing, obviously, is designed to inspire genuine reflection on your life as it extends beyond and is manifested in your journal, so be honest. roar. without opening entry 6, see if you can remember, from its title alone, what the entry was about. That's obvious. I still haven't completely mourned the death of my grandfather. I was the rock the family leaned on, and until Jodi came along all the emotions I was experiencing myself were dealt with internally. I was the strong one, who suppressed that sadness and pain, and I likely always will be. Unless one day I pass that infamous Ernie Beckwith trait onto my son. copy the last sentence of entry 25. use it to start off a new paragraph, one that's relevant today. Anyway, I know you won't read this--I doubt very much if you can read--but know that you have not been overlooked. And always remember that Chuck Norris is watching you. if you sealed entry 74 in an envelope and mailed it to your twelfth grade english teacher, what would (s)he say? I always suspected Mr. Davis, with his absurdly proper presence and immensely dry sense of humor, would be amused by anything that poked fun at people of questionable principles. In this case I conducted an experiment to weed out the greediest of the greedy. That might have amused him. On the other hand, he likely would have chastised me for the poor delivery, marked off 10 points for a missing comma, and wrote in flawless red script "problematic content." Yes, it is Edgar Davis that gave me my moniker and a ridiculous love of correct comma usage. what extraneous details do you remember about the day you wrote entry 120? I remember parking my car in a nearby lot after leaving work and talking to Jodi on my cellphone for hours. Actually, for the months of August through December that's all I really remember. It happened almost every day and was the most important part of my life during that time. what has changed about your life since you wrote entry 182? what's the biggest difference between then and now? What hasn't changed? I'm out on my own with my amazing fiancee, and I've never been happier. I've got all new responsibilities and a very different outlook on life. As the last paragraph indicated, I need some help in completely changing my perspective, in seeing things in greys instead of black and white. I've improved, but I still have a long way to go. And I was right about finding the person that could help me do it. Jodi has helped me grow in more ways than I thought possible. I'm extremely fortunate to have her in my life. Thank you, baby.  rewrite entry 199 as a haiku. You're kidding right? do you stand behind the sentiments that inspired entry 201? I do. I miss my grandfather every day, and I still wish I had his guidance in some things. More than anything I do hope I'm making him proud. On the other hand, the world is not such a dark place anymore. I've come to grips with a lot of things, and guidance is something I don't need a whole lot of anymore. However, those two days are no longer the best days of my life; they're only near the top of the list. Each day I hold her is better than the last, and the day she "yes" has clearly been the greatest day of my life. When we say our vows and I give her my name, I'm sure that will be the new greatest day of my life. Likewise, when and if we ever bring a new life into this world, I suspect that will exceed all the previous days. what happened right after you wrote entry 239? Well, how fortuitous that I randomly chose one of the entries that means the most to me. It's all of two sentences, but it was a new beginning for both of us. I wrote it after we cried and hugged and called our families... and did other things.  I wrote it while she was getting ready, and immediately after we went out to dinner to celebrate. I had the Admiral's Platter at the Weathervane in Waterville, Maine. What followed involved a lot of hand holding and gazing into one another's eyes. That was the greatest day of my life.rewrite entry 244 as a limerick. Hmmmm, this one could be a funny limerick. Although, if I wouldn't write a haiku, what makes you think I'd write a limerick. Maybe I'll have Jodi write one for me. how do you feel after rereading entry 261? Hungry and bored. It's a classic PC entry, but this little activity is starting to bore me. It's hard being this serious and reflective for this long. if the following people--your mother, your significant other, a young child you know and a mental health professional--walked in on your computer with entry 276 displayed on the monitor, what would each one say? Figures I'd pick a piece of crap entry. This thing is just freakin' lyrics for crying out loud. Ah well, it must be the karmic response to picking the "Yes" entry as well. Mother: I used to listen to the Monkeys sing this. Jodi: Awwww, baby... I love you. Luke: Ite! (I'm not sure what it means, but apparently it can be bite, light, or any number of words rhyming with kite.) A shrink: But how does that make you feel? for a new reader, would entry 298 be a good introduction to your journal? is it an accurate representation of the way you write and your usual subject matter? The title is "Invalid Entry" . How ironic that I chose a survey for this question. How ironic that it might possibly be one of the worst surveys ever. How ironic that it was filled out during moments of extreme boredom. I take that last one back. I'm often bored, so there's nothing really ironic about that. Upon reading the survey I realize that at least the reader would see some of my sense of humor. It's full or snide remarks, exaggerations, ridicule, irritation, and sarcasm. In truth, the half-assed completed survey is rather problematic. I suppose that counts for something. So does the survey introduce the reader to me? I suppose it does on a few levels. Is it an accurate representation of the way I write or the subject matter I typically use? Not by a longshot. what has reading through past entries brought back for you? Sadness, grief, memories of a dark time in my life, curiosity, humor, and finally the culmination of all my hopes and dreams coming to fruition. It brought back the funeral, the eulogy, the thoughts and planning of suicide, when we first started talking, the day we met, and the day she said "Yes." My blog has been a tumultuous roller coaster of emotions, one that finally came to settle in the lull of love and happiness. Does this mean I've completely turned from the Dark Side? Nay, still some fears nag at me, some bouts of negativity arise, some unbearable moments of stress, pain, and anger sprout up. I still have much to learn, but I am not the same person that created this blog not quite a year ago. |
I haven't seen her in 7.5 hours and already I miss her.  Wasn't this longing and pining supposed to get easier? |
| If you read my blog, you're already familiar with the contest of the century, which earned its name by being the first contest that will likely last a century. Believe or not I've received donations. Apparently my somewhat unethical and not so subtle request for gift points did not fall on deaf ears. Rather it fell on the ears of suckers or simple humorists. One such humorist, a blue case who shall remain nameless, pledged 5000 gift points to the cause, a generous donation that came with a scathing and/or encouraging review, depending on your interpretation. Later today he apparently learned for the first time that the contest was not entirely serious and the rules and guidelines appearing there were actually quite accurate. He demanded his money back in a manner that was both suggestive and humorous, but not entirely good-natured. Having had a grand chuckle at his expense, I returned the GPs swiftly. Being able to write about it here was well worth the withdrawal. It seems my contest is a gold mine though, especially for those who, fittingly, are slacking too much to read all the rules. |
| My head is pounding, as it has been all morning. It's one of those migraines that's not going to go away. Of course it would start just before I arrive at work. I think it's a result of making the 50 minute commute whilst trying to keep my eyes open. I'm exhausted this morning. I've haven't gotten much sleep the last three nights, and apparently it's starting to catch up with me. I'm not sure how many times I woke up while driving this morning and had to swerve back into my own lane. Those incidents always seem scarier than they really are though. You feel your eyelids getting heavy, and next thing you know you're snapping awake and yanking the steering wheel to straighten a car that's only drifted an inch over the yellow line. In reality you've only been "asleep" for a fraction of a second or marginally more, but it's one of those scary things that leaves you shaking for a moment or two, or at least until you start falling asleep again. I hate that. I just mistyped half of that last paragraph. They weren't typos really, but incorrect word usage. By that I mean I typed several real words that made no sense in the context of the sentence. I'm so out of it. I keep pausing and feeling like I'm dreaming. Maybe I'm having a brain aneurysm. I wonder if I spelled that right. Normally that's something I'd take the time to look up, but right now it hurts just to look at the monitor. If this migraine doesn't fade soon, I may have to call it a day. Though frankly I dare not drive home in this state. More likely I'll park my van somewhere and take a nap if the pulsing vein in my forehead will allow it. But I won't, because I detest leaving work early. I hate chickening out. I'll tough it out, be miserable all day, and go home and attempt to crash on the couch. The last bit isn't likely to happen, but it might. Jodi called and said I forgot my lunch. I never even noticed. It's not surprising really, considering I was falling asleep at the apartment before he opening the door to leave. When I finally fell into a deep sleep early this morning, the alarm clock went off, leaving me into a completely bewildered state of unrest and exhaustion that I doubt Jodi has gotten to see yet. Being yanked out of the first deep sleep in three days is a migraine just waiting to happen. I'll be battling sleep deprivation all day; that's just how it goes when I wake up in that state. Right now I think I'm going to lay my head on this desk, close my eyes, and pray for the pain to subside. Someone will ask me what's wrong and tell me to go home, probably Carrie, the programmer. I'll ask for some Advil Migraine, pretend to be okay, and go on with my morning tasks while battling the overwhelming urge to pass out. |
Jedi Moose asked if I was going to enter his contest. I explained that would require writing, thereby wasting my procrastinating talents. I realized it was high time someone have a contest for procrastination. I've hosted contests for my LL&L group before, but I'm finally hosting a contest all my own:
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| Jodi's family arrived Sunday night, after we spent countless hours cleaning and preparing. We spent Monday with them, and our families met up for hot dogs and hamburgers. Our fathers hit it off, primarily because they're both sportsman that don't like taking their hat off in the house. Jodi's year old nephew Luke got pawed in the face with a massive Zeus paw, but otherwise nothing eventful happened. We did learn that Zeus adores small children and followed Luke around the house. He'd sit beside Luke and let him pet him like a big teddy bear. He'd slobber on him too, but I'm sure Luke is used to a little drool on his face. And now for something completely different... Since there wasn't much to blog about and I've no desire to keep getting those annoying "Update your blog" emails, I'll rant about American Idol for a bit. It's on again tonight. I only watch it because I'm in the office pool though. Honest. Does anyone really think Eliot is good? I want to gouge my eyes out and stick cacti in my ears when he performs. It's not that he's a bad singer per se; it's just that there is not one iota of entertainment value in him. Seriously now, who would buy his CDs? My guess is the same people that bought Fantasia and Ruben's CDs. We all know what a glaring success they were just for being such talented vocalists. And then there's Ace. How many more songs can he butcher with that ridiculous flaming, fairy falsetto at the end? (Look at that, he's so crappy I even used alliteration to demean him.) Thank goodness the number of the 13 year old girls voting isn't sufficient to keep him around much longer. Is it just me or is he a really wussy, pretty boy version of Shaggy from Scooby Doo? Chris is still the only contestant of any season who's worth the time it takes to download his bootleg MP3s. Although the disturbing eye shadow he wore while performing Queen creeped me out even more then Kelly's "Resident Evil" cameo. For that matter, even Chris's music is getting a little old. It's almost the same thing every time. I daresay I'm becoming a Taylor Hicks convert, just to see him find a new way to embarrass himself each week. That guy is a riot, unintentionally so. Soul Patrol! Wow, that's all I got. I'm so freakin' bored. |
| Shannon wrote the following prompt in her journal: for your next journal entry, write about the stupidest thing you've done over the course of the past year; the regrettable act of which you are the least proud; your number one violation of your own system of values. Well, I've got one. Last June I killed a man just to watch him die... and I liked it. Go ahead and beat that, Shannon. Go ahead and put that in your mouth and chew on it. It's delicious. That's right. It was premeditated too. He was some loser from work, and every day he irritated me by asking to borrow pencils. I don't even really remember his name, but there was an R in there somewhere. That little bastard could have gone to the office supply and gotten all the pencils he wanted, but instead he kept borrowing mine. And did he ever give them back? Never! Well, sometimes he didn't, but not enough! Back in the day, which was of course a Wednesday, he'd give them back all chewed up and with the eraser slanted on one side. I hate slanted erasers. Why couldn't that balding fucker erase from both sides to keep it even? I called him on it, and he started giving them back with unchewed wood, sharpened points, and well-proportioned erasers. But still... One clear June day he borrowed a pencil and gave it back... with a slanted eraser. That drew the line. I knew what I had to do. My values and my instincts battled in my psyche, and I was tormented by dreams of death and imprisonment. He had crossed the line though. Besides, I had been wanting to stab a man with a pencil, any man really, for qute some time. So I followed him home. He liked to ride his bike, so I drove my van alongside him. The bastard drove so fucking slow. And he kept looking over at me in my van like I was some kind of lunatic. He had it coming. He cut down an alley and started pedaling faster, looking over his shoulder at me. He must have been trying to get to that gay bar down the street, and he didn't want me to see. I rode my van up over the curb and backed him into an alley. I got out of the alley with that fated pencil. What a fitting instrument of torture. I spun it around, slanted eraser first, and jabbed it in his eye. The damned rubber didn't go in. He didn't even have the courtesy to slant the eraser to a point. So I took off my shoe and beat him to death with it. Then I farted on his face for good measure. Did I regret it afterwards? Yeah, I almost did. It went against all my values. But we're talking about a slanted eraser here, people! So, if you must ask me, then... Yes, he deserved to die, and I hope he burns in hell! |
| Woah, someone anonymously gave me a "Invalid Item" . Apparently my immense contributions to W.com and the entertainment of its community is appreciated. Either that or someone is trying to drive me insane trying to solve the puzzle of anonymous gifts. More likely the latter. Hmmm, I had stuff I was going to say about this, but then I realized how pointless and unfunny it would have been. Mostly though I got lazy. At this point my readership should know me well enough to imagine all the back-patting comments and smartass musings, so you can fill in the blanks. And to whoever gave me this thoughtful gift... it's about time. Unless Mari got it for me, in which case I'd like to say, "Awww, thanks, honey. I love you. " Okay, I admit it; I just wanted an excuse to tell her I love her. I'm sappy that way. It's her second day of work, which means it's the second day of not chatting with her during the day. That equates to a whole lot of pining and missing. It's going to be a long day. |
| Everything you ever needed to know about the second coming... http://www.chucknorrisfacts.com |
| ... and my brother earned his fair share with the juxtapositioning of photos in his blog: http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=26857272&blogID=... If the link doesn't work because you're not a member or something, oh well. I'm going to detail the events of my rather eventful weekend anyway in another blog entry. |
| On March 7, 2006 I deposited $50 in PartyPoker. My account had been drained when I cashed out around Christmas time, and for the first time ever I embarked on a quest to play poker for financial purposes. Supporting two people's debt on a single income has taken its toll on me, and any extra cash would be much appreciated. Jodi starts her job Monday, so at this point making some extra bucks at poker isn't really a necessity. I look at it like this though: if I can play a few hours a week and make enough to pay the phone bill or cable bill that's some more spending money in our pockets. So now, rather than playing purely for recreation and competition, I'm playing poker with a financial goal. Yesterday was one month from the day I deposited that initial $50. I finished the month with $124, for a net profit of $74. Over the course of the month I got as high as $192, but plummeted all the way back down to $83. During that month I experienced some of my best and worst luck, so the average of the two extremes equated to more than doubling my money. All this playing $.50/$1 limit. A good poker player, one who is presumed to turn a nice profit, earns one big bet per hour. By a big bet I'm referring to the upper limit of a limit ring game. So basically, since I'm playing $.50/$1, I'm going to be a good player if I can earn $1 per hour. Yeah, I know it doesn't sound like much. That's why the professional poker players won't play less than $20$40 limit. But keep in mind that at these micro limits, players are so loose you're actually likely to do better. I'd hypothesize that playing optimally could earn you as much as $3-$4 per hour. Still a pittance less than minimum wage, but not completely worthless either, especially when considering I can play two or three tables at a time all whilst watching TV and sipping iced tea from the comfort of our living room. Over the course of the month I played a few hours here and there, something I need to document much better in the future for calculating my earning rate. I experienced several ups and downs, all of which poor Jodi got to experience indirectly when I ranted or bragged. How she puts up with me I'll never know. It was interesting to see her reactions too during that month. She thrilled in amazement as I turned $50 into $192 and then panicked as I dropped back down to $83. When the losing streak began, she tried convincing me to take a break. It's hard to explain to someone that taking a break only works to calm yourself and keep you from making mistakes. During that bad run of luck, I wasn't making mistakes. I know wasn't; I was playing nearly flawless poker but just didn't have anything to show for it. Eventually she convinced me to quit for a couple days because the stress of getting outdrawn on every hand was starting to wear me down. I took a couple days off, came back with only three days remaining until the one month mark, and proceeded to mop up again, though not to the extreme I had before. Hence I finished the month at $74 profit. Okay, so maybe that's not so much. I'm certainly not ready to quit my job and start playing $20/$40 limit. Frankly I'm too much of a coward to do that, and the stress of paying the rent during a bad run of cards could possibly kill me. As it is, March's bad run likely took two years off my life. But still, $74 is $74. I can make the phone and Internet bills with that. Even if I only make $50 a month, I've covered the phone or cable bill. All while I'm sitting at home on my laptop. I'd be doing that anyway. Instead I'd just be pestering the people in the W.com chatroom or Scroll. I'm sure they appreciate my new evening endeavor. Now the trick is keeping this up. Can I make $50 a month playing online poker? Every day I'm getting better. Every day my deision-making improves. Every day I get better at determining if a table is worth playing. So yeah, I think I can do it. Who knows, maybe I'll build a bankroll and start playing $2/$4 or even $3/$6. Then I could start buying groceries too. |
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Tooo rich...Love the tale....Would make a great comic for a local newspaper!!
