Overthunk

Someday, perhaps even before I die, or in 2036, auto-pilot for cars will be invented. Maybe then, I'll stop hitting people. It's not 2036 yet, though, and I'm still crunchin' metal. Over the course of my twenty years behind the wheel, I have sprinkled the byways of the greater Dallas area with glittering debris from collisions ranging from tiny to major, somewhere around a dozen times. Once, I fell asleep in the bank line and my foot slipped off the brake. I put a tiny, quarter inch crescent moon hole in a Lexus bumper. The guy reported it. Once, I slid down a wet hill in the rain into the back of a Ford F150. I had a Honda Civic. It was totaled. After that one, I was driving my rental car (which I nicknamed "La Cucaracha" because it was cockroach brown) down the freeway. Someone REAR ENDED THE RENTAL. At least that time it wasn't my fault. This time, however, according to the Necessary Evil Insurance Company, it was. See, I happened to be pulling out of a...

Lately, carrion vulture shadows from 17 years ago have been circling. Namely, when I was a dumbass college kid, I racked up some debt on some credit cards that I knew nothing about having and which were passed out like candy to young fools like me. Now, though, I understand, and I religiously pay everything on time and in full. Since then, I've bought a house, several cars, and have some brand new and better cards in my wallet now. I know my credit score, and it beats most people's. None of this is still on my credit report, which, to me, means nobody cares anymore except a few jackals looking for long-dead meat to sustain them. Thus, I'm not particularly motivated to take care of this, and even if I did, the original people I owed have long since written off my pittances on their 1991 federal taxes. My logic is, if I pay, I'm just giving money to people who aren't the people I wronged. Therefore, why do it? For awhile after I moved, I was in an information hidey ho...

or, not in Dutch, Five Odd Habits. Julie tagged me to list five odd habits I have. This is my FIRST TAG EVER. I am so proud. So here I go: 1. I usually cut my fingernails and toenails outside on my patio, because I think nail clippings are gross. 2. At restaurants, when I drink iced tea, I put Equal into my unsweetened tea, then fold the packets lengthwise, inserting them (and their ripped off tops) one into another into another like those nesting Russian dolls until they are all neatly in one long foldy piece. Then I roll the combined packets into a spiral shape and usually put it aside until I can put it into a used dish that will then be taken away. If I get a straw, I twist and twist the wrapper into a tight little twisty rope, which I then continue twisting until it twists around itself tighter and tighter. Sometimes, I tie it into knots repeatedly until I cannot tie anymore. If I don't like how the table is arranged, or if the spiral bound drink/dessert menu annoys me, I...

1. Joss Whedon 2. Marilyn Manson 3. J.D. Salinger Hack who most assuredly did not hit the big time: me.

She didn't mean New Wave MTV vests fashioned from violently vulcanized inner tubes. She meant "dancing with myself." A few weeks back, she mailordered some new "dancing shoes,"strumming shaky signals of ones and zeroes across a sticky web. She didn't like going to the "dancing shoe store," for she had abominable snowwoman feet. For days, she feared the discovery of the all too pretty "dancing shoes," for they would have caused alarm and disarray in polite company. There were three "pairs," a gluttonous number, one glass, one rubber, one plastic. Still, in her head she visualized all the ways, the steps, the positions, the pirouettes. Finally, the day arrived. Propped against the doorframe lay the box: intact. Inside she took the things, unable to wait any longer. Box torn asunder, ripped passionately apart, she put the "shoes" to their proper use. It had been too long since she danced this way. And it was good. Wuh uh ...

Firstly, if you like robot/love related webcomics, go here: http://dieselsweeties.com/ A caveat tho: Prepare to burn up a whole bunch of life-hours. There are hundreds of strips, and WAY cool shirts too. Oh yeah, the 12 minutes! The guy who makes diesel sweeties is rstevens . He has a livejournal . On November 4, he put a link to this 12 minute brain fuddling song?, called Intro-Introspection. If you want it, find it here . It's 12 minutes of song intros, mashed up together. It might make you insane. I'm on the 2nd listen and I can't decide if I want to hear it again or throw up. It's unnatural. It's kissing Pitt, Affleck, Ford, Damon, Clooney, Kravitz, Mortensen, McGregor, Ledger, Banderas, Bloom, and Wilson, and then walking away. I could go on, but that would just delay you a little more from indulging your morbid curiosity, like I did. If it gets too intense, just plug your ears and after 12 minutes, it will go away.

Isn't the finest art scrawled on a found index card in a frustrated moment of clothing failure?

The other day in math class, my cadre of padawans and I had a problem in which we had to figure out how many minutes old we were. They, being 8 or 9 years old, fell somewhere between 4 and 4.7 million minutes and change. I, however, have racked up 18,396,000 or so. 6,132,000 have been spent asleep (give or take). I've spent 12,264,000 or more listening to music. In the past decade and a half, I've probably spent 2 million or so online. I've probably spent at least 873,000 in a directly foul or negative mood, sometimes related to whatever happened online. A year is 525,600 minutes. In another 18 million minutes, give or take, this mounting pile of papery slices of time is going to go up in one big bonfire. Chris Martin tells me "everything's not lost" though. ------------------------------------------ "Can't stop the spirits when they need you / This life is more than just a read-through" -- Flea, Kiedis and Co.

is that while you're laboring over Crunchy Sweet Mixed Nuts, you tend to want to taste test them. A LOT. Non-Food Ingredients for Christmas baking: Rockin' CD (and player, as you can see) One? glass egg nog (only 420 calories each!) Hardcore self-discipline A large-print sign taped in a highly visible place that reads: IF YOU EAT ALL THE GIFTS, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOP AGAIN. If you're feeling classy, a chilled glass of pinot grigio. If it's further from payday, maybe a shot or 3 of the pumpkin schnapps left over from Halloween last year. Hope all y'all's gifting is going merrily!

I have invented a new marketing tool for cellphones. Observe: Living with a roommate/s? Do you have sexual relations? Do they? Then you need SPS: the Sexual Positioning System! Use this state of art device to alert your housing compadre to your or his/her sexual needs for the space ASAP! Never listen to your roommate's partner's dirty "skank calls" again! Order SPS now and be assured of a disturbance-free New Year's eve ass-gittin'! SPS: Position yourself to score!

To begin with, I deftly rent the body in half, slicing through its soft skin, the ruby contents spilling onto the floor. I chose one tool, then another, with which to do my dismembering. I thought it best to cut each of its parts loose with a sharp knife. Its lifeblood flowed into a bowl I had placed below the body for the purpose of catching the nutrient-rich fluids that, until recently, had sustained it. Each of the sections was then devoured. Not yet satisfied, I squeezed the innards mercilessly, greedily drinking the dripping blood one spoonful at a time. Finished, I cast the empty husk into the garbage bin and went to wash my hands of the sticky evidence.

A few posts back, I mentioned The Lady Who's Not Into Dogs. She has repeated her dramatics to the extent that now, she is my nemesis. If I were just a shade more evil, I could secretly snap her picture and post it here on the Internet for all to see, for she traverses the very ground outside my domicile right now as I type. Thankfully, a sliver of my honor remains, and I have suffered her to power walk another day, my friends. But that doesn't mean I have ceased to loathe her. For she hath, in the parlance of modern-day kitchen warriors, "kicked it up a notch." Now she walks not alone, but with a young man, some son or perhaps grandson of her lineage (I cannot logic why else a man of that age should accompany her on Sunday strolls at 8 am, although I shudder at my imagination's gibberings). As they walk, the man carries a staff of some kind of shiny metal with purple plastic rings at intervals. Though its appearance is silly, it is about 3 feet long and and at lea...

If you are reading this, then I am thankful for you, for you are assisting in this carnival of self-aggrandizing that we call a blog. Have a relatively safe, drunken-argument free holiday, all of you. And try not to hate your family on the drive home. I'll do the same. But no promises.

This is a Birth Control Pill Case, with alarm. The red script on the packaging says, "When Timing is Everything." Now, what I'm wondering is, just who was the target demographic for this item? Because what this item says to me is: "Don't forget again, you previously errant uterus." Of course, this particular dollar store stocks only the finest deeply offensive products. ------------------------------------- "You put yourself in stupid places / Yes I think you know it’s true / Situations where it’s easy to look down on you" -- A. Alexakis

This is my kind of joke. It's got a third grade sensibility. And it has nothing to do with any fermented grape juice I may or may not have ingested. ------------------------------------ The garbage man came early today. I heard his truck from inside the house so I threw on my robe and ran outside to catch him. He was pulling away from the neighbors curb when he saw me running waiving my arms. "Hey! Wait!" I said catching up to him. "Am I too late for the garbage?" He looked me up and down and said, "No, jump in."

Booze and drugs!!! That's what I hit the Super Wal-Mart today for!! Alright, fine, it was Primatene and pinot grigio.

I'm sick. Of work, and all its accompanying flamjamzytram, so I took today off. On the constitutional with Le Puggin this morning, I passed a woman walking with her shiny silver weights. As the puggin and I got within, oh, fifty paces or so, she began to froth at the mouth in this manner: " notintadogs I'mnotintadogs PLEASE I'mnotintadogs! " Now understand that this darling canine creature stands about 12 inches high at the very pinnacle of his velvet triangle ears. While he does rail against and steer the end of the retractable leash with all his might like some snuffling, furry kite, all his might ain't that much. He was nowhere near her, and I was already reeling him in. I said nothing, but every time I passed her on the circle track after that, I contemplated "accidentally" dropping the leash, loosing a slavering, gregarious toy hound upon her. (On the upside, now when Le Puggin annoys me, I can threaten to send him to the house of t...

Is to get this in response to your teeny-tiny-little-speck-of-hope-ass email: "I found someone. I'm in a relationship now for about 3 months. It's going pretty well. What have you been up to?" What's the moral of this sad, sad thing, kids? Avoid hope like the plague. Don't listen to Jesse Jackson. Kill hope like it was a rat-sized fire ant that burned a flag on your front lawn on the Fourth of July.

Is to somehow be present for a whole string of songs that are amazing, one of which was "Where Is My Mind?" by the folks above. (Which brings up the fact that another way to be badass is to start a song's vocals with "woooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!") This morning, I had a better idea for what this post would be about, but it slipped from my consciousness with the day's labors. Another way to be badass is to own, and wear, a pair of smart black boots. {One way to not be badass is to send an email to a man you haven't spoken to in some time, and feel bold and daring up until the instant you pull that "send" button trigger and it flies off into cyberspace, into that swamp of love, and you just hope your little crawdad trap of 25 words or less will pull in something nourishing.} ---------------------------------------- It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. e. e. cummings

The other day on my way home, my friend and I were driving behind this guy. Hay-toting trucks are a fairly common sight in our neck of the prairie, and everytime we see one, we shout, "HEY! HAY!" Getting closer, though, we realized: "Hey! That hay is just about to fall off that there truck!" Although we spent a couple seconds giggling at how "funnier n' crap" it would be to see someone crashing into hay and said hay exploding all over the road like some kinda dead grass blizzard, we soon thought, "Hey, that could be us behind that hay..." and "Hey, someone else would rear end us. Hey, that's not funny." So we pulled up next to the truck and my friend waved at the cowboy driver, who, from beneath his hat of straw, smiled, and said, "Hey." "HEY! You don't understand! HAY! Check yer HAY!" we hollered. But it wasn't any use. He kept tooling that duallie on down the road, and a couple blocks later he turn...