Disconnect Notice?

OK, so I just got home from the library awhile ago and there was a hand-addressed envelope in the mailbox. It was from Newfoundland Power. Due to the fancy cursive writing on the front, I was expecting something like an invitation to a birthday party for... electricity... or something. But nay, it was (as the title says) a disconnect notice for our power, set for tonight. I guess a guy had dropped by to inquire personally as to why the hell our bills were not being payed. You see, it's supposed to be our landlord's job to take care of the bills after we give him the money, but this notice brings up the pressing question: WHERE THE CRAP IS OUR MONEY GOING?!

But fear not, the landlord owns a few houses and used to actually live in this one himself, so we're thinking that the disconnect notice is a warning for one of his other properties. Hopefully that's the reason, but just in case, Coleman's preparing for the worst. He's currently wearing one of those little headlamp dealies, kind of like the ones coal-miners use. Yep... don't ask where he got it... Coleman has a lot of useless crap. Or rather, he's got useless crap that would be considered useless until some ridiculous situation like the current one comes about.

I'm going to enjoy some warm food while it's still feasible.

Chainlink

I was thinking...
Ever notice how chainlink fences in urbanized areas always have garbage clinging to them and lying around them. Well, walking to school today through a school field, I was thinking that, all-in-all, this makes for a pretty ugly environment. I got thinking about how much of an eyesore they were, and how much better these places would look without them -- as if the mess were a flaw of the fence.

And then I realized that there isn't anything particularly wrong with these fences themselves -- They just slow the blowing garbage long enough for us to see what slobs we really are.

What's wrong with me?!!?

Where's my spark?? You know... that little thing which allowed me write all that wonderful crap for the past year -- that little thing which allowed me to vent and rant on a regular basis -- purge my mind of the nonsense within? Where is it?
I don't know where the urge went... but it's loss, for me at least, can be expressed with one word: Tragic! Like a bashful squirrel in a pile of pancakes, I can't even form a decent metaphor anymore! Oh the shame!

...Well... at least I still have onomatopoeia. BAM BOOM WOOF POOP!

Hey -- Wait a sec...

That last one was't onomatopoeia... it was simply a childish noun... NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Onomatopoeia, have I lost you too???

Uh... yeah... OK, short recap -- This week is set to rape me, so I've got to get this out now:


This past Saturday was the Burke house Christmas party, and even though I'm not technically part of the house anymore, I was allowed to show up anyway... AS SANTA!!! I've got to say that it seems to me that whenever you're Santa, no matter who you are, you automatically feel like a pimp. Well, I guess that's wrong; I should hope that department store Santas don't feel like pimps, because with all those children around, that'd be sort of... gross. But I know I felt like a pimp. Bitches and Ho's indeed.

So anyway, when Martin gave me the cue to come over, I stopped working on my labs and bolted the whole length of the 10-minute run to Burke. I got there, put on the suit, and -- wait. The suit needs a little aside. [This Santa suit was the mother of all ghetto-style suits I've ever come across. The only way it could have been more welfare were if it had been made entirely out of foodstamps. All we could find was the old hat and jacket, so we improvised a beard and pants, using synthetic snow and a pair of bright pink sweat pants which -- oddly enough -- we'd found in the corner of Martin's room.]

So, while banging a drumstick on a cowbell, I entered into the dimly lit downstairs lobby where everyone was "socializing" (ie. getting their booze on). As soon as I came out, all the drunks started yelling and crowding and touching. As I squinted above my mustache and tried to make sense of all the drunk-talk that was flying around, my first thought was this: "I am WAY too sober to be here."

But it worked out! It was actually so much fun giving out the presents, even in the stone-sober state I was in at the time. And then after that, there was bunny-juice. Good times. So all in all, it was a good night.

Oops, I thought that I'd explained bunny juice on this blog already, but when I went to link it, I couldn't find anything. Here's the quick down-and-dirty. If you're one of the lucky 12 who are picked to make bunny-juice for Christmas party, this is what you do:

• Take $1000 in hard liquor and pour it into a recycling bin
• Everyone takes a shot (called the death pill).
• Pour in $100 in concenterated juice mix, Tang, and fruit slices (this is done in waves, taking a shot after each addition until all the juice mix is added).
• Stir the whole shebang with a giant wooden paddle.
• Serve chilled.

I did this last year and it was SO much fun! You have like 20 shots of progressively weaker drink, and by the end you don't know how to pronounce your own name. Only in residence...

Sorry if this is a tad incoherent, but it's rushed, owing to the fact that I've got to get back to work. No time to proffread! ... heh... I'm so tongue-in-cheeky.

Later peoples-who-still-read-this!

So as I've mentioned before, I live by an elementary school. This makes it so that I'm constantly re-exposed to all the wonderful stimili that grammar school had to offer; the kids playing that game with the ball tied to a pole, children screaming and running in circles, the over-bearing parents picking up their offspring, and yes -- the elaborate system of bells.

As I was stepping out of the house earlier today, one of those obnoxious bells went off, and it got me thinking.
"I mean -- wasn't it just horrible how these kids were being trained? They've got them working under a static schedule, every destinations pre-ordained -- every room exitted and entered on the cue of a mechanical bell -- classically conditioned, like fucking Pavlov's dogs? How sad... Glad I'm past that."

And then, as I left the school behind and plodded on to my one o'clock class, I realized this: I had no reason to pity these kids. I was still on the same schedule -- I'd just been trained to do it without the bells.

See you on Sunday.

Things I've learned in the past 36-hour day:

• Everything is funnier when you're tired.
• A box of Ritz crackers and a pocket full of multivitamins is not a breakfast to go.
• When you're waiting through the last presentation before it's your turn in front of the class; when you've been up all night; when you have no doubt drank the equivalent output of 3 stalks of coffea shrubery -- it is at this point that muscle fatique will set in. And it will be muscle fatique of the spincter. You haven't experienced true public speaking anxiety until you've been forced to seriously contemplate your escape plan should you accidentally wet your pants while waiting your turn to present.

I'm heading to bed in a few minutes. I wonder how long you need to be asleep before it's technically considered a coma...

I am pumped about this sleep though. I'm going to be REM-ing in record time. Most pronto, indeed.

I plan on shattering the nap-snooze barrier -- picking up momentum as I'm propelled ever-so-quickly up through the known stages of sleep -- and as I cast aside the ragged alpha waves of this worldly tomb that is myself, I'll embrace the rhythmic comfort of the delta -- soaring silent-screaming from the safety of this cold hard substantial, into the soft abstract infinite of the coma-sphere.

God bless Psychology 1000. And beds. Always the beds.

Excuses, excuses...

This is really weird... I'm not sure why I haven't been writing much on this thing lately...

You see, usually I'm just chock full of cracked out ideas and musings, many of which any self-respecting monkey on methamphetamines would hastily repress. But lately, I just can't think of anything. That might be putting it the wrong way, cause it's not like I usually have to brainstorming session before plugging my thought into the good ol' computator -- I just think of things throughout the day which I have the urge to write about. In fact, I used to actually carry a notepad around sometimes, just so that I could jot down subjects (on a whim) which I felt needed my attention in blog format.

But as of late, I just haven't been having as many of those light-bulb moments. Kinda odd... wonder what the cause of this is...
Could it be the utter lack of sleep? Possibly. I'm lucky to get up to 6 hours nowadays, and more often than not, it's less...
Could it be that I'm maturing in a respectable member of society -- one who can concern himself only with serious and important matters such as his future and... the gross domestic product of Uzbekistan ($47.59 billion)? Highly unlikely. In case you're new to this scene, I licked a gas station this weekend.

So here I stand. Not sure why, but this slow pace may keep up for a little bit longer, to my chagrin. I'll write when it's in me, but I can't say how often that'll be. So if by chance you enjoy reading this shit, I'll just say this;

"I'm sorry. You'll just have to wait for my brain to starts working again..."

Or stops working, depending on how you look at it.

AND PS - In case anyone cares, I always try to respond to comments (so as not to be an ungrateful host), but I've fallen a bit behind lately. I will get back to them though!

Tom Green is ridiculous.

So I randomly checked Tom Green's blog because there was a link from Muchmusic, and I guess he's a hardcore blogger. He actually posted his real cell phone number and took a video showing how long it took for people to call, and he's been talking to strangers like non-stop on the phone for the last day! How cool is that? Seems like a really down-to-Earth -- if not exccentric -- thing to do... I'm going to see The Jimmy Swift Band play at Junctions tonight with Erica Stone, so maybe I'll try calling him while there...

By the time I'm sober, I'm probably going to regret posting this...

Dear Peoples,

I am drunk.

Sincerely,
Pat
--------------------------------
Today, I went out for the first time in like 2 weeks... it's been a long period of sobriety and sensibleness, but I figured it was a good time to put an end to all that crap.

Coleman and I invented a new game tonight. I'm not sure what to call it, cause now matter what, it will sound bad... but I suppose "The Licking Game" would do best. This game came about as me and him were walking to get pizza from Big Bite. I don't know exactly how it started, but the gist of it was that we'd take turns daring each other to lick different objects on the walk there and back. Here's the list of the stuff we licked during the course of the trip.

Coleman

• The pole of a street sign
• A parked SUV limosine
• The yellow flashing light at a crosswalk (he stood on my shoulders)
• a freaking dumpster
• the drive-thru speaker at Subway

Pat

• the side of a van
• the exhaust pipe of a parked car
• a bus sign like 7 feet up a telephone pole
• the Ford hood ornament of a car waiting at a red light
• the nozzel of the dispenser at a gas station

So yeah... if I start posting even less now, it's safe to assume that I've come down with some horrible, horrible disease. And before you talk about how stupid a game this was, let me just say that... OK, I got nothin'...

But this is funny... Oh, Vin Diesel -- you so CRAZY... (Props to Bert for finding this)

God hates everyone.

I have found indisputable evidence that God hates humanity:
He allowed for the invention of my nail clippers.

I don't have a picture of them, but take my word for it -- they truly are a cruel instrument. They're just like regular nail clippers, but they've got this little platic thing around them that catches your nail clippings.

Yeah yeah yeah, I know what you're thinking... sounds practical, don't it? Well, the catch-22 is that the little lid that holds your clippings inside is tighly jammed on. You're supposed to just pull it off, but when closed, there's only a little crack that you can wedge it open from. And what's your first instinctive method of openning it? With your fingernails, of course -- The very fingernails which are now trapped inside this God-forsaken device.

It's sort of like having a device that cuts off all of your fingers and places them inside a mason jar. Don't ask me why such a device would ever be needed... I suck at analogies... But anyway, since no one who uses the finger-remover can possibly open the mason jar, you've just got a big ol' jar full of fingers that no one can open.

Which is kind of like my nail-clipper. It just keeps filling up with nail-clippings...

So anyway, that's my beef. Moo. The end.

PS - I added links to some "Classic Posts" (term used loosely) on the sidebar, for those days when I don't get to update and you-slash-I am really bored...

COMMENT REPLIES:

Anny and Raph: Hey! Boo. For your informatics, it's a little color I like to call non-gender-specific white, which is Patrick-speak for plain old white :)

Chris! I always got mad cause you'd misplace yours, then take mine and when I'd go to get them back, you'd claim they were yours the whole time and I never owned them! I seem to remember this happening at least twice, but then again -- I've got brother-bias...

And Sally, you are definitely bragging. Shut your dirty, rotten whore-bag mouth. GAH! Wow... that felt so wrong to write to you! What I meant to say was: I LOVE SALLY MACKERETH! She is the shit.

meish: Well... now that you mention it... I have been noticing that a single, unbroken shaft of pure sunlight has been striking them every morning for the past month. And then there's the choral music... Hmm...

MacGregor: Probably true. But whatever.
And thanks dude!

LOL and Lucas, your comment made me laugh out loud in the library -- A geniunely frown-inducing environment if there ever was one -- And it made me laugh twice. haha... "multilingual retarded vampire from Iceland"... what the fuck?!

Legally correct -- Politically Incorrect.

Don't be mad at me, because I'm just pointing out the absurdity a the term that I heard on the news :

Aggravated sexual assault??

Isn't that just legal jargon for "She was asking for it"?

UPDATE: OK, I've been enlightened by mandy. I guess in legal jargon, "aggravated" has a completely separate meaning of which I was totally unaware. Dah well... despite the correction, it was still funny to me. I laughed.

UPDATE #2: And Megs, if you read this, I saw that you called but I'd been at the library and left my phone in the study room! I miss yoooooouuuu!

Patrick's new theory on losing stuff

As some of you folks may already know, I lost my wallet awhile back when we had a party -- or rather, I re-lost my wallet when we had another party, depending on the timeframe from which you chose to look at it. But what I forgot to mention was that I found it again! Woohoo, says I! How, you ask? Well, we just threw yet another party, that's how.

All I know is that I came downstairs to clean up after our halloween shin-dig, and my wallet was just sitting on the counter in our dirty, dirty kitchen. How did it get there? Well, sometimes you just have to take things for what they are and not ask questions that may confuse and baffle you. I'll assume that someone I know had found it and just chose to return it that night. It's even possible that they gave it to me personally... though I was in no position to remember a trivial event such as that.

So anyway, I bet that this let-it-be-and-it'll-work-out attitude can be applied to other situations too... well -- at least in those situations in which you lose something. Just leave things be, and shit will work itself out.

Dishes dirty? Don't sweat it. Just let them build up long enough, and eventually the bacteria will evolve so that they'll clean themselves.

Lost your child at the mall? No problem. Just calmly go home, then on the weekend, throw a party. With any luck, you'll come down to clean on the following morning and find your baby smack-dab in the middle of the kitchen counter, gurgling happily among the empties. Trust me on this one. I've had experience with this type of thing.