March 30, 2002 :: 2:27 a.m.
let's reincarnate as Elvis' bungee cord
Hi. I'm bored, and there is nothing on TV aside from Martha Stewart and her special guest, Old Polish Woman, on the food network. Scary scary. They're baking something easter-like, I'm sure.
Never trust yellow bread.
I caught the tail end of some random movie on one of the HBO channels earlier. By way of that, I got to witness a hit and run featuring Angie Everhart, a car chase though a Chinese parade of some sort, a man being penetrated with a high heel, and several hatchetings.
Hatcheting; verb, noun. To beat or bludgeon an object, usually a person, with a hatchet, usually to death. Ex. 1 (v.): "You want to meet for lunch? Oh, sorry, I'm busy hatcheting this broad I brought home last night." Ex. 2 (n.): "Did you see that hatcheting on the news last night? That was some mighty fine work, in my opinion. Really clean."
Solidified egg yolks should not be allowed.
I believe my Amish raisin bread wasn't fully cooked. I would be upset if it didn't contain an absurd number of calories per tiny sliver; as it is, I'm better off trashing the whole undercooked fat-beast and eating some yogurt.
Greatest wish of the moment: Headphones. Also, peace of mind and emotional stability, but I'd really settle for some headphones.
There was a beautiful gray cat on the porch earlier. It was meowing, so I tried to feed it, but it ran away. The fact that I was snubbed by an almost certainly stray cat sort of bothered me before I got this tired. Hmm. Speaking of cats, I suspect that Rufus may have impregnated the neighbor's cat. He's not fixed yet, obviously, and thus he is supposed to stay inside; however, my father seems to have interpreted this as "Rufus can go out whenever he wants." Le sigh. I'm not sure if he's the culprit, or even whether the neighbor's cat is actually female, fixed, or pregnant, but I've got a hunch. Though I don't know why I'd trust a hunch. My hunches are quite biased and unreliable. I have a tendency to hunch may way into all sorts of unpleasant situations.
I've lost interest in Food TV. Tyler Florence and his culinary emergency service do not capture me. He reminds me of a Ken doll. The sort of Ken doll that might play with little boys in his spare time. So... I'm going to do my hygiene things and get some sleep. To sleep, perchance, to vanquish cramps. 'Night.
back & forth
Wait, there's more!
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