Old Posts

Old Posts of mine, recorded here for posterity.

character assassination

This will not be an elaborate blog. The idea’s interesting though, and I want to hear your thoughts on it.

I went to dinner with my roommate last night, and with some serious introspection, realized something important, but first some background.

Hubris is the ancient Greek idea of excessive pride that leads to a character’s demise. I had always thought that this aligned ancient Greek mindsets with Christian faith where pride is the worst of the deadly sins (lust was the least offensive deadly sin, which means that it’s okay that I looked at porn once today). But really, it didn’t mean that pride was a negative quality and humility a positive quality. All it meant was that excessive pride could cause disasters.

So, within the context of literature, the character could be proud and good would occur because pride was a strength up to a certain point. Which means that excessive pride could be a character’s strength and weakness at the same time.

Extend this concept beyond literature. What if all of us have these character strengths? Then, the strongest of our strengths is our biggest weakness at the same time. And you could imagine all people, say around us in a restaurant, interacting, their strength being a double-edged invisible sword that could cut apart another person or themselves. I can see it during a conversation, where this part of each personality clashes as a sword against the other, each unaware that their sword could hurt his/herself.

My roommate and I examined our personalities for this duality. Thinking about the trait that could be so strong that it could be a weakness at the same time.

Mine would be empathy or sensitivity. I feel like I can immediately identify with anyone, in any situation. I could be in his/her shoes, and I could feel his/her misery, happiness, or contentedness. But at the same time, this is my weakness. I’m uncomfortable when I perceive another’s unhappiness. Here’s a trivial example. Perhaps I host a party some evening. Trying to revel with a large group at my apartment, I find myself frequently concerned that the music is disturbing all the other apartment residents nearby. It will take up a significant amount of my attention, and I will by trying to redirect my friends (unbeknowest to them) to areas where we will be the least disturbing. (I don’t think I’ve explained this well… I apologize. It’s difficult to criticize yourself and confess a true experience of this weakness).

Or perhaps, this example will be better. I can’t count the number of times when a girl has ended our relationship where I find myself apologizing. They’re explaining how they’re in a difficult time in their lives, how blah blah blah… all these things are going wrong and they don’t want me to be brought down by these circumstances. “It’s not fair to you,” they say. And I apologize… I say, “I’m so sorry that all these things are happening in your life.” I apologize for their mothers’ angry words, their irritible bowels, their pet’s deaths, their lost toothbrushes. (I think that example makes more sense). I apologize for the world, truly feeling their sense of loss, anger, sadness, etc., while not realizing that 1) I'm upset, and 2) A lost toothbrush is surmountable in a relationship.

Now, I turn this blog over to you, the reader. What’s your biggest personality strength? How could it be your weakness? Leave it as a comment on my empathetic confessional at the end of this blog.


on being a Romantic

Today, I heard that buried treasure is all but found on Robinson Crusoe Island, off the coast of South America. Researchers used modern technology to find three high-concentrations of gold on the island made famous by the story of Selkirk, the real-life character of Robinson Crusoe. According to their instruments, the treasure hunters have detected hundreds of pounds of gold coins and possibly Incan treasure. (The story can be found on Yahoo News)

Something in the story made my mind associate wildly. I couldn’t shake the idea of all these locals and foreigners quitting their jobs and going straight to the island by any means. By now, these treasure hunters are scouring the island, searching every square inch for the treasure.

Treasure hunting. Buried treasure. Incan gold. Spanish gold.

Each one keeps rattling around in my head making me think that these ideas approach the old vision of the romantic. Today, we assume that a romantic is some kind of sap that believes in love at first sight, sunsets, and mushy letters. It’s a term that has changed far from what it used to mean. Romantics were once dreamers, visionaries, prophets who held uncommon and unpopular convictions.

Think Ponce de Leon… truly believing in the fountain of youth and chasing it throughout South and Central America. Think of Galileo chucking objects out of a tower to prove that gravity accelerated at a constant rate. Think of Leonardo, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Edison. Guevera. Kerouak. Each wholeheartedly followed a belief whether true or false. They would have an idea and chase it, everything and anything else in life could be damned.

Are you a dreamer? Are you a romantic? Are you a visionary/incendiary prophet/soothsayer of truth that’s stranger then our everyday imaginations?

I’m not.

And if you’re American, you probably aren’t either. I’m thinking that our basic, intrinsic American ideals hold the old Romantic in check. They glorify an “American Dream”—a rags to riches account of a middle-class house with a white picket fence, kids, a mini-van, and mediocrity, which, with a careful mix in a department store blender, will equal happiness.

The visionary and dreamer are un-American because they have different ideas of happiness. The romantics desire the self-fulfilling glory of proving their outlandish convictions. They are mostly crazy. And their contributions advance society and culture far beyond your everyday American achievements, like when I feel happy because I have made my own lunch.

Five minutes of romantic thoughts later, I heard another striking news report. Two doctors went against the entire medical community because they believed that bacteria, not stress, caused ulcers. One was so sure of this that he gave himself an ulcer by drinking a liquid that contained the bacteria. (This story can be found here on Yahoo News)

He is a Romantic.

But I’m not.

If I had the same inspiration and faith, I would probably leave tomorrow on my crummy bike with my sleeping bag and the clothes I’d be wearing, quit my job, and write a novel while biking to Chile to discover buried treasure. But, for some reason I think I’ll find happiness when I own a house and a minivan. “Still humping the American dream,” said Hunter S. Thompson. I think I know what he means.



Earrigation

Dear Doctor's Choice,

This is an informal business letter. It's informal because this is a personal matter. However, my personal story contains some discussion of a product of yours.

Recently, I discovered that I had a large amount of earwax attempting to take over my outer ear. I decided to purchase your fine earwax removal system.

Being somewhat new to the process of earwax removal, I decided to get the most elaborate kit possible in order to insure the success of the procedure. I also wanted to buy one that would work; I needed some legitimacy on the packaging.
Kit
Luckily, a doctor had chosen your brand, which appealed to my desire for an expert opinion on my ear. Also, your kit seemed to contain the most items. It fit all my needs in one amazing box.

I read the instructions thoroughly during a quiet evening at home (it seems to be fairly easy to have quiet evenings at home when you're single and can't hear what women are saying to you). I must say that your instructions were incredibly well detailed. Your fastidious account of my earwax removal process was thorough and complete. To summarize, the first instruction was that the tip of the applicator should not enter my ear canal. "Excellent," I thought, "the applicator, which must be one of these four items, is going nowhere near my ear canal." The instructions continued by suggesting I place 5 to 10 drops of the solution in my ear (I carefully measured the amount by adjusting three mirrors to watch the process) for several minutes (I timed the several on my watch).

Removing_waxI dipped the bulbous instrument that I assumed to be the "ear syringe" in a glass of warm water, then proceeded to shoot water in my ear. I was sitting up in a chair, using the plastic vessel to catch the water as it left my ear. Amazingly, all the water landed in the plastic vessel. None of it was on my shirt! Can you believe that? None of that weird greasy solution was on my shirt either! My face was not even dripping!

I was so enamored with the experience that I tried it again and again, twice daily for the next four days. The package described a "crackling" noise I would hear as the product worked. The noise eluded me, but I sought it so! This earwax removal gig is not drugs or alcohol, but its definitely addicting!

Ah! Hindsight is twenty/twenty. I recently discovered that my earwax was particularly resilient to your product (as some people’s earwax inevitably is). I did, however, put it to the ultimate test by sleeping with an exact 5 to 10 drops in my ear. It yielded no results. So your product is not for me, despite my intense desire to be your loyal spokesperson.

Even had I known the names of the contents of the package, even had I owned a diagram to show me how to tilt my ear to help aid irrigation, and even had I left the solution in for more then 5 minutes to see if it would work right, the removal procedure would have been thwarted by my hearty earwax.

So, Doctor whose Choice I chose, I bid you happy trails. Your product will surely fall into the hands of another person, like myself, who finds himself completely at the whim and mercy of the directions on over-the-counter health aids. With luck, he too will end up with a clean shirt, and if the product works for him, a clean ear!

Sincerely,

Kevin Cassidy



Fear and Insignificance on Catalina Island

This blog is months overdue, and I suppose, unnecessary because it’s not an update on my life. Rather, it’s about my feelings about 3 months ago, which could be entirely worthless for some of you to read, particularly if you ever feel very immense fears that are difficult to describe.

Over memorial day weekend, my roommate and I went to Catalina Island. We kayaked from Avalon to Two Harbors, about eight miles a day.

The technicalities of the trip are unimportant now. Had I written this blog then, I would have talked about our lack of plans… getting campsite and kayak reservations by cell phone while taking the ferry to the island. I could tell you about my version of “Regulators,” which was a karaoke hit our first night. But that’s all filler.



Insignificance (the name of a great album by Jim O’Rourke and a feeling of unimportance)

At some point during the trip, I found myself in the middle of the ocean. I was so far from shore that I couldn’t see individual beaches very well, and I certainly couldn’t see any people on the shore. The waves were choppy, sometimes forming into whitecaps. Usually, I’d imagine the ocean being fairly flat—a place where you could see for miles. At the surface level, you can see for miles, but because of the little dips and bumps, I would turn around and not be able to even see my roommate.

I was completely alone.

And around me there was so much air and water. I sort of enjoyed imagining a cord extending from my chest to the ground directly beneath me. Being so far from shore, that cord goes very deep before hitting the ocean floor. If you were there, you’d feel it too… this sense of vertigo. Like the kayak could lose its ability to stay afloat and you could fall through all that water.

So there’s that feeling of vertigo, combined with the feeling that everything was existing completely beyond my life. While snorkeling, pink, iridescent jellyfish floated all around. A three foot bat ray sat covered lightly in sand directly below me. And I was insignificant. Whether I was there or not, the jellyfish would be floating and the bat ray would be resting.

I think that frequently, day to day, we find this importance in what we’re doing. Facing the expanse of the ocean and air, and the impartial environment made me have that brief flash of how small each of us are within this huge world, which is a tiny thing floating in space.

Fear

After the first day of kayaking, we set up camp at around 2:00 in the afternoon. There was so little to do, that I was lying down for bed at 7:30, encouraging darkness so I could finally go to sleep. That’s when the fog came in.

It was very slow, but gradually it obscured the boats moored in the water and even the shoreline twenty feet away. The waves got louder in the fog. And it seemed like there was danger coming. Once you’ve started scaring yourself, there’s nothing you can do to feel safe. Perhaps the insignificance was persisting because I felt like the fog would lift me up and I’d fall through it into space.

I guess at any moment, I was worried that the laws of nature and gravity would shift and it would cause eminent death.

All together, it was an amazing holiday.



One reason why I'm skeptical of motion detectors on urinals...

I tested them by pissing in complete darkness. It still flushed when I walked away.

Also, how come they don't flush when the light is turned on or off.

My belief? They're magic.



A Modest Proposal


For improving the moral of the poor by promoting realistic aspirations while boosting California’s economy.

Dear Governor Schwartzenegger,

It has come to my attention that students across the state frequently disrespect their teachers, refuse to attend class, become violent with their peers, and make very little effort to achieve good grades. These problems are notoriously prominent in low-income, typically within large urban areas consisting of a large minority population.

As many scholars before me have inquired, why do these minorities strive to be disrespectful, uneducated members of the community? With such rebellious behavior, these students frequently do not graduate high school and are often ineligible for college.

The reason behind such malfeasance is caused by feelings of low self-worth. This, coupled with acute depression explains their lack of effort at school. These students exhibit their low moral by paying little attention to appearance (clothing that doesn’t fit, unwashed hair, and a slack jawed expression combined with a blank stare), attending few activities (low after school activity enrollment), increased hostility, alcohol and drug abuse, missing school, and having trouble concentrating. These symptoms are clearly evident in low-income school students.

Thus, by improving the moral of these students, we would see higher grades, less violence, better personal hygiene, and stronger concentration abilities. How could we go about changing students’ attitudes on a statewide scale? Simply by matching the students’ aspirations with their sensible outcomes in life.

For example, take a student in a low-income Los Angeles high school. Rather then making him depressed (and therefore, unruly) by frequently confronting him with his limitations, we should be paving his way towards his realistic unemployment lifestyle or his working class job. During this student’s education, he should be reassured about the benefits of low-skilled work (physical exercise, mentally undemanding decisions, and the replaceable workforce—constant turnovers mean new work environments!). He will be happy, having attainable goals with the proper reinforcement throughout his life.

Many may wonder how to best match one’s goals with their outcomes. The answer is quite simple really—insure that the individual is repeatedly assured of his lowered goal. We can achieve this in California by the implementing the following propositions.

1) Beginning with his elementary education. Starting very early, he should be afforded the least experienced teachers (offer more money to teachers in higher socioeconomic school districts to uphold this trend!). He will deduce from the teacher’s inability to control the classroom that he should have no self-control. During this free-wheeling jaunt of primary grades, the student will likely have no goals, which will make it easy to suggest that he assume the lowest aspirations.

2) Continuing with his environment. Make the schools unable to make necessary repairs to buildings, place numerous classes in the gym, and keep the classes as large as possible to insure minimum one-on-one attention. The loud classrooms will dull his senses, hopefully making him realize he likes the din of machinery.

3) Tracking his schooling. Very few of these students should be considering college, so insist on a lack of college eligible classes in his high schools. College counselor on campus? Oh, no! That would be a grave mistake! Some schools go for a more subtle approach, not even acknowledging their different curriculum tracks. But our schools should be heralding the low-level, inadmissible tracks because these will make the individual feel quite elated, graduating high school without having to worry about all that college admissions nonsense.

4) And lastly, why provide textbooks at all to these frequently underachieving students?

By fully implementing this moral change, California will once again be the strongest economic state in the Union for several reasons. 1) A larger group of unskilled laborers means lower wages and less paid benefits. Companies will stop outsourcing because cheap labor will be available in California. We could see the largest big business growth in decades! 2) Our public, low-income schools will be saving more money, turning the deficit into a government surplus. 3) Eventually, the state could close most of these schools, selling the land for increased state revenue, and eliminating that controlling interest group, the teachers’ union, which consistently wastes taxpayer dollars by demanding wage increases and benefits without merits.

For, being a society that heralds freedom for all, we would never consider giving an equal opportunity by providing an education that allows everyone regardless of race, wealth, or class a chance to succeed. We would not want equal access to experienced teachers, clean and suitable environments for learning, college counselors, or textbooks, because each of these would give people growing up in low income environs a chance to change their future level of employment.

I would be the first to set the example for low-skilled laborers everywhere but I've already incurred a substantial debt working on my teaching credential. So, I will probably join the middle class and teach where I will be paid the most.



Eschatological revelations through scatology

two definitions necessary for your appreciation of this installment (taken from Answers.com)

Scatology - n.

1. The study of fecal excrement, as in medicine, paleontology, or biology.

2. a) An obsession with excrement or excretory functions.

b) The psychiatric study of such an obsession.

3. Obscene language or literature, especially that dealing pruriently or humorously with excrement and excretory functions.

Eschatology - n.

1. The branch of theology that is concerned with the end of the world or of humankind.

---and now... let us begin---

You take shit for granted. And I don't mean shit as in the general things in life that you may take for granted. I mean shit.

Saturday morning, approximately 4 days ago, I woke up with abdominal pain. It was mainly in the center of my abdomen, just below my chest, forming a nice bloaty feeling, like I had tried to inflate a balloon by swallowing it and telling my colon, "Hey, it's a party! Invite a bunch of the organs together and just go crazy!!!"

Now, usually, my conversations with my colon would go something like, "Hi, how's it going, uh, colon," you know, general small talk until one of us decided the other was boring.

In this case, my colon decided to give me the silent treatment for four days and counting.

This is nothing unusual for me. I've generally found my digestive system to be the most rebellious group of organs I've delt with in my lifetime. I clearly remember when my large intestine decided he was tough and started smoking cigarettes with my spleen. They'd lounge, cussing out my ribcage for being such a pussy.

While the pain continued through Sunday, I realized I needed serious attention. Numerous ailments had been proposed and considered: bladder infection, urinary track race (which is where your urinary tract finds that its true calling is in the relay race), and although the pain was misplaced, appendicitis made a brief entrance.

Unfortunately, of the options, the doctor I saw on monday morning decided that it was appendicitis, sending me to the emergency room for x-rays, blood tests, and a ten hour day that could cost me my first several children.

I'd love to glorify the details, tell you about how I befriended most of the staff and other patients. You'd love the bit about the back and forth between the guy demanding vicadin and the doctors talking shit while I severly needed to shit. And the part where I pretended I was a doctor (albeit, a doctor with an IV in his arm) and accurately diagnosed a patient while getting a date with the head nurse. Streaks of pornography during morphine dreams.

But I've got no time for those tales of valor, comradery, and hallucinations.

I still need to shit.

So bad that I'm jealous of people on T.V. because I know that they are probably able to shit just fine. I'm jealous of you, especially if you've shit within the last twenty-four hours, if you've got medical insurance (which I don't), or if you've got one of those cool waffle-style long undershirts because, let's face it, I'd rather be constipated with a great sense of style then any other way.

What did eschatology have to do with all this? Well, some people theorize that shitting is proof of existence... sortof an "I shit, therefore, I am" philosophy that is not without its merits. See, it proves that you've truly eaten something, and truly physically altered it when it has finished its process through your body. And since I can't shit, I hardly feel alive.

Which is why I've declared a war of armageddon proportions on my digestive system. I'm eating at least 400% the daily recommended amount of fiber. Building up more and more till either the world ends or my constipation does.

A few things you should know as parting thoughts before you move on...

"catharsis," which means healing through pain comes from the greek word meaning "to pass a hard stool," something I now truly understand (I stole this from clearwater).

Also, being "full of shit" is pretty shitty.

Especially when you're accused of it in the ER.
(I now feel guilty and constipated because I totally don't have appendicitis).



security blankets, hazmat suits, and the elderly

Part I – Security blankets

After I graduated college, my grandmother gave me a hand-knitted blanket (the gift for every grandchild upon graduation). “What an amazing gift,” I thought, entering the harsh, post-graduate life of thankless jobs and a dearth of drinking on weeknights. “This way, while I’m full of self-pitying sobriety, I can feel warm and safe.”

Luckily, my grandmother named the blanket… it’s an “Iraq Afghan,” because she started it when the U.S. invaded Iraq. And she knitted the nice strip of red on the side when Saddam Hussein was captured. Which made my blanket a symbol of personal and national security.

It definitely keeps me warm, but I can’t vouch for its ability to stop WMDs or terrorist threats.


Part II – A problem

I remembered about my blanket because of a 60 minutes story I saw last evening. Basically, states and cities have been awarded exorbitant funds to help prepare them for terrorist threats. I’m divided on the issue because in some cases the local agencies could use more funds for their city/town projects. Also, it gives government spending a bad name because of some frivolous purchases (leather jackets). At the same time, funds are probably even going to Lost Springs, Wyoming (population: 3, in 1998).

By looking to my right, I can see the tallest skyscrapers in LA, under a mile away. If I was a reasonable person, I would spend most of the time on the roof of my building, screaming to the bank logos at the height of downtown (although, my neighbors would probably be the only people to listen), demanding my own hazardous materials suit because of my relative un-safety while living in their proximity.

If I was a reasonable person, I’d play Ultimate Frisbee nearby while wearing a thick plastic layer (1). With enough KY Jelly smeared on it, I’d slip through defenders like a full body condom, impervious to Al Qaeda.

Luckily, I’m an unreasonable person. Otherwise, if you wanted to shake my hand, you would walk away with a handful of some slippery lube.

Part III: A solution

However, years later, sitting under the blanket and watching 60 Minutes, I realized something. If we could only harness the energy of our elderly, all my concerns could be calmed.

What terrorist could attack our country if they had received a care package with hand-knitted blankets?

The citizens with wrinkly skin (who are comfortably ignored by retirement homes) could be put to good use. They can knit, sew, and perform innumerable feats of carpentry into the hearts of the world. My blanket would have truly become an Iraq Afghan. I can imagine Saddam warming himself in it, realizing that the Americans are quite all right. He’s sitting, either in a cave or in his mansion, keeping warm and reading his latest pen-pal letter by candlelight. Saddam smiles while sipping hot cocoa, chortling about a joke from one rich person to another.

Because, really, when you have everything, who wants to share it with anyone else?

I’m not quite sure what point I’m making… I could be saying

1) that old people have all these amazing talents, I’m jealous of them, and wonder, “what will our talents be when we’re old? Will I show my grandkids my Super Mario skills? Or perhaps just admit that I’m better off in a retirement home then putzing around the house calling the houseplants King Koopa and Luigi?”

2) that old people are frequently conservative, and that their desires could sometimes correspond with dictators

3) that foreign aid might make us more secure then haz-mat suits

4) or that I just like my blanket. Because, at the end of the day, the blanket makes me feel more secure then the news or the government.

And a footnote: (1) Seth came up with the idea of wearing haz-mat suits while playing frisbee.



prescribe me to the moon, and, roommate psychics

part one: prescribe me to the moon

I was watching television the other day when several things became apparent… I’m overweight, my joints ache, and my penis is flaccid. Or at least, I watch a lot of the same shows as people who are overweight, have arthritis, and have erectile dysfunctions. Luckily, every one of my maladies can be fixed by simply “asking my doctor about _____,” filling in whatever medication. Pretty soon, I’m going to be on lipitor, shedding pounds left and right… or maybe taking celebrex and doing tai chi in a park without muscle pains. With some luck, I’d be taking levitra to get a stronger, longer lasting erections. Isn’t life awesome? Isn’t being slender awesome? And, erections? Awesome!

This could be due to the television shows I watch, namely Jeopardy. Apparently, I’m within a quite attractive target audience. I wish I could get together with them, crack some knuckles, and discuss our failed weight loss programs. We probably wouldn’t discuss erectile dysfunction very much, because that doesn’t seem like suitable conversation for an assembly of people twice my age. We’d definitely talk about final Jeopardy last night, and I’d complain about how I was close to the final answer—if only I had named the right boring Milton novel.

A few years ago, advertising for medications became legal (I have no idea if this is national, and quite frankly, I’m not going to do extensive research for out of state readers). Thus, medicine has become big business. What was previously an altruistic calling where one saves lives, is now a money grubbing big-business.

Assuming you’re liberal and have some of the same background as me, you herald Canada and any Scandinavian country as a working solution to America’s health care crisis. You, like me, tout these countries amongst your conservative family in the midst of holiday dinner political arguments. All the while, you, like me, stuff yourself full of sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows (knowing in the back of your mind that someday, taking lipitor is going to be Awesome!). But yet we allow our drug manufacturers to spend money on advertising, all the while complaining about the rising cost of erections. (I could have said “infections” at the end of the last sentence… but I didn’t, try to swallow that)

With a little cash, all of us can have the answer to our middling midlife sex-lives! Who needs role-playing, kinky sex, public sex, kinky-public sex, or other naughty behavior more suitable for twenty-somethings, when you can get an erection by taking medicine?

I guess I just wish I had health care, a slender build, limber fingers, and an erection (because then at least I could do something in my spare time, something about as world-changing as complaining about how f’d up America is).

I recently received confirmation that my erections are not quite yet in need of Levitra, thus I also give you:
part two: roommate psychics

A couple nights ago, I had a wet dream. While I’m sure you’d love an extensive description of the hot make-out session in my dream, I’m afraid that I’m not allowed to discuss it. In fact, during the wet dream, the girl interrupted our hot make-out session to make me sign a non-disclosure agreement whereby I am allowed to mention the wet dream in question but not to give any details. Luckily, this wasn’t too difficult to do because I forgot the dream almost entirely after I woke up.

Except until the following night. I had worked all day, and, when I got home, my roommate told me about his previous night. While I had dreamed of a hot make-out session, he had actually had a hot make-out session.

Thus, we are roommate psychics.

What will really be amazing though, is when we stun the world with our abilities by going on Jerry Springer when I’m pregnant and my roommate gives birth to a baby in his sleep.



bad luck, hombre

A myspace blog from 3/24/05

I don't know about you, dear reader, but I, I believe in bad luck. More specifically, I believe in bad karma... and currently, I am facing potentially dangerous karma. The kind that makes your food sour before you get to leftovers. Karma that made M.C. Hammer into a religious zealot (effectively ruining his career). Even worse then that, I'll probably face my doom because of motor vehicles and a predilection for eating while driving.

I believe it began when I found a carpet down the street on sunday. I stood next to it for several minutes, wondering vaguely, "who rolled up this carpet and tied it with this strong piece of string? Why would someone abandon a perfectly good carpet? And, is it socially acceptable to take home a carpet that is assumed to be abandoned?"

Deep in my brain, I knew it was somebody's carpet, and I had no right to take it. Scene's from the Big Lebowski played out; I knew it was wrong, but damnit, the rug really pulled my living room together.

I give you the last 24 hours in pictures: (1) me eating delicious grapefruit in my car, possibly even saying outloud, "this is sooooo delicious," followed by rear-ending a truck on the freeway (more of a bump without negative repercussions); (2) dreams of having mortally wounded the 5 guys in the truck; a 10 hour flu complete with cold sweats; (3) bumping the brand new BMW in front of me with the owner in it, and (4) driving off an unmarked cliff on a hairpin turn.

While one of those is an exaggeration (because by "cliff," I meant "large pothole"), the rest have gradually built towards my current mindframe: I'm considering stockpiling provisions and never leaving the house without a shovel, qualudes, that magic scratch remover from the info-mercial, and a less delicious melon.

So, I'm going to have to ask you... anyone who reads this, what should I do? I need your help. By tomorrow morning I could find myself keelhauled and left for dead in the middle of the pacific (cause if that guy could afford that nice BMW, he could certainly afford to have me tortured at sea). By the end of the week, I will probably die of gangrene because I have eaten too much melon while driving.

Getting rid of the carpet is not an option.

Neither is voodoo because of an incident in the past when I made the voodoo doll of myself and left it near the stove.

Neither is having sex, cause really, if my luck's already bad, it's certainly not going to change for the better that drastically.

Your unfortunate blogger,
-k