August 1st, 2010

#2201: Women, please send me your nude photos.

I need some sign of all that is right and good with the world--I need to correct a serious travesty--so I am listening to Dick and asking all you hot women out there (you know who you are) to send me nude photos of yourselves.

You have my word that I will not publish any of them without your written consent.

You can send 'em to edhering at gmail dot com.

You will receive in return my heartfelt thanks.

* * *

(I won't keep them on my machine, either, but on removable media. So none of my nieces or nephews, nor any weird Indian tech support guys, will be able to see them.)

#2202: Remember to check your oil damn it

I learned something really important today: even when you are leaving the house for a few hours because you're angry, if you are taking a car which has an oil leak you must check the oil.

I was 45 miles from home; the Escort's oil light came on when I stopped for a stop sign--and the damn thing took three freakin' quarts of oil to bring it up to full. Jesus! What the fuck am I doing?

I'm starting to suspect that the oil leak is a pressure leak of some kind, because this occurred after I had driven 45 miles at speeds averaging 50 MPH.

That would have been fuckin' perfect, to throw a goddamned rod in the engine I just got broken in after a rebuild because I forgot to check the fuckin' oil. As if I wasn't already mad enough.

* * *

Why was I angry? Because although Mom is doing better than she was, she won't do certain things to keep herself from getting sick again.

She's got an Advair inhaler she refused to use because she thinks it's the cause of a bronchitis-like feeling in her lungs. She wouldn't drink any Boost or Ensure, even in place of one glass of water. She doesn't eat enough food.

Every time I reminded her to do X or Y I'd have to fight her to get her to do it; and this afternoon I got fed up with it and needed just to get out.

* * *

...ended up in Bourbonnais, so I tried to find a Fiero GT Sailor V's brother told him about, but I couldn't find the place it was parked. Turns out I drove right past it, argh etc--that'll teach me to take my GPS with me, God damn it to fuck. I didn't want to talk to anyone which is why I didn't call Sailor V about it.

I had wanted to go wade in the Kankakee River but I made a wrong turn somewhere, and didn't really give a ratfuck about it anyway, so screw it.

* * *

My dinner tonight is a philly cheesesteak Hot Pocket and a bowl of ice cream, and fuck the goddamned diet.

* * *

I am never going to be critical of anime gangsters ever again. Okay, one thing they like to do in manga and anime is to give gangsters ludicrous pompadours, and many was the time I've seen some that were just stupid-big, and thought, "Is the exaggeration really necessary?"

Problem: IT'S NOT EXAGGERATION! IT'S REAL! I swear I've seen that guy in the middle in a couple of anime titles.

...every time I think the Japanese can't surprise me, they go and prove me wrong.

* * *

You watch out for "Brack Shadow"! (I know it says "Black Shadow" on the back of that one guy's jacket. They're Japanese. Figure it out.)

* * *

I am so seriously pissed off and frustrated and stressed out I don't know WTF I should do to alleviate the symptoms.



If you were to imagine my emotional state applied to Sawako from Kimi ni Todoke that expression would not too far off the mark.

In that image, Sawako is actually trying not to cry because Ayane and Chizu have just finished applying makeup to her, to make her extra-hot for when she sees Kazehaya later in the evening. Crying would ruin the makeup and spoil the effect.

However, it really does look as if Sawako is about to choke a bitch.

Me, I'm wondering if a single margerita might not be warranted, followed by sleeping for 12 hours or so. That's the best plan I've got, so off I go.

#2203: Can't believe how upset I was earlier

I've always been the kind of person who doesn't quite know it when he's under stress.

It's not that I handle stress better than anyone else; it's that I don't notice that I'm under stress. I just get more and more easily frustrated with everything and pretty soon I'm snapping at people for stupid reasons, and nothing makes me feel better; I can't get enough sleep and my gastrointestinal system goes frickin' haywire. There's no mental connection between life and my emotional state which says to me, Hey, bud! You're under an awful lot of stress!

...which is why I didn't notice until I was laid off from my tech writing job that it was killing me. When I woke up from a post-exit-interview nap on October 16, 2001, and realized that I no longer had to work for Michelle DeBlieck, it was like someone lifted a 16-ton weight off my body. The severe stomach cramps that had become almost routine in my life (and which my doc did an EKG on me to make sure it wasn't a freakin' heart attack) only appeared a couple times since then. The excessive fatigue left me. The symptoms of my irritable bowel syndrome no longer required drugs to be controllable. I stopped being so irritable all the time. Etcetera.

Besides that, I hate leaning on "stress" and I hate saying, "Last week was really hard for me!" It sounds like whining. It irritates the hell out of me when other people whine and complain about how hard they have it, especially when someone else in their immediate family has it even worse than they do: WTF, I wasn't the one in the hospital, who's sick and trying to get better.

Damn it, I ought to be able to handle this, and it pisses me off to no end that I apparently cannot. I mean, come on: this isn't anything compared to what some people have endured in history; compare my week to some guy who survived landing on Omaha Beach, and tell me who had it worse? WTF. My week doesn't even register on that scale.

...yet here I am falling apart like I was made of toothpicks. I'm pretty disgusted with myself.