(no subject)

Do you ever dream about places where you used to live? I dream all the time about our house in Starkville where I lived from 1980-1994. Like all the time. And we're always just about to move out of the house--like the dream isn't really about moving, but that's always the background, like we're going to start moving tomorrow or we've started packing a little but not really in earnest. Weird.

(no subject)

My trackball is squeaking and it's driving me mad.

I woke up on time to catch the bus today.

I have proofreading to do tonight.

Despite never having been anything of a hockey fan, I'm playing a lot of NHL 2003 lately.

That should stop tonight, when I'll be playing my newly downloaded NBA Live 2003.

Oh, shit--that damned proofreading thing. Maybe I'll finish early.

I haven't brewed coffee in more than a week, but I'm drinking Coke like a fool.

I can't find my Deep End Vol. II disc.

My friend who was laid off got a job at the rare book library.

I need to burn about 40 sets of CDs for people.

When I'm done with that, I'm going to burn about 40 people for CDs.

Whatever that means.

How do I stop this squeaking?

huh huh huh

I've got to get off this sunflower seed habit. Every time someone comes up to talk to me my mouth is full of seeds. (That's plural, SEEDS, got it?) I'm afraid that people might think that I always have snuff in my mouth. I don't know what I'm going to do. Are there patches for this? Maybe I could start smoking throughout the day again--do you think that would help? But I'd have to go outside, and it's much too cold for that.

Oh, I walked into the laundry room in my building the other day and was hit with the overwhelming smell of reefer. Speaking of shit, it's probably the same son of a bitches that left those bags in there. And they didn't even leave me any! But you know what? The trash bags are still there three weeks later. If I didn't have to lug them up the stairs I'd throw 'em in the Dumpster.

another addiction

Chicken basil with fried rice. I could eat this for every meal.

(no subject)

You can pick only one per question. I don't make the rules, I just write the questions. Oh, wait--I do make the rules. Deal.

[Poll #74913]

(no subject)

The text of virus emails always kills me.

Hello, This is a IE 6.0 patch
I wish you would enjoy it.

Fine, I thanks you for these I could ever repays you.

(no subject)

I was walking to my car in the CVS parking lot and noticed a little tennis ball. I said: "Hey, I can use that, by dog. There are any number of numbnuts in this city who could stand to be clocked by a tennis ball." So I picked it up. I noticed that there seemed to be something moving in the center of the ball, but I figured it was just water since it's been raining for about a year and a half here. Then I got in the car and shook the ball. It jingled merrily. ACK, DOG BALL! I HAVE DOG BALLS!!!

It sort of reminds me of the time in Mrs. Hoyt's seventh-grade English class when I was turned around in my seat and talking to Wes. All of a sudden Wes got this goofy look on his face and started snickering. I turned around and found that Mike Boyd had reached over and deposited a comb on my desk--one of those combs that looks like this:



In one motion, I used the tips of my thumb and forefinger to grab the comb by the end of the handle right where the little circle is, flung it to the front of the room (narrowly missing Mrs. Hoyt) as I screamed, "GREASY COMB!" That poor woman just shook her head and went right on teaching. She shook her head a lot in that class. I remember one time when she beat her head against a cabinet because Chris Simmons couldn't read the sentence "'Come over to my house, said Dick'" aloud without convulsing with laughter and sending the whole class into fits. Then there was the time that I tried to pull Wes's sweatpants down as he walked to his desk after returning from the restroom. Not that I wanted to see him naked or anything--I think it probably had something to do with his not telling me about that greasy comb on my desk.