you! pin monkey! get over here!
So, yesterday I went bowling. Hey, quit laughing, it's true! Yeah, there's nothing quite so comical as bowling. Unless, of course, it's bowling with british people who have no experience with the game whatsoever. It's weird, man, this bowling alley/arcade is in the middle of this mall that's, like, a little province of America right in the middle of Southeast London. They've got a couple of Applebee's type diners and a big ole movie theatre with Ben and Jerry's in the lobby and everything.
True story: no one looks good bowling, but everyone looks good playing Time Crisis II.
Then later we watched like 20 Michael Jackson videos. Jesus. A few words about how Michael Jackson terrifies me down to my very soul. We watched from 'Don't Stop Till You Get Enough,' all the way up through 'You Rock My World,' (although we turned off the latter after only a bit of it, 'cause no one wants to see Marlon Brando reduced to that), and were able to trace the irreparable decline of Mr. Jackson through the years. Aaaaaand . . . it was fucking creepy.
I mean, like, first of all, where the fuck do you learn to dance like that? Nobody has ever moved the way that boy can move. It's in-fucking-sane. And then, second of all, so many of those songs are so good. We were totally rocking out. But, third of all, how fucked up can one guy be? Cos I'm pretty sure Michael's looking to set a new record.
Hey, you remember when he was on The Simpsons? And it was awesome?
Okay! It would appear that my boy the Zeet was on fy-uh last night. Which leaves me to wonder, again, some more, what a guy has to do to get a win these days! I'm sorry, lights out over eight wasn't good enough? Dwah! Unacceptable. Sigh. There's some inverse relationship between Zito locating his talent and the line-up locating their offensive powers. He pitches bad, they score ten runs and he ends up winning anyway. He pitches like a fucking dream, they can't even scrape out one for him.
The sun (my sworn enemy) has taken to rising at four in the morning. Fuck that noise! We keep looking out the window at quarter till and being all, you've got to be fucking kiiiiiidding me, the sky's getting light already, motherfucker! It sucks, it sucks hard.
The book I'm reading, 'Americana' by Don Delillo, has a main character named David Bell. This amuses me to no end, as there was a former San Francisco third baseman named David Bell who specialized in getting beaned and occasionally being a totally unexpected rally-starter, who went to Philly and left his skills behind in California.
Don Delillo's an utter maniac, by the way. But we love him anyways.
fuck fuck fuckety fuck. I've got to write three essays over the next two days. And then I have to pack. God. I'm really not looking forward to packing. Living with neither roommates nor parents has proved conclusively that I am probably the messiest person in all the world. I haven't seen my floor since Christmas, haven't seen my desktop since the World Series. I have faith that they're both still there, but actually rescuing them from the rubble is going to be a feat.
grrrrrr. I wish my iPod hadn't been stolen. It's like missing a limb. Well, not really.
True story: no one looks good bowling, but everyone looks good playing Time Crisis II.
Then later we watched like 20 Michael Jackson videos. Jesus. A few words about how Michael Jackson terrifies me down to my very soul. We watched from 'Don't Stop Till You Get Enough,' all the way up through 'You Rock My World,' (although we turned off the latter after only a bit of it, 'cause no one wants to see Marlon Brando reduced to that), and were able to trace the irreparable decline of Mr. Jackson through the years. Aaaaaand . . . it was fucking creepy.
I mean, like, first of all, where the fuck do you learn to dance like that? Nobody has ever moved the way that boy can move. It's in-fucking-sane. And then, second of all, so many of those songs are so good. We were totally rocking out. But, third of all, how fucked up can one guy be? Cos I'm pretty sure Michael's looking to set a new record.
Hey, you remember when he was on The Simpsons? And it was awesome?
Okay! It would appear that my boy the Zeet was on fy-uh last night. Which leaves me to wonder, again, some more, what a guy has to do to get a win these days! I'm sorry, lights out over eight wasn't good enough? Dwah! Unacceptable. Sigh. There's some inverse relationship between Zito locating his talent and the line-up locating their offensive powers. He pitches bad, they score ten runs and he ends up winning anyway. He pitches like a fucking dream, they can't even scrape out one for him.
The sun (my sworn enemy) has taken to rising at four in the morning. Fuck that noise! We keep looking out the window at quarter till and being all, you've got to be fucking kiiiiiidding me, the sky's getting light already, motherfucker! It sucks, it sucks hard.
The book I'm reading, 'Americana' by Don Delillo, has a main character named David Bell. This amuses me to no end, as there was a former San Francisco third baseman named David Bell who specialized in getting beaned and occasionally being a totally unexpected rally-starter, who went to Philly and left his skills behind in California.
Don Delillo's an utter maniac, by the way. But we love him anyways.
fuck fuck fuckety fuck. I've got to write three essays over the next two days. And then I have to pack. God. I'm really not looking forward to packing. Living with neither roommates nor parents has proved conclusively that I am probably the messiest person in all the world. I haven't seen my floor since Christmas, haven't seen my desktop since the World Series. I have faith that they're both still there, but actually rescuing them from the rubble is going to be a feat.
grrrrrr. I wish my iPod hadn't been stolen. It's like missing a limb. Well, not really.