(no subject)
Greetings and conflagrations my droogs.
You know I long ago decided never to do these things, live journals I mean. I don't read them, I don't write them, but I find myself in a rather odd predicament. I have spent the past week laying about on my mom's couch watching bad movies and HBO's Real Sex series one to many times, and I find my brain is slowly starting to deteriorate from the boredom. So I finally broke down and made this place. Wit's Gulag, an internment camp for the clueless, namely, me. I don't know how often I'll use it, or if I'll take napalm to my monitor and torch it in an exhaustive attempt to escape the livejournal trap that I have now fallen within, but for now I will rant and rave for probably anothe page or two. Since it was boredom that brought me to this point, let me describe what I have been doing to get here.
First one must describe the train, an mode of transportation I find preferable to walking. Now, as a rule, the train is always two hours late on the outbound trip. Fortunately I have learned from experience that this is the case and brought along some drawing materials and a book. Neither of which I used, since I ended up talking to the security guard for the entire time. Now around that area is a large two story brick building. It has been for sale for about two years now, and has reached the point of being a derelict. Bricks are falling out and laying about the place and I am sure when I passed by the door I saw a rat the size of a capibara. Of course that almost completely stopped my ideas of saving up money and buying the place to create a club or a gallery, a project which I am sure will never come to fruitation, because, well...I'm a lazy bastard. Or psychologically incapable of doing so. I am guessing the prior, but we'll find out after I get tested for ever mental disorder ever discovered.
After that fiasco I got on the train, a place that once had a smoking section, but apparently they decided it wasn't cost effective to have one, even though at least 40% of the train was bitching about it so much that they had to delay about ten minutes at one of the stops to let everyone smoke.
Back and forth, back and forth. The train shakes, kids cry, the bathroom door jams so I can't get it open and nearly wet myself when a jolt in the track knocked me on my ass. Then I got some fascist coach guy checking people's ids at random to see if I am the one in a thousand chance that I am not who I say I am. And as some of you may know I have this nifty Wisconsin driver's license that says it is valid without photo, even though most places consider it invalid. The bastards. Why would they put it there if it is about as useful to me as a hat rack is to a moose. Eventually we reach my destination, one stop away from where my mom actually is, because for some inane reason I can't seem to figure out, even though I asked my mother if she wanted me to get off on the closer stop. Then while standing up to grab my bags I fall down again, since by some strange chance, which really isn't too strange considering how the seats are designed, my ass had fallen asleep and could not hold up my weight. And I am not a heavy guy, perhaps about 134, or at least the doctor said so.
Great. I am off, and I am at my mom's place. My mom is freaking out and bouncing up and down because she hasn't seen me in a whole *gasp* month! I love my mom and all, but she is rather excitable. Now things go normally. I eat. I watch tv. And that is about it. General boring. Now this wouldn't be so bad, but after a few days I find that HBO really hasn't made anything new lately after watching the Silicon Valley edition of Pornicopia for the third time. On top of all this I am suffering from a severe case of sleep dep because every morning around 7 my mom's three, yes, three alarms go off. These have to be the most annoying alarms ever created, each sounding like an air raid siren. They go off and I find myself falling off my couch and looking around for my helmet as I dodge shells and bullets in my still half asleep state, yelling "Head for the bomb shelter Auntie Emme!"
Finally Christmas comes, a little variety to the week at this point. We get up, I get a new pair of rollerblades, considering the old ones no longer had breaks and the wheels were filed down to about the size of half-dollars. And I got a new hard drive, since the old one had a few fatal errors due to the utter stupidity of the Microsoft corporation and their shitty WindowsME edition. It should have been named WindowsFU, because that is basically what it does. The blue screen of death should pop up with two middle fingers in ASEII. It is a perfectly useless program, but I am sure the rest of the world already knew that before me.
Now let me get back to the story at hand. My mother, WonderKlutz, is walking past the tree and slips on, of all things, wrapping paper. Up, down, and boom. He toe swells up the size of a grapefruit and she doesn't do anything about it because she thinks it will go away. This is a nurse for god's sake. Anyway, I tell her we're going to the ER, and she makes us wait until after dinner despite her constant squeels of pain. So Christmas Night I sit in the ER with my mom and Uncle Ed, a rather cool guy who really isn't my uncle but needed a place to go for Christmas. Sitting in the little white room they stuck us in I was looking around and found a little cubby full of paperwork, labeled for whatever happened to happen to the poor sap that needs to fill it out. First off, there are five different forms that bare the word wheezing. Literally, I am not joking. Adult wheezing, child wheezing, child under 1, and wheezing/coughing. Next comes my personal favorite form, Vomiting/Diarrhea. Now if I recall properly, since it has been awhile since I have done either, don't those two conditions come from diametrically opposite sides of the body. While I am sure one can do both at once, I wouldn't think these two things are normally related, so why would they be put on the same sheet? Perhaps the combining of these two different conditions is more common then we think. Of course I'd hate to be the guy coming in, unable to sit down because of one, and unable to tell them about the first one because of the other. Next we have major burns/smoke inhalation. Now normally I wouldn't think of somebody with third degree burns and asking them, "Pardon me sir, while you were being burned alive, did you happen to inhale any smoke?" I think these forms should be more suited to the people that have to fill them out, instead of the people that are obviously incapable of filling them out. Next I have some bald, long goateed (which I think wouldn't be allowed ina hospital) orderly come up to me and in a thick British accent tell me he has to close the door to the room while I wait for my mom to come back from getting her x-rays, basically locking me away in a little white room with a bunch of equipment, unsupervised. Now if any of you know me, which some of you do, that is a rather bad idea to do. His excuse of course was 'patient confidentiality.' Of course I had to come back with the immediate comment of 'but I am not the patient.' Now this whole thing was brought along, while absolutely no patients were passing by down the hall. Hell, my mother wasn't even anywhere in sight. In the end one must only assume it was some guy that decided I was the one he was going to use to make himself feel more important about with. I mean it wouldn't really change anything. If someone came in I could have seem them in the waiting room, since it is right next to the ER entrance. I mean, most diseases you can't see, burn scars would cover their faces, and I am the type of guy that if a famous person went by I probably wouldn't notice. Of course while there I had to ask the British orderly if anyone had come in with a Christmas turkey stuck on their heads, just to bust his chops. He kinda just glared.
Finally away from it all and I find myself back on the couch watching tv, but now I must wake up earlier to walk the dog because my mother is a gimp. At least I have the joy of making fun of her for the next few days about how she slipped on wrapping paper, of all things. I kinda feel stuck around here, lost in a slipstream of the inane and empty. Boredom has bared its vicious head and now I must defend myself with this sad medium. These rants, I assure you will be as, or even less understandable than this one. That is a warning in advance, so live with it my droogs.
Sincerely,
Pope Chodus of Still Thinking
You know I long ago decided never to do these things, live journals I mean. I don't read them, I don't write them, but I find myself in a rather odd predicament. I have spent the past week laying about on my mom's couch watching bad movies and HBO's Real Sex series one to many times, and I find my brain is slowly starting to deteriorate from the boredom. So I finally broke down and made this place. Wit's Gulag, an internment camp for the clueless, namely, me. I don't know how often I'll use it, or if I'll take napalm to my monitor and torch it in an exhaustive attempt to escape the livejournal trap that I have now fallen within, but for now I will rant and rave for probably anothe page or two. Since it was boredom that brought me to this point, let me describe what I have been doing to get here.
First one must describe the train, an mode of transportation I find preferable to walking. Now, as a rule, the train is always two hours late on the outbound trip. Fortunately I have learned from experience that this is the case and brought along some drawing materials and a book. Neither of which I used, since I ended up talking to the security guard for the entire time. Now around that area is a large two story brick building. It has been for sale for about two years now, and has reached the point of being a derelict. Bricks are falling out and laying about the place and I am sure when I passed by the door I saw a rat the size of a capibara. Of course that almost completely stopped my ideas of saving up money and buying the place to create a club or a gallery, a project which I am sure will never come to fruitation, because, well...I'm a lazy bastard. Or psychologically incapable of doing so. I am guessing the prior, but we'll find out after I get tested for ever mental disorder ever discovered.
After that fiasco I got on the train, a place that once had a smoking section, but apparently they decided it wasn't cost effective to have one, even though at least 40% of the train was bitching about it so much that they had to delay about ten minutes at one of the stops to let everyone smoke.
Back and forth, back and forth. The train shakes, kids cry, the bathroom door jams so I can't get it open and nearly wet myself when a jolt in the track knocked me on my ass. Then I got some fascist coach guy checking people's ids at random to see if I am the one in a thousand chance that I am not who I say I am. And as some of you may know I have this nifty Wisconsin driver's license that says it is valid without photo, even though most places consider it invalid. The bastards. Why would they put it there if it is about as useful to me as a hat rack is to a moose. Eventually we reach my destination, one stop away from where my mom actually is, because for some inane reason I can't seem to figure out, even though I asked my mother if she wanted me to get off on the closer stop. Then while standing up to grab my bags I fall down again, since by some strange chance, which really isn't too strange considering how the seats are designed, my ass had fallen asleep and could not hold up my weight. And I am not a heavy guy, perhaps about 134, or at least the doctor said so.
Great. I am off, and I am at my mom's place. My mom is freaking out and bouncing up and down because she hasn't seen me in a whole *gasp* month! I love my mom and all, but she is rather excitable. Now things go normally. I eat. I watch tv. And that is about it. General boring. Now this wouldn't be so bad, but after a few days I find that HBO really hasn't made anything new lately after watching the Silicon Valley edition of Pornicopia for the third time. On top of all this I am suffering from a severe case of sleep dep because every morning around 7 my mom's three, yes, three alarms go off. These have to be the most annoying alarms ever created, each sounding like an air raid siren. They go off and I find myself falling off my couch and looking around for my helmet as I dodge shells and bullets in my still half asleep state, yelling "Head for the bomb shelter Auntie Emme!"
Finally Christmas comes, a little variety to the week at this point. We get up, I get a new pair of rollerblades, considering the old ones no longer had breaks and the wheels were filed down to about the size of half-dollars. And I got a new hard drive, since the old one had a few fatal errors due to the utter stupidity of the Microsoft corporation and their shitty WindowsME edition. It should have been named WindowsFU, because that is basically what it does. The blue screen of death should pop up with two middle fingers in ASEII. It is a perfectly useless program, but I am sure the rest of the world already knew that before me.
Now let me get back to the story at hand. My mother, WonderKlutz, is walking past the tree and slips on, of all things, wrapping paper. Up, down, and boom. He toe swells up the size of a grapefruit and she doesn't do anything about it because she thinks it will go away. This is a nurse for god's sake. Anyway, I tell her we're going to the ER, and she makes us wait until after dinner despite her constant squeels of pain. So Christmas Night I sit in the ER with my mom and Uncle Ed, a rather cool guy who really isn't my uncle but needed a place to go for Christmas. Sitting in the little white room they stuck us in I was looking around and found a little cubby full of paperwork, labeled for whatever happened to happen to the poor sap that needs to fill it out. First off, there are five different forms that bare the word wheezing. Literally, I am not joking. Adult wheezing, child wheezing, child under 1, and wheezing/coughing. Next comes my personal favorite form, Vomiting/Diarrhea. Now if I recall properly, since it has been awhile since I have done either, don't those two conditions come from diametrically opposite sides of the body. While I am sure one can do both at once, I wouldn't think these two things are normally related, so why would they be put on the same sheet? Perhaps the combining of these two different conditions is more common then we think. Of course I'd hate to be the guy coming in, unable to sit down because of one, and unable to tell them about the first one because of the other. Next we have major burns/smoke inhalation. Now normally I wouldn't think of somebody with third degree burns and asking them, "Pardon me sir, while you were being burned alive, did you happen to inhale any smoke?" I think these forms should be more suited to the people that have to fill them out, instead of the people that are obviously incapable of filling them out. Next I have some bald, long goateed (which I think wouldn't be allowed ina hospital) orderly come up to me and in a thick British accent tell me he has to close the door to the room while I wait for my mom to come back from getting her x-rays, basically locking me away in a little white room with a bunch of equipment, unsupervised. Now if any of you know me, which some of you do, that is a rather bad idea to do. His excuse of course was 'patient confidentiality.' Of course I had to come back with the immediate comment of 'but I am not the patient.' Now this whole thing was brought along, while absolutely no patients were passing by down the hall. Hell, my mother wasn't even anywhere in sight. In the end one must only assume it was some guy that decided I was the one he was going to use to make himself feel more important about with. I mean it wouldn't really change anything. If someone came in I could have seem them in the waiting room, since it is right next to the ER entrance. I mean, most diseases you can't see, burn scars would cover their faces, and I am the type of guy that if a famous person went by I probably wouldn't notice. Of course while there I had to ask the British orderly if anyone had come in with a Christmas turkey stuck on their heads, just to bust his chops. He kinda just glared.
Finally away from it all and I find myself back on the couch watching tv, but now I must wake up earlier to walk the dog because my mother is a gimp. At least I have the joy of making fun of her for the next few days about how she slipped on wrapping paper, of all things. I kinda feel stuck around here, lost in a slipstream of the inane and empty. Boredom has bared its vicious head and now I must defend myself with this sad medium. These rants, I assure you will be as, or even less understandable than this one. That is a warning in advance, so live with it my droogs.
Sincerely,
Pope Chodus of Still Thinking