How Did Doing Laundry Come To This?

up all night, only Emma is awake, you're drinking, then you go and read Muscle68's post and get all thoughtful

I have discovered Amazon.com.

I just purchased a book that Neil Gaiman recommended, The Child That Books Built : A Life in Reading [Paperback] by
Spufford, Francis. No wonder that boy had nothing to do but read; with a name like Francis Spufford.

That semi-colon reminds me that I need to take some more English courses. I have serious technical problems with writing.

Like when I start writing an event that happened in the past, and it's all in past tense, but then I get excited about it and start writing in present tense like it's happening right now.

Then Emma signs off Instant Messenger and you're unexcusably an alcoholic, drinking alone, doing laundry, and writing.

Life is so hard.

Then Lauren H. comes back online after being "away" and you're demoted from alcoholic to back to just being drunk.

Then she's gone again. Her last IM said, "goodnight puppet".

"I'll show you puppet!" I thought, and then proceeded to do The Robot. (It works, since a robot is really just a puppet with very elaborate strings.)

By the way, the unpuncuated first line at the very beginning is my notes. The lesson here is that sometimes things don't go as planned.

But yes, Muscle68's post: Questioning purpose again, and life in general. But now I know what my purpose is.

I have to get the practically full beer keg in my backyard into the freezer somehow.

As if I didn't already have enough to do at 3 am on a Sunday night.

But I'd like to think that I'm doing it for the children.

Eh...I'll go now.

UPDATE:

I have done it.

There was much sorting of ice, Hot Pockets, and frozen waffles, and some shelving, but I managed to clear the bottom half of the big freezer we have in our house. (It's a bit bigger than a large stand-up fridge.) I also had to move some frozen sushi. I didn't think you could freeze sushi. I still don't think you can freeze sushi.

Then I grabbed the 120 pound keg by the handles and waddled it all the way from the backyard to the freezer.

How do I know it's 120 pounds, you ask?

Well, I weighed it.

(My laundry still isn't dry.)

But regardless of how much it weighed, it fit perfectly into the little nook I had made for it.

I am proud of myself, the keg, and the people that designed the freezer.

But my triumph is bittersweet. I am purposeless once again.

But I know it won't last.

After all, someone has to return the tap.

Death, Taxes, and Blogging

I've been turning over a rather morbid thought in my head for a few weeks.

Some people blog. All people die.

It must be the case that some people that will die have blogged.

So what happens then?

It is not uncommon for a blog to be abandoned; left on the doorstep of the World Wide Web while it's creator rings the doorbell and then ambles off nonchalantly.

Most are never heard from again. Well, except for Brian H., he came back.

If someone were to die, the readers may never know. "Oh, so-and-so hasn't blogged since he/she mentioned that he/she was going skydiving/mountain climbing/turning 21."

Some time ago, Blogger announced that it is now possible to pre-date a post that will then be published in the future. Sort of preemptive blogging. You'd be able to write a post wishing someone a happy birthday, for instance, and then have it automatically post the day of.

I read about this, and a few flakes of rust tumbled down as the gears in my head began to turn.

In theory, I could pre-blog a final post that would publish itself after I die. All I would have to do is write it, set it to post at the first of the month, and then forget about it. Of course, in the event that I make it to the end of the month, I would then change the post date to the first of the next month. And so on, and so on, and so on, until I die.

Or completely forget about the damn thing and be stupefied/mortified/horrified/embarrassed when all the stuff I wrote that was never meant to be heard until I was dead appears when I load up my blog on the 1st.

But that's a risk I think I'm willing to take.

I don't often get to say this, but the worst thing that could possibly happen in that scenario is that I don't die.

I doubt it will be an legally binding contract or anything, but if I decide that I want my body to be used in some sort of grand practical joke, you all had better do it. Come on, how often will you get the chance to prop me up in a booth at McDonald's, place a half-eaten burger in front of me, and then run off to a safe distance to watch the hilarity that will ensue?!

Or, put me in the trunk of the car that belongs to that co-worker you hate and then the let all the air out of one of the tires. When they go to the trunk for the spare tire, be sure to have a camera to capture their look of horror. (You get first dibs on that one, Andrew S.)

Oh, and everyone is going to get ridiculously trashed at my wake. I want everyone to wake up the next day with a hangover so bad that they actually envy me.

Maybe that's a bad idea, come to think of it.

Wait until I'm buried before you all break out the alcohol.

When I say that I'll be cold in my grave before I'm the only person not drinking, I absolutely fucking mean it.

My younger brother, Donaldo, is home.

(Quick reminder: My siblings, in order from least to greatest, are : Miguel, me [Guillermo], Donaldo, Barbara, and Luis. A handy mnemonic device to remember is Mischievous Guillotines Decapitate Bodies Liberally.)

Donaldo is on leave from Fort Benning, Georgia.

It's been some time since all the Lopez boys have been together.

No good will come of this.

I'm excited.

Also, I have just accidentally taken an overdose of Day-Quil, that wacky over-the-counter cold medicine.

Please forgive any unusual behavior/blogging/phone calls, at least for the next 4-6 hours. Thank you for your patience.

Meanwhile, back in the Royal Scrivening Room...

I: Quibbles Bumbly! Dryly Snydesdayle! I do summon you forth, my Head Scriveners!

Bumbly: Whaddya want?

Snydesdayle: Here, Official Gurg.

I: I bear ill news.

Bumbly: Oh, is that why you're wearing cow slippers? Are they supposed to lighten the mood or something?

I: Actually, these cow slippers were a present from the war-torn land of Evermore. And my feet were cold because I just got out of the shower and...damn you, Quibbles! Cease your babbling for a moment and listen. There is news from the Island Nation of Dana.

Snydesdayle: What? My beloved home?

I: Yes, I'm afraid so Dryly. I have just received word that The Island Nation of Dana will be temporarily closing her borders.

Snydesdayle: Closing her borders?! Why?! What have you done to make her do such a thing?!

Bumbly: Whoa, Snydey's freakin' out! He's got a point, though. Did she find out about the time you kidnapped her boyfriend to go eat sandwiches and smoke cigars in the forests of Northern Arizona?

I: Dryly, Bumbly, I assure you that I have had no influence on the matter! The borders will be closed while The Island Nation Of Dana pursues diplomatic matters in England.

Snydesdayle: ...Forgive my outburst, sir. This is all very...overwhelming.

Bumbly: Hey man, just relax. Try to focus on the cow slippers.

I: Quibbles, remove yourself immediately. In my current state, I cannot promise that I will not jam this writing quill into your eye.

Bumbly: The big quill or the little one?

I: OUT!

Snydesdayle: May I take my leave as well, sir?

I: In a moment, my dear Dryly. I wish to extend my deepest sympathies and guarantee you that every effort will be made to continue correspondence between our nations.

Snydesdayle: Very good, sir. Thank you.

I: I also wish to offer you full citizenship to the Nation-State of Guillermo.

Snydesdayle: I am honored, sir, but I must decline. I ask you again, sir, may I go?

I: Yes, of course. You may take your leave, my Head Scrivener.

Snydesdayle: Thank you, sir.

I: Eh, Dryly?

Snydesdayle: Yes?

I: I am granting you a fortnight of reprieve from your duties here. I will also send word to the Royal Treasury to give you a travel allowance so that you may spend your vacation wherever you wish.

Snydesdayle: Wherever I wish? That will be quite impossible, sir. I cannot go home.

I: I understand, Dryly. But please, take the time off. I will keep you continually updated as to the progress of The Island Nation Of Dana.

Snydesdayle: I appreciate that, sir. Good day.

I: Good day, friend.

Bumbly: Hey, I heard all that! You're giving him money just because he's feelin' a little down? C'mon! Hey, I'm sad too! Look! Oh, wonderful D'isle, my precious island! Woe is me that I no longer see your shores! Boo-hoo-hoo! I'm so sad...ARGH!!! MY EYE!!!

I: Feel free to keep that quill, Bumbly.

This is a test of the emergency blogging system.

This is only a test.

Why don't people ever think of something interesting to say when they are testing something?

Like roadies that say "Test, test," into the microphones, as if everyone in the crowd has to be convinced. Personally, I have never even come close to mistaking the guys checking the microphones for the actual band I came to see.

Update: Before I left for work today, I spat out the post below. It didn't publish, and until just a few moments ago I was able to make it publish.

And by that I mean I kept hitting "Publish" over and over and over.

Here's to insanity, eh Einstein?

Meg (the pretty one) mentioned that I have been sounding angry.

I haven't been feeling particularly angry, that I can think of. A bit frustrated perhaps. Ben O. wrote this hilarious bit on his blog a while back about this hummingbird that was fiercely guarding a hummingbird feeder. The sugar water in the feeder tasted good to the bird, but was devoid of nutrients. The little hummingbird believed that it was getting what it needed when it was actually getting nothing but a sweet taste in it's mouth.

Well, it was funny the way Ben O. wrote it.

So I've been mulling over that lately. Just wondering what is nectar and what is just sugar water.

But like I said, it's funny.

* * * * *

Seeming angry reminded me of my next-door neighbor at my old house.

She went to Arizona State University, and so did her roommates. She was nice, and would often ask me to help her with typical stuff, like changing light bulbs and stuff. We were friends, but I felt like I was more of a novelty to her, so to speak.

One day she told me, "You're the wierdest person I've ever met. You're so one-dimensional! You're always the same, you're never mad, or sad, or anything."

"Eh, do you mean, 'two-dimensional'?" I had asked her. "One-dimensional is like a dot, or a point. I think you mean I have no depth."

"Well, you're always the same!" she reiterated, "Always in a good mood."

"Maybe I just only come over when I'm in a good mood."

* * * * *

Hmm...I have to leave for work in five minutes.

The other night I was sitting at the computer and coughing and my mom scolded me again about neglecting my health. "You have to be careful, you've had that cold for three weeks!"

"Three weeks?" I muttered. "That's nothing to worry about. My alcoholism still holds the record at three years and counting."

"What was that?"

"Nothing." (cough cough)

A Word About Commenting:

Since the blog-out commenting system has gone a bit wonky, I have found myself re-evaluating the role of comments in my blog.

I have felt it is only fair to have a commenting option. It is a simple premise: I get my say, and you can have your say, if you wish.

I also figured it would be an easy way for others to point out to me that I am completely wrong/missing the point.

But it's a double-edged sword.

I must point out that there is no statute of limitations on what you've said in the past. If you've ever told me that this one time you thought you could fly because a circus mouse gave you a magic feather, I reserve the right to bring up that particular tale around your grandchildren.

I would recommend that in the future you don't blame me for something that you have said.

Something I scribbled earlier tonight:

There are times when you feel that your heart is not in your chest where it should be; that it is locked up, confined in a pad-locked strong-box.

It is somewhere far away, but you are still able to feel it's anger as it pounds furiously against the walls of it's cold iron cell. Far away, it is strugglng to return to you.

You know that despite how much it has hurt you before, or how much it may hurt you again, you are incomplete without it.

You want only one thing in this world. You want this one thing, and there is only one person in the world who can give it to you. You have but one thing to say to the person that has captured your heart. It is a pitiful amalgam of righteous authority with a whimpering plead.

"Give it back."