Waking Up With The Ill-Informed.

Any day I wake up and the first voice I hear is a crazy man on television ranting about Psychology 101 is destined to be...well...just a little more stupid. But this is what happens when I surface long enough to see early morning television programming. My mind is in an easily distracted state, and the sight of the people so full of energy that early fascinates me. The strange, and slighty alarming, news conference was followed by a hoarse Rachael Ray and then The View, which usually ends up on because Mum watches the ABC news, but I always seem to be the only person who listens to what they say on that show, because yesterday when I started screaming, "Did you hear that?" I got dead air...at first.

If you're at all familiar with The View, you have an idea of who said this, and if you don't know the hosts of The View, it won't matter who said it, but what's important is that there are people, out in the world, who work in television, who make enough money to be able to live in Manhattan, and who are sure Jesus came before "The Greeks."

A discussion about the Greek philosopher Epicurus, who lived from 341 B.C. to 270 B.C. and was there at the beginning of science as explaining things without reasons like, "Zeus is pissed off at you today," coincidentally turned into Sherri Shepherd's astonishment that anyone could be happy without faith in their life. She wasn't going by Dante or Constantine or Lactantius, no, she was going by, "Greeks threw Christians to the lions."

I'll let that sink in for a second.

While that's sinking in, remember I spent every summer from the age of 5 watching Clash of The Titans almost like I lived during those times in a past life. (Yes, of course I mean the 1980s, what did you think I meant?) I saw Xanadu before Life of Brian, I used to read the comic strip B.C., and I still celebrate the Chinese New Year and Jewish New Year because, damn, that's a lot of numbers. I'm not over-reacting when I say it is not impossible to notice that some people were around before Jesus. I think, like, he saved a few and stuff, and lots of people turned away from other beliefs to follow his teachings. You know, after Cetus ran out of pirates to eat! John the Baptist was a ninja, you know. Yes. From space. The Vikings were laying low with the Incas in Australia around then, weren't they?

Waking Up With The Ill-Informed.

My Theory on Seasonal Affective Disorder

It is difficult to write out holiday cards that should have wishes of joy and cheery declarations of love when all I want to do is put a hammer through my head.

The weather has turned frigid and I haven't seen the sun in two days. There is sad-sounding Celtic music wafting in from another room, and as a result I've turned my headphone radio up so loud I can heard Bruce Springsteen breathing down my neck. I like Celtic music, I really do, but outside of I Am Stretched On Your Grave, I don't dig the ones involving death and separation very much, because they get it more accurately than I care to notice when I see that I only have a handful of family cards to send out--which, btw, I'd love to do the card exchange thing, but believe me, you're better getting the thing I will post here...whatever that will be--and I can't keep anyone's name straight, especially my own, because honestly, I wrote it once, why do I have to keep writing it down? My mind does not know. Much like when I took piano lessons. You play one G major chord, you don't need to play it again in the same song, right?

I hope my meltdown is being entertaining, kids. I try. I really try.

My Theory on Seasonal Affective Disorder

I See What I Did There.

The other day, I was gushing about how great it was that I was getting a pack of six replacement springs for my Swiss Army Knife. Today, I got a spring. One spring, and was like, "Where are the other five?"

I say I was "like" that because the actual sound I made was not that coherent due to my sore tongue and not something I want to reprint in case children are reading.

The error was mine, however. I had been comparing springs on two sites, and the one I didn't go with had a pack of six springs for the price of the one spring I just got, but they charged more for shipping.

Have I ever mentioned I don't see very well? Yeah.

Ain't no replacement brains to be found on the Internet.

But I've got my red knife back, anyway, and the cancelled Yoda stamp on the envelope wasn't too shabby, either. When this spring goes five years from now, if they still sell replacements, I guess I'll get that six-pack.

I See What I Did There.

Sundays suck.

There, I've said it. I hate Sunday. This Sunday has done nothing to change my opinion of its predecessors, as LiveJournal is down, and that is a wrench in the cogs of my life so large that any venting I might have done elsewhere, in a moderate false sense of privacy, cannot happen now.

It snowed today. It wasn't a lot of snow, it was pretty, and were I younger and healthier, the sight of the first snowflakes would have carried me through a dozen Sundays on a sparkly patch of icy glee. But no. Now I’m old, and the only place I’m allowed to enjoy the snow is in my backyard. We live on a street many people walk down, and so being a vampire with a hernia tends to clash with the idea of not causing people to slip. The neighbor next door, bless him, shovels the street in front of his house and our house. But he's got tendonitis and pins in his leg. Is it fair for him to have to shovel the street in front of our house? Of course not. But he does it, without asking or expecting anything in return, and that is why he rocks.

My tongue is sore and my head hurts. The psuedoephedrine-based allergy medication I took last week in order to understand the English language is leaving me unwilling to do much, and were breathing not an automated process I probably would not have bothered to be here to force this post onto my unsuspecting readers. I’m sorry I’m not funny today, I’m not funny a lot of the time, and if I plan to write something every single day on here, my charade is going to become more apparent than I’d like.

The usual reasoning behind posting emo vents like this is to let other people who feel the same know they aren’t alone. But we are, aren’t we? A dozen people avoiding human contact, unwilling to damage the smooth surface of the new fallen snow on a cold, dreary Sunday, are all, in their own square-footage, alone. We like it that way, too, don't we? No one would appreciate the snowballs I throw anyway, they end up looking like Italian ices from my bloody cracked hands.

I think Morrissey wrote a song about this. Far more entertaining, too.

Sundays suck.

How to tell what day it is.

Tate is on vacation, so one of the few things I looked forward to in December is...well, done in one frame.

Not to fear, there is a less-cute, but just as handy tool for people who just aren't sure if it's Christmas yet: IsItChristmas.com. It even has an RSS feed.

As for me, I shall try to write something here every day, because I have been neglecting my blog duties almost as much as my own sanity. However, I think you'll agree that it's much better I spend my hour freezing in my yard not writing posts. The double letters are a bbi to backspace over.

How to tell what day it is.