I could have had a point, but that's been done before. So instead, I have a gorilla!

I have a guitar final in roughly two weeks that I'm in no way prepared for. I also have to actually paint some of my final project for watercolour by Saturday morning. I'm also behind thousands and thousands of words on my self-imposed writing goal for the month. So what have I spent my afternoon doing? Well, once I ran out of things to watch on hulu, I turned to Facebook, and was linked from there to hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com. I may never be the same. . . .


See, for most of my life, I've been the weird one. The random one. The one no one gets who occasionally laughs at sign posts and forks just because they exist. And suddenly, I find out that there's someone out there who is quite possibly weirder than I am. And she understands the use of grammar!!

Oh, and she draws pictures that nearly explode with simple awesomeness. That helps.

So I spent a great deal of my afternoon reading the backlog of her blog (I won't consider it wasted time, since it was certainly more constructive than Facebook), and now I'm quite firmly set in a weird set of mind. So here are my random observations for today:

I stepped on a fork. I have no idea why it was on the floor, but I was so caught up in the thought that I was sweating like a radioactive pig in my sweater that I just said "ow" instead of making the terrible sound like a wounded triceratops that I usually do to overdramatize my pain. That, or screaming like a girlish Homer Simpson. I was then terribly disappointed with myself that, in the dire situation of stepping on a fork that was probably lying in wait for me, and possibly videotaping the encounter, the best thing I could think of to say was "ow". The underground spork army who paid him to get blackmail footage of me will either be sorely disappointed or exuberant, depending on whether my pathetic excuse for a pain noise is useful to them.

Cats in heat are really, really, really annoying.

I can tell people for the rest of my life that I spent my 21st birthday passed out on a couch at a friend's house with a board game box on my head, and it will sound like I had an awesome party. In all reality, they were DDRing, and I'd been up since 11pm the night before, so I was catching a nap before joining them. Alcohol was barely even involved.

I just got a spam text on my phone and experienced a wrath unlike man has known since the prehistoric days, when they weren't around to ride dinosaurs, and were consequently very pissed off at God for not inventing them a few million years earlier. (the people, not the dinosaurs. If you read between the lines in the Bible, you can clearly see that God wanted to keep all dinosaur riding to himself. Actually, you can clearly see nothing. Which is the way God wants it to be. And you wouldn't think I could misspell "God" more than three times in writing this, but you'd be wrong. My sentences are no longer making sense, so I'm going to stop rambling until I get to another, less-God-y subject, because those lighting bolts hurt when he throws them right.)

Rat snores are quite possibly the cutest thing in this world. Cuter than a kitten holding a baby with a pie thrown in there somewhere.

Umm, I was going to write something else here. Probably about how when my computer is booting up is when I get all my creative ideas, but then the instant Wordperfect finally decides to load I go blank, and then it's all too easy to get online and laugh at other people's ideas instead. But anyway, I think I have about a quart of brainspace, and all my thoughts and ideas and weirdnesses have to compete for it, and they spill and get all over the floor when it overflows unless I can get them down on paper/a screen somehow. So when something awesome comes around and starts pouring mental orange juice it ends up going everywhere. Because you can't really catch orange juice. There was a point mixed up in all of that before I drowned it in orange juice. Can I type "orange juice" one more time without being shot? Apparently.

Hey, this is a public blog! So this counts as writing for today! Boo yeah! (Boo yay? Boo yah?? I think it's that last one . . . maybe. Boo yeah sounds wrong when my brain says it, so I'm going with boo yah. Of course, it doesn't help that I'm pretty sure my brain has a Canadian accent today for no justifiable reason.)

Oh yeah! I hate it when you're digging around in your bag (or a drawer, or something, but my bag seems to collect black holes that redistribute my random junk all around the universe, making it hard to find things such as chapstick and my glasses on demand) and you're thinking about other things so you forget why you're digging around in the first place. You've probably touched whatever you wanted seven times by now, but as soon as you remember what it was, it goes all covert ops and finds a way to hide behind something infinitesimally smaller than physics should normally allow.

Or maybe it's just my bag that does this. Physics doesn't really seem to exist in my bag. And it's not just this bag; it's any bag that I deem "my bag". I'm certain there's some awesome super power I could abuse to rule the world someday tied up in that last sentence, but I'm wearing far too much grey right now to think of how. (That really has nothing to do with anything, except that I was trying to think of something I was "far too" at the moment, and my laptop was conveniently on my lap, which is wearing grey pants. I suppose it could mean that my super villain outfit is severely lacking and most likely hindering any efforts I could make to conquer Russia, but really, I think that's a bit too deep for that to have been a conscious thought. Morelike I was trying to be random, and felt the sudden "silence in the room as everyone shifts their feet awkwardly and tries to distance themselves from the failed attempt at funny" smack the internet, and so I became the awkward person trying to explain themselves when really they should just take a long, long drink and try to pass it off as drunken idiocy. Because my level of sober idiocy is just sad.)

One last thought: don't you hate it when you're writing and all your little thoughts are warring to be written and so you either end up feeling incomplete in your sentence, or stretching it on forever, or putting in parentheses after parentheses until your sentence becomes something even the most lenient of English teachers would have taken out and shot? (I spent waaay too much time considering whether to put a question mark at the end of that monstrosity. I finally decided that I'd started with a "question word", so I'd attempt at some semblance of consistency. You should thank me, even if it is just painting the Zeppelin that crashed into your mental lawn green to hope it fits in. I could have made it a semicolon. Then there would be zombies.)

Um, I was going to get more at how I hate putting parentheses in the middle of a sentence, because by the time you're done rambling the words immediately following the parentheses, though fitting with the original sentence, don't make any sense. So, there it is. This blog would be much improved with pictures, but I think that would lead to more rambling. Besides the fact that I'm far too lazy to draw anything.

And I do have a gorilla. He's stuffed. I sleep with him every night. That sounds creepy.

On another note: I'm fairly certain my blog suffers from colon cancer. This thought was funny to me at the time, so it got stuck up here to suffer your wrath at delaying the end by even more gibberish. Ha.

Oh, actually, a new way to end: read hyperboleandahalf! That is all.

(edit: Dammit! I hate it when the one typo I make is at a place where I'm trying to sound intelligent. Like "And she understand the use of Grammar". Way to go, hotshot.)

Update: my mom informs me that I'm using "infinitesimally" wrong. I counter that I meant to say "smallerly small".