Friday, October 31, 2014                        

What Are You Supposed To Be?

Whattta Halloween!  It's the day that is now.  Anyway.  Hi.  Today's a new entry, because I finished the last one yesterday.  I spent half the day curled up in a ball in my bed.  What if more words with, "It," in them show up?  But, I can't live the rest of my life in fear.  I need to go online and write five paragraphs of mediocrity for strangers.  Mediocr-it-y.  Yip.  It was only a matter of time.  We already had one trick or treater.  Turns out, they were in for a treat.  No tricking, at least not yet.  I went and got a couple of beers, and they carded me, and while I was giving him my card, the guy asked how old I was, and when I told him 25, I was actually proud of myself for getting my age right.  There was a millisecond where I was like, "How old am I?  Shit!  He stumped me."  And when I gave the right answer, not only did I feel relief that the beer was now mine, but I was actually proud of myself.  That's right, you got it together, Michael.  Knowing pertinent information about your life.  You deserve this.  Maybe I should get a guitar teacher.  He can buy beer for me, so I won't have to go through the hassle of knowing my age all the time.  I just tried playing my acoustic guitar for thirty seconds, and I was like, "Jeez, this is terrible."  Not good at all.  Not.  Good.  At.  All.  At all.  Not Good At.  Good At.  Not Good.  All.  Also, huh?  Half of me wanted to get dinner from the Halal cart, and when they're about to hand it to me, I would go, "Hmm, can't you make it more Halloween-y?"  The look on their face.  You've been punk'd.  Wait, Punk'd is copyrighted?  You've been 'Blammed!
    If I ever had a prank show, I'd either call it, Blammed!, or, Michael Kornblum Has Played a Joke On You.  I think Blammed! could be a little confusing, I want people to know exactly what they're in for.  If I had a prank show, I'd make a twist, where it actually turns out that the practical joke is on me.  Every episode has me ending up with egg on my face.  I gotta tell the truth, though.  I don't think I'm ever gonna have a prank show.  It's just not in the cards at this point.  That's how I feel.  Last entry of the month.  Boy, it was a good one.  I was re-reading an entry or two from the beginning, and I didn't remember any of it.  You know, because of the alcohol?  Boy, was they're egg on my face.  It's terrible that Halloween is just a few days before election day.  In twenty states, it's the Republican's October Surprise that the Democrat-controlled senate has allowed Witches and Warlocks to roam the streets of Anytown, U.S.A.  That's just great.  I remember I once read somewhere that Republicans call it the Democrat party instead of the Democratic party because it makes people think of, "Rats."  I read two dozen books on politics when I was in high school, and the "Rat" thing is pretty much all I remember.  Also, that something's the matter with Kansas.  Also, that On Base Percentage is more important than Average.  Wait, no, that was baseball.
    Alright.  Kevin Youkilis '24.  What else is going on.  If I were answering the doors for trick or treaters, when they ring the bell, I'd answer, and immediately say, "Maybe I have Ebola, Maybe Not!"  And see how the parents react.  You know, for fun.  Anyway.  This entry has just been great.  Real fun.  There's nowhere else I'd rather be.  Which is good, because this is the only place that'll have me.  I'm wearing my old Titannica Mr. Show shirt from high school.  The front of the shirt is basically just a screenshot from the Titannica sketch from Mr. Show, only now, after ten years, it's faded 90% so you can't make out anything.  I used to love wearing my Drugachussets shirt, because in my mind, it added mystique to me.  Maybe he does drugs, I don't know!  If so, I sure would want to be his friend.  Drugs are cool!  The only drug I did at the time was Bawls, the energy drink.  and Mountain Dew Code Red.  And also, it's like sticking it to the man.  Yea, Man, I know we're in school, but Imma wear a shirt that says, "Drugs," on it!  Deal with it, Square!  The only thing people ever thought about me in school was, "Ah, look at that little kid."  Little as in unique?  Kid as in You?  You're a kid.  I'm a kid.  Let's get to know each other a little bit. 
    I might have shared this here before, but Sophomore or Junior year, for Sing! (which is basically, each grade competes by producing and performing a musical), I actually wrote 70% of a script.  I don't know what I planned on doing with it, because I was 0% in the social circle of people who would do it.  It was sort of a parody of the Iraq war, probably sort of a rip off of the South Park movie.  I don't remember it that well.  But I know I wrote at least one or two songs for it, and a bunch of plot and dialogue.  70% seems a little high, maybe 30-40%.  And, that's also around the time I started playing guitar.  I remember, my first few songs, which, in my mind, were really fuckin' awesome hits, were from singing in the shower.  The two songs were, "I'll Push You Down The Stairs,"... I was gonna say the next one, but let's absorb that for a while.  There was a song I would sing, where the chorus was, "I'll push you down the stairs, that's what you did to me," and in my Stuyvesant-brilliant mind, I determined that was a hit song.  Also, there was a second main one, that I forget.  I do remember another main lyric I liked, "I gotta act happy before I commit suicide."  I thought that was the most genius lyric that everyone would be able to connect to.  And, in my head, I was really like, no one else can do this, I'm on fuckin' easy street, just gotta figure the guitar parts out.
    And that's how I know I'm an idiot.  Good lesson to learn.  But, even today, I definitely have a soft spot in me which confuses idiocy with cleverness.  Case in point, this website.  Case in point, shut up.  The point is, self-delusion knows no bounds.  I was a product of my time.  The president was clinically retarded.  I was watching an Oprah from 2000, where George Bush was the guest.  It's tough to watch, because I just want to scream into my T.V. Set, "NO YOU FOOLS!  THIS MAN WILL LEAD YOU ASTRAY!"  Oh well.  At least it's over.  We're all safe here, back in 2014.  2014?  Mom... you're so... so... so... so... so... so... so...  Sorry, I slipped into a coma there for a second.  What else is going on.  Fifth paragraph, huh.  Alright.  That's how that goes.  Probably.  I'm not really an expert in the field of how it goes.  Halloween, eh?  Great.  What else is going on and stuff.  I know, I know.  Gotta finish the entry.  That's but one of the things that is going on.  What else?  It sucks getting older.  Each year, I get a year older... yet my height remains the same.  So, every year, I look one more year younger than I should be.  I should get that bone-breaking surgery to gain an extra two or three inches.  You know, for fun.  Or I could just wear platform shoes and save the money and physical pain.  Or, just learn to accept myself for who I am.  Snort.  Or, just start goin' around in a wheelchair.  No one would be the wiser.  Anyway.  Halloween Fortress.  Havin' fun.  Entry.  Alright, see ya later.

-5:02 P.M.          
                              

Wednesday, October 30, 2014                        

Who Wants To Join My Fantasy Title League?

Let's do it.  High stakes, though.  Hundred dollars each, top titler gets it all.  If we're gonna do it, lets do it.  Also, I prefer rotisserie over head-to-head.  Anyway.  What's going on.  Things and stuff.  I was watching Stephen King's It, I had never seen it before.  It's pretty scary.  Clowns becoming men.  Men becoming clowns.  I know a lot of kids are scared of clowns, I don't think I ever was.  But, I was just never really exposed to any clowns.  Maybe if I had an abusive father who beat me, and was also a clown, then I'd probably not like clowns so much.  Or fathers.  Or being beaten.  Mostly being beaten.  There was a kid in high school who used to beat me.  We would play connect four by passing a sheet with a grid written on it back and forth during class, and occasionally, he won the game.  Got beaten.  And it hurt.  If I'm not top dawg at connect four, what am I?  Also, I hate minesweeper.  While we're on the topic of games.  Who actually likes that shit?  Not only is it pretty hard, because it's 50% guesswork, but it's just boring.  I have no emotional involvement in whether I hit a bomb or not.  I'd say my favorite game is still, "I'm thinking of a number, If it's it's one, I win..."  I remember I was once playing Risk with my brother, and the dice rolls kept being in my favor, and he got really angry and flipped the board over and stomped out of the room, screaming.  It doesn't sound so bad, until you know the fact that he was 19 at the time.  Maybe not 19.  Definitely an upper teenager, though.  Maybe even older.  That's how that goes.  Hmm.  I should relate an anecdote with him where I'm the jerk, to balance that out.  Hmm.  Nope.  I don't think I've ever been a jerk.  Oh, I know.  The time I shared an embarrassing story about him to the internet without his approval.  You know, now.  I guess we're even.
    Alright.  I wanna flip this website over and run screaming out of the room.  It's that bad.  But, at this point, I'm emotionally invested in it.  This ain't no game of minesweeper.  I wanna answer the door for trick or treaters, and they'll go, "Trick or treat!" And I'll go, "You wanna know something really scary?  I'm Dead."  I think If I really sell it, they'll get a little spooked.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  My birthday is exactly six weeks from Halloween.  Same day of the week, every year.  Looks like I'm gonna be enjoying my birthday in style!!  On a Friday.  Maybe I should invite Michael Richards and Larry David.  To hang out.  Am I right?  I'm usually not.  Is that really the best joke I could come up with?  It's not a joke at all.  C'mon.  Let's try again.  Looks like I'm gonna be enjoying my birthday in style!! On a Friday. That's one of the days of the week.  The last one of the weekdays.  People like to have fun on Fridays. 
    Anyway, what's going on.  Today's a Thursday, am I right?  Yes?  Good.  I can't be dispensing wrong information out to you people.  I gotta get back to pissing my pants while watching IItItIiiIIiIiIIIIIiIiiiiitrijiiiGODDDAMNITWHERETHEITALICSiiiIIjiibbihHELLOIt.  ItIt's a really long movie, too, which adds to the horror.  Will this movie ever end?  I might have to watch this for the rest of my life.  Scary stuff.  HAHAHA.  "It's a really long movie."  Fridays!  Alright.  What else is going on.  Haha.  It-alics.  OH SHIT IT.  Gotta love crazysheet.  Ain't Life Crazy?  Sheee-it. SHEE-IT.  Alright, jeez.  That's how that goes.  Happy Halloween.  Alright, lets move on.  We can play the, "It," game forever.  It's a really long movie.  So, what else is going on.  Entry is half over.  That's good news.  Because, in theory, the rest of this entry will be better than the first half.  In theory.  I gotta go back to watching It.  I wanna finish this movie today.  That way, tomorrow, I can reserve for watching The Karate Kid school-dance scene on repeat.  That's what Halloween is all about.  It's coming around!  Anyway.  I gotta write a paper for the Saturday after the upcoming one.  Or, "Next" Saturday.  Whichever description you prefer.  Only three pages long.  I'm just gonna write two paragraphs, and then write, "Aww, it's probably a really nice day today, why don't you take the rest of the paper off and enjoy yourself."  Bango. 
    Okay, here we go with paragraph numero four.  Numero means numeral in Spanish.  Que Pasa.  Yo hablo espanol un poco.  Yo conozco donde ir la biblioteca.  Soy muerte.  Anyway.  Gotta close up the entry.  What else is going on.  So, Halloween is coming up.  That's what I've been led to believe.  Yeesh.  Maybe I should go as A Competent Writer.  Nobody would buy it, though.  Unless if I put on my Shakespeare mask.  I knew that Shakespeare mask would come in handy someday.  That's how that goes.  See ya later.

   

-1:30 P.M.                         

Wednesday, October 29, 2014                        

I Like Titles a Lot

A lot.  Anyway, hello.  Another glorious day of sobriety.  Gettin' my T.V. watching in, my exercising, drinking a bunch of soda.  They keep coming out with new studies saying how diet soda is bad for you.  Fuck off.  They could say diet soda causes cancer, and I'd still drink it.  What, they do say diet soda causes cancer?  Well, I guess I have to still drink it.  I made a promise, and I'm nothing if not a man of my word.  If you had to describe me to a person, based on two or three facts, the first two facts would be, "Smokes cigarettes," and, "Likes diet soda."  Still not sure about the third fact.  "Is 5'2."  Probably.  That's me.  If price wasn't an issue, and fridge space, I'd probably drink a lot of diet Snapple, or maybe vitamin water zero.  So, I guess just artificially sweetened drinks, of all sorts.  Iced coffees.  That's how that goes.  What else is up.  I need to get a book or two for my next class.  I really should do that today, so I have enough time to read it.  That's how that goes.  Halfway through my Big Star book.  Alex Chilton spent some time in Greenwich Village.  My old stomping grounds.  I can accurately say I was just a struggling songwriter livin' in that area, just like so many before me.  Except I was also a student of the evil-gentrifying N.Y.U.  I would spend hours playing electric guitar, just hoping some girls were in the hall listening.  Well, not really.  But, to some extent.  I was too self conscious that I would actually have that kind of stuff in the back of my mind when playing.  Everyone likes a not-even-mediocre guitar player who otherwise totally ignores them.  Hey, I wasn't there to make friends.  I was there to make music.
    Actually, I was there to become a Social Studies teacher.  Which also didn't happen.  Maybe I was there to waste my parents money.  That's pretty much the main thing I accomplished.  What else is going on.  Another crappy day of sobriety.  Gotta write the rest of this entry.  Alright.  That sounds doable.  I had a dream last night that all my old friends hated me.  Like, not even were just disinterested in me, or didn't care about me.  But actually held very significant malice towards me.  Like, were plotting my destruction.  It ended up being kind of a good dream, because I woke up, and was like, "Eh, I don't really care."  Which is an important step in letting go of the past.  I don't like the idea of letting go of the past.  What was the point of all that shit I did then?  I say, hold on to your past, that way you'll be motivated to making a better present, because it will soon be your past.  That's how I feel about things.  But, still, please don't plot my destruction.  I got enough problems as it is.  Anyway, what was I talking about.  Stupid dreams.  I've got no use for them.  No... use... for dreams.  Except that they provide a welcome relief to my confusing waking life.  In my dreams, everything seems to make sense, at least while I'm dreaming it.  Good, or bad, whatever.  At least I sort of understand what's going on.  I guess that's kind of the reverse from most people.  Their life makes sense, and their dreams are weird.  Whatever.  My dreams are still weird, it's just that they have a narrative that I could follow and is uninterrupted. 
    Anyway, what else is going on.  I want to do something on Halloween just so I could be Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.  Also, because I haven't gone on a social interaction in a dog's age.  But, mainly Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.  That's great fun.  But that was last entry.  Now's the time for this entry.  Anyway.  Pretty soon this entry will be the last entry.  That's how time works.  Just letting you know.  I haven't said anything in two and a third paragraphs.  What's up.  Let's get into it.  Alright.  My brain has just been running, "Spooky, Scary, Werewolf Bar Mitzvah..." on a loop for the past 24 hours.  I like Halloween for the movies.  I love me some T.V. horror movies.  All kinds of horror movies.  Doesn't matter what sub-genre.  That's how I feel.  No it's not.  I'm a compulsive liar.  That's a good idea for a horror movie.  The main character/villain is just a compulsive liar.  And it's down-right scary what they trick people into thinking.  I took A.P. Pre-cal in high school.  And then when the other guy's back is turned, they turn to the camera and shake their head, "No."  My best friend's name in camp was John.  And then mouths to the camera, "I never went to camp."  Spooky, scary.  Boys becoming men.  Men becoming wolves.  I took honors pre-cal in high school.  I think it was the only honors class I took.  Still, though, basic algebra is the most advanced math I can still remember.  Let's see, let's do some algebra.  You know-- for fun.  5x-3y= 2x+y.  Alright, here we go!  3x-3y=y. 3x=4y.  But what do x and y equal?  I wanna know.  Whatta let down.  X might equal 4, in that case y would equal 3.  Tons... 'o... Fun.
    I should go as 3x=4y for Halloween.  I mean, what?  What a terrible entry.  Don't plot my destruction.  Yikes.  What else is going on.  Things, and stuff.  And stuff, and things.   Also stuff and stuff.  That's about it.  Things and things?  Nah, probably not.  Anyway.  Hello.  It's me.  Remember, from before?  I don't, really.  I know I'm some body who types paragraphs into his computer.  And the premise is, it's supposed to be amusing.  That's about all I can gather.  Anyway.  I guess this is the last paragraph.  I got an iced coffee.  Isn't that grand?  I don't know why I would use the word, "Grand."  I guess because I forgot who I was, and my default setting is, "Old lady."  That makes sense.  The last game of baseball is today.  It's way past my bedtime, though.  Unless if it's forty innings.  Then I might catch a piece of it when I wake up.  I lit a cigarette filter yesterday.  Clumsy ol' me.  You know your grand-mom, always getting herself into trouble.  Anyway, how's the baby.  What's going on.  I don't like it.  I don't even know what it is, but I know I don't like it. 
    Alright, last paragraph time.  Why deny my adoring Phans their rightful fifth paragraph.  Dat Phan.  Is that me?  Am I Dat Phan?  Makes as much sense as anything.  What.  What the.  Let's move on.  It's not really the World Series, am I right?  Vietnam ain't in it.  It's the America and a little bit of Canada series!  Hmmmmm, What would my Mom say about the world series.  Dat Phan, turn off dat World Series!  Thank you, thank you.  In conclusion, I want to star in a show where I work in a hair salon and know everybody's secrets.  Good night!  Alright, he's gone now, he's gone.  The bad man is gone now.  It's okay.  See ya later.

-2:30 P.M.

X=3, Y=4
wait, no, I was right the first time.                                       

Tuesday, October 28, 2014                        

Titlin' 2 Tha Xtreme!

Alright.  That's a concept I can get behind.  I took an uncharacteristically long break since last entry.  Uncharacteristically is an uncharacteristically long word.  I'm saying what we're all thinking!  And by, "We," I mean me.  And by, "Me," I mean we.  Pimpin' ain't easy.  That's how I feel.  What's going on.  Pimpin does sound pretty easy, to tell the truth.  You don't really have to do much.  Prostitution is the world's oldest profession.  I guess pimping is the world's second oldest profession.  But how did that prostitute find a john in the first place.  Doesn't add up.  If no one else had a job, how did the first prostitute make money?  Someone must have paid her in oats, or something.  Doesn't add up.  Accounting is the world's third foremost profession.  Need someone to make things add up.  Anyway.  What's going on.  Without drinking, my life is surprisingly empty.  I never woulda guessed.  I like that show about New Orleans, xTreme.  I guess because the poverty and living conditions are so poor that it's extreme.  That's how I interpret things.  I was rooting for Baltimore this playoffs, because I confuse Baltimore and New Orleans, and I thought New Orleans could use some good press.  That's how I feel.  New Orleans has contributed a lot to American culture.  Like Popeye's chicken.  That's from Louisiana.  That's what I've been led to believe, at least.  I remember one band name I always wanted to use was Punk Drunk Blues.  Even though I didn't play punk.  Or blues.  Or even music.  I said that because I was half-heartedly alluding to New Orleans wonderful tradition of jazz music.  And I confuse jazz with blues.  I was drunk, though.  The name is 1/3rd accurate.  It's pretty cool that if you're an alcoholic, that alone makes you already 33% a musician.
    Yeesh.  Punk Drunk Blues is sort of an allusion to Punch Drunk Love.  Which is a phrase meaning something.  No one's really sure what.  Wouldn't a punk band based around blues music be good?  It sounds good.  Punk gives it some attitude, blues gives it musical credibility.  Perfect.  The only thing I know about blues music is that it always uses the 4/3/2/0 on the high E string to end every verse and chorus.  Never gets old.  There be another punk band name.  It would probably get old after a while, though.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  It's November in a few days.  Which is interesting.  I guess.  Start a new crazysheet homepage, and retire October 14 to the archives.  Start writing 11 for the month in the date.  That's about it, I guess.  What else is going on.  All Hallows Eve on Friday.  Or Thursday.  It might be the night before Halloween.  Jewish people's Halloween starts the night before.  Hmm, what's some joke I can make about, "Jewish people celebrate Halloween like this!"  Hmm.  Hmm.  Mitzvah-- there's a Jewish word.  Hmm.  Bar Mitzvah.  That's an extension of mitzvah.  Oh, I know.  Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.  Get well soon, TJ.  I call him TJ, because I think Tracy Jordan is his real name.  If you're still undecided about your costume, consider going as Werewolf Bar Mitzvah.  Anyway.  Alright.  Michael Myers sorta sounds like a Jewish name.  Where's his yarmulke?  Also, why is that spelled like that.  I demand answers!  Ans-weres.  Werewolf Bar Mitzvah. 
    Okay.  Werewolf Bar Mitzvah, spooky scary.  Boys becoming men.  Men becoming wolves.  I just took an iced coffee break, and I was listening to a podcast, and they referenced Werewolf Bar Mitzvah!  Great minds think a lot.  Months apart from each other.  And you don't really need a, "Great" mind to be able to recognize greatness.  Gotta tell you, though.  It was spooky, scary.  Reference becoming supra-references.  Supra-references... becoming wolves.   Great minds think a lot?  Put that in the quotation bank.  Anyway.  Haven't drank since Saturday, won't drink again until at least Saturday.  Or maybe Halloween, for the novelty of it all.  But, all in all, I'm a recoverving alcoholic.  Things are looking up.  Anyway.  Nice brisk summer day outside today.  Wha, it's November in a few days?  You lie.  Stop lying.  Whatta liar.  Next time I go to Dunkin Donuts, I should go, "What do you recommend?"  Because fine dining establishments.  Things.  Anyway.  That was weird.  Okay.  Let's get back on track.  Dunkin Donuts is Now Hiring.  Maybe it's time I started looking for a job.  How would you like your donut today, sir?  That's a reasonable question.  Sprinkles or no sprinkles.  Gotta know.  Yes sir, right away.  Please compliment me if I get your order right!  Good job, I guess.  God bless you, sir.  Here, have some extra sprinkles.  I didn't want sprinkles.  Oh, oh no.  Oh no.  Oh boy, no no no.  Not today.  NOT TODAY.  That's how that might go!
    And, scene.  Alright, I wanna thank the crazysheet players for that wonderful skit.  Playin' ain't easy.  Alright, what else.  Pretty sure there's nothing else.  Sprinkles or No Sprinkles was the only note I wanted to hit this entry, and that's done.  What else is there to say.  Eh, let's finish this up.  I'm tired for some reason.  I was gonna try something new from Chinese Food today, but I decided to stick with what I know.  Now's not the time to make waves.  Except when I'm importing music from my 8-track.  Then, time to make some .wavs.  And now's not the time for that.  Alright.  What is it time for?  Afternoon?  It's not time for afternoon, it is afternoon.  Get your facts straight.  So, I got a pack of light cigarettes.  To my great dismay, though, it turns out they were just cigarettes with a lighter taste, not a box of 20 laser pointers.  Uh.  When I want a light cigarette, I want a light cigarette.  There's a family of moths that live up near my light bulb.  The one in my room.  That's great, I guess.  I don't know if they're a family.  Maybe it's a sort of time-share thing.  All I know is that they pay no rent.  Freeloaders.
    Okay, final paragraph time.  When I was at Dunkin Donuts, I was lookin' at the donuts and stuff, and I was like, "Man, if I wanted to, with my current diet, I can add eating a muffin a day and not gain any weight."  A muffin a day.  Can you imagine?  What would people say?  I don't think I'd be able to follow through on such a thing.  I hate those fast food ads that combine sexy women with eating fast food.  It confuses me inside.  What do I want more?  Anyway.  Entry winding down.  Iced coffee winding down.  Time-of-Day is progressing at a reasonable rate.  Not drunk, though.  No, no, not drunk.  Oh well.  Could be worse, I guess.  Probably.  I don't get the game of beer pong.  If you're drinking, you'd want to drink right?  So, how come you drink when you lose?  The winners should get to drink.  You nail a shot, you get to drink that beer.  I guess maybe because, in theory, the more you drink, the less good you are at beer pong.  So, you're being punished by becoming even worse at a sport you clearly don't excel at.  That's kind of just adding insult to injury.  Doesn't seem right.  Doesn't... seem... right.  Anyway, see ya later. 

-3:05 P.M.                                  

Saturday, October 25, 2014                        

E-Mail Me Ten Titles For A Free Pizza!

Alright!  Yeah.  Today is, well, it's the same day as before.  Nothin' much changed on that front.  It's a different time, though.  You should be aware of that.  Anyway.  I have this new agreement with my parents, where, they know that I'm drinking, but I can only drink once a week.  It's kind of pathetic, sure.  I'll give you that.  But very pathetic?  You can't have that.  I'll only give you kind of.  This way, I can drink my true love, beer.  And for dinner is my second true love, pizza!  And for sleeping is my third true love, sleeping!  Then, my fourth true love, waking up.  Then, fifth true love, using the bathroom.  Then, sixth true love taking a walk.  Then, seventh true love, watching Saturday Night Live.  Then, eighth true love, reading urban legends.  Then, my ninth true love, watching Urban Legends.  Then, my tenth true love, imagining a loving and adoring audience for my life in the form of writing a crazysheet entry.  It's all down hill from there.  E-mail me my ten true loves for a free pizza.  In the form of you never getting to that stage, because you don't know my e-mail, and by the time you've found it, you've lost motivation to actually e-mail me.  When I was watching The Simpsons marathon a few months ago, one of my top 5 favorite jokes was Lionel Hutz promised them a winning case or a free pizza, and he came with the free pizza, and Marge was like, "We won the case!" and he was like, "It's okay, the box is empty!"  Love it.  My favorite episode, overall, though, was probably when Homer went to work for Hank Scorpio.  That's how I feel.  In fact, I didn't even give you my coat.  And then he has it on backwards!  That's the most brilliant thing I've ever seen.
    Alright.  Beer.  Whadda great.  Thing.  Anyway.  What's going on.  My class today was forty five minutes long, instead of two and a half hours, because, first the teacher came late, then let us out very early.  He was like, "It's such a nice day, I can't keep you cooped up in here.  You're free to go."  Hey, asshole, you could have just canceled class, and I wouldn't have wasted two hours on transportation, you asshole, fucker, you assholing fuckeroo of an asshole fucked into assholery.  I wasn't really that angry, though, because I was just happy to get out of there.  Also, he seems like a pretty nice guy, even though he's a shit teacher.  He'll spend the entire two hours and forty five minutes talking about one obvious, insignificant little aspect of the reading.  Where he literally talks for hours about something you noted in three seconds.  And that's one out of fourteen, or whatever, classes.  There was a shit load of crazy people on my bus, on the ride back.  Like, if there's one crazy person, fine, you put it away in your mind.  Two, fine, defying the odds a bit, but okay.  Three people, at least, on one ride.  Just, a bunch of singing, rambling, drinking, smoking.  Sounds like a crazysheet entry.  I blammed myself.  Wow.  I don't sing on crazysheet.  Writin me some crazysheet/this is only words/if this was singing/you'd hear it... meeting adjourned.  That's how that goes.  It's still not singing, it's just lyrics.  You're not singing, just lyrics.
    Okay.  There was a girl in class today, who was relatively cute, and relatively smart compared to the rest of the class, who did exchange fairly affectionate eye contacts with me.  It was totally unexpected and welcome.  So, of course, when class ended, I knocked her book bag on the floor and said, "Teachers pet!"  And ran off laughing into the distance.  That'll show her for being teacher's pet.  No, "The!"  How blunderful.  Hey, that's just the kind of guy I am.  Either you roll with it, or not.  Probably not.  That's how I feel.  Or, you feel.  It's how one of us feels.  I need a haircut.  When I was 18, fine, the relatively long hair was kind of cool, for me at least.  I'm turning 26 in six weeks.  Get it together.  Every time I get a haircut, for, I don't know, the past eight years, I've thought about asking for buzz cut, but never went through with it.  I wanna see my hair less than an eighth inch long.  That way people will have an unobstructed view of my noggin.  Also, I've always wanted to say noggin, that was my big chance!  And did I capitalize on it?  You betcha.  Whenever I ride the bus, I imagine suddenly standing up, and showing people my assault rifle, and saying, "I am the captain now."  You know, for fun.  Pretty sure the NYPD can arrest me just for typing that sentence into my computer.  I don't even need to publish it to the web, they'll just arrive with a SWAT team, knocking in my window, right now. ... ... Nothing yet.  Okay.  The comedy police can also arrest me for being stupid.  I hate the comedy police.  So much.
    I can't drink now for a week?  Well, we'll see.  Hee-hee-hee.  I am the greatest 26-year-old-living-with-his-parents-drinking mastermind ever!  Except for the part where I'm 26 years old and living with my parents and drinking by myself.  Everything else is pure mastermind.  Alright.  This entry is winding down.  What fun.  I'm glad I spent my inebriated state on this crap.  If it wasn't this, it would have been listening to Fountains of Wayne.  Utopia Parkway?  Sure, it makes sense to listen to it, cause I went by that parkway on my bus ride.  But is it really worth it?  Probably woulda been.  Oh well.  I don't know why, but I like Fountains of Wayne a lot.  Probably because they're really good.  Anyway.  A paragraph and a half to go.  This entry was the pitz.  And not in a good way.  Probably because that can't insinuate a good way.  That must be it.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Entry writin, and stuff, I suppose.  That happens pretty much daily, with me, I gotta say.  Oh well.  I finished beer.  Now, time to finish entry.  Then, time to finish my life.  But, put that off for about fifty years.  Then, definitely, time to follow through.  Yeesh.  This entry is still happening?  Crap.  I thought it would be over by now, and things, and stuff, so what, anyway, what. 
    Last paragraph time.  Okay.  What else is going on.  Things?  Probably.  Crap?  Most likely.  Who cares?  You bet.  No pizza tonight.  Gonna finish my Chipotle, instead.  When it comes to substituting for pizza, Chipotle is one of your best options, as far as I'm concerned.  Man, I wish I could eat it right now.  Not really, though.  It would be too early!  The good news is the entry is almost over.  I should make the rest of it count.  If I cared about you, the reader.  Or me, the writer.  Or other people, for being involved in our lives, for some reason.  All we need is each other.  That's how I feel.  I shoulda gotten pizza. What was I thinking?  Yeesh.  Let's carry on.  What an idiot.  Is I.  Hey, I get to ride the bus soon!  Except, instead of riding the bus, going to sleep.  I get those two confused all the time.  Man, I wish I had more in my life to give me structure other than my once-a-week class.  I mean, not another class.  That would be work.  But can't there just be a meeting on Tuesdays for like minded individuals in their twenties?  That isn't part of hospital?  You'd think there should be, right.  I guess I could always watch T.V.  Hey, look, it's people producing entertainment!  Am I involved in any way?  No.  But they sure look like their having fun!  I can get behind such a concept.  I can always go to Chipotle and watch the burritos get made.  Are you gonna order something?  Nope, just watching.  I would ride the bus every day, but that's too dangerous.  Anyway, see ya later.

-5:08 P.M.         

Oh, You'd Like a Title, Wouldn't You?

Lord knows I would!  Titles make me happy.  Anyway.  Today is a day.  Probably Saturday.  Who knows for sure.  Calendar does.  Calendar is a pretty smart guy.  So, today will be the second day of my sobriety.  Tomorrow will be the first day of my anti-sobriety, most likely.  Maybe tonight.  Nah, I gotta cut that crap out.  The good news is I had two hot dogs for breakfast, just like any regular person.  Hey, people eat sausages for breakfast.  I'm just taking the next logical step.  I used to love me the idea of big breakfasts.  Well, not just the idea, the practice of it.  French toast or pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, home fries, ham.  Put it all in a blender and drink that shit.  I can't do that anymore.  It would be two days worth of calories.  I guess I could just do that for six months, then eat nothing the next six months.  The good news is, three weeks in, I would die, and then it's all weight loss.  I bet in Heaven, you could eat anything you want, and only gain a little weight.  That's how I feel.  I wonder, in church, how many calories those Jesus wafers are.  I wanna go on the Son-of-God diet.  That's how I feel.  I drink three Jesus smoothies a day, and the pounds just melted off!  Anyway.  How do I get off this riff of crap.  Oh, I know.  Write more sentences, that don't have to do with it.  Heey.  Alright.  I got class today.  Should be fun.  Then I have next week off.  Should be fun.  Then I have a class a week after that.  Alright.  Heey.
    Okay.  Hey, maybe I should get guitar teacher.  The one redeeming thing about talking about maybe getting guitar teacher is that, for some reason, I insist on not including a pronoun when saying, "Guitar teacher."  Maybe I should get a guitar teacher.  Not funny.  Maybe I should get guitar teacher.  Funny.  It's not even my joke, though, it's an ode to an Arrested Development joke.  But I've hijacked it and used it over and over again.  Because I'm stupid.  Also, that's not a pronoun.  It's close to what a pronoun is, but I'm pretty sure it's not a pronoun.  Oh well.  I think it started by, whenever I had to say teacher, I would refer to them just as, "Teacher."  Which is sort of how little kids talk.  Then that rolled over to when I started talking about guitar teacher.  Anyway.  I did elliptical today, even though I have class.  Good on me.  What else is going on.  I can't believe the World Series is happening.  My prediction is that one team will win.  I hope the series is tied 3-3, it goes to the bottom of the ninth with the Royals down by one, and then STONE COlD STEVE AUSTIN'S THEME PLAYS and he runs out from the bullpen and stone-cold-stuns everyone, and pins the umpire.  Now that would be exciting.  Or, stupid.  It would be exciting in how stupid it is.  That's how I feel.  Oh, what if his theme plays, and everyone is looking around, and it turns out he's the umpire.  That's a good twist.
    Good news is, new paragraph.  Alright.  So, now there's Ebola in New York.  Isn't this how Rise of the Planet of the Apes starts?  Or, at least, World War Z.  Or, more on the nose, Outbreak.  Or, to fit perfectly, the little known 1991 thriller, "Ebola Case In New York."  Man, they really nailed it with that title.  What else is going on.  I saw a parent walking their kid home from school yesterday, and the kid was wearing one of those nurses masks.  I guess cause of Ebola.  Either that, or they're preparing for Halloween a week early.  Man, that's gonna be the surprise costume of Halloween.  They think they'll be so clever.  Asian kid with his mom is weeks ahead of you, buddy.  Sure, you can be an Ebola patient, and just cough on everyone as part of your costume.  Something tells me your friends wouldn't appreciate it, though.  And all those girls dressed as sexy nurses, they're gonna have strangers coming up to them for help and advice on how to deal with Ebola.  Maybe now's the year to be sexy cat, or something.  You don't want the hassle.  Don't be a sexy rat, though.  Then you might have the plague.  Alright, how do I get off this terrible riff.  More sentences, comin' up!  I've been watching the old Batman show with Adam West on T.V.  The stakes are really low, though.  It's like the Joker and the Penguin plotting to put their foot out so Batman trips.  Or The Scarecrow and Two Face leaving a bag of flaming dog poo at Batman's front door.  I don't know.  Whatever.
    Okay.  The good news is hello.  Entryin' it up.  Yep.  Al..righ...t.  Hmm.  Huh?  Wah?  Eh.  Wah.  Erh.  Alright, shut up.  Let's get some real sentences going.  What's going on.  Nothing.  I'm gonna close it up now.  Enjoy a comic.  See ya.



-10:39 A.M.                                

Thursday, October 23, 2014                        

Title Time.  Here For All Your Titling Needs.

Indeed.  Well, greetings!  Time to get entry up and running.  Nice weather outside, huh?  Oh, it's raining and miserable?  You're raining and miserable.  I went to the dentist today.  You know, just to chill.  Alright.  Anyway.  My mouth hurts.  Apparently, I got a nice set of choppers.  Assuming the dentist doesn't say that to all his patients.  Dentists are noted sweet-talking two-timing half wits.  Why are they half wits?  Because, why not.  I remember when I was in high school, I would always try to make up stories about myself, where the conceit was that both my parents are dentists.  I have no idea why that amused me, but it did.  Also, Chipotle was gotten by the man whose me today.  Burrito for Michael?  Two burritos for Michael?  Thanks you!  There's a long quotation by Judd Apatow on the Chipotle bag.  A little too on the nose, in my opinion.  Like, yup, that's Chipotle for ya.  I like it though.  I like it when my fast food shares interesting adages with me.  Like in the McDonalds monopoly game.  Oriental Ave.  Really makes you think!  Or Dunkin Donuts.  Two boxes empty, one box checked alongside, "Skim Milk."  What does it mean???  Anyway.  Whatever.  I like food that talks to me.  That's why my parents had to take away my magic eight ball.  Kept tryin' to crack it to drink the delicious fluids inside.  When you're trying to crack a magic eight ball, the message, "Stop What You're Doing!" appears.  Magic Eight Balls have evolved, just like the rest of us, along the lines of self preservation.
    I've been reading that Big Star book.  It's pretty good.  Hey, maybe I should get a guitar teacher.  Or, just blow my brains out.  That's what we like to call taking the Easy way out.  Man, I just had the thought, Robin Williams is dead, and it felt so permanent.  It's like, he's never gonna be around anymore.  Stupid thoughts.  It's because I was trying to think of something to say, and, "Nanu Nanu" popped into my mind.  Because I'm an imbecile.  He was a good 'un.  And his sitcom, The Crazy Ones, had a special place in my heart, because of the use of the word, "Crazy."  That's the name of what the guy who what I type about when what I do internet entries what the what.  That sums that up.  Oh well.  What dreams may come.  Hopefully not this movie, right?  Yeah.  They should have combined Patch Adams with Good Will Hunting, and it's Robin Williams acting like a clown to cheer up Matt Damon.  Oh well.  We'll put it on the, "What Could Have Been," pile.  He was just... so... fucking... likable.  If he can go, what chance does us hated persons have?  Us Hated Persons is my next band name.  Either that, or Chewbacca To The Rescue!  Because I'm a brain dead.  I did have the thought, though, a couple days ago, "I need a new band name.  I've been with this one for like two years."  Also, ideally, I would have an actual band, instead of just calling myself a band name as a flight of fancy.  Jacobson and The Sons of Dogsitters.  Mancookie The Man... Or The Cookie.  Sexual Contextual, Partly Flexible.  Alright, if I don't end this here, it will never stop.  I can't think of one band that has a comma in their name.  Wait, I just did.  I forget their name, but I remember it having a comma.  So, there.  Alright. 
    This is the fifth month in a row where I've averaged at least an entry every other day.  Whatta achievement.  Note, "Whatta Achievement" as possible band name.  That would have been the second sentence of this paragraph, no matter what the first one was.  That's how that goes.  Nice set of choppers.  That'll help me sleep at night.  Alright.  We be entrying.  What's up.  I saved half my iced coffee from yesterday for today.  What a brilliant!  It's working out nicely, thanks for your interest.  There was a receptionist who sounded exactly like Lena Dunham in my dentist's office.  I had to keep looking at her to make sure she wasn't Lena Dunham.  Maybe that's what all females sound like now, I don't know.  I have very little activities in common with the outside world.  That's how that goes.  I like Girls, because it's fun.  Who doesn't like fun?  Also, it's a great predecessor to my eventual HBO sitcom, Boys.  We could always just combine to form the sketch group, Kids... In The Hall.  With the elliptical, so as to not defy any copyrights.  Boys and girls, girls and boys, a happy man is a man with toys.  Pretty sure that's from The Honeymooners.  I can't think of one sitcom where the main character is a guy whose a nerd.  What?  What The Hell is The Big Bang Theory?!  They're too much nerds, though.  I want a main character whose a nerd but is still stupid.  I've never really classified myself as a nerd, although it isn't so far off of being an acceptable title.  When I was a kid, the closest thing to a title I had for myself was, "Mr. Awesome!"  With the exclamation mark.  Because I was awesome.  And a man.  Well, male.  Until I was Bar-Mitzvah'd.  That's another appropriate title.  "Jew."  Well, technically you're correct.  Technically.  Now that I think of it, my best friend in high school did often make fun of me for being Jewish.  Hey, what are friends for.
    Jokes on him, now, though.  He works for the LIRR, and isn't even the conductor!  I mean, sure, if you're the conductor, and you get to pull the string to make the, "Choo-choo" noise, great.  He just checks peoples tickets.  It's actually a pretty sweet job, not bad pay and a ton of benefits.  Whatever.  I didn't spend two and a half years in college getting 90 credits so I could get a job as a guy who throws out the garbage people leave on their seat!  There is no reason I spent two and a half years in college getting 90 credits, other than societal demands and boredom.  To become a teacher.  Ugh.  What a moron.  Hopefully, now, it's probably illegal for me to become a teacher.  Parents don't want mental patients fuckin' around with their kids.  Also, if I taught a class, on the first day, I'd just chant, "His-Tor-Y!  His-Tor-Y!" for forty minutes, then assign them to write two pages on what they've learned.  Lots of fun things you can do when you're a teacher.  Sure, you'll only get to do them once, cause after that, you'll be shitcanned and blacklisted from getting another job.  But it's worth it, for that one moment in the sun.  There should be a sequel to School of Rock where Jack Black just becomes their regular teacher.  That's something I would pay good money to see.
    Alright.  Bullies.  Ah, Leonard!  You mean we're not in the band?  What's he up to now.  Probably rollin in the pussy.  Is that inappropriate?  Nah.  He's gotta be in his twenties now.  There's a decent chance, without School of Rock, I would have never gotten so involved with music.  But, if we concede that, there's a decent chance without School of Rock, I would have never spent three years majoring in teaching.  Also, Shoot 'Em Up is why I decide to bore a child.  Speed is why I decided to take the bus.  A Beautiful Mind is why I decided to have paranoid hallucinations.  Unbreakable is why I decided to be a super-villain.  Anyway, what else is going on.  Probably things, and stuff.  The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants is why I decided to wear pants.  Anyway.  Half Baked is why I half-decided to smoke pot.  Anyway.  I remember the first time I smoked weed, four years before I would smoke it again and start doing it regularly, it was my freshman year in high school.  I remember, we went to McDonalds right after, nad I was so paranoid the McDonalds person would know I had smoked.  Couldn't stop the giggling.  Then, we were at some guys house, and I remember, I kept hearing noises from NHL '95, on Sega, and I honestly can't remember whether we were playing it or not.  You'd think I would remember, cause it's sort of an integral part to the story, whether we were actually playing it or not, but no, I can't remember.  That's how that goes.  Wonderful.  Also, when I was regularly smoking pot, in 2007 and 2008, people would always complain that the part that you smoke was wet, from saliva.  And I heard that often enough I concluded I was the one who was doing that to the joint.  But, I didn't know how to rectify it.  Other than stop smoking marijuana.  Which is what I did.    
    Okay, last paragraph.  Let's get this shit going.  Alright.  What is going on?  Probably things, and stuff.  Meh.  Alright!  Anyway.  What?  Okay.  That's how that goes.  Nice set of choppers.  And, since they cleaned my teeth today, I figure, now is as good a time as any to start brushing daily.  I gotta nice smile.  Unlike William H. Macy in Magnolia.  My mom was watching Magnolia yesterday.  That explains that.  I guess he does have a nice smile, though, because the large majority of the movie is after he got his braces.  I haven't seen it in a while.  Anyway.  That's how that goes.  I forget.  I don't remember what I was talking about, and surely not how it goes.  But, let's move on, anyway.  Chipotle.  Yum, yum, yum.  I got double meat, cause I asked them!  They were like, "Sure!"  That way I can split it in half while still feeling satisfied.  My one regret is I didn't get any Tab soda.  Oh well.  I have some other regrets.  Just not Chipotle-related regrets.  Well, there was that time I let my friend get the burrito-bowl instead of just a regular burrito.  What are you, out of your mind?  Alright.  That's how I feel.  Time to take my walk, when this entry is over.  I missed my morning walk, to see the dentist.  Oh well.  I'll survive.  Yep.  This entry is almost... over.  Almost.  Over.  That's what I said, and re-said, for some reason.  Who knows for sure why.  Probably something important, though.  One would imagine.  i still need to read Fredrick Douglas' narrative for Saturday's class.  I guess I could do that tomorrow.  Reading is easy.  Just move your eyes every now and then.  Alright, see ya later.                                 

-2:56 P.M.

Wednesday, October 22, 2014                        

I'm Mad As Hell And I'm Not Gonna Title It Anymore!

Hello.  Should I replace, "Hell" with title, or, "Take?"  Noun or verb.  Well, I made my decision.  Coulda done both.  That woulda been overkill.  Anyway, Hi!  It's me.  Another wonderful 22nd day of the month.  I'm Title as Title And I'm Title Title Title Title.  That solves that problem.  What else is going on.  I haven't said one thing that's going on.  What about the title?  That happened.  Anyway, in super-good news, if the website is correct, I found out the Italian restaurant I order from serves Jamaican beef patties!  That's wonderful.  Ja-making-me beef patties.  Won. Der.  Ful.  My stomach hurts now.  Damn you, internet diary.  I assume my stomach pain is a direct result of making a, "Ja-making-me" joke.  Are you Jamaican?  No, why?  Because Jamaican me crazysheet.  First of all, did you mean to just say, "crazy," but you couldn't stop yourself from typing, "sheet?" Answer this promptly so we can move on with this joke.  Yeah, that's pretty much what happened.  Anyway. Jamaican me crazy.  Now you go.  It's pronounced You're Making me crazy.  You got some consonants and syllables wrong.  That's it?  That's the pay off to this joke?  Well, you started it.  There might have been something else, but I forgot it.  Yeah, me too.  And scene.  Time to blow my brains out.  That's the only end to that joke that would make it worthwhile.  One, or both of them, blow their brains out.  Never mind.  Man, imagine how good the rest of the entry will be, to make up for that crap. 
    I wanna start a cycle of writing songs again, but I'm burnt out, both in guitarring and lyricalling.  Oh well.  I can always do nothing.  Doing nothing's pretty rad.  Anyway, what?  I just added a free 5 bonus tracks to my latest five track album.  So, the negative one of you who listened before, you're in for a treat!  Just hit download for free, and they are all available.  Anyway.  I killed it on the elliptical today.  Three Hundred calories burned in half an hour?  Try three hundred twenty.  That's right.  I could eat half a fun sized Twix bar, and no one would be the wiser.  Except for the next person who goes to get a mini Twix bar, and finds an open wrapper with a half-eaten one.  They'll know something is up.  Or, if they see me just hanging around the candy.  A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.  You know, just to hang out.  The good news is, Hello.  Entry.  Especially if the criminal commits the crime in his house.  He'd be like, I live here, I've got nowhere else to go.  Criminal!  I'm not sure if that adage is true.  I mean, you'd have to be pretty dumb to return to the scene of the crime, especially since everyone knows that saying.  What are you, stupid?  You idiot.  Moron.  Quit being so dumb.  Also, get out of my house!  Anyway.  I was just thinking about, for some reason, one of the times a girl came over to the house and hung out in my room.  I was a freshman in high school, and I walked her from the bus stop to my house.  I remember it was raining, because I kept looking at her ass.  And thought, "Hmm, while is happening, it's also raining."  Nothing happened, though.  I think she felt uncomfortable, and left after thirty minutes.  It's probably my fault.  I mean, if she came over, isn't some hanky-panky business implied?  She musta been on the same wavelength.  I just screwed it up.  "So, it's raining today.  Never forget."  Oh well.  I'm sorry.  I think that was one of, probably, only two girls that have been to my house, since I've entered puberty.  Look at my DVD collection!  Does that get you hot and bothered?  Hot and bothered?  What the Hell does that mean.  Man, checking the internet, looks like it's a real saying.  After I said it, I was praying that I just made it up.
    Alright.  Anyway.  What's goin' on.  I think I've finally started to lose weight again, now that I'm a few weeks into my Elliptical training.  Good for me.  Now that I've quit drinking, I'll lose weight even quicker.  And, by quitting drinking, I mean, now that I've planned on quitting in the near future.  Close enough.  I remember, once or twice, flushing some drink down the toilet, because I felt like was above it.  I also did the same thing with weed, a few times.  Man, I could have an eighth of an ounce if only I just just saved it all those times!  Put it in a lock box, or something.  To Open when I'm sixty years old.  Doc, the night I go back in time...  It's Marty!  I never thought I'd hear from him again.  Anyway.  I'll just put that letter away.  Probably doesn't say anything important in it.  Yeesh.  If they don't release Back To The Past in 2016, I'll be amazed.  Well, maybe not amazed.  What's the opposite of amazed?  Oh yeah.  I'll be amazed if they do.  Amaze it the opposite way.  Anyway.  Oh man, Jamaican beef patty.  Like, in middle school lunch, they were golden.  I once tried them from some other, mediocre pizza place, and they weren't that good.  But maybe this one will be.  There's a decent chance they served them in the hospital, too.  I just can't really remember.  I was too focused on listening to Z-100 once it was lights out, on my headphone radio that I'm amazed they allowed in the first place.  Somebody that you used to know?  Great.  What makes me beautiful?  Alright.  DJ patter?  Sure.
    That's how that goes.  Also, apparently, they heard I was a wild one. Oooh-oooh.  That's how that goes.  What a maroon.  Also, payphone.  Yeep.  I'm 50% sure Payphone is about Superman.  Who is also me.  Ugh.  There's a character in The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay whose name is Kornblum.  I forget what he does, but I remember noting it when I read it in high school.  Anyway.  This is fun.  Probably.  One would guess.  Oh man, I sure hope I can get that beef patty.  It's not in their paper menu, but it's in their online menu.  Which, one would guess, is more up to date.  Or, less up to date.  Or, equally up to date, just different, for some reason.  Anyway.  This entry is close to being over.  Thank God.  I'm in the mood for not having to write an entry.  You know, lie in bed, and watch T.V., and stuff.  Maybe take a walk, if you catch my drift.  Go to sleep at night, if I'm feeling up to it.  Then, do it all again tomorrow.  It's a wild life.  Alright.  They did have Jamaican Beef Patties.  Alright!  That'll let this entry end on a positive note.  Except there's a paragraph left to go.  And it might suck.  Damn!  I got two slices of pizza, and two Jamacain beef patties.  I was planning on pizza for lunch, the patties for dinner.  But I'm so curious to see the quality of the beef patties, I'll split em up, and have half and half for lunch and dinner. It's interesting.  Because it's a guy you know.  Talking about food he eats.  Doesn't get much more captivating than that.
    Okay, last paragraph time.  That's how that goes.  What to do, what to do.  Gotta type sentences, and stuff.  Anyway.  Still no new neighbor.  It might take a few months.  Maybe we can buy the house, and knock down the adjacent wall.  Have some fun with it.  There's a balcony on our second floor, but the door to it is fused shut.  I can't go out there even if I wanted to.  Similarly, I've never been in our attic.  Oh well.  Anyway.  Gotta finish this entry.  What's going on.  Anyway.  Forget it.  See ya later.

-12:42 P.M.                                     

Tuesday, October 22, 2014                        

World's Greatest Title

Hello friends and other things.  It's your friend or other thing, me.  What's going on.  I should figure out what's going on before I start the entry.  I hope one day I'm a grandfather, and my kids get me a coffee mug that says, "In The Top 20% of Grandpas Throughout The World."  Let's get real.  Anyway.  Entry writing!  What fun.  I mean, it's got all the attributes of fun stuff.  There's moving my fingers to type, there's my brain turnin' round in my head trying to justify what I write, there's my eyeballs trying to fall asleep so they won't have to read what I say.  Then, there's the praise.  Oh, the praise.  Dozens of Facebook comments saying, "Good job!  I loved it!"  I do it for you folks.  It's the fans, that's why I carry on.  My birthday is 12/12.  In addition to being the Decemberist, I'm also the Dozenist.  I was born five weeks early.  It's weird to think, if I was born on time, I'd have known an entirely different set of people in my classes.  And, now, I would have had an entirely different set of friends to disown me once I got mentally ill.  Jerks!  The good news is it's the morning.  This is the fifteenth or sixteenth entry of the month.  I know, I counted.  Just not perfectly.  I started reading the Big Star book, but I didn't anticipate the prevailing thought, "I don't know any of these songs, why am I reading this?"  I mean, sure, they sound like good songs.  The titles aren't bad.  And in the modern age, I could always just youtube the most popular ones.  But I'm a special breed of lazy.  Can't even motivate myself to watch music on youtube.  Eh, now that I've put in the effort to talk about it on crazysheet, might as well check out one song.  OHHH MY GOD IT'S SO GOOD I'M CUMMMMMING.  Yeesh.  There's a guitar!  There's a voice!  WORDS.  I Can't Believe It!
    To tell the truth, in the first two or three pages of the book, they already hooked me, by saying the title of their first record was, "#1 Record."  That's the kind of fun I can get behind.  Despite my sarcasm, after listening to this song for three minutes, I can't get it out of my fuckin' head.  I mean, 50% of it is the hype, and my brain wants to justify it by liking it.  Maybe not half.  Maybe 95%.  But, hey, whatever works.  Half of 1/10th is not it, at least.  I like math.  Math is fun.  Math, math, math.  I remember, a couple of years ago, I asked my Dad to re-teach me math.  Like, thinking it would be fun.  Like, algebra, 6X-2x=4.  OMG this is gonna be a blast.  Let's see.  4X=4.  X=4.  Imagine if X really equaled four.  What implications would that have on my life?  Because I'm the kind of guy who looks for meaning in rudimentary exercises.  So, 6x-2x=4?  Got a whole lot of fun.  X=4.  What does 4 mean?  What does X mean?  So much fun.  Oh, four means four?  And X means X?  What a let down.  Also, why is it 6x-2x=4?   Where did the 6x come from?  The 2x?  What does it mean?  Because I'm insane.  That's fun.  Shit, now I have to listen to every Big Star song.  Can't stop at just one.  That wouldn't be fair.  The good news is it's the morning.  I remember, my freshman year in high school, I was on the Math team.  But, since it was Stuy, there were like a hundred people on the math team, in my year alone, so I was basically just a reserve, I never competed in the actual Math Team competitions.  And, I wasn't really that great at Math, I just did it for my college applications.  Tons o' fun.  I think that was literally the only extra-curricular thing I had on my college application.  I probably threw in, "Plays guitar," and, "Likes reading and writing."  But those are hard to quantify.  Math team for a year and a half?  There, done.  One of the highest compliments I've received, well, in the top 50 of compliments, was I had a friend whose Dad liked my college application essay so much, he saved it to his desktop.  That was available on old crazysheet.  It was pretty much just a joke essay.  But, hey, it worked.  In Stuy, you can see the college acceptance statistics of the previous year.  And, for NYU, they stopped accepting people around a 90% average.  I had an 85% average, and they accepted me.  Essay musta had something to do with that.  Or, they were just like, Michael Kornblum?  Plays guitar and likes reading and writing?  This kid is going places!  What a let down.  I shoulda gone to Binghamton with my friends.  My life would have turned out all differently.  Oh well, as the saying goes, when life throws you a curveball, you take it, because it's probably going to be a ball.
    Okay.  I love me some entry writing.  It's great.  Michael Kornblum's on the Math Team?  Let's sign him, straight away!  Also, in my mind, college acceptance is like a sports draft.  I didn't even take any AP classes, I took the test for history and got a four or five (out of five), but I never took the class.  And, SAT, I was in the first year where they expanded it to 2400, by including a writing component.  I got somewhere between a 2060-2080.  I forget exactly.  About average for my high school.  Maybe even a little low.  I remember, freshman year, I was taking music appreciation.  And, since I did chorus in middle school, I sorta thought I might join the chorus in high school.  But the teacher auditioned us, one by one, in music appretiation, and when I went, she was like, "Not bad, but a little pitchy, try again in the Spring."  And I never did.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.  At least I learned the difference between classical and baroque music.  Baroque music came first.  Then classical.  Anyway, entry writing.  What does it mean?  Entry means entry, and writing means writing.  Oh, I get it.  The good news is it's the morning.  I started a higher dose of the clozapine last night.  So far, so good.  425 milligrams instead of 400?  I'm cured!  That's how that goes.  Maybe I'm the Big Star of comedy.  That would be pretty sweet.  I'm probably the Fuck You of comedy, though.  Oh well.  That's why everyone likes Big Star.  If they can go about unrecognized, that's probably what my deal is!  Figured that out.  NEXT.  I gotta stop drinking in the morning, if only because I have to elliptical it up later.  Don't drink before you exercise.  Why not?  Because I said so, that's why.  I can't wait till I have kids.  I'm gonna lay down the law for them, and whatnot, and they have to listen to me!  I'm their boss!  Will you read me a bedtime story?  Fuck you, read it yourself.  In the real world, no one reads you anything.  That's how that goes.
    Okay.  I hadn't felt drunk until I commented on how I have to exercise soon.  Oh well.  Now it's even harder.  I get what I deserve, I suppose.  Anyway.  The good news is it's the morning.  For anouther hour or so.  Yeah!  Alright.  What else is going on.  Probably things and stuff.  That's how I feel.  I remember, in middle school, 70% of my teachers asked me, "Do you smoke?" because my clothes smelled like cigarettes.  Cause my Mom smokes.  That's how that story goes.  E-mail me at Michael@theinternet.com on what you think about that story.  The good news is I will never read it.  Also, that you don't exist.  I remember, the first music show I ever saw live, was in freshman year NYU, and I went with my friend to see MeWithoutYou at Irving Plaza.  i don't really remember the music, but I remember the lead singer flailing around on stage, and I liked his movements.  Seemed like fun.  The good news is only thirty minutes of exercising soon.  I can do thirty minutes.  It's only half an hour.  Not too bad.  Anyway.  Half an entry to go?  I can do that.  Probably.  Possibly.  Gotta think of things to say, though.  That's how that goes.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Another compliment I got in the top 50 was when my college friend gave me, as a birthday present, a book of my Crazysheet entries.  Such a perfect gift.  I still browse through it, every now and then.  I'm a published author!  Technically.  My goal is to be the Big Star of comedy.  Shouldn't be too hard.  Just write some jokes, and have no one care.  Then, the future will take care of the rest.
    Alright.  I never even had a part time job in high school.  In the summer of eighth grade, I did assist teachers in P.S. 213 summer camp, which was a block away from my house.  But, whatever.  That's not much.  I didn't even show up at the end to get paid, that's how pointless it was.  (My pay would have been like fiteen dollars.)  But I do remember, there was this one Asian kid, and the parents were like, "He really likes you!"  it's nice to be liked.  My job here is done.  I wanna meet Mavis Beacon, and see how good she really is at typing.  My guess?  Better than average!  Hey, it's the last paragraph!  Or, second to last.  Depending on how I feel.  The Big Star book seems more professionally done than the others.  That ain't rock!  I want my rock band book to be scraped together and every chapter to be in a different font.  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  Time to close up this entry.  Alright!  Alright.  I took an exercise break a few sentences ago.  But I only did 50%.  Cause of being drunk and stuff.  Oh well.  I can either take an extra walk, or just live my life normally.  Cause who cares.  I wanna learn more about Big Sars!  Like, what are they all about?  I'll take an extra walk.  That's how that goes.  See ya later.

-12:01 P.M.                                

Monday, October 20, 2014                        

I Could Spend Time Thinking of a Good Title

Hello.  It's your friend till the end, me.  Once the end happens, though, you're on your own.  Free!  Free at last!  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  Kinda cool day, is it not?  Temperature wise.  My psychologist/social worker wants me to speak as part of a panel of people who are succeeding despite mental illness.  I'm not sure she understands what, "success" means.  Am I still alive since getting ill?  Yes.  Undoubtedly.  That's really about it, though.  I'm pretty sure she's an idiot.  And she's one of those people who are always like, "I can't wait to hear your music!  Where can I listen to it?"  and, after we go through that charade five or six times over the course of months, I get the message that they're just being lying assholes.  The good news is who cares.  Not me.  Anyway.  This cigarette tastes like Triscuits.  I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to happen.  I think that's sign one that you're having a heart attack.  Cigarettes tasting like Triscuits.  Anyway.  Maybe I should get guitar teacher.  Or, at the very least, stop boring you by updating you every entry on my current inclinations towards guitar teacher.  Maybe I can even teach him a thing or two.  Do you know how to play a D chord?  Yeee---uh, you do?  Never mind, then.  Also, what does, 'Guitarring' mean?  I'm pretty sure I invented the word guitarring.  In 2005, when I was first teaching myself guitar, I would record myself practicing and working out new things for like twenty minutes every day, and I would title the file, "5.20.05 guitarring," or whatever.  And, the thousands of people who could read my private files, have now been exposed to the word.  Pretty sure it just lost out to, "Selfie," and, "Twerk" to be in the dictionary.  Guitarring- verb-- To guitar.  That's how that goes.  Man, that story makes me want to get a guitar teacher.  What an idiot.
    Alright, new paragraph time.  HBO has had a documentary on Green Day turning American Idiot into the musical it is now, on HBO On Demand for like a year, but I haven't watched it yet.  I like Green Day and I loved that album when I was in high school, but I just can't ever seem to motivate myself to watch it.  Green Day is one of those phrases that loses meaning if you keep saying it.  Green Day.  Green Day.  Green Day.  Doesn't sound right.  I forgot if I put my lunch in the oven at 11:40 or 11:50.  What an idiot.  The good news is who cares.  That's how I feel.  That's not a bad album title.  There's millions of phrases that aren't bad album titles.  That's just one of them.  Also, it's kind of a rip off of The Who.  Especially since I think they called a recent tour The Who Cares tour.  And I wouldn't want to rip off The Who, would I?  Would I?  Probably not.  They seem like nice fellas.  Anyway.  A nice brisk, October day.  The Who is one of those phrases that gains meaning every time you say it.  The Who.  The Who.  The Who.  That's how I feel.  I shouldn't get a guitar teacher.  I'd just be wasting his time.  Look, Michael, you're never gonna be good at guitar.  Just give me the fifty dollars this lesson woulda cost.  But--- Hand it over.  Oh well.  Fifty dollars, down the drain.  As I was walking back to my house from the exercise room, I overheard a guy on the phone saying something like, "I don't wanna spend another minute in this Hell hole!"  Amen, brother.  You and me both.  Anyway.  Some more entry to go.  Should be good.  Should... be... good.  I shoulda asked my psychologist who to bet on to win the world series.  And then, after thinking about it for a few seconds, she'd be like, "I'm a psychologist, not a psychic."  And I'd be like, "Oh, sorry."  It's a common misunderstanding.  I remember when I was first in the partial program, in 2008, which is when you go there for meetings and stuff during the day, after you've been released from the hospital, one of the guys told us there was a ghost in the halls.  And we all went to the hall, and he was like, "Shhh, you can hear the ghost."  I didn't hear no ghost.  I'm starting to doubt that there ever really was a ghost.  This whole story's falling apart at the seems. I still don't like going there, though.  If you've never been a mentally ill patient in a hospital, it's terrible.  Rodney Dangerfield would be stunned at the lack of respect you get.  Oh well.  That's why I wanted to get healthy.  Show these fuckers what they're dealing with.
    Anyway.  The good news is fuck it.  Fuck you, fuck them, I don't know.  Fuck something.  Shhh, everyone, be quiet.  I think I hear a ghost.  Eh. At least the hematologist shows me some respect.  And not the phony respect everyone else does.  She actually talks to me like a real person.  I guess it's because I continue to amaze her with my pristine blood test results and my outstanding ability to produce a decent blood pressure.  She does say that smoking before getting blood taken makes it harder for her to find a vein.  Fuck her, then.  I don't need that kind of negativity in my life.  One time, when I see my psychiatrist, after we wrap up the appointment, I should just stay in my chair, and say, "I'm not leavin."  Stage a sit-in.  Demand for equal pay rights, or the right to marry, or something.  Get something out of the visit.  They'd just put me in the hospital.  It's right there, it's not too far a-ways to go.  The worst part of being an inpatient is that you don't want to, and you're like, "This isn't just!"  They can't just put you in prison with you having committed no crimes.  But, they can.  That's what it's like.  That's what I should say, if I join that panel.  Rebel against your doctors!  Reign Free!  You Are The Future Of The Revolution!  That's how that goes.  I want to be a patient at Arkham Asylum.  Seems like you'd meet some interesting characters.  The Penguin wants me in his gang, and so does the Joker?  Decisions, decisions.  Not really.  Joker wins hands down.  Assuming it's the Heath Ledger Joker.  Although, being a short and somewhat stout man, I can relate more to the Penguin.  Although, being a joker, I can relate to the Joker.  I like the Penguin.  What's an animal that instills fear into the heart of Man?  Oh, right, duh.  A penguin.
    Alrighty.  I like Two-Face.  How many faces does this outlaw have?  Two.  AHHH WHAT THE HELL.  Anyway, Batman talk is over.  Hopefully.   If I was born twenty years earlier, there's a decent chance I woulda been a comic book nerd.  Instead of being, I don't know, a Poker Nerd.  That's probably the best way to describe my teenage years.  If it wasn't for poker, I'd have had 70% less friends in high school.  It always sucks losing money to someone who you're pretty sure wouldn't have even paid you if you had won.  Because, I gotta pay them, what am I, gonna ruin my reputation?  Take that as a life lesson, folks.  Or, ignore it.  But if you ever lose ten years of your life, and take an affinity towards poker, don't come crying to me.  Anyway.  The paragraphs in this entry have been of great length.  How wonderful.  Anyway.  No one's commented on Facebook in response to my entries in like a year.  Okay, challenge time.  If you read this entry, why not write an encouraging comment to my announcement?  One time only.  Here's your chance to let yourself be known.  Because, in my imagination, like, 4-10 people read this regularly.  But, logistically, it seems improbable.  So, let me know.  That's how I feel.  I mean, if I had a friend who was doing this crap, I would read it.  Why not.  Unfortunately, I have less than 4-10 friends.  Anyway.  I DVR'd a movie called Pumpkinhead.  I had heard of it vaguely before, I was aware it was a movie.  But, judging by the first minute and a half, not really worth pursuing.  That's how that goes.  And I don't like watching Children of the Corn movies.  Hits too close to home.  Cause of my last name, and stuff.  That's also why I don't like The Godfather or Arrested Development, or listening to Yankee games on the radio.  Michael Kay?  That's what-the-fuck I am!  And, I remember in the past, when I've googled my name, it turns out there was a Michael Kornblum who ran some gambling ship, in New York.  Like, a ship that was docked in New York, and was for gambling.  Something like that.
    Okay, fifth paragraph time.  It's a dangerous game equating your life-facts with things in the media.  I do not recommend it at all.  Heart of Darkness?  I have a heart!  And am aware of darkness.  Fredrick Douglass?  I used to watch a program called, "Doug."  AHHH GET OUT OF THE WAY.  And that's how that goes.  Emily Dickinson's Title Divine-- Is Mine!  I write self referential titles!  RUNNNNNNN AWAY.  That's become my new barometer to decide if something pertains to me or not.  Is it's title self-referential?  No?  Well, it doesn't involve me.  Good stuff.  What an idiot.  The prospective guitar's teacher name is Aiden.  I have a Den!  Some people would say living room, but, yeah!  Enough's enough!  We have a living room and A den.  I'm so fancy.  You most likely already knew.  This entry is high on the craptitude scale.  I should write an extra paragraph to make up for it.  We'll see.  I like cigarettes.  Sometimes, like, when I'm seeing my psychologist, I just imagine, "What if I could smoke a cigarette right now.  How much easier would that make things."  But, I can't.  But, I can, if I wait twenty minutes.  Next time I see my psychologist, I should just lock myself in the bathroom.  Then, at the end of the day, they can be like, "Someone's still in here!"  And I can burst out of the room, claiming all sorts of victories and stuff.  Because I'm progressively getting more idiotic.  When I was waiting for psychologist, there was a flyer for mentally ill young women to share there stories with a group.  Man, would I like to be part of that.  It's all young women!  but, I'm not a young woman.  So, I can't go.  Wah wah wah.  This entry is the pits.  Oh well.  If you're reading this, don't comment on it.  I don't wanna know.
    Last paragraph time.  I don't wanna go.  I hate to leave you like this.  When I have so much left to say.  Apparently.  Anyway.  what else is going on.  When I was a kid, man, did I love Halloween time.  I don't know why.  I mean, sure, 50% of it is Halloween, trick or treating and the like.  Another significant percentage is both showing horror movies on T.V, and the nice brisk Fall weather.  I don't know why, but it just all adds up to be great.  Halloween '09 is when I first started smoking.  Wow, it's been five years.  That's enough years to get some cancer.  Shit.  And I remember, Halloween '08, was when I disgracefully left seeing my friends in Binghamton to return home to Queens, in the wake of my illness.  I remember because I saw a girl in an angel costume in Penn Station, and was like, "I'm pretty sure I know that girl from somewhere."  But, odds are, I probably didn't.  That's how that goes.  Anyway.  I remember one Halloween, probably around age 10, I was trick or treating with a friend who lived in an apartment.  So we trick or treated by going down the floors of the apartment.  Awesome!  Apartment building.  What fun.  And I remember, the second half, we took off our masks and just asked for candy.  Because we were on the old-end of acceptable trick or treaters, and I guess we felt a little self conscious about it.  I vaguely remember us having the same costume, both Scream masks.  I know for sure I was wearing one, and I'm pretty sure my friend was, too.  And I remember, some age, maybe around eight, Nickelodeon had some graphic for Halloween, like there was a competition, and the caller-in could decide what show to watch next, and the graphic showed them going up to a haunted house and when the door opened, it revealed what show was about to begin.
    Anyway, last paragraph time.  What fun we had this entry.  What... fun.  Alright.  The rest of this day is gonna be high on the craptitude scale, I can already tell.  Unless if I write more Halloween stories.  Hmm.  I remember, in 2007, going to the Greenwich Halloween parade with a girl I had a crush on, and, losing her somewhere in the parade.  And making fun of her costume in the elevator while we were going to the parade.  I don't think I was even wearing a costume.  Where do I get off.  Somewhere half-way through the Greenwich Halloween parade, apparently.  What the Hell.  When this entry is over, I gotta go through the rest of the day without writing entry?  I guess I can just never stop writing this entry.  Make it seventeen paragraphs long. But that would be a lot of things to type. It's not in my capacity to type that much.  That's how I feel.  But maybe it will be a Halloween-Day miracle.  Even if it's not Halloween Day.  And that Halloween day doesn't exist.  And that miracles don't happen on Halloween.  Anyway.  Last year, we got two trick or treaters.  Two.  What kinda losers are our neighbors, that's what I wanna know.  No!  No Trick or Treating!  Focus on Violin Practice!  It's funny, cause they're Asian.  Anyway.  This entry has gone on long enough.  That's how I feel.  We gotta write a last half paragraph!  Oh no, Get Out Of The Way!  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  No more Halloween memories.  I've been think'in with my brain thing, and, nope, nothin' coming out.  I do remember more stories about the apartment guy I was Halloweening with, though.  I remember, in eigth grade, we were talking about what kind of asses we liked, and for some reason, I was like, "All or nothing."  Either a huge ass, or nothin' at all."  I'm really not quite sure why I said that.  But, it's what I said.  Other stuff, I've probably written about already.  I rememebr I once ran out of the house to go roller blade with him, and my parents hadn't given me permission, so they got really angry at me.  And I remember going to roller blade at Chelsea Piers with him, and listening to The Barenaked Ladies on the ride over.  And, we couldn't really rollerblade at all, the only thing we could passably do was the mini-ramp that helps you speed up, and we could barely do that.  Anyway.  See ya later.

-1:40 P.M.                                                              

Sunday, October 19, 2014                        

Duck Duck Duck Duck Duck Title

Hello.  It's your favorite person whose me.  Me.  It's also your least favorite person whose me.  I'm the only person whose me.  So, today is Sunday.  Or as I call it, Funday.  Punday is more like it.  Every day of the week is punday!  Today is also October.  I'm pretty sure.  What else is going on.  I'm giving up drinking.  Well, not completely.  But 90%.  I figure it's time to move on with my life.  I've got stuff to do.  Like, learn the MLA citation guidelines.  What are they all about?  And reading narratives of Fredrick Douglasses.  Well, those two things are mainly for next class.  But I might like them so much, I keep on doin' em.  Anyway.  Today is Funday Sunday Punday.  You mean you people actually manage to have fun without using a mood altering drug?  Whatta country.  I also decided I'm probably not going to get guitar teacher.  My hearts just not in it right now.  Maybe some time in the future.  Man, I've decided a lot of stuff over the past 24 hours.  Good for me.  Gettin shit done!  Or, at least, deciding to get shit done.  Or, in regards to learning guitar, deciding to not get shit done.  Like, what if he said I was no good, I couldn't handle that kind of rejection.  Anyway.  We'll leave that in the, "Maybe," pile.  Also, I've divided my life into piles.  Not really sure why.  It's because I'm having a major malfunction.  Or something like that.  Half of what I say is from movies from the 1980's.  I like rewatching shows about morbidly obese people.  I know I said that a year or two ago, but now that they're back on rotation, and I'm watching them again, it even adds to the experience.  It's like, You're so fat, you're still on my T.V. after two years.  They can't move!  They could be saying the same thing about me, I guess.  Except I weigh a healthy amount.  That's what I've accomplished in the past 24 months!
    Anyway.  Last night, I kept waking up and falling back asleep to Tremors II.  That's a great classic movie that used to be on TNT Friday nights when I was a kid.  I guess classic isn't really the term for it.  But, for me, it sorta served that purpose.  Then I had a nightmare about The Thing.  Then, when I woke up, The Thing was on.  Whatta nightmare.  I'm a fan of nondescript movie titles, though.  So I still count that as a positive experience.  Nondescript sounds like something Syd Field's French cousin would say.  Also, whose Syd Field.  He wrote a book about how much he likes Dog Day Afternoon, and repurposed it to be a book on teaching how to write screenplays.  If you're so great at screenplays, why isn't this book a movie?  Financing fell through when they realized there's no plot or characters.  They could just re-release Dog Day Afternoon, with Queen's, "We Are The Champions," replacing the entire soundtrack.  I actually signed up to take a screenplay writing class in Spring '08, in NYU.  But after the first class, I was like, "Fuck This!" and dropped it.  Which is kind of weird, because I spent the rest of the semester vaguely trying to write scripts.  Shoulda stuck with it.  The Cartoonist could have been written, cast, produced, released, and panned by now.  Also, The Cartoonist is just a title.  I have no idea what it's about.  And I didn't even come up with the title until 2009.  So there goes that beeswax.  That was a productive semester, spring '08.  Dropped one class, failed another.  It's because I was busy getting high.  Get off my back.
    Alright.  So, today, after today, no more drinking.  Well, 90% no more drinking.  That means, I can drink all of the next week, but then I would need to take three months off.  Or, I could spread it out some more.  I guess.  For all this talk about alcohol dependency, I'm not at a point where my body physically needs alcohol just to get by.  It's just a mental addiction at this point.  So, let's push it to the limit.  That's my philosophy on life.  I was inspired by Matchbox 20.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Yeah.  That's what I wanna know.  No, but really.  Quittin' the juice.  Which is what I call alcohol.  That's why I don't like the song, "Gin & Juice."  Seems repetitive to me.  I once had a science teacher named Ms. Guidice.  That's like juice, with an extra syllable in the middle.  And, actually, it would be, "Juice-cay," with an extra syllable.  So, forget everything I was talking about.  That's what I did.  Where am I.  Oh, right.  Crazysheet.  The good news is, they were having a fun run or something in the park today.  I don't know where I picked up the term, "Fun run," but whatever it is, it sure seemed to describe what was going on in the park today.  There were several people running, and at one fork in the road, there was a guy pumping them up.  And guiding them where to go.  Seems like some fun runnin' to me.  Sometimes, when I'm in an unpopulated part of the park, and I see a guy walking their dog or something, I'm like, "Maybe this is it.  He's gonna kill me and feed me to his dog."  So far, so good, though.
    Okay.  What else is going on.  Probably things, and stuff.  Damnit, I had a glass of orange soda, and a glass of orange soda with vodka, and I killed one of the glasses, preparing myself for the afterburn, and then I realized I just drank orange soda.  What a let down.  People who drink as often as me shouldn't be dealin' with no afterburn.  Smooth.  Oh well.  Weirdly, a little part of my brain just turned on.  I guess orange soda is no slouch when it comes to mentally impairing myself.  Also, I slouch too much.  Gotta stand up straight, and the like.  At least, if they're ever casting The Hunchback of Notre Dame, I got a pretty good case.  So, baseball's coming up.  Kansas vs. San Francisco.  You know, that classic rivalry of the ages.  I'm rooting for Kansas, because I don't like giants.  Or San Franciscians.  I don't really like Kansasians, either, though.  Or royals.  Hopefully Kansas wins, and the headline is, "What's The Matter With Kansas?  Nothing."  Because arcane political books from 2004 are pop culture references.  Anyway, I just slipped into an eight minute coma.  I'm back, now, though.  I want to see a documentary show about a guy who weighs 180, and over the course of the show gradually becomes 500 pounds.  I wanna see that kinda action.  Not really.  I'm not that malevolent.  No more than the average man.  Maybe even a little bit less.  Hopefully San Francisco doesn't team up with Kansas to start hitting baseballs at the fans.  It would be a massacre.  That's about as malevolent as I get.  Making people read that joke.
    Alright.  This sure was an entry.  No one can argue against that.  And if they did, boy, would they be wrong.  No more drinking for a week.  That's what I'm tellin' myself.  Shouldn't be too hard.  Who needs it.  Anyway.  It's a good life, Charlie Brown.  Or something along those lines.  It's an okay life, Garfield.  Get it together, Dilbert.  Anyway.  It's you're a good man, Charlie Brown?  Get the fuck outta here.  Anyway.  Another entry in the books.  Good stuff.  I had a hilarious situation with vitamin water yesterday.  I'll save it for a future webcast.  See ya later, for now.

-3:27 P.M.                                                 

Friday, October 17, 2014                        

Let's Shoot Puns Into Outer Space

Hello guys and female guys.  It's me, the guy who is me.  Today's pretty good.  Did an extra 45 calories on the Elliptical, so, by that barometer, today's a good day.  I like it when the moon is in front of the sun and it creates a full elliptical.  Because I'm a moron.  I got a call from my prospective guitar teacher.  I told him I'd call him back, cause I'm still not sure whether to go through with it or not.  My parents don't want me to, because they're in-home lessons, and they don't want a stranger into their precious, precious home.  What's the point of having a home if you're not going to invite strangers in.  That's how I feel.  I'll tell him my parents are my 66 year old roommates.  Except we don't share a room.  Yet.  Anyway.  I mean, logically, it makes sense to get the guitar teacher.  I spend a shit load of time on it, I can afford it, there's no reason not to.  But there's a part of my brain that's saying, "Oh, so you're conceding comedy, then?"  I don't want to concede comedy!  I spent half my life building up a reservoir of puns that I can reference!  Puns are good for songs, too.  Shut Up You Evil Monster!  I like my AC/DC book.  They appreciate a good pun.  They got the pun market cornered.  You need a new angle.  Good point, You Evil Monster.  What if all my song titles rhyme with the word, "Mexico?"  That's certainly something worth considering.  Anyway.  I've got a book, in addition to my Urban Legends book, of just a bunch of horror stories, probably marketed towards young adult readers, but reasonable fare for... young... Adult... readers.  They're okay.
    There's a new Ebola czar.  At what point did it become fashionable for America to have, "Czars?"  Kinda reeks of Russian Imperialism, to me.  Did you know the word czar was based on the Roman word for king, "Caesar," based on Julius Caesar?  Yes, I did know that.  That's how I was able to type that sentence.  I haven't seen Gladiator in a long time.  Oh shit, he stabbed him before the fight!  OH SHIT, HE WON ANYWAY.  Spoiled the alerts.  Anyway, still waiting on my new neighbor.  Elisha Cuthbert, Elisha Cuthbert, Elisha Cuthbert.  Or, at least, my guitar teacher.  Maybe he'll give me a discount because he only has to walk ten feet to get here.  I remember, my neighbor on the opposite side, which is actually a little farther away from neighbor, cause I live at the corner, and they're on the other side, the girl there also went to Stuyvesant, the same year as me.  And the first year, we carpooled to the LIRR, and I never said more than 2 words to her.  The main memory I have was that she smelled like shit, cause of eating Indian breakfasts, I suppose.  It was really bad.  But I still shouldn't have been so anti-social.  Elisha Cuthbert would have smelled like daffodils.  Yeah.  Hey, we're carpooling.  Might as well have sex!  That's how that goes.  I I gotta finish this entry.  I'm a decent aways through, though.  So, yeah.  What's going on.  Writing an entry.  Great.  I don't get other people who don't have personal weblogs.  How do you share your private feelings with the outside world?  Doesn't make sense to me.  I have to write another three paragraphs.  Doesn't make sense to me.
    Anyway, hello.  Class tomorrow.  One class a week, and it's on a Saturday.  Really funks up my interpretation of days of the week.  So, what's going on.  Today's A Friday-ico.  Just gettin' practice for my song titles.  There were a couple of cops outside the liquor store today.  Good for them.  Anyway.  I only got a couple of chapters left of my AC/DC book.  And then I have a book of Big Star.  Of which I only know one song.  And 99.3% of the times I heard that song, it was a cover.  Oh well.  Maybe they'll turn into my favorite band.  Anything's possible.  If I was them, instead of calling it Big Star, I'd have called it Asterisks.  Because moron is I.  If I was Led Zeppelin, I woulda called it, "Big Ol' Balloon."  That's how that goes.  Yes, indeed.  That amuses me to a unreasonable degree.  Like, 62%.  That's too much a degree for that joke.  Anyway.  What's going on.  Guitar teacher!  I'm gonna be unstoppable.  Check out this chord progression.  Wha.. buh... how'd he... wah...?  Let's be Elisha Cuthbert, and sleep with him!  Alright!  When I was born, they cut off my umbilical cord progression.  Meow meow meow.  It would be weird if I still had my umbilical cord.  I just keep getting full after my mother eats, and I don't know why.  Alright.  Today.  Entry.  Let's keep it together.  I wonder how the AC/DC book ends.  My guess?  They collectively become president in 2000 and pardon 2000 Thanksgiving turkeys. 
    Anyway.  Hi.  Finish this entry.  Craptitude.  A whole two paragraphs to go.  I remember when I would play guitar freshman year, which was pretty much 3-4 hours a day, once, once, did a girl knock on the door to say she liked what I was playing.  And, oddly enough, that one song is no longer in my repertoire.  That story is cause of neighbors, and stuff.  That's what I was thinking.  I had a roommate who also played guitar the year, but he was more into metal and stuff.  He tuned his guitar to drop D.  What a jerk.  Standard D for me!  Cause of the Elliott Smith factor.  Actually, I remember, once using some weird tuning for some specific song, and a girl knocked on the door to tell me she liked it.  So, there goes my whole narrative.  Everything I say is false.  And I remember getting high with a friend in my dorm, and playing Apples In Stereo, and he was like, "Did you write this song?  It sounds like you."  Nope.  Wasn't me.  Thanks, though!  Then we went to Union Square, and there's a statue there of something, and we hopped the fence and went right up to the statue.  Pot is a Hell of a drug.  My most prominent memory of NYU, though, was eating at Chick-Filet, in one of the NYU dining halls, and listening to Brendan Benson on my earphones.  That, and taking a Spanish class, and imagining a wall suddenly separating everyone in the class except for me and one female classmate, and we'd have to have sex.  Never happened, though.  Oh well.
    Okay, one more paragraph to go!  We did it!  Almost.  Maybe a wall will form through the internet and then we'll have to have sex.  Probably not, though.  The logistics of it are just impossible.  Also, I remember, October of freshman year, some guy gave me two advance screening tickets to Borat, and since I had no friends yet, I went with my brother.  Oh man, he's throwing money at the bugs, because he thought the Jews had changed form!  That made me laugh hysterically.  Good times.  Gooooood times.  Alright.  Time to close up this entry, almost.  Not really time to close it up, time to write one or two more things, and then close it up.  Alright.  Gotta leave the entry on a positive note.  Let's see.  Hmm.  AIDS.  No, that's not it.  Hmm.  What.  Let's see.  The day is winding down.  Only a few hours to go.  This is great.  Alright, I'm happy.  Freshman year, I would always get a turkey sandwich, and either a black and white cookie, or a bag of Doritos, for lunch, at Space Market.  Space Market, I believe it was called, was the deli by Washington Square park.  I should have gotten lunch at a NYU eatery, cause I was paying for it, but I didn't.  Because I wasn't thinking things through that well.  What the Hell.  That's not funny or interesting.  Sorry.  Still got one or so more things to say.  Hmm.  I remember, from like 2007-2010, I would always have like one female friend, or two, that would be like, "You're Great!  Keep Doing Music!"  and what did they know.  They're just jerks, pretending to be caring people.  If they were really caring, they'd be like, "Stop wasting your time!"  Look where my music's gotten me.  Nowhere, that's where. 
    Alright, last paragraph time.  I like six paragraphs.  It's like we're doing something really special.  I remember, spring of '08, I rented a rehearsal studio room for like two hours, to record my songs.  I had no need to do it in a rehearsal studio, I'm just one person, I could have easily done it in my dorm, but for some reason, it felt more official.  And, I have one or two tracks of music, somewhere, which include me banging on a cymbal of a drums, without any skill.  But, I remember, the guy running the place, was like, "What were you doing in there?  It sounded good."  Stop lying.  If you really cared about running your place, you'd be like, "Stop wasting your time!"  Unless you wanted me to spend more money on renting your rehearsal space.  In, which case, you did the right thing.  Except, I never returned.  So, I guess you did the wrong thing.  I also remember watching Child's Play Three, my sophomore year in college.  It's weird the things the mind remembers.  At that time, my mindset was basically, "Leave Me Alone, I Gotta Smoke Weed."  Because leave me alone.  And I gotta smoke weed.  That was seven years ago.  And where am I now?  Leave me alone.  And, I wish I could smoke weed.  That's about it.  Oh, and listening to The Spin Doctors' Two Princes.  Yeah, I'm onna two princes.  Pick me, girl!  I'm not sure if I was the one who wanted to buy her rockets, or not.  Does it really matter?  And listening to Anarchy In The U.K.  The main reason I remember those two songs, was because they were the only two songs I had that I bought individually on iTunes, at that time, I think.  Did I really buy Two Princes?  I guess so.  How embarrassing.
    Alright, last paragraph time.  This time, really.  Let's roll them dice.  I don't need a guitar teacher.  I'm already more than proficient at blog writing.  Which is the new music.  I need a guitar teacher, though.  I gotta do something, let's face it.  I'm not gonna have a regular job, I'm not normal enough.  I need to do something creative.  Why limit myself only to blog writing.  No one ever reads this blog, or listens to my music.  Yeah, but, umm, well, but, yeah, but, well, umm, anyway, but, yeah, well, you see, yeah, but, okay, what if, anyway, but, maybe, well.  That answers that question.  I'm pretty proficient at buying alcohol.  Since I turned 21, it's a cinch!  Maybe I can do that for a career.  What an idiot.  Anyway.  I always like walking in the opposite direction as the high school kids when I'm getting my alcohol.  They're walking away from school, to their home.  I'm walking towards the business, to buy my alcohol.  And we meet in the middle, and lock eyes.  And they know something is up.  They just keep on goin'.  Anyway.  See ya later.

-4:44 P.M.                 

Thursday, October 16, 2014                        

The Last Entry Was Actually Thursday, Too

Hello friends and lovers.  Mostly friends.  But, lovers, if you're reading this, wassup!  You know who you are.  Anyway.  And I mean it, you know who you are.  I just don't come into contact with females that much.  And when I do, it's all in-class interactions.  You can't flirt in a classroom.  Teacher's there.  Teacher runs the show in the classroom.  And I can't flirt with teachers.  I'm not some kind of smooth motha fucka empresario that I can be hookin' up with the teachers.  Anyway.  Entry time!  People love them some personal sex talk.  What's going on.  I uploaded a five song album to bandcamp, but I'm not sure if I'm gonna publish it to the web.  I'm not sure the world is ready for it yet.  Like, when you hear it, it's gonna be a bombshell.  Ya'll don't know, you don't know.  My brother told me he really liked my last album.  So you're the one!  Ha-ha, it's funny, ha-ha.  No, but seriously, you're the one.  I know, because I can see the site visitation statistics.  Theuppers.bandcamp.com.  Listen to it, jerks!  I mean, c'mon.  You couldn't do that.  Praise and worship me!  For becoming moderately adequate at something most people don't have the time or effort to do!
    Anyway.  What else is going on.  Probably nothing, and stuff.  Ain't that always the case?  I hope so.  Things are scary.  Why, just today, I was reading a book of urban legends, and I got scared shitless.  Someone bought Elvis' motorcycle for a bargain, because the seller didn't realize it was Elvis'?  AHHHHH GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.  A guy got naked for his secretary, but it was really a surprise party thrown by his family?  NOOOOO TURN ON ALL THE LIGHTS I'M SCARED.  Anyway.  I'm still waiting for the baseball playoffs to throw us a curveball and let us use the joke, "I guess we're not in Kansas anymore."  I know, me and the thousand other wisenheimers, have been waiting patiently.  It's a-comin.  My downstairs toilet says Toto on it.  I guess that's the brand, or something.  Anyway.  Anyway.  Yeesh.  What an idiot.  I never claimed to be a non-idiot.  I just sort of thought it was assumed, that's all.  I really can't wait for, two months from now, when Ebola is a non-issue.  Both because it annoys me that Ebola is such a huge issue, and it scares me that Ebola is such a big issue.  I know!  What if we invent an Ebola for the Ebola.  Fight disease with disease.  Action must be tooken!
    Yeesh.  Why do I capitalize ebola.  It's not a proper noun.  Oh, it is?  Ebola.  There we go.  Sorry about that interruption.  Alright, what the Hell.  I'll publish my 5 song album to the web.  Not gonna advertise it on Facebook, though.  This is for the true Kornbleezier-eviers.  Theuppers.bandcamp.com.  Eh, I'll probably throw it a line in my Facebook post for this entry.  But no solitary post!  I draw the line there.  I figure, I wrote and released an album in April, then again in June, then again in September.  Exponentially, I'm due for another album around January.  That'll give me plenty time to rest and regroup.  The class I've been taking at Queens College, at the time of the making of the album, has sort of been synonymous with me for the album, it's final product and it's production.  American Lit I was the first album, The Uppers.  Classic.  Intro to Poetry was Invented Seas, a little bit artier, but definitely progress.  Intro to Narrative was Lunatic, me trying to figure out how this all comes together, and stuff.  And January will be all about Flag Day.  Is Flag Day in January?  Also, why is there a Flag day?  Whose part of the flag lobby, that's what I want to know.  I don't really want to know.  Nobody tell me.  I like living life in suspense.  Just like flags.  because they're often suspended on string.  And things of that nature. 
    I really don't know whether to get the guitar teacher or not.  I.  Just.  Don't.  Know.  What to do.  Probably not, but what if so?  There hasn't been a really good indie rock band in the last few years.  We're due, I think.  And why not me to fill those shoes?  I'm not indie-rock, though.  We didn't land on Indie-Rock, Indie-Rock landed on us!  Or something of that nature.  That's how I feel.  Shit, I'm 3/4ths done with my drinking that began this entry.  I can't write this crap sober!  60% of my reasoning for this entry has been, "I'm drunk, who cares!"  Because I'm drunk.  And who cares.  We live in a free world, buddy.  And other classic urban legends.  That's the name of my album.  You'd know if you visited the page.  Which you'd know if you visited this page.  Which you'd know if you don't have me on block on Facebook.  Which you'd know if you have the internet.  Most people do have the internet.  I like that Sandra Bullock movie about the internet.  You know, Speed?  Bullocks!  Hey, that guy's saying wrong things!  Let's get behind his comedy!  Yeah!  This entry sucked in a multitude of ways.  Jokes on you, though!  I killed an hour, while at the same time, feeling good about myself!  So what if it turns out those feelings were unwarranted.  I still felt em!  And you ain't ever gettin' that back!  That's how I feel.  Alright.  What else is going on.  Reading about Urban Legends really scares me.  There's a ghost.   AHHH WHERE.  I don't know, it's a ghost.  AHHH IT COULD BE ANYWHERE.  The Urban Legends book included an entry about the story I told a month or two ago, about the teacher who made, "Why?" his final.  Didn't include the C answer, "I don't know," though.  I guess the average American audience wasn't ready for that, yet.
    Alright.  I don't care.  I hate how music works, for me.  The day I record and upload my song to my computer, I'm like, "This is the greatest thing ever!"  And then, for a week, I'm like, "That was pretty good!"  And then, I'm like, "I gotta listen to this crap?"  That's why I like comedy.  What you see is what you get.  Although, comedy doesn't make doing the elliptical machine thirty minutes a day any easier.  That's honestly my primary motivation for writing a new album.  Just want something new to listen to while I exercise.  I can't watch The Price Is Right.  My exercising outrates the emotional involvement I get out of watching a day time game show.  Also, outrates is a word.  Deal with it.  Anyway.  Entry is winding down.  I gotta publish this to the web?  I guess so.  Sorry.  The good news is, one people will read it.  And they won't give a damn, they just got nothing better to do.  Anyway.  I wrote a C- entry.  What did you do today?  Oh, went out and earned a living?  Well, la-dee-da.  Aww man, I'm out of entry to write, and drink to drink.  I don't like where this is headed.  More urban legend reading for me.  It's scary!  Just like regular life!  I hope I get to be a zombie one day.  Like, I ever just have a flash forward, and I'm brain dead and eating someone's brains, I'll, for the briefest of moments, think, "Hey!  I did it!  Not so shabby!"  And then go back to whatever it was I was doing.  Shit, I have to fully commit to sharing this with people, now.  Publish it to the web.  No goin' back now!  Hmm.  Well, I wrote it.  It would be a sin to waste it.  You wouldn't want me to sin, now would ya?  Would ya?  That's what Biff would say if he was an Evangelicalist.
    Alright, I'll do a sixth paragraph, to make up for the craptitude of the entry.  I did finish an entry way back in the morning, though.  Who can even remember that far back.  Anyway.  What.  Huh.  I'm still here?  Alright.  Well, I suppose you want a concluding paragraph, don't you?  Well, I suppose.  Ol' Crazysheet's got this one in the tank!  Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, but, oh boy, does I!  Hey, Hey, Hey, I should drink alcohol Every.  Day.  That's an idea I can get... eh... Let's face facts.  I'm a failure at life.  Both today and tomorrow.  And, all yesterdays, and days after tomorrows.  I should just be happy I get to crawl into bed at night and think, "Tomorrow won't be so bad."  Even if it will be.  Alright.  Entry done.  You liked it, right?  Solid C+/B-.  What more can you ask for.  B/B+?  Quit dreamin.  Anyway.  It's alllllll good.  Except for how I have to finish this entry.  That's bad!  I like ripping off the filters of cigarettes.  Because I'm hardcore.  And I used to like spiking cigarettes with weed.  Because I'm a awesomist.  Alright.  Finish up the entry.  I can do that.  Probably.  It's well within my job description, you're well within your rights to expect I finish an entry.  But, will I?  Remains to be seen.  Still got a ways to go.  Not as much, anymore.  Than when I first started this line of reasoning.  You know.  Anyway.  I want to set fire to my garbage.  You know, for fun.  I was just reading through a notepad from spring, '08.  Wanted to write a screenplay called, "World's Greatest Grandpa."  Or, write a screenplay called, "The New Monkees."  I wrote a lot of dialogue for The New Monkees.  Mostly, it's me, and Haley Joel Osment, who I almost knew tangentially because he would eat in the same cafeteria as us freshman year, and two podcasters I liked.  Osment was one of the New Monkees, and the two podcasters were our agents/managers.  And, I think, half of the time, for some reason, "The New Monkees" was a zombie movie.  I'm not really sure why.  Alright, see ya later.

-4:16 P.M.           

Wednesday, October 15, 2014                        

I Spend Too Much Time On Titles

Hello!  It's the fellow who is me.  What's new.  I took the first step towards getting a guitar teacher.  I'm gonna be a superstar!  Hopefully he can teach me Smoke On The Water.  Anyway.  Smoke On The Water reminds me of log flumes.  I have a feeling, after the first five minutes of the lesson, he'll be like, "Man, you're just no good.  This is pointless.  Wanna play Monopoly?"  Anyway.  Anyway.  I like Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.  Look, Regis, we all want to be a millionaire.  That's why we're here.  Is that my final answer?  Well, I don't know.  Let's ask the audience.  You know, for fun.  What else is going on.  They should add new rules and activities to Wheel of Fortune, so in the advertisement, they can say, "We've reinvented the wheel-- of fortune."  Because I have an eight year old's idea of wit.  That reminds me, one of the first jokes I ever committed to paper, I just remembered recently.  Musta been from when I was seven or eight.  It's a comic, and it's someone saying, "I'll ..., when pigs fly!"  And then in the next frame, there's a newscaster saying, "Today, pigs learned to fly."  Something like that.  And then the last frame is the guy saying, "Oh, shit," or something.  Hey, you gotta start somewhere.  Hey, if I ever find it, once I become famous, that's gonna be worth tens of dollars.  Who Wants To Have a Ten Dollar Bill?  Man, since Regis left, they've really lowered the stakes.
    Anyway.  This entry is a grind.  Not much fun for either of us.  The good news is, one day, it'll be over.  Probably today.  Maybe I should do the 50/50.  Jeez.  I think I'm subconsciously sabotaging crazysheet with crap, so music will take precedence in my mind.  Man, am I mastermind.  I have a shirt with a rocket ship on it.  What's it to you.  Hah.  Pigs really did learn to fly.  Genius.  Probably was drinking Red Bull, or something.  That's how I feel.  I've been reading that AC/DC book.  Turns out, not all their songs use the chord progression ACDC.  I thought for sure that's what was goin' on.  That's why I find ABBA so boring.  And R.E.M.  After all, I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the lord.  And that chord was R.  R E minor.  I didn't know David was a musician.  He's quite the renaissance man.  Killin' Goliath, findin' secret chords, being king.  That is all the same David, right?  David was the name of the kid who fed me dog treats.  Oh well.  Sooner or later, everyone's gonna eat a dog treat.  Better I got it from someone I trust.
    Alright.  Wednesday, huh?  Alright, I can handle that.  Yesterday, I actually did write a song with an ACDC chord progression.  Oddly enough, I dedicated it to Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Whoulda guessed it.  I don't dedicate songs to people or bands anymore.  What am I, an eight year old?  *Quickly crosses out the "Dedicated To ***" title to all his papers of songs*  Hah!  Pigs fly!  Whoulda thunk it.  Anyway.  Halfway into October.  Anyway.  Since the first paragraph, I've gone another course, and taken the first step towards not getting a guitar teacher.  There's basically only one step.  Not doing it.  I don't need a teacher telling me what's what.  Anyway.  I like how Dunkin Donuts sells bananas at the cash register.  Who thinks, "I wanna banana.  Off to Dunkin' Donuts!"  And don't give me that impulse buy crap.  No one impulsively buys a banana.  If you're getting a banana, you want a banana.  Anyway.
    A day has passed since the last paragraph.  I'm back in the Let's Learn Guitar From Teacher camp.  I had a dream last night I was really proficient at music, so, yeah.  I do whatever my dreams tell me.  Like that time my dream told me to go see The Internship.  Thanks a lot, you asshole.  That was a decent movie, I don't know why it's the butt of my joke.  It just seemed appropriate, I don't know.  Actually, about 80-90% of my dreams over the past, I don't know, half a year, have just been different versions of how my future might turn out.  Like, there's five or six different dreams that just keep reoccurring, and they're all basically possible futures for myself.  I have a shirt that says, "Major In Your Future," I think from the nonprofit organization my brother's part of.  I was looking at it for about 45 minutes yesterday, just mesmerized.  Man, major in my future.  That's deep.  Pretty sure that's a sign I'm gonna meet an Army captain.  Hey, I do whatever t-shirts tell me.  I have to put them on inside out though, so I can read it.  What the Hell is that stupidity.  Major in your future, minor in your past.  Take electives in your present.  Take community college classes in things that have never and will never happen.
    Pigs learn to fly.  Oh man, that's classic.  Another prominent early memory I have, related to jokes/comedy, is in fourth or fifth grade, we took a class trip to a park, and I somehow got ahead of the group, and there was a bench, so I sat down there, waiting for everyone to catch up.  And then one asshole kid was like, "Look at Michael, trying to be funny by sitting on a bench, what a loser."  Man, what the Hell is your problem.  I'm just sitting on a bench.  That should be the end of that anecdote.  Except, embarrassingly enough, though, I did sort of mean it to be funny.  I'm not sure why everyone agrees that's a joke.  I guess it's cause like, Hey, we're all walking with teacher, that guys doing something different!  And that story was the inspiration for Forrest Gump.  Anyway.  When the class finally caught up with me, everyone should have applauded.  Anyway.  Thank you!  I'll be sitting on the bench again Friday night, and twice Saturday!  Alright, see ya.
 

-6:36 A.M.                                      

Monday, October 13, 2014                        

Bout To Get Crazy Up In This Sheet

Hello friends!  It's... wait a second.  Who am I?  Oh!  Right.  It's me... uh... who am I, again?  Oh yeah!  Okay.  Gotcha.  It's me, Maury Povich!  Wait, that's someone else?  Are you sure?  I'm pretty sure I'm Maury Povich.  One episode a year, they should just devote to Maury dancing an entire episode.  Hello.  Today is a special occasion.  We only do this once a year.  That said, hit the music!  And then the dancing begins.  And doesn't end until the hour is up.  And every thirty seconds he sings, The Lie Detector Test Determined That I Am The Dancer!  Anyway.  What else isn't happening.  Today.  Today I will finally start looking for guitar teacher.  And, if not today, tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will finally start looking for guitar teacher.  And, if not tomorrow, let's face it, it probably won't happen.  I I wanna get a guitar teacher who also teaches singing.  Then I'll be doubly prepared to run a band into the ground.  Oh man I just had a split second fantasy about what it would be like to have a band.  The split second fantasy essentially was Jack Black, as a stand in for me, asking the shadows of band members what to name the band.  And it was like, "I don't know, but we're all gonna work together to make this great and fun!"  Great.  Fun.  These are two words that exist.  I hate how much I've devoted to talking about music the past week or so here.  This is comedy time.  I don't write songs saying, "What's the deal/with Yoko Ono/When John saw her/Shoulda said, "Oh No."  Cause that's a crazysheet song.  I rhymed, "Ono," with, "Oh No."  It's stressed differently.  Get off my back.
    I like Yoko Ono.  That's how I feel.  What else is going on.  Things, and crap, and stuff.  I lost my house keys.  What a crap.  I find it hard to relax, now.  My house keys are out there, doing God knows what, with God knows who.  Why can't they just come home to me, come home to me baby.  They probably are home, because I remember using them to enter the house the last time I had them, so, they gotta be somewhere.  I checked all over, though.  My theory?  I was sleep walking, and put them somewhere I would never look.  Because I like to play sleep-practical jokes on myself.  Also, someone's been littering the grass outside with empty alcohol bottles.  And it wasn't me.  I think the 40 year old that was coming on to me may be my new neighbor.  I told you a month ago my old neighbor had some health problems, and they had to sell the house.  So, I think, yeah there's a MILF next door, now.  Except, instead of MILF, it's a MIRF.  Mom I'd Regretfully Fuck.  So, yeah, I think she might be littering the neighborhood with her alcohol addiction.  What a jerk.  We could be drinking buddies.  So, tell me about your ten year old son that lives with his father.  So, tell me about what's going on on The View.  So, gettin' ready for menopause?  Also, she wears glasses.  That explains that.  Not sure why, though.  But, boy, does it.  So, want me to do my sexy dance?  Test results show that I am the dancer/Test results show that I am the dancer/Test results show that I am the dancer.  That's how that goes.  Hopefully she does heroin.  That's something I wanna try out!  No, never mind.  Why would I even say that.  Something's wrong with me.  When I was reading the Led Zeppelin book, they were like, "Oh, yeah, all musicians do heroin."  Really?  Well, great.  But I don't wanna do heroin!  I swear to you, no heroin.  No coke, no heroin.  Everything else is fair game.  I don't know why I'd be particularly inclined to abide by a promise I made to the readers of a blog that nobody likes.  That's just how I feel, in general.  I wanna do that drug, whatever it is, that makes you go to sleep in five seconds, when I was getting my ECT treatments.  How awesome is that.  Powering down to go to sleep in 3, 2, 1.  Then, bam, you're in a wheelchair being wheeled out of the hospital.  So much fun.  But they make you bite a thing so you don't swallow your tongue.  I'd need to get me one of those things.  I don't want to swallow my tongue.  That would be Bad News Bears.
    Anyway.  That was a pretty long paragraph.  That's how I feel.  Also, probably no acid.  I don't trust it.  Can't we just stick to marijuana and alcohol?  You know, the classics.  That's why I want to start a band.  Look, you know why I've called you in here.  We all want to do drugs.  If we play music, our fans will give us drugs!  For free!  Now, let's get started.  The sad part is, I'm sure there are plenty of bands based on that exactly.  Except, you gotta include sex.  If we play music, fans will give us sex for free!  Yeah.  Hey, I'm kinda down with that, now that I mention it.  Although it's been my experience that doing music not only doesn't get you sex, but pushes sex away.  Nothin' less attractive than someone failing at what he's trying to do.  Hmm, I would have sex with you, but you suck at music!  Thanks a lot.  Yeesh.  You'll never get to have sex with me with that attitude.  Anyway.  The good news is, the last paragraph was really long.  That's what I'm all about when it comes to music.  The perfect length for songs.  You're doing punk?  Want it to be 2 to 2:30 minutes.  Pop rock?  2:45-3:30.  Alt rock?  3:30-4:30.  There ya go.  I figured music out.  At least, when it comes to length.  I've been mostly doing Punk lately.  Because I feel uncomfortable writing lyrics.  It's almost like, I know I'm gonna fail, so might as well just figure out some crap quickly, so at least I can say I didn't even try.  And it's funny, if you look at bandcamp.com, where I host my music, you can browse all the other bands.  And there's no shortage at all of adequate music, it's all decent stuff.  I think lyrics has got to be what separates the wheat from the chaff.  I don't know.  There's gotta be some reason why successful bands are successful, and other ones aren't.
    Maybe it's because bandcamp artists are trying to emulate the sounds they already like, and doing mediocre to adequate jobs at it, while successful bands are busy making new music.  I don't know.  It's important to think about, though, if I want to, someday, be a successful.  Anyway.  Crazysheet.  Right.  Let's face it, If I'm ever known and accepted for my creative side, it's gonna be comedy.  Either one would be great.  So, just gotta continue doing both until one of them clicks.  Until I'm 35, and neither of them have clicked.  Then, it's time to move upstate, get a job at some office, and wait until I die.  I don't know why I have to move upstate.  Probably for fun.  Anyway.  This entry sucked.  I'm assuming.  I don't really remember it that well.  But something in me is unsatisfied.  The good news is, it's close to being over.  Anyway.  What's up.  I wanna get a job at an office now.  If we're going by the basis of that show, it seems like a lot of fun.  That show, of course, is Seinfeld.   It's an office about nothing!  Hey, I got a paragraph and change to write!! Imagine how great it'll be.  Imagine all the people/Living for Yoko Ono.  Yeesh.  I'm blessed to be mediocre at many things.  I hate it.  Anyway.  The last time I went to exercise, someone was using the eliptical!  I had to use the faux-bicycle for twenty minutes!  What a waste of time.
    Okay, last paragraph time.  I hope this entry has been as unfulfilling for you as it has been for me.  Because I'm a sadist.  Ecstasy is probably out, too.  And mushrooms?  Maybe, if I ever get better.  As of now, no way.  Cigarettes?  Sure, why not.  I don't mind taking eight years off my life for a drug that basically does nothing.  Because I'm hardcore.  Anyway.  Gotta finish this paragraph in ten minutes.  Then, exorcize my demons.  In form of exercising my body.  See ya later.

-10:48 A.M.                                     

Friday, October 10, 2014                        

Today On Crazysheet... Will Crazysheet Reach His Five Paragraph Goal?

You bet I won't!  Please, bet I won't.  Because I'm pretty sure I will, and that would be a good money making scheme.  Also, somewhere along the line, I started using Crazysheet as a pronoun to describe me.  I don't know whether this is good or bad.  Probably bad.  Most things I do are.  If Heart of Darkness was written today, it would be called, "<3 of Darkness."  Probably.  I want to text my cardiologist, "I Think I'm Having a <3 Attack."  That would be some fun.  Anyway.  I don't know what to do with my old desktop computer and monitor.  They're clunking up my room.  I guess I could donate them to charity.  The computer could be a makeshift stool.  And the monitor an interesting piece of modern art.  I remember I used to have a cardboard box in my room, I think from one of my amplifiers, and I would just leave that in front of my bed and use as a table, whether for eating dinner, or putting my 8 track on it to record stuff.  That's fun.  Cardboard boxes are fun.  Actually, a couple of days ago, I did have some pain in my heart, and it felt different from your standard heartburn.  It went away, though.  That solves that problem.  Today is the same date, whether you're using American or European rules.  What fun.  Whenever I'm writing a paper, or anything, and I have to include the date, I always use a period instead of slashes.  Like, today would be 10.10.14.  It's just a little stylish decision that makes me who I am.  It's the little things that count, am I right?  What?  Big things count more?  Oh.  Never mind, then.
    Man, if Crazysheet is gonna be padding his entry with this crap, he'll surely make five paragraphs!  What have I gotten myself into, betting against him.  The house always wins, sucker.  It's like taking money from a baby.  I'm gonna take a break.  I'm gonna come back from my break.  Here I am.  I guess I could just mess around with the wires in my computer, make some changes, and turn it into a friendly robot.  Shouldn't be too hard, and the payoff is wonderful.  I'm pretty sure that's how they made Adele.  That would explain the name, at least.  Anyway.  What wonders will be had today.  Finishing the paper, that should be good.  I haven't drank in at least a week.  Good for me.  Being an alcoholic isn't exactly socially acceptable.  However, if you're a chocoholic, nobody thinks twice.  What the Hell, chocoholic is actually a word?  C'mon.  I thought for sure I'd see those familiar wavy red lines.  That kind of deligitimizes the joke.  Let's see.  What else.  Sexoholic.  Not a word!  Hmm.  Alcoholic.  A word!  Wait, I already knew that.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Catholic.  Yup, that's a word.  Cathoholic?  Not a word.  I gotta move on from this crap.  What else.  I used to play this game with my friend, "I'm thinking of a number.  If it's one, I win, if it's two, you win."  I had forgotten about that until recently.  Jeez, does that amuse me.
    Anyway.  What else is going on.  Man, am I gonna feel good when I'm done with my second paper.  AAh, the pleasure in a job well done.  I've been doing this incarnation of crazysheet for two and a half years.  That's a long time.  The first year and change was total crap, though.  It's only been the last year or so that it's moderately worth reading.  Good for me, I guess.  Even if no one else reads it.  The pleasure in a job well done.  Crazysheet has even come to mean, in my brain, Something supremely adequate.  Funny how things work.  Anyway.  Gotta finish this entry.  The odds are 10 to 1 that I won't.  Can't let that bet pay off.  And, when I'm done, write that paper!  What fun.  And, maybe, at some point, have an apple.  What else is going on.  Writing the rest of this entry.  Yeah.  Maybe I'll get started on that paper.  Maybe I'll finish this entry.  There's a lot of things that may be.  Alright, I'm about 2/5ths through my paper.  Good stuff.  I'm about 2.5/5ths through this entry.  Whatta predicament.  Anyway.  I sure D/D+'d the fuck out of those papers.  GotGotta get back on a positive track in life.  Music?  I guess.  If I get lessons, who knows what could happen.  Probably crap.  But, still, got nothin' else to do.  Anyway.  There's girls in my class tomorrow.  You know what that means, right?  Potential sex.  Hey, the odds are low, but there's a chance there'll be an earthquake or something, we'd get trapped in the room, and sooner or later, we'll have to have sex.  That's just human nature.  Why would we have to have sex?  You've heard of starvation.  We'd need to conceive a baby, so that we could eat it.  That's just human nature.  Why don't you eat her menstruation.  What kind of a sick bastard are you.
    Okay.  In some parts of the word, baby is a delicacy.  And in some parts of the world, delicatessens exist.  What's your point.  I hate the turn this entry has taken.  It's just your standard shock value mediocre jokes.  Eating a baby?  You've shocked me into bemusement!  No, that's not the way!  Delicatessens?  Yeah right!  Whatever.  I bought myself some alcohol as a reward for finishing my papers.  I hadn't drank in at least a week.  That was a good run of it, I suppose.  Now, back to hilarious craptitudity.  Hey, I'm failing at life!  Laugh at my pain!  Get 'er done.  I wonder if my guitar teacher would mind if I tape our lessons.  That's a serious thought I had.  He'd probably not wanna go with it.  Cause every time he says something, I'd go, "And remember, you are under oath."  Pretty sure owning a microphone makes your home, legally, a courtroom.  Man, I sure wrote some D-/D papers.  On the sliding scale of expectations, though, yeah, I'd stick with my original projection of D/D+.  Maybe even /C-.  They're both four pages, and I wrote each in twenty minutes.  That's just not enough time!  Whaddya doin Michael!  Take yer schoolwork seriously!  You'll never make it to Oxford University Grad School with that attitude!  I want to teach philosophy at Oxford University, and for the first class, on the board, write, "OXF or D University?"  And field responses on that for the rest of the semester.  There's no right answers, here, guys.  Only wrong answers.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  I gotta justify my alcohol intake by writing another paragraph here, one would imagine.  That's Advanced Philosophy.  Would One Imagine?  Let the class mull that one over for a semester.  And Special Subjects In Philosophy?  I'm Thinking Of a Number, If It's 1, I win, If It's 2.... that's how that goes. 
    Fifth paragraph!  Alright!  Anyway.  There's a forty year old chick that's been in the exercise room the last few times I've been, and she can barely contain herself around me.  Is this music too loud?  How do you use this machine?  See you!  Get it together, woman, God.  I'm here to move my limbs in a rhythmic fashion, not to make out with you.  Get on with your chlorophyll.  Although, when she was asking if the music was too loud, she was listening to American Pie.  That's a pretty good song.  I'll make out with a person listening to American Pie, sure, why not.  But there are security cameras in the room, to make sure no one misuses or steals the equipment.  I can't have relations with a woman except under the most intimate environments.  Like, a classroom that's been isolated from the rest of the building because of an earthquake.  That's how that goes.  What else is going how it goes.  I don't know who to root for in the MLB playoffs.  I don't particularly like any of the teams, or the cities they're representing.  I guess I'll just root that they all have a bad time.  I'd want them to have a good time, but that might translate into better playing next year, and we can't have that.  Mets '15!  Maybe there'll be an earthquake in San Francisco, and they'll get trapped and have to have sex.  It's happened before, it will happen again.
    Okay, last paragraph tizzime.  Sorry about that tizzime crap.  It won't happen again.  What else is going on.  Gonna write a paragraph and shizznit.   If you mute Bill Cunningham, and play whatever you find to be emotional music over it, it suddenly seems really serious and dramatic.  Maybe that's how people with 80 I.Q.s feel whenever they watch Bill Cunningham.  I don't know.  I ain't here to judge.  I'm here to be either jury, or executioner.  They haven't told me yet.  They did clarify that it's definitely not judge, though.  I hope it's jury.  I wanna have some input over what transpires here.  Also, if I've learned anything from Pauly Shore, it's that being on a jury is good news.  You get free food, and cable T.V, or something.  I haven't seen that movie in a dog's age.  Also, there's a reasonable chance I haven't learned anything from Pauly Shore.  Pauly D., that's another story.  That guy oozes life lessons.  Like, how to make millions of dollars by doing nothing.  I wanna learn that!  I had a friend named Paul in middle school.  In seventh grade, we had two classmates, Edward and Melissa, who were in a relationship, and this was our first exposure to such a thing.  And Paul used to sit on our laps, and say he was playing, "Edward and Melissa."  Which amused us to great degrees.  Well, me at least.  Other people may have been indifferent to it. 
    Seventh paragraph.  I've obliterated my five paragraph goal.  And you all doubted me.  Looks like I've got the last laugh.  Mainly because, after I'm done laughing at my entry, no one ever will again.  Because it's the pits.  Man, I can't believe I went a week without drinking.  Now I don't wanna stop.  It Begins!!!  Yeesh.  Why couldn't I have been a chocoholic.  Same amount of calories, less debilitating liver effects.  Hey, I'm just showing my liver some tough love.  That's how that goes.  I remember, when I first started drinking, it was always either 40 oz of beer, or screwdrivers, vodka mixed with orange juice.  Well, 90% of the first year.  I remember a Sex on the Beach at one point, a gin and tonic at one point, and tequila at one point.  Is it sad that most of my memory is devoted to what and when I drank alcohol?  Yes, it is!  Thank you for asking.  I remember, when it came to pot, I reached the conclusion that I would like pot and make it a part of my life long before I even started using it.  Because I'm a weirdo.  And, when it came to alcohol, I reached the conclusion that I would like it and make it part of my life after I started using it.  That's how that goes.
    Alright, one last paragraph.  Because this is the shits.  Maybe the music will take off.  Mike, you got the raw talent, with some lessons, you're gonna be the most awesome shit I ever shitted!  That's the teacher talking.  Thanks bud, you're aces.  That's me talking.  To the teacher.  I remember, the open mic I've done a few times, the guy always introduces the show with Ace of Spades.  Good times.  Should I do the open mic next week?  What if I suck?  Also, maybe!  Also, no.  Probably not.  The last time I went with an electric guitar, assuming they had an amp ready, and when I got on stage, I was like, "Where's the amp?" and the host was like, "We don't got one," and luckily some other guy did, and volunteered to help me out.  But for twenty seconds, I was like, "Shit, I got an electric guitar with no amp."  That's how that goes.  And, also, someone once covered a Pixies song, I believe Mr. Grieves.  Something like that.  I also think someone once covered Pavement's, "Shady Lane," something like that.  I really should do that next week, now that I bring it up.  No reason not to.  Other than that I usually go to sleep at 6:00 P.M., and wouldn't get on stage until midnight, and be home by 2:00.  I really should.  I really should.  I really should.  The more I say it, the more seriously I'll take my mindless advice.  Acoustic guitar, though.  Definitely.  I mean, I've got songs.  Why not?  And, before my song, I should scream, "Are you ready to get the Led out?" and then then play my original, totally-not-like-Led-Zeppelin songs.  You know, for fun.  I'm not gonna scream out anything.  If I have to say anything, in my band-character, I'd be like, "So, this is a song I wrote.  Don't get too excited."  And then play them some crap.
    Alright, one last paragraph.  Maybe I should do the open mic next week.  I know I was talking about it all last paragraph, but it didn't really enter my brain until I made the paragraph transition.  Now you know my secret.  Half the time, what I'm typing, it's barely even in my brain.  Anyway.  Nine paragraphs?  Okay.  Anyway.  It's been a while since the start of the paragraph.  Since then, my brains been working over time, and I've realized it's not very likely I'll open mic it up next week.  I'll reserve some time, say, 7:00-7:15, to fully think about it.  Right now, though, who cares.  I got today to think about!  Like, should I eat pizza tonight, or, for some reason unbeknownst to me, not eat pizza tonight?  And, should I cover Shady Lane tonight, or just go to bed?  Who knows.  I don't get why orchestras need a conductor.  You know what you need to play.  Does some guy flailing his arms around really help you at all?  Doesn't make sense to me.  Conduct Or University?  Think about it!  Meow mix.  Anyway.  I guess it's time to close this entry up.  No more papers to write.  Unlimited alcohols to drink, though, I suppose.  I was doing so good.  Oh well.  I'm still slowly getting credits, though.  So progress is being made.  One would imagine.  Anyway.  Time to close up the entry.  What's going on.  It's too late to ask what's going on.  Even if you somehow answered, I wouldn't have enough space to answer.  Besides, nothing's happening.  Other than being barely-drunk-enough and having to finish a paragraph.  Meow mix.  Hope there's an earthquake in San Francisco this week.  It's all I can imagine that would make me happy.
    Last paragraph time.  Might as well make this a clean double up entry.  What else is going on.  I finished my liquor.  Just now.  What crap.  It doesn't matter how drunk I am, not having any more liquor to drink is a negative.  I'd rather be 2/5ths drunk, and have a quarter to drink, then being 4/5ths drunk, and have a nothing to drink.  Something and so on and so forth.  Things that make sense.  Words.  Sentences, in completion.  Also, more words.  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah.  Paragraphs.  Don't even get me started on, I don't know, what the Fuck.  Hello.  Yeesh.  At 5:00, I guess, time to order dinner.  It's only 4:22.  That's how that goes.  Tomorrow I can get beer, because I'll be wearing my backpack, instead of having to get mini-alcohols that fit in my pocket.  Beer is great.  It's less severe than alcohols.  And more appropriate, I think.  Hey.  Half an entry to go.  What fun.  remember the time I was talking about fake philosophy classes?  Or when I was talking about covers I've seen at open mics?  Or Dvorvak's symphony?  Was I talking about that?  Don't matter.  Well, I've sure wasted my entire life writing this entry.  That's how that goes.  And no one even cares.  Jokes on you, though.  This is classic.  And you'll never even know.  Boy, did you miss out.  Yeesh.  What's going on.  Writing an entry, I suppose.  Yeesh.  See ya later.

-4:35 P.M.                                                             

Thursday, October 9, 2014                        

Wassup Bloggers

You're not a blogger, I am.  Wassup blogger readerers.  Not one word in the last sentence is a real word, apparently.  That's a pretty tough trick to pull off.  So, today is Thursday.  That'll happen from time to time.  I had a dream last night I was a kid again, playing all my old video games.  And even some video games that don't really exist.  There was one game that was a cross between The Matrix, Return to Castle Wolfenstein, and walking in the park by my house.  It was fun.  I gotta write a paper today, and another paper tomorrow.  Oh well.  I'll do that after I exercise, exercise my body.  And then I'll get to work on coding Return To Matrix Park.  I also had a dream they were making a sequel for Freaks & Geeks, and I was one of the geeks.  But then, the production fell through, and me and the other geeks had to travel across America, finding a way to make a living in the tough economical climate that's out there for geeks without a T.V. show.  And, yeah, for some reason, our off-screen personas were pretty much the same as our onscreen ones.  I don't have an onscreen persona.  Well, in the dream I did.  Except I never made in onscreen.  Although, I do think we did some rehearsal.  Then, in another, semi-related dream, I was a rogue producer of movies, but I was doing a really bad job at it.  It included a segment that was essentially like Major League, but for movies.  Like, I was inviting all the crappy actors and stuff to my house, because nobody who was quality would want to work with me.  And I'm pretty sure one of them was Rick Vaughn.  Also, I worked out of my house.  Because I was a rogue. 
    Anyway.  And, throughout all the dreams, I had the semi-subconscious thought, "I'm gonna have to wake up and write a fucking paper."  So I just kept on dreamin'.  I find, lately, I'm really susceptible to internet advertising.  Pizza Hut is giving away...  Shut up!  I want pizza now!  I have no inner monologue anymore.  Anything I hear or read, that's immediately how I feel.  Also, it's 2014.  Blogger should be a real word.  Not including it in the dictionary de-legitimizes what I do.  Also, deligitimizes isn't a word.  That just sucks.  Are any of you on staff at Websters?  I demand legitimization!  Sorry, Merriam Webster.  Is Merriam Webster like Prime Meridian.  Probably.  I gotta finish this, so I can take my morning walk early enough that it's not too close to my exercise time.  Or, I could just take a break here.  But then I'll lose all my momentum.  Also, I'm a little scared of the Nazi Zombies who can defy the laws of physics that I'll come into contact with in the park.  Why capitalize Nazi Zombies.  That only legitimizes them, and so forth.  Alright, walk time.  Alright, return to entry time.  I shaved myself yesterday.  I'm pretty pleased with myself.  There's a scene in Day of the Dead where a zombie tries to shave himself.  The sad thing is, he was better at shaving than I am.  And I have full capacity of my brain and limbs.  Well, relatively full capacity.  I don't get zombie-ism.  Okay, let's say, for the sake of argument, it is possible for people to come back from the dead.  Why want to eat people?  You didn't want to eat people when you were alive.  Why the change of heart?  Don't make no sense.  Oh no, a couple of sentences ago, I said the word, "Is," but I was taking off italics at the time, so I wrote, IsIs.  ISIS!  Run away!  They've corrupted me.  Probably from that Facebook ad that said, Isis is giving away...  That's how that goes.
    Anyway.  You know, I should write both my papers today.  Just get it all out of the way, and such.  We'll see how it goes.  I like that Goo Goo Dolls song, "Isis."  I'd give up forever to bomb you...  Bingo bango bongo.  That was terrible.  I'm impressed with the band members of Goo Goo Dolls.  That's a big commitment, that for the rest of your life, you have to say, I'm in the band Goo Goo Dolls.  I don't think I'd have it in me.  That's not me passing judgment on their music, just their band name.  And it's not even that terrible a band name.  I guess for them, they thought it was appropriate.  I don't know.  I do know, in 2008, when I was making flyers to try to recruit a drummer for a band, I made it with my friend, and when I was listing my influences, he made me include a few of his favorite bands.  And for some reason, I went along with it.  So now Goo Goo Dolls, The Dave Matthews Band, and Bon Jovi are all my influences now.  But, it's funny, cause even without that, I just included like 30 bands I like.  I didn't grasp the concept that, "Influences" is supposed to mean the two or three bands you're trying to emulate, or build off of.  I was just like, I like good music.  And, of course, the truth was, I did not have it in me to even remotely emulate or build off of any band.  Good thing that never panned out.  The one thing about the flyer that I'll defend to my death, though, is that half of the page was a ClipArt picture of a monkey banging a drum.  My friend was like, "That's really stupid," but No.  I think it's perfect.
    That's how that goes.  There were no Matrix Zombies in the park today.  Just a bunch of elderly Asian people.  I remember I once had a computer science project, where I had to make some sort of program, and I made a simulation of how zombie-ism spreads from cell to cell, and I also included cells being able to kill the zombies, or find a cure, and, of course, being able to be turned into zombies.  That's the main part of any zombie simulation.  So, that's what I was up to my Sophomore year in high school.  I wouldn't be surprised if my friend made me include Rent as one of my influences.  He was obsessed with that play.  Well, I would be surprised, because I have tons of those flyers saved, and I don't remember seeing it in there.  So, that contradicts that.  If I had AIDS, paying the rent would be the last thing on my mind.  The first thing on my mind, of course, would be singing.  "I've Got AIDS, AIDS, AIDS."  It's a good thing they didn't have me write that musical.  "I've got AIDS.  That's what I SAIDS."  Moronic.  Anyway, gettin' close to time to close up the entry time.
    Okay.  I suppose my zombie simulation could double as an AIDS simulation.  I should probably take out the part with the healthy cells killing the people with AIDS, though.  It is realistic, though, that people with AIDS will stop at nothing to spread it to healthy cells.  They're fuckin' diabolical.  In the land of AIDS, the man with Gonorrhea is king.  Anyway.  I'm sorry to hear about your AIDS.  Just, remember, rent's due at the end of the month.  See ya!  Alrighty.  And, no, you can't pay me with AIDS.  Anyway.  The entry is winding down.  I got a couple of hours, then exercise, then eat, then two papers.  I'll feel good when they're done, though.  That's how that works.  All I need to do is use Courier New, make the line spacing 2.5, and it'll practically finish itself.  They should make a movie about a guy with a new venereal disease, and he plots on spreading it, called Courier New.  Cause stupidity reigns supreme.  See ya later.

-9:00 A.M.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014                        

Gettin' Ziggy With it

Halo.  I wonder if the number 666 is self conscious about being the sign of the Beast.  Of all the numbers, they had to choose me.  I'm totally innocent.  What have I done to deserve this, Oh Dark Lord?  Hey, turns out they were right!  Quit yer complaining.  Another wonderful day to begin.  I found my old mini notepad I used to keep in my pocket during high school, to write random notes and lyrics.  How wonderful!  Pretty much everything in it is a variant of, "I'm alone/Sad/You would make me/Glad."  Hey, you gotta start somewhere.  Hey, there's a note from around 2010 in there!! How'd that happen.  Talk about your time warps!  Because they're fascinating.  "I'm Still Lonely/Depressed/Please hold me/And undress."  That's how that goes.  Hey, making progress is all anyone can really ask for.  I had a dream I was eating old elementary school hot lunch hamburgers.  Those were great.  I didn't dream the taste, which would have been the icing on the cake.  Or, more accurately, the hamburger patty on the bun.  I also dreamt that I won an award for eating the hamburgers the best.  And I had to give a speech, they told me, so I spent a lot of time preparing.  But when they announced me as winner, and I went on stage to give the speech, everyone had already left.  But, instead of being angry, I was kind of relieved, because I wasn't that confident in the quality of my speech.  I was a little ticked off that no one cared about my supreme winning abilities, though.
    Oh yeah, I was tied for winner.  And the other winner gave his speech first, and everyone loved it, he had jokes and everything, they were rollin' on the floor laughing.  Then when he passed the mic, suddenly it was an empty room.  You Assholes!!!  And that's when Nicki Minaj showed up.  She offered me words of encouragement.  Yeah, it was a weird dream.  Also, a previous dream, a few hours earlier, I dreamt I was in the future, and listening to future rock-n-roll.  And I was like, I guess this makes sense, that rock 'n roll would progress to this twenty or thirty years in the future, but it just sounds weird to me.  Too bad I don't really remember it.  I could have a thirty year head start on future rock music.  You kids with your crazy music.  And then, in the dream, I was transported back to present day, and I was like, "I could put all I learned about the future to good use!"  But five minutes in, I was like, "Eh, that seems like a lot of work.  What's on T.V."  It does beg the question, though, what is on T.V.?  I don't like the phrase, "Begs the question."  It's too demeaning.  How about just, "It raises the question?"  That's a phrase everyone can get behind.  Maybe I'm using the phrase wrong, anyway.  That would solve this problem.  Just don't say anything.
    Anyway.  I like me some reduced fat Cheez-Its.  It's A Snack Guys Like Me Can Get Behind! is what I would say if I had to write and star in a commercial for Cheez-Its.  Simple, and to the point.  I was cleaning up my room, and I found a Weird Al CD.  Now, I seem to have misplaced it.  Just my luck.  That's how I feel.  Add justice to my luck.  My old desktop computer, from high school, I wanna see if they can retrieve the hard drive, even though the computer's broken.  I have a shit load of documents with lyrics, and guitar practicing files, and probably even a few songs I recorded that I don't have anymore.  Sure, it's all shit, but it's sentimental shit.  Also, lots of porn.  Sentimental porn.  I hid my porn files in a folder called POTemp on the C drive.  No one would be the wiser.  Unless they read this entry.  PO, short for porn.  Temp, because it blends in with other folders.  What a devious mastermind, when it comes to porn, I was.  Hopefully they don't think I was a devious mastermind plotting to build a Pot Empire.  I was just working on my marijuana world domination scheme, that's all.  Just like any other high school kid.  Also, chat logs from AIM.  Hey, I remember talking to those guys!  There's no such thing as a marijuana world empire.  That's crazy talk.  A Cheez-It world empire, maybe.  Sodium is pretty addictive. 
    Anyway.  I found my Left Handed Guitar For Beginners book, I had back in 2004.  It's funny, because 90% of it is just learning how to read music and tablature.  Nothing specific for left handers.  They sure tricked me into buying it, though.  Hey, the guy on the cover is holding the guitar backwards!  Just like me!  Here's fifteen dollars!  That, the ultimate guitar tab website thing, and the tablature section of the Elliott Smith website, were the only learnings I had for guitar.  Until soon, when I team up with an awesome guitar teacher.  Then it's time to get started on my own personal rock music world empire.  To be honest, that's probably what separates me from hittin' the big time.  The people on top really want to fuckin' conquer the world with their music, is the impression I get.  I just wanna write little songs that are cute.  Whatever.  I don't know.  The better I get, and the more I read about my favorite bands, the more seriously I take it.  Until I get bored, or discouraged.  Then, the less seriously I take it.  This is the life we chose.  And by we, I mean me.  And by chose, I mean Margaret Cho.  I mean, I do want my music to be good.  It's more like a personal growth thing for me, though, rather than bludgeoning people with awesome rock.  I just want to please myself.  I think finding my old notepad set me on the track to talking about crap, unfunny crap, on this website!  Damn.  Double damn.
    I'll write an extra paragraph, it'll all work itself out.  I want to call up one of these infomercial numbers, and be like, "I'm very interested in this product.  You know, if you convince me to buy your thing, I can get three friends to do so as well.  But wait, there's even more!  If you can get me to buy the product..."  Blah blah blah.  Now I have to write two extra paragraphs.  What have I gotten myself into.  It seems to me that riding a camel would be pretty uncomfortable.  The one humped ones.  Do you sit on the hump?  Seems like it would be hard to stay balanced.  And if you sit in front of the hump, or behind the hump, it would probably hurt the camel, and you'd fall off anyway.  Also, it would be hard to ride a newport.  Unless you have a new ship that needs docking.  Deh.  I think the first cigarette I ever had was a Parliament.  The second was some brand of clove.  The third was hookah.  That's not a cigarette.  Damn you and your technicalities.  Double damn you and your technicalities.  Because it's the thing I said earlier.  I wonder if they pay actors of infomercials with the product they're selling.  This doesn't seem right.  Take it or leave it, Joe!  That's right, the infomercial producer called the infomercial actor, "Joe."  Maybe his name is Joe.  Probably not, though, I was imagining a woman.  Her name could be, "Jo."  It's probably not, though.  The odds are against it.  Well, considering the producer called her that, I'd say it's about a 20% chance her name was Jo, and an 70% chance he was using it as a generic name, and a 10% chance he wanted the actor to get him a cup of coffee. 
    So, what, this is the sixth paragraph of seven, now?  I guess so.  Gotta make it count.  Hey, I just did.  I owe you two paragraphs for that joke.  No, I don't.  Stickin' with seven.  Oh yeah, that's another thing I have on my old computer.  Documents with tabs of whatever crappy crap I was working on at the time.  I probably remember 70-90% of the crap, but maybe there's some turd gems in there I forgot about.  Anyway.  This'll be the last paragraph.  Now that I think about it, it's counter-intuitive to make the crappy entries longer.  That's just more crap for you to read.  I can't believe I re-lost hte Weird Al cd.  I wanna listen to "Weird Al's Polka Party," on my walk!  I made that title up.  Sorry.  Polka is one syllable backwards from Pollock.  Does this make Weird Al a racist?  I report, you decide.  How many pollocks does it take to write a polka.  These are the questions that have plagued mankind since it's inception.  I think I'm two fourths Polish.  Either that, or half Austrian.  I forget.  On the back of my notepad, it says, Ampad.  You am?  I already figured out that you was.  Anyway, see ya later.

-7:25 A.M.                                     

Tuesday, October 7, 2014                        

Five Paragraphs, Or Your Money Back!

Hello.  It's your friend, me.  Well, that's it.  I'm out of things to say.  That was quick.  How come Heaven is always depicted as being in clouds.  We already know that up doesn't lead to Heaven, just outer space.  And Hell is always down.  Does that mean American Hell is in China?  I suppose so.  Personally, I think American Hell is Myanmar.  Because who really knows what the Hell a Myanmar is.  Or maybe Siam.  Siam is probably a pretty crappy place.  I have two grandparents from Russia.  Does that make me half Asian?  Yes, yes it does.  Unless they were in western Russia.  Which they probably were.  In Soviet Union, Russia Grandparents You.  Not really sure what that means, or why it's supposed to be funny.  Sure kills some space, though.  In Soviet Russia, My Jokes Wouldn't Be Tolerated, And I'd Be In A Gulag!  That's what the Yakov vodka guy should have said.  And, then, "Where's My Nobel Peace Prize."  He's a hero.  Bringing cultures together, and whatnot.  In Soviet Russia, People Think I'm Funny!  Amazing how everything is opposite there.  If I was Yakov, I would have a cassette player that says, "In Soviet Russia," and press play before every joke.  And then finish it off with his regular speaking voice.  That way he could catch his breath.  In Soviet Russia, tape recorder listens to you.  Scary.
    Second paragraph.  You got that right.  I finished that book what I had to read for class.  Still need to write two papers over the next week, though.  Oh well.  It could be worse.  I could have to write ninety papers.  That would be rough and tough.  Why don't we just give Ebola to ISIS.  Kill two birds with one stone, and whatnot.  To be honest, it's probably damn near impossible to kill two birds with one stone.  Well, not really.  You can't kill two birds with one throw of the stone, but you can kill one bird, retrieve the stone, and then kill another bird.  So I guess it's technically possible.  That way, you can kill unlimited birds.  I don't get what's so scary about Ebola.  Just wear a condom.  All the time.  Under your pants.  Problem solved.  That's how that goes.  I remember, in 2000, the Biography show had a countdown of the most influential people of the last millennium, and the top guy was Gutenberg.  I bet there were strong arguments for the guy who invented the condom.  Can't believe he lost out to Steve Gutenberg.  I mean, sure, who doesn't love to laugh.  But first?
    In Yakov Smirnoff, jokes are told.  What the Hell is going on.  I like that John Lennon song, "Oh Yakov."  In Soviet Russia, John's love will turn Yakov on.  What the Hell is going on.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Probably something, and stuff.  Man, I have to finish this entry.  Otherwise I'd have to give you your zero dollars back.  Do you accept nothing, considering there's no money actually involved?  You better.  Anyway.  I gotta do one of my papers today, or at least half of it.  Once I get started, each should only take a couple of hours.  Like I said, I imagine his standards are pretty low.  Whatever.  Then, when I'm done, it's back to partay mode.  For me, a partay involves drinking whiskey or vodka alone and recording terrible, terrible songs.  Doesn't get much better than that.  And, if it does, I would like to hear what is better than that.  I'm asking for a friend.  Who drinks vodka or whiskey alone, records terrible, terrible songs, and isn't satisfied the way his life turned out.  I'll just be the intermediary who passes the information along.  They don't call me a pencil pusher for nothing!  It's because of that three month period I sold pencils door-to-door.  Man, that was a wild three months.  Selling pencils is a big responsibility.  You gotta tell them to make sure not to stab anything important, or to put lead shavings in their children's oatmeal.  I thought it would be nutritious!  You thought wrong.
    Anyway.  My computer is making a bubbling noise.  Something tells me that's not good.  Bubbling is one pre-amp guitar setting on my 8 track that I will never, ever, ever, use.  It's totally useless.  I mean, if you had a pencil, the sound could be popped so easily.  Dummy.  They say oatmeal makes a good meal.  Cause meal rhymes with meal.  How deliteful.  They really do say that about veal, though.  I swear.  Please believe me. I don't like any quotation that starts with, "They say..."  The conceiver of the quotation, in the first two words, is already disowning his own quote, and attributing it to some third party.  Not a good sign, not a good sign at all.  I'm not a big fan of Yield, either.  And don't even get me started on Break Glass In Case of Emergency.  You don't need to tell me when to break glass, okay?  I'll break glass when I damn well feel like it.  Wow, AC/DC has a new album coming out.  That's exciting.  I guess I can throw out my book on them, now.  It's incomplete!   Totally useless.  My ashtray is on fire.  That'll happen.  Every now and again.  In life, we gotta take the good with the bad.  Maybe if I had a bubbling guitar sound, I could put the fire out.  Bubbles are liquid, right?  Most of the time.  Some of the time, at least.  Probably like 30-70% of the time.  About 10% of the time, they're a character on The Wire.  That seems kind of high.  I know, he was a drug addict.  What's your point.  Whatever it is, keep it away from me.  I'm in no mood to be stabbed.
    Okay.  There's a decent chance I will seriously begin looking for a guitar teacher today.  I figure, if I get good, then I'll be good enough to start a band.  And, once I'm good enough to start a band, I can begin the process of trying to form a band.  This will probably take 3-7 years.  Somewhere around there.  I have no social circle to rely on to find people.  And then, once I have a band, I can begin bossing people around.  Bossing friends around has always been a dream of mine.  That's why I got into music in the first place.  Cause that would be the endgame.  You suck!  Where did you learn to drum?  Drum school?  I mean, a crappy drum school?  Cause if it was a good drum school, you wouldn't suck so much!  Get it together!  Doesn't hurt to have dreams.  Doesn't hurt to have drums.  Anyway.  Time to wrap this crap up.  Where did you learn to conclude songs?  Watch how a master does it!  De-de-li-de-de-de-da-duhm!  That's a guitar solo, jerks.  Also, no one concludes songs with a guitar solo.  That's our hook.  We're pioneers, in a very literal sense.  Except, instead of literal, metaphorical.  See ya later.

-8:27 A.M.                                      

Saturday, October 4, 2014                        

Sorry, God.  Mostly For Writing This Entry.

Hello.  Anyway, what's up!  I like how Mr. Rogers says, "Won't you be my neighbor?"  Look, you can only have two neighbors.  We can't all be your neighbor.  Even if you define neighbor as anyone living in the neighborhood.  There's still a very limited amount of people that can actually be your neighbor.  Also, I don't want to be your neighbor.  You're a weirdo whose always singing to yourself, and taping yourself doing bullshit.  And with children as the imagined audience?  What a weirdo.  Also, you're dead now.  Now, you have two neighbors, and they're both rotting six feet under, as you are.  I wonder if God is angry at me for writing this entry on Yom Kippur.  Oh well, might as well enjoy myself today, because the rest of the year will suck, I guess.  But today, I'm on fire!  Sorry, God.  You know you're my one and only, right?  It's just because I ate breakfast earlier, and I forgot!  So, by the time I remembered, it was already too late to fast and stuff.  You understand right?  Good.  You're aces.  God doesn't like that rant.  What do you take me for, a numbskull?  Sorry, God.  Just havin' some fun!  Laughter is the best medicine.  And since you can't take real medicine on Yom Kippur, you might even say I'm saving lives.  I'm a hero.  What an idiot.  I had half a hero for breakfast.  Whatta mistake. 
    Anyway.  Yahweh.  How about this, God.  I'll do the Yom Kippur thing tomorrow.  That's fair, right?  Right?  Nobody's answering.  I guess God is giving me the silent treatment.  I guess I could just say I'm Christian.  They don't gotta fast.  And then, on Easter, I can say I'm Muslim.  And then, on Ramadan, I can say I'm Rastafarian.  I should just be Rastafarian all the time.  They seem real chill.  I'm sure, one day, as a joke, some fool on the internet will base an entire religion around Festivus, with holidays around the year and stuff.  Whatta loser.  Who doesn't exist yet.  I wanna be Christian on Easter.  Eat those chocolate bunnies.  Easter Egg hunt!  I've never been involved in such a thing.  Boy, am I missing out.  I want to eat a chocolate baby Jesus.  I mean, if you're eating wafers, as a stand in for the body of Christ, why not a chocolate baby Jesus?  It just.  Makes.  Sense.  I don't get why people would want to eat Jesus.  Not only is it cannibalism, but you're eating the guy you really like.  If you really have to eat somebody, why not eat someone you don't like?  Jesus regenerates every time someone eats him, fool.  Sorry.  I didn't know Jesus was such a big regenerator.  I guess I've got a lot to learn about Christianity.  Like, what's it all about?
    Anyway.  Bunnies don't lay eggs!  Doesn't make sense.  I mean, I get having bunnies.  That makes sense.  Anyway.  Remember that time Bugs Bunny was in labor, and pooped out an egg?  So many things wrong about that sentence.  In the final episode of Looney Tunes, they should have had the coyote finally catch the road runner, and devour him.  It's the feel good cartoon moment of a lifetime!  And Elmer Fudd shoots Bugs Bunny dead.  And devours him.  And Daffy Duck shoots Elmer Fudd dead.  And eats a bit of him, doesn't like the taste, and throws the rest into a river.  That's one way they could have gone.  What the Hell was I talking about.  Before I went on that unfunny rant about Looney Tunes.  Oh, yeah.  Sorry, God.  I mean, look at all the crap I pulled over the last year.  Hmm.  I've actually been pretty good.  You owe me a good year, God.  Looks like the tables have turned.  There was that time I stabbed the postman.  But who really cares about that.  He had it coming, probably.  In the final episode of Looney Tunes, they should have played, "Don't Stop Believing," while Bugs Bunny eats at a diner with his family.  I wonder what they would be eating.  Rabbits like popcorn shrimp, don't they?
    Anyway.  That's how that goes.  Anyway.  How does that go?  That's how that goes.  Oh thanks for explaining it.  What else happening.  I remember, I once had a crush on this girl, and I was playing Risk, and, thinking it would be fun, I texted her, "What's Your Favorite Continent?" so I could start there, and dedicate this match to her.  She didn't respond until the next morning!  You just lost yourself a complimentary game of Risk.  That's how that goes.  That story sums up why I'm lonely.  Oh well.  What's your favorite continent.  Jeez.  So, anyway.  I remember, my last appointment with my psychiatrist, about a week ago, I was sitting next to this girl, about my age, in the waiting room, and it was weird.  I felt... feelings.  How out of the ordinary!  I should have been like, "Let's get out of this place!  And smoke cigarettes in the street!"  And she would be like, "Oh my night in shining armor!"  and I would be like, "To the street!  I've got the cigarettes!"  Things never work out the way you want them to.  I mean, when I was in normal situations with a girl, my main thought is trying to act normal.  When I'm in the hospital?  The feeling that I have to act normal increases exponentially.  Oh well.  At least the paragraph's almost done.  Maybe it is done.
    Okay.  Last paragraph time!  What fun.  I had a dream I was hiding weed in my pocket from a former high school gym teacher, but I was transferring it from my jacket pocket to my pants pocket when he wasn't looking, but he saw me, and I got in major trouble.  And the trouble didn't really scare me, it was that, I get weed so rarely, and they were gonna take this away from me!  My inner monologue was, "Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!"  Anyway, dreams are fun.  I gotta finish that book today.  Or, at least, tomorrow.  I still have two papers I have to write by next Saturday.  Whatever.  I'm pretty sure his standards are pretty low, so I don't even have to half ass it.  I could probably fifth or sixth ass it.  If you half ass something, is the ass half full, or empty?  Something for all the philosophy majors out there to ponder.  I don't know anymore.  I'm pretty sure in no philosophy class, do they actually spend time on malleable quotations that elicit ambiguity.  They got more important things to learn.  Like, I Think, Therefore I am.  And the teacher's like, Is he?  You, Paul.  Paul doesn't know.  He was raising his hand as a joke.  He never thought someone would actually call on him.  Paul can say, I think, therefore... I don't know."  And teacher would be like, Class, you can learn a lot from this Paul character.  What the Hell is going on in this entry.  It's done, that's as much as I know.

-11:05 A.M.                 

Friday, October 3, 2014                        

You Titles Are All The Same

Hello.  It's... me.  How supremely disappointing.  I'm halfway into that book what I have to read.  It's okay.  The way I motivate myself to read stuff I don't really want to, I sort of think, "Okay, I could be physically exerting myself right now, and that would be even harder.  I can manage to read words on a page."  Also, this book, each chapter is about eight pages long.  So you're given ample opportunity to stop whenever you want to.  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  One more day into Craptober.  I heard Keith Craptoberman is in trouble for something.  I made that same terrible joke a couple of days ago.  What an idiot.  Not only am I talking an English class I don't really need, because I'm too embarrassed to tell my parents of my mistake, but I also can't access Blackboard, the online home of the class, because I forgot my password.  And I'm too embarrassed to tell anyone of my mistake.  There's nothing embarrassing about forgetting a password.  Shows how much you know.  I need to shave the fuck out of my facial hair.  I look like shit.  I'm too embarrassed to tell anyone I don't know how to shave.  Press the razor against your face.  Then move it, up to down, or, side to side.  Or, in circles.  Wax on, wax off.  How hard can it be.  It turns out all those chores Mr. Miyagi made me do were to teach me how to shave my face.  Yesterday, I caught a fly with my hands on the first attempt.  Beginners luck, right Mr. Miyagi?  You're just jealous you'll never be the fly catcher I am.
    I like that The Offspring song about Mike Piazza, Pretty Fly For A Catcher Guy.  You'd think I would be too embarrassed to share that joke with other people.  And you'd be thinking wrong.  If there's one thing I learnt over the years of writing crazysheet, is that comedy is all about quantity over quality.  Whatever terrible jokes you have, they belong.  Cause they increase the quantity.  Well, that's my style, at least.  Everyone's different.  Except for titles.  You titles are all the same.  I heard that somewhere.  I knocked over a glass of soda last night, after I woke up to go to the bathroom.  And it spilled all over my floor.  And I was like, "Eh, it'll clean itself up."  My main philosophy in life is, "I'm gonna go back to sleep."  It's a good way to deal with any problems life throws your way.  That's how I feel.  So.  Anyway.  How's it going.  Sometimes I think Philosophy would have been a good major.  Oh well.  I'm committed to English, now.  Even though for the first two and a half years, I was Social Studies Education.  If I changed it then, I could technically change it now.  I'm too embarrassed to.  Besides, philosophy is stupid.  If I could talk to Socrates, I'd say, "You think you're so smart... but you are so NOT!"  Also, I'm not so smart, for thinking, "Smart," would rhyme with, "Not."  You are so Nart.
    Okay.  I remember, my second semester sophomore year, I kept a journal, and would muse on philosophy and stuff, as it relates to my life.  I haven't read it in a while, but the last time I did, a year or two ago, I was like, "This... Is.. The Stupidest Thing I've Ever Read."  Oh well.  At least I was putting myself out there.  In journal form.  And it is a pretty accurate representation of what was going on in my mind at the time, nothing like this crazysheet bullshit.  So, that's good.  In six years, when I look back on this crazysheet, I'm just gonna think, "Oh yeah, that was when I was crazy.  Sheeeeeeiit."  Probably.  Anyway.  I mean, Anyway.  October isn't so bad.  In fact, it's kinda nice.  I got the crazysheet going.  I'm workin' on my homework, a little too lackadaisically, but I'm getting there.  Halloween at the end.  I've been smoking regularly for about five years now.  Time flies when you're having fun.  I sometimes think about when I first started smoking.  Man, cigarettes were so good, so fresh.  And now, I'm about a fifth of the way towards lung cancer.  Crap.  I dropped a lit cigarette on the floor, and now I can't find it.  I'm gonna go back to sleep.  Light a new cigarette.  I dont have time to spend thirty seconds finding that cigarette.  I got things to do!  If it was lit, you'd think I would be able to see the smoke coming from it.  You'd think so, wouldn't you.  And you'd be wrong.  Dead wrong.  Zombies are dead... wrong!  What an idiot.  I remember, in around '99, I wanted to be a screenwriter, and I wrote a 40 page long script for Return of the Living Dead IV.  With about 40% help from some guy over the internet, and 15% help from my brother.  I wish I still had that.  What wonders would it hold.
    Anyway.  I remember, I wanted to write a script called, "Mental Hospital," which would be a comedy starring Leslie Nielson.  Never got further than the title, though.  And casting the potential star.  I remember, the first few days of Stuy, when I was a freshman, I spent the lunch hours writing notes for a potential screenplay, which was essentially what turned out to be After Earth, except, instead of a father/son movie, it was about two young lovers.  I like my version better.  Unless if it turns out Will Smith is in love with his son.  Then, they're about the same.  I wonder if being the Fresh Prince is hereditary.  The title would pass down to young Jaden, you'd think, right?  Oh man, what if they made a sitcom called King of Bel-Air, and it's about Will Smith and Carlton and the like as adults, with children of their own.  Holy shit, would that be amazing.  I think, when I was a kid, the sitcom I spent the most time watching was Boy Meets World.  Which is funny, because now, I have no interest in Boy Meets World.  Not even for sentimental value.  It's just entirely unremarkable.  Hey, I'm Fred Savage's brother!  Let me know when you're Dan Savage's brother.  Actually, let me know when you're Fred Savage's brother.  I like him better.  Oh, you are?  Great.  Nice sitcom.  Topanga?  Whatever.  Shawn?  Great.  Eric?  Who cares.  Mr. Feeney?  I'm supremely disinterested.  I like the music theme to The Wonder Years.  "We are the wonder years/Oh yeah, it's the Wonder years/Too young to drink beers/Maybe one day we'll have careers."  Great.
    Great.  What else is going on.  Sorry about the italics.  We all make mistakes.  But only a select few of us will not correct the mistakes, and then qualify them.  What am I gonna do when this entry is over.  I guess, finish that book.  Great.  Gotta finish this entry.  Great.  Great.  Great.  Great.  Great.  I mean, what?  Anyway.  I need to find the right notebook that I was using in class, so I can see the assignments due next week.  That should take an entire 90 seconds.  I'm gonna go back to sleep.  That's how I feel.  No twenty six year old should still be a Junior in college.  It's not right.  It's not right, I tell you!  I've been thinking about getting my Driver's License.  It's due time.  I just get so scared on the road, in the passenger's seat.  One wrong move, and boom, crash.  Maybe it's because of the medicine I'm on, that I can't even walk correctly.  How am I supposed to drive correctly.  Who knows.  Alright!  Anyway.  Not sure why that deserved an, "Alright!"  No use dwelling on things in the past.  My favorite sitcom may have been News Radio, but I can hardly remember it.  I saw all of it when I was 18 or 19, and then, never again.  That's how that goes.  My favorite T.V. show, in general, is easily Mr. Show.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  A sixth paragraph, I guess.
    Alright!  What be happening.  Still craptober.  Oh well.  I remember, my freshman year of NYU, a month in, I scored tickets to an advance screening of the Borat movie, walking down the street, and since I didn't have any friends yet, I gave the second ticket to my brother.  The part where he sees bugs and thinks their Jewish, and throws money at them?  Wonderful!  Man, did I spend a lot of time Freshman year playing my guitar, imagining that my roommates or floormates would hear it.  I remember, one song I had written, I was playing, and someone knocked on the door to tell me it was good.  All in all, though, it's actually a negative, because that one song was the only one someone else thought was good.  Oh well.  I even remember our RA once came into the room to tell me she liked my music.  I shoulda tapped that ass.  Oh well.  I remember, getting high, I would always rather get high alone than with friends.  With friends, the high is sort of wasted, on being friends with them, and having to relate to them and be their friend.  Getting high alone, in my room, I can fully appreciate it, and do exactly what I wanted to do.  There was a good year or two that all I wanted to do was get high alone.  I haven't gotten high in a long time.  Oh well.  One day.  I don't think I've ever gotten weed from a dealer.  I've always gotten it through friends, who got it through a dealer.  I'd probably just muck it up, making the deal with a dealer.  Also, I haven't bought weed in at least four years.  Whatever. 
    One last paragraph.  That's how I feel.  I remember, a couple of times, went to the Bronx, to get weed with my friend, from a regular guy/dealer, and we were listening to Immortal Technique on his roof, sitting on the edge.  And I was paranoid that I would fall off.  I didn't, though.  That's how I'm here today.  I also remember, when I was sharing a joint with other people, I would saliva it up too much on the joint.  They would be like, Why is this so wet?  Sorry, guys!  That's why I like smoking alone.  No hassle.  In my book of philosophy, from second semester SOphomore year, I wrote the directions of how to roll a blunt.  I've still never done it.  It's like driving a car.  What if I do it wrong, and it kills people?  Anything's possible.  What else is going on.  Man, now I wanna smoke weed.  It's been years.  Whatever.  Gotta finish up this entry.  Sophomore year in college, when I first started smoking regularly by myself.  Seven years ago.  Yeesh.  See ya later.

-11:48 A.M.                                           

Thursday, October 2, 2014                        

Let's Entry It Up!

Hi.  It's me, Michael.  What fun will we have this entry, what fun.  Anyway.  I'm bored.  What else is going on.  I'm a third into that book I have to read.  It's okay.  I'm a 350th into the entry here.  To be honest, kinda sucks so far.  Anyway.  Let's see, what can I talk about this entry.  I was thinking about the Solar System recently.  It kinda sucks that Pluto is gone.  It just feels wrong.  I remember in Kindergarten, we did a play about the solar system, and I remember the lyric, "Earth is special/Very special/The only place/For the Human race."  Good to know.  I guess my teacher hadn't gotten word of the moon landing twenty five years earlier.  My other main memory of Kindergarten was I was playing with blocks, and another kid knocked a big tower of blocks on me.  What.  An.  Asshole.  And I remember other kids were playing Power Rangers, and I was like, "That's stupid."  Mainly because they didn't let me play with them.  Anyway.  Today sucks.  Not just because this entry sucks.  Just because it sucks.  What a suck.  All this news about the Secret Service.  I guess there goes the, 'secret' part!  Now it's just The Service.  That everybody knows about.  The secret was how much they suck.  What a suck.  The book I'm reading is about people in Afghanistan.  I know that place!  Something about a war.  I don't know the details.
    Anyway.  I hate books like that.  This is a culture different than yours.  Who cares.  I don't go around Afghanistan, writing books about America.  Hey, there's a character in the book who is missing a leg.  That's in direct correlation to yesterday's title!  And, as we all know, correlation equates to causation.  That's philosophy 101.  The only question is, did my title yesterday make the character in the book, or did the character in the book make my title yesterday?  Maybe one day I'll figure it out.  Probably not, though.  What a suck.  Also, Lieutenant Dan.  So, that's going on.  Eh.  What else.  I think it's ironic that Forrest Gump was such a great runner, and then his friend loses his legs.  The universe works in mystical and synchronistic ways.  Especially the universe in human-composed pieces of fiction.  I'm pretty sure in real life, they wouldn't let retarded people join the army.  Seems like there would be such a rule in place.  Unless if their mother sleeps with the general.  Then, I suppose exceptions can be made.  Yeesh.  What else is going on.  It's October.  Or, as I like to call it, Craptober.  That's also what I call September.  It makes things confusing.  Is this Craptober I, or Craptober II?  That doesn't make sense.  I should call September Craptember.  Oh well, mistakes we're made, there's no point in crying over spilt milk.
    Okay.  At least soon it will be Crapvember.  And, then, Crapcember.  Crapuary.  Hey, Crapuary I and Crapuary II to start the year!  We Did It!  What a suck.  My head hurts.  Oh well.  I couldn't even help my Mom open a jar of pickles.  What kind of a man am I.  Even jars get the best of me.  There was a very brief time in my life where I liked pickles.  For a few months in 2009.  Before that, no.  After that, no.  But, for a few months, sure, I'll have a pickle.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  I can't believe, all week, it's Crapday.  Not one day of relief.  Anyway.  Man, does today suck.  I mean, c'mon.  Gimme some rays of light.  No It's not a secret! service bullshit.  Gimme something.  Hmm.  Well, what if... No.  Hey, maybe... No.  Hey, tomorrow it's... Nope.  Nada.  C'MON, Something!  Something to lift the spirits of lil ol' Mikey!  You sure gotta lotta shirts to wear.  HAHAHA, IT'S TRUE. I must have, I don't know, twenty t-shirts in my room that fit me!  Awesome!  What else you got.  Like pretzels much?  Oh man, I do!  I eat a bag every night before I go to sleep!  Wooooooo!  What else?  That's all I got.  It is?  Oh.  Well.  I guess... that's better than nothing.  Hmm.  Charge your phone every few days?  Oh man, I do!  It's so true!
    Wow.  What else is happening.  Good stuff, I hope!  Let's get positive.  Turns out I have AIDS.  No, not that kind of positive!  Larf Larf Larf.  That's my new slang for sarcastic laughing.  Larf.  Let's see if it catches on.  I don't get why Ebola is so scary.  There's hundreds of diseases that are more prevalent.  Maybe I'm an idiot, I don't know.  I'm more scared of the Avian flu.  Remember the Avian flu?  It's back!  In Pog form.  SARS is another disease poised to make a comeback.  It's got name recognition, that's half the battle.  The Plague?  No one's had that in a while.  Or, if they did, they're obviously too embarrassed to make it known.  If I had a disease that no one's had in 500 years, I'd be a little self conscious about it.  Where did I go wrong?  And, No one must know.  I wonder if that's from all those rats from the 1400's I had sex with.  Who knows.  It's possible.  This entry is close to being done.  But, not yet!  Weee.  So, the rest of this entry sure will exist, right?  Yeah.  It doesn't yet, though.  That's weird.  I suppose.  Whiskey is too sweet.  That's how I feel.  Alright, first, we finish this paragraph.  Then we finish the entry.  Gotta keep things in perspective, and such.  I also remember, in second grade, we did a play based around the rhymes of Shel Silverstein.  And my line was, "I have the measles/and the mumps/something something/something something."  It took me six months to study people contracted with measles and the mumps to truly get into character.  There's been a helicopter flying over my house for half an hour.  Am I part of a car chase that I'm unaware of? 
    Probably not.  I'm in a house.  Without wheels.  At least, to my knowledge.  Anyway.  To get a guitar teacher, or not to get a guitar teacher.  This decision may impact the rest of my life.  Or, at least, my next few months.  I'm probably not going to.  But maybe I should.  I don't know.  I should get a comedy teacher.  That's a good idea.  If I was a comedy teacher, I'd say to my student, "Just be funny.  Be funny.  What are you, stupid?  Why Aren't You Being Funny?"  Then, "Give me fifty dollars."  See, it's funny, that you're paying me for not helping you!  That's how that goes.  Anyway.  Whatta entry.  What.  A.  Entry.  So, it's the offseason for baseball, not counting the play offs.  The off season is good, because the Mets, statistically, can't finish the off season any worse than any other teams.  They're all tied.  We're number one!  At least, tied for number one!  Yeah.  Wow.  I wrote an entry.  And, let me tell you, today, I was really not in a good mood.  Hopefully it'll get better tomorrow.  There's decent odds it will be.  As of today, we're all tied for first place for tomorrow.  Except for Neil Armstrong.  That mother fucker landed on the moon.  He's got the odds stacked in favor of him every day for that shit.  Assuming he's still alive.  I he still alive?  Oh, he died in 2012.  Well, he's got the odds stacked in his favor in Heaven, now.  That's how I feel.  I wonder if Heaven is more or less extraordinary to Neil than the moon.  I mean, it is Heaven, so it's probably better.  But millions of people got to Heaven before he did.  He was the first to the Moon.  Maybe he's in Moon Heaven.  Who knows.  Well, we're all on Earth, anyway.  The only place for the human race.  Except for the moon.  And, potentially Heaven.  And, if potentially Heaven, also potentially Hell, I guess.  And, one day, Mars.  And Saturn's moons.  There's a lot of places for the human races, is what I'm trying to say. 
    Anyway.  One more paragraph.  Let's make the quantity make up for the quality.  That's how I feel.  I wanna go to Pluto.  That's how I feel.  That's the place for a guy like me.  I like how the acronym of the last three planets spell out, "Sun."  That's what is the main thing of this thing!  How wonderful.  I miss dinosaurs.  We should bring them back.  I wonder if, in 65 million years, whatever new species will talk about us, like we were the dinosaurs.  If so, Hey, It's Me, Michael.  I'm a Special of what was The Humans!   Learn About Me, and stuff!  Because I'm stupid.  Nah, in sixty five million years, we'll still be around.  We're great.  Anyway, see ya later.

-5:58 P.M.                                           

Wednesday, October 1, 2014                        

I Have All My Limbs, No One's Trying To Deny That

Hi.  It's me.  I had a great day yesterday.  The night before, I forgot to take my pills, and didn't get any sleep, and all of yesterday, I just felt more alive.  Too bad I don't have the option of stopping my pills, both because I need them, and because my doctors wouldn't let me.  But it's good to know I have something to look forward to in the future, hopefully, one day.  Anyway.  Now that I'm a zombie again, here we go with trying to entertain people by being quick witted.  Jokes on you!  Or on me.  I guess the jokes on both of us.  And the joke isn't particularly funny, which is the worst part of it all.  I dreamt an entire Fargo-like movie last night.  The only thing I remember, was right before I woke up, the narrator saying, And no one was ever caught, or something.  Scary Stuff!  I also remember, I was in the movie, and my character's main arc was trying to find weed.  I guess I wasn't really a bad guy, then.  Not really a good guy.  Sort of the tangential character that you both identify with and pity, at the same time.  Anyway.  Today is October.  I hate it when my Mom is watching Soap Operas and I'm exposed to them.  My inner monologue is screaming, "I DON'T CARE!  I DON'T CARE!"  and I can't think of anything else.  And when she's watching the news, my inner monologue screams, "I DON'T WANT TO CARE!" which is equally annoying.  It's okay when she's watching The Walking Dead though.  Then, my inner monologue is shrugging, and saying, "Do Whatcha Want." 
    Anyway.  I gotta get started on my homework for my class in ten days.  I have to write two papers and read a book.  What a joke.  Don't they know I'm on psychoactive medication, and my focus is severely disturbed?  I'm on clozapine!  My pining is closed!  I'm on Wellbutrin!  Well, B U Tryin'?  Yeah, but it's hard!  I'm on Effexor!  Effects, or what?  OR WHAT?  Anyway.  What else is going on.  What am I gonna do today, in my renewed zombie-ish state.  Lie in bed and think about food.  How wonderful.  I should read that book for the class.  We know I'm not gonna write any papers, but I guess I have it in me to skim-read a book.  I'm gonna take a break from the entry writing.  See ya soon.  Hey, it's soon.  Welcome back, me.  I got shit else to do.  Other than reading that book.  That book looks Hella boring though.  There's no clowns or acrobats in it.  What kind of book is that?  The circus is scary.  That's how I feel.  I could clean my room up today.  That's another thing on the docket.  Eh.  What else is going on.  October.  This year is taking forever.  I'm back in college, part time, which is good.  I've wasted a lot of time on music, which I guess is better than doing nothing.  I've been writing a lot of crap, which, again, is better than doing nothing, I guess.  Haven't made any progress socially, which is a bit of a bummer.  And I'm really getting tired of my only friends being my parents.  I think I'd rather have no friends than having my parents as my only friends.  It's not my natural state to be friends with my parents; it's my natural state to be curt with them and take them for granted.  And then, once they die, then regret not having been closer to them.  I've got it all backwards. 
    So, yeah.  I've lost about 10-15 pounds this year, which is good.  I'm having trouble losing the last 5-15 pounds, but whatever.  I'm in the healthy BMI range.  And it's not like losing 10 more pounds will suddenly get me a girlfriend, or anything.  So who really cares.  I heard that being a little overweight is actually attractive, because it signifies great wealth, that you can afford extra food.  Where did I hear it?  In the making-up-stuff part of my brain.  That's where.  I did start reading that book.  Man, is it boring.  And it's got a female narrator.  I don't want to read narratives which place me as a female.  I don't need that kind of gender-role confusion!  I've got it bad enough as it is.  It's good, though, that I had a day like I did yesterday.  It gives me something to look forward to.  I can actually feel alive again.  And it's good that I have to read a book with a female narrator.  I need to be exposed to new perspectives.  Otherwise, I'd only have my perspective.  And where has that gotten me so far?  Nowhere, that's where.  I'm still thinking about getting a guitar teacher.  I don't know if I mentioned that here, yet.  If not, then, I'm thinking about getting a guitar teacher.  What's the point, though.  If I want to move up from mediocre/adequate to good, it would be an insane amount of work.  I do have the time, though.  I don't know.  I don't know if I have it in me.  If I wanted to entertain for my career, I'd rather it be comedy, anyway.  And I don't even have that in me.  I'm a freakin' zombie.  Except I don't go around trying to eat other people's brains.  I mean, fine, if they offer me their brains, I'll eat em, I don't want to be rude.  But I'm not going out of my way to eat them.
    Zombie-ism doesn't make sense, rationally.  There, I said it.  Werewolves, that, I get.  The moon is out-- sure, some people are gonna turn into wolves.  That only makes sense.  I don't get why werewolves are so scary.  I mean, is a regular wolf that scary?  You can outmaneuver a wolf.  It's not that hard.  Except for the boy who cried wolf.  What an asshole.  "Hey, there's a wolf!  Just kidding!"  What an asshole.  "Shit, there's really a wolf!  Oh no, it ate me."  Serves you right.  I like Jack, the boy who cried beanstalk.  Hey, there's a beanstalk!  Liar.  Oh no, the beanstalk ate me.  Serves you right.  The play-offs are in full swing.  Ha!  Ha-ha!  Props, please.  I am a comedic genius.  Hey, let's go dancing.  Swing-dancing!  What a genius.  Oh, that's not even a pun?  It's just a thing?  Well, I guess, I mean, I thought... :(.  That's how that goes.  I don't get swing dancing.  Hey, let's dance!  In unison!  No, thank you.  I want to learn how to robot-dance.  That's the only dance move that appeals to my comedic-leaning sensibilities.  I hope robots never learn how to dance.  That's the first step towards world domination.  I wonder what it would be like to dance with a robot.  This feels wrong... yet so right!  Hey, what the Hell.  I'm writing an entry?  And it sucks?  Oh well, I'm presuming you're used to it.  It's got slight, small, little rays of goodness.  That's all anyone can ask for.  Well, someone can ask for anything.  One can ask for the moon.  Oh no, werewolves.  Wolves aren't scary!  We bred them to be our pet!
    Okay.  What else.  Is going on.  Life is getting better!  Slowly, but surely.  I just need to make some friends, get well, and get a job!  Bingo, bango, bongo.  And get my own place.  I mean, my parents are great, but 25 going on 26 year olds should not be living with their parents.  It dulls the social development of a man.  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  How's it going.  I don't know.  Sometimes when I listen to music, I get the feeling that, I.  Want.  To.  Do.  This.  But I'm just not there.  I don't know.  Oh well.  Anything's possible.  Not really.  Only real things are possible.  But anything is potentially a real thing.  You never know.  That's how I feel.  And what can I really offer the entirety of the musical experience?  Nothing.  I don't have a particularly unique and/or engaging perspective.  Other than, keep is simple.  Anyone can keep it simple.  And no one really cares.  Oh well.  There's probably thousands, if not tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people who feel, "I want to do this."  and really mean it seriously.  It just doesn't pan out for the huge majority of people.  Oh well.  I got to read a book for class.  That's what's important, right now.  I need a degree, so I could get a job, so I can move out of my parents' house.  And I need a job so I can get iced coffees. 
    Anyway.  Or, I can do the bare minimum, and live off my parents.  I like the sound of that.  Well, I don't like the sound of it, but I do like the part that involves me doing the bare minimum.  That sounds great.  If I had to sum up my life philosophy, "I do the bare minimum," is as good as anything I could think of.  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  Gotta finish this entry.  That should be fun.  Damnit, I'm gonna have to write two papers over the next ten days.  Or, more accurately, over the next week.  Because there's no way I'm gonna get started this week!  Let's get real.  My teacher always takes an hour to explain things that should take two minutes.  I guess I can put that kind of work ethic into my paper.  It would only be fair.  This was a book.  Book book book.  It said things.  Things things things.  I read it.  Read it read it read it.  Here's what I thought.  Thought thought thought.  It's only fair.  The stupid thing is, I found out it's not really required for English majors, but I was too embarrassed to tell my parents of my mistake, so I didn't drop the class.  I mean, I still get credits for the class.  It's just not a required course.  Man, am I an idiot.  Slash moron.  Slash imbecile.  Slash lazy asshole.  I probably have enough non-English required courses.  I did spend a full two and a half-- three years in college.  Whatever.  I'm an idiot. 
    Anyway.  This should be the last paragraph.  If there's any justice in the world.  Everyone else in my class is an idiot.  That's how I feel.  Based on what they've said, so far.  Stop being so stupid!  That's my inner monologue in class.  I don't even like English.  I just figured it would be one of the easier majors.  Intro to Narrative?  I don't wanna know about narrative!!!  I hate narrative.  I want things to be loosey-goosey.  I've gotten six credits so far, this year.  Goin' for nine.  Man, one day I'll be done with college.  Shit, then I'll have to get a job.  Shit.   My last job, they fired me for talking to the other student interns too much.  Actually, I had a job for about a week soliciting NYU graduates for money.  I basically did the training, then did half a day at the job, felt extremely uncomfortable, and quit.  And got seventy dollars!  Boom.  And, during training, was when I first started smoking cigarettes.  And, wanting to quit, I asked all the other student interns, "Do you smoke cigarettes?  Wanna pack?"  And none of them did, but one offered to throw them out for me, and I accepted.  That's how that goes.
    Anyway.  Then I resumed smoking cigarettes.  That's how that goes.  I loved having a job.  I didn't realize it at the time, but thinking, "I have a job!" was really good for my self-esteem.  And I remember, in the spring of 2008, my fellow student intern, who was essentially my best friend at the time, helped me craft a poster for prospective drummers to join a band.  And I found one, and, with a guitarist friend of mine, we jammed once.  And, literally, in the first five seconds, one of my strings broke.  But it was actually a blessing, because I didn't know what the Hell I was doing.  So it saved me some embarrassment.  Anyway.  I gotta finish this paragraph?  And then, nothing?  Shit.  I'll have to finish reading that book.  And think, "Since I'm reading from the female perspective, does that make me a female?"  Because I'm a supreme idiot.  It's also about a Muslim.  I don't care about being a Muslim, that's okay.  Just don't make me be a woman!!!  I hate it.  That's how I feel.  Anyway.  What else is going on?  I've been writing this entry for a while, now.  And I'm several paragraphs into it more than is necessary.  Oh well, gonna write one last paragraph.
    Anyway.  Anyway has started the last few paragraphs.  Get off my back.  What else is going on.  Gotta write one more paragraph.  That's how that goes.  What's going on.  I don't wanna go back to reading that book!  Who cares.  I guess I could read my AC/DC book.  But that'll just remind me how I'm not good enough to be a musician.  Gotta do something, I suppose.  That's why I don't wanna stop here.  Then I'll have to do something else!  How terrible.  Anyway.  I do have to finish this up in a few sentences.  Oh well.  You'll have been showered with inadequacy, and I'll have to face the prospect of having to do something else.  It's a lose/lose proposition.  Whatever.  See ya later.

                                                                         
-2:29 P.M.