Google Haikus! Searches Incorporated Into Brief And Awesome... Haikus. Part Two.

"No, I Don't Think You Need To See A Dermotologist."

Dyslexia, gills...
I can breathe underwater
No matter the htped.


"We Would Formally Protest But We Might Break A Nail."
(Dude, That Was Fucking Funny.)

I ask for a screw,
the guy hands me metal things.
I hate Sears.


"Maybe You Should Call MIT."

So, "how do bouts float"?
Bouts of sadness? Bouts of glee?
Be more specific.


"Double The Searches, Double The Fun."

I ask for a screw,
I get dragged to the breakroom.
I hate Sears.


 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, January 30, 2004

 

Problems: Some Large, Some Merely Catastrophic.

PROBLEM A: In and of itself, PMS is not that big of a problem; it is, however, a poison-dart blowing catalyst for a multitude of other problems that exist solely inside my brain, making them the worst problems of all because NOW I'M CRAZY. Examples:

a) the other night, when we were watching "Once Upon A Time In Mexico", and R insisted on turning on the fucking surround sound even though it turned the puppy into a whimpering, canoodling ball of shaky fur and even though he uses the stereo equipment so NOT OFTEN that he had to call someone to come over and TURN IT ON... well, I may have: 1) gotten really angry and belligerent and tigress-like concerning the puppy's comfort level; 2) gotten drunk, and then passed out on the floor.

The problem in all this? I keep trying to convince people that I wasn't "passed out"; I was "sleeping". On the floor. Between the subwoofer and the couch. With my head wedged under the couch. No one believes my lies. That makes me angry. Problem.

b) Roseanne is long over and now the television is touting that crap ballet movie "Center Stage". This is a problem, but it's one that I could rectify if I felt like standing up and moving fifteen feet. The core problem here is that I just overheard a conversation between the ballet instructor and a new ballerina student, and the instructor is wondering how such a SHIT dancer got into such an elite dancing program in which things like "can't be retarded" and "must understand where feet are" are prerequisites, and I realized with horror that THIS IS NO DOUBT EXACTLY WHAT MY THESIS CHAIR IS THINKING RIGHT NOW. If only something simple like destructive and obsessive practice or a violent eating disorder could help me. Lucky terrible ballerina.

PROBLEM B: This is a problem that affects a lot of you. The New and Intimidating Computer has a CD burner, and I've spent incalculable hours that I'll never have back downloading music into the system so that YOU PEOPLE can have YOUR VERY OWN CD OF MUSIC THAT YOU HATE! That's right, folks! It's Christopher Cross and Kenny Loggins for EVERYONE!

PROBLEM C: I'm really thinking about downloading the soundtrack to this movie. 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, January 27, 2004

 

Jack Fortune Shirts For The Weary And Confused And Brave And Glitter-Hoarding!

or

"Um, Does It Sound Like The Dog Is A LOT Closer Than The Kitchen To You?"


1) The arrival of the dog has necessarily meant the arrival of more plastic, bouncing, squeaking toys than I ever imagined possible. But because Jake doesn't enjoy the taste of nuclear-grade chemical plastic ("nuclear-grade plastic?", you ask? "But wouldn't plastic be the first thing to get nuclearly vaporized in the event of a nuclear nuclearity?" Not plastic that tastes and smells this terrible, my friend. This evil plastic will shake noxious hands with Mr. Nuclear Bomb himself and will walk hand in smelly hand with him into the neverending and super-hot sunset) most of the toys have become weapons that we as a family launch or fling or bounce at one another. I think that this one is our favorite. It's unfortunate that it's now kept in a locked cabinet so that I can't get to it. Why, you ask? BAD AIMER + INCONCEIVABLY BAD CONINCIDENCER = ONE MORE THING I'M NOT ALLOWED TO HANDLE.

We were watching television last night, calmly throwing the ball at one another's heads and faces and other fleshy and/or sensitive areas. I (finally) came into possession of the Webbed Ball Of Doom and waited, biding my time and diverting attention until I was positive that I could bean R in the eye. Finally my moment arrived. I launched. Eye contact indeed! And what a wince and yell I received as my reward! But then the ball rebounded out of R's eye and into-- gasp!-- his full red wine glass! I hardly had time to watch the white rug grimace and tense up for impact before I realized that the Webbed Ball Of Misery And Evil Feelings had bounced off of his wine glass only to complete it's Cosmic Mission Of Staining by crashing into MY full red wine glass. Other E and I watched the whole thing unfold in slow motion, clutching our chests and roaring with laughter. The carpet is seriously ruined. That much red wine? Are you fucking kidding me? I just curled up in a wine-splattered afghan, held my stomach and laughed until I almost threw up. The Webbed Ball Of Disastrous Timing just smirked through its wholes. I can picture it now... happily locked away with the tequila and Jenga and shoe polish and some other shit I'm not allowed to play with.

2) So Jake sleeps in a kennel at night in the kitchen. I've always crate-trained my dogs and I know that while they scream and cry for the first few nights they eventually get over it and learn to love the kennel and then they want to be in it all the time. Jake's curled up in it right now, as a matter of fact, humping Baby Bear. For the first couple of weeks I was getting up and taking him outside every couple of hours and now we're down to just going out at three, and then getting up for good at seven. It works out well and he doesn't cry at all anymore; he just waits patiently for me, leisurely going at it with Baby Bear*. So last night he's in the kennel, right? And I totally sleep through the 3:00 alarm (which, by the way, is my Mommy Nightmare), and then suddenly I hear Jake whining. This wakes both R and I up immediately, not only because Jake doesn't cry at night, but because his crying is surreally loud. R and I fumble, semi-comatose in the dark.

"Is the dog in the bedroom?" R mumbles. "It sounds like the puppy is in the bedroom."

I panic. I fling blankets off and reach out to turn my bedside lamp on. Odd, because I don't have a bedside lamp. R reaches down and pulls Jake onto the bed. R is still dreaming, so he doesn't really think that this is a big deal; that the dog who was locked in a kennel is now in the bed at three in the morning. I immediately knew that Serial Killer Ninjas broke into the house and let the dog out. Those damn Serial Killer Ninjas and their warped senses of humor. I (naked) grab the dog and run outside with him. He goes to the bathroom. Then he goes back into the kennel with nary a whimper. I didn't encounter a single Ninja. But they may have been hiding on the ceiling, their grease-painted cheeks puffed out with laughter. When I got back to the bedroom R handed me my robe.

"Here. So you won't get cold outside."
"Thanks," I yawned, dropping it on the floor and crawling into bed.

The moral of the story.

Ninjas.
Sometimes they're not serial killers.
Sometimes they're just looking for a laugh.

3) Jack Fortune Shirts! Glitter! Words! No more hints!

*Baby Bear always has her pants on when I catch she and Jake together. I don't know if this means that Baby Bear is a prude, that Jake is forcing himself on Baby, or if Baby is such a slut that she can get her pants on in a split second. 
¶ posted by Erin on Sunday, January 25, 2004

 

Some Data From Yesterday Afternoon And Then Some More Data From This Morning Since I Have, After All, Been Up Since Five.

or

How R And I Made Up Via Wrestling. Obviously.

LAST NIGHT:

Not that this is anything that anyone wants to hear, but I had Jake outside last night because I knew with absolute certainty that he had to go to the bathroom but we're out there and he just kept sniffing around and whining and bribing me with chocolate cupcakes to go back inside but I wouldn't let him because I was going to PROVE something here, goddamnit, and then it started raining this cold, miserable drizzle and after repeating "Let's go potty" countless times I began to really really have to go to the bathroom myself and I then seriously considered dropping trow right there in the backyard and maybe setting a positive example but pulled myself back from the pee-ledge in the nick of time when I realized that I WAS GOING FUCKING CRAZY.

So there's that. No one went to the bathroom in the yard, I'll have you know.

The upshot is that when I came in I had a big blob of mud on my sock which I told R was dog poo as I stealthily and coyly arched my instep toward his pressed pant leg. This resulted in an incredibly strenuous twenty-minute wrestling--slash--tickle match, wherein we were both fundamentally kidding and laughing and having a good time but there was a definitive "sorry, but it feels really good to plant my knee in your back" undertow.

This, in turn, resulted in sex.

Mud on R's pantleg + sex = damn good night.

THIS MORNING:

I decided that, since I'm up so early in the morning anyway, I would see my trainer at 5:30.
I decided this because I'm stupid.
I can't really tell you much about anything that happened because I was technically still asleep until fifteen minutes ago.

BUT!

I CAN tell you that my IRON-ON ALPHABET TRANSFERS from eBay got here today. And while I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, a certain number of you will be receiving "Jack Fortune Cookie" shirts.

OH, LOOK. I'VE SAID TOO MUCH.
 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, January 23, 2004

 

Random Shit Without A Title Because My Entire Being Is Balking At Anything Resembling Organization.

Today is the official first day of the semester. I'm still at home in my pajamas with dirty hair. So yeah, everything appears to be right on schedule. I spent most of last night attempting to beat and/or cajole all of my Word documents off of the old Dell system; I used my mother's laptop cord and managed to get the thing on, but apparently electricity isn't enough to overpower the Satanic forces at work in the hard drive. Ordinarily this is when I'd bow to my standard MO (shrug and give up) but my thesis bibliography and my proposal are on that piece of crap. Not to mention every piece of three in the morning bullshit on Romanticism that I've ever pulled out of my ass, and while I realize that there isn't any literary value there, I might need those papers in bulk at some point to prove that I went to college. After rebooting four or five times, the puppy wanted to give it a whirl; he fiddled with the motherboard for a while and made some progress but he finally gave up and had a Coors when he realized that he didn't have the right tools.*

PLUS:

I either need to get more angry with R or apologize. About what, you ask? I'm actually not sure. Which renders my state of mind not only irrational and infuriating, but also completely unappeasable by humans. Whatever. Something has to happen because this droning annoyed middle ground is losing its mean sparkle and is becoming merely tedious. The problem is that I don't have much ground for actual anger, and I don't really feel like apologizing. (If you're nodding along right now saying to yourself, "Man! Yeah, that sucks! Tough spot, sister," then you can come over and drink beer with me in your pajamas with a puppy on your foot. If you're thinking to yourself that I'm exasperating and difficult to live with, then you can still come over and drink beer but I might ignore you for awhile. And no puppy for you.)

*licked it. 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, January 20, 2004

 

Sunday: The Day That I Watched "Adaptation" For The Fifth Time And The Puppy Watched It For The Second Time.

1) I got my hair done yesterday. It's unbelievably hot, obviously, or I wouldn't have brought it up. So combine the awesome fresh hair plus me sleeping in all of my jewelry last night plus me taking the dog out dressed only in an untied silk robe at three in the morning and what do you have? I don't even know. Something fucking good, though. Something Joan Crawford would be proud of, minus kicking the flowerpot and paralyzing that toe and squeaking, "Let's go potty! Let's go potty!" over and over again. I'm gonna do it again this afternoon, only palsy-clutching a cocktail.

2) This is my dog Jake. He's an Australian shepherd and he's seven weeks old. He looks like a cross between a pig and a panda bear. I'd been commending myself on his perfect name all week until I read Styro's comment about dictator names. His middle name is now totally "Benito"; "Jake Benito"... fuzzy on the outside, concentrated evil on the inside.

3) You'll notice on the photo page the picture of the dead plant. Puppy comes in, other life forms go out. I'm bad at multi-tasking. 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, January 19, 2004

 

Some Shit That I Learned During The Two Weeks That I Wasn't Here:

1) I didn't realize how "1984" my old computer was until I opened the box and unveiled the sleek and brilliant Presario. With Centrino wireless so I don't have to hover pathetically in the dusty and lightless "couch room". With a giant screen that's really very "CIA Operative-y". With a CD drive that works, a floppy drive that works, a power cord that works, a battery that works and a space bar that works. Stupid Dell. My Dell computer was the computer equivalent of the 100% molded plastic Ford Aspire. Dell can suck my dick.

2) I didn't really learn that much from skiing. I remembered some stuff that I had known and forgotten, though. Like, I'm really bad at carrying skis and poles. Worse than most people, even. I turn into a pointy four-pronged death stalker. Feel my wrath. I also remembered some other stuff about skill level and chapping and alcohol. But that all goes without saying.

3) Had to buy bigger ski pants. Pertinent? No. But it made me pretty goddamned happy, as you can imagine. I learned that my ass and my ego need to get on the same goddamned page, here. 
¶ posted by Erin on Saturday, January 17, 2004

 





My new puppy.
I keep trying to eat him.
I haven't slept in four days.
The plant in my bathroom is gasping and weeping and crisping because I apparently can't keep more than one thing alive at a time.



 
¶ posted by Erin on Saturday, January 17, 2004