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The Answer to Life is…Ugh! Lost it.

I began this with the intent to write a relatively creative entry. This post was to be “Freshly Pressed” material. If only you could envision my vision I could envision you envisioning my vision…It would be a beautiful thing. Unfortunately, that idea has dissipated and I am left with a scattered strand of cranial matter. I have good reason for this mishap.

A fly.


There are over one hundred and twenty thousand species of flies. Each genera or family is as annoying as the last. Am I being harsh by condemning these bugs to the title of annoying? No. When you have swatter specifically designated to handle flies, that should signify that something or someone needs an attitude change. I’m talking to you flies.

I do not mind that they land on my tasty treats. It is disgusting, but it is not going to prevent me from devouring that cupcake. While we are on the subject of cupcakes, does anyone else love cupcakes more than a slice of cake? What is it about cake in a cup that makes it more delectable than its sliced counterpart? I digress. It also does not bother me that they, quite fittingly, fly by ear canals and update me with the latest buzz. (That’s just a little fly humor.) It does not even bother me when they try to make sexual advances by crawling up my legs and caressing my arm hair. Each and every fly movement I have described has had an intended destination or purpose.

The most despicable trait a fly has is being an interruption to my peripheral vision. This is the fly that flies in oblong circles. What purpose does this fly serve? It has about a fourteen day life span, yet it will spend a significant portion of that circling the center of my room an in identical pattern. I know it will never land on me, it will never bother my food, but yet I find it to be the most disturbing type of fly.

After doing some extensive research (typing it into Google and choosing the first option that relates to my question), I have limited it down to three reasons why they do this. The first of which is mating protocol. They are sexing it up. They choose to do this in the center of the room because they are exhibitionist. They have twenty thousand one hundred and sixty minutes to live, they are going to do it up big. Circular exhibition insex. They also like reminding you of the fact that they are getting some and you are not. If this fly were in a bar, it would be the first bar-fly to get some. Bad joke. I’m full of them.

The second reason has to do with finding a perch or food. Now, I am unclear as to when they make their move. Is there fly code? Is there a certain time frame or circular motions they have to complete before being allowed to rest or eat? Or are the ones still flying the Caitlin Upton’s of the egg? Maybe they are just wanting to fly through life. If it is a perch they are looking for, the entire room is full of them. As for food, if you haven’t found it in four hundred rotations, it is not there.

The last reason is that they want to interrupt my thought process. Simply put, they see the twinkle of brilliance in my eye, just my left one, and they want to extinguish it. They saw that “Freshly Pressed” was only a circle away and they committed their life to preventing me from obtaining that award. This last reason is dipped in no scientific reasoning, but I believe it to be 100% accurate. Otherwise I have no excuse for my lackadaisical entry or why I have not been Freshly Pressed.



I have something I need to get off my chest.

I have a Pinterest account. There, I’ve said it. To alleviate any angst that my revelation may have evoked, I will put your minds at ease and announce that the account has not been accessed in some time. In fact, one could say that I have and I haven’t a Pinterest account. It’s the equivalent of someone stating that they HAVE a humorous blog, but the content is humorless (maybe it’s nothing like that). Regardless, that time is behind me; and it’s a good thing too. My Y chromosomes were beginning to question their existence.

But before I get too carried away with my overly built up hostility towards Pinterest, let me inform you on what it helped me accomplish.

Those who have been diligently reading my blog know that I have been attempting to read a minimum of one book per month. This is difficult when all aspects of life coalesce into a heaping pile of shit sunshine and flowers. You all know what I am saying…Okay, so maybe not all. Anyhow, more reading equates to more books. And more books…Well let me create a competent diagram to help everyone better under the complexity of it all:


I have done the reading, I have accumulated the books, and now I need a bookshelf. That is where Pinterest enters. The site has some pretty awesome Do It Yourself (DIY) projects, and who doesn’t love some good DIY? I found one that turned cheap crates into nice decorative bookshelves. Due to my lack of space at the moment, I only awarded myself three crates. (For all those mathematician majors, or minors, you are correct in your calculation of only two crates pictured below. For those who are seeing three, I’ll have what you are having.)

Once I had the proper tools, I began the transformation. I popped open the can of stain and slathered it onto the crate until the proper pigmentation. My antecedent knowledge on the aforementioned process was nil. After one crate, I could have been a member of the Black Hands. You could have called me Gavrilo Princip. (A little Serbian humor for you.) This meant that gloves were like batteries; not included. From that point forward, I embraced the stain and decorated my bod with the war paint. In all fairness, the fumes were beginning to saturate the air and I was on cloud nine. I suppose I also underestimated the word stain, because for the next two days my chest was speckled with the stuff. I could have been handed off to the victors at the Brit Awards. Preferably Lana Del Rey. Anyhow, enough about that. Here are the results:

                                 Beginning                                                         Present



Future…but with actual books.

Wannabe Loner


I sit. And by sit, I mean lay down on my bed. I always do my best work in bed. I begin preparing myself for the writing task ahead of me. What will be the focus of my post? What topic will I hack the normalcy out of?

And that is where it stops.

I’ve realized something important about myself from my writing methodology. I am a wannabe loner. And by this I mean I want to establish an idea and catechize it alone, but I do not. My process is a little different.

Here is how it works: I prod the kitchen of my mind and find the correct ingredients to prepare my idea. This is difficult to do. Imagine being in a five star restaurant’s kitchen. Imagine all those rare succulent delicacies and piquant seasonings. The all too ample amount of the finest cookery spread throughout the islands, counters, and cupboards. Just imagine. Now times that by forty-two; the answer to life, universe, and everything; and you have the innards of my minds kitchen. May I remind you, this is just the kitchen. Once the required ingredients are obtained, I make dough. Yes, flour and water. When the mixture has accumulated into a solid mass, I make magic happen. I take that dough, the essence of my idea, and I do what any decent chef would do; I slap it. I slappa da dough! This is the most climacteric step in the entire ordeal.

This is where it goes from solo to a show yo.

In Mighty Morphin Power Ranger terms, this is where my Tyrannosaurus Dinozord joins forces and becomes the Megazord.

Or, in my kitchen analogy, it’s where I slap people in the face with floury dough. A much kneaded process. Hitting people with my idea both literally and figuratively allows my mind to churn. There feedback, albeit often irrelevant to the direction I take, aids me in flushing out that wondrous dough into a pizza masterpiece. Once this is done, I slather on the tomato sauce (glue of my story), overload it with cheese (the jokes), and sprinkle on some pepperonis (no symbolism, I just like pepperonis). And viola! A bost is porn.

While this blog is comprised of 93% of my own ideas, that 7% of others insight is a tremendous boost in making what is great, brilliant.  I am not completely alone in my process. I can’t be. Hence, I am just a wannabe loner.

Brain Flatulence

I am obsessed with examining minor menial tasks and how people perform them. Lately, I have been busting academia nuts into spoonfuls of A+ wordage. In the process of writing my essays, I have noticed there are times in which my mind sputters and I absent mindedly write the same word twice.

An example: “They call me DJ Oriental because I lay down down crazy tracks.”

I thought this tantalizing incident to be of interest only to myself, but after further debation and observation…I am not the only one suffering from this brain flatulence. It is a prevalent phenomenon that appears to be only privy to those who are aboard the key; or those who use a keyboard. I have yet to read a handwritten document that demonstrates these traits. Then again, if it doesn’t have the all powerful red squiggly line under it, I assume everything is hunky-dory. All hail the red squiggly line!

The part that is most intriguing is what occurs during that short circuiting. Where does our mind go during the brevity of the moment? Are life’s greatest mysteries solved in the blink of an eye? Well, that is a little farfetched…for everyone else that is. I, myself, am quite capable of such measures, but just as capable of forgetting them in the same breath, or blink. My attention to analogies is short, it is like the…I am sure for that instant I have stopped wondering what’s in a wonder ball and have no longer pondered over the locality of the beef. If only I could recapture my epiphanies I could make the world a bett…well, no, that’s a lie; it would probably be the same.

There appear to be different types of mind blips. They can be quite frightening too. It is one thing when they occur in the privacy of my own home, but what about when they happen while driving? I experience these on an almost daily basis. I will be driving and enter a daze only to snap out of it a few minutes later. In the process of that daze I am to recall point F and point K, but you see (or should I say U C. Heh heh) I am not able to recollect the mid section. Who knows how many people I have slaughtered or even worse how many stops signs I have bypassed. Hm, come to think of it, I always snap out of my stupor due to oddly placed speed bumps. In my defense, who places a speed bump in the middle of a crosswalk?

I know I am not the only one to have these blips, absent mindedness, stupors, dazes, brain flatulence. How has it affected you? Do you ever think, “I hope no law enforcement shows up at my door or I receive a ticket in the mail?” Or maybe it’s more simplistic for you, and you only have to worry about grammar Nazis.

Or maybe I am the only one experiencing this and people are only agreeing with me that they too are suffering from said issue so that I may maintain my last strain of sanity.

Silence Is Not Golden

I am somnolent, yet my mind refuses to enter a dormant comatose. I am on the verge of forty winks, but if forty is the new thirty then my nap has less value. However, I do not mind such cognitive actions, but my mind is attracted to ideas and concepts that have become obsolete.

This is when silence is not golden. Rather, it does not place at all. I try to drown out my thoughts with musical exertion, but it does not pacify my minds relentless approach to topics that rest in the elephant graveyard. Instead music proceeds to represent itself as an acting accomplice.

This is not efficacious when I commute an average of ninety minutes a day. I once enjoyed this grace period as a chance to decompress myself, but with each passing day I have taken less pleasure in my travels. Things have changed and I choose to dwell on that which does not dwell on me.

It perturbs me to be so vague on my personal blog, but I have yet to kindle enough strength to discuss my personal struggles and triumphs in clarity. I already feel that my expedition into the internet’s social network web is going to be troublesome in later years. My ideas could change, but perhaps some things are better left to my mind’s personal personnel.

Driving the Idea Home

There is a certain tranquil sensation to driving. It is a soothing experience. It provides me with the chance to alleviate my woes and explore my thoughts. These thoughts may correlate into ideas for blogs, or they may just delve into my psyche. Lately, I have depended on these thoughts for post ideas. As I drove the long black roads back to my house, I forced my brain to churn butter thoughts (better thoughts).

Butter…When I was younger the word butterface was an accusation thrown at females. I remember asking what butter had to do with faces. Did she have a fat face? Was she one step away from being a cookie? Could I slather her face across my toast? Was she one step past milk?  What was it that made her face butter? Then I was informed. It meant everything about her was alluring but her face (butterface). It made sense. I was able to follow their thought crumbs and come to a similar conclusion. I then wandered naively to butterfingers. Did that mean that these people will never have careers in hand modeling? I even questioned butter knives. After all, if you really look at a butter knife, they are fat and lack the cutting potential other knives have. They are unattractive knives. Then there are buttermilk pancakes. Whoa…Wait just a tick. Buttermilk pancakes are delicious. This theory is flawed!

There must have been a bump in the road and I must have struck it. I was jarred into song. For the next thirty minutes I sung. There was no music and it was not multiple songs. I drove thirty minutes singing the theme song from Married with Children. It was a song coma, but I was completely satisfied. I a cappella’d the crap out of it.

Then, a light came on and my attention pulled. It was not one of those exquisite animated moments where a lightbulb pops up overhead. This light came from the dashboard of my car and read “Low Fuel.” Gahh! I was too ingrained into my singing stupor that I forgot to get gas. To make matters worse I was entering a stretch of road that lacked any appeasement. Remember when I proclaimed that driving was a serene experience? It can quickly go from serene, serendipitous, to misfortune. I am happily driving (serene). The low fuel light turns on. I see the only gas station (serendipitous). There is road work being done on the off-ramp and it is closed (misfortune). While driving is a calming feeling; running out of gas is one of the worst. Fortunately I was able to chug another fifteen to twenty miles to a gas station. The tension that arose in me subdued and I was able to continue my brainstorming. Unfortunately, the forecast predicted no brain-rain. It was clear and dry brain-weather the rest of the way home.

Exploration of Space

My living quarters have recently undergone a drastic change. Two roommates have vacated the premises. One left voluntarily; the other did not.

What this means is…

A house where common area was uncommon; where the kitchen was the only piece of unclaimed territory; and where the man behind the curtain was NOT the wizard, is no longer. It is like our house just gave birth to a 16×16 foot room. It is like I have taken over Asia in a game of Risk. It is like every time I open the front door I go zero gravity; that is how much space we have. Houston, we do have a problem though. With the living room vacant; the question now is: what to do with the space? Here are some thoughts.

1) Make it a fitness room. We have a stationary bike and dumbbells. If we could procure a weight-lifting bench we would have a nice mini-gym. I could even lay down a mat and work on my yoga positions. Instead of Half Lord of the Fishes, I could be the complete Lord of the Fishes! If the fish disobey me I will just go all Eagle pose and swoop down with my fierce talons…‘Cause I’m an eagle. (I have never actually done yoga. I gravitate more towards yoda. There is a lot less movement in that program. In fact, we just sit there and backwards sentences we say.)

2) Make it a game room. This is going to require someone who is willing to sacrifice their entertainment center for the betterment of the house. They would have to part with their gadgets and gizmos aplenty, there whosits and whatsits galore, and even their thingamabob, but that’s okay they have twenty…Since that someone would most likely be me, I think it is safe to scratch this idea from the list.

3) Make it a normal living room. This is always an option. We could make it a nice cozy living room. Place a couch there, a chair here, and a coffee table over there. We could all sit around like The View and discuss uninteresting topics in macaronic languages.

4) Make it a rave room. All we would have to do soundproof the house, paint the walls, install laser lighting, and wire a beat dropping stereo. The rest of the house would stay the same. The bathroom needs no work. Whoever previously lived in this house was already tripping and used some crazy shiny metallic and black wallpaper. I think this idea has potential. I could invite over some epileptic friends and we could have a spazz-off. Spazz-Off Thursday anyone?

Keep in mind we are not a well-to-do household. Any creation that does manifest is going to be a shotty version. Or maybe the desired look. Or at least that is what we will claim. In any case, it will be interesting to watch the progression from empty to not. What do you think we should do?