A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.

Enough said.

Currently I am sitting in the living room being bored to tears, so I decided to write a blog.  Aside from the fact that I am having a rousing conversation about which is the best flavor of Cheerios (apple cinnamon) with my friends who we'll call Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, this blog is mostly going to be made up of little stray tidbits and thoughts, so go ahead and lower your expectations.

On the bus I noticed something funny pertaining to breakfasts.  I think it's fair to say we all expect bigger people to eat bigger breakfasts, however the way this football player ate I would have assumed he was raised to eat a herd of cattle to kick off his day.  In comparison, I am a bulimic, anorexic, four year old with a fear of morning meals.

Speaking of fears, I recently discovered that Scotophobia is one of the names for fear of the dark.  Then I pondered the fear of the dark, and to my discovery, I am afraid of the dark.  Not like the traditional "Can't sleep, need a nightlight" kind of stuff, I'm talking about when I'm walking back to my bed after turning off the room light and jumping the last three or four feet so the monster under my bed can't grab my ankles (the fact that my mattress is on the ground is irrelevant).   And as far as I'm concerned, until you can convince me beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is not a man with a knife waiting in the shadows in the corner, he's there.  And it's a big knife.

Yesterday I found out that Dave Thomas, the founder of Wendy's, worked at a KFC when he was younger.

Two days ago, I was blessed enough to have a run-in with a member of an ever-expanding group I call Hell's Angels.  I am aware that this is also some kind of motorcycle gang or something, but that's not what I'm talking about.  What I referring to is a group of all women that I am convinced is sent by Satan himself to ruin the daily lives of other non-suspecting, innocent individuals (such as me).  This particular ray of sunshine (who we'll call Loser McSuckface) graced me with her presence last Thursday in the library.  First off, I realize that the floor we were on was a talking floor, but that in no way means you're supposed to bitch and whine about how the world should alter itself to make you happy at roughly the volume of a Boeing 747 at takeoff.   Ms. McSuckface did not understand this.  Regardless I managed to ignore her ranting at first.  Then I listened for humorous reasons.  Then it went on......and on and on and on.   After a solid twenty-eight minutes of this (yes I counted), I was seriously having to restrain myself from going to walmart, getting styrofoam and gasoline, and going all the way back to the library just to shower her in some low-quality homemade napalm.  If girls really are made of sugar and spice and everything nice, then this one was made with a lethal dose of cayenne.  Loser McSuckface, I hate to break it to you, but the chances of your neighbors putting up with you and your near suicidal tendencies sounds has about as much of a shot as the tree I planted outside my apartment that will grow nothing but 14th century weaponry.

I am convinced that every worldwide disagreement should be solved with a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos.  It's foolproof.

Item of the day: Lava-lamps.

Shout out to Megan Boydston.