I remember the good ol' days when remembering was really something. Everybody just seems to forget that nowadays. Oh well, times are changing and we can't dwell on the past. Moving on!!
According to one friend of mine, whom I will call Jerkface, I am fat. Jerkface has felt the need to attempt to drill this into my apparently overweight skull at every chance he gets. At first, I chose to ignore him, to not let him get a rise out of me. I have now revoked that decision, and have instead decided to retaliate. Besides my incorporation of trace amounts of Colchicine and antifreeze into his daily diet, I want him to know how devastatingly bad of a human being he is. Jerkface, there is no room for your judgement on this planet, whether true or false, and should you decide not to change your ways, feel free to throw yourself in front of the next train. And to be honest, I fully expect the response to this to be "You're fat," to which my answer will be "Eat up, friend, life is short." (Especially in his case. He has maybe another week.)
Today was a very painful day for me folks, for today I went to the doctor, or via Stewie Griffin, "the man in white." It has been a substantial amount of time since I have been to the doctor for a variety of reasons, probably the most important of which is that I am absolutely and incurably terrified of the doctor's office. It's an interesting fact considering my stepfather is a doctor (go on Freud, have a field day). In all seriousness though, I have the composure of a bratty 4 year old on heroine from the moment I step inside a health center to the second before I leave. To put this in perspective, I can jump off a bridge with nothing but a large rubber band attached to my feet and I'm fine. I would throw myself out of an airplane 20,000 feet in the air with a glorified table cloth attached to my back, and I'd do it in a heartbeat. When it comes to needles, this 22 year old man turns into a 6 year old girl faster that you can say "you're a pansy." Even as superstitious as I am, I would rather break a mirror with an open umbrella indoors under an open ladder, then go deep sea diving with great white sharks dressed in a wetsuit made of raw meat than have to get 2 shots. One shot? I get lightheaded and pale (crying is a bonus). Two shots? Swaying in my chair, possible vomiting, definite crying. Three shots? Don't know, I wasn't conscious past when they told me I had to get 3 shots. Four shots? See you in a couple years, my subconscious just threw me into a coma.
You know what's a very disturbing expletive insult to call someone? Shit-for-brains. Think about that for a second. Not okay.
Today while walking around campus I saw a guy wearing a red shirt that said JUST DO IT in big bold letters. Not a big deal, we realize Nike owns the world. However, after class I passed another collegiate male wearing a white shirt that in the same big bold letters said JUST DID IT. One-upped like a champ. I thought it was over. I was wrong. Less than twenty minutes after Guy #2 just did it, I walked passed the library and guess who I passed? You got it. Guy #3, wearing a similar shirt, but his was emblazoned with the words STILL DOING IT. For the win. These shirts are awesome, and it's incredible that I saw all three on the same day, but audience (that's you), we cannot ignore what these shirts are telling us. There is clearly a Civil War happening inside the Nike Corporation. Pretty soon this once whimsical catch phrase will be altered to more sinister clips, and I, for one, refuse to put my son in a pair of shoes with the phrase JUST KILL HIM. Overdramatic or over-prepared? You decide.
Here's an interesting bit of life that I stumbled upon the other day: You can actually use string cheese to work your iPhone instead of your finger. Yes, it's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, but it's still nifty dammit. Not everything has to have a purpose. Lighten up.
Fact of the Day: Owls are the only birds that can see the color blue.
Shout out to Lindsey Harris.
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