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| Charlie Bucket's Birthday.
I have a sister. She calls me Regis... or Pete. My computer likes to argue with me over the fact that her actual name is not, nor has it ever been, Carly. It likes to refer to her as "Charly". Last time I checked every person I've ever met named Charles does not shorten their name to "Charly". In fact, I'm willing to bet that there are more people on this earth who possess the name Carly than there are people that go simply by "Charly". If I ever meet "Charly" I don't think I'll be able to stop myself from asking him if his parents wore helmets alot. Some times I call my sister Chuck, so I guess that's like me saying the computer is right and that her name has never existed and that, naturally, I've always just been some shade of retarted my whole life.
When I was little she used to make me put on dresses and dog costumes and follow her around for hours on end doing things that either outfit suggested I should do. The dog version of me often crawled on all fours and ate goldfish out of a frisbee. The version of me in a dress would often get carried around and then also eat goldfish out of a frisbee. One time we had a picnic in our backyard with bagels, goldfish, and kool-aid made from a jell-o packet and room temperature water. We used to take random trips to the beach, accompanied only by a large bag of "cheese pizza" flavored combos and numerous editions of SPIN and COSMOPOLITAIN magazines. Eventually, instead of actually going somewhere we would instead lay around our back-yard, she would tan and I would just sit there, chubby and pale, probably burning more than anything. It was around this time that she would tend to break into random renditions of "Brown Squirrel" which to this day we refer to as "Breen Skreel".
She once went to college to be a "hair-cutter" and she has cut my hair ever since I was in 7th grade. Looking back, I realized the first several years I was more of an expiriment than I was a model. When I was a baby I'm told she used to not want to go to school so she could be with me. Her love of the number 2 is only rivaled by that of Ryan Adams. She's taken care of me for a very large portion of my life... and to this day I suspect that's why I'm partially crazy. And this is why I'm pretty sure I know her better than my computer.
Happy Birfday Chaz.
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| I Like Snow.
Snow is pretty... for only so long. It looks lovely through the window of a comfy 70 degree living room, and for a time it makes me happy. Then, inevitably something happens, my lady calls, my mother calls, I run out of cereal, just something that's not necessarily an emergency and ordinarily wouldn't piss me off, but the thought of going anywhere near the outdoors is enough to make that simple task near breakdown enducing.
Outside the weather appears to have calmed down, there is no wind, it's stopped snowing and for the most part things seem dry. I put on my scarf and a "never-warm-enough-but-always-fashionable" jacket maybe a long sleeve shirt (sometimes in that order if I'm feeling saucy), then slip on a pair of canvas shoes. At this point I assume I'm ready for the 9 foot walk to my car, and everytime there's a moment when I walk by a pair of heftier shoes or a warmer jacket and think "Nah, I'll be alright."
Almost as soon as I get out the door a winter squall picks up from almost nowhere and instantly my shoes betray me and start taking on freezing cold water like the Titanic, my jacket (which is always for some reason un-buttoned and un-zipped) is blown open by a gail-force wind that also forces wet snow into my eyes, ears, nose, mouth etc. I try to blink to stop the onslaught of ice shards from gouging out an eye but that never works.
Finally I get to my car and get in. I think to myself, "My, it's rather dark in here for 3 in the afternoon..." and then it occurs to me that I am sitting beneath 12 feet of snow. So I grab my highly expensive brush with the pivoting brush head that always spins like a windmill instead of accomplishing anything useful... like, say getting snow off my car. After I effectivly brush the snow from my car into my face and finally get to where I'm going, now looking like the fury of a frozen hell has beaten me to pieces, someone always says these three things: "You look cold!" or "It's cold out eh?" and if I have to touch anyone "Wow! You're hands are freezing!!"... no... really? I look cold? You sure it's not that I just look too hot? I mean, it's not like it's negative 70 outside or anything.
Of course, I always end up better for having gone out and in the end I'm happy, but each time I look out the window I see the snow pick up just a little bit as if to say, "You'll have to leave eventually... and I'll be waiting."
I dislike snow.
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| and now... a short story-ish thing
that no one will read...
My nephew Aidan
He is, I would guess, somewhere around three.
We went to dinner last night, and before you get all sorts of awkward visuals of myself dining alone with a three-year-old, you should know his mother, sister, and my lady were all also in attendance. On our way we passed a Staples. "Look Aidan! Staples! You want to go?" I said only slightly aware of the fact that I'm talking to a three-year-old.
He replies, "Um, what is Staples?"
"An office supplies store." I tell him, "Do you need any office supplies... you know, for an office?"
"Office Supplies!?" He says with a sort f shock mixed with a measure of disgust. "Yuck!"
"Yuck?" I ask.
"Yuck." He confirms. And that would end up being the last word I would get out of him the entire car ride to go eat. "Hey Aidan?" I might say, "Do you like Goldfish?"
"Yuck!" he would yell while stuffing two of three into his mouth.
After a while we end up getting to the restaurant and for the most part everything goes well. The wait is short and young Aidan seems to be content singing his version of a hit song that doesn't exist. Eventually we get to the table and he gets directly to work on the cheap-as-free coloring book set in front of him. As he attempts to color an elaborate scene of two frogs and a hedgehog like animal riding a ferris-wheel with two orange crayons and a blue, I notice a word search on the opposite page. Being the fantastic uncle that I am, I assume this would be a great time to teach my young nephew, who lacks most of the necessary skills, how to complete said word search.
For a while I am winning by a mile, I've found four words while he's contributed nothing to the search. He suddenly proclams, "I found one Uncle Patrick!"
"Where?" I ask somewhat surprised.
"There it is! I found Corn Monkey!" He says pointing to an orange scribble which reads TRVGHSQ
"Good job, big guy!" I encourage, all the while slightly relived that I am still doing better than him. Soon after this it appears as though he has given up, he looks aimlessly around the restaurant and kicks out some sort of jam with his drums (his crayons and the table). I quickly finish the word search, proud of finishing well before poor Aidan who never had a chance. He then looks down at the coloring page again and his face turns to a look of complete shock, "Oh my gosh!" he exclaims.
"What is it Aidan?" I say turning, expecting to find him stacking something or having made some huge mess.
"Look... at... all... the... stars!" he says, overwhelmed by his awe.
"Wow, that is a lot of stars!" I say, looking around not quite sure of what he's talking about. At this point he is sitting with his hand on his forehead as though the weight of what he's just seen has taken a lot out of him.
"Oh my gosh!" he says again in a quiet voice with that pseudo lisp that all kids have at his age.
Then I see it. I know exactly what he is talking about. There, on the orange and blue ferris wheel are the stars.
There are only four of them.
The end.
™
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| What's this?! Could it be?! No... it is!!
you bet that sweet sweet georgia lovin it's true...
Once there was darkness... then there was xanga.
From the heights of mount olympus, the gods shown down their glory upon this forsaken world and spake thusly, "Behold ye, for we will it to be so that we should birth a son. And he shall bring, nay, create entertainment for those which we have dubbed our minions!"
As the thundering voice of Zeus came from on high, doves poured from the heavens carrying the necessary items with which to carry out such an order. The brains of Einstein and Shakespeare, the diction of Churchill, the wit of Seinfeld and Hedberg, and the beauty of the gods themselves, together this created the greatest being ever to grace the keys of a computer.
In this glorious moment, the nations trembled as the earth opened and gave forth a towering demon. In a voice booming with all the fury and power of hades itself the demon spoke, "I challenge this child of the gods to a battle, the likes of which shall never be set forth again. It's sole survivor shall forever be heralded as the true master of the earthly realm!"
With this the demon spat fire and brimstone and summoned to his side Cerberus, the guardian of the underworld. Mounting the vicious beast on a saddle made from the hides of the damned, the demon pulled a firey sword from it's sheath. "Now face me being!" he cried.
At once, the child of the gods turned and gazed into the demons eyes. Upon seeing the face of his destroyer the demon shreiked, "Now, know I the true power of greatness, forsake my soul to the depths of hades!" Saying this, he burst into a great column of flame and was forever defeated. At this, Zeus looked down upon his creation and smiled, a single tear dropping from his eye as he spoke, "Go now, and save this earth."
His name was Patrick... and this is his xanga.
enjoy everyone...
™
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| Dear xanga,
I grow tired of your constant nagging. "Update me, update me!", you
scream. I used to pretend not to hear you, but it's gotten easier to
ignore you as of late. Maybe this means nothing, maybe it's just me
talking crazy, but I think we should go on a break, you know, just for
a
little bit to see what else is out there. And I know what you're
thinking, you think I'm leaving you for that whore Myspace. Oh xanga,
my poor sweet xanga, she's worse than you are. At least your users
don't seem pretenious and don't send me hundreds of messages
asking things like, "What have you done with your Top 8?" or, "OMG, A
myspace tracker! Check this out!!". Please xanga, don't be offended, I
might still come back to see you every once in a while. Who knows?
Maybe we can still be awkward friends, or you can sit outside my house
to see who else I'm with, but for now though,
let's just see what else is going on in the world eh? You know, I never
thought it would end this way, if that helps you at all...
Sincerely,
™
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