Afternoon, dorks. Let's get started.
I'm feeling very efficient today. This stems from the high protein diet (Today: pork loin, diet pepsi, peanuts and little sausages ... the ape women brought in the sausages as an apeasment to their God of Beuracracy and I took part, bare chest marked with the stain of a sweedish meatball handprint and chanting "Order toner, envelopes, overtime req-ui-si-tion") and a very restful 9 hours of sleep that I got last night.
Things learned last night at the Lovely Couple's Den of Lack-of-T.V.
1.) An online Rorschach test told me that I was fueled by "imagination". Imagine that. Get it? Get it? AHHH-Hahahahaha! Fuck me, my mind and center of my being is smirksome!
The very sweet and kind member of the Lovely Couple's results said that she is driven by "Peace". Now isn't she a "piece" of work. Holy shit! Where do I come up with this stuff?
2.) My I.Q. is 138. I don't know if that is good or if like bank balances we're supposed to keep those a secret. I made a 1280 on the S.A.T. also. There, I've said it all. I've broken the secret bond of man by divulging my scores to the public. My soul is secret no more; it is baren, 138 and 1280. Gaze upon the naked essence of man.
Back to the I.Q. thing, the internet said that it means I can have my rule over 98% of society. I don't know if I should get too excited though. The internet also promised me free porn.
I don't think I'd want to rule 98% of society. Maybe like 7 or 8 percent and have a little island to myself.
3.)The book "Franny and Zooey" by J.D. Salinger is not about lesbians. I knew this, but I think I put off reading it (and thus completing the trifecta that is Salinger) because I thought it'd be like reading Cosmo or something.
"Silly Franny, mascara should match your belt and not your shoes."
"Oh, Zooey, you are so 1941"
Welcome to dorksdontrock, folks, the home of "Sexist recreations of America's great authors". Next week, Edgar Allan Poe.
"And quoth the stripper, 'Let's do blow'."
Actually, I put off reading it because one of my psychotic ex-girlfriends (one of the two that were certifiable, the others just smelt bad) read it in college and went on for two weeks about how good it was. She also went on for two weeks about how she loved wearing clothes with cherries on them. So, of course, the book was, by default, pre-judged as not up to par.
I was wrong. It is good. Om.

Other tidbits.
Kyle got into a car accident yesterday. He cut off a big truck in his little Miata and got spun around. Apparently he smacked his head on his roof and got a tail light knocked out.
"Yeah, dude, I saw that coming. You are a pretty reckless driver."
"I think the cop gave me a ticket because of my blue hair."
Naw, Kyle, it was probably because you were swinging a ton of steel around I-5 like it was a misappropriated yo-yo.
Wait, I should probably call him and make sure that he didn't have a concussion.
Well, he wasn't there. They call when people go in comas, I'll find out eventually.
R. Girl, her friend, Kyle and I all have a little cruise about the Puget Sound planned for this Sunday. After that R. Baby and I go to see The Shins. How ultimately hip am I?
Well, I need to return to my work and my life. It's been nice spending this time with you, dorks. I hope all on the East Coast are warm and not buried. By snow, not alive, that is, in reference to the buried thing.

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