There’s a couple of things that you should know about me.
- I’m cheap
- I don’t believe in the English language.
Well maybe the second thing probably has nothing to do whatsoever with the subject at hand, but I still think it has to be said. You see, I am a firm believer that the English language is simply a contrivance given to us by our Alien Overlords during ancient times because it entertains them to no end to hear us say words like “organize,” or “marmalade,” and “Reginald.” Don’t get me started on what passes for Alien humor.
Either that or they were simply growing tired of seeing us sew various numbers of chickens on our clothes (Which is how mankind used to communicate in those days. Or so I’m told. By me).
So anyway, I got myself a new laptop. Well that may not be the entire truth. I didn’t so much “buy” as “waited for my mother to get tired of her beat up old laptop and give it to the one person she knows who would actually want it.”
At 1.5Ghz with a mere 512MB RAM, old Lappy is no spring chicken. Which actually goes without saying. Because no laptop, no matter how new or snazzy it is, can remotely resemble poultry.
Continue reading ‘In which I go into all manner of random geekery’
Having attended my first PsorPhil BMW outing, I’ve come to realize a few things about my support group which I’d be happy to share. If only I can find the right words that is. (Thanks to The Play Ground Studios for the image).
It would be only so easy to romanticize everything that has to do with our organization and what it stands for. I need only to employ the use of flowery words like “courageous,” “selfless,” “untiring,” and “dedicated” to describe the organizers and the members, and no one would have any reason to disagree with me.
Continue reading ‘Scarred (An Open Letter to my PsorPhil Brothers & Sisters)’
“ALRIGHT. WHO’S THE ASSHOLE WHO FUCKING GAVE ME A FUCKING BUTTERFLY?!” I asked the guys nicely.
Blank stares answered me. And a few thumbs up some asses. In some cases two.
“A butterfly, Pau?” asked Baddie.
“Yes, a butter–fucking–fly. Did I stutter?” The guys shifted uncomfortably, each of them waiting for somebody else to answer.
“Well no Pau,” Coco interjected. “If you stuttered, we would have heard you say ‘Butt—butt-butt-butt-butterfly!’ AMIRITE?!” The severity of my glare told me that he was indeed, “not rite.”
“I’M GOING TO START COUNTING—” I went on.
“And we’re going to start dancing.” continued Bim. Or rather, that’s what he tried to say before I punched him in the neck. In reality, what he said was “And we’re going to start—OW OW OW JESUS PEDRO CHRIST!”
“Now then. I’m going to ask again. Nicely this time. Which one of you sensible idiots gave me this fucking butterfly?” I said, with much restraint.
Continue reading ‘The Case Of The Butterfly Stain: A TMB Mystery’
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