My Day, a painful voyage. Date Friday, April 19, 2024 - 12:16 AM PST Topic Rant My alarm clock no longer wakes me in the morning anymore. Not that I had an alarm clock, but now that I do, it's chirp and cry is superseded by the cries of the Hispanic workers outside my window screaming "PUTA!" and "ANOS!" at eachother, in a odd attempt to repremand the same people that they will go drinking with later today. But that's the way friends are to eachother in the -- bloody hell, what do we call the 2000's years? After i scream in abject horror in pain after looking at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock, I begin to appraise my physical situation. My hand has not been in a bowl of water, my penis is still attached in th3 same region it was when I last checked yesterday morning, there is nothing scrawled backwards in permanent marker on my forehead, my fingernails are still cut down to the bleeding edge. Hence the checklist whenever you live in a house full of gothic people who have a sense of humor like Charles Addams on opium. My stomach hurts like a bitch. It has been for a while, and I hope it doesn't continue for much longer. I'm not a doctor person, simply because doctors would rather put a sharp object into a blood vein than give you a pill. My stomach, in it's usual charm and subtely, gurgles andreminds methere is breakfast to be had, somewhere. I stagger out, into the blinding light, and in a myopic hobble I voyage forth, into the kitchen. The appraisal within the kitchen is not good, and my choices are few and limited: Lucky Charms, or Cinnibon. No wonder my gut feels like a nailbed futon. The Cinnibons are taken out of my grasp of hope for a immediate breakfast, as I have the "Absolute Politeness Despite All Personal Needs And/Or Proclivities, Opinions, Etc." personality, and, in a house where you are the first person to be risen by cries of "Canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran cielito lindo, los corazones" as one of the workers tries to carry a tune, I default to the cereal. I wonder what kind of marshmallows do not get soggy in any liquids at all before I return to my computer. As the computer warms up, my time of philosophical reflection for each day approaches, and, as the scandisk starts, I am given my half hour to contemplate the world, performing a scandisk on all the thoughts that race through my mind, few of which are caught by the net of the subconcious and drudged up to be examined. "Chivalry is the concept for men to hope that life will turn into a porno and she will give you her phone number and a blow job just for holding that door and saying "good ma'am."" "Note to self -- find world's record for oldest virgin in the world and call Guiness." "I think I should go to the beach today." "Must write story in journal to appease the scruffy psychiatrist I visit." Scandisk finishes. I begin the painful browsing. It comes to me, in the light of the dim monitor in front of me, that the internet is the electronic confessor for the sins of the world. As ICQ warms up for the one ten-minute session of it I will have on today, I realize that all people, despite any racial/religious background, can meet on the internet and discuss their innermost feelings articulately and without interruption for all the annoying pauses that normal conversation and chatting face to face would give. People feel secure giving away electronic confessions of sins long past, and discuss their philosophies, theologies and cults with people on the other side of the earth or right next door. And they manage to do all this with relatively slow connections, compared to mine, and my thoughts of idealistic psychological notations on sociological interactions drop off almost immediately, contributed to the fact that my internet connection is so fast, internet explorer has a almost less than 1-second delay after I open up my browser and it displays my homepage. ICQ finishes, and I feel fear creep in to the deepest recesses of my body, noting that my dear mother -- whom I would have drug before the lions and given a chain and a rund shield to fend for her life -- has left 6 FUCKING MESSAGES IN MY GODDAMN ICQ BOX EACH 450 FUCKING CHARACTERS LONG. This discourages me strongly from even touching Outlook, which does NOT have the 450 character limit. And that's as far as I've gone so far. Maybe I'll update later. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=79