01/17/2004 - 12:30 a.m. | the bitch is back

I didn't want to miss the arrival of the FedEx guy again, so I lugged my miserable existence out of bed and downstairs to sleep on the couch. This pretty much never works because once I'm up, I'm up. Phone calls don't help. They guy came at ten the day before, so I didn't think I had long to wait, and since I might miss the sound of the doorbell while in the shower, I'd hold off on that, too. Bastard comes at almost 2. Well, I hope he got a good whiff of me at least. While I was waiting, I tried to find something not too offensive to watch on TV. I eventually settled on "Star Trek." Now, I'm not especially PC, but for some reason I was angered, pissed off to the point of screaming at the TV, that this asshole kept calling Data an "it," not a "he." "Have some respect, you assfuck," I yelled as I through yet another bottle at the screen (and missed - you know, the whole depth perception thing). Incidentally, remember way back when in Star Trek: First Contact where the Borg Queen asked Data when the last time he had sex was, and he said something like, "8 years, 6 months, blah blah blah?" I'm sure all of you, just like me (even though I wasn't even interested in sex at that point and knew only but the basic biology of it... the difference now being I know the biology and the dirty words for it), was wondering who that last freaky encounter was with. Tasha Fucking Yar, it turns out. Like, the second episode of the series was this total piece of shit about this virus that more or less made everyone drunk, and apparently Yar has a thing for metal. And if any of you nerds correct me on what Data is made of, I'll kill you.

I guess I passed the rest of the afternoon in someway, because obviously I made it through. I read or something and typed gibberish on the typewriter until my parents called me down. They wanted to know where I wanted to go to dinner, and I am sick as hell of deciding, so I finally opted to go for the dice and let the fates decide. I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but on minor decisions, I've modified the rules of Yahtzee so the dice can decide for me. Restaurant after restaurant was rejected, and I think my folks were pretty damn sick of the dice game, but I knew the fates were just saving up something good. Turns out it wanted us to go to one of the more expensive places in town. Yahtzee wants to fuel the economy, I guess. I'm impressed that they actually stuck to the rules of my ridiculous game because we went there. I had a green enchilada, which was basil-y, and some cheeseburger deluxe soup (mostly tried it out of curiosity) that I am almost positive I could make with a Hamburger Helper mod. Gotta think outside the box, you know.

I get only really gross flavors of bubble gum, so that I might actually be able to fool my body into thinking it's maybe not food and not immediately swallow it, but I swear, watermelon is even too much for me. I'll take sour apple, thank you much. I got some hair supplies at Wal-mart (such a girl), and that was about it for our evening. Watched Dave Matthews and Emmylou Harris on CMT(!!!) and "Extreme Makeovers" afterwards. I dunno - I mean, I'm not entirely happy with my appearance, I guess, but I don't like the idea of plastic surgery at all. It's just messing with things a little too much for me. Although Witch Nose really did need some, so good for her.

Sat around in a haze for a while, watching the same special about irritating videos that I saw last October with Lisa. Once again, yes, I might have been slightly annoyed by the songs, but the dull efforts of the people on the street they filmed to mock the videos are much, much worse. Listen, I know. It's hard to be clever. But that's why you shouldn't try. By the time your brain has worked up the steam to spew out, "Well, it's called the 'Thong Song,' but I think it's the wrong song!!!!" all my attention is focused on using mind powers to make your face explode where ever you are. I would be much happier if they filmed people screaming and having seizures on the ground. Anyway, I still think the guy with the megaphone screaming Chumbawumba is the best costume ever, but I would be willing to dress up as the Macarena video if someone wanted to be the other half of Los Del Rio. We'd wear suits and stand in front of a white posterboard with an old microphone hanging down and we'd just sing it over and over again, occasionally clapping or showing off our vests. Well, it made sense at the time.

And now, some phone etiquette: Please allow five rings before hanging up. I always give people the benefit of the doubt. Three rings is practically two, and that's practically nothing. Here's what happens when you only give me three:

1st Ring: Nate hears it, but thinks it's a part of his dream about Christmas with the president (seriously)
2nd Ring: Nate realizes it is the phone IRL and leaps out of bed
3rd Ring: Nate sprints down the hall, picks up, no answer.

It just makes sense.

The goal was to dye my hair "medium ash brown." Turns out this is code for "black with weird like wisps of gold and red poking through." Oh, well. I'll cope. Everyday I watch "Crossing Over with John Edward." I'm not sure if I believe it, but it certainly entertains me, and I have decided I should probably become a psychic. There are lessons, I assume, right?

Apparently I missed out on a big opportunity not listening to Arnold's commentary on the Terminator 3 DVD. This is a direct quote: "There are some guys that like little breasts and there are some guys that like big breasts." You've done it again, Mr. Social Commentary.

Then, 'cause I've had like this month-long urge to listen to Britney Spears' "Toxic" (I know; it's a sickness) and since there was no way that this particular computer was going to even tolerate running a file sharing program, let alone downloading anything, I watched the whole damn "Making the Video" for it. I was wholly unimpressed. I expected better things from the director of Torque, which I am still hoping to see, but this is fading fast. Now... gone. JOHNNY KHAN!

Marathons are fun in their grotesque size: Four hours of Michael Jackson videos in honor of his arraignment? Sure! Watch him get whiter and whiter and whiter. Seriously, how did they do it? Even his chest is white. On the plus side, Lisa Marie Presley's butt sort of looked OK in the one video. That's all I've got. Later on, like a five hour "Monk" marathon. The one problem with trying new things is that if you like them, well, there's more time wasted or money spent or whatever. I'm just saying.

While my parents ate, I saved myself for Petey's Cantina. 7 passed, then 8, and I was getting sorta worried, as it's a 45 minute drive to Morris, and no sign of Justin or Lisa. Finally, they call, we argue, they come to get me anyway. Justin pushed the Bronco Dos to the full extent of its capabilities (57 mph), and we arrived there at about six minutes 'til ten. For some reason, they did not want to serve us. Fick. But we are getting closer! We made it in the door this time, and we stayed inside for nearly 30 seconds. More than long enough to get us all smelling like grease.

Justin bought me an Elton John CD. He says I'll like it. He also said to put aside pretention or something. I don't know what he's talking about.

Once again, we sought respite from our defeat at R-Place. It's getting a little sad now, really. I guess I finally inherited Justin's tendency to hassle waitresses because it's what I do now. Not that my requests are particularly difficult. I just wanted a non-alcoholic margarita (read: lime slushie), the kids' portion of mini-cheeseburgers, and a chocolate sundae with bananas in it. And a lei, because they had some sort of island theme. I waste my charm. Yes, I know I have a teensy bit, and I throw it down the tubes. This is how it should be. Lisa paid because we helped her move, which was certainly nice. Mighta been nicer at Petey's, though. :( I was gonna say, "Home early," but it's already 12:30, so I guess not. Have to pack tomorrow. My girliness catches up with me.

Incidentally:

"...the Uncanny Valley Effect [was] named in 1978 by the Japanese robot scientist Masahiro Mori. According to a New Yorker article by John Seabrook, 'Mori tested people's emotional responses to a wide variety of robots, from non-humanoid to completely humanoid. He found that the human tendency to empathize with machines increases as the robot becomes more human. But at a certain point, when the robot becomes too human, the emotional sympathy abruptly ceases, and revulsion takes its place. People began to notice not the charmingly human characteristics of the robot but the creepy zombielike differences.'"

Well, I found it interesting.