12/25/2005 - 12:40 a.m. | for your loins

My own pathetic life aside, here is some more of my... pathetic life. Briefly:

The last few days I've had some mad swimmer's ear. Of course, having no clue as to what "swimmer's ear" actually is, I probably don't. However, I can say that my left ear has been clogged like a motherfucker, leaving me deaf and/or dumb to pretty much all things. I came home expectin' to get some of that mad peroxide shit my mom used to give me as a kid (cold as eff, bubbly and loud), get rid of some wax or something, but she had other plans. She had these crazy wax tubes - kind of like candles but hollow in the middle and with one tapered end. So she sticks one in my ear and lights the damn thing on fire. And this is no candle flame, either. It shoots like a four-inch high flare that would no doubt be terrifying if I could see if for myself. Anyway, it sounded like bullshit to me, but I guess the thing creates a chimney effect and vacuums out all earwax in the process. I didn't really feel anything, but then she broke open the thing and showed the results. FUCKING GROSS! There were like four or five peas' worth (I have been assured this is a unit of measurement) of wax apparently just chillin' up in my ears. How the fuck did they fit in there? How did I hear anything ever? Aw, it was nasty, but it was the type of nasty where you kind of want to keep looking at it, poking around. Madame Tassud herself could have made a family of four.

If only I had my digital camera.

And my hearing still wasn't better until we used like two or three other things besides. Another benefit of Legrenzi genetics.

You know how sometimes in movies when the gruff, surly character is like, "I don't need your pity." Sometimes he says it with "charity," too. Well, whatever, man. I love your fucking charity and will love it even more when I'm a hobo out on the street. Anyway, I came home all like, "I have about six bucks to my name," and my parents gave me like a lifetime advance of spare change. "You can have this if you're willing to face the shame of brining it into the bank." Motherfucker, that's how I eat! I bring in 3 dollars in pennies and run out going, "Motherfuckin' Wendy's, bitch!" Who am I gonna be judged by? Redneck hunter idiot? White trash pregnant teen? Oh, let them shit on my parade. I will gladly take this hobo's ransom and dance on the wind! 130 smackers, man! Or, in the modern vernacular, 130 Snackers!

So I got my cash money and promptly blew it on lame presents. The plan was to buy everyone really expensive gloves, since somehow that is very funny to me, but it fell apart right away since no one had running gloves anywhere. It was so strange, too. I was walking around the Peru Mall, going in all the athletic stores, thinking things like, "Well, they simply are taking too much of a commercialized view of running. They don't care about the inherent benefits of- *gasp* WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!" Answer: Missy Barmann. I ran to hide out in Hot Topic for a moment and get my senses together.

Speaking of the warm subject, 1) I was pissy they only make Hermione shirts for girls (not that that will actually stop me) and 2) it is sort of weird the social changes that one ridiculous store can make on an isolated community. Stringy-haired pierced freaks all in black (or hi-larious t-shirts) have come out of the woodwork and into the Peru Mall. Now, the question is, were they always here and just never had a corporate-sponsored place to congregate? Or, did this place allow them the proper attire to come out with this previously-unfufilled identity? Why doesn't anyone study shit like this?

It's weird being nervous again. Like, I don't like or dislike the people in malls any more than I ever did, but now I find myself self-conscious all over again. I can fight it, and I do, but the return of the feeling is not a welcome one.

I bought some "scented gum." When the quality one chooses to laud is odor, you know you are coming onto some grand territory. Which reminds me. There is Nihilist Gum. It tastes like nothing. That is sort of funny, except I can't really tell if it's right or not, because no one can adequately explain nihilism to me. Not even you, Kyle Wild. I would buy it, but it seems too smarmy even for me. If you can believe it.

My parents have this big old goddamn potted shrub in my room, and they don't water it, so it's just dying and shedding shit everywhere. At least put a Bowflex in or something.

The layered look is in, says Nate Walsh! He also says that Antonio Banderas' cologne ("SPIRIT!") is in, so he probably can't be trusted. I will soak myself in that shit and reek of greasy Latino actor glory. Not that all Latinos are greasy. Just him.

And all Latinos.

Today was the Walsh family Christmas, so you know what that means! Watching shitty movies on TBS all damn day long. Followed by It's a Wonderful Life. Between the three of us, we know a sickening amount of lines from that movie. Like, Anchorman fanboy awful. "I love lamp." Good one, Seth. Luckily, I did not receive anything interesting enough this year to make a list for you (my poor mother, though! She kept going, all week long, "We didn't get you anything good, it's been such a slim Christmas, we got you such lousy presents," but she neglected to think that I had made a truly boring list. More cotton button-down shirts, please!), except to note that when I passed out the link to my Amazon wishlist, I probably should have prescreened the thing beforehand. I ended up with a collection of pin-up art by the cartoonist who did Archie comics. It is messed up. We tried to go all out with an expensive hunk of meat, but it was tough and tasted of celery, so we were probably better off with some Stagg Chili. Or something. Grr, I say "or something" a lot, and I have a feeling it could ruin some of my better lines. And no, I don't sit around planning out this clever things to say; they come to me... like dust in the wind... in your eye. See? Not all clever, hmm.

I guess that's roughly it, but for the eight or nine huge entries I am still secretly plugging away on. In my cave. They will arrive after the holidays like a belated Jesus birthday present. (Speaking of, my parents bought this Barenaked Ladies Christmas album, and though I am loathe to like anything as mainstream as the Barenaked Ladies or Christmas or music, I was still cheered to hear some enthusiasm in their damn performance. They sounded like they were having fun (their silliness genuine), whereas most singers probably feel the same way I do about Christmas music and perform it as such. And Bing Crosby was just a fucking ghoul or something. So that explains that. They sang "Happy Birthday" to Jesus, though, which gets us back to my original point).