Random Thoughts on a Muggy Sunday Evening

I need a new pair of shoes. Somehow, at age 19, while my brain has most definitely stopped growing, my feet forge on. Nike is putting something in my water.

(Note: don't assume that I buy Nike products. But be wary when you buy your Converse Chuck Taylors, for they are owned by the evil empire of shoe companies.)

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I'm torn by my desire to have really, really long hair and my love for wearing hats that fit me.

I think nature has punished people with big heads in that if they want to wear a hat, they cannot shield their large melon-on-a-stick from the world with hair. I'm just glad I'm not balding. There would be a sun glare national emergency.

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Video Game Kevin Doran and Real Life Kevin Doran are two very different athletes.

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Life is funny sometimes. I just read a comment from my first entry, likely from one of my sarcastic bastard friends, saying "like hell you're a good driver." I like to think that I'm a spectacular driver, and everyone else sucks. But the other night, I got into a fender bender because I was falling asleep at the wheel when I could very well have just slept over my friend's house. I shouldn't call it a "fender bender," because there was absolutely no damage at all as I was subconsciously driving less than 5 MPH. See? Even in my sleep, I know to hit the brake at a red light. I'm just not good enough at driving while asleep to know how hard to hit the brake.

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Summer always brings up a few very difficult questions to answer: socks or barefoot? sandals or sneakers? underwear or freeballing? shower or chlorine bath in the pool? windows down or A/C? Now, I don't make the rules, but I'm of the mindset that you should always try to make situations as comfortable as possible. Some might object to freeballing while wearing shorts with holes in them, but I like to think it offers a sense of intimacy to the world. I'd like to teach the world to love, and the best way I know how to do that is by making the world my living room. If sitting around naked in my living room is wrong, I don't want to be right.

I write all this while uncharacteristically wearing both underwear and socks WHILE wearing sandals. Damn near a mortal sin, in my book.

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I like my birthday. July is the Saturday of months. August is the Sunday. Sunday is the day of the week where I loaf around all day dreading what is to come. August is the month of the year when I remember that September begins the school year. It has got to be the most boring month of the year, for one reason. I'm always far too wrapped up in how awful school is going to be to make plans.

My birthday rests on the second to last day of the Saturday of the year. My birthday is 11 o'clock on a Saturday night. Is there a better time of the week? I submit that there is not. My birthday is that time of the year when everyone's at the party, and no one's prepared to leave. My birthday is that time of the year when the alcohol is just enough to make you lose your inhibitions, but not enough to make you an embarrassment. My birthday is the climax. My birthday is the peak. My birthday is the insurance run. My birthday is the final chorus, exploding with feeling.

Wow. Don't feel bad that you weren't born on July 30th.

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So apparently Ellen DeGeneres has stolen my dancing style and made it her trademark. Why didn't American Express give me a commercial and lots of money? I might sue that dyke.