Wednesday, December 24, 2003

blog sickness Often I just sit and wait desperately for any kind of new gratification from my computer.  I check my e-mail.  My pulse quickens if I see  the blue bar go across showing new mail. My heart skips a beat if its a message from a real person.  I quickly read it and see if its girl who wants to come right over and go to bed with me.  That's never happened.  But any real human e-mail is nice.  I read it and respond.  Maybe it will set a complicated chain of events in motion that will result in a girl coming over and going to bed with me. Sometimes the message is porn spam.  I check that but never open it.  If its a good picture I'll leave it there a while.  Often times its just spam from Borders or someone who wants me to refinance my home.  I delete those immediately. Then I check my number of blog hits.  If its more hits than I usually get, then I am happy.  If its less hits, then I am sad.  Either way, I hit the refresh button a few seconds later to see if there are more hits.  Usually there are not.  I'll look at the blogs that are getting more hits than me.  Why are people reading those stupid blogs, I think.  Then I look at the blogs that are getting less hits than me.  Ha-ha, I'm better than them, I think. If I have anything to write, I'll write it and post it on my blog.  If I have nothing to write, I still write something and post it on my blog.  Then I check my hits again.  If I have more hits I am happy, but yet I am not satisfied. Then I check my e-mail again.  Sometimes the blue bar just flickers for a second.  Just one message probably.  I scan my inbox for the new message.  Usually its just spam from Borders.  I delete it. Then I get restless.  Impatient.  I am hungry for something more.  I read one of the blogs that has more hits than me.  I don't really want to, because I'm giving him a hit, but I just can't help myself.  What's so great about this? I think. Then I check my number of hits.  No more hits.  Then I check my e-mail.  The blue bar doesn't flash at all.  Or maybe it was so quick I just missed it.  I scan my inbox.  Nothing. I need, I need, I need.  I need something more.  I want my computer to come alive.  Sprout lips and hair.  Breasts and hips.   I want it to morph into a beautiful woman that needs me too and understands me.  I want my computer to take me by the hand and make love to me.  As I am kissing her and making love to her she is uploading all of my thoughts and dreams and wonderfulness and transmitting it to the world.  At last I  am receiving an endless number of e-mails and an infinite number of blog hits.  I am in blog heaven.      7:03:07 PM    comment []

Here are the basic things I try to do with my house if  I think a girl might be coming over: *Check for skid marks in the toilet bowl.  Clean if necessary. *Rinse out the accumulated sink scum.  My sink is always full of scum.  I don't know how other people's sinks always look like they are still in the home depot sink show room.  If I shave one time, all the little whisker shavings cling to the basin.  Soon they mix in with toothbrushing spit and soap scum. *Throw out tray of lizzard shit.  One of my iguanas has grown to the size of cat.  When he shits I can hear a moist squirting from across the living room.  How do my iguanas turn nice, fresh salad greens into such smelly shit?  *Take out the trash.  I can't really think of anything really clever or funny about taking out the trash.  But if its overflowing with beer cans and decomposing food, its time to get rid of it. *Conceal Couch Rip.  One of my couch cushions has a big rip in it. Its looks really obvious because the rip shows white material while the fabric of the couch is dark blue.  When I push the cusion back against the frame, it partially conceals the rip, but not for very long.  I went to Rooms To Go the other day, to see if I could buy a nice new couch with their incredible credit program.  They shot me down in flames.  I could have bought a new couch with cash, but I went out and blew my wad on another digital camera instead.  Since then, money has been tight.  No big commisions for me lately.  I'll be concealing the rip for a few more weeks at least it looks like. *Make the bed.  Or actually, just spread the comforter out evenly.  If youre going to get a girl into bed, I figure the bed should look somewhat presentable and inviting.  If you have to move a plate of spaghetti or dirty underwear at the critcial moment it would probably kill the mood. *Put auxillary alcohol in the fridge. Usually you have to spend at least twenty minutes talking some more with a girl once you get her over to your house.  In this time you can begin to lose your collective buzz and her sexual abandon.  If the girl is unsure about whether she wants to sleep with you, she can easily back out.  If the girl isn't really that easy on the eyes, then you may need this stash more than her.  Champagne is nice, but beer will do. *Candles. A bare bright bulb says this room is for fucking.  Candles say this room is for making love.  *Hide the porno.  Or any other sex tools, toys, or devices.  A pair of hand cuffs lying around or a picture of a hog tied woman in a magazine may turn off a certain type of girl. 6:23:40 PM    comment []

conversation disorder I am finding it ever harder to carry on anything that resembles a conversation with another human being.  I went on another date last night and found my brain was almost completely incapable of forming intelligent responses to the girl next to me. The root of the problem is that I have no real emotional reaction to what another person is saying.  I  see lips moving and hears words coming at me.  The words deliver information: I went here.  I did that.  I like this. I don't like that.   And after every unit of information that is spoken, there is the implication that I am supposed to have a response.  You don't say?  That's great!  I had a similar experience! I think this may be a real neurological disorder.  That part of my brain that transmits an actual emotional response to information is either damaged or completely missing.  All my brain can do is force out an intellectual response.  But my words are so devoid of enthusiasm that I can see the girl look at me with puzzlement.  I hear the lifelessness of my own words and can barely finish my sentence.  Meantime, everyone around me is happily plugged into a lively conversation, grooving with each others words, nodding and smiling with empathy, laughing heartily and slapping each other on the back.  What is their secret?  How do they constantly know what to talk about?  Did they rehearse before they came out to the bar?  Do they have crib notes scribbled on their beer can?  How do I enter the blissful brotherhood of blah-blah? After a while my blood alcohol level soon inhibits the delivery of words which were inane and lifeless to begin with.  My speech becomes sporadic, halting, almost non-sensical.  Thankfully after twelve beers and two hours of verbal torture I can muster one final, meaningful expression. "You want to come back to my place?" 5:51:50 PM    comment []

Today's highlights: *Found a good, next-the-the nose zit.  Had to pull over out of traffic to pop it. *After running out of toilet paper, I shuffled over to my closet with my jeans around my ankles and was amazed to see I had spare rolls on the shelf. 5:23:57 PM    comment []

© Copyright 2004 Mark Michaels. Last update: 1/1/2004; 3:39:30 AM.