ultimate truth.

arguments are suddenly made hilarious when they take place through a bathroom door.

objective facts, part 1

best song to jam whilst driving: rihanna's take a bow

note: the glee version is acceptable.

best song to peanut butter whilst driving: queen's somebody to love

note: again, the glee version: acceptable.

on second thought: journey's any way you want it

see: chorus. guitar solo. verses. okay, the whole song, really. looks of horror/dread you receive (with pride) at red lights.

intelligent conversations, part 1.

"George Clooney is gay."
"NO HE IS NOT."
"Of course he is!"
"Does this smell like strawberries?"

(perhaps you had to be there.)

&: "george clooney's not even gay. he just likes to fuck bearded dildo sheep."

peculiar things (act II, scene I)

brad pitt's beard.

tom cruise.

a kenny g reference is ipso facto comedy

springsteen or petty?

dylan or young?

clapton or hendrix?

coltrane or kenny g?

he was in prison for thirteen years.

"He's not Hagrid and he's not Ron.

...no, he's not Dumbledore either.

He's more like Cedric! Except, alive. And, like, not.

Hedwig? Hedwig's the owl. No, he's not an owl.

He's kind of...uh. A more spacey, crazy version of Sirius Black."

(I'm glad my roommate has to describe her boyfriend in terms of Harry Potter characters.)

a bad sign.

it's never good when you spend your free time counting down the hours until a paper is due instead of actually writing it.

marianne moore's poem about courage is actually about eternal damnation and how badly we fucked shit up. the end.

the story of how we met

a pen pal program for juvie inmates.

an appropriate metaphor for my life: a paperclip

a paperclip is small compared to the world and universe. it holds things together, makes things work, and everyone loves them, except not really.

valhalla.

alan the frog died. i just came home and found everyone with lipstick war paint after giving him an official viking funeral. this included making him tinfoil armor and a sword, putting him in a boat, dousing it with rubbing alcohol, setting it on fire and throwing it into the hudson.

who. do. i. live. with.

peculiar things.

it's a weird sensation when, for whatever reason, you realize that the hand soap you're using smells exactly like your father's aftershave (or should smell like your father's aftershave, or smells the way that you've always idealized your father's aftershave smells like).

it's better than dissolving to tears after inhaling another man's pipe smoke on 86th street, though. that's always embarrassing. and peculiar.

a summary of my dreams

big bird was the president of the united states and territories. harry potter made me a buffalo chicken calzone. it was good. morgan freeman wanted to play "i've got your nose" but we settled for parcheesi. rome was built in a day. switzerland had a civil war. a house divided against itself yet there it stood. I was back in middle school and santa claus was my best friend. we all called him nick the ripper. I wore clown shoes while bowling and no one noticed. or maybe no one cared. whatever. sigmund freud was an asshole.

last night

you're wrong.

actually, bitches, we're blogging about this conversation, too.

meat loaf dispenses relationship advice for fast approaching valentine's day

I would do anything for love, but I won't do that...or that (on second thought...maybe...actually no, I'm going with my gut here); I won't do that.

things that will never fall out of fashion:

peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pop hits from the 90s (apparently), star trek/star wars, hummus, fashion, staplers, reggae (upon further review...I take this one back.), vaccinations, mocking things that vaccinations combat (sars, swine flu, rabies, anthrax, ugliness), mocking things (in general), things that make a mockery of themselves (sarah palin, jersey shore, pop hits from the 90s, congress, the amazon kindle, etc.), stairs, water, daydreaming, dreaming, not telling anyone about your dreams because they're so hideous and revealing and indicative of who you fear you really are, deep inside, and involve that weirdass dude who was sitting in the booth across from you at ihop, oxygen, and pop hits from the 90s, apparently.

hey guys, I found it. the meaning of life.

i thought you were cool for about ten minutes.

and then i fell asleep.

perhaps.

somewhere imperceptibly he would hear and somehow reluctantly, suncompelled, obey.

i will lasagna.

or maybe

he'd go to a lady gaga concert. or maybe cher. i hear he was a big fan of cher. do you, he would ask, do you believe in life, after love.

what would james joyce do?

(he'd move to switzerland and write a book about it, bitches).