8 Feb

Jim Carrey’s “The Mask” is on cable tv right now. I only know this because my brother just informed me, not because I receive the channel it is playing on. I loved The Mask as a child. In fact, it is where I first heard and learned the phrase “son of a bitch.” I was very excited about this as a 6 year old and inserted it wherever I thought was appropriate: dinner, art class, playtime; mainly at people like my sibling, teachers, and dad.

Consequently, I also remember the first time my parents scolded me for calling them “sons of a bitches.” I remember the element of surprise in their face, and what I remember as supressed laughter mixed with rage. They sternly corrected me and asked me where I learned it, but I think I lied about where I heard it so I could continue to view my favorite movie.

Then I remembered the time my brother kicked my dad in the penis. My mom was very angry, and scolded him on the patio outside in front of the neighbors.


My roommate insists on trying to communicate with me using Chewbaccan. He has been groaning and moaning mournfully with an ugly open mouth for literally 5 minutes now, begging me to join in. No, Brandon. I have a reputation to uphold. I have convinced nearly everyone that I am a human being, and I will do nothing to corrupt that.

Jennifer Aniston is a fox. I want to be in a relationship with her. Someone let her know.

Brandon and I recently movie hopped. It felt good to pretend I still wore Levis and wasn’t old enough to see rated R movies yet. After seeing Slumdog Millionaire, we tactfully snuck past the ticket guy like James Bond and sneaked into He’s Just Not That Into You. It helped that the guy taking tickets was mentally retarded and bound to a wheelchair, so even if he tried to stop us, odds were he would just hurt himself.

Or pee his pants.

On that note, Indian children (the dot, not the feather) are the cutest things since fluffy yellow ducklings. Slumdog Millionaire made me want to save my stomach and my body weight by skipping childbirth and adopting a young Indian dumpling and naming him something American, like “Kevin.” Unfortunately, it seems that Indians are like puppies. They’re really cute and cuddly when you first get them, but then they grow up.

…and have “accidents” in oncoming traffic.

ANYhoot, I’m off to pick Trent up from the airport after his week-long adventure in the Czech Republic, lucky bastard. I am excited to squeeze his face.

Chris: “Did she buy from you?”
Buddy: “No.”
Chris: “Well that’s because you’re bl—seventeen.”



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