Pissing contest.

A 14 year old dog peed on my leg today. I was standing there minding my own business talking to its owner, and it lifted its leg and pissed on my foot. Stuck a flag of ownership right on my calf, as it were. I was pissed. You don’t just go around pissing on other people. This isn’t a party at R. Kelly’s house.

I spent the better part of the day dreaming about consuming a creamy, cheesy bowl of Velveeta Shells & Cheese and watching television up on my arrival home. The clock slowly ticked on, and as my long day finally came to an end, I made it back to my apartment and made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard. There, I was disappointed to find that all the boxes of Velveeta Shells & Cheese had been eaten. I was dismayed. I rummaged further to find that we did still have some off brand “Great Value” macaroni and cheese, and figured it wasn’t a terrible substitute.

I brought the pot to a rolling boil and dumped in the pasta. As the timer slowly crept downward, I made my way to the fridge to get out the milk and butter.

We were out of milk.

Bah! I exclaimed. I double and triple checked the fridge to make sure I wasn’t just a blind retard, but found nothing. Then I thought, aha! I’ll just call Sharon, the lady who lives in the apartment above me, and see if I can run up there really quick and grab a half a cup of milk. I called. Busy signal. I called again. Still busy.

I called three more times. STILL busy. Who doesn’t have call waiting these days? This isn’t the Stone Age.

I opened the fridge again. Still no milk. I sank to using water and sour cream.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t the same. I ended up using a lot of ketchup to mask the slightly off flavor of the cheesy/watery/sour creamy mixture.

I went into the living room with my bowl of macaroni and question mark and plopped down on the couch, switching the TV on, hoping E! or Comedy Central would have something interesting enough on the air to distract me from the weird macaroni.

….I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. So here I am, alone in silence with my shitty bowl of water noodles.

All in all the macaroni thing didn’t work out for me as planned.

I think it’s also valid to add at this point that my day started by being awoken by the harsh, shrill, and invasive sound of construction workers jackhammering the concrete street directly in front of my house. Not exactly the best part of waking up.

Tomorrow will be better.

.

….right?

Bye.

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[Words With Friends]

Z:  [gadi]

B:  What the hell is gadi? Bitch.

Z:  Zouk??? Everyone gets one.

Cool Beans.

I hate that phrase. What a stupid phrase.

What ever happened to Mr. Bean? What is he doing with his life? Cocaine? Is he fat? Is he gay? Married? Is he a scientologist? Did he make a rap album? Is he pregnant? Has he gone off the deep end with Sheen? I have so many questions.

There was his run with the television show, Mr. Bean, then he starred in one of my favorite movies of all time, Rat Race, apparently he was the voice of Zazu in The Lion King (who knew?).

Then there’s a laundry list of other random films like Johnny English, various James Bond parodies, Scooby Doo, and Love Actually. Why is he famous for being verbally challenged?

Holy shit. I just found out he was born in 1955. He’s probably dead. As you can see, I am Googling/Wikipedia-ing this information as I go along. I’m kind of disappointed to find out that his name isn’t actually “Mr. Bean.”  I would have found it perfectly reasonable to discover that his first name was really Mister and his last name really was Bean. I refuse to refer to him as “Rowan Atkinson.” He has to understand that he will only and can only be addressed as “Mr. Bean” for the rest of his life, assuming he isn’t rotting in the earth yet (I’ll find out).

I just realized that Bean being born in 1955 makes him just 56 years old. Haha. Never mind. When you’re born in 1988 like I am, anything before 1980 seems really, really ancient.

I’m stupid.

Do not post your relationship status as “complicated.”  Here’s what it means:  “I cry a lot.” No one wants to know you spend your nights weeping and listening to country songs about heartbreak and stalking your not-ex-but-not-current-boyfriend’s female friends online, waiting for booty call text messages at 2:13 a.m. on quarter-bowling night, and littering our news feed with lyrics about being lovesick. Basically all “complicated” eludes to is that you were once in a relationship, but now you just hook up when you’re 11 Irish Car Bombs deep and neither of you can do any better, but you haven’t cut the umbilical cord yet and realized the other person is a sleazy shitbag that doesn’t care about you or your feelings.

Just hide your relationship status. Please.

Alright. Bean is alive. He’s married to a half-Indian woman. Two kids, lives in London, worth 100 million pounds. He actually has a stutter in real life. That’s all I care to know. I was hoping for something a little more scandalous. You can’t always get what you want.

But sometimes, you get what you need.

Why is Velveeta so delicious? It’s so gross. It’s like a block of silicone with a hint of orange food coloring to it. It’s like a big melting rectangle of hot glue. It’s like a bunch of fake breast implants globbed together and then melted down to dip tortilla chips into. I can feel it sluggishly oozing through my veins like Elmer’s school glue. The marriage of Ro-Tel, Velveeta, and chorizo is one of the greater concoctions on the planet though. Can’t stop, won’t stop. Don’t care how radioactive it is.

Love, peace, and chorizo grease.

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“You can tell it’s an aspen tree because of the way it is.”