Ok, so it's been a pretty shitty day, but now that everyone's gone home, I kinda want to take this big glass bowl we have, and put it on my head, and play Underwater Adventures on the floor. Or maybe Spaceman.

Only I'm adult enough to recognise that I might not be able to get the bowl off my head, and well...

that just makes it MUCH more tempting.

"I'm sorry I can't take your call, Participant- I have my head stuck in a glass bowl. Yes, Underwater Adventures again. Jacques Cousteau and all that. No, no, not the dolphin. Puffer fish. Yup. Exactly- that's what I thought exactly. Well, thank you for understanding. Have a great evening!"

Yesterday, being The Cheese's birthday, brought about The Cheese's birthday party, which should be the picture corresponding to "Hoopla: see also, Ruckus" in the dictionary.

Why are there pictures in a dictionary?

Anyway, I ended up singing "Enjoy the Silence," making a mockery out of my first attempt at Guitar Hero, and chattered like an idiot to a former coworker. It's always a bad sign when I get treated like a celebrity at a bar, because then I feel the need to chat everyone up and be entertaining. I talked about gay marriage, Motivational Interviewing techniques, Ken Kesey and Mountain Girl, fauxhippies, and The Monkees. And the thing is, I KNOW about all those things. Bars: Where Ernie Shows Equal Parts Brainz and Ass.

Happy Birthday, Cheese. May you grow ever older and mouldier.
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I've been talking all day about my bannination from the Library. It's not something I talk about a lot, because it manages to piss me off and make me not care all at the same time.

I would like to disclaim, before I start pouring on the asshole, that I LOVE libraries. I like the smell. I like free book usage. I even like the fucking microfeeesh. I even dig the hobos who sleep in the AV room at the Main branch.

Problem is, ever since I was... hrrrrm.... I'd say about 14, the library has been shafting me. They don't see that I exist. Back then, I would have to renew my library card every.single.time I went to the library, because I would just fall out of The System. One librarian went so far as to require that I brought in two pieces of mail- not personal mail- to prove my name and address. When I was 14, my main source of mail was birthday cards, so that was another problem of its own. Sure enough, three weeks later the damned thing was dead again. Not just abused or demagnetised- I was GONE.

I didn't worry about it too much in college, because the Internet existed at that point, and our student ID cards were our library cards as well. As long as I remained a student, I could check things in and out at will, like the crumbling early-edition Nietzsche I used to beat the living hell out of Breyton in Chicago. Best part? As long as you eventually turned them in, there was no hell to pay.

But then I graduated and the dream died. I had to go back to the pubic library (yes, I did that on purpose. That's an inside joke from Typing class... it's about ten years old. No, I don't think I was the first person to come up with it.).

I showed up with a small counterfile of things that might be necessary for signing up for a library card- my gas bill, my pay document, my driver's license, a throat culture, results of my most recent physical, and a sculpture of the Bee Gees, made (lovingly) out of Velveeta. It was more than Velveeta. Well, more than Velveeta to ME. Shoo-wop!

Wouldn't you know, though, even armed with my personal arsenal of identity, that they STILL had a hard time putting me through. It took the guy who keeps a dead cat in his freezer and two other librarians something like a decade to get me ok'd, then I had to wait for them to mail my card, because I couldn't get a temporary, because I didn't qualify. I didn't bitch, though, because that's only words, and words are all I have to take your Velveeta away. (I'm not sure when I decided to make this entry Bee Gees laden, but just go with it.)

Then I fucked up. I admit it. I checked out some Wilde, some Vonnegut, and some King, and I kept them too long. I returned them three weeks late or so. I was mortified- I even walked to the library under the cover of night so I wouldn't have to face the shame. I got a single postcard asking for $15, then nothing.

I tapped onto the library website sometime later to see if my balance was available, or maybe an address to send the payment to, or if I could just take it in, and GUESS WHAT?! I didn't exist. So I tried to apply for online library access. And GUESS WHAT?! I was denied. I fully plan to pay those $15. I just can't if I'm not real.

I didn't realise it, though, but this is actually a miracle in progress. Sparkane helped me see the light. The reason I can't go to the library is because... God wants me to make a new library. A library where the books aren't banned... just the people. A library where you can dog-ear the books, and the system never loses you, and you can eat while you look at the books, and there's a full-service bar. And massages for students. And maybe a Xanax dispenser for adult students. Yes. God wants me to open a book bar.

Also, the future ghost of the still-living-as-of-this-posting Stephen King is haunting me. See, the idea is that he's trying to retro-haunt, which will be in his next book. BUT, now that I've figured this out, I'M going to write the book. And it will be a best-seller. And when you write a best-seller, my guess is that the library stops shafting you.

Until I accomplish these items, I just have to keep asking myself:

How deep is your Velveeta?

Ok, I really have to stop... .

Coworker Kylee is letting me read this book called "Eat This, Not That," by David Zinczenko. I agree with some stuff and disagree with other stuff, but apparently Mr. Z is not a big fan of Ringo. Or white pizza. Hounddogs makes a pretty decent white pizza, but I've never taken a bite and said, "DAMN! TOO MANY RINGOS! I DON'T NEED THIS MANY! Can you make this again, and hold one of the Ringos? Thank you."

I can't actually think of many foods that I've likened to popular bands. I once said that something was "Keith Richards' bong water," but that was less of a metaphor and more... an exaggeration.

Anyway.
********************************

I have one hell of a shoulder cramp today. I'd say I slept wrong, but I didn't so much sleep as wander around my bed for a few hours. Horizontally, so I wouldn't run such a high risk of falling off.

I tried to think of pleasant things, but I kept thinking of old inside jokes, and that got me to laughing, so I called Chandi, and we hashed over old inside jokes for a few hours.

I would like to share some of those with you. To make it ultimately obscure and very inside, I'm going to share only the punchline with you. You can either:
a) roll your eyes and call me a douchenozzle
b) somehow make them your own
c) ask me what the hell I'm talking about
d) nothing. Ab-so-lutely-nothing. Weaver, you so stooooopid!!
e) recognise yourself and start chuckling pleasantly over that old memory

Letter d above is a reference from UHF. There, I explained one already.

Here we go, in no particular order:

a) "What is 'up the butt,' Bob?"
b) "I'd like a Mexican Sloppy Taco, Baja Supreme Style."
c) "When you see a box, do you check white?"
d) "Who wants some street drugs?"
e) Consent Not to Party/Creative Weaponry
f) "Unfortunately, my boss pasted away."
g) Kama Naptra, positions 36-94
h) "Good morning, lemons! How sweet and juicy you look today!"
i) "You get ice cream at the hospital."
j) "Lookamelookem, mon."
k) "WE MUST CONSERVE OXYGEN!"
l) "I'm sorry. We call that the F-bomb, Grandma."
m) "Bourbon, on ice, with just a splash a water."
n) "Bangbadangdangdangadang. Bang."
o) The Bathroom (capitalised)
p) "I sat on your mom."
q) Subculture of dryer sheets
s) "Turn left at Killwhiteyville."
t) "Don't let her stop for drugs on the way home."
u) "Don't get run over by a steam roller."
v) "Don't get mad; get Uncle Funky."
w) "I didn't see one, I AM an illegal alien."
x) "Bonq'eisha, you gotta see her/Sells bags of nickle or dime./ Bonq'eisha, I NAME BONQ'EISHA!"
y) "Rance Armstrong! You faired!"
z) "Let's go see Alan/Allen."
aa) "So your job, basically, is to sit in a hallway and try to pass gas without being noticed?"
bb) "I need a tarp in case they eat my eyeballs."
cc) "Your gay husband is in jail, by the way."
dd) "Dude, you're going to make me Kremiate!"

Kisses to all those who were there for.

Ok, so I'm not disappointed that the sellers of the house I put a bid in for counter-offered. I AM, however, disappointed that they're still trying to charge more per square foot than houses in more affluent neighbourhoods, which would allow them to turn a 102% profit on the home.

I'm not disappointed so much that I'm not getting the house, though that is disappointing. I'm disappointed that someone would go through putting their house on the market and leaving it there for 300 days, only to mention that they "really aren't interested in selling it." THEN WHY WASTE EVERYONE'S TIME?? Seriously? I thought the idea of putting your house up for sale was so... people could try to BUY it. Am I wrong?

I'm very not disappointed that I have a fantastic realtor. She's awesome, and I love her, and she's on top of this thing so hard that I think I just heard the floor snap. No, you don't get a better metaphor.

The shit continues, though. I could take the whole house thing- in fact, it's pretty much EXACTLY what I thought would happen. Seriously.

But THEN! I came in today at 12.30 because I had a late counselling session, which means I would be here until 9pm. Whatever. Twenty minutes after I get here, I get an email- that person has cancelled. Which means I get to sit here until 9 trying to come up with something to do. Super.

AND THEN! I get on my first session of the day, and first off, she's not really interested in the program, but some of her staff is, and so she wants to do it for them, which is totally NOT WHAT IT'S ABOUT. I'm not teaching you everything I know so you can bootleg my program. Fuck that. Anyway, we didn't get much further in conversation because she found something better to do and rescheduled with me.

I want a hot fudge sundae and a bottle of tequila.
But right now I'm going to look at the new list of houses super-awesome realtor sent me.

I haven't actually bought anything yet, but I've got it narrowed down to two. I strike fast and hard.

So far today I have:

- forgotten socks. Shoes, yes. Socks- no.
- wandered around on the 2nd floor wondering where the snack shop was, 'cos I needed a soda. The snack shop is and has always been on the first floor.
- started to get off on the sixth floor on the elevator ride back up. I work on the seventh. A nice older lady on the elevator pulled me back on and said, "just because we hit a button, we want to get out whenever it opens!" That made me feel better about keeping my head warm in my buns.
- started labelling all the zip codes of California. It was related to a work task, but I knew it was impossible and very hard to explain in a journal entry, but I started anyway. It only took me two hours to admit it was impossible.
- lost my stapler.
- tried looking for said stapler by calling its name repeatedly. Staplers don't have phones, asshole. (by the way- the stapler's name is "Confidential," so I was hollering "Confidential! Confidential! Confidential?" I felt like the mailman on Mr. Roger's- "Speedy Delivery! Speedy Delivery!")
- told the new temp that, should this job not pan out, I'm going to stand in the merge lane and point to the sign that says, "YIELD TO PEDETRIANS." I said that would be a useful service to the city of Cumblous.
- broke down in tearful laughter when some guy in the cafeteria asked if he could squeeze past me to the napkin dispenser because, "this is going to be a messy one." Today's lunch? Taco salad. OF COURSE IT'S GOING TO BE MESSY!!

This brings out the asshole in me. Pretty soon, I'm going to be able to just tuck myself back inside like a Popple.

This is what's running through my head right now:

How About A Fur-
In Perfect Shape
Owned By An MBA From Uptown
I Got A Tweed
Broken In By A Greedy
Broker Who Went Broke
And Then Broke Down

If you can identify it, I will reward your cunning by puking on your shoes, then falling asleep.

Seriously- there's a new entry in the neighbourhood- the Laughing Man of Infinite Hysteria. I was asleep and dreaming last night, and I woke up because a) the dreams were hellaweird, and b) because there was this man laughing and saying "Oh Shit!" over and over again in the dreams, and I thought waking up would be much saner than sleeping.

Then I found out the Laughing Man of Infinite Hysteria was REAL. From about 3 am to 5 am, this dude was somewhere out there in the night being amused to the eyeballs by something that could only be wickedness or drugs, because there's really nothing else THAT funny between then hours of 3 and 5 am. I know- I've been there.

But laugh and the world does not laugh with you, Laughing Man of Infinite Hyseteria. Since I am neurotic, I chose to use this time as additional time to do math to find out where I can pinch pennies to not go broke buying a house.

That's right, I've been up since about 3.30 doing math. I don't fucking do math well, and I'm RIGHT PISSED!!!

If I knew who the Laughing Man of Infinite Hysteria actually was, I would find him and step down hard on that tendony part where your leg and foot meet. Then I would puke on him and fall asleep.

I'm going to see houses tonight, which has me totally stressed, but oddly, none of my dreams were about houses. Well, a little bit.

According to my subconscious, I had a screen door in my room that opened and closed on its own. Yodie was there, and I asked her why it was doing that. She said it was souls. Then I got back together with a guy I dated YEARS ago, only he had a thing for his younger sister, and I had to poo, but the toilet was right inside their back door. (The night before, I took a shower on carpet, so I suppose these are little house-related things.) Then I was on the phone with my father in the middle of summer and looked out to find that the neighbour's porch was rocking in time to the instrumental break in "Paint It Black," and it was snowing, and someone was driving a yellow Nova down the street. Dad said he had bad news but he wasn't going to tell me about the D-E-N until I was in a better place.

I don't know what all that means, but it adds up to these blue circles under my eyes and a race between narcolepsy and nausea to find which one will express itself first.

Mercifully, I've got a fairly busy day and some totally awesome friends.

I have an interregnum today. I work 10-3 and then 6.30 to 9. It's kind of weird, and I would've just done 12.30-9 if it weren't for the new gal coming in today.

Good thing I did, too, 'cos there was an endless conference call that I erherm... didn't put on my calendar, 'cos I got, like forty that day and just kind of let them all pass. My coworker/bosslady (I still can't figure out what she is) covered my ass and told the folks on the teleconference that I came in early just to join. Good thing I was still dialing in, 'cos I laughed out loud. Right, yeah. I heart teleconferences, and the ROFLCOPTER pilot is NOT DEAD. (teleconferences are when we get shit done in Corporateland.)

Two and a half blessed hours of research, though. Today's research topic is homes, and how to get more bang out of my salaried buck. Dough, my dear, and the salaried buck.

I'm inspired by the letter $ and my realtor, Leslie. I got pre-approved for a mortgage, so I'm also inspired by the numbers EXORBITANT and CHING.

I'm going to have nervous diarrhea, angina, and anxiety until I'm 34, I think. That's only seven years, so maybe I'm selling myself short.

I haven't actually looked at a house yet. Well, I mean, I've seen houses... I'm familiar with the concept, but I'm just at square 3 or so. I'll update when things happen.

After the meeting, I made some notes to email my realtor and ran off to work out with Cynthi-yeah (remember her? my former coworker?). Cynthi-yeah and her brother are sadists, and we did upper body today. They were doing crunches, too, but I've been kind of feeling like Dwayne and Kid might be moving around. I'd rather not prolapse a kidney in the gym at work, right? I didn't even have a jar or anything for it... .

Now it hurts to hold the phone, and I've got a coaching appointment in two hours. Oh, and I've eaten enough cous-cous to make a sailor cuss-cuss.

(wasn't that precious)(blame the endorphins)

But it's cracking me the hell up.

I actually gave myself angina yesterday. Ok, I don't know how much of that is true in the strictly medical sense, but I gave myself one hell of an anxiety case yesterday.

I've been thinking of buying a house.

I KNOW! Isn't that the dumbest, most adultest thing you've ever heard me say? Especially for someone who isn't all that keen on living in a place named "Cumblous?"

But here's the thing- most of the apartments, etc that are in the general vicinity of where I'd like to live (eg- I don't have to plow my way through traffic in the morning), are either mid-skank (like my current place) or $900 a month. And that's for a one-bedroom.

My only logic here is that $900 might as well be a fucking mortgage.

Y'know, so I can live at the corner of Murder and Mayhem. Apparently every house from Old Towne to Franklin Park has been purchased by realty-sorts, which implies to me that they're doing a rejuvenation (which I called a "re-ju" yesterday and I'm pretty sure that's not the right term). But do I want to be ritualistically and repeatedly murdered until the re-juvenation is complete?

These are my creative solutions to not having central air. I buy a fucking house. BECAUSE THAT MAKES LOADS OF SENSE.

LOADS.

OF SENSE.

I'M YELLING AT MYSELF, NOT YOU.
I'M THE DOUCHENOZZLE. (you're just the unfortunate person who's reading this entry)(that's how you & me works, you see)
***********************************************************
What else?

From the last news I received Monday morning, Carl C lived through his recent knee replacement. Haven't heard since then, being that I'm the auxillary child, but I'm assuming (as I always do when he's in the hospital) that a lawyer will call me if there's an otherwise.

And speaking of bankers, I had one of my inappropriate fits just a few moments ago. I was walking down to the bank to use the mechanical teller, and this group of Had to Be Bankers was walking just in front of me. And for some reason- I can't tell you from whence this wild ass hair sprouteth- I thought how funny it would be to start singing Salt 'n' Pepa's classic "Shoop." And acting like I was in a rap video. Not for real-real, just in my head-head. And in my mental version of this, the Had to Be Bankers were filling in the male rap at the end, which goes like this:
S and the p wanna kick with me, cool
But Im wicked, g, hit skins but never quickly
I hit the skins for the hell of it, just for the yell I get
Mmm mmm mmm, for the smell of it
They want my bod, heres the hot rod
Twelve inches to a yard and have ya soundin like a retard
Big twan love-her, six-two, wanna hit you
So what you wanna do?
What you wanna do?
Mmmm, I wanna shoop

So I was trying not to laugh at that mental image as I continued walking down the street. It's best to stash your wickedness right behind your love. It would be like the ultimate whitey rap, right?

It was even better when I found out that one of the Had to Be Bankers was packing. Then I had to bleach my eyes about sixty times and say thirty Hail Marys, right there on the street.

I don't even know the words to Hail Mary, except the "full of grace! Full of grace!" part.

Even then, that's only because I've watched Pecker three or four times.

Watch Pecker. Listen to Shoop. Be kind to your local banker ('cos that banker could be somebody's Carl C). Buy a house. Yell at yourself.

Welcome to Cumblous.