Completely Foolproof. Goddamned Glamorous. Just A Little Bit Smarter Than That.

I spend entirely too much time in the grocery store, though the ghost town of my cupboards would seem to attest otherwise. But I make it a point never to trust carpentry when it comes to self-revelation. Look at the dinner table in my living room. I put it together and there it stands, steady and solid as a pine-and-corrugated-potmetal boulder. But here's the punchline: the only reason it isn't collapsing to the floor in a ball of smoke and flame is that Ikea designed every part of that thing to be completely foolproof. I mean come on. I can't even get my own tiny little life in order. Do you really think I could do so with pieces of wood and metal?

I'm feeling bold; god damn the cupboards and their filthy lies. I am often in the supermarket because I am a stupid, scatterbrained boy. I can't remember the last time that I unloaded my trunk full of fresh vittles without cursing under my breath when I realized that some item had been forgotten. Which is a perfect lead-in to tonight's revelation that I am a scary hobo. Or at least, I sound like one. Midstride on my Hajj to find some goddamned corn tortillas, I realized that I was muttering to myself in conjunction with my (sparkling and witty) inner monologue. It's innocuous enough inside my bulbous head, but when it smears out my speak-hole it must sound something awful. And that wouldn't even be so much of a problem except that Hobo Mutter teams up with Uncomfortable Shifty Eyes that I get whenever I'm alone in public.

So there I am once every few days. Wandering aimlessly through Ralph's. Muttering cryptically to myself, "Hamanahmanahamatortillasshoudlbewithbreadhmmuhnuammhammaheuhmwrongaisleahueamnittohell" and so forth. Eyeing every passing stranger with a wild-eyed stare like a frightened animal.

I'm so goddamned glamorous I should get my own HBO Original series and have impressionable young girls comment on how unconventional my beauty is.

Speaking of dirty, rotten show business, I'm a self-absorbed asshole. Every scene in last night's movie where That Dumb Slut would have a grandmotherly conversation with her grandmother, I got all angrybitterhurt about my own stupid issues. I like to think of them as consolation prizes for being born into my family.

One of my grandmothers is on my mother's side of the family and, for the same reason that I cannot live without red envelopes, karaoke, and Mulan (While we're here, FUCK Mulan. Fuck Disney, too. Wannabe-Aryan bastards.), I am not her grandson so much as I am her daughter's son. Only a slight grammatical alteration, I know. But trust me, there are some seventy years, an entire ocean, and a childhood's worth of hurtful confusion in between.

The other grandmother probably couldn't care much less about me ("Yeah, no. Josh couldn't come. Yeah, Josh is pretty great. Yeah, I love that story about Josh. Yeah, I was fat. I love Josh, too.") without still being related to me. Now that I'm not a chubby kid anymore, I don't even get fat jokes when I see her. ("Awww. She called me 'little piggy' in Chinese. I sure am glad you're laughing so I know I'm not allowed to be hurt; I love you too, Nai-nai. Wanna go ride bikes?") It's easy enough to shrug off our awkward silences as a simple language barrier, but I'd like to think that everyone's just a little bit smarter than that. When I finally learn how to write in the Chinese language, I think my first project will be to paint "Hey! Remember me? You know, the one who isn't Josh! :D" on their driveway.

I get the feeling that only I will find that funny, though. Philistines.

Reek of Disingenuity. Mostly Kidding. Quarterly Tradition.

I had a birthday post almost done, but I closed the window on accident and destroyed some twenty minutes' work. Too traumatized to try again for days and days.

Bottom line: I've cared less and less about my birthday since gradeschool, (Immediate self-contradiction in 5, 4, 3, ) but I'm glad for everyone who remembered. (2, 1-- Egads, ahead of schedule!) If I knew how to smile believably on command (That's not a joke. Apparently I cannot summon a smile that does not immediately reek of disingenuity. Even-- especially?-- when that is not my actual intent. "Stop ruining the picture, Chao! Smile for real!" True story; ask Katie.), I would undoubtedly do so nice and big for all the lovely folks who left me messages. And the book is positively entrancing thus far, Kathy. Thank you.

It always makes me feel weird when other people are more excited about my birthday than I am. My mother called me and started implying stuff about "Somebody's birthdaaaaayyyyy." I got incredibly confused as to why she was being so terribly transparent about about her impending birthday until I realized that she was talking about mine. (Eric: September 6th, CeCeChao: September 23rd; so you can understand my confusion.)

In any case, I'm finally 21 years old and I don't really seem to give a damn. Thanks for forcing me out of the womb, mom! It was getting kinda cramped in there. (Eh? Eh? "Cramped"? "Womb"? C'monnnn, menstrual cramps are funny because I don't have them!) Then again, this is the same woman who, on numerous occasions, would tell me that:

1) I wasn't exactly born so much as I was discovered in a dumpster, and subsequently adopted.
2) I wasn't actually her son, but instead her younger sister's son. Then traded to my mother for some unnamed arcane reason. (Gambling debts come first to mind. Poor Auntie Lee never knows when to hit and when to stand.)
3) I was, when I inquired as to where we were going in the car, being taken to the Black Market (a growing problem in Santa Clarita) to be sold off to the highest bidder.

Upon cursory recollection, thanks for nothing Mom! (Mostly kidding.)

Now that we're done with the undue unpleasantry of recapping (and the unintended avenues of digression!), we can start the fun. Wooooo!
(That is the first thing that turns up when I run a Google Image Search for "Wooooo!"? Color-penciled boobies? *head in hands* I, I just can't-- *head in hands*)

Note that it was about 6:00AM when I started this post. I have yet to sleep tonight. I have, within the past two weeks, become almost completely nocturnal. It's kind of nice to shut my eyes as the graying dawn oozes around the edges of my blinds, but trust me when I say that it's pretty goddamned disenchanting when one completely oversleeps through a four-hour LSAT Prep Class. And wakes up at about 4PM on a regular basis.

On the bright side, I am chest-deep in somewhat of a quarterly tradition in this cluttered menagerie of assorted refuse that is my sunny persona. Everytime I get a break from the collegiate world, I inexorably sink myself into a nice, deep malaise. (In hindsight, the words "bright," "side," and "sunny" were all somewhat misleading. Must put out a memo to the legal department.) I used to blame Engineering for turning me into such an emotional wreck once I was free free free, briefly beyond the iron grip of the UC Regents. But now that I've surgically removed the Engineering School from my rectum (You're welcome.), I get to face the yummy fact that I am fundamentally depressing.

Leave me to my own devices, and absolutely nothing will happen. And don't misread the implications of that statement. I mean it completely devoid of benignity. Nothing. Will. Happen. I sit on my ass. Inertia. And I resent myself for it. Both retroactively (Ex post facto be damned.) and for the days, weeks to come.

Brace yourselves for impact, everyone. Conundrum, dead ahead: Do I feel like a fucking waste of space because of my wacky sleep cycle, or do I have a wacky sleep cycle because I feel like a fucking waste of space?

Here comes twilight. Suppose I should go lay down for it.

Cute. Advanced Capitalism. Who Am I Kidding.

Let's give this another whirl.

Went to buy Decemberists tickets for September 13th (hint hint, anyone and everyone), and fucking Ticketmaster decided to get cute with me.
What the HELL, man?

If one looks closely, he can observe where I started trying to decipher the fucking Elven Runes that Ticketmaster has taken to guarding its website with. And where I promptly threw up my tentacles in defeat because they never taught me how to read Fucking Loopy Gibberish in school. I mean god damn it. As if it's not enough that I was willing to pay an extra nine dollars on an eighteen dollar ticket to use their website. Which I'm sure they're milking extra revenue off of based solely upon volume of internet traffic. He nailed it right on the freaking head, man. That's advanced capitalism for you.

Smug little cocksuckers. I can see it already.

Dear Eric,
You are too goddamned stupid to read. Sorry we can't financially rape you by adding an additional 50% overhead to your purchase.

Luv,
Ticketmaster
XOXOXO

P.S. Click some ad banners, kthanks!

Woe upon thee, Corporate America. For yet shall I dine upon sweet, succulent vengeance.

Who am I kidding, I'm just going to go to CTO.

Where Ticketmaster will get their fucking money anyway.

Sigh.

Colin Meloy will be the death of me. *shakes fist*

In other news, been too long away from this thing. Not comfortable back in Blogger's digitally-encoded embrace. Will try to get that loving feeling back. (And in response, a resounding .)