November 30th, 2007

Don&#39;t Hassle the Hoff

Yeah, I Could Eat

Man, Friday nights are the WORST. Not really in general - in general, Fridays are pretty fuckin' sweet - but as far as the Top Ramen Diet is concerned ... I'm SOOO hungry! See, Monday thru Thursday I'm cool because I get home at 6:30, I've eaten by 7:00, I'm at the gym two hours later, and around 11:30 or midnight I'm drifting off to sleep after watching a South Park repeat online.

But, on Fridays, I have to hit the gym earlier because they close at 10, which means I'm eating at the same time, but I'm at the gym almost an hour earlier, which means I've got this big ol' hunk of time before I'm to bed. And since it's FRIDAY ... I can stay up as late as I want, watch as many episodes of Six Feet Under as I want, listen to as much Against Me! as I want, and drink glass after glass of delicious iced tea until I'm peeing clear every half hour on the half hour. It's a freakin' disaster! Now it's like 10:30 - and EVERY! SINGLE! EPISODE! of Six Feet Under features no less than four eating scenes per hour - and I'm here withering away.

What I REALLY want to do is hit up that Chinese place on the corner and get some steamed pork dumplings, maybe some pork fried rice, and wash it all down with a liter of cola; but I know if I ride this death train through the night, my shrivelling stomach will thank me tomorrow when a fork full of peas will fill me up.

Either my weight has mood swings, or that scale at the gym is seriously fucked up. Yesterday it said 215, today it says 205; I don't know what to believe.

By the way, I'm never eating Hormel Chili as long as I live. So, last weekend was a chili kind of weekend because I saw those groovy buttermilk crackers I like and I figured, HEY, it's Thanksgiving kinda. So, I bought three cans and experienced three straight days of the most foul smelling farts man has ever conceived. It's like my gas WAS the Hormel chili reincarnated and crossed with hard boiled eggs that have been cooked way too long. That's why I was nearly rupturing my innards last weekend on the way to the bar. I was so quick to hit that bar's toilet that I didn't even bother wiping down the seat first; so if I come home and I've got ass parasites or something, don't say I didn't warn you.

Then again, what are you doing getting so friendly with my fuckin' ass parasites anyway?

You're fuckin' sick man, we can't be friends anymore.

Tomorrow at 5pm I'm going to Fun City Tattoo and getting a "Consultation" for my impending new ink. I'm assuming it means they want to see the picture I'm bringing in to see if they can actually do it or not. I hope it's not like a full-fledged interview or something; Where do you see yourself with this tattoo in five years? I suck at interviewing.

And then I think there's some kind of post-Halloween party tomorrow night. I'm going, and I think Jenny/Emily/The Donald are bringing my costume - AND it's in my neck of the woods for a change up here in Astoria - but the only thing I know for certain is that I'll be shitfaced. Because I am.

4 miles in 37 minutes. Because I'm hardcore like that.

I'm supposed to be doing some fiction writing, but I'm starving to death, so maybe I'll get back in there and watch some more Six Feet Under.

I also have the first season of Dexter. And, like, the entire series of Invader Zim. And some Christmas cartoon specials. Because if I don't see the Grinch at least once a year, I get irregular.

Mecka Lecka Hi Mecka Hidey Ho
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