rat-ridden tacos and gold stars

Damn, today's been the epitome of lame. When I got home this morning, I discovered that Pat had called me, after pressuring my dad into scouring his memory. Even so, Pat is rapidly ascending the ladder of my dad's memory. It took Resa several years to establish some sort of an identity other than a random yo-yo wandering the face of the earth, and even after knowing her for approximately eight years, she's still known as 'that girl down the street' as far as my dad is concerned. However, despite the fact that Pat has not yet gained the approval of our cats, within months he's been upgraded from 'Kate's whatever-you-call-it' to 'Bob or Pat or Fred.'

So yeah, even though I managed to return Pat's call twenty minutes later, he somehow managed to fall asleep within that frame of time, according to his mom. I scowled in disappointment, as that meant Pat hadn't gotten any sleep the previous night. It scares the hell out of me that he goes four or five days in a row without sleeping.

But anyway, Resa got ahold of me soon thereafter, and told me she'd pick me up right away so we could go to the Mall of America in order to scout out hot guys. They're especially prominent around the escalator elevating in front of Cereal Adventure. Since bishounen-hunting� is pathetically boring without the accompaniment of Ryan, he agreed to meet us in front of a popular restaurant along with his boyfriend, who we were eager to meet. After an hour and a half of sitting slumped over in uncomfortable wooden benches waiting for them, we left, angry and bitter that most of the day had been shot in such a pointless and maddening manner. We ended up circling the entire mall before exiting the building in search of popcorn. You'd think a store whose main assets included popcorn would be able to pop mildly tasty p-corn, but somehow they managed to ruin it with their artificial butter and whatnot.

That, and you'd think it'd be pretty laborious to jack up popcorn, but obviously it's possible to do so. You know what else you'd think would be difficult to slaughter? Tacos. I mean, let's face it, you shuck some ground beef into a store-bought tortilla and the lemonade stand is in business. It almost seems as though it's near my ability level, as far as cooking is concerned. Nevertheless, some taco shack up the street from here succeeded in completely sabotaging my opinion of tacos. My guess is that they were inspired by the enterprising advertisements in the hot dog industry, because whatever the hell it was that they stuffed that taco with tasted like deep-fried rat. Not that I've ever tasted rat, but it doesn't take much effort to imagine that sort of thing, especially with my raging intelligence and maturity and whatnot. And my dad not being able to stomach that shit-in-an-imitation-tortilla, that's alarming, more so than Jesse Ventura getting voted into office as Minnesota's governor. Because, you see, this is how the game's played in my family: 'Goddamn, this tastes like it should be recalled. Here, Dad, you eat it.' And, more often than not, he will. If it fills his gut, he gives it a gold star of approval.

This just further emphasizes my claim made in the first sentence of this entry if I've been reduced to rat-ridden tacos and gold stars.

� Bishounen translates literally from Japanese into 'beautiful boy.'