think i just saved the world

I know that I've said I had nothing to say in past entries and then pumped out a rant not unlike a trail of scarves tied together end to end and being pulled from a magician's pocket. But this time, I really have nothing to say. I find that the best method of combating this problem is to immediately cease thinking.

So yeah, I was randomly sifting through the member profiles of people on my AIM buddy list, and one profile included a link to a website entitled "Acts of Gord," along with a single sentence of commentary: "Praise be upon the almighty Gord." Upon question, I discovered that Gord is a man dwelling in the nation of Korea who owns and operates a video game shop, and the site is brimming with humorous experiences he has had with customers. I began reading out of curiosity and am now addicted. I just attempted in vain to spawn a catch-phrase that would immediately sell this website that transcends microwaveable macaroni, toys that squeak when squeezed, and ice cream men, but all I could come up with was an image of the Kool-Aid mascot giving a thumbs-up and saying in his husky cherry-flavored voice, "Oh yeah!" The Bible-esque compilation of encounters with foolish people that is known as "Acts of Gord" is beautiful.

When I watched the film "E.T." when I was four or five years of age (upon saying this, I feel like I should still be able to fit in a PowerWheels Jeep, which is somewhat contradictory considering I was already too large for such a toy by the time they were introduced into the market, even though I would've sold a body part to have one), I found the movie odd and the substance of which nightmares are made, but I couldn't put my finger on why. Since then, I have come to realize what was horribly, horribly wrong about "E.T."

If I saw a prune walking around in my backyard, I would not, I repeat, would not invite it into my home and feed it like some pansy -- I'd kill it. I'd kill it, polish my shotgun as the dust cleared, and then declare, "I think I just saved the world."

You see, my children, this life experience of mine can be applied to the Almighty Gord. E.T. represents the numbfucks of humanity, the types of folk that, as a child, you consider normal, but then grow up to realize are much like raisins on stilts, and then the Almighty Gord busts in and reduces the walking prunes to a smoldering puddle of mush.

Today in math, to radically shift the topic of discussion, we learned that coordinate planes exist in space, and that, to my horror and simultaneous rage, there is a z-axis that seemingly came out of nowhere. The fact that things could be graphed in space never occurred to me, and now I know why. Because my life is not so stripped of meaning that I need to calculate where exactly a lamp exists in space. Who the hell cares? Wasn't it good enough for ancient mathematicians to say, "Hey, there's a lamp," and go do something of greater importance, like constructing a flower chain out of dandelions?

I worked on a web design earlier today. For whatever reason, this one is taking me longer, though the concept seems simple. And since I was plugging incessantly earlier anyway, Pat and I started a "relationship journal" in April, due to something that happened while I visited him during spring break. Pat voiced his observation that we had blinked at the time, which evoked a completely random rampage of sarcastic thoughts on my part: "Oh, did we? We should write this in our relationship journal. It'll be just like a baby book except for our relationship, and then the first entry could be, 'Dear Relationship Journal: Today, Pat and I blinked at the same time.'" Minutes later as Pat was talking to his mom via a cell phone, I pretended to kiss him except took a sharp inhale instead, which resulted in a large accumulation of his spit to be taken into my mouth. Pat looked extremely startled, and I sat in silence wondering if I should be disgusted, or something. Afterwards, much laughing ensued.

I've eaten many things during the course of my short lifetime -- paper, four-leaf clovers, sand, and whatever chemical it is that floats around in a daze inside of glow sticks. But spit, that was a new addition the repertoire.

Anyway, I should probably head off to bed before my sense of humor succeeds in deteriorating even further. G'night.