i want a pet horse testicle, i think

I wanted to write a diary entry before hitting the sack, but my mom kept nagging me to sign off so she could rest up for work without the volley of tikkity-tiks from my typing and the emanating glow of the computer screen. Besides, writing a diary entry with pen and paper makes me feel as though I'm not so much of a "Grade A"-carton-of-eggs nerd. Good ol' pen and paper.

Before signing offline, I was browsing various diaries, and came across one in particular in which a man told of his experience having horse testicles as a pet. I was unsure as to whether I should laugh, grimace in horror, or find myself a horse with testicular cancer. I mean, the guy did seem to love his jarred horse testicles like a child, and he was even willing to change their rubbing alcohol daily so they could remain fresh. In addition, I could think of more than one person I would thoroughly enjoy offering a cookie and then presenting a sweating jar filled with bloody horse testicles.

Present:

I just received this instant message -- peep it:

What the hell? What was he expecting me to say? "Excuse me, let me phone the NRTNPC (National Resa Tracking Network for the Psychically Challenged) and have a slew of ripped bodyguards clad in trench coats and sunglasses comb through the entire metro area of Minnesota and have her flown out to you in an iridescent private jet, because I will not permit my physical body to die until I have seen an iridescent jet cruising through the skies"?

Hot damn, I wish I had thought of that before typing "Dunno." Might as well hook the drool bucket up to my face and let my head nod off to the side while I attempt to make large bubbles of spit.

Anyway, back to our previously scheduled program.

Last night:

The man's pickled horse testicles remind me of those pretend snakes that explode out of peanut brittle cans, except there's no peanut brittle and it's horse testicles instead of spring-loaded snakes. I bet if that man ever got a hold of a hamster, he would force it to run in its wheel all the day long (kind of like the same deal you get with a sweatshop) and try to harness the power therein like a twisted little windmill of mystery, ghastly happenings, and possibly death if you fall in the over-80 category.

Today, Resa and I walked up to the SA and bought some Sobe energy drinks. Under the cap, mine read, "They can beat us, but they can't eat us." It was oddly inspiring, like buying a tub of fat-free fudge ice cream and trying to convince yourself that you didn't just screw yourself over upon purchasing such a delicacy. Sure, there may be no fat, but the sugar substitute they use instead probably has the potency of cooking your face in a microwave. I mean, if people smoke and inject heroin, why the hell not, right?

I think the fact that I'm slowly rocking back and forth is supposed to serve as an indication to get the fuck to bed.

Goodnight.

Present:

Goodnight indeed.