Experience points on a weekly timesheet

If you grew up playing video games, you may have wanted to grow up to be some adventurer who quests for glory and slays evil on a daily basis. You wanted experience points and gold pieces.

Well, now I'm in the real world, and the experience points are now hours on a timesheet. My gold pieces are directly deposited into my checking account every two weeks. My broad sword is a screwdriver and my trusty steed is a white van filled with computer parts.

Something has gone horribly wrong.

(dungeon crawling from 7:30 to 4:30.)

My mouse is like a dog that clicks

Sometimes I'll think about how my desk is like a kingdom and I am king. My chair from Office Max is my throne, and the keys on my keyboard are peasants who must do my will when I command them.

And...uh... my mouse is like a dog... that clicks.

Yeah.

(work.)

I'm not sure how it would work, but the idea of a clicking dog is endearing, even if it means that the dog is very ill.

"What's that clicking sound?"
"My dog."
"What's the deal with that?"
"Gear's loose or something. I don't know, I'm not a veterinarian. Or a mechanic."

Driving my car's corpse home

Right now I'm walking to the repair shop to pick up my dead '92 Crown Victoria.

She was a good car when she wasn't being a piece of shit. She got me where I needed to, provided I didn't mind smelling mold the whole way there while looking through a cracked windshield.

Now I'm off to pick her up, climb inside her dead body, and drive her home in what turned out to be a more complicated metaphor than I'd anticipated.

(Dead car.)

I'm not sure what to do with a dead car. Right now my options are to give my car to some charity organization that feeds broken cars to needy children OR sell it to the repair shop owner's brother so he can put it in a destruction derby. Seriously.

I hope that after I die, nobody reanimates my corpse and makes it fight other corpses in an arena. But then again, you can't always get what you want. If zombie combat is in my lifeless body's future, so be it.

Hot piece of bass

During last night's drunken shenanigans, I gave Amy a call and tried to say sweet things to her:
'Amy, there are a lot of fish in the sea, and I'm glad I've got you. All those other bitches are just minnows. You're a hot piece of bass.'

Of course, that's me remembering it while sober. When I actually said that (the pun was spontaneous, by the way), there's a chance I only mentioned the concepts and butchered the delivery. I could have said:
'You're the only fish I want to have sex with.'

And, knowing Amy, she would have laughed. Best fish to have sex with, indeed.

(Giving Mom a card.)

I bought my mom flowers from Farmer Jack (I am classy), then when I gave them to her she said, "Oh, they're so pretty" and pulled them toward herself. Then I realized that I'd forgotten to remove the price tag, so I pulled the flowers back so I could remove it.

"Oh yeah, hey, look at these flowers. They sure are nice. I'll get them ready, you find a vase."

You have to let your mom feel like she's worth the world, not just the $29.99 you spent on flowers at the grocery store on your way home.

Building fall down go boom (kinda)

I think it's appropriate to watch a university building get torn down after the last day of classes, don't you? Kinda symbolic.

Though I know that some of you reading this don't understand symbols, much less the English language, so let me summarize what I'm doing as simply as possible:

Building fall down go boom.

(Frieze building.)

Correction: The Frieze Building has not yet been torn down. However, there was a weird installation art exhibition in which images were projected on the walls on the Frieze Building while speakers played an audio track featuring people remembering what the Frieze Building meant to them.

If buildings could have funerals, this was the closest I've ever seen to one. Though it should be noted that many testimonials involved people getting drunk and/or sleeping in the building.

I hope that when I die, they project movies on my dead body while people talk about getting drunk and falling asleep inside my ribcage.

Two in a row: money to death

Is there a casual way to tell your grandparents that you can't make rent and that your computer's broken and you can't fix it because you have no money?

If yes, please tell me now, as there's a good chance that I'm trying to do that as you read this.

(Politely begging.)

My grandpa assured me that my money problems are over, at least for now. However, he casually mentioned that a relative recently had a heart attack, then told me that Birdseyes have really bad hearts.

So basically my problems just went from, 'I'm screwed, I have no money' to 'I'm screwed, I'm going to die.'

Looks like I've fallen out of the frying pan and into the ...um... thing that causes heart attacks at a young age. Damn.

(Working out.)

I'm not very good at metaphors.

Sausage in the mac 'n cheese

Putting the sausage in the macaroni and cheese.

That is not a sex innuendo. Sure, sausage could be the boy parts, but macaroni and cheese is not a vagina.

If Interrobang?! ever goes on tour, they will have an album called 'Macaroni and cheese is not a vagina.'

(Sausage and girl parts for dinner.)

Interrobang?! is a band name I've wanted to use I learned what the word meant in creative writing last semester. I've mentioned the fictional band both here and here. If I could make music, I'd have the coolest band t-shirts.

Whenever I have a really inappropriate away message like this one up, I always want the next one to be clean so first time viewers don't think I'm a terrible person. But then the next one is about pooping or the human taint and I still look like a filth monger.