only awesome doughnuts come in pink boxes
12/07/2006 09:07 p.m.
((this is from 28 Oct 2006 | Saturday))

the fax machine beeps in a tone designed specifically to annoy you, designed to get your attention. the beep is followed sincerely by the rolling of the drums that will feed the paper through the machine; delivering a modest facsimile of paperwork which exists somewhere else.

the paperwork that arrives in my office daily comes from the planning department which is located in chicago. we have sales offices in boston, new york, chicago, detroit, dallas, atlanta, nashville, and of course, los angeles. the sales offices generate contracts and contract revisions that are all faxed to the planning department in chicago. once the planning department approves the paperwork it is all faxed to the billing department in los angeles. this is where i work.

i tell you this because i want you to know. i tell you so that the story hereafter will make a little more sense.

the other day my boss pulled two pieces of paperwork off the fax machine. she read them to herself with a grin and then said, "durex and bounty."

if you only knew my boss. if there was only same way i could create a facsimile of her here for you to know of her. so you could know her sense of humor. she says, "durex and bounty," and before she can complete the glance in my direction, before the smirk on her face even resembles anything sinister, before the moment is even complete, before her words have even processed in our co-workers' minds, before any of this, i say, "the quicker picker uppers." and the room erupts into laughter.

there are innuendos galore to made about the similarities between condoms and paper towels. there are thoughts that don't even have to be shared. we could just look at each other and laugh. we would try to fight it but laugh anyway, turn beat red and laugh. there were several moments thereafter where i would walk into my boss's office to ask a question, to clarify something, to double-check, but before i could even get a word out i would have to turn around and walk back to my desk.

the idea was hiding behind everything we said. it was this seed planted in our brains. no pun intended.

so when the fax machine delivered us paperwork for "out of the box publishing" all bets were officially off. all concentration went out the window. everything was an innuendo. everything was a joke. everything was a pun. everything was seven levels of perversity.

we went there.

that same morning my boss had brought in these incredibly awesome gourmet doughnuts called butterflies from this mom and pop bakery in west los angeles. they are what heaven tastes like. no lie. well, they come in this nifty pink box. it must be a rule somewhere that awesome doughnuts must come in a pink box. otherwise they are not awesome.

anyway, that pink box ended up in the trash next to my desk. and midway through the day i had a cup of tea. i threw the tea bag away and it landed on the pink box. it made the pink box wet.

i'll leave it at that.

in closing, last night matt and i dressed up for a halloween party as the sanchez brothers. we wore sombreros and cut holes in towels to wear them as ponchos. and to top it off we wore fake mustaches. he was pedro and i was dirty.
I am currently Scattered
I am listening to tool.

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a single chapter from a single story
08/13/2006 02:59 a.m.
THE BOY WITH SALTY EYES

For proverbial or non-proverbial reasons I feel like the glass is half empty. Maybe because the glass in front of me is half empty, because I drank half. The idea being that somehow my perception of the glass in relation to its contents reflects my personality in some rudimentary way. I finish drinking. Now the glass is either empty or its full of nothing. Either way I look like a pessimist who ruined, i.e. drank, the punch-line.

He's standing across from me with tears in his eyes and he's washing dishes. Whether or not I caused these tears is the least of my worries. He drops a glass in the sink and it only perpetuates the tears more. The glass breaks. Something else does too. A dam of some sort.

What you have to understand about me is I'm a nobody. You've probably passed me on the sidewalk and you didn't even notice me. I'm covered in skin but it feels more like Saran Wrap. I'm the invisible one. People look through me. Actually, they see me, in fact sometimes they respond to me, but I end up being that guy. The forgettable one.

If I left my job it'd take less than a month before people would forget my name, or remember my name but forget my face, before they'd forget me all together. I'm like the city in the middle of the state that nobody knows about. You're from where?

The worst part is that I'm not even sure I remember myself sometimes. That's how pathetic this story is. I'm that miserable. This is the part where author and character divide and one says to the other, "Maybe I shouldn't write all this in first person, people might know who I'm talking about."

So, he's that invisible. As he watched another boy cry from arm's length away. He looks at the tears in what appears to be a sense of jealousy. Yes, jealousy. The tears can be seen and felt and tasted. The tears serve a purpose. They are short lived, but they carry more weight than he's ever felt. He knows he will never effect anyone the way these tears effect this boy.

He's that sad.

He's never been loved. Never been held in a loving, intimate embrace. At least not one that carried equal weight for both parties involved. He's technically a virgin and he's fucking lost. He's the type of character that Sundance movies try to capture. He's noteworthy but tragic. He's a genuine loser. An average Joe, with parts less average.

He's scarred. Emotionally and physically. And he wears sunglasses the way many losers wear bifocals. His head is oddly shaped and his penis is small. Parts less average. Not even his tattoo can make up for the areas in life where he lacks.

What he wants to say to the boy with the tears is something sympathetic. What he wants to do is protect and help and heal. What he wants is to not feel like anything he could do would just make things worse.

For the boy with the tears the glass is always half full. And he's always standing by with a jug or a bottle of liquid to fill it back up. For the boy with tears the glass is always full of something. Maybe this is why the boy with tears cries more when the glass in the sink breaks; because for the first time the glass is truly empty. Although the boy with tears will soon rationalize, it is no longer a glass. The pathetic boy sees this and he idolizes it.

The boy with tears looks at the him and for the first time in a while he feels like he's being seen. He's being looked at. Even though the boy with tears looks displeased and unsatisfied with him, he's still being seen. Nobody has ever looked at him like that. Not with those eyes. Not in that way.

He feels, for the first time, like he's effecting somebody. Unfortunately for him it's someone that does not wish to be effected. Not in this way and not by him.

He will rationalize that there is not one person in the entirety of his existence, in the length of his life, he will not meet one person who is willing to look at him. There will never be someone who wants to see him. He knows this now and can somehow accept it because the boy with the tears proved something. He proved something with the look in his eyes. With the stress on the veins in his neck. With the strength in which he tried to fight the tears. The boy with tears responded to him.

Be it for a lack of words, or a lack of purpose, or an abundance of insecurities, for whatever proverbial or non-proverbial reason, he stands and he walks away from the only person who ever truly showed him something. He takes what the boy with tears was willing to give and he is unable to pay it back. He will never be able to pay him back.

It won't be long before the tears dry and the boy who had them will forget all about the boy he helped. It won't be long before the boy with tears will forget the other boy's name, or remember his name but forget his face. Soon enough he'd forget him all together.


I am currently Empty

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monkey see. monkey do. [part two]
06/21/2006 04:50 p.m.
you are born into a sign. a plethora of signs, actually, that await you on the day of your birth. culture after culture has tried to figure people out in regards to how the day of their birth aligns them with the world around them, with elements, with stars, with other people. astrologically i'm a virgo. according to the chinese zodiac i'm a monkey. a metal monkey.

according to the somewhat believable probability of it all, i am very intelligent and have a very clever wit. because of my extraordinary nature and magnetic personality, i am always well-liked. i, however, as a monkey, must guard against being an opportunist and distrustful of other people. my sign promises success in any field i try.

it is still intriguing to me that we as people want to relate so badly to the idea that there is something more to life, that there are signs and paths and predictions and fate and promise and purpose and possibility. it's intriguing to me because i enjoy the ability and the desire to ask questions, to seek truth and reason, i feel bad for those who subscribe to one defined meaning, to one god, to one church, and fail to accept the notion that just maybe there is something else at work.

people born in the year of the monkey are the erratic geniuses of the cycle. clever, skillful, and flexible, they are remarkably inventive and original and can solve the most difficult problems with ease. there are few fields in which monkey people wouldn't be successful but they have a disconcerting habit of being too agreeable. they want to do things now, and if they cannot get started immediately, they become discouraged and sometimes leave their projects. although good at making decisions, they tend to look down on others. having common sense, monkey people have a deep desire for knowledge and have excellent memories. monkey people are strong willed but their anger cools quickly.

on friday, june 14th, 2002, i wrote the following in my first blog entry on livejournal; Sometimes I wonder if we try too hard to relate to results. I hate labels but ironically I find comfort in fitting into a personality category such as the one above. I read through all the other possible results and it just so happens that this description is the closest thing to me, or rather the person whom I think I am. I'm still working on that, "you are at peace with yourself," thing. But the words above fit me perfectly, especially after my trips out west. Don't get me wrong I recognize its simplicity and vagueness but nonetheless I was comforted by reading it.

funny how that works. living in circles. you can't escape your past; it'll always catch up with you. bayley and i have had several zodiac-related conversations recently, for a multitude of reasons. searching for answers, maybe. looking for approval from some other source, perhaps. seeking evidence that we are in fact on the right track. be it our addiction to lost, our intrigue with coincidences, or our undeniable quest for meaning, whatever it is, it's there and we talk about it.

funny how i sat here, acknowledging my metal-monkey-ness and i remembered that i had written a very similar blog way back when. the first blog. the beginning. the belong. and i find that it is true that throughout my life there have always been clues, always been hints of what was and what would be. signs in numbers, in words, in music, in movies, in things that go unnoticed until they all of a sudden acquire purpose.

i was sitting in a tattoo parlor with steve and tom, i knew what tattoo i really wanted but it was too big and too expensive, and so i debated for hours. we talked about all the tattoos i used to want. the significance of things past. numbers that used to mean something. finally i decided on the chinese symbol for monkey. and so i make the most irreversible decision of my life so far, to be branded, to be inked, to mark myself with a symbol. so it is written, and so it shall be done.

character development. [part one]
05/31/2006 02:41 p.m.
hello my name is _______. my real name is francis. mostly people call me frankie. my dad calls me frank. some people call me freddie. still others call me dirty. these are just names.

these are just words.

these are intervals of time. that add up to days. and these days seem like they're all bleeding into one. packed in deserts, long car rides, in airport terminals, transporting effortlessly from one soon-to-be-memory to the next. and for all the memories i've experienced lately, i've been married to none of them. they all feel like flings, like one-night stands, and each one semi-sort-of embodies the next one.

a little more than two weeks ago i was camping out in the desert to experience the experience that is coachella. initially i had planned on writing an extensive blog about these few days, but for some reason i never did. maybe because i spent a week recovering from two days in desert conditions, maybe because on the last day there i slept poorly, smoked some extravagant pot, drank liquor on an empty stomach, took benadryl to ease my sinus problem, and ate very little... maybe these two days of my life are forever lost in the haze of desert heat and the vibrant intensity that is and was daft punk.

maybe the haze of desert heat and the vibrant intensity of daft punk are forever lost in my inability to recollect a coherent amount of details. maybe not. maybe my disappointment in the madonna performance effected my desire to write about my days at coachella. maybe it was the stench of sun-heated port-a-potties. maybe it was... something else.

so there was daft punk that closed the saturday night show and that was... holy shit! and then there was tool whom closed the entire event on sunday night. and then there was tool... i find that it is beyond me to try and capture tool in words. so i won't try. you simply had to be there.

the crowds at coachella were enormous. we were herds of people grazing through a desert landscape, scattered with signs of artistic impressions. we were hippies; but nothing like the original kind. we were musical addicts looking for a fix.

these are just thoughts.

fast forward two weeks or so and i'm flying to chicago. it is mother's day weekend and i am flying into chicago to graduate from college. this will be a long story made incredibly short: wednesday; eleven fifty-five pm, my flight departs from los angeles, thursday; six am, my flight lands in chicago, tom and steve show up to surprise me at the airport, we go to clark's, steve takes exams while tom and i sleep, we wake up, we go to a tattoo parlor, we each get a tattoo...

friday; afternoon-ish i meet up with d.capone for brunch at bongo room, the food is delicious she pays as a graduation gift, we meet up with my parents at the monaco hotel at wabash and wacker, my family and i head to giordano's for chicago-style deep dish pizza, then i depart and head to sean halvorsen's apartment for a keg party in honor of his graduation, we get drunk...

saturday; met up with parents again, they take me to morton's steak house for dinner, the food is amazing, the bill is phenomenal, we eat and laugh and drink and laugh and eat, i head back to steve's, i head back downtown and meet up with nicole at miller's pub, we have chocolate martinis, three to be exact and she pays as a graduation gift...

sunday; before heading to the uic pavilion i have a drink with my parents in the hotel bar, then we take a cab to the pavilion and i graduate, we're all happiness, monday; morning we meet up downtown, i give my family one last walking tour of downtown chicago, including my old apartment, we eat lunch at portillo's and then head to the airport, my flight landed in los angeles at seven:fifteen pm.

everything i just shared, even the missing pieces in the middle, all of it meant so much more than i anticipated. i appreciated every moment of that weekend and can not thank all the people involved enough for all of their love and support. this is me expressing love for you.

and so, that is where i am at, the things that i am still digesting while my life in los angeles continues to take shape, while my life in los angeles continues to take flight. there is so much more that i have to share... this blog is rushed, lacking in insight and failing to communicate the greater things at work in my life.

let us consider this part one of a blog series. this is the setup. the opening sequence. this is character development. i am the narrator.

[insert musical score by danny elfman.]

this is... to be continued.

storm clouds, snails, and soulmates
03/12/2006 07:46 p.m.
the weather in southern california has been everything short of what you'd expect it to be, especially if you're from the east coast and have never been here and have all these fanciful illusions of what the weather is supposed to be like on this side of the country.

i live in the san fernando valley, surrounded by mountains. and on weekends like this all of those mountains are halo-ed by thick, dark, ominous clouds and the weather is just as moody as most of the people who are crazy enough to call los angeles home.

case in point: driving down to hollywood today, the clouds opened up above me and it hailed. yes, hailed. according to the weather.com encyclopedia, hail is precipitation in the form of a chunk of ice that can fall from a cumulonimbus cloud. usually associated with multicell, supercell and cold front induced squall line thunderstorms, most hail falls from the central region of a cloud in a severe storm.

and it hails in california. who knew?

the weather here, especially during what they consider winter, is manic, bipolar, pensive, abrupt, and mysterious. it's almost as if the weather on the east coast had a one-night stand with the weather in the midwest and they spawned an oddity... with mood swings.

and the rain. oh, the rain. when it downpours here, trees fall. they fall from the abundant saturation. i've seen trees fall in massachusetts but usually it's from wind and or lightning, not rain. in massachusetts trees drink rain.

what sucks most is coming home on a rainy day or night to realize that the closest parking space available is a good hike from your apartment. that sucks cause you know you'll get wet and you'll have to dodge puddles, rivers of water that run alongside the curb, and of course the falling trees. it's somewhat like an old, bizarre arcade game. pitfall.

and you're running through the rain across wet pavement without incident until you hear that small crunch beneath your sneaker. you think potato chip, but it can't be. you think crusty leaf, but it can't be. you think crunchy taco supreme, but of course it's not that. you think shell, hard shell, snail shell, and that's when you look down and see the legion of snails that have ascended upon the rain-washed pavement. you think where in the hell do they all come from? you think please don't leave a mess on the bottom of my shoe.

if you're five years old and you have this experience you run into the house and you run to your dependable caretaker and you ask away with questions about snails and shells and rain and where they all come from, and if snails go to shell dealerships, and you ask and ask and ask until you get the answer that you want.

when you're twenty five this option does not exist.

the greatest explanation that you and your friends can conjure is that rain-wet pavement is the snail world equivalent to slip-n-slide. and that snails live in trees. and that snails would have a much longer life span if their shells were neon orange. if you're a snail, why be camouflaged?

regardless of shell color, i'll always be left wondering why snails move so slow and yet as soon as there is any sign of moisture they appear in clusters like stars do when the sun goes down.

things that make you go... hmmm.

remember that song? it's one of those songs that remind you of something, like i will forever remember my uncle tom when i hear it. weird how music has that power, how it is essential in every facet of our lives. i wonder if the height of music's importance in human life was effected at all by the motion picture soundtrack. if so, i wonder what life were like before music, before soundtracks, before pop culture, before life was merely a matter of references to something else.

and i wonder who was the first person to conjure the idea of the soulmate. it's a complex theory really, that two people can somehow be meant for each other on a level so indescribable, so undefined, that the connection can only be coat-hangered onto the very part of our existence that is equally mysterious; the soul. you have the soul, and the soulmate. there's a catchy slogan in there somewhere. it's kind of on the same idea as; ipod. meet bose.

i could glorify the soulmate idea to no end. i'll refrain. the conditioning is that no one can actually describe in certain measures what constitutes soulmate-ability, it's just something that you know if you find it. if you feel it. for me it came from a person who altered my life long before they stepped foot into it. it's a numbers game. literally and figuratively. just like clouds and snails and stars and signs. each defined with labels and science and explanation and references to other things that have already been defined and labeled and explained.

what if we really could ask the same question over and over until we got the answer we wanted? what if we really could ask the same question over and over until we got the answer we wanted? what if we really could ask the same question over and over until we got the answer we wanted? you get the idea. sometimes it's better to feel life out, to set aside any expectations, to make up your own answers, to live life as if it were merely a build up for the encore.

the author breaks to sip his diet coke. light it up.

in the immortal words of alanis morissette; we all needed something to cling to, so we did. and that's life. it is what it is.

with fidelity & infatuation. _frankie.
[es deus in nobis.]
I am currently Bored
I am listening to U.S.E. & Sparks

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terminator
01/28/2006 08:08 a.m.
i love logging into pathetic just to watch my comment counter slowly ease its way to zero as i watch member after member get terminated...

the recently terminated list gets more play than a benchwarmer... i don't know.


I am currently Detached
I am listening to inxs

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oxygen supply
11/25/2005 06:38 a.m.
i'm concerned. i feel as though a greater portion of southern california is suffering from a shortage in the oxygen supply department. i'm pretty sure that if anyone were to do research in this area they would find the oxygen molecule count, when compared to most high-volume american cities, is low. this i assure you is the case in regards to a scale of oxygen volume per square mile per person.

just look at the trees. they're mostly bark and the leaves hang really high. it's a wonder that anyone can breath around here. seriously.

in other (semi-relative) news, i have found that my life out here, on the edge, is pure chaos. as california slips ever-so politely into the ocean... my life slips ever-so delicately into a foreign abyss. i no longer know myself.

my job is to sell compusa products for $8 an hour.
my cell phone is shut off.
my driver-side mirror is smashed.
my bank account has been hit with a -$211 "check deposit adjustment."
my bedroom is a mess.
my apartment isn't mine.
my family won't see me until sometime next year.
and my rent will be due in about a week.

happy thanksgiving. to anyone not held up at gun point this year, i hope you found something to be thankful for. i pine to insert some sarcastic native american reference here, but i know in the long run few would actually get it.

a world full of people, and none of them want to fly... isn't that crazy?

I am currently Bleh

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boys like turtles
10/22/2005 09:37 a.m.
traitor. i'm going to be that guy. soon enough i'll be considered a california resident. i'll have a california driver's license. i'll be here full-time. when i was living in chicago i never thought much about being an illinois resident, i guess i always knew that chicago was temporary and transitional. but this west coast thing is much more climactic and surreal and permanent.

thus, coming "home" is going to feel weird now. i'll be the guy who dreamt big and moved big and for many the move alone is accomplishment enough. however, for a few, myself included, the move should only be the catapult; accomplishment denotes success and success is something that i'm still working towards. much like maturity, stability, and independence.

have at it once and you haven't had it at all.

i wish i could articulate something more about the issue of going home. i'm losing something in the translation from brain to words. i wish home had a name like elizabethtown or garden state. instead i'm working with lynn and/or bay state as alternative names for home, and neither says enough about where i'm from.

either name, somehow i feel like going back there comes with the expectation that i will have a halo or less ear wax or a better figure or darker skin or a larger bank account or better credit or more connections or an agent or something about me that breeds spectacle. and, um, i'd hate to let my homies down but go ahead and paint a portrait tonight and that'd be slightly more accomplishment than i have to show. seriously.

catapult.

automotive horns should no longer be allowed to be used as a device that might move the car in front of you. listen. the car in front of you wants to move just as badly as you do, and when the driver (aggressive or not) feels comfortable taking that left-hand turn into on-coming traffic, they will. so please, stop beeping. your horn is not a magical instrument that can propel objects forward. take this opportunity to rediscover patience.

furthermore, once said car and driver do advance on the turn this does not give you (the beeper) authority to accelerate beyond your car's potential past them in order to prove how big your balls are. you are still impatient and in the end you look only more like an asshole. save the aggression for something significant, like sex with your intern, or that s&m class you planned with your spouse, or yelling at a televised sporting event, or better yet, save it for that moment when your over-compensating esuvee does a triple-lutz and lands top-down on a median somewhere and you're ushered to the gates of hell where you and your limbless body can release your stress on satan himself.

catapult.

starbucks employees. unite and listen carefully. you know what a medium is. stop kidding yourself and stop correcting me. bite your tongue, ring me up, take my money, and if you let my use of the word medium slip by then you might just get a grande tip. thanks.

catapult.

cities should be retro-fitted with better public transportation. no longer should we remain concerned merely about older buildings that do not have appropriate sprinkler systems. we should also be concerned with the city entirely. i recommend that every city herein should be burnt down in the style of the great chicago fire and then rebuilt with convenience in mind. based on the size of the city and the size of the population, the more accurate and accessible the public transport system should be. simply providing buses does not count. the buses have to go somewhere. creating a transport authority isn't sufficient enough either. start from scratch and realize that if traffic is continuously getting worse than we are doing something wrong. i'll get the matches.

catapult.

unrequited love should be outlawed. and people in love should not flaunt it. heartache aside. we should not have to fret over why every person we ever want a relationship with finds some way to convince us that we're better off as friends. look, if it's unrequited then it's elevator music. everyone on board is aware of it but everyone on board wants to ignore it. pick a floor and get off. and those of you who found an elevator without music... you have no right to brag. i know you well enough to know that you've been on our elevator before.

catapult.

dishwashers should actually wash dishes. otherwise they are dishrinsers and thus they serve no true purpose. if i wanted a dishrinser i would just find another roommate. i shouldn't have to wash a dish before and after i put it in the dishwasher. this is non-sensical. putting high pressure water jets and soap dispensers in a machine is obviously not enough. all dishwashers should be made with the same technology. nothing less. maybe it is time for recalls and free replacements.

catapult.

someone needs to tell chinese restaurants that there is a grammatically correct way to use the word we when in any one of the following formats:

re: it ain't easy being (blank)
10/21/2005 12:30 a.m.
i find myself longing for the days when the looney toons were thugged-out on excessively large t-shirts, wearing african colors and waving pot leafs and peace signs. i long for the days when friends still loved you when you wore such attire. everything was so much easier then. wasn't it?

this question plagues me. in some aspect things as a child seemed so much easier because we were, at the time, blind to relevance and consequence, learning the world around us, and trying (albeit under the illumination of imagination) to make the best of what we had.

i realize now however that these adventures in childhood only support my delusions now, only anchor the person i am, and act only to yank us mentally back to a time when things weren't so disenchanted -- only to realize now that those childhood moments are saturated in precursors and evidence of the person we were to become.

i have been on the move from massachusetts to illinois to california and many points between and as i sit here in a valley in southern california trying to build a career without an erector set, trying to network without k'nex, and attempting to form foundation without legos... i kind of feel lost. where did all the simplicity disappear to?

my final collegiate semester just ended and, well, it was abrupt and... disenchanting. the last few weeks have been an annoyance of trying to find a car, a job, an internship, money, pay bills, a new apartment, keep friends, return calls, maintain cell phone minutes, network, mingle, develop a short student indi project, write, revise previous writing ventures, career, career, career.

deep breath before swearing. fcuk. fcuk. fcuk.

and the worst part is that i don't want to fall into a cycle where i'm doing something here that i could just do back home. i came here for a reason, i have something to prove (both to myself and otherwise) and i can not give up. trust me, this is a different environment out here. this place requires a certain amount of patience and persistence; an equal balance of which, i'm told, exists somewhere. and for the record, los angeles may as well be as spread apart as boston is to chicago, it's big, and it is full of eager people.

so in order to allow convenience in regards to finding a job, working it, and also aiming for an internship, i found a decent used car that i went ahead and purchased. it's not much but it's cheap and it works. i figure that there is no cake without a few broken eggs and sometimes you have no choice bu to take risks in life. so by week's end i will have myself a mode of transport that hopefully will earn me some freedom and more leg room in this overtly expansive community.

above all i need to keep inspired and stay creative.

that said, i'm still wondering why it's so hard to get people to read long pieces of poetry, and my dinner smells about ready... take care.

best,
frankie

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chocolate chip cookie conundrum
08/07/2005 11:16 p.m.
what i was never any good at was that challenge in grade school where the teacher would hand you a chocolate chip cookie and a toothpick; the idea being that you have to mine the cookie and excavate all the chocolate chips without cracking the cookie. i was never any good at it. at all. in fact, the few times i had to do it, i despised it.

i was the fat kid sitting at his desk thinking, i'm just gonna crack the cookie so i can eat it.

and then there was always that one kid who could do it, and do it good. and although i'm not quite clear what lesson plan this little challenge was juxtaposed to, i am pretty sure that given that kid's chocolate excavating skills, he's definitely pumping gas somewhere.

i can barely pick crap out of my braces with toothpicks and you want me to accurately dissect a cookie? i'd rather go play in traffic, and then write about all the other kids' adventures in cookie mining.

adam officially used his tongue to lather the toothpick, thus softening the cookie dough making it easier to free the chips. he plans on reincarnating the spirit of the california gold rush. chips ahoy!

so distraught that toothpicks could be used for something other then hors d'oeuvres, samantha plans on developing an arts and crafts catalogue based on the many unknown functions of the misunderstood toothpick.

robert ate his toothpick before pocketing the cookie.

william compares this cookie exercise to the ever-popular home game known as operation, he fails to suggest that the cookie should be electrified or that the home game should come with wooden tweezers.

tweezers. if i was smart enough to complete this circular thought when i was in grade school i would have suggested that the following week we should have tried removing the cookie dough chunks from cookie dough ice cream without melting any, using only a pair of tweezers. now that'd be tons of sticky fun.

and you'll never believe who holds the two thousand and four record for eating the most toothpicks in x amount of time...

now if we're talking about keeping an egg for a week, without breaking it, and treating it like a child, oh i am your man. especially if at the end of the week we get to build a contraption to put the egg inside... and then we get to drop that contraption off the top of the school fire escape. oh sign me the **** up!

mine was always made of styrofoam bowls, lined with wads and wads of cotton, taped together, and dressed with a handkerchief parachute.

don't ask what brought these thoughts on. all i know is that last night i had a few beers too many and on the way home i stopped in a grocery store and bought milk, tide with febreeze, ice cream, and chocolate chip cookies.

and thinking about grade school has thus reminded me of a girl whose name i think was lisa. this chick could draw like a mother. i mean she had talent. and her nose was enormous. and she was afraid of sports, specifically soccer.

done, and done.

I am currently Hyper
I am listening to iPod

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