Happy Valentine's DaROBOTROBOTNEEDSSKINROBOTNEEDSYOURSKINROBOTROBOTROBOTSKINROBOTROBOTSKINROBOTNEEDSROBOTSKINOILROBOTSKINROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTROBOTSKIN
This morning I composed some fortune cookie fortunes, but they would work equally well for V-Day greeting cards:
A renegade robot from the future will tear off your skin and draw it over its own angular robot body, then assume your identity and stalk around the city, dismembering those you love.
Prepare to be hacksawed.
Saddle up the next rabid dog you find.
Your last date stole a pair of your underwear, and masturbates into them nightly.
Doomed!
Yes, it's true: I am a romantic. Obviously. In fact, I even got Sarah a gift—but I hid it so well that even I can't find it. This is what happened:
Sarah came home. I was in her room w/the box from Amazon, so I dropped it through the laundry chute (if you played Clue at our house, you may know that the laundry chute leads from Sarah's room to the Transformers Pavilion). Later that night Bunny showed up with a busted tire and there was some tequila and I retrieved the boxed gift and have no idea where I hid it after that.
So: balls.
I considered giving Amish the ultimate V-Day gift: a telephone haranguing.
ME: Amish! Happy Valentine's Day!
AMISH: Fuck yo—
ME: What'd you give yourself? A protective layer of callouses?!
ANDY: What'd you give yourself? Some LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBE?.
But I shan't do that, for by the then robot from the future will already have skinned him, and he'll just be a quivering, moaning pile of muscle, fat, tendons, and other gloop.
But Amish mockery aside, I am quite distraught over the loss of Sarah's gift.
In answer to the comment thread on my previous post, yes, I hang up on a lot of people in the line of my job/looking for a place to stay. It involves this formula:
Time + Retardation = Frustration
Continued Retardation + Frustration = Me hanging up
For example, the last time Wellsy saw me hang up, the landlord . . . couldn't get through his head-- It was something about—- we asked for a nine month lease, and he, sort of annoyed, said "well, I want at least a six month," so I said something about the nine, and he was like "at least SIX." And then the killer was when he asked for rental references and I said we'd all been successfully renting for years and he got pissy with me and then FUCK IM!
Okay, maybe I do have a low tolerance for these people.
Over the weekend I was (un)fortunate enough to hear some older people talk about the evils of alcohol, drinking, etc. Right when this discussion hit its soppy, melodramatic, blood-on-the-windshield zenith, I remembered Rominger's Pop Wright story from almost a decade ago, Rominger standing in the high school library, telling us and his other classmates and his teachers and the motivational Pop Wright how his friends in Burlington were out partying, out drinking on their boat, ignoring speed warnings. "Hit a barge," he said. "Killed em all." And, back in the present time, I could not stop laughing.
I intend to see Rominger this weekend.
I also intend to catch Wes on the rebound. And fuck him. Or maybe I'll just tip off Amish. There's nothing that patches up heartbreak like a sticky patch of Amish's thigh hair.
A renegade robot from the future will tear off your skin and draw it over its own angular robot body, then assume your identity and stalk around the city, dismembering those you love.
Prepare to be hacksawed.
Saddle up the next rabid dog you find.
Your last date stole a pair of your underwear, and masturbates into them nightly.
Doomed!
Yes, it's true: I am a romantic. Obviously. In fact, I even got Sarah a gift—but I hid it so well that even I can't find it. This is what happened:
Sarah came home. I was in her room w/the box from Amazon, so I dropped it through the laundry chute (if you played Clue at our house, you may know that the laundry chute leads from Sarah's room to the Transformers Pavilion). Later that night Bunny showed up with a busted tire and there was some tequila and I retrieved the boxed gift and have no idea where I hid it after that.
So: balls.
I considered giving Amish the ultimate V-Day gift: a telephone haranguing.
ME: Amish! Happy Valentine's Day!
AMISH: Fuck yo—
ME: What'd you give yourself? A protective layer of callouses?!
ANDY: What'd you give yourself? Some LUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBE?.
But I shan't do that, for by the then robot from the future will already have skinned him, and he'll just be a quivering, moaning pile of muscle, fat, tendons, and other gloop.
But Amish mockery aside, I am quite distraught over the loss of Sarah's gift.
In answer to the comment thread on my previous post, yes, I hang up on a lot of people in the line of my job/looking for a place to stay. It involves this formula:
Time + Retardation = Frustration
Continued Retardation + Frustration = Me hanging up
For example, the last time Wellsy saw me hang up, the landlord . . . couldn't get through his head-- It was something about—- we asked for a nine month lease, and he, sort of annoyed, said "well, I want at least a six month," so I said something about the nine, and he was like "at least SIX." And then the killer was when he asked for rental references and I said we'd all been successfully renting for years and he got pissy with me and then FUCK IM!
Okay, maybe I do have a low tolerance for these people.
Over the weekend I was (un)fortunate enough to hear some older people talk about the evils of alcohol, drinking, etc. Right when this discussion hit its soppy, melodramatic, blood-on-the-windshield zenith, I remembered Rominger's Pop Wright story from almost a decade ago, Rominger standing in the high school library, telling us and his other classmates and his teachers and the motivational Pop Wright how his friends in Burlington were out partying, out drinking on their boat, ignoring speed warnings. "Hit a barge," he said. "Killed em all." And, back in the present time, I could not stop laughing.
I intend to see Rominger this weekend.
I also intend to catch Wes on the rebound. And fuck him. Or maybe I'll just tip off Amish. There's nothing that patches up heartbreak like a sticky patch of Amish's thigh hair.
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