Let The Comments Help You Solve This

Text of an ancient Babylonian scripture was recently found in the desert.

What people were doing out there is left to your imagination.

The National Institute of Random Things will host the document stateside.

Whether or not the document is authentic is still up for debate.

It Is Apparent That I Have A Stalker

Headbutt.

A bit of backstory...Jess and I are at the local grocery store getting stuff to make strawberry shortcake and cereal (not to be eaten together). While in the cereal aisle, I put down our container of strawberries on a box of cereal. Apparently this is when chaos decided to rear its head.

A man was standing near my strawberries. I looked in his general direction, only to make sure of one thing: do not take my strawberries weird man. I go over to retake control of my strawberries, when this man starts talking to me.

And continues to keep talking to me.

Good Lord, is he still talking to me??

He wants my number to meet up for coffee. Since I have become apparently quite terrible at breaking people's spirit (Josh Wander, what have I become?), I oblige. As soon as Jess and I are in the car, I change his name to "do not answer."

This was not the fix I imagined it to be.

Tonight, while waiting for a very important call, I get one from a number that I do not know. Upon answering, imagine my surprise...

It's the weird man.

This time I lied and said I was in Denver for two weeks. I am not in Denver. I am far from Denver. But if this keeps me away from the weird man, so be it. If he calls back again, I'm feigning muteness.

I always imagined my stalker would be cute and a brunette. And not male.

Can I send this one back and get a new one?

K bye.

The Problem With Expectations

Headbutt.

Everyone expects certain things. I expect that I'll wake up tomorrow morning. I expect to be able to breathe. I also expect that there will be some eating, some work, and maybe if I'm lucky, some damn mist won't trick me.

Then there's Vegas.

I'm heading there, for the first time, in June. And that's where expectations rear their ugly, almost obscenely morbid, head.

Just from hearing about Vegas, and reading about Vegas, and seeing 3 pictures of Vegas, my expectations have already shot through the roof. We're talking orbital. Is there any possible way that Vegas can live up to the expectations that I have set for it?

The answer is: unless there happens to be a dancing gorilla that is scaling one of the casinos, which just so happens to be in my line of sight as I sit at a magical slot machine which consistently rewards me with jackpots every 16th spin, all while having my shoes shined by a talking duck (that wasn't shot) and being fed black grapes, I don't think so. Are my expectations too high?

Not in the least. After all, it is Vegas.

K bye.

Save It

08/08/08.

K bye.

My Best Friend

I came home one day from school, and my mom immediately told me, "go pet Midnight." What I didn't know was that something special that would last the next 17 years lay before me.

Imagine two kindred spirits. Two people just supposed to be around one another. That was Amber and I. There was just an attraction.

My lap. She loved it. If ever I sat in a chair and there wasn't a time she didn't try to climb in my lap, I can't remember it. I remember coming back from school, sitting in a chair for the first time in a long time, and instantly there was an orange furball in my lap.

Kindred.

She was never quite the same when Midnight died. They were soulmates. She lost a part of her that was too big to replace, and you could see it. She started to go downhill then, and try as we may, it couldn't be stopped.

She was always so proud. Even when the stroke took away half of her face, and her ears betrayed her sense of balance, you could still see it. Still see the pride. See it in the way she sat on her hind legs, looking. I didn't know if she could actually see anything, but she was still proud.

I got to see her one last time before she died. Like two old friends that knew this was it.

That's what sucks about growing up. Your childhood, your friends, the things you remember so vividly and with such fierceness all wither. Time always wins.

It isn't easy saying goodbye to a friend you've had for 17 years. It's never easy to say goodbye to someone that you love. And it's not easy to let go of a bond that you knew you had with someone, even though you've never exchanged a single, understood word.

At least she gets to go play with her soulmate again.

Goodbye kitty. I miss you.

I'd Lick It If I Wasn't Afraid the Comet Would Kill Me

Headbutt.

First things first: dragging one's significant other to a Kelly Clarkson concert is okay. Unless you're a dude. Then you're just kind of sad.

Alumni weekend is a big time in the life of most Roanoke College alums. There's the nights of endless drinking, the reliving of BELLLLLLLLLLTTT stories, and the seeage of old friends you never talked to in college and don't really want to talk to now.

It's also a time to find out that you have a decent sized cult following.

Yes, that's right. Turns out, I am followed by my own cult-crazy mass. I never realized that I was indeed some kind of cult leader (but not a crazy cult leader. That's something totally different, although by reading these things you probably imagine that it's not far out of the realm of possibilities. And it isn't. It's a big realm, with a stream, and a jungle, and a playground for the kids. Just like the Wu-Tang).

Being a cult leader like I am, I feel like I should be entitled, even impressed upon, to make some demands. After all, if there are large swarms of people reading my every word, analyzing it, following my ideals to the "T", then the world is in for some serious trouble, and I had better make these demands before I take its slow and inevitable end by turning the chaos dial up to 11. So in no particular order, here are some of my demands. Write ins and freebies are always acceptable.

-17 cases of Arizona iced tea. A man's gotta drink, and I want to drink in style.
-17 cases of Budweiser. A man's gotta drink, and this has nothing to do with style.
-a pet monkey to sword fight with when I get home from work.
-a case of baseballs.
-an abolishment on the ability to change lanes on the interstate without the use of one's turn signal. Attempting to do so should cause the offending car to beep very loudly, all 4 tires to blow out, and a two small men in green shorts to leap out of the steering wheel and pull the driver's ears. Oh yeah, and the car should explode into confetti too. I like confetti.
-my own personal soundtrack to life. Playing constantly. With DJ Clue spinning the records.
-a personal teleportation system. Like on Star Trek, but not as geeky.
-a palm tree in the front yard. For the dwarf to play around.
-a trip to Mexico in November. Oh, wait....
-a lifetime supply of sandwiches from The Deli. Not quite Mr. V's, but close enough.
-orange striped tube socks.

Keep in mind, this list is only part of my master manifest. To read the entire 816 page document, you'll have to stay awake for a couple days in a row on a combination of coffee cake and navy beans.

It's the only way to do it.

K bye.

The Phoenix Rises

Headbutt.

First things first: I could regale you with stories of my narrow escape from the jungles of Brazil, but I'll save that for another time.

I believe I've come up with a solution for all of my problems at work. You know: the dead arm, the constant shifting in my chair, the inability to exercise. My idea?

Touch screens.

If my computer were nothing but a giant touch screen (or even better, a giant touch screen with lots of smaller, virtual touch screens along it's peripheral), things would be much smoother. My arms? Now buff from waving them around (in a constructive manner mind you, not in the normal "he's talking again and about to fly off the handle" kind way). The constant shifting? Still happening, but now it's not from being uncomfortable. The dead arm? Not so dead.

Will this happen? Probably not. I think I have to wait until the scientists get done with the tube technology. Hell, I'm still trying to convince people around here that I need an intern (they are slowly starting to see it my way. Okay, only Milton does, but that's one more than before). And then there's my idea for a ball pit in the backwoods cube section. And the people movers. And the robotic monkeys.

They wouldn't even need to be fed bananas. Only motor oil and screws.

K bye.