Carrots and other things.

Wednesday night. I lay in bed. Plate of carrots and ranch beside me. There is one carrot on the plate I refuse to eat because it has brown stuff on it. This carrot looks deceivingly gross, though I know it will probably taste much better than the flawless one beside it, which will probably be that one carrot that tastes like chemicals. Kind of a metaphor to life wouldn't you say?

The Simpsons is on because I like noise coming from the television at all times. I don't like The Simpsons, I never have. But it's either that or one of those new C.S.I. wannabe shows. Or a show called "Brothers and Sisters" which I pathetically tuned into a few nights ago about old people, and how they have sex. Also starring that really skinny bitch from Ally McBeal. (Score!)

And I was right. I just took a bite of the seemingly perfect carrot and it DID taste like chemicals. I am not making this up.

Wow. That plate of carrots and ranch sure did not suffice my unrelenting desire to get fucked up.

Sometimes I am so lazy that I will actually try to survive in extremely uncomfortable situations due to the sole fact that I don't want to get up. Take for instance, the heat. It's far too hot in here. So you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna open the window. Because the window is behind me, and the heat knob would require me to stand.

I often wonder what kind of person you would have to be to prefer cats over dogs. My perception is that people ONLY have cats because they, for one reason or another, can't get a dog. But to prefer a cat? I don't trust those people. Two out of every thirty cats is actually semi-decent, and one out of those two cats will end up being a fatass. That means you have like an 80% chance of getting a cat that isn't COMPLETELY fucked. People who prefer cats also don't know how to love, studies show. What studies? Just some studies. Whatever.

People who prefer cats also believe that the chicks in the "Loveline" and "Quest" commercials actually look like that, and aren't, in reality, twenty year divorced, middle-aged broads with deep, sultry voices and compulsive eating habits.

Jingle ballz.

I am not going to write any New Years resolutions this year because they're dumb. If there is one thing I have learned about myself up to this point it's that I will never exercise.

I think I have done all the changing anyone possibly could within the last couple months and that's good enough for me. Rather than tell a bunch of people I'm going to do a bunch of shit I'll forget about in a week, I'm just going to keep on doing what I'm doing. Because it seems to be working out.

If I could have anything for Christmas, repercussions not an option, I would choose a lifetime supply of Vicodin. There are times once in awhile when I wish someone would step on my foot really hard and break a bone or accidentally do something temporarily painful but not life-altering to me so I could get a prescription to Vicodin. I realize this is somewhat fucked and Vicodin's not that cool anyway, right? I know.

I have already forgotten about that thought though, and instead I'm going to talk about some other things that don't matter. Like milk, and how good it is.

There's a reason Santa drinks milk with his cookies. He has good taste. Although I do think Santa uses milk as a cover-up for his severe alcoholism. Why else would he be so fat with such a red, bulbous nose?

I like to think that people prefer hand-made gifts over store-bought gifts and this is how I justify buying myself shit during the Holidays.

It'd be cool if I walked into my room on Christmas day and there was a naked man standing under my doorway. Mistletoe or not, it'd be a nice surprise. Instead, I'm probably going to be experiencing Zoe in an ugly sweater laying on my floor eating yogurt and talking about how she really needs to get laid.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!