Man Asserts Right to Act Like Asshat Prick; Film at 11.

HOLY SHIT THIS GUY IS NOW OFFICIALLY THE MOST AWESOME PERSON ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH. too bad he might be killed.

i just found out today that one of our clients, who acts like she is so perfect and is always such a bitch to me-- has herpes. i'm so thrilled i can hardly piss straight.

i know it's terrible to laugh at others' misfortunes and wish ill on people. i try so hard to be a good Buddhist, really i do. maybe Buddha doesn't want me for a sunbeam.

i was wondering what The Streets looked like. since i can practically masturbate to a good working class accent, i was picturing hot, creamy smooth, flirty cheeky black men in kangols or something. how utterly disappointing.

this is almost as far off as when i first tried to imagine Guns N' Roses in the flesh and came up with a sort of depressed version of U2 in army fatigues. for the longest time i thought the Chemical Brothers were Japanese men in tennis hats. i'm terrible at this.

BF made me mashed potatoes. mama, i love this man.

but then we got into an argument over whether Eugene, Oregon rocks or not.

you should come over sometime.

i went in for another check up on my head today. it's much better, but my neck is still fucked up. they diagnosed a cervical spine strain. so, starting Monday afternoon i will go in for some physical therapy to try and straighten that out. oooh. they don't think I'll have to do the PT for long. and because this happened at work, it's all completely covered by Work Comp. dayum.

i swear to God, nothing brings out the Alligator Brain in people faster than the fucking post office. for some reason the only time people seem to go to the post office is when 1)they're in an enormous hurry or 2)they're suffering some sort of amplified mental breakdown. i realized just today that out of all the idiotic things i've ever witnessed anyone do, around 49% of the time, it took place in a post office.

so it appears i have a cranial contusion, as opposed to a concussion as was feared earlier today. i bashed my head open on a metal cabinet this morning.

at the hospital they gave me all these tests like they give intoxicated drivers. walk a straight line, touch my nose with my eyes closed, follow a light with my eyes. what is 7 subtracted from 20? and what's 7 subracted from that? and what would you have if you subtracted 7 from 6? they looked in my ears. they looked deep behind my eyes with a special thingamawhat. who's the president of the united states? what season are we in? they pressed down on the top of my head really hard and that wasn't pleasant. i just wanted to go to sleep but they wouldn't let me.

in conclusion they found that i had indeed taken a nasty crack to the head but i was very tough and my nerves were all intact, and i must be very smart as well, because even people who didn't have head injuries couldn't often add and subtract as quickly as i could. they sent me home with a whole list of restrictions. i can go to sleep whenever i feel tired, but BF must wake me up twice during the night. and watch out for that projectile vomiting. they want to see me again at 8 in the morning and i'm not supposed to go back to work until they say it's ok.

anyway, it was a pretty crappy day.

i dreamt that a Hunter S. Thompson impersonator broke into my home. he frightened my cat, which pissed me off. i chased him into the bedroom, yelling at him, where i opened a window and demanded he go out through it. he kept stalling me and insisting i read some of his manuscripts. he said he was a far better journalist. he had notebooks full of his attempts to copy Hunter S. Thompson's signature.

he wouldn't get off my bed. "you're not Hunter. S. Thompson, you'll never be Hunter S. Thompson, you're not fit to kiss the man's ass!" i shouted. secretly, i began to find him quite attractive and wanted to fuck him, so i kept berating him, trying to heighten the sexual tension. "you suck; you're a hack; you're pathetic; you're a loser." it didn't work, and he finally left quietly, visibly dejected.