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What I really think about security blankets.

Where can I begin this story??

I guess I will start in my childhood, in my bedroom with a slanted ceiling and no windows, and a twin-sized bed with a brown metal frame. That bed held a number of important elements of my life at the time–my pink rose comforter, my Sparky Bear, and (most importantly) the pillow I slept with every night. The former two items have become less and less prominent over the years (though I still love ya, Sparky!), but to this day the pillow has not fallen away from me. Like so many children, I found the pillow to be a sort of security blanket for me.

And this was no ordinary pillow, folks. It was old and flat and had the best, most comforting scent, and through my off times and weird childhood insomnia, burying my face in the pillow just made everything feel better, and knowing it was there when I went to sleep at night was the best kind of constant. As a small child, I would refuse to let my mother wash the pillowcase, for fear of it losing it’s smell.

(Of course now that I’m a mature and intelligent, level-headed adult, I launder my bedding more frequently. I also figured out that it doesn’t take long for that scent to come back, and sort of never goes away anyway.)

Through the years, the pillow adorned many different looks–early on it was a double-sided Burt and Ernie/Big Bird pillowcase, and then a light pink flannel one (that became so worn down it was no longer soft flannel, but the flat cotton base), a purple cotton pillowcase, a tie-dyed pillowcase, an orange and yellow striped case, and most recently a cool, very pale green, very soft cotton pillowcase.

While the pillow and I have grown apart slightly over the years, it is still on my bed every night, and it is still the pillow that I hold in the highest esteem.

And the other night, after a long drive back from Bellingham to Portland, while I was passing seemingly endless bowls (and joint, and lung hits, and etc.) with an old friend, Tank pissed on my pillow.

(A quick aside in case it hadn’t been mentioned before–Tank is an adorable, quirky, shithead of a black Pomeranian-Terrier mix who belongs to Taylor and her best friend/our roommate Angela.)

I’m sure that I don’t need to tell you I was upset. I didn’t take it personally though, since when Tank has an accident inside, he does it on the run. I guess if you’re gonna get busted for peeing inside, you might as well go balls to the wall and hit as much shit with your urine as you can, and he does.

It was late at this point, and I was stoned, so I left the laundry to be dealt with at a later time, without thinking about it too much.

Until I went to bed, of course, and found that the only thing awaiting my head now was a spare, uncovered pillow. And (aside from not only lacking my security blanket, but knowing that it was somewhere with urine on it) here was my dilemma: the idea of a naked pillow, uncased against my face while I sleep, really freaks me out in a weird, germ-phobic, obsessive way, but all of our clean pillowcases were downstairs in the laundry room, and hell if I was marching my high ass down there just for a fancy cotton sack to line my pouch of fluff.

And so, I decided to cover my pillow with a clean, soft, button-less, cotton t-shirt.

After a look through my clothes, I selected a white shirt with coral polka dots from Value Village, that I have hung onto for years but rarely wear.

I put the shirt on the pillow, and it seemed to fit well, but I was nervous that the shirt was too short, or would ride up over the pillows hips in the night and gather at it’s waist while I slept, leaving my face once again vunerable to the bare pillow underneath! (Yes, these thought processes are tiring.)

So, looking around, the best solution I could come up with was to cover the bottom of the pillow in the brand-spankin’ new blue-with-pink-roses clearance granny panties I had recently purchased from work (out of curiosity, really). Just to be extra safe, I tucked the shirt into the oversized underwear, and voila! As you can see, the outcome (as pictured above) was somewhat of a masterpiece, and a the very least a blessing in disguise!

After the completion of this piece of beauty, I named her Granny Pillow, stood her upright and tucked her under my chin (in a manner that made it look as though I was actually wearing a shirt with pink-polka dots, tucked into granny panties) and giggled while doing my best sexy dance for Taylor. Har har har.

I love you, Granny Pillow, though you really aren’t a sufficient replacement for my old faithful.

In other news, I realized today that I only posted five blog entries last month, and that really is no good.


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What I really, really think about tax returns.

I got ripped off by the people who were given that power to protect me! I feel so betrayed, I feel like I have been so loyal(ish)!

I was shorted by a massive margin on my tax return, as the IRS  felt it necessary to “adjust” the amount of my return down to $143.

That’s it. That’s all I got.

Yes, I am definitely going to be calling that number to tell you, my dearest government, that I don’t agree with the changes you’ve made. Hope you didn’t spend my money, I’m gonna be need that back for beer, and the upcoming holiday, thanks!


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What I really think about beans in the spaghetti.

Of all dishes to cook and then leave on top of the stove in a pot for me to find in the middle of the night, at the height of my munchies, and eat with a plastic fork (cause all the other ones are dirty)–spaghetti with beans?

Black beans?

I am definitely not opposed to pimping my spaghetti–garlic, cheese, probably not meat (but maybe), other assorted veggies–but beans?

I won’t say it was bad. I didn’t hate it. But the texture… I never would have thought to put the two together…



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What I really think about wpm.

71 words per minute with only an average of 5.0 mistakes per minute? That’s my all-time record! At least, that I can recall.

Oooh for some reason, there is almost nothing more fun than taking typing tests on this lazy day. Well, not entirely lazy! I did make a delicious scramble for breakfast, and a loaf of cinnamon bread, and I helped Mariah make a piece out of an apple! And then when were done smoking out of it, we ate it! (Actually less exciting than it sounds, the deliciously cold, crispy sweetness of the Gala apple does not mask the smoky, resin flavor well. Yuck).

Anyway, as Casey and I were sitting around being assholes to one another and applying for jobs, we came across a few secretarial positions (is office assistant the P.C. term now?) that required the ability to type at least 45 wpm (words per minute, just in case you weren’t sure). So we’ve been taking typing tests, and, of course, I’ve been winning. Heh, heh. Steadily moving up from 60 wpm to 65 wpm to 66 to 68 and finally! 71 wpm! A glorious triumph!

Oh God, I really do need a job.

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What I really think about wake ‘n bake.

Evil wake ‘n bake, a surefire way to ruin your entire day.

Of course, when I woke up at 2:07 this afternoon, there wasn’t much of a day left to spoil. And, if we’re being completely honest, I had already woken up around 8:45 to piss and (since once I’m up, I’m up) smoked what was left of my bedtime bowl in order to lull myself back into the haze of sleep.

Little did I know, that haze wouldn’t lift for another five and a half hours.

In fast-forward I prepared for the day, ran my two errands, and roasted a bowl with my friends on the way the Lan Su Chinese Garden downtown Portland on 3rd and Everett, after which we indulged in our munchies and ate some authentic Chinese cuisine in the heart of Chinatown. Har… har… Maybe not so authentic, but so greasy and delicious. And dirt cheap.

Then we smoked some more on the way home. Then we played cards and smoked again. Then I did a Sobe. And now Taylor is home, so we’ll have a little more.

Why does one little, innocent wake ‘n bake always turn into an all-day event of bowls and food and fatigue?

Speaking of which…

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What I really think about date night.

I think date night should die!

And then be resurrected as date day! A day-long event of love and exploit!

Today my lovely lady and I woke up around 1:30 in the afternoon. (Whoops–another long night of “Heroes” and herbs, and don’t laugh, you would obsessively watch it too. Every episode ends with “To be continued…” so how can you not? But I’ll get into that later). And then we did the morning routine–Farmville, breakfast, showers, tooth brushing, Farmville, et cetera–and then headed off for our day of dates and adventure.

We started the day at 4:30, catching a matinee at the $3 movie theater about 15 minutes from our house. They get movies a little later than all of the other theaters, but it’s totally worth it to get to see a flick for three bones, any time of the day. However, the popcorn is still $7.50. Anyway, we saw the “Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day.” Though it relied heavily on themes and events in the former movie, and all around wasn’t as great as the first (which is expected in pretty much any sequel) it was still thoroughly enjoyable, and definitely kept me guessing (something I’m obviously attracted to).

After the movie we were starving so we went down the road to our favorite mediocre-but-delicious-and-cheap sushi bar (the kind with the little plates and rotating conveyor belt)! Delicious and oh-so satisfying.

After sushi, we promptly headed back into Portland, and with a few minutes between stops, decided to go a couple miles out of the way to Taylor’s work (everyone’s least favorite coffee corporation!) to get some discount caffeine. After chatting for a few minutes we were  back on track to our next destination:


And let me tell you, though I have always been a fan of Michael Jackson–not the biggest fan, but a fan–this just blew me away! I’m sure the Sobes and intense light patterns helped, but that man was a genius! I was in stitches, grinning, and tapping my feet almost the entire time, except during the few ballads, and Man in the Mirror.

Great. Shit.

Laser M.J. complete, we headed back onto I-84 and to Belmont to Wunderland! to play games at the nickel arcade! After mass Skee-Ball and Ocean Hunter, we traded our earnings in for a few meager prizes: matching key chains (it’s tradition!), Party Poppers, a whoopee cushion, a few Army men figurines, a parachute guy for Casey, an paper fan, and so on.

After we were all gamed out (I mean, after we had spent all of the cash we had, literally every dollar, quarter, dime, and nickel) we headed home, and stopped at the grocer on the way for some refreshments–fruit sorbet and chocolate peanut butter ice cream, yum!

We took our lot and day of adventures, and headed our (totally not weary because we slept until almost two in the afternoon) weary bodies home, to end this lovely day as we had ended the last–bowls and Netflix instant play in our cozy bed.

Ahhh, love… : ]


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What I really think about whistling.

Finally, after more than 15 years of inhale-whistling, I have made a breakthrough.

For some time now, I have had a desire to master the art of whistling, with only two things standing in my way:

First, I am so not musically inclined. And secondly, for as long as I have whistled, it has only been by inhaling a tune, rather than blowing one out (heh heh heh). Don’t ask me why, I have tried for years to turn this upside down, with no luck.

But finally, last night in bed, by complete, fluke accident, I exhale whistled. Having attempted this feat for years, I was absolutely no less than thrilled, and tried to recreate the exact shape of my mouth and wind pressure. Needless to say, I was so ecstatic that this took me a few minutes–I could not stop grinning!

Now, after years of being told to “whistle a happy tune” and “whistle while I work” I can finally start to hone my skills in a not so half-assed way!

W(h)is(tle)h me luck! : D

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What I really think about New Year’s Eve.

11:13 PM Farmville;

11:37 PM Making an ass of myself during dice;

11:46 PM Trying not cry;

12:00 AM Kissing my girlfriend, a lot;

12:04 AM Smoking my first cigarette of the new year;

12:06 AM Taking a piss against the shed: first of the new year;

12:16 AM Shooing people;

12:20 AM Meaningfully hugging my best friend of 16 years with wet eyes;

12:35 AM Some guy from down the street is crashing our party that has almost ended. Bryce? Thought it was Josh from Shoes;

12:55 AM Water, blogging this, ready for bowl and bed;

9:46 AM Editing my horrendous draft from last night.

I really did have a good time, though.

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What I really think about writer’s block.


So blocked. So blocked I can’t even write a blog. And this blog is supposed to be block therapy. A little treatment to get me out of my current state of… nothingness. So blocked that I can’t think of anything I want to write a blog about except how blocked I am.



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What I really think about the wind.

Hey, wind, you’re an asshole. Quit making it so fucking cold, and quit pushing my car every which way while I’m trying to get from point A to point B safely.

And please, if you wouldn’t litter the road and sidewalk with all of those branches, and it would also be polite if you’d refrain from knocking the porch swing off the porch and into the fence–I think it irritates the neighbors, and that thing is heavy, you bastard.

I won’t even get into the mess you made when I was wearing that little dress the other day, let’s just call that one an accident.


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