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Truth is Stranger than Fiction. Paul is Stranger than Truth.
Dames is Grief.
Is this thing on?
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If you click here, teh internets will take you to a story that my fiance wrote. It's really good--shades of Shirley Jackson, and Stephen King (the Dark Tower stuff, but just the good Dark Tower stuff), and some Phantom Stranger in there as well. I quite liked it.

Oh, also, the book with her short story in it comes out mid-March.
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Okay, so as soon as I hear the name Darren Aronofsky, I begin to gush.

If you’re not familiar with him, he wrote and directed Pi and Requiem for a Dream (well, co-wrote, with one of the greatest authors ever), and The Fountain. Oh, also, he turned down the opportunity to direct Batman Begins, and he’s directing the American version of Lone Wolf and Cub. Oh, and also in addition to that, he’s dating Rachel Weisz, HOTTEST JEW EVER. But I digress. He’s an amazing director; Pi was a really good study on the perils of intellectual, financial, and religious greed; The Fountainis about love, death, and Uruguayan mythology, and Requiem for a Dream is 102 minutes of being punched in the stomach. Also, there’s some drug addicts in there.

His movies are dark, and lush, and beautiful.

A couple of days ago, my special lady and I went to see his new movie, The Wrestler. And holy crap, that might just be his best work so far. I don’t want to get too spoilery, but it’s at heart about what happens after you’ve reached your peak; as I told Erin, it’s sort of a wrestling version of Dune Messiah. It’s heartbreaking, and touching, and leaves you walking out of the theatre wanting to go back in and see it again.

Anyway, I’m gushing.

Go see it.
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Dear Self-Appointed Internet Pundits:

You can only tell whether a day is a historic day when it has become that--HISTORY. I'm as excited as the rest of you, but the anal retentive freak in me feels like he's being hit with a sock full of oranges.

Other than that, today is awesome.

Yours Truly,

Paul.
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Things I got for Channukah:

Flannel Sheets.
Penn and Teller: Bullshit! Season 1.
Left for Dead.

Things I got for Christmas:

Prince of Persia.
Jim Henson's the Storyteller - The Definitive Collection.
John Hodgman's More Information Than You Require.
A Comforter.
Comfy Slippers.
Engaged.

It was the last one I was happiest about.
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Okay, so I'm in the Target buying some wrapping paper, which is foolish, because Target's wrapping paper is universally terrible. It's like the CEO of Target started as a stock boy in charge of the wrapping paper, and when he made the big time, he made the pronouncement, "MAKE WRAPPING PAPER SO TERRIBLE THAT NO ONE WILL BUY IT, AND, ACCORDINGLY, NO ONE WILL EVER HAVE TO RESTOCK IT."

Anyhoo, while I was there, I moseyed on over to the music section to see what Target's censoring this week. As I turned the corner, a self-involved woman rammed me with her cart. I should point out, to fully flesh out the level of my annoyance, that she was pushing her cart on the left hand side of the aisle, and was most definitely not British. I was greatly vexed.

I waited momentarily for her to get the HELL out of the way. She continued to stare moronically at the CDs. After 30 seconds or so, it became clear to me that this woman was one of those people whose Christmas was SO GODDAMN IMPORTANT that she no longer had to be concerned about trivialities like basic courtesy or, oh, other people in general.

Unfortunately, exhaustion beat out snark at this point, so I just moved around her and went on my way. I was fully prepared to let the whole episode fade from memory, when I overheard the following exchange from the rude woman and her friend:

Rude woman: "I'm looking for that CD." (Kindly note that this woman was so self-important that she assumed that everyone in the entire universe knew which CD she was looking for.)

Friend: "What CD?"

Rude woman: "You know, the Christmas one. With the kids."

Friend: "What?"

Rude woman, "You know, it's Christmas music, but it's got kids signing on it."


I had just enough time to think to myself, OH MY DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN SHE'S LOOKING FOR SOME SORT OF KIDZ BOP: XMAS EDITION ALBUM when I felt something in my right temple burst. Everything went black.




I wish I could end this story with something like, "when I came to, I was pulling into the garage. There was blood on my hands and shirt. I'm afraid to look in my car's trunk." Instead, I have to end it like this:

Fuck you, rude lady.

Fuck you in your stupid ear.
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So as of yesterday, I suffered from major depression.

Then I went to the doctor to get some new crazy pills. I switched health care providers from Kaiser (definitely poor quality) to Blue Shield (variable unknown quality), so I also switched my crazy doctor. She ran a bunch of tests.

As of today, I suffer from major depression, but that's probably part of my new and exciting ADHD.

Oh, and it's likely that between yesterday and today, I became bipolar.

Apparently, when I go crazy, I don't mess around.


In good news, I got a bread machine.
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Okay so you know how you're walking out the front door to get the dry cleaning out of the car, and you fall down the steps, and skin your knee, and a loved one, like my fabulous girlfriend, comes out to see if you're okay and you yell out, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT?"

My last post was kind of like that.

Current Music: The "I Love My Girlfriend Very Much" song.

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So, say you can’t win.

Say, for example, you’re growing up. And your dad says, “Paul, it’s time you had some more responsibility. From now on, you’re doing the dishes.” And you say to yourself, “self, you know how to do dishes, this should be a cakewalk.” And you do the dishes. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” So you do the dishes another way. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” And so you do the dishes another way. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.” And so you say, “dammit, Dad, how the hell am I supposed to do the dishes?” And your dad says, “Christ, son, I don’t need to hold your hand. You’re a smart kid. You can figure it out.” And so you do the dishes again. And your dad says, “Paul, you’re doing the dishes wrong.”


Or say you have a job, which you like, with a boss, who is borderline retarded. And he puts you in charge of filing. So you file things, in alphabetical order. And your boss comes in, and says, “why are you filing things like that,” and you say, “well, that’s how everyone else in the world alphabetizes things.” And your boss says, “well, yeah, but we should translate everything into Sanskrit, and then alphabetize them, backwards.” And you say, “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” and he says, “I’m the boss, I say you do it in Sanskrit, backwards.” So you do. Three weeks later, you’re at a staff meeting, and everyone is saying, “we can’t find anything in the file cabinet,” and your boss is all, “well, Paul, why can’t anyone find anything,” and you say, “well, hell, it’s because everything is alphabetized backwards, and in Sanskrit,” and your boss says, “why the hell did you do that?”


Or say you go on a date, with a girl who likes comedies, and sushi, and ice cream. And for dinner you take her to a sushi restaurant, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this sushi restaurant, I like that one over there.” So you take her to that sushi restaurant over there. And then you take her to a comedy, at a nice movie theatre, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this comedy, I like that comedy, and I don’t like this movie theatre, I like that theatre over there.” So you take her to that comedy, at that theatre over there. And then you take her for ice cream, and she says, “oh, I don’t like this ice cream, I’d rather have soft serve,” so you buy her some soft serve. And when you’re done, you ask her if she had a nice time, and she says, “It was okay—but I prefer dramas, and steak, and cheesecake, AND YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT.”


Also, imagine that you live in a jurisdiction where it’s illegal to choke the life out of someone.


What do you do?

Current Mood: Despair. Oh, the despair.
Current Music: Mountain Goats, "No Children."

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Dear Readers:

Thanks to my insanely brilliant girlfriend Erin, there is a new category of bad human.

As of July 1, those individuals who combine the worst characteristics of both Jackasses and Douchebags will henceforth be known as "Jackbags."

Thank you for your attention.

Tags:

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