Made for me...

Did I mention I love comics?

My Story

My life is a story

My life is a compilation of events in seemingly random sequence.

There is an underlying order.

But no one told me.

And now I live every day in the order I've been given, although I would really prefer to skip over the long boring parts in favor of the action, but alas...

Time.

Is.

Linear.

And skipping steps seems impossible.

But perhaps there is hope.

I know not how.

So I may have to give my old friend Doc Brown a call and discuss his idea for the Flux Capacitor 2.0 that runs on dead skin cells and dreams.

Bananas.

Guilty Pleasure

Sometimes I walk down the street whistling obscure but really recognizable songs in the hopes that someone will join in and whistle too.

And I secretly take pleasure in planting those songs in the heads of innocent bystanders.

That is all.

Cartoons

I love cartoons.

http://www.channelate.com/2010/10/29/scared-magician/

 

Need I say more?

My new favorite thing...

I was talking with Mrs. Rogers the other day about social media.  She mentioned that she didn't really know anything about StumbleUpon, among other social media devices.  I decided to find out for her.

I have now officially logged an entire 40hr work week scrolling through websites thoughtfully brought to me by StumbleUpon...

I'm not going to say that it hasn't been the best week of my life, because that would be a lie, but I can say that I now have an unhealthy relationship with the internet...

Where else can you get sage advice like this:
http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/1iKNrC/www.howtogetagrip.com/2010/ten-things-you-should-already-know-by-now/

Or hilarity like this:

http://threadbombing.com/data/media/2/weird_dance.gif

Or this:

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2HxGbW 

And now I, as with the proverbial car accident, can't look away.

Thanks Mrs. Rogers.  No seriously...

Everyone's Got Issues

Things are about to get personal.

My father has been an issue for me from a very young age.  I never felt his attention when I lived with him, and didn’t realize it wasn’t there until he moved 1700 miles away and started calling me all the time.

My mother is disappointed in his parenting, and not afraid to tell him.  My sister and I are also disappointed, but we know that telling him means wasting hours of our lives, only to have him do it again in a month.

The most recent example of this happens to center around birthdays that are forgotten, and Christmas presents never bought.  My parents were on the phone, because my father likes to call my mother once in a while to talk (I think he just misses her and likes the sound of her voice, even when she’s pissed at him).

She laid into him pretty hard about the fact that he didn’t call back during Christmas because he was too busy with his other family.  When he finally did call, he was more than happy to tell my sister and I all about how he spent almost $2,000 on Christmas this year…  We didn’t even get a call, let alone a card or gift.

So she tells him how upsetting it is, and he’s completely taken aback.  Like he never noticed that he hasn’t sent a Christmas present to his kids in 7 years, or remembered to call them on their birthdays…  So he asks, “what should I do”, to which my mother replies, “I would start by writing a check to each of your kids and mailing it out today.”

About a month ago, I got a check for $50.  I haven’t called him back since…

Blood Drive

"You rarely have time for everything you want in this life, so you need to make choices. And hopefully your choices can come from a deep sense of who you are. "

I saw this quote from Fred Rogers (the other Mr. Rogers you know), and I was thinking about it while I was filling out my form for donating blood at work yesterday.  I’ve never donated before, and I figured that as an adult, it was about time.

First of all, “Have you accepted money, drugs or property in exchange for sex since 1977?” is a bizarre question. 

There were plenty of other questions, but they all kind of blurred together…

After filling out the questionnaire and handing in my raffle ticket (btw, we were entered into a raffle for prizes), I followed several other donors into the donation room.

The procedure leading up to the donation itself is fairly standard.  The only unnerving thing is that no one tells you if your answers to their questions mean anything.  Like when one nurse took my pulse, looked at me funny, took it again, then asked if I was a runner.

No explanation of why she would ask or what that even meant… I had to use my not insignificant powers of deduction to figure out that she asked about me being a runner because my heartrate was low (50bpm), and she wanted to make sure I wasn’t dying in front of her…

And when the mountain of a black man that took my paperwork asked me my height/weight and whether I had donated before…  I answered as best I could, but I was REALLY distracted by the “RIDE OR DIE” tattoo on his forearm…

After sitting through the actual donation, which is pretty uneventful (if you block out the part where they insert the drain pipe they call a needle into your arm and you feel the tube get really hot with your blood), they send you to the “commissary”.  This is the smallest conference room at my office, filled with cookies and chips and juice.

This would have been more or less fine, if I hadn’t noticed this: 

I don’t remember a single person smiling while they were donating.  In fact, most of them were turning white and near unconsciousness.  One girl had to be sent home... Definitely not smiling. Creepy.

But I did my good deed for the day.  I hope it saves a life.