A Surreal Sort of Reverie

Last night--rather, this morning--I seriously couldn't sleep, even more so than is normal for me. I mean, I was practically undead by 3 a.m., but nothing happened until it was past 5 a.m. This aside, I have been getting up after routine twelve-or more-hour rests, during which no one makes any attempt to wake me.

None of the clocks in my house, except for the computer ones (and, now that I think about it my alarm clock--but I can't see the indicator), tell the difference between a.m. and p.m. This may seem rather trivial at first, but on heavily overcast days in Chicago, where the sun doesn't consider setting until around 8.30 p.m., morning and evening (at least before the light truly begins to wane) look quite similar.

I'm not normally awake to see my father or sister home in the morning; I usually see everyone in the evening.

(cough) At any rate, I woke up from what I naturally assumed was a deep and fulfilling sleep. With glazed eyes and my rather degenerated myopia, I looked at the alarm clock and nearly screamed.

It read 7.34. That's all I saw--then I hurriedly threw on my glasses, dressed, basically got ready, and prepared for extreme embarrassment as I walked down the stairs. All this time my poor mind was reeling between a few ideas: mainly that I was the brunt of a massive practical joke (and that it was really only 3 p.m.--I was forced to discard this when I realized the paternal body was home, although he has made earlier appearances of late; but, sadly enough, the idea that no one was joking and it really was 7.34 p.m. continued)--actually, this idea continued as I ran around the kitchen looking at the microwave and oven clocks, then to the family room, where I noticed that both the analog and the VCR clocks had 7.34 upon them, and then I finally ran to the computer room because I was still having massive difficulties envisaging myself as having slept through even dinner without a single rumble of my stomach.

When I looked at the computer clock, I noticed something interesting about the part after the time (am and pm in small sizes and barely looked at can look surprisingly similar). Then I walked to the kitchen and announced that, surprisingly enough, I was not hungry. The maternal body barely reacted, though she looked a bit confused...I was thinking, What in Hell's name?<

This was about the point at which I realized that the mini-cretin hadn't left for school yet, that the paternal body, though dressed, was not fully ready, and my mother was in the kitchen making the sibling's lunch.

So I spent the rest of the day feeling like a total dipshit. Which, I suppose is justified. I mean, screw that whole 'you'll look back and laugh'--I am going to look back at this and, once again, feel like a dipshit.

George

Today: tennis (hit the ball onto the road and got it back...), "Wedding Crashers" (scarring, perverted, and funny), Chipotle, DDR (holy shaitt, I don't think it's possible to be worse than me...), and...George.

>George is a version of Ping-Pong played without the paddles. As can be imagined, this leads to far more interesting methods of shooting, as well as greater versatility because people have two hands. Georgina--George sitting down--was also played.

I'm way too tired to think. Seriously, I can't focus at all.

Detroiiiiiiiit

(That's what the sibling said at the age of 4. Adorable, I'm sure.)

Anyway, here are the funny things I saw in 11.5-ish hours on the road. (Damn construction and getting lost. Going through 8 Mile Rd. was kind of disturbing...I was just waiting to get shot or rapped at.)

• The village of Climax (seriously, I bet teenagers and horny adults have a great time with this one. "Oh, I'm always in Climax!" "Climax: the REAL happiest place on Earth.")
• Zeeb Rd. (that would be a great address: 4500 Zeeb Rd. Yah, I live right next to Zeeb Mall. You're all a bunch of Zeebs!)
• A Home Depot billboard ("If you want quality, look for the orange apron")...in a Lowe's parking lot. I don't think they would ever shoot a commercial at that one.
• A stop sign...mounted on two wooden posts in the middle of a steep, grassy slope leading down to the freeway. I mean, there were houses at the top of the slope. WTF?

If it weren't for the parents' decision to not take the camera, I would have some awesome sunset pictures (as well as those things mentioned). Boo.

Everything's a Euphemism

Mature. Middle-aged. Past one's peak. Over the hill. Active adult.

Plus-sized. Full-figured. Relaxed. Large. Well-fed.

Why can't anyone admit that they're old (first set) or fat (second set)? It seems like everything in America is about denial nowadays--the amount of ways to alter one's phenotype is ludicrous. Eschewing such simple, novice devices as corsets, bustles, and henna (for the hair), people have gotten into complicated plastic surgery: silicone here, Botox there, a quick tummy tuck and liposuction on the ass just for follow-up.

Yeah, people are really afraid of admitting that maybe they actually have to work to improve themselves, or, even worse, that they can't change what they are. For some reason, people believe in the freedom to change themselves even as they vote for an unchanging, static government that just doesn't care about what they do to themselves as long as they continue consuming.

We aren't just the 'me' generation--that's bullshit. America is the 'me' country where no one has to be what they really are, as long as they have the money to pay for it.

And shoot the damn fools who point out that nothing's really changed, of course.

My Commitment Issues

Sadly enough...this is reference to le blog. In the end, I just don't care enough to keep this kind of thing up, and I never have. I mean, I need a tangible reward waiting for me, else I'm not motivated. Blogs don't make money. Or even little bitty pixels waiting for manipulation.

Mleh.

I read the first entry--I think I was stoned. Seriously, did I really think that was going to happen? The longest it ever has is six months. Six freaking months.