BG

I told you I was predictable.

What did I tell you? Maybe that I would write something one night when I took some Nyquil and instead of succumbing to inevitable slumber? Maybe I tried to fight it to write a dumb tumblr post just to forget all about it the next morning? Yes. That’s exactly what I did. 

And I’m doing it again! Yay me!

Nyquil, check! Boredom, check! Flagrant disregard to the fact that I’m only writing this for myself and MAYBE 2 other people (my parents), CHECK CHECK. 

Maybe I write on bad days. I broke the extension to my hand for the second time since saturday today. The extension of my hand being my iPhone, and by broke I mean I’ve technically owned 3 phones in less than a week. I’ve lost my debit card. This can be seen as a positive, since I’m currently not working and spending money is the LAST thing I need to be doing, though I’m still planning a trip to Vegas this weekend. What? Yeah. 

I seriously considered moving to Costa Rica and started a career as a whitewater rafting instructor. This has been my backup plan since I was 13. Thinking of going. Should I go? Lets all go! I can write in Costa Rica. They have the internet and stuff… Spaghetti and internet are both things that Costa rica has, and that’s all I really need. Christopher McCandless wouldn’t think about going to Costa Rica, he would just go to Costa Rica. Though he also froze to death in an abandoned bus in Alaska. Might not be the best metaphor. What would Alec Baldwin do? He seems like the right person to ask for this quandry. 

How much longer can I fight this Nyquil. How bad has my grammar been? My high school English teacher would be so proud of me because I have a grammar website opened in one of my tabs. Though she was a huge bitch. This is how big of a bitch she was… She would QUOTE HERSELF on her wall. You’d see print-outs of things that Einstein, Twain and Orwell once said posted all over her walls, then right in the middle you’d see ‘Don’t be afraid to take a leap blah blah bullshit’ smack in the middle of them. I hated her for that. And her nose. She had a weird nose.

Ok I’m done. Night. 

Nothing, Really.

About every few months I get back into posting here. This lasts about a day, maybe even a few hours and then I forget about it again. These spurts of blogging normally arise when I’m either (1) at work and don’t want my boss to see me on Facebook, (2) at work and don’t want my boss to see me on Twitter, (3) not writing an article I should be writing or, in this particular case, (4) took some NyQuil and have nothing better to do until it kicks in. That being said, these are the things I’m thinking about:

1. Why am I self-conscious about my music choices when I’m ALONE in my room? No one is here. I can easily change my Spotify settings to “private session” and close my bedroom windows. Who cares if I listen to Bon Iver or Watch The Throne or the Twilight soundtracks in the comfort of my own home? Any admirer of my music taste, writing or recommendations will be blissfully ignorant to my obnoxious repetition of Hall and Oats and still I subconsciously listen to music I feel I “should” be searching for. I’m subjecting myself to being swallowed in Pitchfork bullshit and it has got to stop. 

2. My cat needs to get the hell off me.

3. This NyQuil is kicking in. 

4. How long am I going to keep blogging for. An educated guess would be I’ll post two things tomorrow when I’m glued to my chair at work waiting for something interesting happen (which it wont) or for me to be sent to pick up food for the office (which is inevitable). Then maybe I’ll humor my 4 other readers with a post on Friday. The weekend will obviously keep me preoccupied with important things like sleeping and drinking, so naturally I’ll forget all about this then and the rest of January. Not to worry though. My Birthday is in early February which will give me an excuse to pick a new theme, change the title and then write about how the only thing I really want is Skyline Chili and maybe a hug. 

5. This Nyquil is kicking in.

6. To anyone who is reading this. I love you— truly, madly deeply.  

7. I can’t see straight. I’m going to bed. 

How I Met Your Mother

In a recent twitter discussion, frustrations with the CBS show “How I Met Your Mother” arose.

I can’t say I don’t like a show “just because.” I need reasons. I’ll admit, “How I Met Your Mother” used to make me laugh, but now, there are too many holes in the program for me to just ignore. It’s like one giant piece of swiss cheese at this point.

There are 139 episodes and counting of HIMYM. 6 seasons and change. If Ted Mosby’s kids in season 1 were, say, between 14 and 16 years old (and that’s generous as the actors themselves were actually 16 and 18 at the time the pilot was shot), they would now be between 17 and 22 years old (in reality they’re 22 and 24). But I get it, the show takes place during a few, tedious conversations that Bob Sagat gives to these children (adults).

Keeping that in mind, each episode is roughly 21 minutes long. Now I understand, Sagat definitely paraphrased the stories of the good ‘ol days. Let’s pretend that when Ted Mosby, bless his soul, sits his kids down and spews his narcissism into their fully-developed brains, he talks for an average of 11 minutes, instead of the televised 21.

If each conversation is 11 minutes long, and there have been 139 of these conversations, that means that these poor, post-adolescent kids of Teds have been listening to him ramble for 25 hours and 48 minutes. They have spent more than 1 day of their lives listening to their dad talk about how he met their mom, and they STILL DON’T KNOW! 

Bob Sagat / Ted Mosby’s children are adults. They’re probably in college, or working out in the real world. They might be dating their future spouses. Yet, in this time, they still don’t know the details of how their dad, a college graduate, teacher and architect met their mom.Two people they’ve spent the majority of their life under the same roof with have spent a total 25 hours and counting on the explanation of their courtship. And they STILL continue to give their kids countless wet, mushy, puzzle pieces to try and jam together.

Assuming this didn’t drive them to therapy or drug trafficking, I can’t imagine these kids could end up remotely normal with such a narcissistic father. Furthermore, I can’t imagine any mentally intact woman who wouldn’t have a problem with this. Don’t most women want to be the ones holding the reins during the tales of romantic conquests? Not once has Ted’s wife interrupted these chats. My best guess is that she’s locked in their sex dungeon or maybe in an asylum somewhere deep in Jersey.

vent over