I couldn't seem to close my eyes to sleep this weekend without reopening them inside and watching myself create words like this and "seketae" (as chat ID's, apparently), or try to survive in a world overrun by zombies; last night they chased me and a partner up an old building but we rigged platforms to drop us below. His worked and he escaped them, but when I pulled on my rope, nothing happened, and I was left feeling more embarrassed than anything. My audience and I stared at each other awkwardly until my prodding let out the air in my mattress and I fell through the floor, slowing my descent by grabbing onto each floor I passed. That somehow worked.
脫褲 says she dreamt I had a daughter last night. Not hers, though.
Friday afternoon I almost put my fist through the windshield coming back from Chick Fil-A because, I swear, I got held up at every single traffic light, at least a dozen in a row. And my route wasn't some bicyclist's, avoiding major thoroughfares by staying on back streets where you'd expect them to be against you. So this weekend I actually began counting how many times I got the green. (I know what you're thinking, that this is as weak a stunt as I've ever pulled just for the sake of a blog entry, but the way I figured, my pre-Alzheimer's brain ought to be good for a running tab of two numbers between intersections and processing whatever else it needs, driving instructions, any possible change in plans for the remainder of the trip, reminders that I'm neither dreaming nor playing Grand Theft Auto, until I reach my destination—and it'd keep me too preoccupied to get angry.) I stopped last night at 65/100. Should this mildly reassuring figure serve as closure, or should I continue my study by factoring in time of day and area?
My startling discovery shopping last night: Americans are fat. So much so that clothing manufacturers don't bother with inseams longer than the waist. It's not as if I have Marfan syndrome, but searching through stacks of sizes like 38x32 helps me sympathize with victims of affirmative action.
Japan-only Vib-Ribbon is one of my favorite final memories of the great PlayStation era (not that it marked the end thereof, as the PS2 at least wasn't the media player its successor remains, but there does seem to be a surplus of Sony hating in reaction to recent historical evaluations), so few-and-far-between news of new work from its creator always gives me hope for something new again, and not so much Guitar Hero/Rock Band, which I just don't understand. Alright, any reason to post the pig playing tuba.
You can't left-click without loading a quotation from fellow actors about the lost potential of Heath Ledger (though I'm the first to admit—and not too strongly, of course—that I have yet to see 
Been eating this by the box since college, so no one knows the "green smile" (was The Green Slime the movie with the mystery alien woman whose name wasn't even revealed in the credits, because that always creeped me out) like I do, but last night I must've pushed a piece of 青海苔 under the gum above my front tooth brushing afterwards and took nearly half-an-hour of careful flossing to extract it.
(Interesting coincidence that the Simpsons at 11 was one of the last greats where Luann Van Houten divorces Kirk and rides off with "Pyro" in his Atlasphere.) Twenty years later and it's the same thing. Maybe in another two hundred we'll get to see contestants face off against these real-life Mortal Kombat characters to the death, in true homage to our Roman forefathers. Could be a way for everyone else in the world to vent and try and put the hurt on the Red, White & Blue without resorting to Islamofascism, trade embargoes or 
I'm probably missing more meaningful (read: pay-cable channel wannabe) coverage of the topic on Nip/Tuck, maybe even from 