Boy am I hungover. Jesus Reyes reposado tequila strikes again. A 100% agave kick to the balls.

Meatloaf conquers the beach. If you hold him over the water he thinks he has to doggy paddle in mid-air to stay afloat in the air.

9th Book in the Southern Vampire Mysteries

Werewolf coming out party? Check.
Sadistic fairy torture? Check.
Death by trowel? Check.
Steamy vampire sex? Check.
Crazy Christians? Check.
Werepanther crucifixion? Check.

Good read? Double check.

I’d call it a guilty pleasure, but I read these books and feel no guilt, just satisfaction. Twilight ain’t got nothing on Sookie Stackhouse.

Daniel bought me a Dell Mini. It’s the cutest baby laptop on the face of the planet. And Daniel can hardly ever use it because his monster fingers are too large for the dainty little keyboard.

In other news there is the addition to our little family, the Boston Terrier puppy Meatloaf. We love him to death. He is mega into snuggling and is super smart. He know three commands so far. Sit, down and “go to your home”. The little stinkbug I was just praising is getting into the garbage, and I must go stop him…

Until next time.

I’m on a boat motherfucker!

Mafia Wars is putting holes through my liver, decreasing my lung capacity, burning out my eyeballs,  shortening my lifespan. Every organ in my body is chronically addicted to un-meaningful movements of the mouse that result in the swapping of numbers from some categories to other categories at an exchange rate that is profitable to me in terms of those numbers. I suspect my finger tips would begin peeling off if more than 6 hours passed without the replenishing touch of a mouse or trackpad. Each time Don “The Coin Operator” Gingra levels up, I experience the immaculate drunkeness of a seratonin cocktail, yet my overplaying leaves no vacancy in my brain to recieve it. It seeps down through my body, erecting my penis, and into my liver, cirhossing it. My resting heartrate teeters at 15 BPM as I spend all hours of the day on whatever sitting apparatus is closest, with the physicality of a budhist monk, burning, with the movement of my fingers and eyelids only, slightly more calories per hour than a corpse . My diaphragm atrophies as the volume of air I require to live in each breath becomes no larger than a gumball, tiny whisps of air. My lungs gradually shrink in the absence of demand and become tiny water balloons impossible to stretch with air. 30%  – that is the portion of a 24 hour day that my eyes are not fixated on an LCD screen, which in years from now it will be revealed to me had been melting my corneas at a seismelogical pace, like the sadistic dispatch of two green army men under a magnifying glass in the sun viewed in slow motion. The irony of the glasses I will wear in my golden years will be that their absurdly thick lenses that could stop gamma rays. Even the economy has no bearing on this guilty pleasure – I eagerly sacrifice a half gallon of gas a weekday to commutes between work and home at break times to “play” for only minutes when the timing demands it, so as not to lose even a second’s progress. I am constantly tempted with the option to buy godfather points for real money. Good god! Am I really almost willing to part with real money for an imaginary in game currency?

Wores still, for my own benefit I must recruit my friends. I am the zombie who will perish if I do not feed on those in my perimieter. Though I warn them each: do only what I require  for my own addiction! Do not play, for you too will succumb to the succubus in a facebook application’s guise. But, like an apple from the tree of knowledge, they cannot resit but to pluck and eat, and the seeds of evil are ireversibly sewn in their bellies where the weed, nay, the parasitic-carnivorous plant, species “Mafius” genus “Warius” takes it’s wicked, permanent root.

Perhaps I can contain the outbreak some time longer by manufacturing false facebook accounts to bolster the size of my Mafia, but this can only delay my inevitable loss of control, loss of conciousness, total zombification. Run! Run from Mafia Wars before you become me!

I’m high off caffeine and not really able to put together full and coherent sentences but I’ve heard too much good stuff today to wait and post when my high comes down and intellect goes up…

Mardi Gras thoughts:

“Show your T***, Show your T***!!!” Not too long ago the honorable Mayor Matt Mackey chanted this phrase in anticipation of getting a free glimpse of what he would call the “roadsigns” to “pleasure town.”

“This motherfucking curb ramp is pissing me the mother fuck off.”

“God damn crippled fucks can’t roll across a slope steeper then 5% where the road meets the ramp, thats some horseshit”

It is only 10am on Tuesday and D is going bizerk on the motherfucking curb ramp. Dude, put down the espresso and back away!

He then attempts to explain the problem with an analogy that I and undoubtedly every other 3rd grader or fatass can understand…

“Think about it like this, say you are filling a paper plate up with food at a BBQ you know how you keep some space between all the different food cause you don’t want them mixing?”

“Say you have your plate all made up, but you realize you want a piece of bacon too, so you gotta find somewhere to put that bacon on the plate without disturbing the rest of the food so, if you have to, you scoop some of the food out of the way to make room. Problem I’m having is I have to scoop a fuckload of food out of the way to make this goddamn bacon fit and that is cost prohibitive or, in other words, I have to scoop and reform a fuckload of asphalt out of the way to get my curbramp to fit and meet ADA slope requirements.”

I totally get it now. The bacon needs to fit. Fuck you D! The bacon wouldn’t even see my plate, it goes directly in my mouth!

On another note I learned today that, “San Diego is too expensive for anyone to actually age.”