Archive for the 'Mrs. ACW' Category

I’ll stop talking about my wiiner when I’m good and ready

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on May 6, 2008 @ 1:16 pm
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Because I’m thrilled that Mrs. ACW doesn’t look with scorn upon the Wii, the only video game system I’m aware of to have accomplished that feat, I am constantly encouraged to buy more games and accessories for our Wiiner.

So we bought Guitar Hero.

This has introduced a number of interesting behaviors that I’m sure will become full-blown OCD tendencies in no time.

1) It is impossible for me to not rock out while I am playing. I’m constantly dancing around and bopping along with the music, even if it’s The (remarkably shitty) Killers and the horrendous douchebag among douchebags, Brandon Flowers, he of the “ironic” pedophile mustache, is singing. I’m glad I got five stars on that song, because I’d hate to have to play it again. Seriously, does he realize that when he sings he sounds like a whiny baby with a poopy diaper? What a knob. If I have one wish it’s that The Killers and Fallout Boy eventually get into a rumble and they all die.

2) It is impossible for me to not drink while I am playing. Granted, I’ve only played twice so far, but finishing each song to take a swig from that fantastic, long-necked, brown-glass teat of diminishing fine-motor skills is about as close as I’ve come to paradise. I only wish that I could play and drink at the same time, sort of using the bottle like a slide guitar, but I’m not that good yet. And the game doesn’t really work that way. And I would probably break something. Shut up.

3) I have yet to master the “Star Power” usage. On the 360 it seemed to be a lot easier. Just pop the guitar neck up a little bit and viola: star power. With the Wii it can get a little temperamental, so the chance of you seeing me successfully execute star power is lesser than the chance of you seeing me successfully jerk the controller up and down like I’m some sort of spastic freak living in a fantasy world of tiny guitars that are attacking me for some reason and I’m trying to kill them. Also, I’ve yet to successfully pull off a star power activation combined with a Pete Townshend-esque guitar move, so until that day comes, I’m going to keep jumping and swinging my arm until I wind up hurting myself, which is the most likely outcome.

4) This is probably the worst one of all. Now that I’ve played a video game about playing a guitar, I totally feel like I can hang with people who actually know how to play guitar and talk about hammer ons, pull offs, harmonics, and fingering techniques. Double entendres aside, that is, which is what I would normally talk about if I heard those terms.

5) The best thing about Guitar Hero is that I can finally put into practice all the awesome band names that I’ve ever come up with. Seriously, I’m a band-naming machine. Need a band name? Just call me, I’ll do it for cheap. Ready? Here are 10 off the top of my head:

The Crap Monkeys
Flinger
The Gravymaker Express
The Rooster Pothole
Disco School
Satan’s Daycare
Forget the Alamo!
Windsock
Dreampickles
A Bucket Full of Pudding

It’s really frustrating to not pick up the spare

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on May 2, 2008 @ 9:15 am
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The happy hour last night was pretty cool. As usual, there’s never enough time to get to really talk to everybody, so there are some folks that I would have liked to talk to that I didn’t really get a chance to talk to. To those people I say: your loss.

Also to those people who ridiculed me for having to leave early to feed my cats, I’ll have you know that since Wookie was starving she ate so fast that when she threw up a few minutes later I could see that she hadn’t even chewed any of her food. Her vomit is on YOUR hands.

Finally, Charissa wanted me to tell a story about how I saw a little kid with poop on his face jump out of a car or something. This is what she thinks my blog is about. Well, besides it being a lie, because everyone knows I would NEVER lie, the thought of a kid with poop on his face actually kind of grosses me out. Apparently Charissa is into that short sort of thing.

Let’s commence with the narcissism!

My favorite event on Wii sports is bowling. But like everything in my life that I enjoy, once I begin to enjoy it I also try to start finding a way to measure it. Unluckily for me the Wii measures how good/bad I am at bowling for me, so I’m constantly playing games as fast as I can just to see if I’ve improved rather than slowing down and enjoying the game for what it is: a distraction from the restraining order issued by Zack Efron and the entire cast of High School Musical that keeps me out of New York. Wait. What? That’s not even close to accurate. What I meant to say is that the stats distract me from playing the game as a game.

So I’ll try to keep that in mind as I slow down and try to have more fun with game until I don’t get a strike and find myself screaming at the remaining pin, “Go down you fucking slut! FUCK YOU!” and then angrily mumbling to myself about how the game cheats.

Then I usually switch to boxing so I can punch the bejesus out of a goofy looking cartoon boxer and alleviate some frustration. It’s a nice healthy workout.

Because I thought “Wiit Power” was too inappropriate

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on May 1, 2008 @ 9:34 am
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Before we get to the moist, throbbing awesomeness that is my post for the day, there’s some business we have to attend to:

blah blah blah happy hour blah blah tonight blah blah 6pm blah blah

Dougherty’s Irish Pub
223 W Chase St
Baltimore, MD 2120
(410) 752-4059

blah blah blah blah whatever blah be there, or be somewhere else: I know I will.

Anyway, on to the nonsense!

The night of the bachelor party I was actually hemorrhaging man points because I wasn’t actively engaged in the act of pickling my liver with as much alcohol as possible. In fact, I unfortunately spent the entire night maintaining a fine balance on the line between sobriety and mild buzz.

“Why,” you ask rhetorically because actually speaking to the computer is more than a little crazy, “would you deprive yourself of the sweet inebriating nectar that the gods themselves saw fit to excrete from their magical alcohol-producing organs so many Tuesdays ago for the benefit of all humankind?”

Because I was waking up early the next morning to go wait in line to buy a Wii. There. I said it. Are you happy?

Mrs. ACW and I have wanted to buy a Wii for some time now, but due to their relative scarcity we’ve been unable to procure one. Actually, we would have been able to get one a long time ago for about $600 on ebay, but Mrs. ACW refuses to sell her body on the street, and I just can’t bear to do another half-dozen equine-related porn movies. (I’m half-proud and half-nauseated to say I was second-assistant director on an official Harry Potter porn spinoff- More than a Man: Fisted by Firenze) Plus, let’s all finally admit that ebay is pretty much the squalid back alley of the internet, and that we want as little to do with it as possible.

The guy at Target told me to get there about an hour early because they expected there to be a line, and at 7am I was the only person waiting in line. And at 7:20am, I was the only person waiting in line. Thanks, Target guy, you unmitigated doucheface.

So I went home, fed the cats, jettisoned the previous evening’s mountain of snack food, had something to eat, and then went back to Target at about 7:45am to find myself the second person in line. Not too bad. A cold and boring quarter of an hour later and I was on my way home, not at all hungover but so exhausted that I may as well have been.

It wasn’t until many hours later that I was awake enough to actually set it up, and once I did I was immediately happy with our decision. It’s simply a fun gaming system. One of the things that surprised me is that you can even give your Wii a nickname, so I’ve dubbed ours, “The Wiiner”, which leads to hilarious conversations like this, “Have you played with the wiiner yet tonight?”
“No, not yet. I plan on working up quite a sweat later with the wiiner.”
“Excellent. The wiiner will definitely get you sweaty.”

And so on. For that reason alone I think everyone should get one.

For a title, see May 26, 2005. Yes, this is the second time I’ve done this.

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on April 15, 2008 @ 9:02 am
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Let’s see, what else did I do this weekend? Oh yeah, I threw out some of my clothes. Sounds boring, right? Not the way I tell it.

Mrs. ACW and I live the life many people dream about. We get home at about 5pm on Friday, cook turkey burgers and asparagus, eat them, and then do homework. Yes, many people are out, spending heaps of disposable income on drinks, food, drugs, and whatever genitalia makes their upper lip sweat and quiver (hey, I’m not here to judge; whatever tickles your pickle or frosts your cookie is fine by me), but none of them have the wrist-slitting joy of staying home and doing homework for four hours at the start of the weekend while not drinking or seeing any genitalia or putting any coke up our noses.

And the cherry on top of all of it? Mrs. ACW is on a diet, so she’s not eating any sugar, and since we don’t have any sugar free candy in the house, we had to go out the grocery store to insert ourselves amongst the other social superstars that can be found wandering the grocery aisles at 9pm on a Friday; frozen pizza in one hand, pint of ice cream in the other, bunny slippers on the feet and a loosely tied robe that leaves so little to the imagination that I may as well have his lumpy, asymmetrical baby-maker tattooed on the inside of my eyelids.

Less than thirty minutes later we’re home, have given up on homework, and are each a few pieces of sugar free candy deep into Hot Fuzz. An amusing hour and thirty minutes passes with nary to mar the occasion except a sudden onset of gas on my part that’s so violently offensive that I think I can feel hairs being singed off of my dangerous but exquisite backside.

After one particularly boisterous expulsion Mrs. ACW remarked that it sounded “hearty” or something along those lines. I had to agree. It was if I’d been grabbed around the torso and squeezed by the hand of a giant. It was as if I was completely out of control of my own body and it was venting pressure of its own accord. I learned a few seconds later what little control I actually had.

After a mad dash to the bathroom to learn that yes, I had in fact shat myself, I realized I was a twenty-seven year old man with no apparent control of his bowels. I immediately threw away my underwear and shorts, much to the bewilderment of everyone who has already heard this story.

“Why didn’t you just wash the clothes?” they ask, puzzlement clouding their faces.

Look, if I ever become so cavalier and casual with shit that I can look upon a beshatted object and think, “Hey, it’s just poop I guess,” please kill me, because I don’t want to live a life so well acquainted with the substance that our bodies forcibly eject on a daily basis.

I also jumped in the shower and gave the entire lower half of my body a complete surgical scrub down, because, once again, shit is gross.

Then I spent the rest of the weekend completely gun-shy because I didn’t want to fart and have to check and make sure my socks were still dry, so every time I felt a little pressure I had to get up, go to the bathroom, and make sure that the “football” didn’t make it into the “end zone” on a “quarterback sneak”, if you may allow me a football metaphor.

Lesson learned: not only does beef wreck me, but so does sugar free candy.

I’m certainly not fucking him, but I am his biggest fan

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on April 14, 2008 @ 10:27 am
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1) This Sunday morning Mrs. ACW and I woke up not quite hung-over, but not quite able to fully function with the rest of society. Though actually, now that I think about it, we were still superior mentally to the majority of the unwashed masses in our area. That’s funny, I never realized that for me to live as a normal, layabout, fast-food-eating, Norbit-watching, lottery-ticket-buying, Thomas-Kinkade-loving, Creed-listening mental-midget, I have to get completely shit-tanked out of my gourd to the point where my functional mental abilities are less than 50%. Jesus that’s depressing.

Anyway, yeah, because we were feeling a little bit stupid and completely lazy, we decided to meet our bodies halfway and give them exactly what they needed. For Mrs. ACW that was a double-cheeseburger from McDonalds (or as I like to call it, the master key to my personal flume ride of feces), and for me that was a McFlurry from McDonalds… coupled with two brainless movies from the old Redbox.

I was really hoping to watch Transformers, because I couldn’t think of anything dumber that might also be entertaining, but for the first time ever, they didn’t have it. So I scrolled through the dreck to see what else was available, trying to figure out if I wanted to rot my brain with an action movie or with a comedy, and also trying to figure out if I wanted to pay a dollar to rent any of these movies. Further, I had to pick movies that I knew Mrs. ACW didn’t want to see, because there’s no way she would let me lay on the couch watching movies she also wanted to watch while she was upstairs doing a mountain of homework. That would have pretty much been an instant crotch-punching, and I was in no mood to sustain a trouser-bashing to the old beanbag, so I went through the movies again.

I finally settled on The Bourne Ultimatum and Ocean’s 13, and those of you who are cleverer than I was that afternoon will figure out quickly how Mrs. ACW chose to make fun of me for the rest of the day.

Figure it out yet? No? Okay, let’s go to the conversation in the car a few moments after I got both movies.

“Yeah, I rented The Bourne Ultimatum and Ocean’s 13.”
“Isn’t Matt Damon in both of those?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess he is.”
“And?”
“And I guess I’m gay for Matt Damon.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t leave you alone while you’re watching those movies.”
“Why, because I apparently have a totally unconscious gay boner for Matt Damon’s chiseled features and sexy body?”
“Exactly.”

And so for the rest of the evening Mrs. ACW would wander downstairs to get something, check on me, and with a knowing look say, “Uh-huh. Just what I thought” and then walk away.

Semi-related video: I’m Fucking Matt Damon

Now I’m able to go out and enjoy some serious cock, guilt free.

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on April 11, 2008 @ 10:08 am
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1) I was just recently contacted by somebody at bthesite.com (which doesn’t seem to be working as of this being written) about how they had grabbed my RSS and were posting my content onto their site. That’s totally fine with me. Blogtimore has been doing it for years. But nobody at Blogtimore cares if I put the word “cock” in the title of my blog posts for all the world to see. I’m pretty sure they also don’t mind “fisting” or “felching” or “transexual cornholing santorum lickers”, but we’ll see if bthesite minds. And just to be clear, I grabbed the title from this episode of Extras:

Skip to the one minute mark if you’re in a hurry.

2) Since we’ve switched Sherlock to a new cat food that’s supposed to keep his wee-wee wiener-friendly, rather than full of sharp and jagged crystals stabbing him with their jags, his shit has become even more offensive. And I don’t mean “offensive” like people thought Andrew Dice Clay was offensive but was really only just kind-of funny unless you were a fat guy with a porno mustache, gold chain, stupid haircut, and a bad sweater, and 2 years of a high-school education who lived in New Jersey in the late 80’s and never got any action but still lied to his friends that he did, because those guys thought he was hilarious. No, I mean offensive like Yankee Candle Company’s new scent is “Hangover Shits” crafted specifically after extensively researching the nostril singing aromas of two pitchers of Miller Lite and 50 nuclear chicken wings digested and excreted through the human body, and it’s your birthday and everybody gives you one of those candles.

3) Speaking of offensive aromas, the other day Mrs. ACW and I were at the Annapolis Mall and I suddenly got a whiff of hypersexualized teenage desperation and the triumph of money over taste. “Wow, did we just walk past a perfume store? They must have spilled something.”
“I guess so.”

But then as we kept walking the stink became more palpable, until I could actually reach out an palp it. It was then that I noticed we were beginning to approach the area of the mall that housed the Abercrombie and Fitch store. We weren’t even at the store yet and I was already gagging. Seriously, look at this map. The arrow is A&F and we were at the red dot to the left of JCPenney when we started smelling the horrible smell.

We went on to Nordstrom so Mrs. ACW could look at purses or tampons or nipple-clamps or whatever it is that women look at when they go shopping (I don’t know, I usually turn my brain off), and after finding what she was looking for (or not, I don’t really know) we left to go back into the mall and it was as if I was just punched in the face with the smell of Dawson’s Creek were tv shows to have their own scents.

This time we had to pass the stink-factory on the near side, and it was so overpowering that I covered my face with my hoodie and did the best I could to control the gag reflex while my eyes watered. I wondered how people could even work in there. Do the clothes in there come pre-scented or something? Uggh. It was horrible.

But walking past the store wasn’t even the worst of it! Three hours later I still smelled like I was a non-consensual participant in a boy-band gang-bang, and nothing I did would make the stink come off me. It was like I looked normal, but my shadow was a collar-popping douchebag who bathed in shitty cologne.

I nerd out about horror movies

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on April 10, 2008 @ 9:53 am
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Every year Mrs. ACW rents us up some movies from Netflix, and not just the same old tired pablum that YOU suckers are used to watching (seriously, everything you like is stupid, unless I’m something that you like, and then that one thing is awesome, but it’s not enough to redeem your otherwise terrible taste), but the After Dark Horrorfest.

Now, some people aren’t into horror, so they employ other tactics to select movies that would make other people squirm and to provide themselves an ample amount of self-loathing. Us? We choose horror.

You may have heard me mention previously some of the movies we own: Barn of the Blood Llama (bad), Cannibal! The Musical (hilarious), or Dead Alive (awesome movie from when Peter Jackson was a horror director). But don’t get me wrong. I love some of these movies, but they are TERRIBLE. Just completely unwatchable. Blitheringly, mind-meltingly, horrid.

So I hope you understand when I say the movies for the After Dark Horrorfest are even worse.

The 2006 selections featured some real stinkers*, so unwatchable that Mrs. ACW and I chose to watch some of the movies in fast-forward rather than spend the time to see it at regular speed.

So far the 2007 Horrorfest has been about the same. The first movie we watched, Lake Dead, was just kind of stupid, but not quite bad enough that we watched it in fast-forward. They seemed like they were doing a cheap rip-off of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and House of 1000 Corpses. It was the same old, tired, played out theme of sexy 20-somethings going into the country and being killed by a family of inbred yokels for some reason.

The second movie, Tooth and Nail, was actually not too bad, but it could have been saved by not being a blatant mash-up of 28 Days Later and Firefly. Also, Rider Strong AKA Shawn Hunter from Boy Meets World, was in it. Also, all the “good” characters were named after cars, and the “bad” characters named after dogs. Now that I think about it, it was actually really ham-handed and kind of stupid.

Last night we got about 30 minutes into Mulberry Street, and the movie just couldn’t make up it’s mind about whether or not it ever wanted to get started, so we popped the ol’ DVD player into fast-forward. It reached the point where Mrs. ACW was reading Harry Potter and I was watching the screen flick by while narrating, “Okay, now there’s a rat. And the one guy’s upset. I think the rat bit him. Now he’s a rat. Now he’s trying to bite people. Oh, and the girlfriend just got bit. Now the daughter is on a bike. She’s biking home. Nothing’s happening. Nothing’s happening. There’s a rat. Nothing’s happening,” and so on. It finally reached the point where even in fast-forward the movie was still taking way too long to get to the end, so I started looking around to find something else in the living room that might be interesting to look at.

The thing that gets me is, these movies are advertised as “the content of these films are considered too graphic, too disturbing, and too shocking for general audiences,” when actually I think the problem is that the movies are either too stupid or too boring, which is really saying something considering how much money the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie made.

That said, I’ve got a real crap-factory at home right now in the form of SS Hell Camp. I wasn’t even aware of the genre of Naziploitation before I got this movie from Netflix, but apparently it’s just all around horrible. According to Wikipedia, it’s still banned in the UK! I have a bad feeling that once I begin to explore this super-niche sub-genre, I won’t be able to scrub its contents out of my brain. I’ll let you know how it is.

*Dark Ride, Unrest, and Wicked Little Things redeemed only by their special effects, Penny Dreadful being the stand out best, and The Gravedancers and The Hamiltons being unwatchably bad. I wasn’t even really interested in watching them in fast-forward.

Update on Sherlock

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on April 1, 2008 @ 12:20 pm
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So this morning Mrs. ACW was staying home because she wasn’t feeling well and I realized that giving Sherlock his medicine was completely up to me. Considering that we normally have to wrap him in a blanket until he’s completely immobile, I wasn’t relishing the task.

I prepared his medicine in the plastic syringe (sans needle) we were given. It’s just like a tukery baster with graduated milliliters on the side. And let me tell you, this thing makes it easy to give him his medicine… when he stays still long enough.

I picked him up and he was fine with everything until he saw me reaching for the syringe. He squirmed and wriggled out of my arms and bolted. I was able to eventually wrap him up in the throw rug we keep by the back door (you have to get creative when you need to immobilize a stubborn cat) and give him his medicine. And like usual, once he had swallowed his medicine I went to go get him a treat. I put the treat on the floor, he ate it, and then he vomited a pink, foamy mess all over the floor. Considering the medicine is pink, I was pretty sure what the problem was.

“You little bastard”, I thought to myself, “you finally figured out a way to get around taking your medicine.” While I was contemplating whether I should give him another dose since he spewed almost all of the first dose, he vomited again. Again it was a horrible pink foam, and it was way more medicine than I had given him that morning. Worried, and running late for work, I rushed Sherlock to our vet, who is luckily, right down the street from our house.

While I was explaining to the vet what had happened, Sherlock started making this horrible growling and gagging sound. Like he was hacking up a hairball or something. And then right in front of the vet he does the foamy pink vomit thing again. The vet grabbed him, took him to the back, and left me sitting there with the cat carrier and a counter-top full of pink cat vomit. A few minutes later an assistant came in and cleaned up the vomit, so I asked her how Sherlock was doing.

“Well, he never stopped vomiting after Dr. [Veterinarian] took him back there, so they want to start prepping him for surgery.”

I just about collapsed. I had no idea what was going on and they were asking me to allow Sherlock to be prepped for surgery. So I called Mrs. ACW and woke her up to let her know what was going on, and while I was going though the whole story with her, the vet came back in to give me an update.

“We’ve got Sherlock sedated, but we need your permission to prep him for surgery and to operate.”

“Operate on what!? I don’t even know what’s going on here!” Meanwhile Mrs. ACW is now crying on the other end of the phone.

“We checked Sherlock’s chart after we took him in the back to control his vomiting and found an error in the dosage of antibiotic he was given. It’s got way more antibiotic powder than it’s supposed to have. Somehow he was given the dosage for large canine rather than a feline. We need to perform an endoscopy soon to see if the antibiotic has eroded his stomach lining. If it has, we’ll need to operate to try and minimize any internal ruptures.”

“Yes! Go! Whatever!”

I was in such shock that it took me a few minutes to get pissed about how negligent it was of them to give Sherlock the wrong dosage of medicine. I wanted to punch the doctor in his fucking face. I don’t even know how much this is even going to cost. Does anybody know a good lawyer that practices animal law?

UPDATE: We just picked up Sherlock from the vet, and he seems a little woozy, but okay. He apparently had his stomach “scraped” and was put on an IV to dilute the effect of whatever antibiotics were still in his system. Apparently he can’t eat anything over the next few days, and we’re only supposed to let him drink water, but they said he might just sleep for the next few days. They did say that he’d probably never be able to eat regular cat food again. We’re going to have to buy this prescription cat food and then grind it up into a paste so his stomach can handle it.

I’m just kidding. He’s totally fine, and as big a douchebag as ever. There was no vomiting. April Fool’s suckers.

Of popped-collars and douchebags

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on March 31, 2008 @ 9:46 am
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Saturday morning I woke at the crack of 11am to wrestle my cat to the ground before Mrs. ACW gave him his medicine. And by “medicine” I mean a savage beating. And by “a savage beating” I mean the anti-biotics that are supposed to be degunking his pee-maker.

Because I’m a cheapskate I opened the curtains rather than turning on the lights, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a car full of early-twenties popped-collar douchebags parking across the street from my house. The three of them got out of their late model E-class Mercedes featuring 18-inch z-rated tires and chrome rims. As would any rational person, I immediately hated them.

A few minutes later they returned to the car, opened the trunk, and got out a thirty-pack of Keystone Light and a white trash bag full of assorted swill. I wanted to burst out of my house, run into the street, and beat them to death with their canoe beer* and then take a dump on the hood of their car.

Given their beer choices, I was clearly witnessing the triumph of money over taste. I decided that life was too short to waste any more time on thinking about them, mentally wished them a happy afternoon pickling their livers, and went about my day.

Later that day Mrs. ACW and I left to go over my brother’s house to finish our taxes, and from there we went to see a play our friend is in.** After the play we went out for drinks with some of the cast, so we didn’t get home until about 2am.

As we were pulling into our driveway I noticed that someone had left the visor down in the Mercedes, and the lights on the visor were burning brightly, and looked like they would be doing so all night. And then next morning my theory proved to be correct. There was a tow-truck parked in front of the Mercedes, but alas, no popped-collar douchebag.

Eventually the tow truck left and the popped-collar douchebag emerged, and I have to admit that my level of schaudenfreude was so high that it was almost able to manifest itself physically. I was wandering around the house sneering at the thought of this douchebag having to pay out the nose to have his car towed just to be told that he had a dead battery and one of his idiot popped-collar douchebag friends could have given him a jump. The darkest part of my soul was giving birth to bitterness incarnate.

Then the better part of me thought, “It’s not his fault he’s a complete and utter douchebag with all the fashion sense of Meghan McCain. I’ll go give him a jump.”

Before I could go get him another tow truck came back, hauled his car up onto back of the truck, and drove away.

Oh well. At least I tried to do the right thing, even if it took a few hours. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s still a collar-popping douchebag that drinks shitty beer and has more money than taste, so maybe I’m still glad I didn’t help him.

*Drinking beer like Miller Lite, Bud Light, Keystone, Milwaukee’s Best Light, etc. is like making love in a canoe. Fucking close to water.

**Shameless plug. This play was hilarious, and our friend is in it, so if you’re looking for something to do, this is a cheap and highly-amusing way to fill your time.

Shaking out the cobwebs

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on March 24, 2008 @ 9:17 am
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Things are busy around here, so I don’t really have a lot of “teh funny” that you’ve come to expect from other websites, or “teh mediocrity” that you’ve come to expect from mine. I should really look into what it means when my goal is mediocrity and I am still constantly under-performing. Eh, maybe some other time.

Anyway, the three big things holding me up right now are:

1) Schoolwork. I’ve added a thesis-level paper to my workload for the the semester, because I have to complete it before I graduate, and the work I already had for this semester was pretty light so I figured, “What the heck?” The heck is, school work now owns my free time.

2) Sherlock has some sort of urinary tract infection or constipation or something. He’s in and out of the litterbox all the time. Mrs. ACW is taking him to the vet today to see if we can’t uncork the bits that ironically make him so irritating in the first place.

3) My car. I’m buying my grandfather’s car so I need to sell my old car to cover some of the cost. I haven’t been able to find anyone within my extended family that seems to need a car, so I’m turning to you, the unwashed masses of the internet. Run, don’t walk, to the nearest ATM, checkbook, or money order location and try for a chance at owning a prime piece of ACW memorabilia! Seriously though, if you know someone who has a teen that needs an extremely dependable but not-at-all flashy starter car, or if someone needs an around-town car that gets great mileage, please email me and let me know and I can give you the specifics. I’d apologize for essentially putting an ad for a used car on my blog, but it’s my blog, and if you don’t like it, you can eat a bag of dicks. Also, please buy my car.

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