I sat on the roof

And I kicked off the moss.

For serious, I had to re-enter my password to get in here. So much for "by the end of the week," huh? Well, that's par for course, and I'd hate to leave y'all with nothing but posts of "Waaah I don't know what to write" and "Waaah I don't update enough." There have been happenings. Mostly regarding boards, but there have been some nice travels to the neighbor to the north, and there have been just... just incredible bizarre dates. Well, there was really only one. It was really bizarre. Not the worst I've had (because, hey, there were good times had) but certainly the weirdest.

Stories for another day, though.

I had hoped to update yesterday, but I didn't get around to it. Yes, I was studying. Deal with it. These are the choices I have made, and you're going to have to accept that. You're lucky I tipsily willed myself to write something tonight. I was about to do a video blog, and that would have just ended terribly.  We should put in a picture here, don't you think?

It was either this or Metapod. So meta.

Anyway, now that that's out of the way (still looks weird to put in double words à la "that that" or "had had"), let's talk about why I should have updated yesterday. Well, there's a simple reason. And that reason is Christina Hendricks, who turned 38 yesterday. But since she is timeless, she really just turned 0 and infinity AT THE SAME TIME yesterday. Can I get a fuck yeah Schrödinger?

"Actually, the whole 'Schrödinger's Cat' thing was just a thought experiment he proposed to make the more currently accepted form of quantum mechanics-" SHUT UP, DIRAC.

Anyway, here's to you, Christina Hendricks. You have a picture of you with a bow and arrow, and that is ridiculously awesome. You can hunt me as the most dangerous game any day of the week, and I will end you, because Christina Hendricks or not, I don't take being hunted lightly. Bring your A-game. And your G-string (HIYO. And sorry, Mom and Dad.)

This even gets to be extra large, because it's the first thing I think I've seen with her NOT in a dress since Firefly.

Anyway, on to what I was going to talk about weeks ago. Shorts. Do you think Christina Hendricks wears shorts? Well, I did some research (by which I mean that I typed "Christina Hendricks shorts" into Google Images), and here's what I found.

She eats uses a bow and arrow (see above).

She eats watermelon and manages to look not like Rorschach eating a can of beans.

She does manage to look like Zoidberg, though. She also has lovely thoughts regarding men.

She looks freaking adorable in her wedding (almost enough for me not to have angry eye daggers at Geoffrey Arend. ALMOST.)

If you don't think that's absolutely friggin' adorable, I will stab you with a rusty cell phone.

But she does NOT wear shorts. She wears skirts, she wears dresses, and she wears pants, but shorts? I have seen NOTHING. NOT A FRIGGIN' THING. This can only lead me to conclude again something that I have known for quite some time.

Shorts are stupid.

No, seriously. They're useful, yes, but only once the temperature has risen beyond the realms of reasonable fashions. If it's in the 70s (low- to mid-30s for all you Centigrade loons out there, and 300s for all those REASONABLE SCIENTIFIC MINDS out there), you can get by with jeans. 80s? Okay, might be getting a bit warm, but you can still deal. Lord knows that if there's a stiff breeze, you'll want the protection. Plus, what if you have to run through a thicket? There are bugs there that will try to give you nasty parasites, and that's just awful.

Who's a cute little Babesia, giving folks malaria like symptoms? You are!

Once it hits the 90s, though, we're out of the realm of fashion. I still wear my wonderful shirts from Express (because I am classy like that), but I give up on any antiperspirant effects once I walk out the door. And, what do you know, I'm wearing shorts at that point. I have decided, "Hey, I can't look good right now, so I might as well try to vent as much heat as possible."

See, I carry a lot of stuff in my pockets. I was actually super stoked a year or two ago when cargo shorts seemed to be back. "More pockets is cool again?" I said, having left an understood gerund at the beginning of the question. "Amazing." But then I remembered that for some reason, my cargo shorts have the corners of the side pockets sewn down. I still don't understand that. Thankfully, I don't need to, because the inseams on all my pairs have worn out, and certain laws prohibit me from wearing them anymore. It's for everyone's good, really.

Even being Batman isn't helping this kid.

Don't get me wrong- shorts have their purpose. It's just a stupid purpose. My parents, to their credit, got me some very nice shorts for my birthday. I've worn them twice (partly because winter decided to summer in Charleston, it seems), but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm wearing (as Batman so eloquently put it) "a small boy's Sunday trousers." I mean, the rules are terrible. Should it be below the knee? Probably not, because Christina would hate it. What about above the knee? Well, how much above the knee is acceptable? And what if I grow a few inches but don't expand in the waist? Can I still wear these? Or not?

These are problems I had. Then, I accepted that shorts are just stupid, and wearing them is an act of surrender to the elements. I'm not ashamed to surrender to them. Sometimes they give us nice days. Sometimes they give us terrible, terrible days as if to say, "HEY FUCKFACE. YEAH. YOU. I'M TALKING TO YOU. GET OFF YOUR GODDAMNED ASS AND GO WORK ON THAT SHIT THAT'S DUE TOMORROW. WHAT, YOU WANTED TO GO WALK OUTSIDE? FUCK YOU. IT'S RAINING NOW. I WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN WITH SOME GODDAMNED LIGHTNING IF YOU DON'T SIT. THE FUCK. DOWN. AND DO YOUR FUCKING WORK. YEAH, YOU BETTER RUN."

The elements are actually Joe Pesci. He makes sure he sounds like Morgan Freeman, though. Yeah, try working THAT through your internal reading voice.

"But, Rob," you may say, "what about GIRLS' shorts?" To which I might say, "It's LADIES' shorts, dude." But, again, you run into the classic problem with women's attire. The pockets. If I'm wearing pants, it's to have pockets. Otherwise, I'd wear a Speedo. Well, unless it's cold or indecent. Okay, fine, I probably wouldn't wear a Speedo, but I have, and there are pictures. It's a sight to see.

Look, ladies don't have great legwear options. There are skirts and dresses, but those can snag on things, and that's never fun. Yes, there are pants and shorts, but they don't have the pocket space you would want, so then they have to carry a purse. I mean, they couldn't fit their wallets into any pockets to begin with (because apparently someone decided that women need wallets the size of a forearm), but that's just more stupidity on manufacturers' parts. So what are they left with? Leggings? Dude, if you're just wearing leggings, you're worse than Der Fledermensch up there.

Impressive, but still horrendous. Amusingly so, though.

But back to shorts. I get that Daisy Duke ruined things for everyone. That doesn't mean I want to see the tips of your pockets. Yes, you may have wonderful legs. You may not. That doesn't particularly matter. You can wear a skirt or a dress that shows off your legs. They'll even do it without showing off your pockets. They won't be quite so weirdly tight, which just seems counter-intuitive to the whole stupid point of shorts. "Hey, I want to cool off, so I'm going to wear something absurdly tight around my hips. Sweat won't even be able to squeeze out past the fabric. That will really help me cool down. Thanks, Target!"

And denim on shorts? Look, there were a lot of poor decisions in the late 80s and early 90s. We shouldn't have to live with them anymore. Denim is the opposite of what you want to stay cool. Durable? Absolutely. Breathable? Not so much.

Anyway, it's still somewhat chilly in Charleston (especially for May), so I'm going to keep wearing my jeans, and they will keep me plenty warm as I study in the library. I don't know that any academic buildings really get the whole "climate control" concept. One day, though. But for kicks (and because I clearly ran out of steam and am AWFUL at endings) here's a blurry picture of Christina in which maybe she was wearing shorts? We can't tell. WE CAN'T TELL.

WHAT SECRETS DOES THAT JACKET HIDE?

I have had something stuck in my craw all day. We do not approve of this. Seriously. It's something in my right tonsillar area, but I can't freaking get it. It's pretty terrible.

You know what else is terrible? How unproductive I was today. Well, okay, it wasn't that bad. I almost broke 1600 on the ol' QBank (there are 2198 questions- I'm down to 1601. My goal is to get two runs with the QBank before test day). I also managed to listen to 5 lectures and get headphones that hopefully won't short out when I'm sweating on the treadmill (NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION IS STILL ON).

Wayne and Garth once again take our world. Also, the TV is advertising the ObamaCare Survival Guide, because apparently doctors won't take care of you i a law is passed that affects how insurance works. Because doctors are always directly involved in that.

You know what else is on? Baggage. It's pretty trashy. It's so trashy that I'd go on with the ol' usual pseudonym. The guy who'd the main contestant rejected a girl who eats scorpions. SHE EATS SCORPIONS. YOU HAVE PEST PROBLEM? SHE EAT. SHE EAT ALL SCORPIONS. I"m just... What is this. And then there was a great closing remark, and I just can't. I can't. I can't.

Let's just read that last bit in a Russian accent. And Jerry Springer, I think you're just adorable.

This show is just adorable. It's so trashy. But what. I just. This is clearly the bourbon talking. It's the good stuff, too. Thanks, Anton and Ajax! (We'll see if I remember the derivation of THAT nickname.)

Anyway, this post is a bit of a cop out, because it's late, and I've been waking up late this week, and I actually have to be up to look at liver slides and the like. It will be... well, I'm not going to lie, it's going to be awful. AWFULLY AMAZING!

These are all lies.

SERIOUSLY WHAT IS THIS BUSINESS IN MY CRAW?

Anyway, yes. Cop out. I need to get to bed. But here's a freaking commitment. I will write a blog post by the end of the week. And it will be about shorts. SHORTS. I know, right? This is going to be AMAZING.

So amazing.

Just like my ability to end a blog post without leaving you unsatisfied.

Get it? Because that's how I end all my blog posts.

There's no joke beyond that.

I'm so sorry.

There have been no page views so far today. So sayeth the blogger. I shall correct this presently, I hope.

Well, I suppose Ajax will, because he has already said this evening that he hasn't seen the blog in a while and needs to check up on it. Of course, I need to do the same. That's why I'm here right now. It's okay, I know it's a high concept for me- actually writing something. Maybe bending/breaking the rules of grammar and punctuation. Aren't you proud, former English teachers?

Mrs. Tingle, you can be my English teacher and ruin my acting career (but not your own (or Katie Holmes', I suppose)) any day.

One moment, lady and gents. I need to grab a spot of pie and a spot of milk. I'ma THIRFSTY.

You should really watch The Venture Bros. It's pretty funny, and it has talk of juice boxes and old-timey Prussian bodybuilders that you haven't heard of. It's his birthday today. Maybe you should say a word or two.

Now that those two spots have been taken care of and moved such that they aren't blocking my access to the keyboard (so inconsiderate!), we're going to talk about birthdays.

Good Lord this apple pie is delicious, despite my botching the recipe. You'd think I'd know better, having done this recipe before and all. You'd think wrong, though. Dead wrong. Because the pie isn't alive. Well, at least I hope it isn't. But, yes, birthdays.

I had some pretty kickass birthdays growing up. My mom did strong work. There was the Cookie Monster Conducting a Train Chocolate Cake (which I remember as having a moving train, but I was 3 years old and therefore probably high on whatever was in arms reach), the amazing pirate theme (of which there is a picture, but I'm feeling lazy and don't want to put it up on this post. Maybe another), and several other great birthday parties when I was young.

Fine, I'll post it. Along with the MINEFIELD OF SWEETGUMS. (Funny story about those- they will paralyze your foot and nobody will believe you.)

I guess when I was around 9 or 10, I stopped having birthday parties. I figure that's normal, right? Of course. Part of it was that I didn't particularly have a whole lot of close friends back then. Maybe I was well-liked (thanks, Willy!) (maybe I should stop making references I won't get in the morning. Future Rob, that's referring to Willy Loman from Death of a Salesman. Hopefully you know this in the morning. If not, trivia is doing more damage than we had anticipated. Also, you just dropped a pen. Fix that. Thanks, past Rob.), but I had a whole lot of paranoia in middle school (again, high on whatever I could get my hands on. Namely, LIFE), so I didn't trust the kids who were talking to me, probably because, in hindsight, they actually were being a bit weird and trying to get me to twerk out. Whatever twerking is. I don't know. Middle school sucks for everybody. It is the worst thing ever.

They're all dead on the inside. Nobody smiles like that in middle school. Look at the desperation in their eyes.

High school was better though. I know, this doesn't seem to relate a lot to birthdays. We're getting there. See, in high school, I was big on theater for a few years. The other year, I was big on, well, EVERYTHING ELSE. Youth group, scouts, quiz bowl, church choir, absurd courseloads, Model UN, hitting on Katie Couric, and, well, theater productions all seemed to get in the way of my birthday. I blame Franklin Pierce.

Shifty bastard. Look at those eyes. The thing about Franklin Pierce- he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. like a doll's eyes. When he comes at you, doesn't seem to be living until he bites you, and those black eyes roll over white, and then- ah, then you hear that terrible high-pitched screaming. The White House turns red, and despite all the poundin' and the hollerin', all the presidents come in and they rip you to pieces.

The shining example that comes to mind was my... probably junior year, I think. Could have been sophomore. Let's find out. Yep. Junior year. Anyway, junior year, I was in Macbeth, and blah blah blah, my parents had to basically hold me down and force me to open my freaking birthday presents. I had gotten a guitar (Rachel, for those counting), and it has served me well ever since.

That said, my birthday? Late March. When did I open this thing? Mid- to late April.

But, hey, 21, 22, and 25 have all been pretty great. 21 was the great failed surprise party by Amanda (don't try to stall me when I'm hungry, and coordinate better I guess? I don't know. It was still a fun time, because there was beer at dinner. THERE WAS NEVER BEER AT DINNER BEFORE THEN. WHAT MADNESS WAS THIS?). 22 was the Q-Night where everyone showed up, which was super touching. You don't really know what Q-Night was. You missed out, man. 23 was Amsterdam (lots of munchies, not as much fun as I'd have liked), 24 was in a test week or something, but 25? Lots of people came out, we went out to a decent bar, and everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

So, thanks, everybody. There were some pretty weird and awkward moments along the way, but I'm glad I'm not in middle school, and I'm glad y'all came by. Here's a happy K-pop song.

My God, he's learned how to insert videos. We're doomed.

Hello there, brave new world.

I've been 25 for going on an hour and a half, so I think that the maturity that goes with having a less expensive car rental fee (to say nothing of car insurance) has probably sunk in by now.

So let's talk about my last day as a 24 year old.

Sorry, Jack. I can't help you anymore.

Most of it, I spent working on a powerpoint presentation for my tutoring group. PowerPoint? Surely it's not two words. Firefox isn't saying that the double caps version is misspelled, so I will defer on this issue. I did have a lovely-ish workout this morning. Some ladies (not the LADIES sort of ladies, but rather the older, wedding ringed, "I'm here because my husband can afford the gym membership and I need something to do" ladies, not that there's anything wrong with that) were in the way of the machines where I get my chest all swoll.

So swoll.

 And, of course, it continues to be far too cold for ALMOST APRIL. I MEAN COME ON. MOMMA CAMERON KNEW THAT SHE WANTED A SON WITH AN UNDAMAGED HEAD AND A BIRTHDAY THAT FELL IN WONDERFUL WEATHER. This is ridiculous, winter. You're drunk, and Charleston is not where you want to vacation. You're on your way to Chile or some such (where it's chilly. See what I did there? This right here is some classy and original comedy. You're probably laughing pretty hard right now. I'll wait.)

We're done waiting.

Anyway, yes. I spent most of it on a presentation for my tutoring group. They seemed to enjoy it. There was skull anatomy and nerves galore. Hopefully it helps them. But, really, that's not what I'm here for.

I also went to trivia, where we won shots. There were some questions I should have gotten, and there were some that we shouldn't have but did anyway (because we're cool like that). We even stayed a while (with Chantal, Sneezy, and Platinum Chainz) to ring in my birthday with more booze than was ideal and a few wonderful songs. People were looking at us weird. It's a bit of a hipster bar. They don't understand our joy. Assholes. Well, okay, it's a little awkward trying to sing along to a song in a group of four while you're standing off on your own in a little pack. DON'T HATE.

But anyway. Late is the hour and such. Here's what I REALLY wanted to talk about. If you've ever doubted how FREAKING AMAZING Charleston is, well, shame on you, because you're just wrong, but also, here's something to convince you otherwise.

I'm driving home, and I'm waiting at a red light. I see a young lady escorting a clearly intoxicated fellow home. This fellow has a tattoo along his right flank and axilla. How could I know such things, you may wonder. Well, this fellow also did not have a shirt and was stumbling quite a bit. I almost offered them a ride, but I remembered being rebuffed for a similar offer while in college, and I figured that I'd see how it went.

Sure enough, the young lady had things well in hand. She was-

Hold on. Important bulletin. Having read previous posts, you know how much I love Neil Gaiman and how much I would have his children if I had the proper reproductive machinery. Seeing as I don't, I'll have to pay it forward to him by posting a link to this poll. It's a Time Magazine poll for the Top 100 People of 2013. I think he should be on the Top 100 People of Ever, but that's just me. Give him some love here.

I will write slash-fiction between him and David Bowie if need be. AND IT WILL BE, well, just terrible, because I'm not great at fiction. We should know this from the last post of Novemblog, with the repeatedly capitalized N's to go for the Aristocrats joke.

Anyway, the young lady had things well in hand. She escorted him across a potentially busy intersection with no problem. And that's awesome. Truly, she is wonderful and a keeper, and he should do nothing to earn her ire (and probably shouldn't have had so much to drink).

However, he HAD had so much to drink, so the point was moot. The important thing is what happened right after they crossed the street.

He moved to the other side of the curb.

I like to think that they had just recently crossed from the other side of the street and that his balance wasn't yet up to snuff, so he let her walk closer to the street for a spell. But as soon as his equilibrium returned, you know what happened?

He moved to the other side of the curb.

And they say chivalry is dead.

The old hurdy gurdy

Yeah, yeah, I know. Late. Once again. I'd say that I know I owe you better, but that calls into question of whether or not an artist owes his/her audience, which in turn calls into question the idea of whether or not I'm anything resembling an artist and whether or not all threeve of you (a whole threeve!) constitutes an audience.

Dig it, you crazy cats.

But hey, Davidson is playing CofC, and I'm done studying for the night, regardless of whether or not I should be. Neither of these things are particularly connected, what with not having cable and having no desire to try to jinx things by turning on the game on my computer or some such.

And no, tonight isn't the night for a Mr. MUSC recap. It's unfortunate, but I doubt I have the time or inclination to take care of that business tonight. And a bloody business it is. (Is Rob being literal or not? The answer may surprise you!)

There's an obvious caption with this one. I'll leave you to find it. Scavenger hunt!

Also, bangarang, C of C.

Bangarang indeed.

Mmm carrot. Keeping me that wonderful shade of sallow yellow. Sun's overrated, especially when there's board studying to do (not that there's been much of that going around, times being what they are). But oh, the day will come. And when it does, I will play around on Facebook until I remember that, hey, I only have a few weeks left until I pull the trigger, and maybe I should figure out where I'm pointing the gun and maybe learn some proper gun safety so I don't shoot myself in the foot with it.

Yeah, a little overboard, but the metaphor stands. And yet I continue to not study. Truly, I am a giant among men.

See, now I just keep getting distracted by the bangarang face. It's... haunting. Of course, the TV doesn't help either. And now it's late enough that I'm having doubts that I'll be able to come up with a topic. But hey, maybe I've left you with some food for thought. And a bangarang face.

Fine, I just left you with a bangarang face.

In fact, I left you with two.

Dear Pharynges and Upper Respiratory System,

I've known you for a long time. When I had those early nightmares about the Honkers and various crustaceans, you were there for me.

Sweet Jesus, they're breeding.

When I had that kickass Cookie Monster Is A Train Conductor On A Chocolate Train Cake for my third birthday party, you were there.

I couldn't find photographic evidence of this pivotal moment in my life, so here's Liam Neeson giving you some encouragement.

Sure, we've had some bad times. I remember when I was... call it 4? and you decided that I was going to have that strange hybrid dream of a brontosaurus in Free Willy's tank and possibly the Winter Miser or the Burgermeister or someone from one of those weird Rankin Bass Christmas specials that I'm not sure I've even seen and wake up with the worst pain in my ears in my life. Also that rhythmic pounding. Oh, the pounding. I remember wandering around my room and shouting to the heavens, "MY GOD, MY GOD, WHAT HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME? THIS INFERNAL BEATING IN MINE EARS HATH MADE ME MAD!"

The face of madness, ladies and gentlemen. But mostly LADIES.

My point is, yes. There were ear infections. There were apparently enough that people were considering going for surgery because blah blah Eustachian tubes, things I should know but don't blah blah. And then you got the hint that you were yourself in danger (not really, because I just stopped complaining about the pain in my ears because I didn't want to be a bother. See also: broken collarbone, food poisoning 2007), you gave it a rest. Well, part of you did. I mean, I guess you figured that Strep throat would be a better idea? My ass thanks you for all the injections you subjected it to. THAT CAME OUT WRONG.

I think this sums things up well.

Seriously, all in all, we've gotten on pretty well. You've let me know when, hey, there's some sort of badness here. Heck, you've even been good enough to give me telltale signs for these sorts of things (including, as of high school, a sore throat for an ear infection. Because that makes sense.), and I've tried to listen. You didn't get in the way when I tried my hand at singing or acting, and for that, I thank you.

I know that you're going to get sick now and again. That's fine. These things happen. I've been trying to exercise to make that happen less often. Yeah, I hurt my chest, and that made things difficult, but it's pretty much healed now. I'm sorry for that.

But for fuck's sake, cut this shit out. Make up your goddamned mind. Is this a sore throat? A chest cold? A sinus infection? Pick one, you fucking dick sandwich.

Pictured: Resolve, motherfucker.

But do NOT keep this bullshit up with the goddamned, "Oh, today you're going to have an absurdly sore throat. Today you're going to constantly be coughing unless you drink gallons of water at every opportunity. Today your nostrils are going to feel like I jammed Everclear up inside them and am holding it in there." No. No. This is done. There will be no more of that. You are preventing me from doing fun things, and you are preventing me from working effectively. There will be no more of this.

However, there may continue to be me in this snazzy scarf, because if this medicine thing doesn't work out, I can always become a WWI fighter pilot.

Let's Catch Him With His Panzers Down

Well, dang

Yeah, I know. February is the month where New Year's resolutions go to die. My excuses are bad, and I should feel bad.

Don't worry, Dr. Zoidberg- I do.

"But, Rob," you may cry (and in this case, you do, because we're in my imagination now. In fact, I just saw an image perfect for that. Let's go find it, shall we?

The sad thing is that now I can only think of rate-limiting step or steady state approximations. Thanks, Doc.

And now back to the parenthetical in which we were discussing the delicate balance betwixt fiction and reality. And now back to the actual speaker we had a few lines ago.), "what could have kept you from this sacred duty of resolutioning?"

Well, if you must pry, most recently, it was due to a call of nature. I'm not proud of it, but nor will I allow myself to be shamed by the likes of you for having such functions. If you continue to deny me my right to poop when necessary, then we're gonna have trouble.

Good to see you again, Professor. As always, your timing is impeccable.

Of course, that really only accounts for 30 minutes of my whatever that word is that I'm looking for. I really can't come up with it. But anyway, let's do a run-down of what has kept me from keeping up with my one-a-week promise.

When last we left this intrepid blog, it was February 2nd, it was. Now it's March 1st. So, week by week (and maybe even day by day), let's do a quick recap.

The week of February 3rd-9th: Well, spirits were high going into the week. At some point, I may have received a nomination for the annual beauty pageant at my school. That was pretty cool. More on that later. More importantly, though, the 8th and the 9th (when a blog post would normally have reared its beautiful and magnificent head) was the start of study week. For those of you who don't know, this tends to make my life turn from the normal mix of insanity, absurdity, debauchery, and trivia into:

Well, okay, study week. Not the best excuse, but not bad, sir. Not bad.

February 10th-16th: Um, it's still study week. And test week. And dance practice for the pageant (LADIES). Friday was the test. After that, I think I went out for a couple of beers, and then there was dinner with the folks (Thanks again! It was great!) and a general feeling of "Why did I have a couple of beers in mid-afternoon? You know that this never ends well for you." (Note: This is not to say that I blacked out or anything of that sort. Day drinking that stops for some period of time tends to result in me getting a fierce headache and general ickiness.) I then joined my classmates at the bar du soir and was endlessly told how well I was going to do at the pageant. It was a wonderful display of solidarity undercut by the crippling pressure of what I had to live up to.

So much pressure to take good pictures.

And then Saturday I just had other things to do I guess.

February 17th-23rd: Well, I had to get ready for the pageant, of course. That meant practice, practice, practice, sleep, practice, and practice. I barely got things together in time. Then the pageant happened, and next thing I knew, I had the cast of Alien trying to bore its way out of my head. So that's where last week went.

This past week, well. There were problems.

Sunday: Psht. I know I should write something, but I should also go to trivia with some friends. That'd be fun. And it was! Aside from the announcer's idiocy (herp derp 10 million sales is the right answer instead of diamond status herp derp).

This image took way too many tries to find. This is also offensive to somebody, hopefully the host who can't host.

Monday- Well, I had to go to a seminar at 5, and I needed to work on finding sources for a paper due in a couple of weeks. Maybe I'd even study a lecture. Couldn't just let blogging get in the way of productivity.

Tuesday: I was actually going to go home and blog after trivia. I had a decent buzz going, and I was ready to write something. And then Vespa laid down the almighty "WHY AREN'T YOU HANGING OUT WITH YOUR FRIENDS. YOU ARE SO LAME." guilt trip. Thanks, Vespa. I feel much better about drinking more now.

Wednesday: Oh, also, at some point after the pageant, I pulled a muscle in my chest. This, obviously, really fucking hurt. Rather than take the hint of, "Hey, dumbass, take it easy for a few days," I proceeded to work out on Sunday and Tuesday. Wednesday, I realized that maybe I should take it easy. Of course, on Tuesday night, a cold front rolled on through, so I woke up with a fierce cold that was not helped by the extreme pain associated with coughing and/or sneezing. So I felt pretty crappy, and I was probably still trying to do some work on this paper.

Thursday: Well, Thursday is trivia. I can't not go to trivia. Haven't you been paying attention.

Friday: I was going to finish the paper. I didn't.

AND THAT BRINGS US TO TODAY!

Finally. Geez. That was painful to write. I can't imagine what it was like to read. Some of that might be due to me not having had breakfast yet. Some of it might be due to me being out of practice due to missing four straight weeks of blogging. So here's what's going to happen.

I figure that I need to make up for four weeks of lollygagging. With this, maybe I've gotten through one. This means you get extra blog posts this week.

More importantly, it means that I've delivered my message in my usual roundabout way, and I can now make some fucking blueberry pancakes. I'm hungry. Lay off me.

I was going to include an image of blueberry pancakes here. Apparently, there are no especially appetizing pictures of blueberry pancakes on Google Images. I have no intention of changing that, because I'm going to eat the bajeezus out of these pancakes as soon as they take form, like some sort of post-modern Cronus. Hipster Cronus? (Aw, nothing for that on Google Images, either.)

This will have to do.

Hipster Hendricks smells blueberry pancakes. Bring it, Hipster Hendricks.