Feaverish

I’ve been indexed by Google! Huzzah! Alas, I am only the third listing for “feaverish,” the first two and all subsequent being misspellings of “feverish.” [Sigh]

And speaking of small, petty victories, I totally rocked Halo 2 last night. Shouts out to P and S, who gave up good grades and career suck-sess by neglecting their respective homework and choosing instead to be blown to pixelated smithereens by yours truly’s rocket launcher. Extra props to P for having to face The Missus after returning home an hour later than promised.

The best feature of Halo 2 and the only thing that gave P and me a chance against S is the Handicap. I don’t think I ever won a game of the original Halo if S was playing. He may have questionable hygiene, but motherfucker can shoot. Now, though, there’s the handicap. It comes in like four different degrees, from Minor to Severe. Minor just takes down your shields a bit. Moderate keeps the low shields and adds a limp. Major throws in Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and Severe adds a speech impediment—so your post-kill taunts aren’t so menacing.

Anywho, with S on Severe, P and I at least stood a chance. We’d just stand there as he fired rocket after rocket at our faces, while any rocket we fired—anywhere on the map—would kill him, no matter where he was. Pretty sweet.

Well, I’m running out of space (fucking inflexible design—I’m working on it) so I’ll wrap it up. I’ll write soon about the pretty awesome Thanksgiving we had, so be sure and check back in at the newly-indexed Feaverish.com in a couple of days.

Well loyal readership, not much happened in Coolsville today, so I’ll just lamely paste in a couple of photos. Bon appetit!

So it’s totally raining at lunchtime the other day—and like always no one in the office wants to get lunch with me—so I order out from the Thai place up the street. When I get there I see there’s another guy waiting for his to-go order too, and the waiter sits us at this little for-two table and gives us a glass of water (each, not to share—that would be weird). But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is the waiter introduces us, me and the other take-out guy, based on the names we gave for take out.

I’d given the name Xavier so as to avoid the inevitable confusion that comes from the person trying to figure out whether there’s one A or two, or maybe two Rs, or maybe no As but maybe like an E instead. Yeah, I’m gonna explain it to you. Here’s some time out of my precious day for you to use. Have at.

So anyway, yeah, I’m Xavier, and he’s John or James or Burt, and we’re sitting at the same table like six inches away from each other in this tiny crowded restaurant with nothing whatsoever in the world to possibly talk about ever. I don’t care if we grew up next door to each other and just found out we have the same father or we’re long-lost brothers or…wait…that would be the same thing. It doesn’t matter: we’re not talking. Yes I’m just that socially awkward. The waiter may as well have asked us to strip down and spoon is how awkward the situation is for me.

Long story short, after indicating with dramatic facial expressions just how much universal truth I found in the chalked-up specials menu and trying to find all the differences between the five one-dollar bills in my wallet, my food finally came. It was just like in Rambo: First Blood Part II, and I was one of those P.O.W.s and Rambo had just toppled the last of the guard towers and, like, bitten through my bamboo cage and he’s like “You’re going home” and I’m all “What took you so long” and we both kind of smile/sneer and then he tosses me a bazooka which I totally know how to use and we kick ass but without taking names—‘cause we’re rebels, Dottie. Loners.

Anyway, yeah, that’s pretty much how it was in the restaurant.

I ate a muffin the size of a child’s head this morning. What age, you ask? Probably in the eight- to ten-year range. They were just sitting on a counter at work, begging to be gorged upon, but I resisted for a good two hours. Then I went to the coffeeshop and got a latte (yes, I am a manly man. And at lunch I had a diet Pepsi™) and really wanted to get a scone to go with it but then I got so excited (you know how it is) by the realization that there were huge muffins waiting for me back at work and said “shit, scone, I don’t need you!” and, well, didn’t buy the scone.

Notwithstanding my anticipation, I could barely bring myself to eat the muffin when I got back to work. I couldn’t get over the cold, hard fact that a muffin that size embodies everything that’s wrong with America and SUV, bulk-food excess but then I noticed that the blueberry muffins had like a brown-sugar and flour mixture sprinkled on top and I was all “screw this life of left-wing ascetism” and dug in.

Man, it was worth it. A muffin like that, you can’t even take a bite of it’s so big. Your brain can’t even wrap its mind around eating that kind of muffin. You gotta just tear great hunks off the beast and let your mind—and your mouth—chew on those. One at a time.

Oh and also, I’m out of my Tangerine Zinger™ tea. Celestial Seasonings™ only sent me four tea bags. Plus four bags of something called “Black Cherry Berry™” which I’m not sure is a naturally occuring species but which I’m at any rate also out of. Still, it was free. All you gotta do is go to their website and tell them via comment form how much you love their tea. Expect to wait four to six weeks for your care package.

Oh reder. Hve you ever been cold? The nswer is no, no you hvent. For whtever un-hotness you’re experienced, it ws nothing compred to wht I experienced this morning on my ride into work. I won’t even get into the stiff, lifeless toes, the Novocain-numb lips, or the complete nd so-fr (it’s been ‘bout 10 minutes) permnent hering loss.

Becuse none of the ‘bove compres to the hnds. Specificlly the fingers. Five minutes into the ride it becme obvious tht my hnds, necessry for, sy, operting the brkes, would be utterly useless. ‘lso, I cn’t seem to work the cue or eh keys properly.

I scoffed when the slesmn ‘t the bike shop tried to sell me $45 wind-proof gloves, but ‘t this point I’d gldly trde tody’s pycheck in its entirety for the gloves.

Will write more when feeling returns.