The easiest way is to use it heavily for several years. However, most of us don’t have several years on hands to idly lounge in bed and…uhh…watch Doctor Who for six hours a day.
One way that I just thought of using my coffee-addled brain is to take out a screw every night for about a week, so the bed gradually starts losing its sturdiness and then eventually collapses and comically injures the person(s) on it when it does.
Another rather humorous way of breaking a bed would be to create a black hole underneath it, thereby sucking the occupant and everyone they love into the black void of the unknown. But you can’t do that, because I wanna do that and I don’t know if the fabric of reality can take more than black hole at a time.
So it turns out the reason why we have the abstract concept of one is because without one we wouldn’t have any punchbowls and I think that’s beautiful.
Stephen Hawking needs to write a book about it called “that one time Shelby was really tired and rambled on for thirty minutes about the number one to his girlfriend on the way back from a show”. We’ll be millionaires.
There are a lot of things that suck. One is American “cheese”. Another is getting fired because your boss is an doody-head who decides you’re falsifying your work report, as a friend can attest. You may also find that being gormandized by a dragon is not a pleasant experience. Of course, none of those really stacks up to running on six hours of sleep the day before opening night of a show–especially when it’s a huge show like Oliver!, and also the first show you’ve ever lit and you have no idea what you’re doing. Luckily, I have marvelous friends that help me when I don’t know what I’m doing, and an awesome director who goes out of his way to order fog machine fluid so it will be here by opening night. It turns out there is some good in the world.
P.S. This post is short because I don’t know how many of my brain cells are actually operating right now, although I doubt many.
I love making people feel awkward. I like to think of it as one of my hidden talents. Sure, any old chap can say something off-kilter and produce a few moments of awkwardness, but maximizing the awkwardness potential takes true skill and a propensity for making bizarrely sexual faces out of nowhere. As anyone who knows me can attest, bizarrely sexual is my middle name.*
An example picture of one of the many bizarrely sexual and/or downright creepy faces I make on a regular basis for the hell of it
*Actually it’s Wayne but who cares.
I saw someone I really despise out in public yesterday. I was putting up posters for work and I knew if I talked to them I would get heckled and spend a bunch of time being upset about it. I tried to duck out of view so they wouldn’t see me, but of course that didn’t go quite as planned. The universe works in strange and, frankly, dickish ways. I started to walk away, thinking they hadn’t seen me…but they did, and they said hi. I ignored them and kept walking. After all, they were twenty feet behind me and I looked relatively busy. Then I accidentally made eye contact with them and ran away.
Today I had to deal with their flack about it, all while thinking to myself, “You know, I really have no reason to engage people I hate.” If someone is a complete buttface, and you’ve done all you can to like them anyway–and I really have for this particular fellow–then you don’t actually have an obligation to engage them, especially if they’re not a co-worker or someone you’re stuck seeing on a regular basis. You can pretend they don’t exist and you’ll be happier for it. If you let them get to you–or even worse, if you try to get back at them–then you’re going down a road you don’t want to go down. You’re better than that, and you deserve the happiness that comes from not engaging.
I tried to make my own bow tie on Sunday. It started off all right, with me following this really nifty do-it-yourself guide, and ended up like this:
It’s safe to assume I’ve never touched a sewing machine before.
It could have gone worse. I could have sewn my fingers together, or sewn my ears to my fingers, or sewn my ears to my ears and thus defying basic human anatomy.
…Actually, that would have been really cool. I’ll have to save that idea for later.
At least I learned a valuable lesson from the experience. This valuable lesson is that a man’s place is not at a sewing machine. That lofty task is reserved for womankind, while it is man’s true place is to worship the ground women walk on because we really have no idea what we’re doing and you guys rock.
I love being home alone. I live in a house with six other people (most of whom are female and all of whom are related to me) and so if I want to walk around naked–which is actually most of the time–seriously, the only thing better than lounging around home with no clothes on is lounging around home with nothing but a bow tie on–I have to wait until everyone else is at work, or school, or the grocery store. If I’m lucky, that’s maybe once a month. My overwhelming urges to color naked, therefore, are generally not satisfied. Even worse, though, I frequently find myself in the disagreeable position of wanting to run around my home in the nude streaming flowers all over the place without being capable of satisfying this primal longing. My life has become a living hell.
I long for future days of bachelorhood, wherein I will sprawl on the couch and watch Doctor Who in my birthday suit and consume large bowls of ice cream. In this vision of the future I will not have a cat for fear it will accidentally pounce on my doodle and cause me serious bodily harm. However, I will have my own ironing board that I will use to keep my clothing nice and fresh when I’m not wearing them (which will be an often) and, if I’m really drunk, to use like a surf board.
This, my friends, is my dream–the American dream.