You work a fourteen-and-a-half hour day and as you blearily walk to you car, you think, “Man, that could have been a LOT worse.”

Hours worked this week: 76.6, for a six-day week.

Miles driven for work this week: 841. And I didn’t even drive anywhere Sunday.

Days I still managed to drag myself to the gym: 4, exactly as planned. I now know I can do this and am not allowed to make “But I had to work sooooo much” excuses.

Brain and Sanity: Gone! Hee hee!

Wearing a mouthguard is weird.

I had to order one because I’ve been super-stressed what with the strike and all, and have been grinding my teeth when I sleep, leading to some fairly irritating jaw pain.

I’d done this before when I was unemployed, and my dentist had suggested $1500 worth of contraptions to prevent recurrence, but I got my current job shortly after that suggestion, and the grinding subsided.

Doing some research, I discovered that for most people, the $1500 kit is severe overkill, and the $15 boil-and-bite mouthguards you can pick up for sports tend to do well enough.

I’m trying it tonight for the first time, and the instructions suggested leaving it in my mouth for a while to get used to it.

It’s a really bizarre feeling, but I think the fact that I’m utterly exhausted should help with trying to get to sleep, since I’ve been ready to pass out all damn day.

Anyway, off to give this a shot. I guess if I can’t sleep, I’m covered if I want to go out and participate in a boxing match or tackle football game instead.

I have a story I recently learned about from my mom to share with those of you who are having kids. You are a percentage of my group of friends which is increasing at an alarming rate, so I feel a need to warn you.

This is the story of what happens when a joke goes too far. This is the true story of my grandfather and his three younger brothers.

My grandfather was the firstborn, and his parents named him Tom. His next youngest brother came along, and he was named Richard, and called Dick. Naturally, the third brother was, in due course, named Harry.

And then, my great-grandparents had a surprise. So they wound up with Tom, Dick, Harry…and Bobby.

Bobby, as you might imagine, wound up with something of a complex. It is widely suspected within mom’s family that his family’s naming scheme contributed to his eventual drinking problem.

So please, my friends, name your children well, and avoid silly naming schemes. For the sake of your childrens’ future sanity, do not be like my great-grandparents.

Some days, I think I’m starting to really lose my mind. And then I read a handwritten pro se lawsuit like this festival of batshit craziness and realize I have a long way to go.

Courtesy Fark.

Having spoken to precisely two people in person in the last week and a half, including my neighbor who came up to tell me that anytime I ran water in my apartment her kitchen was flooding, it was nice to have Miss Cleo come by tonight.

However, I’ve been so starved for human contact, I fear I may have become this guy:

Rhetorical Pleasantry Elicits 45-Minute Response

KANSAS CITY, MO-”When he put his hand on my shoulder, I knew it would be a while,” recalled Harding, who could not escape from the monologue.

.onion_embed {background: rgb(256, 256, 256) !important;border: 4px solid rgb(65, 160, 65);border-width: 4px 0 1px 0;margin: 10px 30px !important;padding: 5px;overflow: hidden !important;zoom: 1;}.onion_embed img {border: 0 !important;}.onion_embed a {display: inline;}.onion_embed a.img {float: left !important;margin: 0 5px 0 0 !important;width: 66px;display: block;overflow: hidden !important;}.onion_embed a.img img {border: 1px solid #222 !important;;width: 64px;;padding: 0 !important;;}.onion_embed h2 {line-height: 2px;;clear: none;;margin: 0 !important;padding: 0 !important;}.onion_embed h3 {line-height: 16px;font: bold 16px arial, sans-serif !important;margin: 3px 0 0 0 !important;padding: 0 !important;}.onion_embed h3 a {line-height: 16px !important;;color: rgb(0, 51, 102) !important;font: bold 16px arial, sans-serif !important;text-decoration: none !important;display: inline !important;;float: none !important;;text-transform: capitalize !important;}.onion_embed h3 a:hover {text-decoration: underline !important;color: rgb(204, 51, 51) !important;}.onion_embed p {color: #000 !important;;font: normal 11px/ 11px arial, sans-serif !important;;margin: 2px 0 0 0 !important;;padding: 0 !important;}.onion_embed a {display: inline !important;;float: none !important;}
I’m strongly considering declaring “for the sake of my sanity” a legitimate reason to leave the house.

Yesterday, I was bored.

Today, I’m restless.

Tommorrow, I think I’m going to hit full-on Marge on a plane “LetmeoutLetmeoutLetmeoutLetmeout!” mode.

This is going to be a looooong summer.

It is done.

And the pegleg has arrived:

Yeah, I know it looks goofy as hell, but it works, and that’s all I give a shit about.

More pictures at my flickr page, which will be getting updated quite a bit since I now have a whooooooooooole lot of time on my hands and pretty much no place to go for at least the next 3 weeks.

Whee!

One mind, poor condition (approximately three functioning brain cells remaining at time of loss).

If found, please return to me circa 6pm today/yesterday. Would have been of significant help.

Willing to trade for functioning right left leg.

Edit, Sunday night – Here’s how nuts I was when I wrote this: I asked for the wrong damn leg.

So tired that when I was at the hardware store tonight waiting for the credit card swiper to bring up the signature page, I started randomly singing the “doo doo doo dee doo dee doo doo do” part of The Hustle…out loud.

The clerk noticed, and called me on it. I told him it was either that, or The Girl From Ipanema. I think he thought I was insane.

If he did, he would not have been wrong.