Whatever, man, you're fucking sick.

So, I'm sick. Hence the blogging on Friday night. (I swear. I really did have some invites to go out tonight.) I'm actually kind of angry because I have been very sympathetic towards all these sickies while maintaining my distance, and now the bastards have given the disease to me. The common symptom for this unknown illness seems to be extremely swollen, painful lymph nodes. Anyway, let's get down to business. I need to drug myself and go to sleep.

I've decided that I will no longer hang out with couples. For some reason, (I have probably already touched on this earlier) people who are practically strangers tend to see me as the confidante they've never had. I don't know whether I seem understanding or non-judgmental or what. I'm none of these things. I don't understand things I haven't experienced personally and I make unfair judgments about every person I meet. Perhaps because I am very self-absorbed and I tend to relate everything to myself, people confuse this with understanding, or at the very least, interest. But the truth is I'm only interested in myself. The other flaw one will encounter when confiding in me is that I'm completely untrustworthy. I wouldn't be able to keep a secret if my life depended on it. It's not my fault, I just feel the need to tell everyone everything I know and think.

Anyway, so since I'm apparently the best (and by best I mean absolute worst) choice of person to tell your innermost secrets, this is where the couple problem happens. My friend will tell me some information, which they do not mention is private and they don't tell me to keep to myself. So of course, I naturally assume that they have already told their significant other. I mean, when you're sleeping with someone on a regular basis and planning a life with them and forcing me to hang out with them too, I guess I just think that occasionally the two of you would actually talk about things. Maybe that's crazy. I sure as hell don't have the relationship experience to be making these assumptions, but my experience as a human being with a multitude of non-romantic relationships leads me to believe that this is not a ludicrous idea. Even if I only recall my limited experience in romantic endeavors, I know for a fact that in (how shall I put this?) intimate moments, some people allow private thoughts to slip.

So then your boyfriend buys me shot after shot, and I bring up a topic I assumed he was familiar with. You are not allowed to get mad at me. Seriously. It's not okay. If you don't want to be honest with the guy you have insisted I befriend, then don't fucking tell me anything, or even better, don't insist that he tag along. And seriously, do us all a favor, and break up with the poor guy. After this long explanation, my decision is that I will no longer be pushed into an uncomfortable situation by one or both members of a couple. I don't give a shit. Fix it your damn self. I'm not your god-forsaken therapist.

So that's it. Enough anger to keep my blood pressure up until Sunday. Quick question: does anyone on fucking myspace know how to spell ridiculous? Because right now, I'm not convinced anyone does. Alright, now it's cold medicine time. Every time I take NyQuil, I get exactly six hours of sleep. Is it odd that I know that?

I don't have to. All I know is it happened.

So, yesterday Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. died. In a 2003 interview he said, "One kid said he had the key to all my books and he put it in a sentence. He said, 'Love may fail but courtesy will prevail.' Love does fail all the time, you know, and it makes people vicious."

He was the author who got me interested in reading. I used to go to the library a lot after class in high school. I would pick a random book, and start reading it. If I liked it, I'd check it out. I read a couple of chick-lit books, (it was Bridget Jones heyday, shut up) but I got bored with that really quickly. That was when I learned that just because I like one book, I won't necessarily like the whole genre. So anyway, I would just walk down the fiction aisles waiting for something to pop out at me. One day I walked past the Vonnegut section, and I picked up Cat's Cradle. I stood in front of the bookshelf and read the first few chapters. I finished that in a few days, and then I read Galapagos, then Breakfast of Champions, then Slapstick, and Welcome to the Monkey House, and Slaughterhouse-Five, and Hocus Pocus.

About four years later, my dad loaned me his copy of Bluebeard. I still haven't given it back. It's my all-time favorite. I don't really know why, maybe I just think one-eyed Armenian painters are awesome. Anyway, somewhere along the way I had switched from the library to the bookstore. So I began to build my collection of (legitimately purchased) Vonnegut books.

When talking about his decision to stop writing novels, he said, "I felt as I did when the Second World War ended: Please, I've done everything I'm supposed to do, can't I go home now?".

Food Network hosts shouldn't be allowed to eat on camera.

Seriously, it's grossing me out. I mean, for god's sake, it's food. Based on the moans of delight and the eyes rolling back, I thought I was watching another channel.

Between Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray, Paula Deen, and that new bitch Robin Miller, I'm about to vomit. Some news for them:
You're not making out with your culinary masterpiece, or I guess you might be if you're mentally disturbed. But either way, the food is not making out with you. Maybe you and the sandwich should get a room.

And this was odd, because it was the middle of the night.

Tweedle Dee - I just feel like I can't do anything on my own and now I've given up. I need someone to tell me what to do and how to do it. Someone like, um. . .
Tweedle Dum - A life coach?
Tweedle Dee - Well, yeah, that would be fine except. . .
Tweedle Dum - Except what?
Tweedle Dee - Well, who would make me go to the meetings?
Tweedle Dum - Oh yeah.

Sometimes there's a penis.

I really did have something to write about. However, now I can't remember what that was. So until then, here's a little gem I found on this new-fangled internet business about the chocolate Jesus sculpture. It refers to the people who are upset about the fact that this depiction of Jesus is anatomically correct:

". . .(A)rt imitates life, and in life, sometimes, there’s a penis. And only in the luckiest of circumstances is the penis made of chocolate."
- Kat, pink india ink