while perusing bored.com at work today, i came across a site called: which is worse? one of the questions read as follows. which is worse, a:Having a dream you are eating chocolate ice cream in the nude, or b:Waking up from the dream with a spoon in your butt. it is a tough choice. after i became bored of that site i went to take one of those ink blot tests. it was quite a lengthy test and here is what it revealed about me:
Whether you know it or not, your unconscious mind is defending your internal emotional experiences. It acts like an emotional dam that helps you keep things in check. One reason for this could be that you have a deeply-rooted fear of being flooded by emotions. In response, your unconscious acts in the opposite manner, by protecting you from unpredictable, emotional tidal waves. While this tendency might be useful in some circumstances, it may also at times make your emotions hard to articulate or grasp. And that can lead to some frustration. Since you tend to appear level-headed to others, they feel they can count on you for sound opinions and advice. Another benefit of your unconscious drive is that it allows you to remain calm in the toughest of situations. This can be a real benefit for you during business negotiations or personal arguments because you're not apt to say damaging things that you'll have to apologize for later. The only hazard with this drive towards self-protection, is you might filter out good emotions as well as the bad. That can leave you feeling like something is missing, something you can't quite place. But ultimately, your unconscious is wise and will know if there is a time in the future where it would be beneficial to be different. Though your unconscious mind is driven most strongly by Self-protection, there is much more to who you are at your core.
while reading that jargon it all seems to ring true, but i worry it is the same as that horoscope crap that you can relate anything to your life. like that MORON jon edwards and his ridiculous show crossing over. after making the giant mistake one day of watching that absolute ridiculousness i have come to the following conclusions. jon edwards is an idiot. the people who go on his show and listen to what he says, are idiots. people who watch his show on television on a regular basis, are idiots. the network people who continue to air his show, are geniuses for finding something so ludicrous that idiots will love. it seems all he does is walk out on stage, pick someone from the audience and then make up things. for example, he might say, "hmmm, i see a mark. does that name ring a bell?" and the gullible contestant would say "jeez, not really. oh wait, i once met a kid in college named mark. he was in my math class sophomore year. that is amazing!" and jon would then continue choosing unobscure names that the gullible contestant would find some connection with. he even goes as far to say mere letters. "i see an R, anything in your life begin with an R?", and the contestants never realize they are being duped by an unimpressive conartist. what the hell is wrong with people.

crappy weekend. ummm, here are some conversations i had on friday night. names have been omitted to protect the innocent/guilty.

conversation 1:
whitetrashkateer: you suck anybodys dick tonight?
*********: yeah a few guys
whitetrashkateer: well done
whitetrashkateer: as maddox claims girls are skanky bitches begging for it when you get down to it
*********: hahahahah
*********: maddox i s rihgt
*********: you are monre deformed thatn the elephant man
whitetrashkateer: not true
whitetrashkateer: actually that is the most false thing youve ever said
*********: ha you are the moast falzse thing i've ever sad
whitetrashkateer: that was a poorly constructed sentence
whitetrashkateer: by the way, you just made my blog for tomorrow
*********: you are a poorly constructed sentences
*********: NOOOOOO
*********: don't1
*********: you ass
*********: i hate you forever

conversation 2:
*********: fine thats the way its gonna be .. u lose.
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Auto response from whitetrashkateer: hanging with my only real friends, the girls in 411
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whitetrashkateer: oh yeah
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Auto response from *********: fucking loser. i hate you
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whitetrashkateer: that isnt too nice


conversation 3:
*********: what te fi k this is **** ***** an d me and **** are mad we arent your friends since whend?
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Auto response from whitetrashkateer: hanging with my only real friends, the girls in 411
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*********: we are the girls in ***
*********: we are your god mdamn friendsssssssssssssssss
*********: meanie
*********: ***** says you scuck
*********: haha
*********: jk
*********: we love you
*********: not
*********: too bad they are gu\\ugly girls

this weekend was genuinely not fun. i really can say with all honesty that despite a few bright points i would have been happier had this weekend never occurred. some of the highlights include playing pictionary and seeing rashawn stuck in the closet. im looking forward to going to work.

you know what i love about being left-handed? whenever i write in, say marker or pencil, the side of my hand gets covered in ink or graphite. for those of you simpletons who dont understand what i am talking about let me spell it out. not cause i think anyone really doesnt get it but because i am trying to kill time before lunch so i dont have to start any more of my bosses evil projects. anyway, since you write left to right (duh) and my hand actually trails my pencil/marker the edge of my hand ends up smearing all the graphite/ink, and i am left with both a sloppy and poor looking document/picture as well as an entire edge of my hand that has to be scraped clean with steel wool. what is also nice is if i dont realize that there is ink on my hand and i start the next line or something and the page gets dabbed with red marker. i find that that makes for very professional looking documents. how is it possible that i still dont realize my hand gets covered despite writing lefthanded almost my entire life (yes, almost)? i dont know jerk, i just dont. now if you are questioning why i havent written left-handed my entire life, then by all means, read on. a story i have told several people, as i enjoy laughing at the ineptitude of my elementary school, begins like this. in nursery school and kindegarten i was forced to draw and color with my right hand. naturally at that age ambidextrosity isnt a common trait (though i have developed it throughout the years). so, my coloring and drawing was always sub-par or as they said: NI (needs improvement). yes, i was one of those kids who nearly failed kindegarten for not being able to color. anyway, they thought i was retarded or something, and almost had to go to prefirst, or readiness, whatever its called at your school. basically where you go if you fail kindegarten rather than retaking it. thankfully my parents were so disappointed with my poor coloring ability that they had a conference and demanded that i color something with both them and the teacher present. when they saw me using my right hand they immediately called the teacher a moron and put the marker in my other hand. all was right (sorry bout the pun) with the world again. i passed kindegarten with flying colors (ie grades of satisfactory, excellent, and outstanding) and am now plagued with the dirty-edge-of-my-left-hand syndrome. youll notice above that i did not use the phrase "no pun intended" as that phrase is for the small of brain. i do apologize for even mentioning there was a pun, because most people, if not all, do not care one bit about puns.

i have just returned from an hour long snowball fight and i was smart enough not to wear gloves. though my hands soon became numb and a wonderful onslaught of snowball fighting ensued. when all the hootanany (sp) was coming to an end, several trashbags filled with water fell from the 8th floor. had they hit their targets bones would have broken and/or lives would have been lost. the penisless bastards who did it will pay dearly. anyway, now inside my hands have past the numb cold phase and are now in the awful hot itchy phase. you know, when all you can think about is tearing the flesh off your hands to stop the horrible irritation. this is a mistake however. anyone familiar with this situation knows better than to itch. if you itch it just ends up hurting more and for longer. so you must deal with it. it is awful. i spent 50 minutes writing this because of poor typing directly related to the aforementioned itchyness.

suckers were tricked while trying to access my blog.

the guy in the cubicle adjacent to mine is currently complaining to someone about how he has stolen all of these signs and now cant find a good way to get rid of the metal poles they come on. his current plan is to bury them in the woods. updates will be coming later. oh wait, this just in, i just heard him say he's going to have a yardsale to try and make some money off the pieces of stolen items he no longer wants. this man has several college degrees and this is his best plan? wow.

you know what i really want to happen? i want my evil boss dick durkot (yes, that is his real name) to ask me for partial results of the current experiment im doing and bitch about them because i havent had time to put them into a spreadsheet. then i want him to take the spreadsheet that i busted my ass to make and have him give me shit for a second time for not having it on his desk. next, i think it would be cool if he misinterpreted my clearly labeled columns and rows and made an ass of himself in a big meeting with his bosses. finally it would be sweet if he started lecturing me the second i get to work today about the stupid spreadsheet and pretend like it was my fault even after i clearly describe what my data table says. also it would be awesome if he made up some asanine reason to have me do another stupidly tedious experiment. not only that but he should smell like rotting meat and have a graying/balding mullet and a dirty mexican mustache.

i was recently notified that my virus definition has been automatically updated. although i was perfectly comfortable with the old list it is always nice to see that my computer is perpetually working on things i dont need, while i waste time reading maddox's website. i think instead it should work on not crapping out and giving me the evil blue screen. that would be a nice thing to do automatically. stupid dell. after pseudo busting my ass (in comparison to my usual half-ass effort) at work i spent the final hour of work looking for the cap to my pen. it fell off and i swear to god it evaporated. i looked for so long. the carpet was a similar color to the cap so i had to get on hands and knees and put my face 2 inches above the carpet. i didnt find it. last weekend, during thanksgiving break, i hung out with a lot of cool people and hot chicks and evidently forgot to mention them in a blog. i have since been hassled several times to write about them in here. here are some of the hot chicks i made drunken passes at: cassie chase, kati lary, angela muzzey, lindsay gibson, erika wood, kristen brown, danielle storti, britney mathers, jessica crowell, crystal tobin, and amanda parker. if a girl reads this who i have left out or if someone say me making a moron of myself in front of another girl please feel free to send me an IM about it.

p.s. the girl i really wanted to hang out with, wasnt there. or even in the state.

while pretending to work just now, i burst out in laughter, when over the low whisper of interoffice gossiping and click of keyboards i hear loud and clear "IM A COP YOU IDIOT" from one of those arnold swarzenaeger (sp) soundboards. which old balding scientist did it, i will not likely find out.

i just added a counter to my page as you may or may not have noticed. the glowing oranges numbers at the bottom is the counter, for the slow witted. i didnt pick an arbitrary number either, that is the counter number according to the YACCS so since i have put the comment thing in who knows how long ago, that is how many hits. not as impressive a number as jeff allens but were not in a competition right? actually we are and i will win if it means refreshing my own page 50 times a day to inflate my number.

oh, man. i got drunk last night. it wasnt as big a mistake as i thought it would be. though kinlin was tied up with phone calls and hamel left before the night began to go have sex, it was a good time. jenkins, whom i hadnt hung out with for awhile drank with me and his sister and her roomates came over, which was excellent. i have spent the last few days at work reading every page i can in this guy maddox's website. he is the original creator of the criticism (sp) of the childrens drawings, if you have seen that. while rather twisted i think it is very worthwhile to read anything you can on this site. this page in particular made me laugh like a jerk. my cubicle neighbor gave me a dirty look because i apparently disrupted his analysis of some stupid lab report. anyway, maddox continually says how great he is and how much other people and things suck ass but for the most part he is funny. anyway, i woke up this morning after a stevio like performance of sleeping through my alarm for a solid 35 minutes. happily joe wasnt there to stab me. if i was forced to listen to uninterrupted alarm clock beeping for 35 minutes i would find the responsible party and smash a guitar up their face.

p.s. trying to do important lab research with costly chemicals while still drunk from the night before is the best.

i decided to bring in my boxing gloves to school which should prove to be some drunken painfulness. i cant wait for the weekend. i also brought in my old school nintendo which (surprise surprise) is proving unreliable. i find myself blowing into the cartridge and the game unit itself over and over again in a vain attempt to play mario bro's. plus i have posted SOMEONES lace thong on my wall once again this year.

after spending the weekend at home my sister volunteered to take me home (school). we passed a humongous accident on I-95 although our side was only slowed because people wanted to see what happened so they slowed down to a ridiculous pace. stupid people. after getting onto storrow drive we found that the exit we wanted was completely shut down due to a moving truck that had tipped over. while i felt bad that their stuff was strewn about the exit ramp i couldnt help feeling pissed that we couldnt take our exit. i became a little worried because passed that exit my comfort zone drops off exponentially and my sister had much less of an idea than i did as to where to go. we took the next exit and zipped onto the mass pike, averting a potentially disastrous situation. it wasnt that good a story i know, but i am bored here at work and nothing else really cool happened.

on a local radio station this was heard at 2 in the morning last night, apparently there was a tv show in japan that was recently cancelled. its title is translated as "Extremely Poor Crying Girl Takes Off Her Gear". it seems the show consisted only of 2 girls playing paper, rocks, and scissors and whoever lost took off there clothes. those classy japanese.

david, my older brother, sent me this email which cheered me up quite a bit. enjoy it as i did.
Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays:

Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p. m. instead of 7:30.

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

"Oh, Jason, take me!"; she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night.

He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Tex.) in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill. ) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment of President William Jefferson Clinton.

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.

Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.