Cotton Swabs Are Great For American Gladiators That Are Really Small

And so endeth another fabulously uneventful Sunday, just as it was meant to be. As it was, is and ever shall be. I again accomplished nothing. I suppose I did laundry. I suppose. One could consider that accomplishing something. I consider it more as merely rubbing in my face all that I could have accomplished, as it is really the easiest task in the world.

1. Put clothes in big metal box.
2. Sit.
3. Move clothes from one metal box to another metal box.
4. Sit.
5. Move clothes from metal box to original location.
6. Sit.
7. Sit.
8. Sit.

While initially eight steps may seem like a lot, if you go back and read the list carefully, five of those steps are simply sitting. Other than laundry I simply watched TV, only not really. Officially, I haven't watched TV in a long time, though I have done almost every variation of it without ever technically doing it. I've watched TV shows on DVD, movies, and recorded shows on my friends TiVo, but never actually watched TV. Screens are nice. They may be blunderous for the eyes, penis, and, hell, whatever the fuck else body part you feel the need of incorporating into this conversation, but for the Sunday-plauged mind, they are a God-sent. Matt Groening put it best when he said "TV is the best because when you're tired, it does the playing for you." Exactly. I've been watching a rather large amount of movies lately. There's really nothing else to do, nor is there anything else I feel like doing. Sunday's are designed for not doing shit, I realized, and thus I have to live up to it's non-potential or else it'll get an identity crisis. If all of a sudden something gets accomplished on a Sunday, it will no longer know who it is and all will be lost, and frankly, I can't afford the medication to keep it stable right now. Besides, I'm plenty happy with the situation. Fuck doing shit. I ain't about doing shit. Shit is for fuckers. Yeah, that's right. All ya'll who's about shit is fuckers. What. And I've got tons to do too. Tons and tons. Papers and tests and other steamy bullshit for me to gnash my rily teeth upon. But do I gnash? Not just yet. For it is Sunday. Though the bullshit will be far easier to sift through if I whip out the shovel now, I'm too lazy to look for the metaphorical garage key. I need this day to do nothing so I can look back tomorrow and all next week and relive in my mind the nothing that I did. It might make me pissed off at my past self for leaving my future self out in the cold like that, but fuck it. My present self is feeling fine. And all that shit I gots to do is no biggee either; I'll just pull lots of all-nighters. I have no problem with getting very little sleep; I go on break in a bit anyway. Alls I have to do is plow through these next two weeks and I'm home-free, when every day can be a Sunday. It's not a long break, but it's a break.

I'm a last minute type anyway. Most of the stuff I have to work on these next two weeks is stuff I was supposedly working on all quarter, so, in a sense, I've been not accomplishing anything, ever. Now it's crunch time, and not the good one where chocolate is involved. No, this is the crunch where you're trying to bust your way through a really big jawbreaker that doesn't taste very good. You have to get through it, but it's really not terribly satisfying when you do. But that's cool. I fully intend to stay up real late real often. Whenever I stay up all night, I realize just how many hours there are in a day. Holy shit, 24? You're shitting me! How come all I do is eat and masturbate then? Damn. Of course, after a few days, I also realize just why human beings need sleep. After a while I feel like I ought to go live in a cave and scrawl my musings on the wall in my own blood; blogging for the criminally insane. I feel an urge to grow a big ugly beard with ticks crawling in it and only eat one food item for the rest of my days (I'd have to choose very carefully though). I feel like connecting with alien life forms. I feel like saying what's on my mind, then realizing once it comes out that my mind is completely shot and that these thoughts must have come to me through some other bodily conduit. Basically I start to develop into the crazy hobo you see on the train who seems kind of interesting, so long as you don't come anywhere near him and have a stuffy nose. And that's usually when it's time to crash, because I don't think I'd look good with a beard.

I wish I didn't have to do this crap, but Sunday is my wondeful safe haven of not having to think about it and instead vegging out with hot dogs and Ren and Stimpy. There is an intense amount of pleasure in hibernating the body; you just have to learn to appreciate it. Lack of sensation is one of the best sensations there is, if done right.

And I do it oh so right.