In which I do not talk about the rain or subsequent post-rain sunshine

The Regis and Kelly show is actually the most inane thing on television. Worse than that "former-O-Town-member-now-desperately-trying-to-make-his-way-through-shaggy-haired-acoustic-pop-stardom" show on MTV. Worse than whatever new sitcom Fox is picking up that will be 100 times less genius and get 100 times more viewers than Arrested Development. Worse than that WebJunk 20 show on VH1 where some "comedian" picks up those videos that circulate on the internet and then makes "hilarious commentary" on each and everyone of them. Worse than Fox News. Regis and Kelly should both be deep-fried and smothered in cheese and corn. Then sliced into tiny tiny pieces and served to the writers/producers of Live with Regis and Kelly. The fact that they put this on at the gym is one of the worst forms of torture imaginable: you can try and try as hard as you want to run/elliptical yourself away from their god-awful pop culture commentary and inane small talk but you can never, ever go fast enough.

In other news, did you watch American Idol last night? Man was it boring.

It's a big enough umbrella

Today I am going talk about one of those things I like to pretend happens only to me, but, I am, of course, wrong. Sometimes I think that songs are actually following me around: if haven't heard a song for months or years or eons or even ever really, and then I suddenly hear it seven times within a period of three days, I never think it's just a coincedence. While it probably once again only has to do with what you pay attention to, I usually take it as some kind of pseudo-sign, the same way I read my horoscope only on days when I have three stars or more. The worst time was when "The Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult was following me around. I'd never heard the song before, but I'd downloaded Wilco's version of it, then heard it in Starbucks, then twice in the car on different radio stations. This was especially disturbing when I realized the song was about not being afraid of death, and suddenly had to start taking extra precautions when crossing streets or going hunting with Dick Cheney.

I seem to have digressed a little from what I really wanted to talk about. Oh yes: Sting. Sting and the Police. "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" is following me around. This does not particularly bother me; I have no shame in admitting that I really like Sting in all his yoga-loving glory. The problem is, I don't know how to interpret this particular sign. Am I magic? Does someone think I'm magic? Do I need to do some appropriate pronoun switching to reflect my gender preference? Must I always be alone?

But here's the part that really bothers me:
"I resolve to call her up a thousand times a day
And ask her if she’ll marry me in some old fashioned way"
Sting, I know, is very extreme in everything he does. Every breath I take, Sting? Really? (This, by the way, was one of the first songs I learned on the piano, though I don't know why.) I do not want to be called a thousand times a day, nor do I want to call someone a thousand times a day: I don't even want someone to want to call me that many times. Also, a phone proposal seems kind of tacky, while Sting doesn't really strike me as the tacky type.

My English teacher senior year told us that Sting was obsessed with Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. She said that many of his songs could be read in way that reflected this obsession, which I think then leaves me in a very strange position. Is this what I should be worried about? People building... people?

Anyway, my friend saw David Hasselhoff getting coffee today.

Liberty and Justice for all plus aliens

Nearly every night for the last month, I have found the most comfortable position to sleep in has been on my stomach with my hand in Plege of Allegiance position (this has something to do with having sharp hipbones and a hard mattress). This past month I have also had three dreams in which America has been ravaged by natural disasters/aliens. Apparently my brain does not appreciate my body's sentiment.

"Love, like mayonnaise, is a texture thing"

That last post was kind of weak, but I seem to have already blamed another post on the weather so I guess I can't use that as my excuse. How unfortunate.

(This is the part where the reader asks why I do not just remove the post. The answer is not that I have promised myself not to remove anything I have to say at the moment as a sign of integrity, but rather that I am ridiculous).

As to not be one of those people whose titles have nothing to do with what they actually have to say, I feel like I should approach the above topic. Do you want my thoughts on mayonnaise? Probably not. Love? I doubt it. Probably a good thing, because 1). I don't know how much I want to say about it, and 2). I really just liked the quote a lot. Since it's that particular day in February next week, love and its various appendages are pretty much unavoidable. I will do everything I can to avoid them, though, because of all the studying and writing and reading and not breathing that day will involve for me. But right now, I could make a pretty solid case for its texture being that of water vapor when what I want is the texture of bare skin.

This was also pretty weak. Did you notice how nice out it was today?

It's such a beautiful day

It would be understandable if you were jealous of me today, because I spent two hours laying on the grass in the sun, despite the fact that it's February, and
okay.
My roomate just turned the lights on and they're burning holes in my retinas, so maybe you being jealous isn't so much of a big deal anymore. I hate fluorescent lighting.
Still, it was nice out today. Want to talk about the weather more?