you're a jay-walker, just walk away; that's all that you do

I've run out of interesting internet searches; I refuse to update myspace; my dog's asleep; there's nothing on TV; I ate too many coffee beans to fall asleep; reading other people's thoughts is depressing- even when they're true and not malicious; the river's gorgeous from here; this is incredibly reminiscent of so many Ashland nights; there's too much familiarity with this cold time of year; my back itches from insulation and nobody to scratch it; my left arm's tetanus-shot numb from carrying too much drywall by myself; 24 volt circuits can apparently disrupt your heart's algorythms; I've got indelible black stains on my hands; Bentley's chasing rabbits beside me; so come on night.

my dog Bentley

I have one, and his name is Bentley. He's a 12 week old golden retriever. He's also a cybernetic organism sent from the future to eat anything that gets in front of him. Seriously, he's a eating machine. Also, thanks to his razor sharp little poopy teeth he's willing to give free puppy tattoos to any hand that gets too close to his face. Most of the time he's a sweet little man who just wants to play; the rest of the time he wants to kill your hand. He literally wants to destroy it. And, based on my hands to date, he's kind of on his way. So far, attempts to wean him off my hand and onto less my-hands forms of toys have been marginally successful. Slowly he's getting it. Slowly. Slowly the scars will fade and I'll be forced to make new scars on my hands with power tools, not doggies.

But damn is that guy cute. And learning how to hump. In fact, he doesn't have any problems with that. He's pretty much a natural. He must be my dog.

2 vaguely disgusting stories

1- I like to wear my respirator. It's like a womb for my face, and it protects me from flying shards of wood. So, while wearing my respirator the other day, I had a little bit of a cold. Now my res. pulls air in through two filters and expels it from a central port below my mouth. I was sanding floors and occasionally would see little spots of water on the floor (can I call that spotting?) Which, I realized, came from the condensed water in my mouth piece being blown out from my breath. No big deal. Until I took off my res. and realized that it wasn't water I was expelling, it was the snot running out of my nose. That I was occasionally spitting out of my mask. Gross.

2- Before sanding my floor I had to remove all the sundry crap from the room. Books, condom wrappers (roommates- clean this shit up when you leave,) receipts and carpet. No big deal. Picked up all the various junk; moved on to the carpet. When I started rolling it up I accidentally scraped my hand across the floor and promptly got a 1/4" splinter jammed up under my fingernail. After a couple minutes of terrifying the birds by shouting the foulest stuff I could come up with, I made up my mind. I could: a- leave it in there and maybe get a sweet infection, or b- slice open my nail and get it out. Infections are no fun, so I grabbed a razorblade and started some minor surgery. I cut two parallel lines through the nail, then across, and pulled the entire section of nail out. Then I had to use a safety pin and drag the wood out. Awesome.

my DIY problems

it's gotten to the point that there's actually less pants than holes. I guess it's from using an angle grinder when I'm not sober. this doesn't happen frequently, but hot damn, it does happen. and what good are construction pants that no longer protect against hot bits of steel? none. this hasn't stopped me yet. I think I might retire the pants when my entire crotch is one big hole; I'm giving these three more days before they give up the ghost. which means they turn into my paint pants. so I don't have to do it in my underwear anymore.

I don't think the auto-glass shop across the street appreciates me working in my underwear and tool belt in front of my picture window. however, the old ladies who shop at GoodWill can't get enough. Fine Homebuilding does not recommend doing construction in purple sweat pants. obviously, they're not wearing the right sweat pants.

holy Balls! Paint stripper also strips skin!

If you ever get the chance to use paint stripper, also get the chance to feel incredible pain. Imagine you're listening to music, sanding wood, not really paying attention- then realize your arm feels like it's getting cigarette burned, for hours! That's the shit part; it kind of builds up full potency, hanging out on your skin until it reaches some kind of pain threshold.

Like that scene in Fight Club when Norton gets chem burned by lye, I have a new scar on both arms. Fantastic. Thanks, ass hats.

I say yes, when I oughta say no

beyond being kind of sad in retrospect, I've got a terrific lack of self control. mostly about women and cookies, sometimes together. maybe turning 24 will bring me the necessary life experience to deny myself instant indulgence.

1- 'kissing this girl will infinitely complicate my life; I shouldn't do it.' kissed
2- 'these wheels are more money than I make in a month; I shouldn't buy them.' bought
3- 'this blog will never be read by anybody; it'll just waste my time and piss me off.' blogged