Here’s how I see it: if you want a lot of kids, start young.  Twelve or thirteen, maybe.  As soon as the first one pops out, get back into bed with your (preferably) husband.  When good ol’ number two comes around nine months later, get back into bed and repeat the process.  That’s what I do.  However, if you only want a child for the sake of being able to tell someone what to do, wait as late as possible.  Forty, hopefully fifty.  That way, you, his mother, can also be sort of like an evil grandma to your kid, always yelling at him and ordering him what to do.  Your ordering him around give you pleasure, and it also allows him to have pleasure when you soon die.   

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Well, my mom loves action movies and I hate ‘em (even though she’s a gal and I’m a guy).  But our breasts are the same size, so that’s one way we’re similar.

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     I gotta tell you (all 1of  you) the oddest thing I’ve ever sawed!
     I had to go to the grocery store today, an emergency dash for ranch dressing.  I had just finished cooking a personal pizza for myself (and when I say personal, I mean that it was both small and that it kept asking me personal things), and then I realized that we had no ranch dressing.  (In case my future wife is reading this, let it be known that I need ranch on my pizza in order for me to thoroughly enjoy it.  Blame an ex friend of mine from a few years ago; she had me try it and it was great and now I can’t not put it on there.)  So I put the pizza back in the oven on the “warm” setting, and scurried on down to Giant, an ironically small grocery story when compared to Shoppers Food Warehouse.  But then I guess it could be said that even the moon is small when compared to that place.
     So I go to the dressing isle and I’m searchin’ to see if Ken’s Buttermilk Ranch comes in a squirty bottle yet.  Alas! it does not.  So I grabbed the next best thing and then turned my head to look down the long isle for no reason at all.  Good thing I did, though, or else I never woulda seen what I sawed, and therefore would not have been able to tell you (all 1 of you) about it.  Convenient, huh?  So this is what I saw:
     There was a woman at the end of the isle, about twenty-five feet from me, browsing through the “canned goods,” as the charity programs like to call them.  I could see that she was putting a lot of cans of baked beans into her shopping basket (no doubt she’s hosting a fart party this evening).  Nothing strange at all, right?  Just a woman who enjoys gas.  But then, just as I began turning my head away,

[Note: Nothing in this post is true, save my haircut.  Yes, I do hate action movies, but so does my mom.]

     Gonna try to make this a short entry.  Just thought I’d let you all know what I saw today.
     Today, as I was driving through the entrance of my neighborhood, I looked to my right and saw a small, bushy tree–let’s call it a trush–and smoke was shooting out of it from a small point towards the top.  It looked like someone had placed a fog or smoke machine in it, you know? 
     Now, when I was younger, I wanted to be an entomologist–scientist who studies insects and the like–so, naturally, I read a lot of bug books.  I know that there are bugs out there that can spray a smoke-like substance from their butts, so when I passed the trush, that’s what I assumed it was.
     But I wanted to actually see the bug doing it, you know?   So I pulled aside, got outa the car, went up to the trush, opened up the branches, and peered inside.  I was right: it was bugs.
     And the smoke wasn’t coming from their butts at all, but from the cigarettes they were smoking.  They were lounging on a mini couch, puffin’ away.  They even had a small television set in there!

     [Five points to anyone who can guess which part of this story is false.]

My apologies for not updating recently (as if you guys are actually going throughout your daily lives thinking, “Man, when’s that cool cat Chris gonna write something new?).  Well, the answer to that is, “Not today.”  No writing, anyway. 

     Before I update, just wanna say I had another dream about Miranda last night.  Moving along:
     I could probably make this entry more interesting and more detailed than I’m going to, but, well, I’m not going to.  Two days ago I rode the Metro to D.C., alone, to see what I could photograph.  I didn’t really get much of anything, though.  Met a wedding photographer while he was shooting the Just Married, and he and I have the same camera, so I guess he figured that’s as good a reason as any to give me his business card and tell me to call him if I’m interested in working in his studio in Herndon (maybe 30 minutes from where I live). 
     Anyway, when I was ready to leave D.C., I got back on the Metro, got off 30 minutes later two stops after the one I was supposed to get off on, and, upon realizing this, had an “oh sh*t” moment, panicked, figured out what I had to do, got back on the Metro going in the opposite direction, and got off at the appropriate stop.  See, the reason I panicked is because I didn’t know the name of the station where my car was parked, so when I got off at the wrong station, I only knew it was the wrong one because it looked different.  I explained what the correct station looked like to the Metro lady, and she thought it sounded like the West Falls Church station, so that’s when I got back on and backtracked.  Good thing I found it, too, or else I don’t know what I’d've done.
     I also took a few pictures of a 20-something “homeless” guy at the Metro station (the incorrect one), playing a guitar and harmonica, with a cardboard sign saying something like “Stranded Need Bus Ticket Anything Helps.”  I gave him a dollar bill and all the change in my pocket, which probably totaled three or four dollars with the bill.  I asked where he was going (maybe I could give him a ride, you know?) and he said California (or maybe not).  He was probably lying about the whole thing, though.  Just some young, stupid kid who listens non-stop to Led Zeppelin’s “Going to California,” tries hard to be a hippie with messy hair, smokes cigarettes, and thinks playing the same guitar chords over and over again while singing the same lyrics over and over again makes him a “sensitive rebel.”  Gimme a break, guy.

     I pooped about twenty minutes ago and finished cleaning the mess off the floor about five minutes ago.  (By the way, just for the record, it was as wide as an old-fashioned glass Coke bottle.  I think you know what I mean by “it.”)  When I pushed down on the flushy thing, the toilet flushed slowly.  It was odd.  So I jiggled the handle.  Now I know: DON’T JIGGLE THE HANDLE!
     The water began to rise, and it rose and rose and rose right over the rim of the toilet.  It trickled, then flowed, then waterfalled right down the sides and onto the floor.  There were bubbles and jet streams coming up from the depths of the toilet, like a  Jacuzzi septic tank.  Within thirty seconds, there was literally an inch of water covering the entire bathroom floor, and it wasn’t stopping.  It even rose over the threshold of the bathroom door and soaked a patch of carpet.
     By now, my mom had come up to see why I was saying, “Oh no…oh my…uh-oh, oh my, stop, please stop, stop, stop now, STOP, PLEASE, CEASE AND STOP!”  She screamed,  “Get the plunger, go, now, hurry!” 
     I bolted down the stairs three at a time, yanked the plunger from the bathroom on the middle floor, and took the stairs back up, three at a time. 
     And my mom, she stabbed the toilet water with that plunger, she plunged that plunger into the water!  Within a few seconds, the water stopped flowing, and even receded back to the pipes from whence it came.
     But yeah, that was a big poop.

     I was thinking about J.J. last night–just sorta popped up in my mind–and I got pretty upset.  It’s not so much that he died, but rather the fact that he no longer lives.  I mean, he wanted to live, just like all of us, and he expected to live, just like all of us; he deserved to live; he studied his future, planned it, could have been very successful, would have been very successful; he loved living, he took pleasure in little things, he appreciated beauty in nature and in orderliness and in randomness, and gosh, he was fun.  He should be living right now.  He had things going for him.  He had his head on, and he certainly wasn’t going to lose it.  He should be living.  This is not right.  He should be living.  He should be living.  Especially when there is no evidence of why he died.  That’s reason enough to be alive, right?
     Now, with that expression of love and grief, I turn to an expression of hate:
     Miranda K.  If only things were fair.  If only she could feel the pain she inflicted on everybody else.  If only her best friend would say bad things about her in order to make others hate her.  If only her best friend would suddenly come out of the blue with news that he’s been lying to her for four years about his past and who he is and what his morals are.  If only she would get a boyfriend for four years, only to have that boyfriend cheat on her three (or is it four) times with three (or four) different people.  And then if only that boyfriend would leave her for someone else.  And if only her NEW boyfriend would cheat on her four times, the fourth time being the one that ends it.  And then if only her CURRENT boyfriend would lie to her at least 15 times in one day, lie about unimportant things that require zero lying, and if only, if only, if only she would invest as much time into him as I did into her, if only she gave up college for him, if only she gave up her dream job for him, if only he promised her a lifetime of marriage, if only he promised to give her children and grandchildren and his pure love….If only all of these things, just for him to abandon her for no apparent reason other than that he just suddenly stopped loving her, not to mention the fact that he cheated on her with several girls that he didn’t even know (one of those occasions having happened just around an hour ago, as a matter of horrible fact).  If only, if only, if only the people around her didn’t treat her as if she’s never done anything wrong, if only her parents hadn’t left her unpunished for all the terrible things she’s done to people, if only her friends had listened to me, I’d still be with her.  If only good people my age still existed.  If only.

     Sorry for my recent whining.  This will be the last whiny entry for a while.  I’ll continue with my oddnesses in the next entry.

     Gotta write this down before I forget it.  Had another dream about Miranda last night.  She had died.  I was visiting her grave in this vast cemetery where the headstones were spread far apart.  I think I brought flowers.  And I was crying.  As much as I hated her for what she’d done to me in the past, I certainly didn’t want her dead.  And I guess part of me still loved her. 
     But then, as I was looking closely at her headstone, I saw that it wasn’t her grave after all.  It was her boyfriend Brian’s.  So at first, Miranda was dead.  But because dreams are weird, she was now alive and her boyfriend dead.  And on the headstone, someone–presumably Miranda–had taped two pictures: one was of Brian singing to Miranda as she cried happy tears, and the other was of Miranda, holding flowers and hugging Brian’s dead body, which, oddly, was standing up.  Meanwhile, I’m still crying.
     So, after seeing the grave and the photos, I decided to call Miranda (or maybe she called me; I forget).  And when Miranda answered the phone and I told her it was me, she said very lovingly, “Oh, hi, love!” to which I replied something like, “Miranda, knock it off.  You can’t call me that.  You still love him, not me.”  And then she said something like she had been thinking lately, and she realized I was the one she actually loved and all this crap, so I said, “You’re only settling for me because your boyfriend’s dead!  If he were alive, you wouldn’t think twice about me.”  But, believe me, it was hard to say that stuff.  Because I did want her back, and now here she was, offering to be mine again.  It was so hard to say no, but I knew that if we did get back together, she’d constantly be thinking of Brian, and I would always only be second in her life. 
     Then the dream became about other things not having to do with Miranda (although the setting was the same).

[This post is pretty much just for my own records, so feel free not to read it]   

     Had dreams about Miranda again.  I forget if I had them this afternoon, during my nap on the couch, or this afternoon and this morning, before I got out of bed at all.  And I don’t remember parts of it, so what I do remember is a little confused and seemingly random.
     I guess I had gotten a call from her or…something.  No.  No, I know what it was: I called her (which would make it the first time in seven or eight months that we spoke over the phone).  I don’t remember why I called.  It might have been just because I missed her and couldn’t take not knowing her anymore.  So let’s see, what happened then?  I forget if she answered or if I left a message.  No, I think she did answer.  And she was taken aback to hear from me, needless to say.  I forget what we talked about.  I think it only lasted a few minutes or so.  No, actually I remember now: when I called, it showed up on her Caller I.D. that it was me (or “was I,” to be grammatically correct).  But her mom was there in the room with her, and she didn’t want her mom to know it was me who was calling.  So Miranda picked up the phone as if she were calling someone (this would only work in the nonsensical world of dreams, seeing that Miranda’s phone was ringing and yet she pretended she was the one making a call from that very phone).  So right when she picked up the phone, she started acting like she was leaving a message for someone. 
     “Hey,  Jaime [or whatever the name was that she used], it’s me. Listen, I can’t really talk right now, but I’m calling to let you know that I’ll call you back later.”  Her words were somewhere along those lines, and she placed emphasis on “I’ll call you back later,” letting me know to expect a call from her later on or tomorrow or something.  I whispered to her over the phone, “Oh, okay!” and then we both hung up.
     Now, I really didn’t know why I called her in the first place.  What I was going to talk about, I had not a clue.  It was just an excuse to hear her voice, you know? 
     So I waited for her call.  And I think it was suddenly the next morning or something, and I checked my phone to see if she had called.  And she didn’t, I don’t think.  So I think I said to myself, I’ll call her tonight if she hasn’t called me by then.
     And then I was in another sort of dream that involved traveling along in a truck with some guy at night, he telling me about a reward from the Weather Channel if one can accurately predict the next day’s weather…something like that.  And then he had to stop at a grocery store, and there were a bunch of irate zombies inside, ready to eat us if we annoyed them too much.  Kind of comedic, I know, but it was pretty scary.  Zombies and chainsaws are the only two things in movies that can actually scare me, if done properly (not corny).
     And so I was in the grocery store, waiting for the guy, when I realized it was nighttime and I still had not gotten a call from Miranda.  So I stepped outside, into the dark, and called her and…I don’t remember if I got a hold of her or not.  Maybe she did pick up.  I don’t remember.  But the dream continued with my trying to hide from a female zombie–the queen of them, I think–who decided she did not like me and was going to eat me.  So I hid behind the concrete pillars along the sidewalks of the shopping center (what some parts of the U.S. call “strip malls).  I woke up while I was trying to hide.