40
Sunday, July 22, 2001: 10:13 p.m.
Somebody took it upon themselves to sever my phoneline again, thus taking me away from the beloved internet that I love so. That is kind of sad. I felt such distress that I could not connect to the internet. I don't know why. I don't really do much on the internet. I cycle between maybe seven or eight websites that I go to; that's it. Maybe it's the fact that I know that the internet is always a window to freedom, whenever I'm stuck here at home. Regardless of the day or time, I can almost instantly be trasported anywhere. (If I had a T1 line, instantly.) One minute, I can be at the northern most tip of Cybertron, the next minute, studying the most microscopic detail of an atom. No matter how confined I feel, I know that I am always "free"... Or maybe I just don't have much of a social life? Hmmm.... it appears that, after inspection over previous posts, that my lack of a social life has been a constant. I can either do something about it, or do nothing. I'm sticking with the latter.

I never knew I cursed so much until I thought about it.
Sunday, July 15, 2001: 10:04 p.m.
Jay: Did you ever watch that show Gummi Bears?
Me: Fuck yeah. That shit was fucking awesome, man.
Jay: Yeah, but that was a show that you could only watch when you were sick and didn't go to school...
Me: Maybe for you it was, but I had to go to my aunt's house whenever I was sick because my parents thought if I stayed home alone I'd fucking burn the house down or something, and I guess they were responsible parents too, but anyways, I had to stay at my fucking aunt's house that was not cable ready.
Jay: Damn. That must have fucking sucked.
Me: No shit it sucked. While you were off faking a cold so you could catch that two part cliffhanger of Dumbo's Circus, I was stuck watching fucking Perry Mason epsiodes in black and white. PERRY FUCKING MASON, man!! No kid should have to go through that.
Jay: Yeah... although it does explain a lot...

I only seem to get into these wonderfully foul-mouthed reflective conversations when I'm surrounded by children at Golfland, and I am failing miserably at censoring myself. The true humor is that I don't nearly curse this much in normal circumstances. Maybe I have some deep rooted psychological problem, wherein I feel the need to create a disturbance around parents with their children to compensate for that fact that I, as a child, often felt neglected. I yearn for the parental attention that I never recieved as a youth, and I strive to attain this attention, even if it comes in a negative form.

Jay: Did you ever see that cartoon about the unicorns...no, they were horses... and they...
Me: My Little Pony?
Jay: Yeah, that's it! I lo-
Me: Fuck no I didn't watch that fucking shit.
Jay:... yeah..uhh...me either... it sucked...

Okay, time to let the cat out of the bag. I don't really think I have a psychological problem. I just made all of that up. If anyone has a problem, it's Jay. My Little Pony?!? WTF?

Oh yeah...
Tuesday, July 10, 2001: 10:36 a.m.
That last entry about my birthday wasn't supposed to end there. It was supposed to be a big adventure with pictures and birthday hats and Las Vegas hotels and guitar picks and one gargantuan peanut. I just got kind of tired and I couldn't find the battery for the camera. Rest assured though, it would have been the funniest thing you've ever read.

Happy birthday to me.
Sunday, July 8, 2001: 09:43 p.m.
It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.
Actually, I didn't even get a party, and I want to cry because of it, but I don't know if I can, because I mean, "it's not my party, and I'll cry if I want to," makes me sound selfish. "There is no party, and I'll cry if I want to," well boo-fucking-hoo. There is never a party for the homeless, malnurished children of the African plains. Quit being so damned dramatic, Robby.... Now I don't feel happy anymore. That's it, I'm outta here. Screw you all, and your "non-birthdays."

Catching up on falling behind
Friday, July 6, 2001: 09:58 p.m.
I said I would continue my list o' love (LOL... god dammit...) when I half asses it last time, so, without further adieu, I give you, the list continued.

Actually, I'm afraid if I list people individually, people left off the list will get upset (again), so for the sake of making everyone happy, there will be no list, but I just want you all to know that I love every single one of you, with the exceptions of:
The guys in the park that tried to beat Vincent, Matthew, and myself up. The ABC Coordinator that thought the best time for Clerks:TAS would be up against Survivor. The guy who I puchased the film Cool As Ice from 3 weeks ago to give as a gift for someones birthday, which has already passed, and I have still not recieved the movie... and The Ultimate Warrior, for sexually assaulting Santa Claus.

ONE OF US!!! ONE OF US!!!
Wednesday, July 4, 2001: 12:04 a.m.
I got into an arguement with some stranger online the other day. Well, I wouldn't exactly call it an arguement, as we didn't disagree on anything. Actually, I didn't really have a solid idea as to what she was saying. (She said her name was Susan, but I may be assuming her gender. I mean, I know a guy named Leslie... what's in a name, right? But I digress...) I'm pretty sure that it is someone I know tyring to have fun at my expense. That sort of makes it not as fun, but while this whole expereince was taking place, I had one thought, one thought that became clear above all the cluttered mess that is my mind, and that thought was this:

Sit on your hands...
Saturday, June 30, 2001: 01:05 a.m.
When I grow up, I want to run a carnival game wherein people throw ducks at balloons, and nothing is as it seems. The point? That game would be a million times more fun than playing Taboo with a bunch of drunken snobs. Especially when they are already drunk and vomiting after only one drink.

Personal mumbo jumbo that is relevent to only 3 people, or less, but I have nothing else to write about, and I think it
Tuesday, June 26, 2001: 09:00 p.m.
If I had a flaw, it would be that I am a perfectionist... if I had a flaw.

If you didn't catch that reference, welcome to the club. One of my biggest flaws, I think, I that I assume everyone else knows, or at least has some general idea as to what I'm talking about. I make a lot of references; some from mainstream sources (see above), and others from sources as obscure as an episode of a television show that never aired but is in my posession some how. (i.e. "Why are we walking like this?") Mostly though, I reference movies, and I just assume that everyone has seen the movies I have. (Following this heartfelt introspective look at myself, I will list what I feel is an appropriate "viewing list.")

Normally, this isn't a big deal. People just assume I'm an idiot, or they think I'm increadibly witty and clever, or, occouring most likely, nobody cares. There are those people, who, childishly, in my opinion, take things that (I think) are obviously not meant in a serious tone.

Before I continue, let me say that I have another big flaw. I fucking hate people who intentially mispel wrods in an attempt to be kool. There is no "o" in "dude", there is no "i" in "boy". I also hate the wHoLe CaP/nOn CaP tHiNg. That is AnNoYiNg. I also hate people who speak in 1337 speak. If you speak in 1337, then you sux0rs!!!!111 I know I shouldn't hate, but, darn it, they make it so hard. Anyways, back to the main point.

Recently, one of my oh so chic pop-culture laden reference caused quite a stir with one "O r a n g e B o i" or "OrangE doOde", depending on which message you go by. Unless, of course, there are two seperate orange people that are angry at me, which I certainly hope not, because in this alternate universe, I possess the Red Ring of Power, and I, the Red Lantern am invulnerable to everything... save the color orange. Anyways, here is where said problem lies. Now I don't know who this mysterious orange person is (actually, I have a real good idea as to who it is, but that's neither here nor there) but my advice to him would be to calm down, buy Mallrats, check out the latest issue of The Green Arrow, and just chill. And if you can find the correlation between those two said pieces of art, I'll give you a cookie. They have a brand new cookie at the cookie stand. It's awesome.

I don't feel like making a list now, but at least I have something to write about in the future without having to first create a huge inter-friendship controversy. Snoogans.

I had a bad day
Sunday, June 24, 2001: 08:53 p.m.
I didn't spill my coffee, or break my shoelace, or smear my lipstick all over my face. All those colors long since faded and all our smiles all confiscated. But yeah.... I still had a bad day.

I got in this morning at around 1am. Before that, I had gone to a really cool show with Vincent and Matthew, and then got a really late dinner at Denny's, but that was yesterday. Today started whilst dropping off the two. Both Matthew and Vincent got in trouble for being late, and I can't help but feel a tad bit guilty about that. I finally arrive home and get yelled at for being late, even though I called and said I would be arriving at around the time I arrived, and everything seemed to be A-OK. I'm not really all that tired, so I read my two Clerks. comics that I bought yesterday (for 14 bucks! I later find out that I could have gotten all three in a collecter graphic novel for $9.99) I finally go to bed at around 2:30ish, and at 6:30 am harshly awoken by my mom. It would seem my sister wants to go to a concert, and they need me to go wait in line to purchase tickets. Tickets don't go on sale until 9, but there will be "a really big line." I start to protest...

Me: It is far to early to be waiting outside to get some stupid ti...
My sister: What else are you going to do today, loser?

And that was enough arguement for the both of them to send my out to wait. I have to wait around for 2 hours by myself to buy two tickets ($130) plus an exhorborant service fee ($16). Since I only recieved 100 dollars for this mission, I had to put in $46 of my own money.
After that experience, I went and visited my grandmother, where she made fun of my hair, belittled my intelligence, and insinuated that I was gay. This went on for a painstaking hour and a half. Saddened, but mostly tired I return home. I figure I'll catch up on some sleep, take a quick swim, then head off to Victor's house to watch some King of the Ring (not to be confused with Lord of the Rings) That's when I remembered that I got my last paycheck yesterday and have yet to cash it. SWEET. Of course, this is my BAD DAY, so I've somehow managed to lose my check over the course of one day. I (foolishly) inform my mom of this, and I got yelled at again. I'm irrisponsible and I should get off my lazy rear and get a job (I just quit my job like 2 weeks ago), says she. All this all passes and I'm ready to go watch some wrestling. Things are looking up. Then while driving, my right front tire blows out (making that the second tire blowout I've experienced), and I have to wait for the A^3 guy to show up. My mom blamed me for the tire blowing out. I don't know why either. So to sum up what must have felt like hours and hours of reading: I had a bad day and got yelled at alot. When I finally got home, I was feeling really sad, but then my mom gives me the mail she forgot to give me yesterday. College stuff, college stuff, pre-approved credit card, and A POSTCARD FROM GERMANY FROM ANN!

hey pretty... pretty ugly
Tuesday, June 19, 2001: 11:19 p.m.
The stop light at the intersection of Alum Rock and Kirk/Fleming takes an incredible long time, if you are heading on Kirk/Fleming. The Alum Rock light goes through 5 cycles before the green light to go down Kirk/Fleming turns on for three seconds. I only mention that because, well, I can.

We needed a lightbulb. Well, we didn't really need the light bulb, there were six other lights already illuminating the room. Regardless, I was sent out to get a lightbulb. With me foolishly leaving my car keys in another city that is about 45 minutes away on the other side of a mountain, I had to take a different car. Enter the Seabring. So the stearing wheel may have been a bit uncomfortable, and the engine not as powerful as Lexi's (the name I have given to my car, on the advice/suggestion of one Stacy) but it was still a smooth ride. Racing down the street that seperates the neigborhood from the grazing land in the fields; the top down, the warm summer winds rushing over my face. (79 degrees at 10 p.m...) The smell of freshly cut grass filled my nose, as all my problems (and I had a lot of them) seemed to just dissapear. I was free. Everything was great. I got to the intersection of Kirk/Fleming and Alum Rock. It was a red light. The people living in the corner house had their super powerful sprinklers on. I still had the top down of a car with a leather interior... it was perfect. The cool water against my warm skin... it didn't matter that when I finally got to the store, I realized that I didn't have my wallet. That just gave me more of an oppertunity to drive with the wind in my short hair. Doing fifty down the 25 zone where I got my speeding ticket earlier... life was beautiful... then, after at least 40 minutes had passed, I returned home from the store with a 11 dollar lightbulb. And as I pulled into the garage, I remembered that I was supposed to have the top up all along, so I started to put it up, and then BAM There was an explosion and the garage went dark. I had broken the garage door opener light. And as I felt the blood slowly trickle from my neck/shoulder that I got from the falling glass, I started to laugh.

I didn't need to go get the light. There are seven lights in the bathroom that is connected to my mom's room. Six of those lights worked fine. It was already ten o'clock, and she was asleep. I could have waited until the next day. My dad would have brought my keys over to my house before he went to work. I could have driven my car during the day, when I have nothing to do, replaced the bulb when I would be home by myself and bored out of my mind. More importantly, I would have saved myself a cut on my neck... but then, I wouldn't have had the best night of my life, and would have never realized that no matter what I do, good or bad, something will always come to even it out. It's 11:30 right now, and I have to go by a lightbulb for the garage...

...it just wouldn't be a Margaritta without that shit taste...
Sunday, June 17, 2001: 09:38 p.m.
I'm in Capitolla right now. Beautiful city. House right up near the beach. Great fun. Great little shops. A nice waitress at the Fog Bank. It's perfect... but the thought of living here permenantly really sucks. I guess it's just a vacation sort of place.

Right now I'm talking to Sharon, one of my very good friends from the not to distant past. She says hello.

Two concerts, three days. It was a big contrast. LIVE 105 presents BFD 8 vs. KPIG presents the Texas Uprising and Swine Sorrie 3. I think BFD wins, but just barely, and only because of all the bikkini girls and the free stuff.

PS: I miss Ann and Stacy. A lot.

Brokedown Palace.
Thursday, June 14, 2001: 04:02 p.m.
My car, she's dying. Not the slow but painful death of cancer that makes everyone cry and cry (something I know far to much about...), nor is it the honorable fighting for your beliefs martyr kind of death. No, my car is dying the varying pieces falling off due to poor design and poorer maintenance. I'll miss you...

School's out. I'm done. It feels great. I managed to go from a F to a B in one day in my Physics class without sleeping with my teacher. Rob = Happy. I know have a chance to get into the school of my choice. That will be super. Graduation was boring. How many valavictorians can make speeches about "jocks" and "nerds"? At least they were better than the ramblimgs of a self-serving, conceited bastard who shouldn't even be a valavictorian because he got a B Freshman year and only got the spot because he asked his teacher to change the grade he recieved three years previous! Fuckin' punk... but I'm sure he's a nice guy... I'm out.

RST Video
Tuesday, June 12, 2001: 09:08 p.m.
Man. It's been a while.

Just to clarify for all of my readers (both of you), no, I'm not dead, I've just been swamped and busy beyond belief. Fear not, the faithful followers of the feathered flock, soon school gets out, and I will have all the time in the world to tell about my adventures. They will include:

My run ins with the law
Dressing up like Boy George and having a night on the town
Other stuff! That includes graduation, school projects, golfing, getting ice cream, and most of all, my cousin Walter!

I'm off now. Godspeed.

Blue Screens of Death
Saturday, June 2, 2001: 12:45 a.m.
Lately, I'd say over the course of the last three months, I have been plagued by Blue Screens of Death (BSoD) which for the uninitiated is a way of saying Windows General Protection/Fatal Exception errors. This happens almost every time I use my computer, and as most people who talk to me with the use of AOL INSTANT MESSENGER™, it really makes me mad. Being the incredibly lazy person that I am, I just pressed "any key" to continue, having to reboot entirely one out of three times. Now, I try to be a nice guy. I open doors for people, I remember my pleases and thank yous, I would gladly put my jacket down across a puddle for you to cross, I don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, I don't eat cheese before noon... I don't understand why all this bad stuff always happens to me! So, I decided that I don't have to take this anymore. I did what any rational person would do when they were fed up. I called... TECHNICAL SUPPORT... I made a mistake.

Now, before I begin my experience with TechSup (it's lke Ketchup, but not like Catsup) let me first say that I have concocted a few theories as to why my computer crashes so often. I had these preconcieved notions when going into the phonecall.
Number one: My copmuter hates me. A simple enough concept to understand.
Number Two: Computer programmers are incredibly sloppy. Crashes occour when two programs collide like so many alpha particles onto a piece of dry ice with a flash light (but perhaps I missed the point of that lesson...), leaving a bloody mess behind. Programs, you see, work on certain assumptions (Never assume anything, because you make an "ASS" out of "UM" and "E"). When those assumptions are violated, things begin to fall apart. You may not see the result right at once, right away, but calling one subroutine might be the straw that breaks the e-camels back. And finally...
Number Three: It's all an evil plot to keep copmuter companies and their techincal support lines and their stupid employees named Steve in buisness. I bet they hire people like neo-comedian Steve so they can make audio-tapes of our conversations and sell them. Like Joe explained it to Matthew, there is a very large market for people who buy that crap. The same market that buys bloopers tapes.

Steve: Microsoft Technical Support, Steve speaking.
Me: Hello Steve. My name's Robby. How are you doing?
Steve: Umm... I'm alright. What seems to be the problem?
Me: Okay, well, I keep getting fatal errors. I average about two fatal errors a day, and I often have to reboot the whole thing.
Steve: Ahh... BSoD...
Me: Excuse me?
Steve: Blue screens of death. That's what we call em here. Did you ever wonder why they call it a fatal error? I mean, it's not like anyone is dead or anything... HA!

It continued like a bad episode of a Seinfeld impersonator for another 15 minutes until I hung up in frustration. The wonders of the technological age. (Wonders, Lisa, or blunders?) Well, I think that was implied...

Periodicles
Friday, June 1, 2001: 12:48 a.m.
It's 12:48am. I'm finishing up one of my big final projects in math, then I have to start my teaching evaluation.

I have a dream. I want to be at peace. At peace with myself, at peace with everyone else, at peace with God, at peace with the Devil, at peace with any other religious figure head, just generally get a real peacful vibe going on. To acomplish this, I'm going to open a book store. That has to be the best job ever. Plenty of interesting, intellectually stimulating people. I could have book signings and book readings, maybe a little coffee bar (although I hate coffee, so I'm not sure.) It will just be a cool place to be. And if buisness is slow, I can just sit down with a good book. The NorthWest corner of my alloted space will be devoid of books and be a wonderful art centre (notice the fancy spelling?) run by Ann. Not only would I have someone cool to work with, but she'd also lend a shred of credibility to the whole "intellectualism" atmosphere that I'm going for. Now I just need a good name for the store. I'm open for suggestions.

Arrrggg. The real world can suck sometimes, but at least Ruthie is a funny drunk...
Wednesday, May 30, 2001: 10:36 p.m.
Have you ever wished to do an expirement on exactly how long a normal human being can go without sleep and still function? Don't bother, I've done it for you. Although I myself am not exactly normal, so my statistics may be a slight bit off, but I have determined using secret science machines far more complex for any of you readers to understand, that 37 hours is about the limit. After that, you start going crazy. Especially if you have to work on two huge projects all day long and then teach a bunch of uncooperative 5th graders the next day. But I digress...

I hate cops, which, in itself is a lie, because I love cops. They keep the peace and give order to our shady city of filth and debauchery. No, what I mean is, I hate cops who give me speeding tickets. 39 in a school zone while school is out and kids are walking across the street my ass.

That was a crazy game of poker...
Sunday, May 27, 2001: 09:51 p.m.
Firstly, I just need to clarify some things. Most of the things I say in here are made in jest and are the bi-product of some stupid personal joke. I don't really think only lonely losers who are destined to die alone with a lot of homosexual cats make weblog/diary/journal things. I don't think Peter is a bad person. I actually sort of like the guy... not like that or anything, but if my dryspell keeps up... you never know. I don't really want to stuff Little Stacy inside of a suitcase. Here is a simple rule: If I say something that sounds as if it might be offensive, I don't mean it. Ok.


Now with that out of the way... actually. I don't feel like taking the pictures, and the digital camera is not charged anyways, so you'll have to wait until the next time I post for my increadible adventure. Sucks to be you, eh?

I don't have a title for this entry, but I'll write it anyways.
Thursday, May 24, 2001: 10:51 p.m.

I hate people. No, this isn't some self-involved, "I hate the world, I'm a crazy stupid teenager with little problems that I am going to make into larger than life ones and I want to kill everyone, blah blah blah," type thing, because, really, I like people. I just don't like people, darn it, I love people. I just hate stupid people. Which in itself is a lie, because I, along with most of my friends, are increadibly stupid. To be more precise, I hate the stupid people who thought they could get themselves free cable by messing around with the power box thing and "accidently" severed my phone-line, leaving me unable to connect to the internet for a while. I also hate people who use quotation marks when they aren't "necessary." (...wait, are you saying that the phoneline has other uses besides the internet?!?)
Yes, I love people. I love their little quirks and foibles. I love the word foibles. I love you, my gentle reader. The following is a list of people who I love, follwed by a brief description why. I know I said I would never do any crap like this, but I changed my mind.

AMY: She made this site for me. She makes physics (the class, not the concept) bearable. She is always there for me. Booya, and word to your mother.

DANIEL: The oddest, most insane, idiotic loser who is not only much better and smarter than me at everything int he world, but also better looking. Also, he can beat me up, but activly chooses not to. That spells "A" in my book.

STACY: The sexy ying to my funky yang.

LITTLE STACY: She's so small, like a Romanian gymnist. I sometimes feel like folding her up and stuffing her inside a suitcase. Why? No reason in particular...

MORE PEOPLE TO BE NAMED LATER: I'm tired, and I want to go to bed.

What is it about Irish girls that really makes me happy?
Sunday, May 20, 2001: 12:36 a.m.
Only a loser quits something before he's finished it. But I started this entry at 12:36, it's now 1:47. I'll finish this up later.

It's tomorrow, in respect to the post I started above. If I weren't too lazy, I would change the title to "I hate ducks." Ducks always think they are better than me. "Oh, I have webbed feet. Oh, when I go underwater, I don't get wet. Can you do that?" Fuck you, duck. I wish you would all die. Then we wouldn't have to deal with jokes about "quack" doctors. If ducks never existed, I wouldn't have had to go through years of therapy because of the duck-duck-goose "incident." Most importantly, I (that would of course refer to the royal I, all of us) wouldn't have to deal with those idiots who lovingly feed the ducks together while I waste away my life alone. I hate them. I hate ducks... but I love Irish girls.

My name is Robert, and I'm an alcoholic...
Thursday, May 17, 2001: 11:06 p.m.
Salutations. Let me first clarify that I dispise "internet diaries" (I also dispise when people use quotation marks when they aren't necessary...) I think the idea of writing your inner most thoughts in the public domain is just silly. You wouldn't passout photocopied pages of your super secret diary (you know, the one with the cute little pink lock on the front) to strangers at the bus stop.
Also, just the idea of writing how you feel at every given moment is also stupid. If God had intended us to remember every little detail of our lives, two things would be different in our world. One: Alcohol would not exist. Two: There would be small, pink books with hearts on them lodged entirely too high in our sinus cavities and our index fingers would have a little pencil permanently attached to it, so we write down every last detail. Sinse I'm half wasted right now (which in itself is a lie, straight and sober for me.) and I'm able to type comfortably without worrying about resharpening, I'm sure that I'm still right.
So why am I doing this then? Why am I going against everything I stand for? Is it because recently my life has begun a downward spiral into oblivion, everyday plunging me further and further into the bowels of my hollow existence, making me see that I am indeed a fake, a phony, and that I have been lieing to myself my entire life, which has been slowly killing me on the inside?
No, I'm just bored is all.

And mind my spelling. I'm from 300 days in the future. Also, mind the fact that I borrowed that whole witty diary/pencils on our fingers analogy from