The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Did it ever occur to anyone that we wouldn’t have to enact extremist-ass legislation like the Patriot Act if we just, say, tightened up airport security? You know, sort of did a thorough pat down and luggage check before we packed 100+ people onto some man-made piece of metal about to vault hundreds of miles up in the air. Where, by the way, we don’t belong.

"Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I get the picture–land for me’s fine…"

Allen came back to SF late last night so he could pack up the remainder of this things before shipping out to DC today. Even in the brief time we had this morning while I was getting ready for work, it was fun just laughing about the stuff only we laugh about. I’m going to miss being able to call him at work (we worked at the same place, so he was always just a five digit extension away) when something hysterical comes up that he can relate to.

I hope I don’t get bored, but then I did decide to keep the cable, which is just a universe of stimulation and unrequited fun, as far as I’m concerned.

P.S. I at first enjoyed living just a hop, skip, and a knee joint snap away from the Union Square mini-mall, but these Pillsbury inbred tourists from the red states need to learn to walk down a sidewalk and not fan out and consume the width while waddling along. Mush, mush, motherfuckers!

"Can you smoke crack
Baby boy go on smoke that crack
Baby boy can you smoke that crack
Baby boy can you smoke that
*cough cough hack wheeze*"

–Section 8’s Child

Have I mentioned how much I hate Hillary Duff, with her epileptic hair flips and bat wing eyelashes?  Keep your head still, bitch!

Sorry, I’m just a little sleep-deprived today.  The underneaths of my eyes look positively reptilian.  I can’t wait for my vacation next week.  Although I probably won’t have much money to spend on it.  I have a sinking feeling that my old roommate may keep the whole deposit refund.  May have to get medieval on someone’s ass.

Have you ever noticed how the "hottest" guys on Friendster and MySpace also happen to have the sparsest profiles? Just a couple of skin pics and their barebones statistics (name, age, location). My favorite is when they actually take a stab at the About Me section, and start off with, "I’m 22…" …already forgetting that the age thing got squared away when they entered their birthdate earlier, and will later be subject to change.

And what’s with listing "working out" as one of your Hobbies/Interests? I’ve never considered working out so much a hobby as a necessity. A hobby is fun. Pissing sure is a relief, but I don’t consider it a favorite hobby or pastime.

I guess these guys’ gist for brevity is but a poetic nod to the time-honored cliche, a picture says a thousand words. Thing is, if those words are, "circuit, gym, sex, working out, circuit, gym, sex, working out…" ad nauseum, you’re not really saying much, are you?

Oh, I’m just a Balboa Park fountain of bitterness this morn, huh? I’m just jealous, really. I never suffered from the intellectual shortcomings or sub-zero self-confidence that serve as inspiration for these fellows unnatural overexertion at the gym eight days a week. Seriously, that’s what it is.

You see, the difference between the retarded and the non-retarded is that the latter group, while grossly varied, retains some inkling of its individual members’ self-worth in relation to others. When you’re retarded, you don’t care what other people think of you. If you’re not retarded, but kinda toe the line, you either accept your place in the pecking order or compensate for it by some other avenue.

Hence, the philosophy of body over mind.

And hey, it works. The dumb hot jock is still hot at the end of the day. What’s wrong with lifting weights for a better body if your personality sucks and you’re dumb as a box of hair? Plus, it’s the brain that sends the signals for pain when your body is hurt, and if you’re not using it much anyway, then you’re already a step ahead in the game–so benchpress away, me hearties!

The battle scars of my move showed up this morning in the form of random bruises on my body. They don’t hurt, but they don’t flatter either. I look like a heroin addict, minus the gaunt, starved appearance.

And speaking of, I can’t seem to stop eating. I feel like I have tapeworm. I’m hungry all the time, which, while is nothing new, must be my body catching up from all the energy used over the weekend.

I was even so hungry that I put the absolute worst thing you can eat into my mouth this week: hydrogenated oil. Not in its pure form, but as part of some cream cheese muffins and two (2) Stauffers cheese pizzas. Trans fats: the fats that won’t go away. Vile. AND my muscles are still too worn out to work out again.

Not that it would matter much since I don’t much focus on my mid-section anyway, which is the problem at hand. Besides, a perfectly flat, six-packed stomach may be sexy, but it’s unnatural. There is no real activity in the natural world that would require the over-development of one’s stomach muscles. You need to build yourself a log cabin for shelter, your biceps get big from cutting down wood. You need to run from the saber-toothed tigers, your leg muscles get stronger from running. Stomach muscles? Not meant to be ripped and toned into sick little divots of muscle. Screw it.

Being bored is, like, the worst thing in the world to me (with prolonged torture running a close second).

I hate being bored, and need constant stimulation to keep me going. I’ll stir some up of my own if it’s not readily fed to me, too. When I was little, I used to get up in the middle of the night, go out into the living room, and watch cartoons late at night. Even today, I still like to fall asleep with the TV on. I need to "trick" myself into falling asleep, making my mind believe that the stimulation is still coming so that it can just slip into unconsciousness at its own convenience.

But when there’s no TV around or when there are only crappy people around, I just tend to imagine my own little Paris Hilton reality life in my head. It’s a fun little fantasy world I drift to all too often when real life just isn’t cutting it for me. I still have a good grasp of reality and definitely a "feet on the ground" perspective on things, though.

Still, I worry that when I’m old and gray, that line will thin and blur and finally vanish altogether, leaving me mad and nutty, thinking things were and are as I imagine them versus how they actually are.

God, that last sentence gave me a headache. Maybe I’m closer than I think.

Honestly, I don’t know what I ever did without it.

For the past coupla years I haven’t had it, you realize, so I’ve had to rely on the basic channels for my daily consumption of the trashy tripe that is American television. But the new place I moved in to also comes with cable (at least until tomorrow when it gets cut off), and in the span of just a few hours last night, I watched "X-Men" the cartoon series (c. 1991), "Spongebob Squarepants", "The Cosby Show", "Sixteen Candles", and "Golden Girls".

I especially enjoy those older sitcoms, brandishing the unhinged color palette and devil-may-care cut that was ’80s/early ’90s fashion. Headbands, vests, and those tie-dye looking shirts that changed color when you got them wet. What an unflattering, yet fun, era.

My new roommate Elvin–who shall heretofore be referred to as Ming-Na as far as I’m concerned–moved in last night with nary a peep. I’m afraid I’ve shacked up with a neat freak which, while not for myself is an issue, might prove problematic for Ming-Na. But I beared me witness to his signature on the lease yesterday afternoon when we signed it, so it’s twelve months or bust with me ‘n’ Ming-Na. Let’s see if we can’t get him to the End Up and dancing in time to the music by 2006, hm?

"Oh hurrah, sweetie!!!"
–"Absolutely Fabulous"
Eddie upon hearing Saffie’s false confession that she is gay

Well, the deed is done and I’m moved. This was actually the easiest move I’ve had to date, what with the fact that I basically moved in to a furnished apartment. Still, it wasn’t a cinch, what with having to heave my crap up three flights of stairs to the new place, and having all of an hour and a half time span during which my friend had his roommate’s car on loan.

I didn’t get to sleep until well past 2:00, not that I wasn’t exhausted and all, but it is sort of exciting moving to a new place. It’s sort of like being on vacation at first, until you get used to it. The bus ride to work this morning was heavenly; took all of, like, seven minutes.

And although I still have some financial woes to work through, having this move out of the way is quite a relief from the giant stress ball my life had become. I’m requesting the third week of August off, just to take a week and chill. It’s been ages since I’ve had a whole week off from work, so it’ll be nice. Allen will have been shipped off to D.C. by that point, and it will be sad that he’s gone, but seeing as how I’ll be occupying his old room with much of his stuff therein, the "memory" of his ass will still linger for old time’s sake, so I won’t be too sad.

And P.S., I haven’t been to the End Up in a record three weeks, and am suffering egregious withdraws. Here’s to hoping I can afford to re-debut this weekend, praise be, mmm HM.