Category: Journal

March 7th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 7th, 2025

Indiana Jones and the Penny of Doom

By

My girlfriend and I went to the bookstore on Sunday. Because, despite what you’re reading here, I’m actually an avid reader. After making our selections, we went up to the counter to pay. The total came to exactly $20.01.

I’ve heard of “a penny for your thoughts”, but never “a penny for other people’s thoughts”—you know, in written form. I reached into my pocket and came up with nothing but lint balls.

That’s one of life’s little mysteries: how lint always finds its way into your pockets. It’s so common it should almost be a form of currency. Think about it—no more worrying about correct change for tolls when you have an endless supply of pocket lint to pay with. “That’ll be $3.50.” Here’s two nickels and a tuft of blue fuzz. Keep the change.”

Turns out, lint still isn’t recognized as a form of payment yet, so I had to ask my girlfriend if she had a penny.

And that’s when our simple bookstore trip turned into a full-scale archaeological excavation.

She began to dig through her purse literally, pulling a shovel out of it to help with the process. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Indiana Jones himself showed up, believing the Holy Grail was buried in there. Or worse… his lesser known, significantly less thrilling brother, Ohio Jones.

Ohio Jones isn’t an adventurer like his brother. He’s a very niche scientist, a world-renowned expert in purse anthropology—a man dedicated to studying the ancient artifacts, lost civilizations, and assorted gum wrappers buried within the depths of handbags. Some say he once uncovered a long-lost TV remote in a purse—no one knows how it got there, especially since the owner didn’t even own that brand of TV. And legend has it he’s still searching for a purse that doesn’t contain at least one crumbling granola bar.

And judging by the ever-growing pile of debris emerging from my girlfriend’s purse, he would have considered this a career-defining discovery.

I braced myself. What horrors lurked within?

  • A single bowling shoe (but no sign of the other one).
  • Last weekend’s leftover gyros (somehow still warm, and yet, completely inedible).
  • Rocco, our pet rock, looking strangely unfazed by the chaos.
  • A snow globe that, when shaken, inexplicably made it start snowing outside.
  • A fully functional Etch A Sketch displaying a suspiciously accurate self-portrait of my girlfriend—who hadn’t touched it.

Anything but a penny. Not even a single piece of pocket lint.

At this point, the cashier looked visibly annoyed, and a line had started forming behind us. That’s when I tried bartering.

“What about a mint?” I asked. “Pennies are technically minted after all.”

The cashier stared at me like I was mintally unstable while my girlfriend, now knee-deep in her purse, seemed to have vanished.

That’s when things got truly unsettling.

Her purse just sat there, untouched. As if it had swallowed her whole.

I’d heard of The Portable Door, but never The Portable Purse—though, technically, all purses are portable. Just not in the sense that you can step into them and instantly teleport anywhere in the world.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

If you’re thinking, “This all sounds far-fetched,” then clearly, you’ve never seen a franchise milked for all it’s worth. Because I was thinking “sequel”—as in The Portable Purse, the completely unnecessary follow-up to The Portable Door.

Unless you were the cashier or the increasingly impatient guy behind us—then this is absolutely what happened.

Just as I was about to launch a full-scale search and rescue mission, my girlfriend suddenly rematerialized out of thin air.

The cashier, too weirded out to care anymore, just waved us off. “It’s fine.”

On my way out, I placed a half-sucked mint covered in pocket lint in the Take-a-Penny, Leave-a-Penny tray. Because I didn’t want anyone else to have to go through what we did.

Turns out, I had a penny in my pocket the whole time—but obviously, I couldn’t waste it. I needed exact change for the toll on the way to pick up Indiana’s stepsister, Illinois Jones. Besides, how else could I afford my penny wedding and special guest pennywhistle performance by Pennywise?

Some might call it The Penny of Doom, but I just call it budgeting.

I should also, at the very least, have some Pennyroyal Teas on hand for the occasion—it’s only proper.

But that’s a story for another anecdote. Or franchise.

March 6th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 6th, 2025

Fat Tuesday… and Wednesday Through Sunday

By

Mardi Gras was this week, also known as Fat Tuesday. Personally, I like to think of fat as more of a Tuesday-through-Sunday kind of thing. You might be wondering: what about Fat Monday? Well, like my fine feline friend, Garfield, I also hate Mondays.

Speaking of Garfield, my girlfriend and I were browsing Ross Dress for Less—the go-to store when your belt decides it’s had enough and walks out of your life every other month. At this rate, I’m thinking of switching to suspenders. Not only would they be more practical for my ever-expanding waistline, but they’d also give me that rugged lumberjack aesthetic. I could look like Paul Bunyan!

…Or, in my case, Paul Funyuns. And let me tell you, it stopped being fun about three or four bags ago. Now, every time I call my girlfriend babe, I can’t help but picture her as a giant blue ox. It’s not my fault—I need something to make me feel better about my size 2X flannel. At this point, I’m one more X away from “three strikes, you’re out.”

Anyway, where was I before I got distracted by snacks? Oh right—Ross. We were there shopping for my new wardrobe of togas (or, as I like to call them, muumuus for men), when I came across a Garfield wallet. And in that moment, I had a revelation: I need that… so my wallet can be just as fat.

Because let’s be honest—writing anecdotes doesn’t exactly pay the bills. Actually, it doesn’t pay anything at all. But maybe, just maybe, if I owned the Garfield wallet, it would somehow work its magic and stuff itself with cash. I could finally become a fat cat—the kind of guy who can actually afford a trip to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras properly.

It’s ironic that New Orleans is so big (pun intended) on Fat Tuesday when lean is right there in the name. It must be amazing to see the parade and have beads thrown at you. Though, knowing me, I’d mistake the beads for beans, eat them, and officially earn my third X.

March 5th, 2025

Journal Writing

March 5th, 2025

Gyro-Mantic Gestures

By

Last weekend, I whipped up a feast fit for a Greek god—gyros with a side of Greek fries. Okay, so maybe I’m not a god. I’m not even Greek. More like a geek. But if I were a Greek god, I’d be Pan, the goat god. That way, I could tell my girlfriend to either marry me or pull my goat for a change. (If you don’t get that reference, consult my journal entry Get Your Goat—highly recommended reading.)

So, there I was, Geek Goat God Chef, assembling the essentials: pita, meat (mushrooms for me— even gods have dietary quirks), Roma tomatoes, red onions, and, of course, Tzatziki—fun to say, even better to eat. The romaine lettuce? More Roman than Greek, but I let it slide.

When it was time to build our gyros, I turned to my girlfriend and declared, “Gyro good to go!”—as if I’d just ended world hunger. She stared, unimpressed. Either awestruck by my culinary genius or quietly reconsidering our entire relationship.

But the gyros themselves? No joke—they were divine. So good, in fact, that I’m now seriously considering having a big fat Greek wedding. That is, if my girlfriend ever stops pulling my goat and actually marries me.

To be honest, though, after making those gyros, my kitchen looked like Zeus had thrown a tantrum. Or worse—like a Minotaur had tried to make dinner and lost a fight with the fridge. I nearly smashed a few plates myself—“Opa!”—just to pass off my despair as festivity.

And what a big fat Greek wedding it would be. I ate so much Mediterranean food; I might be the Mediterranean now. If my girlfriend gets cold feet, I wouldn’t blame her—I’ve put on a few pounds (curse you, falafels) and now resemble something that could eat the tin cans off a Just Married car. If I ever hope to fit into a tux, I should swap Tzatziki for plain Greek yogurt. Or better yet, embrace my fate and get married in a toga—breathable, stylish, and, most importantly, expandable.

March 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

March 1st, 2025

A Mocktail of Two Cities

By

My girlfriend brought me a Tom and Jerry mix. My first thought? Oh great, someone finally figured out how to package cartoon violence. I imagined opening the container and instantly getting caught in a whirlwind of fur, frying pans, and tiny wooden mallets.

Then I thought—maybe it’s a mix for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Because honestly, who wouldn’t want to churn ice for hours just to make their own cat-and-mouse-themed frozen treat? Maybe it’s flavored like cheese and contempt. Or maybe it’s just vanilla, but with the added excitement of wondering if a piano is about to fall on your head.

Neither turned out to be correct.

After carefully reading the packaging, I finally deciphered that Tom and Jerry mix is actually used to make a holiday cocktail. That’s right—it’s basically boozy eggnog. Suddenly, my mystery mix wasn’t promising cartoon chaos or ice cream—it was inviting me to get festive and sloshed.

Since I’m trying to avoid alcohol while also keeping up with trends, I’d prefer a mocktail. Don’t knock it until you mock it. But apparently, this drink is so old-fashioned that even Santa Claus might side-eye you for drinking it. Which means I had unknowingly entered a very specific holiday dilemma: Do I betray my commitment to mocktails, or do I lean into tradition and start aggressively caroling after one sip?

And let’s not forget the biggest problem—I’m on a no-carb diet for my eyelids. They’re getting puffier than my uncle’s ankles after Thanksgiving dinner. And everyone knows turkey goes straight to your talocrural region. It’s basic holiday biology.

I sighed. I had been expecting something fun. Instead, I was holding a carton of holiday peer pressure—otherwise known as temptation in a festive mug.

It sounds fancy enough that I might just overlook the fact that it’s March and Christmas is a distant memory. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—the best because I was about to taste something fancy, the worst because I was about to cheat on my eyelid diet with a carton of batter.

Looks like I’ll have to send my girlfriend back to the store for whatever the non-alcoholic version of a Tom and Jerry is.

And maybe some nutmeg. If I’m getting roped into the holiday spirit, I might as well commit.

Love you, babe.

February 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

February 22nd, 2025

Spamnesia: Forgetting Why I Opened This Can

By

What’s the deal with Spam? The last thing I want is unsolicited phone calls and emails from a type of canned meat. Between you and me, I’ve always believed Spam was sentient, but I never imagined it was this sentient. I mean, I’ve almost been convinced before to buy a timeshare on a deserted island. And who knows? Maybe that was Spam’s endgame all along—to lure me to a place where it’s the only food source.

But let’s be honest: if I were stranded on a deserted island and a cargo crate full of Spam washed ashore, I’d probably still hesitate to eat it. Not because I think it might taste bad, but because I refuse to eat anything that could call me in the middle of dinner and try to sell me a trial membership to Hulu. Just what I need on a deserted island—a streaming service. You’d think they’d at least offer me something useful, like a stream of fresh water. Or maybe reruns of Survivor as a twisted form of motivation.

And I wouldn’t even know how to eat Spam. I don’t want to look like some kind of spamateur. Do you need a special tool for it? A spork, maybe? I mean, a spork on a deserted island? Splease. I suppose you could pair it with something like corned beef hash, but that’s just another slippery slope into the world of canned meats. Next thing you know, you’re throwing a party with Spam, hash, and Vienna sausages and calling it a charcuterie board.

If Spam really is sentient, maybe there are other conscious canned meats out there. Holy mackerel! Maybe psychic sardines that can communicate with the other side? Connect people with their dead pet goldfish they flushed down the can? I bet those goldfish have some tales to tell—like how they swam through a tunnel to that great big golden aquarium in the sky, where they can eat their fill of those little flakes they love so much.

Come to think of it, would those Goldfish snack crackers pair well with Spam? Maybe I’m overthinking it. But if the sardines are psychic, maybe they could tell me how to make a proper Spam charcuterie. Just as long as it doesn’t come with a subscription to Spamazon Prime.

February 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

February 14th, 2025

A Valentine’s Day Dill’emma

By

It’s Valentine’s Day, and love is in the air. But that got me thinking—does love have a lower density than standard dry air? I’d believe in a flying baby with a bow and arrow—I mean, babies are already airborne when the stork delivers them—but love? Love is heavy. Emotionally, at least.

And if love is in the air, does that mean I might catch cooties? That’s a real concern. What even are cooties, anyway? If you catch them, do you turn into a cutie? Because between you and me, I could really use that. I’m not saying I’m hideous, just… aesthetically challenged.

Let’s put it this way: when the stork tried to deliver me, my parents pulled the ol’ “lights off, don’t answer the door” trick. Unfortunately for them, the stork was persistent—and also weirdly passive-aggressive—so instead of flying off, it left me on the porch along with a jar of Vlasic pickles. A subtle hint that they were in for a real pickle, raising a baby as ugly as me.

They kept the pickles. They tried to return me. But, as it turns out, the Stork Delivery Service has a strict no-return policy. If not for that fine print, who knows where I’d be today? Probably shipped off to a different address, like a misdelivered Amazon package.

Reluctantly, they kept me, hoping I’d grow out of my baby uglies. I never did—but at least I plateaued instead of escalating the situation. Back in elementary school, Valentine’s Day wasn’t exactly my time to shine. Even when the teacher forced kids to hand out cards, I swear I saw some of them sneak past my desk like they were avoiding a landmine.

But it’s all good now. Because somehow, against all odds, I have the sweetest Valentine ever—someone who actually welcomes my… unconventional looks. And sure, I may not be one of the “beautiful people,” but I do write beautiful poetry.

Which should help keep the storks in business for a long time.

Hopefully, though, they’ve learned their lesson. No more surprise deliveries of ugly baby boy bombs on unsuspecting porches. Vlasic pickles may be dill’licious, but they’re not so delicious that new parents should need Lasik after laying eyes on their little bundle of joy. Maybe it’s time for the stork to start being a little more… kosher.

February 6th, 2025

Journal Writing

February 6th, 2025

Karaoke Catastrophes and Operatic Evictions

By

The Grammy Awards were on Sunday, and a lot of talented singers walked away with those shiny trophies. Naturally, this got me thinking: whatever happened to singing telegrams? I’ve always wanted one, but the closest I ever got was Alfred, the alley cat, screeching the worst rendition of “What’s New Pussycat?” I’ve ever heard.

Alfred’s musical escapades weren’t limited to “What’s New Pussycat?” Last week, he attempted a jazzy version of “My Way” that made me wish I’d gone deaf. Frank Sinatra is probably rolling in his grave. Let’s just say Alfred won’t be winning a Grammy anytime soon.

But really—wouldn’t a singing telegram be fantastic? Imagine someone belting out opera at your doorstep to announce you’re being evicted. If you’re going to get bad news, why not get it with a dramatic high C, right?

Think of the possibilities: birthday greetings sung to the tune of “Danny Boy,” wedding invitations delivered in Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” style, or break-up letters performed to “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang. Or even better, imagine a speeding ticket citation delivered to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Spoiler: you really should have stopped. It would turn life’s awkward moments into musical events!

And what about a jury duty summons delivered as a singing telegram?

You’ve been called for jury duty, so grab your coat. Stop.
It’s mandatory—so yes, you have to go. Stop.
The trial may take a week or maybe more. Stop.
Failure to show means fines galore. Stop.
Questions? Drop the commissioner a line. Stop.
But don’t forget—justice runs on time! Stop.

With emails, e-cards, and video calls everywhere, some people might ask, “Do we really need singing telegrams?” I say yes! They add a unique, personal touch to communication, which is exactly why I think robots should deliver them.

Because nothing says “personal touch” like a gigantic android with LED eyes, a bow tie programmed to spin, and a malfunctioning vocal processor that turns “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” into a techno remix no one asked for. That’s the kind of warm, human connection we all crave, right?

Still, even that would be less terrifying than karaoke night with Alfred the alley cat. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alfred were a retired animatronic from Five Nights at Freddy’s. Maybe that’s where all the tone-deaf singing telegram prototypes ended up—haunting unsuspecting night guards instead of my front porch.

But one thing’s for sure: if life’s surprises are going to ambush me, I want them to come with a melody—and definitely not from a feline auditioning for America’s Got No Talent, the version where even the judges beg for earplugs.

February 1st, 2025

Journal Writing

February 1st, 2025

Astronaught to Be: A Space Odyssey Gone Wrong

By

Sometimes, life feels like someone’s about to yank the rug out from under me. You really don’t want that happening if you’re Aladdin, mid-magic-carpet ride—or if you’re like me, dreaming of being an astronaut and floating among the stars. I even imagined having a mischievous, well-meaning genie like in I Dream of Jeannie to help me navigate cosmic adventures. Because what could go wrong when magic is involved?

Unfortunately, my closest brush with space travel was visiting Cape Canaveral—and the only genie magic I experienced was Dijon mustard mysteriously landing on my shirt, courtesy of a prankster Djinn who thought condiments were comedy gold. Or yellow.

I had just about given up on my dream when I walked into a local antique shop and spotted a lava lamp straight out of the 1960s. It reminded me of David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane album cover—something about the lightning bolt and spacey vibes seemed like a cosmic sign. Inspired, I bought the lamp, along with a groovy shag rug that looked like it had survived Woodstock. I figured if Bowie could reinvent himself as a space-faring rock god, then maybe a little retro magic could help me channel the right vibes too.

I feng shui’d the whole place (is that even still a thing?), dimmed the lights, and admired my mid-century aesthetic. If Christina Aguilera ever wanted to drop by and sing “Genie in a Bottle,” I had the perfect setup.

The lava lamp looked a little dingy, though, so I gave it a wipe. No genie appeared. No Christina Aguilera either. I figured, hey, maybe I needed a nap to properly manifest my cosmic destiny. I dozed off on the shag rug, dreaming of rocket launches, stardust, and genie lamps, until I was jolted awake by a loud rumbling beneath me.

For a split second, I thought my retro decor had worked—that the rug was lifting off like a rocket booster beneath me, propelling me into orbit. I was ready to yell, “Mission Control, we have liftoff!” But as reality set in, I realized it was just the old radiator shaking like it was trying to break free of its earthly bounds. In my half-asleep state, I stumbled to my feet, tripping over the shag rug in an unholy mashup of The Twist and slapstick choreography.

I flailed, knocking the lava lamp to the floor, where it began to bubble and make my living room look more like the surface of the sun or Jupiter’s volcanic moon, Io. At this point, I figured the genie had seriously misread the itinerary. I had signed up for an expedition to our moon, not a one-way ticket to inhospitable destinations.

When the chaos finally settled, I lay sprawled on the shag rug, staring at the ceiling like a failed astronaut who missed their flight. My dreams of space exploration were officially grounded, but at least I’d learned one thing: if you can’t fly to the moon, you can always just cut a rug instead and try to do Michael Jackson’s moonwalk. Just be careful not to moonwalk your way into another lava lamp fiasco.

January 22nd, 2025

Journal Writing

January 22nd, 2025

Cock-a-Doodle-Doom or A Stroke of Cluck

By

Last weekend, I decided to make breakfast burritos for my girlfriend and me—because honestly, who doesn’t love cramming breakfast, lunch, and dinner into one convenient wrap? Think of all the time you save knocking out three square meals at once. Although, come to think of it, can we even call them “square meals”? Shouldn’t they be “triangle meals” since triangles have three sides? And while we’re at it, what kind of triangle are we talking about here? Isosceles? Right triangle? Because no balanced meal plan is complete without a little trigonometry.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent—how fitting, given all this geometry talk. Enough with the mathematics—that’s for eggheads. Anyway, burritos don’t make themselves, so back to the kitchen.

So, there I was, cracking eggs like a professional chef (or at least someone who binge-watches cooking shows), when I hit a plot twist: one egg had two yolks inside. That’s right—TWO yolks. No yolk, I couldn’t believe it. My girlfriend thought maybe they were twins. This got me thinking about Chicken Little’s evil twin, Chicken Big—a fowl so foul, he’s even turned Popeyes into Wimpys, and now they’re serving hamburgers instead.

Naturally, this raised some serious questions. Did this mean Chicken Big was recruiting an army of henchmen, two yolks at a time? And should we be worried about bird flu? Because let’s be real, chicken noodle soup isn’t exactly a cure-all for an outbreak of villainous birds with a feverish thirst for power.

A quick internet search told me that double-yolk eggs are uncommon but totally harmless. Apparently, young hens sometimes get a little overexcited and release two yolks at once. It’s considered good luck—like finding a four-leaf clover, except gooier and with more cholesterol. If I were really lucky, though, I’d have cracked open an egg laid by the goose from that old fairy tale—the one with the golden eggs. Just imagine: a gold yolk, cooked into the world’s fanciest omelet, served on fine china with truffle shavings and diamonds for garnish.

Still, to avoid tempting fate—or Chicken Big—we decided not to use the double yolk. Breakfast was still egg-celent, even without golden omelets or trigonometry on the side. If you want the recipe, it’s all scribbled in my finest chicken scratch—no protractor required.

January 14th, 2025

Journal Writing

January 14th, 2025

Purrjury, Piano Scams, and Other Feline Felonies

By

They say you should let sleeping dogs lie. In my experience, the same applies to cats. Wake a cat in the middle of their cat nap, and you’ll find out exactly why they call it a catfight. The claws come out faster than you can say “Meow Mix,” and before you know it, you might end up with cat scratch fever—not just a Ted Nugent song, by the way, but an actual medical condition. I Googled it. You wake up with that, and suddenly you look like something the cat dragged in… twice. Next thing you know, you’re coughing up hairballs that could pass as members of an 80s hair metal band—spandex, sleeveless denim, and boots so tall they’d make a giraffe jealous.

And don’t laugh—cat scratch fever is no joke. In rare cases, it can even be fatal. Imagine the headlines: Local Feline Felon Sentenced to Nine Life Terms After Owner’s Untimely Demise. Fluffy would be pacing her tiny cell, scratching tally marks into the wall with one claw, while the guard dogs kept a close eye on her every move. You just know she’d use her one phone call to order a tuna casserole instead of a lawyer. Honestly, it’s hard to say who’d have it worse—you for disturbing her royal slumber, or the dogs stuck guarding a four-pawed mastermind plotting her jailbreak with a feather wand and a ball of yarn.

Speaking of which, I’ve never known a dog to lie—especially a sleeping one. Dogs are refreshingly honest. They twitch their paws in dreams, probably chasing squirrels, mailmen, or their next big belly rub. They wear their hearts on their fur, and you always know where you stand with them: they want to love you, protect you, and maybe eat your snacks. Their dreams are pure, and so are they.

Cats, though? Cats are compulsive liars. Case in point: Garfield and Heathcliff. You cannot convince me they’re not the same cat. Both love food, cause mischief, and somehow their names both end in landscape features. Coincidence? I think not. And then there’s Top Cat. Top of what exactly? A Ponzi scheme? My list of reliable animals? Let’s not forget his get-rich-quick scams—selling fake tuna futures and pawning counterfeit flea collars. He’s the feline Bernie Madoff, and we all know it.

And honestly, can we even trust cats in court? The word “purr” is right there in perjury, as if they’re not even trying to hide it. Meanwhile, dogs? Dogs will look you in the eye with absolute honesty, even if they just ate your entire dinner off the counter.

And don’t even start with Keyboard Cat. Do you seriously believe he was playing that keyboard? A Saint Bernard channeling Beethoven? Sure, I’d buy it. But a cat? Please. And Kit Kat? “Give me a break”? I’ve been eating those for years, and the only thing breaking is my scale. If cats are running that marketing campaign, they might just be the most cunning masterminds in history.

So yeah, let sleeping dogs lie. They’re not out here scamming you with fake tuna or starring in sham piano recitals. Cats? Between the counterfeit flea collars and perjury, I wouldn’t even trust them to lie still.