How the Hell Did That Happen Again?

I got injured again the other day, which is good news for you, because it's time to play your favorite game you almost certainly don't remember! That's right, it's "How the Hell Did That Happen?" the game where I present three equally plausible scenarios for how I got injured, and you have to guess which one is the truth.

As always, guessing correctly will win you a fabulous prize* and guessing incorrectly will be punishable by death. **

* There is no prize. That was just a joke.

** I'm probably joking here too, but why risk it by guessing wrong?

The injury this time is a dislocated ring finger, resulting in a bulky splint that makes typing this blog about as much fun as a manual colonoscopy administered by an angry Rosie O'Donnell while she is sporting a similar splint.

Okay. Now that you've got that image in your mind, let's get to the game.

Scenario #1: The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. But you know what? I didn't get involved in underground fighting to follow a bunch of rules.

It's a Friday night and I'm completely plastered. I love the adrenaline I get from street racing (I go fast AND furious) but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it sober. Unfortunately, the guy I just beat to the finish line brought a posse that would make Diddy jealous, and those Tokyo Drifters don't mess around.

As I take the deed to his souped up Prius (just because you're a street racer it doesn't mean you can't be green) one of his lackeys charges.

Before he can do anything, I deftly grab a nearby bottle of Sapporo and smash the goon over the head. I'm not sure what knocked him out first, the blunt force or the irony.

Before I can admire my handiwork, the Drifters converge on me like a school of starving piranhas. The next thing I know, I'm in an abandoned subway terminal, surrounded by a crowd of screaming madmen.

"This," the head Drifter explains with pride, "is Fight Club." I don't know why he is so proud though. Dude carries himself like he's Brad Pitt when he is clearly more of an everyman Ed Norton type. "We brought you here because your skills are impressive. Also because you have the deed to my car and it's my only way of getting to and from work."

He continues to explain that they've been holding unsanctioned fist fights down here for the past few years and that once you're invited to join fight Club, the only way to leave is to fight your way out.

"Also," he adds, "if you do happen to make it out of here alive, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't write a sarcastic blog entry about tonight's events."

Before I can finish reciting the "right to peaceably assemble" in my pretentious diatribe about the first amendment, I am matched up against my first opponent, a giant hulking man named Tiny. (His mother apparently also appreciated irony.)

Tiny looks like the Incredible Hulk after he gets mad, and I know this only because he is pretty mad when I kick him in the balls and sprint for the nearest exit. Two more crotch shots to two more behemoths later (I told you I didn't do underground fighting to follow rules), and I've reached daylight.

Holding a deed to a brand new car in my hand, and with a renewed appreciation for my health, I celebrate the only way I know how...by going to the nearest dollar store and loading up on Chinese finger traps. Ten minutes and three more Sapporos later, one of the finger traps proves to be a far more worthy adversary than Tiny, and I find myself in the emergency room with a dislocated finger.
Scenario #2: I don't really want to do the reality television dating show that NBC has been pushing on me for months, but when they tell me it was "from the mind of Ashton Kutcher," how could I resist.

I know trouble is coming when the executives and I immediately disagree on the name of the show. I clearly support "The Irresistible," but they insist on going with "Who Wants to Date a Guy Living in His Van?"

As it turns out, the answer to that question is "all of the people VH1 turned down for Brett Michaels' 'Rock of Love' because they weren't classy enough and/or didn't have enough teeth."

Still, I agree to do the show, so when taping comes around, I sell true romance to the camera. After nine weeks filled with lap dance competitions, romantic dialogue stolen directly from old "Dawson's Creek" scripts, and numerous trips to the free clinic for STD tests, I narrow the field down to two people I am reasonably assured are women.

The first finalist is Samantha. She's smart, funny, and has an amazing figure. She's also "The Bearded Lady" for a traveling circus and I'm just not sure if she's on the show for "the right reasons," or if she's only interested in promoting her circus' newest addition, Dumbo 2, the elephant with no legs.

The other finalist is named Tiny. She is known as the "world's largest little person." Sure, she's three feet tall and weighs over five hundred pounds, but it's what's on the inside that really matters.

At least that's what I say when the cameras are rolling. There's no better way to endear yourself to American women than by putting your heart on the line for the homely girl with the pleasant personality, only to have things fall apart off camera due to "irreconcilable (and conveniently vague) differences."

Unfortunately, when I propose to Tiny on the season finale, she thinks I'm being literal, and when the cameras turn off, it turns out her personality is considerably less than pleasant.

There's nothing quite so humbling as getting your ass kicked by an obese midget. and boy, did I get my ass kicked by an obese midget. The finger she dislocated by forcibly shoving her engagement ring on it is actually the only injury I sustained that the lawyers were able to photograph without throwing up.


Scenario #3: I am playing pick-up basketball. As I go for a rebound in traffic, my finger bends back unnaturally. It doesn't hurt much, but it is twisted in an odd direction and I can't move it. I decide to get it checked out at a nearby hospital, but not before taking poorly lit pictures of it for my blog.

So there you have it. One dislocated finger, three equally outlandish scenarios. It's your job to determine "How the Hell it Happened." Good luck; you're going to need it.

In the meantime, I'll be off working on my Plan B. This could do irreparable harm to my hand-modeling career.

The Window

A quiet calm fills the space.
Peace is found in routine.
In normalcy, contentment.

And then, in the silence,
Without warning
A predator emerges.

Lurking in the shadows
Of a lifetime spent unwise
The demon shows itself at last.

With overwhelming force
It envelops all hope
And leaves only doubt.

Dread fills the heart and mind
When one expects evil
And receives only indifference.

Gasping for breath,
Searching for something to hold onto,
A glance to the Heavens.

And then calm once again.
With nothing to lose
There is nothing to fear.

And yet the demon lurks still,
Promising to return anew
and show once more the face of reason.

Fear itself.

Flintstone!

So my boss just chewed me out today, and it's got me feeling pretty down.

But Logan, you may be saying to your computer, how can your boss chew you out? You ARE your boss.

Exactly. And when you live in your van and find yourself yelling at yourself, it's time to get your act together.

I haven't been very good recently about updating this blog. You'll notice that for the first few months of this project, I was cranking out a blog nearly every day. Once 2009 started, that changed to every other day, and it has been even less the past couple of months. There are several reasons behind that, but the main reason is that I have been lazy.

You see, I fancy myself a philosopher, and in all of my philosophizing I have discovered two certainties:

1. Philosophers are lazy.

2. People who fancy themselves as philosophers are even lazier.

Like philosophers, they are thinkers not doers. Unlike philosophers, they are too lazy to even put in the work to be considered a philosopher by anyone outside their social circle. People who fancy themselves as philosophers include, but are not limited to:

+ Every pothead you've ever met.

+ Your roommate's boyfriend who never leaves your apartment and considers beating Legend of Zelda on the original Nintendo Entertainment System to be his life's greatest accomplishment.

+ Every single person who has ever been to Burning Man. (This will likely include many of the more ambitious potheads you've met.)

+ Celebrities with Q ratings that are significantly higher than their IQ scores.

+ Guys who travel the country searching for the meaning of life but can't take the time to regularly share their insights.

Since this is company I would not like to keep, I'm going to make it a point to update this blog more frequently in the future. I'm aiming at an average of four entries per week, but don't be upset if it's closer to three. I am also searching for work (a source of future blogs) and, let's face it, laziness isn't an illness cured overnight.

If it's anything less than three per week, send me a letter with a self-addressed stamp envelope and I'll gladly return your Projectmeaning.com subscription fees. If you haven't been paying subscription fees, then you'll read what I post and you'll like it!

Sorry about that. I'm still a little upset about getting chewed out by my boss.

Editor's Note: Please keep in mind that the stories and occurrences described in this blog, though written for truth and accuracy, are not always time sensitive. Blogs are generally published on a bit of a delay, often detailing events that happened as long as a month ago. So when I write about my adventures job-hunting and internet dating in Houston, I'll likely be doing it from Atlanta. Thanks for everyone who has expressed interest in my well-being and thanks for everyone who has been reading the blog. I greatly appreciate your continued support.

Going Postal, Part II

"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"

"Yes Sir."

"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."

"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."

"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

These words haunt me as I step toward the post office doors the next day. It is eight in the morning, right as the office opens, but I still have a limited amount of time budgeted to get my post office box and still make it to the job interview I have scheduled for later in the day.

When I get into the customer service room (think the lobby of The Bellagio, Donald Trump's bedroom, or the prized harem of an Arabian prince to properly envision the room's ambience) I am pleased to see the woman who promised me no issues today working at the front desk.

After a small wait in line, I approach her with the proper paperwork and a smile.

"Hi. Remember me?"

"I do." She pauses. "Let me go to the back and see if I can get you a box."

Two minutes pass, and she does not return.

Three minutes.

Four.

Five.

With each passing minute, my confidence in the government postal service wanes. Six minutes later, she inevitably returns with a confused look on her face.

"I'm sorry. We can't rent a box to you if you don't have a local address."

"But you said yesterday that..."

"I'm sorry. My manager says we can't rent out a box to someone without a local address."

I ask to speak to her manager. That's right. The US Postal Service made me become that guy.

A small statured Latino man approaches the counter.

"Why can't I have the post office box I purchased on your website?"

"It is our policy not to rent one out without proof of address."

"It doesn't mention your policy on the website before charging my credit card for a box that apparently doesn't exist."

"We have nothing to do with the website."

"But I can still rent a box of that website? And why can't you rent to someone without a local address?"

"It's just our policy."

"I thought this was the United States Postal Service, not the Texas Postal Service." Okay, admittedly a bit melodramatic, but this is two days in a row. I explain my current situation to the manager calmly, then ask, "How could it possibly serve you to deny me the common courtesy of a post office box simply because I live in a van rather than an apartment?"

The man pauses, searching for a response, then looks back at me blankly and says the following phrase:

"We have to do everything in our power to avoid terrorist attacks."

"Wait, what?"

"Terrorists can use post office boxes to send anthrax and weapons through the United States."

"What does that have to do with me having a local address?"

"Sir, 9/11 changed things."

Slam!

The post office manager and I are both taken aback by the loud sound. It takes me a moment to realize that my natural reaction to his pulling the 9/11 card was to slam my fist down on the counter with such impact as to scare the living crap out of everyone around me.

"Sir, if you are going to be violent, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the manager musters in his most authoritative voice, though his fear belies him.

"I'm sorry," I reply calmly. "I shouldn't have done that, but it was just my natural reaction."

And I must say, it is surprisingly effective. After scaring the man with my fist pound, he quits spewing his irrational rhetoric and actually lets me talk.

I explain to him that I find the use of a national tragedy as an excuse to deny American citizens simple luxuries such as a post office box to be patently offensive. I also outline the opinion that proof of a local address is a completely arbitrary and half-assed way to screen for terrorists and that any terrorist capable of procuring anthrax would surely be able to manufacture proof of a local address. Furthermore, I detail that I am extremely unimpressed with the service being provided by the post office he manages and that I do not appreciate being sold a make believe post office box online and then denied service for suspected terrorism.

At some point, the man starts to change his stance. I don't know if it's because he agrees with my logic, if he sees the woman at the counter smiling in support of my impassioned plea as if this were a scene in a movie and she were an extra used for a pathos-inducing cutaway, or if he just realized that I was going to be more trouble than he wanted to deal with, but he eventually writes down his number and promises to get back to me personally.

Finally, a victory for the little guy. And all it took was the perceived threat of violence. As it turns out, the government knew what it was doing all along.

Fear is a pretty powerful tool to get people to do what you want.

Going Postal, Part I

Among the worst places to find yourself at any given time:

+ The DMV.

+ War-torn Darfur.

+ A Nickelback concert.

+ Anywhere a Nickelback song is playing.

+ Anywhere in Darfur a Nickelback song is playing.

+ The post office.

Unfortunately, I recently find myself at one of these locales. (Hint: It's a place well known for murders and it is not in Africa.)

With a plan to get work in Houston and stay there for a couple months, I think it only fitting to get a post office box. To do this, I simply go online, find a local post office, and purchase a box over the internet, allowing me both a place to receive mail and a local address to use for my job interview the next day. It is the perfect plan...or so I think.

I am instructed to go to the post office in person to claim the box I purchased, but after waiting in line for what seems like hours, I am told that they usually require a local address to get a box.

"Why?"

"It's our policy."

"Why is it your policy?"

"It's our policy."

"Did you know they don't mention your policy online when they ask for your credit card?"

"Well, I guess we can make an exception."

"Thank you."

After going to the back to get my keys, the woman helping me comes back empty-handed. Apparently, the box I was sold already belongs to someone else.

"Can I get a different box then?"

"No, I'm sorry. I need my manager to authorize that."

"Can I get a refund?"

"We don't give refunds."

"Even when you sell me something that doesn't exist?"

"I'm sorry, but our manager is not here. If you come back tomorrow, we'll be able to help you out."

"So I have to come back tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But if I come back tomorrow, which to be frank is a huge inconvenience because I need to get to a job interview, I can get my box with no problems?"

"Yes Sir."

"Because I don't want to come back out here only to wait in line again and get turned away."

"Come back tomorrow and we'll have a box for you."

"Thanks," I reply skeptically, fearing that this will inevitably lead to a two part blog series on the incompetence of the postal system. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

My Faith in Humanity Gets a Much Needed Jump Start

It's easy to become a bitter, cynical curmudgeon these days.

Advancements in technology have made in-person interpersonal communication a dying art form. Twenty four hour news networks and sensationalistic local news telecasts highlight a seemingly endless parade of misdeeds and atrocities committed against and by seemingly normal individuals. The economy is in the toilet thanks in large part to a system perpetuated and destroyed by greed.

Sometimes it is hard to see the good in people.

I fall victim myself to the need to vilify society, in part because it is an easy way to pass the blame when I screw up; in part because it is easier to notice when I've been wronged than when I've righted; in part because encounters with assholes and unfortunate circumstances tend to make better blogs.

Ultimately, however, I still believe that the vast majority of people are good-natured, kind, and more than willing to help someone in need. I still believe that, and I will continue to believe that as long as my van keeps running.

You see, I run my vandominium like an office of sorts. I've got my laptop set up to a wireless card so I can be hooked up to the internet at all times, and it is generally set up on my office desk (which happens to be a blue bucket, but still) and plugged into an outlet from a power inverter. In fact, I'm writing this blog from my van right now.

The only problem with my setup (you know, besides the whole bucket thing) is that the power inverter draws power from the van. When power runs low, the inverter lets out a screeching noise to indicate the van is almost out of battery power. Once in a while, I will fall asleep or have my headphones on, or do something equally as stupid and careless, and my van's power will be too drained to start the engine.

More recently, as I switched from my broken laptop to a new one, the screech tends to happen after the battery power is drained rather than right before. As a result, I find myself needing a jump to start my car rather fequently.

Now, because of the frequency of this issue, I carry charger cables in my van. I know how to jump start the van very easily, and all I require from a person willing to help is that they have a car and one minute of spare time. Asking for a jump is not asking for much.

Still, it requires someone to take a moment from their day, as well as the trust that a stranger has no ulterior motives for approaching them. It is a request that could very easily be turned down for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that nobody owes me anything.

The beautiful fact of the matter, however, is that I have never had trouble finding someone to help me jump start the van. I have lost battery power at least twenty times on this trip, and it has never taken me more than a couple minutes to find someone willing to help me.

I have needed help in the morning and at night, in busy parking lots and relatively empty lots. I have asked middle aged women and young men. I have approached individuals with extremely nice cars and individuals living out of not-so-nice cars. I have run out of power near the border of Mexico and near the border of Canada, in Oregon and in Texas, in Idaho and in Georgia, and it has never been a problem finding someone to help out.

In fact, in over twenty attempts (and I'm being conservative with the numbers) I've only been turned down three times. Once, by a security guard who was not allowed to use the company vehicle in that way, once by someone who had been having car issues and feared his car would react poorly, and once by someone who just plain looked scared of me. In all three cases, the next person I approached was happy to oblige.

When I had the chance to return the favor recently and provide a jump for a man in Houston, he was so grateful that he immediately started giving me business tips. He was living out of his car, but had a background with computers, and did his best to relay all of the business tricks he had learned purchasing laptops, fixing them and adding new software, then turning them for a profit.

The man did not have much, but these secrets were his to give, something he could provide of value.

He was happy to give them because he was so pleasantly surprised by my willingness to give his car a jump when he needed it.

I was happy to tell him with confidence and sincerity that almost anyone would do the same.

Frisbee Dan

"I'm never happy. I'm a perfectionist. I always want to do better."

~ Frisbee Dan

Select few individuals in history have ascended to the role of cultural icon, transcending time and space to create a lasting legacy in the hearts and minds of generations to come.

Plato. George Washington. Shakespeare. Mozart. Einstein.

Frisbee Dan is not one of these icons. But to the students and alumni of Texas State University and the citizens of San Marcos, Texas, he might as well be.

When I first approach Dan for an interview, he holds up his finger, sprints toward the nearby river, pulls off his shirt, and jumps in. Five minutes later, he returns as if no time has elapsed since my question.

"I've met a lot of (students)," Frisbee Dan tells me. "Once in a while they'll get a Frisbee from me and they'll come back five, eight years later and they will walk up to me and say, 'You're still here.' "

"Here" is the middle of Sewell Park, a popular hangout on the Texas State campus. It is in part popular, I surmise, because of its well known Bikini Beach, a grassy knoll where coeds gather to sunbathe. Rumor has it that the intersection directly adjacent to Bikini Beach is one of the premier locations for traffic accidents in the nation.

On this day, however, my focus is not on the bikini-clad babes, but rather the middle-aged man wearing aviator goggles and dolphin shorts that would make Richard Simmons blush. After all, you can find hot women in bikinis lots of places, but there's only one Frisbee Dan.


“Most everybody in town knows me right as I walk through the door,” Dan confides in between Frisbee tricks. And it's true. Dan is a legend in San Marcos. He's been featured in newspaper articles, a song by a local band, various student films and clips on Youtube, and even in a local version of Monopoly.

"One of the cards says, 'Buy Frisbee Dan longer shorts,' " he says, laughing.

So how does a mild mannered man with nothing but a pair of short shorts and a love for Frisbee become a local legend? His story starts way back in 1985, when Dan had an accident that would change his life forever.

“I fell out of a truck and went into what they call an active coma. The lights were flickering, but I didn’t know what was going on. I lost complete peripheral vision on the right side of my head."

He pauses.

"But if you watch me play Frisbee, it has no bearing on my control and catching.”

Dan's head injury prompted a move to Tangram Rehabilitation Center in Texas, where he was a patient for four years. He took to the center so well, however, that he immediately transitioned from patient to staff member. For eight years, Dan worked where he had once been treated, and when he found Sewell Park, he knew he had a place that combined his two greatest loves: talking to people, and doing kickass Frisbee tricks.

Up until 1998, Dan balanced his work life with his life at Sewell Park, heading down to toss the Frisbee every chance he got. Then, after transitioning to work as a professional landscaper, he stepped up his Frisbee game. For the past ten years, Frisbee Dan has gone to Sewell Park seven days a week, "about six or seven hours a day," to share his love of Frisbee with others.

Not everyone, however, shares this love of Frisbees. Some just love a good inside joke. It is a common occurrence throughout my interview with Frisbee Dan for students to catcall or yell jokes in Dan's direction. The vast majority of these barbs come from various male students walking by, all of whom can invariably be described as the "frat type."

"Alright! Frisbee Dan TV!" one guy yells.

"Whooo!!! Go Frisbee Dan!" another adds later.

"Troublemakers!" Dan yells back, eliciting a cacophony of sarcastic "whats" and "huhs" from the group.

This causes Dan to laugh uproariousy before turning back me. "They always give me a hard time."

There is a certain lack of self awareness in Dan that some might find off-putting, or perhaps deserving of sympathy. Ultimately, however, it's hard not to like Frisbee Dan because, behind the goofy goggles and the dolphin shorts, behind the Frisbee tricks and the odd behavior, there is a man at peace with who he is and what he stands for, no matter how out of touch from reality he may be.

But, really, who am I to judge what reality is? Truth be told, a large part of me is jealous of this man whom the frat guys transparently mock.

If only I loved something, anything, with the passion that Dan has for Frisbee. Watching him toss the disc across the courtyard to a standoffish man with long gray hair, it's easy to forget you're watching two grown men. After all these years, Frisbee still holds a magic for Frisbee Dan that brings out a childish joy I can't help but envy.

As he tosses the Frisbee behind his back, or contorts his body while rotating clockwise for effect, or throws a particularly impressive spiral, he inevitably yells out in joy, looking around the park to acknowledge his (real or perceived) admirers.

One toss sails over the fence sixty yards away, but is caught by a man walking by, prompting Dan to squeal in joy and reenact the moment to anyone and everyone who will listen with a smile stretching the length of Bikini Beach.

It's a refreshing sense of innocence that has brought nothing but charm to the city of San Marcos. Which is great. But seriously...

"What's the deal with the short shorts?"

“Basically, with the long shorts, there’s no way I could jump up and do those 360s or you’d hear a loud rip. Because you saw the jumping technique. I need complete leg movement.”


I couldn't have said it better myself.

More Wisdom Than You Can Shake a Sharpie At

We're long overdue for a Sharpie Wisdom, and some of the older autographs are starting to fade. I'm pretty sure my van is relegated to a fate reserved for so many of today's teens and Generation Y-ers. It looks really cool now with its arm sleeves and tramp stamps, but as it gets older and its skin starts to sag, that arm sleeve is going to look gross and that tramp stamp will be nothing but a misshapen reminder of grandma's disturbingly promiscuous past.

But for right now, the Vandura is still in the sexy stage, so let's get to some signatures.

Wilbert continues the list of fascinating people I've met on this journey who happen to live in their cars. Wilbert needed a jump one morning in a Walmart parking lot, and I happened to be there equipped with jumper cables. In exchange, Wilbert gave me business tips, some of which you'll be privy to when I write more about this experience in my highly anticipated jumper-cable-themed blog.

This sounds like fantastic advice at first, but if you read it enough times, it starts to sound like an excuse developed by the paparazzi to justify their being in the room for Britney Spears' next colonoscopy.








This is the autograph of one of my hide-and-seek rivals. I think its pretty creative for a five-year-old. I could have done better though.








I was happy to let my other hide-and-seek nemesis, Lauren, sign as well, until I realized she hadn't learned to write yet. This is just part of what she drew over other people's signatures. Still, it manages to look both dignified and mature next to the pen island.com joke.

File this under "people who signed the van without my knowing." Not sure what this means, but my primary theories are as follows:

1. Obese is a rapper who lives in Dallas and is using my van for promotion. I like to imagine he's an anorexic rapper with a solid grasp on irony.

2. Someone felt the need to provide commentary on the rising child obesity epidemic in Dallas but was not particularly articulate and valued brevity.

3. Your momma's so fat she signed my van with the only nickname she's ever known.

Iris and I had a good long chat outside a Houston, Texas McDonald's before I handed her my business card. Twenty minutes later, she called my cell phone to offer me a shower at her place. I like to think this has more to do with the kindness of strangers than it has to do with my hygiene.





A friend from college who lives in Houston invited me to bad movie night at a local cafe, where we watched Nightbreed with his friend and girlfriend. This was written in homage to just one of dozens of corny action lines that made me nostalgic for Humphrey Bogart. How Nightbreed got shut out of the 1990 Oscars, I'll never know.

This describes yet another blog that has yet to be written. SPOILER ALERT: "Defacating cows on kids' heads" is not a metaphor.

And so that ends another edition of Sharpie Wisdom. Hopefully, you're a little more enlightened than you were when you woke up this morning. If not, quit watching that "Rock of Love Bus" marathon and pick up a good book, damnit.

As always,

I Thought I Read a Tweet. I Did. I Did Read a Tweet.

I'm being told by an increasing amount of people that I should consider using twitter.com. I'm strongly considering it.

1:30 PM Apr 2nd from web


I'm skeptically pondering the ramifications of an already egocentric society concentrating on providing constant updates on even the most mundane activities.

1:33 PM Apr 2nd from web


April Fool's was fun. I sure got some people good! You know who you are!!! :) LOL

1:34 PM Apr 2nd from web


It sure is fun typing. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm typing.

1:36 PM Apr 2nd from web


Reading up on Twitter on Wikipedia. Apparently, I am "tweeting" right now. Other notable "tweeters" include Barack Obama, Sir Richard Branson, and that girl you liked in high school.

1:38 PM Apr 2nd from web


Logan is updating his facebook status.

1:42 PM Apr 2nd from web


Sorry for the delay between tweets. I had an itch, so I scratched it for a while. Then, I had to use the restroom and it's taking a while. Stupid Baja Fresh!

2:11 PM Apr 2nd from text


The bathroom at Baja is out of toilet paper. I have the worst luck!!! ;) LOL!

2:23 PM Apr 2nd from text


Words can be hurtful. I didn't care about the intimate details of how you feed your cat, but did I send you a mean spirited message? No. No I did not.

2:32 PM Apr 2nd in reply to aziangurl69


I found a new roll in the stall next to me. Everything's going to be fine. Thanks for your support katlady73, syberstocker12, and stonephillipsisnotmyfriend!

2:41 PM Apr 2nd from text


You know, on second thought, I think I'm going to just stick to blogging.

10:49 PM Apr 2nd from web