It's difficult for me to find a woman that I love, but can also fulfill my rabid, sexual animal desires. That is what we call a "hook" in writing - something to get the reader to read the rest of it. Of course, now that I've acknowledged it, my hook-plot has been ruined. Damn.

I'm in Maui as the seconds tick by. It's around 10:00 PM here, but it's 1:00 AM at home, and it's my first day, and I'm awake. I shouldn't be. I feel relaxed.Relajado. Rela....no. Nothing else. No other clever ones that I know. (リラックス? That could mean nothing.)

Glor-glor wants me to write something in this blog. I admit I'm a little out of material, because absolutely nothing happens in my life, but I've begun a song about how animals don't care. It's called "Animals Don't Care" and it's not finished. I have no idea what the melodies and harmonies andrythmies are going to be, but here it is:

Sittin' with my pen and paper
Whiddling out the rhymes and times
Of songs that'll never be heard.
Sittin' with my pen and paper
Trying to get the poetry out of my mind
And throw it all into words.

As I chew on the back of the pen
Again and again and again
Again and again and again
Pulling out the hair
As I'm sitting on that chair
Whiddling out the rhymes and times,
Why do I even care?

I look for inspiration in my cat's empty eyes,
She stares that she knows all she needs to know
She doesn't care about the rythm, or the chords that sound like skies
After all why would she, they're just stupid notes.

Animals don't care about all the bells and whistles
And it's nicer they're not evil in their greed
We care oh so much about trains and cars and missiles
Food and water's really all they need

All I know about that song is that the rhythms don't quite line up to four; the first stanza is six lines, and the two lines of "again and again and again" put that whole stanza at 7 total. By the horns of Pan, that's crazy. Stella came up with "by the horns of Pan." She's my cute Asian genius fair-weather friend. I only have like two or three of those, so they're gems. Gems!

She has one of those laughs that I can call nothing but the cutest laugh in the world. She and Gloria and I'm-sure-other-people have this laugh, where they laugh and then their head bounces around. It sounds (and when you think about it, looks) incredibly stupid, but the way people move intrigues me, and when people laugh like that, I lovey-dovey love it.

I am hyper. I seriously need a picture of a sausage now:

Fuck you, Wikipedia, for not instantly having a picture of ONE sausage that doesn't look like a curved mansausage. Not. That. No. Regret saying that. Backspace fails me. Why. So stupid.

Hey, Mr. Pit, Mr. Pit, Mr. Pitiful, is probably my favorite song at the now, as it encompasses all qualities of good music from all genres and combines it into a medley of really only one song. But it's by Matt Costa, which makes me think of Costa Rica, which makes me think of crazy bald Spanish guys with glasses, and Gloria. I promise that Gloria and crazy bald Spanish guys with glasses have nothing to do with each other in my head; no associations are made.

Well, NOW I'll associate them. Damn commies.

This is hecka random. Hecka rand. I'm going to look back on these words in this order and wonder how high I was - I promise it was just a little late and I was a little giddy. No, it was probably some secondhand wine that my dad had.

Oh, so I'm here in Maui with my dad, embarking before my grandmother comes. And this grandmother is an extremely smart, nice, person, but for no reason, she's conservative. I've got nothing against being a conservative (damn commies) but she seems to have nothing to back it up other than religion. And that's just a bunch ofbullhonkey.

Religion! Oy vey. Gets my knickers in a twist. Now that I think about it, twisting your underwear would hurt beyond imaginable nouns. Oh my. Different thoughts, different thoughts....I'm at Disneyland. I. Am. At.Disneylannddd.

I promise it's just a little bit late and I'm a little giddy. Pinky swear.

Ashley and I have a very similar taste in music, and I look forward to exchanging musical music with her at some point in the future. She's pretty cool. Also, she will never cut my hair again, not unless we're both in love, and drunk, with some scissors, and I have a bad haircut. I believe 2 out of 4 of those things are likely to happen. I will never tell you which; this is because I don't know the second one.

My feet. Holy gosh. They're cold. I believe those three sentences sum up like half of my life.

FALSE. My feet are usually warm because I wear socks almost all of the time. How you like them apples. Because like...the apples. Refer to, her breasts? You had to be there. If you don't get that joke, I promise it's funny, and I promise it's your fault that you don't get it. If it's not, you can punch me in the ovary. Score, bitch, I don't even have one. Evan: 1, Ovary: 0.

The sad bit is that that is not the first time I have made a scoreboard, however fake or small, between myself and an ovary.

This is how my thoughts work, I'm not even kidding. Not even joshing. Not even....um....chortling? Chortling is the wrong word but it shouldn't be. Any word that amuses me should mean whatever I want it to me, like flummox, or brickabrak, or smeet. Smeet is a word I came up with. It's the children's version of smut - not smut with children, that's wrong. The children's equivalent of smut is candy. Smeet! Gems!!

Let's pretend, for a moment, that the letters "JDF" mean that I am laughing like a crazy person. Ready?

JDF!!

Ahh. This is so random. So raandom. You know what this is? Brainwash. Brainwash from the Russians.

Damn commies.