I am a couple of cups sitting on a coffee table.

This post is only to point out the fact that I like to think in really odd ways and personify strange things. I just like to personify. For example, "The laptop squeals in anguish as his owner, Mervin Choun, types out an agonizing blog post about cups on his coffee table."

Like the cups that are sitting in front of me right now. Left out by their respective owners who actually grabbed them in the first place. Left out to be forgotten and left out to be left there for a long time. A combination of mugs, free plastic drexel cups, fancy glass cups, and a lonely Poland Springs water bottle. All standing up right but one knocked over.

Who do these cups belong to? All six of them don't know. Except for one. The writer of this post. The one with the plastic drexel cup. Claimed by him for all to know. That cup is fucking mine.

But what about the others? Oh wait, another one just popped up. Hidden by the screen of this laptop is another mug. Strangely enough, one of the mugs that the writer of this post brought to this house and is usually reserved for him. What's it doing out here? Good question.

All of them almost empty except for the last drops that the last user had left. The last drops that we like to call "backwash". We all know that the last bits of a bottle or a cup are really the saliva of the previous user (or users). All of that backwash is the only evidence of the previous owners.This is a sad and lonely story. A sad and lonely story that could only be reserved for these type of cups. The futures of these cups are unpredictable and probably wild. They could be used once or they could be use various times. They could be used by the same person or by multiple people confusing that cup as their own. They could be filled with the pureness of Philadelphia tap water or possibly by the vile and evil liquid of liquor or beer. They could end up being left there for days without being washed or being washed immediately after use, ready for another rotation of lips coming to their lips.

Of course, that's what these cups live for. The lip to lip action! No matter what they were originally crafted for, these cups need the be drank from. Without it, they are no long cups but merely containers of liquid. Simple tupperwear without a lid! And without a doubt, these cups do not want to be pushed down to the lowely class of tupperwear. Although they may be kings of leftovers, they are merely paupers to the fine china.

As said before, the future of these warriors of liquid may be uncertain. But one thing is certain to this drunken writer. They all will end up getting washed, and they will all ended up in the exact same spot.

I am a little taste.

You took a little sip didn't you?  You popped and now you can't stop.  Greed, Lust, Gluttony.  You dipped your finger into the peanut butter jar, spread it over the celery, and fucking chomped on it.  Satisfying?  Of course.  But who knows where that finger's been.  In fact, who knows where that celery has been.

It feels familiar doesn't it?  Rain that is.  That smell is is usually distinctive but it never is for me.  It reminds me of fish.  Or the times when I was little and I didn't care about getting wet.  I'd still stay outside until it started to lighting.  Puddles weren't a nusiance but an awesome source of entertainment.

Fun.  What happened to it?  It use to walk up to me and we use to spend hours just exploring and satisfying our curiousities.  Now?  I have to find it cause it's usually hiding.  Then it's a short time and I'm already missing it.

I am tired of all of this

I'll do it myself.

Real post coming tomorrow.

I am cursed with a small tongue.

Really, I am cursed with a small tongue. I mean, it's really not that big of a deal but it makes it tough to eat soup sometimes. Lollipops take forever to get to the center to. It's kind of hard to whistle. Living a life with a small tongue is tough.

After spending exactly two minutes brushing my teeth in the morning with my Sonicare elite toothbrush, I spend exactly two minutes more looking at my tongue in the mirror.

Look at this guy!

[via BoingBoing]

I am trying to win a new black notebook

Many of you people that actually know me know that I carry around a black notebook. Although it's no where near being full, it'd be nice to have one lined up to be filled with my random stuff.

Sooooo, blackcover.net is giving away a notebook and I'm trying to win it. Check out the website! They have some awesome stuff on there.

I am an underwear model

Wearing Gap underwear makes me feel sexy.

Even when I'm mowing my lawn.

I am a character without a name -- Sound

"Don't worry! Everything will be fine"

That was the last thing he said to me when he left. Those words were the last words I heard him say. Those are the last sounds I'll ever hear him make.

When he said those words though, I didn't think anything of it. He's always been a positive guy, always encouraging and never a downer. I just wish that he would have realized that everything wouldn't be ok. I just wish I could have said "I love you!" for one last time.

Now I'm stuck here in this shelter with the soft rustling sounds of other women moving about, doing their work, and children playing. If only they could hear what's going on outside. If only they could hear the monotonous and mind numbing moans of what's going on outside.

I wish I could hear for one last time, "Don't worry! Everything will be fine."



[image from Alexey Titarenko Photography]

I am a break from the normal programming

"I give up too easy"

A group of words that could mean "I give up to easily."

But is that what it really means? It is just a group of words with a definition except order.


I actually don't know where this post is going. Just take out the punctuation and figure it out for yourself.

I am a character without a name -- Smells

The character of this story is not what you would consider as a normal person. Actually, if you would meet this character in real life, you would probably be scared and confused. Your mind would probably go crazy from the sheer unrealistic-ness of his existence.

But he doesn't know this.

The first thing that the character of this story realized as he regained consciousness was the smell of death. The decaying of flesh. The smell of recently burnt hair and skin. It was all a combination of new death and old death. The strange thing about this situation though is not the smell, but the fact the the character of this story was not disgusted or repulsed by it all. Actually, the character of this story was attracted to the smell. Aroused by the smell. Soaking in the pure ecstasy that the smell was bringing him. And ultimately, craving the smell.

The character of this story had to do something about this craving. Something deep inside their mind was telling them to seek action. And with that, his eyes were open.

I am a character without a name

Death. Death. Death.

That's all he could smell when became conscious.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

That's all he could see when he opened his eyes.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

That's all he could feel when his adrenaline stopped flowing.

Scream. Scream. Scream.

That's all he could hear when his head stopped pounding.

"What is this place?" was all that he could think.

I am a real fictitious person

There's a new micro blogging personality on Twitter.

Her name....

Liz Kantner in real life.

I am extracurricular triathlon training, not really

Here is my current train of thought:

Six Flags equals amusement park

amusement parks equals arcades

arcades equals DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION


It has been a long time since I played that sweet sweet dance simulator. The strong bass beat pounding in my head. Those beautifully high pitched Japanese singers singing "Captain Jack". The multi-colored lights dancing around my feet as I step, step, step, to the beat of "Dam Dariam".

Anyways, I played DDR today after not having played it in a long time. Stillll out of shape.