Oh Google, sometimes you disappoint me. Normally things are great, I ask you when Ghostbusters was released you tell me. No matter how many times I ask, you always tell me, never impatient, always the gentleman. But today you’ve let me down.

“should i masturbate before a mensa test”

Nothing. No help whatsoever. I just want to know if it’s like in Something About Mary where the dude with the big ears and the acting career that got serious afterwards rubs one out in order to relax on a date with the one that became one of Charlie’s angels then I haven’t heard from her in a long while.

I am brave, I am hard-core. The MAX line on the water container of my coffee machine? I fill up way past that.

“Did you hear about Aaron’s girlfriend? Fuck me!” Yeah, people say some interesting things.

I’m walking up the east side of my village: pigeon town. There’s a bar there, ‘The Stoned Crow’. I think it’s a pun.

These people, friends of Aaron, I imagine, are sitting at a table that’s, like, on the footpath. They do not have sleeves, it’s one big fat shoulder convention. I worry that one of them will want to communicate with me because it’s past 9pm and I am on my own. I seem to be prey for this particular type of sleeveless male. “Maaate, what’s uuuup.” Yes, indeed, that’s excellent. I don’t know what’s up. Dear lord, what do you people want from me? What words can I say to you so that you don’t say any more words to me?

I continue walking, up the street, a few things are still open. One of them is a bakery. Some things are cheaper after 5pm, because they’re getting a little bit skanky. A plan forms, quite quickly. Moments later I return to the group of shoulders, holding a vanilla slice.

“It’s for Aaron. I heard about is girlfriend.”

I get no respect. From where I sit now at my keyboard I look right to the lasagne I have reheating. Food reheating is so depressing. Food cooking is wholesome and family and good times and all that hoo-ha.

Regardless, this is not my point. I look now to my right, to my lasagne in the microwave. It’s cooking, but it’s not spinning. The timer counts down: 2:30 seconds. It peeks at me through the glass, 1:40 seconds. Fuck you, it says. I don’t spin for no one, and especially I don’t spin for no fuck like you. 35 seconds. I stare, it stares back, I fear for my unborn baby and wonder what happened to the whole microwave-cancer thing. I pay attention to the PSAs, though I’m neither pregnant nor female. I know the lasagne knows that I’ve read the propaganda, that I believe the lies, that I fear the microwave. But I shouldn’t. I won’t. I fucking shant! I drop my pants and press my balls against the warm glass and yell: “spin you fucker, spin.”

I just has a sneezing fit. I’ve got little moisture spots on the inside of my glasses. I just don’t understand physics.

I think I may not be as fit as I should be. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder last week. Watching 30 Rock. And this afternoon I woke up out of breath. Seriously, I was panting. I don’t think I’d even rubbed one out in my sleep either, there was no residue or anything.

I have two thoughts that if I polish them enough will become what I imagine could be described as ‘a good point’.

The first is the numbers that define us. We’re all numbers, right? Zeros and ones and not a lot else. So surely any person can be defined by numbers.

Of course they can. Don’t be stupid. I’m not thinking a CD full of DNA, I’m thinking a few simple numbers. And here’s what I propose.

You (yes, you, I’m writing this only for you. You’re the third muthafucking person) are a result of the following metrics:

• Someone is approaching the lift that you have just got into. How many metres must someone be from the doors when they begin to close, for you to not even try and pretend you’re looking for the ‘keep open’ button. You just stare them straight in the eye as the doors close between you.
• You’re walking down the street. It’s raining. You have your umbrella up. You get to a part of the street where a particularly wealthy shop owner has splurged on one of those things that’s, umm, a roof for the footpath. How long must that section of footpath be for you to bother taking your umbrella down. I mean, you don’t want to look like a cock walking inside (you’re are, from the rain’s perspective) with an umbrella open. What are you, retarded? But do you really want to take the umbrella down, walk seven steps, then open it up again?
• Smile stop. You see someone you’ve seen before. Perhaps a colleague that you pass in the hallway. You smile at each other as you pass. For how long after they’re vacated your peripheral do you hold that smile. Me? 600 milliseconds (one Down’s Syndrome Blink). I’m quite sure I look like a psychopath to the people that witness the quick-stop smile (I got it from Baldwyn), but there’s something nice about people thinking you’re a psychopath. There’s none of this Hey, will you be best man at my wedding? And if anyone ever tells me I behave like a psychopath I correct them: “That’s sociopath, muthafucker.” Then I touch their teeth. If they recoil I’ll say “hey, no problem. If you do not want me to touch your alive teeth I will not touch them.”

I’m genuinely sorry about the Down’s syndrome comment.

It’s raining today. Good ol’ fashioned pissing down. And I like it. It’s like everyone is a little less happy. A bit annoyed at the world around them, like it isn’t as good as it should be.

It’s like Dirk Appreciation Day.

So you can take your rain complaints and shove them up your ass, muthafucker.

I’ve just found out that hyperbole does not rhyme with super bowl. I feel like I’m at step 9 of AA and I need to go and find all the people that I’ve ever said hyper-bole to and tell them I was being ironical.