The Raging Buddhist.

The title is from a fake Album Art I once saw made in a computer-graphics seminar. I remember the album-cover being the face of a crying baby, which, incidentally, does look a lot like a pissed-off Buddhist Monk. It also parallels the fact that I'm about to complain.

So, my parents have been on this whole bar-hopping and gambling kick. They're consistently out and about until about 3:00 AM, and sleep until 1:00 PM, unless they're going to work, in which case they're out the door by 8:00 AM and I don't really see them anyways. While they're gone, I'm the sole person to hold-down the household, so I have to do all the cleaning: The dishes, the laundry, whatever the pets do, the bathrooms, the trash. I was even asked to do my parents' room on a few occasions. I do the yardwork here and there. In addition to that, I do the cooking, unless my sister makes herself a potato or something, which is just about all she'll eat unless I cook her something. I also do all the weird stuff that pops up while they're gone, like reupholstering my sister's furniture or sucking stains out the carpet when someone pukes on the floor.

For the past few days, I've been getting on to say hello to everyone anywhere from 4:00 PM to 9:00 PM because I've been doing all this jazz. I've also noticed that, for the past few days, there hasn't been a day where my hands don't smell sterile: Paint Thinner, Bleach, Detergent, Odo-Ban, Windex, Tilex, Ajax. It all comes together at the end of the day so that when I run my hands over the stubble that's piling up on my face, I smell formaldehyde.

Getting on at 4:00-9:00 PM also means I've been largely excluded from the newest edition of Package for the People, of which I was supposed to kind of be a big part. I've more or less been outperformed in my absence and I was pretty disappointed to see that, although I worked for a few hours on the Guide that was supposed to accompany the new edition and formatted some of it into a very comprehensive set-up, it was ultimately scrapped and, if anything, my credits were used, sort of.

Ultimately, I'm just bitter and feeling a lack of recognition.

In closing...














I warned you about stairs, Tom.
I told you, dog.

I told you, man.
I told you about stairs.