accuracy - on the level of something else, as in to say that I was an idiot for leaving a plastic cutting board on the stove whilst turning the burner it was laying upon, on (read below), is accurate. It is not precise. To be accurate is to get in the realm of what's expected, because really people don't expect that much, especially when it comes to flaming cutting boards.

precise - numbers. It's all about numbers, position and mathematics, within reason. It is the obtaining of what you expect, but it must be exact. Like that cutting board was precisely in the wrong place when I turned on that burner because I was accurately an idiot. Although I didn't expect it, it's precisely what would have happened, and did happen because again, to say I was an idiot is accurate.

Or I may be wrong.

That's accurate.

Just so you all know, when you refresh the page, while having a dissertation's amount of words in your box, because you walk away because of course you just set fire to, and had to figure out a way to stop the blazinging inferno on your cutting board that you left on the burner, the wrong burner that you didn't mean to turn on, when all you really just wanted to do was to make some hot chocolate because you ran out of fucking coffee and you don't feel like tea because you're not sick and you see teas and sickness as analogous, you lose that entire page, never to get it back. Just so's you all know.

The answer for everything I have have found, especially dealing with a huge cutting board that looks like a torch in a Medievil movie, is to stick into the toilet.

I don't care what anyone says, The Cat in the Hat was a funny movie. I wonder if there was a book prior too. It's looks very Dr. Seuss.

So yeah, if anyone's interested apparently there will be a few of us at the pink tonight. Paul, perhaps a note on the front page would work because chances are some people won't read this . . . hey, I'm just being realistic. Hell I don't even read my own journal.

Okay, back to the Moobers of Shooberville. This is what I do by the way.

The Moobers of Shooberville
Have so much to say and play
Which is why they want to visit
And maybe even stay
They won't sit still for long
Cause they love to jump around
They do this in sweet sneakers
And they do this all o'er the ground
Shooberville is all fun and games
And the Moobers will rock your town
So make them feel at home
Cause for your town, the Moobers are bound

15 pages. 15 FULL pages of nonstop interesting shit. And through it all I fell in love with Kierkegaard. Who knew it was possible . . .

So that's that. Sort of. Well at least for this semester. Still gotta finish writing a book, but hey that's neither here nor there.

So it's amazing out and I don't want to clean my apartment, so's I wont. This is what the nightime is for . . . that and thinking of crazy odd characters for a Fisher-Price line of toys (hypocritical? perhaps. But working at home, or in a coffee shop, by yourself, thinking of why Bobble Moober likes to be thrown in the air is undeniably a good time. Especially with the pay. Oh yeah. I love Fisher-Price when I'm not working there.)

So I'm going to be wandering around elmwood now. Then I will get on my bike (motor) and ride all over Western New York and Canada, listening to U2's "Where the Streets Have No Name," wishing there were no helmet laws.

But yet, what do we have here? Leonard Cohen on WFUV in New York (via internet) singing, "Who by Fire." Oh I wish my door led to 14th street. Union Square is calling my name right now. I know it.

Or I may just sit outside and convice my dog to stay still and read a goddamn good book for once. He's missing out on so much.

It's always Clifford, Clifford, why can't I be red, why can't I be big . . .

One goddamn page left and I'm fucking spent. This is the last paper and then I'm free (for about two weeks when I have to take physics for some stupid fucking state requirement bullshit).

Actually not even one page, I just need about 3/4's. The prof said 15-20 and I have 14 and 1/4. How's that for shitness. Fuck me. I made my point tenfold, but I have to . . . ah fuck it. I'm gonna go eat an artichoke.

That just pisses me off though. If I finish the paper, I can do things again. I can do laundry. I can do dishes. I can masturbate. I don't even have time for that now. What the fuck is going on here . . .

Shit stains on the silk sheets of life is what it is.

Anyone want to send me 3/4's of a page about Flannery O'Connor's Misfit character's reasons for shooting the grandmother in "A Good Man Is Hard to Find?"

Talk about the need for faith and grace . . .