Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- Asher Roth's existence is so unbelievably funny to me.

...........................Yep. That's it. There's the punchline. I can't really expound on it much more, suffice to say that to me, Asher Roth is like someone getting hit in the groin: universally laugh-out-loud funny, every time. Or, in SAT terms:
Asher Roth: Meg
as
Han's Moleman's Man Getting Hit by Football: Homer:

I've done some soul-searching to figure out what it is about Asher Roth that I find so comical, but I can't figure it out. It's not like I think his "rhymes" are that clever or he's so charming and hilarious in his interviews. I honestly think it's just because he loves college. [Please know that I just cracked my own shit up writing that last sentence. And it's not even funny. It's just simple a fact. Asher Roth loves college. Man gets hit in groin. Lolz^infinity.] After everyone left the Halloween party last weekend, Teresa and I literally sat around my apartment for a good 45-minutes, just drunkenly eating pizza and taking turns saying "Asher Roth loves college" back and forth and cracking up. We're like the Bevis and Butthead of Asher Roth jokes. And again, I use the term "joke" very loosely. And oh my god, and have you ever seen Asher Roth's myspace page?! It's like the Taj Mahal of Yo-Boy. Picking my favorite part would be like picking my favorite star in the heavens. But, I can give you my top-3:
3.) The background picture is a sepia photograph of Asher Roth using his laptop on the John
2.) His PR person's email address is dana@biz3.net
and 1.)
And if you only do one productive thing with your day—call that number. Mr. Roth definitely opens by reminding all of you who got way too high on 420 to "cop" his new album and absolutely closes with the phrase "peace and love yo." You also have the option of forwarding the Asher Roth hot line information to a friend with your personal message. And after a few Kirkland Signature brand Amber Lights last night, that's exactly what I did. Although, when I tried to enter Teresa's number (thanks to my Costco induced buzz) I consistently hit one number off for all 10 digits. So someone with a 351 area code will be getting an interesting message from the Asher Roth hot line this morning with a preamble by Meg McBlogger featuring some uncomfortably out-of-context cancer jokes. And you're welcome.

- I want to do a cover of Asher Roth's "I Love College" and call it "College was Mediocre."

"That paper I wrote last night was awfully wordy, wish I'd had more time to edit
Hit up Subway, watched some Lifetime, skipped my book discussion cuz I ain't read it
Made a terrarium in Bio that was sick, free ice cream in the dining hall so I take a lick
Pass out at a reasonable hour, wake up in time to take a shower
Man, college was mediocre."

- I had dinner with my parents a few nights ago and my mom (being the wonderful human being that she is) slipped me 40-bucks across the table before we left. After thanking her profusely, she looked at me uncomfortably and said, "Just...please buy something healthy with it. Maybe a fruit or a vegetable? It's like when you give money to a homeless person and you know they're just going to end up buying alcohol with it. It's so disheartening." Frankly, I'm not even mad. Because that was a truly humorous and appropriate comparison, and good for her for making it.

- And speaking of getting fucked up, I opened my door last night and found this waiting for me outside:

I am one-part sketched out and three-parts extremely interested.

- Taking mass quantities of anti-depressants is a great thing, because, you know, I don't want to kill myself on a daily basis and such. However, it can also suck. Specifically because I can't cry. I haven't cried in a solid seven months. And sometimes in life you just need a good, cathartic cry. And I don't mean this in like a "OH LOLZ! My life is so perfect I can't even find something to cry about! POOR ME!" kind of way. Because there's plenty of material to cry about—I just physically can't. Which is unbelievably frustrating. I have actually sat myself down with depressing material for the sole purpose of having a good cry more times than I care to count. Because after hours and hours of Trainspotting and Eternal Sunshine and documentaries on blood diamonds, I can't work out a single damn tear. Last Friday, however, I finally cried. So what could have been so traumatic that it could break the seven month cry-seal? Golden Girls. Season 6, episode 9. "Mrs. George Deveraux," featuring Sonny Bono and Lyle Waggoner. I shit you not, that's what did it. Blanche's late husband returns claiming he faked his own death and right when Blanche decides she's ready to take him back in her life, she wakes up—it was all a dream. George is still dead and Blanche is left clutching an empty pillow, looking around her bedroom, alone and confused. I swear to god, my throat closed, my chest tightened and suddenly there was a wet substance streaming down my face. I was crying. And then I remembered the tragedy that was Sonny Bono's passing and started crying harder. And then I remembered that Bea Arthur is totally dead and cried even harder than that. AND THEN I remembered that Rue McClanahan was recently hospitalized and it was all just fucking over. I turned on Rufus Wainwright's version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," took a hot shower and cried my fucking face off. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors be damned. So Mr. Deveraux—this Jäger's for you.

- I'd like to leave you all with a friendly public service announcement: if your company has a graphic designer (or a "graphics person" or "graphic artist," as you probably call them), don't make them design stuff for your kid's school. Just don't do it. I know it makes sense because they work for you and you want to look like the #1 Class Mom, but please, don't make them do that. It's so unbelievably offensive. Because we didn't coke ourselves out and stay awake for days on end and memorize the subtle differences between 500 typefaces to design the logo for your son's football phone tree. It's like asking your dentist friend to pick a piece the lettuce out of your teeth after lunch. So please, for me, don't do it. Thank you.