MetaBlog, iPods, and Irons

Okay, so you never want the thing you're writing to be about the thing that you're writing, right?

Ouch. Try again.

There are certain levels of self-reference that are just too mind-numbingly boring to even begin to wrap your head around, so I try to stay away from these sort of things. Avoid writing about the blog on the blog, no? I'm all about serving your interests first.

And yet, I feel compelled. Because all last week I was in a horrible mood and just refused to write anything, despite all the completely random and ridiculously writable things that happened to me. And then suddenly it's the next week and if possible I'm actually in a worse mood. So obviously something has to break.

I'm going to fall in favor of writing anyway, but let's all be aware that I'm not feeling on top of the writing game, so I should get extra levels of understanding when the stuff that pours out is full of bile and/or unfortunate unfunny phrasing.

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So, I bought an iPod this weekend. It was completely gratuitous and completely unrationalized. Usually if I'm going to spend any large sum of money I have to agonize and carefully map out how justified I am by making the purchase and how it will further my goals of either world peace or my eventual world domination. This is then followed by three hours of whinging about in Best Buy (where all my large purchases are made) until I finally break down in a fit of excess and hand over the credit card.

With this purchase, I walked into Best Buy with the sole intention of just checking to see if they had any in stock, and perhaps look them over for an eventual future purchase when I had more discretionary spending money burning a hole in my pocket. The first salesman I ran into showed me the stack of three iPods they had right in the front of the store and was all "You want one?" shaking it ever so seductively. And before I knew what was happening I was at my car holding the tiny little box and wondering exactly how subliminal messages work so well.

Of course, now I cannot live without it, as it keeps me in full contact with huge portions of my music collection at all times of the day. It even hooks up to my car stereo so I don't have to take the hit to get that thing fixed. It completes me in a way I was not aware a physical object could. Even if I do look like a complete dork hipster when wearing it. It's like selling out in the most public way possible. But whatever, y'all just don't understand our love.

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Last night I'm doing the laundry and rocking out to the above mentioned iPod. I've already gone through the washing phase of things and run out to the laundry room for phase two: moving the ridiculously wet clothes across the room to the one functional dryer left. I pop open the washer and all my clothes are gone.

Hmm.

I look to my right, there are no wet clothes on the table, I check the dryers and they're all full and running. A little worried, but refusing to give in to the panic that comes with believing that every piece of work clothing that you own (along with every pair of underwear in your possession save the one you have on) has been stolen, I figure stranger things have happened and start checking dryers. In running dryer number three I find all my clothes, merrily rolling along.

Very weird. Although I am easily fooled, I do not believe that my clothes have developed the ability to dry themselves. They were not that dirty. My eventual hypothesis is that the would-be clothes-napper wanted to steal my clothes but they were all wet, so he decided to dry them first before he ran off with them. I suppose we will never know, since I hung around until the cycle finished and took my freshly dried clothes back home without word from the interloper.

My apartment complex is full of weirdos.

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I get back to the apartment and am in the process of slowly ironing enough shirts and pants that I can go the entire week without having to do more in the mornings than blindly reach in the closet and grab the two nearest articles of clothing and throw them on.

Somewhere around shirt number 4.2, while listening to Ben Folds cover Dr. Dre's Bitches Ain't Shit, I reach over to pick up the iron and miscalculate which side of the iron has the handle on it. Have you ever tried to wrap your hand around a flat iron plate of near molten metal? Well it sucks. I now lack the majority of feeling in my three middle fingers on my left hand, which makes typing a wonderful magic journey of discovery with each additional line.

I mean, I know I do stupid shit a lot. Bad things happen because I am clumsy and inattentive. Yawn. But at some point, you really just have to be all "enough is enough." Because really, grabbing the wrong side of the iron? When did I become a senile 80 year old? Was it yesterday? I'm officially over the clumsy.

I don't know how that will translate into me being less of a spaz and injuring myself, but I want fate to be on notice: I am no longer amused.

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To recap the weekend:

New iPod: +++
Nearly stolen laundry: -
Laundry stealing averted and free drying: +
Near maiming at the hands of an iron: ---

Total on the weekend: Break Even.

Rock on.