Henchmen

8:34 p.m.

Oh, God, I am so filled with stew and cornbread that I may literally pop at any moment. I know my cooking is delicious, but I really need to watch myself, because I just ate myself into a stupor.

My mom came home today, and she's going to be home for most of this month, so now begins my happy mood.

Hmmm, I guess I haven't properly introduced my folks yet, have I? Let's do that real quick:

My Dad: A former petroleum engineer with all the logical thought patterns that come with such a position, he is currently (and will likely forever be) a professor of mathematics, engineering, and computer science at Tyler Junior College, the oldest community college in Texas.

My Mom: A sweet woman with a half-Irish temper that she hides remarkably well most of the time, my mom has been everything from a secretary to a waitress to a schoolteacher and has found all her positions appalling. She is currently an American Airlines flight attendant, which is unfortunate because this is hardly the best time to be one of those.

So now you can understand why I'm happy that she's home. Because she travels almost constantly and my own school schedule is rarely so forgiving, I almost never get to see her. The fact that she'll be around for well over a week is a treat.

Tomorrow we begin arts and crafts day. I have a lot of crap that I'm painting for my room in my apartment, and I'm trying to set up some framed photographs of family simply because I don't have any and I feel guilty about that.

My right eye has hurt all day long and I can't for the life of me figure out what's wrong with it. It isn't bloodshot or anything. It feels dried out and kind of sore. Perhaps I went peeping in my sleep. But I hope not because my neighborhood is filled with old people. Nobody under the age of sixty wants to be peeping this shit, let me tell you.

It occurred to me after reading my last entry that people might get the idea that I'm not very happy about the fact that my high school biology teacher is moving away. The fact is, I'm really glad she got this opportunity and it amazes me that she didn't get one like this or better years ago, because teachers like her are very hard to come by and, in my opinion, more valuable than their paychecks would often have one think. It's one thing to get your lesson plan across to kids and have them turn out some decent test grades; it's another thing entirely to connect with them and genuinely make them interested in what you're teaching.

She's my favorite teacher and I abhor the sciences. That should tell you something. So if I'm unhappy about anything, it's all the missed opportunities to invade her class time and fill her new students' heads with nonsense until they go rabid.

I don't know how many video game nerds there are out there, but if you haven't checked out the hilaritude that is Red Vs. Blue (using the X-Box's Halo as a basis) then you're missing out. Now that I think about it, this'll probably be pretty funny to people that aren't video game nerds as well, since the characters seem every bit as confused about why they're doing the things that they're doing as most people who watch us play the games must be.

Speaking of video games, I am only now getting around to playing The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time. Yeah, yeah, I know how old that is now. It may have come out for the Nintendo 64, but I'm playing it on the Nintendo Gamecube, so that should count for something. I think.

I suck at it a lot. I just can't seem to get a handle on this lock-on trigger system. I'm getting better, but I still get hit by a lot of shit just because my fairy is an idiot and won't get her miniscule ass in gear whenever dirty monsters get nearby. You're supposed to target that shit when I hit this button. No, don't go to the bush. God, I hate you. And shut up, I know the door is locked - yeah, I figured that out when I saw the big steel bars blocking my path, you stupid bitch. Get back in my pants, or wherever it is you go when I'm done with you.

I hate that fucking owl even more, because I can't even choose not to talk to him. He just shows up randomly to tell me magical stories about who gives a fuck. And he always asks if I want to hear his shit again when he's done. Of course I don't want to hear you talk again. Christ, I didn't want to hear your goddamn life story the first time, you Harry-Potter-reject fuck. Sometimes I get in such a rush trying to skip past his gobbledy-gook that I accidently click "yes" when he asks me this question and I have to go through his crap for a second time. Mr. Owl, I'm one more "Do you want to hear that again?" question away from finding out how many slices of my sword it takes to get to the ooey-gooey center of a talking bird.

Other than my bitching, though, this is clearly a great game, and I can see why it was so successful. Sadly, I think I got farther than my dad has gotten in several weeks over the course of one day, but that's just because I don't hop into bottomless pits of lava all the time and then swear about it for five minutes.

He should try to be more like me. Golly gee willikers, I never swear. Swearing is for the devil's little henchmen.

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