I was up by 10. I got on the Internet by 10:15 I think, and, of course, by 10:30 I was beating off to porn. Is it an addiction or a hobby?
I hear a knock on the door. Probably one of those door-to-door salesmen letting me know there's a new contractor in the area and hey, would you like a free consultation? If it were important he or she would knock again, but he or she didn't.
After spilling my seed and doing a very little bit of cleaning, I went out the door in order to catch the noon showing Men In Black 3. (Verdict: Not bad. Surprisingly touching and wistful. Jemaine Clement is a forgettable bad guy, but Josh Brolin is a perfect facsimile as a young Tommy Lee Jones, who obviously was paid a lot of money only to appear in half the movie. Reportedly the script was being made on the fly, but besides a couple leaps in logic, I liked it. There were a ton of writers on Casablanca, too.) I see a piece of paper taped on the screen door. Shit -- the guy who was knocking was Federal Express; he needed someone to sign for a package.
So, now what? I could just leave it up and tell my parents that I left before FedEx arrived. But I felt guilty for missing it just because I was furtively masturbating in my room. So, even though they could have come back with the package the next day (do they do that? I don't know), I decided to pick up the package ... which is in suburban St. Paul, just down 694.
It was almost 20 miles each way, and I heard once that the average person drives about 40 miles a day, and after driving almost 64 miles round-trip for three weeks I was looking forward to not drive so damn far. But yesterday I found myself just driving over and over until I drove 60 miles, so deciding to pick up a package I could've gotten just by answering the front door is something I really regret.
The only thing I could do is make a day of it. I tried finding the address of this stripper who does naughty massages on the side, but failed. I went to the local comics shop to look at some porn, but they're at least a month old, leading me to believe they've stopped shipments and might, might, shut down; at least I know that now. And last week's Rolling Stone had a main cover story about Electronic Dance Music, or EDM. I read that until 4, which, according to the ticket, is the earliest I could pick it up. I tried picking it up at a quarter to 3 once I got in the area, but I had to wait till 4.
By the way, the package, a big but light one, seems to be a gift from Father to Mother. Aw.
This waste of gas might continue. I wanted to use public transportation to go down to the Mall of America to see the Euro semifinal between Spain and Portugal tomorrow. But it's supposed to be the hottest day of the year -- air temperature of at least 95, humidity making it feel like at least 100 -- and I'm worried if that means more aggression as people are being transported together in the heat. Then again, I could encounter road rage if I just drive all the way down there. I'm fucked.
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