I think that should heaven exist, it is finite, based upon universal standards. But if hell exists, and I'd be more prone to believe it does...well, at least more so than heaven, it's bound to be relative to the individual.

My coffeemaker broke this morning. My very own personal hell.

Obviously, that is excluding Dante's presupposition of a tiered hell. Should that be the case, we have, as follows:

First circle, watching a movie directed by no-talent hacks, second, paying to see a movie directed by no-talent hacks...when you're ungainfully self-employed[read::unemployed.] Third, running into acquaintances from high school that feel the need to ask if I remember EVERY individual in our graduating class. There's about a 2% chance I remember anyone from high school. Fourth, three country music channels on the radio and only one classic rock, fifth, people asking me what I plan on doing with my future and why I don't have a job because my brother has no problem finding a job and neither do my friends, sixth, getting roped into uninteresting conversations with even more uninteresting people...in crowded bars...because no amount of alcohol can make you more interesting. Attractive, maybe. Interesting, no hope. Seventh, the grocery. Eight, being hit on...in the grocery. Ninth...now, NOW, we have no coffee.

Because Trivial Pursuit rules my life decisions

I’ve decided to reread Edith Hamilton’s Mythology, despite the intense pangs of bone-crushing hatred that arise from memories of the first reading. But I’ve come to realize that much of what I despised in high school can be attributed to teenage dispassion and sheer stupidity. Yes, I said it. I was stupid. Let’s not dwell.

I couldn’t stand Steinbeck, I found Salinger to be insipid and infuriating, algebra was beneath me, Camus made no sense. And now. Now I lament the fact that Salinger wrote no more than four novels. I’ve read everything written by Camus and moved on to his contemporaries. I work quadratic equations in my free time. And as for Steinbeck….well, still not a fan. Can you blame me?

So I’m hoping this time around I’ll gain more from Hamilton, because I can’t avoid mythology for the rest of my life. And as soon as I find I know next to nothing about something it pops up all over the Trivial Pursuit board…like that ENTIRE category on sports. Seriously, if you thrive on the sports questions, what’s the chance you know anything about the Hindenburg explosion or the number of times Eva Braun attempted suicide? I just don’t get it. But back to point. There’s a good chance I’ll actually enjoy it if you factor in the number of things I once hated but now enjoy…like green beans…and cubism.

p.s. The house guest has left us. And not once, Not. Bloody. Once. did he brush his teeth. I knew you were curious.

Torture

Nine days with a blind, underage, Japanese house guest. He hasn't brushed his teeth once since arriving. He tape records Dre and I singing in the car and listens in on our phone conversations. He wakes up at five am. He's more dependent than a child.

I fear he's going to return to conservative Japan spouting words that would make Solomon blush. From the crowds of pissed off fans at this weekend's UK game to that episode of Sex and the City he chose to watch which, awkwardly enough, featured the longest orgasm known to man. Hell, I might as well have a naked lady tattooed on my forearm for the amount of expletives that pass unnoticed from my mouth. I'd make a terrible role model.


But...it hasn't been all bad...save that bout with horseback riding. For that I wish I'd never been born.