Hap!

*hiccup*

*lampshade*

May all our ramparts be forgot
And...duh duh duh duh duhhhh!
mmm hmmm hm hm hm hmmm hm hmm
la la laaaa la AULD LANG SYNE!

Happy New Year!

More like...MAL*MART!

Many have tried and all have failed. Empirical evidence suggests that it is impossible to look attractive in WAL*MART.

Sure, in your bathroom mirror with those warm lights your skin looks lightly tan and your one day's stubble (if male) gives you that nice rugged appeal. Your teeth are white and shiny and those brown eyes of yours are ready to connect with the ladies (if male). You even got your hair to do that one thing.

You know, the thing.

But as soon as you step through those electronic-sensored gates, all Hell breaks loose. Specifically...on your face.

At first, however, you are unaware. Then you walk through the mirror department and subsequently curse upward at your full-spectrum fluorescent lightbulb overlords.

Every imperfection of your face is revealed and exaggerated. You look pale. Your one day's stubble (if male) contrasts far too much with your albino skin and your brown eyes are bloodshot all of a sudden for no reason whatsoever. Your mouth goes dry, so your teeth are no longer shiny, but dull. Furthermore, your hair looks dryer than a bone that's been bleaching in the desert Sun.

You may have looked like Brian Boitano in the real world, but in this Twilight Zone you look more like Brian Peppers.

Half-Nekked Thursday

Half of each my two front teeth are fake. When I was in middle school, I managed to fall and introduce my most prized incisors to the rude linoleum floor. Imagine my suprise when I ran upstairs and looked in the mirror, only to see

staring back at me. Needless to say, my mother excused me from school the next day.

Academician Axdahl

Well, the Gods of Academia® smiled upon the naked, quivering form that is Erik and blessed me with a perfect report card for Mother to post on the refrigerator. Next up to bat:

• Aerodynamics
• Aerospace Structures
• Flight Dynamics and Control
• Instrumentation Laboratory
• Freaking Biology

Unfortunately, not the good kind of "freaking" Biology. Evidently the fact that I have science coming out of my ears isn't good enough and I need to take General Biology to satisfy the powers-that-be that I have had enough of a "liberal education."

I think I can be overlooked for this requirement. I know the basics of what I should to get by in the world. Mitochondria good, Prions bad. DNA good, Intelligent Design bad. Mitosis good, Zombies bad.

See, I have the basics.

Somnambulizzle

Besides the sleeptalking thing, I'm a quiet sleeper. No snoring. No Frankenstein noises.

I think that's important, don't you?

In my opinion, the sleeptalking thing can be excused because, hey, who doesn't love a sleeptalker? Who wouldn't want to walk in on me giggling and musing that "I've got a red sled!" (has happened). If I were you, that'd brighten my night.

When I was a wee Erik, I walked in my sleep infrequently. Add to that the uncanny ability back then as I do now to completely roll my eyes back into my head, and you've got a pretty scary looking zombie child roaming the house at the witching hour. Imagine the surprise (read: fright) of my parents when I'd arrive at their door, eyes rolled back in my head, saying that "I want to sleep with you two tonight..."

I can't wait to pass those genes on!

You found my site by searching for...

"mtvs cribs is a slap in the face to working people"

Umm...okay! Merry Christmas everyone!

Ghost

I can only remember truly crying at one movie in my life.

Becoming misty-eyed doesn't count. I've become that at the conclusion of such movies as Gladiator.

When I was a little 5 year-old Erik, I was taken by my Mother to see Ghost, starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, and Whoopi Goldberg. I don't remember too much from the movie. I remember the potting wheel scene, Whoopi's performance as a medium in general, and Carl's being dragged to Hell (scary!) most vividly.

Oh yeah, and the Unchained Melody.

I'm pretty sure that I was crying my eyes out by the conclusion of the first verse. Hey, I might have been five years-old, but I obviously wasn't too young to understand the abstraction that is romantic love.

The Pen 15 Club

I write a lot. A whole heck of a lot.

In fact, I write so much that I bought 200 page notebooks for each one of my classes and had them all filled up by the end of the semester. Words...equations...diagrams...sidetracks not relating directly to what the professor's talking about...internal monologues...the like.

Therefore, I need a good pen to write with. A pen that can withstand the rigors demanded of it. Not just any ballpoint that you can get for free from Planned Parenthood or the sperm bank.

That pen, for me, is the Pilot G2. It's a gel pen that glides along the paper as if it had wings and writes with a boldness that would command Zeus himself to stay his wrath!

So, it's a really good pen.

When I came home this afternoon, I was demonstrating different astrodynamical concepts to my Mother and was forced to write with a ballpoint pen. My drawings were sloppy and my equations were childlike. I was uninspired because of the pen.

Tonight I will dream of the day I reunite with my pens...

Money

So this morning I logged onto my e-Bank and expected my paycheck to have been deposited, but it wasn't.

This is bad during the holiday season.

So I put in my gold teeth and brass knuckles and I barked, "Where's my money beyotch!"

Then I realized today is Tuesday, and direct deposit day is Wednesday. I thought today was Wednesday.

This is error #2 in what's turning out to be a ditzy day for me (attributed to wakeful slumber last night).

Earlier this morning I briefly turned the wrong way onto a one-way. Worse yet, this is a one-way I'm very familar with as I live on it.

This makes me madder than a cut snake because it's not even noon!

Hump Day

Well, today I had my hump final (Deformable Body Mechanics, for those of you who are turned on by such classes I'm taking), and I haven't sweated that much as a result of sitting in one place for an extended period of time all semester. I'm still capable of laughter and smiling afterwards, however, so it must have went OK.

About 3/4 of the way through the final, I decided to release some personal tension and the tension of those around me. Therefore, I made a farting noise with my mouth.


But as for now, I bid you goodnight—I will talk to you tomorrow!

Broadcasting on all channels

Okay, first of all, who is a Nightmare Before Christmas fan?

Second of all, who wants to go with me to see live music performed from the movie at the Varsity tonight (Saturday night)?

Pleeeaaaasee??

A non-controversial post for once

Last night the landlordy brought us a 5-POUND (AMERICAN) tin of DANISH BUTTER COOKIES.

300 count.

And a big ol' bag of organic Colombian coffee.

No good can come of this.

Finals are in full swing, folks--I'll post 'em as I sees 'em!

Meet your new friend!

Hi boys and girls! It's me, your old friend the black hole! Now I've been hearing that some of you are afraid of me (or even hate me!) and that turns my smile upside down. After all, I don't hate you for having a finite average density! Maybe all it will take for us to be friends is for me to introduce myself and tell you my place in this fantastic universe we all live in called *ancient name unpronounceable*.

I was born when a big fat star, about 8 times more massive than your Sun (me and my friends call him Sol) died, leaving behind an iron core about 3 times more massive than Sol. Now this big ol' iron core had so much internal gravitational force that it collapsed into a neutron star. Usually it would stop there, but it didn't for this old, dead star! Nope—there was so much matter in that neutron star that it collapsed farther and farther until it be came an infinitely dense (that's really really small but still really really heavy!) singularity. That's me, the black hole.

Hi!

Some of you may think I suck, and that hurts my feelings. According to a smart dead guy, Newton, there are only three allowed orbits: elliptic (circley or eggey looking), or parabolic/hyperbolic (looks like a big, wide U). "Sucking" isn't an orbit, silly! Actually, if your Sol were to artificially turn into a black hole (which it couldn't naturally—there just isn't enough stuff in it), Earth's orbit wouldn't change one bit (although it would be quite brrr and dark outside).

As a matter of fact, in order to truly get pulled into a black hole, you'd have to get within three times what's called a Schwarzchild radius of me.

The Schwarzchild radius of a black hole (me) is basically the distance from the singularity (where all the 'stuff' is!) to the event horizon (the imaginary bubble surrounding me that separates what I see from what the rest of the universe can see). According to a formula Mr. Schwarzchild wrote down, my particular Schwarzchild radius is only 9 kilometers! That means you'd have to get within 27km of me before you'd be my special friend forever.

To compare, the radius of the Earth is 6378km!

Some smart guys say that the center of your galaxy contains black holes just like me. If these black holes weren't there, what could your solar system orbit around? You'd probably just be out by yourselves expanding with the rest of the universe (and boy would the night sky have a lot less visible stars!). Heck, you wouldn't even have a solar system to call home if not for my friends making your galaxy possible!

Hello my friends, all you guyses;

Stellar objects come in all shapes and sizes.

Don't be afraid just listen to me—

Let me tell you about equality.

You'll never ever run out of luck,

At least with black holes 'cause they don't suck!

All of the lost left socks are in a black hole

Here I sit, wearing two socks of differing length. They are both white—both sport the Nike swoosh. However, they are of differing length. One was obviously the victim of a freak shrinking accident at some point in its life.

I, being of attention-to-detail, painstakingly match the lengths of my socks as I ball them so as to avoid such situations. However, I invariably come across the two that I am currently wearing: incompatible, of differing thickness, the root of all madness!

As a result, one calf is of lower temperature than the other, which is unfortunate.

Some would advise me to discard these two socks, which I find to be immoral. I cannot, in good conscience, throw away socks that do not have holes in the soles!

I accept my lot in life—that once every laundry washing cycle I will be unbalanced in soul, spirit, and socks.

Grendel is in my intestine

Warning: Disturbing imagery impending! It's gross, seriously!

At eight o'clock this morning my lower intestines revolted against me. By revolt I don't mean:

Oh, I'm awaking gently from my sleep now with an urge to visit the bathroom. Lah da tii, lah ti dah. *meanders* mmmm...life is so good to me... *light laughter*

Rather, it more resembled:

What...what's happening...OUCH! *sweating* Oh my God, there's an apple sized object stuck in my intestine! Get it out! Oh God, please help me! It hurts! It huuuurts!

At eight o'two in the morning I was in a fetal position on the bathroom floor. If you think the last paragraph was an overstatement, you're mistaken. As a matter of fact, it's an understatment. By eight ten I was able to extend my lower body enough to assume a supine position and the pain cleared from my mind just enough so I could consciously set an eight-thirty deadline for agony resolution before I'd have one of my roommates drive me to the emergency room.

In the intervening time, my mind floated from one thought to another...

How would one work the logistics of staying in the hospital this close to finals week?

What impact will I have left on the world?

Should I delete some of those files from my computer in case something bad happens?

At one point the object (read: mutant boulder poop monster filled with a gas bubble core) passed near my bladder, which caused a sudden, persistant, and uncomfortable urge to urinate. Then, suddenly...

guuurgle

...and the pain subsided. No urge to go to the bathroom. No remanant of pain. Whatever it was, it moved into more open pasture (or fragmented) and was no longer causing me any distress. So I went back to bed and slept until noon.

And that's my painful gas bubble story.

Erik needs

Top five Google search results for "Erik needs"

1. Erik needs to work
2. Erik needs to get off his ass
3. Erik needs a beautiful figure to identify with and he finds Christine.
4. Erik needs to jump across the electrical field, climb the ladder, and go right to the exit.
5. Erik needs an heir in order to receive aid in regaining his title, lands, and children stolen from him by his treacherous brother, Nicholas.

Also, stand by for the story of the amazingly and painfully large gas bubble I woke up with in my intestine this morning.

General Burnside

Edit for personally known denizens of Minneapolis:
I had lunch with Juliana today and you didn't!

-----------------------------------------------------

What's with the obsession with mutton chops these days?

My lab professor has mutton chops, but at least he seems to have Irish heritage, so I suppose it works. I don't even know his real name—I just call him "mutton chops."

I almost got in an accident yesterday because the fellow driving next to me had big ol' mutton chops and an evil eye. I couldn't stop staring. He's probably a professional mystic or wizard or something. Probably.

There's a kid in my class who is the epitome of someone who should never have facial hair. This is because he has neck hair that connects with his facial hair. Now he's trying to grow a pair of chops, but they're far too thin, patchy and, well, they connect with his neck hair. Does he know this? I'd tell him myself, but the desire to strike his face in an attempt to kill his facial hair would be too great.

Query

Question:

How am I supposed to do fluid mechanics homework when, to my immediate left, prances Victoria's Secret models on the television screen?

Answer:

???????????

Note: "Turn off the TV" is not a valid choice, as I know the show is still there...

Alto

Pssh...car brakes.

I submit the following: who needs 'em!

My philosophy for dealing with that BRAKES(!) indicator light is to turn up the music to a sufficient volume such that the beeping klaxon is no longer audible. Problem solved!

I mean, if it gets really bad (read: brakes go out), I can always open the driver's door and drag my foot on the ground until I stop. That's what I did when the brakes went out on my bicycle back in the day.

In conclusion...anybody want to drive me back from the auto mechanic after I drop my car off?

Google'd

More people than you'd think come across The Chronicles by doing a Google search for "centaur porn."

You may call that creepy.

I call that great marketing!

What lies beneith

Dear pimple lying deep under my skin on my hairline,

I can't see you, but I know you're there. I don't know what I did to offend you—to make you withdraw from the world—but I wish you would reveal yourself so we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen.

When you rear your ugly head I am going to pop you to all hell so you die a violent death and are gone from me—from civilized western civilization—forever.

Okay, perhaps that was a little harsh. I'll take some of the blame—I probably didn't pay as much attention as I should have to your homestead during my evening face washing routine. Regardless, you're probably too submerged for the benzoyl peroxide to have proper effect. However, although you may think that is a blessing, you must consider the kind of life you have been born into.

A life where you have to run and hide for as long as possible before I find you and destroy you.

Sorry, that's the pain talking. That's not the real me.

Regards,
Your Executioner