It’s been a long time since the last earthquake here in LA. The last time we had one I had slept through the whole thing (book shelf in my room falling and all) while my family congregated in the living room. Way to save me, family.

This time, I didn’t have a chance to sleep through the earthquake. The whole room started shaking and I began looking around; my initial reaction was to look for potential falling objects (or perhaps falling objects) so that I could avoid them.

Nothing near me posed as a danger so I kind of just didn’t move. When I looked up, I had a co-worker in my doorway and I assume by sounds, the others were under their desks.

I have terrible survival instincts.

I’m pretty sure if I were born a dog, I’d be the kind that sat around and looked stupid all the time. Then I’d chase my tail in my off time. People would look at me and say things like, “stupid dog, go get a job.”

Or something.

I had that dream again last night. You know, that same one I’ve been having. I wake up, look in the mirror, and I have it.

A receding hairline.

Granted, this sort of thing doesn’t happen overnight. It’s something that just slowly inches up and before you know it, you’ve turned into one of those guys that thinks the comb-over is fooling people.

I already have a gameplan for when I discover my hair is leaving me. I’m not going to be afraid. I’m going to be strong. I’m going to embrace the state of my head as nature decides its course.

You never hear women saying that they like men with receding hair lines or terrible comb-overs. But once in a while, there will be a woman who finds bald men sexy.

As I must remain sexy, I will probably shave my head.

They saw Katie Holmes and they screamed.

There’s a rat in the office and they just screamed again.

It’s like I work in a haunted house.

Next time you see your significant other. Take a deep breath, kiss them, then promptly blow all that air into their mouth.

Funniest shit ever.

Every once in a while, I am transformed into a caretaker for various living animals. You might ask what kind of animals I’ve chosen to look after and well, there’s a problem: I hadn’t chosen to look after any.

It seems that leaving dirty dishes, food and all, in the sink will begin to house brilliant and various forms of unwanted vegetation. Having lived alone for 4 years, I’ve developed an understanding of this and now clean my dishes before the miracle of life takes place.

But that still doesn’t mean I do them right after I’ve eaten. For a week now, I’ve been living without plates, bowls, and cups (and not because I’m lazy!). Last week my sink took revenge. Everything that goes down my neighbor’s toilets seemed to have been regurgitated into my sink, flooding it with what appeared to be the main prop from a certain video involving two females and a cup.

That’s right. The whole thing is flooded. With my dirty dishes still in there, waiting for me to fulfill my responsibilities. The situation has now escalated beyond what my rubber gloves and Palmolive can mend.

I’ve called in a professional. And if you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to exorcise a sink, you will soon have a person to reference.

I don’t think I could give less of a shit.