Kenton Cohick

Insolent thoughts
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2002-11-14 06:52:30 (UTC)


I'm such a wild and crazy guy, writing two entries in one
night! Actually, I'm doing this because the last one wasn't
really an entry, it was just me complaining about people
who always complain.

I managed to sucker someone else into starting a journal
here. His name is Aron Odden, so check out his stuff
sometime. The journal name is "Vacant Thoughts". I call it a
"journal" because "diary" is a little
fruity. Hell, "journal" is almost too fruity for me. I can
safely say that I am approaching a level of fruityhood that
could be considered dangerous. If I told my friends that I
have an online journal, they would come over and curb stomp
my ass. That reminds me of American History X. Curb
stomping, I mean. If anybody here has ever seen it, they
know what I'm talking about. Never before have I seen a
curb stomp in action. At least, never one quite so thorough
as that one. HINT: Loads of family fun can be achieved by
watching the scene frame by frame.

I've decided to ask for only one thing for Christmas:
money. And maybe Saving Private Ryan on DVD. So I guess
that's two things. *counts* Yeah, it's definitely two.
Anyways, I like money because I find that if I ask for
money, I'll get 400 bucks or something overall, and if I
don't, my presents will only be worth 200 or so. The
logical thing would be to ask for money and then buy the
things I would have asked for, and I have some money left
over. However, the words "logical" and "me" go together
like peas and hot sauce*. Instead of spending the money on
things I need, I will probably end up wasting it on illegal
substances and objects of clothing designed for giants. You
know what I'm talking about. Those huge sunglasses that
barely fit on your head, or maybe a huge cowboy hat like in
Dumb and Dumber. I could never have too many gigantic
cowboy hats.

I have an appointment tomorrow at the doctor's. That
wouldn't be so bad in itself, if my doctor didn't take such
an interest in my testicles. Every time I go she quizzes me
for like 15 minutes on how my various bits and pieces are
working. It's a little unnerving, sitting there talking to
a lady 25 years older than me, talking quite calmly about
little Kenton. It's also bad because I'm supposed to have a
spare tomorrow morning, so I should be sleeping in. But
noooo, I have to go make sure I'm not dying of "cancer",
or "AIDS", or "diahrrea". I'm sure I spelled diahrrea wrong
there (and again), but I really don't care at this point. I
need to stop writing these late at night.

*The author is in no way implying that the taste of peas and hot
sauce is bad, as he has never tried it.

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