Blog of Magic Cheese

My father ate 8 years expired almond butter. This is after he fished it out of the rubbish bin, where I had dropped it with a horrified shriek shortly after discovering it in his refrigerator. This is a new refrigerator, meaning he had moved the jar from the old fridge into the new one and not thrown it out then.

He is still alive.

It's good to be home.

There needs to be a term for that awkward transition phase when one is going from one style of dress to another.

I'm in it now, because last year my brother pointed out that none of my clothes quite match or, as he put it, "I wonder if you'd grown up with Mom if you'd be more feminine. Right now it's more like you've accepted that you live in a woman's body." I realized I was still wearing the clothes I'd worn 10 years ago, so I bought some nice looking used clothes off of the eBay, and now I'm in Fashion Hell (hey, I may have just come up with the term I was looking for) because I picked up individual items because I liked how they looked and I have no idea how to arrange these items to form An Outfit.

I couldn't notice the difference between pairs of shoes and purses I see on the street if beaten. I hate impractical shoes like the ones with spiky heels and cardboard soles that have the same comfortable effect as stomping barefoot on stone with the balls of your feet, and I carry a little backpack because I think that having a one-handed bag will eventually mess with your alignment.

I also don't like the idea of purses because you have to change all of your stuff from bag to bag whenever you carry a different one, and I have tons of things in my bag and if I need one thing, such as sunglasses on a super bright day and it's not there, I will flip out and destroy the purse.

I am a giant, giant, uptight dork and nothing will likely ever change that. ): Unfortunately, nice shirt, pretty skirt, and extra wide New Balance running shoes do not An Outfit make.

I might be tempted to give up and live in my old comfortable monochromatic wardrobe, but the fashion industry is cruel and cunning, and they're out to get me. I know this because this year everything is "military cut." You know, military inspired. Clean lines, practical as well as nice looking, made for people with broad shoulders, narrow waists, and athletic builds? I LOVE military cut clothing. Make your trousers military cut with plenty of room in the thigh and you'll win the undying faith and adoration of athletes everywhere who can't find pants that fit.

So now I have some nice shirts and jackets, and for the last two weeks I have been trying, largely without success, to master "layering." Layering is where you wear more than one shirt and they look good on top of one another. Two great tastes, great together, etc. It probably started out as a way for stores to make you buy more than one goddamn shirt at a time, because trying to layer shirts that you got in different places is like trying to find a charger for your phone from a different brand. The ads make it look effortless and urban and faded and cool, and I hate them almost as much as I hate myself for still buying tank tops I can't wear and that I now can't layer. Hell.

In my ongoing whoring of myself out to Facebook, I've discovered a handy RSS feed application that imports things like Flickr updates and MovableType entries

Unfortunately, all of my formatting vanished when imported to the Facebook, so now my attempts to update friends and uninterested acquaintances on the minutiae of my daily life are in vain. Trying out explicitly putting all of my formatting in html instead of being lazy and letting MovableType do it for me.

Of course the main factor in the tragic Winnenden shootout was video games.

The Chronicle spells it out for us: "Teen in bloody spree a fan of video games." It's all the games. It always is. It wasn't that he was socially maladjusted, had a history of mental illness, had dropped out of counseling for depression, or that he had access to a pistol that his father kept lying about in the bedroom. The pivotal factor, and the only one worth repeatedly pointing out, is the video games.

Before evil capitalistic game companies started cranking out violent video games with no regard for society at large, young people never committed violent crimes. If this young man hadn't had access to video games that helped him plan and act out his violent urges, this never would have happened.

I'm naturally not a fan in general of violent games, but I do remember enjoying the fatalities in Mortal Kombat a lot when I was in high school. Giant pixelated gobs of blood flying across the screen? Woo hoo! Unfortunately the game made me arm myself with a large semi-circle of sharpened metal and filled me with violent urges to attack my classmates and random passers by at a Volkswagon dealership, so I had to stop going to the comic store and watching it.

I hope that we ban video games altogether so that violent crime can finally come to an end.

I have both wrinkles and adult acne, and have thus moved beyond the point of merely resenting life and am now declaring war on it.

A recent CostCo trip has proven to me that there are more horrifying things than having a face like a bullet-ridden leather wallet however, namely organic batter-inna-can.