submitting to the fitfully, cryptically true

so today begins an experiment. i tell you all this, so as a means to pressure myself until i breakout in acne and so you may be witnesses to this little endeavor, and you may share in the acne if you desire. today begins a chapter we shall call "operation: dumbo drop" because the name of the game is dumbo dropping a few, or at least me losing a few pounds before i decide to hang my chin on the coatrack, which wouldn't be pretty. aesthetically, or ideally.
so the story, is this. i have two weeks to lose ten pounds. and my reasoning is this: i can gain ten pounds in two days, therefore i can certainly lose them in fourteen. and before anyone tries to hand me any "you don't need to lose weight, you're sort of okay to look at as it is" well, bull-corn. this isn't just so i can fit into my little sister's totally cute and fashion-forward wardrobe. that's just an advantage. i am not about to backtrack on my ass and start shopping from the hangers marked "L" for large. i gave that up a long time ago. so let's do an experiment and see if paul is able to do anything he sets his mind to. let's see if paul can do more than talk shit and make promises he doesn't intend to keep.
anyway. my point is that i've been getting chubby in the face, and there's a reason for that, and it's not a good one. but there are five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand reasons for me to be able to say "wait up, hold up, mister lover" and then go do some lunges, right? exactly. so i will keep you all updated, as i see fit. and now, a glass of water.

this is the day the lord has made.

yes, this shall be brief, as all i have for you, dear readers, is the phrase of the day. actually it's from two days ago. and it's not actually a phrase. it's an exchange. a dialogue.
anyway, it's another creation birthed from deena and i when we get all stupid and brilliant. and we think we're hilarious. everyone else just looks at us and smiles politely. they don't undertand how groundbreaking we are.
anyway, deena was talking about something in a cold, dark warehouse but i wasn't paying attention as i was busy suckling my forty-ounce.
deena: "...ya see how everything comes full-circle?"
paul: "wait... what's round?"
yes. you had to be there.
my dad just walked by and stopped, sniffing the air. "what's that smell, is that you?"
i asked him what it smelled like. "it smells like... like cigarette farts."
i smell like a hard-boiled egg, shaving cream, and nagchamba. i informed him he could "get the hell out of here, thank you very much."
so tomorrow, if i am feeling ambitious, i will announce the beginning of a new chapter in my life. but don't count on it, seeing as how i am terribly lazy.

can you get me higher?

scott stapp has an album being released soon. and, for some reason... i take issue. this wannabe-evanagelical-bono is obviously of the impression that he's really cool. and not only cool, but sexually attractive in a non-threatening yet masculine, masculine yet sensitive, sensitive but republican, republican yet arms-wide-open kinda way. and besides, he wears wife-beaters and leather pants. he's a man's man. a genteel bloke among folk.
what is it that makes me want to run him over? probably the self-importance. yes, he's religious. everyday he's thanking god he was able to grant this earth with his sweaty presence and raspy, yet melodramatic vocals. but everyday, i find myself thanking the founding forefathers for the right to change the station to find some humble mumble.
but why not have a scott stapp album? hilary duff has a greatest hits album, for the love of god. and there's a video of "when mary magdalene went wild." why not? on the bonus DVD, him and pop group rockapella take turns deflowering an inner-city boys choir. just listen to those high-C's.
anyway, my point is this: scott stapp rhymes with bitch-slap for a reason. and his head looks like an excellent landing strip for canned food.
some people just look better than others when they're stuck under my tires.

jesus sucks in bed.

this one was very close, very nearly a tie. but then, a tie would just be me being wishy-washy, and what good is that? it's no good. not in my zip code. not since little sheba ran away... be that as it may. here we are, all hail the conquering hero, this is the phrase that pays:
"ohmigod, i just want steve. want him. i. want. to. stick. my tongue.... in his butthole. yes. his girlfriend can watch. she can spread his cheeks."
thankyou, jodi. jodi, you are an inspiration to us all... us tired, huddled masses, yearning to give a good rimming to someone. let me buy you a beer.

in other news, the quoteworthiest news, let me share with you a touching voicemail. this, i recieved tonite after work at around two in the morning, after a torrential thunderstorm ass-pissed all over the tri-city area. no houselights, no streetlights, no nothing. all you could see is what your makeshift headlights chose to illuminate. this voicemail gave me comfort through it all, and with its help... i found my way home. it's from my delicious dish of a friend, Lisa. and i spell her name with a capital L because she deserves it. anything less, would be undignified. Lisa, take it away:
"hey paul, it's Lisa! i was- and scott! he's driving and sober, i'm not so sober. and we are, like, having fun driving home from the junction right now, i know you're um... still at work, but we had to call and tell you, that there were... BIG barfights at the junction, like tuh... two or three outside, and it was just... out of control. real... people with shirts off and shit, and granted they were hot, but seriously, do you really have to fight without your shirt on? i mean, serious. and there are, like, lights out all over the place, and it's just ridiculous, let me tell ya something. and, so i hope you drive home safely. and i, and yeah, so um, you have a great night and i hope you had fun at work and made LOTS of money. and uh. and i will talk to you SOON, probably not soon. scott will talk to you sooner, but i will talk to you eventually, if not at my birthday. our birthday. scott's and my birthday! on the nineteenth. that you're totally coming to and you have to take it off, and before you're voicemail cuts me off, it's saturday and you need to be there, and i love you, and you're great, and you're hot, and i love you, bye."
Lisa, you are the sour cream in my chalupa.

i don't care who you fuck.

alright, folks, yes, here it is... it's the phrase of the day.
from my friend nonnie, whom i love but not enough to know if that is the correct spelling of her name or not. either way:
"...yeah, but what goes around comes around, cuz he ended up having a stroke in the face."
thankyou nonnie. it's the little gold nuggets like these you find in your dreary day that just make everything seem really sparkly and satisfactory. really it is.

in other news, nine out of ten dentists think i'm fat. in actuality, it all just depends on who i'm seen standing next to.
do i stand next to you? are you making me fat? reflect and discuss.

earlier today, a man-child in my career class was discussing possibly going into a field that involves "laying down semen" with some guy named mason. i was obviously intrigued, but later found out he was actually just mispronouncing the word cement and that mason is not only a gentleman's name, but a job title that involves working with stone and/or brick. personally, i'd stick with the semen. and coincidentally, there are also glass containers called mason jars wherein my mother makes jellies, or i bring to my bedtoom to pee in after a long night of drinking alot of pabst blue ribbon.
the man-child is still, as of yet, undecided on his career path.

how many times have you ever been hysterical so far in your life? balls-out, ballistic, blabbering and blubbering hysterical? me, just once. not a pretty moment in time. i'm usually pretty much emotionless. anyway, how does my number stack up? i couldn't find any statistics on ask jeeves. though they apparently can find you a great recipe for lasagna.
i'm just mad about lasagna. aren't you?