Well, I got my new video iPod today. I am just so cool, now. I'd be a lot cooler if I wasn't so old that I keep slipping and calling it a "walkman." On the bright side, at least I don't keep calling it an "eight-track" or "phonograph." "Eh, Jebediah - why can't I get my wax cylinders into the talky machine?"
I was kind of afraid to take it out and use it until I receive the case I ordered for it. I'm just so accident-prone. Unfortunately, now I'm also afraid to open it for an entirely more disturbing reason.
In other news, I'm so glad we didn't get my neice the "Potty Time With Elmo" book for Christmas. Who knew Sesame Street was so... existentialist?
That's it for now. After I get the kinks worked out at physical therapy (I learned yesterday that when the therapist tells me to use 3-pound weights, I really should not get all macho and try to use 5-pounders, instead), I'm off home to eat a couple of pounds of macaroni and cheese and collapse. Apparently Satan is writing a food column for the NY Times, as they recently featured articles on mac'n'cheese and two artery-clogging recipes, which my office-mate and I (and probably most of the eastern seaboard) promptly scamperd home to bake. (Note: a little brown apple cider mustard gives your cheesy dish a nice tang.)
The collapsing part is due to staying up too late to watch the Sugar Bowl. How 'bout that Vince Young, eh?
Peace, I'm Audi, and all that other pathetically old fake hip-hop speak...
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