Kick ass

I managed to adjust my Ironman to reflect the hour's difference in under one minute. The bad part? I didn't remember the whole daylight savings thing until about an hour ago. Ah well, better that than arriving at work at 7:30 tomorrow night.
In other news, I am going to edit Saturday's blog momentarily. I'm not sure I subscribe 100% to it. I think I am too hard on myself a lot. I also think I make mountains out molehills. I do still think that I can be a better person and that I can treat others with more consideration, and I will most definitely endeavour to do so. Except for you: I'm still going to treat you like crap.
Okay. I edited the old blog. Can you tell the difference? Do you prefer the drink in cup A or cup B? Two out of three neurotics prefer the new blog. I need to start working out again: I'm become hyper-analytical and it does not become me.
What. Ev. Er. Michael was over today, taking apart some furniture which is deservedly his. It's amazing the stuff you can fit in my little Civic. I was sad to see the picture that his sister did leave the apartment. He was like, "I feel bad for taking it, you can have it if you want". He's so generous. I'm such a little shit. I explained that if my brother had created some great piece of art that there was no way it was going to stay with anyone other than me. Then we laughed about the Valentine's Day card that my brother made for me when he was in elementary school, and drew a parallel as to how I would never part with it. On the card my brother had drawn flowers and wrote some glowing epithet for every letter of my name and pasted some art into it. I'm keeping it, because I'm going to photocopy that mother and blow it up to the size of a poster and display it prominently at his wedding. I'm awesome.
Now I just feel scattered. I'm half here and half nowhere. I need to arrange for the movers to come. Typewriter earlier informed me that there is a new Simpsons on tonight. He knows I don't have cable. That's just mean.
Maybe I'll go play with my Tickle Me Elmo. Or weed through the 16,000 Vanity Fair magazines that I have and that I seem to not want to part with.
Tickle Me Elmo it is!