Eclectic Oatmeal

Magic Hair

Posted in Abi, DnD, Hair, Julia, L.E.A.I.G, Laurel, Renee, Sara by Bryan on July 23, 2008

This all started sunday. Abi and Laurel come over to snip my luscious locks off, while watching the first season episodes of Charmed. Thats when I got lucky hair. Its like Abi’s scissors are made of gold and they snipped away the bad karma I amassed in my past lives. My hideously long and mullet prone Shag haircut is now gone, replaced by a more modern Fade with a kick of spice! First stroke of good luck? Great deal at K-mart. Sure, K-mart is the armpit of the super-market industry, yet you can’t argue with the major deal of a five dollar indie-styled, faux layered (they have long sleeves under a button up tee) shirt, and plaid beachcombers to boot. Then, I saw the League of Incredibly Attractive Indie Guys, not once, but twice! First time walking through uptown, past starbucks (the oasis of the dry county I live in) then, near the square, which is older then the rest of the township.
No lies, No four leafed clover, No rabbit’s foot, this is all in the hair.
In other news, Dungeons and Dragons tommorow. I’m preparing comebacks for my ultra douchie dungeonmates. Sara, Renee, and Julia. Sara is the usually cool DM, but last game I saw a relative favor over the fairer adventurers. She knocked my character out, and then right after, gave all the hard earned loot, that I earned. Story is, our group went into the Drow dungeons to destroy the Drow King (I dont know if this is adherent to Forgotten Realms lore, but we dont care). Well, here Renee (Half Fae Druid who likes to make me feel stupid for sparknoting Huckleberry Finn) and I (Gnome Bard) were accompanied by 4-6 no name npc and loads of Drows. I grab fire beads that I earned earlier (On a one on one battle with a Giant Zombie) and flung them toward the Drow, annihilating all of them except one, the King. The round plays out with Renee attacking the king, but failing miserably seeing as she wasted two levels in Half-Fae. I use another bead, and the king is kaplooey. Anyway, we were returning to the quest giver, who fancied Julia (Changling Psionic Warrior, who is generally a dimwitted person) for reminding him of his granddaughter. First though, He knocked me out. I repeated, “Give me the treasure” rapidly, since Sara wasnt even registering the fact that my character was doing anything. So, the Grandpa waltzes upstairs to give all the loot to Julia. Which, just my luck, was stuff that her character wouldnt even use, and stuff my Bard naturally was good at. Joy. I still get a slice of the cake, I get elven chango candy. It changes me into an Elf. Now, my gnome has been blue balling life, since gnomes arent the most attractive of the races. So, naturally, Julia and I get our wild thing on.
Pretty much that happened, and the rest of the game was us going on a wild goose chase on a quest Sara made up. Of course, my opinions being ignored, and quest items being kept from me because it was fun for them. New girl and DnD Vet Ganna is coming in. She totally has my back. My plan? Warn them how I feel, and if they continue, I’ll blow that up with the remaining firebeads I own. Then leave the group permantly.


Being crafty is being devious.

Posted in Crafts, divination, Humor, Pathetic, Stalking? by Bryan on July 17, 2008

I should befriend a diviner, or I should practice divination techniques. I think that should be my new hobby. I could grab an 8 ball and shake it endlessly, giving people relationship advice and asking it how I should treat people, because its really getting confusing now of days. It would be neat if I actually believed in that stuff. If someone knew their fate, then they’d just wait around endlessly not doing anything to achieve it, and then it would be screwed up. Still, it’d be nifty.

Is it pathetic that I go to Starbucks, not for coffee or artsy atmosphere, but to possibly encounter the group of extraordinary attractive gentlemen? I’m constantly looking around when I’m out and about, hopefully seeing them and come up with a plan. I’m chalk-full of plans. I’m a planner. Debating jokes and ice breakers. I was thinking of the line “Oh, you enjoy scrapbooking? I think it would be a great way to relieve rage. Scissoring and Gluing is like egging a house, or saran wrapping a car in the mind of the Scrapbooker.” or “You know, in a movie Assassins use cloth to exchange murder targets. Those prints are just too adorable to be used for the purposes of baby clothes.” at Pat Catans. Of course, I would never approach them if I didn’t consult my tea leaves first (I bet if I ran into the bathroom, I could use the toilet as a boiling device.)


Posted in Uncategorized by Bryan on July 2, 2008

My mother told me to always squat. Never to place my full ass (Doo-pah) on to the toilet seat. She was from Taiwan, where they shit in holes or, if fancier, toilets that dont have any chairs, just a urinal planted on the ground. When she moved to America, she was confused at the fancy chairs with wholes in the middle. What was she supposed to do in this room, eat there? She would sometimes mutter when escorting me to the toilet when I was little. I never understood this philosophy, being born and raised in America. When she wasnt around, I would always sit down on the toilet. Experiencing the ease and relaxation of sitting while I did my buisness.
But I sat one too many times. Someone didnt aim correctly, which landed me in the woes of a Urinary Tract Infection. Even worse, I was still on my mother’s healthcare. So the cat was out of the bag. She glared at me, dissapointedly. I could’ve whiped wrong, been a complete whore, or worse, didnt squat. I can feel the seething disapproving glare. I was the reason she had to clean the toilet seat, I was the reason so many trees died for seat covers. I walked out, took her car (I was twenty years old, I was just a bum.) and drove to the clinic. My doctor, to my horror, was the splitting image of my father. A man as pink as Barbies shoes, with a short brown haircut, and hideously unstylish sideburns. (Would’ve been stylish on someone 30 years younger.) “Okay Ms. Chang, spead them.” I decided to get a pap-smear while there, since I could get a UTI from sitting, I could other horrible diaseases. The inspection commenced, with awkwardness. I could just imagine him spurting out quotes. “You have a UTI, aye?” He was even Canadian, just like Pa. This was too scary to be true, “Can I have another Doctor?”
“Ms.Chang, I ensure you I’m not getting any pleasure from giving you an exam.”
Pleasure!? This caused me to shake and sweat at the idea. “No… You j-just.. remind me of my Dad?” I made this sound as a question after he hit a sensitive area. He flicked his eyes away at the wall, as in a way of laughing at a funny situation. I give a nervous smile and a shrug, he took off his gloves with an understanding grin.
“I understand ya know?”
Damn Canadian.
So I went home that day with a bag of pills that, If I dont drink enough water, will turn my kidneys into crystals or something. If I were more crafty, I bet I could make one of my solid kidneys into a nice diamond. How sheik would that be? A kidney dangling off of my ear, or as a toe ring. If I ever hit a soccer ball with it on it could be recorded in history! I was pondering this goal, clutching the prescription bag in glory of the final goal made. My mother was in the living room knitting chrysthanthanum, giving me a glare only 60 years of taiwanease oppresion can form. I drop the pill weighted bag on the counter, take off my jersey jacket, enter the kitchen. I could hear my mother in the other room knitting.I return to the living room with one of those fake-o bak-o television dinners. I unpeel the wrapper with a final rip, sending the plastic cover hovering away. Another wrong doing, My mother worked in a factory that made TV dinners. Everytime a machine missed the tray with the plastic sheet, My mom needed to scoop it up and put it back into the fell down box, where they put it back into the machine. This happened often, and it gave my mother backproblems. I did this little plastic jumpoff in vein of her worsening back. She gave me a smirk at my little lunchbox rebellion. “I told you so..” could of cooed out of her buck teeth. Fucking Bitch, she should be pissed. I didnt heed her advice, she should be rampaging throughout the house in a Ghangis Kahn storm.
You know what would be revenge? I should pee in her flowers. It would be the perfect plan if it didnt involve squatting. At the thought of an awesome, yet inefficent plan, I place down my T.V dinner and go to the bathroom. I sit triumphantly on the seat, if it were down. I fall through the porclain oval and into a sea which is usually populated by clay boats, but not actual clay. I try to wiggle myself free. I couldnt, that bowl had a grasp on me a person who contemplated living at the worst moment. “MOM!” I screamed, it was instinctive. She was the last person I would ask to free me from the bowels of, well.. a bowel’s rest stop. She came in, with not a sneer or a mischevious grin, but a look of compassion and understanding. She grabbed my hands and tugged. Releasing me from my watery prison. Which hit me, If I hadnt been in seething hatred of her prescence, I would’ve placed the seat down. She didnt even make one comment, If I were her, I’d let my daughter soak for a while, punishment for not listening to me. She let down her laurels and saved me. Sometimes, A mother just has to abandon her hard fought beliefs and love for daughter for who she is. Even if shes a sitter. I wash myself up, walk downstairs. I return the favor, I pick up the plastic film from the ground and she gave me the look of mother-daughter understanding. I throw the transparent paper in the trash bin.
I still dont care what she says. Squatting is just too fucking weird for me.