So this morning after I decided to stalk my various e-mail inboxes and website what-have-yous, I returned myself to one of my favourite blogs to read when horrendously bored, Violent Acres. A few link-hops later and I stumble across her entry about fun adventures buying NyQuil, and then shortly after rediscovered her hysterical story of beating down a Super!Wal-Mart employee hierarchy with simple semantics. (The follow-up to that story is also hysterical.)
ANYWAY. That sets you up with the context for this next bit, and if you're too lazy to read, shut up I'm not feeding you the funnies.
I'm sitting in an Anthropology lecture reading these entries, and I look over to my boyfriend with this almost demonic gleam in my eye and ask, "Can we do this?"
Much to my chagrin, his only response is "If you do, I'm modifying a toaster." Fucker. (<3)
I hate toasters. And he's not allowed to use them. Why? Because he possesses them with his mind. NO MATTER HOW MUCH HE DENIES THIS, it's true. And there's a story for this too.
While he was in Germany, we had epically long conversations via Skype. Most of these conversations were truly random and (in the eyes of anyone with a 'normal' psychological process) inconsequential. Well, one fateful day, we somehow get onto the subject of his fascination with taking things apart and making them either better, different, or a threat to humankind. (He has the technology.......Run fast.) This conversation turned to him talking about modifying a toaster so that it had four settings: Light, Medium, Dark, and Kill. For some sick, twisted reason, I got hungry after this. So I brb'd and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich. GUESS WHICH APPLIANCE I ENDED UP USING.
I'm lifting the damn thing up to put it on the counter, and unbeknownst to me, the little cage inside that holds the toastee in place snags the pendant around my neck and yoinks me down. Also; scary as hell.
Sure enough, I waltz back into the bedroom where he's patiently awaiting my return, sandwich in hand, and scream at him for sending telepathic messages to my kitchen appliances.
He's not allowed in there unsupervised. As for my desire to stir shit up in a Wal-Mart, in my defense I'm not going to launch projectiles.
Peace, Love, and MarioKart.
~Poindextra
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