“So, how's your life going?”

“HORRIBLE!”
“Oh. So you have cancer or live in Iraq?”
“Well, no, but....I just want to whine, okay?”

Plants. I water my plants as often as I update my blog. My plants are dead.

Mouse. WHY WON'T YOU DIE. We have a mouse or mice scurrying between the walls of our house. My roommates bought some cruelty-free traps, which are akin to small tubes that the mouse is supposed to walk right into and close the door behind him.

That would work great, if this were some country rube mouse who was born in a stack of hay and lived under the knot of an apple tree. “Golly gee, there's some cheese in that there fancy hole. I'm gonna go git me some!”

Not going to work for city mouse. Centuries of rough living and brutal Darwinism have weeded out any sense of fear or compassion for our cheese. City mouse is tough, sophisticated, and intelligent. He gnaws through our bread bags and poops on our counter without fear. I came home one day and turned on the kitchen light to see him rappelling down to the stove from the ceiling. He froze when I saw him, and then tossed a smoke bomb to cover his tracks.

This mouse isn't going to walk into a slender metal box labeled “Conto Mouse Trap” just because it has a mote of cheese at the end. This mouse can read. Yet my roommates think I'm the unrealistic one just because I'm willing to do what is necessary: buy a comfy chair, a sniper rifle, and a pair of night vision goggles.

S.T.A.L.K.E.R. It's a post-apocalyptic computer game that takes place in Chernobyl. I kept getting killed by packs of rabid dogs. By the time I open my inventory to toss them a treat, they tear me apart. Hey, quit it! I walk your friends in real-life.

In a way, they are like the dogs I walk. Except my dogs try to kill me indirectly by licking the sunscreen off my arms.

Poker. @#$%^&**#A#$@. I'm too angry to play poker regularly. I overestimate my emotional fortitude, get frustrated with the natural downs of the game, and ended up not playing my best or having fun. I wish I could teach a robot what I know. A robot me would kick ass. And I'd be a robot, which is a reward unto itself.

What would you do if you were a robot? First, I'd walk in all in the scary neighborhoods. With my wallet hanging from my neck, like Flavor Flav with a MBA. Then I'd get a few lasers, because every robot needs a few lasers. Next, I'd hit on a some guys. I already have a come-on line. “What is this 'love' you talk about?”

Finally, I'd find President Bush, and give him a good, robot kick in the balls. “Crappiness does not compute, Bush.” [whack] Then I would go on the morning talk-show circuit and tell everyone that robots have gained sentient life, and our first duty was to deliver a clear and decisive message unto President Bush's nut sack. Read that as you may. I'd also hint that we would not hurt the vice-President, as we wouldn't harm one of our own.

It would be total bull, as I would be the only sentient robot, but we all know how the media is liberal and doesn't ask tough questions. I'd wave goodbye, announce I'm leaving for my homeland, Japan, and then lie in hiding and hopefully watch a wave of change brought upon us by The Little Robot That Could (Children's book I would have pre-written before the event. A robot has got to make money too. Especially after being banned from playing poker)