this entire summer, i'll have nothing to do, except perhaps party with jessica alba

My whole day, pretty much, was just a tedious bundle of hours waiting for the LOST season finale. I should have just slept in. I did a bunch of work and fussed my way through e-mails, but I couldn't stop looking at the clock. The season finale was awesome, and I think I was standing for most of it; but the only thing that sucked about it was the realization that I'd have to wait FOREVER to see the next new episode. It's like four months away, and I could be dead by then. All that are left now are the long, hot, Evangeline Lilly-less days of summer. Luckily, my roommates are still catching up watching season one...

I'll manage to survive somehow. LOST dominated much of the day, but there was still some other shit that happened too. I locked my door behind me this morning and instantly realized I'd left without my keys. No one was home when I got out of work, so I had to climb in through the side window, which turned out to be a very demoralizing venture. The window didn't look all that high up, but I'm not as spry as I was when I was but a lad. I opened the window and placed my arms on the sill and quickly took stock of my perdicament. The windowsill stood about chest high. I figured a simple hop would do it, and it would have, if I were an NBA star. A running start would do. For some reason, I thought I'd be able to vault myself in like Mary Lou Retton or... some... male gymnast. I took a few steps back, lurched foward, hopped, then jumped and banged up my shins something awful. I was left with no other option other than brute strength. If I couldn't pull it off, there was no telling whether or not I'd even see the finale. I muscled up to the window, planted my hands firmly hopped and leveraged against the sill.

I hung motionless above the ground, and my thighs were yelling at me to the tune of "You dumb chubby fuck! Call a locksmith!" But I perservered. Or however it's spelled. And pushed my behemoth noggin through the blinds. I'm glad no one was in earshot of my pathetic groans and wheezes. I kicked and struggled and slithered my gut over the sill and into my house. Take that Mary Lou. And I landed in a crouch on my living room floor. I thought I'd torn a quad or something the way my legs were yelling at me, but I told them to fuck off. Pizza was on the way and Evangeline would be close behind.

I also got a shout out on the MySpace page of one of the bands I interviewed (a kinda big one on Ozzfest). I was stoked and felt like a celebrity. But that may have been because I'd gotten an e-mail from Jessica Alba earlier in the day--two, in fact!

Okay, so I suppose they weren't really from Jessica Alba. Apparently she doesn't have the time, nor the desire, to e-mail ponderously bulky dudes who flop around like docked mackeral when they're trying to break into their own houses. The e-mails were sent by a marketing company plugging a contest for tickets to the MTV Movie Awards, which I suppose must be hosted by Jessica Alba this year. The e-mails had a flier with a picture of Jessica on it and some shit about how, if you won, you'd be able to interview stars and stuff, and a link to a contest page. However, when I checked the "from" line of the e-mail, they read "Jessica Alba." Well, it was funny when I was at the office. It seems to have lost something now. So here's another picture. Good night.