Yeah, man.  Rant on.

--

18 Apr 2008.  11:42am.

As much as I missed my Mediterranean, I'll tell you what I didn't miss -

Pervy McPervington.

Perhaps my repeated use of this nickname for him is childish and rude, but it fits him on both levels so well:

1. He's childish and rude, so turnabout is the fairest kind of play; and
2. He's a total, one-hundred-per-cent pervert.

After a week away from him, I started to rationalize away the odious feelings I have for him.  I thought, maybe I'm just seeing him as annoying.  Perhaps he's okay after all.

How wrong can a person be?

Is it like a scale from one to one hundred?  Is it a semicircle of 180 degrees from 'right' to 'wrong'?

Or is it like an exponentially increasing integer that always approaches infinity?

I think it's the last one, and that's about how wrong I was.

He's as annoying as he ever was, and then some.  As I'm trying to sleep after my restless journey back from Madrid, for example, what does he start listening to at full blast?

RICK ASTLEY.

Now that's a murder-able offense in and of itself, but I was so tired.  So very, very tired.

That, and he says stuff in annoying, high voices for no reason.  He'll be sitting on his bed playing a pirated game on his computer and I'll hear him bellow out 'Propera parada!'  Or every night as I get ready for bed, he whines, 'Bedtime for Braeden . . .'

Guess what?  I know it's bedtime.  I'm the one who's putting on my pajamas, idiot.

It just makes me leave a lot more than I used to.  I roam the streets like a phantom.

Don't even get me going on the whole staying up until 4:30am watching the Jazz game streaming over the Internet, cackling like an old hag.

Arrrgh.