Merry Christmas to everybody. I hope you all had a great time with your friends and families, like I did.

That's it. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Nothing funny here. Please move along.

I am now the proud owner of a set of massage balls.

It all started with a trip to the mall. This by itself is asking for trouble, I know. I went to the mall to pick up my new glasses, but it was also because I wanted to see overweight underage girls in Fubu jackets with their thongs sticking out of their pants (and on a side note; thongs should not stick out. In fact, if worn properly, they should be pretty well hidden. I'd say that's a good rule of thumb, people).

With ninja-like stealth I managed to sneak past the cel-phone kiosk and fly by the home security system people. I thought I had made it through the retail gauntlet when a young, attractive woman in casual clothing and a furry coat stepped in front of me. She said, “Can I show you something?” in a sexy accent that I couldn’t quite place (for the record, I can’t place any accent).

I must have looked dazed because she walked past me and said, “Follow me.” My brain told me to run away, but my penis told me to follow. Usually my penis is overruled, but lately he’s been making more and more decisions for me.

She stopped at a kiosk of oddly shaped instruments and exotic fragrances. She said, and I quote, “Turn around and take off your jacket.” I complied with less than the recommended state of caution. I began to sweat a little knowing that she just had to say the word and my pants were coming off.

Suddenly I had the sensation of more than a dozen fingers running up and down my back. This felt good for a moment, but then I thought, “Wait a second, there are definitely more than ten fingers back there.” I spun around to see what the hell was going on. The woman held what looked like a door handle with several straightened coat hangers sticking out of it.

Long story short, I decided the coat-hanger-back-scratcher would make a neat gift for someone on my list. I didn’t even know the price until she rang up my order. I won’t tell you how much it cost, but it was $25.

Paying waaay too much for what I had already decided to buy wasn't enough. She was certain that in addition to the coat hanger doorknob contraption I needed a set of plastic massage balls. The thought of buying them never once crossed my mind, but then, of course, she gave me a demonstration.

My pleas of "No thank you, I don't need them," "Sorry, I don't want them." and, "I said no!" turned to "Ooooh yea. Lower baby. Oooooh, that's what daddy needs."

To the credit of my financial fortitude, I was able to deny the massage balls even after the demonstration. She pleaded with me, giving me a look that said, "If you don't buy them I'll be forced to return to my homeland and marry a man I don't love when I could stay here and marry you." Still I said no, I just wanted the shitty coat hanger thing and that was it. Then she started dropping the price. First five dollars off. This wasn't much, given the original price. Then ten dollars off. Ten dollars off of "Fucking Expensive" is still "Expensive." Then fifteen. No no no! Just ring up my shitty doorknob and let me leave.

Any moment that I showed the slightest bit of hesitation she started another demonstration. It did little to change my mind, but I found that if I looked uncertain enough, she might be able to work out that kink in my lower back.

I forget how many different pitches we had gone through from there, but the final price of the massage balls was now $10 and she was about two steps away from throwing me on the floor and having sex with me to sell them. Why I didn't hold out for that I'll never know. Instead, I caved like a cheap condo and bought the massage balls for 10 dollars.

There isn’t anyone on my list who wants or needs massage balls. So I’ll just keep them, you know, as a reminder of the great times I had with massage ball girl.

My apartment is vibrating. I suppose under certain conditions I wouldn't complain about it, but right now it's kind of freaking me out.

It started as a tingle in my feet, then I noticed that the water in the glass next to me was rippling like I was about to be chomped by a T-Rex. Various fixtures in the apartment began to rattle slightly with audible noise. I looked out the windows and saw no trucks or large vehicles. The vibrating dissapated after about a minute, but it happend again just now. I stepped outside. I couldn't feel or hear anything out there. I checked the basement, there don't appear to be any lose pipes or anything.

So this all leads to the $50 question: What the fuck are my upstairs neighbors doing?

Player: Good day, Fanedorf!
Fanedorf: Ditto!
Player: How fare you this day?
Fanedorf: Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Um… you should try speaking in character, or else use “/ooc”
Fanedorf: /ooc Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Hast thou seen any polar bears around? I hunt them for their pelts.
Fanedorf: Oh hell yea, there’s two of them just around that ridge. They just tore me a new one.
Player: Thank you. Best of luck on your journey (leaves)
Fanedorf: And make the bastards squeal a little before you skin them!

Today I was suddenly overcome by the fear of being killed by a falling palm tree. This might be the kind of thing to happen during a tropical hurricane, but inside an office building in New England during the winter, it would be cosidered a freak accident. Unfortunately, freak accidents are just the kind of thing that keep happening to me.

To add to the decor of the office, my company has purchased two palm trees. Each one has been placed at the center of two circles of folding tables on the main floor. At these folding tables there is only one worker. Me. Whenever I'm not nervously scanning the branches for diseased monkies, I look at these hefty tree closest to me and think, "Damn, if this this thing fell over I'd be fucked."

It seems reasonable to think that the heavy pot at the base of each tree has been designed and tested to prevent these trees from falling. Of course, I was also under the impression that the wheel on my van had been designed and tested not to fall off.

I've revised my will.

My first experience in Everquest was much like puberty. I was anti-social, awkward in my body, and, in the end, I was mauled to death by polar bears.

My friend was nice enough to let me use his account (well, one of his accounts) to try it out. So late Friday night I sat down and began to create my online persona. I’m certain that the art of character creation will forever elude me, mainly because it requires reading. So I constructed a fierce barbarian / shaman using such advanced statistical techniques as “Eeniee, meeniee, minee, mo.” At first I wanted to be a woman, not because I’m in touch with my feminine side, but because all the women of Everquest (except the dwarves) have an incredible rack. If I wasn’t going to be able to afford armor for quite some time, I might as well make the best of my time watching myself falling out of my skimpy bearskin bra. Then I realized that I didn’t want to be that creepy guy who plays as a woman, it’s just wrong on so many levels. Furthermore, I didn’t like the idea of all the men of Everquest eye-humping me all the time. I would just feel like a piece of meat.

Next was the name. I couldn’t think of anything particularly unique, nor was the random name generator coming up with anything that didn’t sound like a French side dish. I ended up heavily butchering one such randomly generated name, and thus “Fanedorf,” was born. At least, I think that’s his name. It might have been “Fondor.” No… definitely not Fondor. Fondue? No no no. I think it’s Fanedorf… yea.

So anyway, me and Fondue start in the Shaman’s Guild in Haltor (or was it Halan? I want to say Halitosis, but I know that’s not right). Right off the bat I know I’m screwed because I’m in a snowy mountain kingdom wearing nothing but boots and a kilt. Apparently temperature isn’t an issue in Everquest, which is fortunate because there would have been a lot of shrinkage. I wander around aimlessly for a bit, testing all my buttons and going through my meager inventory of milk, cookies (they looked like cookies) and a backpack. I also have a club, but it looks like a twig snapped from a tree. I assume it’s a weapon because there’s no command to use it as a toothpick.

Fonda and I decide that in order to build up our stats and get money we have to go kill something, just like in real life. So I follow my map to the town exit (Ye Exite). In all the previous demonstrations of the game, the town exit was a tunnel. Here up in Halter it was a ferry. I jump on board, but the platform doesn’t move. I step off and look at it. THEN it moves. It’s timed apparently. So I dash to catch it, miss it, and fall into the frozen lake. I sink like a big kilt-wearing stone. Fortunately I have the breath capacity of a whale, because I had to search through the help file to find out how I’m supposed to swim. In real life, you would have seen a burly, half-naked man, sitting on the bottom of the lake, reading his notebook.

I swim up and to the other side, where I exit the town and into the great snowy peaks. The primary population of this area is dead. Not dead, like on the ground, dead like walking, armed, and pissed. My first combat experience was borne of ignorance. I, the hero Funnel, had stopped one of the walking dead to ask for directions. The skeleton, we’ll call him George, drew his sword and proceeded to hand me my ass. I died, quickly. One of the larger complaints I’ve heard about Everquest is that when you die, you are transported back to the area just outside of town and then you must quickly travel back to the spot where you were killed to retrieve the items you had been carrying at the time. This was no problem for me, seeing as how I had only traveled about ten feet from the town before I was slaughtered. One minute I’m dead, and then POOF, there I am, ten feet away.

This went on for a few hours. I discovered that if you don’t bother the inhabitants, they usually won’t bother you. Except the polar bears. They always hate you and want you dead. I figure it’s starvation, but given the number of times they’ve killed me, they should be well fed by now.

I’ve already started to form an opinion of the game, but I’m going to keep trying it for a little while.

I like snow because when you're shoveling for two hours and you pass out from exhaustion you always have a soft place to land. Other than that I hate snow.

It looks nice. You'll look out the window and see the giant flakes falling in the moonlight, covering everything in a smooth white blanket. It's so magical, so peaceful. So deceptive.

Then, the next morning, you try to wipe the foot of snow off your car and shovel it out of a five foot snow drift so you can try to move it into the street which is covered in packed snow left behind by the snow plow that left a four foot snow mound at the end of your driveway blocking you from getting out anyway.

Snow can just blow me.

Today I got new glasses. Actually, today I bought new glasses. The Russian woman with the comically thick accent made it very clear that there would be not "receiving" of glasses until the middle of next week. Quality crafted eyeglasses in about a week. That's what I get for getting an eye exam in the mall.

This is particularly distressing because my former glasses have come apart in a very special way. A way that cannot be repaired by any normal glass... smith... Anyway, it is a flaw that originated at the very begining of the glasses design process when no one thought to ask, "Well, what if this flimsy hinge breaks?" Or, if the question was asked, the response was, "Well, you're fucked. But we're going to make them anyway."

For the record, this is the second time this has happened. Right when I first got this particular pair of glasses the hinge on the right side popped off. "How did they fix it?" you ask. Well, they didn't. You've probably never noticed, but the earpiece on the right side of my head is completely different than the earpiece on the left. They replaced it with an earpiece they just happened to have left over. In retrospect, I should have asked for some of my money back, seeing as how I only have 65% of the frames I actually bought.

So I was browsing for new frames; very slowly, because I had to be no more than five inches away from to see any of them. The Russian lady handed me a pair which I liked quite a bit, but I kept looking anyway, just to see what my options were. Then she walked away to answer the phone and deal with a customer. When she rejoined me she chuckled and told me that, in her absence, I had been trying on children's frames. I had noticed they were small, but I thought it was a fashion preference.

Anyway, I bought the frames she gave me and found out it would take a few days to have them ready. She gave me a reciept and some Scotch tape to keep my old glasses together for the drive home. Man, I wish I could get contacts.

I think I've managed to corelate my dreams about failing school with excessive paperwork during my waking hours.

I've had the same dream two nights in a row now - I've been doing well in school, but I oversleep EVERY morning and manage to miss my morning classes repeatedly, then graduation draws near, my grades are stellar, but I've been absent from Gym and Physics for FOUR MONTHS! I get a zero for those two classes and I wind up having to take a summer course. My parents are sooo pissed. Anyway, that's how the dream goes. Sometimes the classes vary, but the theme is the same. I've been out of school over a year and a half now and I still have nightmares about missing class. Damn you higher education!!!

Before bed on both nights I was busy trying to attack the mountain of bills, tax forms, sticky note reminders, and and computer manuals that has piled itself on my desk. I'm certain that's what's causing the dreams. I've got to make a point to take care of that stuff earlier in the evening, and not right before I go to bed. That should eliminate the school nightmares, and make room for the dream about the showgirls with peanut butter. Oh yea.