Afraid of Girls? Definitely Not. I Eat Girls For Breakfast. With Sauce.

But I didn't mean that in a creepy, Ted Bundy way. I am not at all a violent person. When I eat girls for breakfast, it's all entirely sexual, and I'm always very gentle.

Without further ado, here is a picture of a bunny rabbit.



How are you all today? I hope The Nerd Archives finds you well. Many of you have not been commenting as often as you should. Father Christopher is very disappointed. Oh so very disappointed. He is taking notes, and he can separate the faithful from the unfaithful. Father Christopher rewards those who are faithful to him, but he is not so forgiving of the unfaithful--the spineless traitors who infest his precious blog like diseased rats. Yes, Father Christopher is oh so disappointed.

I, personally, am very well, thank you for asking. I just ate eleven boxes of twinkies, six double-patty hamburgers from Wendy's, the chicken tender plate from the Kid's Menu at Carnegia Deli in New York, and downed a five-gallon container of Mountain Dew, but I'm still feeling a bit peckish. A bit peckish?! you might repeat with incredulity. Yes, I'm still feeling a bit peckish. The reason that I have eaten so much and am still feeling a bit peckish is because I am an ogre. Bet you're feeling kinda foolish now for making fun of me, huh?

I know some of you around this week are receiving acceptance letters from college. I didn't even have to apply to any colleges. They totally recruited me. Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Oxford, etc. were all competing furiously to admit me. I'm having trouble deciding, so each university has selected a champion to fight to the death in a caged-in boxing ring to decide who will get me. The match is this Thursday, so let's see how it turns out. They've also been bribing me a lot recently. Most notably, Harvard offered me a life-sized chocolate elephant, Princeton offered me ninety minutes alone with a heavily drugged Paris Hilton, and the University of Chicago sent me through UPS a $3,400,000 monkey which can talk, dance, and recite entire scenes from any movie ever directed by Harold Ramis.

Then again, there's one part of me that just wants to say, "FUCK IT ALL" and become a rockstar. That's also the part of me which insists I walk around the local mall wearing nothing but cowboy boots, a ten-gallon hat, and Aviator sunglasses; so I don't listen to that part of me very often.

Last weekend I went on a mindless iTunes spree, because I haven't bought music in over six months. My mind went blank for a while, and then when I woke up three hours later, I had bought five hundred and thirty seven songs, about a quarter of which were by Madonna or Lady Gaga. It's charged to my parents account and I'm supposed to give them the money in cash, so I'll just have to them the dollar's worth in shoelace tips and Pepsi Max can tabs.

I have a track meet tomorrow, and I'll be running the 200m, 400m, 2X100, and 2X400. All of these races will be particularly difficult for me considering I have no feet, but there's really no excuse for not trying your best, right?

I was making a move on a really smoking hot girl today, and I was totally rejected. I can't see where I went wrong, because I carried out all of the classic movies flawlessly. I offered her the rest of my half-eaten turkey sandwich and complimented her very respectfully on her bodacious melons. I even told her than whenever I think of her, I think of the song Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? by Rod Stewart. But I think it was when I started making out with her ear that she slapped me.

But yes, I have been struggling a lot with the ladies recently. Nothing I've been doing seems to work anymore. Even the oldest stuff in the book. Standing outside her bedroom window and watching her sleep? Tried it. Finding her cell phone number, calling her, and breathing heavily into the phone when she picks up? Tried it. Mailing her photographs of herself talking to her friends and eating breakfast with a cursive note attached reading "I'm watching you" in red ink? Tried it. Sitting naked on her living room couch with all of the lights turned off and a knife in your hand waiting for her to get home? Tried it. It's just that nothing works on girls anymore.

I know none of you want to read The Chin Scratcher because you think you're better than me or because, as it turns out, you're absolutely illiterate, but do me a favour and just read and comment on this ONE post I wrote recently. I'm taking a poll, and I want to hear as many responses to my question as I can. Thanks so much.

As a side note, I'd like to add that if your name is "Sam" and you're here against my wishes even though I was generous enough to link to you in the last post, then I'd like to let you know that you're not welcome here. So you and all of your sexually-confused Mormon friends can just go back to Vietnam and sit tightly until this blog rolls over and dies. Thank you.

Have you ever had a really, insanely good day where everything seems to go all right, and then you get home and think to yourself, "Maybe she called. Today has been perfect, so maybe she called. Surely she called." But she didn't. And part of you knows that she never will.

I hate those days.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy