This photo of Ted Bundy looks a disturbing amount like Greg Kinnear.

I'm out there for you.

It turns out the sperm donation thing was for babies. In case I didn't clarify earlier, I'll state that I originally signed up for the program under the impression that my genetic information would be mercilessly slaughtered in the name of birth control. I'm cool with that. I don't, however, want them to be used in making little (and eventually, one would assume, big) versions of me. I don't want to think I'm responsible for some little shit I have no control over. I don't want to have some doe-eyed youth(DEY) on my doorstep in the future saying that he, Dad, is my sixty dollar son. It would change so much of my life immediately. I would, of course, feel responsible for said DEY, regardless of their wanting my help or not. I would want to get to know them. I would want to hear about their past and not miss their future. I would, in a few words, want to be a parent. What if I already had kids at this point? I couldn't ditch them, but I couldn't just brush off the other guy, could I? Joining him to the family would be difficult, too. "Alright, kids, you've got a new sister because daddy thought it would be cool to jack off for money..." I also don't want my genes to be raised without my supervision. What if they fuck something up? What if they become tyrants or mass murderers or CEOs of some horrible companies? What if they became really successful without my aid? If my offspring are to be famous or infamous, I want a part in their upbringing.
All that turmoil and torment is not worth 60 dollars.

The word "motherfucker" is pretty neat. It rolls out of the mouth nicely, and is used so much that it is more of a joke than an actual swear. People use it instead of pronouns, too. "I got on top of that motherfucker," for instance, means "I did that task well." Its a good word in a non-conventional sense.

OK, so today was the first snowstorm of the year. It started yesterday and built up and worked itself into a fury that left the area under a blanket of cold, wet, clinging mush. The storm started out with just winds. But then the winds started to increase. Pretty soon we had tornado warnings. Tornado Warnings! In Rochester, New York! When I went to bed the wind was gusting in some double digit number and the sky was spitting rain like an Alien spits acid. Waking up this morning, I found out we were scheduled to get 60 mph gusts of wind. That made the day start off well. It turns out that the power cut out several times during the night, as well. I turned on my computer and the power decided to vacation again, making my 'pute box mad at me.
So the day started out just gusty. Terribly gusty. Then rain started coming in heavily. Then snow. The snow coated everything on its windward side. But it started snowing harder. Soon enough, the first snowstorm of the year was a motherfucking blizzard. Coming in sideways, the snow managed to weasel its way into my ear hole, and also tried to take my cap several times. Anyway, the precipitation died out and the wind is down to a manageable breeze. It was still stupifying, though.
Here's the kicker, yesterday the temperature was in the 60s. I was wearing a T-Shirt outside. Today I felt uncomfortable in anything less than 3 inches of cotton and a thick layer of plastic.

I went in to the University of Rochester for my second donation session at the sperm bank. I was talking with the lab technicians about my previous appointment. She's a neat woman, older but really kind. I guess she probably has a pretty good sense of humor, as she spends all day receiving men's semen in the most loveless way possible.
Anyway, she said to me, "Krister, your last sample was...awesome." My heart lightened at that. I had been somewhat worried that I might be sterile. Not that I had any reason to think it, I just had a nagging doubt that I'd be one of those statistics with lazy sperm or a complete lack. I think I'd probably cry if that were the case. But it isn't! She said I had a very high count and volume. Go me! I'm potent! Virile, if you will.
I'm potent and impotent are too similar, I just noticed. They have opposite meanings, they should be different.
Ladies, beware, you may not even want to risk standing downwind of me.

Krister Bradford Andrew Rollins. Quite a mouthful, but that is my name. And the more I think about it, the more I like it. Its me. Its not anyone else. I doubt it ever will be anyone else. I normally go by Krister, though it can be compacted to Kris or KBAR. I was also briefly known as K2 by skiing aficionados who know my dad and I. My dad bears the name Krister Bradford Rollins and I was taller than he, thus necessitating the elimination of the old standby "Little Krister."
Krister is a reflection of my Swedish heritage. I'm proud of it. Its different. Not all that many people are of Swedish descent. To celebrate it I got some tattoos in norse runes on my forearm. I guess just having the name wasn't enough for me. When I was young, I didn't appreciate the name as I do now. It rhymes with both 'sister' and 'blister.' Its confused as Kristen, Kiersten, Christopher, Krista, Christoph, Christian and I was even once listed as Creiter. But as I grew older I started to like it more and more. I've never met anyone else named Krister, though I've read about a few and when I visited Sweden saw a lot of Christers. Anyway, its a good name.
I got tagged with Bradford because I'm a male descendant, maybe even a direct male descendant, of William Bradford. Readers will recognize him as the preacher guy who came over on the Mayflower. He was also the governor of that settlement for some 30 odd years, making him, essentially, the first president of the country. I know its a bit of a stretch, but I think its still cool. I've done some research on Bradford and I don't like him all that much, he was a racist and religiously close minded, but family is family. I can't apologize for him, but I can recognize his wrongs.
Andrew was going to be my first name, originally. Mom and Dad had it all planned out. But when I got to the hospital and weighed 11 pounds and 5 ounces and had to come out through C Section after a not easy labor my Dad, wisely if you ask me, allowed Mom to fill out the paperwork. I'm glad its still there, its a good story and it keeps me from being a junior, which my dad was adamant I not be. It's also the closest part of my name to reflecting the Scottish in me.
Finally there is Rollins. Its sort of normal, if not hugely common. I am partly British, so I guess its OK. I like the way it sounds. I like the way Krister Rollins flows together. Something about the union makes me happy. Each has 7 letters, maybe that's part of it. But its me, and I've come to identify with it, as people are supposed to with names.

I might be struggling with Identity right now. Well, maybe not struggling, but hoping to define myself more. I feel like there is something eluding me. Maybe it can be found in family history. I've come to the recent revelation that family history is cool. I like how unique mine is. Of course, everyone's is unique, but mine is mine. My mom isn't Swedish at all, she only encompasses half of it. My Dad isn't all that Scottish, he's only half of it. There's more for me. I am starting to feel responsible for finding out as much about it as I can. I don't think I'm looking for who I am so much as why I am.

I just ate a rather large bowl of Oreo-O's. They are divine. However, the bowl was split between a box that was at least two weeks old and a brand new one. So it was half stale. Not evenly half, though, it can't be that plain and simple. Oreo-O's have a habit of settling strangely, the marshmallow bits sink while the chocolate O's rise to the surface. The stalest part of the bowl was the marshmallow bit. Out of habit I saved a bunch of them for the end. Out of habit and idiocy, I should say.
Also, my stomach is reacting strangely because I haven't had that much (that is to say "any") milk in weeks.
And yet, I regret nothing.

It seems that people spend most of their time trying to be with other people. Not just romantically, having company. Being alone for extended periods sucks. Most of us don't like looking around in our heads. So, we fraternize, we talk, we jest, we gather, we hang out. Being around people is a much better alternative, and I find that good conversation is one of the best parts of life.
That said, a lot of people are real assholes who make it hard to be around.
This isn't directed at anyone, its just a general observation.
Does it make me an asshole who's hard to be around?

When I was wee I had a couple of inanimate friends which were very dear to me. I had a Winnie the Pooh blanket which my mom named Mr. Feelies. It was a name I kept for it. The blanket (blankey, if you will) was very soft and I like to rub it between my fingers. There is a tear in it that I used to stick my head through, so the rest of the blanket turned into a cape. It was on occaisions like these that I would turn over the coffee table and pretend it was some sort of flying device fit for a superhero. My Mom was opposed to my putting my head through the hole, as it caused the blanket to rip. She explained that eventually the blanket would fall apart. The thought of not having Mr. Feelies broke my little heart, so I usually tied the corners around my neck. I'd always be extremely worried for it when Mom had to make repairs on it. I now have it tacked up on the wall in my room at home.
I also had a Pound Puppy stuffed dog. I named it, aptly, Pound Puppy. I took Pound Puppy everywhere. He was brown and soft and doubled as a pillow on long car rides. He had big, round eyes that were strangely comforting. I left him at my grandmother's house once and checked the mail with Mom every day until he arrived in a big white box.
Then there was my imaginary friend, Mouse. Mouse was a mouse, as the more astute readers may have guessed. He went with me a lot of places, too. Then we lost touch. Last I heard he went to Hawaii with Patrick and didn't come back. Hawaii is a good place for Mouse, I think. Its nice and warm, so he won't have to worry about dying cold and lonely in the snow. There are also plenty of Luaus for him to raid should the food supply run low. I hope he can grow old happily there.

I just ate a salmon steak that had a lemon and pepper coating. It was quite delicious. I'm a big fan of salmon, and many fishes in general. I don't know exactly why, but something about it probably appeases my Nordic heritage. And the Scots had some fish dishes, Kipper, for instance. Strangely enough Kipper is the name of a british animated dog.
Anyway, salmon is my favorite fish. The combination of taste and texture makes my mouth happy. There's a buttery taste that is somewhat hidden in it.
I also like that it, unlike the canned herring I sometimes eat on crackers, does not stink up the whole fucking apartment.
Hail to the salmons!