Currently Listening To: Painted by Numbers by the Sounds
So yesterday was less-than-stellar. It was a half day (and our last day before Channukah break), which is fine, I suppose; we don't ever do anything on half days, so I would have rather slept in, but whatever. So I went to school as usual (though I did get to leave much later because of no advisee meetings and no homework to do). The usual-ness ended right when I was getting to school, though. The steering wheel on the Shit Wagon jerked to the right as I was getting off the highway, leading to me taking out the guardrail, going down into a ditch and then coming up the other side. Clearly, I was delighted. At first I thought I had blown a tire or something (two of them were looking pretty flat yesterday, but I put air in them and thought we were cool), and I also thought that I had knocked the axle out of place, so when I called my parents, I told them the car was done. Fortunately that was not the case. I would feel like a huge dick if I killed both the washing machine my parents had had since before my older brother was born (which I did do, back in September) and the car we've had for ten years (which I erroneously thought I did) in a three-month period. But some people stopped to help and I got the car out of the ditch and off to school. I got the whole "mom-thinks-I'm-dead-in-a-ditch" thing ironed out, got my knees to stop shaking and went on with my day.
I used to hate driving. Then Robert left and I needed a way to get around. I began to love driving. Then I realized that my car is living on borrowed time, and that realistically, I should kiss the ground every time I get somewhere to thank God for not killing me. My car is "Final Destination". It is a "Saw" trap. If forced to choose between driving 45 miles to school every day in it or sawing off their foot, most people would choose the latter. It's bad.
AAAAAND the new Batman trailer, which, I watch pretty much every day, is out. I swear, if I drove the Tumbler, none of this would have happened. I would have taken out that guardrail, then taken out this, then taken out that creek, then taken out the school and gone home, which I very likely would have taken out as well. I wish I were Batman.
PS: If you don't like what I say about you on here, either A) stop reading, or B) change, as I have no intention of stopping how I feel towards your behavior or whining about it on the internet.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Back of My Neck Gettin' Dirt And Gritty
Currently Listening To: Summer In The City by the Lovin' Spoonful
This, along with Blue Monday, may rank among the greatest songs every. I mean, there are songs I like, and then there are truly great songs.
Dane has driven me around considerably as-of-late, and we usually listen to that song, driving through town on a freak-out.
Just thought I'd let you know. Not really much to say beyond that, except that a certain someone is a colossal bitch, and I get the feeling she's just putting on a show. I know people who drink, and I know people who smoke, and they aren't nearly as in-your-face about it as she is. Screaming and yelling about how you just have to have nicotine... I'm so sure. I've seen her at other times when she's said she hadn't smoked in a while and she wasn't all bitchy like that. Truth be told, if I had been driving, I'd have left her ass on the side of the road.
But that seems to be more of a recent development. My tolerance for putting uo with bullshit has fallen to about zero. I actually did yell at her at one point last night, and at a kid in my econ class, and then about econ during econ. I'd say it's a sign that I'm growing up, but it's more of growing down, because I'm becoming less mature as time goes by.
This, along with Blue Monday, may rank among the greatest songs every. I mean, there are songs I like, and then there are truly great songs.
Dane has driven me around considerably as-of-late, and we usually listen to that song, driving through town on a freak-out.
Just thought I'd let you know. Not really much to say beyond that, except that a certain someone is a colossal bitch, and I get the feeling she's just putting on a show. I know people who drink, and I know people who smoke, and they aren't nearly as in-your-face about it as she is. Screaming and yelling about how you just have to have nicotine... I'm so sure. I've seen her at other times when she's said she hadn't smoked in a while and she wasn't all bitchy like that. Truth be told, if I had been driving, I'd have left her ass on the side of the road.
But that seems to be more of a recent development. My tolerance for putting uo with bullshit has fallen to about zero. I actually did yell at her at one point last night, and at a kid in my econ class, and then about econ during econ. I'd say it's a sign that I'm growing up, but it's more of growing down, because I'm becoming less mature as time goes by.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Dumb
Currently Listening To: Better Already by Northern State
It may be really cocky to say this, but, well, I definitely think (so would that mean I know?) that I am bigger than high school. Above it. Whatever. Busy work, dress codes, internet filters, time-wasting this-and-that... I'm done with it. I mean, I'm not done with it; that won't be for about six more months. But mentally, I've moved past the point where I feel comfortable having people tell me that I lack the intellectual capacity to dress myself and occupy myself.
I'm also done with grades. Specifically, teachers putting in one grade that, at the end of the term will be meaningless because of all the other grades, but right now is my only one in the class, meaning that, once more, I am failing Spanish. I can't read ye olde poetry in English. Reading a poem written in ye olde Spanishe? No sir. So of course, I got a "What's the deal here?" when I got home, resulting in a "go to coach class." Teachers love to use that as a conversation-finisher, but the truth is, 9 times out of 10, coach class isno help whatsoever. Most of the time I get straight up ignored. Either the teacher prefers certain students in the class, or doesn't seem to care at all about the students in a given course. But still, "Why weren't you in coach class?"
High school is dumb. It only took me four years to realize it.
It may be really cocky to say this, but, well, I definitely think (so would that mean I know?) that I am bigger than high school. Above it. Whatever. Busy work, dress codes, internet filters, time-wasting this-and-that... I'm done with it. I mean, I'm not done with it; that won't be for about six more months. But mentally, I've moved past the point where I feel comfortable having people tell me that I lack the intellectual capacity to dress myself and occupy myself.
I'm also done with grades. Specifically, teachers putting in one grade that, at the end of the term will be meaningless because of all the other grades, but right now is my only one in the class, meaning that, once more, I am failing Spanish. I can't read ye olde poetry in English. Reading a poem written in ye olde Spanishe? No sir. So of course, I got a "What's the deal here?" when I got home, resulting in a "go to coach class." Teachers love to use that as a conversation-finisher, but the truth is, 9 times out of 10, coach class isno help whatsoever. Most of the time I get straight up ignored. Either the teacher prefers certain students in the class, or doesn't seem to care at all about the students in a given course. But still, "Why weren't you in coach class?"
High school is dumb. It only took me four years to realize it.
Monday, November 26, 2007
I'm Not An Inmate, I'm French, Damnit
Currently Listening To: Music Is My Hot, Hot Sex by CSS, which, I might add, I downloaded two weeks before I saw the iPod commercial.
And now I'm listening to Living in America by the Sounds, which, by the way, isn't about how awful America is, you ginger dope.
Ah, driving. I love to drive. It's probably the most relaxing thing I can think of. Except, of course, when other people get involved.
And I got some sexy, sexy shoes. I need to find a camera. I mean, seriously, I've never been so obsessed with shoes, but this pair is special. Magical, perhaps?
And now I'm listening to Living in America by the Sounds, which, by the way, isn't about how awful America is, you ginger dope.
Ah, driving. I love to drive. It's probably the most relaxing thing I can think of. Except, of course, when other people get involved.
- Bitch in a Lexus riding my ass. Just because your car is sleek and sexy and fast doesn't mean you should try and hitch a ride on my bumper. Sleek, sexy and fast mean nothing when your grill is in my backseat.
- Passengers touching my wares. Just put it in the back, okay? No need to snoop. Last thing I need is anyone find my five bricks of coke and extensive German pornography collection.
- A certain other driver messing with my seat, mirrors and radio. He's shorter than me, so why is the seat pushed back? The radio's always both off and turned down. PICK ONE. The mirrors? I guess that's forgivable. But the rest? Not at all.
- Cops hiding with their lights off trying to pull me over when it's pitch-black outside and I almost hit them because my right headlight is out. Pretty cut-and-dry. Let's keep the lights on, Biggun.
- People on cellphones, or texting, or putting on makeup. I would say, "Can't it wait?", but most of the things being said over those calls and texts are usually pretty inane, so I'd advise those people to just forget it. Same goes for the makeup; you look like a hooker. That's not a good thing. Sure, Jesus rolled with a hooker (or more? I've never actually read that part... or most parts of the Bible. Just what we read in Church), but that's not the same.
- Radio DJs droning on and on and on and on, and when they DON'T PLAY DAVID BOWIE ON THE RADIO in the mornings. That man is the only reason I can even muster up the strength to get in the car each morning to go to school, and when I don't get my Bo, I can't function.
And I got some sexy, sexy shoes. I need to find a camera. I mean, seriously, I've never been so obsessed with shoes, but this pair is special. Magical, perhaps?
Saturday, November 24, 2007
This Movie Really PIST Me Off
Currently Listening To: Out of Control (State of Emotion) by Kenna
It's a horrible pun, but I thought of it during the movie (at a point when I still liked it!) and almost died laughing.
Anyways, I saw the Mist. I love Stephen King, I had just read the Mist (in its <200 page glory) and was working on the Stand (which I have now completed all 1200 pages of), so laws yes, I went to go see it. It was quite faithful to the book as we merrily rolled along through a misty day in Maine, and still somewhat faithful through the second and third days of mistiness in Maine.
Then, of course, there was the ending.
LAWS YES, the ending, which I will reveal below.
M-O-O-N, that spells "Frank Darabont what the fuck were you thinking when you made the Punisher murder his son, his lover and the geezers in the backseat, followed thirty seconds later by him finding out he didn't have to?"
I know people say this every time EVERY TIME a book is adapted into a movie, but the book ending was SO MUCH better, and it would have worked! I guess not-so-much in a narrator-free movie, but they could have just shut the projector off when the car ran out of gas and we would have gotten the same effect. Instead, Americuh prevails and a man, after 2 hours and change of courage, turns into a coward who shoots everyone else but not himself.
BOLLOCKS.
'Course, I got $20 out of it. My dad and brother were positive ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE that Ms. Carmody was played by mom #1 in Big Love, but I knew, deep in my heart, it was someone else.
It's a horrible pun, but I thought of it during the movie (at a point when I still liked it!) and almost died laughing.
Anyways, I saw the Mist. I love Stephen King, I had just read the Mist (in its <200 page glory) and was working on the Stand (which I have now completed all 1200 pages of), so laws yes, I went to go see it. It was quite faithful to the book as we merrily rolled along through a misty day in Maine, and still somewhat faithful through the second and third days of mistiness in Maine.
Then, of course, there was the ending.
LAWS YES, the ending, which I will reveal below.
M-O-O-N, that spells "Frank Darabont what the fuck were you thinking when you made the Punisher murder his son, his lover and the geezers in the backseat, followed thirty seconds later by him finding out he didn't have to?"
I know people say this every time EVERY TIME a book is adapted into a movie, but the book ending was SO MUCH better, and it would have worked! I guess not-so-much in a narrator-free movie, but they could have just shut the projector off when the car ran out of gas and we would have gotten the same effect. Instead, Americuh prevails and a man, after 2 hours and change of courage, turns into a coward who shoots everyone else but not himself.
BOLLOCKS.
'Course, I got $20 out of it. My dad and brother were positive ABSOLUTELY POSITIVE that Ms. Carmody was played by mom #1 in Big Love, but I knew, deep in my heart, it was someone else.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The War on Thanksgiving
Currently Listening To: Black Tongue by Yeah Yeah Yeahs
I went up stairs a while ago. I was craving ham (there's a large ham in the fridge; I don't know why it is there but it is delicious) so I went up to the kitchen for a ham 'n mustard sammich.
I was greeted with Christmas music. The same Christmas music that has been playing since the first weekend of November, a mere two days after Halloween.
It's no surprise that my sister is playing her music so loud that you can hear it in the kitchen. It's also no surprise that she is playing loud music while watching TV on a high volume. I've come to terms with that which I must endure if I want to live in this house.
But Christmas music? This early? The Christmas season starts on the Friday after Thanksgiving, not the day after Halloween. So I should be good for not hearing Wham! complaining about what he gave his bufu buddy last Christmas and won't be giving him again this year for another week. Instead, I am hearing Wham! complaining about what he gave his bufu buddy last Christmas and won't be giving him again this year.
People should have more respect for Thanksgiving. It gives everyone an excuse to be fat. And there's stuffing, which is the best food in the world. Seriously. My last meal before they put me in the chair will be a five-course meal of stuffing. First, a stuffing salad. Then a stuffing soup, followed by a stuffing filet with a side of mashed stuffing coated in stuffing gravy. For dessert, stuffing pie. Then the waiter will hand me my bill and a stuffing mint. So yeah, that's why I like Thanksgiving. And because I don't have to hear people bitching about this-or-that about the holiday (war on Christmas, Halloween is evil, Valentine's Day is BS, et cetera). Though I ought to remind everyone that it's a secular holiday, so all the church signs about Thanksgiving are a tad misinformed. Yet no one is running around like a decapitated chicken bemoaning the forgotten spirit of Thanksgiving.
So I'd like to take this time to thank my sister for destroying an American institution, and to give her the bird.
I'm really just complaining because I hate Christmas music. I find it annoying and crappy and corny even on Christmas morning.
And I suppose people do bitch-n-moan about the Indians at Thanksgiving and this stuff about genocide and whatnot. Genocide? More like, stuffing-get-inside. Mmmm. Stuffing.
Another thing about my sister: she's annoying. I get sick and tired of this maligned-middle-schooler crap. We get it; being a suburbanite is tough, what, with her fancy clothes (did I mention that last year, on the day after Thanksgiving, we went shopping as a family and she spent somewhere in the range of TEN TIMES as much as I spent?) and spending-every-waking-moment-on-facebook-listening-to-Christmas-music loud-and-watching-MTV-on-my-parents'-HDTV. Middle school girls are bitchy? Heard it all before... WHEN I WAS IN MIDDLE SCHOOL. I'm quite glad that chapter of my life is over, and I don't plan on reliving it until my children are in middle school, which, considering I don't even have a lady-lover yet, is quite far off in the future.
She was in high-horse mode last night. My dad had just gotten back from a business trip (to Mexico... sounds suspicious) and was giving out the souvenirs he got. For my sisters and mom he got some Mexi0-jewelry, and my youngest sister and mom were going through it to split it up when the whiny sister says, "I'll wait because I'm grateful." A few minutes later, she said something to the effect of "You guys take and the cute stuff and leave me the crappy stuff."
Bitchy to the MAX!
Oooh, now I'm angry. I'm probably going to stop driving her to school. She can find her own damn way. I didn't get driven to school until I was a freshman, why should she get special treatment?
I went up stairs a while ago. I was craving ham (there's a large ham in the fridge; I don't know why it is there but it is delicious) so I went up to the kitchen for a ham 'n mustard sammich.
I was greeted with Christmas music. The same Christmas music that has been playing since the first weekend of November, a mere two days after Halloween.
It's no surprise that my sister is playing her music so loud that you can hear it in the kitchen. It's also no surprise that she is playing loud music while watching TV on a high volume. I've come to terms with that which I must endure if I want to live in this house.
But Christmas music? This early? The Christmas season starts on the Friday after Thanksgiving, not the day after Halloween. So I should be good for not hearing Wham! complaining about what he gave his bufu buddy last Christmas and won't be giving him again this year for another week. Instead, I am hearing Wham! complaining about what he gave his bufu buddy last Christmas and won't be giving him again this year.
People should have more respect for Thanksgiving. It gives everyone an excuse to be fat. And there's stuffing, which is the best food in the world. Seriously. My last meal before they put me in the chair will be a five-course meal of stuffing. First, a stuffing salad. Then a stuffing soup, followed by a stuffing filet with a side of mashed stuffing coated in stuffing gravy. For dessert, stuffing pie. Then the waiter will hand me my bill and a stuffing mint. So yeah, that's why I like Thanksgiving. And because I don't have to hear people bitching about this-or-that about the holiday (war on Christmas, Halloween is evil, Valentine's Day is BS, et cetera). Though I ought to remind everyone that it's a secular holiday, so all the church signs about Thanksgiving are a tad misinformed. Yet no one is running around like a decapitated chicken bemoaning the forgotten spirit of Thanksgiving.
So I'd like to take this time to thank my sister for destroying an American institution, and to give her the bird.
I'm really just complaining because I hate Christmas music. I find it annoying and crappy and corny even on Christmas morning.
And I suppose people do bitch-n-moan about the Indians at Thanksgiving and this stuff about genocide and whatnot. Genocide? More like, stuffing-get-inside. Mmmm. Stuffing.
Another thing about my sister: she's annoying. I get sick and tired of this maligned-middle-schooler crap. We get it; being a suburbanite is tough, what, with her fancy clothes (did I mention that last year, on the day after Thanksgiving, we went shopping as a family and she spent somewhere in the range of TEN TIMES as much as I spent?) and spending-every-waking-moment-on-facebook-listening-to-Christmas-music loud-and-watching-MTV-on-my-parents'-HDTV. Middle school girls are bitchy? Heard it all before... WHEN I WAS IN MIDDLE SCHOOL. I'm quite glad that chapter of my life is over, and I don't plan on reliving it until my children are in middle school, which, considering I don't even have a lady-lover yet, is quite far off in the future.
She was in high-horse mode last night. My dad had just gotten back from a business trip (to Mexico... sounds suspicious) and was giving out the souvenirs he got. For my sisters and mom he got some Mexi0-jewelry, and my youngest sister and mom were going through it to split it up when the whiny sister says, "I'll wait because I'm grateful." A few minutes later, she said something to the effect of "You guys take and the cute stuff and leave me the crappy stuff."
Bitchy to the MAX!
Oooh, now I'm angry. I'm probably going to stop driving her to school. She can find her own damn way. I didn't get driven to school until I was a freshman, why should she get special treatment?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Driving Hell
Currently Watching: Futurama
"When you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all." - God
"I was God once." - Bender
"Yeah, I saw that. You were doing so well until everyone died." - God
I love this episode of Futurama so much; really more than anyone could ever begin to grasp. Just a little FYI.
So today was the first day of exams. I did somewhere in between "the best I've ever done" and "Ryan, we're making you repeat the twelfth grade... after you repeat all the others". I'm okay with that.
I'm not okay with leaving my head lights on for seven hours and having pretty much no gas. I'm especially not okay with calling school security hoping for some sort of assistance and pretty much being told to go fuck myself (not in those words, of course). Security at our school, outside of check-ins and sleeping in the parking lot, does nothing. So is it too much to ask for a ride to a gas station or a jump start, or any sort of "I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do"? "Why would you call us?" was not the ideal answer. Jackasses.
But Claire and Andy and Doug's dad were all there to help, and after a few hours I finally got home. On fumes. Scary-scary.
And the g-d hood won't open. How am I supposed to fix the battery if I can't get to it?
"When you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all." - God
"I was God once." - Bender
"Yeah, I saw that. You were doing so well until everyone died." - God
I love this episode of Futurama so much; really more than anyone could ever begin to grasp. Just a little FYI.
So today was the first day of exams. I did somewhere in between "the best I've ever done" and "Ryan, we're making you repeat the twelfth grade... after you repeat all the others". I'm okay with that.
I'm not okay with leaving my head lights on for seven hours and having pretty much no gas. I'm especially not okay with calling school security hoping for some sort of assistance and pretty much being told to go fuck myself (not in those words, of course). Security at our school, outside of check-ins and sleeping in the parking lot, does nothing. So is it too much to ask for a ride to a gas station or a jump start, or any sort of "I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do"? "Why would you call us?" was not the ideal answer. Jackasses.
But Claire and Andy and Doug's dad were all there to help, and after a few hours I finally got home. On fumes. Scary-scary.
And the g-d hood won't open. How am I supposed to fix the battery if I can't get to it?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Every Time I See You Falling, I Get Down On My Knees And Pray
Currently Listening To: Bizarre Love Triangle by New Order
So tomorrow is the beginning of the end of my high school exam taking. This will be the last set of fall exams at Dar. After this I only have winter exams... For the fall, there are only two that I could take (the rest are APs), but my Econ teacher probably wouldn't make me take it even if my grades were that bad and my Graphic Design exam would just be a portfolio...
But I digress. All that matters is that another phase of my youth is being phased out.
I saw a commercial earlier for some wildlife video. It promised something for everyone; animals fighting, animals mating-- Mating? Someone out there called up the company and said, "I'd buy more videos if you had some hedgehogs boning"? I hate this country SO MUCH. Though I suppose its not just America.
WHY? WHY DOES THIS COMMERCIAL PLAGUE MY GRAY MATTER?
In other news, in the month and one week since I've gotten my license, I think I've become infinitely more masculine and horny. I don't really know where I'm going with this. Maybe a warning for the ladies to keep an eye on their pants while around me.
There is no--
This is no--
Modern ro-mance.
We have security check points at school. It's pretty freaking ridiculous. After eight, they close all the gates but one, so to leave from the library parking lot (which I think is the only one I can park in after school; have to park at the gym during school) means you have to drive through pretty much the entire campus, which takes quite some time when you're going the 3 mph it takes to get over the cascade of speed bumps without destroying my car. THEN, after facing all kinds of going-the-other-way traffic on a one-lane road, I have to register my tag/parking sticker and tell them why I'm there. It takes forever. It's overkill, too; if I really wanted to get onto the campus undetected, I'd just drive through the tunnel from the gym. They put up some concrete cones so you can't do that, but there's totally enough space to get by them, so they wasted some concrete/time. I might try that.
So tomorrow is the beginning of the end of my high school exam taking. This will be the last set of fall exams at Dar. After this I only have winter exams... For the fall, there are only two that I could take (the rest are APs), but my Econ teacher probably wouldn't make me take it even if my grades were that bad and my Graphic Design exam would just be a portfolio...
But I digress. All that matters is that another phase of my youth is being phased out.
I saw a commercial earlier for some wildlife video. It promised something for everyone; animals fighting, animals mating-- Mating? Someone out there called up the company and said, "I'd buy more videos if you had some hedgehogs boning"? I hate this country SO MUCH. Though I suppose its not just America.
WHY? WHY DOES THIS COMMERCIAL PLAGUE MY GRAY MATTER?
In other news, in the month and one week since I've gotten my license, I think I've become infinitely more masculine and horny. I don't really know where I'm going with this. Maybe a warning for the ladies to keep an eye on their pants while around me.
There is no--
This is no--
Modern ro-mance.
We have security check points at school. It's pretty freaking ridiculous. After eight, they close all the gates but one, so to leave from the library parking lot (which I think is the only one I can park in after school; have to park at the gym during school) means you have to drive through pretty much the entire campus, which takes quite some time when you're going the 3 mph it takes to get over the cascade of speed bumps without destroying my car. THEN, after facing all kinds of going-the-other-way traffic on a one-lane road, I have to register my tag/parking sticker and tell them why I'm there. It takes forever. It's overkill, too; if I really wanted to get onto the campus undetected, I'd just drive through the tunnel from the gym. They put up some concrete cones so you can't do that, but there's totally enough space to get by them, so they wasted some concrete/time. I might try that.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Good/Bad
Currently Listening To: Cellphone's Dead by Beck
Good: Didn't oversleep this morning.
Bad: Had to go outside 20 minutes earlier than normal to get ice off of car (esqueeze me, but this is Georgia and we're in a drought... this shouldn't be happening)
Good: David Bowie on the way to school
Bad: Almost wrecked into my English teacher
Good: Ate a waffle.
Bad: Lost at Whammy in AP Stats (we play simulated gambling games rather than actually learn)
Good: Run panicking into college office only to find out that the college fairy had already dealt with my recommendations
Bad: Dan In Real Life sucks... The projector wonked out halfway through and Adrienne and I didn't even bother telling the manager for free passes... We just left.
Good: Asking Walmart employee where they shelf their man thongs.
Bad: Awkward conversation with mom, in front of her friends, concerning "lady-friend".
I report. You decide. Good day, or bad day?
Despite the English teacher and Dan-In-Real-Life incidents, the college this makes the day a victory... I was losing serious sleep over that damn common application, so to find out that my shazbot had already been mailed in was a gift from above.
Or below. It's always possible Satan willed it into action.
Good: Didn't oversleep this morning.
Bad: Had to go outside 20 minutes earlier than normal to get ice off of car (esqueeze me, but this is Georgia and we're in a drought... this shouldn't be happening)
Good: David Bowie on the way to school
Bad: Almost wrecked into my English teacher
Good: Ate a waffle.
Bad: Lost at Whammy in AP Stats (we play simulated gambling games rather than actually learn)
Good: Run panicking into college office only to find out that the college fairy had already dealt with my recommendations
Bad: Dan In Real Life sucks... The projector wonked out halfway through and Adrienne and I didn't even bother telling the manager for free passes... We just left.
Good: Asking Walmart employee where they shelf their man thongs.
Bad: Awkward conversation with mom, in front of her friends, concerning "lady-friend".
I report. You decide. Good day, or bad day?
Despite the English teacher and Dan-In-Real-Life incidents, the college this makes the day a victory... I was losing serious sleep over that damn common application, so to find out that my shazbot had already been mailed in was a gift from above.
Or below. It's always possible Satan willed it into action.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Illin' Like A Villain
Currently Listening To: Little Angel by Hard-FI
As I type this, at this very second, happening parallel to rising tensions in Pakistan, writers' striking in LA, husbands coming home from to work hug their wives & beat their childrens and car chases resulting in highly stylized explosions, I am sick. I realize that everything else is irrelevant. I am on my death bed, coughing up blood as the TB slowly claims my little body...
Okay, so it's not that bad; I had suspected strep (because I get it EVERY SINGLE YEAR, WITHOUT FAIL), but a visit to the doctor turned up some shenanigans about a virus and congestion or something. I just smiled and nodded while being told this, holding out my hand in time to have it filled with pills-- Halloween came four days late! Or three hundred sixty one days early. Take your pick.
But my illness did not prevent me from seeing 30 Days of Night on Saturday, which was the source of two complaints, neither of which have ANYTHING to do with that fantastic movie:
So basically, nothing's happening in my life right now. And I mean that in the least angsty of ways; just an observation upon re-reading what I've had to complain about.
As I type this, at this very second, happening parallel to rising tensions in Pakistan, writers' striking in LA, husbands coming home from to work hug their wives & beat their childrens and car chases resulting in highly stylized explosions, I am sick. I realize that everything else is irrelevant. I am on my death bed, coughing up blood as the TB slowly claims my little body...
Okay, so it's not that bad; I had suspected strep (because I get it EVERY SINGLE YEAR, WITHOUT FAIL), but a visit to the doctor turned up some shenanigans about a virus and congestion or something. I just smiled and nodded while being told this, holding out my hand in time to have it filled with pills-- Halloween came four days late! Or three hundred sixty one days early. Take your pick.
But my illness did not prevent me from seeing 30 Days of Night on Saturday, which was the source of two complaints, neither of which have ANYTHING to do with that fantastic movie:
- Trailer for "The Mist", which ruined my reading of the book, seeing as they confirmed something that, at the point I was at in the book, was only speculation. Thanks, bastards. I even had my eyes closed so as not to ruin it, but... And my dad thought I was scared... Really? I mean, seriously?
- Fat bitch in back row, bringing with her FOUR CHILDREN, none of whom could have been older than three. In case you're unaware, which I can only pray she was, 30 Days of night is about a town cut off from the rest of the world by a pack of vampires hoping to eat everyone in the town. Key words being "vampires" and "eat". Blood is implied, as is gore. Lots of those two. Loud noises and lots of jump-out-at-you kind of things wouldn't be considered out of place. Yet this woman still has the nerve to drag a bunch of babies into this well-earned R-rating. Now, if they were complacent/mute babies, I wouldn't mind. Parenting is up to the parents. But when they spend the entirety of the previews and the first 30 minutes of the movie screaming and crying, there's an issue. Now, if you know me, you know it takes more than a full bladder, and empty drink and a burning theater for me to get up out of my seat, but I was driven to the brink of madness... This is why I hate children. And even after I got the manager to come in, it took the woman maybe ten minutes to get her act together, as well as dragging the stroller down the stairs, hitting EVERY SINGLE STEP. But everyone got a free ticket, so it all worked itself out. Again, my dad didn't have any idea what I was doing... He thought I was up for a piss or something, and someone else complained... NO, dad; I got you and everyone else a free ticket. People of movies 278 theater 13 on Saturday evening, you are welcome.
So basically, nothing's happening in my life right now. And I mean that in the least angsty of ways; just an observation upon re-reading what I've had to complain about.
Monday, October 29, 2007
A Yet-To-Be-Titled Post (Which Is A Paradox, As It Is Now Titled)
Currently Listening To: Paralyzed Prince by Office
So the drama-drama worked itself out. Everything went fine. Good for me. Good for him. Good for the other him. Though I did fall off the stairs in the Oscar Wilde scene. The lights were down, so no one knew. I knew. My failures keep me up and night, and sleep only comes after extensive crying-myself-to-sleep.
But do you know what's NOT resolved? My not having a phone. I own a phone. That's not the problem. I didn't have it taken away from me. That's not the problem either. It is currently locked away at school. Y'see, there's this rule... AT SCHYULE... that we have to turn our phones in to the teacher in every class. Something about cheating. Anyways, in some classes, the teachers have those shoe racks that hang over the door and you just slip the phone in. Other teachers have buckets. My problem lies with the buckets. Every day EVERY DAY I leave my phone in the buckets. Most of the time I figure it out a period or so later and go back and snatch it in between classes. This doesn't work when you have the class last and the teacher has already left. Then I'm left without a phone. I shouldn't mind that, considering I fucking hate talking on the phone, but it sill really gets at me. Something about not having the option to do something, regardless of actually wanting to do it. I don't know, I'm not a shrink. Maybe there's some... brain... thing
Aw, fuck it, I've lost interest in that rant. How about the one I left out up top, where someone got upset that I said "Goddamn" in the play. I had to change it for the second performance, and I felt really dirty for it. Can you say, "This douche has not artistic integrity whatsoever?" There are a bunch of trogs and philistines in this town. It's "Goddamn" for God's sake. If you, like me, opperate under the assumption that this God fellow created all of existence, surely you could reason that the guy is a little too important to care about someone tacking dammit onto his name. Besides, I don't think that's what the thing about taking his name in vain even means... That seems a tad petty to be worried about for, like I said, a guy who is a big deal, and I've always though people saying stuff like that was like, "This sucks, help me out," which is pretty much the point, no?
Taking his name in vain, to me, would appear to mean that people who seek to somehow gain from believing in him rather than actually believing in it are bastards. So if you use it to get you elected (re: almost everyone talking about running in '08), or use it as a sort of social-status (re: a lot of people at my school) or have a little fish on your company's advertisements, you're not on God's good side.
Just a theory, though. I think it's valid, though. Maybe I could send it to a Christian musician to write a song about it... Oh wait, he/she/they are profiting off of their religions.
What a petty, petty complaint. I am a whiny little bitch... disregard all of this.
Right now, there are only two words you need to know, and they are "Declan Sanchez"
...More to come.
So the drama-drama worked itself out. Everything went fine. Good for me. Good for him. Good for the other him. Though I did fall off the stairs in the Oscar Wilde scene. The lights were down, so no one knew. I knew. My failures keep me up and night, and sleep only comes after extensive crying-myself-to-sleep.
But do you know what's NOT resolved? My not having a phone. I own a phone. That's not the problem. I didn't have it taken away from me. That's not the problem either. It is currently locked away at school. Y'see, there's this rule... AT SCHYULE... that we have to turn our phones in to the teacher in every class. Something about cheating. Anyways, in some classes, the teachers have those shoe racks that hang over the door and you just slip the phone in. Other teachers have buckets. My problem lies with the buckets. Every day EVERY DAY I leave my phone in the buckets. Most of the time I figure it out a period or so later and go back and snatch it in between classes. This doesn't work when you have the class last and the teacher has already left. Then I'm left without a phone. I shouldn't mind that, considering I fucking hate talking on the phone, but it sill really gets at me. Something about not having the option to do something, regardless of actually wanting to do it. I don't know, I'm not a shrink. Maybe there's some... brain... thing
Aw, fuck it, I've lost interest in that rant. How about the one I left out up top, where someone got upset that I said "Goddamn" in the play. I had to change it for the second performance, and I felt really dirty for it. Can you say, "This douche has not artistic integrity whatsoever?" There are a bunch of trogs and philistines in this town. It's "Goddamn" for God's sake. If you, like me, opperate under the assumption that this God fellow created all of existence, surely you could reason that the guy is a little too important to care about someone tacking dammit onto his name. Besides, I don't think that's what the thing about taking his name in vain even means... That seems a tad petty to be worried about for, like I said, a guy who is a big deal, and I've always though people saying stuff like that was like, "This sucks, help me out," which is pretty much the point, no?
Taking his name in vain, to me, would appear to mean that people who seek to somehow gain from believing in him rather than actually believing in it are bastards. So if you use it to get you elected (re: almost everyone talking about running in '08), or use it as a sort of social-status (re: a lot of people at my school) or have a little fish on your company's advertisements, you're not on God's good side.
Just a theory, though. I think it's valid, though. Maybe I could send it to a Christian musician to write a song about it... Oh wait, he/she/they are profiting off of their religions.
What a petty, petty complaint. I am a whiny little bitch... disregard all of this.
Right now, there are only two words you need to know, and they are "Declan Sanchez"
...More to come.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Paranoia.
I feel a tad shameless for finally succumbing to the temptation that is video blogging. I feel kind of lame for doing it, but at the same, I don't. Suck it.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Less Than A Week
Currently Listening To: Forgotten Works by Klaxons
Sure, posts about my upcoming birthdays are uninteresting on a cosmic scale, but I still felt the need to talk about it.
In less than a week, I will turn seventeen. This means that I will have ceased to be sixteen, and will never return to that point ever again. That seems obvious, but ti's still mind blowing and depressing. I like sixteen. Sure, seventeen has its perks (er, perk; R-rated movies... and NC 17 movies), but I still like sixteen. Seventeen sounds too old. Too old, at least, to spend my afternoons playing N64. Now, instead of being eccentric, I'll just be pathetic. That's no good.
AAAAND I got on homecoming court, which is even weirder than turning seventeen. I mean, really, of all people, me? But I've decided to just roll with it. I even commissioned the design of some campaign posters (even though you don't campaign for homecoming king, or so I'm told), but they were deemed offensive and promptly ripped down during some teacher's planning period. But it's all gravy. AAAAND there was this whole ordeal of the school expanding homecoming court from six to nine girls (and subsequently boys), supposedly because of a tie, but I heard that there were some notable omissions, and so edits were made. SCANDALOUS. But then there's this one guy who, despite being on court the past three years and I think winning it once, didn't make it this year, even though the odds were better. I like to think that I was number nine, and he's number ten. Not that I have anything against him personally; it just makes me feel better about my sad, sorry self.
I still don't think a picture of Conan with my mug on it is that offensive; I didn't even have that little herpesmudge on my lips in it.
P-P-P-P-Pneumothorax is a word that is long;
Nah, just trying to put the punk back into punctured lung
Sure, posts about my upcoming birthdays are uninteresting on a cosmic scale, but I still felt the need to talk about it.
In less than a week, I will turn seventeen. This means that I will have ceased to be sixteen, and will never return to that point ever again. That seems obvious, but ti's still mind blowing and depressing. I like sixteen. Sure, seventeen has its perks (er, perk; R-rated movies... and NC 17 movies), but I still like sixteen. Seventeen sounds too old. Too old, at least, to spend my afternoons playing N64. Now, instead of being eccentric, I'll just be pathetic. That's no good.
AAAAND I got on homecoming court, which is even weirder than turning seventeen. I mean, really, of all people, me? But I've decided to just roll with it. I even commissioned the design of some campaign posters (even though you don't campaign for homecoming king, or so I'm told), but they were deemed offensive and promptly ripped down during some teacher's planning period. But it's all gravy. AAAAND there was this whole ordeal of the school expanding homecoming court from six to nine girls (and subsequently boys), supposedly because of a tie, but I heard that there were some notable omissions, and so edits were made. SCANDALOUS. But then there's this one guy who, despite being on court the past three years and I think winning it once, didn't make it this year, even though the odds were better. I like to think that I was number nine, and he's number ten. Not that I have anything against him personally; it just makes me feel better about my sad, sorry self.
I still don't think a picture of Conan with my mug on it is that offensive; I didn't even have that little herpesmudge on my lips in it.
P-P-P-P-Pneumothorax is a word that is long;
Nah, just trying to put the punk back into punctured lung
Monday, September 24, 2007
Definition
Currently Listening To: For Us by Pete Yorn
I was just watching a video on CNN of a Senator (I think it was the Senate... I'm ashamed to say I can't tell the Senate from Congress) condemning Columbia University for hosting Iranian President Amamammenajabadroflmaobbq, when I heard one of the many words used in the media today of which I haven't the slightest idea what it means:
TERRR.
What the hell is terrr? I mean, this guys talks about it, Bush talks about it... Everyone talks about terrr. Me? I don't talk about terrr. What's terrr?
Oh, I see; terrr is how you pronounce terror if you're a backwoods, ignorant redneck who hasn't the slightest idea what he's talking about.
Ain't nobody talking 'bout terrr on Heroes, which starts once more in just one hour and 28 minutes... I am ecstatic. Time to find out who lived and who died... Apparently Claire is in witness protection! And boyfriended! EXCITEMENT ABOUNDS. Maybe some studying will too; we'll see how the night goes.
I was just watching a video on CNN of a Senator (I think it was the Senate... I'm ashamed to say I can't tell the Senate from Congress) condemning Columbia University for hosting Iranian President Amamammenajabadroflmaobbq, when I heard one of the many words used in the media today of which I haven't the slightest idea what it means:
TERRR.
What the hell is terrr? I mean, this guys talks about it, Bush talks about it... Everyone talks about terrr. Me? I don't talk about terrr. What's terrr?
Oh, I see; terrr is how you pronounce terror if you're a backwoods, ignorant redneck who hasn't the slightest idea what he's talking about.
Ain't nobody talking 'bout terrr on Heroes, which starts once more in just one hour and 28 minutes... I am ecstatic. Time to find out who lived and who died... Apparently Claire is in witness protection! And boyfriended! EXCITEMENT ABOUNDS. Maybe some studying will too; we'll see how the night goes.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Rock Bottom
Currently Listening To: No Cars Go by the Arcade Fire
Just a little FYI, this song will be playing at my funeral. I'm not entirely sure how one goes about designating that (maybe carry an envelope with me at all times declaring it as such? or just flat out telling people), but if ever you find yourself being asked, "What song is to be played at his funeral?", you know.
I fell asleep on the couch last night. I woke up around 5ish (having fallen asleep hella early; I'm thinking 10ish) and looked at the floor, where I saw one of our dogs. It was strange; they don't usually go down into the basement unless there's food or a storm. Still, I called to her. She didn't respond. It's okay, I thought, she's sleeping. So I called her some more, and she did nothing. I rolled off the couch and dragged myself over to her and reached out to pet her (I was pretty delirious), only to find out that it was a pair of pants.
If I had to describe "hitting rock bottom" as anything, I'd say shouting at a pair of pants sums it up.
Desperation is something pretty well summed up as someone jumping out of their car at a stop light and pressing the pedestrian-walk-whatever button. I mean, just how bad do you need to get somewhere? Those things don't even work. REALLY.
Just thought I'd check in.
Just a little FYI, this song will be playing at my funeral. I'm not entirely sure how one goes about designating that (maybe carry an envelope with me at all times declaring it as such? or just flat out telling people), but if ever you find yourself being asked, "What song is to be played at his funeral?", you know.
I fell asleep on the couch last night. I woke up around 5ish (having fallen asleep hella early; I'm thinking 10ish) and looked at the floor, where I saw one of our dogs. It was strange; they don't usually go down into the basement unless there's food or a storm. Still, I called to her. She didn't respond. It's okay, I thought, she's sleeping. So I called her some more, and she did nothing. I rolled off the couch and dragged myself over to her and reached out to pet her (I was pretty delirious), only to find out that it was a pair of pants.
If I had to describe "hitting rock bottom" as anything, I'd say shouting at a pair of pants sums it up.
Desperation is something pretty well summed up as someone jumping out of their car at a stop light and pressing the pedestrian-walk-whatever button. I mean, just how bad do you need to get somewhere? Those things don't even work. REALLY.
Just thought I'd check in.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Currently Listening To: A Question of Time by Depeche Mode
While I lack something of actual substance to post, I thought that I would let any interested parties know that, were I to chart my emotional state over an extended period of time, the chart would look like mountain range or the heart rate monitor thing at the hospital, and right about now, I'd be down at the nadir (that, my friends, is a good vocab word; write it down). School isn't getting me down or anything (though I am welcoming this weekend eagerly). I'm just not happy. That's the worst kind of sadness; nothing's actually wrong, you're just sad.
I suppose that's just part of being a teenager. When I'm an adult, periods of unhappiness won't necessarily be periods of sadness. I just won't be either, which is fine by me.
It's weird that I'm feeling like this, because yesterday morning, I was riding on the biggest high I'd ever felt. Everywhere I went, it was like a chorus of people was whistling a happy tune and birds were chirping and the sun was shining and everything was well.
Maybe my being raped by a clown last night has something to do with it.
While I lack something of actual substance to post, I thought that I would let any interested parties know that, were I to chart my emotional state over an extended period of time, the chart would look like mountain range or the heart rate monitor thing at the hospital, and right about now, I'd be down at the nadir (that, my friends, is a good vocab word; write it down). School isn't getting me down or anything (though I am welcoming this weekend eagerly). I'm just not happy. That's the worst kind of sadness; nothing's actually wrong, you're just sad.
I suppose that's just part of being a teenager. When I'm an adult, periods of unhappiness won't necessarily be periods of sadness. I just won't be either, which is fine by me.
It's weird that I'm feeling like this, because yesterday morning, I was riding on the biggest high I'd ever felt. Everywhere I went, it was like a chorus of people was whistling a happy tune and birds were chirping and the sun was shining and everything was well.
Maybe my being raped by a clown last night has something to do with it.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Mystery illness strikes after meteorite hits Peruvian village
Currently Listening To: Black Holes & Revelations by Muse (THE ENTIRE ALBUM... ISN'T THAT COOL?)
More like, "Mystery Illness strikes ME After I Hit Your Mom Last Night". Oooh, burn.
Sorry, I thought that was clever.
That's a link, by the way.
Know what isn't clever, and is in fact quite annoying? The answering machine on our home phone. It's a combination of two things: Down in the basement, I can totally hear that loud-ass phone when it rings, and then when no one picks it up (we're all pretty lazy), I have to sit and listen to the whole message-leaving schpiel. Secondly, our outgoing message is not someone people would actually be calling the house for saying "We're not here right now". Instead, it's my sister, who (incorrectly) thought it would cute/clever/scene to record her own outgoing message, just so people know she lives here too.
I think it's more annoying when I'm calling the house and I have to sit through that. Outgoing messages are annoying. I just want to leave you a message, not hear your fucking life story.
That's been bothering me for ages. Nice to get it off my chest.
More like, "Mystery Illness strikes ME After I Hit Your Mom Last Night". Oooh, burn.
Sorry, I thought that was clever.
That's a link, by the way.
Know what isn't clever, and is in fact quite annoying? The answering machine on our home phone. It's a combination of two things: Down in the basement, I can totally hear that loud-ass phone when it rings, and then when no one picks it up (we're all pretty lazy), I have to sit and listen to the whole message-leaving schpiel. Secondly, our outgoing message is not someone people would actually be calling the house for saying "We're not here right now". Instead, it's my sister, who (incorrectly) thought it would cute/clever/scene to record her own outgoing message, just so people know she lives here too.
I think it's more annoying when I'm calling the house and I have to sit through that. Outgoing messages are annoying. I just want to leave you a message, not hear your fucking life story.
That's been bothering me for ages. Nice to get it off my chest.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Rampant Lesbianism
Currently Listening To: Violent Pornography by System of a Down
So this afternoon, I saw The Brave One (I'm going to skip over the part where I visited yet again the college that I've realized is almost as awesome as the other one I want to go to). It was a reeeeeeally good movie (the ending was a tad cheesy, but I'll let it slide).
But while I was walking out of the theater, I realized something:
I am a lesbian.
I'll shout it from my computer chair: I am a lesbian. I'm currently downloading the complete works of Melissa Ethridge.
Why am I a lesbian? Because I'm a sucker for movies about how men are spineless and the only people capable of taking control of a bad situation are women. Panic Room, Red Eye, Flightplan, Resident Evil, Nightmare on Elm Street series (Jesse had to get his gal-pal to do all the work for him)... All movies that could end up on Lifetime, which is now the only channel on my satellite; I called DirecTV and told them to cancel all the others.
Anyways, my love for these corny women-kicking-ass movies obviously means I'm a lesbian. Or a radical feminist. Or a chauvinist.
Or it means something completely different. I know it means something.
Wait, do you have to be a chick to be a lesbian?
Got all worked up for nothing.
So this afternoon, I saw The Brave One (I'm going to skip over the part where I visited yet again the college that I've realized is almost as awesome as the other one I want to go to). It was a reeeeeeally good movie (the ending was a tad cheesy, but I'll let it slide).
But while I was walking out of the theater, I realized something:
I am a lesbian.
I'll shout it from my computer chair: I am a lesbian. I'm currently downloading the complete works of Melissa Ethridge.
Why am I a lesbian? Because I'm a sucker for movies about how men are spineless and the only people capable of taking control of a bad situation are women. Panic Room, Red Eye, Flightplan, Resident Evil, Nightmare on Elm Street series (Jesse had to get his gal-pal to do all the work for him)... All movies that could end up on Lifetime, which is now the only channel on my satellite; I called DirecTV and told them to cancel all the others.
Anyways, my love for these corny women-kicking-ass movies obviously means I'm a lesbian. Or a radical feminist. Or a chauvinist.
Or it means something completely different. I know it means something.
Wait, do you have to be a chick to be a lesbian?
Got all worked up for nothing.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Bitch
Currently Listening To: Build Me Up Buttercup by the Goops
As of my writing this, at 9:49 on September the 12th, 2007, I have a little more than three weeks left of being 16.
I like 16. It's young to the point of not having a whole hell of a lot of responsibility, but still not too young.
In three weeks, that's gone. I go from teen-teen to old-teen.
In the department of "making me feel even more anxious about turning seventeen", my mom pointed out that 17 is the age when I will start college. On October Fifth, I will be the same age as when I pack up all my shit and move to some place that, as of right now, I have no idea where it is.
(insert a gunshot sound effect, or some other "boom" type sound, here to signify my mind being blown)
Pray for my getting a license. Hopefully it'll be sometime before Bush is unemployed. And if that's the case, hopefully he'll be expelled from office sometime this week.
If I could go back to the spring of my sophomore year and just live then forever, that would be great. I think that might be the happiest I've ever felt. Secure, too. Everything was very certain, you know? Robert's graduation was more than a year away, and my graduation wasn't even a thought. I still had my love seat, my crappy WalMart TV, my upstairs room, my viking bed... I never had to explain why I didn't drive...
Goddamn, I'm emo. I wasn't emo then. All the more reason to go back.
I suppose I could also go back and make bets using my current knowledge. The only flaw in that plan being that I can't remember who won the Superbowl/World Series/Final Four/whatever, so that would do me no good. Eh, whatever. I'd still be from the future. That would cool in and of itself.
As of my writing this, at 9:49 on September the 12th, 2007, I have a little more than three weeks left of being 16.
I like 16. It's young to the point of not having a whole hell of a lot of responsibility, but still not too young.
In three weeks, that's gone. I go from teen-teen to old-teen.
In the department of "making me feel even more anxious about turning seventeen", my mom pointed out that 17 is the age when I will start college. On October Fifth, I will be the same age as when I pack up all my shit and move to some place that, as of right now, I have no idea where it is.
(insert a gunshot sound effect, or some other "boom" type sound, here to signify my mind being blown)
Pray for my getting a license. Hopefully it'll be sometime before Bush is unemployed. And if that's the case, hopefully he'll be expelled from office sometime this week.
If I could go back to the spring of my sophomore year and just live then forever, that would be great. I think that might be the happiest I've ever felt. Secure, too. Everything was very certain, you know? Robert's graduation was more than a year away, and my graduation wasn't even a thought. I still had my love seat, my crappy WalMart TV, my upstairs room, my viking bed... I never had to explain why I didn't drive...
Goddamn, I'm emo. I wasn't emo then. All the more reason to go back.
I suppose I could also go back and make bets using my current knowledge. The only flaw in that plan being that I can't remember who won the Superbowl/World Series/Final Four/whatever, so that would do me no good. Eh, whatever. I'd still be from the future. That would cool in and of itself.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Impulse Had Me Type "Tony Danza" The First Time
Currently Listening To: Tiny Dancer by Elton John
While viewing the flood of half-assed and cheesy sorrow unfold on Facebook, I was reminded of my September Eleventh experience. Two days or so afterwards, we were asked to do an entry about our thoughts in our English journals. Mine was about how I was tired of seeing 24/7 news reports on the subject. I was ten years old and I wanted to watch the Simpsons, dammit.
People got pissed. But could you really blame me for being so apathetic? Sure, 3000 people dying is no small thing, especially when it was due to a terrorist attack, but to a ten-year-old in the week immediately following that, I sure as hell had no idea what it really meant. I didn't know anyone who had died (Georgia=not close to New York), and didn't know I knew anyone who knew someone who died until about a year later. Thus, it was 100% abstract to me (until I saw the video of a guy splattering on the ground, which is a tad more tangible). Call me cynical, but whenever I see people (people at my school, not people in, like, New York) getting all teary eyed over it, I can't help but suspect it isn't genuine. Feeling sad about something that had a minimal impact on your life aside from hearing about it a lot just seems bizarre. Again, just being cynical. People die all the time. Large numbers of people. Often for seemingly avoidable things. Yes, terrorism is awful, but so is drunk driving. 1000x people killed a year in drunk driving/drunk-related deaths, no one sheds a tear unless it was someone in their family. Religious zealots not entirely different than some folks we've got who were born and raised in our country kill 3000 people and everyone writes a song about it.
Just a thought.
Iron Man (I had to change my pants after viewing this masterpiece)
Southern accents, not surprisingly, annoy me. I've never identified with the whole Southern 'thing', so that extra reminder of this shit, well, why would I like it? Anyways, both of my sisters have seemingly spontaneously picked accents up. Another reason to go to college.
And then this thought I had last night: People don't like it when I'm all open about my SAT scores (I did better than average), so I try to be modest, but it seems like people don't like that either because then it's condescending. Paradox? Quite.
Okay, so better than average is a gross understatement. Basically, any mention of those scores leads to a discussion of how I'm squandering my intelligence with my mediocre grades.
While viewing the flood of half-assed and cheesy sorrow unfold on Facebook, I was reminded of my September Eleventh experience. Two days or so afterwards, we were asked to do an entry about our thoughts in our English journals. Mine was about how I was tired of seeing 24/7 news reports on the subject. I was ten years old and I wanted to watch the Simpsons, dammit.
People got pissed. But could you really blame me for being so apathetic? Sure, 3000 people dying is no small thing, especially when it was due to a terrorist attack, but to a ten-year-old in the week immediately following that, I sure as hell had no idea what it really meant. I didn't know anyone who had died (Georgia=not close to New York), and didn't know I knew anyone who knew someone who died until about a year later. Thus, it was 100% abstract to me (until I saw the video of a guy splattering on the ground, which is a tad more tangible). Call me cynical, but whenever I see people (people at my school, not people in, like, New York) getting all teary eyed over it, I can't help but suspect it isn't genuine. Feeling sad about something that had a minimal impact on your life aside from hearing about it a lot just seems bizarre. Again, just being cynical. People die all the time. Large numbers of people. Often for seemingly avoidable things. Yes, terrorism is awful, but so is drunk driving. 1000x people killed a year in drunk driving/drunk-related deaths, no one sheds a tear unless it was someone in their family. Religious zealots not entirely different than some folks we've got who were born and raised in our country kill 3000 people and everyone writes a song about it.
Just a thought.
Iron Man (I had to change my pants after viewing this masterpiece)
Southern accents, not surprisingly, annoy me. I've never identified with the whole Southern 'thing', so that extra reminder of this shit, well, why would I like it? Anyways, both of my sisters have seemingly spontaneously picked accents up. Another reason to go to college.
And then this thought I had last night: People don't like it when I'm all open about my SAT scores (I did better than average), so I try to be modest, but it seems like people don't like that either because then it's condescending. Paradox? Quite.
Okay, so better than average is a gross understatement. Basically, any mention of those scores leads to a discussion of how I'm squandering my intelligence with my mediocre grades.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Weird Day
Currently Listening To: Out of Line by the Bravery
I had such a weird day yesterday.
It started out normal. Go to school. Take a quiz, turn in some homework, eat some greasy foodstuffs in the cafeteria (I'll likely be dead by the end of the year due to clogged arteries), yell at underclassmen for their seeming inability to not just stand there in the hallways...
Then 6th period happened.
Let me preempt a bit... This was not like the 6th period a few years ago where I irritated a scab and bled all over myself. This was not wierd like the 6th period the year before when my Spanish teacher illustrated the difference between ser and estar with my fatitude. This was not weird like Family Feud during sixth period last year.
What was it, then?
It was my Spanish teacher calling a Hispanic student a wetback.
It may be cliche, but the unfolding of said event was like in Children of Men, when there's a big explosion and all of a sudden you can't hear anything. You just look around and try and take in what happened. I didn't actually understand what she'd said (Clint explained later), but the look on the two of their faces was enough to see that a line had been crossed.
Needless to say, 6th periods are going to be quite different from now on. It's hard to defend her, but I wouldn't like to see her fired because the person they'd replace her with is not someone I'd like to have as a teacher again... The guy called me fat. But then again, she called a kid a wetback. That's no good. I mean, if you feel that way, I can't really force you to change your mind, but keep it to yourself, especially when you've got like three Hispanic kids in the class.
The next everything's-gone-mute experience I had yesterday was witnessing a little girl get hit by a car. I was with some friends going to a football game and, while my head was turned away, this little girl runs out into the street and get's jacked by the car facing us. I didn't see it, but I heard it. It was pretty fucked up. One of the kids in the car said it looked like she snapped her neck, but she's apparently going to be okay. That didn't stop her from screaming the most awful scream I've ever heard.
It was even weirder because I'd thought about people getting hit by cars a fair bit already that day. First, in graphic design, I decided to include "Jill gets hit by a bus" in my interpretation of Jack and Jill (Jack and Jill rode their bikes up an pyramid of elephants to compete in Mortal Kombat; Jack fell down, cracked his skull and Jill got hit by a bus), and a few hours later explained to Dane how the fact that I see Hyundai Tiburons everywhere I go means I'm going to get hit by one. I decided not to mention either once we got back in the car. That would just be douchey.
Did I mention I'm going to be killed by a Tiburon someday? I know this for certain. They really are everywhere, and I think it's got nothing to do with people really liking them. I'm having premonitions. Maybe I won't be killed/maimed by one, but one's going to be very important at some point. Maybe the president's going to be assassinated, and the killer will drive a Tiburon?
Eh, whatever. Hopefully it will hit me while I'm not looking.
I had such a weird day yesterday.
It started out normal. Go to school. Take a quiz, turn in some homework, eat some greasy foodstuffs in the cafeteria (I'll likely be dead by the end of the year due to clogged arteries), yell at underclassmen for their seeming inability to not just stand there in the hallways...
Then 6th period happened.
Let me preempt a bit... This was not like the 6th period a few years ago where I irritated a scab and bled all over myself. This was not wierd like the 6th period the year before when my Spanish teacher illustrated the difference between ser and estar with my fatitude. This was not weird like Family Feud during sixth period last year.
What was it, then?
It was my Spanish teacher calling a Hispanic student a wetback.
It may be cliche, but the unfolding of said event was like in Children of Men, when there's a big explosion and all of a sudden you can't hear anything. You just look around and try and take in what happened. I didn't actually understand what she'd said (Clint explained later), but the look on the two of their faces was enough to see that a line had been crossed.
Needless to say, 6th periods are going to be quite different from now on. It's hard to defend her, but I wouldn't like to see her fired because the person they'd replace her with is not someone I'd like to have as a teacher again... The guy called me fat. But then again, she called a kid a wetback. That's no good. I mean, if you feel that way, I can't really force you to change your mind, but keep it to yourself, especially when you've got like three Hispanic kids in the class.
The next everything's-gone-mute experience I had yesterday was witnessing a little girl get hit by a car. I was with some friends going to a football game and, while my head was turned away, this little girl runs out into the street and get's jacked by the car facing us. I didn't see it, but I heard it. It was pretty fucked up. One of the kids in the car said it looked like she snapped her neck, but she's apparently going to be okay. That didn't stop her from screaming the most awful scream I've ever heard.
It was even weirder because I'd thought about people getting hit by cars a fair bit already that day. First, in graphic design, I decided to include "Jill gets hit by a bus" in my interpretation of Jack and Jill (Jack and Jill rode their bikes up an pyramid of elephants to compete in Mortal Kombat; Jack fell down, cracked his skull and Jill got hit by a bus), and a few hours later explained to Dane how the fact that I see Hyundai Tiburons everywhere I go means I'm going to get hit by one. I decided not to mention either once we got back in the car. That would just be douchey.
Did I mention I'm going to be killed by a Tiburon someday? I know this for certain. They really are everywhere, and I think it's got nothing to do with people really liking them. I'm having premonitions. Maybe I won't be killed/maimed by one, but one's going to be very important at some point. Maybe the president's going to be assassinated, and the killer will drive a Tiburon?
Eh, whatever. Hopefully it will hit me while I'm not looking.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
I Feel Like I Haven't Done This In A While
Currently Listening To: B.Y.O.B. by System of a Down
So, we're two weeks into schooooool. Er, I am two weeks into school; I have no idea who the fuck you are or what your story is, so quit pretending you go to my school, child molester. I think Daniel summed it up best by describing this year as surreal--it's like going to a different school but on the same campus. At least half the students appear to be new (even a bunch of new seniors... weird. I don't know how I feel about people who go to a school for just one year when it's their last year... Sketchy), we're now mega-uniform (though it doesn't seem as evident to me anymore... Girls, on the other hand? Starla got a lecture yesterday for wearing, sin of all sins, a blue headband. The teacher was giving her some serious 'tude, like she'd murdered someone or something), a demerit system for God's sake (my dad was like, "Oh, I didn't know I was sending you to military school"; he says it's more strict than the actual military school he went to), and they've moved and re-named like everything. It's confusing.
Tomorrow I'm going to do some serious work on college applications after hearing from pretty much everyone of my teachers that I should be almost graduated from college by now... I seem to have fallen behind. It might be because I'm lazy, but I also feel like all these suggested deadlines that have come and gone were news to me when people were talking about them in past tense. Either I missed some big info session last year or didn't realize how serious it was, but I've just got nothing. And as I look at these various applications and the process for submitting them to school (not the one I'm applying to, the one I'm already at) and see how complicated they are, I realize that I spent the past 16 years being completely oblivious to the entire college-thing. I suppose I've just expected to get a letter from some magically perfect school somewhere where everyone is just like me and you can pay tuition with the change in your pocket and there are no majors or term papers and everyone just sits around in the student center, like on Boy Meets World. But no, I will not be married to Topanga or taught by the same guy who's taught me my entire life while at college, which will not be attended by everyone I hang out with.
Now, instead of teenage nostalgia and moping, how about some complaining?
Perhaps, complaining about something random (well, not really) and irrelevant (quite)?
Popped collars were bad.
Uniforms? They were worse.
But popped collars... On uniforms? Any attempt to describe the baditude of such a combination could only result in failure. And yet, people at school pop their collars. Here's my rationale: if you lack the maturity/intellectual capacity to decide what you want to wear in the morning, you probably should refrain from popping your collar. Besides, isn't collar-popping for brightly-dyed Polos and Lacoste shirts? Our school crest is hardly a substitute for that little guy on his horse or whatever the hell Lacoste's logo is.
And these kids look like absolute morons. I mean, they looked dumb when they popped their Lacoste shirts. They looked really dumb when they wore uniforms. But when they did both at the same time? It wasn't dumb plus really dumb; it wasn't dumb times really dumb; no, it was dumb to the power of really dumb.
In other news, I still feel weird alone in the basement and I lack the ability to do homework on most nights. It's rough. And football is really boring. People need to stop expecting me to go to those games. I only went the past four years because of my brother.
So, we're two weeks into schooooool. Er, I am two weeks into school; I have no idea who the fuck you are or what your story is, so quit pretending you go to my school, child molester. I think Daniel summed it up best by describing this year as surreal--it's like going to a different school but on the same campus. At least half the students appear to be new (even a bunch of new seniors... weird. I don't know how I feel about people who go to a school for just one year when it's their last year... Sketchy), we're now mega-uniform (though it doesn't seem as evident to me anymore... Girls, on the other hand? Starla got a lecture yesterday for wearing, sin of all sins, a blue headband. The teacher was giving her some serious 'tude, like she'd murdered someone or something), a demerit system for God's sake (my dad was like, "Oh, I didn't know I was sending you to military school"; he says it's more strict than the actual military school he went to), and they've moved and re-named like everything. It's confusing.
Tomorrow I'm going to do some serious work on college applications after hearing from pretty much everyone of my teachers that I should be almost graduated from college by now... I seem to have fallen behind. It might be because I'm lazy, but I also feel like all these suggested deadlines that have come and gone were news to me when people were talking about them in past tense. Either I missed some big info session last year or didn't realize how serious it was, but I've just got nothing. And as I look at these various applications and the process for submitting them to school (not the one I'm applying to, the one I'm already at) and see how complicated they are, I realize that I spent the past 16 years being completely oblivious to the entire college-thing. I suppose I've just expected to get a letter from some magically perfect school somewhere where everyone is just like me and you can pay tuition with the change in your pocket and there are no majors or term papers and everyone just sits around in the student center, like on Boy Meets World. But no, I will not be married to Topanga or taught by the same guy who's taught me my entire life while at college, which will not be attended by everyone I hang out with.
Now, instead of teenage nostalgia and moping, how about some complaining?
Perhaps, complaining about something random (well, not really) and irrelevant (quite)?
Popped collars were bad.
Uniforms? They were worse.
But popped collars... On uniforms? Any attempt to describe the baditude of such a combination could only result in failure. And yet, people at school pop their collars. Here's my rationale: if you lack the maturity/intellectual capacity to decide what you want to wear in the morning, you probably should refrain from popping your collar. Besides, isn't collar-popping for brightly-dyed Polos and Lacoste shirts? Our school crest is hardly a substitute for that little guy on his horse or whatever the hell Lacoste's logo is.
And these kids look like absolute morons. I mean, they looked dumb when they popped their Lacoste shirts. They looked really dumb when they wore uniforms. But when they did both at the same time? It wasn't dumb plus really dumb; it wasn't dumb times really dumb; no, it was dumb to the power of really dumb.
In other news, I still feel weird alone in the basement and I lack the ability to do homework on most nights. It's rough. And football is really boring. People need to stop expecting me to go to those games. I only went the past four years because of my brother.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Fall of Innocence, or Something of Equal Melodrama
Currently Watching: Big Love
In the span of one week, everything in my life has pretty much changed. Bob has moved out and starts classes tomorrow, and in a few hours, I'll begin my senior year. Of course, I'll be riding the loser cruiser for at least the first week... Joy of all joys, to be sure.
Despite knowing that all of this was going to happen, I still don't think I could have ever been truly prepared. Living alone in this basement is really weird. I've started sleeping in Bob's old bed; he told my mom that that was okay, and that he would sleep on the couch when he comes to visit, but it still feels weird, like I've moved on from his departure...
And now I'm talking like he's dead. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
It's a really squeaky bed; if I don't have headphones on or the radio blasting, I can't sleep too well. Then again, I really don't like my old bed, so I guess I'll just stay put.
But that doesn't matter. What does matter is this is pretty much the first time he hasn't been there, and not until now am I realizing just how dependent I was on him. Sure, his chauffeur-ery was pretty apparent, but now I realize he was pretty much more of me that I was. I don't know if any thing's actually changed, but I feel alone and naked and out of place.
And now that all three people who read this think I'm a mo for my bro, I'm going to bed. It's 10:30, and I'll never get up tomorrow lest I go to sleep soon.
That, or I'll watch TV until 6 a.m.
In the span of one week, everything in my life has pretty much changed. Bob has moved out and starts classes tomorrow, and in a few hours, I'll begin my senior year. Of course, I'll be riding the loser cruiser for at least the first week... Joy of all joys, to be sure.
Despite knowing that all of this was going to happen, I still don't think I could have ever been truly prepared. Living alone in this basement is really weird. I've started sleeping in Bob's old bed; he told my mom that that was okay, and that he would sleep on the couch when he comes to visit, but it still feels weird, like I've moved on from his departure...
And now I'm talking like he's dead. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
It's a really squeaky bed; if I don't have headphones on or the radio blasting, I can't sleep too well. Then again, I really don't like my old bed, so I guess I'll just stay put.
But that doesn't matter. What does matter is this is pretty much the first time he hasn't been there, and not until now am I realizing just how dependent I was on him. Sure, his chauffeur-ery was pretty apparent, but now I realize he was pretty much more of me that I was. I don't know if any thing's actually changed, but I feel alone and naked and out of place.
And now that all three people who read this think I'm a mo for my bro, I'm going to bed. It's 10:30, and I'll never get up tomorrow lest I go to sleep soon.
That, or I'll watch TV until 6 a.m.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Failure
Currently Listening To: Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above by CSS
I remember writing, back in my freshman year, an essay for English about "rites of passage". One of the examples I used for modern rites of passage was getting a driver's license, and I don't think anyone would contest that.
So when someone fails at a rite of passage, like the one above, the only thing that comes to mind is "soul-crushing". I think that works. That's pretty much how I feel right now. This is like that time I found some receipts a few days after Christmas one year... receipts for things labeled "from Santa". That's really all I can compare this to in terms of disappointment. So much self-consoling and whatnot. Denial... Lots of denial. "You were nervous", "the instructor was too harsh", whatever.
On the other hand, "embarrassing" also comes to mind. I haven't been faced with too many embarrassing situations in the past, so if I had to equate the shame felt as that woman told my dad that I'd failed to anything, I'd say: riding a bike on a crowded street, crashing the bike and landing in such a way that the handlebar goes straight up my ass, at which point a clown approaches me and takes a lengthy hangover piss all over me; while still covered in piss-stained clothing with a bike hanging out my ass, I'm arrested for indecent exposure (my ass is showing, I suppose) and hauled off to jail without a chance to change clothes or remove the bicycle from my ass.
I think that sums up how I felt.
So yeah, I failed my driver's test. I could get 100% on my retest and still couldn't undo this. I'll think of it every time I see my license, every time I renew it, every time I drive, when my children are getting their licenses (parents who've smoked pot think they feel bad telling their children about the evils of drugs? try giving your kid tips on passing the test when you yourself failed).
I mean, is there anything that could possibly signify my non-worth of existence?
No.
At the age of sixteen, I have already faced the most crushing defeat I could ever imagine.
Excuse me while I go dig a sixty seven inch deep hole in the backyard, fill it with lye, surround said hole with all manner of flesh-eating critters and then do a nice big cannonball into my rightfully deserved peril.
There are starving children in Ethiopia who would gladly pass a driver's test, but ungrateful and selfish me had to go and squander it.
I remember writing, back in my freshman year, an essay for English about "rites of passage". One of the examples I used for modern rites of passage was getting a driver's license, and I don't think anyone would contest that.
So when someone fails at a rite of passage, like the one above, the only thing that comes to mind is "soul-crushing". I think that works. That's pretty much how I feel right now. This is like that time I found some receipts a few days after Christmas one year... receipts for things labeled "from Santa". That's really all I can compare this to in terms of disappointment. So much self-consoling and whatnot. Denial... Lots of denial. "You were nervous", "the instructor was too harsh", whatever.
On the other hand, "embarrassing" also comes to mind. I haven't been faced with too many embarrassing situations in the past, so if I had to equate the shame felt as that woman told my dad that I'd failed to anything, I'd say: riding a bike on a crowded street, crashing the bike and landing in such a way that the handlebar goes straight up my ass, at which point a clown approaches me and takes a lengthy hangover piss all over me; while still covered in piss-stained clothing with a bike hanging out my ass, I'm arrested for indecent exposure (my ass is showing, I suppose) and hauled off to jail without a chance to change clothes or remove the bicycle from my ass.
I think that sums up how I felt.
So yeah, I failed my driver's test. I could get 100% on my retest and still couldn't undo this. I'll think of it every time I see my license, every time I renew it, every time I drive, when my children are getting their licenses (parents who've smoked pot think they feel bad telling their children about the evils of drugs? try giving your kid tips on passing the test when you yourself failed).
I mean, is there anything that could possibly signify my non-worth of existence?
No.
At the age of sixteen, I have already faced the most crushing defeat I could ever imagine.
Excuse me while I go dig a sixty seven inch deep hole in the backyard, fill it with lye, surround said hole with all manner of flesh-eating critters and then do a nice big cannonball into my rightfully deserved peril.
There are starving children in Ethiopia who would gladly pass a driver's test, but ungrateful and selfish me had to go and squander it.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Things I Do Like, Things I Don't, And Things I'm Rather Apathetic Towards
Currently Listening To: Angels Losing Sleep by Our Lady Sleep
I actually kind of like this band. I suppose that should be a given, considering I haven't skipped or deleted the song at this point, but there was never a time whereupon I skipped into a record store, spotted and Our Lady Peace CD, soiled myself due to the overwhelming joy and gleefully leaped over to the register, at which point I tore open the packaging without even paying first because of extreme and unbearable anticipation.
But that is not of any consequence. What matters is that Matt Damon is on the Daily Show tonight, and that guy is awesome
Okay, so that was Thursday night. I got distracted... And now here I am, on Friday night. Since then, I've seen the Bourne Ultimatum. The movie itself was awesome. Some other aspects? Not so much. Take, for instance, the guy sitting next to me. He was eating nachos. I never understood why they even sell nachos at movie theaters until I saw this jackass munching on corn chips and licking spicy, liquid cheese off of his fingers... Ugh, makes me sick. Smug little asshole, eating his nachos... What a jerk.
And then, to make matters worse, there was a preview for a movie with Nicholas Cage. Aw, shit. It doesn't really matter what the movie was; I was doomed to hate it, on account of Nicholas Cage.
Of course, seeing as it was National Treasure 2, it's quite relevant what the movie was. Where do they get off making this movie? I mean, first of all, Nicholas Cage sucks. Pure and simple. Second of all, are people really stupid enough to believe that every national monument in like every country has huge bottomless pits underneath, which conceal centuries-old international conspiracies linking every major event ever?
Well, yes. But should Disney be encouraging this? And since when did they ditch the old, classic blue Disney logo in favor of this flashy, multi-colored new one? Those soulless bastards.
Siblings are annoying too. Well, I shouldn't say siblings. I should just say sisters, because that's what I mean. They talk and talk and talk, and I just can't take it. They talk about the dumbest shit. Ballet classes (don't care), middle school gossip/scandals (really don't care) and just everything, and frankly, they could be talking about me and I still wouldn't care. That's how much I'm not interested in what they have to say. AND on top of that, one of the sisters (who will be, again, left nameless to preserve her public image) showed my parents some Facebook pictures of the party my brother had a few weeks ago. I suppose I could understand it if something had been broken and no one owned up to it and the picture acted as evidence or something, but it wasn't an issue at this point. My parents hadn't been suspicious or anything. Everything was restored to how it once was. They even knew people had been over. So what was there to be gained by rolling over on your own flesh and blood, besides throwing away his trust?
Naturally, I went and deleted her (and the other sister) from my friends' list on myspace and facebook. Just to be safe.
I also don't like anime. Our satellite receiver seems to have gotten stuck on Cartoon Network, which wasn't a problem as I watched Futurama, and then Robot Chicken, and the Aqua Teen Hunger Force... But then anime came on.
It was the worst minute ever.
For serious.
But the pizza we ate after the movie was good. It was at a place that apparently has been around for a while but at the same time eluded this fat kid's awareness, called "California Pizza Kitchen". Basically, it was pizza, but it was really good pizza, and thne they put crazy stuff on it, like shrimp scampi. That's what I got. Hence, me listing it as an example.
Fin.
I actually kind of like this band. I suppose that should be a given, considering I haven't skipped or deleted the song at this point, but there was never a time whereupon I skipped into a record store, spotted and Our Lady Peace CD, soiled myself due to the overwhelming joy and gleefully leaped over to the register, at which point I tore open the packaging without even paying first because of extreme and unbearable anticipation.
But that is not of any consequence. What matters is that Matt Damon is on the Daily Show tonight, and that guy is awesome
Okay, so that was Thursday night. I got distracted... And now here I am, on Friday night. Since then, I've seen the Bourne Ultimatum. The movie itself was awesome. Some other aspects? Not so much. Take, for instance, the guy sitting next to me. He was eating nachos. I never understood why they even sell nachos at movie theaters until I saw this jackass munching on corn chips and licking spicy, liquid cheese off of his fingers... Ugh, makes me sick. Smug little asshole, eating his nachos... What a jerk.
And then, to make matters worse, there was a preview for a movie with Nicholas Cage. Aw, shit. It doesn't really matter what the movie was; I was doomed to hate it, on account of Nicholas Cage.
Of course, seeing as it was National Treasure 2, it's quite relevant what the movie was. Where do they get off making this movie? I mean, first of all, Nicholas Cage sucks. Pure and simple. Second of all, are people really stupid enough to believe that every national monument in like every country has huge bottomless pits underneath, which conceal centuries-old international conspiracies linking every major event ever?
Well, yes. But should Disney be encouraging this? And since when did they ditch the old, classic blue Disney logo in favor of this flashy, multi-colored new one? Those soulless bastards.
Siblings are annoying too. Well, I shouldn't say siblings. I should just say sisters, because that's what I mean. They talk and talk and talk, and I just can't take it. They talk about the dumbest shit. Ballet classes (don't care), middle school gossip/scandals (really don't care) and just everything, and frankly, they could be talking about me and I still wouldn't care. That's how much I'm not interested in what they have to say. AND on top of that, one of the sisters (who will be, again, left nameless to preserve her public image) showed my parents some Facebook pictures of the party my brother had a few weeks ago. I suppose I could understand it if something had been broken and no one owned up to it and the picture acted as evidence or something, but it wasn't an issue at this point. My parents hadn't been suspicious or anything. Everything was restored to how it once was. They even knew people had been over. So what was there to be gained by rolling over on your own flesh and blood, besides throwing away his trust?
Naturally, I went and deleted her (and the other sister) from my friends' list on myspace and facebook. Just to be safe.
I also don't like anime. Our satellite receiver seems to have gotten stuck on Cartoon Network, which wasn't a problem as I watched Futurama, and then Robot Chicken, and the Aqua Teen Hunger Force... But then anime came on.
It was the worst minute ever.
For serious.
But the pizza we ate after the movie was good. It was at a place that apparently has been around for a while but at the same time eluded this fat kid's awareness, called "California Pizza Kitchen". Basically, it was pizza, but it was really good pizza, and thne they put crazy stuff on it, like shrimp scampi. That's what I got. Hence, me listing it as an example.
Fin.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Spider Pig Is Not Funny
Currently Listening To: Blue Monday by Orgy
I saw the Simpsons movie on Saturday; it was really good, especially when compared to all the episodes from this past season that pop up on TiVo every week. They're pretty grim. But the movie? Not at all, and I do feel qualified to say that, because I've been watching it for at least ten years.
I do feel the need to complain about one thing... Spider Pig. It wasn't all that funny in the commercials. I mean, yeah, it's a pig. He's holding it on the ceiling. So? But I figured, like all unfunny-and-played-to-death scenes in movie trailers, it would go unnoticed in the movie. Well, not unnoticed; those things always get a laugh of two.
But then the pig came on screen for the first time. A girl behind me (who had to have seen it already, because she knew half the lines) started to sing Spider Pig, and a little kid in front of me (I don't know why parents don't seem to get "PG-13"... It's pretty simple) shouted Spider Pig. Then, later on, the actual Spider Pig scene came on, and people went nuts. Why? It's not funny. It really isn't. No one laughed at "Pres. Schwarzenegger", no one laughed at the EPA thing, no one laughed at the surprise celebrity cameo at the end (which I was unaware of until I read that it was a surprise cameo on Wikipedia the next day). So many jokes went straight over people's heads. I know it sounds elitist of me, but for God's sake, it's The Simpsons. It's not exactly high-brow.
I've got two suggestions that could end this dilemma from occurring again. First, no more children in movie theaters. Build little daycare centers in the lobby or something. Kids aren't the only people who talk in movies, but I suppose people would just lie if you asked them before they go in if they're talkers. I suppose people who raise talkers are talkers themselves, so maybe they'd stop coming as well.
Second, I think movie trailers shouldn't include scenes from the movie. They should film some additional stuff that gets the point across without telling you everything. I mean, there isn't much suspense in a movie if you've can say "We haven't gotten to such-and-such scene, so they're going to make it through this". It's kind of the opposite of Scream, where you thought Drew Barrymore was the main character, but she wasn't. If filming new material is too expensive, they could just show the first few minutes, like Dawn of the Dead did. That way, nothing's spoiled, and they didn't have to spend any money.
I love Dawn of the Dead. I wish I could watch it RIGHT NOW. But, I lost the DVD of it, along with all of my other favorite movies. I had them all in a little CD case, which has since gone missing. Dawn of the Dead, Saved, Clerks 2, Fifth Element... All missing. Probably some others as well, I just haven't noticed yet.
"Frustration, frustration; I hate this vacation."
I saw the Simpsons movie on Saturday; it was really good, especially when compared to all the episodes from this past season that pop up on TiVo every week. They're pretty grim. But the movie? Not at all, and I do feel qualified to say that, because I've been watching it for at least ten years.
I do feel the need to complain about one thing... Spider Pig. It wasn't all that funny in the commercials. I mean, yeah, it's a pig. He's holding it on the ceiling. So? But I figured, like all unfunny-and-played-to-death scenes in movie trailers, it would go unnoticed in the movie. Well, not unnoticed; those things always get a laugh of two.
But then the pig came on screen for the first time. A girl behind me (who had to have seen it already, because she knew half the lines) started to sing Spider Pig, and a little kid in front of me (I don't know why parents don't seem to get "PG-13"... It's pretty simple) shouted Spider Pig. Then, later on, the actual Spider Pig scene came on, and people went nuts. Why? It's not funny. It really isn't. No one laughed at "Pres. Schwarzenegger", no one laughed at the EPA thing, no one laughed at the surprise celebrity cameo at the end (which I was unaware of until I read that it was a surprise cameo on Wikipedia the next day). So many jokes went straight over people's heads. I know it sounds elitist of me, but for God's sake, it's The Simpsons. It's not exactly high-brow.
I've got two suggestions that could end this dilemma from occurring again. First, no more children in movie theaters. Build little daycare centers in the lobby or something. Kids aren't the only people who talk in movies, but I suppose people would just lie if you asked them before they go in if they're talkers. I suppose people who raise talkers are talkers themselves, so maybe they'd stop coming as well.
Second, I think movie trailers shouldn't include scenes from the movie. They should film some additional stuff that gets the point across without telling you everything. I mean, there isn't much suspense in a movie if you've can say "We haven't gotten to such-and-such scene, so they're going to make it through this". It's kind of the opposite of Scream, where you thought Drew Barrymore was the main character, but she wasn't. If filming new material is too expensive, they could just show the first few minutes, like Dawn of the Dead did. That way, nothing's spoiled, and they didn't have to spend any money.
I love Dawn of the Dead. I wish I could watch it RIGHT NOW. But, I lost the DVD of it, along with all of my other favorite movies. I had them all in a little CD case, which has since gone missing. Dawn of the Dead, Saved, Clerks 2, Fifth Element... All missing. Probably some others as well, I just haven't noticed yet.
"Frustration, frustration; I hate this vacation."
Friday, July 27, 2007
Awful Movie
Currently Listening To: I Predict A Riot by Kaiser Chiefs
I suppose I should preface this terrifying tale of me subjecting myself to unnecessary torture by providing a little background info:
When I was about ten or eleven, I saw a few minutes of a movie on TV. It was a recent horror movie about a haunted house which had (surprise of all surprises) trapped some people inside. One of them, who has a very large nose on which one could likely land a helicopter, gets fed up and attacks a painting of the house's original owner. The house retaliates by decapitating him with a large stone lion head. That ridiculous image has stuck with me over the past five or so years, not to the point of haunting my nightmares, but leaving me fascinated.
Fast forward to tonight, as I sit in my pajamas watching this movie on TV. Kind of a deja vu type scenario, as I sit on the same couch watching it on the same TV but in a different house. Anyways, long story short, the movie really blows. The stink of the movie still hangs in the air around the Cathode-Ray Shrine, and I'm sure my satellite box will never forgive me for such a grave dishonor as watching this movie on it.
First off, the unsightly-ness of the lead actress was distracting. Yes, that's superficial of me to say, especially considering how unattractive I am, but it still bothered me the entire time. This was not aided by how cliche the movie was. First you had the soulless professor who would stop at nothing to do this experiment (and don't get me started on how he thought the ghost story about the house was made up BY HIM but then turned out to be real), then the spoiled-rich city girl decked out in Prada shit, followed by the fratty no-head guy who was only interested in bedding the bitch and getting out of the house. There are two more characters who seem to serve no purpose whatsoever (why'd they even bother naming those guys?), and rounding off this diverse cast of white people is the aforementioned ugly chick, who is also crazy and somehow related to the house without even knowing.
There are no non-white people in the movie. Not even extras. What the fuck?
Anyways, the people fall victim to the traditional "Why did they think that was a good idea?" haunted house movie situations, except very little ever happens until late in the game. Most of the time is just spent showing the viewer that it's a big house, even bigger than the exterior would have you believe. So many unanswered questions... Why did the Pope movie the Vatican to rural Massachusetts? How is it that there is a giant castle that no one seems to know about, considering how densely populated Mass. is?
Ugh. It was awful. About forty-five minutes in, I realized I would not last much longer (two hour movie), so I watched most of the rest of it in fast-forward. I got to my beloved lion-decapitation scene and fast-forwarded to the end, quite disappointed.
There were a few redeeming factors to the movie: Catherine Zeta-Jones, Catherine Zeta-Jones' glam factor, Catherine Zeta-Jones' lesbianism (except she goes after the ugly chick), Owen Wilson's head being eaten by a rock lion head... That's about it. The house is pretty, too. I'd live there, all malicious spirits considered.
I suppose I should preface this terrifying tale of me subjecting myself to unnecessary torture by providing a little background info:
When I was about ten or eleven, I saw a few minutes of a movie on TV. It was a recent horror movie about a haunted house which had (surprise of all surprises) trapped some people inside. One of them, who has a very large nose on which one could likely land a helicopter, gets fed up and attacks a painting of the house's original owner. The house retaliates by decapitating him with a large stone lion head. That ridiculous image has stuck with me over the past five or so years, not to the point of haunting my nightmares, but leaving me fascinated.
Fast forward to tonight, as I sit in my pajamas watching this movie on TV. Kind of a deja vu type scenario, as I sit on the same couch watching it on the same TV but in a different house. Anyways, long story short, the movie really blows. The stink of the movie still hangs in the air around the Cathode-Ray Shrine, and I'm sure my satellite box will never forgive me for such a grave dishonor as watching this movie on it.
First off, the unsightly-ness of the lead actress was distracting. Yes, that's superficial of me to say, especially considering how unattractive I am, but it still bothered me the entire time. This was not aided by how cliche the movie was. First you had the soulless professor who would stop at nothing to do this experiment (and don't get me started on how he thought the ghost story about the house was made up BY HIM but then turned out to be real), then the spoiled-rich city girl decked out in Prada shit, followed by the fratty no-head guy who was only interested in bedding the bitch and getting out of the house. There are two more characters who seem to serve no purpose whatsoever (why'd they even bother naming those guys?), and rounding off this diverse cast of white people is the aforementioned ugly chick, who is also crazy and somehow related to the house without even knowing.
There are no non-white people in the movie. Not even extras. What the fuck?
Anyways, the people fall victim to the traditional "Why did they think that was a good idea?" haunted house movie situations, except very little ever happens until late in the game. Most of the time is just spent showing the viewer that it's a big house, even bigger than the exterior would have you believe. So many unanswered questions... Why did the Pope movie the Vatican to rural Massachusetts? How is it that there is a giant castle that no one seems to know about, considering how densely populated Mass. is?
Ugh. It was awful. About forty-five minutes in, I realized I would not last much longer (two hour movie), so I watched most of the rest of it in fast-forward. I got to my beloved lion-decapitation scene and fast-forwarded to the end, quite disappointed.
There were a few redeeming factors to the movie: Catherine Zeta-Jones, Catherine Zeta-Jones' glam factor, Catherine Zeta-Jones' lesbianism (except she goes after the ugly chick), Owen Wilson's head being eaten by a rock lion head... That's about it. The house is pretty, too. I'd live there, all malicious spirits considered.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Epic Belch
Currently Listening To: In The Backseat by Arcade Fire (I listen to some pretentious music)
I just burped a magnificent burp that smelled reminiscent of a hookah bar.
I woke up this morning and smelled the distinct odor I've come to identify as school smell. It's the aroma that can be detected during the season known as "Back-to-school". It may be that this is what this time of the year smells like regardless of school, merely the scent of summer turning into fall. Maybe it has to do with a change in the atmoshpere of cleaning supplies, shifting from whatever amusement parks and movie theaters use to whatever schools use. Maybe it's the smell of fear and uncertainty about the upcoming year. I can't possibly know for sure until the fall of 2012, when I will have officially ended my schooling.
But I'm not going to wait that long to find out, because frankly, I don't care. I'm more distracted by the hookah bar that has occupied my mouth.
I just burped a magnificent burp that smelled reminiscent of a hookah bar.
I woke up this morning and smelled the distinct odor I've come to identify as school smell. It's the aroma that can be detected during the season known as "Back-to-school". It may be that this is what this time of the year smells like regardless of school, merely the scent of summer turning into fall. Maybe it has to do with a change in the atmoshpere of cleaning supplies, shifting from whatever amusement parks and movie theaters use to whatever schools use. Maybe it's the smell of fear and uncertainty about the upcoming year. I can't possibly know for sure until the fall of 2012, when I will have officially ended my schooling.
But I'm not going to wait that long to find out, because frankly, I don't care. I'm more distracted by the hookah bar that has occupied my mouth.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
More Celebrity Shennanigans
Currently Weeping To: On Call by Kings of Leon... This song seriously makes me cry
And on a more testosterone-laden note, Lindsay Lohan was arrested today, a block from a police office, for possesion of cocaine and being well over the legal limit of alcohol. Good for her! The mugshot is attractive, as well.
This, of course, asks once more of what to do with these troubled young celebrities. My immediate reaction was execution, but my suggesting we feed Paris, Lohan, Vick and others to tigers would likely hinder my chances of getting a nomination in the 2028 presidential election, which would in turn hinder my chances of ever conquering the world (I'd only keep all of it for a while; I'd turn it back over to its rightful owners soon thereafter, keeping for myself a slice of land in the Benelux region... I'd want a little bit of beach territory, to be heavily guarded at all times so it's just me and not geezers, babies and garbage, and then some valley-type stuff). SO. I, of course, would need an alternate solution; this solution is to exile any celebrity that goes past the "night in the slammer" line. They'd be shipped off to an island/very deep/wide pit in the desert and left to their devices...
Along with some heavy-duty combat weaponry. Like I said, left to their devices; whatever happens, happens. Nicole Richie would have to wait until her baby was born, and then she (Nicole, not the baby, you douche) would be tossed in with the rest. The baby would get the Harry Potter treatment, except unlike Harry, it would never, ever find out the truth. Or instead of raised by common folk, it could be raised by that guy from Storm of the Century. EVIL BABY.
We could put cameras in the pit and it could be a reality show. There's nothing more real than celebrities fighting to the death in a pit in the desert.
Maybe the island could be the island from Jurassic Park. TWICE as entertaining. Except those crackwhores wouldn't be too filling for the dinos, which would subsequently starve. Maybe Mike Vick could get the dinos to fight (though I'd like to see him try to kill the loser).
VOLDEMORT KILLS HARRY, MARRIES GINNY, DRACO MARRIES HERMIONE, RON KNOCKS UP THE ALBINO CHICK, THE ASIAN CHICK BECOMES MINISTER OF MAGIC, DUMBLEDORE WAS A PEACY P ABUSING CHILDMOLESTOR, SNAPE WAS GAY FOR MOLEMAN
Except for the fact that no one is gay for Moleman
And on a more testosterone-laden note, Lindsay Lohan was arrested today, a block from a police office, for possesion of cocaine and being well over the legal limit of alcohol. Good for her! The mugshot is attractive, as well.
This, of course, asks once more of what to do with these troubled young celebrities. My immediate reaction was execution, but my suggesting we feed Paris, Lohan, Vick and others to tigers would likely hinder my chances of getting a nomination in the 2028 presidential election, which would in turn hinder my chances of ever conquering the world (I'd only keep all of it for a while; I'd turn it back over to its rightful owners soon thereafter, keeping for myself a slice of land in the Benelux region... I'd want a little bit of beach territory, to be heavily guarded at all times so it's just me and not geezers, babies and garbage, and then some valley-type stuff). SO. I, of course, would need an alternate solution; this solution is to exile any celebrity that goes past the "night in the slammer" line. They'd be shipped off to an island/very deep/wide pit in the desert and left to their devices...
Along with some heavy-duty combat weaponry. Like I said, left to their devices; whatever happens, happens. Nicole Richie would have to wait until her baby was born, and then she (Nicole, not the baby, you douche) would be tossed in with the rest. The baby would get the Harry Potter treatment, except unlike Harry, it would never, ever find out the truth. Or instead of raised by common folk, it could be raised by that guy from Storm of the Century. EVIL BABY.
We could put cameras in the pit and it could be a reality show. There's nothing more real than celebrities fighting to the death in a pit in the desert.
Maybe the island could be the island from Jurassic Park. TWICE as entertaining. Except those crackwhores wouldn't be too filling for the dinos, which would subsequently starve. Maybe Mike Vick could get the dinos to fight (though I'd like to see him try to kill the loser).
VOLDEMORT KILLS HARRY, MARRIES GINNY, DRACO MARRIES HERMIONE, RON KNOCKS UP THE ALBINO CHICK, THE ASIAN CHICK BECOMES MINISTER OF MAGIC, DUMBLEDORE WAS A PEACY P ABUSING CHILDMOLESTOR, SNAPE WAS GAY FOR MOLEMAN
Except for the fact that no one is gay for Moleman
Monday, July 23, 2007
A Little Of This, A Little Of That
Currently Listening To: The Universal by Blur
I almost died today. Well, maybe that's a huuuuuge stretch, but still; I decided to make some eggy in a basket, but none of the burners would light, so being the genius I am, I kept turning them off and on in hopes of getting somewhere, releasing all kinds of noxious gases into our humble kitchen.
I cannot stand my brother's friends. It's not a party by any means tonight, but they seem to be even louder despite being about a quarter of the crowd we had a few weeks ago. They scream and bark at the screen as they play videogames... I mean, for fuck's sake, are you serious?
I've decided to add 'mailboxes' to my list of nemisises... Nemisi. Whatever. Foes. Anyways, it seems like whenever I drive, mailboxes pop up from no where and try to inhibit my motor-vehicle-operating abilities. Come on, people! Switch to e-mail 100% and we can rid the earth of this plague once and for all.
Barking at a videogame? That's fucking ludicrous. Shut the fuck up.
Harry Potter's departure from my life has left me feeling empy and meaningless. Come back to me, Harry. My bed's always open.
Speaking of which, I plan on gay marrying Michael Moore. I love that man. Sicko was great. It really got me riled up. I went out of the theater and flipped a car and torched the local Republican Party headquarters.
The tax excuse is a really lame cop-out. Uh, yeah, things cost money. Money doesn't just materialize, and printing more doesn't help. But I can't force anyone into believing anything. I mean, if you don't support federalized medicine and allowing people who live miserable lives to try for something better here, fine by me. It's not like nearly every member of the offending party identifies as Christian, which would suggest they'd be interesting in helping the less fortunate, which apparently only applies to white, Protestants who vote Republican and don't ask questions.
Oh, Michael Moore. You're so cute and chubby.
Cute and chubby like the chick from Doctor Who, Rose. And the chick who played Tonks in Harry Potter. They appear to be the same person, but that's not the case.
When I die, I want to have a phonebooth dedicated my memory erected in the middle of our school's campus. It would be quite tacky and useless, what with all the cellphones? Even more useless if it were 100% concrete and the doors didn't open. And if it were a 500% scale model statue of a phonebooth. On its side. With dragon wings mounted on the left and right faces. And some sick tank treads for added mobility. And if it were spray-painted pink. And it had a sick antenna at the top, a la Bill and Ted. Hey, why not have Bill and Ted inside? And the good Doctor outside? And Christmas lights strewn about.
Seriously, stop shouting. It's a video game. It doesn't matter.
EDITEDITEDIT: albumsix.com This is really, really exciting. Like, "I need to change my pants and wipe up this chair" exciting.
I almost died today. Well, maybe that's a huuuuuge stretch, but still; I decided to make some eggy in a basket, but none of the burners would light, so being the genius I am, I kept turning them off and on in hopes of getting somewhere, releasing all kinds of noxious gases into our humble kitchen.
I cannot stand my brother's friends. It's not a party by any means tonight, but they seem to be even louder despite being about a quarter of the crowd we had a few weeks ago. They scream and bark at the screen as they play videogames... I mean, for fuck's sake, are you serious?
I've decided to add 'mailboxes' to my list of nemisises... Nemisi. Whatever. Foes. Anyways, it seems like whenever I drive, mailboxes pop up from no where and try to inhibit my motor-vehicle-operating abilities. Come on, people! Switch to e-mail 100% and we can rid the earth of this plague once and for all.
Barking at a videogame? That's fucking ludicrous. Shut the fuck up.
Harry Potter's departure from my life has left me feeling empy and meaningless. Come back to me, Harry. My bed's always open.
Speaking of which, I plan on gay marrying Michael Moore. I love that man. Sicko was great. It really got me riled up. I went out of the theater and flipped a car and torched the local Republican Party headquarters.
The tax excuse is a really lame cop-out. Uh, yeah, things cost money. Money doesn't just materialize, and printing more doesn't help. But I can't force anyone into believing anything. I mean, if you don't support federalized medicine and allowing people who live miserable lives to try for something better here, fine by me. It's not like nearly every member of the offending party identifies as Christian, which would suggest they'd be interesting in helping the less fortunate, which apparently only applies to white, Protestants who vote Republican and don't ask questions.
Oh, Michael Moore. You're so cute and chubby.
Cute and chubby like the chick from Doctor Who, Rose. And the chick who played Tonks in Harry Potter. They appear to be the same person, but that's not the case.
When I die, I want to have a phonebooth dedicated my memory erected in the middle of our school's campus. It would be quite tacky and useless, what with all the cellphones? Even more useless if it were 100% concrete and the doors didn't open. And if it were a 500% scale model statue of a phonebooth. On its side. With dragon wings mounted on the left and right faces. And some sick tank treads for added mobility. And if it were spray-painted pink. And it had a sick antenna at the top, a la Bill and Ted. Hey, why not have Bill and Ted inside? And the good Doctor outside? And Christmas lights strewn about.
Seriously, stop shouting. It's a video game. It doesn't matter.
EDITEDITEDIT: albumsix.com This is really, really exciting. Like, "I need to change my pants and wipe up this chair" exciting.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Marilyn Manson Versus Richard Gere
Currently Listening To: JET. All of it.
This past week was a good week to be a nerd. Both a Harry Potter movie and a book. Schwigity schwag. Robert and I went to see Order of the Phoenix like a week prior to Wednesday or so... I just got back from a weekend sans computer/phone/TV so my dates are off. No landmarks for the mental timeline. Anyways, it was really good. I mean, it beat the shiiiiiit out of the fourth one. That one, in retrospect, was garbage. And I don't want to hear the "it was such a long book" schpiel. Order was 200 pages longer as a book but the shortest movie in the series thus far. The secret? Montages. You can't go wrong with a montage, and the fellow who made this movie seemed to time them very well. I also really liked the albino chick. Anyone who like plays with dragons and keeps raw meet in her purse is a worthy bride in my book. And Bride of Frankenstein could kill the only person who is, by definition, a family to me any day. Hot.
But in all seriousness, I'd say, out of the five movies thus far, the fifth looked on film closest to how I imagined it while reading it, except Umbridge wasn't nearly ugly enough, though she certainly was sinister. Scared the shit out of me. Especially the Satan quill.
Anyways, so fast forward to this past week. Our family was, as we do every year, in North Carolina for the week. The best way to explain the place is, apparently, that it's like the place in Dirty Dancing. I've never seen it (and don't plan on it), but that's what I'm told. There's a 'lodge' building with lots of rooms in which to sleep, a huge dining hall, there are some cottages, a lake, various general use buildings... It's a conference center in the mountains, but for a few weeks in the summer they open for vacation-time. It's the place where I got 'hit' by a car last year. I didn't this year, though; I minimized my time in the middle of high-ish volume streets.
Anyways anyways, I'm haning with this cool cat, and she's like, "I haven't seen Harry Potter yet." I was like, "Let's go!" and she was like "I don't want to drive!" and I was like "I can't!" so I made my brother drive us, in the process picking up about fifteen or so other kids to go with us. And I dressed up, which was fun, even though my sheets were the wrong color and they tickettaher confiscated my broom(s). Apparently there is a rule at the theater against bringing cleaning equipment into the auditorium. Bitches. Even worse was that right after he metaphorically speaking slapped me in the face, he turned around and shouts to his manager, "Yeah, I got 'em." What a fucker, right? Anyways, my brother and I were kind enough to provide a commentary that time, and I had a crude sharpie glasses/scar combo on my face. It was awesome.
And then AND THEN I got my brother to take me, along with an awesome college kid and two other kids I didn't/don't know to buy the book at midnight. The plan was to go to the bookstore in the shitfers mall in town (there was an ad in the paper for their Harry Potter party) but the doors were locked and apparently the Ingles in the town in not a literate supermarket so... We went to Wal Mart. That's right; my integrity can be bought for $17.78. Whatever. I got the book at midnight, along with a Slytherin wristband without any traces of Wal Mart on it and an energy drink. So we got back to the campus about 12:45 and I pop a squat on the awesome peather couches they've got in the lobby while the 'others' (What is this, LOST?) sip spiked juice. After about two or so hours, I looked up and they were gone. It was about 2:30 a.m. and I was completely alone in this lodge out in the middle of the woods. The doors out to the porch were open and there were all these spooky noises and creaks and shit. It was nuts. I just kept reading. At about four, I was starting to get really tired (I've only stayed up all night once, and that was earlier this summer) so I stood up to walk around, do a few jumping jacks, stuff, you know? Then I saw a mostly-finished bottle of orange juice. Orange juice has sugar, right? Sugar will keep me up longer, right? Well, it may have had sugar, but as I chugged it, I realized it also had vodka in it. I don't think Minute Maid sold vodka-laden OJ, so I'm fairly certain it was "homemade". But I think people would buy vodka OJ. Anyways: reading, reading, reading... The empty lobby was an orgy of literacy. I was joined by all the greats: Shakespeare, Dickens, Grisham, evangelist outside arena handing out pamphlets. And we read. And suddenly, it was light out, and some real people (old people. real old people) began to walk through the lobby. I know it's a common joke to laugh about old people getting up really early, but it's 100% true. And then my dad walks in (this was probably a while later) and I got really confused and asked him what time it was and he said it was 7:15. Apparently he's old too. I wrapped up reading (page 577) at 8:15 and joined my family for breakfast. I continued reading at 9:30 or so when we left to come home and read for maybe 15 minutes until I remembered I get really car sick when I read, and that my brother likes to drive fast, and that we were going on curvy mountain roads, so I stopped reading and went to sleep for two hours or so and read non-stop until we got home, at about 1. Twelve hours to finish the book, about 9 of which were actually spent reading. Cool, cool.
I was really happy with the book, especially the ending, which proves Mrs. Rowling is a money-loving whore. I suppose if you want a more detailed analysis, you can contact me. I don't want to spoil it for some poor schlub who stumbles upon this God-forsaken corner of the internet.
Speaking of spoiling, as someone who has finished the past three Harry Potter books within 24 hours of their sales, I always joke about ruining it. I'll say stuff like, "Speaking of ______, you'll never believe who dies at the end!" or make up blatantly flase spoilers. People then close their ears or get horrified looks and beg me not to ruin it. SO, being the one-joke man I am, at dinner last night, I announced to my family, my aunt and two cousins that I planned to ruin the book for all eight of them (the subject was already on the book and my thoughts about it). Obviously. Quite obviously. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole, everyone agreed calmly that it would be a dick move for me to commit such a heinous crime. It would have been bad if I did, which I didn't. I didn't ruin the book. Not in any form or fashion. BUT, as everyone was not overreacting to the news, someone in my family, who will not be named but you can likely figure it out. It's obvious. Quite obvious. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole. Anyways, my sister (oops, I slipped) let out a horrible screech. It was the worst noise I'd ever heard. Worse than the sound of metal crunching in a car wreck, worse than a cat passing under tires (I've heard them both in person)... It was like she was being stabbed, crushed, burned and various other horrible things all at once. I mean, if her scream was all that I'd heard/seen, I'd have assumed something bad had happened. In reality, of course, I had joked that I was going to spoil the book. I didn't. GRR.
My first born child is to be named Declan Octavius Geronimo. I suppose I'll have to change my last name to secure that particular one for him, but it would be worth it.
This past week was a good week to be a nerd. Both a Harry Potter movie and a book. Schwigity schwag. Robert and I went to see Order of the Phoenix like a week prior to Wednesday or so... I just got back from a weekend sans computer/phone/TV so my dates are off. No landmarks for the mental timeline. Anyways, it was really good. I mean, it beat the shiiiiiit out of the fourth one. That one, in retrospect, was garbage. And I don't want to hear the "it was such a long book" schpiel. Order was 200 pages longer as a book but the shortest movie in the series thus far. The secret? Montages. You can't go wrong with a montage, and the fellow who made this movie seemed to time them very well. I also really liked the albino chick. Anyone who like plays with dragons and keeps raw meet in her purse is a worthy bride in my book. And Bride of Frankenstein could kill the only person who is, by definition, a family to me any day. Hot.
But in all seriousness, I'd say, out of the five movies thus far, the fifth looked on film closest to how I imagined it while reading it, except Umbridge wasn't nearly ugly enough, though she certainly was sinister. Scared the shit out of me. Especially the Satan quill.
Anyways, so fast forward to this past week. Our family was, as we do every year, in North Carolina for the week. The best way to explain the place is, apparently, that it's like the place in Dirty Dancing. I've never seen it (and don't plan on it), but that's what I'm told. There's a 'lodge' building with lots of rooms in which to sleep, a huge dining hall, there are some cottages, a lake, various general use buildings... It's a conference center in the mountains, but for a few weeks in the summer they open for vacation-time. It's the place where I got 'hit' by a car last year. I didn't this year, though; I minimized my time in the middle of high-ish volume streets.
Anyways anyways, I'm haning with this cool cat, and she's like, "I haven't seen Harry Potter yet." I was like, "Let's go!" and she was like "I don't want to drive!" and I was like "I can't!" so I made my brother drive us, in the process picking up about fifteen or so other kids to go with us. And I dressed up, which was fun, even though my sheets were the wrong color and they tickettaher confiscated my broom(s). Apparently there is a rule at the theater against bringing cleaning equipment into the auditorium. Bitches. Even worse was that right after he metaphorically speaking slapped me in the face, he turned around and shouts to his manager, "Yeah, I got 'em." What a fucker, right? Anyways, my brother and I were kind enough to provide a commentary that time, and I had a crude sharpie glasses/scar combo on my face. It was awesome.
And then AND THEN I got my brother to take me, along with an awesome college kid and two other kids I didn't/don't know to buy the book at midnight. The plan was to go to the bookstore in the shitfers mall in town (there was an ad in the paper for their Harry Potter party) but the doors were locked and apparently the Ingles in the town in not a literate supermarket so... We went to Wal Mart. That's right; my integrity can be bought for $17.78. Whatever. I got the book at midnight, along with a Slytherin wristband without any traces of Wal Mart on it and an energy drink. So we got back to the campus about 12:45 and I pop a squat on the awesome peather couches they've got in the lobby while the 'others' (What is this, LOST?) sip spiked juice. After about two or so hours, I looked up and they were gone. It was about 2:30 a.m. and I was completely alone in this lodge out in the middle of the woods. The doors out to the porch were open and there were all these spooky noises and creaks and shit. It was nuts. I just kept reading. At about four, I was starting to get really tired (I've only stayed up all night once, and that was earlier this summer) so I stood up to walk around, do a few jumping jacks, stuff, you know? Then I saw a mostly-finished bottle of orange juice. Orange juice has sugar, right? Sugar will keep me up longer, right? Well, it may have had sugar, but as I chugged it, I realized it also had vodka in it. I don't think Minute Maid sold vodka-laden OJ, so I'm fairly certain it was "homemade". But I think people would buy vodka OJ. Anyways: reading, reading, reading... The empty lobby was an orgy of literacy. I was joined by all the greats: Shakespeare, Dickens, Grisham, evangelist outside arena handing out pamphlets. And we read. And suddenly, it was light out, and some real people (old people. real old people) began to walk through the lobby. I know it's a common joke to laugh about old people getting up really early, but it's 100% true. And then my dad walks in (this was probably a while later) and I got really confused and asked him what time it was and he said it was 7:15. Apparently he's old too. I wrapped up reading (page 577) at 8:15 and joined my family for breakfast. I continued reading at 9:30 or so when we left to come home and read for maybe 15 minutes until I remembered I get really car sick when I read, and that my brother likes to drive fast, and that we were going on curvy mountain roads, so I stopped reading and went to sleep for two hours or so and read non-stop until we got home, at about 1. Twelve hours to finish the book, about 9 of which were actually spent reading. Cool, cool.
I was really happy with the book, especially the ending, which proves Mrs. Rowling is a money-loving whore. I suppose if you want a more detailed analysis, you can contact me. I don't want to spoil it for some poor schlub who stumbles upon this God-forsaken corner of the internet.
Speaking of spoiling, as someone who has finished the past three Harry Potter books within 24 hours of their sales, I always joke about ruining it. I'll say stuff like, "Speaking of ______, you'll never believe who dies at the end!" or make up blatantly flase spoilers. People then close their ears or get horrified looks and beg me not to ruin it. SO, being the one-joke man I am, at dinner last night, I announced to my family, my aunt and two cousins that I planned to ruin the book for all eight of them (the subject was already on the book and my thoughts about it). Obviously. Quite obviously. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole, everyone agreed calmly that it would be a dick move for me to commit such a heinous crime. It would have been bad if I did, which I didn't. I didn't ruin the book. Not in any form or fashion. BUT, as everyone was not overreacting to the news, someone in my family, who will not be named but you can likely figure it out. It's obvious. Quite obvious. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole. Anyways, my sister (oops, I slipped) let out a horrible screech. It was the worst noise I'd ever heard. Worse than the sound of metal crunching in a car wreck, worse than a cat passing under tires (I've heard them both in person)... It was like she was being stabbed, crushed, burned and various other horrible things all at once. I mean, if her scream was all that I'd heard/seen, I'd have assumed something bad had happened. In reality, of course, I had joked that I was going to spoil the book. I didn't. GRR.
My first born child is to be named Declan Octavius Geronimo. I suppose I'll have to change my last name to secure that particular one for him, but it would be worth it.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Boycott
Currently Listening To: Bandages by Hot Hot Heat
As an angry suburban teen, I take it upon myself, from time to time, to boycott. Usually for no reason at all, or something superficial or trivial. I find it refreshing, and it permits me to be lazy without people getting mad. I just say, "I can't; I'm boycotting that."
Right now, I'm boycotting three (3) things: soda pahp, 'tatos and myspace. The gods have, in response, made it such that I'm constantly reminded (not me reminding others) that I "can't" have those things. I seem to be presented with more options for fries and a coke in the period since I began this self-deprivation than in the six months before. It's crazy. In that same vein, people have actually started posting comments on my myspace. Every day, I get the e-mail. So-and-so has left you a comment on myspace. This-and-that has sent you a message on myspace. I even put my status on facebook (I sign up for too many of these things) as my boycott list, and still, people do it. 100% tom-foolery.
Speaking of tomfoolery, shenanigans and this-and-that, I got my scores (scratch that, score) back from the AP folks today. Surprise-surprise, they had an issue with my Spanish exam and it'll be here in three weeks. Anyways, I got my physics score.
I got a three. Are you kidding me? I didn't finish it. Not even close. I got something like 55 or 60 of the multiple choice done (there were 75) and I didn't come anywhere near close to completing all seven free response questions. For some reason, I'm more angry than happy. They should have more sense than to give a lazy, no-drive, apathetic lard-ass such as myself a three. That means that some college might say that I'm somewhat knowledgable about physics, which is not the case. Shenanigans.
I think I should boycott my phone as well. I hate talking on the phone, and the seven key sticks, which is annoying when you're text messaging, and considering it has 4 of the 26 letters within.
We went uniform shopping today. If anything could leave me more bitter and jaded about anything and everything, it's that. Waking up early (though I should mention that I got up at six of my own will this morning) to go down and submit myself to an hour and a half of torture and misery. I didn't see Hostel Part 2, but I imagine one scene had a man make someone purchase school uniforms for the next year. I really need to talk to someone who was on this uniform committee, because, as with most elected officials, promises were made with no intention of any results. And I felt like a prick when they guy had me stand on a box while he chalked my pants. That sounds vulgar. Anyways, if I ever become fabulously wealthy, I will not hire a tailor, because it felt uncomfortable and snooty. Like, "I spit on ye, peon." Nonsense. Tom-foolery. Shenanigans.
Boycott list:
As an angry suburban teen, I take it upon myself, from time to time, to boycott. Usually for no reason at all, or something superficial or trivial. I find it refreshing, and it permits me to be lazy without people getting mad. I just say, "I can't; I'm boycotting that."
Right now, I'm boycotting three (3) things: soda pahp, 'tatos and myspace. The gods have, in response, made it such that I'm constantly reminded (not me reminding others) that I "can't" have those things. I seem to be presented with more options for fries and a coke in the period since I began this self-deprivation than in the six months before. It's crazy. In that same vein, people have actually started posting comments on my myspace. Every day, I get the e-mail. So-and-so has left you a comment on myspace. This-and-that has sent you a message on myspace. I even put my status on facebook (I sign up for too many of these things) as my boycott list, and still, people do it. 100% tom-foolery.
Speaking of tomfoolery, shenanigans and this-and-that, I got my scores (scratch that, score) back from the AP folks today. Surprise-surprise, they had an issue with my Spanish exam and it'll be here in three weeks. Anyways, I got my physics score.
I got a three. Are you kidding me? I didn't finish it. Not even close. I got something like 55 or 60 of the multiple choice done (there were 75) and I didn't come anywhere near close to completing all seven free response questions. For some reason, I'm more angry than happy. They should have more sense than to give a lazy, no-drive, apathetic lard-ass such as myself a three. That means that some college might say that I'm somewhat knowledgable about physics, which is not the case. Shenanigans.
I think I should boycott my phone as well. I hate talking on the phone, and the seven key sticks, which is annoying when you're text messaging, and considering it has 4 of the 26 letters within.
We went uniform shopping today. If anything could leave me more bitter and jaded about anything and everything, it's that. Waking up early (though I should mention that I got up at six of my own will this morning) to go down and submit myself to an hour and a half of torture and misery. I didn't see Hostel Part 2, but I imagine one scene had a man make someone purchase school uniforms for the next year. I really need to talk to someone who was on this uniform committee, because, as with most elected officials, promises were made with no intention of any results. And I felt like a prick when they guy had me stand on a box while he chalked my pants. That sounds vulgar. Anyways, if I ever become fabulously wealthy, I will not hire a tailor, because it felt uncomfortable and snooty. Like, "I spit on ye, peon." Nonsense. Tom-foolery. Shenanigans.
Boycott list:
- 'Tatos
- Soda Pop
- Myspace
- Cell Phone
- Tailoring
(Just so I don't forget, neh?)
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Transformers
Currently Listening To: Splendid Isolation by Pete Yorn
It seems to me that, every year, during the summer movie season, there is a movie that I find myself drooling over for quite some time. In anticipation, I change my desktop background to one from the movie and talk about it incessantly.
Then I see it, and it sucks.
I shouldn't say Transformers sucked; I just didn't like it, and it made no attempt at changing my mind.
Obviously, being that it's a movie based on a cult-franchise, Transformers was geared towards those cult-followers, but, being a big-budget summer movie, it was also geared toward the masses (an elusive villainous entity whiny suburban teens like myself whine about a fair bit) and, being based on a toy, it was also geared towards children and families (in parts, at least). A little self-evaluation reveals that I
It seems to me that, every year, during the summer movie season, there is a movie that I find myself drooling over for quite some time. In anticipation, I change my desktop background to one from the movie and talk about it incessantly.
Then I see it, and it sucks.
I shouldn't say Transformers sucked; I just didn't like it, and it made no attempt at changing my mind.
Obviously, being that it's a movie based on a cult-franchise, Transformers was geared towards those cult-followers, but, being a big-budget summer movie, it was also geared toward the masses (an elusive villainous entity whiny suburban teens like myself whine about a fair bit) and, being based on a toy, it was also geared towards children and families (in parts, at least). A little self-evaluation reveals that I
- have only ever seen one episode of the original cartoon, and that was before I began elementary school
- am too self-righteous to identify with the masses and its interests
- am not in the coveted 4-8 demographic... or the 9-13 one, either
As such, various references to this-and-that from the TV show, Anthony Anderson and mini-Transformers that are the Micheal Bay equivalent of Jar Jar Binks left me a tad bored. By the time stuff started exploding in a big way, I was already daydreaming (or nightdreaming, I suppose; it was like 9:30 or 10) about zombies. That's what I do when I get bored. I think about zombies. If you see me with a glazed-over look on my face, my concious is battling zombies.
Actually, I think I was dreaming about nanobots. I've been on about nanobots lately. When I finish The Stand, Harry Potter and my summer reading books ( so never) I might need to re-read Prey.
Anyways, big action scene at the end... Everyone's cheering and ooh-ah-ing and I'm thinking about shooting a microwave to kill that fucking nanobot swarm, which has currently taken the form of my dead wife.
That's how my nanobot movie will end. Stolen from an episode of Futurama and Prey, it will be the greatest ending ever.
Anyways, I was super bored. Like I told Claire earlier, it was just like Fantastic Four, which again suffered from all-the-action-at-the-end-itis. If you're an action movie, you probably oughta spread it out a bit.
And those robots' voices got on my nerves. Not Megatron and Optimus Prime (which sounds kind of redundant, no?), but all the other ones. Take a lesson from the Terminator: a quiet robot is a scary robot. And a quiet child is an acceptable child in movies. There were at least two talking children in Transformers. One said "Cool, mom!" as his car was surrounded by robocarnage and another asked a giant robot if it was the tooth fairy. This is unacceptable. Far too many movies have children like that. This is precisely what I'm talking about when I whine about movie studios pandering to the masses.
I HATE CHILDREN.
And sunburn. This ain't cool. Especially when I was told such-and-such cream would help the sunburn, when in reality, the places I applied it (shoulders) hurt the most. Thanks, jerks.
And I figured sitting in the rain might help, but those dumb cats swarmed me and left me covered in cat hair, which I think I may be allergic to, because my eyes got all watery, and it wasn't from sympathy to those cats and their sitting in the rain.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Fool Me Once... Shame On... Shame On You
Currently Listening To: Machinehead by Bush
If fooled, you can't get fooled again.
Today, I proved that statment wrong. For what is probably the hundredth time in my life, I got a sunburn today. A really, really bad sunburn.
Dear God, this is an awful sunburn.
In life, there are things worse than death; one of them is sitting in a mall surrounded by zombies waiting to die. Another is this sunburn.
Sitting in this chair is not helping.
Sixteen years of "Wear sunscreen" proved to be cromulent in the extreme, and yet, when faced with an opportunity to make a decision, I completely ignored the sage advice of my mother.
Save me, Baz Luhrmann. Save me, half-naked girl on the sunscreen bottle. And kick that little dog in the face. For ages he's been pulling your drawers down; show some decency. Whore.
Why do I subject myself to this?
If fooled, you can't get fooled again.
Today, I proved that statment wrong. For what is probably the hundredth time in my life, I got a sunburn today. A really, really bad sunburn.
Dear God, this is an awful sunburn.
In life, there are things worse than death; one of them is sitting in a mall surrounded by zombies waiting to die. Another is this sunburn.
Sitting in this chair is not helping.
Sixteen years of "Wear sunscreen" proved to be cromulent in the extreme, and yet, when faced with an opportunity to make a decision, I completely ignored the sage advice of my mother.
Save me, Baz Luhrmann. Save me, half-naked girl on the sunscreen bottle. And kick that little dog in the face. For ages he's been pulling your drawers down; show some decency. Whore.
Why do I subject myself to this?
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
I Can't Trust Garden State Any More
Currently Listening To: Autumn Cannibalist by Die Mannequin
I mean, if Zach Braff is willing to do a Wendy's commercial (or twelve), what's to say that that entire movie was 100% insincere? And Scrubs too, even though I think he isn't as heavily involved in the writing there.
It's two in the morning. As I finish watching the Colbert Report for the second time, I think maybe there's a better way to spent time when staying up all night. I think I'm going to try to read some more of the Stand (110 pages down, only 990 more to go...), which will, of course, drain me of all energy and put me to sleep. Not to say that books or Stephen King are boring; I just have a habit of cruisin' for a snoozin' when I read in the basement.
I have come to the realization that I really see no benefit to living down here any more. First of all, it's almost embarassing to think that, even though I'm still in high school, I live in my mother (and father)'s basement. Second, it's really fucking scary to be down here, alone, at night, with these woods to my back. Scary, scary. Third, as much as I love my brother (though it seems like things've been strained a bit lately), living with him isn't always comfortable; two people who both want to listen to music aloud or use the big screen T.V. will inevitably clash, as will a person who wants to have people other for some boozin' and a person who doesn't want to have people over for a boozin'. I mean, we're not the same person. We've got different needs. I'm an angsty know-it-all teen, he's a know-it-all college student, which brings me to my next point: I'll be alone in this creepy basement for the next year, starting mid-August. Did I mention it's REALLY creepy? When people drive around in the cul-de-sac, the lights come through the window and it creeps me the fuck out. And then there's all these noises coming from the woods. And I get really paranoid sometimes and think people are watching me, which isn't cool when all I want to do is walk around the basement bare-ass naked.
I mean, if Zach Braff is willing to do a Wendy's commercial (or twelve), what's to say that that entire movie was 100% insincere? And Scrubs too, even though I think he isn't as heavily involved in the writing there.
It's two in the morning. As I finish watching the Colbert Report for the second time, I think maybe there's a better way to spent time when staying up all night. I think I'm going to try to read some more of the Stand (110 pages down, only 990 more to go...), which will, of course, drain me of all energy and put me to sleep. Not to say that books or Stephen King are boring; I just have a habit of cruisin' for a snoozin' when I read in the basement.
I have come to the realization that I really see no benefit to living down here any more. First of all, it's almost embarassing to think that, even though I'm still in high school, I live in my mother (and father)'s basement. Second, it's really fucking scary to be down here, alone, at night, with these woods to my back. Scary, scary. Third, as much as I love my brother (though it seems like things've been strained a bit lately), living with him isn't always comfortable; two people who both want to listen to music aloud or use the big screen T.V. will inevitably clash, as will a person who wants to have people other for some boozin' and a person who doesn't want to have people over for a boozin'. I mean, we're not the same person. We've got different needs. I'm an angsty know-it-all teen, he's a know-it-all college student, which brings me to my next point: I'll be alone in this creepy basement for the next year, starting mid-August. Did I mention it's REALLY creepy? When people drive around in the cul-de-sac, the lights come through the window and it creeps me the fuck out. And then there's all these noises coming from the woods. And I get really paranoid sometimes and think people are watching me, which isn't cool when all I want to do is walk around the basement bare-ass naked.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Clive Dangerously Figures Out What's Wrong In The World Today
Currently Listening To: Blue Monday by New Order
After years of searching, I now know the root of all of my problems, all my fears, all my weaknesses...
I was ambling through the Canadian wilderness when I stumbled upon a large bear. He produced a knife and demanded the contents of my pocket. Not wishing to wait in the DMV waiting room for four hours again to get another I.D., I decided I would need to defend myself from such an adversary. The two of us sprawled for a good half-hour before I saw an opening and I leapt upon this tremendous mammal. I seized his jaw and attempted to snap it open, but as I tried to gain the proper footing in his cake hole, I noticed something strange in the footular area of my bod. I dismounted the bear, pulled out my boomstick and popped that mother in the face. I then rested, and finally came to the shocking realization: my right foot is nearly two sizes smaller than my left foot.
That's right, there is no balance in my body whatsoever, which is clearly the root of all of my problems. I figure, sawing off both feet would eliminate this imbalance and I would immediately become fabulously wealthy, immensely attractive and Persian in heritage. Until the time comes that I am of sound enough spirit to make such a decision, however, I am stuck with this unfit vessel. The Catch-22, of course, being that, were I balanced, I would be of sound-enough spirit to make such a decision, though there would be no need.
After years of searching, I now know the root of all of my problems, all my fears, all my weaknesses...
I was ambling through the Canadian wilderness when I stumbled upon a large bear. He produced a knife and demanded the contents of my pocket. Not wishing to wait in the DMV waiting room for four hours again to get another I.D., I decided I would need to defend myself from such an adversary. The two of us sprawled for a good half-hour before I saw an opening and I leapt upon this tremendous mammal. I seized his jaw and attempted to snap it open, but as I tried to gain the proper footing in his cake hole, I noticed something strange in the footular area of my bod. I dismounted the bear, pulled out my boomstick and popped that mother in the face. I then rested, and finally came to the shocking realization: my right foot is nearly two sizes smaller than my left foot.
That's right, there is no balance in my body whatsoever, which is clearly the root of all of my problems. I figure, sawing off both feet would eliminate this imbalance and I would immediately become fabulously wealthy, immensely attractive and Persian in heritage. Until the time comes that I am of sound enough spirit to make such a decision, however, I am stuck with this unfit vessel. The Catch-22, of course, being that, were I balanced, I would be of sound-enough spirit to make such a decision, though there would be no need.
Bitchy Phone Calls
Currently Listening To: Temptation by New Order (kind of Hellogoodbye-y)
I swear to God... I hardly ever use my phone, and it seems like whenever I do, I'm being bitched about for this-or-that. Most recently, I recieved a call from a freshman girl angry because, despite on numerous occaisons saying that her sister got on my nerves, I hung out with her at drivers' ed. Yes, it was hypocritical of me to bash this girl behind her back and then talk to her when she's the only person I know; infact, I think it was worse than hypocritical, it's middle-school style two-faceness, but I suppose what I want to ask this bitchy caller (not that I would dare call her back; I don't want to put up with that shit again) is: what would she rather I do? Tell her sister to fuck off when she talks to me? Straight-up ignore her?
But I can't dish out the blame entirely; I shouldn't be running my mouth about this-or-that and talking shit, but still. And I do think it was stupid of her to tell her sister that I said that. I mean, what could make someone feel better than telling her that someone was talking shit?
And in other news, Bob had another party this weekend. Less people this time, no vomit (at least thus far; maybe I'll find some later?) but still, it's kind of annoying to be like, uprooted and have to go veg out in my parents' room. I prefer to veg in my own domain. Speaking of which, I had a little project this week. I found a spare TV (that sounds so ridiculous... like, 'I wipe my ass with fifties' kind of bitchy... spare T.V.? That's not cool), the old N64 (Goldeneye 4 lyfe) and the DVD player I had in my old room. I took them all and put the on a table in the basement in the intended playroom, which doesn't really see a whole lot of usage, except by me and my brother's drunk friends, who seem to sleep in my bed more than I do... I came downstairs this morning to get some clothes and I saw two guys in my bed. It was really bizarre, especially when one woke up and saw me, and then again when I realized I had no idea who the other guy was.
So that was my weekend, minus seeing Die Hard 4, which was phenomenal. The elevator scene was the balls, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead is a fine-lookin' lady. Then there was that tunnel scene... And the jet scene... And the alleyway scene.
So go see it. It was super schwey.
Do it for the children
I swear to God... I hardly ever use my phone, and it seems like whenever I do, I'm being bitched about for this-or-that. Most recently, I recieved a call from a freshman girl angry because, despite on numerous occaisons saying that her sister got on my nerves, I hung out with her at drivers' ed. Yes, it was hypocritical of me to bash this girl behind her back and then talk to her when she's the only person I know; infact, I think it was worse than hypocritical, it's middle-school style two-faceness, but I suppose what I want to ask this bitchy caller (not that I would dare call her back; I don't want to put up with that shit again) is: what would she rather I do? Tell her sister to fuck off when she talks to me? Straight-up ignore her?
But I can't dish out the blame entirely; I shouldn't be running my mouth about this-or-that and talking shit, but still. And I do think it was stupid of her to tell her sister that I said that. I mean, what could make someone feel better than telling her that someone was talking shit?
And in other news, Bob had another party this weekend. Less people this time, no vomit (at least thus far; maybe I'll find some later?) but still, it's kind of annoying to be like, uprooted and have to go veg out in my parents' room. I prefer to veg in my own domain. Speaking of which, I had a little project this week. I found a spare TV (that sounds so ridiculous... like, 'I wipe my ass with fifties' kind of bitchy... spare T.V.? That's not cool), the old N64 (Goldeneye 4 lyfe) and the DVD player I had in my old room. I took them all and put the on a table in the basement in the intended playroom, which doesn't really see a whole lot of usage, except by me and my brother's drunk friends, who seem to sleep in my bed more than I do... I came downstairs this morning to get some clothes and I saw two guys in my bed. It was really bizarre, especially when one woke up and saw me, and then again when I realized I had no idea who the other guy was.
So that was my weekend, minus seeing Die Hard 4, which was phenomenal. The elevator scene was the balls, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead is a fine-lookin' lady. Then there was that tunnel scene... And the jet scene... And the alleyway scene.
So go see it. It was super schwey.
Do it for the children
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Dreams (Again)
Currently Listening To: Waiting For The Sirens' Call by New Order
So I had a really weird dream last night. Short story shorter, I was enlarged by an enlarging ray, to the point that I was about seven feet tall. I got to do all kinds of stuff I usually can't because now, I looked like an adult. I drove (poorly... Very, very poorly) on my own, did some other stuff... The only problem was that I wasn't supposed to have been enlarged (don't know why), so I had to hide from people so as to not be caught. Not that I spent the entire time behind a bush; on the contrary, I interacted with a lot of people. I was just partially hidden behind things the whole time. And I was naked, but for some reason no one was bothered by that. Huge double standard. And then at one point I was trying to catch a hypnotoad but couldn't, so some kid came to help me. He whipped at it using his belt and the toad got stuck to it. Then we showed it to everyone, and they were pleased. Again, I don't know why people cared about the hypnotoad. They just did.
I suppose it's worth explaining that one, I saw an episode of Robot Chicken with a segment called "The Giant Midget" last night, and two, I'd had a conversation with my family about how I'm a baby-face (why all the college folk thought my brother was the one looking at the school). And I watched an episode of Futurama with Hypnotoad last night.
So I had a really weird dream last night. Short story shorter, I was enlarged by an enlarging ray, to the point that I was about seven feet tall. I got to do all kinds of stuff I usually can't because now, I looked like an adult. I drove (poorly... Very, very poorly) on my own, did some other stuff... The only problem was that I wasn't supposed to have been enlarged (don't know why), so I had to hide from people so as to not be caught. Not that I spent the entire time behind a bush; on the contrary, I interacted with a lot of people. I was just partially hidden behind things the whole time. And I was naked, but for some reason no one was bothered by that. Huge double standard. And then at one point I was trying to catch a hypnotoad but couldn't, so some kid came to help me. He whipped at it using his belt and the toad got stuck to it. Then we showed it to everyone, and they were pleased. Again, I don't know why people cared about the hypnotoad. They just did.
I suppose it's worth explaining that one, I saw an episode of Robot Chicken with a segment called "The Giant Midget" last night, and two, I'd had a conversation with my family about how I'm a baby-face (why all the college folk thought my brother was the one looking at the school). And I watched an episode of Futurama with Hypnotoad last night.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
College Visits
Currently Listening To: Blue Monday by New Order
Family Guy isn't very funny, but I'm a sucker for people making fun of Bill Cosby. THE JELLO PUDDING... ZOOBA ZOOBA ZOO.
I awoke from my slumber yesterday only to be forced into the family tank, whisked off to Tennessee. We had a two-o'clock appointment at Sewanee with their admissions rep. and only a little bit of time to make me not look like shit. A small fortune at a few outlet stores and ten minutes shaving in a sleazy gas station restroom later, we were good to go. I did my best to make a semi-good impression and not make an ass of myself like I normally do, but it was all for naught, as it was assumed my brother was the one interested in the college, and his phone went off twice during the information session.
It was a really beautiful campus, though... I'd love to go there. Until yesterday, I was quite stubbornly set on going to college in a city, but I think I'd do just fine up in the woods.
And then today, we had an appointment on the complete other side of the state at Rhodes. This time, it wasn't an information session... It was an interview. So I failed at the 'not looking like an ass' thing. And once again, it was assumed that Robert was the prospective student. I need to tell that kid to put the phone away. It's going to be the end of me. But Memphis has a pyramid, and I'd apply to any school in a town with a pyramid.
I love New Order. Great, great band. "Waiting For The Sirens' Call" is probably my favorite, behind Blue Monday of course.
And I've started reading "The Stand", which is supposedly like the greatest book ever, but it's really, really long. I doubt I'll ever finish.
I mean, it's like 1130 pages. Holy crap.
Family Guy isn't very funny, but I'm a sucker for people making fun of Bill Cosby. THE JELLO PUDDING... ZOOBA ZOOBA ZOO.
I awoke from my slumber yesterday only to be forced into the family tank, whisked off to Tennessee. We had a two-o'clock appointment at Sewanee with their admissions rep. and only a little bit of time to make me not look like shit. A small fortune at a few outlet stores and ten minutes shaving in a sleazy gas station restroom later, we were good to go. I did my best to make a semi-good impression and not make an ass of myself like I normally do, but it was all for naught, as it was assumed my brother was the one interested in the college, and his phone went off twice during the information session.
It was a really beautiful campus, though... I'd love to go there. Until yesterday, I was quite stubbornly set on going to college in a city, but I think I'd do just fine up in the woods.
And then today, we had an appointment on the complete other side of the state at Rhodes. This time, it wasn't an information session... It was an interview. So I failed at the 'not looking like an ass' thing. And once again, it was assumed that Robert was the prospective student. I need to tell that kid to put the phone away. It's going to be the end of me. But Memphis has a pyramid, and I'd apply to any school in a town with a pyramid.
I love New Order. Great, great band. "Waiting For The Sirens' Call" is probably my favorite, behind Blue Monday of course.
And I've started reading "The Stand", which is supposedly like the greatest book ever, but it's really, really long. I doubt I'll ever finish.
I mean, it's like 1130 pages. Holy crap.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Big Love
Currently Listening To: Angelina by the Bravery
Big Love, aside from Heroes, is my absolute favorite show. It's just so damn entertaining... And there's a certain "can't look away" aspect to polygamy. So yeah, great show.
...Why am I talking about Big Love? Well, because I just remembered what I'll be doing tomorrow night: watching the new episode of Big Love. The new episode which happens to be "the episode". From the first episode, I could immediately sense that in the case of the oldest son on the show, there are two possible story lines:
Big Love, aside from Heroes, is my absolute favorite show. It's just so damn entertaining... And there's a certain "can't look away" aspect to polygamy. So yeah, great show.
...Why am I talking about Big Love? Well, because I just remembered what I'll be doing tomorrow night: watching the new episode of Big Love. The new episode which happens to be "the episode". From the first episode, I could immediately sense that in the case of the oldest son on the show, there are two possible story lines:
- He's gay. I mean, look at the kid and tell me it didn't come to mind.
- He bones the youngest wife, who is the hottie from the end of "In The LAnd Of Women", making her the only thing worth anything in that train wreck (they aren't blood-related so it's cool...ish)
And so last week, at the end of the episode, as per usual, they had a preview of next week's episode, wherein the #1 mom, mother of the aforementioned son, opens the door of the youngest wife's house to find her son half naked. I almost cried. This is really exciting. I mean, I more interested in this than how to stop an exploding man.
I lied. Polygamy is awesome. Especially when it's three good-looking women and the fountain of testosterone known as Bill Paxton. Fuck Chuck Norris, I'm all about Bill Paxton. I carry a 5 x 7 picture of him in wallet, just in case. That's right, if by some miracle I find myself in a girl's bed, I have not a condom but a picture of Bill Paxton.
There's some logic in there somewheres.
And fuck "Hey There Delilah". That shit's so corny and shit. That chick needs to find a man with a penis.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Driving School
Actuellement écoutant : Tony le Battement par les Bruits
Bored+google translater. I'm sure I fucked up French grammar, but I've never learned any sort of formal French, so...
So... Country Rob Reiner is an asshole. You may find yourself, sitting at your chair at your computer while eating a hot pocket and watching anime at 2 a.m., wondering who the hell Country Rob Reiner? Country Rob Reiner was the second of my two driving 'instructors'. I use that quoted term lightly, as there wasn't a whole lot of instruction going on... All of these geniuses were football coaches, so it was the expected teaching methodology: "Now do this. Wait, you don't know how already? Why not?" I suppose I understand that kind of an attitude. I mean, it's not like it was a driver's education course, or something.
But I had fun driving grandma cars on the course. That was fun. Hence my having fun. But Country Rob Reiner wasn't fun, nor was driving his fat ass around. Of the hour I was in the car with him, maybe five minutes were spent on roads with shoulders. I struggle with shoulderless roads. And why shouldn't I? I live in the suburbs, not bumfuck! It's ridiculous. And the whole notion of scripted driving is nuts. It was like, driving driving driving CHANGE LANES oh you didn't do it fast enough, you fail. That's not how it works, cha'know? Typically, you've got ample time to change lanes, unless you're about to miss your turn. But we were in no hurry, and yet he still gave me ten seconds to change lanes. He was like, "Too late." And I was like, "Too late for what? The lane is still changeable. It's the same two lanes."
And then about twenty minutes later, he looked at me and asked if I had my blinker on back nyah. Without thinking or really doing anything besides answer him, I answered in a very unconcerned tone, "...No, should I have?" In retrospect, maybe I could have handled that differently. And maybe he wouldn't have been such a douche if I had tits (er, lady tits) and was short a thing or three between my legs.
Bored+google translater. I'm sure I fucked up French grammar, but I've never learned any sort of formal French, so...
So... Country Rob Reiner is an asshole. You may find yourself, sitting at your chair at your computer while eating a hot pocket and watching anime at 2 a.m., wondering who the hell Country Rob Reiner? Country Rob Reiner was the second of my two driving 'instructors'. I use that quoted term lightly, as there wasn't a whole lot of instruction going on... All of these geniuses were football coaches, so it was the expected teaching methodology: "Now do this. Wait, you don't know how already? Why not?" I suppose I understand that kind of an attitude. I mean, it's not like it was a driver's education course, or something.
But I had fun driving grandma cars on the course. That was fun. Hence my having fun. But Country Rob Reiner wasn't fun, nor was driving his fat ass around. Of the hour I was in the car with him, maybe five minutes were spent on roads with shoulders. I struggle with shoulderless roads. And why shouldn't I? I live in the suburbs, not bumfuck! It's ridiculous. And the whole notion of scripted driving is nuts. It was like, driving driving driving CHANGE LANES oh you didn't do it fast enough, you fail. That's not how it works, cha'know? Typically, you've got ample time to change lanes, unless you're about to miss your turn. But we were in no hurry, and yet he still gave me ten seconds to change lanes. He was like, "Too late." And I was like, "Too late for what? The lane is still changeable. It's the same two lanes."
And then about twenty minutes later, he looked at me and asked if I had my blinker on back nyah. Without thinking or really doing anything besides answer him, I answered in a very unconcerned tone, "...No, should I have?" In retrospect, maybe I could have handled that differently. And maybe he wouldn't have been such a douche if I had tits (er, lady tits) and was short a thing or three between my legs.
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