Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
What's Going On In Your Life?
Currently Watching: The Ten
Well, okay, I was really only asking so that I could inversely tell you how I am doing.
First, I've just finished the play. It sucked up all my time during those last few weeks, leaving me bitchy and tired all the time. Driving home after midnight isn't so fun when it's raining really hard and you're sleepy.
One time I fell asleep while driving and was like an inch away from t-boning this flower van. Comical, to be sure.
So yeah, the play left me whiny and disgruntled. Which really wasn't much of a change I guess... But that big ol' time suck left me very little time for...
My girlfriend.
Yes, you read that correctly. The little nerd you've been following intently like your favorite VH1 reality show for the past four years has a real girlfriend. And she has a name. It is Adrienne.
That is her. If you're feeling excessively voyeuristic, you can check out all the fun pictures on flickr
Well, okay, I was really only asking so that I could inversely tell you how I am doing.
First, I've just finished the play. It sucked up all my time during those last few weeks, leaving me bitchy and tired all the time. Driving home after midnight isn't so fun when it's raining really hard and you're sleepy.
One time I fell asleep while driving and was like an inch away from t-boning this flower van. Comical, to be sure.
So yeah, the play left me whiny and disgruntled. Which really wasn't much of a change I guess... But that big ol' time suck left me very little time for...
My girlfriend.
Yes, you read that correctly. The little nerd you've been following intently like your favorite VH1 reality show for the past four years has a real girlfriend. And she has a name. It is Adrienne.
That is her. If you're feeling excessively voyeuristic, you can check out all the fun pictures on flickr
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Names
Currently Listening To: I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You by Black Kids
Both of my parents, when signing e-mails, simply put their respective first initial.
When did my house become MI6?
I guess I'll be 002, since I'm il secondo.
Yes, Ispeak Italian have access to google translator.
Both of my parents, when signing e-mails, simply put their respective first initial.
When did my house become MI6?
I guess I'll be 002, since I'm il secondo.
Yes, I
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
My Special Place
Currently Listening To: Waiting by Shiny Toy Guns
Last week in assembly, a girl I haven't spoken to in the three years she's gone to our school of less-than-500 students gave a speech about all the shit that's gone down in her life (serious shit), and that our school has made her feel confident and what not. So, a brief recap of that briefness: her special place is school because it makes her feel safe.
Now, what about my special place?
Oh, I've got a great one. But it's not a place that makes me feel safe. Quite the opposite, in fact. My special place is the way I've recently started driving home from school. Basically, you go the same way as usual, but halfway down the highway you take a right straight into the bowels of hell. You pass by various ranch houses on large lots, followed by THE COMPOUND. What the fuck is THE COMPOUND, you may be asking? THE COMPOUND is this seriously sketchy grouping of houses and American-made cars on blocks surrounded by a sloppily-put-up retaining wall fence with some cryptic message I don't care to remember spray painted on the side. Who lives in THE COMPOUND? Trustworthy sources (some kid I talked to in middle school) claim Neo-Nazis, though a charismatic cult, Communists or the KKK are not out of the question.
Needless to say, driving by is uncomfortable. Breaking down on the side of the road is bad. Breaking down within half a mile of THE COMPOUND is bullet-in-the-brainpan worthy. Imagine House of Wax, Texas Chainsaw and Wrong Turn rolled into a thin flour tortilla and grilled to perfection.
After THE COMPOUND, there is the little town of Macedonia. I'll be damned if the name of every town in Georgia wasn't taken from my Ancient World History book from Freshman year. Macedonia, of course, is where my radio is hijacked from the audio-orgasm that is SIRIUS 26 Left of Center and switches to some rinky-dink station coming from someone's basement, which plays various essays and rants about the New World Order and how uncivilized people in Africa are (I shit you not... and this isn't THE COMPOUND). This happens a lot, of course; the frequency I listen to SIRIUS on is pretty popular for people's car-iPod things, so I'm frequently subjected to other people's crappy music. That's what I get for using a (paradoxically) Vacant Frequency (which is the name I plan to use for my Dan Brown/Robert Ludlum novel).
Following Fred Phelps Radio is the power plant, which was deemed one of the ten worst in the country (though I'm inclined to say it was #1 on the list). I don't know what to say about it other than that I close the vents on my car when I'm in sight of it.
From here on out, there's a lot of unremarkable minutia. Rinky-dink airport. Windy roads. Broken roads. One-lane bridge. I like to blast M.I.A.'s Kala and pretend I'm driving in the jungle of a third-world country. It helps that my car is a beat up, outdated Honda SUV. Third-world, to be sure. My life is like the ghetto. I grew up on the streets.
What's most exhilarating is that (SHH!) I'm not supposed to drive that way. Not because of the possible cannibals, bigot radio or power plant. It's the one lane bridge. Dad, I love you and how you always look out for me.
Last week in assembly, a girl I haven't spoken to in the three years she's gone to our school of less-than-500 students gave a speech about all the shit that's gone down in her life (serious shit), and that our school has made her feel confident and what not. So, a brief recap of that briefness: her special place is school because it makes her feel safe.
Now, what about my special place?
Oh, I've got a great one. But it's not a place that makes me feel safe. Quite the opposite, in fact. My special place is the way I've recently started driving home from school. Basically, you go the same way as usual, but halfway down the highway you take a right straight into the bowels of hell. You pass by various ranch houses on large lots, followed by THE COMPOUND. What the fuck is THE COMPOUND, you may be asking? THE COMPOUND is this seriously sketchy grouping of houses and American-made cars on blocks surrounded by a sloppily-put-up retaining wall fence with some cryptic message I don't care to remember spray painted on the side. Who lives in THE COMPOUND? Trustworthy sources (some kid I talked to in middle school) claim Neo-Nazis, though a charismatic cult, Communists or the KKK are not out of the question.
Needless to say, driving by is uncomfortable. Breaking down on the side of the road is bad. Breaking down within half a mile of THE COMPOUND is bullet-in-the-brainpan worthy. Imagine House of Wax, Texas Chainsaw and Wrong Turn rolled into a thin flour tortilla and grilled to perfection.
After THE COMPOUND, there is the little town of Macedonia. I'll be damned if the name of every town in Georgia wasn't taken from my Ancient World History book from Freshman year. Macedonia, of course, is where my radio is hijacked from the audio-orgasm that is SIRIUS 26 Left of Center and switches to some rinky-dink station coming from someone's basement, which plays various essays and rants about the New World Order and how uncivilized people in Africa are (I shit you not... and this isn't THE COMPOUND). This happens a lot, of course; the frequency I listen to SIRIUS on is pretty popular for people's car-iPod things, so I'm frequently subjected to other people's crappy music. That's what I get for using a (paradoxically) Vacant Frequency (which is the name I plan to use for my Dan Brown/Robert Ludlum novel).
Following Fred Phelps Radio is the power plant, which was deemed one of the ten worst in the country (though I'm inclined to say it was #1 on the list). I don't know what to say about it other than that I close the vents on my car when I'm in sight of it.
From here on out, there's a lot of unremarkable minutia. Rinky-dink airport. Windy roads. Broken roads. One-lane bridge. I like to blast M.I.A.'s Kala and pretend I'm driving in the jungle of a third-world country. It helps that my car is a beat up, outdated Honda SUV. Third-world, to be sure. My life is like the ghetto. I grew up on the streets.
What's most exhilarating is that (SHH!) I'm not supposed to drive that way. Not because of the possible cannibals, bigot radio or power plant. It's the one lane bridge. Dad, I love you and how you always look out for me.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Fantastic
Currently Listening To: Great DJ by the Ting Tings
"Either way, all the talk about dead people milling about has given me my idea for a zombie flick. It's called Zombie of the Zombies. The protagonist is a young man that happens to be a zombie. He wakes up one day (hungry for flesh and feeling a bit rigor-mortis-y, naturally) and notices that some of the zombies around him have started turning...zombier. This obviously freaks his 5-cell mind out. He's panicked, in a constant state of terror (and hunger). He couldn't stand (or comprehend) the thought of his zombie girlfriend and their adopted zombie children turning zombier, as he would then have to kill them. He does everything he can think of - namely, killing and eating the few remaining humans left and walking around a lot - to prevent this from happening. Hey, at least he's trying something. In the end, he makes a valiant effort to stop the zombiers from getting his clan, and succeeds in saving their zombie lives, only to be turned zombier himself."
- Blog Cabins
"Either way, all the talk about dead people milling about has given me my idea for a zombie flick. It's called Zombie of the Zombies. The protagonist is a young man that happens to be a zombie. He wakes up one day (hungry for flesh and feeling a bit rigor-mortis-y, naturally) and notices that some of the zombies around him have started turning...zombier. This obviously freaks his 5-cell mind out. He's panicked, in a constant state of terror (and hunger). He couldn't stand (or comprehend) the thought of his zombie girlfriend and their adopted zombie children turning zombier, as he would then have to kill them. He does everything he can think of - namely, killing and eating the few remaining humans left and walking around a lot - to prevent this from happening. Hey, at least he's trying something. In the end, he makes a valiant effort to stop the zombiers from getting his clan, and succeeds in saving their zombie lives, only to be turned zombier himself."
- Blog Cabins
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Drugs
Currently Watching: Reno 911! Miami
Has it really been a month? A month since I last made you laugh, made you cry, made you love again?
I really am great.
I'm here today to talk about drugs. First off, to clear up any sort of misconceptions about me and my non-drug addiction. As in, I ain't no drug addict. Normally I wouldn't need to say something like that, but I was recently accused of being such. For you see, once again, ALLERGIES. Damn those guys. Allergies require medication, because this is America, and if you're uncomfortable, you medicate that shit. Well, last time I was struggling with allergies, my mom gave me a magical little pill that made me feel like I was walking on air, and driving on air and sleeping on air and being on air. I could fall asleep and awaken without any effort, and nothing could hurt me. So after my recent allergy uprising, I tried desperately to find that pill again at the nurse's station at school, to no avail. It ain't Claritin. And so I told some fellow students about this during environmental, at which point, TADA, "Ryan, you're a drug addict."
NO.
If I were a drug addict, would I be able to do a hand stand? NO. Never mind the fact that I can't do a hand stand. But my inability to do a handstand and a crackhead's identical inability do not, by the transitive property, spell Ryan=crackhead. That would be a logical fallacy. Fucko.
My perma-bloodshot eyes (a result of allergies and eye-rubbing) don't help the drug-addict image.
Have I learned nothing from all those PSAs about stealing your parents' medicine?
Prom/the play: less than two weeks... At which point I should have a lengthy complaint. I promise. But I'm actually looking forward to prom (HINT HINT).
Has it really been a month? A month since I last made you laugh, made you cry, made you love again?
I really am great.
I'm here today to talk about drugs. First off, to clear up any sort of misconceptions about me and my non-drug addiction. As in, I ain't no drug addict. Normally I wouldn't need to say something like that, but I was recently accused of being such. For you see, once again, ALLERGIES. Damn those guys. Allergies require medication, because this is America, and if you're uncomfortable, you medicate that shit. Well, last time I was struggling with allergies, my mom gave me a magical little pill that made me feel like I was walking on air, and driving on air and sleeping on air and being on air. I could fall asleep and awaken without any effort, and nothing could hurt me. So after my recent allergy uprising, I tried desperately to find that pill again at the nurse's station at school, to no avail. It ain't Claritin. And so I told some fellow students about this during environmental, at which point, TADA, "Ryan, you're a drug addict."
NO.
If I were a drug addict, would I be able to do a hand stand? NO. Never mind the fact that I can't do a hand stand. But my inability to do a handstand and a crackhead's identical inability do not, by the transitive property, spell Ryan=crackhead. That would be a logical fallacy. Fucko.
My perma-bloodshot eyes (a result of allergies and eye-rubbing) don't help the drug-addict image.
Have I learned nothing from all those PSAs about stealing your parents' medicine?
Prom/the play: less than two weeks... At which point I should have a lengthy complaint. I promise. But I'm actually looking forward to prom (HINT HINT).
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