Hey Remember That Time When I Only Smoked Parliments...

So when I woke up this morning, I had a mix of thoughts going through my head:

Thought 1: "HOLY SHIT! I FELL ASLEEP DOWNSTAIRS WHERE MY ALARM WASN'T SET, AND MY ATHLETIC TRAINING EXAM STARTS IN FOUR MINUTES!!"

Thought 2: "It appears I wrote a poem either in my sleep, or in a state where I was so tired that I no longer remember."

Needless to say, thought one took precedence, as I quickly lept up, threw on pants, which I apparently shed in my sleep, and ran out the door. Thank God it takes literally 18 seconds to run to that class from my apartment. Hurray!

I proceeded to dominate my exam (by the way, I'm the guy in the blue. In case that wasn't clear). NO BIG DEAL.

This left me free to contemplate thought two: the terrible terrible poem that I wrote either in my faux or real sleep. When I woke up, one of my notebooks was open and sitting on the floor in front of me, with a poem written on it, in what is clearly my handwriting. So I marveled at the fact that I managed to rhyme. It's not good, but it rhymes, and that's all that matters. Wait for it, here it is.


I woke up naked in the closet,
to the sound of the dripping faucet,
and I thought maybe I'd lost it,
like I'd seen the line and crossed it.

So I danced outside and stared
at the people that walked there,
and they seemed to wonder where
I'd acquired so much flair.

So I lay down on the ground,
and heard an awful sound,
and when I looked at what I'd found,
I saw that I was bound.

I like apples.


Yeah. That last line is a mystery to me too. I guess the whole thing is, but especially that last part.

So yes, I realize it's not good. But in my defense, I was, at the very least, asleepish.

Don't Promise Me You'll Try and Fix Me, Please Don't Promise Me Anything...

So I hope all of you have voted for Jaimee Harris in the Rock category on Ourstage.com. Because you've only got like 27 hours to do so, because voting ends at the end of September. But to register and vote takes honestly 10 minutes max. I promise. And that's if you're super slow and get distracted by something shiny along the way.

So do it. Thanks so much. Again, she totally deserves it, because she's awesome.

Anyhoo, topic change time (with convenient cliched intro!): There comes a time in every man's life (my own to be specific) when he decides to shed the immature baggage of his childhood and board the flight to adulthood with only his carry on. This is usually by choice. However, in some cases (again, mine specifically), he has every intention of having all of his bags checked and on their way to his destination, but instead they're loaded onto the wrong flight, and suddenly they're in Cleveland, and the airline is denying all responsibility.

Well after reading that exhausting, though still baller metaphor, you're no doubt on the edges of your collective seats, wondering what I'm speaking of.

Now, in my youth, there were certain luxaries that I became used to: always having barbeque sauce in the fridge, sheets, etc. However, I've recently had to give up on these (aka our fridge is barbeque sauce free, and I slept on a bare matress last night). But these are not that devastating, nor do they signal a shift to maturity.

That is, of course, because the third luxary I had grown accustomed to was always having clean socks. As I never find the time to do laundry, nor do I have more than two quarters in my possession, for the past four days, I've been rewearing dirty socks. And no, these are not lightly worn socks. These are socks that I've spent all day at class and then at practice in. Yes. Sad but true.

And, as this is no doubt unappealing, youre probably saying to yourself, "why doesn't he just do laundry now?! And why is he telling us this?!?" Those answers are both very simple. In answer to your first question, there is no change machine here, the bank is closed, I have 1 quarter, and perhaps most importantly, I'm at the library. And for number two, because you need to know.

So now you know. Gone are the days of carefree frolicking through the grass, going to halloween parties, and looking for presents in the knotholes of trees. The time has come to be a very good looking role model/lawyer and win an Oscar. Shit, that's just To Kill a Mockingbird. Whatever. Good thing Gregory Peck is a baller.

It's a Rat Trap Judy...

So I met Michael Phelps yesterday. NO BIG DEAL. Nevermind. Screw that. HUGE DEAL. DINOSAURIC DEAL. Whatevs.

So I know there's one topic that you're all desperate to talk about. This story may not be clogging up all media outlets, but I feel as if it should be.

Yup. One of NASA's unmanned rockets was deemed a failure, so they blew it up. And what happens to the remains of this rocket that was apparently not pulverized? That's right. THEY COME SCREAMING TO THE GROUND AT BREAKNECK SPEED!!!

Really? Now they claim that most of it is falling "harmlessly" into the Atlantic Ocean (though ask those little dolphins that get nailed how harmless that debris is). And if this is true, I guess I'm mostly okay with it, except for the fact that a government organization is purposely littering the ocean. But if I get hit with a piece of falling rocket, I'm going to be pissed.

It's a God Awful Small Affair...

Okay, I realize I just posted. But my caring padre just sent me this, and I feel as if it needs to be spread about, in case you haven't seen it yet.

THIS appears to be legit, at least according to PETA's website.

Yeah. eeew

I'll Sing You to Sleep, With Morning Lullabies...

Do you ever realize that you have a skill, not necessarly because you notice it yourself, but because someone points it out to you? Granted, I do not have a plethura of useful skills (though I do make a mean grilled cheese sandwich), but I apparently have one more I was totally unaware of.

Word on the street is that I can write a baller speech. How do I know this, you may ask. Well, I'll tell you. It's my friend's sister's wedding next weekend, and she was asked to give a speech. She then proceeded to ask me if I would write it for her. Mind you, I've met her sister once. And when I say "met." what I really mean is I once walked past her sister while going into her house and said "hello."

So needless to say, I'm a little worried. Though I feel a bit inspired by the fact that she trusts in my speech writing skills so much that she's having me write a speech that is supposed to sound like it's coming straight from her heart, and as if she'd been working on it for weeks. So I think I can pull it off.

However, I've never actually written a speech for a wedding, so if anyone has any suggestions, feel free to let me know. I'd be undyingly grateful. Gracias

They're Gonna Wanna Know How We Got In Here...

Now we all have little things that really get to us. Things that push our metaphorical buttons, if I may. For me, that thing is the commercials for FreeCreditReport.com with obnoxious singing man. So needless to say, I didn't know how to react when I saw this little tidbit of news.

Just when I thought they weren't going to be able to step their game up, and make them any more obnoxious, they decided to have Ed McMahon start rapping. I like to think that the meeting where this was decided went something like this:

Advertising Man 1: "So our commercials are a huge hit!"

Advertising Man 2: "But I hate them."

AM 1: "So do I! But the more obnoxious they are, the better!"

AM 1 and 2: together "Huzzah!"

Advertising Man 3: "But I feel as if we aren't reaching a broad enough audience."

Advertising Man 4: "You're right!"

AM 3: "I know I am. Wait! Let's have someone rapping!"

AM 1: "It's perfect! Lets have someone loved by all of America. Maybe a retired late night talk show sidekick!"

AM 2: "I love it!"

Advertising Woman: "I hate all of you."

My Old Man's Drunker Than A Barrel Full of Monkeys...

So every Thursday, we have practice held at the stadium in preparation for the game on Saturday, and they make every effort to make it seem like game day (they run the scoreboard, the other quarterbacks signal in the calls, etc.). They also blast music to simulate game noise. Despite the fact that it's mostly shitty ganster rap, I love it nevertheless.

However, suddenly during practice, things took a turn for the worse. Over the speakers, this terrible, distorted, awfulness started playing, and I said to myself, "this sounds oddly familiar, though I can already tell I hate it." I then hear a voice. A terrible, terrible, terrible voice. It is the voice of Chad Kroger, lead singer of Nickelback. I don't know if you know this about me, but Nickelback is BY FAR my least favorite band of all time. OF ALL TIME.

Then, the song got a few more lines in, and I realize why it sounded a little familiar. (mind you, these lines are being sung by what sounds like some sort of neanderthal who just downed a bottle of Tobasco sauce) "Don't give us none of your aggravation, we had it with your dicipline." Thats right. Join in now. "Saturday night's all right for fighting. Get a little action in." THEY WERE COVERING ELTON JOHN!

I could have cried. I mean, really? It was unintelligible and...it was...Nickelback...

Thank God it ended eventually, though I swear to you it lasted, no exaggeration, 14 hours.

VOTE FOR JAIMEE M. HARRIS

I don't know how I didn't mention this before.

All of you need to go to OURSTAGE.COM, and vote for JAIMEE M. HARRIS in the ROCK, SINGER/SONGWRITER, and COUNTRY categories. She's honestly amazing, and I love her, and she has no business not winning.

Maybe you'll look at this and say "wow, I had no idea he liked country." Well I don't. But this is really more folk and folk/rock. And I can deal with this. And the simple truth is that she's simply just incredibly talented, and no matter what kind of music it is, I'm going to love it.

If you like what you hear, and how could you not, let me know and I'll send you her stuff.

Thanks so much.

Now She's A Little Boy in Spain...

My mind is currently exploding with thoughts, some far lamer than others (for example, shouldn't the puller part of a zipper be the zipper, and rest should just be the zip?). I'm tempted to write elatedly about the firing of the Lions' epic loser of a GM, Matt Millen. I'd like to talk about how Lance Armstrong has come out of retirement (which I'm not sure I'm happy about) to ride for Johan Bruyneel and Team Astana. I'd like to talk about the fact that Tostito's tricks me into thinking I'm being healthy when I eat their Multigrain Tortilla Chips, while in fact for each 8 chips I consume, I also take in 70 calories from fat. Bastards.

However, none of these made the cut. I will instead choose to focus on the journey to self-discovery I took today. Now, I have always known that I'm an awkward person. Look at me. Its unavoidable. When you're 6'5" and weigh 162 pounds, you really have no choice but to be both physically and socially awkward. But I don't think I ever really understood to what extent.

It started right when I woke up. Here we go. So every night before I go to sleep, I set three alarms, located all over the room, in an effort to keep me from simply turning them off and going back to bed. However, as I don't trust myself, I set them to go off again 5 minutes later, and then 5 minutes after that, and so on for a half hour. So this morning, my alarms started blasting simultaneously at 9:00. I sleepily stumbled over and turned them off. The next thing I remember is standing in the middle of the room as they were going off. That's right. I fell asleep standing up. Perhaps I should have gone to sleep before 7:30.

I then proceeded to the coffee shop to get a mint hot chocolate. I noticed almost immediately that the girl in front of me had THIS tattooed on her neck.

Yes. She had a Rainbow Brite tattoo. Naturally, I say to her "your tattoo makes me so happy to be alive. It's magical. 'The most magnificent horse in the universe!'" She looked at me as if I had just said something so vile that I may have well just drop kicked a kitten out of a window. Who doesn't know the favorite saying of the horse she has tattooed on her neck? And who's offended by it?!?

Minutes later, after paying for my mint hot chocolate and getting my change, I went to put the change in the tip jar, and then put the bills in my pocket. However, I accidentally dropped all $2.85 in the tip jar, meaning that I was tipping 70 cents more than I paid for the hot chocolate. However, the super cute barista smiled at me and says "thanks so much!" So its not like I can go, "oh, I don't really appreciate you that much," and take it out, so I naturally instead opted to stumble over my words and come up with something like "the hot chocolate...er...you...um...I mean...it was real good service..." Dammit.

I then went to class, and before the prof came in, I was chatting with the people around me. It's a largeish lecture, so I don't know everyone in it, and I realized that I'd never met the person in the seat behind me. Now, this lecture hall is set up with the stadium seating approach, in the sense that each row is higher up than the one in front of it. So when I introduced myself and we shook hands, I of course slammed his arm against his table. He let out a gasp of pain and quickly let go, and after my apology, we opted to not talk for the rest of class.

Then I ran into someone as I was scootering to practice. There's not a lot of explanation needed.

Then, at practice, I was chatting with someone, and we were discussing how their friend is coming into town, and they weren't excited about it, because their friend is apparently a huge nerdo, and super awkward, and they don't want to go out and party with them. I then threw in "well I'm socially awkward, and yet I still go party." They of course responded with "oh no doubt. You're incredibly incredibly incredibly awkward. But you're really friendly which makes up for it." I got the trio o' incredibly's? The triple entene of incredibly? Por que??

And just now, as I was doing laundry, I somehow managed to put all my clothes in dryers, which I didn't notice until right after I started them, meaning that I just spent 6 dollars on NOTHING. Damnation.

Thus, in conclusion, I'm incredibly (cubed) socially awkward. Far more than I could have ever imagined. And, in all honesty, I'm totally okay with it. Hurray! Self-discovery!!!

Blow out that cherry bomb, for me?

So I arrive home from the library, and my apartment is pitch black, as everyone has gone to sleep, due to their early classes tomorrow morning. So I sneak upstairs, and go to open my door. It is at this point that I fall forwards and almost smash my face on my roommate's dresser. This is, of course, because apparently we no longer have a bedroom door (why else?).

You may ask yourself, "why does he not have a door?" Oh believe me, I was wondering the same thing. Here, my newly awakened GayRoommate explained the story to me.

Apparently, our landlord decided that one of the bedroom doors was broken. So this evening a maintenance man shows up at our front door, saying that he's "here to take one of the doors."

Confusedly, GR explains that none of our doors need to be taken. But maintenance man insists that he's "here to take the broken one."

"Which one is broken?" GR inquires.

"You tell me" responds the increasinly helpful maintenance man.

So he traipses upstairs and bangs loudly on each door, apparently coming to the conclusion that the door to my room is the offender. So he quickly undoes the hinges and takes the door away.

"Don't worry," he assured GR, "we'll have it back in 4 or 5 days."

And there he left GR standing in the ruins of what was our previously fully enclosed bedroom.

For real real? Yes. Not for play play.

I Can Still Hear You Singing to Me In My Sleep...

Tonight I experienced what essentially the entire world regards as the best meal in history. "Lunch?" you ask. Girl please. "Dinner?" "Breakfast?" "The Midnight Snack?" "Brunch?" "Linner perhaps?" Of course you are all wrong. You silly geese. The meal, as anyone who has experienced it will tell you in a heartbeat, is Brinner. Breakfast for dinner. Now Brinner on its own...epic. However, Brinner made for you by a penitent girl who is trying to make up for cancelling a date...orgasmic.

The pancakes, the chocolate chip pancakes, the scrambled eggs with cheese, the bacon...I could cry. Now, if you know me well, you might be asking yourself, "I thought he wasnt really a big fan of breakfast foods." You would be correct. Ha Ha! But you forgot to factor in the fact that it's 10:00 at night! Thus making the generally drab, tasteless, generally unappealing substance that is the pancake, suddenly spring to life and shout "I AM A PANCAKE! IT IS NIGHTTIME! EAT ME AND LOVE IT!" And I did.


However, over the next half hour or so, I came down a bit from my Brinner high, and I was forced to go to the library to write a research paper about avulsion fractures of the ASIS of the pelvis. But, as usual, waiting for the bus provided many a thrill. Take for example the following situation which just took place a mere 15 minutes ago:

Me: standing around at the bus stop, humming Semisonic

Stranger Girl: "They made a book about it?!?"

Me: "Excuse me?"

Stranger Girl: "I can't believe they made it into a book! Do you think it's at the library?"

Me: looking around confusedly, "Wait, what?"

Stranger Girl: pointing to the book tucked under my arm, "I love that show! Where did you buy that?"

She was of course pointing to my copy of Gray's Anatomy. Oh dear God...

Well We Came Upon A Cracker...

Now my good friends, sometime in life, something happens that just makes me go "wow, I'm super glad I didn't die in my sleep last night, because then I would have missed this." I'm happy to say that one of those moments occured today. And it was magical.

So through a terrible error in judgement, I woke up at 9 this morning for an 11:30 class. Oops. But, I said to myself, "you my good siare already awake. Go get mint hot chocolate!" So I did.

However, as magical as this hot chocolate was (and with all its minty goodness, I assure you it was indeed magical) that is not what made this morning so magical. As I was walking back to my apartment to grab my books before I went to class, I saw an incredibly old woman standing on the corner waiting to cross the street. Now when I say incredibly old, I mean incredibly old. Super super old. And of course, she was carrying two large plastic grocery bags, presumably filled with groceries, though it makes me happier to think that they were filled with something more exciting, like hypodermic needles.

So anyhoo, heroin toting grandma was waiting patiently to cross the street, so I go over to her and ask her if she needs help carrying her bags, because, again, super old. She smiles a little and says in all her stereotypical grandma awesomeness, "why thank you young man. That would be lovely." So I take her two bags, only worrying slightly about the fact that I'm now potentially a drug mule. What happened next is what made the morning so goddamn mangical.

Right as we start into the road, she takes both hands and grabs the nook of my elbow. That's right. I HELPED AN OLD WOMAN CROSS THE STREET! I didn't realize this actually happened. As I recall, when I was a cub scout, I used to cite this as a potential good turn, though I never thought I would have the chance to actually do it. I could have cried.

Luckily, she did not live too far away, so I was able to bring her bags to her house and make it back to my apartment in time. But by god, I would have gladly missed class to do it again, if only for the feeling that I was in the 1900's, and if I was really lucky, she might give me a piece of salt-water taffy.

I'm Walkin' Down the Sidewalks of LA, Wishin' I Had A Warmer Jacket, and Something More to Say...

So I go to the library tonight to study, and naturally I stop at the cafe there to buy a bagel. Students there are tax exempt, so when the cashier asked me if I was a student, well this is how the convo went:

"Are you a student then?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you have your ID then?"

after frantically rooting through my backpack "No I think I left it in my apartment."

"Well then you're not a student."

"Say what now?"

"If you don't have your ID you're not a student."

"You mean I can't prove I'm a student."

"Exactly, you're not a student."

"Um...okay. I'll pay the extra 9 cents?"

"Thank you sir."


That douche.

Wendy Let Me In

So per ObnoxiouslyHappySister's suggestion, I'm reading the book Candyfreak by Steve Almond. I remember stocking this book at my old job, and I always wanted to read it, but never did. Alas. But now I've finally taken the plunge. And it's magical. Lets read about a few of this country's great candy bar ideas:

The Vegetable Bar - Dehydrated vegetables coated in chocolate.
Tagline - Will Not Constipate (if thats not appealing, I just don't know what is.)

The Perfect Bar - Essentially the same as the Vegetable Bar, but improved!
Tagline - We have combined in this confection dehydrated vegetables rich in vitamins and bran!! (no doubt in the form of bark)

Rough Rider - No description for this one, though I can only assume it's oddly phallic
Presumed Tagline - Looking for chocolate love? Shove the Rough Rider down your throat!!

Club Sandwich - Again, no description, though I like to think it was just a sandwich in foil.
Presumed Tagline - A Club Sandwich


Theres no explanation for why these failed. Especially the Vegetable Bar. As terrible as it sounds, I want to try it so so badly. It's a sickness...

Life inside the music box ain't easy...

Now I ask you good people, is it so wrong that one of my main dreams in life is to own a koala bear? I think not. But every time I bring this up in conversation, all I get are naysayers. Not once has someone agreed and said "you're right, they are the cutest things to ever walk the face of the earth." Stop it with your saying of nay! Damn you people! Here's a list of reasons that I've been given as to why koala owning is a poor life decision, along with the obvious responses:

Where will you keep him? - I'll carry him everywhere, he'll sleep in my bed, and when im in class, I'll just latch him onto my leg. Where else?

I hear they smell real bad. - thats why im going to give them little koala baths, and brush their little koala teeth, and worse comes to worst, I'll stuff dryer sheets down their little shorts. (of course they're going to wear shorts. It's adorable)

Don't a lot of them have chlamydia? - Yes, but as Wikipedia tells me, theres 2.8 new cases of chlamydia in the US every year. Does this mean that none of those 2.8 million PEOPLE can be my pet? Clearly no. So then why can a KOALA not be? Girl please.

Shouldn't you be paying attention to the road instead of arguing about koalas? - Shut up.

Okay really, after this, I'm going to stop being lame, I'm going to turn off cartoons, I'm going to bid my roomies adieu, and I'm going to go meet up with people and get ready to go out for the noche. We can't go to any shitty frat parties because they're all having rush. Bastards. But there's always plenty of slightly less shitty house parties to take their place. But that's not the point of this post.
Here we go. So I'm on the phone with ObnoxiouslyHappySister, OHS (I think I just love accronyms), and I hear from downstairs the melodious tones of confused girls. After giving my brain a moment to process the information (exact brain thoughts: "hoes!!") I moseyed downstairs to see what kind of shenanigans were going down. However I was met partway down the stairs by GayRoommate and these two random girls. Naturally, I assumed I had met them before and had simply forgotten, so I hugged each of them, and they just rolled with it. I then, without really understanding why, joined him in giving them a full guided tour of the apartment. The girls and I then chatted for a bit about the apartment, One Tree Hill, etc. (group consensus: why the fuck won't Dan die? Why Q?!?) I then made awkward plans that everyone knew we wouldn't keep ("Let's hang out soon!").They then left, at which point GayRoommate informed me of the details of their visit.

As it turns out, I did not actually know them, thus making my plan making even more awkward than it previously was. They had just been walking around looking at potential apartments for next year, and as our apartment door was open and 2pac was blasting, they chose ours. However, they did not ask for a tour. As GR informed me, he saw them standing awkwardly outside looking inside the apartment and having a conversation about it. After aparently 3 of 4 minutes of waiting for them to ask if they could come inside and see it, he lost interest in waiting for them to build up the courage to do so, and he asked if they wanted a tour, which indeed they did. This is where I joined in the action, no doubt making their day all the better, though I swear to you I heard GR whisper to them ("Don't be scared, he won't hurt you."). sonofabitch

I FORGOT

I've decided I should keep you all updated on my romantic conquests as well. Not all of them, mind you. Merely one. From this point forward, she will be refered to as DBG, and no those are not her initials. There's a long awkward story behind it. I'll tell you later if you're really that curious. Anyhoo, current status: totally out of reach. Damnation

Hello there friends. Ha, I say this in the same way one would speak as if one had been gone for a few days, or perhaps even a week. It's been what, 2 years? Nevertheless, I push onward! I've decided its time to pick up where I left off, and continue my blog. I am well aware that I have no readers, so this will apparently serve just as a diary for me. What can you do?

Let me begin by venting to someone (read: myself) about my newest bother. Why do people say the phrase "I'm going to let you go" when they're ending a phone conversation? You're letting me go? As if you sensed that I've been trying to hang up for hours, and I just didn't know how? Girl please. What you really mean is that you're sick of talking to me [tear] and you want to hang up. Just say that! I can deal with it! I'm a big boy! You don't need to release me! I RELEASE YOU! So from now on, if anyone says that to me, I'll simply have to tell them that no, I'M letting THEM go. Suck on that.

Ooooooh I forgot! I'd ask everyone's opinion on this point, but again, if anyone has stuck around for two years, you have far more dedication than I could ever muster. For anything. But here we go. Wait for it. So a couple weeks ago I made plans with one of my amigas to get dinner. These dinner plans were her idea. It was in no way a date. Simply, catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in a few months. She suggests last Friday, but I told her that it would have to be this Friday, as I thought I would be out of town last Friday. However, as it turns out, I end up being free last Friday, so I text her to tell her that if she's free that night, we could hang out then, or if not, we'd just stick to our original plans. She promptly texts me back to say, "i am kind of seeing someone and he doesn't feel comfortable with me eating dinner with another guy- sorry!" GIGAWHAT?!? I WASN'T ASKING YOU OUT!! DINNER WAS YOUR IDEA!!! So I text her back to inform her that I in no way intended this to be a date or anything, I just like getting food with friends, but if her she or her boy werent comfortable with it, it's cool, we'll just hang out some other time in some other fashion. She then chose to not respond. Chica por favor. What guy is so jealous and untrusting that he forbids a girl he's "kind of seeing" from having dinner with a friend? Also, what business does he have telling her what to do? Bitch please. Haha sorry I'm done yelling. I promise.

In other news, no work for me this Saturday for the first time since July. I don't know what to do with myself. What happens on Saturday's again?

On that note, I'm off to watch cartoons before I go out for the night. Until next time.