There are quite a few things in this world that I dislike. If you're reading this, chances are that you're pretty well versed in this general fact. My distaste for a lot of things is clear as crystal, and in this sense, I wear my heart on my sleeve. I kind of wish there were an organ that was metaphorically linked to hatred, because in actuality it would be this organ, as opposed to my heart, that was worn on my sleeve. Being a smoker, I get the occasional 'your lungs are black' joke or jibe. Maybe since my lungs are black they can be linked to hatred, so we can say that I wear my lungs on my sleeve. Does that make sense? Good.
Few things in this world garner enough of my energy to warrant the term 'hatred.' The fact of the matter is that I just don't care enough about what goes on to say that I 'hate' anything. Either that, or we should replace the aforementioned 'dislike' group and call it the 'hate' group, meaning I hate almost everything. If that were the case, I would be a lot like Jesus. Except the opposite. Where he loves stuff, I would hate it. Since I'm not so full of myself to compare myself to the Christ, I'm going to have to stick with dislike as the majority and hate the minority.
The last three words from the previous sentence are pretty funny when they stand alone.
We've finally reached the point of my argument for today. I'm here to discuss one thing that I absolutely loathe.
We live in a world where text messages and AIM conversations are commonplace. Email has replaced the 'quick call' for many businesses and our lives are in the hands of computers more everyday. I can't say that I like the idea of relying so heavily on machines, I saw A Space Odyssey and I remember the bleak future from The Terminator. My point, however, is that there is much more text being read now when communicating than ever before. Also, machines are evil. Remember The Matrix?
A simple question is 'wat r u up 2?'
This bastardization of the English language is almost unavoidable. I get emails, text messages and instant messages like this everyday. Loosely translated, the above means 'I'm an imbecile, if I could figure out how, I would strangle myself with my mouse cord and end the miserable excuse for a life I now lead.'
I hate that. Is it so difficult to add two extra letters to the word 'you' or 'are' or to type out 'to' instead of just hitting the number key? Why do I need a translator to read English? You're not Chaucer, you can write like a normal instead of a 13 year old girl. By the way, any 13 year old girls who type like this are retarded. I get it, you passed the third grade and figured out what a homophone is. Too, two, to. Perhaps we missed the boat on this one though, the trick to homophones is that they sound alike, but mean different things. They mean different things, as in not the same. Like that time when I went for a walk and caught butterflies. What I really meant was that I got all drunk and had sex with a coked out model. Or when I went and volunteered at the local homeless shelter, I really meant that I cruised around downtown and beat up homeless people.
I digress. I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. The difference is that my mistakes are accidental, like the time I crashed my car into a tree. I didn't mean to fall asleep (or pass out, depending on who you talk to) and kiss that tree, it was an accident. These text mistakes aren't mistakes at all though, they're 'on purposes.' Someone purposefully leaves out the 'y' and the 'o' in the word 'you' and it is my contention that they do it purely to invoke my ire. So next time you think about being lazy and not typing out the entire 3 letters of a 3 letter word, think about the offer your mom made me the other night. She said she'd be up for anything for 50 cents and an apple. Anything. And I swear I'll film it.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
I hate it when I buy a Cd and I only like the one song.
I work two jobs. It's a really good time, kind of like the good time I'd imagine it would be if I went skydiving sans the parachute. It's the kind of fun you have when you find out that you have cancer and you have to get a ball cut off.
I have no idea why I'm working these nut-cuttingly fun pair of jobs. I have bills, yeah. I like to have a good time, and that requires some money, sure. With the loot I should be making from two jobs, which ought to be double the money I was making from my first job, I should be up to my nose in cheap hookers and dirty cocaine. Ahhha, do you get it? Up to my NOSE? It's funny because you're supposed to put cocaine in your... nevermind. It's probably not funny and someone will already have been offended by the cancer joke.
The problem is that I'm still basically broke. I still don't have any money and I'm not even hosting parties so big I need a warehouse and a personal drug dealer to cater the event. I still have bills that remain unpaid. I'm starting to think there's some sort of conspiracy to keep me perpetually poor. During the school year I figured I was broke because everyone else was broke, plus I didn't really have a job. Things would pick up during the summer and I could save some money so life wouldn't be so meager when I went back to school, I told myself. I guess I lied. I didn't know I was lying to myself at the time, though.
I think there truly is a conspiracy. I've been going to school for three years and 'the man' knows that he can squeeze another year out of me as long as I don't start making loads of money before I go back. That's the point of school, right? Making loads of money is what I want, I mean, I'm thinking about an extra 3 or 4 years of school so that I can make money. Stay with me now, here's the kicker. Most of my friends, myself included, have at least some loans for those years spent in school.
'The man' has all the motivation in the world to keep us in school. He's only going to make MORE money the longer we loan. How much would a magical fairy cost? Because that's how much 'the man' is spending to sneak into my house at night and steal money from me. Ok, ok, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched. But is it really out of the question for 'the man' to hire some midgets to do that kind of job? Now, now you're seeing the picture. 'The man' has hired an army of midgets to sneak into the homes of college students and steal their money to keep them downtrodden.
Does that sound too ridiculous? People think that the moon-landing was staged. People think that Martians landed out west and no one but crack pots and trailer-dwellers have been visited. People think that the government is listening in on all our conversations and that they give the HIV virus to poor people. Those last two are probably true, though, just like this midget-theft conspiracy is. Well I got news for you, I don't care, I'll kill a damned midget. If I catch one of those bastards trying to steal from me, I'll choke the little sonovabitch.
I have no idea why I'm working these nut-cuttingly fun pair of jobs. I have bills, yeah. I like to have a good time, and that requires some money, sure. With the loot I should be making from two jobs, which ought to be double the money I was making from my first job, I should be up to my nose in cheap hookers and dirty cocaine. Ahhha, do you get it? Up to my NOSE? It's funny because you're supposed to put cocaine in your... nevermind. It's probably not funny and someone will already have been offended by the cancer joke.
The problem is that I'm still basically broke. I still don't have any money and I'm not even hosting parties so big I need a warehouse and a personal drug dealer to cater the event. I still have bills that remain unpaid. I'm starting to think there's some sort of conspiracy to keep me perpetually poor. During the school year I figured I was broke because everyone else was broke, plus I didn't really have a job. Things would pick up during the summer and I could save some money so life wouldn't be so meager when I went back to school, I told myself. I guess I lied. I didn't know I was lying to myself at the time, though.
I think there truly is a conspiracy. I've been going to school for three years and 'the man' knows that he can squeeze another year out of me as long as I don't start making loads of money before I go back. That's the point of school, right? Making loads of money is what I want, I mean, I'm thinking about an extra 3 or 4 years of school so that I can make money. Stay with me now, here's the kicker. Most of my friends, myself included, have at least some loans for those years spent in school.
'The man' has all the motivation in the world to keep us in school. He's only going to make MORE money the longer we loan. How much would a magical fairy cost? Because that's how much 'the man' is spending to sneak into my house at night and steal money from me. Ok, ok, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched. But is it really out of the question for 'the man' to hire some midgets to do that kind of job? Now, now you're seeing the picture. 'The man' has hired an army of midgets to sneak into the homes of college students and steal their money to keep them downtrodden.
Does that sound too ridiculous? People think that the moon-landing was staged. People think that Martians landed out west and no one but crack pots and trailer-dwellers have been visited. People think that the government is listening in on all our conversations and that they give the HIV virus to poor people. Those last two are probably true, though, just like this midget-theft conspiracy is. Well I got news for you, I don't care, I'll kill a damned midget. If I catch one of those bastards trying to steal from me, I'll choke the little sonovabitch.
Monday, June 5, 2006
the irony is beautiful
I've been here for the past two hours, give or take an hour or two, trying to complete a test for my online philosophy course. I say I've been 'trying' because I lack the resources to accomplish my task and I have finally given up hope that this test will be completed this evening. It's due at 8AM tomorrow and the book I ordered for the class, which I need, is due in on Tuesday.
This lack of a book got me thinking about how much more I read over the summer than during the school year. In fact, I've read two books so far this summer. You're probably thinking 'two books? big deal!' But factor in the 50+ hour work weeks and the 12 hours a week I spend at class plus my ridiculously extravagant 5-6 hours of sleep per night, I lack the time for reading now that I have the drive to read. At school? Time is all that I have (had) while I was there. Yet, I did no reading. Relatively no reading, I at least read enough to get by where and when I needed to this past year.
Somewhere along this train of thought I happened over the brilliant idea that I should do a book review of some of my highlights. I recently went out to Border's and found the 3-fer deal going on, I got 3 books for the price of the most expensive two. I grabbed a Kurt Vonnegut, a Comparative Religions book and Jimmy Buffett's newest 'A Salty Piece of Land.'
In the vein of creative writing, Buffett starts his tale out at near the end of the book so that the majority of the read is a flashback. A useless nuance that flowed well, but I found myself confused when the transition took place from the flashback to the real part of the story. It's not a large issue since, like I said, the vast majority of the book takes place in the flashback form. Now that the negative is aside, I can get in to why I liked this book.
A Caribbean adventure from cover to cover, you go on a sailing, fishing, and well... adventuring. Buffett never gets too detailed into what could be the boring bits and pieces of sailing, though he does give enough to paint a vivid picture of life on the islands. The slow moving bits of the character's time spent as a fishing-guide were also glazed over, which deserves a tip of the hat to the author. By the end of the book I was ready to pick up and move down south to live my life to the fullest on the beautiful islands and wondrous lifestyle of the sea-going adventurer. I want my own salty piece of land, and I think that anyone reading this book will come away with the same feeling.
Whoa. I feel as if I should be saying "but don't take my word for it..." right now. "Take a look, it's in a book" and all that. Perhaps I should stick to my true to life musings if I'm to continue this endeavor. At any rate, I ought to be able to keep this up this time. Productivity is up. And that's all I have to say right now.
This lack of a book got me thinking about how much more I read over the summer than during the school year. In fact, I've read two books so far this summer. You're probably thinking 'two books? big deal!' But factor in the 50+ hour work weeks and the 12 hours a week I spend at class plus my ridiculously extravagant 5-6 hours of sleep per night, I lack the time for reading now that I have the drive to read. At school? Time is all that I have (had) while I was there. Yet, I did no reading. Relatively no reading, I at least read enough to get by where and when I needed to this past year.
Somewhere along this train of thought I happened over the brilliant idea that I should do a book review of some of my highlights. I recently went out to Border's and found the 3-fer deal going on, I got 3 books for the price of the most expensive two. I grabbed a Kurt Vonnegut, a Comparative Religions book and Jimmy Buffett's newest 'A Salty Piece of Land.'
In the vein of creative writing, Buffett starts his tale out at near the end of the book so that the majority of the read is a flashback. A useless nuance that flowed well, but I found myself confused when the transition took place from the flashback to the real part of the story. It's not a large issue since, like I said, the vast majority of the book takes place in the flashback form. Now that the negative is aside, I can get in to why I liked this book.
A Caribbean adventure from cover to cover, you go on a sailing, fishing, and well... adventuring. Buffett never gets too detailed into what could be the boring bits and pieces of sailing, though he does give enough to paint a vivid picture of life on the islands. The slow moving bits of the character's time spent as a fishing-guide were also glazed over, which deserves a tip of the hat to the author. By the end of the book I was ready to pick up and move down south to live my life to the fullest on the beautiful islands and wondrous lifestyle of the sea-going adventurer. I want my own salty piece of land, and I think that anyone reading this book will come away with the same feeling.
Whoa. I feel as if I should be saying "but don't take my word for it..." right now. "Take a look, it's in a book" and all that. Perhaps I should stick to my true to life musings if I'm to continue this endeavor. At any rate, I ought to be able to keep this up this time. Productivity is up. And that's all I have to say right now.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
lover, you should've come over
Fear grips my heart like a vice. Just as another equally powerful vice cranks down on my temples. Jesus, this shit happens way too often anymore. It seems like what used to happen once a month, twice if I was feeling frisky now sneaks up on me much too much as of late. I, of course, am referring to the hangover.
To use the term "hangover" is an understatement to the tune of the holocaust. Your average, run of the mill, soccer mom drank too much wine while watching must see TV, hangover is like saying that the holocaust never happened. While my benders and binges, on the other hand, would be the full blown apocalyptic onslaught of fire and brimstone that was the calculated destruction of millions of the european Jewry.
Ok, maybe that was a bit over the top, but it certainly feels like a slaughter. The problem is that the headache really pales in comparison with the fear. The headache is nothing. Bad music can give me a headache and everyone knows there is plenty of that to go around. The fear is the thing. I know that I blacked out and I know there could be dead bodies laying somewhere, just waiting for this week's team of crime scene investigators to bust up my hazy facade and cart me off to serve my life imprisonment.
God knows I deserve it. To be honest, I probably only have dumb luck or divine intervention to thank for my continued existence as a free man. But the fear, that's truly how I'm punished for living my life as a lord of debauchery.
Similar to the feeling you get when you've held your breath too long, the very blood in my veins seems to drop a few degrees. This otherworldly fear only fuels the fire, the anxiety. The anxiety coupled with the haze of a night of heavy drinking. Like a wedding in hell, I see to be married to this recurring tragedy. Shakespeare couldn't have made a finer plot twist, I can't move a muscle and yet that is the only thing on my mind. I must get out of there. Wherever there may be.
If there was a wedding in hell, the fear would be the wedding cake. The centerpiece of the hangover. And like any good cake, this one has layers, and maybe even some side dishes of wedding cake accoutrements. Some of these hellish delicacies include the aforementioned blood as it freezes inside of me. But while the blood cools my body to the point of pain, my lungs burn. Because of course I smoked too much last night. Normal people smoke too much at half a pack, maybe a whole pack. I can easily cut through three or four packs of cigarettes on one of my weekly benders.
Waking up, with a dry mouth and burning lungs, a sore throat and the fear. The fear is the killer. Waking up on a sugar high from this satanic cake is becoming far too frequent of an adventure as of late. Far too frequent.
To use the term "hangover" is an understatement to the tune of the holocaust. Your average, run of the mill, soccer mom drank too much wine while watching must see TV, hangover is like saying that the holocaust never happened. While my benders and binges, on the other hand, would be the full blown apocalyptic onslaught of fire and brimstone that was the calculated destruction of millions of the european Jewry.
Ok, maybe that was a bit over the top, but it certainly feels like a slaughter. The problem is that the headache really pales in comparison with the fear. The headache is nothing. Bad music can give me a headache and everyone knows there is plenty of that to go around. The fear is the thing. I know that I blacked out and I know there could be dead bodies laying somewhere, just waiting for this week's team of crime scene investigators to bust up my hazy facade and cart me off to serve my life imprisonment.
God knows I deserve it. To be honest, I probably only have dumb luck or divine intervention to thank for my continued existence as a free man. But the fear, that's truly how I'm punished for living my life as a lord of debauchery.
Similar to the feeling you get when you've held your breath too long, the very blood in my veins seems to drop a few degrees. This otherworldly fear only fuels the fire, the anxiety. The anxiety coupled with the haze of a night of heavy drinking. Like a wedding in hell, I see to be married to this recurring tragedy. Shakespeare couldn't have made a finer plot twist, I can't move a muscle and yet that is the only thing on my mind. I must get out of there. Wherever there may be.
If there was a wedding in hell, the fear would be the wedding cake. The centerpiece of the hangover. And like any good cake, this one has layers, and maybe even some side dishes of wedding cake accoutrements. Some of these hellish delicacies include the aforementioned blood as it freezes inside of me. But while the blood cools my body to the point of pain, my lungs burn. Because of course I smoked too much last night. Normal people smoke too much at half a pack, maybe a whole pack. I can easily cut through three or four packs of cigarettes on one of my weekly benders.
Waking up, with a dry mouth and burning lungs, a sore throat and the fear. The fear is the killer. Waking up on a sugar high from this satanic cake is becoming far too frequent of an adventure as of late. Far too frequent.
Monday, January 23, 2006
lazy friday
"Hey man, how you doing?" It's a typical query. Everytime I use that phrase or some permutation thereof, I want to kick myself in the ass. I just said that exact phrase no more than 10 minutes ago. I don't give a fuck how anyone is doing.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
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