tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6456140397321369732024-03-12T19:53:22.449-07:00Your Life According To Me.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-82917328215691910502013-03-19T21:27:00.003-07:002013-03-19T21:27:57.268-07:00Saturday IIeither these clouds are hauling ass <br />
or that star is an airplane.<br />
Colette is on her way down<br />
So I stop talking to Diana and sit on my chair.<br />
I stop eating the hipster<br />
photographer girl's <br />
honey barbeque fitos <br />
and sit on my chair.<br />
My chair<br />
which is vibrating with the<br />
power of the erupting volcano at least three blocks away<br />
and the banging of the bells from St. Mark's Square<br />
blood on the polinas and visitors from Tuscon<br />
And many many people whose faces are a 35 millimeter lens.<br />
I've decided that the star<br />
is a star.<br />
Sir, your motorcycle is abrasively loud.<br />
I can count all the stars<br />
one, two, three, there are 16 on the boulevard<br />
and one glowing, glorified bird above the Palazzo.<br />
I can tell which star is Mars because its red<br />
one is particularly blue<br />
but the one right above me at 45 degrees <br />
is the brightest and most brilliant<br />
and must be the Guru Jupiter.<br />
Cosimo just came back from lunch and hung on my gate<br />
he told me that I'm sexy and put a yellow package of peanut m&ms in my hand.<br />
He knows I love peanut m&ms.<br />
He told me he'd "fuck me right out of those uggs"<br />
so I blew him a kiss and he tongued the air.<br />
The Luxor's pillar of light shines directly into a small<br />
cloud and<br />
it looks like a spiral galaxy<br />
and it is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
---------<br />
<br />
<br />
and now at<br />
three thirty five in the morning<br />
the pillar is constant.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-58120149919391575782013-03-19T21:20:00.000-07:002013-03-19T21:20:20.455-07:00anything for meBe silent<br />
little lamb<br />
slip slowly into sacrifice<br />
you did<br />
nothing<br />
wrong<br />
you know.<br />
But the Gods<br />
must be appeased<br />
You are a casualty<br />
simply<br />
collateral damage<br />
its not that you don't matter<br />
its that<br />
you can't<br />
be here.<br />
You've done well<br />
little lamb<br />
we won't <br />
see you <br />
again<br />
Its the way <br />
it has to be<br />
You would<br />
understand<br />
You'd sacrifice you, too,<br />
if you were me.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-3111991049624707202012-09-17T22:09:00.003-07:002012-09-17T22:09:26.733-07:00the Tyranny look in<br />
from out<br />
you'll find<br />
no doubt<br />
that hope<br />
is lost<br />
the river's<br />
crossed<br />
we've drowned<br />
the crown<br />
on heads<br />
of killers sits<br />
and<br />
the people<br />
cheer<br />
"my god!<br />
we're saved!"<br />
and not<br />
one person is there<br />
brave<br />
enough<br />
to say<br />
"you fools!<br />
you're all<br />
but slaves.<br />
already dead,<br />
you are."Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-17903966991759847112012-09-17T22:06:00.002-07:002012-09-17T22:06:52.015-07:00a bizarre on boatsthey saved<br />
the best<br />
for last<br />
but will you make it?<br />
how long<br />
can you<br />
hold on<br />
how long<br />
will you<br />
hold on<br />
no vistory's<br />
been won<br />
without<br />
a war<br />
be careful<br />
open your mind<br />
lose yourself<br />
blood river<br />
flowing<br />
gently<br />
rowing<br />
down<br />
and out<br />
and nude<br />
and wet<br />
from<br />
blood<br />
its sinking<br />
you<br />
are sinking<br />
drinking<br />
blood<br />
and drowning<br />
you<br />
didnt hold<br />
on long<br />
enough Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-70426551732728452702012-09-17T22:00:00.002-07:002012-09-17T22:01:08.180-07:00now or ever to comedark waters<br />
calm -- the<br />
scariest kind of scary<br />
ice, sweet tea, and lemonade<br />
most tired but a treat<br />
awaits me<br />
string of pearls<br />
neckalce<br />
illuminating<br />
walkways<br />
friends, there are no friends<br />
my god<br />
there is<br />
no god<br />
the fountain is<br />
a spider<br />
long watery legs<br />
the bubbling center body<br />
a sticky dampness on my neck<br />
life as you know it will end<br />
when grace gets here<br />
the timing<br />
most unfortunate<br />
regrettable<br />
a pain<br />
in toes that creeps<br />
upward. to<br />
my heart<br />
heavy<br />
like the news<br />
of death<br />
to children<br />
---<br />
billions of dollars<br />
of fakeness<br />
of beauty<br />
of couples<br />
hanging breathlessly on iron<br />
the promise of<br />
forever for<br />
a second.<br />
reach out and touch Faith<br />
for a price<br />
she's a hooker<br />
no satisfaction<br />
in<br />
the rush<br />
of blood<br />
to parts<br />
already bloody,<br />
spilling<br />
a grayness<br />
in the face<br />
and soul<br />
but freshly darkened hair<br />
to fool the world<br />
already fooled<br />
by fools<br />
my only friend<br />
a tricep<br />
a token<br />
---<br />
in heat<br />
expansion<br />
my mind is a wonderfully<br />
miserable place<br />
stop to see the roses<br />
smell<br />
the roses<br />
treat all interactions<br />
as if they were with<br />
an autistic<br />
a volcano<br />
erupts nightly<br />
a ship sinks to my right<br />
the palace of Caesar shines brightly <br />
an Italian parade passes by<br />
A bride and her groom every hour<br />
the while gown and the corsage<br />
the beauty you think you are seeing<br />
is really only the MirageMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-65619902602201412012012-03-21T12:22:00.005-07:002012-03-21T14:04:05.491-07:00Wednesday Morning10:07 AM : English class, unfocused. The Professor just said "aesthetically gay" for the 73rd time this semester.<div><br /></div><div>9:57 AM : Walking to class. Heart racing and not from my briskness. Call my sister Valerie, the Harry Potter freak, to tell her about my basilisk situation. Straight to voicemail.</div><div><br /></div><div>9:55 AM : Park. Black 5. Decide to bring my book to class though unweildy and likely unnecessary. Disembark. Lock car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Realize he is in the walls.</div><div><br /></div><div>Picture my room. Picture the open cabinet. The one on the floor. The one that houses the water heater. The one that leads into the pipes. </div><div><br /></div><div>9:39 AM : Leave for school. M&M's forbreakfast. Key got stuck so I didn't lock the door. That's not like me. My mind is elsewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>9:24 AM : Struggle to pull myself together. Emotionally, physically, and otherwise. </div><div><br /></div><div>9:21 AM : <i>Oh my god.</i> He's not in his tank. Check the lid. It's loose. He's finally done it. Oh my god. He's loose in my room. Scan wildly. Many times. </div><div><br /></div><div>9:11 AM : Decide to get up. Remember I have to <i>leave</i> at 9:30, not <i>wake up</i> at 9:30. Unset remaining alarms. Rise gracelessly.</div><div><br /></div><div>9:10 AM : Reset alarm for 9:17</div><div><br /></div><div>9:05 AM : Backup alarm sounds. Dismissed.</div><div><br /></div><div>9:00 AM : Alarm #2 sounds. Dismissed.</div><div><br /></div><div>8:55 AM : Alarm clock sounds. I tap to ignore.</div><div><br /></div><div>1:52 AM : I cant' sleep. This is weird. This never happens. My Chopin playlist is on it's second run already.</div><div><br /></div><div>12:41 AM : Something's wrong. I hear noises. Something sounds like movement and yet the room is still. The sound comes from above and behind me. In the walls. In the ceiling. I am at unease. Try to forget. Restart the playlist. I leave my light on. Turn over. Try not to think. <b>Figure it's probably just the snake. </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>...</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>10:33 AM : Still in english class. For many more minutes. 42 of them, in fact. Kenne has her head down; she suffers from migraine headaches. Professor Mufasa is still talking, fervently, without interruption, "I was experimenting with my life you know my dad kicked me out said if I were to live with him I had to live by his rules I said GoodBYE. Who am I? I am nobody. Nobody and something...."</div><div>I've become strangely relaxed with my bedchamber of secrets, the only animal I've ever truly loved lost within the walls or plumbing...It is too poetic to not work out...dismally. Why, in Harry Potter, the basilisk hangs out in the walls and pipes for a tick and all that happens to him is he gets his eyes clawed out and stabbed in the throathead. </div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-24692453463018512482012-03-19T15:15:00.002-07:002012-03-19T15:35:37.440-07:00Thoughts at the Car WashI sit down with my Naked juice and my pen. An attendant offers me a Lexus. I accept. He retracts his offer upon discovery that the Lexus is indeed not mine.<div>The sun is hot but the air is cold. Cloud coverage causes a chill and forebodes rain. I've picked a good day to splurge on the triple foam and exterior shine. </div><div>There's a Starburst on this table. Unwrapped, alone, and yellow. If it were pink I'd probably eat it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sense the mexican towel twirlers and talking about me. They smile to each other and nod in my direction. I stare at them.</div><div>It's cold now. The storm above the mountains has traveled overhead. An old man converses with a guy wearing flip flops. His name is Jerry. I know this because his car is ready. It's a BMW. Maybe I should've worn flip flops.</div><div><br /></div><div>I picked the green Naked juice today. It has broccoli in it. A woman vacates a yellow Xterra wearing a white tank top. I am cold. She will regret her choice of wardrobe.</div><div><br /></div><div>The same attendant offers me a new car. I cannot understand him. Recalling my previous fruitless interchange, I decline his offer. The metro police department is across the street, anyway. I wouldn't make it far in a stolen conveyance. Not here.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Starburst taunts me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tank top girl recovers a sweater from her car. I was correct. Flip flop guy has since vanished and I am left in solitude at my table, save for my unedible candy companion. </div><div>It is cold. And the clouds are now endless. My car has yet to emerge from the wash. Or maybe it's that one in front. I can't get a good look. The uncertainty leaves me at unease.</div><div><br /></div><div>Adam's car is ready. Adam drives a Nissan. Adam looks confused. With Adam's departure I've located my car. It was the one in front. This is good news, because it's cold. </div><div><br /></div><div>Something smells good. It is not the Starburst.</div><div><br /></div><div>My car is done. They call my name. The many melodic syllables sound misplaced in their mouths. I juggle my notebook, and pen, and green juice. Goodbye, Starburst.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get in my car and remember to take it out of gear before I let off the clutch. I forgot to last time, and I publicly stalled out. It was embarrassing. I celebrate my brilliance this time, silently. I tip the man, and drive away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Directly into the rain.</div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-4896089757926573952011-12-09T00:21:00.000-08:002011-12-09T00:42:27.251-08:00Unhealthy Procrastination<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>601</o:Words> <o:characters>3430</o:Characters> <o:company>UNR</o:Company> <o:lines>28</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>4212</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Disclaimer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is gross, personal, and more graphic than you’d like.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some people can’t help but push things to the limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lance Armstrong did it when he won his bicycle race thing and sold all those bracelets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Michael Phelps pushed it to the limit when he won all those gold medals AND he was stoned. </span>And as I recall the Wildcat Basketball team had a whole musical number about doing just that in that one High School Disney movie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then we have people like Steve-O, who take things dangerously close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Physically painfully (and unnecessarily) so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My attempts to do this in the inspiring athlete way have since landed me in the Jackass category.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When it comes to physical injury, putting it off in no way classifies one as a bad ass.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I do it anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I pushed right on through and ignored shattered and dislocated ribs, fractured feet and ankles, torn menisci, kidney failure, car wrecks, cuts that needed stitches, and most recently, and perhaps most revoltingly, toenails that reached a whole new level.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Close friends (the few and the proud – only the closest had the dishonor and privilege of seeing these things) relentlessly made fun of me for how disgusting they were, begged me to seek help.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The problems started a little over a year ago when I started working retail – a short-lived career path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They made me wear footwear; a garment I’d not been required to wear in any lifeguarding capacity. So I donned my little flats, or my little boots, or whatever, and I hated them more deeply than just as unsightly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They were murder on my feet, and before long the nails had a thick yellow quality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They’d been stepped on, abused, and before long I had blood pooling beneath them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I care not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One day which I do not remember one of the big nails just fell off, and I was left a 9-toenailed freak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My solution to this problem was to just paint the skin, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">no one will notice</i> I reasoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A new, deformed toenail had begun growth in it's stead; from death comes life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’d been growing this thick, repulsive nub of a toenail for almost a full year; caked-on nail polish was my self-prescribed solution to the problem of it’s apparently mangled 23<sup>rd</sup> chromosome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Granted it was disgusting, but at least I was beginning to move back up the ranks to 10-toenailed person. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then, tragedy struck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I could feel the magic would not last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Out of nowhere in particular (no event I can pinpoint) it started bleeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not a happy toenail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I could feel it commencing to separate from it’s fleshy counterpart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The pain became so intense that I could not even sleep that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Around the chilly, dew-kissed hour of four in the goddamn morning I decided it was time: action had to be taken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’d had a full, relatively painless year to take action; but I thought it’d be fun to wait til right <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">now.</i> When it came to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">this.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A few, calm hours of pain-killer induced sleep welcomed horror upon their end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Doctor time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">One look at that thing and he informed me, without hesitation, of the imperative amputation or removal or whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was like a scene from Hostel.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m sitting on the little table with my feet straight out in front of me and he puts on his latex gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He takes what strikes me as an obscenely large needle and starts stabbing it in my toe with reckless abandon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Striking nerves and inducing more pain than he was relieving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He vanishes for a moment and returns with his tray of utensils, torture instruments, pain implementers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sharp, shiny metal scissors, gauze, tape, miniature steel ice picks, a surgical, curved wedge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Before my very eyes he takes his ice pick and starts shoving it vigorously underneath the top of my nail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That doesn’t quite do the trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He takes his menacing curved talon and starts DIGGING MY NAIL OUT FROM THE CUTICLE.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s separating, and bleeding, and clinging to it’s bed by thick, white tendrils that look a lot like I imagine tendons do, which he severs vehemently with his shears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Blood spurts from the openings and drips down the naked toe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What once housed a symmetrical, feminine (ha), painted nail was now a war zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>An open sore, bleeding and distorted, remnants of nail, flesh, and otherwise served as but memories of the casualties. What remains? A bloody, naked, nail-less, sad sad little stump.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Let this be a lesson to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Don’t procrastinate. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-90660591827806407752011-10-17T22:43:00.000-07:002011-10-17T22:48:34.439-07:00The Donkey Encounter<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>540</o:Words> <o:characters>3083</o:Characters> <o:company>UNR</o:Company> <o:lines>25</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>6</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>3786</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Who doesn’t love a good family outing?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sure didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Family time during my adolescence usually involved a lot of educational speeches, intense physical exertion or even labor, and more than likely ended with someone in tears. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">One time on a family vacation my father decided a good way to pass the 4 hour car ride was to put me on trial for not putting chlorine in the pool when I said I would or something to that effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother was the judge, my dad the prosecution, I represented myself as the defendant, and my sisters served as the (incredibly biased – sibling rivalry can be an ugly thing) jury of my peers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The trial ended with me convulsing in sobs of self-pity, trapped in the confines of a moving vehicle with the very people who openly attacked me. (My dad later cheered me up by letting me pick a dead and dismembered pigeon out of the car grill with a stick.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Or the time on yet another long car ride my ever-playful father invented a game where each person was to act like another family member; which quickly snowballed into a game called “capitalize on everyone’s deepest character flaws and exploit them mercilessly.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Those were the best times of my life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">These, my fondest memories.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was an occasion like this – seemingly fun but unbearable at the time – that this drama unfolds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We were no strangers to Red Rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My dad is a bit of a celebrity in the climbing world and often times the family would rise bright and early to embark on a hike of his choosing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We would attempt to start the trek with optimism; my little sister Emily charging ahead while bragging about how fast she was, how easy the hike was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My mother strode along, soaking up the nature, pointing out wildlife – “Ooh girls, Larry, look! Is that a roadrunner?!” “No, that’s a tumbleweed.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward 3 miles.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Emily’s now riding atop my fathers shoulders, blaming her fatigue on the terrain and not her high-heeled sparkly sketchers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Valerie and I are trudging bitterly, complaining to each other in hushed tones, sometimes singing marching songs to keep us going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Mom is in the back, clutching my dad’s hand screeching “Larry! Larry!” as she struggled to conquer the rocky decline with her sub-par depth perception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A beautiful family portrait.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">By the time we reach the car we’re all in silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Nothing left to say to each other, driving down the winding one-way road, my sisters and I yearning for the comfort of home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The sooner the better.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This is not a good time for traffic to come to a halt, so of course it does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A long line of cars and nowhere to go. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Please don’t suggest playing courtroom, please don’t suggest playing courtroom</i> I silently pled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We round a curve at a pace that causes me to notice a desert tortoise passing us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The perpetrator of the hold up is in my sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A donkey in the road, and an unending line of Asian tourists stopping to take photos of the desert native.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A novelty to them, an atrocity to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We approach the ass, inch by inch, one car at a time, until we’re almost home free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The donkey is clearly enjoying his celebrity status.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He’s not moving from the middle of the road, he’s within arms reach even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Did this stop us? It did not. My dad accelerates toward the beckoning horizon, showing little concern about the large animal obstructing our path to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Crash. Bang. The donkeys head hits right on the passenger side of the windshield. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Screams from my mother. Wails from my little sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Explosive laughter from me in the backseat. Many, many Asian middle fingers seeing us off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My father, wordless, smirking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>One half second totally justifying the hike which had so drained me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes, you have to go through hell to have a little excitement. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-15848905307004282082011-07-20T16:56:00.000-07:002011-07-20T17:09:42.389-07:00The Worst Day of My Life<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I remember it vividly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was probably three or four years old and I was at swim lessons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I took the classes with the love of my life; Matt Something. I liked his little golden bowl cut and his 5 year old masculinity. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Swim lessons, however, I hated with a passion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was the youngest, and the slowest, and the most afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I didn’t like the water, I didn’t like the way the water felt in my ears, I didn’t like competing because I didn’t like losing, which I managed to do every time without fail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The only thing I was good at was being the last one to retrieve a starburst from the depths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The worst part was I was in the same class as my sister, and she was fearless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She dove beneath the surface with reckless abandon, awkward and gangly limbs flailing, beating all the boys to the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I hated her, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She made me look slow in front of Matt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My only salvation was the popsicle we were sometimes gifted at the end of class, which I savored on the deck, recovering from the trauma I just endured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A consolation popsicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So this one day Valerie is effortlessly experiencing a particularly excellent class, whilst I struggle to maintain respiratory obligations at the very least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’m left behind in every game, every race, every dive through the stupid yellow hula hoop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I come up empty handed in the starburst event, despite everyone else’s abundant spoils. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am not happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The class mercifully ended and I was standing on the deck wrapped up in my towel. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I decide I’m going to tell Matt I like him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That will make me feel better after this demoralizing lesson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’ll just tell him I like him and he’ll tell me he loves me too and he wants to marry me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That’ll work.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I scope him out sitting on the grass with a few of the other, less attractive little boys.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Matt, I like you," I managed to choke out. Very poetic.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh. I like Valerie”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know if the sound I heard was my heart shattering or my blood pressure reaching a hundred million.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I turned as diplomatically as I could and ran somewhere to pop a squat and cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The adults must’ve sensed my agony because I was then told I would be receiving a popsicle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">There is a god</i>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wrong again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When presented with said popsicle I was horrified to realize the one with which I had been bestowed was grape flavored.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Nasty, purple, reject grape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The slow sister of popsicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In my depression over this discovery I hung my head in sorrow and despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was at this point that I noticed a stinging sensation on my knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I opened my eyeball to see HALF OF AN ANT STICKING OUT OF MY KNEE. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was only half of an ant because the other half was INSIDE MY KNEE SUCKING OUT MY BLOOD.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Terrified, I brushed my knee with my hand in attempt to dislodge my attacker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Instead, I succeeded only in breaking the ant in half, leaving the other half inside my knee where I’m sure it still remains.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I sat on the floor somewhere and cried while my sister flirted with my one true love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I vowed I would never forget this day as it was the worst day of my young life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And the worst day it remained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-28610416384342378192011-03-15T20:02:00.001-07:002011-03-15T20:43:29.403-07:00i should hire someone to think of titles.Everyones favorite week of the year is here, and while all the cool kids are off getting drunk on the beach, I'm kickin it in Virginia with my sister Val and her husband Jake. <div><br /></div><div>I try not to make anything on here too personal because I'm not kim kardashian and nobody cares about my life. Even though I've probably accomplished more than she has. My sisters idiot dog who can't even urinate outside has accomplished more than she has. </div><div><br /></div><div>I digress. The point is that being somewhere new, and being forced to partake in things Val enjoys (I shouldn't say forced; whatever makes Valerie happy truly makes me happy, just totally NOT my style) provides for a wide variety of new things to observe. Observation leads to thinking, thinking leads to writing, and writing leads to this. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, with my hosts in bed and nothing to do at night, extensive writing will ensue. </div><div><br /></div><div>VIRGINIA DAY 1</div><div><br /></div><div>Flight at 6 am. The last time I was up this early was probably in high school. The airport is packed, I'm half asleep, I dont know where the B gates are because I've never flown east. </div><div>I get to the front of security. </div><div>"Ma'am step up to the right please"</div><div>I step up.</div><div>"The other right" (which was actually left.)</div><div>"ookay."</div><div><br /></div><div>good start.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I get to put all my stuff in the little taupe colored boxes. I decide against taking my 349075028 bracelets off but I do take off my belt. Apparently I thought THAT was gonna be the thing that would set off the alarms. Like I said; half asleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm standing waiting for the fat little ray of sunshine on the other side of the metal detector to motion me through, but I am interrupted by the guy on the other side of the conveyer belt. </div><div>"You gotta get your stuff through the scanner" he says to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, for those who are unfamiliar with airports, the boxes in which you put your carry-on items to be scanned are to be placed on a long conveyer belt, halfway made up of a series of little rolling cylinders, halfway made up of an automatic belt like in grocery stores. My box was like, .01 nanometers away from the electronic part.</div><div><br /></div><div>He seriously could not have nudged it for me? Luckily he had enough energy to alert me of the situation. It's 5 in the morning. Thanks, douchebag. </div><div>My stuff went through and they concluded that I was indeed NOT a terrorist, but as I put my shoes back on I noticed a man with whom lady luck was not so generous. I watched in empathetic, disgusted amusement as the pretentious tsa agent felt up a guy who looked like he was on his way to Disneyland with his family. </div><div>America: 0</div><div>Terrorists: 1</div><div><br /></div><div>I could go on and on about the airport but let's skip to the part where I land in Virginia. </div><div>Val and Jake picked me up...blah blah blah...boring sister stuff that you'd care a lot more about if our names were Kim and Khloe..........and THEN</div><div>she made me watch The Bachelor.</div><div><br /></div><div>ok. WTF. IS UP. WITH THIS SHOW.</div><div>Is it real? seriously. is it?</div><div><br /></div><div>All of these women compete for a guys "love" over the course of 6 weeks, and then BREAK DOWN AND CRY WHEN THEY GET REJECTED?</div><div>uhhh. k. where do I even begin.</div><div><br /></div><div>The bachelor hooks up with all of these different girls, "gets to know them" (hahahaha) and then chooses one to whom he proposes marriage. And right before said proposal, he sees another girl who has met his family and is all dolled up, tells her he has real feelings for her and can't deny the spark, but he's in love with someone else. ?!?</div><div>And then she cries, because girls are stupid.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he confesses his undying "love" for the chosen one, and she is glowing with excitement and adoration, after STARING INTO THE FACES OF THE OTHER GIRLS ON THE SHOW DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY KNOWING THAT HES BEEN DOING THE SAME THING WITH THEM.</div><div>And then she accepts, because girls are STUPID.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I can sum that show up in one word: it starts with 'p' and rhymes with synthethic - just like all of those people's personalities. </div><div><br /></div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-54193440413846640322011-03-15T19:50:00.001-07:002011-03-15T21:00:13.826-07:00turds with friendsNow trending among smartphone users: a game that has been around forever but not popularized among the younger generations until it was modified to a version on which the mentally insufficient could easily cheat.<div><br /></div><div>For the most part, people write the same way that they talk. I definitely do, I usually sound like I'm speaking in verse; be it Shakespeare or a rap song. This is how I know for a fact that people are googling the letters they have and picking a word.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to play with any of you back-handed low-life scum. As soon as you put in a word that I have never heard you say, I know you're cheating, and I've already won. </div><div><br /></div><div>Besides, words with friends is really only popular in the first place because people can play it while they're sitting on the toilet. Sit your ass down at the table and play scrabble like a man.</div><div><br /></div><div>NOW WHO WANTS TO PLAY ME??? thug.nasty.</div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-7887654560493891062011-02-25T11:17:00.001-08:002011-02-25T11:18:31.052-08:00memoto anyone who reads this: thank you.<div><br /></div><div>to anyone who enjoys it: you're welcome.</div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-46721914419045785282011-02-24T21:40:00.000-08:002011-02-25T16:28:41.030-08:00through the looking glassToday changed my life forever.<div><br /></div><div>Not really. But I guess you could say I had a check off my "bucket list" (can anyone even hear those words without thinking of that movie with Morgan Freeman? I haven't even seen that movie and I think of it every time) except I didn't know it was on my bucket list (Morgan Freeman) until it happened.<div><br /></div><div>I was stuck in standstill traffic, which usually makes me want to claw people to death starting with their eyes and ending with the soles of their feet, when something happened that made me grateful for the few seconds of stagnation that gave me the time to absorb as much as I could. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pulled up right next to a girl driving my exact same car. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've always had a love/hate relationship with my car because of the stereotype that comes with it; I do not relate to the typical "bug driver" and I almost resent being put in that category. Luckily, the windows on the other girl's car were just as clear as both my own windows, and the reassuring proof that I definitely DO NOT fall into that category. Even in the little blue monster. </div><div><br /></div><div>Her bug is in mint condish; paint perfect, all 4 original rims, clean as a whistle, shiny silver license plate frame, flowers in her little dashboard vase. Immaculate. Adorable. </div><div>She's in there in her cute little outfit juggling her phone and her mascara, her nails all did, writing in her rhinestone planner with the glitter pen she took out of her giant pink purse. Feminine and put-together. She was probably listening to something by Taylor Swift. Or kesha. Or some other popular pathetic girl singer.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then there's me. Staring at her. Wearing more of my roommates clothes than my own. My bug looks like it just got back from Nam. The paint has sun damage from never being in a garage. Caked with dirt. Busted headlight. Rims from walmart that are spray-painted black, the vase is empty except for a leaf and some trash. I'm <i>trying</i> to listen to tech9 but my water bottle just spilled all over the passenger seat, totally drenching my ipod making everything sound like distant static. And now traffic's moving. And I'm trying to fix the sound. And soak up the water. And shift gears. And watch bizzarro Madeline, who seems to be unphased by all the commotion transpiring on my side of the black hole. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then she drove down Paradise and out of my life.</div></div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-88070550630697095922011-02-15T20:01:00.001-08:002011-02-15T23:09:18.810-08:00the colossal superbowl catastrophe of 2011The truth is that the halftime show is included in the Superbowl only to give wives, girlfriends, and other viewers that, for whatever reason, feel forced to watch football a brief intermission from pretending to be interested in the game. It also gives fans a chance to list all the mistakes the teams are making (why <i>do </i>they hire coaches when the fans are so much more knowledgeable?)<div>That does not mean that the halftime show shouldn't be awesome, though, because the Superbowl is a fairly big deal to many Americans and the exposure is huge; the talent of the performers should be at least equivalent to that of the players. </div><div><br /></div><div>ie: NOT the Black Eyed Peas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Synthesizing microphones, flashing electronic light-up costumes, bedazzled microphones, and hundreds of glowing back up dancers were still not enough to distract from the total lack of virtuosity among the headliners.</div><div><br /></div><div>The four group members just congregated in the middle of the stage moving in sporadic, unsynchronized flailing gyrations and wailing like tortured animals, relying on their autotuners to correct their many vocal mistakes and their shiny LED ensembles to trick audiences into misinterpreting their chaotic motions as choreographed dance. </div><div><br /></div><div>Slash's solo was cool for about three seconds until Fergie invaded his personal space screeching out Sweet Child Of Mine in a nasal whine that would send Fran Drescher running, and giving a disturbing visual demonstration of what an overpaid 40 year old Jezebel with the stage presence of Terry Schiavo looks like. </div><div>If Fergie ever had a "prime," she is way past it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Usher's appearance was a relative highlight (albeit a short one; less than 2 minutes out of the 13 minute ordeal), though his support of that one preteen girl with Gender Identity Disorder does cost him points in the 'respect' category. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Conversely, consider Michael Jackson's 1993 haltime show. One man, a few fireworks, and a handful of backup dancers no one was watching anyway. Dancing like his body was made of music itself, <i>while</i> singing so melodically his own recording was put to shame. The man conjured more excitement standing in silence letting his moment build than the Black Eyed Sleaze managed to elicit in an entire overly-elaborate show. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Other than that, Greenbay won. </div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-54390070914677707182011-02-06T22:09:00.000-08:002011-02-07T00:09:48.260-08:00who preys on the predator?<div><div>I have always missed out on the funnest shit because I've been sick.</div><div><br /></div><div>Parties, field trips, concerts, swim meets, sleepovers, hanukkah, christmas, the 8th grade disneyland trip, physics day, field day, MY OWN BIRTHDAY.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>I even got to stay home sick when I was homeschooled.</div><div>and I have seen every episode of the Price is Right.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Just take a minute to think about how often you use your cell phone. So much more often than you think. What else do you have that you take with you every where you go? Its always on-hand. <div><br /></div><div>After going through 7 or 8 phones in a single year I've gained an insight into this profound dependency we have on our phones. Explore a couple of the conundrums in which I found myself during the dark periods...</div><div><br /></div><div>For the love of god, what time is it. Someone tell me. Who wears a watch? How do people know what time it is without a phone? Especially in the winter, when the sun goes down at 4 p.m. and the senior citizens flocking to the buffet at Arizona Charlies feel like they're eating dinner at a normal hour, it's not easy to read the sky. I didn't even know people actually used watches to tell time until my phone broke. I just thought they were there to look flashy and establish some kind of hierarchy among CEOs and rappers.</div><div><br /></div><div>And do people still buy alarm clocks? I was under the impression that those were a thing of the past. How do people wake up in the morning? My only decent idea was to set an online alarm, which failed miserably almost every time. You don't think about these things until they slap you in the face. Kind of like the Law.</div><div><br /></div><div>WHICH brings me to the meat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Chris Hansen (Dateline) is, quite probably, the ultimate sexual predator. He has to be. He is trusted by EVERYONE. He is the face of justice in that department; their Covergirl. Even I trust that guy.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I don't trust that guy.</div><div>It makes too much sense that he created his whole show just to ensure his own security. That man is a sociopath.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as much as I love that show, I can't help but focus on the deeper issue.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fact that "we the people" have had to constitute and enforce laws prohibiting the solicitation of sex from a minor, AKA a 13 year old girl who's DTF, is nothing short of totally demoralizing. These "predators" who took n'syncs "digital digital get down" a little too seriously are not hardened criminals. They're not masterminds or thugs or aggressive or violent even in the slightest. They're fucking pussies. </div><div>I'm not saying that what they're doing isn't totally criminal or disgusting, because it is.</div><div>But this is a crime we have brought upon ourselves. </div><div>Somewhere out there, there are real 13 year old girls who are really having sex with 40 year old men they met online.</div><div><br /></div><div>umm....WHAT.</div><div><br /></div><div>What the hell kind of lives do these girls have? Perhaps instead of focusing on cleaning up the ashes we should first put out the fire. </div><div>In a perfect world that would be a beautiful metaphor, but unfortunately there are no laws about instilling sound morals in your children. But there should be. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-35805935947030314322011-02-05T03:57:00.000-08:002011-02-05T16:27:17.578-08:00aaaaaand we're backdid you miss me?<div><br /></div><div>i'm back on this blogging kick, complete with this sweet new layout for all you aesthetic types, so go ahead and eat your heart out.</div><div><br /></div><div>in honor of my return, i would like to play a little game i like to call <i>what is both the best and the worst show on television?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>and the answer is obviously Dog the Bounty Hunter.</div><div><br /></div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-4118918905078781542010-08-30T20:35:00.000-07:002010-08-30T21:01:46.352-07:00things I've learned from working at a poolPublic swimming pools are a cesspool for interesting material. People's true colors come out, and lifeguarding is a great job in the sense that I am getting paid to people watch. Here is a somewhat comprehensive list of things I have learned and observed.<div><br /></div><div>Parents hate their children. They bring their offspring to the swimming pool with the intent and hope that they will drown. I know this because no parent who actually even cared about their child would leave them unattended while they fall beneath the surface, hang on bars, run on deck, and venture off into the blue depths lacking any knowledge of how to even stay above water. It is sobering when I have more concern for a child than the ones who possess the loins from whence they came. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have also learned that I will never, ever in my life get a tattoo. I don't care how good it looks on a taught young body, tattoos almost never age gracefully. Middle aged pool-goers who have let themselves go (probably a result of their demon kids) with limbs and torsos splashed with tawdry images of skulls and flowers and other meaningless "artworks" that have become morphed and deformed with the unavoidable effects of aging skin provide for an unsightly picture. Some people (a minute group) can pull off the inked look for generations to come; I, however, am not one of them, and have chosen to learn from the mistakes of others.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to the bathing suit issue. If you weigh 250 at 5'5 and you feel comfortable in a bikini, power to you. The problem is the others around you are not comfortable with this life decision. And by others I mean myself, because on an elevated stand I see for more than I'm generally ok with. To quote a man with a firm grasp on many concepts, P.G. Wodehouse, "(they) look as if they had been poured into (their suits) and forgot to say when." Its appalling. Where is the shame? The decency?</div><div><br /></div><div>There's more, but I would now rather write about things I hate about UNLV.</div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-91881750257275257802010-08-02T01:23:00.000-07:002010-08-02T01:37:17.607-07:00Post ScriptIt is depressing and frightening that the English language has deteriorated so much that when the correct form of a phrase or sentence is used people think it is wrong or sounds strange. The tag on my Victorias Secret pajama pants reads (the average person would expect to see the word 'says' there instead, which is wrong. Exhibit A.) "I only sleep in...PINK." When correctly interpreted that sentence means that when I wear PINK, the only thing I do is sleep. Are you seeing the problem here? A big fat multimillion dollar company can't even work out how to properly configure a sentence. I venture to guess that what Victoria meant to say here is that "I refuse to sleep in any other brand besides PINK." That is not what "I only sleep in PINK" means, at all. Maybe Victoria's secret is that she failed english class.Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-645614039732136973.post-58827617096456949372010-08-01T20:51:00.000-07:002010-08-01T21:16:27.732-07:00I hate thinking of titlesChelsea Clinton. Is so ugly.<div>Chelsea Clinton is so ugly, and was created from one of most disusting gene pools in the US. </div><div>Even with a personal stylist, named Donatella goddamn Versace, Chelsea Clinton is still ugly. She is hideous and repulsive. Which is synonymous with Clinton anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I hate when people misuse the word "mortified." Allow me to provide the definition of this overly elusive word. mortify =df to humiliate, or to subdue the body with pain.</div><div>it does not mean scared, frightened, threatened, stunned, or shocked. Get a fucking dictionary and stop using words of which you don't know the meaning. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>To the starbucks at UNLV, all of my broken droids, and keva juice: you. suck. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Jersey Shore is the reason I hate people. It is the living embodiment of everything I stand against. 6 or 8 or however many useless specimens that star on that godforsaken show are getting paid tens of thousands of dollars for doing NOTHING. Not one of them is making any kind of actual contribution to society, except perhaps providing an example of how to be the most mentally vacant waste of space. Viewers everywhere eat this shit up, tuning in to every new episode and excitedly awaiting every piece of detrimental drama. If everyone on that show died, and everyone who watched that show died, I would be giddy with satisfaction. They provide nothing worthwhile to anyone, anywhere, ever. And they will never accomplish anything. They're just making more money than all of you just for being repugnant. And way too tan. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>There should be 4 channels on tv: national geographic, the discovery channel, whatever channel shark week is on, and a channel with a marquee on loop that reads "go read a goddamn book."</div>Mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05363431841140713262noreply@blogger.com1