Thanksgiving was uneventful. The food was decent but nothing spectacular, and I spent most of the time playing the piano while everyone talked around the table and had coffee and pie.
I've spent a lot of this break over at Fairfax Hospital with my cousin. It's not really fair, one minute she's a typical sophomore at Virginia Tech and the next she's spending her 20th birthday and Thanksgiving in the "Living with Cancer" ward on the 9th floor. She likes it when I push her chair around the hallways really fast, and I'm proud to say that she says I push her better and faster than both her mom and her dad. Sometimes I steal soda for her and I from the kitchen when the nurses aren't looking and we like to get Starburst from the vending machine and watch movies to pass the time.
Today some of us peoples went to Pentagon Row to get dinner and watch people fall down while ice skating. It was fun, not that many people wiped out but we had a good time anyway.
I don't really have any plans for the last couple days of break but I'm sure I'll find something to do. I really need to get my Alexa Warden fix because I'm starting to go into withdrawal and I think I want to see the Wallace and Gromit movie if it's still playing. I also need to get my watch fixed before I go back to school.
Well, that's all I've got. I'll be back in the big rectangular state they call Pennsylvania soon enough, I guess.
Adieu.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Saturday, November 19, 2005
And They Wonder Why More People Don't Use Public Transportation
Well this is my second year of college in Meadville, PA and I just now realized that I'm in nowhere land. So here I am looking at the bus schedule for tomorrow and let me show you what I found:
1. The buses only come by each stop once every hour.
2. Bus service only goes until 4:30 p.m. on Sundays.
Can you believe this!? I mean, Jesus, back home if you miss the bus you don't have to worry because there'll be another one coming in about 18 SECONDS! I mean, literally, it's a constant stream of buses. And I'm not even talking about the big time Metro buses that service the entire Washington D.C. Metropolitan Area. This is the Fairfax Connector, the COUNTY bus.
Why do they even have a bus if when you ride to your destination you can't get back because service has ended? Oh yeah, one-way bus service...real helpful.
And what self-respecting bus service has only SIX LINES? Come on, the Fairfax Connector's line numbers go from 101 to 989!
I tell you what, the first thing I'm going to do when I get back to good old Springfield, VA is to ride the bus. A real goddamn bus.
1. The buses only come by each stop once every hour.
2. Bus service only goes until 4:30 p.m. on Sundays.
Can you believe this!? I mean, Jesus, back home if you miss the bus you don't have to worry because there'll be another one coming in about 18 SECONDS! I mean, literally, it's a constant stream of buses. And I'm not even talking about the big time Metro buses that service the entire Washington D.C. Metropolitan Area. This is the Fairfax Connector, the COUNTY bus.
Why do they even have a bus if when you ride to your destination you can't get back because service has ended? Oh yeah, one-way bus service...real helpful.
And what self-respecting bus service has only SIX LINES? Come on, the Fairfax Connector's line numbers go from 101 to 989!
I tell you what, the first thing I'm going to do when I get back to good old Springfield, VA is to ride the bus. A real goddamn bus.
Friday, November 18, 2005
It's All Within Your Reach
I've always wanted platinum power. It's always sort of been a little dream for me, you know? Marry a girl I can almost beat in arm wrestling, settle down in a house with a yard that has some trees but not so many that raking in the fall is a pain in the ass, have some kids, clothe them, and obtain platinum power. It's not that much to ask, is it?
I don't know, everyone has their goals in life and you strive for this stuff and tell everyone you're gonna make it big but in some way or another you eventually find out it's not going to happen. So and so wants to be the next Charlton Heston. What's her name says she'll cure cancer. Joe Shmoe thinks this. Jane Doe thinks that. It never gets you anywhere and despite how we try to convince ourselves otherwise, on the inside we've always known we'll grow up to be just another person who will die without having done anything.
It's the same way with me and platinum power. It's this big deal thing that I'm always telling everyone about.
"Hey, did you know that someday I'll have platinum power?"
"Hi Susan. Golden Grahams for breakfast? No thanks, I've got platinum power."
But the more I think about it the more I know it's just a stupid pipe dream (minus the opium). It's one of those things I never want to think about. I walk through life with blinders on and I tell myself that platinum power is on the horizon but I keep on walking and the farther I go the more I realize that I'm never going to get there. I mean, it doesn't keep me up at night but it's always there in the back of my head.
When I feel like I should stop studying I tell myself that I'm doing it for the platinum power and I'm able to keep going. When I'm in class and I'm hungry I tell myself that later I'll have platinum power and I'll have all the food I could ever need.
So, I mean, maybe it's one of those impossibilities that helps you more in the long run than it hurts you. I like this idea but maybe it's just because it hurts so bad to think about throwing the dream away.
So it's not strange that I was so taken aback today when I reached into my mailbox and found a letter addressed to me which in large writing stated:
Was it a sign? Some sort of omen? Maybe it was simply a message, you know? A message letting me know that I shouldn't give up hope. I mean, maybe it was just what it looked like, a CapitalOne Platinum card, but I don't think so. What are the chances that CapitalOne knew about my platinum power dream? Can we really write this off as a mass mailing?
Anyway, I hope you guys take this to heart. Go after your dreams because no matter how impossible they may seem you never know what's going to happen.
Who knows, maybe someday you'll reach into your mailbox and pull out Charlton Heston.
I don't know, everyone has their goals in life and you strive for this stuff and tell everyone you're gonna make it big but in some way or another you eventually find out it's not going to happen. So and so wants to be the next Charlton Heston. What's her name says she'll cure cancer. Joe Shmoe thinks this. Jane Doe thinks that. It never gets you anywhere and despite how we try to convince ourselves otherwise, on the inside we've always known we'll grow up to be just another person who will die without having done anything.
It's the same way with me and platinum power. It's this big deal thing that I'm always telling everyone about.
"Hey, did you know that someday I'll have platinum power?"
"Hi Susan. Golden Grahams for breakfast? No thanks, I've got platinum power."
But the more I think about it the more I know it's just a stupid pipe dream (minus the opium). It's one of those things I never want to think about. I walk through life with blinders on and I tell myself that platinum power is on the horizon but I keep on walking and the farther I go the more I realize that I'm never going to get there. I mean, it doesn't keep me up at night but it's always there in the back of my head.
When I feel like I should stop studying I tell myself that I'm doing it for the platinum power and I'm able to keep going. When I'm in class and I'm hungry I tell myself that later I'll have platinum power and I'll have all the food I could ever need.
So, I mean, maybe it's one of those impossibilities that helps you more in the long run than it hurts you. I like this idea but maybe it's just because it hurts so bad to think about throwing the dream away.
So it's not strange that I was so taken aback today when I reached into my mailbox and found a letter addressed to me which in large writing stated:
You are INVITED TO APPLY for
PLATINUM POWER
No annual fee
Platinum benefits
PLATINUM POWER
No annual fee
Platinum benefits
Was it a sign? Some sort of omen? Maybe it was simply a message, you know? A message letting me know that I shouldn't give up hope. I mean, maybe it was just what it looked like, a CapitalOne Platinum card, but I don't think so. What are the chances that CapitalOne knew about my platinum power dream? Can we really write this off as a mass mailing?
Anyway, I hope you guys take this to heart. Go after your dreams because no matter how impossible they may seem you never know what's going to happen.
Who knows, maybe someday you'll reach into your mailbox and pull out Charlton Heston.
Cat, I'm A Kitty Cat
One of my friends emailed me this today. It's probably one of the greatest videos I've ever seen.
Cat Dance
Cat Dance
Why Won't You Just Stop Nominating Me?
Why am I cursed with being the guy people always try to nominate for officer positions in clubs even when I have no interest in doing it?
Last night was the Chemii Thanksgiving Bash and yes, if that sounds like an event where a bunch of nerdy chemists get together to talk molecules and eat turkey, then you're right. Anyway, they were nominating officers and all of a sudden the girl in front of me turns around and says, "Hey, what's your name? I want to nominate you." Can you believe that? Why would she want to nominate someone she doesn't even know? Why must I be so likeable, popular, and an all around great guy?
The same thing happened with Lambda Sigma. There was this guy in front of me and I don't know how he knew my name but before I knew it he was nominating me for secretary. What are these people thinking? Do I have a sign on me that says "Please Nominate" or am I really just that awesome? Oh well, maybe I'll never know.
Live and learn, and then get Luvs.
Last night was the Chemii Thanksgiving Bash and yes, if that sounds like an event where a bunch of nerdy chemists get together to talk molecules and eat turkey, then you're right. Anyway, they were nominating officers and all of a sudden the girl in front of me turns around and says, "Hey, what's your name? I want to nominate you." Can you believe that? Why would she want to nominate someone she doesn't even know? Why must I be so likeable, popular, and an all around great guy?
The same thing happened with Lambda Sigma. There was this guy in front of me and I don't know how he knew my name but before I knew it he was nominating me for secretary. What are these people thinking? Do I have a sign on me that says "Please Nominate" or am I really just that awesome? Oh well, maybe I'll never know.
Live and learn, and then get Luvs.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
The Vietcong Wouldn't Even Know What Hit Them
I've always wondered why the U.S. military doesn't invest in a weapon similar in nature to the Nerf Secret Shot. If you were never a ten year old boy, the Secret Shot was a typical Nerf sidearm that was equipped with a hidden barrel in the handle. Basically, if your best friend just jumped in front of you with his Nerf crossbow and told you to put your hands up and surrender, you could comply but subsequently shoot him in the face with your secret gun.
I've thought about this for a good long time and while I don't think the trick would work well against Americans, I think it would prove extremely effective against Asians. My reasoning for this claim is not scientifically backed but I'm pretty sure it's probably true since back in elementary school my friend Chris Kim was always the first one to die when we had a Nerf war.
Can you imagine what the Vietnam War would have been like if the U.S. troops had Nerf Secret Shots? Let me just say, I think it probably would have been a lot more fun.
Thinking about the Nerf Secret Shot has really made me quite nostalgic for the good old days. For the past week or so I've had the Inspector Gadget cartoon theme song stuck in my head and I've taken absolutely no measures to try and remove it.
Anyway, I don't have much else to say so I'll leave you with this thought:
Why is it that locusts kick so much more ass in the Bible than they do in biology textbooks?
I've thought about this for a good long time and while I don't think the trick would work well against Americans, I think it would prove extremely effective against Asians. My reasoning for this claim is not scientifically backed but I'm pretty sure it's probably true since back in elementary school my friend Chris Kim was always the first one to die when we had a Nerf war.
Can you imagine what the Vietnam War would have been like if the U.S. troops had Nerf Secret Shots? Let me just say, I think it probably would have been a lot more fun.
Thinking about the Nerf Secret Shot has really made me quite nostalgic for the good old days. For the past week or so I've had the Inspector Gadget cartoon theme song stuck in my head and I've taken absolutely no measures to try and remove it.
Anyway, I don't have much else to say so I'll leave you with this thought:
Why is it that locusts kick so much more ass in the Bible than they do in biology textbooks?
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Platypus Surgery For Dummies
I've just completed the first ever platypus-drumstick fusion surgery in the history of modern medicine. I'm so sure this is going to change the face of medicine completely that I've already picked out my clothes for the Nobel Prize banquet and laid them out on my bed.
I wanted to share with you, my non-Nobel Prize winner friends, exactly what this complex surgery entails. I've provided some before and after photos too.
Subject/Victim: 1 Platypus, male or female, must be wearing shirt
Fancy Medical Tools Needed: 1 KFC Picnic Playset ($1 at Meadville Dollar General), 1 pointy needle and fried chicken colored thread ($1 at Meadville Dollar General), thumbtack or other poking thing that isn't the pointy needle
Step 1: Remove drumstick from KFC Picnic Playset. Feel free to discard chicken bucket, corn-on-the-cob, and napkin or give it to your roommate.
Step 2: Poke holes in drumstick, two on each side, at a distance of slightly less than the width of one regulation size platypus hand/fin with thumbtack or other poking thing that isn't the pointy needle.
Step 3: Thread pointy needle with fried chicken colored thread.
Step 4: Stab platypus hand/fin with threaded pointy needle going through the flesh, into the drumstick, out the other side, across to other drumstick hole on that side , back through the drumstick and flesh, and across to the starting point. Repeat until you're out of thread or it's lunchtime...whichever comes first.
Step 5: When you're satisfied with the threading quality or once you've finished lunch, tie off the fried chicken colored thread and make sure the drumstick is securely fastened to the platypus hand/fin. This can be done by grasping the drumstick and moving it to the platypus' mouth and seeing if the hand/fin comes with it, or by pulling gently on the hunk of fried meat as if to say, "Hey Mr. Platypus, I want that chicken so give it to me" and observing the same.
Step 6: Sit back and marvel at the quality of your handiwork. If you're really flexible (like if you could ever do that V-sit reach thing in P.E. and get a score of anything above -19) you could attempt to pat yourself on the back. If you're not flexible you can find someone who is and watch them pat themselves on the back and feel bad that you suck, or you could ask them to pat you on the back.
Step 7: Remember that you forgot to give the platypus any anesthetic.
And here's the finished product!
I wanted to share with you, my non-Nobel Prize winner friends, exactly what this complex surgery entails. I've provided some before and after photos too.
Subject/Victim: 1 Platypus, male or female, must be wearing shirt
Fancy Medical Tools Needed: 1 KFC Picnic Playset ($1 at Meadville Dollar General), 1 pointy needle and fried chicken colored thread ($1 at Meadville Dollar General), thumbtack or other poking thing that isn't the pointy needle
Step 1: Remove drumstick from KFC Picnic Playset. Feel free to discard chicken bucket, corn-on-the-cob, and napkin or give it to your roommate.
Step 2: Poke holes in drumstick, two on each side, at a distance of slightly less than the width of one regulation size platypus hand/fin with thumbtack or other poking thing that isn't the pointy needle.
Step 3: Thread pointy needle with fried chicken colored thread.
Step 4: Stab platypus hand/fin with threaded pointy needle going through the flesh, into the drumstick, out the other side, across to other drumstick hole on that side , back through the drumstick and flesh, and across to the starting point. Repeat until you're out of thread or it's lunchtime...whichever comes first.
Step 5: When you're satisfied with the threading quality or once you've finished lunch, tie off the fried chicken colored thread and make sure the drumstick is securely fastened to the platypus hand/fin. This can be done by grasping the drumstick and moving it to the platypus' mouth and seeing if the hand/fin comes with it, or by pulling gently on the hunk of fried meat as if to say, "Hey Mr. Platypus, I want that chicken so give it to me" and observing the same.
Step 6: Sit back and marvel at the quality of your handiwork. If you're really flexible (like if you could ever do that V-sit reach thing in P.E. and get a score of anything above -19) you could attempt to pat yourself on the back. If you're not flexible you can find someone who is and watch them pat themselves on the back and feel bad that you suck, or you could ask them to pat you on the back.
Step 7: Remember that you forgot to give the platypus any anesthetic.
And here's the finished product!
Sunday, October 30, 2005
I Eat Relationships For Sunday Brunch
My roommate tells me that this here blog ruins relationships. Supposedly there is proof that at least one couple has parted ways after having come across the link here from my Facebook profile. I'm not quite sure how I should feel about this.
I could provide a disclaimer. Maybe put up some of those "Enter" or "Leave" buttons like they have before you view porn sites. Not that I know anything about that.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry if I caused you to say goodbye to that person you thought you'd be with forever.
I'm sorry if after viewing this site he admitted to sleeping with your sister.
I'm sorry that after relating to one of my entries she decided to move to Morocco and offer camel rides for a Euro to high schools students on a day trip from Spain.
I'm sorry that stumbling across this website caused her to eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal and the letters spelled out the phrase, "Leave your boyfriend for a bowl of Maryland clam chowder" and after seeing this she did so and now she's married to the aforementioned clam chowder and they have two beautiful children named Sam and Maria and they live in the suburbs of Denver and ski on the weekends unless the in-laws are in town in which case they stay inside by the fire and talk about future plans and sip coffee and play board games like The Game of Life and the clam chowder gets to be the doctor but ends up living in the mobile home which is the place I always wanted to live in because even though it was really crappy it was cheap and the taxes were low and after all it's just a board game and you don't actually have to live in it so it doesn't make much of a difference.
I'm sorry that these scenarios keep getting more far-fetched and more rambling.
I guess what I'm trying to say, and don't take this the wrong way, is that I hope these entries ruin your life. I hope you drop out of college because I told you I had a hamburger for lunch. I hope I shape the very way you approach and view the world.
I hope I change you.
I could provide a disclaimer. Maybe put up some of those "Enter" or "Leave" buttons like they have before you view porn sites. Not that I know anything about that.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry if I caused you to say goodbye to that person you thought you'd be with forever.
I'm sorry if after viewing this site he admitted to sleeping with your sister.
I'm sorry that after relating to one of my entries she decided to move to Morocco and offer camel rides for a Euro to high schools students on a day trip from Spain.
I'm sorry that stumbling across this website caused her to eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal and the letters spelled out the phrase, "Leave your boyfriend for a bowl of Maryland clam chowder" and after seeing this she did so and now she's married to the aforementioned clam chowder and they have two beautiful children named Sam and Maria and they live in the suburbs of Denver and ski on the weekends unless the in-laws are in town in which case they stay inside by the fire and talk about future plans and sip coffee and play board games like The Game of Life and the clam chowder gets to be the doctor but ends up living in the mobile home which is the place I always wanted to live in because even though it was really crappy it was cheap and the taxes were low and after all it's just a board game and you don't actually have to live in it so it doesn't make much of a difference.
I'm sorry that these scenarios keep getting more far-fetched and more rambling.
I guess what I'm trying to say, and don't take this the wrong way, is that I hope these entries ruin your life. I hope you drop out of college because I told you I had a hamburger for lunch. I hope I shape the very way you approach and view the world.
I hope I change you.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Haircuts, Hail Storms And Other Words That Make This Title Alliteration
I got a haircut today and I must say it looks mighty fine. It looked even mightier fine before I got hailed on, though. I saw Josh Nolan and he was standing under a tree by Bentley to get away from the deadly chunks of ice. As I walked by him I told him that it didn't sting that excruciatingly bad and he just laughed. Also, I went to Reis Hall today to write down my comments on the preceptorship hospital visits and it's not even funny how much candy I swiped on my way out. Seriously, I now have more Starburst and Kit Kats than I know what to do with.
In other news, thermodynamics class is over. That means I'm done with classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday by noon. Isn't that magical? I should probably use that time to go to the gym or study but I'll probably just end up using it for napping and an excessive amount of video game playing. Of course, what this means is that I won't get to see Shafiq wear his gorilla mask to class for Halloween. If I'm lucky he'll have it on at Physics T today!
Finally, Jon (the roommate) has a new girlfriend. Her name is Brenda and she likes country music and is a feminist. I didn't want to tell Jon but I'm worried she might try to cut off his penis while he's sleeping. She's coming over for pumpkin carving tonight so I might confront her about it. You have to protect your roommate, you know?
Slurp.
In other news, thermodynamics class is over. That means I'm done with classes on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday by noon. Isn't that magical? I should probably use that time to go to the gym or study but I'll probably just end up using it for napping and an excessive amount of video game playing. Of course, what this means is that I won't get to see Shafiq wear his gorilla mask to class for Halloween. If I'm lucky he'll have it on at Physics T today!
Finally, Jon (the roommate) has a new girlfriend. Her name is Brenda and she likes country music and is a feminist. I didn't want to tell Jon but I'm worried she might try to cut off his penis while he's sleeping. She's coming over for pumpkin carving tonight so I might confront her about it. You have to protect your roommate, you know?
Slurp.
Friday, October 21, 2005
My Traumatic Childhood II: Shattered Bones
It was a really good polar bear.
I had found the biggest piece of cardboard anyone had ever seen and I drew the best polar bear you can imagine--and it was big. I brought it to school the next day and showed it to Ms. Winniger my first grade teacher. She loved it.
After lunch Ms. Winniger took me out to the playground so we could set the polar bear up in the woods with the other animals the other kids had made. We found a good spot and leaned my masterpiece up against a big, sturdy tree not far from the wooden train. It looked amazing, she said. You wouldn't expect an arctic creature to look so at home in a temperate region such as Mount Vernon, Virginia but it did. It really did.
Smiling, we began the walk back to class and I could barely contain my excitement for when everyone would go outside after school and see the woods filled with creatures large and small. I was so excited that I barely noticed Ms. Winniger stumble and fall--a sickening crunch, a thud, and then screaming. Just screaming.
And there I stood. I was out in the woods at six years old with my teacher who had just completely shattered her leg and there was nobody around. There was nobody to come and help. There was nobody to rescue her. I couldn't think. I stood there in shock, the only thing getting through to me was the screaming. My elderly teacher, normally calm and composed was now transformed into someone I didn't recognize. I didn't know her. I waited for her to tell me what to do but the words never came. Finally I was able to move and I ran towards the school with tears streaming down my face.
I watched as the ambulance careened around the corner and out onto the playground. I stood helpless as I watched her being loaded into the back. All I could think about was the second everything had changed. We were laughing, and then all there was was terror.
It was my fault. It was all my fault and I knew it.
I didn't go back to class. There was no point. I went back onto the playground and kicked over my stupid polar bear. He didn't even flinch. He just lay there on the ground with the same look on his face I had painted the previous night. He didn't care. He didn't care and I hated him for it.
I sat in the train for the rest of the day.
I had found the biggest piece of cardboard anyone had ever seen and I drew the best polar bear you can imagine--and it was big. I brought it to school the next day and showed it to Ms. Winniger my first grade teacher. She loved it.
After lunch Ms. Winniger took me out to the playground so we could set the polar bear up in the woods with the other animals the other kids had made. We found a good spot and leaned my masterpiece up against a big, sturdy tree not far from the wooden train. It looked amazing, she said. You wouldn't expect an arctic creature to look so at home in a temperate region such as Mount Vernon, Virginia but it did. It really did.
Smiling, we began the walk back to class and I could barely contain my excitement for when everyone would go outside after school and see the woods filled with creatures large and small. I was so excited that I barely noticed Ms. Winniger stumble and fall--a sickening crunch, a thud, and then screaming. Just screaming.
And there I stood. I was out in the woods at six years old with my teacher who had just completely shattered her leg and there was nobody around. There was nobody to come and help. There was nobody to rescue her. I couldn't think. I stood there in shock, the only thing getting through to me was the screaming. My elderly teacher, normally calm and composed was now transformed into someone I didn't recognize. I didn't know her. I waited for her to tell me what to do but the words never came. Finally I was able to move and I ran towards the school with tears streaming down my face.
I watched as the ambulance careened around the corner and out onto the playground. I stood helpless as I watched her being loaded into the back. All I could think about was the second everything had changed. We were laughing, and then all there was was terror.
It was my fault. It was all my fault and I knew it.
I didn't go back to class. There was no point. I went back onto the playground and kicked over my stupid polar bear. He didn't even flinch. He just lay there on the ground with the same look on his face I had painted the previous night. He didn't care. He didn't care and I hated him for it.
I sat in the train for the rest of the day.
Flashback Friday: The Joy Of Subpoenas (3/8/05)
I found out recently that I've been subpoenaed. Is that really the correct spelling? "Subpoena-ed"? Anyways, yeah, I'm not going to tell you why because it makes it more mysterious and I think it would be fun for people to try and guess what kind of super-cool criminal acts me and my homeboys have been committing against the helpless community. It's amazing how much your life changes when you've been subpoenaed. Since getting that piece of paper stating that I am COMMANDED to appear in court (it really says "commanded"), my social status has skyrocketed. Seriously, I just have to wave that little government document in the air and boom, instant access to all the the frat parties as well as dibs on first kick on loser beating day. Yeah, you heard me right, now I'M doing the beating. I don't even need to mention what this subpoena has done for my love life, but I will anyway. Before getting the subpoena my girlfriend was the fire-lady on the Samoas box (I named her Beatrice), but now I have more women than I know what to do with. I can't go anywhere without stepping on them because they all lay on the ground for me to walk on. It was sort of uncomfortable at first but now I've gotten used to the fleshy bounce that comes with each stride as I head to class. My roommate is so jealous and I think all the women I have is making him kind of angry. I've offered numerous times to lend him Beatrice for a few days, you know, to get through the lonely nights when I'm away with my sex mob (which is like every night, by the way) but he is too proud to give in. Besides all the attention I've been getting outside of classes, my academic situation has definitely improved as well. A good example was the other day in physics when we got our quizzes back. So Greeky McGreek (that's what I call my professor, his real name is Deep, and by my nickname for him you can see that he's Greek) handed me my quiz and I noticed that it did not say 20/20 on it but instead it said something like 18/20 or some crap like that. I wasn't going to take any of this so I went up to have a friendly word with Greeky. He said something like, "I took off two points because the velocity you found was off by at least a factor of 10,000..." but I wasn't listening. I whipped it out (the subpoena) and let him take a good, long look at it. By the time he got to the part that said I was "criminally awesome" he had already pulled out his pen and was changing the 18 to a 56. So yeah, people with subpoenas have power and that's a fact. So basically, if you want to ace college with a vengeance don't try to kill your roommate and say it was suicide or anything like that. The best thing to do is to get subpoenaed and leave the rest to your new best friend. Not to mention, you'll never be at a loss for companionship on those cold nights when your bed is feeling a little too big for just one person.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
What Will Come Of Tomorrow?
Someday I'll be better than most people at living large.
Someday I'll find that monkey that climbed on Alexa in Gibraltar and report him to the proper authorities.
Someday I'll be able to run faster than I need to.
Someday I'll return to Morocco and take that guy up on his offer to trade Kim for fourteen camels and an acre of land.
Someday I'll find out it was real even though I always swore it was only in my head.
Someday I'll convince the people who wrote my high school Spanish textbook that a chapter on 1940s film noir was sort of unnecessary.
Someday I'll admit that I enjoy singing when I'm alone.
Someday I'll have my very own planets orbiting me even though Dr. Cox told me a thousand times in astrophysics class that I'd never be massive enough to bend space-time enough to pull it off no matter how many Krispy Kreme doughnuts I consumed.
Someday I'll realize I missed my chance.
Someday I'll admit that I didn't want it to be this way.
Someday I'll find that monkey that climbed on Alexa in Gibraltar and report him to the proper authorities.
Someday I'll be able to run faster than I need to.
Someday I'll return to Morocco and take that guy up on his offer to trade Kim for fourteen camels and an acre of land.
Someday I'll find out it was real even though I always swore it was only in my head.
Someday I'll convince the people who wrote my high school Spanish textbook that a chapter on 1940s film noir was sort of unnecessary.
Someday I'll admit that I enjoy singing when I'm alone.
Someday I'll have my very own planets orbiting me even though Dr. Cox told me a thousand times in astrophysics class that I'd never be massive enough to bend space-time enough to pull it off no matter how many Krispy Kreme doughnuts I consumed.
Someday I'll realize I missed my chance.
Someday I'll admit that I didn't want it to be this way.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Puppy Love: Why You Should Beat Your Dog
Tonight is the first night of Fall Break and there are people swing dancing in the laundry room. The bathroom smells like hockey and there are gnats in all the closets. I am currently consuming the largest bag of Hot Tamales you can imagine and am enjoying it thoroughly.
But things aren't all sunshine and lollypops, considering it's currently post-dusk and I'm diabetic, so let me lay it down for you.
There's been a question on my mind for a while now, or rather, ever since I posted that last entry about one of my many run-ins with Mary Ann. The question is simple:
At what point in our life did we stop showing affection through blunt force trauma?
I know you know what I'm talking about because we all remember that guy or girl who had that certain way of showing they cared. What I'm not sure about is whether everyone's list is as extensive as mine. Here's an excerpt from my list (Pre-K through 6th grade) and each girl's preferred means of attack:
Lauren- quick, secretive jabs to the kidneys
Mary Ann- throwdowns, various object chucking, unwanted make-out sessions while her friends hold me down
Ashley- it's amazing how many body parts are irritated when covered in dirt
Kimberly- tripping
Stephanie- various physical assaults
Amelia- emotional abuse: calling and hanging up, gossiping
Sarah- arm punching
Amanda- secretive ankle kicks under the desk
Rebecca- throwing playground equipment (kickballs, etc.)
Kira- spitting, biting
Jennifer- tripping
Meg- various sneak attacks
Emily- accidentally bumping into me so hard I fall down
Victoria- sharpened pencils to the forearm
Samantha- super-soakers full of scalding hot water
Lindsey- hair pulling
Patty- horrible, horrible, insults
Kelly- she stapled my finger
Alicia- pinching, stepping on feet/hands
...and the list goes on.
Did I mention that I never observed these actions taken against anyone besides me?
Despite how horrible it sounds, I can't help but joyfully reminisce about how simple things were back then. Back then you knew how much a girl liked you by the number of bruises or bite marks you had on your arms. Back then if she punched you in the face you knew it was something real and not just lust. Back then if your crotch wasn't sore by the end of the day you probably wouldn't get a date to the dance.
But nowadays things are so much different. First of all, I'm expected to initiate when it comes to dating because I have a penis. When did that happen? That's backwards. Nowadays you never know what she thinks of you so you have to resort to complex mathematical algorithms that take into account the ratio of number of times she blinks per minute to number of times she touches her left cheek and multiply this value by the square root of the inverse of how many times she adjusts her shirt during class without playing with her hair and even then you're still in the dark because you have no idea how to interpret your found numerical value.
Seriously, and how is flirting useful? My friend instant messaged me a few weeks ago with a link to a website that claims that if you want to get the girl you have to lick your lips every time she looks at you. Are you serious? Is she the girl you want to start a relationship with or a steak and cheese sandwich?
I just don't get it. Does anyone really believe our methods of meeting that special someone improve with age? If you can explain how looking at someone until they turn towards you and then looking away really quickly so they don't catch you looking at them but you know they sort of saw you because you planned it that way and then repeating this over and over again is better than a choke hold behind the slide where the teacher can't see you, then by all means explain to me how.
I don't know about you, but I wish things had never changed. I want to walk into class this coming week and leave in an ambulance.
At least I'll know that after the reconstructive surgery I can call her from my hospital room and be confident that she'll want to go to the new Wallace and Gromit movie with me when I get out.
But things aren't all sunshine and lollypops, considering it's currently post-dusk and I'm diabetic, so let me lay it down for you.
There's been a question on my mind for a while now, or rather, ever since I posted that last entry about one of my many run-ins with Mary Ann. The question is simple:
At what point in our life did we stop showing affection through blunt force trauma?
I know you know what I'm talking about because we all remember that guy or girl who had that certain way of showing they cared. What I'm not sure about is whether everyone's list is as extensive as mine. Here's an excerpt from my list (Pre-K through 6th grade) and each girl's preferred means of attack:
Lauren- quick, secretive jabs to the kidneys
Mary Ann- throwdowns, various object chucking, unwanted make-out sessions while her friends hold me down
Ashley- it's amazing how many body parts are irritated when covered in dirt
Kimberly- tripping
Stephanie- various physical assaults
Amelia- emotional abuse: calling and hanging up, gossiping
Sarah- arm punching
Amanda- secretive ankle kicks under the desk
Rebecca- throwing playground equipment (kickballs, etc.)
Kira- spitting, biting
Jennifer- tripping
Meg- various sneak attacks
Emily- accidentally bumping into me so hard I fall down
Victoria- sharpened pencils to the forearm
Samantha- super-soakers full of scalding hot water
Lindsey- hair pulling
Patty- horrible, horrible, insults
Kelly- she stapled my finger
Alicia- pinching, stepping on feet/hands
...and the list goes on.
Did I mention that I never observed these actions taken against anyone besides me?
Despite how horrible it sounds, I can't help but joyfully reminisce about how simple things were back then. Back then you knew how much a girl liked you by the number of bruises or bite marks you had on your arms. Back then if she punched you in the face you knew it was something real and not just lust. Back then if your crotch wasn't sore by the end of the day you probably wouldn't get a date to the dance.
But nowadays things are so much different. First of all, I'm expected to initiate when it comes to dating because I have a penis. When did that happen? That's backwards. Nowadays you never know what she thinks of you so you have to resort to complex mathematical algorithms that take into account the ratio of number of times she blinks per minute to number of times she touches her left cheek and multiply this value by the square root of the inverse of how many times she adjusts her shirt during class without playing with her hair and even then you're still in the dark because you have no idea how to interpret your found numerical value.
Seriously, and how is flirting useful? My friend instant messaged me a few weeks ago with a link to a website that claims that if you want to get the girl you have to lick your lips every time she looks at you. Are you serious? Is she the girl you want to start a relationship with or a steak and cheese sandwich?
I just don't get it. Does anyone really believe our methods of meeting that special someone improve with age? If you can explain how looking at someone until they turn towards you and then looking away really quickly so they don't catch you looking at them but you know they sort of saw you because you planned it that way and then repeating this over and over again is better than a choke hold behind the slide where the teacher can't see you, then by all means explain to me how.
I don't know about you, but I wish things had never changed. I want to walk into class this coming week and leave in an ambulance.
At least I'll know that after the reconstructive surgery I can call her from my hospital room and be confident that she'll want to go to the new Wallace and Gromit movie with me when I get out.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
My Traumatic Childhood I: Dirt In Your Eyes
Is it just me or has anyone else experienced traumatic childhood events that haunt you for the rest of your life in the form of flashbacks, blood-stained bathroom walls, or combination of the two?
I had a dream last night and, like the last dream I regailed you with, was not as much a dream as it was a flashback. I have a lot of flashbacks. Anyway, this flashback was to second grade. The scene opens on me and a few friends (Kyle, Ben, Mark, and Avrill) just covering a hole we had dug with sticks and leaves. The concealed hole was meant to be a trap for any unsuspecting passersby such as a deer, fox, or Chapley. Seriously though, who names their daughter Chapley? It wasn't a deep hole, but we had been working on it for a few recesses and with the sticks and leaves it was practically invisible. Anyway, at just about the time we were finishing up there comes this girl and her name is Mary Ann and she's like totally second grade hot. I don't think I need to go into the definition of "second grade hot" but let me just tell you that it most definitly involves those jellies sandals. So yeah, over comes Mary Ann and she tells me that she has something she wants to show me over on the train (we had a big wooden train that was big enough for us to climb inside and stuff). Well I walk over to the train and she tells me that the thing she wants to show me is in the caboose and so I climb in. Once inside I notice that there's nothing there and so I turn to leave but my exits are blocked by the sudden appearance of Mary Ann's posse. I don't want to sicken you with the details of what happend after that but let me tell you that when I finally got out of the caboose I had more dirt in my eyes than I did before I went in. I also had scratches on my face and arms from when the girls had thrown those spiny ball things that fall from sweetgum trees at me.
At this point I woke up from my dream.
Needless to say, ever since that day I can't look at sweetgum trees without wincing in pain. I'm also deathly afraid of topsoil and I've sworn to myself that I'll never let my daughter wear those jellies sandals.
I had a dream last night and, like the last dream I regailed you with, was not as much a dream as it was a flashback. I have a lot of flashbacks. Anyway, this flashback was to second grade. The scene opens on me and a few friends (Kyle, Ben, Mark, and Avrill) just covering a hole we had dug with sticks and leaves. The concealed hole was meant to be a trap for any unsuspecting passersby such as a deer, fox, or Chapley. Seriously though, who names their daughter Chapley? It wasn't a deep hole, but we had been working on it for a few recesses and with the sticks and leaves it was practically invisible. Anyway, at just about the time we were finishing up there comes this girl and her name is Mary Ann and she's like totally second grade hot. I don't think I need to go into the definition of "second grade hot" but let me just tell you that it most definitly involves those jellies sandals. So yeah, over comes Mary Ann and she tells me that she has something she wants to show me over on the train (we had a big wooden train that was big enough for us to climb inside and stuff). Well I walk over to the train and she tells me that the thing she wants to show me is in the caboose and so I climb in. Once inside I notice that there's nothing there and so I turn to leave but my exits are blocked by the sudden appearance of Mary Ann's posse. I don't want to sicken you with the details of what happend after that but let me tell you that when I finally got out of the caboose I had more dirt in my eyes than I did before I went in. I also had scratches on my face and arms from when the girls had thrown those spiny ball things that fall from sweetgum trees at me.
At this point I woke up from my dream.
Needless to say, ever since that day I can't look at sweetgum trees without wincing in pain. I'm also deathly afraid of topsoil and I've sworn to myself that I'll never let my daughter wear those jellies sandals.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Flashback Friday: Phycocyanin in the Bloodstream (2/12/05)
I have a rift in my epidermis that quite possibly spans farther down into the dermis. No, not a rift as in a large-scale crack in the earth's lithosphere produced by the tensional forces of two plates or two slide masses collapsing in different directions, but a rift as in a large-scale crack in my thumb-skin caused by the seething sharpness of a shattered Pyrex test tube being dragged across my skin as a result of me trying to clean it of its chemical contents with a test-tube-cleaning-brush that was way too big and ill-suited for the task at hand.
So anyway, I was in chem lab and I was trying to figure out how to clean the green algae goo from the bottom of my test tube with the only devices I had--water and an over-sized test tube brush. The water wasn't working (damn you viscosity) and the brush was way too wide to fit in the small test tube I had. But with class nearing an end and my extreme desire to get out of there considering it was the last class of the day and I had absolutely nothing else to do for the remainder of the evening, I decided to jam the big ol' brush down in there. At first it seemed to be working and the green goo was being whisked away by the brushy brush bristles. But then I noticed that I wasn't holding a test tube anymore but instead I was holding a mass of shattered glass and goo and my thumb was bleeding profusely. I dropped the tube into the sink but it was no use, my once pure innards had been breached by the horrible chemicals in the tube, namely sodium phosphate, hydrochloric acid, and that ghastly chromoprotein PHYCOCYANIN! So there it was, there was now a rogue protein in my body and it was stirring up a frenzy down in my capillaries and having a blast of a time. I could just imagine those damn hydrophilic amino acids basking in the warm wonderland of my bloodstream and the hydrophobic ones cozy and safe from the evil water that pounded on their walls. I knew I had to do something so I ran around the lab screaming, "DENATURE IT! DENATURE IT!" Thanks to books I knew that there were five ways to denature a protein: the addition of a large quantity of a small polar molecule, the addition of a detergent, an increase in temperature, a change in pH, or a good old mechanical shock. The first four weren't going to be easy to come by so I decided to choose door number five: the mechanical shock, and so I started smashing my thumb on the counters leaving splotched bloody thumbprints on everything I touched. Finally Dr. Murphree came into the lab and told me to put on a Band-aid and so I did and that was the end of the fiasco.
Minus that little event the day was pretty uneventful so I guess I can't complain too much.
So anyway, I was in chem lab and I was trying to figure out how to clean the green algae goo from the bottom of my test tube with the only devices I had--water and an over-sized test tube brush. The water wasn't working (damn you viscosity) and the brush was way too wide to fit in the small test tube I had. But with class nearing an end and my extreme desire to get out of there considering it was the last class of the day and I had absolutely nothing else to do for the remainder of the evening, I decided to jam the big ol' brush down in there. At first it seemed to be working and the green goo was being whisked away by the brushy brush bristles. But then I noticed that I wasn't holding a test tube anymore but instead I was holding a mass of shattered glass and goo and my thumb was bleeding profusely. I dropped the tube into the sink but it was no use, my once pure innards had been breached by the horrible chemicals in the tube, namely sodium phosphate, hydrochloric acid, and that ghastly chromoprotein PHYCOCYANIN! So there it was, there was now a rogue protein in my body and it was stirring up a frenzy down in my capillaries and having a blast of a time. I could just imagine those damn hydrophilic amino acids basking in the warm wonderland of my bloodstream and the hydrophobic ones cozy and safe from the evil water that pounded on their walls. I knew I had to do something so I ran around the lab screaming, "DENATURE IT! DENATURE IT!" Thanks to books I knew that there were five ways to denature a protein: the addition of a large quantity of a small polar molecule, the addition of a detergent, an increase in temperature, a change in pH, or a good old mechanical shock. The first four weren't going to be easy to come by so I decided to choose door number five: the mechanical shock, and so I started smashing my thumb on the counters leaving splotched bloody thumbprints on everything I touched. Finally Dr. Murphree came into the lab and told me to put on a Band-aid and so I did and that was the end of the fiasco.
Minus that little event the day was pretty uneventful so I guess I can't complain too much.
I'm Staying Up 'Til Dawn Forever
I think I should be the Up 'Til Dawn coordinator now and forever more. My reason for such a claim is one-fold:
Now = dinner.
P.S. My uncle Bud's (that's what we called him) wife Yvonne made the greatest kibbe b'sounieh ever!
"Baddia J. Rashid is my great-uncle and he was the president of ALSAC from 1976-1992 as well as a close personal friend to Danny Thomas. He has a building at St. Jude Children's Research Hospital named after him."That is all.
Now = dinner.
P.S. My uncle Bud's (that's what we called him) wife Yvonne made the greatest kibbe b'sounieh ever!
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Milk Sniffin'
I'm a big fan of those times when you go to do something but in the process you end up doing something else and that something else results in a prize.
I went to the water fountain by B-Lounge today and in the kitchen were four girls--two Rachels and two unknowns. One of the Rachels, possibly Learned but maybe Keaton, spoke up and the ensuing conversation went something like this:
Now I gotsta, gotsta, gotsta get to bed!
I went to the water fountain by B-Lounge today and in the kitchen were four girls--two Rachels and two unknowns. One of the Rachels, possibly Learned but maybe Keaton, spoke up and the ensuing conversation went something like this:
Rachel: Hey look, it's RA.In other news, until recently I thought it was perfectly normal that I had no idea what a Eugelnoid is. Apparently I was wrong.
Me: Yep, that's me. (Takes sip from water fountain.)
Rachel: Can you smell this milk for me?
Me: Yeah, I'd be happy to. Just let me finish getting some water. (Takes another sip and then strolls into kitchen.)
Rachel: Does this smell funny to you? (Puts milk carton up to my nose.)
Me: Hmm...it does have a sort of odor. I can't be sure of it, though.
Rachel: Thanks. Have one of these freshly baked peanut butter cookies I have here.
Me: Really? Thanks. If you ever need anyone to sniff your milk again just let me know. I'd be happy to be of service. (Exits hallway left.)
Now I gotsta, gotsta, gotsta get to bed!
Sunday, September 25, 2005
For Unhappy Spouses Everywhere
I took this picture today near Conneaut Lake Park and I thought I'd share it with you.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
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