What do you do on a day like this? It's times like this I wish I could cry. How long are people around for? You (me) should say that you love somebody before they're gone. I've been planning to avoid this for a long time. "If I can make it to college, then I won't break down and cry when my dog dies." "I hope I go to college before grandma dies, and I certainly don't want her to die at my house." Whatever. People die. What matters is if they know that you love them before they do. Then your time with them is not wasted. I wonder what people think when they die. It can't be "I hope all these people know I love them." It would have to be more along the lines of "Goodbye..." This is too depressing to carry on. Chili Peppers aren't helping. Shit.
Hang Up.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Meat In A Box
Dude. This shit was awesome.
-- Ray Nelson's --
Eight O'Clock in the Morning
At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, "Awake."
Something unusual happened.
One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.
He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, "Got a light buddy?" George gave him a light, then moved on.
At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators' multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, "Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleept eight hours," and "Marry and Reproduce." A TV set in the window of a store caught George's eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn't look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, "Stay tuned to this station."
George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. "Obey the government," said one croak. "We are the government, " said another. "We are your friends, you'd do anything for a friend, wouldn't you?"
"Obey!"
"Work!"
Suddenly the phone rang.
George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.
"Hello," it squawked. "This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are an old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat."
"I am an old man," said George. "Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, my heart will stop."
The control hung up
"No, it wont," whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn't respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.
"No use waiting here for the end," he thought.
He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.
"Move on," grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.
George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk's head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizrd fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.
George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.
"I can't possibly escape," thought George. "Why fight them?"
But maybe he could.
What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.
He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.
"I want you to wake up," he said
"I'm awake," she said. "Come on in."
He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.
"No," he said. "I mean really wake up." She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, "Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!"
"Are you off your rocker, George?" she asked suspiciously. "You sure are acting funny." He slapped her face. "Cut that out!" she cried, "What the hell are you up to anyway?"
"Nothing," said George, defeated. "I was just kidding around."
"Slapping my face wasn't just kidding around!" she cried.
There was a knock at the door.
George opened it.
It was one of the aliens.
"Can't you keep the noise down to a dull roar?" it said.
The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. "What do you see there?" he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.
"Mister...Mister Coney," she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. "You...just killed him, like it was nothing at all."
"Don't scream," warned George, advancing on her.
"I won't George. I swear I won't, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife." She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.
George saw that it was no use.
"I'm going to tie you up," said George. "First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in."
"The first door on your left as you go toward teh stairs," she said. "Georgie...Georgie. Don't torture me. If you're going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please."
He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.
George went next door.
When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, "Who is it?"
"Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him," said George.
"He went out for a second, but he'll be right back." The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. "You wanna come in and wait?"
"Okay," said George, not looking at the eyes.
"You alone here?" he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.
"Yeah, why?"
He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.
He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.
He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.
"The children," he thought, and killed them all.
There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.
He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could and went back to Lil's place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.
"Relax, honey" he said, opening her purse, "I just want to borrow your car keys."
He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.
Her care was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking--desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was ntohing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?
George wasn't surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.
They had just discvered what he had done back at Lil's place, so they would probably be looking for Lil's car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.
When one finally did get on, George got off.
He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, "We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends." The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?
George ordered a beer, the it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, "It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost." They flashed George's picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.
"Hello, Robinson?" he asked.
"Speaking."
"This is George Nada. I've figured out how to wake people up."
"What? George, hang on. Where are you?" Robinson sounded almost hysterical.
He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.
He caught another subway and went downtown.
It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city's TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. "Why, you're Nada!" he gasped.
George didn't like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.
He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the the TV camera saying, "We are your friends. We are your friends," and didn't see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stoond near him and said, imitating the alien croak, "Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!"
It was George's voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator's image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.
George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o'clock.
Doesn't it remind you of Duke Nukem?
-- Ray Nelson's --
Eight O'Clock in the Morning
At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, "Awake."
Something unusual happened.
One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.
He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, "Got a light buddy?" George gave him a light, then moved on.
At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators' multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, "Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleept eight hours," and "Marry and Reproduce." A TV set in the window of a store caught George's eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn't look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, "Stay tuned to this station."
George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. "Obey the government," said one croak. "We are the government, " said another. "We are your friends, you'd do anything for a friend, wouldn't you?"
"Obey!"
"Work!"
Suddenly the phone rang.
George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.
"Hello," it squawked. "This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are an old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat."
"I am an old man," said George. "Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, my heart will stop."
The control hung up
"No, it wont," whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn't respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.
"No use waiting here for the end," he thought.
He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.
"Move on," grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.
George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk's head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizrd fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.
George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.
"I can't possibly escape," thought George. "Why fight them?"
But maybe he could.
What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.
He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.
"I want you to wake up," he said
"I'm awake," she said. "Come on in."
He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.
"No," he said. "I mean really wake up." She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, "Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!"
"Are you off your rocker, George?" she asked suspiciously. "You sure are acting funny." He slapped her face. "Cut that out!" she cried, "What the hell are you up to anyway?"
"Nothing," said George, defeated. "I was just kidding around."
"Slapping my face wasn't just kidding around!" she cried.
There was a knock at the door.
George opened it.
It was one of the aliens.
"Can't you keep the noise down to a dull roar?" it said.
The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. "What do you see there?" he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.
"Mister...Mister Coney," she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. "You...just killed him, like it was nothing at all."
"Don't scream," warned George, advancing on her.
"I won't George. I swear I won't, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife." She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.
George saw that it was no use.
"I'm going to tie you up," said George. "First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in."
"The first door on your left as you go toward teh stairs," she said. "Georgie...Georgie. Don't torture me. If you're going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please."
He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.
George went next door.
When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, "Who is it?"
"Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him," said George.
"He went out for a second, but he'll be right back." The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. "You wanna come in and wait?"
"Okay," said George, not looking at the eyes.
"You alone here?" he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.
"Yeah, why?"
He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.
He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.
He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.
"The children," he thought, and killed them all.
There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.
He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could and went back to Lil's place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.
"Relax, honey" he said, opening her purse, "I just want to borrow your car keys."
He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.
Her care was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking--desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was ntohing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?
George wasn't surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.
They had just discvered what he had done back at Lil's place, so they would probably be looking for Lil's car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.
When one finally did get on, George got off.
He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, "We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends." The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?
George ordered a beer, the it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, "It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost." They flashed George's picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.
"Hello, Robinson?" he asked.
"Speaking."
"This is George Nada. I've figured out how to wake people up."
"What? George, hang on. Where are you?" Robinson sounded almost hysterical.
He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.
He caught another subway and went downtown.
It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city's TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. "Why, you're Nada!" he gasped.
George didn't like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.
He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the the TV camera saying, "We are your friends. We are your friends," and didn't see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stoond near him and said, imitating the alien croak, "Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!"
It was George's voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator's image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.
George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o'clock.
Doesn't it remind you of Duke Nukem?
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Let's All Talk To Zoidberg
So uh. I fucking hate managers. I swear to god. I run, I sweat, I hurt, I BLEED (blisters!) and all I EVER get from Andy is a "goodjob" once in a while. ONCE in a WHILE! I know the love is there. He knows what I do. He knows I try my best everytime I run because he can see it. He can see how much I work by how exhausted I am. When I'm tired from my workout or my race, I can't breathe, I can't walk, I can't think. So when I talk to a manager in such a state, why can't a get a fucking answer embedded with a trace of respect? It's always some mumbled sentence like they couldn't care. It's always with that fucking look they always have. I FUCKING HATE IT! And they they get all upset because "they work hard and they can't be putting up with all of us." You know what? FUCK YOU! DEAL with it! THERE ARE FUCKING 10 OF YOU! ONE OF YOU CAN DEAL WITH US YOU MOTHER FUCKING PIECES OF SHIT!
AND YOU KNOW WHY THEY FUCKING ACT LIKE THAT!? IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE SO GODDAMN SPOILED! Okay, fine. They get to stand around during practices. They're not supposed to be running. Okay, fine. They get to stand around during Bay to Breakers. I get to do all the fun stuff anyway. Okay, fine. I realized that they stick around alot and do secretarial work. It's how you manage. Okay, fine. Andy gives them treats including, but not limited to: food, rides, spiffy jackets, and free lettermans. Andy gets to have a favorite (or 10) . You're supposed to be rewarded for doing things, but when you're spoiled, you think that you just deserve these things. And when you think that you deserve them, you flaunt them in other people's faces to show them what a good job you did. BUT THEY DIDNT! THEY DIDNT! THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW OUR SPORT! So really they're just bugging the fuck out of you.
I CANT FUCKING HANDLE THIS. RAGE IS COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS. I CAN'T EVEN TYPE STRAIGHT! I'M JUST SO FUCKING ANGRY. I HATE ALL THESE GODDAMN MANAGERS! EVERY FUCKING SINGLE ONE! I HATE THEM! SDLGKJSDGLKJ.
edit: Except Yulong and Ruth. Yulong actually ran and knows what's what. And he doesn't act like a snotty shit. Ruth is on two sports. She knows how it feels.
edit deux: I FUCKING HATE MANAGERS!
AND YOU KNOW WHY THEY FUCKING ACT LIKE THAT!? IT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE SO GODDAMN SPOILED! Okay, fine. They get to stand around during practices. They're not supposed to be running. Okay, fine. They get to stand around during Bay to Breakers. I get to do all the fun stuff anyway. Okay, fine. I realized that they stick around alot and do secretarial work. It's how you manage. Okay, fine. Andy gives them treats including, but not limited to: food, rides, spiffy jackets, and free lettermans. Andy gets to have a favorite (or 10) . You're supposed to be rewarded for doing things, but when you're spoiled, you think that you just deserve these things. And when you think that you deserve them, you flaunt them in other people's faces to show them what a good job you did. BUT THEY DIDNT! THEY DIDNT! THEY DON'T EVEN KNOW OUR SPORT! So really they're just bugging the fuck out of you.
I CANT FUCKING HANDLE THIS. RAGE IS COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS. I CAN'T EVEN TYPE STRAIGHT! I'M JUST SO FUCKING ANGRY. I HATE ALL THESE GODDAMN MANAGERS! EVERY FUCKING SINGLE ONE! I HATE THEM! SDLGKJSDGLKJ.
edit: Except Yulong and Ruth. Yulong actually ran and knows what's what. And he doesn't act like a snotty shit. Ruth is on two sports. She knows how it feels.
edit deux: I FUCKING HATE MANAGERS!
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Suck It
2 quotes from today. Bad and Good.
Fiona: I couldn't understand you during the second half.
Mike: Well, it was in spanish.
Fiona: Well, I think you sucked anyway. And you know you can trust my opinion because we're best friends, right?
Yoongi: Remember "Duck, Duck, Boo"?
Chelsea: "Duck, Duck, Boo"? That's like my life!
Mike: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *falls to ground laughing. can't breathe*
Random Drunk Russian Guy: Here, Komrade *picks Mike off ground, walks away*
Mike: AAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHA *can't breathe*
Maybe I've seen enough of this crap. I don't like when people say things they don't really mean, and I don't like when people say things for me that I don't really mean. Whatever, go with the flow.
Me gusta me reggae, me gusta punk rock, pero la cosa que me gusta mas es panochita
Fiona: I couldn't understand you during the second half.
Mike: Well, it was in spanish.
Fiona: Well, I think you sucked anyway. And you know you can trust my opinion because we're best friends, right?
Yoongi: Remember "Duck, Duck, Boo"?
Chelsea: "Duck, Duck, Boo"? That's like my life!
Mike: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *falls to ground laughing. can't breathe*
Random Drunk Russian Guy: Here, Komrade *picks Mike off ground, walks away*
Mike: AAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHA *can't breathe*
Maybe I've seen enough of this crap. I don't like when people say things they don't really mean, and I don't like when people say things for me that I don't really mean. Whatever, go with the flow.
Me gusta me reggae, me gusta punk rock, pero la cosa que me gusta mas es panochita
Monday, May 15, 2006
Bathwater Productions
Anne Marie asked if I wanted to do another performance. In June. For her and her brother's Bathwater Productions. Sounds like fun. But that means i have to do more work for a while. This might suck alot. Once I get past track. And maybe I should just quit Neverland now... It's hard to schedule now.
Rose Rose Rose Rose
Will I ever see thee wed?
I will marry at thy will, Sire
At thy will
Thou poor bird
Art thou now
Flying in the shadows
Of this late hour
Rose Rose Rose Rose
Will I ever see thee wed?
I will marry at thy will, Sire
At thy will
Thou poor bird
Art thou now
Flying in the shadows
Of this late hour
Monday, May 08, 2006
Dead
Just in case the worst should happen, here is my senior will.
Jewboy Levi - My unicycle, my room, my height, and the contents of my wallet.
Connie Chung - My ability to watch ARRR rated movies.
Chelsea - My nerves of steel.
Alex B. - Take my car. Please. You need to learn how to drive stick... and faster.
Anna FH - All my music.
Phil Yee - Burned copies of all my music. Plus Jin's magic flats.
Y. Tom - My <3... and my cable TV.
Cynthia - My ability to say no. And my liking for Wonderful Foods.
Tommy York - My ability to talk without looking self-important. And my stereo. And my Irish, rugby jersey.
Morgan - My slightly more religiousness and my Buddy Christ, Jesus Action Figure, and Dashboard Jesus.
Johanna - One cool item from my room.
To everybody - The entirety of my knowledge of cartoon (namely South Park) trivia. And a forever extended invitation to wherever i may be living.
PS. None of you get my awesome Irish hat.
<3
Jewboy Levi - My unicycle, my room, my height, and the contents of my wallet.
Connie Chung - My ability to watch ARRR rated movies.
Chelsea - My nerves of steel.
Alex B. - Take my car. Please. You need to learn how to drive stick... and faster.
Anna FH - All my music.
Phil Yee - Burned copies of all my music. Plus Jin's magic flats.
Y. Tom - My <3... and my cable TV.
Cynthia - My ability to say no. And my liking for Wonderful Foods.
Tommy York - My ability to talk without looking self-important. And my stereo. And my Irish, rugby jersey.
Morgan - My slightly more religiousness and my Buddy Christ, Jesus Action Figure, and Dashboard Jesus.
Johanna - One cool item from my room.
To everybody - The entirety of my knowledge of cartoon (namely South Park) trivia. And a forever extended invitation to wherever i may be living.
PS. None of you get my awesome Irish hat.
<3
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Well uh..
Now that I have finally chosen a college, I feel much better. It's great when people congratulate me, even though it's more of a 'hey! you actually got into a good uc' kind of good job. But that's not the point.
Before I got into ucsb, it was just sdsu, but it felt like i still had the choice between both while my appeal went through. I was torn up over the decision between the two, as you can probably tell from two or three posts ago. the two colleges were complete opposite paths to the same place. Both were great. But when i finally decided that I would go to ucsb and not feel bad about missing out on sdsu, i was no longer sure if i was going to get into ucsb. but hours and hours of waiting (i came to this decision, what, a day before i got in?) finally got to me. now i'm in. and i'm finally happy.
PS. The only people i know who are going to UCSB are all pretty girls in my reg (Lauren, Caitlin, and Lisa)
i can't wait for college... i just can't fucking wait.
Before I got into ucsb, it was just sdsu, but it felt like i still had the choice between both while my appeal went through. I was torn up over the decision between the two, as you can probably tell from two or three posts ago. the two colleges were complete opposite paths to the same place. Both were great. But when i finally decided that I would go to ucsb and not feel bad about missing out on sdsu, i was no longer sure if i was going to get into ucsb. but hours and hours of waiting (i came to this decision, what, a day before i got in?) finally got to me. now i'm in. and i'm finally happy.
PS. The only people i know who are going to UCSB are all pretty girls in my reg (Lauren, Caitlin, and Lisa)
i can't wait for college... i just can't fucking wait.
UCSB!
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Pride
Woosh
So I'm done with math forever. Those five classes I'm taking now? They just became four. Man fuck math. I'm never ever going to use calculus ever. EVER! Nono, Pinocci. I will not become a civil engineer. I will be something that has more practical application in real life. Like studying the cause and effect of the deaths of supervillians. Or something. Iono.
Today, some old lady came into the shop to sit down and talk. and you could tell she was quasi homeless because only homeless people talk to anybody and everybody who will listen (not to mention she told me she was). She talked to me for about half an hour about her situation. She had an abusive landlord and was afraid to go back to her home, so she decided to take to the sf streets. She stayed with a friend or two, but tonight she might be out on the street or hopefully in a shelter. She talked of her friend on the force and in the clegy down the block. When she left she was crying, half about her story, half because apparently, she finally found somebody to listen to her.
I'd be the worst hobo ever. I'd be too shy to talk to anybody. Too embarrassed that something like that had happened to me. But I'm too much of a social creature to live like that. I wonder how i would handle it. I could continue lurking in the corners, talking only to my hobo brethren, and only the cool ones. Or I could grow some hoballs and not care. After all, life has it's ups and downs - who says i'm out yet? Or i could pretend like i'm crazy and have a bit of fun. Or i could become a statistic...
But you know what? No matter what hobopath i choose to take, I swear to god i will spend as much time as possible on my personal hygene. I'll spend forever under a public restroom sink awkwardly washing, shampooing, and shaving my body. Nobody would be able to tell i was a hobo! Except for my clothes...
What happens to your stuff when you become a hobo? Where does my tshirt collection go? Where does my wardrobe go? Where does my bed go? Where do my pens and cups and hangars and chairs and bedspreads and jugglingballs and bicycles and posters go? Do i pawn them? Do i throw them out? Does somebody take them?
Aww, I quit. This post is too depressing..
Today, some old lady came into the shop to sit down and talk. and you could tell she was quasi homeless because only homeless people talk to anybody and everybody who will listen (not to mention she told me she was). She talked to me for about half an hour about her situation. She had an abusive landlord and was afraid to go back to her home, so she decided to take to the sf streets. She stayed with a friend or two, but tonight she might be out on the street or hopefully in a shelter. She talked of her friend on the force and in the clegy down the block. When she left she was crying, half about her story, half because apparently, she finally found somebody to listen to her.
I'd be the worst hobo ever. I'd be too shy to talk to anybody. Too embarrassed that something like that had happened to me. But I'm too much of a social creature to live like that. I wonder how i would handle it. I could continue lurking in the corners, talking only to my hobo brethren, and only the cool ones. Or I could grow some hoballs and not care. After all, life has it's ups and downs - who says i'm out yet? Or i could pretend like i'm crazy and have a bit of fun. Or i could become a statistic...
But you know what? No matter what hobopath i choose to take, I swear to god i will spend as much time as possible on my personal hygene. I'll spend forever under a public restroom sink awkwardly washing, shampooing, and shaving my body. Nobody would be able to tell i was a hobo! Except for my clothes...
What happens to your stuff when you become a hobo? Where does my tshirt collection go? Where does my wardrobe go? Where does my bed go? Where do my pens and cups and hangars and chairs and bedspreads and jugglingballs and bicycles and posters go? Do i pawn them? Do i throw them out? Does somebody take them?
Aww, I quit. This post is too depressing..
Monday, May 01, 2006
Now I Just Feel Silly
I feel silly. I just want to go out and play all day. Please. No more school. No more math. No more spanish. No more getting up early. No more essays. No more disney channel. No more competitive running. And no more friggin lj. All I'll have is my car and my girl and my friends. A concert or two and then:
That's right. Once a week. I can't wait.
Fucking hate lj. I want a fucking facebook.
That's right. Once a week. I can't wait.
Fucking hate lj. I want a fucking facebook.
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