Newer stuff's at the top

January 29th, 2005 10:11 am
No thank you. I don't speak stupid

Do you ever have one of those days that have an equal amount of Suck and Cool, and then all of the sudden the scales tip violently in one direction? It happened yesterday on the bus. The scales of patience were just about crushed from this overwhelming suckitude.

There’s this girl on the bus. I’ll refer to her by name only because I don’t care if anyone knows and likes her; because I don’t. So this chick, Kayla, goes on my bus. She’s a sophomore.

She is so god-damned annoying. I wish I was exaggerating. My Tolerance-O-Meter is at an all-time low. So you can only imagine just how much I wanted to kill someone (her).

First off, I swear she talks to anyone who listens to her. She’s gushed about her family, how much she hates her mom, how her sister is a slut, how her ex-boyfriend dumped her for the aforementioned slutty sis, how her uncle put a pistol in his mouth (she said something like “maybe I should just put a gun in my mouth” when talking about her grades). She also drivels on and on to Latino Heat about her writing.

Back to the point.

So she went on and on about how her mom is going to kill her because she failed 3 classes this quarter. 67, 66, 51. I should not know this about a girl I dislike this much. I mean I didn’t even need a name. I could’ve settled for calling her The Cheese Grater (for the effect of her voice on my ears). I mean, if she doesn't show up on Monday, I'll go to Rite Aid before Chambers and pick up a thank-you card that I'll hand deliver Tuesday after school to her parents. I would offer to pay them- cash- for the relief they have given me; Relief from her speaking.

Her voice- and the obscene volume at which she speaks- is enough to make one wish to be turned deaf. Not even kidding. Just hearing her voice has the effect of ramming railroad spikes into my ear canal. Well that’s not true.

I’d welcome the spikes.

But in effort to drown out the sounds of this screeching, I turn the volume all the way up on my CD player and then, upon realizing I could still hear her, press my hands to my ears in hopes of squeezing out the last few precious decibels that my CD player can provide for me. Truly a thing of terror, she is.

I wonder what she’d do or say if I told her just how much she irritates me.



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December 4th, 2004 2:40 pm
I have a dream

I find myself at a crossroads. A very vital point in my life. Everything could change at one instant.

Well not really. But it's important enough to get its own story (like I have so many other options)

As many of you are aware, I have a pair of pants. Jeans, specifically. Weather Vane West End Jeans, to be even more specific. And to make it even more exact: the jeans with the hole in the upper left thigh.

For months, I have enjoyed the presence of this hole. It's a good story to tell when asked. It's my little piece of rebellion. My little "Hey, I can show a little skin. I'm risque" kinda thing. Plus, it's funny, albeit a little aggravating, when people "finger" my hole. So in this vital point in my life, I ask myself "Should I plug my hole?"

This question goes out to all of you, in fact. Everyone at home, lend me your upper left thighs. An area of flesh that so rarely gets attention. An area of flesh so under-appreciated and undervalued. Given the chance, wouldn't your upper left thigh want a little bit of attention? After all, what makes any other part of our bodies any more important than our upper left thighs? If you tickle our upper left thighs, will you not laugh? If you prick our upper left thighs, will you not bleed? If you tear open a small hole in your jeans, and in doing so, expose the very upper left thigh that so rarely sees the sunlight, would your upper left thigh not rejoice? Would it not say, "It's my time to shine. To be noticed. To see the world!"? Would you not feel guilty in the slightest for squashing the hopes and dreams of an upper left thigh whose only desire was to be seen? Would you not, in squashing these hopes and dreams, be ripping the dreams from upper left thighs all over the world? The very upper left thighs on which this fine country was founded? (Star-spangled Banner playing) Jean-wearers all over the world, I have a dream!

A dream that no upper thigh shall be hidden, as if it is ashamed of!

A dream that when given a time to shine, that an upper left thigh will be granted its time and place to shine!

Let our left upper thighs be free! Let this freedom of upper left thighs truly ring!

Let it ring from the red-neck jean-wearing state of Texas!

Let it ring from the pretentious and over-tanned jean-wearing state of California!

And let this freedom also ring in the state of Maine, where one lucky upper left thigh was given, if only for a brief time, the gift of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!

So I ask you this, my peers and advisors: is it just to patch up a hole that has come into its own? A hole that has brought many smiles and laughs to all its touched?

Should I patch up my jeans?


Please vote in my poll. Thank you.

To patch or not to patch?
That is the question. This is a picture of my pants with the hole. I have grown to know and love the hole, but I'm not sure if it's time to finally say: "STOP FINGERING MY HOLE!" So whaddaya say?
	Sew it shut	0
	Make some oddly-shaped patch for it	0
	Find some funny patch at the mall or something and use that	0
	Safety pin it again	0
	Leave it alone. The hole must be left unchanged	1
	This Poll by itsokihadsubway
Click here to view current results

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October 16th, 2004 9:40 pm
Narcolepsy at its Finest

I know I'm not the only one that has had one of those days; the kind of days where it's not that everything's funny, but it's that everything's an opportunity to laugh your ass off. Those days are a bit rare, but when they come...boy oh BOY do they really make you know it.

Friday, lunchtime to be exact, was one of those times.

Okay. So I'm in the cafeteria, like usual. Sittin' with the usual crowd. Sittin' in the usual seats. Everything's the same as it usually is; but this is going to be one of those days.

SOOO...we're laughing a bit here and there, nothing big. Making jokes about people around us. The usual targets. At the table next to us, two of our targets were sitting side by side. I'll call the weird one (they were both weird, but this girl's on another level) Nemo. Those of you who know of her might make the connection. The other girl we had yet to identify. It was always a source of amusement to watch this kid. She looked like she was always asleep. She'd be eating...and sleeping. Talking...and sleeping. Reading...and sleeping. Sleeping...and...yeah. Sleeping.

To my right, was Jenny. Jenny and I kept glancing over at this girl and watching her...sleep. It was great. Her eyes were half-closed, her head down, her shoulders slumped. Then she'd come back to life for a moment or two to talk to Nemo. Nemo's just boppin' around and having a grand ol' time. She was like...dancing to a song...that wasn't playing. Kinda creepy. Sleepy Girl was just kinda dozin' and eating her lunch.

And all the while, Jenny and I are just...laughing. Little giggles at first, then chuckles, then a great thunderous laughter that caught the attention of everyone at the table. All over this tired kid.

So there we were, chests heaving, heads buried in our arms, elbows pressed to the table, laughing hysterically. When I took my head out of my hands, I'm pretty sure I looked like I good candidate for the Center for Grieving Children. Tears were streaming down my face in very unattractive lines. I do not now, nor have I ever claimed to be one of those pretty criers. The one's who can squeeze out a buncha tears and still be able to walk around and look decent. My face gets all red, my eyes get a bit puffy, my ears...dear God...my ears get more red than anything. It's bad. So you can only imagine how great it was to be in the middle of a less than crowded lunchroom, laughing my ass off, and unable to stop crying.

It was terrible. The only thing worse than the unstoppable tears was the fact that I could look neither to Jenny, nor to the table adjacent to us. Hell, I couldn't even look anywhere. I'm not gonna lie. If I made eye-contact with anyone at all, I was done. Just when we thought we were calm, we'd glance to the table where Sleepy Girl and Nemo were, and start back up.

So this is where I tell you what was so funny. I doubt you'll have a fit of hysterics, but you might chuckle or something. You see, I had identified the Sleepy Girl.

She was a fully-functional narcoleptic.

I'm serious. Think about it: unable to stay awake, yet able to eat, drink, talk, and walk about as if nothing was going on.

Okay. It'd be funnier if you were there, without a doubt, but you gotta see the humor.

There's more, though. I didn't even tell you about Nemo. So Nemo's boppin' around, right? Yeah. She gets up and walks over- to the table behind us. Why would she do that? God only knows. But what we do know is that she decided to pull up the chair directly behind me, and sits herself down. I didn't see this happen, though. I had to be notified by Marcia, who, between trying to stop laughing and then laughing again, tells me to turn around. Slowly. Very slowly. So, as slowly as my shuddering body would allow, I sloooooowly turn my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. And she is once again rockin' out to her internal beat. EeeYEAH. Guess what happened. Just guess. Yeah.

There was too much unintentional funny. I kinda feel like a bad person laughing AT someone, and not WITH them, but I'm over it. If they don't want to be laughed at, they shouldn't be so damned weird.

And much to my surprise, just as I was recovering for good, I walked back into my study hall. Who should be waiting in her seat in the back corner, but the fully-functional narcoleptic.

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October 9th, 2004 8:50 am
Where's MY love, damnit?

First off:

I still like Hanson. I still think they're cool. I still like they're music. Get over it.

So last night I was in a chatroom. It was this Sam girl, Erica, Spencer, Justine (now Il Duce), and I. Mostly it was just me confusing everyone by reciting the Emerald Nuts commercials. There was not much of a solid conversation, as is the norm with most chatrooms. But then Justine, Il Duce, started talkin' about the Q, and how she was gonna call in to request a song. Hanson, of course.

So I get up and look for a radio I can use, and find this little mini-radio thing with headphones attached. Its reception isn't the best, and I ended up holding it over my head and typing with one hand for about 5 minutes before I give up and clip it to my shirt.

Hanson comes on the radio, and I am all too happy. It was a serious boost to my night. I end up thinking how cool it'd be if I requested a song and dedicated it to Il Duce. So I pick up the phone, after numerous words of encouragement, I dial the advertised 775-7979. Busy signal. Gr. I hang up and hit the redial button. Busy again. I am not to be shot down, and I am also not to be deprived of my Hanson request. I keep calling until finally I get a ringing on the other end.

I'm telling everyone in the chatroom about how I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna do it. "Oh my God it's really ringing" is what I'm thinkin'. Everyone's waiting for me to say how it went.

It went busy. The damned thing switched from ringing to busy after a minute of waiting. Gah. My luck is less than stellar tonight. The Hanson hopefuls were disappointed. Erica got a ringing, but since she didn't have anything to say, and lacked the ability to think on her feet, she hung up. Bah. Wuss. I call again.

Cha-ching! Ringin' again!

"Q 97.9"
"Uh, hi. Can I request a song?"
"Yes you can" "Well I'd like to request Where's the Love? by Hanson for Il Duce"

And that was it. I was all excited. I told everyone with great enthusiasm. I was going to be on the radio. For like 4 seconds, but still. I was happy. Giddy even. The next song comes on.

Most definitely not Hanson. "Baby boy you stay on my mind" etc. etc. Justing bursts with.

jDoUcey 43: stop playing gay shit and play HANSON!

I hear the words "8 in a row" and a little part of me dies. I will not get to hear my dedication. I could cry. That'll teach me for being optimistic. I'm going to go listen to some sweet '97 Hanson.

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October 8th, 2004 6:50 pm
Explode!

All right. So once again, I did one of those things that seems like an awesome idea before I do it. I'm just lucky that everyone still thinks it was cool.

We're on break at practice, the pit's talking and acting up like we always do, and Phil gets to talking. He told us this story about how a few years back, B, at a competition right before the drum major counted it off, he yelled "EXPLODE!"

'Cause I guess he wanted the band to "explode" into the performance. Phil, being the guy that he is, became embarrassed and left to get himself a hotdog.

SO. We were up at the field, laughing and cracking jokes (business as usual), and someone, Cheech said something like "I wonder what Phil would do if someone yelled, before a run-through, 'EXPLODE!'" to which I replied "Well he'd probably walk off and get himself a hotdog." So after a proper laugh, Cheech said that it'd be funny if I did it. And then everyone got in on it, saying that it would be so funny and stuff. So naturally, since I aim to please (and will do nearly anything for a laugh or two), I said I'd do it.

An hour or so goes by, and we're about to do a final run-through. I man my chimes, hammer in hand, and await Gretchen's count-off.

One. Two. One two--

"EXPLODE!"

--three four. And I come in for the ever wondrous intro.

But Trach stops us. "Cut cut cut cut. What was that?"

I'm kinda nervous at this point. Marcia's the first one I see. She's laughing like a good sport, as is the majority of the band. But Trach is none too pleased. Like I said, I'm nervous.

"Sorry, I exploded" more laughter. Batting a thousand with my peers. Striking way the hell out with everyone over the age of twenty-five.

So we resume run-through. Only this time I come in too early. Made me feel embarrassed more because everyone's pro'y thinking I messed myself up from yelling. But it was just a miscommunication. It happens.

"Did you explode again?" No. I explained it was just a my-bad. I can basically feel his Vader death-grip on my throat.

Third time's a charm. We huddle up and 'break'. Mr. Trach asks for a word. I caught a quick "Well. You're fucked" from Cheech. Pretty much, I said.

I get the general "What was that? You disrupted the practice. It wasn't funny. You won't do it again, will you?" deal. It's all too familiar. It's sad, really. I could've given myself that lecture. It's not that I'm stupid, it's just that I can be a bit too spontaneous. Oh well. To borrow a phrase from a friend, "Hind-sight is 20/20"

The good part is that everyone else thought it was a riot. I got several people asking me about it/telling me they love me for it last night and today. It feels good to be appreciated, even if it is only from making an ass out of myself.

I guess I should stick to my little Squeaky-shoe-REE REE-dance for the most part. I need some new material.


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20 Sep 2004 08:16pm
Ow

Me no happy now. I can't type with my left pinky due to possible 3rd degree burns. Burns that I got thanks to my brother. You know those little things that go in cap guns? Well when I was cleaning (attempt to boost my mood), I found a buncha them. He told me they light. They did. Before I learned to use scissors to hold the flaming mess, I got burned. I held the thing verticaly so that it would burn upwards. The thing pops, like it should, and it flares up and a drop of plastic, still on fire, lands on my fucking pinky.

I'm holding this thing in my hand still, while it's on fire, making more little fire droplets all over my floor. Fucking great. Not to mention the fact that this molten shit on my littlest finger will not merely shake itself free of my skin. So I blow this stuff out, and it's smoking plastic fumes and sulfer in my room, and I'm trying desperately not to scream at the top of my lungs. Because it hurt just a bit more than I would've cared for.

So I pry this plastic dot off my finger, and this alone hurts a lot. But now I have a little white circle on my pinky. Hurts to type.

But I'm dumb (as if what I did in the first place didn't prove this), and did it more times. I held it with scissors, and positioned it over the toilet. I burned the seat a bit. Oh well. It was fun after the pain subsided for about two minutes before it came back full-on.

Blah. Now my night has even less promise than it did pre-blister...