Missed Connections

Waitress at Applebees

I can’t forget your brown hair in that perfect ponytail, or your big brown eyes placed perfectly on your overworked face. You probably don’t remember me. I was the one who mispronounced burger. I accidently made it sound like Aye-luh-view. My mistake. But you can’t have forgotten how I gazed into your eyes for five minutes as you waited to take my order.

* * *

Girl in front of me in line at Starbucks

We never spoke. I don’t even know what you look like. But when I heard you make the daring decision of ordering a tall black coffee, I knew that you were the one for me. So bold. Sexy.Unfortunately by the time I finished explaining how to make a latte both iced and hot at the same time you had gone.

* * *

Sitting at Café

This was a long time ago. You were sitting outside of a small café, reading Faulkner. Near or on 4th street. It’s been years, but I know there was something there. Our eyes met, if just for a second, as I knocked your table over when the police tackled me.

* * *

Dark Alleyway

When I was mugging you that night, I simply couldn’t get over how beautiful you were. Long golden hair, pouty lips. If I wasn’t so nervous about being seen I would have asked for your number, alas I was in a hurry. Lets get dinner sometime.

* * *

Man at Target

You are truly the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I don’t want to come on too strong, but its true. Don’t worry, I’m not creepy. You were with someone at the time, but once you see these photos I took of you on my iPhone, in which I have photoshopped my face on to hers, you will see how cute of couple we are. Text me. Or whatever.

* * *

Man in Car

I was crossing the street, and you drove by. It was only a split seconded but I knew you were the one. I know you remember me. You have to! Our connection was so strong. Also, you ran that red light.

* * *

In Crowded Place

It was after the game when everyone was trying to leave and it was crowded. Gate 7. Section PP. I was in the midst of the crowd when I felt someone pressed up against me from behind. I didn’t get the chance to see your face, but I have to feel your body again. I was wearing the red cap.


Sitting Behind You


One Time I Rode a Greyhound (The bus, not the dog)

Day 1: Thursday


I am in what might be the most subtly unsettling building I have ever occasioned to sit on a bench in. The Greyhound bus station. Cue gasp. The aforementioned bench is made out of metal, and is sitting in a tiny room. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Half the room is these metal benches I’m on, I’m facing the door, so that I can see any serial killer rapist clowns that might enter. Behind me are about 9 (3) vending machines and a water fountain. This building apparently used to have windows, but they are all boarded up. Fortunately the two doors are glass so we are not completely cut off from the outside world. One quarter of the room is used for The Cashier’s area, who sits behind a wall of glass, but only on the side, not in front. (Not sure what the point is) Behind her are rooms filled with suspicious cardboard boxes. (Drugs, or aliens.) There are some warnings posted on the walls that I didn’t read, and getting up to read them would be strange, so I’m not going to do it. You can’t make me. I’m frightened. Overhead you have your usual fluorescents, the walls are brick painted white and the floor is grey. Also there are restrooms. I tried to go in but they were locked, and when I asked, The Cashier told me that the men’s room was out of order and she wouldn’t let me into the ladies room. (But whyyyy?) In the Ayer is playing on the radio too, so that’s fun.

I’m glad The Female is with us, because otherwise it would just be me, Ryan, The Cashier, and the man in the corner loudly typing on his phone. Literally he has turned up the volume to the highest setting and every button press is punctuated by an obnoxious beep. Every time I hear him I get a little crazier. And you don’t want me to get crazier. You won’t like me when I’m crazier. Than…now? Also, he has enough belongings to fill a small apartment. Maybe he’s moving. By bus.

Back to The Cashier. Actually, she was quite nice, I did’t have my verification number yet she allowed me to get my ticket anyway. But she kept sniffing. I’ve seen enough epidemic-disaster movies to know that bus stop cashiers are always the ones carrying deadly pathogens. I made sure to wash my hands immediately afterwards. I tried to discreetly take pictures of the building I’m in, because I feel like I’m in one of those really strange horror movies about college students who are travelling then killed by hillbillies. Or Final Destination. Either one, really.

Still at the bus stop, a guy sat down behind us and started breathing heavily. It went on for easily two eternities. I’m pretty sure he had a heart attack, but he handled it well, just kind of slumping over. Later he got up and bought a soda.



I’m serious. It was hanging around the station and then it just got on the bus. He’s actually quite cute. He’s a stray, but totally friendly. Definitely doesn’t have rabies. That’s not foam on his mouth, just ice cream! The man next to us has McDonald’s, that’s probably what lured him [The Dog] on. He does not want to get off. He had to be shoved. It was so cute when he bit that guy’s hand! Blood is so cool. I haven’t the slightest idea why people would ever fly places, cause this never happens on planes. And this is awesome.

Our bus was also over an hour late, so even though we had a layover in LA it looks more like we are just going to be missing that bus, meaning that we will be arriving at our destination 2 hours later. So, it IS just like flying! The bus is interesting, full of interesting people. There are more passengers on the bus than I expected. Behind me, a man is sleeping. We are at the back of the bus, with the cool kids. No paper airplanes yet, I’m disappointed. I never rode the school bus as a kid, and I was hoping that this ride would allow me to relive those childhood memories. But it’s dark. And people are sleeping.

I really like the guy next to me, he fed the dog some of his burger. He seems nice, and he got on with us. At the time he was being escorted by a police officer. The officer is gone now. This trip is getting more and more interesting by the second. The only way we will make our connection according to Ryan is if a time wormhole opens up and spits us out at the station. I told him that if we are going to imagine wormholes they might as well take us somewhere cool, like our destination, or France. More likely though is that it would drop us off in the deep of space and our blood will boil as our heads explode and our eyes are torn from their sockets and my laptop runs really well until the battery runs out. (Maybe I should invest in a solar powered laptop?) Personally, I haven’t given up hope that we will be able to make our connection without exiting the fabric of space-time, but you know, to each his own.

Around this time I am realizing that the bus itself is not as cool or exciting as the bus stop. Maybe because the lights are off and I can’t see anyone. I wish the dog were still here… Also, I feel even more like I am in a Final Destination movie and am wary of “Dust in the Wind” as well as people screaming about having premonitions and everyone dying. If everyone dies, I will be sure to notice, is what I’m saying.


Guess who made their bus? That’s right, the main cast of Final Destination 6! After getting some quick food at the central station, we boarded our bus to San Diego. Finally! Whew. I didn’t have much time to check out the station, and this bus is a lot like the last one, except it has free WiFi! Not that I’m going to use it, but its there, for potential website browsing. I’m sure it’s really fast too.

So remember that guy who fed the dog his burger? Well he is sitting right in front of me, and this time he has a friend! Their conversation will likely provide me with entertainment for the entire trip. So far I’ve found out that he got out of prison today, which explains the police officer, and he has been reminiscing about prison with his woman friend on the bus. They seem like genuinely nice people though, very friendly. And while the woman doesn’t seem to have treated her mind all too well, she seems to be rather insightful. She made one comment that was actually a clever observation, that TVs are getting thinner so that they can fit in the same room as fat Americans. I wanted to laugh, but then they would know that I’m listening and I’m a little afraid of what they would do if they knew I was writing about them. The probably don’t know I’m saying they are perfectly nice, which they are. I’m also making fun of them a little bit, but only because they are loud, and thus they must want their conversation to be public! Did you know everything is made of atoms? I do now! Also apparently it’s the lifers that run prison, and subjugate everyone else. It’s just not fair! I think I will keep listening for highlights, but I do feel kind of bad that their conversation is going to end up on the Internet. (Word capitalizes internet, I don’t think it’s that important, personally.)

What follows is a bunch of uncensored dialogue from the two in front of me. Read at your own risk!


“We are just breaths and you can’t hold that shit forever, you gotta exhale.” I think the Man might have just said that Jesus is the devil, but I’m not sure. That’s when the Woman brought up Wiccan and I wasn’t sure anymore. I just found out parole doesn’t test for TCH. “I’ve seen people throw money away” “I want to buy all the car washes and donate them to the schools so they can raise money for their activities” “I can’t wait to get home to digest my own food with my own saliva” “save your two dollar bill” “Abraham Lincoln never made it to presidency” The Man knows the people on money, I don’t even know that… The Man might be some sort of Christian, but I’m not sure, he’s either a Christian or a Satanist. I will still be listening… He does have a working knowledge of the bible, but he confuses some of the prophets with kings. That’s not that big of deal though. “Those lies are bigger than my nipples” I wonder how big her nipples are… OH DEAR LORD NO. I did not need that visual. Excuse me while I vomit. “I snorted pink bubble bath when I was 12 years old” Most of these quotes are of the Woman, because the Man kinda mumbles because he is missing most of his teeth. So I don’t really get whole phrases. The Woman is shouting, so she is easy to hear. “Every decade I want to move a little closer to Iceland, and settle there when I’m old” “Oh yeah, I know that house. I tried to break into it once. I wanted to go creep!” “I’d rather go to the bar and patronize the continent” “Otherwise put up your rails so we don’t all catch West Nile” “Hell, we are chemicals, we are laboratories” She keeps singing. One time they sang a duet. It was cute. “Wasabi kills the germs so I put it in a puddle of the stuff wok wok wok wok wok wok”


We made it to Ryan’s cousin, Jennifer’s, condo. She is very kindly allowing us to stay there weekend. The Female went to her home, so we won’t see her till Monday. She doesn’t talk much anyway. The biggest news is that the air mattress inflatorinator doesn’t work, so I get to sleep on the ground! I’m so excited to sleep. As is apparent by the fact that I am blogging right now. Well actually I’m typing into a word document because I don’t have internet… Good Night Good People!


Just one man, traveling about the wilderness, by bus.

The Exorcism of a Blogger

Awkward happens. In strange, often mysterious ways. Usually the lights are out. Or they are on, which is even worse. The potential for accidentally stumbling into a room full of awkward jello rises exponentially when one is living with another person. If you have never co-habited with another human being, look at one of your cats. He is probably licking himself while sitting on a pile of your clothes. Now imagine that is person. Keep in mind cats don’t wear clothes. If you still can’t understand the social implications of this situation, and also your entire face is numb, that’s good. It means your pills are working. Try typing with your forehead. No no, you have to smack the keyboard as hard as you can if you want the words to make sense.

The reason that you are so much more likely to encounter a wild awkward probably nude moment when you are living with someone else is because you have access to their “private time”. So when they are dancing to the aTeens in their underpants and swinging around a kettle, you have the ability to just unlock that door and walk in. It’s even worse when you share a room. Then, if you want to do something, say sleep, you have to try to ignore their fashion show set to Metallica, which strangely doesn’t involve any clothing. I guess it’s imaginary. I just so happen to live in the same room as another person. We like to call it this cool word we made up, “dormroom”. What a funny, yet subtly evil word we have created.

Dormroom, means a tiny little box in which you are supposed to live for eight months. It contains your bed, your desk, television, food, bathroom, and ceiling. Everything you have or would ever need is in this square niche. What already sounds like some depraved psychological experiment, about how quickly one can go insane, is complicated by the addition of another organism into your dormroom. Not just any organism, but another human being. Now instead of unethical, yet still scientific, psychologists performing the experiment, it’s two six year olds who want to see which will kill the other first. I sleep with a knife in my pants. A least, that what I have to tell him, otherwise the mornings would be really uncomfortable for the both of us. It is quite odd living with a stranger. I rarely speak to him, mostly I just observe him from my corner of the room, taking notes on his mannerisms in case I detect a change in behavior, so I can finish him off before he turns zombie. He comes and goes like the wind, and makes a point to move anything I left out. To anyone else it would be unnoticeable, but I KNOW HE TOUCHED MY THINGS!  Regardless, I barely know this person, although I am pretty sure that he is part ghost. Not all ghost of course. That would be ridiculous. My point is:

I was exorcised by my roommate.

Also some of his friends. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. However, before I can explain that, I need to cover some history.

I was born in the winter of ’93, it was a cold one, and I remember it well. While the snow gusted about in drifts outside my home, I was exploring this new world full of lights and sounds with these cool organs I didn’t even know I had before. I’ll call them eyes. The view got pretty boring quick though, because I wasn’t able to move my head. What a drag. I had to wait for the giants to come and move me so that I could look at something interesting again. Then I would scream, because colors are fucking scary. I mean seriously, there I was, enjoy a nice beige wall when BAM! A deluge of primary colors is spinning in front of my face and they look like they are going to HIT me, which will HURT. When I’m done screaming, I realize colors are awesome, and giggle while I poop myself. Those were the days. Unbeknownst to me; however, a demon had snuck it’s way into my soul, taking advantage of my blissful days of complex interactions with colors.

The demon stayed in my soul for years, lasting through elementary school, explaining middle school, and making me popular in high school. I never knew it existed, probably because I didn’t want to know. Losing it would be like losing a part of myself, not matter how horribly evil. I found out about its existence because of my dear old roommate. I would like to say it was from my roomie, but sadly he did not tell me himself. Probably because he got all choked up every time he tried. Or not. What he did do was tell all of his friends about my possession. I think they were all jealous. Needless to say, I eventually discovered his findings through the wiretap that I had, like all good roommates, placed on his phone. The news hit me like an empty pillowcase, and I promptly forgot about. Possibly due to massive head trauma. While the rumor kept coming back to me through my spy network, I never paid it much heed, that is, until the other night.

I needed to get into my room. Clothes lay in my drawer that I need to wear, because the clothes currently worn by my body, while the fit in a flattering fashion, did not meet the dress requirements of the even I wanted to attend. A pajama/star wars costume party. For some people, it’s the same thing. When I arrived at my door, I had to take pause. Incredibly loud Christian music thudded through the door of my dormroom, astoundingly drowning out the rumbling bassline of the incessant rap next door. As I pressed my ear to the door I heard my roommate, preaching loudly and with conviction, yelling to whom I could only assume were the members of his bible study. I considered entering when I heard him announce that he was going to speak in tongues, and that God should be so kind as to provide an interpreter. I hesitated to enter, lest they decide that I happened to be that interpreter. Not even having taken beginning tongues, I wisely waited in the hallway, watching the time tick away.

Twenty minutes later I got bored. So I decided to go into my room anyway, regardless of the odd, hoarse chanting emanating from it’s depths. Nothing could have prepared me for what I found. No, it wasn’t a pentagram with a hideous pelican monster inside, just a bunch of football players lying prostrate while my roommate touched all of them. Now I understand all the confusion with those Catholic priests. Come on kids, he only touched you there because he was praying. The sight of this froze me in my tracks. I decided to curl up in a ball, and hope that in the darkness they would fail to notice me.

Unsurprisingly, this plan worked. I bided my time in the fetal position until I saw one of the huge men stand up, and exit the room. I saw an opening in the ensuing confusion and made a dash for my clothes. I never made it. Before I could so much as snag a pair of Jar Jar underpants, the bible study surrounded me, my roommate at the head. He asked if he could pray for me. Being the polite gentleman I am, I agreed, dumbfounded, as I considered my predicament, cowering in the middle of a ring of people much larger than me. I peed a little. Or a lot. I can’t remember. They put their hands on me, and started to chant.

It started quietly, and then slowly built. At first it was all gibberish, because they never had found that interpreter. Luckily for me, they switched to English about ten minutes in. If my pants were not yet soiled, they sure as hell were now. There were praying to REMOVE A DEMON FROM MY SOUL. My thoughts flashed immediately back to all those rumors I had heard. Why hadn’t I taken them seriously?!? THERE WERE EVIL THINGS INSIDE ME. I freaked out for a good half an hour. My eyes might have rolled back into my head. But I know for a fact I only spun my head around one time. So not even a big deal. At the end there was this horrendous ripping noise, the power went out on the block, and a huge red velociraptor crawled out of my throat. Rather anticlimactic really.



No, no, this is my OLD roommate! I would never write about someone I am currently living with on the internet! Talk about unprofessional.

Sarcasm is Pie

Specifically, pumpkin pie. Or cheesecake. Man that stuff is good. Have you ever had it? Probably. You are after all on the computer, so presumably you are not so poor that you’ve never had pie. Seriously, if you are reading this you have no excuse whatsoever. Sell whatever it is you are reading on right now, and go buy pie. No, I don’t care if it isn’t yours. I don’t know why that would matter. Try not to be such a wuss. Regardless, this post is nowhere near sarcastic enough to equal pie, although I am trying. (Maybe that was sarcastic. You’ll never know. Also, I’m writing this in a Starbucks and I just realized I’ve been talking to myself for a good five minutes. At least I haven’t been responding… at least I think I haven’t. (I probably should stay on topic. (I’m really bad at that. (Did you know that I overuse parenthesis? (Probably, you’d have to be an idiot not to notice.))))) Whatever. Pie is awesome, and you should have some.

I am always the last person to catch up with current trends. (Have you heard about Crocs? Coolest. Shoes. Ever.) Thus it should come as no surprise to anyone that I tried Omegle for the first time the other night, at the prompting of one of my friends. (Surprising as it sounds I actually have those. Maybe. Like I said, you don’t know.) Apparently she thought I would be good at screwing with strangers over the internet. Turns out she was right. And seeing as that is the most interesting thing that I’ve done recently (Besides taking a taxi for the first time. Talk about frightening.) I thought I’d record my adventures. If you don’t want to read about that its ok because it’s not like I can stay on topic anyway.

My first impression is that Omegle has WAY less penises than I expected. I mean I only saw about 9 or 10. Needless to say, I was intrigued to no end as to WHY IN THE HELL you would want to masturbate for strangers. I mean they don’t even get paid for it. But let me back up a little bit, as I’ve just been informed that I am only third to last to follow cultural trends, and some people might not even know what Omegle is. Basically it is a website where you are connected to a strangers webcam and then you textchat while staring awkwardly at each other. It’s super great. Anyway, back to the man meat. Upon seeing my first internet penis I became determined to find out the rationale behind these actions. I became even more intrigued when I saw that these guys often seemed to have dedicated setups for this activity. Thus I relentlessly attempted to rope these guys into conversation; however, it was much more difficult than I expected. The biggest problem was that generally these guys would instantly skip me when they saw I was male. Luckily I look just homosexual enough that a few stopped but then skipped as soon as I started asking questions. I started to think that maybe these guys were insecure. (Nooooooo…) Eventually thought I found a naked man who actually seemed pretty eager to talk to me. I got the impression that he was proud of what he did. Unfortunately this was not done on my computer so I don’t have an exact copy of the conversation, but it went a little like this I believe:

Me: Mind if I ask you a few questions?

Stranger: Sure.

Stranger: Turn the camera, I want to see my whole audience.

Me: Uh huh. Anyway, I was wondering why you do this.

Stranger: Don’t you like to be hard?

Me: Not really, especially not for long periods of time.

Stranger: I do.

Me: Ok, but why here? You don’t get money or anything.

Stranger: No, no $. I just like to show off.

Me: Why do you need the approval of strangers on the internet?

Stranger: I don’t.

Me: Now you are lying to me.

Me: Did your parents not love you?


Me: You should have more confidence in yourself. Don’t worry, I believe in you! It doesn’t matter that your uncle touched you when you were a kid, you can still do great things. Just stop wasting your time and you can start to accomplish things!

Stranger: Want to see me cum?

I think I really got through to him.

At this point I was really tired of looking at naked guys, so I decided to move on. That’s when I found another interesting feature on Omegle. It came through a pop-up that asked if I wanted to be spied on. Obviously, I jumped at the chance. I found myself in a place where a stranger and I could discuss a question posed by a third person who would then watch the conversation, but be unable to contribute. The question I got was “Would you rather have anal sex with a rat or a pig?” We decided that a pig would be the best choice. I, because of size issues, and he, because he decided that pig flesh felt more like human. That conversation ended pretty quickly, but always ready to make conversation I asked this stranger why he was on Omegle that fine night. He told me that he was on there to get girls. I thought that was strange and completely impossible, so I asked how much success he had had with that. He said not well, but had gotten one girl to send him a naked picture, “she was ugly fat though”. It was at that moment I realized that our definitions of “getting a girl” were different. I had wondered how he would surmount the obstacle of distance, but I guess that doesn’t really matter when you are just trying to get girls to show their breasts. Nevertheless, I had a new mission, to try and get a girl on Omegle in the classic, non-pervert sense.

As it turns out there are a lot more girls on Omegle then I had expected. That was encouraging. I had thought that every one on Omegle would kind of look the same, basically a neutral gendered blob of fat. With glasses. Maybe a penis. I should have known not to stereotype but, it’s just so much fun! There were even some pretty girls on that website (one with her shirt off, I didn’t quite get that). What’s even more surprising than that was just how successful I was. It must have been my incredible charm and wit. (Or maybe it was the combination of most of the guys on there being pervs and the fact that people are generally less reserved on the internet. Nahhhhhh, I’m just awesome.) But in all honesty I got a good number of girls (more than 5) to actually have a prolonged and flirtatious conversation with me. Poor girls. I ended up talking about everything from Reptar to Skrillex (that was the same conversation actually) talking only to girls. I even managed to rope a girl in by simply asking if she thought it was possible to pick up girls on that site. My only regret was leading on a poor little gay boy because I thought he was a girl. Sorry man. Eventually I found myself talking to Emily, and we talked for a good three hours. It turns out I’m actually a romantic at heart. Who knew?


I guess that makes me one of those creepy guys who picks up girls on the internet. Hm.

PS The recommended links WordPress is offering to this post are rather disgusting. Grow up WordPress. Seriously.

A Quick Story

Sorry that the first post of the day is coming in so late. I’ve been traveling. I would have something to say about traveling, except as it turns out I rather enjoy it. So there’s not much to say. Except that on the way to my gate a pilot coming off the plane was telling his friend to grab him a beer and tequila. At 2:30 in the afternoon. Now I think I know why pilots are always falling asleep…

Today I have a story to share, about a shopping cart named Steven, the shopping cart.

Steven was born on a calm summer’s eve in a Target near LA. The first few years of his life were great, the Target was doing well, he was learning how to be used properly, there was not a squeak in his wheels. Life was good for young Steven, as he was being pushed around by a six-year-old next to his mother, “customer in training” flag soaring high. It was then he got the news. There had been an accident in the parking lot, a Toyota Camry had smashed into Steven’s father after he had been left there by an absent minded customer. He was killed on impact. The car only suffered minor scratches. The owner was nevertheless unwarrantedly pissed.

His mother didn’t cope well to her husband’s death. She did her best to provide for Steven on her own, but the stress was too much and she turned to drinking. Most nights she was too drunk to even recognize Steven. Steven, without a father figure, was left alone most of the day. He had a penchant for being left outside, as his father’s death had left him with no concern for his own safety.

One of these days Steven found himself stolen, by a homeless man. Never to see his mother or Target again, Steven was on the streets. The homeless man did not treat him well, violently shoving things into Steven, with no regard for his well-being. By the end of their time, Steven was no longer shining, and his frame was bent hopelessly out of shape, but he still rolled and before long he had developed a horrible case of Stockholm’s Syndrome. Steven loved his homeless man, and homeless man used Steven. While their days may have been happy, they were not healthy. It was the homeless man who introduced Steven to heroine, an addiction he would never overcome.

The homeless man died, eventually. He was shanked due to a conflict over the ownership of certain tinfoil hat. Watching his man bleed out on the ground was not good for Steven. He started doing even more heroine, and spent the rest of his money on prostitutes. His life had no meaning, no purpose. He hit the drugs harder and harder, until he finally keeled over in a puddle, dead, next to Starbucks. But we will always remember the tale of Steven the shopping cart, for it’s a tale we can all relate too. Especially those of us who are shopping carts.



Inanimate object lover = objectophilia