The World Is Out To Get Me

A post? On a Thursday night? What. Makes no sense. None. It seems that I am trying to augment my standard fare of lengthy with shorter more bloggy lies to fill the space in between. No clever header pictures for these, it’d ruin everything. Now for a story that is completely true.

I attempted to order coffee from the school’s coffee shop. Yes. Read that again. Look upon my shame. Not only did I have the gall to order coffee from a coffee shop, I asked for it hot. Understandably the barista gave me such a dirty look that I left tracks on my way out. It was well deserved. She patiently explained to me that, “something something can’t serve hot drinks something against policy something.” She mumbled and I was too embarrassed by my audacity to ask her to repeat. Also my fight or flight response had been activated and my brian was on lockdown. My atrocities committed, I hung my head and trudged off to the library.

When I got there I was compelled by the ghost of the first Ronald McDonald to share this story with my friend. Her quizzical look destroyed my self-esteem while communicating that my story was strange. She informed me that the coffee shop did indeed serve hot coffee, and to prove it, she went and got me hot coffee. I actually have hot coffee right now from the coffee shop. It’s the little things.

Reason #1 why the world is out to get me


But I have such a friendly face!


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


Lives are terrible stories

And now for your daily dose of whimsical cynicism. Or cynical whimsy. Really, I will let you pick. Anyway, what’s on my mind today is the fact that people’s lives make for terrible stories. You could have guessed that from the title of this post I’m sure. My, am I redundant. At this point you are probably asking yourself “what is this guy’s problem?” Well I’ll tell you. My problem is that lives are terrible stories. As I’ve said. For the third time. Why this is such a personal issue for me, I don’t know. In fact it doesn’t matter. Shit, would you stop pestering me with your relentless questions!!!! I refuse to give reason.

Ok, so people’s lives are generally boring. Do you realize how much of life is spent sleeping, eating, masturbating, driving, checking Facebook, blogging, therapy, complaining, checking email, working, filling out paperwork, pretending to like salad… That’s life for you. Most of it anyway. I don’t think any of those things would make for a good story, do you? No, you don’t. Because would be stupid.

People’s lives have way too much “falling action” and it doesn’t resolve until they die a lonely death. That makes an awful story! Unless the climax of someone’s life happens around 85, that is a very improper story. The climax is supposed to happen near the end! Doesn’t anyone know how to tell a story? The climax is not finally perfecting your golf game right before you succumb to arthritis. Life is boring, especially after retirement. No one wants to hear about your all prune diet. Seriously.

Also, you know what stories have? Climaxes. You know what lives don’t have? Climaxes. Well, they kind of have those, but in a different way that what I’m talking about you dirty pervert. I think this is a good thing thought because if your life had a climax then it would have been based on one single event. That kinda makes the rest of your life pretty terrible, doesn’t it. James Bond, the later years. Just a creeper in a nursing home. Picking on the nurses. Remind me never to hang out with old James Bond.

So, really stories about people’s lives are stupid. Because they have to censor so much stuff its not really their life anymore. So don’t watch those movies. No matter how awesome they look. I guess what I’m trying to say is that people are lame. And no one likes them.


Shrimp cocktails are disgusting. And you know it.