Get Down with the Sickness

I've been sick for a week and a half, so I finally decided to see my doctor. Earlier this week I missed some of my classes and work because I was too sick to get out of bed. Later this week, when I was feeling a little better, I went back to my usual routine. People could see that I wasn't exactly well, so they asked me what was wrong. Not being a doctor, I just told them "I am sick." Most people took a look at me and said, "No, you probably just have allergies." When I tried to convince them other wise, they'd just say, "It's the change and the weather and allergies that are getting to you."

I want to shoot those people.

I do NOT have fucking allergies. Allergies do give you red eyes and a runny nose, but just because that's all you see when I'm well enough to leave my room does not mean those are the only symptoms I have. Do allergies give you sinus headaches that feel like spikes are being driven into your head through your eyes? Do allergies give you a scratchy, swollen throat that has inexplicable white patches on it? Do allergies make you so tired that you sleep twelve hours a day? Do allergies make you so weak that you can barely get out of bed some mornings? Do fucking allergies make you hack up disgusting chunks of a phlegm-snot hybrid that clogs your throat and makes your eyes red and watery and your nose run so that people think you have allergies and you want to punch them in the face when they condescendingly underestimate your illness and smirk at your at your "need" to miss work and school "just because you're under the weather" . . . .

Oh man, maybe I need to see a psychiatrist, too.

Limbo

Yesterday was my 20th Birthday. Guess what I got. Disease! I got to spend the entire day in bed yesterday because I was sick.

But despite being sick, I did have a pretty good birtday. My friends bought me a ton of food (because I always mooch food off of them), my grandparents sent my some money, and my friend Mel made me a blanket.

I also received two e-mails from my father, my biological father. I haven't seen or heard from him in four years (which, granted, is not entirely his fault) and then on my twentieth birthday I get two rambling e-mails saying that he loves me and hopes that I know Jesus loves me too. How does a guy respond to something like that? "Thanks for the birthday wishes, Dad. Oh, and don't worry, Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so." I guess four years ago, I expected the next time I would talk to my dad was when I was a hot-shot, twenty-something, successful career man. Then I could rub it in his face and say, "I did this all on my own. I did this, with no help from you." I'd like to think that I've matured in the past four years, but I'm pretty sure I haven't.

But now, I'm not a teenager anymore. I'm twenty years old. I'm one year shy of being a full-fledged adult, but I'm no longer a wonton, carefree youth. What am I? I'm 20! I'm in a year of limbo. I'm in a year of waiting for the next stage of my life. I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm . . . . Oh, who am I kidding? I'm still just a kid!

Queen of Hearts

My hand is complete now. On the way back from the library -- not studying, mind you, because it's a Saturday and I'm not that loserish -- I found yet another card. This time the Huckster left me a Queen of Hearts. That completes my hand. Now I've got a Three of Diamonds, a Three of Spades, an Eight of Diamonds, and Eight of Clubs, and a Queen of Hearts: two pair.

I assume that it's my bet, seeing as the Huckster dealt. Although I have no idea what I'm betting, I'll put it all in. The whole pile. This poker game is all or nothing. I just hope the Huckster doesn't have a Royal Flush.

Eight of Diamonds

It happened again yesterday. I was on my way back from work. It was a nice sunny day out, our first here in Northwest Missouri; I decided to take the long way back to my room, across my hall's commons area. On the newly greened grass, laying face-down, was yet another playing card.

That's four now. Now it's creepy -- believing that this might not just be coincidence -- because whoever or whatever is leaving these cards for me knew that I would take the long way home to find this card. He knows my thoughts; he knows my actions before I even decide to do them.

Who is this person, this card dropper? A mysterious huckster of a card player? If the game is poker, I've got one more card coming to complete my hand. So far, I've got two pairs.

"Your feet aren't that ugly."

I painted my toe-nails tonight. They are alternating light and dark green in honor of St. Patrick's Day. I guess some guys would find such a venture extremely emasculating. I don't see why; I've painted my nails before, and my penis didn't shrink up into my pelvis and turn into a vagina. Anyway, I've found that painting my nails is fun. But this is coming from a guy who likes to wear bracelets and necklaces.

Aside: The best compliment I've gotten in a while came from, Shalyn, a neighbor girl when she said, "Your feet aren't that ugly. You know, for a boy." I've always thought I had very nice feet.

Treatise on the Mosh Pit

Over the weekend, I went to a rock concert at the Beaumont Club in Kansas City. TrustCO. played, as well as Pacifier and Fingertight. It was a pretty good show, but the pit was horrible. I've been to quite a few concerts at many different venues and have seen many different kinds of mosh pits. I've seen good pits and bad pits. In order to make every pit a "good pit" I think there are some things that every mosher should know and understand before entering a pit.

What makes a pit good: Many people jumping around and pushing off each other with no malicious intent towards anyone else in the pit.

What makes a pit bad: Many people shoving and punching and ramming each other with intent to hurt someone else.

People that make a pit bad:
Meatheads: If your biceps are bigger than your head, you can bench-press more than a quarter of a ton, and have more testosterone than common sense, you are a meathead. The pit is not a game of King of the Hill. The object is not to push everyone out of the pit and be the only one in the center. In fact, the only object of a mosh pit is to stay on your feet and keep moving.
Youngins: Not to put an age limit on it, but if you haven't hit puberty yet, you are a youngin'. Nobody wants to knock you down and crack your skull, but if you enter the pit, they will.
Angry Pricks: If you have problems with aggression and exhibit homicidal tendencies, you are an angry prick. The pit is a good place to release tension by expending a lot of energy. The pit is not a good place to release aggression by punching and wrestling people. If you throw a punch with the intent of connecting with someone's body and hurting them, you are doing something wrong. And don't get angry when someone in the pit hits you. Most likely it was and accident, and if you didn't want to get hit, you should have stayed out of the pit.
Girlfriends: I think this group is self-explanatory. But this is not to say that no girl should go into the pit -- there are some pretty tough broads out there -- but no girl should be drug into a pit without her consent. If you're pulling your girlfriend into a pit, first ask her whether or not she minds being stepped on, slammed in the back, and elbowed in the head, because these will most likely happen. Don't get angry when they do (see Angry Pricks).

Things to consider before entering a pit:

• If you carry anything into the pit, you will most likely lose it.
• If your glasses come of or if you lose your contacts, you will never see them again.
• Collars and bracelets with spiked studs in them can and will hurt you and everyone else in the pit.
• Your shoes should be tied as tight as possible
• Your clothes will be wet with sweat, water, spit, and possibly (but hopefully not) blood. Dress accordingly.
• You're only goal should be to have fun in the pit.

Things to consider while in a pit:

• No one in the pit means to intentionally hurt you; retaliation isn't necessary.
• Tying your shoes even between songs can be dangerous.
• If you feel faint, exhausted, tired, too squished, or weak, get out of the pit as quickly as possible. If you can't move by yourself, the people around you will be more than willing to help you. Nothing is worse than a show stopping to evacuate an unconscious fan.

Mosh pit etiquette:

• If someone falls down, help them up.
• If you find a shoe or any other article of clothing, hold it in the air.
• If someone is injured, help block them from further injury.
• If someone on the edge of the pit does not want to go in, do not push them.

Overall, everyone should be enjoying themselves in a mosh pit. If you have any other agenda, you do not belong in the pit. This cannot be stated enough: The purpose of a pit is not to intentionally harm anyone else. Although mosh pits can be dangerous (we've all heard the horror stories), if everyone looks out for each other, everyone should have a good time beating the crap out of each other. By the end of the concert you should walk away with a smile on your face (and maybe a bruise or two).

Wrong Kind of Bastard

Ju-- is a sonovabitch, yet I still admire the bastard. Despite his ass-hole-ishness, he still gets all the girls. His ex-girlfriend is still in love with him, one of our old friends Ki-- just told him that she's liked him for a long time, and now he's got a new chick from out of the blue that hangs on him all the time. That's three at one time. I'd be doing good to have one chick even mildly interested in me.

He attributes his popularity with the ladies to be because of his bastardry; he has no other explanation for it. "The more of a prick you are to them," he says, "the more interested they are in you." I would have never guessed it to be true, but to see Ju-- "in action" you can't deny that girls like pricks and nice guys finish last.

Not that I'm a "nice guy"; I'm far from it. I'm Mr. Cynical McBastard, after all. But sometimes I wish I was Mr. Charming McBastard instead.

Head of State

When will this trend of movies featuring a saucey black man thrust into the "white man's world" come to an end? Enough with Chris Rock already.

New Music

I'm getting tired of all my music. I need some new tunes to fill my mp3 player and stick in my head all day. If there is anyone actually reading this, please leave me some suggestions on songs and/or bands to download. (Did you think I'd actually pay money to listen to your crappy music?)

In Bed

It's hard to get out of bed. Not because I have to get up and do something I don't want to do, but because I know there is nothing I have to do for a week and getting out of my bed would just be a waste of some good sleepy nap-time.

Slow Week

This has been such a slow week. But just two more classes and then it's Spring Break! It is a much needed break: I'm getting aggrivated with my roommates and annoyed with my friends and neighbors. Rampant illness, midterm exams and papers, cabin fever, and the looming presence of Spring Break has made everybody (including me) very irratable over the past couple weeks.

Bar Room Fun

I got up too, but then I fell down. I guess I stepped on a damn beer bottle; anyway, down I went. I fell right in about a hundred bottles, and Johnny he reached down meaning to help me and he fell too and there we were, rolling around in the bottles. At first I wanted to cuss, but then we both got tickled; it was kind of fun to lay there knocking empty bottles over, and we just sort of rolled and laughed and knocked the bottles every which way till I happened to notice we wasn't inside no more. It was colder and there wasn't anyh bottles and we were laying behind somebody's damn automobile.

"Hell, they threw us out," I said. "Did they throw you out too?"

He was up on his hands and knees laughing like mad. "Hell yes, can't you see me? They threw us both out."

"Want to go attack them?" I said. "Get back into the bottles?"

"Naw. Let's find the whorehouse."

--excerpt from Leaving Cheyenne by Larry McMurtry

Eyes

For the record, Fr--'s eyes are even more beautiful when I'm sober.

Sin and Debauchery

Here are some highlights from Saturday night's Marti Gras party (I can only give you the highlights because, frankly, I can't quite remember parts of the night. But what I can remember was sure as hell fun!):

• A girl steals my hat. All my polite attempts to retrieve it are in vain.
• I find myself outside of the party trying to convince a nice young lady to expose her breasts to me. In an attempt to seem fair and diplomatic, I moon her. Unfortunately, the incident is captured by a nearby video camera.
• I meet Fr-- for the second time. She has the most beautiful eyes. I'm sure they're even more beautiful when I'm sober.
• I find Hat Girl still has my hat and refuses to reliquish it. I offer to make out with her for ten minutes if she'll give me my hat back. No compromise is made.
• I see Cutfoot again. I attempt to strike up conversation, but she just smiles up at me with her cute little smile and says nary a word. I shrug it off and go get another Keystone.
• Hat Girl changes her mind and decides she will follow through with my proposed deal. We make out on a bench for ten minutes. I get my hat back.
• Some rogues try stealing something from the fraternity and some of my brothers follow them outside to stop them. A fight breaks out and the police are called. The party is quickly cancelled, and I return home somewhat angry, but overall pleased with the night's events.

Mike Seaver

I'm wearing my Mike Seaver shirt today. It's a tee-shirt with a picture of Kirk Cameron on it with a sparkly background. It has a pink collar and pink rings around the sleeves.

Yes, I realize there is a picture of an eighties TV hearthrob, and yes, I know there is pink on the shirt. Do you have a problem with it, because I don't.

You wouldn't believe the amount of flak I get for wearing this shirt, and not just from guys; most of it comes girls. Most guys just think it's "funny," "cool," or "awesome." It's the girls from whom I get sideways glares and not-so-subtle chuckles.

I'm not offended that people think what I'm wearing is strange. If I was I wouldn't wear it. I'm just confused as to why women give me so much guff over it.

Personally, I think they're offended that a guy is wearing something that is obviously meant to be worn by a girl. It's like I'm invading their territory.

For too long women have been androgenizing men's clothing. They've taking to wearing pants, tee-shirts, baseball caps, etc. I guess they never thought that a guy could or would want to start wearing "feminine" colors or clothes.

Well, I'm taking back all the ground that guys have lost in the battle of appropriate clothing. Break out your skirts and blouses, men, we're going in! We're going to fight, and we're not going to stop until we can wear high heals and hot pink if we want to. You had better be prepared, women, because here we come!

Well, maybe not. But, bitches, step off me when I'm wearing my Mike Seaver shirt.

Cutfoot

From now on -- and without an explanation -- she'll be refered to as "Cutfoot." All that needs explaning is that I like her (whatever that means) and that I'm pretty sure she doesn't like me. On with the story:

Sunday night (early Monday morning) I couldn't go to sleep because I was thinking about Cutfoot. This is nothing new, but it is odd because I haven't really thought of (pined for, rather) her in a month or so. Well, the next day at dinner I saw her in the cafeteria. (Keep in mind that she lives across campus in a dorm with its own cafeteria.) Me being me, I didn't say anything to her. So I guess it's not just coincidence when I saw her again later that day in the library. Thinking that maybe this was a sign from God to talk to her, I approached Cutfoot and struck up a conversation.

Maybe I suck at making pleasant conversation, maybe she really wanted to get back to studying, or maybe Cutfoot just really hates me, but that was one of the most painful conversations I've ever had. She basically looked off into space while I talked, and when I asked her questions she would give me the briefest of answers. Trust me, it was gruesome (even for a conversation between me and an attractive girl, which usually end with forced smiles and rolling eyes).

Despite all this, after I gave Cutfoot a hasty "good-bye" and walked away, I felt free. I don't have to worry about impressing her anymore. Cutfoot has absolutely no interest in me, and knowing this for sure makes it so much easier to just walk away. No more thinking about her late into the night. No more wondering what she'd say if I said this. No more pining and wishing and hoping. No more.

Three of Spades

It was the Three of Spades this time: Today when I was leaving my Writing About Literature class. It was laying face-down, and I picked it up on my way out of the class.

The second time had been similar. It was several days ago, maybe Wednesday or Thursday. At lunch I had gotten up to get a drink and on my return trip back to the table I almost stepped on a playing card. I picked it up, the Three of Diamonds. I gave it to my roommate and thought nothing more of it.

The first time was about a month ago. It was the Eight of Clubs then, sticking part of the way out of the snow on my way to work. I thought it was odd, so I wrote it down and dated it. Friday, January 24th.

It was a month ago today. What does that mean? It has to mean something; three times in such a short period of time can't just be a coincidence. It's as if I'm solving a murder mystery and the killer is leaving me clues. But no one has been killed, and the only mystery is what goofy klutz is walking around dropping playing cards everywhere?

Giggle-Fuck

If you're going to whisper-and-giggle-fuck, don't do it in public. I'm alright with people kissing and holding hands in public. But I can only handle your lovey-dovey affection crap for so long before I want to punch you straight in the face.

Interpreting a Poem

Iterpretation [of a poem] is not the art of construing but the art of constructing. Interpreters do not decode poems; they make them.

--Stanley Fish, "How to Recognize a Poem When You See One," Falling into Theory: Conflicting Views on Reading Literature

New Saying

Bob's Pitiful Attempt to Create a Popular New Saying