God Hates Fags

This makes my heart scowl. But this makes my heart giggle.

something

Sometimes i dont want o be me ,and sometimes i want to be normal, but i wonder if norml is better than an emotionless, drunken bastard. At least i've got character.

Easy 'A'

I found a picture from my senior year of high school, taken during my "independent study" in Mrs. Meneely's art class. This picture is of us trying to look like we're actually doing something, but I'm pretty sure we're not. Basically, Brian (left), Justin (back turned) and I just jacked off the entire hour, completing approximately 5 crappy projects each over the course of an entire school year. Ah, the good ol' days!

Flowers

| Superhero | Part 3 |

The delivery man knocked on the door and looked down at the slip of paper to confirm the address. Yup, Room 425. As he waited for an answer, he eyed the two policemen standing one door down, at 423. They knocked on the door and it opened within seconds. "Ma'am, we're here about a noise complaint," said the taller officer.

"Thank god you're here, officers," said the old woman from inside 423. "It's the man next door. He was screaming and making such a ruckus.

"Thank you, we'll check it out," the shorter officer assured her. "Please, stay in your apartment, ma'am." The old woman kept her head poked out of her doorway while the two officers turned towards the delivery man. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, the delivery man looked away and knocked on 425's door again.

The two policemen approached and the taller one said, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm just delivering these flowers for a...," he looked at the slip again, "...a Brandon Collins." He offered his slip from the flower shop as proof.

The shorter officer gave it a cursory inspection and then handed it back. "Please, stand aside."

The taller officer pounded on the door and shouted, "Mr. Collins, this is the police. We've had a report of screams coming from your apartment. Please, open the door." There was no response.

The delivery guy asked the shorter cop somewhat excited, "Is this dude in trouble?"

"Please, stand back sir."

"Mr. Collins, this is the police. If you do not let us in, we will be forced to enter your apartment."

Smiling at the prospect of some excitement in his otherwise boring day, the delivery man said, "Sweet, this is going to be awesome!"

The old woman from 423 piped up, "Officers, I think he might be hurt, he was screaming bloody murder."

The door from 428 opened and a balding man with a mustache stepped out into the hall and inquired, "'Ey, what's goin' on out here?"

The delivery man turned and said with enthusiasm, "The cops are gonna break down this dude's door!"

The shorter officer, annoyed at the growing audience, spoke, "Everyone stay inside your apartments." Turning to the flower delivery man, he said, "I'm going to need you to take a few steps back." As if he hadn't spoken at all, no one moved.

"Mr. Collins, this is your last warning. If you do not open the door in five seconds, I will be forced to kick it in!"

"What'd this guy do?" asked the mustachioed man.

"Fuck if I know," replied the delivery man.

"Mr. Collins, we're entering your apartment now." The taller officer tried the door. It was locked. He took a step back and kicked in the door. He looked back at his partner and said, "I'll look around, you take care of these guys." His partner nodded. The taller officer removed unbuttoned his holster, placed his hand on the handle, and cautiously walked through the door.

The delivery man tried to look over the shorter officer's shoulder into the apartment, "Do you think he's still in there?" The shorter officer didn't say a word, but listened for his partner.

Ten seconds later he heard a gasp. "Holy shit!"

"How's it going in there?" the shorter officer said over his shoulder.

"Carl, keep everyone out. I'll call an ambulance. My God, there's so much blood!"

Pictures of Shorelines

If you insist on pictures of shorelines
then I insist on pages of your lines
meant for me,
to be sent to me.
Remember watching the storms from the lifeguard stand.
Remember feeling the tingling in my fingertips
when I touched your lips.
And I recall how you sat on the same side of me,
it always seemed that you'd always be on my side.
You're my best side.

And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and you have got the boldest eyes,
and I can't help but think it's right,
that inside you it's me I'm finding.
And I'm still waiting.
And it's early June, so the sand's still dry,
and the storm off shore is not far behind.
And I'm still waiting.

And sometimes you don't say a thing for a long while.
And the ships off shore hold stories that we'd make.
And sometimes we are held at bay by these miles.
But less of you is more than I can take.

And the moments that we've shared could last a lifetime.
And the faith I have in us will keep you near.
And several of these miles placed in between us
mean several of these words being sent by mail.
I hope this letter finds you well.

--Further Seems Forever

Regret Later

I'll have later in life to regret not regretting right now.

Gospel of Thomas

I ran across The Gospel of Thomas the other day. And here's a little info. on what it actually is. It's a pretty interesting / confusing read, but here are my favorite verses:

28 Jesus said, "I took my stand in the midst of the world, and in flesh I appeared to them. I found them all drunk, and I did not find any of them thirsty. My soul ached for the children of humanity, because they are blind in their hearts and do not see, for they came into the world empty, and they also seek to depart from the world empty.

But meanwhile they are drunk. When they shake off their wine, then they will change their ways."

113 His disciples said to him, "When will the kingdom come?"

"It will not come by watching for it. It will not be said, 'Look, here!' or 'Look, there!' Rather, the Father's kingdom is spread out upon the earth, and people don't see it."

Visual Aid

I finally scanned my favorite picture of Stellar. She's the one getting kissed by Sean, sticking her tongue out. I'm in the background looking like a tool.

Force 52

My friend Luke is starting a web comic. Check it out . . .

. . . OR ELSE!

Run While You Still Can

Mr. McBastard: I never thought that I'd be excited about office supplies.

Marie: He's turning into us, Joyce.

Joyce: You're too young!

Taste in Friends

I have good taste in friends. But my friends obviously don't have good taste in friends, because they're friends with me.

I Hate Stairs

I haven't lifted weights (or done any physically taxing activity, for that matter) for about two years.

For the past two days after work, Pfaff and I have been going to the Rec Center. I did squats the first day. My legs were a little sore the next day. Yesterday I did dead lifts. Today my legs are indeed dead. I can't run, it hurts to sit down / stand up, and it takes me about half-an-hour to walk down a flight of stairs.

The rest of me is sore, but my legs are fucking killing me.

Crappy Photos of Paradise (and Asses)

I made a slideshow of pictures from my awesome trip to Florida. It only has about a fourth of the pictures taken. Check back in a week or so, and I should have all the rest up and ready to gaze upon in wonder (at why there are only two pictures of the beach and the rest of us putting our asses on each other in the hotel room).

Bloodletting

| Superhero | Part 2 |

The phone rang. Brandon lay stretched out on his bed. His entire body was swollen. His skin was flushed, bright red. He was so uncomfortably hot that he lay naked on top of the sheets.

The phone rang. It had been a week since he had been to the doctor, two weeks since his first visit. After a week of still pissing blood, he had gone back to get a different perscription. This one wasn't working either.

The phone rang. He did not have a urinary tract infection. He didn't know what he had, but he knew that something much worse was wrong with his body. He woke up every morning with blood stains on his pillow. And a few days ago he had started to shit blood. Just blood. He hadn't been eating much; he didn't have the energy. His muscles ached. His joints were stiff. His whole body was puffy and burning. Even his penis was erect and swollen, even though sex was the furthest thing from his mind. His head throbbed.

The phone rang. He had had a headache for a week and a half. His head pounded. Brandon felt like his brain was going to crack through his skull and leak out onto his bed. Every miniscule movement he made, every tilt of the head, made him feel like his head was being bludgeoned, and tears would well up in his eyes. He wished the pounding would stop, or that he would die.

The phone rang. The answering machine picked it up. A voice flooded into his apartment.

"Hey, Brandon, Bran-done! It's Tom. Where ya been, man? You've missed almost two weeks of work. Everybody's asking about you. Are you still down and out with that UTI bullshit? C'mon, man, who are you trying to fool? Anyway, the boss said that he's been trying to get ahold of you, but you haven't been returning his calls. You need to call him back, man. I think he's getting pissed." With much effort, Brandon lifted himself up and sat at the edge of his bed. He panted and moaned. A sledgehammer firmly tapped his head like a metronome.

"You missed a hell of a time at the bars last weekend! We saw Kelly out at Swashbucklers. She was looking as skanky as ever. Oh, and Lindsey, Lindsey from Payroll, she was out that night, too. I hope you don't mind, but I gave her your address. I think she's going to send you flowers or some shit. Man, as soon as you are feeling even a little bit better, I would not hesitate to call her up and tap that shit! She wants your rod, man. Anyway, call me sometime and let me know what's going on. See ya."

Brandon slowly made his way to the bathroom. Every step was a train wreck in his head. He stepped through the doorway and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. They were almost completely red. And tears of blood trickled down his rosy cheeks.

Brandon looked at his face. The pain had to stop. It was puffy and red, as if the blood was just sloshing beneath the surface, searching for a leak to spring forth from. The pain had to stop. Brandon wanted to let it out. The pain had to stop. He opened the medicine cabinet and searched for something sharp. The pain had to stop. His eyes fell on a small pair of cuticle scissors.

The pain had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to. It had to stop. The pain had to stop. The pain would not stop.

With all the skill of a drunken surgeon, Brandon plunged the scissors into his temple. He screamed and closed his eyes. He forced the scissors shut, making a half-inch incision in the skin. Brandon dropped the scissors and fell to his knees. He screamed again, and vomited. Blood.

Blood flooded down the side of his head. It came in waves matching his heartbeat and coated his right shoulder.

The pain that was in his head, the pain that was his head did not go away.

Brandon picked up the blood-covered scissors and made a mirror-image incision, accompanied by more screams. He wearily stood up. In the mirror it looked like he was wearing a vest of blood. He calmly stood gazing at himself, at his wounds. The cuts on either side of his head bubbled like geysers with every beat of his heart. They showed no signs of stopping. As he looked, he noticed that his face was becoming less swollen.

Maybe I just have too much blood. His grip on the scissors tightened.

Screaming, he cut himself down each wrist and watched the blood spring out in small, unicolor rainbows. Screaming, he watched the blood spread down his legs and run between his toes. Soon his screaming turned into a sickening, pain-wracked laughter.

Suddenly he noticed that the pain in his head was gone. He looked in the mirror and blinked. There was nothing. His mind was empty. His head was numb. He smiled. And then he wretched at the sight of himself, covered almost completely in his own blood. He looked like something from a horror movie. He threw up in the sink. Blood.

Brandon looked around his bathroom. Almost every inch of his white tile floor was now red. How can one person bleed this much? His wounds showed no sign of stopping. Brandon felt the numbness in his head turn into a faintness. He finally began to panic.

Text Message from Stellar

I took more i tried. I'm not with him when when go home now.

12:53A Sun Jun05

Nerd's Eye View

I'm trying something (not quit) new (or original).

Pissing Blood

| Superhero | Part 1 |

Brandon stepped up to the urinal, unzipped his pants, and gently tugged his penis out of his underwear. He looked up at the ceiling and sighed as he felt urine coursing through his urethra.

As the flow decreased, he looked down into the urinal, only to notice his piss was oddly colored, swirling down the drain like pink lemonade. "What the fuck?" he mumbled. The man several urinals down gave him a curious sideways glance. Brandon's stream wound down and got darker, until a few drops of blood trickled from his penis. "Shit," said a little louder. The other man zipped up and quickly shuffled out of the restroom.

"There's blood in my urine," he said in hushed tones over the phone. He stood up and looked over the walls of his cubicle. His doctor asked him if he felt any pain, any discomfort or stinging when it happened. "No. Is that a good sign?" His doctor reassured him and told him to come in the following morning. Brandon gently set the phone in its cradle and sat back in his office chair. It was a bit hard for him to concentrate the rest of the day.

Brandon impatiently sat in the waiting room at his doctor's office. He looked up as the receptionist came into the room. She looked over at him, then at a mother and small boy in the opposite corner. "Conner, Dr. Tyler is ready to see you now." The mother stood up with her son and led him into the back. As she was leaving, the receptionist said to Brandon, "It will only be a minute, and Dr. Tyler will be with you." Brandon nodded OK but thought to himself, This kid better have fucking stigmata and not the sniffles; I'm fucking bleeding internally here. He was sweating and wiped his forehead with his palm. When he removed his hand it was a bit pink.

"So, Brandon, how have you been?" Dr. Taylor idly chatted as he took Brandon's pulse.

"I've been pissing blood. How do you think I've been?"

"And you said there was no pain or discomfort?" the doctor continued.

"No. It just feels like regular pee," he explained.

Dr. Taylor stopped and look Brandon in the eye as if this was significant, but only replied, "Hmm," before opening Brandon's file.

Like an uncomfortable first date the two sat in silence. The doctor read Brandon's medical history, and Brandon waited anxiously for the doctor to say something, anything. Finally, Dr. Taylor stood up and walked to the door. As he was about to step out he turned to Brandon and, almost as an afterthought, said, "It's probably just a urinary tract infection, Brandon. We'll take a urine sample and draw some blood, just in case. More than likely some amoxicillin will clear that right up in a couple of days. The nurse will be right with you."

Brandon took the rest of the day off work. He ate some cereal, drank some cranberry juice, watched cartoons, and pissed more blood.

Brandon awoke early the next morning, coughing. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut. He felt them with his fingers and found a thin layer encrusting them closed. He scraped at them frantically, until he could see. Through a haze of confusion and discomfort, Brandon stumbled to the bathroom, wheezing and choking. At the sink, he coughed up a throat-full of phlegm. It was dark red, almost black. He looked in the mirror and saw his eyes ringed in dried blood.

Some Quiz

Your Dominant Intelligence is Linguistic Intelligence

You are excellent with words and language. You explain yourself well. An elegant speaker, you can converse well with anyone on the fly. You are also good at remembering information and convicing someone of your point of view. A master of creative phrasing and unique words, you enjoy expanding your vocabulary. You would make a fantastic poet, journalist, writer, teacher, lawyer, politician, or translator.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

At Work

Sometimes I get bored at work -- my cushy sinecure at the Language & Literature Division Office on campus -- because usually by the time my bosses go to lunch I've finished all of the mini-projects that they had planned for me that day. So, after lunch I mull around the office looking for something to organize or label.

Is it weird that I'm waiting for the day when my bosses tell me to reorganize the files in the back room? I've already done it once before, last summer, and it was a long and dull task, but it kept me busy for a week. And this past winter break I organized the supply closet, but I really wouldn't mind doing that again. Anything to keep me from sitting at a desk, staring at the wall.

Or maybe I should just take longer on the tasks that my bosses give to me. They're always amazed at the speed at which I complete them. The next time they ask me to type something up, it should take me all day.

There was really not point to any of this. It was just something to do to pass the time. This is going to be a long summer.

Nic-O-Bob Nuffins

Thank you. I hope you know that you mean so much more to me than I ever would mention. It is because you don't shake reluctant words and unfamiliar emotions out of my mouth like some others do (;P) that I've never said so. We've always had an unspoken bond. Thank you for being silent with me.

Thank you for missing me when I wasn't around and being annoyed when I was. Thank you for being easy to make fun of and hard to offend. Thank you for laughing at my lame jokes and shaking your head at my good ones. Thank you for being right in front of my face, and thank you for standing in the background. Thank you for playing second fiddle, and thank you for singing lead vocals. Thank you.

Abandoned

As if having most of my friends leave me in Kirksville wasn't bad enough, even my cat abandoned me. When I got back from Florida he apparently ran away. It's been four days since I've been back, and I haven't seen him yet.

I guess this whole experience has taught me something, though. Sometimes people (and cats) slip in and out of your life. Without warning they are here, then gone. You can't take anyone for granted, because tomorrow they might not be around. It's too bad I didn't learn this lesson before everyone left me.

Recap

This is what has happened in the past two weeks:

Finals. They weren't too bad this semester. That's about all there is to say about that.

All my friends graduated. Well, not all of them, but all of my friends from freshman year. Stellar, Nico, Jaysix, Pfaff, and Sammy are gone. Sometimes I was mad that they were leaving me. Sometimes I was jealous that they are starting the rest of their lives. Sometimes I was sad that they wouldn't be around anymore. I am so selfish.

I went to a bandfest with Magster, Steve D, BJ, and some of BJ's friends. The ride down was a little sad (I had just said 'goodbye' to Stellar), but stoned Magster put a smile on my face that lasted the entire weekend. I especially liked her licking ranch dressing off my face and 'dancing' with her to Breaking Benjamin. It was a very Maggie trip. I hope I never get tired of that girl.

Promptly after I got back from the bandfest, I packed up for a roadtrip with my roommates from freshman year (Jaysix, Pfaff, and Sammy). We went to Florida. Mother fucking Panama City Beach, Florida. It rocked. My favorite part was getting high with Jaysix and then playing in the waves. The pictures from the trip are soon to come.

Well, now I'm back, tanned, and missing my old friends. Luckily, quite a few of my fraternity brothers are taking some classes this summer, so this summer I won't be totally lonely.

Well, that's Half of May in Review. I'll probably be updating pretty regularly this summer since I'll have nothing better to do. Seeya later, folks!

Promise

Yet another day seems like it’s wasted
You don’t feel you’re any closer to the prize
A dead end job where there’s no future
Praying that tomorrow things won’t be this way
Things will get better this I promise you
And I know that you won’t feel this way forever
Things will get better this I promise you
And I know loneliness won’t last forever
Yet another day, another tired morning
You’re catching up to your intentions
You’re thinking life has to be easier than this
Maybe tomorrow things won’t be this way
Loneliness won’t last forever
I promise with all that’s in me to leave this emptiness behind

--Spoken

Another Meme

[taken from Stellar, who took it from someone else, who took it from someone else...]

Name six things in your purse/wallet
* Various useless receipts
* $28
* Hastings gift card
* Concervation Employee's Credit Union membership card
* My crappy new Drivers Liscence that is not nearly as cool as my old one in which I had a 'fro
* A credit card that constantly reminds me that I will surely be in debt for the rest of my life

Name five things that made you happy this week
* Having Dr. Woehlk, my boss, ask me if I was alright and saying that I was "a good kid"
* Reading one of Stellar's posts
* Five-dollar All-You-Can-Drink at Woody's
* Spending almost an etire day with The Magster
* Hanging out with Justin & Pfaff

Name four things you'd like to do before the end of your lifetime
* Live
* Write a novel
* Have a novel published
* Travel through Europe

Name three things you plan on doing this weekend
* Superhero party (I'm going as Megaman)
* Lloyd's party in Kimball's
* Working

Name two things you'd buy for yourself if you had the money
* A new car
* A new computer

Name one good thing about the last person you talked to
* Pfaff and I just have complimentary senses of humor. And when you get us together, we can entertain ourselves for hours just talking about all sorts of pointless bullshit.

Straightforward and Disjointed

OK, fuck that last post. Here's the deal: I'm not happy. And that's the problem.

Recently, I've been driving around. Just driving. Alone. And thinking. And that's a metaphor for my life right now. I'm aimlessly driving around without a definite destination. I drive around for hours, not getting anywhere, and eventually, I give up on finding whatever it is I'm looking for, and I head back home disappointed.

I'm tired of being unhappy. I'm tired of pretending I'm not. I'm tired of not telling anyone what I'm thinking. And I'm tired of writing a goddamn blog post whenever I have something significant to say. But here I am.

My heart pounds, my legs are shaking, and my teeth both tingle and feel numb at the same time. It's like being on cocaine, without the euphoria. In fact, if there is an exact opposite of 'euphoria,' that's what it feels like. I don't cry from eyes, but from somewhere deep in my skull and far down in my chest. The windshield wipers can't clear away a torrential rain of tears. My foot shakes on the gas pedal.

I shouldn't be sitting in silence with my friends and then crying alone. I'm so distant, sometimes even from myself. I even tricked myself into believing that I was fine.

With a lump in my throat I explained something like the truth to a man at the University Counseling Services today. He nodded at all the right places and asked me all the cliche questions a councilor should. Then he told me, in not so many words, that the only thing that was keeping me from being happy was me. I came to realize that I lack focus: Instead of being unhappy in general, I should find those things that specifically make me unhappy, and kick those things' asses.

Well, I found one. I feel stupid, because this one's pretty hard to miss. It's been right in front of me, that huge fucking wall that I've been erecting, brick by brick, since (I'm guessing) 7th grade, but it may have been before that, and I just don't remember. It's pretty big now, and I don't even know how thick. So, it's not like I didn't know it was there, I just didn't see it as a problem. It protected me. From everyone else. The problem was, it couldn't protect me from me.

The USC guy also told me something else important. I don't remember how he put it, but here's my take on it: Don't try to fix everything all at once. There is no magical Happy button that makes everything all better. Nothing -- no place, no drug, no friend, no girl -- will make me completely happy. I'm responsible for that part. They might help, but I have to be happy with myself to be completely happy.

'Happy' is such a stupid word now.

I continued to drive. No more crying. I was done with that shit. I pressed down on the gas and flew down the highway, faster and faster still. I crashed into that wall around me. I wrecked my car and only made a crack in it. But I will get out. Eventually.

Broken Promise

I told myself that I wouldn't do it, censor myself. But if there's one thing that I've learned about myself over the years it's that I can't keep promises, especially one's made to myself.

So, anyway, I've been meaning to post something for a while now, but never got the guts to do it. So then, I decided to make one of those ambiguous posts about it, but that would just lead to people asking me a whole bunch of annoying questions and prying and whatnot.

Then I came upon a good idea: I will, instead of actually making the post, just answer the questions that I'm sure would have been generated from publishing it!

So, yes, this post is about you. No, it really doesn't matter that much, I just needed to vent. No, you don't need to apologize. And, yes, you should probably stop asking me questions about it.

Hierarchy of Crappy Beer

6. PBR
5. Natty
4. High Life
3. Stag
2. Beast Ice

And still the reining champion and my all-time favorite crappy beer:
1. Keystone

Good Day

Do you ever just have one of those days where everything goes your way? For instance, you wake up with a smile and a kiss, you make it to work on time, you don't have to go to class, you spend time with a pretty girl, and you drink moonshine with your friends while playing video games. That, my friends, is the definition of a 'good day.'

Leaving

He stood up from the couch. He had been sitting too comfortably, too near her. "I don't want to do this anymore," he said, and reached for his ball cap on the coffee table.

"We can watch a different movie, dude," she said, surprised at his sudden outburst. "Where are you going?"

"No, not the movie. This," he said pointing at where he had been sitting on the couch.

She was confused. "The couch?"

"No. Nevermind. I gotta go."

She stood up and followed him as he left the living room. "What are you talking about?"

He stopped and turned suddenly. She was following so close behind that she almost bumped into him. "I'm talking about us."

"What about us?"

"Whenever I'm around you, all I want is to kiss you."

She took a step back. "I thought we agreed to just be friends."

"No, you wanted to 'just be friends' and I went along with it because I wanted to be near you. But now I see that it wasn't a good idea, because I don't want to be 'just friends,' and it's killing me every time sit next to you and smell your perfume, or give you a hug, or look into your eyes, or accidentally touch your hand. I just don't want to do it any more. I can't pretend that I'm not attracted to you." He was done with his speech. It hadn't gone exactly like he'd planned in his head. In his head he hadn't been as upset. And, of course, in his head, she had thrown herself at him half-way through. He sighed and turned towards the door.

"So, you're just leaving?" she asked.

"Unless you've got a better idea."

"I'm sorry," she said, genuinely empathetic.

He opened the door and stepped through. Before he shut it behind himself he said, "That's my line."

Lost

[instead of paying attention in class]

The small boy played with his big Tonka dump-truck in the sand box, hauling loads of dirt over dunes and through valleys in the burning desert heat. As he dumped his truck's precious cargo into the impressive and ever-growing pile in the corner of the box, he saw his mother standing a few feet off, watching him play. She stood one arm crossing her chest, hand tucked under her other arm with the other hand covering her mouth. The boy noticed a strange look on his mother's face. Was she scared? Was she angry with him? Was she impressed with the amazing pile of sand he had started? He tested the water.

"Do you see how big a pile I made, Mommy?" She seemed not to hear him. He spoke a little louder, "Mommy, lookie what I did. It's big, huh?"

His mother slowly nodded her head. She removed her hand from her mouth and tried to say something but was choked up. She cleared her throat and nodded.

The small boy stared back at his mother for a moment and stopped playing with his truck. She didn't seem impressed with his achievement. "Mommy, are you made at me?" he looked down, expecting a talking-to.

He heard his mother sob once and then quickly say in a strained voice, "No, honey. No, I'm not mad." She took a few steps toward him and knelt at the edge of the sand box. "I . . . ." she stopped. Tears formed in her eyes. "Come here, Joel, I need to talk to you."

The boy still unsure cautiously crawled through the sand, towing his truck behind him. He was frightened; he'd never seen his mother act so strangely and he didn't know what to expect. When he reached the edge of the box near his mother once again began loading the back of his truck with hot, dry sand. He didn't look his mother in the eye.

"Honey," she started, then paused, "your father . . ." she thought for a moment and brushed Joel's bushy hair out of his eyes. "Daddy won't be coming home tonight."

Not understanding the significance of this, he played along with his mother, "Will he come home tomorrow?"

She started to cry. "No, honey, he won't be coming home tomorrow. He won't ever be coming home. Daddy is lost." Through a lake of tears, she helped her son fill the back of his truck with sand.

"Where did you lose him?" he asked, thinking of all the places he looks when his loses his toys.

"I didn't lose him. Someone took him from me, from us."

"Where did they take him?" The dump trunk was full, but Joel decided not to dump it in the big pile on the other side of the box. He seemed tethered to his mother. He dumped his truck where it sat, wondering where his father could possibly be.

"Sometimes people are take away to a place where they can't come back from." She continued to cry softly. After a few moments she spoke again. "Sometimes people are taken to Heaven . . . when they die."

The young boy looked up at his mother finally. "Did my daddy die?"

[the end of class]

Surprised I'm Still Alive

Apparently, people really enjoyed Alumni Reunion. I'm just glad it's over.

Friday night was the Bar Crawl. I was stressed out, but everyone else seemed to be having a good time. One of my guys got kicked out of Dukum Inn for having a fake, and one got kicked out of Il Spazio for breaking a glass. I was upset, but no one else seemed to care. The bars were about to close, so I decided to walk back to Kimball's alone, and hoped that everyone made it back alive.

On my way, Maggie and the Pirates saw me and picked me up. We went to the Pirate's house where I kept stealing Maggie's beer. For some reason I decided to fight her. I threw her on a couch, but she jumped back up and jacked me in the face twice. I could have taken an incredibly more punishing beating, considering the state I was in, but I guess she thought that I'd had enough. What a pussy.

Saturday morning the demolition guys came and knocked over the house. It was a most glorious hour. Immediately following that someone gave me a bottle of wine, and I drank deeply of it. From that point until I had to work at 6pm I drank. Work was interesting. After work I was sobering up and had a hang-over. It's interesting already being hung-over at 9:30 at night. I hung out at Kimball's with the younger guys while the alumni were hitting up the bars again. We were all dead. Drinking all day sure is exhausting.

I went to Stellar's. I started drinking some more. Maggie came over for a bit which was nice. I lose track of time at this point. I left to go back to Kimball's, and I couldn't drive, so I just walked. It was cold. On my way over, Erica from work picked me up and gave me a ride. I think she was concerned for me because she called me later to make sure that I was alright.

So, some time after that (again, I'm not sure on the time at this point), when people were starting to leave, I walked over to Maggie's to see if she was home. There is a blank spot in my memory right there. Fast forward to 5am: I wake up in the stairwell of her apartment building. My head hurts and I'm cold, but at least I don't feel sick. You have to look for the silver lining. I try Maggie's door, but it's locked, so I walk back to Kimball's where I can at least sleep on a couch, but it is also locked up. So, I decide to trek all the way back across town to Mel's to get my car. It's still cold.

I finally get back to my apartment at 5:45am, only to find Ronnie in my bed. I guess he thought that I wasn't coming back (and my bed is decidedly more comfy than the couch). I decided to let him sleep there and I just hit the couch myself.

Surprisingly, after all of this, I still managed to wake up this morning and make it to work on time.

Baby-sitter

This weekend is Delta Chi Alumni Reunion, and guess who is in charge. That's right, me. So, basically, I have to baby-sit 20 drunken twenty-five to thirty-year-olds and make sure they don't embarass us or themselves. This should be interesting.

Birthday Keg

Oh, how I have missed you, Keg Night Stand! I'm sorry that I left you behind. You were always a constant reminder of that incredible 21st birthday over a year ago. I'm glad we're back together.

The Shit that Matters

Justin: here comes another sappy moment, but I've got to say, I've really glad we both ended up up here
Justin: for all the people I've met in college, I still end up talking to you about the shit that matters
CynicalMcBastard: awww
Justin: yup

The Intersection of Hwy 6 and Junior Year

Party because I didn't want to write a paper and partly because I've been kinda emo lately, I did something I haven't done in a long time. I drove. I just drove.

I ended up on Highway 6, the road I used to take home . . . when I still went home. I became really homesick all of the sudden. I wanted to go to sleep in my old bed.

And wake up the next morning to the sound of my mom's knees cracking as she walked down the hall to the kitchen to get her coffee. I would get up, take a shower, then plop back down on my bed and pass out. I would wake up 20 minutes before school started, scramble to get my books, and jump in my car. I'd speed down Highway B at 80mph so I wouldn't be late. I'd get to school just as the bell rang and run to Pre-Calculus. I wouldn't sweat that I probably didn't have that day's homework done; I'd just do it in class. The same would be true for my next two classes. Junior year was a breeze.

Fourth hour was my time. I would go to 'help' Mrs. Breeden with her speech class as her assistant. Mrs. Breeden was in Kazahkstan for a large portion of that year adopting Mia, so I got to do whatever I wanted. Most likely I would just go to lunch for both shifts. I might stay in the Green Room with the Freaks: Adam, Luke, Brian, and Brandon. I'd listen to their tales of publishing thier own 'zine, making movies, and planning parties. They would be gone after that year, and I, thier apprentice, would be left without any mentors.

Or I might go to my mom's office and hang out with the drama nerds: Mark and Marlena (and their creepy relationship), Stephen, Ryan, and Joe. That was back when my mom thought the world of me, and loved my friends.

Or I might go the Commons and hang out with my popular friends: Clair, the future Homecoming Queen who hated the title. I would take her to Prom that next year. Lauren, the stuck-up prude / track star. She was so haughty and boring, and only I laughed at her lame jokes, mostly because they were so bad. Bart, who would move away half-way through the next year, leaving me depressed. He was more than a friend, he was a role-model. Jerry, the bumbling, lovable lug. He was always so "melonlochy." Zack, who could somehow pull off being a prick and a nice guy at the same time. And, of course, Kim. I had had a crush on her for two years and would for two more. After finally gathering up the courage, I would eventually ask her out twice (once to Prom) only to be rejected twice.

After lunch I would get on the bus with Kim to go meet Justin at the Vo-Tech, where Mr. Marley taught Physics. While Marley tried to teach us, Squeak, Justin, and I would teach Kim how to do the homework. Somehow she got a better grade than all of us. Only feeling slightly guilty for taking advantage of Marley's too-niceness, we would skip out of class early and buy snacks in the breakroom.

After we were shuttled back to the High School, Kim and I would go to Journalism, where we would quickly scribble out an article for that weeks newspaper, so we could go down to Mrs. Meneely's class and bug Justin and Kyle in the back room. Watch them play putty-ball or play with the extruder. Sometimes we might take outings, walking out of the building as the principal Mr. May watched us leave. Kim was supposed to go to Prom with Kyle that year, and that was why she couldn't go with me when I asked, but he changed his mind, so they didn't end up gonig together; however, I didn't know this at the time and so I asked Claire.

After school, I'd stick around for Academic Team practice. I was on Varsity that year. Or I might go to a play rehearsal. We put on A Midsummer Night's Dream (I was Puck) and The Boy's Next Door (I was co-stage manager and Clarence).

Then I would hang out at Marlena and Brandon's house for an hour or so before going off to work at Wal-Mart.

After I got done at Wal-Mart I would wearily drive back home and slide into my bed.

I woke up half-way home. I pulled into the first driveway I came to and turned around. Lighting a cigarette, I started back to Kirksville. The headlights did a poor job of lighting the way home on the dark highway in the moonless night.

Windy

I got some stuff published in Windfall, Truman's literary journal. It's not what I would have picked as the best of what I submitted, but I guess I should feel proud that someone thought it worth publishing.

Beautiful Cacophony

Me: this shell of flesh, pock-marked and scarred, the surprisingly resilient inner workings of which are slowly being poisoned by voluntarily absorbed toxins and the ever-present workings of time. This "person," this "being" who exists physically in every (as far as is known) dimension of the universe and whose coordinates are conveniently labeled "Cynical McBastard" is "me."

But beyond the physical, inside the skull of this creature, it is much harder to define what is "me." Inside there is an inharmonious chorus of voices.

Am I the voice who whispers that this shell is worthless, that its life is insignificant in a supposed "grand scheme"? Am I the quiet voice who loves and wants nothing more than to be loved back? Am I the voice who hangs itself everyday? Am I the voice who incomprehensibly shouts for reason and logic? Am I the convincing voice who is disappointed with this shell and demands change? Am I the voice who sleeps? Am I the laughing voice who finds humor in everything, especially the other voices? Am I the voice who sobs softly so that the other voices don't notice? Am I the voice who claims to remember a time before all the voices started speaking? Am I the voice that doesn't care?

Or am I the monotone voice that has somehow gained control of the mouth of this creature; the voice who, when asked what the other voices are saying, can't comprehend a single message in the beautiful cacophony, and so it lies and says that there are no other voices?

Good Vs. Evil

CynicalMcbastard: sometimes looking at voodoo, he's so cute and it's hard to believe that he is satan's personal lap-cat
Stellar: LOL
Stellar: I would say he just needs more socialization, but I think he'd just start eating people
CynicalMcbastard: haha
Stellar: My cat, on the other hand, is the most angelic, sweet boy that ever walked the earth
CynicalMcbastard: but remember when HE was a holy terror?
Stellar: It's weird that there's no thunder when the cats are together. You'd think the cosmos would have more of a reaction when good and evil collide
Stellar: Yeah, but that was when he still had balls
Stellar: Voodoo's are gone and he's still evil
CynicalMcbastard: hahahhahahahaha!

Crying

I remember crying once with my biological father. I must have been about ten years old or so. We were watching a sad movie about a guy who was dying of cancer, I think. He saw me straining to hold back tears. He told me that it was alright to cry, that it was good to cry and hug someone and just let it out. I hugged him and cried forever.

Even though I was crying, that is one of my fondest memories of my father, and I think that was the only bit of advice he ever gave me worth remembering.

When I remember things like that, I sometimes feel guilty for resenting him so much. But when I think about forgiving him (for what, I'm not even sure anymore) it makes me want to cry.

Cheeks

This has been one of the best weekends in recent McBastard history. It was party due to parties, partly due to alcohol, partly due to friends, but mostly due to a young lady who made me smile so much my cheeks hurt.

Hoo - fucking - ray!

I just went into work, and someone was already working my shift. I wish they would have called me, but I'm glad that I don't have to work tonight all the same.

"Well, did he come or what?"

"Jesus Christ! There's just some things you don't talk about in public!"

In the shower today I realized that I handn't masturbated in almost two weeks. It's not that I didn't want to or was too busy to; I just never felt like it. Am I slipping in my old age?

But don't worry folks. I took care of it.

The Best

Stellar makes me crunk cups and blankets. She gives me cheese and popsicles. She calls me out on my bullshit, and she puts up with every other kind of shit I give her. She doesn't wreck my cars or forget to pay back money she owes. She knows how to make me mad, and she knows how to make me happy. She loves me for reasons I can't comprehend.

As far as friends go, Stellar is my best.

Color(less)

I just realized that almost every shirt I own is black.

I think my new favorite color is brown.

Waking Up

His lids slid open revealing tired, bloodshot eyes. They scanned his surroundings. Where the hell am I? He looked to his left. Who is she? His hands slid under the covers. At least I'm still wearing pants.

His memory began to catch up with him in snippets. He remembered showing up at her apartment sometime last night, sans left shoe, struggling to put his soaked shirt back on.

He had demanded her roommate give him some icecream. He couldn't recall exactly, but he was pretty sure he handn't been nice to her. I might have to apologize for that.

He and his new friend in the white hat had walked to his car to get his cigarettes. I think his name was Derek. On their way out they encountered a girl exiting her apartment. They tried to strike up a conversation, but she seemed annoyed. He had been so impressed with how cool Derek was that he gave him a whole pack of cigarettes.

He had tried to play on the roommate's keyboard, but he didn't know how to play the piano. It looked expensive, so he figured that he probably shouldn't mess around with it too much. He tried to get the kid with blonde highlights to play something.

He layed on her bedroom floor, not wanting to move. Everyone was sitting on the floor with him. He felt uncomfortable, as if he could hear everyone thinking how much of a drunken idiot he was. He smelled marijuana. It was passed to him, and he showed a self-restraint that he could have used earlier that night, knowing that any more intoxicants would make him sick.

He heard voices in another room. He was alone.

Now it was morning, and someone (she?) had put him in his wet shirt and muddy sock into her bed. I guess I shouldn't complain. He threw his arm over her and went back to sleep.

In the Trunk . . . Again

(from a conversation with Stellar last night while I was intoxicated)
CynicalMcBastard: and gthn they went to tom thubm but i went beack to d'chi and then to ph9 lambs, and then i rode in a trunk and wore a tiara

* * *
Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time I've been carted about town in the trunk of a car. This was, however, the first time I did it while wearing a tiara and smoking a cigarette.

Unnecessary

He woke up and slowly lifted his head, a thread of drool strung from his lip to a puddle on his pillow. While his red and squinting eyes scanned the room he pulled his hand out of his underwear where it had apparently been spooning with his genitals. His gaze landed on his feet, one of which was still encased in his shoe, tagged with a piece of toilet paper. His other foot was bare and, for an unknown reason, bloody.

He wiggled his toes, felt no pain, and shrugged. He rolled his body over the edge of his bed, landing in a pile of dirty clothes and vomit. He sighed and lifted himself from the cold, sticky mess. He wiped his hand on his once-white tee shirt, adding to the stains from the previous night.

He shuffled, still half-drunk, out of his room and down the hall, stopping in the doorway of the bathroom. A pale, shaven leg hung out into the hallway, its toes pointed upward showing off the pretty green painted nails. He nudged the appendage with his shoed foot. It rocked limply and became still. His hand quickly fumbled for the light switch.

The fluorescent light flickered, revealing a corpse, as if reality had suddenly turned into a horror movie. Finally, the light won out over dark, and he was left staring at her resting in a pool of blood. It surrounded her head like black halo.

He knelt down next to her and put his head to her chest. He couldn't hear over his own heartbeat. He put his hand under her neck and tried to lift her into a sitting position, but her hair was encrusted in blood and glued to the tile floor. He screamed something and fell over her body, sobbing.

After a few minutes, he lifted himself up and looked into her pale face. He kissed her and then whispered, "Please, get up." She just stared past him with half-open eyes. His tears fell from his face to hers.

Mitch Hedberg

Stellar: I'm so fucking bummed about Mitch
CynicalMcBastard: yeah, i know, dude!
CynicalMcBastard: what the F is that!
CynicalMcBastard: c'mon, mitch
CynicalMcBastard: like, seriosly, fuck the pope, bring back mitch
Stellar: I SAID THAT TOO! How DARE the Pope get read his last rites when Mitch ACTUALLY died. Fuck CNN, they covered the wrong damn story

Be Careful What You Wish For

I can remember wishing in 7th grade that I could just be normal. I wanted to blend in; I wanted to be average.

And now, all these years later, I've finally achieved this. I'm an average student with a normal job; I just blend into the crowd.

Sometimes I regret wishing that in 7th grade.

Quothe Banquo

"And oftentimes to win us to our harm
The instruments of darkness tell us truths;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence."

There Is Nothing New Under the Sun

I've got nothing original to say.

But I'm gonna keep on talkin'!

Proboscis

She writhed on her bed for a moment before finding the most comfortably contorted position. Still the pain in her abdomen did not subside. She squeezed a tear out of her eye clenched shut.

Without warning the pain increased ten-fold. She arched her back, thrusting her stomach into the air. She gripped the bed with white-knuckled hands and tried to scream; she wheezed and coughed up blood.

With a wet slap and a spray of blood, a black and greasy proboscis sprung from her midsection. The girl's eyes rolled back and she fell limp onto the bed. The proboscis 'sniffed' the area of the girl at it's base, then investigated the girl's face. With a whimper the proboscis bowed it's 'head' in reverence for it's mother.

Twenty-two

Well, I'm twenty-two years old now. So, I guess it's official: I've wasted my youth.

The Day of Four Posts

I hate it when I can't sleep at night. It throws off my whole day, my whole week. I was in bed awake until 5am or so this morning, and then I could hardly stay awake in classes today. And when I got home I took a two hour nap. Now I'm finally fully awake and I know that I'm not going to be able to fall asleep again tonight. It's a [vicious] cycle (which is a lot like a motorcycle, but with less engine and more teeth).

Runts

Does anybody actually like banana-flavored runts?

Birthday

Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday. How lame is that?

Miss

You know what I miss? Ska. And hackey sack. And wallet chains.

Kiss Me, I'm Irish!

Fuck You, I'm Italian!

Resident Evil

My roommates and I have been absorbed in the Resident Evil games for the past few weeks. I just finished Resident Evil 4 and have moved on to Zero, while one of my roommates is playing the remake of the original, and the other is struggling with Resident Evil 3: Nemesis.

The Resident Evil games are excellent. They are sometimes genuinely creepy and scary while at the same time being campy and overdone. And the storylines are pretty twisted, complicated, and intertwined (except for 4 where some characters from previous games all coincidentally happen to find themselves halfway around the world in a situation where a completely different town has been overrun by zombies).

It's a shame that the movies couldn't have been a better reflection of the games. First of all, they didn't seem as dark and grimy as the video games, or as nearly claustrophobic and lonely. And there were too many bullets and not enough puzzles. In the games again, except for RE4, in the games the player had to conserve ammo and solve lots of puzzles (that were surprisingly and intricately incorporated into seemingly normal mansions, laboratories, and police stations). But seeing as puzzles are interactive and movies are not, perhaps it's best they left this out. And while the movies had pretty good plot twists, it lacked suspense. This is not to say that these were bad movies, but they just weren't very reminiscent of the games.

Addicted to You

Stellar: http://www.grab.com/games/play.php?game=197&fromint=1
Stellar: I'm becoming addicted to this game
Cynical McBastard: looks lame
Stellar: It LOOKS lame. So did the Fishy game before you got hooked
Stellar: You looked lame at first too, but I got addicted to you :)
Cynical McBastard: haha

It's a Trick!

My cat has been really nice to me today, making me think that he's probably going to kill me tonight and dine upon my flesh.

Classy

• I'm drinking apple juice out of a champagne glass.
• I have been carrying a spoon in my pocket for half of the day.
• My cat made a huge mess with his litterbox two days ago, and I still haven't cleaned it up.
• I just farted.

El Scorcho (Dios Mio, Soy un Dorko)

"How stupid is it? I can't talk about it; I gotta [write a post] about it, and make a record . . . of my heart."

Press pause and say something. Say something. Say anything. Like that fucking John Cusack movie. I really like Grosse Pointe Blank. Minnie Driver kinda sucked, though. But it was cool when he killed a guy with a pen. Then Minnie helped dispose of the body. I want a chick that will help me dispose of a body.

You're almost there. Put your thumb on the pause button and think of something to say. Like... Fuck, this is hard. I don't have anything to say. That test was hard? No, that's stupid. That movie was funny? No, that's lame. I killed a man with a trident? No, that's weird. I liked Brick. I love lamp.

Focus. Hey, I wonder what's in those boxes that girl is carrying.

Focus, dammit! OK, something to say. Hey,... do you... like... stuff...? Good one. So, what's up? Is that all I've got? I can write fucking poetry and stories and essays and speeches, and all I can come up with is 'So, what's up?'

OK, there's approximately three seconds until the point of no return. Do I say something lame? Two seconds. Or do I say nothing at all? One second. Turning head, opening mouth...

Abort! Abort! Fucking abort! Keep walking. Walk faster. Walk into the fucking sunset.

"How stupid is it? Won't you gimme a minute. Just come up to me and say hello . . . to my heart."

Pretty Accurate

You can study anything.

Group Hug

http://grouphug.us/

The Cure

Why didn't anyone tell me The Cure were so good? That's ten years of good music that I've missed.

On My Way to Becoming a Twenty-Something Hipster

I got an iPod Shuffle. I'm a trendy fuck.

Crush Mush

Feelings are stupid and embarrassing (mostly because I know Stellar is going to ask me about this).

I have a crush on a girl in one of my classes.

Maggie isn't gorgeous by any means, but she's not ugly, either. She's pleasantly and attractively average; what I would consider "cute." C'mon, her name is Maggie, how cute is that! Plus, she has fluffy, black hair that she usually wears in these large tufts that have tendrils flowing down from them, as if buns and ponytails had incestuous relations on her head, and these were the resulting offspring; nevertheless, their seemingly lazy, haphazard, and unpretentious construction has an endearing quality.

Anyway, she's not particularly pretty or, from what she's said in class, she's not particularly insightful or thought-provoking, and neither am I. And I think that's why I find her attractive. Actually, I think the this is the mostly the reason that I find her attractive:

For our class we had to watch a movie, an old, long, boring movie. I had the good fortune of having her sit next to me, but I also had the bad fortune of being shy, and intimidated by women I find attractive, so I sat in silence -- half wanting to fall asleep from boredom, half wanting to strike up a conversation with her. The silence was broken when, during a highly emotional part of the movie when this old widow was crying about her brother-in-law being killed, she leaned over to me and said, "She sounds like Miss Piggy." I laughed heartily and fell in love.

I Imagined Smashing Her Skull and Smiling

Do you ever imagine killing people -- accidentally, perhaps, imagining the murder of some might-be-innocent bystander? Do you ever dream of hacking and smashing a person to death? Naked flesh bleeds, mourning the loss of limbs damaged or altogether separated. Do you ever feel justified, or do you feel guilty? Or do you feel quite calm and content as you're killing?

Love Is Made Up

romance is a dead,
shriveled rose
on february twenty-first,
drowned in a bowl of tepid,
stagnant tap water,
soon to be discarded
with the rest of the garbage.
love is made up
     -- tv love,
        movie love,
        trashy romance novel love --
love is patient;
love is kind;
it does not want
     candy or flowers or jewelry,
-- temporary mementos --
the glittering bobbles,
distracting and confusing
a pre-adolescent sentiment.
the trivializations are used as bait.
and year after year
millions bite the hook.

Addiction

I have a new addiction: The Facebook Dot Com.

Houses and Homes

The fraternity house that I've been living in for the past two years is being torn down to build a new one. So, I moved out of there and into an apartment with a couple of my brothers for a few months.

I hate moving, but this new place is nice, and I'm already starting to settle in.

My People the Sioux

Throughout the stories of his life that Luther Standing Bear relates in My People the Sioux he constantly is comparing and contrasting the life and customs of the Sioux people to those of the white men of the time. One such comparison that I found intriguing was between the religious beliefs of the whites and Luther's people.

I found most of this discussion in the Chapter XII: 'The Sun Dance':

"I learned all about this religion in the natural way, but after learning how to read the white man?s books I compared your religion with ours; but religion, with us Indians, is stronger."

I found this to be quite a bold statement (as are most of the assertions Standing Bear has in this book) and decided to think on the topic.

"Religion" is defined as "a set of beliefs, values, and practices." However, the word "religion" in recent centuries has taken on a certain connotation. It almost implies a level of organization and a tangible set of rules which it's members must prescribe to. I would like to call this sort of religion an "edicted religion" such as Christianity, Judeism, Islam, and Mormonism. But there are also religions that are not dictated by an organization, but somehow culturally understood, transmitted by simple social interaction. An example of this would be Shinto. I would like to call this sort of religion a "cultural religion".

I would say that the Sioux religion falls into my "cultural religion". While I would necessarily say that is a "stronger" sort of religion, as Standing Bear puts it, but I would definitely say that there is some advantage to having such a religion. As long as the religion is regulated by society as a whole, there is no central organization to control it, there is less of a chance that it will become bastardized, abused by those religious figures in power. "We did not commercialize our belief. Our medicine men received no salary." In this way, I would say that the Sioux religion had probably remain more pure and less corrupt than Christianity had over the years.

Tragedy

Tragedy is the lack of an objective definition of "right". Two people at odds because they both believe they're right; a person versus society because his views of what is right is different from the norm; an individual battles with himself because he doesn't know if a decision he has made or will make is "right" -- this is where tragedy is born.

Am I Right?

I found a cool website: http://www.amiright.com/. You can look at lyrics that people messed up and rumors about band name origins and peoples anecdotes about music-related stuff. When I first found it, I spent about an hour just looking around and laughing. Check it out, it's good stuff.

Over

Finals are over. They kicked my ass.

Finals Week

Let the late nights and cram studying begin!

On Tips and Tippers in Kirksville

(I enjoy stereotyping as much as the next guy, so I will.)

Working as a waiter in the small college town of Kirksville, I've found that there exist five kinds of tippers (keeping in mind that I'm assuming the following groups received average service under normal conditions):

1. Fogies usually come in in the mornings, stay for several hours, drink eight cups of coffee (Decaf, mind you; they don't want to be up all night), and leave between 5 - 10% tips, mostly because that was the industry standard back in 1952 -- the last date their Alzheimer's-riddled brain can remember.
2. Bible-Thumpers come in after church with their families. One shouldn't expect too much of a tip out of them because after all, they only tip their God 10%.
3. Townie Families consist of at least two parents, one grandparent, and twice as many children as there are adults. And there is usually one child that cries, spills his drink, can't control the volume of his voice, or (if you're lucky) all three. Despite the price of the food purchased, townie families usually leave about 50c to $1 per head.
4. Townie Businessmen think they are very important, but being the biggest fish in a puddle doesn't make you any more significant than any of the other fish stupid enough to be trapped, floundering in a puddle. They often treat servers like shit and cocktail waitresses like whores. They know how to tip well, but usually look for an excuse not to.
5. College Students are often thought to be poor, and it's a common perception that they don't know how to handle money. But the best tips one will get in a night will be from college students that know and understand that you are trying to make it through college just like them.

Extended Archives

I used to have a blog called Z-Gar's Last Big Mistake, before Cynical McBastard came along. I decided to add the archives of that blog to this one. So, go exploring through the archives, and discover what Mr. McBastard was like during the end of this freshman / beginning of his sophomore year of college.

Anxadry

I don't know what emotion it is that I'm feeling today, but I don't like it. I would much rather be confused, depressed, or complacent (like I usually am) than this. It's a blend of Anxious and Sad with a sprinkle of Angry. It's like I'm anxiously sad and angry, or angrily sad and anxious, or something. I'll call it Anxadry.

Sick Blues

I've been sick recently and I don't like it. Over the past two weeks I've been living on DayQuil, Unisom, "Zach's Happy Pills" (ibuprofen), and NyQuil.

I think I'm addicted to NyQuil. Last night I chugged half a bottle of it. The cherry flavor is delicious.

Favorite Ancient Greek Vocabulary Word Thus Far

(hye RAY on)

sacrificial vicitim

Bets

It seems that I lost most of my money last night on the bets I made.

Placing My Bets on this Election

I'm going put $5 on a parlay (with 4 to 1 odds) of Missouri-Florida-Hawaii going to Kerry.

I also want to put $2 on Nevada going to Bush, $1 on Virginia going to Bush, $1 on New Hampshire going to Bush, and $1 on Pennsylvania going to Kerry.

I voted

Today is election day. Unless you're a useless tool, you voted. I voted. Voter registration troubles were cleared up at Cynical McUniversity thanks to the tireless efforts of Rock the Vote. Man do they rock...the vote. Tonight=drinking and CNN. Ahh, democracy in action.

Voter Registration Troubles

The following story ran today in the Index, the campus newspaper of Truman State University, located in Kirksville:

Lost registrations jeopardize votes By Index Staff Published: Thursday, October 28, 2004

Misplaced voter registration cards might leave some students ineligible to cast their ballots Nov. 2.

Students who filled out voter registration forms to vote in Adair County through on-campus organizations and have not yet received a verification letter should call the Adair County Clerk's office immediately to make sure they are registered, Adair County Clerk Jon Cook said.

"Unless they have received that verification notice, we may not have their card," Cook said.

Senior Evan Montgomery, president of College Democrats, said he registered with the College Democrats, who gave their forms to Rock the Vote. He said he called the county clerk's office Wednesday and found out he was not registered to vote in Adair County.

Montgomery said he decided to call and request an absentee ballot from his hometown because his voter registration was not canceled as it would have been if he had successfully registered in Adair County.

"I feel bad for people who find it out right now and can't vote unless they make a trip back home," he said. "What are they going to do?"

The last day to register to vote in Missouri was Oct. 6, and Wednesday way the last day to request absentee ballots.

Junior Renee Taylor said she also had problems with her registration form. She said she received an incorrect verification letter after registering through one of the campus political groups. The letter bore the name of another student who shared the same first and last name but had a different middle name.

Taylor said she then called the county clerk's office to verify her registration.

"[Someone at the clerk's office] said, 'Well, we don't have your form,' and they weren't going to let me vote," Taylor said.

She said she called junior Sarah Saheb, Rock the Vote midwest regional coordinator, who helped her talk to the county clerk.

"I was actually really upset because the election is really, really close, and this is my first time voting," Taylor said.

Taylor said she had to fill out a new voter registration form, and she is now registered.

Saheb said Rock the Vote tracked voter registration forms at all times and made a copy of each card before giving it to the county clerk.

"Everybody who manned tables was trained by us, and we made sure everybody knew how to register people to vote, and they knew the laws," Saheb said. "It's not a difficult process to help people register to vote."

She said those who volunteered to sign people up to vote were each given a packet of voter registration forms. When the volunteers turned the packets back in, all of the forms had to be accounted for, she said.

Saheb said that anyone who registered to vote in Adair County through a student organization and has not received a voter verification letter should call the county clerk at 665-3350 to make sure they are registered to vote.

If someone goes to the polls on Election Day and is told he or she is not registered to vote, he or she should request a provisional ballot, according to Rock the Vote's Web site.

After the polls close, the state will look for any mistakes with the person's voter registration and then inform the individual if his or her was vote counted.

So, who is at fault for this mistake? I spoke with Megan Gibbard, a member of Rock the Vote in Kirksville; she said that it seems unlikely that the Rock the Vote organization is at fault; they made copies of every registration form that they collected before turning them over to the County Clerk. Gibbard says, “[The County Clerk’s office] says they never got the forms.” So, perhaps some registration forms were lost in transit from the Rock the Vote Headquarters to the County Clerk’s office. It is a volunteer organization made up of college students. Surely it was Rock the Vote that made the mistake and not the responsible elected officials and paid, trained workers at the Adair County Clerk’s office. Then how do you account for me?

On October 4, I went to the County Clerk’s office to change my registration from my Livingston County (containing Chillicothe, where I sometimes call home) to Adair County so that I did not have to vote via absentee ballot. The woman behind the counter asked me for my current local address and other cursory questions, typed on the computer for a while, filled out a voter registration card for me, and dated and stamped it with a seal before handing it to me. I asked her if there was anything else I needed to do. She told me there was not. Apparently, she was wrong.

Hours ago I received a phone call from Gibbard informing me that I was not registered to vote in Adair County. She informed me that Rock the Vote had obtained a list of all people registered to vote in this county and were comparing it to the list of 1400 students that they had registered over the past three weeks on campus. “We’re to the ‘M’s and we’ve already found 200 missing registrations,” she said. I was very confused because, although I had been registered through Rock the Vote, I had also physically gone into County Courthouse, up the stairs, and into the Clerk’s office, and spoken directly with someone whom I believed to be a responsible county employee. I had watched as my registration information was supposedly entered into some database. I had physical evidence that I had been there on that day: a handwritten, dated, and seal-stamped voter registration card. How could it be possible that I was not registered to vote in Adair County?

Furthermore, many other students who may or may not have registered in person at the County Courthouse but did receive voter registration cards are missing from the registered voter list, according to Gibbard. With this information it seems unlikely that Rock the Vote is responsible for the hundreds – how many, is still yet to be determined – of missing voter registrations of students on the Truman State University campus.

There have been several cases of apparent voter registration fraud occurring around the nation recently, in Florida, New York, Nevada, and Oregon. There even seems to be something fishy going on around the St. Louis area. New York, Las Vegas, St. Louis: These are all important places where important things happen. But in the quiet, small college town of Kirksville, Missouri, who would have guessed that something similar may be going on?

It may be a bit early to start shouting “scandal” and “voter registration fraud,” but no one can deny that there have been suspicious goings on recently in the Adair County Clerk’s office in Kirksville. There are voters who thought they were registered, received registration cards, but are not registered. There are hundreds of students’ registration forms that seem to have vanished. Should we chalk this one up as incompetence, or is it possible that someone misplaced the students’ forms on purpose? Jon E. Cook himself, Adair County Clerk, said recently that some people do think that students should not be allowed to vote in Kirksville because they do not pay taxes there, according to an October 14, 2004 article in the Index. Does this have something to do with the disappearance of 200+ student registration forms? Or is that just a convenient coincidence? Either way, there is going to be a large mob of angry students come election day if we are denied our right to vote, and I will be one of those angry students, and we will be heard.

Dizzy Dance

Even worse than dancing to hip-hop am I at dancing with young interested ladies.

"You have pretty eyes," she says.
"I know," I respond.

I make a much better wallflower.

The instructor professes, "Gentlemen, pull your partner into your cradle."
"Get in my cradle, bitch," I say playfully. I receive a displeased punch in the stomach for my crude words.

ES 159 - Social & Country Western Dancing (1 credit hour) is one of the most fun classes I've taken. Kelly is one of best dance partners I've ever had.

"Are you still my partner?" I ask, almost as an apology.
"Yes."

I can get the moves; I can do the pretzel and the jitterbug and the pull-bys and all that, for the most part.

I'm not sure what happened, but Kelly ended up dancing with Chris, and I with Shayna. We were both confused.

After class she said, "You can be Shayna's partner if you want. I'll dance with Chris."
I nodded and let out a disappointed, "OK."

I can do all the moves, but the hardest part is making the moves look good, using flow and grace.

The teacher assigned Jordan as my new partner.

She leaned over and whispered to me, "I thought you were going to be partners with Shayna."
"She already had a partner," I whispered back.
"Oh, sorry." She looked perplexed. "I guess I was just confused."
"Me too."
"Do you hate me now?"
"Oh yeah, I do," I say jokingly. Sometimes I don't think my humor goes over well; she just stares at me.

I'm also not very good at leading. I'm either too forceful or too timid.

Non-Traditional

I'm convinced: Non-traditional (old) students have lost all creativity, intelligence, and humbleness from being out in "the real world."

Overdramatic(It's My Blog and I'll Cry if I Want To)

The image of myself that I've created for you is the one I thought you'd want to see, the one I thought would please you. It wasn't perfect, and I knew you didn't expect that. But it was mostly "good" or mostly "cool" or mostly "strong" or mostly something that I thought you'd like.

Silly me.

Apparently people don't want to see an image of me, no matter how pleasing the image. It could be perfect or perfectly imperfect. Either way, they want to see the parts of me that I've kept out of view, the parts that I don't even like, and the parts that I hide even from myself.

So, I'm going to try to do that for you; show everything. Not really for your benefit, but for mine. Because by the end of this thing (post?, weblog?, life?) I won't have to be the hundreds of different me's that I've been being, one for everyone I know. I can just be the one and only Zach, if a single one does exist. I guess that single one will be discovered here. Stay tuned.

Bad Taste in Music

I have bad taste in music. Tell me some good songs to listen to.

Quothe StellarMel

"You can't jack up a car and steal the tires in the span of one Captain and Tenille song."

Overheard in Baldwin Hall

"Beef jerky is not a vice!"

Robot Wishes

I am a robot
that wishes. For death
and closure affect me not.
I am a robot
that lives, as it seems is my lot,
long past my love's last breath.
I am a robot
that wishes for death.

Minimum Rage Job

INT. - CHECKOUT COUNTER OF A SUPERMARKET

Mark rings up item after item, bored with his menial task. He doesn't smile, talk to, or even acknowledge the presence of the customers. Like a zombie moonlighting as a cashier, Mark is emotionless except for the unrelenting desire to crack open the skull of the next annoying, nagging customer in his seemingly never ending checkout line. The customers fly by in fast motion, stopping for some highlights:

MAN 1

I think you scanned that twice.

Fast forward.

WOMAN 1

Oh, wait. I have a coupon for that.

Fast forward.

MOM 1

Writing a check while her young crying child tugs at her shirt

Pick out some candy. Pick out some candy. Pick out some candy. Nicolas, pick out some candy. Pick out some candy.

Fast forward.

MAN 2

Oh hell! I left my wallet in my car, can you hold on a second?

Fast forward.

WOMAN 2

How much?

MARK

$103.54.

WOMAN 2

How much?

MARK

$103.54.

WOMAN 2

That can't be right....

Fast forward. A smiling Old Woman stands staring at Mark, watching him scan her items. The register beeps with a slow and steady beat.

OLD WOMAN

Out of nowhere

Why don't you smile, young man?

MARK

Because I don't want to.

OLD WOMAN

You're not a very personable young man. And kind of rude.

MARK

Looking up from the scanning mechanism at the Old Woman for the first time.

I don't get paid to smile. That costs extra.

OLD WOMAN

In a huff.

Well!

MANAGER

Walking by and seeing something is wrong

Is there something wrong, ma'am?

OLD WOMAN

You're cashier here was just rude to me!

MANAGER

Mark?

MARK

What?

MANAGER

Gives Mark a stern look

MARK

Sighs. Deciding it better to avoid a conflict, turns to Old Lady

I'm sorry, ma'am. I was rude.

OLD WOMAN

Well, you've almost ruined my day. How much do I owe you?

MARK

Your total is $32.91.

Old Woman hands Mark several bills, and in turn Mark gives her change. All the while Manager watches.

OLD WOMAN

I hope you don't treat all of your customers like this.

Walks off perturbed.

MANAGER

I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll have a talk with him.

To Mark

Mark, what was that?

MARK

She told me to smile, and I told her I didn't want to.

MANAGER

Mark, part of your job is customer relations. You are the last face that the customer sees before he leaves the store.

MARK

What about the greeters at the door?

MANAGER

Mark, focus. You can't be negative, or the customers will leave here with a negative impression of our store.

MARK

OK.

MANAGER

You have to smile, Mark. And you have to talk to them.

MARK

Like what? I don't have anything to say.

MANAGER

Small talk. Talk to them about the items they're buying. Anything. Just make them feel comfortable, and they'll walk out of here wanting to come back. And hopefully soon. Do you understand, Mark?

MARK

I guess.

A customer puts her items on Mark's counter. Manager looks at Mark and gives him a nod and points to his smiling mouth. Mark puts on a strained smile. Manager nods in approval, then motions for Mark to continue.

MARK

As he begins to scan the woman's items, he holds up a bag of apples

So. . . . Buying apples, huh?

WOMAN 3:

Yep.

MARK

Mark looks to Manager for help. Manager looks at Mark as if to say, "Keep going."

Well, uh, you know what they say about apples: An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

Manager smiles in approval

WOMAN 3:

Smiles

It's true. I love apples.

MARK

Struggling to continue the conversations, he looks to Manager and then to the next item in his hand, a box of douches.

And you know what they say about douching: A douche a day keeps the . . . uh. . .

Woman 3 looks at Mark disgusted and embarassed. Manager shakes head and releases a deep sigh.

Computer Teachers

Cynical McBrother: I'm going to sub tomorrow.
Mr. McBastard: for whom?
Cynical McBrother: an elementary computer teacher
Mr. McBastard: they have computer teachers now?
Cynical McBrother: yeah
Mr. McBastard: what's next cyborg guidance councilors?
Cynical McBrother: *beep boop beep* you're good at math, Mr. McBastard. *beep beep boop* you should be an automechanic boop

With Me

"most of all, i want some one that is willing to build a relationship. a health and stable relationship.


with me." --Terry Anna

Book Meme

From farkleberries:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

"In particular, they are adept at finding various sorts of similarities among patterns, at recognizing repeated (or almost repeated) patterns, at filling in the missing parts of incomplete patterns, and at transforming patterns into others with which they have been associated."

--John Haugeland, "What is Mind Design?" Mind Design II

life.pl

$life = "bitch";
if $life = "bitch" then {
die;
}

Walking Down the Sidewalk

I am hard. I am stone-faced. I smoke cigarettes and squint into the sun. I don't smile and I don't look anyone in the eye. How dare you, Cute Girl I Don't Know, to say, "Hi," to me and grin.

Breasts

One day Sven woke up with breasts. They hadn't been there the night before, but they were there now, and he liked them.

He spent fifteen minutes in the shower jiggling and juggling them, squeezing, turning, and gently bouncing them. He smiled.

Getting dressed was difficult; he didn't have a shirt that properly showed off his new assets. Everything he had was so loose. No one would even be able to see them! He looked over to the bed. There lay his sleeping wife. He'd always been jealous of her breasts He snuck over to her closet, took one of her blouses, and rushed out of the room.

On the way to work Sven almost wrecked his car. He was too busy ogling himself to notice the traffic around him. He was so pretty now. Pretty breasts. Pretty blouse. Pretty close to rear-ending that car! Sven took a deep breath and took his foot off the break.