Archive for summer
they call me a lot of things, but they don’t call me judy.
So I know it’s been quite a while, and I know that no one really cares. This isn’t exactly someone’s idea of a scintillating newsource, or even a place of mildly amusing ramblings. It’s mostly just stuff about me. And while selfishly I will like to look back on all this someday and count it amongst my chief accomplishments, I’m not exactly sure how exciting this is for everyone else.
But I digress. It’s been a while. But not for a lack of things to write about, or question, or analyze. My brain has just been a little bit too overloaded with this impending trip to think about much else. There is this gigantic neon sign in my head that just keeps flashing “LONDON LONDON LONDON” over and over and over again. My mind is already home to too many neurosis’ to fit in one blog post, hence there is no way I could convey accurately all the shit that’s just flying around up there in the ol’ noodle.
I’m really hoping that London will serve to kick start my creative gene again. I haven’t been able to write since I left Decatur, and it’s not like Decatur was exactly a hub of creative thought for me. I keep picturing myself sitting outside some internet cafe, writing some brilliant piece of theatre. Then I’ll bring it back, produce it, send it in to Yale, and my future will be set. Or at least that’s what I want to happen.
Did I mention I’m applying to Yale? I am. Other grad schools too, but I’m mostly hoping for Yale.
Did I mention I’m leaving in 24 hours for London?
Did I mention that I will probably blog obnoxiously in London? Think of a vague narrative along the lines of “Sex and the City.”
I can’t spell, but I’m real good at getting it close enough for spell check to figure it out for me.
After a severely pleasant week experiencing a self-inflicted solitary confinement here in Decatur, I can honestly say that I enjoy living alone. And here I am getting ready to move out of my apartment. Seeing as the direction that my life has a habit of turning is never anything but ironic, I think this is especially apropos.
All this time alone, cleaning incessantly, experimenting in the kitchen, and making up new life stories to tell the poor people who have the privilege of hearing them on my daily campus tours has given me a lot of time to think. About what you ask? Why, none other than the state of the current political climate.
Now you come right back to the computer and start reading this again this instant. This isn’t going to turn into one of those masturbatory posts on all of my obnoxious political views or how I’m so sick of Obama, or how I’m so over McCain or something equally avoidable like that. In fact, it’s the complete opposite.
All I can think about these days is how unfortunate it is that no matter who becomes the president this fall, somewhere around half the country will be completely bitter and heinously irate about it for the next four (to eight) years. And all I can say is that I am so glad I will be out of the country to experience the aftermath.
Don’t get me wrong, I have very strong political leanings and thoughts and ideas and musings and blah, blah, blah along with the rest of the ardent bloggers out there. I don’t spend all day watching gay porn and musing about the state of Britney’s health. I do spend a great deal of time at my desk, flipping between Fox, CNN, and MSNBC to gather all the stimulating campaign news I can devour. Yum. But one thing I have noticed as of late, is everyone’s obsessions to vomit these ideas all over you in any way they can. Whether it be a genial debate on some youtube video comment section, or the various “I <3 Obama” or “NObama” facebook groups that I get daily invites for.
Free speech is a beautiful thing. I think it’s great that people like me can write mindlessly for as long as they please on blogs like these all over the nation. Props to the constitution. We geddit. But don’t we all have better things to do with our time than banter back and forth with those who stand on the opposite side of the partisan line? I hate to break it to everyone who dreams of someday astounding a Liberal with their brilliant Conservative ideas, but it’s never going to happen. And the same goes for you tree hugger- you’re never going to get that guy to trade in his Ford F1-50 for an environmentally aware electric dealy.
I think the one thing that I’ve learned is that every strong political ideal I’ve ever held in my life has never once been swayed by someone else arguing with me on a message board. Any changes (and there have been many) have come from living my own life, and gradually growing into my own ideas of what is right and what is wrong. And I guess my overall point here is something akin to “give peace a chance” or something equally laughable, but can’t we all just agree to disagree and realize that calling each other the scum of the earth for sitting somewhere a little too far left or right of the political spectrum isn’t all that bad? In fact it’s what makes this country so great.
But then I suppose what would be the point of free speech if there weren’t a bunch of irate college students arguing for hours back and forth on some message board? I guess I just can’t make myself care all that much about what other people are thinking, because I’ve come to accept that they’re going to think what they’re going to think no matter how ridiculous it is. You can post all the links you want to reputable news sources, proving whatever candidate you oppose is in fact a factious, communist who is hell bent on destroying whatever ideals you believe this country was built on. Inevitably they’ll just conclude that there is some kind of liberal/conservative bias behind it, and write it off immediately. It’s all just so frustrating. Too frustrating, which is why at the ripe old age of twenty I immediately pull out like a drunken frat guy at toga party whenever someone pushes me to “debate” with them on whatever issue it is that is just bugging them at that moment. I’ve finally learned that the word “debate” really means arguing ruthlessly until everyone involved walks away with hurt feelings, bruised egos, and feeling like they somehow proved their point.
Don’t get started with me on the importance of “intelligent dialogue on important issues that are facing this country” either. Because I can have plenty of that with people who are equally as unwilling to get so invested that they’re willing to debase themselves to a level of what should be just sheer embarrassment. I won’t ever call one of my friends an idiot for believing whatever the hell they want to believe. At least not to their face.
Oh, and don’t worry- I’ve already got my absentee ballot, so I’m still voting. Even if it is all a little bit hopeless to argue about it, I’m going to put my energy in a place where it really matters in the long run: Googling “absentee ballot” until I found out how someone actually gets one of those. Hopefully all that work won’t go to waste in November.
On a much lighter, and possibly illegal note…
This weeks installment of Illegal Crush of the Week may have actually opened up avenues to a possible new segment on this blog called Little Person Crush of the Week. If I haven’t given it away already, I’m speaking of course this week of the undeniable hottie, Jeremy Roloff. Oldest son, and star of the TLC reality show Little People, Big World, Jeremy is one of the main reasons I tune in on Sunday afternoons when I have nothing better to do but watch reruns of this mediocre show. At the ripe old age of 17 Jeremy quick starts my loins every time I see him running around after his four-foot tall mom out in their suburban yard… Kicking something around. I think it’s a soccer ball. I don’t care though, because he usually has his shirt off, and it makes me feel in equal parts tingly and gross (for feeling tingly). I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely counting down until this kid’s eighteenth birthday.
Here’s a picture I awkwardly (and possibly illegally) ripped from his myspace (just wrong, I know).
He’s the one on the left, and his arm is wrapped lovingly around what the caption on his myspace reads “BFF.” They both look pretty gay to me. Is all I’m sayin’. They’re sporting the gay buzzcut and frosted tips between them! GAY.
that’s what people do in tragedies. they come over and sit
(Quote above from Lars and the Real Girl, one of the best movies I’ve seen in such a long time. The writing and acting were both just absolutely amazing, and both at levels to which I someday aspire to reach).
Living alone this summer has taught me a lot of things about being a real live grown up. But more than any of the lessons I’ve learned about managing money and conserving energy, I’ve learned the real lesson of living on your own: When you have major emotional breakdowns, there is no one there to pick up the pieces.
So in the absence of mentally stable individuals to talk you down off the proverbial ledge, I had to find other ways of calming down my very neurotic psyche down. And in true sociopath fashion, I have begun the process of meticulously cleaning my apartment.
On the upside of this, not only is it crazy, but it’s also practical! I’m moving out of this stucco hell in a few weeks, and what better way to soothe the wayward neurons firing off in my brain then scrubbing down every single wall surface in this apartment! For several hours! With Bleach.
So now I’m not only stressed out about money, London and my teeth, but I smell like bleach and lysol. Whoopie!
But the walls are shining, and I just finished the wiping down the fridge! Yes. Yes I did.
If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m lay down several layers of tarp and splattering my brains all over the apartment.
the turtle: nature’s D student.
My feet have been cold all day long, and I just don’t know what to do about it.
Today was the first day I’ve spent all summer recovering from the aftermath of a night of boozing, drugging, and failed attempts to hook-up. All three require at least twelve hours of lounging time in order to either forget, or accept whatever happened the night before.
As I get older I get better and better at not making a fool of myself at functions such as the one last night; an arguably mild soiree made up of former Millikin students, Decatur townies, and the people I usually see in the basements of parties I attend during the school year. I was not one to turn down a party invite though, seeing as how the summers in Decatur tend to be more on the god-awful side of boring. So I slapped on my tightest jeans, and my dirtiest, non-descript t-shirt and headed over to the locale of that night’s festivities.
It was easy to sift through the odd mix of people that inhabited the party to find the ones that I actually wanted to talk to. Somewhere in the foggy mix of marijuana and cigarette smoke that clouded most of the party radius I found a few old friends and some odd acquaintances that I had always found pleasant in the past. Among the latter group was your typical, “atypical” geeky gay guy. Full of intellect and a somewhat patronizing demeanor, he was seemingly the only homosexual that was at the party. He was also the only homosexual that I had seen in Decatur since Chris left back in June. So needless to say, once I imbibed a few drinks, my hormones went wild and as subtly as I found possible at that moment I began the process of “working it.” Atypical gay and I have had several classes together in my four semesters at Millikin, and every other quarter or so I’ll find myself attracted to his slouchy demeanor and mix of mid-nineties-esque grunge clothes. He’s a really smart guy, and that’s something that’s hard to find in the gay community.
I’m not smooth. I’m not really that aggressive either. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and sometimes you just have to go for it. And that’s just what I did. Now Atypical gay isn’t exactly David Beckham, and I figure I have at least a fair chance of getting at least a good makeout session out of this. Perhaps it was the booze, or maybe it was the countless hours I’ve put in at the gym this summer, but I was feeling pretty good and decided that I had to look as good to him, as he (eventually) looked to me.
But as the night wore on, and my quest to garner some kind of physical contact became more important I actually began to talk to Atypical. The problem arises here when I begin to realize that he may be more than just some guy whose tongue I want down my throat. He really was that atypical gay guy that doesn’t necessarily fit into any of my loopy ideas on gay men.
Anyone who has been in even a slightly similar situation as I was in last night can relate to where I was. I had the power. I was the one who thought he could swing this situation in any one direction. But in the course of a few conversations and more than a little mary jane, the ball suddenly shifted over to his court. It happened so fast, I barely noticed it happened.
And then I was stuck. Genuinely intrigued by this guy, and no longer feeling quite as confident as I started out that evening, the plan was gone, and now I wasn’t exactly sure how to handle myself.
Fuck.
It was here that I turned to the one thing I knew could help me through such a rough situation. Beer. Lots, and lots of beer. Even while writing that last sentence, I feel a small twinge of incredulity at the direction I decided to steer the party bus. This was definitely not the best course of action, and only served to make me look like a bigger fool than I probably looked before when I thought I was in control. Looking a fool does not generally impress the Atypical gay. In fact, if last night is any indication, it generally repulses them.
So by the end of the night I found myself alone in my apartment, wondering why I can’t even get a guy with bad teeth to take me home. Someone should write a song about that.
After spending the majority of my day in bed, recovering from what I perceived to be yet another grossly embarrassing and sexually detrimental night, I realized that maybe that night had not been such a bad night after all. If anything else, I may have discovered something surprising about what really attracts me to a person. And maybe, just maybe, my own creative sensibilities fuel my own self-defecating attitude towards my drunken antics last night. I probably didn’t embarrass myself last night as openly as I now recall, and only on the odd chance that Atypical gay reads this blog will he realize that I was in fact flirting as fervently as I thought I was.
At this point, rejection only makes my life that much more colorful. This is, as many of you may have guessed, something that I have to repeatedly tell myself in order to maintain a healthy attitude about… Basically everything.
On a lighter note, gay friend of the week goes to Glen, on the new VH1 celebreality show Brooke Knows Best. While I find Brooke Hogan to be a vacuous waste of space, her show on the other hand is a fun little romp that should be enjoyed while doing multiple other things. The supporting cast of characters are the only thing about this show that makes it watchable. In the episode that I got through tonight, Glen gives Brooke the customary gay best friend pep talk as she cries in the bathroom.
“Why are you letting a boy ruin your fun?”
Any gay can probably attest to giving a similar speech at least once in their lifetime to a girl friend.
Props to you Glen. Props to you.
squeak squeak squeak
I’m finding it difficult to sleep tonight. You see, there is something especially distracting about the rhythmic humping of my upstairs neighbor and his girlfriend, the frantic squeaking of their mattress, and the not-so-muffled grunts of what I suspect is the beefy lacrosse player that is one of four equally uncouth gentlemen that live above me. (this I find particularly distressing only when I’m trying to fall asleep).
While normally I might be able to ignore their carnal escapades, if not finding them at least somewhat noteworthy, tonight I find it nearly impossible to overlook. Not only is it noisy in the most unflattering and unentertaining way, it also sounds unenjoyable and painful. The kind of sex where two pelvis bones are banged together in what can only end in a trip to the emergency room, a child, or at least some light bruising. I can’t imagine that this is the type of sex that anyone is having fun engaging in. This is only emphasized now by the loud, groaning finish; the unmistakable sound of hurried, almost panicked text messaging; and the male partner’s declaration of “I promise it won’t always be that way” not once, not twice, but three times. Rather loudly from various rooms in the apartment. Apparently he felt the need to shout this from the kitchen, the living room before finally having the decency to speak it in a somewhat normal (but still quite audible) tone of voice back in the living room. Either that or his sexual partner is partially deaf. How I managed to hear all three declarations and she didn’t is beyond me.
This comes on the heels of my recent realization that this summer has been the longest period of time that I’ve lived on my own since my conception and birth. While I’ve lived beyond the walls of familial confinement for some time now, since entering college I’ve always found myself with a roommate at least half of the time. However this summer the lease is solely in the my name, along with all the uninspiring duties that a bachelor living on his own is faced with on a daily basis. What a hum-drum life I’ve lived these past six weeks. But despite the insipid nature of soy living, I find it incredibly comforting to find that it’s not all that bad, and that a life of solitude is something I am fully equipped to handle- when that kind of life is forced upon me. Personally I like to think that I’ll always have a roommate to come home to in some form or another. I enjoy playing the Thelma to someone else’s Louise, or probably more accurately, the Will to some unfortunate hag’s Grace. But I can just as easily see myself in a run down, rent controlled apartment, microwaving ramen for dinner all by my lonesome.
I just hope when that day comes, the walls will be a tad bit thicker.
Ladies and or Gentlemen
Sometimes at work I mistake men for women and vice versa. A lot. A shameful amount I daresay. All you can do is hope when you yell “Hi there ladies” across a crowded store that you are in fact speaking to two ladies. Not a man and a woman. Or even worse, two men. It’s never appropriate. The thought did occur to me tonight that I could possibly make my greetings less personal and just say “Hi there” or something equally bland, but I’m just not that type of person. I say “Hello, welcome to family video” in spanish, I sing at oncoming customers, sometimes I even jokingly threaten someone’s life for giving me incorrect change. It’s what makes me a top notch customer service professional.
In other news I’m trying to write something at least once a day. In the absence of anything particularly artistic, important or “good” to write, I will undoubtedly escape here, only to write a few acerbic sentences about my cheeky greetings at Family Video.
Life is never simple, and I think that by college boys should have pecs. At least.
kick that bucket
I briefly considered composing my own “bucket list” (a list of things you want to do before you “kick the bucket.” Clever, I know), a testament to how completely and utterly bored I am in Decatur. However I had to stop, because it just became my list of places I want to have sex before I die. Is that even more depressing than the fact that I almost considered making a bucket list? I’m not sure.
The Happening was absolutely horrible in all possible ways. I don’t understand why Mr. Shyamalan continues his stubborn insistence on directing his own scripts. We get it. But honestly dude, you’re a far better director than you are a writer. You can only go so far with dull movies anchored by their “shocking” endings. This is a perfect example. Brilliant direction, but piss-poor writing.
I will give him this- I have never been more terrified of trees before in my life. And my lifelong fear of death by industrial lawn mower was horrifically brought to life in one gut wrenching moment. Props on that.
But seriously folks, save your eight bucks.
june is busting out all over.
Pat, my favorite office lady is retiring today. One of the only perks about a dear friend leaving you forever is that you have time to sit at your desk and write a blog about it. Currently Pat, and her office lady cohorts are congregating around a rather large chocolate cake that someone meticulously created, with the words “Some of us will miss you Pat” in pink icing. Those office ladies have a real sense of humor.
But I have a feeling everyone will miss Pat. She takes some getting used to, and she definitely isn’t a “warm” person by any means, but she was undoubtedly my favorite. Pat was the quiet one out the fearsome foursome of fifty year old women that I spent seven hours a day with. While Connie is the leader and the christian, Pat is definitely second in command, getting more done and with a less Jesus-y gusto than Connie.
She sits at her computer every day, handing me files to alphabetize and reports to type, and she always does it with a look of absolute boredom and apathy. Unlike the others who try and fake like this job is somehow difficult and important, Pat is the only one who openly shows her disdain for just about everything. When I say that not everyone has adorable children, Mary (the cheerful, spacey one of the group) argues that everyone is beautiful in their own way. What does Pat do? Shoots the bitch down. She, like so many others realize that there are just some plain ugly ass kids. And thank God for her.
When I found out she was retiring recently, I lamented that we never had enough time to become “BFF’s.” I thought Pat would ignore this comment as she often does (I tend to talk to Pat a lot, because I know Pat won’t talk back). But instead she patted me on the shoulder and said with a sigh “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make sure we’ll be BFFing forever.” I’m still not sure Pat knows what a BFF is, and what that could mean about her response, but I like to think that Pat envisions a lively future, of me visiting her without warning, and her grudgingly accepting my presence in her life.
In a few hours I’ll likely never see Pat again. I’m not sure how important she was in the grand scheme of my life, but I’m confident she warrants at least a chapter in my eventual biography, which will be scathing, I’m sure.
At least I still have Myra. The feisty black one of the group. She’s fierce.
MTV delivers
I for one have always been an opponent of the evolutionary process that facebook has undergone in the past couple of years. From the smallest changes in layout, to the monstrosity that was newsfeed. Like everyone else I’ve learned to live with the changes, and even grown to love some of those applications. But what recently came to my attention was the “people you may know” sidebar feature. Now facebook awkwardly sifts through your friends’ friends and decides that maybe you should friend them as well. Akward, right? Right.
But useful if only for the sheer amount of nostalgia that comes with seeing the formerly pimpled faces of once beloved high school classmates superimposed to the right side of your facebook homepage.
People like Mark Primeano and Tiffany Scott whose sheer amount of cruelty was only offset by the mind blowing amount of ignorance that they displayed on a daily basis. I can only pray that my little asian visage doesn’t pop up on their “people you may know” bar.
Between the horrible memories that their pinched little facebook profile pictures brought and MTV’s The Paper (more on this later) I’m so glad that I’m not back in high school.
Sometimes I think I’m way lucky that I attended three different high schools before graduation, because I was only mildly immersed in any of the bullshit that went on. While it sucks that I never developed a really “tight” group of friends throughout those years, looking back on it now, I can’t say that I’m lacking anything that any of my collegiate friends possess. I have the five or so kids I still talk to on a regular basis, and a lingering fondness for my senior prom. Other than that however, high school was always a take it or leave it experience for me.
I should write a book though. Seriously. Getting suspended for touching some girls boobs. Getting sent to a mental hospital for catching a case of the “gays,” moving out at seventeen. I’m a lifetime movie waiting to happen. I never even had a cellphone.
But I don’t regret any of it, because I’m a hell of a lot more functional than a lot of the wastes of space I’ve met since graduation.
How can you not miss that?
MTV, I commend you. Not since Laguna Beach have I been more annoyed by “real life” high school students. Annoyed and enthralled that is. I could eat up their upper middle class goodness all day long. Good thing I have so much free time, because that’s basically what I’ve been doing lately.
Thank God So You Think You Can Dance is back. I’ll probably be talking a lot more about that as soon as the audition process finishes up. Oh goodness what a summer I’m in for…
You do strange things when you live alone.
No subtext to that title. I really do. I do really weird shit because I know that no one will come home and catch me. I’m really not even sure I can talk about it on wordpress, because in truth I only skimmed through the content guidelines, and I don’t want to risk it. What I will do however, is give you a little insight into what my days consist of when I’m not working.
10am- Awake briefly to close the window. It’s too cold.
11am- My phone rings. It’s the regular ringtone, so I decide it’s not worth answering.
12pm- Finally wake up. Turn on the telly.
(I’d like to take a moment and personally thank MTV and VH1 for constantly showing re-runs of ANTM. I eat that shit up)
1pm- Flip between Meerkat Manor (adorable) and ANTM. Same difference really.
2pm- Flip between Meerkat Manor (still adorable) and ANTM. Still similar.
3pm- Re-heat some stir-fry from last night.
This is where shit gets weird, because one of the first things that left when my roommates did was my understanding of how food works. Suddenly I’m mixing, and crunching, and combining things that shouldn’t be mixed, crunched or combined. I decided it would really be a great idea to use my stir-fry as dip for my potato chips, and hey- maybe it would be a swell idea to inhale a dab of ranch with each bite. Disgusting? A little, but I when you’re alone, and no one is judging you, you think what the hey.
4pm- Made an orange juice and vodka. Began looking up recipes that involve alcohol.
Um. So as you can see I accomplish a shit ton on the weekends. To be fair, all that tv watching was mixed in with a lot of youtubing, facebook stalking and blog reading.
I’d like to say that all this is somehow creating an atmosphere of self-discovery, but I’d be lying.
If you haven’t been watching the bad girls club this season, you’ve been missing out. Probably one of the most underrated reality series on television. I mean, it’s everything you want in a reality series, without all the pretentiousness of all those other shows. It doesn’t promise redemption, or learning, or growth or any of that shit, it just gives us the good shit. They put a bunch of socially deficient women in a house and gives them a lot of money and booze. COME ON. How can you not see the brilliance of that? They don’t even try to hide the fact that they’re shoving a bunch of mildly psychotic, alcoholics together into a house, because you know the Real World does that. It’s like, “oooh, let’s watch a bunch of people learn to coexist.” Who really watches the Real World to see that. They want to see the crazies unleashed. And that’s why I love the Bad Girls Club. Because it doesn’t pretend to be anything but.
Girls. Each one of you is a star.
