Haikus

Procrastination -

Should I work on my paper?

Or just take a nap?

Like the falling rain

School is quickly eroding

My will to go on

I must ask myself

How much liquor will it take

to make schoolwork fun?

The green light is out.

It will never blink again.

My printer has died.

My introduction:

accidentally deleted.

My heart has turned black.

More Papers

Have you ever started writing a paper, maybe even finished a paper early for the first time in your life, and then been faced with the realization, not that what you wrote was crap, but that you wrote completely on the wrong subject? Well...let me tell you, its not fun. Maybe there's something to reading directions after all. But you'd think that a professor would mention that he put up paper guidelines on one of the days that I attended class. Insensitive jerk.

Oh well. I'd promise updates, but I know both that I won't do it, and that no would care if I did. So I'll just indulge my porn addiction, then get straight to work.

Simplicity

I've realized now that my whole life I've been completely wrong today. ("I think I've had an apostrophe." "I think you mean an Epiphany" "Lightning has just struck my brain." "Well that must hurt.") Ever since I was about, oh, 16 I've thought that I was an incredibly complicated human being. Not only was I more intelligent then those around me (they just didn't get me) I was morally superior. While all the space monkey's around me drank or smoked themselves into a stupor, I held myself aloof from them. I mingled with them as one mingles with commoners: as a kind of game. Though I could boast that I had no enemies and many friends, I always saw myself as deeper than they were: stronger somehow. Today, it has occurred to me that I am actually an incredibly simple human being. I went grocery shopping (I've been living off bacon for the last week and a half) and almost peed my pants at all the varieties of coffee that the Teet has. Examining all the different mixes and brews I exclaimed, "OH shit!" happily to the dismay of my fellow shoppers. An old lady fixed her steely gaze on me, but what did I care? Not even stopping to beg her pardon (I'm a crazy motherfucker I know) I shoved my face as close to the grinder as was prudent and inhaled the rich aroma. Fiendishly glancing back and forth to make sure that the old lady had turned away and no one else had come near I wiped the grains off the spout and rubbed the brown mix into my hands so the smell would stick with me. I took a full 15 minutes trying to decide what to try, and for a brief, insane moment, I imagined running down the length of containers, filling my bag with a bit of each to create my own monsterous concoction. It would have been too much for me to bear I think, though, so I just went with something Columbian. I figured if they make cocaine this good they must have some pretty damn fine coffee too. Satisfied finally, I moved on to the beer isle. Here there was no confusion - here I had the intense pleasure of knowing exactly what I wanted. Guinness. God I love the Irish. Then some Asti Spumante (for the making of Black Velvets - Guinness and Sparkling Wine, I can't wait). I won't go into the joy I felt at buying meat. Oh meat how I love thee. As I drove home I was aroused, aroused I say!, by the thought that just minutes from then I would be sitting outside, enjoying the crisp fall air, reading Tolstoy, drinking Columbian coffee and smoking some fine Tobacco. What could be better? Is there more to life then this? If there is, count me out. I have found pure happiness. To hell with being deep. Simple pleasures are clearly the best when you allow yourself to enjoy them. I think I will be a Falstaff. If I die when I'm 45 of heart disease or a stroke then so be it. At least I will go out happy. My dog died fat and happy. I think I'll do the same.

To hell with it...

Jesus man, what the fuck is going on with the world? Why is every son of a bitch settling down and having 6 goddamn monkey children with the little wife? Christ, when did college end? Why are all these bastards so fucking ready to sell their souls to the corporate devil? And why is that somehow called "real life?" Well fuck real life man. I'm never going, not if they have to drag me kicking and screaming. Its a scam I say, I perverse fucking Nazi scam. They'll suck you dry and spit your husk of a corpse for your monkey children to pick apart like the depraved vultures they are. Not me man. No fucking way. Its Arizona for me, by God. Go west young man...out in the desert. Its the only damn place that's free anymore. I just can't wait until the spacelanes open - I can't wait to hop into my Ford fucking Starcruiser pay my way through those damn space tolls around Mars and then let the rest of the civilized universe eat the dust off my sandals. I'm out man. Sailing the solar winds on the Queen Anne's Revenge. Its the only way to stay sane. Christ! The authorities will be on to me of course. How could they not? They can't let someone like me get away...it'll be bedlam. When word of this gets out they'll have hell on earth. It might occur to people that living off the fat of those rich bastards is better than shoving it down their frog throats. The fuckers will riot. No stopping that. The depraved bastards will destroy everyone in their path. Women and children won't be safe. Who can blame them? After years of servile bootscraping who wouldn't be in for a little murder and rapine. Not me though. Hell, no. I'll be lightyears away making treaties with Alpha Centaurians, trading them beads for gold. Silly bastards. I'll feel guilty, sure, but a man's got to make a living.

Books and Barcodes Part I

“Hey.”

“Hey baby. I'm kind of in the middle of something, can I call you back?”

“Yeah. No. Sure, I guess. Whatever you want.”

Amy sighed on the other line. “What's the matter, pumpkin?”

“Nothing.”

“Ok, well, I've really got to -”

“It's just that that's exactly the problem. You're kind of in the middle of something. You're always kind of in the middle of something. Or I am. Either way it doesn't matter. I mean, what the hell are we doing anyway? We're not getting married, so what, really, is the point?”

“Jesus. Are you breaking up with me again?”

“Don't take the Lord's name in vain. And no, I'm not breaking up with you...you know I wouldn't break up with you over the phone. Christ, I'm not that much of an asshole.”

“Listen. I can't handle this shit anymore. Just because you hate your job, you hate your life, or whatever your fucking problem is doesn't mean that you can dangle our relationship over my head. Are you breaking up with me or not? Let's settle this thing.” She sounded serious.

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” Sam replied dryly, like it was some private sarcasm.

“Don't you start quoting the fucking Bible at me, this is serious.” Now she was really getting upset.

“What, the Bible isn't serious? The Word of God isn't a serious issue? That's the problem with you Catholics – damned Papists! - you're perfectly willing to accept the words of some pedaphilic priest, or some lunatic in Rome claiming to be God's only voice in this world, but you don't take the Holy Scripture seriously!”

“What is the matter with you? I mean, really, what the hell is the matter with you?”

“The Spirit of the Lord has departed me, and an evil spirit of the Lord torments me,” Sam said.

“Ok. Fine. Have it your way. We're done. This time we're really done. You've been wanting to do it for years, well have it your fucking way.” She hung up, probably wishing that she could slam her cellphone down. Still, Sam imagined that she pressed the End button hard enough so that it would never work properly again.

“Hmm. That didn't go well,” he muttered as he closed the phone and slipped it into his jeans pocket, where it rattled against his keys.

Big Balls

So, after a long and well fought season my intermural softball team (Team Big Balls) was finally defeated. Though we suffered a few minor setbacks early on in the season (we lost our first game 25-5) it was largely due to a lack of a pitching staff - so I stepped in to fill the void. Under my expert leadership we soundly defeated our next opponent, rocketing us into a strong position in the playoffs (we won by forfit - the team they had us scrimmage beat us 9-5). Sadly, our destiny was cut short by I bunch of whiny jerk offs who complained about everything. Its one thing to talk trash in kind of a joking way when its a real close game...its just fucking rude to talk trash when you're winning soundly. Not only to talk trash, but to complain at every pitch - if only our umpire had been willing to cheat 'cause you could tell he hated the bastards too. The worst one was their pitcher, who must have been like 38. I wanted to say something too him, but then I just thought...he'll be dead in a few years anyway. And then I laughed. Sucker.

I think we lost because of the team name. I mean, if we're going to go with the funny then we should have gone with something slightly clever like Big Tits, or Large Genitalia, y'know, something clever. Ah well, we'll be back in the spring.

Still Writing

Well I just finished a paper break for class that was THREE FUCKING HOURS LONG...I'm finally out of the ed school and I still have to suffer through its bullshit. Not only was it 3 hours, it was 3 hours of Geography. Yes. Geography. We're reading a book that says that the reason Europe had an idustrial revolution when everyone else didn't was because Europe primarily had migrations along a latitudinal line rather than longitudinal. Of course there is some basic truth to that, but I thought historians got rid of all that easy answer crap when we kicked out progressivism and marxism. I guess the Geographers are even farther behind than historians.

Anyway, still working on a paper that is now only a catchy title (The Make-Up of Man) a fun footnote making fun of catchy titles in history papers, and something of an introduction in which I forgot to introduce my argument but only gave a page of exceptionally written background. Shit. Well, I'll be at this for another several hours, so for those of you regularly checking...haha...there'll probably be several more posts throughout the night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Peace Crackahs

Writing a Paper

There is nothing more frightening than a blank page. Someone write the first paragraph for me.

Big AND Perky

If I ever go anywhere for any length of time, I always find a favorite spot. When I lived in Gloucester I had many, but the dock jutting out into one of the brackish York River tributaries was probably my favorite. Call me a dork but certain places are just good for thinking. Here at UVA, my first was against the big tree on the Lawn. Its a great tree - one of those that seem they were made purposely for leaning against. The problem is that the Lawn is just too damn public. Those of you who know me know that I hate people - especially people that I don't know, and I really hate it when they intrude into my thoughts.

So I moved. I found a great spot, behind a certain building that I'll never reveal because I've never seen anyone else back there and I don't want to start. That is, I never saw anyone else back there until just the other day. As an only somewhat reformed goody good whenever I sneak around the corner of the building I feel just a twinge of guilt and excitment - as if I were doing something wrong. Its as if I'm always expecting some maintainence man to come around the corner, having seen me through the windows, and order me to clear off. Of course this is nonsense, there's absolutely nothing even remotely wrong with me being there, but nontheless. Public Grade School, bravo, now I can't ever sneak off the beaten path without feeling guilty. Of course this does make routine shortcuts seem all the more exciting.

The space behind the building is small, as it is situated in front of a road but up a fairly steep hill, which is more like a grassy mesa with a scrub covered cliff. The trees and the height itself work well to neatly block you from view of the road, though not really from the noise sadly.

Anyway, so I was sitting back there, leaning against another tree, one not quite so big, but just as comfortable, when, as if to confirm my worst fears, a maintainence man appears. Only he didn't come from around the corner - that is, from the building, but rather he emerged like some kind of wood sprite out of the shrubbery. My immediate reaction was to freeze, but years of trespassing with friends (despite the fear that this provoked) had trained my reflexes. In just a moments time I was waving and smiling, pretending that I had every right to be there and that he should just assume so and move on. He waved and smiled back and then walked around the building and away. As I started to sigh with relief and relax, I realized that he had been waving and smiling just the same way that I had been.

My natural fear at getting caught had kept me from asking the obvious question: What the fuck had he been doing there? How had he managed to come up the hill in the first place? And why?

Maybe he has a better spot down the hill a little ways...or maybe he thought he'd found a short cut so he could hurriedly get to his maintainence man business...or maybe he was running from the law and lept up the hill to avoid pursuit. Or maybe, just maybe, he was a changeling masquerading in maintainence man form, off to perform some bit of mischief with the President's Wife.

I think it was the latter, cause I swear I saw a smile on her face the other day, and I know for damn sure Casteen didn't put it there.

Blogging

God I hate trends. I mean I really hate trends. Trends like Blogging, whatever the hell that is. I also hate hypocrites. Unfortunately, I do really like the idea, however unrealistic it may be, that the general public reads and appreciates my pretentious self-referential drivel.

Of course I'm not following the trend here. I was the trend setting. I invented blogging, or at least I was in on the ground floor. Back then we just called them websites and you had to know how to write in html in order to make them, but they were essentially the same - just without all the flash. I started writing my own webpages when I was 12 (which was in...1996? - ok maybe not that ground floor then, but close enough).

Not that anyone, including myself, really cares: I just had to have one post so I could preview the page.