Penis envy for kids

Well, due to the fact that the school newspaper had their opinion section filled with nostalgic musings (Hey guys, remember Tamagotchis? How about The Goonies? “Rugrats?” Ninja Turtles? Whoa, it’s like we grew up with similar tastes in the same time period!), that Something Awful recently featured an article in which “Corin Tucker’s Stalker” talked about toys he never had as a kid, but desperately wanted, and that I’m working on writing a memoir for my creative writing class, I’ve been filled with thoughts about my childhood. While I consider myself out of that whole nostalgia phase, and think it’s honestly kind of stupid now, I thought that an entry about it might give you a little insight into my life. Which is kinda what this whole blog thing is about.

As a child, I was definitely privleged. I didn’t get literally everything I wanted, actually, far from it, but I got a lot of really, really cool toys. My parents were good to me. If I really wanted something, and it was relatively cheap, I’d probably get it. But there were those certain toys that were either too expensive, or just never made it past the paper of my Christmas list. Those certain toys that lit up my eyes with glee on the mere mention. Those toys that I saw my friends playing with, filling my heart with a near-vicious greed. Those toys that defined young boys’ lives, and separated the haves from the have-nots.

So, without further ado, let me completely plagiarize SA (it’s okay, I paid that fucker Lowtax $9.95 to get access to his dumb forums), and present you

Toys I never had, but really, really, REALLY wanted:

Power Rangers Megazord

This is always the first thing that comes to mind when I think of toys that I could never have. This thing dominated my childhood. I wanted one of these probably more than I wanted to live. But with the steep price tag ($40, yes, I actually remember that), I was never granted one. Oh, but I wanted one badly. My mom got me a miniature one that sort of came apart into the different Zords, and had wheels on it or some stupid revisionist shit like that, but it wasn’t the same. The toy just had this air about, this great, solid feeling that swept throughout your body as you held the nearly-foot-tall behemoth. It stood for a symbol of power; it was something that was brought out during as many play-times as possible, and displayed prominently in its owner’s room, usually atop a dresser. As a condolence, I was given the arguably-cooler, but not quite as respectable Dragonzord, which I remember taking apart into “morph mode” several times, lamenting about the fact that I had nothing to attach it to. Once, I did combine it with my friend’s Megazord and Titanus, to form the incredibly-fearsome Ultrazord, which I still hold in my mind as one of the high points of my childhood. Seriously, seeing that amazing beast in action was nothing short of breathtaking, an epiphany of glory, shining on our six-year-old eyes like shafts of light that had descended from heaven and implanted themselves in cheap Japanese toys. I may never get my hands on one of these things, but honestly in the back of my mind, something makes me want to head to eBay, just to attempt to make up for the slient mockery I felt from all of my friends over my lack of ‘Zord.

Sega Saturn

I don’t know if you remember this, especially if you’re not video game enthusiasts, but there were a bunch of pretty shitty game systems that came out in the mid-90’s. There were the Atari Jaguar, the 3DO, and, of course, the Sega Saturn. The latter was the only one that achieved anything close to succes, and wasn’t completely shut out by the N64 and Playstation. However, at the time, from the moment I laid eyes on it in my copy of GamePro (yes, I had a subscription then), I fell in love.

Panzer Dragoon, man. Panzer Dragoon.

I’m not sure why, but I wanted this system more than anything. I was tired of my Genesis, and I wanted for Sega to take me to the next level! I guess I had some penchant for failed systems, as I also lusted after the Virtual Boy, perhaps more so than the Saturn. However, I recently purchased a Virtual Boy from a friend, so I eventually got one, except not when it was in style nor “revolutionary.”

Anyway, the Saturn was really expensive. As in four hundred dollars expensive (and yes, I remember that one too). I remember devising a plan, after seeing some kids on a TV show (I think it was “My Brother and Me”) try it out. In the show, they collected a ridiculous amount of pop cans to sell for scrap aluminum. Something got lost in translation between the show and my head, or maybe the show was flat-out lying, but I thought I could get five whole dollars for each can I collected. I did the math, and realized that I could realistically find 80 cans in a relatively short period of time. Of course, I later realized that, only in certain states, one could get five cents per can.

Needless to say, I was crushed. (pun most definitely intended)

Henrys Viper yo-yo

If you grew up in the Ninties, you probably remember that completely-inexplicable yo-yo craze that caught on like wildfire sometime between ‘97 and ‘99. Of course, as an impressionable youth, I was caught up in this fad. I remember I was obsessed with it. I fondly remember heading up to the local yo-yo-ing Mecca, Wind Wizards, (a store that predominately sold kites and the like, used to be located in the Boardwalk Center at Barry Rd. & I-29, has since gone under) and drooling over the collection of exotic devices they carried.

While the real object of lust for us yo-heads was the legendary Silver Bullet (SB) 2. Though it was undeniably sexy, and pretty much the best widely-available yo-yo out there, they never made their way to the playgrounds, due the outrageous $100 price tag. Some of my friends told me they had one, but I never believed them. Never, ever. They also tried telling me that there was a yo-yo called the “Golden Triangle” that was, as its namesake implies, triangular, and spun so fast that the user had to wear gloves to keep it from cutting up his hands. I don’t think that it actually exists (I can’t find one online), but needless to say, we wanted one. Badly.

Besides those elusive beauties, the one other yo-yo that dominated the wet dreams of us yo-yo fanatics was the Viper. The word rolling off my lips just felt so good. Viper. Viper. Vi-per. No serious yo-yo-er would be caught dead without one of these babies in his arsenal. Though it was cheaper than the SB2, and its high-priced ilk, the Viper’s $60 price tag put it way out of my price range.

See, the thing was, I sucked at yo-yo-ing. I loved it, but I was terrible. I remember some after school yo-yo club in 3rd or 4th grade (maybe 5th, I don’t recall) that I went to, and being completely embarassed by my lack of skills. I had this one friend who was kind of a spoiled fuck. His parents bought him literally everything he wanted, and he was always good at all of this kind of stuff. We did a juggling unit in P.E. class once, and we had to “graduate” to different juggling materials as we learned to use them. While I struggled with 2 plastic grocery bags, he was totally owning up with three plastic bowling pins. This exact same thing happened during the yo-yo craze. While I was untangling the string around the axle of my cheap Yomega Fireball for the four hundredth time, he was doing all kinds of crazy tricks with his yellow (I think it was yellow, anyway) Viper. I thought that if I got a Viper, some of that yo-yo prowess would finally be mine. The guy was pretty protective of his stuff, so it took a while before he finally let me try out his Viper. It was like he handed me the key to yo-yo success, and soon I would be in Japan, winning world contests, and getting all kinds of bitches, and money, and all of that good stuff. Well, it turns out that the higher-quality yo-yos are actually harder to use than the cheapies. I very nearly broke his prized Viper before he just finally took it away from me. I couldn’t even get it to sleep. Disenchantend, I still, in the back of my mind, lusted after one of those butterfly beauties, and still get chills when I see them today.

Anyway, that’s it. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to drain my bank account by purchasing these symbols of my childhood shortcomings on eBay.

 

Hitz.

Look at the sidebar to the right. Scroll to the bottom, where it shows the number of hits (“xx people think I’m awesome.”). Does it say 1000? If so, please let me know. I would really like to find out exactly who the thousandth person visiting my blog is.

 

False idols

I’ve never been a big fan of American Idol. I tuned in during the first season with a mild curiousity, as most of America did. Though since the main ideas of the show now seem clichéd and re-hashed due to their repetitive use in all subsequent television talent contests, the whole you-get-judged-harshly-right-in-front-of-your-face thing was pretty revolutionary at the time. Seeing Simon cut down some delusional wannabe at the knees was an incredible experience that no one had previously witnessed on network television.

Through each of the past five seasons, I watched the show early on with a sort of morbid curiousity. After they’d gotten past the initial tryouts, I tuned out and honestly didn’t care about who won. For me, it was about who lost. I loved watching these horrifically bad singers standing before these ruthless, but fair, judges like like a condemned man in front of a firing squad.

These silly motherfuckers would get up there, thinking that they had what it took to be the next AMERICAN IDOL, though most of them didn’t have what it takes to win an elementary school talent show, and to a less-topical extent, what it takes to gain entrance into any community college or to not get a massive citation from the fashion police. Many of them could be considered clinically insane, but all of them suffered from delusions of grandeur, a Napoleon complex. These people, I hope, knew somewhere in the back of their minds that they were truly a terrible singer, but didn’t want to accept it. I don’t know what possessed some of these people to pay the entry fee, wake up that day, travel to the location (often hundreds of miles), wait in the horrendously long line for hours (often days), and finally try out in front of 3 incredibly tough critics, as well as millions of American viewers. I don’t understand. I don’t fucking understand.

I was holed up in my room, pretending to clean it, just beginning to plow into One Hundred Years of Solitude, as recommended by a friend [/plug], when I heard the familiar (yet haunting) howl of the “theme song” crescendo directly into a shit-eating introduction by renowned homometro (meaning he’s technically metro, but still pretty gay) Ryan Seacrest. I quickly flipped on the television and immersed myself into the immense shitpile of wretched vocals and shattered dreams.

However, something was different this time around. I didn’t find it nearly as hilarious when the judges ripped into the contestants’ chests and ripped out their still-beating hearts. I actually felt sorry for these poor saps. As delusional as they were, they were up there pouring their souls out, and giving it their all, only to be viciously dismantled by overwhelmingly negative criticism. What’s stranger was that I actually cheered for the people who sung well. It made me feel nice when the singers got the two-thirds vote and the golden ticket to Hollywood.

Maybe I’m just growing older, wiser. Perhaps schadenfreude isn’t exactly as great as I’d once thought. Either way, I still have no desire to watch the show past the first few weeks, and probably won’t tune in ever again. Good riddance, I say.

EDIT: Maybe it’s not me, maybe it’s the fact that the judges are a lot harsher, and, according to Rosie O’Donnell, possibly drunk.

 

Entering the confessional

Okay, so I was watching TV today, and I saw a commerical for one of those really terrible, overpriced compilation albums. You know the ones, that are just chock-full of one-hit wonders based on a certain theme, time period, etc.

This one was for a collection of Southern classic rock hits called “Goin’ South.”

So here’s a confession: I really kinda like Southern rock.

That may not seem very outlandish to you, but it’s beyond blasphemous for a music snob like myself (though I’m trying to not be snobbish with my music). But really, hearing those tunes that invaded my listening space as a child, due to my parents’ musical habits, gave me this overwhelming sense of nostalgia and happiness that a thousand Pavements or Sonic Youths or Sufjan Stevenses couldn’t match.

But that’s not enough. Not enough for a good entry, nor enough to satisfy your salicious tastes for personal gossip. So, I thought I’d share a few more confessions with you all.

(By the way, if you don’t like where this is going, you can pretty much suck a fat one. This is my damn blog and, well, I suppose I’ve already given my thoughts on the relationship I would like you to have with a “fat one” if you disagree.)

Some of my close friends might already know these. However, this will be news to most of my readers. I suppose that I really want people to get to know the real me with this whole blogging thing, and this is as good a way as any. So here goes.

• Something that Paige accurately guessed in a commentversation (a portmanteau meaning conversation with comments, which I will probably submit to Urban Dictionary*), I have an oft-uncontrollable fetish for pigtails. I don’t know why, it just “gets my motor runnin’.” I don’t know why I love them so, they’re just so damn cute, and can actually amplify the attractiveness of a girl, and can make generally unattractive ones mildly attractive. I’ve actually become quite a conosseuir of pigtails. I’ve become quite picky over the years, about which ones I like and which ones I’m indifferent about. I was going to classify them right here, right now, but I’ll dedicate a future entry for that soul-searching(crushing) endevour.
• I once cheated on a social studies test in fifth grade. The event has created such a guilty impact on my life, I remember the exact test and question. I just couldn’t remember the name of that particular important abolitionist during the Civil War. I mean, John Brown is a pretty forgettable name, in all honesty.
• I lie to my parents on a very frequent occasion. This is not a shock to anyone. However, I lie to them for absolutely no reason at all, especially about the people with whom I hang out. Of my friends with whom I regularly hang out (or have in the past), they don’t know that the following people exist: Corey, Shane, Alexis, Ethan, Paige, Emily O., Amy, Connor, Angelyse, Lauren W., Miguel, and Kendall. No offense to you folks, it’s just a hell of a lot easier to tell them I’m going over to Brandi’s/Tim’s/Jacob’s, or “hanging out” with Emily, Allison, and other people I have introduced.
• I use tweezers to extract boogers. And yes, I often eat them.
• I’m afraid of needles, fish, and heights. I am repulsed by toilet paper, or really any wet paper, tomatoes, and broken bones. This girl was in my J-Lab talking about someone at the gymnastics class with which she volunteered breaking her ankle, and I literally had daymares (?) about it for a week.
• I have a weird obsession with clipped toenails/fingernails. Since I bite my nails before they get too long, I usually let my toenails grow out really long, then cut them and save the clippings.
• I urinate the shower when I’m not in the shower. I honestly think most guys are guilty of this at least once in their lives.
• I cried during the movie “Air Bud.” I also cried during that episode of Pokémon when Ash tried to give up Pikachu.
• Back in elementary school, my (former) best friend and I set up an ant concentration camp. We’d previously spent a ton of time digging up a ton of dirt around a curb. On a side note, if you go to Fox Hill, and go to the curb right by the back door (the one with the awning on the west side), there should be a ton of dirt missing around the corner of the curb. Far as I know, it was never filled in. Anyway, we’d dig up stuff, and if an ant ever tried to escape over the curb, we’d kill it. Many innocent ants died on that fateful day, and not a day goes by that think about it, except for the few that do go by when I do think about it. But when those days go by on which I do think about it, I do feel kinda bad about it.
• I’ve never seen The Godfather in its entirety. Same goes for The Shawshank Redemption, Alien, Braveheart, and to a much less-embarassing extent, but still unbelieveable by some people, Finding Nemo.
• I’ve got at least 30 DVDs/VHS tapes, movies and TV shows, that I’ve never watched.
• Three. That’s the total number of online girlfriends I’ve had. Four. That’s the number of months I dated a girl named Brittany from New York online until she strangely disappeared (she was probably a middle-aged man that got caught by the fuzz). Zero. That’s the number of real girlfriends I’ve had.

I think I’m going to stop there. Dredging the depths of my soul has had a rather adverse affect on me, as I’ve realized that I’m honestly a somewhat filthy person. Anyway, there you are. Hope that you feel like you know me a little better now.

I’m probably going to spend the night in a fetal position, sobbing.

Until then!

*EDIT: “Commentversation” is currently an entry on Urban Dictionary. Great minds think alike, I suppose.

 

Karma police

I generally consider myself to be a righteous person.

 I don’t drink.

I don’t do drugs.

I follow traffic laws.

I obey my parents.

I don’t have promiscuous sex.

I really do nothing wrong.

I’m not going out of my way to be a so-called “goody-two-shoes.” I simply have personal morals that I like to uphold in my life. It just pains me to see my peers engaging in such low activities. And the fact that these people are seen as higher than me on the social chain.

The popularity curve has shifted in high school, or so I have notice. In early elementary school, everyone was either best friends or dire enemies with everyone. Later in that time, however, the lines began to blur. One begins to discover seconday, tertiary, and “back-up” friendships, as well as varying degrees of contempt for peers. As far as popularity goes, you’re either in or you’re out. That’s basically all there is to it. Middle school continues this cycle, but with one big difference: cliques. We still know exactly who is popular and unpopular, but the unpopular have a support group. They meet other people exactly like them, and plot to either join or take down the top of the social pyramid. During high school, however, the whole idea of “popularity” becomes ambiguous. Most of the people that I considered “popular” in elementary and middle school are still rather popular, but often only socialize with those in the same social caste.

The main problem is that these people, who usually have IQs lower than their shoe sizes, and begin to exhibit traits of the “jock” and “slut” archetypes before these classes are specifically defined, completely burn out in high school. The males end up overly-muscular, donning brand-name polo shirts that barely contain the flesh, or tight T-shirts with thinly-veiled sexual innuendos , with ironically-ripped jeans, flip-flops (regardless of the season). The girls, however, expontentially halve their skirt sizes, wear skanky tube tops, flip-flops, and clutch purses with some ironically-cute imagery plastered on the side. They both drive expensive cars (or ones that look expensive) incredibly fast, disobeying all traffic laws but usually getting out of it. However, they are able to score easy, lucrative jobs or get hundreds of dollars per week from their parents, to easily pay for whatever citations they may happen to receive. But they never get caught. Compared the literally the one time in my life where I really sped (not even on purpose) and ended up getting screwed over about it. They tend to care less about their educations. Their typical class loads include as many physical education classes as possible, study halls, blow-off classes like “Consumer Math,” Literacy in the Workplace,” and “Contemporary Issues.” However, they usually only have a few classes, in lieu of being part-time. Keep in mind none of them actually need to be part-time. The time that they could be using to focus on scholastic achievement is used instead to plot the latest drinking, drugs, and sex binge to be held that weekend.

And somehow, these kids succeed. In most of the countries in the world, kids like us would kill to the opportunities that are given to selfish American teenagers. Most of the time they’d be left behind, forced into homelessness or, if they’re lucky, military service.  It just blows my mind how uncaring these people are.

But, again, somehow, they succeed. A lot of them are able to go off to a good college. Some get full rides to great schools because of their athletic abilities. Most of them will go on to live prosperous lives. And that infuriates me. I’m hoping that one of these days, their opulent, ignorant lifestyles will catch up to them. The “popular” girls have just as much sex as the guttersnipes, but it’s only the former that ever gets pregnant. The “popular” guys probably commit just as many petty crimes as the trash, but it’s only the former that ever gets caught.  I just pray that one day, they’ll get what’s coming to them. STDs, liver disease, lung cancer, fatal car wreck; something that will remind them that they’re still humans.

You may be asking, why? Why do I wish this on these people? They apparently get away with it, and may even become more successful than those of us with intelligence above that of pond scum and something that resembles a work ethic. Why is that such a bad thing? Well, if you coast down a street in our car, foot off the brakes, eyes closed, all previously-stated scientific syllogisms say that one would eventually come in contact with some kind of stopping force. So why is it that coasting through life doesn’t have the same effects on people?

 

Linkz.

If you have a good blog, I’d to trade ‘rolls with you. I honestly don’t think half of the ones on my current blogroll even exist anymore.

Just slide a link my way.

 

Good, bad, insignificant

I kind of picked a bad time to make my triumphant return to blogging.

I’m finding myself more confused than when I decided to go on my temporary hiatus.

Sunday night I spent some time with a good friend. I hesitate to say “good friend,” because we only met over the summer, and we’ve only hung out thrice now, but it’s a “good friend in progress,” I suppose.

The night started out innocently enough. I picked her up at her house, after trekking the some thirty minutes through downtown Parkville, and then winding lettered highways, because I forgot how to get there the quick way (I basically made a loop around the entire city of Parkville). We decided to hit up the Plaza, because, you know, that’s what the cool kids do. Upon leaving the parking garage on the far side of the Plaza (over by the Palace), she spotted a vegetarian restaurant she’d heard a lot of good things about, but had never been able to find previously. She’s not a vegetarian, because I guess she likes meat a lot, but is sympathetic toward the cause. She suggested that we go there sometime. I obliged, forgoing my typical content for vegetarian cuisine.

We headed into a coffee shop called Scooter’s. Apparently, there were a ton of these in her hometown. Upon entering, she noted that this one was a lot trendier than the ones she used to frequent. Upon leaving, she also commented the coffee wasn’t as good.

Next stop was Barnes and Noble, somewhat ironic considering that the last time we hung out, we got coffee and went book-browsing at Border’s. We spend a good half-hour thumbing through art books. I never knew Dali had so damn many works, but fuck it, I saw all of them, I’m sure.

I offered to take her home, mostly out of misjudgement of time upon finally exiting the Plaza. She said she still wanted to hang out some more. It was then I remembered the clock in my car is an hour ahead. We (read:she) decided to drive to Penguin Park. That was the first suspicious thing that happened during the course of the night, without which I probably wouldn’t even be racking my brain so much about it.

It would important to note here that the entire night involved constant conversation. I mean, the entire night. There was really never any silence in the car. Although, it was not really conversation, per se. We each took turns spilling out long tirades about school, life, and various other somewhat uninteresting things.

Anyway, so we’re at Penguin Park, which was weird because it was ridiculously cold outside. She realized that up reaching our destination, and we decided to stay in the car for a bit. Five minutes passed, and I was already leaving the parking lot to head down to some hole-in-the-wall Chinese place that she apparently loved, as she was rather shocked that I lived so close and had never eaten there.

We walked in the place, which was obviously a converted fast food restaurant (I think it maybe used to be a Taco Bell), where we were the lone people, other than the couple that worked there. The man was slurping noodles from a bowl, which he promptly put down as we approached the counter. He muttered something in Chinese as he stumbled back to the kitchen. The woman took our orders and shouted through the door, also in Chinese. The food was decent, pretty good actually, and rather cheap.

It was during this excursion that the conversation turned slightly. She began talking about her crush on a waitress at Steak N’ Shake. She reminded me that she was not a lesbian, but looked upon homosexuality the same way she did vegetarianism. She noted that she “wanted to keep her options open,” that she could love someone, regardless of their sex, but also that she primarily dated males. Later, she noted that the topic had come up with her mom once, referring to a friend that was bisexual but predominately lesbian. Her mom told her that if she ever dated a girl, she would disown her.

She then asked me, point blank, if I’d ever questioned my sexuality. I mean, the whole night, the only question she had really asked me straight-on was whether or not I like my classes this semester. I was blown away. It’s not really something you ask someone you’d recently met, just right out of the blue like that. I told her it was something I’d never thought about, that I’ve always been comfortable with my heterosexuality. I also mention that I’m comfortable enough to say that I think certain men are attractive, and have no shame in saying so.

But then something rolled through my mind. Do people think I’m gay? It was something I had actually been thinking about recently, mainly because I’m fairly certain a guy at work is hitting on me, which doesn’t bother me at this stage, though it might if he makes any more advances. I told her this, but didn’t ask her about her personal opinion. I said that it’s entirely possible because of the simple reason that I don’t like things that most guys like. I don’t like cars. I don’t like sports. I don’t like uber-tanned, big-(fake) breasted women in scant clothing. I like art, and photography, and writing, and reading, and foreign films, and I like my women modest and naturally beautiful. She didn’t really respond either way. I still don’t know if she, nor anyone, believes that I am gay.

The trek home was perhaps the most interesting one. Keep in mind that the following interplay had an almost cosmic sense of irony and coincidence, given the events of the night previous. I had visited a friend’s apartment with some other people, where we shared various intimate details of our lives and lovelives, and had some nice male bonding. Anyway, my friend (who was pretty drunk at the time, though the rest of us were sober because we had to drive home) said, basically out of nowhere, “Remember [name deleted]?” She was a girl we both talked to around freshman or sophomore year. She sat next to me in band both years, and I remember that we used to play cute little games with each other, like having poking fights and pushing into each other with our shoulders, and that occasionally, she would put her head on my shoulder during the more boring parts of the rehearsals. I loved her. I usually have one big crush every school year, and she was mine for the latter bit of freshman year, and pretty much all of sophomore year. Other than occasional chatting in AP English Lit last year, she and I hadn’t really talked since. My friend then informed me that she told him that I was the smartest person she’d ever met, and one of the sweetest. More impressively, she had planned to go out with me, but never did it due to the fact that she had some “personal confusion” at the time. Instead, shortly thereafter, she went out with one of my best friends.

I suppose this discovery filled me with great confidence, and a serious feeling of “what if?” Realize that I’ve never had a girlfriend. Never in my life. And also realize that that girl was, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful, and sweetest, girls I’ve ever met.

So, anyway, she begins a big speech about her past relationships. She’d only “gone out” with two guys in her life, though I later found out that she had, in fact, dated a lot in between (though, also keep in mind I didn’t know this) . One lasted a few weeks, and broke up because of infidelity. The second basically broke up for the same reason, though it had lasted much longer (five months), and was partly due ot the fact that he and his band were going out on tour. She said that she was happy being single, but that if someone came along that she truly loved, that might change.

It was my turn to spill my guts. Since I had no relationship stories, I told her that I had looked my entire life for a girl that would accept me, with all of my love being totally unrequited. I told her that I had simply given up on ever finding a girl, or at least in high school. We both agreed that high school relationships are generally stupid. I recited the story of the “girl,” and the fact that it kind of restored my faith in ever finding someone. I gave her my whole “high school experience” speech, about how I didn’t really ever want to miss any opportunities in high school, lest I regret them later on in life. Note that what I said pretty much followed, more or less verbatim, perhaps even more verbosely, the latter 8 paragraphs in that linked entry. For a couple minutes, the car was completely silent, for the first time all night. I realized something during the conversation, or thought I did anyway. Was she…hinting at something? At a possible relationship? Was what just happened a date? Could she and I soon become we? All of these thoughts thundered through my mind as I rolled down her street and parked. I expected at the very least a hug, but got a very awkward goodbye instead. Suspiciously awkward, or at least I thought. She said she’d “call me very soon” to hang out again.

And that was it. I sat there and watched her for roughly 15 seconds, debating whether or not to just drive away, or to take my chances. I felt like parking the car, rushing out, and throwing my arms around her. But of course, my insecurities, and the fact that I realized my logic was usually not as infalliable as I once thought, I drove away.

The thoughts occupied my mind, well, until right now, and will probably occupy my mind. Honestly, I’d never really thought of her that way, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? I realized then that my childish crushes couldn’t be pushed away from my mind as easily as I’d hoped, as I was doing precisely what I’d basically vowed not to do anymore.

The worst thing is, I’m not sure if this is good, bad, or insignificant yet. I just don’t know.

 

I’m back.

Post coming soon.

 

Here’s the deal.

Really busy. Not feeling creative nor myself. School draining me.

Hoping to finish entry about Nashville soon.

Will hopefully return when I get my brain sorted out.

tillthenlater.

 

Politik: Weighing in on Election ‘06

Very rarely do I give half a shit about elections. I’m fairly apathetic when it comes to elections, and maintain my status of universal disdain for all politicians when the decisions come around. However, something has attracted me to this current election. Perhaps it’s the coverage of hot-button issues, or maybe the fact that I’m 9 days shy of being able to vote in this one, I’ve actually been caring.  Well, the only reason I’m caring is because I’m pissed off. And I think I’ve been long overdue for a good ol’ fashioned rant on this fucking waste of server space.

First off is Amendment 2: Stem cell research. It goes to show you how much further our society would have progressed by now if it weren’t for religion and the dogmatic priniciples it instills upon those suckling from its teet of lies. The scariest thing about religion is how ruthlessly it destroys free thought. I guess most of the Bible-thumpers probably couldn’t be trusted to think on their own, though.

Okay, so you don’t want to destroy life. Fine, neither do I. However, stem cell research uses unfertilized eggs. By definition, zygotes ARE NOT LIVING BEINGS. It’s similar to saying you’re murdering millions of babies by masturbating, or even closer to the point, donating sperm to a sperm bank.

Okay, you’ve got that out of the way, now here comes the big issue: cloning. If I’m not mistaken, Amendment 2’s text stricly forbids using stem cells for cloning. And honestly, if you think clones would not be totally badass, you’re lying to yourself.

Basically, you right-wing fundamentalism jagoffs, get your heads out of your asses and realize that passing this amendment could mean saving MILLIONS of lives. If it passes, I think someone should collect a list of all the people that voted “no” on this particular piece of legislation, and deny them rights to potential medical treatments from stem cell research. Have fun dying from cancer, assholes, because we practical people are living to 200.

Ignore the pope, ignore your priest, ignore whatever Republican talking head happens to be yammering at you about killing fetuses in your particular location, and think. That seems to be the essential problem here: free-thinking, and the lack thereof. Democracy simply doesn’t work when half the nation wants theocracy.

Anyway, on to the next one, which I, nor anyone, shouldn’t even have to discuss: Proposition B, raising the minimum wage to $6.50 an hour. Honestly, who the fuck would vote “no” to this one? It doesn’t hurt you in any way, and it helps hard-working teenagers, and some hard-working adults as well.

Are you a crusty, stingy, Republican asshat? Well, here’s a little tidbit that may get even you behind this legislation. The raise in the minimum wage is projected to give 3.4-4.3 million dollars in revenue to the State each year. You can’t go wrong. It’s win-win.

I  swear to God, if I ever find out any of you voted “no” on this, I will eviscerate you and make you jump-rope with your entrails until you bleed to death. Fair warning.

Now since I honestly don’t care about any of the other issues (I’m pretty much middle of the road on Question 3, the other “hot-button”), I suppose it’s time to examine the Senatorial race. This race seems to rely on who can rake the most muck, as the myriad of negative ads have piled up on both sides.

Jim Talent has one against Claire McCaskill in which McCaskill’s pledge to audit nursing homes suspected of improper conduct was seen as an utter failure. According to Mr. Talent’s camp, McCaskill married an owner of several “bad” nursing homes, and then proceeded to only audit 3 in the entire state. I saw another from the Republican campaign committee that said…McCaskill only audited 3 nursing homes. I’m fairly certain there’s a third ad that uses the same strategy. Talent, however, is accused of siding with the President 94% of the time, while the ad plays an audio clip ad nauseum in which he denounces people who “rubber stamp” the President.

So basically, a lot of muck is being raked, but not much is being uncovered underneath it all. Based on my previous statements, it’s obvious which candidate I support, though I’d rather have a pack of gum as a Senator than either of them. At least of the pack of gum leaves your breath minty fresh, and it would be sugar-free to prevent tooth decay. There we go, we have a positive platform for the candidate right there. Tooth decay is a serious problem in our society, and Pack of Sugarless gum will help to prevent it.

Well, that’s pretty much all I care to write about this issue. I’ll write something else sometime later maybe.

Oh, and by the way, Obama in ‘08. It’s goin’ down.