Jeans

Alright, I'm a fag, and I love to shop...however, I FUCKING ABHOR shopping for new jeans. And it's interesting, I find that jeans are a lot like dating. You know, you go in and you pick out a pair that you THINK will fit you. You try them on, look at them in the mirror...some of them you think look damn good, but then you get them home, and you see them in a different light, and you never wear those fuckers again. Some of them come damaged, with holes and striations, and you think, "I can work these"...and you do...for a while. And then, after a few washes, the holes become bigger and bigger, and you have no choice but to throw them into the burning barrel. And then, when you aren't even meaning to shop for jeans, you stumble upon those perfect pair, and you think "No, this is too good to be fucking true". So you sit on it for a few weeks, you go in, try them on again, and then you purchase them and take them home and they become your favorite pair, the ones you can't even bear to throw out, even when holes begin to form that weren't there in the first place, holes that you love, holes that have become a part of you. Some of these priceless pieces of you you'll keep forever, and some you throw out because you don't have room in your closet for them anymore, even though you love them so much...in any case, you'll never forget that specific pair, never, and you find yourself cruising Ebay for them, but you'll never find them again. I guess what I mean to say, is hold on to that special pair of jeans...you'll never find them again, and you'll always look at the other jeans wishing they were THAT pair.

Thank You, Asshole

Entering into the job market proved to be exponentially more difficult than, say, cakewalk. After having spent hours first gathering applications from the most random places from the Dollar store to Blockbuster, after tediously checking and double-checking that I checked every applicable box and divulged more information than is necessary on paper, after having spent the better half of some nights applying to places of business on the internet...I resorted to doing something which doesn't come especially naturally to me - nagging. I had seen Dairy Queen as lucrative and prospective as it's only minutes away, where I would feel comfortable driving my car to and from everyday, not expending more gasoline than necessary; My good friend had been working at DQ for a solid year and [apparently] had been staying because she felt it copacetic if not more than...and the boss is gay, just like me. I would call once per week, told that my application had not yet been reviewed, and to call back over the weekend, which I happily did. "I just haven't had time...been very busy...I'll definitely have looked over your app by monday." Great, I now knew the day when I would finally have closure on the issue, for the better or worse. "Umm, he's busy right now...can you call back in five minutes?", said some brainwashed manipulated cunt on the other end of the phone line. Five minutes later, another one of the boss's minions would pick up. "He's stepped outside - could you call back?" By now, I knew that I was being avoided, which seems to be exemplary of big companies, the government, etc., ignoring the individual. Angered, I persisted, as I knew he would cave. Finally - "Fine, come in on Monday at 11am...wear khaki." With this, I embarked on a journey which, in retrospect, I could only possibly describe with a repertoire of the harshest language and analogies comparing my experiences to the Holocaust. The boss (an inconsiderate, self-righteous, homosexual, bastardous Aquarian) put me to work...made to make waffle bowls for a good 2 hours, nothing too lustrous, nothing too strenuous, nothing too bad for money. By the end of the day, I had been trained on the register (a monochromatic B&W screened-bastard with a non-graphical UI, exceptions to every input, and horrid contrast which made finding the multitude of Blizzards nothing less than a severe pain in my cock). I now have 3 days left before I walk out that door and douse my DQ New! Iron-Grilled Turkey Sandwich worker shirt in gasoline and light it ablaze, Iraqi anti-American style. After the endless routine of waiting on customers with hearing-aids, giving them the wrong change, handing out the order that they never wanted, constantly filling long-handled Blizzard spoons, replacing cup after cup after cup, refilling sundae dishes, parfait treat cups, strawberries, pineapple, hot fudge, marshmallow, creme de menth, M&Ms, Thin Mint cookies, Butterfingers, bananas, Snickers, straws, Kit-Kat, Heath, and after taking a hammer to boxes of french fries frozen to the freezer wall with 2" ice, fetching mustard, whipped cream, and pickles from the cooler, hauling barrels of frozen strawberries to be bottled, sweeping, mopping, cleaning every surface (vertical or horizontal), stocking ketchup, iodized salt, pepper, mayonnaise, packing Dilly bars and preparing to-go boxes...I was told that I "don't do anything". I stared in blatant amazement at the audacity and idiocy of such a backward statement. After working 6+ straight hours (only 6 of which I was paid for) with no break (which is illegal, btw), I was basically told that my continual movement within the DQ building basically made absolutely no difference in the quality, efficiency, or cleanliness in the business. I was told that, since I'm in college, I should know how to work a machine which doesn't accurately display food information, that I should be intuitive enough to have known that a banana split qualifies as a sundae and, therefore, gets a short-handled spoon (which never made any sense to me, especially as the dish is large enough for the small spoon to submerge itself in, making the customer's hand sticky), that large Blizzards have to blended half-way full without a cylinder...for each mistake that I made because I was never professionally trained, I was scolded, insulted, and generally accosted by more than one employee and/or my boss. It's true that Einstein couldn't tie his own shoes...intelligence doesn't correlate to practicality, so a German/Russian language major shouldn't be expected to be able to perform intuitively a cretin's job as well as the 11+ year boss/owner/manager, just as such an idiot shouldn't be expected to have the capacity to learn a foreign language, which [probably] directly relates to the reason why he's middle-aged, gay, and has done nothing more with his life than own a DQ franchise to write on ice cream cakes and terrorize his young and [generally] unintelligible workers who don't know scissors from shoestrings enough to flag him on his inappropriate actions which are more akin to elementary school bullies than bosses. But, I say 'Thank YOU, Asshole', for reminding me exactly WHY I'm in college to begin with and not fail at life and need to wipe the strawberry juice from my calloused hands every night before I go home to my boyfriend.

Green 3s and Masculine 9s

Even before I had read Daniel Tammet's "Born on a Blue Day", I had contemplated the concept of my perception of the 'color' and 'gender' of numbers and letters, and possibility of each number and letter being perceived differently by other people. It seemed odd to me that certain numbers and letters seemed to be, inately, a certain color or gender, although it seemed very natural and felt as though no thought was required to deduce these things for me. After several drunk (and some sober) conversations with some friends about this topic, I found that there are others (possibly even the bulk of society) who also link colors and genders to letters and numbers. A few weeks ago, I had asked my parents about the same thing, but they had no conception of this at all. When asked, they really couldn't choose whether 2 'felt' [more] masculine or feminine, and this boggled my mind, seeing as how, for me, it is very clear-cut. It was never a conscious process when I picked out such things, but this is how it goes:

• 0 - f - white
• 1 - m - black
• 2 - f - yellow
• 3 - m - green
• 4 - f - purple
• 5 - m
• 6 - m - orange
• 7 - f - purple
• 8 - m - blue
• 9 - m

You see, though, that I don't really have a color associated with 5 or 9. In doing that list, I seriously attempted to discover the colors that I feel for them, although the gender comes extremely naturally and unwaveringly. Colors are more ambiguous but still fairly innate. Also, I only identify numbers from 0-9 because, after that, I find that the number's gender is determined by the last number (103 being masculine because I consider '3' to be masculine, etc.). It is impossible for me to look at a number with more than one digit and determine a color for it. Although SOME letters evoke feelings of a color, it is only for a rare few and not significant enough to include, especially as the colors seem to correlate with the first letter of that color (b - blue, y - yellow, et.), although the genders are concrete for letters for me as they are for numbers.

• a - f
• b - m
• c - m
• d - m
• e - m
• f - m
• g - m
• h- f
• i - m
• j - f
• k - f
• l - f
• m - m
• n - m
• o - f
• p - f
• q - f
• r - f
• s - f
• t - m
• u - m
• v - f
• w - ?
• x - m
• y - m
• z - m

I actually never noticed until now, but 'w' seems to not have a gender for me. I even attempted to think about it consciously, although I could not say whether it feels more masculine or more feminine, for as I try to fit it into one of those two slots, it doesn't 'feel' right, although it never feels right assigned the other gender; Strange. When I randomly picked up "Born on a Blue Day" in the Penn State Bookstore in Spring '08, I opened up a world similar to mine in this respect. However, as a highly-functioning autistic man living with asperger's and savant syndrome, his perception runs much deeper than that; For Daniel (who is a real British man, featured on the David Letterman show because of his abilities), numbers have not only colors, but also shapes, textures, and even emotions. Unlike me, Daniel's savant syndrome allows him the incredible mental capacity to do amazing mathematical equations in his head, instantaneously, by fitting together the unique shapes of each number, numbers having shapes, colors, textures, and emotions up to 10,000. I may not be this unique, but I'm comfortable in the fact that my 3s are always green, and my 9s always have the traditional male appendage.

Longing for a Simpler Time

I've always found it strange that I feel sentimentally retrospective toward the 1950s, especially since I never lived during the time, nor my parents, however, I cannot deny that the feelings are there. Call it a longing for that which was simpler, a time when America was flourishing while the whole of Europe laid in a shambles, a time of lemon chiffon and suburban cocktail parties. I wish to live in a time when you knew your neighbors, even invited them into your humble Sears Catalog Home for a pot roast. I want that American dream consisting of a wife, son, daughter, and family car. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic, maybe not even 'perhaps'...I suppose I am. The whole idea of a structured life really appeals to me. Don't get me wrong; I'm not solely obsessed with the superficial ideas of the housewife and suburbia, but of the feel of the time when one knew that being an American and living in the United States meant something, when the US dollar wasn't a joke, when college was affordable, and the government at least half-heartedly cared about its citizens. I've always been about the choices we currently have as Americans, or, at least, what APPEARS to be choices ('appears' as many of them are out of reach for the middle-class man)...I value that there are at least 10 flavors of Pringles in Wal-Mart at any given time, but I'm finding more and more that I despise this America that I live in. As a middle-class white European-heritage male, living on a sizeable hill in North East Pennsylvania, having no religion and next to no family that I really KNOW, I feel as I have no community, no bond, no one and nothing to share a common understanding with. I know who my neighbors are, but I might as well not have any at all. I've conversed with the carpeting in my living room more than the bulk of my neighbors, and that's really sick. I long for the time of the kitchen appliance boom, the invention of the microwave, and the very real possibility of an alien or Soviet attack, and I mean that in all honesty. I want to have a barbeque with three other couples and their children outside under my awning by the pool where the kids play all day. I want to wake up to the smell of crackling bacon and scrambled eggs and have breakfast and coffee with my family in the overly-floral canary yellow kitchen. I want to have a good job that provides financial security for my family and their future, to come home after a long day at work, kick back on the armchair, and light up a cigarette while I read the newspaper. Perhaps Mrs. Abington will stop by to borrow a cup of sugar, or maybe Mr. Cooper with request my help with the construction of his new home addition. I want dinner with my family where the conversation is placid, the food is homemade, and the floral centerpiece is always moved to the sideboard before we begin. I want to have that Sunday brunch at the local diner, where we know the waitresses by name, and she knows our 'usual' order and is actually happy to see our familiar faces. And that jukebox in the corner?, yea, I'll be playing the latest upbeat tune for only a nickel, listening from my booth while my legs stick to the red vinyl seats. It's not fair that my dream is next to impossible. I'm sure there's a 1950s cult/village somewhere which I imagine to be a lot like Stepford, Connecticut, but I'll take the cult atmosphere with the Life cereal and everything that comes with it, gladly, happily, although perhaps I'll spare the robotic vagina.

11am

This hour has come to be, apparently, when my body first (wholly based on false pretenses) feels it necessary to wrench myself from any deep and innocent sleep with which my mind may then be entertaining itself. This is also the hour, apparently, which coincides with the awakening of the most uneducated hell-animals which tend to characterize a pleasant morning for the bulk of other bipeds - birds. These smug motherfuckers then proceed to, in a caustic string of cacophonous auditory attacks, stir in me a certain murderous vehemence which would, in more mundane circumstances, only arise in such a situation involving being subjected to the stress test of traveling in minus 35mph in a 55mph zone. All these thoughts picked my asshole this morning, specifically, as I simply wanted to drift back into that world which does not exist on this physical plane, to sporadically and intermittently experience the ethereal and surreal, where, instead of becoming perturbed by the birds, I could catch every one of the noisy fuckers in a large cage and submit them to short bursts from a flamethrower, and hear the change in their tune...music to my ears.

Discourse on Technology

If one had told the flappers of the 1920s that, one day, a little brick-shaped piece of technology would be available to hold up to their ear, through which they would be able to hear a friend or relative who resided in another time zone in the US, they might have told you that such a thing would only be a product of alien intelligence.  Well, this day has come and passed, and the cell phone has now become an indispensable and cherished artifact of the bulk of American citizens, as well as those of most other countries of the world.  Even those who were fully conscious during the early 90s might have thought an idea that a cellular phone would be in the hands of hundreds of thousands would be crazy.  I remember the advent of the popular usage of the cell phone as strange; seeing someone walk through the mall, holding this little piece of metal and plastic up to their heads, appearing as though they were crazy and talking to themselves, especially if you only caught the side of their face which was not glued to the Nokia's surface.  Then came the touch-screen.  After having been a proud owner of the first iPhone for almost a year now, I take it for granted that I can access the internet from anywhere which is serviced by a cell tower, this power enabling me to discover a plethora of knowledge at the peak of my interest at will.  Gone are the days which were characterized by the need to visit a local library to find the [often-outdated] statistic of the population of some random African country; now, I can have such a wanton need to know the ethanol production of Burma and, from the comfort of a moving motor vehicle, discover the fairly-current figure, right on this wireless piece of glass and metal.  Every so often, I'll stop in the middle of typing in the Google search text field in Safari on my iPhone and really THINK about what the fuck it is I'm doing...my fingers are simply touching designated areas of this glass screen, somehow delineating to a foreign source that I wish to search for something; simply hitting "search" yields back, wirelessly, the product of my query.

My Discourse on Smoking

As I mentioned in my previous post, I took up smoking in late October, early November of this year, as a surprise to my friends and especially to myself. I mentioned that I had gotten both of my parents to stop smoking at least 7 years ago, as well as my ex-girlfriend in 2006. Up until I started, I was extremely anti-smoking, seeing as how my one grandmother died of emphysema around the age of 65. Being a product of American society educated in the '90s, it was ingrained into my mind that smoking kills. And this post will attempt to explore the world of a smoker who was once a non-smoker and who will become a non-smoker in time.

It all started several days after I had my bike transferred to campus. I had biked down to this newfound spot that I discovered next to the HUB (the student union center on campus which also houses several well-known restaurant chains including Sbarro and Seattle's Best); it was a quiet plot of ground which contained several benches and small paths of stone walkways which meandered around grass patches and large flat boulders. I biked here intentionally to call my mother on the phone and have a private conversation with her, outside, on a beautiful day, outside of the confines of my extremely small and stuffy dorm. When she didn't answer the phone, I was a little disheartened since I had come here specifically for that purpose. I tried several other people on the phone...no one seemed to be conscious. I then thought to myself quite boldly, "This is the type of situation where one would smoke a cigarette [to wait until someone saw that I had called and then call back]."

It was then that I made the decision to buy my first pack of cigarettes. I consulted my new best friend who had told me that all of her friend back home are smokers and questioned her about which kind/brand of cigarette should be my first. She suggested the new "Marlboro Smooth", which she said tasted like an Andes Candy...how could I pass up a cancer stick that tasted so good?

I called my soon-to-be boyfriend (who had been and probably still is a veteran smoker) and announced that I would like to make such a purchase. Thus, we trekked downtown to scout out the Smooths, made the purchase, and hiked back uphill to the exact rock from which I made the decision to start smoking. It felt somewhat badass at first since I had been raised to believe that what I was now doing was somewhat of a carnal sin, but after conceding that I would only have one-per-day (which would give me a great buzz), I legitimized my new burst of fun, something to look forward too each day. Of course, everyone knew that this one-per-day would go out the window sometime in the near future (which, of course, it did), although I proceeded to believe that I could stick with my plans to have this treat just once every 24 hours.

Soon thereafter, I started having these "postprandial" cigarettes with my newly-close friend, Katie, (postprandial meaning "after a meal, especially dinner"). From there, the act of smoking changed from being the action of me lighting the cigg, holding it to my lips, inhaling and exhaling until it was killed, to being a social activity which involved a certain recap of the day, many meaningful conversations, and a subtle breakup of the normal flow of the day. Obviously, one wants such a good thing to happen more often (the good thing being the good conversations, etc.), so I gradually began to smoke more and more, although I never chain-smoked or (initially) out of stress or anger like many long-time smokers. I refused to smoke between classes, and would almost exclusively smoke with Katie or Sam (my soon-to-be boyfriend).

Gradually, the act of smoking became the perfect thing to do in times of sublime boredom when I would just crave something to focus on. I started smoking between classes starting around wintertime, especially to take my mind of the freezing-fuck cold. I would smoke by myself to obtain seven minutes out of my day when I would be completely alone, outside, to sort out all the things that were going on in my life, in my daily schedule, and to make plans for the near and distant future, along with having regular smokes with Katie and Sam.

There was a time when I denied that I was a smoker, simply because I didn't feel it was fair to put me on the same level as those that were smoking a pack a day or more...having a beer doesn't make someone an alcoholic, nor does smoking 3-6 cigarettes a day (on average) make someone a smoker, necessarily (in my head). However, I finally conceded that I had become a smoker, and that I had to do something about it.

Katie and I had decided to quit together. One of us (not sure who) simply chose the date of April 15th, which we realized later would be tax day, a day to get rid of all negativity and that which is harmful. We counted down the days until around 11:40pm on April 14th when we went out for our final cigarette. In order to document this occasion and to give moral support, I invited Alex, and Katie invited her boyfriend, Neil. We had photos taken during the lighting of what was to be our last cigarette, photos take while we smoked it, put it out, and hugged each other as we knew the road ahead would be tough. We then took the last three cigarettes that we had and ceremonially broke two of them, one for each of us, and then the last one together.

I made it a solid 36 hours when I decided that I simply wasn't ready to quit...not because I NEEDED a cigarette, but because I wasn't ready to give up the special times that the allotment of the time that smoking a cigarette gave me, the unique conversations that only happened with Katie and others sporadically and intermittently throughout the day which I found simply couldn't exist in their same form without lighting up. So I broke and bought a pack at CVS and sunk back into my old ways. Katie held up quite a long time, several weeks, which, of course, made me feel weak, but I have much respect for her ability, especially as she has been a smoker for much longer than I have. I am currently contemplating quitting, contemplating for reasons which I will now explain in the true discourse...

In retrospect, I feel that the college environment exposed me to the feeling of "just letting go" and simply "experiencing", without necessarily thinking of the consequences because this time is supposed to be the best time of one's life and one should live it directly up to its edgy potential. This, combined with my then-boyfriend's habits, gradually led me down this path, along with my long-cultured cynicism for the world which I was then experiencing for lack of direction, along with my simple curiosity and audacity to try new things. It is mostly because of such cynicism that I continue (although much more sparsely than before), as I am the one who believes that the world could end at any minute, that everyone will die in the end and absolutely everything, EVERYTHING, that we will have done up to that point will have meant not a trifle more than jack shit. So, if I can have a cigarette intermittently throughout the day which becomes a certain deserved bonus for living in the first place, what's so wrong with that? Of course, it chokes your lungs, pisses off your body, and poisons your life-liquid, but why not?; we WILL all die some day, somehow...would I rather live to where my ass is strapped to a colostomy bag or simply die of lung cancer. Of course, I'm not mentally retarded - I would love to live to see my children and grandchildren grow up...even my great grandchildren, and I recognized that such a habit may hinder said wishes, and this is the constant battle going on in my head, this, along with "you may never even have kids...you're gay." And at this notion, I smile, because it's accurately true, and just goes to show that some of your greatest dreams (to have children that look like you and your partner) can and will be fucked in the end.

As soon as I started smoking, I told myself and everyone else that I would write a discourse at the end...well, I haven't quite come to the end, but I have written my discourse, and I'm quite proud of it...at least this is one thing that I have gone completely through with and of which I have no regrets.

Freshman Retrospection

After having completed my first year at The Pennsylvania State University's main campus in University Park, PA, I decided that now is as good of a time as ever to reflect on my impressions, new ambitions, and just to inform the blogosphere about this now gone section of my ever-linear life.

Since August 24th and until May 9th, I called 105 Sproul Hall my home. This small cubicle of about 120 square feet was shared with a roommate. This small cubicle, I called home. As I opened the door on August 24th, I was instantly frozen as I peered over the austere surfaces which were screaming for personalization and character, begging me to lay a paper or two atop the desk simply to break up the void of nothingness. By May 9th, I had collected a good heap of shit, ranging from a large 3x5 German flag which I had hung proudly in my room during early fall when it was still 90 fucking degrees while I blasted my techno music, making sure passers-by would easily see my German pride as I lived on the first floor, to a plethora of cards which had been bequeathed to me for various reasons. Although the area seemed extremely small, especially as my partitioned 60 square feet also included a bed which took up about 15 sq ft, and a desk, bolster, and closet which took up around 20 sq ft, and half the area occupied by our shared minifridge, the space was extremely functional, I became especially proud that my space had in it a place for absolutely everything, organization which I never thought was possible, and that's when I decided that I would be quite satisfied with living in a small apartment for the rest of my life, so long as the city outside my door was large enough for me to breathe.

College has thankfully pushed me to the edges of acceptance, expansion, and has made me somewhat jaded to the differences in people I see everyday. Nevermore do I turn my head to look at someone who has dreadlocks or slanted eyes, especially as people wearing chicken and banana suits aren't uncommon prowling around outside of specific frat houses. My group of close friends includes a Chinese-Jamaican (my best friend), a Chinaman from Hong Kong, an Indian who's half-white, and a girl who is so white that she can trace her lineage back to William Bradford, the first governor of the Plymouth Colony.

Several of my stereotypes have changed, or, rather, stayed the same, but from a different perspective. I had Jersey people all wrong - I used to think they were bad drivers, but, after having driven on the Parkway, I've found that they're just assertive and know where the fuck they're going and how they're going to get there - I seem to have a newfound appreciation for those from the Garden State. I've found that, against my sincere wishes, it seems that several long-standing stereotypes are true...1.) Chinese women should not drive - I was only ever almost hit by two people on campus, both were Asian, both were from Connecticut [strangely]...2.) Black men can be incredibly loud, and thereby inconsiderate, which I found out when my neighbor refused to stop screaming, stomping, and cheering at 3am while playing Madden, especially after having asked him to stop for several consecutive nights and after having notified my RA, who proceeded to visit his room several times.

Let's talk about firsts - I had my first experiences at traditional Frat parties, complete with beer pong, stripper poles, and d.i.y. cocktails. I discovered the elegance and pleasure of the hookah at Chronic Town. I pulled a complete 180 when I started smoking around November, after having gotten both of my parents and my ex-girlfriend to stop smoking. I would elaborate here about the "smoking thing", but that's quite a lengthly topic which would be more appropriate in a post of its own.

Obviously, it was my first time being a college student, which I MUCH prefer (to make as much of an understatement as possible) to being a high school student where teachers are on power trips and good students (i.e., me) get detention for "holding a teacher's calculator hostage" (which I actually didn't, btw). The atmosphere is so much more freeing and is the type of thing that I have been searching for for a very long time; especially coming from living on a mountain for a solid 13 years, being able to step outside and be around so many people my age instantly was something that I began to take for granted which I now hate myself for. I was able to walk on a sidewalk for nothing more than 20 seconds to our convenience store and dining commons to purchase anything that I then desired, from Bold Chex Mix to Advil and Trojan condoms.

I've experienced the dilemma of being the typical college student who is notorious for being poor, which is most definitely a learning experience and sick study into this thing called a "budget" and "saving". However, I coped with this quite copacetically through the donation of (rather, sale of) my plasma. Two times per week, usually Wednesday and Saturday, I would allot a two-hour chunk of my time to the donation of my plasma at Biolife, downtown. Each donation, I would make my appointment by phone, the the bus downtown, show up and scan my fingerprint, take a quite lengthly electronic questionaire on a touchscreen (have you taken Avodart in the last 12 months, have you EVER taken Tegison, have you had sexual contact with another man EVEN ONCE since 1977), have my fingernails looked at under a blacklight, have my arms checked for trackmarks (both front and back), have my weight taken, have my finger pricked, blood drawn, temperature and pulse taken, and my blood checked for protein and iron content...if I passed all that, I would then proceed to the hallway where I would wait for a bed to open up where I would then be prepped with a quite large amount of iodine, stuck with the needle, listen to my iPod for a good 1.5 hours, be patched up, scan out, and be on my good fucking way, freezing my dick off because of the room-temp saline which they pumped into me and with a bright pink fucking band which they wrapped my wound with, tight enough to cut off the circulation to my forearm.

Being at a top drinking school, I've seen my fair share of drunkards, from that crazy bitch that stumbled into Dunkin Donuts at 1am, well announced by her exclaiming "I WANT SOME NUTS!!!...DONUTS, that is!", proceeding to tell her life story to a table of adults enjoying their blueberry lattes and vanilla bean coolatas, which included her most recent debacle trying to get into a frat house - "I tried to get into this one frat, but the guy said 'you're too drunk', so I was like 'suck my TITTIE!!!'", to one of my good friends who passed out on the floor of his supplemental room only in his boxers, with his head in the trashcan, BEFORE they even left the room to go to a party.

Now, all but a sophomore, I can't say that I have any regrets from my freshman year...I got involved in the worst relationship of my life, but I've taken from that what I could in order to never make such a stupid mistake again by thinking that you can force someone to let you help them. I've made some friends who I know will have a continual significant impact on my life and its course, not simply some associates whose only common thread we have is some shared gen. ed. class. I feel quite confident in saying that I wouldn't mind repeating this past year of my life again, and again, and again, and again...

State of His Life Address

So, I survived the elementary and secondary school systems...I've thrown myself directly into the tertiary system at The Pennsylvania State University (PSU) and have only recently chosen to "be a part from the start" by volunteering for the PSU Red Cross and joining the ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union), both of which I'm very proud of.  I survive on a parental allowance of $50 per week which is more than sufficient - this allows for haircuts, entertainment, small outings, etc.  I find that I don't much miss high school or many of the people that I've met before this period in my life...the relationships were almost entirely superficial as the only binding factor was the common school which we all bitched about, all the time, for one reason or another.  I suppose it's not that I don't miss the people, I just realize that it's not so bad not having them because they would never possibly fit into a major part of my life, especially from here.  We're told that, after high school, things would change and you wouldn't keep contact with those people throughout our college years...most people try to not let that manifest, but I never tried to stop it from happening.  I wouldn't say that that is too incredibly insensitive, just the truth.  Those that I still have contact with and those that I still choose to include in my life should know that they are there for a purpose, they should know that I actually feel that they mean more to me than just acting as an appliance in high school drama.

Crazy shit happens here at college - I've been shot in the neck with a Nerf dart (and it stuck because it was humid that day, buah!), Brian was shot in the eye by Kelly, I've had music battles with my neighbor (due to my awesome Logitech 2.1 soundsystem, YEA!), and my boys in supplemental decided tonight to have a dance party in their large room with sweet lights and music.  Sigma Nu rules, by the way.  I've thought about pledging, but I don't feel the need right now...perhaps in the future.  I mean, I am here for a solid 4 years.  On that note, we should probably discuss my future...

In this first semester, I am taking Russian 001, German 003, Sociology 001, Language Myths, and Astrology 001...I am at the top of both my Russian and German classes, and probably near the top in Sociology and Language Myths; Astro is another story altogether, one which makes spontaneous relocating to some unknown island sound like a pertinent reaction to the class.  It is my current plan to major in German and Russian, with a possible minor in Sociology (to what end with sociology I am unsure).  I am shooting for a position with the CIA or UN in translation, interpreting, or teaching the languages to agents who may need to live and survive in those countries...I've even been considering a position in foreign media analysis, which would also satisfy my compulsion to write and do it well.  As two years experience is usually required for these positions with the CIA, however, it is very possible that such a position will only be occupied by me after some years of teaching the languages as a professor, which I would equally love, if not more so.  I would never teach at the high school level...especially because you need a teaching degree for the high school level and not at the collegiate, plus those little fuckers just don't give a shit, and I don't like that.  I would prefer the open movement and freedom to do what I wanted in my classes anyway.  It is almost a given that my 3rd year will be spent entirely abroad, half in Germany and half in Russia, and it's even possible down the line that I might transfer to a foreign university...the University of Auckland in New Zealand is very perspective as they have a large number of majors and is fairly respectable as a good university.

I have an unofficial favorite, although he plans on relocating ASAFP which means I will lose pretty much the only guy with whom I can have an intellectually stimulating conversation and not just constantly be this college guy who is slightly offput and perverted by the other unintelligible guys who compose my crew...the story of my life.

ΣΝ...let me tell you about Sigma Nu...these two Greek letters compose the "best" fraternity that I know to be in existence.  The group of guys who have pledged this frat are some of the most open people on campus...more later!

Idiosyncratic

Ever since blueberries have come into season this year, dropping their normal astronomical purchase value from in excess of $4.99 to a mere $1.50 per pint, I have been subsisting on a ramekin's worth of blueberries and a portioned size of cottage cheese for the bulk of my lunches.  I meticulously sort through the pint container, carefully discarding the stems, shriveled loners, and all the otherwise non-Aryan blueberries.  The chosen few who've made the cut then proceed to be blasted by the coldest bacteria-caustic water which is able to be pumped from the ground.  A minutes worth of swishing, rubbing, and draining [repeatedly] yields my perfect ramekin of blueberries.  Now, this process, for be, in joyous - it ensures that my eating experience will be sublime, unhindered by the unexpected crunch of a stem, effectual insofar as to satisfy my need for a good meal.  The process which involves the peeling off of the cottage cheese container is the one which seeks to burn my core.  Every container, EVERY container which I have unsealed, no matter what my angle, speed, or pull-pressure, seems to want to ensure that a little piece of it still exists when the bulk of it is gone, like a whore in the old movies who would leave that handkerchief for the jock to find and, consequentially, return it.  For me, it is not a handkerchief - it is a piece of colorful foil which sits on the rim, glued, staring me in the face with every bite of cottage cheese which I may so choose to proceed in hoovering into my open gullet.  THAT bothers me; I dig in with my fingers and fingernails in order to loose the wretch from its last stand, throwing the lot of it into the trash can.  Call me idiosyncratic, or maybe just a little OC, but I am who I am, and that foil will never be left on the pristine white plastic which encases my lunch.  Fuck.

On My Humor

It's a shame that I haven't talked more of my particular brand of humor, especially as it is one of my defining features. It ranges from the simple and happy-go-lucky traditional joking to the deeper, more intellectual art of sarcastic jabs, cynical projections, blogging from a satirist viewpoint, and being that exclusively raunchy pervert-type that everyone is attracted to for some odd and unexplainable reason that perplexes even me.

I must say, however, that I am not a pervert at heart. Anyone who knows me may find this a tad offset and even "untrue", but I can explain it this way - I take joy in making people laugh, and people laugh at dirty tasteless jokes. The sheer "shock factor" sometimes is enough to send someone reeling in laughter, and I delight in that; This laughter takes my very core and shines it with a gold dust and buffs it to a glistening finish. If people found "why did the chicken cross the road" jokes equally as amusing, I would tell them more than make a reference to my penis, their pet goat, or their mother. Anyone who claims to not be amused by such things is either (a.) a liar, or (b.) a mormon.

More than being a pervert, I take much more pride in my keen ability to be sarcastic when appropriate and/or opportune - I enjoy not only exercising my human right of freedom of expression, but also craftily insulting and astounding those who get in my way or insult me. This ability, though, is very sporadic, and tends to be heightened naturally when I am in a taciturn mood, and also (more strangely) late at night, especially in hotel rooms, especially at FBLA conferences, especially when calling girls across the hallway.

I practice satire to be a good American citizen - constructive criticism takes a turn with me, though, as I prefer the Jonathan Swift-ian absurdity to simply pointing out mistakes and will go to great ends to elaborate my point through much extrapolation and a spoken fluidity characterized by a dextrous vocabulary and, most importantly, the willingness to do so.

Many people like to say "I think, therefore I am.", I say "I shit, therefore I am.", especially as defecation is one of the characteristics of life - thinking is not. Now, you have experienced my humor.d

Reality TV - Seconds, Anyone?

Completely against my original prediction, it seems that reality TV continues to live on...therefore I must address it.  My feelings really run no deeper on this subject that this forward-coming example of backwardness:

If you were chosen to be a contestant in which you are to win the heart of a rapper (Flavor Flav) by competing in various competitions against other female competitors while living in a large mansion, would you say this is more of a dream, or more of a reality?  Unless you really ARE one of these contestants, this scenario is most certainly surreal and, ergo, NOT reality television at all...more like surreal television, even macabre television at that.

Applesauce and Bacon/Choices and Sacrifices

Yesterday morning, I performed my usual routine of waking up late (11:30am) as I am a teenager on Summer vacation and walked to the refrigerator. Upon opening the door, I saw a bundle of something wrapped in a paper towel atop a square barf-pink-colored plastic plate - bacon. Next to this, I saw the stack of four Wegman's cups of unsweetened applesauce. Ten minutes later, I had proceeded to use the bacon as spoons to eat two of the applesauce cups (not the actual plastic cups, resin identification code 7, mind you). I know you're about to call me a hog, but stop - you all know you've dipped your pork chops into the applesauce, and NO, that's NOT a sexual reference, so stop trying to make it something that it's not, you fucker.

I recently (today) solidified my "choice" of The Pennsylvania State University, University Park Campus, over the University College Utrecht, the hardest decision of my life, thus far. "Choice" in quotes as I feel it really wasn't my choice, but rather my obligation at the moment to keep as many options open to me as possible, and, in this instance, that means going where the most opportunity and horizontal movement exists for me. For me, this was not "choosing" PSU over UCU, it was simply selecting PSU, as it would have been impossible for me to say a stark "no" to UCU - I know you think it's complex, but you can be sure in the fact that it's much more complex in my own head than as it is written in this blog. This "choice" (ok, enough with the quotes) brought both great serenity and, with it, immense disappointment. Since I had learned of the possibility of studying abroad for the first years of University (assumed until, at least, the completion of a bachelors), it was my goal. After the discovery of the program offered by UCU, my admission into this prestigious institution became the point to which I affixed and aligned my entire life and high school curriculum - this became a success in May after a grueling and cumbersome phone-interview. However, by this time, I had been well into crafting a backup route in the event of my previous goal being a failure - enter my interest in PSU. Before my mom suggested that I have such a backup plan, I was hell-bent on going to a foreign university for several reasons - I felt I would have greater responsibility in a European university environment; I saw a safer, quieter environment in which I could integrate well and study; I saw a new adventure, one set completely apart from every other person I had ever met, ergo an opportunity to be my own person, stray [continally] from an "orthodox" American life, and seize higher intellect; I saw me, with Mona.

Although the "current situation" had nothing to do with my "choice" (okay, so I lied - fucking sue me), Mona was an undeniable factor in the balancing of the scales, as was my family, naturally, and it pains my flesh to know that I cannot simply get on a train to be by her and even more to think of the possible ramifications of my decisions, the choices, and the sacrifices.