Emergency Update

Okay, I understand that I've already broken my promise to you in terms of consistency with this bitch. In my defense, I'm in school and have things going on. Good things are happening, though. I'm in a web design class and it's likely (when I use that word, it usually means there's about a one in four chance of it happening) that I'll write my own code for this page and it'll be totally revamped. That'll take time and awesome, but I should be able to find both of those if I set my mind to it.

I'm taking a web design class (so I feel even more important than you now) and part of it involves making a web page. Here's a link to that page. It's about as interesting as women's sports right now, but I'm hoping that by midterms it's at least as captivating as a sci-fi b-movie or a cute animal. I'm so cool that I almost know how to use div tags. Behold my l337 5k!llz.


MORE THINGS
On top of school, I recently got hired at a local coffee shop. Which means more work for me. This will either lead to me being more productive due to more responsibility, or I'll just continue being slightly too irresponsible. I'll keep you updated. Maybe.

My upcoming blog posts are likely to be less related to getting drunk and more related to sober me. I'm not apologizing; I'm letting you know. The name of the blog, after all, involves drinking and my life. So, you could at least try to act like you're interested in me. Ass.


Sorry again for the belatedness. Not sorry for the made-up word. Another post to follow within the next eventually. Suck my balls. Like my Facebook page. Love me.

I'll love you back. Intimately.

July 4th = Fire and Alcohol

Independence day was intended to remind all of the Americans that we succeeded in freeing ourselves from the stupid people with bad teeth all those years ago. Through the ages, we've managed to turn it into a nation-wide party where everyone ingests ethanol in close proximity to fire. We are clearly demonstrating how well we're doing. Sadly, our grossly irresponsible behavior was dulled in comparison to our state and federal governments. But none of you care about that.

Teh Partee
One of my friends held his annual Fourth of July party on July 2nd and I felt obligated to go and perform my shit show. He privately funds his own fireworks show that is easily better than the show put on by the city. I showed up midway through the show, Mega Buddy cup in-hand. This was roughly the contents of the cup -- I call it the Ginny Weasley:

I'm probably underestimating the amount of gin in there. All I know is that by the end of the night I had drank a half liter of it, was puking violently and incapable of walking on my own.

Drunk Dials
I've never liked phones, mainly because I have a habit of destroying them (I had my phone replaced just over a day ago, I don't even have service on it yet, and I've both dropped and thrown it), but also because I hate connectivity [he said as he blogged]. Anyway, after I got all toasty I called two people, one encouraged me to drink more and I blame her for all of my puke, the other was my brother to whom I appeared to open up to a bit too much. This quote from me was his status on facebook the next day:

Honestly. Honestly. Honestly. If I had the choice, I would be bisexual. But I don't have the choice. Ughhhhh I might puke soon. I'm sitting down and oh god I'll call you back bye.

Most of that night is pretty blurry, but I guess Trenton was waiting for me to get off the phone so we could leave when another of our friends shouted out, "Found him!" I was, allegedly, face-planted in the opening of the barn with my ass in the air* and my face and shoulders firmly pressed against the gravel. After finally leaving, I hung my head out of the window for the whole fifteen-minute ride back and, once we got to McDonald's drive through, I puked one last time.

I really don't think anyone was surprised with how this turned out.

*Don't criticize me for the hentai. It's not my fault good songs have backgrounds that are completely inappropriate.

What the Angels Listen To: Recirc

Going back to how much I love Dubstep, I have a collection of favorites on YouTube and I feel it is only fair that I share this with my faithful readers. Here it is:
Filthy Dirty (Like Mexico)

This is not the post I promised within the next week.
On the other hand, if I get too lazy, I will claim this was the post I was talking about. Here's a picture of me shirtless:

Huh, I never realized my nipples are that perky.

Mid-Summer Update

I'd say that I owe you all an apology for not updating in a long-ass time, but I specifically said that something like this would happen already. Instead, I tell you "you're welcome" for the heads up. I'm pretty damn kind.
The lack of update has been for a few reasons - partly from being busy and partly from a lack of muse. In this downtime (hereby referred to as "The Darkness")a friend of mine sent me a motivational and kind of insulting quote from Ira Glass that made me decide a few things. Most relevant to you, my faithful readers, is that I'm making a promise to make at least one new post a month. It's not very often, but it's the minimum frequency I will allow myself. This comes with the promise that each post will be pretty awesome.

Moving On
As I'm typing this, I've noticed that a lot of the helpful things this blog-creator had are now gone, which means I'll have to brush up on my HTML usage. But that's irrelevant.

This summer I started working at a glass factory near my town. It pays well, and I've spent probably 2/3 of what I've earned so far on a house that I'm not living in this summer. I'm excellent at planning ahead. The job isn't that bad, but if there's one thing that will make you realize how important it is to graduate, it's factory work. I'm fine doing this now but if I'm still moving glass in three years I'm going to resort to a life of crime.

What I do, exactly, is this: I take large pieces of glass (6' x 12' at some points, but it can get larger or smaller (that's what he said)) and pick them up with The Manipulator, which everyone calls a hoist and thereby ruins half the fun of using it, and then put it on a line where people make it better, or something. I've had two pretty cool things happen so far. One was that I got to work on windows that will be put into the Freedom Towers, which debatably makes me even more cool than a war vet. I also had the privilege of seeing a large piece of glass shatter on the line. There was a sound comparable to thunder followed by tens of thousands of tiny pieces of glass falling on the floor. I was stoked. No one else was. I'm clearly the only cool person in this whole factory.


Other News
My good friend, Trenton, has put me in charge of his music page, which you all should check out, for his voice is like your favorite tasty beverage, only better and it goes in your ears and not your mouth.

My favorite tasty beverage. Flavor/experience enhanced with Gin.
In all honesty, I haven't touched that page yet, but I will soon. Check back regularly for new songs/information. That is next on my list of "Things I Should Probably Be Doing."


That's all I've got for now. There will be a post in the next week (I swear on your life) about my Fourth of July Weekend. It was pretty messy.

Because Being a Nerd Is Awesome

There's a certain game that I enjoy playing a lot. The only problem is that when I try to tell people how awesome it is, they immediately assume I'm a supernerd with no friends, that I haven't seen the sun since the last time I went to buy a modified CPU, and that I haven't gotten exercise since I was forced to play in little league baseball. None of this is true (I promise). The fact is that only the coolest people enjoy this game. The game (I just lost the game) is Munchkin, and it has supplied my buddies and me with countless hours of enraging amounts of fun.

THE GAME (I lost again)

Explained simply, Munchkin is like Dungeons and Dragons with cards and awesome. Everyone starts out as "a level one human with no class (heh heh)." The point of the game is to laugh and get pissed, and then getting to level ten is a side objective. A wise man once said "fuck bitches; make money." The Munchkin equivalent would be "Fight monsters; obtain treasure." Treasure, apart from aiding your character in the game, adds humor. A cutlass, which is a type of sword, can only be used by females (because it has lass in the name -- get it?) while a cutlad can only be used by males. There are a hell of a lot more cards with even more humor, but you'll have to play it to enjoy it.

After starting, players generally choose one of two paths: Make friends or become a terrorist. A friend will help you when you fight a monster. A terrorist will be a bitch and do everything possible to piss you off and take your things from you. Penguin (another friend of mine) is notorious for this. What makes the game even better is how vague the rules are. It is perfectly legal to threaten someone in game with something completely unrelated. For example, saying "help me win or you're not invited to my birthday party" is allowed.

TIME WASTER


There have been very few quick games of Munchkin. Most rounds last about two hours, some stretching to three and very few ending before an hour is up. However, there is a set of rules where players have to get to level twenty to win. We played this (Epic Munchkin) recently, but we didn't realize the time commitment it would take.

We (there were seven of us) started around 9:30pm. I figured we'd be done by one in the morning at the latest. How wrong was I? Very. Very wrong indeed. Six hours of game-play later, the game finally ended when someone got fed up and ended the game by letting/forcing three other people to win (I'd explain how, but the rules get pretty hefty. I'll explain if we play together some time). No one was happy at the end of the night.

SMALL PROBLEM


As mentioned before, one of the options is to be a terrorist. This causes problems when people get very upset. Some arguments spill over into real life. Personally, I think it's hilarious to watch two people quarrel over how big of a selfish dick someone else is being. No punches have been thrown yet, but give it time; It'll happen.

I've also put myself into a dangerous position: The Rule Master. Being the one who introduced Munchkin to my friends, I know the most about it. This means I have to narc on people who are cheating, which typically makes me look like a total ass, comparable to an infamous dictator or maybe even Judas. Life goes on, and so does Munchkin, so I don't really care. Plus, I like being an ass. So everyone wins, really. Mostly just me, though.

GOOD TIMES


Just like everything else, Muchkin is much more fun when alcohol is involved. As I recall, I was playing Munchkin the first time I had a long island iced tea, and boy was that fun. The group was about half done with the game, and I was half done with my drink (it was at least a double serving, and this was when my tolerance was very low) when I turned to "Mel Gibson" and said "I'll chug the rest of this for five dollars." Several minutes later, I gained three dollars and I was rolling. Literally, I was rolling around on the floor. I also stole some UV Blue from someone, and I'm pretty sure I could have won the game, but I sabotaged myself. Not really sure what happened after that.

Along similar lines, I've already developed rules for turning this into a drinking game I call Drunchkin. I haven't played it yet, but when it happens I'll let you all know.

As payment for reading this blog, here's a picture of me running around in my underwear from the second time I drank (This event was mentioned in  a previous blog post) and the first time I streaked:

As my friend Penguin would say, lolbutts.
Enjoy your week, everyone. Don't forget to comment and vote (polling is located at the bottom of the page).

Another essay. This one's better. I promise.

THE PREFACE:
This was originally written on July 14, 2010. It was the summer following my Freshman year of college. Massive changes had occurred and I was kinda freakin' out, but in a really calm manner (FACT: I like to contradict myself). I think the only person who knew me well over the whole span of this little adventure was Treyson, who is alluded to in the essay. I'm not positive he noticed the change as thoroughly as I did, but who cares. Read it and enjoy it.

THE STORY



On Life Views and Social Concerns

I have never fully understood how a person can change so drastically over a relatively short amount of time. Physical features and personal interests aside, when morals, religious and political views, and social habits mutate into something totally different it is an important and life-altering event. A simple example is a sheltered, well behaved child going off to the real world and “exploding out of the slut closet,” so to speak. I, as many others, have experienced comparable change (on several occasions).

While I was in middle school, I was a shy, awkward, nerdy guy. I had a couple friends who I hung out with on occasion, but mostly I sat at home and did nothing. I did not really care what people thought of me, save for my crush, at whom I awkwardly glanced every so often. (I know they say not to care what other people think of you, but let us be honest; it matters.) That lack of social concern would explain why I only had a couple friends. I had my morals, which were tied closely to my Catholic religion, and I stuck by them fairly well. I stayed this way for several years, losing only a few morals with a chance of being more social.

Right when my morals dropped enough for me to hang out with fast women and watch people smoke pot at the age of sixteen (I thought that was rock bottom at the time), I was invited to a youth group after Sunday Mass. I am not sure if I am easily persuaded or if I was just incapable of thinking for myself, but that one youth group was enough for me to change completely by my next birthday. I joined the group and learned more about what Catholicism taught. Realizing everything I was doing wrong, I began to alter my life toward supreme righteousness.

I became an extreme Catholic, confessing my sins monthly, never swearing, etc., which inadvertently lead to me realizing none of my classmates at my Catholic school acted remotely Christian. I became “that guy,” the one who is a bit too eccentric and forceful about beliefs. Even more of an outcast, I luckily and somehow kept some friends friends from school(plus the ones from youth group, naturally).

My newfound understanding that almost all “Catholics” actually suck at practicing the religion was the first blow to my until then ever-growing faith. The effect was compounded by own personal amoral decisions, and ultimately by a good friend confessing he was in a relationship with another man (which, as I recall, I followed up with a fist bump). I felt strange getting used to this at first -- not knowing how to act or what to think. It was a total shelter-shock. But no matter what, I refused to believe this guy would be damned for loving someone that just happened to also have a penis.

I was halfway through my senior year of high school at this time, and I stopped considering myself a Catholic. I re-solidified a friendship from my childhood, a friendship I hold dear to this day. I became a little more social, cared a bit more about what other people thought about me, and coasted spiritually. At this point, my outlook on life was something like “I hope I can make more friends” and “I hope I figure out my life.”

I graduated, spent my summer with my girlfriend and the guys from the youth group (though they were unaware of my religious fallout), and then came college. Several members of my graduating high school class attended the University of St. Thomas with me, but because I was never very close to any of them I regressed to extreme shyness. I eventually became close with my co-graduates and they introduced me to alcohol and good times, including but not limited to streaking and my drunken habit of learning everyone’s name at the party. Unfortunately, the friendships hardly extended past that point, except for the roommate of two fellow high school graduates, who was pretty damn cool.

The year went by and I learned a lot about myself and what I wanted to do. I discovered my limits when my grades dropped and I went back home, somewhat downtrodden, to work my third summer at the local pool. My thoughts at this juncture were “Alright, it is time for change. Look out, Obama, there is a new man in town.”

The beginning of my summer vacation began with a fairly amicable split between my girlfriend-of-essentially-three-years and me. I am unaware if my ensuing personality change was due to not being in a relationship and the freedom therein, or if it was an inevitable transition that the universe deemed necessary. Within weeks I had become noticeably different, being significantly more social, more eccentric, and more of an ass, but in a nice I’m-just-kidding sort of way. This is how I currently am.

My overall confidence and generally appealing demeanor are, I assume, direct results of my new outlook on life, which essentially amounts to “Fuck it. I will do exactly as I damn well please.”

-----------------------------

This is not a thoroughly detailed account of the change. I could mention an ass-ton more events or inner-thinkings that led to the changes, but those are for my close friends.

Per usual, you are required to comment, subscribe, and vote (polling is at the bottom of the page).

Bonus Post: Poetry

Seeing as I enjoy English so much (not the people -- they're cool too but that's irrelephant), it's natural that I've taken some courses in the subject. Among the assignments involved therein included poetry. Because I almost feel guilty about not updating more often I'm going to upload a select few that others and I think are good. What follows will not have much for humor, but that's fine. You can deal with it. As usual, comments are encouraged -- more so this time.

I ask that you do your best to enjoy yourself.

1. THERE'S NO TIME

Inspired by the album "Zombie EP" by The Devil Wears Prada

Running - 

I’ve been running for days.

Searching for an escape from the

Hell this world has become.

They call them

The godless.

Each of them spreads

The curse

To humans - the living ones

That are terrified, depressed, enraged,

Or some combination of the three.

I am made of anger.

I feel no remorse

As I pull the trigger that

Tears their fragile brains

Into nothing.

They call them

The godless.

Truth is,

We all are.

2. NATURAL WORLD

I step out of my lovely home

Into the natural world, where the rain falls slowly, calmly,

Like leaves caught in the wind.

The purple grass licks playfully at the

White tree trunk

That extends gracefully upward

Into its canopy of scarlet, jade, and sapphire.

The one-legged owl of small stature

Squats, satisfied, surveying surroundings,

Situations, absorbed with silly sights.

The schnauzeberry bush glows gently

In the soft azure sunrise.

My neighbors, the

Unicorns,

Dance softly on their lofted porch

To the “Greatest Hits of Silence,”

Absorbed in each others’ clopping hooves.

The street is lined with monochromatic tulips,

Whose color occasionally and suddenly turns negative.

The plump, flowing, crowned, pollen spreaders ride

Majestically on the royal interactive vector field.

The world is as it should be.

------------------------------

Now, I know that some if not most of you are the kind of people who are all "that doesn't rhyme so it's clearly not poetry." Fuck you guys. As with several parts of life, I take the liberal side. I have written poems that rhyme, and they tend to be more bland than anything (probably because I'm bad at it, but that's not the point). I prefer to focus on line and stanza breaks. I've found that playing with these aspects of poetry is much more rewarding than finding words that sound similar to other words. I write, not rap.

Now bring on the comments. And I want constructive criticism, not destructive cynicism (LOLOL pun from previous paragraph).

Alright, let's make me famous.

I Was "Busy"

So I fell behind on some blog posts. We've been over this -- I have no schedule. I also haven't had much ambition since school let out, which means you don't get anything new, but another essay post that was originally written in my senior year of high school. It's about beards. I like beards. I want a beard. I only have scruff. I am disappoint.

Please, enjoy.




A YOUNG ADULT'S DESIRE


I distinctly remember being in the fourth grade when we were forced to watch those terrible sexual education videos while bits of nervous laughter and confused looks scattered themselves in the audience. Back then I almost dreaded the days when that would happen to my friends and even me.

Several years later, we watched those same videos, but the process had already begun, and I had my worries, as did my friends, about how I would turn out. Specifically, I was concerned about my height, looks, voice, and facial hair. As I approach the end of this stage of my life, I look back and see that each of those is starting to reach a satisfying end, with the exception of facial hair. My blatant lack of that which is “beard” is becoming the greatest disappointment in all my puberty.

In Phillip Lopate’s essay “On Shaving a Beard,” he mentioned a “tribe of bearded men [with] patriarchal firmness . . .” (369). In my early high school years, I had yearned to be involved, and even more so to be a leader. As Lopate suggested, beards bring with them a certain impression of wisdom, or even power. He continued by saying, “[Those with beards] strike me as good providers. They resemble trees (their beards are nests) or tree cutters. In any case, mentally I place them in the forest, with flannel shirt and axe” (369). This connection that has been made to lumberjacks makes owning a beard even more alluring, as lumberjacks are known to be brave and strong as the trees they cut.

Later in Lopate’s essay, he reflects on when he first decided to grow his beard and compares it to joining a “fraternity,” claiming “to collect the equivalent of approving winks from other beardies, fellow conspirators in the League of Hirsutes” (369). Comedian Dane Cook once said that every man wants to be a part of a heist. I believe the truth in that statement exists because of the empowering sense of being up to something. If growing a beard constitutes being a “conspirator,” count me in.

I’ve known people who have had beards, as well as other forms of facial hair. In restaurants I have seen men with long white mustaches that reach beyond their faces. I’ve had friends, both older and younger than I, who have nurtured their own beards, be it a shaggy goatee or a thick, full-on beard, to near perfection. After reading Phillip Lopate’s essay I was inspired to search for fancy beards on the Internet, and was pleasantly surprised with my findings. Though such actions peak my jealousy, I have been compelled to go up to every man with a nice-looking beard and shake his hand. Or if this is not possible, I will at least give him an excited thumbs-up.

I know I am not yet finished with my journey toward total manhood, but my relatively hairless face is not showing enough promise of future growth to fill my beardly desires. My only hope at this point is to shave more than is necessary, and rub my cheeks for ten minutes each day so as to increase the blood flow to the area. My desperation for facial hair is endless, as is my love for majestic beards.

--------------------------------------

Okay, that was a bit of a let down. I promise to have a real update before the end of the month.

Don't forget to comment, subscribe, vote in the poll (bottom of the page), call me, share with your friends, start a revolution, save the world. . .

Attack of the Throat

College is awesome, apart from the whole going to class and doing homework thing. Luckily, I managed to find a way to skip three consecutive weeks of class, turn in no homework, and suffer major consequences in only one of my four classes. The way I discovered is called "contracting tonsilitis and Strep type C."

THE BEGINNING

It all started the week I got back from spring break. I felt a scratchiness in my throat, but I just figured it was from too much hookah or something like that. Not too long after, the scratchiness transformed into a stinging pain. Being away from home, I went to my makeshift mothers' room and complained. While Mario Party was rubbing my head and putting up with my incessant complaints, Nurse Chicken Noodle went to get a thermometer. After discovering that I had a fever of 101.3, I was happy to discover I didn't have to go to class. I still felt as though there was a tampon stuck in my throat (Jake and Amir Reference). While I was lying on their love sack, I distinctly remember telling an absolutely hilarious joke that I can't remember any more. Now that I think about it, I probably just yelled (which was painful) to get their attention and then farted really loudly, and then laughed for a good minute or so.

Anyway, I went to the Health Center the next morning. They tested for Strep (only type A), Mono, and probably HIV. They could clearly see that my tonsils were swollen, so they put me on some antibiotic that was a distant cousin of Penicillin. My mother and my brother are both allergic to Penicillin. My parents came up to get me and I spent the next few days at home.

NOT FUNNY

Not even 24 hours after I started the medication, I developed a pain between my chest and my lungs. Again, I ignored it for a while, assuming it was caused from how I was lying on my bed for the whole day. WRONG. Allergic reaction. I had to complain to my mom at one in the morning because it started to feel as if Hannibal Lecter had tried to get at my heart and gave up halfway through (probably because I don't have one). A trip to Wal-Mart and two Bennies later, I fell asleep, got a new prescription, and got back to the cities in time for the weekend. I felt well enough, so I drank. Don't act like you're surprised; we all know I have no sense of responsibility. Anyway, Monday came, I went to classes, and everything was fine, just like December 6, 1941.

DARK NIGHT

Tuesday was a good day. It was sunny, beautiful, and warm (it was probably in the mid-forties, but it's Minnesota after winter; mid-forties is t-shirt weather). I was about to go to class when I discovered that someone was offering free burgers, so I got those instead. It was around this time that I noticed it felt awkward to swallow. I ignored it because I'm a man, and I insist on toughing it out until it gets scary. We ate the burgers, had a beer, enjoyed the day, and called it a night. Then four A.M. came around.

I woke up because swallowing felt like forcing a handful of thumb tacks down my throat, and, surprise! I had run out of pain killers. I had to suffer through half-sleep until eight so I could get more drugs.

Apart from the intense pain of swallowing, I didn't feel THAT bad, which is why I was mildly surprised when the doctor told me I had a fever of 102.6. They took another throat culture, gave me some Tylenol, some steroids to reduce swelling, a new prescription for an antibiotic (number three), as well as a prescription for Vicodin. As happy as I was to hear Vicodin, I eventually found out that it just gives me a mild headache -- No hallucinations, no dizziness, and I can't even be sure it killed the pain. The fun part about this trip to the doctor was that I had the privilege of utilizing an IV for the first time in my life. Unfortunately, the nurse that tried first had to dig around two separate times for a minute each. I don't know if any of you have had needles stabbing around underneath your skin, but it feels kinda like this:

Ok, it wasn't that painful, but it's definitely not comfortable. Once the IV was in and working, I had some saltine-steroid sandwiches and some Gatorade. Finally, I was starting to feel better and I could return to class and catch up on whatever I missed. But not before finding out that it was Strep type C, which apparently makes normal strep look laughable and asinine.

LOLOLOLOLOL NOT!

Remember how this all started right after spring break? Yeah, well, now it's Easter. I get home after feeling healthy for about five days. My parents take me to our church's Good Friday service (I'm unsure if it's a service or a Mass, but that's just a technicality so who gives a damn (pun)). My throat is hurting again, and I'm about to launch into a fuckin frenzy because of how absolutely absurd this illness is getting. Luckily, we caught it before it tore my throat asunder, and today marks the day I finished my fourth and (hopefully) final prescription for this infection that clings on harder than most women.

Fun Idea: Next time a loved one angers you, call them a filthy insipid little prude/wench/harlot/simpleton/etc. It will show your superiority and make them love you more.


Comment. Subscribe. Vote (bottom of page). Love me.

Pincess Dye Has Been Bitching, So Here's a New Post

He made me write that title, by the way.

Anyway, it's been a day or two or four since the last time I posted, so I'm giving the people what they want. Unfortunately for you, I'm busy, or something, and "haven't had the time" to write a new post. In lieu of that, I'm going to give all you sexies a paper I wrote my senior year of high school for a PSEO class. There were certain requirements for it that might make it less entertaining than it could have been, but fuck you and quit complaining. Make fun of whatever you want.



THE OSTENTATIOUS LIVES OF CHILDREN



Even in the early years of life, I had known I was different from my siblings, if only minutely. I was preceded in life by Archer, my older brother, and Toons, my older sister. Archer was five years older than me, and made his superiority known. I, on the other hand, made my inferiority known, specifically to my mother, with the intentions of safeguarding myself and ensnaring my brother in my mother’s vicious grasp. I used my weakness as a defense, and it worked astoundingly well, until my parents left the house. My sister, at these times, would often entreat that we play nice, and do something less aggressive, which inadvertently led to Archer stripping the Ken doll and performing the most hilarious dance routines a six-year-old had seen. Such was a typical day of my childhood.

More than my parents on most days, my siblings are the main part of my upbringing, at least through my early teen years. We all, as siblings, agree that our time together was priceless. While our visits are fewer and farther between, we still maintain our familiar friendship, which includes the sporadic outbursts of fights that really aren’t worth fighting.

My sister, being the only girl, naturally felt left out. She would try her ploys, such as implementing a “points system” to see which one of us could get on her better side, which lasted several months and consisted of a chalk board and a lengthening set of tally marks, one side for my brother, and one for me. I, being the younger and more apt to acquiesce to such schemes, felt it mandatory to compete.
When I asked my sister what she thought was the hardest part of having me as a sibling, she responded, “The hardest part of having you as a sibling was probably because you were male and I was outnumbered in that aspect, or because you were the youngest and you got fucking everything. That and you didn’t have to do shit.” She continued her comment, saying, “There’s been quite a few times when I’m pissed off at you, but looking back there’s been a lot of good times. There were no times I was like, ‘You fucking whore.’”

In our time together, we have developed a frighteningly stunning array of memories together. I have been told several times from each of them about the time my brother pulled my diaper while I was climbing stairs, only to have it empty like “an ice cream bucket” down the stairs. My brother, when told during a telephone interview that anything he said could be published, responded, “So, I shouldn’t say anything about the time we recorded our farts?” Of course, he should have, because that period of our lives, including my sister’s, is one of the earliest memories I have of our bonding. This can give the reader some insight into why, perhaps, I am the way I am.

My brother and I, being male, were inherently different from my sister, and therefore had a different relationship. In his essay, “The Disposable Rocket,” John Updike comments on the differences between the males and females of the race:

Any accounting of male-female differences must include the male’s superior recklessness, a drive not, I think, toward death, as the darker feminist cosmogonies would have it, but to test the limits, to see what the traffic will bear – a kind of mechanic’s curiosity. The number of men who do lasting damage to their young bodies is striking; war and car accidents aside, secondary-school sports, with the approval of parents and the encouragement of brutish coaches, take a fearful toll of skulls and knees. (641)

His words resound deep within me, knowing that between my brother, my father, and me we fit the bill entirely. Whether it was fighting with plastic bats, fists and feet, or in a video game, Archer and I were much more violent than Toons. So much so that our parents removed the game “007 Golden Eye” from our possession and gave a calmer game, “1080 Snowboarding,” to my sister instead.

My brother and I had a somewhat typical siblinghood between us. When I asked him recently what it was like growing up with me, he paused before saying, “Imagine the worst headache that you’ve ever had, every day, three times a day. That’s what it was like growing up with you.” He has also mentioned that my sister threw up on my uncle around the time I was being born, and how this action was a bad omen for my entrance into their lives. Wisecracks aside, Archer was grateful to have a brother in the family who was more wiling to roughhouse than Toons was. “I forced you to roughhouse,” my brother admitted, knowing that his influence had a lot to do with my nature as a child. As might be expected, this plan backfired when I would want to roughhouse when he did not. His comments on this particular attribute of mine are that “you were definitely a biter and a clawer

As the topic of rivalries come up with siblinghood, I must mention the rivalries we had. Being the youngest, weakest, and dullest minded, I felt a bit inconsequential compared to my bright, popular siblings. In Arielle Greenberg’s poem, “Boxcar,” her first stanza reads a bit like an argument between siblings: “You’ve got that shiny boxcar/painted Rage-on-Wheels in fire letters on the side/& you’ve been driving for years/& you zip through town on just your own/heidy-ho and I’ll tear you down.” This fits better yet because of the large plastic truck we would fight over for control to drive. Sibling rivalries are nothing to be joked about, because they often end in tears; unfortunately, those tears typically belonged to the youngest of the group.

However, with growing up often comes growing apart. Not to say that we loved each other less; being apart may have helped to love each other more. But as more time passed, the less we were together, and my brother had gone off to college all too soon, especially for me. He had gradually spent less and less time at home, so the change was easy on the family for the most part. We still missed him, but had become accustomed to his absence. When he came home for visits, he and I would promptly resume our fighting and joking.

The same sort of thing happened when Toons had left for college, with a progressive move away from the home toward more opportunities. More recently, my sister and I have grown closer, through several opportunities we were given to bond. For example, the time she made me her “sober cab,” that is to say, “designated driver.” I gained many new insights into my sister’s life after that night, and I wouldn’t trade the experience for much of anything.

Even now I know that there were some things that could not be helped, what with me feeling such an outcast. And according to the patterns of birth order, I was very correct. Based on the article “Birth Order,” the third and youngest child, which is me, tends to want his duties done for him, and also feels that he “[m]ay not be taken seriously.” This was certainly a perfect fit in my case, as in my childhood, I felt I wasn’t getting nearly the attention I deserved, which was far more than anyone needed.

I know I’m lucky to have the friendships I have with Archer and Toons, and I am ever grateful, most of the time. We always manage to make each other laugh, whether through reminiscing or something new we come up with. During his interview, my brother said of our relationship, “Thanks for taking it all in stride. And I say that because I made you put up with a lot of shit throughout the years.” I accepted this because of the truth within, though I know I had returned the favor with my own pranks, like putting old food coloring in his drink to make it taste bad. My siblings and I are inseparable, insofar as we stay on the others’ good side.

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In case I have to worry about copyrights, ask me for them and I'll reveal my sources.

Otherwise, let me know what you think, become a follower, vote in the poll (located at the bottom of the page), and lastly, can you do me a favor?

Can you have a great day? 

Complaint

So, I can see certain stats about who's visiting my page. One of these includes which browser and operating system you're using. Most people are window's/chrome users (my preferred), but I couldn't help but notice someone is still using Internet Explorer. Seriously? Stop it. I don't even care if you switch to Safari. Just stop.

Grow Up

The Love Kickstarts Again

Title inspiration: More Dubstep

FOR REALS


So it's a Friday night, and I'm in college; Take a guess as to what I did.
I'm feeling pretty good right now, and I just got back from a party at The Playground with great friends like Treyson, Princess Dye, Queen Bee, Uncle Waldo, Justin Timberlake, and many others. I'm very happy about this night for the express reason that this is the first and only occasion that I have been more sober (and in this case by a long shot) than Treyson; He is ALWAYS the one taking care of me. I finally got the chance to pay him back. This must be how Mother Theresa felt.

                                                     (^ Uncle Waldo ^)

I liked tonight because we started drinking around nine an didn't leave until after two. Even though I would have liked to stay longer, it was a fantastic evening for a couple reasons. Firstly, all of my best friends were there, which automatically makes the situation feel like Christmas during a world war. We also started drinking at nine, as previously mentioned, which allowed me to be rather toasty for quite a while. On top of that, Treyson and I went up against Uncle Waldo and Taco Bell in beer pong and won by one cup in overtime; Talk about intensity. To shorten it up a bit here's what else was involved: glow stix; tang; dancing in the style of Michael Jackson, The Robot, and whatever it is that I do; tang; lots of booze; and false cop alarms. I include false cop alarms as a plus because it gives an adrenaline rush and gave me an excuse to pretend to sleep on an air mattress and cuddle with friends.

FOR SEARS
(That means "seriously")

I probably haven't had this good of a night since Wednesday night, during which I was drawn on profusely. The writings included "still best friends," "happy trail," a heart (which was drawn on with lipstick, or something similar, and hard as hell to wash off), "virgin," and "Gun Show: $10."

Queen Bee has a terrible habit and impressive track record of writing "virgin" on me since the first time we met.

This evening was littered with smoke breaks on the porch, socks getting wet, me taking my shirt off, me letting people write on me (Treyson wrote his nickname on my lower stomach with an arrow to my peen, per usual, and "virgin" found its way onto my back as well as, from what I hear, a leprechaun), Dubstep, lesser music, pong, people flirting, and generally a grand ole time. Think of the last great party you went to, the one that stood out from the rest of them, and then realize that that's the party I go to every time I go to this house. I'm not bragging; I'm just saying that my friends are better than yours.

WELL, ANYHOODIEANDABLOWFISH


We got back to campus, I ate some of my mom's goulash that she sent up with me (heavenly), Treyson helped himself with his inebriated state, I listened to (what else) Dubstep, and everyone wound down, waiting for the morning when we could all reunite, figure out what was written on me, and eat at Denny's.

MORE GOODIES


Because I'm sure you don't like reading about how my life is better that yours (I'm Better), here are some things to cheer you up:
Jake and Amir
Still Jake and Amir
A Friend Doing Things
Aight My Peepoh!

Like. Comment. Subscribe. Vote in the poll. Be cool. Love me :D

What the Angels Listen To

About a month or two ago, I started listening to a certain genre of music. This type of music has been called "dance music for metal heads" and "dirtier than Hitler's kill to death ratio." For those of you who are already familiar, I am, of course, speaking of Dubstep. Enjoying this particular style of music is like having liquid satin poured down your ear hole. I don't even know what that would look like, but I know what it feels like. It feels like Dubstep.

REASONS WHY


Dubstep has innumerable benefits, which I will enumerate right now:

1. Imagine a rave. Now imagine that rave is even more awesome and everyone, including the bouncers, is tripping out on shrooms and adderall. That's what Dubstep can do.
2. Dubstep has the power to increase your mood and energy. For example, as I walk to and from class, I play my collection that I purchased from Amazon (can be found by clicking this alternately-colored magical series of words) and I'm pretty sure that laser light shows start all over campus.
3. People like me have a distinct need for Dubstep. This is my second night pulling an all-nighter in three days, and see as my friend, "Princess Dye" was about to bail on me, Dubstep would have been my only hope of making it to my 8:15 class.
4. Liquid satin. IN YOUR EAR HOLE.
5. To make things even better, Skrillex, a well known Dubstep DJ, teamed up with Korn to make a song so good that I listened to it 60 times in less than a week. This is that song:

SO GOOD

I've managed not only to get my friends to like Dubstep, but I've also found friends that liked Dubstep before I knew them, like "Queen Bee." This wonderful young lady invited me and a few other friends to a masquerade that featured SIX HOURS OF EAR-SATIN and I was more excited for it than Lindsey Lohan would be in Colombia. Unfortunately, none of us ended up going for various reasons. It's currently my only regret in life. Had I gone, my countenance for the remainder of my life would have been comparable to James Franco's in the following clip from Spiderman 3:

IN CONCLUSION

Dubstep. Cocaine. Liquid satin. James Franco.

To quote Sealab 2021: "It's like a koala crapped a rainbow in my brain!"

Now for the Meat

Starting with the most entertaining of the given subjects, let's take a dive into my drinking life.

Alcohol is one of God's greatest gifts. It has the power to turn normally shy people into social beings, which is how my drinking career began.
Bypassing my sheltered high school life, let's start with my first drunk experience.

THE HOOK

It was the first month of my first year of college, and one of my friend girls from high school, who happened to go to the same college as me, invited me to go drinking with her and a few friends. We played kings cup, and I found out that a quarter liter of Cherry UV is a lot more alcohol than I thought it was. I had finished my portion before we finished pregaming, and everyone was impressed that I didn't miss the toilet when I went pee before I left. Everything was spinning, everything was funny, and I couldn't care less about my mildly controlling female friends. One of the few things I remember saying that night was "Why didn't anyone tell me that drinking was this much fun!?"

THE LINE

We got to the party, and I discovered the main habit that drunk me has: MEET. EVERYONE. Shake hands, hear names, run around, forget names, meet the same people again, etc.

As it turned out, the party was actually a birthday party. The birthday girl turned 19 and was drunk enough to think I was awesome, so she lunged at my face and made out with me. From what I can remember, she was attractive, but my vision was that of a 87 year-old woman with cataracts, so whatever.
My favorite part about this night was not that I made out with a potentially attractive girl (who was older than I was, might I add), but the fact that I shared a very nice cigar with the owner of the house -- a man who was trying to date the girl that made out with me. Quite the fine gentleman.

THE SINKER

A week or two later, it was my high school's homecoming game. I hadn't drank since my first endeavor, so I made sure to bring my booze home for this.

Most of my graduating class (32 people total) showed up for a party after homecoming. It was a Turkey farm far away from the cops, so there was no reason to be coy. The night got started and shit got real pretty fast.

I didn't understand yet how alcohol worked, so I figured doubling my intake from last time wouldn't be a big deal. After the host started a large controlled fire (by large I mean the flames were 20 ft. high), I started drinking my UV and cherry Coke. Within a half hour or so I discovered my other drunken habit: Get Naked. First it was the shirt, then the shoes, and all of a sudden my friends were watching me run toward the corn field with my boxers around my ankles while loudly laughing my drunken laugh. 

The only thing I remember after that is being face deep in toilet (3rd drunken habit) with someone watching me. I'm pretty sure that if that person hadn't been there, I would have drown. That would have made for an interesting obituary.

The next morning, my bfff, we'll call him Treyson (he gets a name because He'll be showing up more and more), opened the bathroom door and asked, "Dude, what the fuck?" I'm not sure what we said to each other after that, but I know I ended up waiting for him to get back to his floorbed so I could cuddle up to him and steal his covers.

THE WORST

I eventually got home with the worst hangover I've ever had. It was Sunday, so I had the privilege of having my dad drive me back up to campus. Normally this would be fine; I'd just sleep on the way up. Unfortunately, my father will occasionally have a beer while driving. This was one of those times. This was also a time where Dad took the back roads. For the entire hour and a half trip, I had to sit there, smelling the odor of beer and doing everything I could to not puke everywhere. I'm pretty sure Dad got suspicious because I didn't touch my Jimmy John's sandwich and my head was halfway out the window the entire drive. Luckily, I made it back without screwing myself over.


Do note that this is the first installment of many, many drunken endeavors. They get better. I promise.

P.S. I apologize for the lack of anything that isn't a word, so here are some extra distractions:
But for Guys Like Us. . .

Dubstep is for Awesome

Just for Starters

Ah, the internet universe. Where any kid who thinks he's special can put his thoughts out into the world to be judged or applauded. I love this place.

The point of THIS blog is for me to anonymously let everyone ever know as much about my life as I can without making it blatantly obvious who I am. I'm also hoping to get people to make fun of me, find people to become emotionally invested in my posts, and basically just get more attention.

MOVING ON


I'm starting this blog at five in the morning because I decided to pull an all-nighter to do homework. We can all take an accurate guess on how much homework I actually did. What started as "getting the distractions out of the way," e.g. Tetris, online comics, random reading, turned into taking a walk and trying to meditate and then deciding to start this. Fun Times.

GROUND RULES


There are a few things you should know about me before we start:

• I am egotistical. You'll get used to it and I'm sure you'll end up liking it. Confidence is attractive, after all.
• I'm a nerd. I spend a lot of my time reading various sections of FailBlog (e.g. Art of Trolling, Rage Comics, FailBook) as well as The Oatmeal and Hyperbole and a Half. So if I say something such as "I am disappoint" or post the Forever Alone face at the end of a post, don't be surprised.
• I have no schedule. I would like to promise you all (which is no one, at the moment) that I will update twice a week, or at least with some recognizable pattern, but chances are that I'll only update when I feel like it.
• I like attention. A great band once sang "I don't care what you think, as long as it's about me." This kinda ties back to the whole being egotistical thing.
• I try to entertain. If you think something is funny, let me know. If you think something that was supposed to be funny was silly, let me know. If you have any feelings about anything, let me know. If you have feelings about me, keep it to yourself.
• I am a man. There's a good chance that a sexist joke will sneak in to a post or two, or maybe something will be taken offensively. Just know that I say things lightly and believe that laughter is the only pure thing left in this world.
• I value the English language. I know there are ridiculous rules like "'I' before 'E' except after 'C' or in words like 'weird,' 'neighbor,' and half of the other words that have E's and I's," but grammar lets people know that the person in question has SOME form of education. If you find a mistake, criticize me. Just don't be a bitch about it.

I feel as though we know each other a bit now. I'll assume that means this post is over with, and I hope I update soon.

Toodles.