Yeah, ok, that was pretty mean.
Don't drink that much again, Steve-o.
19.7.14
Blogging, at this precise moment, feels pretty pointless. I don't really need to write out and read over my feelings on the topic at hand to figure out a course of action, or how I really feel about the situation. It took like three sentences to figure that out.
So, what motivates me to do it? I don't know. It's sometimes nice to air out your satisfaction at accomplishing something, rather than reflecting on what's going wrong, I guess. But I really don't know.
So, I guess that's what i'll say instead.
So, what motivates me to do it? I don't know. It's sometimes nice to air out your satisfaction at accomplishing something, rather than reflecting on what's going wrong, I guess. But I really don't know.
So, I guess that's what i'll say instead.
18.7.14
And we sink, and we drown.
The problem with PBS' broadcasts are that they have absolutely no budget to access anything really, really cool, so they will take the most mundane of subjects, and try to make it far more interesting that in really is.
Take the Nova series, which features such awesome sounding films as:
NOVA: Why do ships sink?
As the opening credits rolled, I said to myself "Gee, I sure hope the hour long answer to this question isn't 'water'".
So, I watched this whole thing about why the Titanic sank, and why the Concordia sank, and while all these other, lesser ships sank in the early 90s.
Now, I may not be your average PBS viewer, but I thought it was pretty clear within the first three seconds that:
1. The Titanic sank because no one was paying attention and they hit an iceberg.
2. The Concordia sank because the captain was an idiot and seems to have just been curious as to what a sinking ship looks like from the safety of a lifeboat. If you remember that huge train crash that happened a few years ago because the conductor (literally) just wanted to see how fast it would go, then it starts to become clear that Italians should not be in charge of mass transport systems. note, I may be thinking of Spain, but am too lazy to check.
3. The other two ships sunk because they hit really big waves and were poorly designed, and the crew abandoned them instantly without trying to stop leaks or warn the passengers.
Based on these three points, I concluded that most ships sink because of captain error, and that some cruise ships sink because of inherent and easily corrected design flaws. I also concluded that should I ever find myself on one (I'm a sail kinda guy anyway), and should anything seem even remotely wrong, I should get into the closest lifeboat even if people tell me I'm crazy.
But no, that's not at all the documentary was trying to say. Obviously, highly paid captains are simply expected to be inept, so I was treated to a whole hour of low budget tests.
First, we had to see if the steel was at fault. Was it any better than that of the Titanic? After all, it's 2014, we should be able to build ships that can just plow through insignificant things like coral reefs, right?
Well, it turns out that yes, steel is better nowadays, but no, you can't build something that will still float which can withstand plowing it's million-ton bulk into a giant rock at 20 miles an hour. Guess that settles the oh so relevant debate.
Then, we got to hear about how the Titanic sunk because it had a poor bulkhead design. How did new ships stand up to that? Well, after a century of R&D, bulkheads now extend to the top of the ship, so yeah, that particular problem is solved. But unfortunately, water can still pass into the pipes and sink the ship by coming up through the toilets.
And it went on and on.
Finally, in the end, they talked about the two ships that sank because of obvious crew neglect and some really big waves.
"Finally, we'll find out that it's usually crew error that causes these ships to sink!" I thought, "There will be at least some consistent point to all this."
Unfortunately, no, I was wrong. The grand point was indeed that ships sink because they fill with fucking water, and that will always be the way it is.
Anyway, now I'm watching some mining documentary, which is already hilariously fucking horrible. It is kind of fun to hear an Indian dude say the exact words "In the beginning, Canada was private property. All of the western land was owned by the Hudson Bay Company of England".
Thanks, PBS. I'm glad you're free.
I think I will watch that Rock of Ages movie that Lisa was watching the other day. It's pretty terrible too (a musical where they were too lazy to even try to write a couple of shitty songs?), but that's simply because I find the concept kind of dumb. It does make decent background for other things, though.
Take the Nova series, which features such awesome sounding films as:
NOVA: Why do ships sink?
As the opening credits rolled, I said to myself "Gee, I sure hope the hour long answer to this question isn't 'water'".
So, I watched this whole thing about why the Titanic sank, and why the Concordia sank, and while all these other, lesser ships sank in the early 90s.
Now, I may not be your average PBS viewer, but I thought it was pretty clear within the first three seconds that:
1. The Titanic sank because no one was paying attention and they hit an iceberg.
2. The Concordia sank because the captain was an idiot and seems to have just been curious as to what a sinking ship looks like from the safety of a lifeboat. If you remember that huge train crash that happened a few years ago because the conductor (literally) just wanted to see how fast it would go, then it starts to become clear that Italians should not be in charge of mass transport systems. note, I may be thinking of Spain, but am too lazy to check.
3. The other two ships sunk because they hit really big waves and were poorly designed, and the crew abandoned them instantly without trying to stop leaks or warn the passengers.
Based on these three points, I concluded that most ships sink because of captain error, and that some cruise ships sink because of inherent and easily corrected design flaws. I also concluded that should I ever find myself on one (I'm a sail kinda guy anyway), and should anything seem even remotely wrong, I should get into the closest lifeboat even if people tell me I'm crazy.
But no, that's not at all the documentary was trying to say. Obviously, highly paid captains are simply expected to be inept, so I was treated to a whole hour of low budget tests.
First, we had to see if the steel was at fault. Was it any better than that of the Titanic? After all, it's 2014, we should be able to build ships that can just plow through insignificant things like coral reefs, right?
Well, it turns out that yes, steel is better nowadays, but no, you can't build something that will still float which can withstand plowing it's million-ton bulk into a giant rock at 20 miles an hour. Guess that settles the oh so relevant debate.
Then, we got to hear about how the Titanic sunk because it had a poor bulkhead design. How did new ships stand up to that? Well, after a century of R&D, bulkheads now extend to the top of the ship, so yeah, that particular problem is solved. But unfortunately, water can still pass into the pipes and sink the ship by coming up through the toilets.
And it went on and on.
Finally, in the end, they talked about the two ships that sank because of obvious crew neglect and some really big waves.
"Finally, we'll find out that it's usually crew error that causes these ships to sink!" I thought, "There will be at least some consistent point to all this."
Unfortunately, no, I was wrong. The grand point was indeed that ships sink because they fill with fucking water, and that will always be the way it is.
Anyway, now I'm watching some mining documentary, which is already hilariously fucking horrible. It is kind of fun to hear an Indian dude say the exact words "In the beginning, Canada was private property. All of the western land was owned by the Hudson Bay Company of England".
Thanks, PBS. I'm glad you're free.
I think I will watch that Rock of Ages movie that Lisa was watching the other day. It's pretty terrible too (a musical where they were too lazy to even try to write a couple of shitty songs?), but that's simply because I find the concept kind of dumb. It does make decent background for other things, though.
11.7.14
To put it in the terms you would:
This is the exact issue that arises the minute you begin to alter the parameters of any given relationship. The moment a single factor is modified from it's original form, complications arise that ruin the future potential for any sort of meaningful friendship.
To put it in the terms I like to use:
Our friendship was based around two things:
Alchohol
and
Facebook
If you'd take a minute to look at things, you'd realize that the best conversations we've ever had have gone as follows:
You have a shit night.
I have an excellent night, and am quite fucking hammered.
For whatever reason, likely some need for any kind of human contact, you will comment or like absolutely everything I post on facebook, no matter how ridiculous or inane.
Then, I will say "hi", because I'm hammered and no one else is online - or at least, that's how the first few times went, because to be pretty honest, I do actually find you quite interesting and enjoy talking to you.
You lay out some big problem. Because I am a charming son of a bitch when you don't know me well, I tell you exactly what you want to hear. You then say things like, and I quote:
"And also I have to say you remind me a lot of myself. Youre like if I was older wiser edgier and also a dude"
and
"Awesome. I came into this conversation wanting to die and I came out of it giving no fucks."
which is ridiculously awesome, because that sort of thing feeds my ego, which is really all I want out of any sort of relationship anyway. I like being flattered needlessly, and making people feel better about things that I really don't care about at all - this is probably my "thing".
So, because this is generally the basis of our total conversations to this point, I am immensely comfortable around you.
So what the fuck was this all about tonight? Don't get me wrong - the initial error was all mine, but absolutely everything else that happened was more your fault than mine.
So, goodbye to what I thought was a pretty good friendship. I'm sorry if you or anyone else misunderstood my intentions - I thought I made it pretty clear that I liked how everything was, so I'm really not sure what you were expecting.
Oh well. At least sangria is only about half as shitty as I remember.
This is the exact issue that arises the minute you begin to alter the parameters of any given relationship. The moment a single factor is modified from it's original form, complications arise that ruin the future potential for any sort of meaningful friendship.
To put it in the terms I like to use:
Our friendship was based around two things:
Alchohol
and
If you'd take a minute to look at things, you'd realize that the best conversations we've ever had have gone as follows:
You have a shit night.
I have an excellent night, and am quite fucking hammered.
For whatever reason, likely some need for any kind of human contact, you will comment or like absolutely everything I post on facebook, no matter how ridiculous or inane.
Then, I will say "hi", because I'm hammered and no one else is online - or at least, that's how the first few times went, because to be pretty honest, I do actually find you quite interesting and enjoy talking to you.
You lay out some big problem. Because I am a charming son of a bitch when you don't know me well, I tell you exactly what you want to hear. You then say things like, and I quote:
"And also I have to say you remind me a lot of myself. Youre like if I was older wiser edgier and also a dude"
and
"Awesome. I came into this conversation wanting to die and I came out of it giving no fucks."
which is ridiculously awesome, because that sort of thing feeds my ego, which is really all I want out of any sort of relationship anyway. I like being flattered needlessly, and making people feel better about things that I really don't care about at all - this is probably my "thing".
So, because this is generally the basis of our total conversations to this point, I am immensely comfortable around you.
So what the fuck was this all about tonight? Don't get me wrong - the initial error was all mine, but absolutely everything else that happened was more your fault than mine.
So, goodbye to what I thought was a pretty good friendship. I'm sorry if you or anyone else misunderstood my intentions - I thought I made it pretty clear that I liked how everything was, so I'm really not sure what you were expecting.
Oh well. At least sangria is only about half as shitty as I remember.
10.7.14
7.7.14
Tomorrow, we go to the windmills, to do... windmill things? Yes, that. Then, GET TO THE CHOPPER, even though it's not really realistically going anywhere fast without us. Then, probably KFC, beers, and maybe something that explodes, boom!
Wine, my photon-generated friend (there is apparently no such word as "photonly"), is the most deceptive of the alcohols. It doesn't sneak up on you so much as do nothing at all until you try to focus on something for more than three or four seconds.
Then, it's all photonically and sedons and other such non-wirds.
This summer bothers me. I lack a car, and this inhibits most of the things I'd like to do in the summer, namely drive out into the middle of nowhere by myself and sleep in the truck.
Instead, this summer will be like last summer, or the summer before. I am FUCKING BUSY, which annoys me.
I would have thought no car would be an impediment to a social life, but now that I'm forced into getting rides, I'm also being forced to spend my weekends doing things with other people. Which I will grudgingly admit has kind of been a lot of fun recently. Usually though, I'd like a day a week where I can do nothing, and I'm not getting it right now.
Did you know that simulating oral sex in Dairy Queen is a good way to get many, many disapproving looks from old people? I sure did. Kinda seems like common sense, really. People are weird.
I just looked in a mirror for the first time in what seems like whatever. I look old now, and right now, would not probably recognize myself on the street. Not that I spent much time looking at myself anyway.
Here's me now:
Me and Flo look so unimpressed because we've been standing like this for seven or eight minutes.
Rocco looks goofy because he is, in the best ways.
I am acting like an old Italian man. Rocco is doing my bidding. Flo looks unimpressed either because I'm Italian or just finished making out with the muffler that's behind me (not pictured.
Don't ask about the hat. It started out ironically, but actually looks fucking good, so fuck you.
Oh, more interesting!
Wine, my photon-generated friend (there is apparently no such word as "photonly"), is the most deceptive of the alcohols. It doesn't sneak up on you so much as do nothing at all until you try to focus on something for more than three or four seconds.
Then, it's all photonically and sedons and other such non-wirds.
This summer bothers me. I lack a car, and this inhibits most of the things I'd like to do in the summer, namely drive out into the middle of nowhere by myself and sleep in the truck.
Instead, this summer will be like last summer, or the summer before. I am FUCKING BUSY, which annoys me.
I would have thought no car would be an impediment to a social life, but now that I'm forced into getting rides, I'm also being forced to spend my weekends doing things with other people. Which I will grudgingly admit has kind of been a lot of fun recently. Usually though, I'd like a day a week where I can do nothing, and I'm not getting it right now.
Did you know that simulating oral sex in Dairy Queen is a good way to get many, many disapproving looks from old people? I sure did. Kinda seems like common sense, really. People are weird.
I just looked in a mirror for the first time in what seems like whatever. I look old now, and right now, would not probably recognize myself on the street. Not that I spent much time looking at myself anyway.
Here's me now:
Me and Flo look so unimpressed because we've been standing like this for seven or eight minutes.
Rocco looks goofy because he is, in the best ways.
I am acting like an old Italian man. Rocco is doing my bidding. Flo looks unimpressed either because I'm Italian or just finished making out with the muffler that's behind me (not pictured.
Don't ask about the hat. It started out ironically, but actually looks fucking good, so fuck you.
Oh, more interesting!
4.7.14
This seems like one of those posts that should start with "I remember when we first met...", but in all truth, I have no fucking clue when that was. I think you had a pink cap on and a Zeller's Club, because it was like 1996 or something - we're going back like 20 years here, what do you want from me?
Anyway, I don't remember the meeting, but I do remember when we started hanging out regularly. Which, yeah, in retrospect, was pretty fucking odd given the age difference.
I feel like writing cause I'm sitting here, thinking, and it's usually better to associate the two than not. But it's late, and probably easier just to smoke a bowl and watch something, so perhaps this will be something to revisit tomorrow, if I still feel writey. I will sum up.
There is no moral to this story - this is one of those big events that seems like it should have some great lesson in it, or at least some kind of enlighteningly ironic outcome, but I've spent a bit of time thinking about the whole thing, and no matter which way I twist it, there is no big message here. We all lose sometimes? People who love Good Charlotte don't generally have great taste? Drugs are bad?
I don't know. I think you and the whole thing were probably the first big mysteries in my life. That's a mighty decent contribution.
Anyway, I don't remember the meeting, but I do remember when we started hanging out regularly. Which, yeah, in retrospect, was pretty fucking odd given the age difference.
I feel like writing cause I'm sitting here, thinking, and it's usually better to associate the two than not. But it's late, and probably easier just to smoke a bowl and watch something, so perhaps this will be something to revisit tomorrow, if I still feel writey. I will sum up.
There is no moral to this story - this is one of those big events that seems like it should have some great lesson in it, or at least some kind of enlighteningly ironic outcome, but I've spent a bit of time thinking about the whole thing, and no matter which way I twist it, there is no big message here. We all lose sometimes? People who love Good Charlotte don't generally have great taste? Drugs are bad?
I don't know. I think you and the whole thing were probably the first big mysteries in my life. That's a mighty decent contribution.
I don't know if you remember the question, but this would seem to be the answer
I am shockingly lucid for this hour in the morning.
Anyway, something else now. It's a quiet, quiet night, and I need something to do. So blog writing, yes! I have not written much of anything anywhere for a while, so perhaps it will be fun and profitable. Or something.
Sometimes it feels like life is all about floating around in this really weird, ocean-like reality, all alone on a rowboat surrounded by other people in their own boats, equipped with a magic compass that tells me exactly where I'm headed for, but a map that doesn't actually tell me where "where" is, or what I'll find when I get there.
Along the way, you bump into all kinds of wondrous islands, and perilous rocks, and little bits of other peoples' boats who've wrecked along the way.
Maybe sometimes I can wiggle my course a little, but in the end, the ocean currents will always win, and even if sometimes that compass is pointed towards some nasty looking rocks I can see from a mile away, there isn't always much or anything I can do about it.
Sometimes, it seems like maybe the compass isn't showing me where the boat is headed, but rather the boat is headed towards whatever the compass decides to point towards.
Sometimes, it's easy to get too wrapped up in looking at the map and trying to chart a course to some nice, solid land, only to look up and realize the boat's turned itself around and nowhere near where I expected it to be.
Sometimes, much energy is expended trying to paddle over to someone else's boat, but it almost always seems like either no one's in there, the occupant is a raving lunatic who's drank too much saltwater, or their boat is sinking, and all they want is yours.
Sometimes, it's just a little too easy to to just give up on it, smoke all the magic plants I found on that one island over there, and fall asleep in the sun. Then everything gets horribly sunburnt. I'm not even sure there's an metaphoric meaning here - I'm just horribly sunburned, and it sucks.
On a closely related note, I've thought about it lots, and I think the pivotal thing I should have said was "Nein Fraulien, ich bin eine vampire." Live and learn, I guess.
I am slightly enamoured with my new friends. There's just something appealing about meeting other nutballs who will top absolutely every absurd thing you do. I mean, how many other people do I know who will do the hustle with me? How many people do I know who offer you beer at 7:30 in the morning, then spend the day getting hammered and cruising around the countryside in a weird European partybus? I think this is why I like hanging out with Rocco so much - he's not nuts like these guys, but he's used to it and doesn't mind me being nuts. Not even in a patronizing way - he just enjoys the absurd, something which I think is really rare in the types of people I know.
I think the best part about these guys is that they aren't actually really some crazy fucked up people - they are all really rich, very nice, smart folks, they just like having a good time. I was interested in going on this whole Swiss trip thing should it ever materialize, but now it seems like it will be ridonkulously fun.
I believe Cambodia has been shuffled out of the present lead for next place to go. I'm pretty sure they have bigass spiders there anyway.
Speaking of bigass spiders, Rocco has one in his bathroom, which he named something I was too disturbed by to remember. I told him he should have named it "Squished", which seemed to amuse, then horrify him, as he explained that Shelob (which I'm pretty sure is the name he gave it) was pregnant. I informed him that no, I did not actually kill it because it was too fucking huge to hit with my shoe, and also on the ceiling. I suggested he go do the deed before he wound up with thousands of baby Shelobs living in his walls, to which he informed me he was not worried, as they would all die in the winter.
I AM PRETTY FUCKING SURE THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS. SOME SPIDERS CAN LIVE UNDER SNOW FOR SIX MONTHS. YOUR WARM HOUSE IS NO OBSTICLE TO THEM.
Note to self - do not go to Rocco's after October.
I've been watching a lot of Red Vs. Blue on Netflix. By watching, I mean playing in the background while I do other things, which is how most of my TV seems to be absorbed since I've run out of good things on Netflix. For a show made from a videogame I wasn't super interested in ten years ago, it's actually fairly entertaining.
I was over at Devon's the other day, and while we were smoking in the shed, we got on the topic of how him and Kris met. Yes, bookstore Kris. She is married now, if you didn't know.
Apparently, the whole time I was there and it seemed like they were having an affair, they really actually were kind of having an affair. Which is fucking surprising, because neither is really the type.
it's weird where some people find happiness. Kris likes control, and is in some ways an angry person. A good person, absolutely, and generally very nice, but with a very specific "life code" type thing in her head, and very little tolerance for those who go against it.
Devon is kind of the exact opposite of all that. He's pretty meh about things, one of those drug councillors who's completely hooked on pot.
I know they say opposites attract, but I just don't see how that ever worked to begin with. Kris should have killed him off the hop, and failing that, Dev should have at least gone a little nuts by now. Instead, they compromise, and work things out, and generally get along well.
Makes me wonder how much of a successful relationship is really attraction or commonalities, or more just finding someone with the same dysfunctions and issues you have (which are there in this case, but not really my business to share), and then making everything else work around that because it's rare to find someone who relates.
Which all kind of really makes me question what the hell I really want out of anything like that.
Typically, I think the answer to this is "excitement". I don't actually really like dating anyone ever, I just like the success of getting them to want to date me. Perhaps if I'd had a different upbringing, the whole "I win power trip thing" would come from sex like it kinda seems like it's supposed to, but for me that whole aspect is pretty irrelevant. I mean, I think I maybe enjoy rougher stuff a little more simply because normal stuff is only interesting if there is an emotional connection, but I'm pretty content not to actually ever really do anything at all after the initial moment of emotional "Ha, I got ya" - honestly, sex at this point in my life is something that happens more because I don't want whomever I'm with to feel unwanted and generally have little better to do, not because I have a ton of interest in doing it or am really all that good at it anymore.
I'm not really sure this is any kind of good stance to have on relationships, because it's obviously selfish, but at the same time, I think the people I date are generally fairly happy, and it's not as though my enjoyment comes from hurting them. I've dated people I've had absolutely no interest in simply because it would be mean to dump them and I really think more people prefer the "well, there's tons of much better people for you out there" line than the explanation of "well, honestly, I just wanted to see if you'd fall for it". Or even the whole "you won't stop calling, so I'll be an ass now" routine, because at least it's pretty final.
All that said, what stance should I have? A conventional relationship is just unexciting. As a relatively relevant example, Lisa is a pretty great girlfriend, attractive, and usually looks out for me, but at the same time, am I really going to spend the rest of my life here? Really? It just seems so unexciting.
I know that's all wrong, but what am I supposed to do about it? The fact that I have someone to stick with me no matter what is the whole reason I find it all uninteresting. When I couldn't have her, she was the most desirable thing on the planet.
Maybe that's really the trick, there. Find something or someone that the drawbacks of losing beat out the "drawbacks" of keeping. I'm not sure how realistic that concept even is, as that sounds like one rare, rare bird, but it seems easier than trying to rewire myself.
And maybe that's all it is. I think I lived most of my life with a pretty naïve, romantic version of how things should be, and I don't think it's super hard to see how I got from there to here. Maybe it's just a matter of staying the course.
I lean towards this hard work, hold the course thing. While I don't think Lisa really relates to me or knows me that well, neither does anyone else, really, and she certainly tries harder than anyone I've ever met, and I see no reason that tremendous effort shouldn't be rewarded.
Wow, this all got very long and uncomfortable, and is not really the kind of thing that goes on this particular blog. I blame this week - it's been eerily reminiscent of many events I have not thought of in a long time. The problem with old echoes bouncing around in your head is that they tend to keep going till the simply bounce themselves out.
Anyway, maybe I will call that good, though I could probably go on for a while about the first time I heard this song. There are other places in need of rambles.
Anyway, something else now. It's a quiet, quiet night, and I need something to do. So blog writing, yes! I have not written much of anything anywhere for a while, so perhaps it will be fun and profitable. Or something.
Sometimes it feels like life is all about floating around in this really weird, ocean-like reality, all alone on a rowboat surrounded by other people in their own boats, equipped with a magic compass that tells me exactly where I'm headed for, but a map that doesn't actually tell me where "where" is, or what I'll find when I get there.
Along the way, you bump into all kinds of wondrous islands, and perilous rocks, and little bits of other peoples' boats who've wrecked along the way.
Maybe sometimes I can wiggle my course a little, but in the end, the ocean currents will always win, and even if sometimes that compass is pointed towards some nasty looking rocks I can see from a mile away, there isn't always much or anything I can do about it.
Sometimes, it seems like maybe the compass isn't showing me where the boat is headed, but rather the boat is headed towards whatever the compass decides to point towards.
Sometimes, it's easy to get too wrapped up in looking at the map and trying to chart a course to some nice, solid land, only to look up and realize the boat's turned itself around and nowhere near where I expected it to be.
Sometimes, much energy is expended trying to paddle over to someone else's boat, but it almost always seems like either no one's in there, the occupant is a raving lunatic who's drank too much saltwater, or their boat is sinking, and all they want is yours.
Sometimes, it's just a little too easy to to just give up on it, smoke all the magic plants I found on that one island over there, and fall asleep in the sun. Then everything gets horribly sunburnt. I'm not even sure there's an metaphoric meaning here - I'm just horribly sunburned, and it sucks.
On a closely related note, I've thought about it lots, and I think the pivotal thing I should have said was "Nein Fraulien, ich bin eine vampire." Live and learn, I guess.
I am slightly enamoured with my new friends. There's just something appealing about meeting other nutballs who will top absolutely every absurd thing you do. I mean, how many other people do I know who will do the hustle with me? How many people do I know who offer you beer at 7:30 in the morning, then spend the day getting hammered and cruising around the countryside in a weird European partybus? I think this is why I like hanging out with Rocco so much - he's not nuts like these guys, but he's used to it and doesn't mind me being nuts. Not even in a patronizing way - he just enjoys the absurd, something which I think is really rare in the types of people I know.
I think the best part about these guys is that they aren't actually really some crazy fucked up people - they are all really rich, very nice, smart folks, they just like having a good time. I was interested in going on this whole Swiss trip thing should it ever materialize, but now it seems like it will be ridonkulously fun.
I believe Cambodia has been shuffled out of the present lead for next place to go. I'm pretty sure they have bigass spiders there anyway.
Speaking of bigass spiders, Rocco has one in his bathroom, which he named something I was too disturbed by to remember. I told him he should have named it "Squished", which seemed to amuse, then horrify him, as he explained that Shelob (which I'm pretty sure is the name he gave it) was pregnant. I informed him that no, I did not actually kill it because it was too fucking huge to hit with my shoe, and also on the ceiling. I suggested he go do the deed before he wound up with thousands of baby Shelobs living in his walls, to which he informed me he was not worried, as they would all die in the winter.
I AM PRETTY FUCKING SURE THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS. SOME SPIDERS CAN LIVE UNDER SNOW FOR SIX MONTHS. YOUR WARM HOUSE IS NO OBSTICLE TO THEM.
Note to self - do not go to Rocco's after October.
I've been watching a lot of Red Vs. Blue on Netflix. By watching, I mean playing in the background while I do other things, which is how most of my TV seems to be absorbed since I've run out of good things on Netflix. For a show made from a videogame I wasn't super interested in ten years ago, it's actually fairly entertaining.
I was over at Devon's the other day, and while we were smoking in the shed, we got on the topic of how him and Kris met. Yes, bookstore Kris. She is married now, if you didn't know.
Apparently, the whole time I was there and it seemed like they were having an affair, they really actually were kind of having an affair. Which is fucking surprising, because neither is really the type.
it's weird where some people find happiness. Kris likes control, and is in some ways an angry person. A good person, absolutely, and generally very nice, but with a very specific "life code" type thing in her head, and very little tolerance for those who go against it.
Devon is kind of the exact opposite of all that. He's pretty meh about things, one of those drug councillors who's completely hooked on pot.
I know they say opposites attract, but I just don't see how that ever worked to begin with. Kris should have killed him off the hop, and failing that, Dev should have at least gone a little nuts by now. Instead, they compromise, and work things out, and generally get along well.
Makes me wonder how much of a successful relationship is really attraction or commonalities, or more just finding someone with the same dysfunctions and issues you have (which are there in this case, but not really my business to share), and then making everything else work around that because it's rare to find someone who relates.
Which all kind of really makes me question what the hell I really want out of anything like that.
Typically, I think the answer to this is "excitement". I don't actually really like dating anyone ever, I just like the success of getting them to want to date me. Perhaps if I'd had a different upbringing, the whole "I win power trip thing" would come from sex like it kinda seems like it's supposed to, but for me that whole aspect is pretty irrelevant. I mean, I think I maybe enjoy rougher stuff a little more simply because normal stuff is only interesting if there is an emotional connection, but I'm pretty content not to actually ever really do anything at all after the initial moment of emotional "Ha, I got ya" - honestly, sex at this point in my life is something that happens more because I don't want whomever I'm with to feel unwanted and generally have little better to do, not because I have a ton of interest in doing it or am really all that good at it anymore.
I'm not really sure this is any kind of good stance to have on relationships, because it's obviously selfish, but at the same time, I think the people I date are generally fairly happy, and it's not as though my enjoyment comes from hurting them. I've dated people I've had absolutely no interest in simply because it would be mean to dump them and I really think more people prefer the "well, there's tons of much better people for you out there" line than the explanation of "well, honestly, I just wanted to see if you'd fall for it". Or even the whole "you won't stop calling, so I'll be an ass now" routine, because at least it's pretty final.
All that said, what stance should I have? A conventional relationship is just unexciting. As a relatively relevant example, Lisa is a pretty great girlfriend, attractive, and usually looks out for me, but at the same time, am I really going to spend the rest of my life here? Really? It just seems so unexciting.
I know that's all wrong, but what am I supposed to do about it? The fact that I have someone to stick with me no matter what is the whole reason I find it all uninteresting. When I couldn't have her, she was the most desirable thing on the planet.
Maybe that's really the trick, there. Find something or someone that the drawbacks of losing beat out the "drawbacks" of keeping. I'm not sure how realistic that concept even is, as that sounds like one rare, rare bird, but it seems easier than trying to rewire myself.
And maybe that's all it is. I think I lived most of my life with a pretty naïve, romantic version of how things should be, and I don't think it's super hard to see how I got from there to here. Maybe it's just a matter of staying the course.
I lean towards this hard work, hold the course thing. While I don't think Lisa really relates to me or knows me that well, neither does anyone else, really, and she certainly tries harder than anyone I've ever met, and I see no reason that tremendous effort shouldn't be rewarded.
Wow, this all got very long and uncomfortable, and is not really the kind of thing that goes on this particular blog. I blame this week - it's been eerily reminiscent of many events I have not thought of in a long time. The problem with old echoes bouncing around in your head is that they tend to keep going till the simply bounce themselves out.
Anyway, maybe I will call that good, though I could probably go on for a while about the first time I heard this song. There are other places in need of rambles.
I've been reading the stories about that lady breastfeeding in Starbucks, and feeling insulted by another patron. Now, I personally don't really care much about public breastfeeding - honestly, I don't think about it much in general, let alone enough to form any strong opinions, but I do notice two things I definitely don't like about this story.
1. If I want to whip off my shirt, I'm free to do it pretty much anywhere. I can do it on the bus, in the mall, on the street, etc. There are however, a few places that will generally refuse me service or make a comment if I take off my shirt: Restaurants and airplanes.
Now, I don't really mind this, because I wouldn't really want to stare at my half naked body while trying to eat, and I'm pretty sure no one wants to sit next to the sweaty, slightly pudgy pale shirtless dude on the 8 hour flight to Kawaii.
So how is it acceptable for a woman to do the same thing? Don't get me wrong, I have no issue sitting next to someone who is breastfeeding on a plane, because it's not like you can get up and do it somewhere else, and so long as the baby doesn't burp up on me, I really can't say I have much of a legitimate complaint.
That said, when I'm sitting in a coffee shop drinking milky iced sugars, I would prefer everyone around me to keep their clothing firmly attached to their bodies. Yes, I get that there are specialized garments for this which certainly make it a little different from just "whipping it out", and that this particular lady was likely wearing that sort of clothing, but it doesn't mean everyone everywhere would, and it's really more the principle than this instance that I take slight issue with. And yes, I get that the little guy also wants his milky stuff too, but the reality of the situation is that you are not likely trapped inside the coffee shop, and that your child will not explode should he suffer five minutes of discomfort while you drink your overpriced shit.
Wait, wait, it's now two things and a slight aside here - why the fuck are you breastfeeding your baby right after drinking a bunch of sugary, drug filled crap? I'm not, say, a midwife, but I'm pretty sure that's bad for them. I'm sure it takes time for all the shit to absorb, but if you're in there for long enough that you can't step outside for four seconds to take your shirt off, then I'm sure you've had a few cups.
So yeah, I don't like that or understand it. Unless your kid is a balloon, it would take maybe five minutes to go sit outside, feed your kid, then go back in. If it's hot out, then substitute "outside" for "non-restaurant next door" or "air-conditioned car", or "nice, kind of private corner of the restaurant" at least. I agree, the bathroom is gross and not really a clean place to feed a baby, but it's also maybe a little gross and unsanitary when you burp him next to me. I have the sneaking suspicion that if you are doing something super important that can't be put down, like having some kind of business meeting, that you would not breastfeed your kid right then, just as I would not walk around with an open shirt when I'm at work. You would not want to sit next to my sweaty mantits while you try to eat your food, so why should you expect people would want to be next to yours?
2. I get today's world is a strange and wonderful place for many people, but for some, it is not. It's a slowly declining place, and while I wouldn't really consider this to be much of a sign of that, I certainly know that virtually anyone else in my family, all of my friends parents, and likely really anyone over the age of 40 in this area would be at least made uncomfortable, if not offended, by a woman pulling down their shirt for ANY reason. It's not a matter of considering it immoral or "wrong" in any way - it's just something that some people consider taboo or inappropriate.
Now, as another aside here, don't misunderstand this little example. Just because something is taboo does not make it bad by default - most taboos are really pretty silly. I mean, if you are really confident enough to walk around naked all the time and don't mind sunburns or freezing to death, then by all means, go ahead. I have lots of odd friends, but no constantly naked friends, and depending on your personality and how clean and/or attractive you are, I don't think I'd hold it against you or have much trouble being your buddy. The point I'm trying to get at is more this: If you choose to walk around naked everywhere, then can you really get mad at other people who can't help but stare a little?
Anyway, when I read over this story, I find myself disgusted by the bias. They make it play out like some lady walked in, got offended, yelled at this woman, then stormed out. Now, as with any story you will only ever hear one side to, it's completely possible that's how it went, because there are lots of stupid, unreasonable people out there. But, as much as I disagree with most of them I would never consider my family to be stupid per se, and they certainly would gotten offended as well. Would they have yelled at the lady? Maybe after talking politely to her, then politely to the staff, then reasonably politely to her again.
This doesn't all bother me because I think any of that is really right, it bugs me because everyone is so happy that they made this breastfeeding lady happy, but no one seems to care how upset the other woman was. Thinking it's ok to breastfeed in a restaurant is not any more or less "right" that thinking it's not (or at least not, in my opinion, for these reasons, see issue number 1), but thinking that you have more of a right to be comfortable than someone else just because you have a more "mainstream" viewpoint than they do is very, very wrong.
Think of how this would have been treated 30 years ago* - the lady with the baby would have been kicked out, and the complainant would have gotten free coffee. The reversal of this is not what is disturbing - it's the idea that simply because society has become more accepting of some things, we should simply forget how it felt not to have our ideas accepted, and try to force people with a lifetime of experiences to somehow forget them and subscribe to what we think.
Really, the whole thing is pretty stupid, and simply the result of two rude people. Either the breastfeeder should have been at least polite enough to wait for the offended lady to leave before feeding, or the offended lady should have been polite enough to look away or move tables - if the lady rally looked like she does in her picture, it's not exactly hard to look elsewhere, avoid thinking about it, and enjoy your meal. If the other woman really got that upset, then it doesn't seem too unreasonable to wait five minutes for her to leave either. Instead, we get international fucking headlines and a long blog that should really have been a comment on the media instead.
*It should been noted that sometimes this "you can't blame them, that's how they were raised" argument gets used for a lot of things it shouldn't. For example, one should not say this in regards to argue against the "equality**" of black people or women, because regardless of how anyone feels, it's pretty obvious that treating everyone based one merit is maybe a little better of a system than basing their worth on skin color and number of penises. If aliens landed at any point in earth's history, they'd probably be very puzzled as to how we managed to get this far while dividing our civilization on things that are about as arbitrary as the size of earlobes when you really think about it.
**Equality is a pretty stupid concept too. Men and women are not equal, just like black people and white people are not equal, just like green people and purple people would probably not be equal, simply because people in general are not all equal. I am not equal to Laura Prepon in terms of "goodlooking redhead" scaling, but, at the same time, I really doubt she is equal to me in say, ability to drink stupendous amounts without dying. As another example, Barrak Obama is nowhere near equal to someone like Sarah Palin in terms of actually running a government properly (despite the media portrayal and my onetime opinion, she actually was pretty good at what she did), but is far, far better at coming across as someone who can rather than a weak, simpering idiot (which he kind of turned out to be. Shocker). Trying to make everyone equal is dumb on so many levels it's actually harmful to society - some people are simply better at some things than others, and I think in a world where those with true merit are allowed to actually realize their potential, things would probably be much better for everyone including those of us with no particular talents. Or, we'd all be wiped out by the first evil genius to show up, which could be interesting in itself.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julia-wykes/the-disturbing-trend-i-noticed-when-my-breastfeeding-story-went-viral_b_5551589.html
This is one side of the story, if you are interested. as with everything that bothers me in today's news, it's not really impartial - written by one of the ladies involved, in fact.
1. If I want to whip off my shirt, I'm free to do it pretty much anywhere. I can do it on the bus, in the mall, on the street, etc. There are however, a few places that will generally refuse me service or make a comment if I take off my shirt: Restaurants and airplanes.
Now, I don't really mind this, because I wouldn't really want to stare at my half naked body while trying to eat, and I'm pretty sure no one wants to sit next to the sweaty, slightly pudgy pale shirtless dude on the 8 hour flight to Kawaii.
So how is it acceptable for a woman to do the same thing? Don't get me wrong, I have no issue sitting next to someone who is breastfeeding on a plane, because it's not like you can get up and do it somewhere else, and so long as the baby doesn't burp up on me, I really can't say I have much of a legitimate complaint.
That said, when I'm sitting in a coffee shop drinking milky iced sugars, I would prefer everyone around me to keep their clothing firmly attached to their bodies. Yes, I get that there are specialized garments for this which certainly make it a little different from just "whipping it out", and that this particular lady was likely wearing that sort of clothing, but it doesn't mean everyone everywhere would, and it's really more the principle than this instance that I take slight issue with. And yes, I get that the little guy also wants his milky stuff too, but the reality of the situation is that you are not likely trapped inside the coffee shop, and that your child will not explode should he suffer five minutes of discomfort while you drink your overpriced shit.
Wait, wait, it's now two things and a slight aside here - why the fuck are you breastfeeding your baby right after drinking a bunch of sugary, drug filled crap? I'm not, say, a midwife, but I'm pretty sure that's bad for them. I'm sure it takes time for all the shit to absorb, but if you're in there for long enough that you can't step outside for four seconds to take your shirt off, then I'm sure you've had a few cups.
So yeah, I don't like that or understand it. Unless your kid is a balloon, it would take maybe five minutes to go sit outside, feed your kid, then go back in. If it's hot out, then substitute "outside" for "non-restaurant next door" or "air-conditioned car", or "nice, kind of private corner of the restaurant" at least. I agree, the bathroom is gross and not really a clean place to feed a baby, but it's also maybe a little gross and unsanitary when you burp him next to me. I have the sneaking suspicion that if you are doing something super important that can't be put down, like having some kind of business meeting, that you would not breastfeed your kid right then, just as I would not walk around with an open shirt when I'm at work. You would not want to sit next to my sweaty mantits while you try to eat your food, so why should you expect people would want to be next to yours?
2. I get today's world is a strange and wonderful place for many people, but for some, it is not. It's a slowly declining place, and while I wouldn't really consider this to be much of a sign of that, I certainly know that virtually anyone else in my family, all of my friends parents, and likely really anyone over the age of 40 in this area would be at least made uncomfortable, if not offended, by a woman pulling down their shirt for ANY reason. It's not a matter of considering it immoral or "wrong" in any way - it's just something that some people consider taboo or inappropriate.
Now, as another aside here, don't misunderstand this little example. Just because something is taboo does not make it bad by default - most taboos are really pretty silly. I mean, if you are really confident enough to walk around naked all the time and don't mind sunburns or freezing to death, then by all means, go ahead. I have lots of odd friends, but no constantly naked friends, and depending on your personality and how clean and/or attractive you are, I don't think I'd hold it against you or have much trouble being your buddy. The point I'm trying to get at is more this: If you choose to walk around naked everywhere, then can you really get mad at other people who can't help but stare a little?
Anyway, when I read over this story, I find myself disgusted by the bias. They make it play out like some lady walked in, got offended, yelled at this woman, then stormed out. Now, as with any story you will only ever hear one side to, it's completely possible that's how it went, because there are lots of stupid, unreasonable people out there. But, as much as I disagree with most of them I would never consider my family to be stupid per se, and they certainly would gotten offended as well. Would they have yelled at the lady? Maybe after talking politely to her, then politely to the staff, then reasonably politely to her again.
This doesn't all bother me because I think any of that is really right, it bugs me because everyone is so happy that they made this breastfeeding lady happy, but no one seems to care how upset the other woman was. Thinking it's ok to breastfeed in a restaurant is not any more or less "right" that thinking it's not (or at least not, in my opinion, for these reasons, see issue number 1), but thinking that you have more of a right to be comfortable than someone else just because you have a more "mainstream" viewpoint than they do is very, very wrong.
Think of how this would have been treated 30 years ago* - the lady with the baby would have been kicked out, and the complainant would have gotten free coffee. The reversal of this is not what is disturbing - it's the idea that simply because society has become more accepting of some things, we should simply forget how it felt not to have our ideas accepted, and try to force people with a lifetime of experiences to somehow forget them and subscribe to what we think.
Really, the whole thing is pretty stupid, and simply the result of two rude people. Either the breastfeeder should have been at least polite enough to wait for the offended lady to leave before feeding, or the offended lady should have been polite enough to look away or move tables - if the lady rally looked like she does in her picture, it's not exactly hard to look elsewhere, avoid thinking about it, and enjoy your meal. If the other woman really got that upset, then it doesn't seem too unreasonable to wait five minutes for her to leave either. Instead, we get international fucking headlines and a long blog that should really have been a comment on the media instead.
*It should been noted that sometimes this "you can't blame them, that's how they were raised" argument gets used for a lot of things it shouldn't. For example, one should not say this in regards to argue against the "equality**" of black people or women, because regardless of how anyone feels, it's pretty obvious that treating everyone based one merit is maybe a little better of a system than basing their worth on skin color and number of penises. If aliens landed at any point in earth's history, they'd probably be very puzzled as to how we managed to get this far while dividing our civilization on things that are about as arbitrary as the size of earlobes when you really think about it.
**Equality is a pretty stupid concept too. Men and women are not equal, just like black people and white people are not equal, just like green people and purple people would probably not be equal, simply because people in general are not all equal. I am not equal to Laura Prepon in terms of "goodlooking redhead" scaling, but, at the same time, I really doubt she is equal to me in say, ability to drink stupendous amounts without dying. As another example, Barrak Obama is nowhere near equal to someone like Sarah Palin in terms of actually running a government properly (despite the media portrayal and my onetime opinion, she actually was pretty good at what she did), but is far, far better at coming across as someone who can rather than a weak, simpering idiot (which he kind of turned out to be. Shocker). Trying to make everyone equal is dumb on so many levels it's actually harmful to society - some people are simply better at some things than others, and I think in a world where those with true merit are allowed to actually realize their potential, things would probably be much better for everyone including those of us with no particular talents. Or, we'd all be wiped out by the first evil genius to show up, which could be interesting in itself.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/julia-wykes/the-disturbing-trend-i-noticed-when-my-breastfeeding-story-went-viral_b_5551589.html
This is one side of the story, if you are interested. as with everything that bothers me in today's news, it's not really impartial - written by one of the ladies involved, in fact.
2.7.14
Well, that was a weekend, for sure. The cultural differences between Germans (or "swiss germans", cause apparently that actually does matter) and Canadians, or even North Americans in general, is startling.
I wouldn't say that one way is necessarily better than the other, because that doesn't really seem like a judgement anyone could impartially make, but I will say that despite all the hate heaped on Americans, your average 18-year old Swiss girl is far, far more likely to offend your average Canadian in person than our slower cousins to the south are.
Don't get me wrong - I am usually pretty down for anything these days, and there are far worse ways to spend a weekend than getting hammered with a bunch of ridiculous, hyper-efficient, sex-obsessed people who speak a different language. But with that said, I could probably tell you some stories that I don't really want to commit to print anywhere that occurred over the last few days that would make you laugh, then cringe, then go "WWWAAAAAASSSSSSSSS?!?!" in a strange, high-pitched voice for the rest of the evening. Good people, very different culture.
I also found it interesting that the difference in language was actually less relevant than I thought. Admittedly, certain aspects of conversation, like telling jokes or any story on my end of things, were not really at all simple, but I found that after a couple hours listening to the "cadence" (for lack of a better term, and a few beers, I could generally pick up on what they were talking about.
It's not really that hard - Germans consciously put certain inflections on different words in order to imply different meanings, something that I've noticed a lot of us Canadians don't really do. I tend to speak this way myself, simply because I've always noticed the emotions behind words more than the words themselves anyway, and as English is just what happens when you leave French, German, and Latin alone to fuck for a couple centuries, I could get most of what was being said if I paid attention. If I felt really lost, I could generally assume they were talking about sex, which would usually be confirmed when one of them made a wanking motion, said something I recognized as having to do with fucking or getting fucked, or simply looked at me and yelled "SEX! HAHA!".
Unfortunately, they had a lot more trouble with this. I think there's quite a few reasons for it:
1. Despite the fact that I don't really mind spending a half hour holding up a conversation about foursomes while trying to figure out whether I'm being asked to join one, or whether I've had one before, I personally don't really like to talk about sex all the time. Thusly, substituting words they did not know is probably harder because they can't fall back on just assuming I'm talking about the same old thing.
2. German, as a language, is pretty abrupt and straightforward. Each. Word. Is. A. Word. Unless. You're. Just. Fucked. Then. It's. A. Werd. Word. That. You. Need. To. Say. A. Few. Times. English is more a flow of words with other meanings and strange pronunciations and really no particular order besides whatever the speaker inflicts on it. I, unfortunately, do not usually talk slowly.
3. My lack of any real knowledge of German besides very simple words was actually probably an advantage for me over their strange, strange ideas of conversational English. I can recognize a few words here and there, and can usually piece things together from the tone and so forth. They can recognize simple, strangely constructed and pronounced phrases, and repeat them with varying accuracy, but could not really pick up on normally built sentences.
Anyway. Very strange, kind of fun, very, very interesting, which is most important thing, probably. And like I say, despite shenanigans and so on, it was a pretty good time, and nice to meet some good people from somewhere else.
Through some process that I am simply to lazy to really want to transcribe, I got to looking at old FB posts and written things and blogs and the like, and I find it's kind of interesting how life goes sometimes. It seems like most aspects of it will naturally change and evolve if left alone, but the things I have or still do try to "hang on to" seem to forever remain more or less static despite any conscious effort to repair, alter, or eliminate them.
On a related note, what does it mean when you spend a whole night next to a very pretty, shirtless blonde while completely dance-with-me-or-I'll-fall-down class hammered, and are so focused on trying to figure out what she's saying in a very charming voice that you don't notice the lack of shirt till you see pictures later? As probably the first contact with someone new that I find to be quite a bit more physically attractive than average in a couple of years, I still can't help but feel at the lack of apparent ulterior motive on my part. I guess you could call that progress, but at the same time, I doubt I would even be questioning this lack unless it bugged me that I let a pretty straightforward opportunity pass me up.
Well, now I'm just confusing myself, so that's the blog today.
Your turn!
I wouldn't say that one way is necessarily better than the other, because that doesn't really seem like a judgement anyone could impartially make, but I will say that despite all the hate heaped on Americans, your average 18-year old Swiss girl is far, far more likely to offend your average Canadian in person than our slower cousins to the south are.
Don't get me wrong - I am usually pretty down for anything these days, and there are far worse ways to spend a weekend than getting hammered with a bunch of ridiculous, hyper-efficient, sex-obsessed people who speak a different language. But with that said, I could probably tell you some stories that I don't really want to commit to print anywhere that occurred over the last few days that would make you laugh, then cringe, then go "WWWAAAAAASSSSSSSSS?!?!" in a strange, high-pitched voice for the rest of the evening. Good people, very different culture.
I also found it interesting that the difference in language was actually less relevant than I thought. Admittedly, certain aspects of conversation, like telling jokes or any story on my end of things, were not really at all simple, but I found that after a couple hours listening to the "cadence" (for lack of a better term, and a few beers, I could generally pick up on what they were talking about.
It's not really that hard - Germans consciously put certain inflections on different words in order to imply different meanings, something that I've noticed a lot of us Canadians don't really do. I tend to speak this way myself, simply because I've always noticed the emotions behind words more than the words themselves anyway, and as English is just what happens when you leave French, German, and Latin alone to fuck for a couple centuries, I could get most of what was being said if I paid attention. If I felt really lost, I could generally assume they were talking about sex, which would usually be confirmed when one of them made a wanking motion, said something I recognized as having to do with fucking or getting fucked, or simply looked at me and yelled "SEX! HAHA!".
Unfortunately, they had a lot more trouble with this. I think there's quite a few reasons for it:
1. Despite the fact that I don't really mind spending a half hour holding up a conversation about foursomes while trying to figure out whether I'm being asked to join one, or whether I've had one before, I personally don't really like to talk about sex all the time. Thusly, substituting words they did not know is probably harder because they can't fall back on just assuming I'm talking about the same old thing.
2. German, as a language, is pretty abrupt and straightforward. Each. Word. Is. A. Word. Unless. You're. Just. Fucked. Then. It's. A. Werd. Word. That. You. Need. To. Say. A. Few. Times. English is more a flow of words with other meanings and strange pronunciations and really no particular order besides whatever the speaker inflicts on it. I, unfortunately, do not usually talk slowly.
3. My lack of any real knowledge of German besides very simple words was actually probably an advantage for me over their strange, strange ideas of conversational English. I can recognize a few words here and there, and can usually piece things together from the tone and so forth. They can recognize simple, strangely constructed and pronounced phrases, and repeat them with varying accuracy, but could not really pick up on normally built sentences.
Anyway. Very strange, kind of fun, very, very interesting, which is most important thing, probably. And like I say, despite shenanigans and so on, it was a pretty good time, and nice to meet some good people from somewhere else.
Through some process that I am simply to lazy to really want to transcribe, I got to looking at old FB posts and written things and blogs and the like, and I find it's kind of interesting how life goes sometimes. It seems like most aspects of it will naturally change and evolve if left alone, but the things I have or still do try to "hang on to" seem to forever remain more or less static despite any conscious effort to repair, alter, or eliminate them.
On a related note, what does it mean when you spend a whole night next to a very pretty, shirtless blonde while completely dance-with-me-or-I'll-fall-down class hammered, and are so focused on trying to figure out what she's saying in a very charming voice that you don't notice the lack of shirt till you see pictures later? As probably the first contact with someone new that I find to be quite a bit more physically attractive than average in a couple of years, I still can't help but feel at the lack of apparent ulterior motive on my part. I guess you could call that progress, but at the same time, I doubt I would even be questioning this lack unless it bugged me that I let a pretty straightforward opportunity pass me up.
Well, now I'm just confusing myself, so that's the blog today.
Your turn!
21.6.14
On one hand:
I'm somewhat reassured by the fact that the Pope apparently uses the same business management software I do. That's gotta mean it's good stuff, right?
On the other hand:
It's fucking annoying how hard it is to find an instruction manual for this shitty program that isn't influenced by religious dogma.
Nice to know that the catholic church is doing well enough that there's a whole two page segment on how to process sunday collections.
2.6.14
11.5.14
If you don't like this concept of "One Day To Honor X" because you think you should honor thing X year around, the why don't you just ignore this particular day? Shouldn't make any difference, because you spend all year thinking about X, and they know that right? It's easier than filling up my facebook with whiney rants about how shitty these types of Days are.
Oh, wait, what's that? Your X doesn't talk to you anymore because you're a massive douchebag to them 365 days of the year? Tough luck, Freddy Fuckup.
Oh, wait, what's that? Your X doesn't talk to you anymore because you're a massive douchebag to them 365 days of the year? Tough luck, Freddy Fuckup.
8.5.14
27.4.14
So, it turns out that drinking a bunch of coffee in order to sober up is a far worse idea than just being a little drunk when you go to sleep.
It also turns out that drinking a bunch of whiskey does not counteract the coffee and make you sleepy, but instead wakes you up more and also makes you even more drunk.
Drinking makes me blog.
Not smoking weed makes me blog.
Having really shitty days does not often make me blog, for some reason.
Having really good days makes me blog about shitty things, for some reason.
Talking to you makes me blog. I'm not sure if it's because I'd like to continue our conversations or because it reminds me that I can ramble and ramble and ramble, and eventually someone not directly involved in whatever I am rambling about and generally non-judgemental will come along and read it, thusly making me feel like I don't spend all of my time just talking to myself.
Staying up past midnight almost always makes me blog. I'm not too sure why this is, but suspect that my brain just gives up on giving me tired signals. Then, as you may have noticed over the last few hundred posts, I get bored, and here we are.
Being depressed makes me blog. I'm moderately sure depression and intense boredom are the same thing, actually.
Being manic also makes me blog. Sometimes it seems like there's just too much going on in my head and I need to deposit some of it somewhere. I've heard some interesting theories on the ability of male brains to compartmentalize pretty much anything as the need be, but I do not appear to have this ability, either because I have a little ADD, or, more likely, because the redonkculous amount of pot I smoke has done something unpleasant to my brain.
Sometimes blogging makes me depressed or manic. There's something unhealthy about too much active self-analyzation, just like too much of anything else.
Sometimes I listen to Sublime when I blog. Sometimes I listen to Immortal Technique while I blog. Sometimes I listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd while I blog. Sometimes I listen to Amanda Marshall while I blog. Sometimes, when I'm pretty absorbed by what I'm writing, I'll even accidentally listen to the Shitty Beatles or Led Zepplin when they roll up in the playlist.
Sometimes, I start to blog about something, then realize I don't fully understand it, then get so involved in learning new things about whatever topic that I forget I was blogging in the first place and end up with even more useless trivia I will never need.
I used to be able to dream the future before I started getting nightmares. I still do sometimes. I think some people would call it dejavue, and frankly I would too, except that as with everything else in my life, all my dreams that seem important are usually committed to paper the same day I have them. Perhaps I am merely an impressionable fool, but it would seem as though having written records of things that happen anywhere from days to years later, exactly as written, is a good way to convince yourself that your dreams are at least worth paying attention to.
I will have each dream exactly once. If I have it more than once, it is just a dream. If everything occurring is a regular event and everything in the dream is a familiar object, rather than people or things I do not remember ever seeing before, there's a pretty good chance it is just a dream. If the dream is not in the third person, as in I'm watching myself and whatever is going on, then it will usually just be a dream. If I become aware I'm dreaming or can exercise any control over what's happening, then I am likely dreaming. Though it would be kind of natural to assume anything that seems highly unlikely or overtly dreamlike would be a sure sign of just a dream, having now spent a day dancing in mud with a really, really pretty girl and yelling about my dick in shitty German over the din of a live country band to some Swiss cowboys leaning up against a cattle fence in the middle of an arena with spotlights on us and everyone watching as we are the first couple dancing, I have to say that maybe life just changes enough that something I would have written off as pretty damned implausible may not actually be the case in four years.
I don't think it's any kind of psychic ability, or magic. It's likely explainable as some strange phenomena of overactive perception, or as some kind of subconscious interaction with a non-linear timeline as some "encompassing" physics theories that are probably a little beyond my complete comprehension, let alone ability to explain.
I frankly have never been too interested in the mechanics behind it. These sorts of dreams have mostly been displaced by others, and while it may seem like this could be some kind of handy ability, most of these types of dreams are pretty mundane - it's not really all that helpful to know that you foresaw cutting your hand on the store's brand new Taylor Target display six months ago, especially when you've completely forgotten about it until it occurs and you go back to double check.
Maybe I'm just nuts. It's been a weird night. It's been a weird life, really.
There are some definite upsides to the whole thing.
I know how I will die, or rather, I know what it will feel like to die, and have tried to extrapolate what's caused it based on that feeling. I do not know how I get there, when it happens, or what leads up to it, or even where I am, as it's one of the rare times I am looking out from my own body. I can easily separate this dream from others for a few reasons. It is a dream I have only had the once, where I will usually dream about dying for a few days straight. It is the only death dream I have had no control over despite eventually becoming aware it was not actually the present reality, and most significantly in my mind, it's the only dream I've ever had of dying where I haven't instantly "respawned" the second I die and continued dreaming. After I died, there was nothing but a conscious blackness until my alarm went off several long hours later.
It might not be completely evident as to why knowing how I die is any kind of upside, so perhaps I shall rephrase: I know how I won't die. I am not a big risk taker, but it's morbidly helpful when I am really depressed to know that things will obviously pick up, as it does not appear that I off myself. When I was not doing overly well a few years ago and was drinking ALOT, I proved this to my satisfaction twice. It would appear that so long as I lead a decent life, what happens will be completely unavoidable in roughly two to four decades, and when my number is up, it's up. If I fail to lead a good life, then it could come much sooner but would appear so circumstantially specific that it would have to be kind of deserved. Either way, it's kind of nice to know things will generally work out, at least until... well, they don't, hah.
It would be nice to be able to dream more about things I want to.
I'd like to know when my father will die so that I can be with him.
I'd like to know some winning lottery numbers for some pretty obvious reasons.
I'd like to know what sort of thing I'm supposed to be doing with my life.
I'd like to know that there's something more worthwhile than what I'm doing right now.
This, I think, is what I was really looking to talk about, because the exactness of this particular little dejavue thing tonight has got me thinking about it.
I have no plans for any future. I can't see myself anywhere, doing anything, with anyone. I don't really NEED to see myself as such, because I truly believe I will be about as happy as I seem to be capable of most of the time so long as I'm physically intact.
I'm not quite at where I want to be with this yet, but it's like 5 in the morning, and I'd like to go cuddle up to my lady for a bit before she has to go to work. Till next time!
It also turns out that drinking a bunch of whiskey does not counteract the coffee and make you sleepy, but instead wakes you up more and also makes you even more drunk.
Drinking makes me blog.
Not smoking weed makes me blog.
Having really shitty days does not often make me blog, for some reason.
Having really good days makes me blog about shitty things, for some reason.
Talking to you makes me blog. I'm not sure if it's because I'd like to continue our conversations or because it reminds me that I can ramble and ramble and ramble, and eventually someone not directly involved in whatever I am rambling about and generally non-judgemental will come along and read it, thusly making me feel like I don't spend all of my time just talking to myself.
Staying up past midnight almost always makes me blog. I'm not too sure why this is, but suspect that my brain just gives up on giving me tired signals. Then, as you may have noticed over the last few hundred posts, I get bored, and here we are.
Being depressed makes me blog. I'm moderately sure depression and intense boredom are the same thing, actually.
Being manic also makes me blog. Sometimes it seems like there's just too much going on in my head and I need to deposit some of it somewhere. I've heard some interesting theories on the ability of male brains to compartmentalize pretty much anything as the need be, but I do not appear to have this ability, either because I have a little ADD, or, more likely, because the redonkculous amount of pot I smoke has done something unpleasant to my brain.
Sometimes blogging makes me depressed or manic. There's something unhealthy about too much active self-analyzation, just like too much of anything else.
Sometimes I listen to Sublime when I blog. Sometimes I listen to Immortal Technique while I blog. Sometimes I listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd while I blog. Sometimes I listen to Amanda Marshall while I blog. Sometimes, when I'm pretty absorbed by what I'm writing, I'll even accidentally listen to the Shitty Beatles or Led Zepplin when they roll up in the playlist.
Sometimes, I start to blog about something, then realize I don't fully understand it, then get so involved in learning new things about whatever topic that I forget I was blogging in the first place and end up with even more useless trivia I will never need.
I used to be able to dream the future before I started getting nightmares. I still do sometimes. I think some people would call it dejavue, and frankly I would too, except that as with everything else in my life, all my dreams that seem important are usually committed to paper the same day I have them. Perhaps I am merely an impressionable fool, but it would seem as though having written records of things that happen anywhere from days to years later, exactly as written, is a good way to convince yourself that your dreams are at least worth paying attention to.
I will have each dream exactly once. If I have it more than once, it is just a dream. If everything occurring is a regular event and everything in the dream is a familiar object, rather than people or things I do not remember ever seeing before, there's a pretty good chance it is just a dream. If the dream is not in the third person, as in I'm watching myself and whatever is going on, then it will usually just be a dream. If I become aware I'm dreaming or can exercise any control over what's happening, then I am likely dreaming. Though it would be kind of natural to assume anything that seems highly unlikely or overtly dreamlike would be a sure sign of just a dream, having now spent a day dancing in mud with a really, really pretty girl and yelling about my dick in shitty German over the din of a live country band to some Swiss cowboys leaning up against a cattle fence in the middle of an arena with spotlights on us and everyone watching as we are the first couple dancing, I have to say that maybe life just changes enough that something I would have written off as pretty damned implausible may not actually be the case in four years.
I don't think it's any kind of psychic ability, or magic. It's likely explainable as some strange phenomena of overactive perception, or as some kind of subconscious interaction with a non-linear timeline as some "encompassing" physics theories that are probably a little beyond my complete comprehension, let alone ability to explain.
I frankly have never been too interested in the mechanics behind it. These sorts of dreams have mostly been displaced by others, and while it may seem like this could be some kind of handy ability, most of these types of dreams are pretty mundane - it's not really all that helpful to know that you foresaw cutting your hand on the store's brand new Taylor Target display six months ago, especially when you've completely forgotten about it until it occurs and you go back to double check.
Maybe I'm just nuts. It's been a weird night. It's been a weird life, really.
There are some definite upsides to the whole thing.
I know how I will die, or rather, I know what it will feel like to die, and have tried to extrapolate what's caused it based on that feeling. I do not know how I get there, when it happens, or what leads up to it, or even where I am, as it's one of the rare times I am looking out from my own body. I can easily separate this dream from others for a few reasons. It is a dream I have only had the once, where I will usually dream about dying for a few days straight. It is the only death dream I have had no control over despite eventually becoming aware it was not actually the present reality, and most significantly in my mind, it's the only dream I've ever had of dying where I haven't instantly "respawned" the second I die and continued dreaming. After I died, there was nothing but a conscious blackness until my alarm went off several long hours later.
It might not be completely evident as to why knowing how I die is any kind of upside, so perhaps I shall rephrase: I know how I won't die. I am not a big risk taker, but it's morbidly helpful when I am really depressed to know that things will obviously pick up, as it does not appear that I off myself. When I was not doing overly well a few years ago and was drinking ALOT, I proved this to my satisfaction twice. It would appear that so long as I lead a decent life, what happens will be completely unavoidable in roughly two to four decades, and when my number is up, it's up. If I fail to lead a good life, then it could come much sooner but would appear so circumstantially specific that it would have to be kind of deserved. Either way, it's kind of nice to know things will generally work out, at least until... well, they don't, hah.
It would be nice to be able to dream more about things I want to.
I'd like to know when my father will die so that I can be with him.
I'd like to know some winning lottery numbers for some pretty obvious reasons.
I'd like to know what sort of thing I'm supposed to be doing with my life.
I'd like to know that there's something more worthwhile than what I'm doing right now.
This, I think, is what I was really looking to talk about, because the exactness of this particular little dejavue thing tonight has got me thinking about it.
I have no plans for any future. I can't see myself anywhere, doing anything, with anyone. I don't really NEED to see myself as such, because I truly believe I will be about as happy as I seem to be capable of most of the time so long as I'm physically intact.
I'm not quite at where I want to be with this yet, but it's like 5 in the morning, and I'd like to go cuddle up to my lady for a bit before she has to go to work. Till next time!
Anyway, on to something else.
I've noticed that a lot of the people I know are, at the end of the day, the absolute antithesis of what they proclaim to be or aspire to be.
I could provide some decent examples from my escapades tonight, but without a whole whack of backstory, it's pretty likely that none of them will make a whole lot of sense.
Anyway, I don't get it. What's the point of being anything besides what you are and who you are?
I get there is a certain element of politeness that is required for functioning relationships, but one can be polite and present themselves plainly, right?
I don't know. I realize I'm not a popular guy and that people, while generally attracted to me for a short time, tend to find me irritating or unpleasant or what have you after a while. I'm pretty good with this, as I don't really like being around most people for more than a short amount of time, and frankly it usually works to my benefit as most of my more impersonal interpersonal interactions are brief.
While there's probably more to it than simply being what I perceive myself to be, I'm fairly certain that my general lack of self-inhibition and willingness to do what seems proper for myself does factor into the above. That said, I am absolutely certain that because what you see is generally what you get, those few people that do know me well and like me genuinely do like me exactly as I am, no strings or pressure attached.
It seems like maybe the world would be a little calmer if other people were of this mindset, but perhaps that's just hubris talking. I don't know.
I remember many of the girls I've dated saying a if part of my appeal is how "mysterious" I am or was, and a few others saying it was more a case of pretty black and white thinking combined with a "down to earthiness". I think it makes for an interesting contrast, though I think the matter of which is the "correct" opinion is probably pretty subjective to the observer.
I've noticed that a lot of the people I know are, at the end of the day, the absolute antithesis of what they proclaim to be or aspire to be.
I could provide some decent examples from my escapades tonight, but without a whole whack of backstory, it's pretty likely that none of them will make a whole lot of sense.
Anyway, I don't get it. What's the point of being anything besides what you are and who you are?
I get there is a certain element of politeness that is required for functioning relationships, but one can be polite and present themselves plainly, right?
I don't know. I realize I'm not a popular guy and that people, while generally attracted to me for a short time, tend to find me irritating or unpleasant or what have you after a while. I'm pretty good with this, as I don't really like being around most people for more than a short amount of time, and frankly it usually works to my benefit as most of my more impersonal interpersonal interactions are brief.
While there's probably more to it than simply being what I perceive myself to be, I'm fairly certain that my general lack of self-inhibition and willingness to do what seems proper for myself does factor into the above. That said, I am absolutely certain that because what you see is generally what you get, those few people that do know me well and like me genuinely do like me exactly as I am, no strings or pressure attached.
It seems like maybe the world would be a little calmer if other people were of this mindset, but perhaps that's just hubris talking. I don't know.
I remember many of the girls I've dated saying a if part of my appeal is how "mysterious" I am or was, and a few others saying it was more a case of pretty black and white thinking combined with a "down to earthiness". I think it makes for an interesting contrast, though I think the matter of which is the "correct" opinion is probably pretty subjective to the observer.
You know, I think I've written the "you" blog out a pile of times, usually while we are talking while I'm wasted. It won't ever be published. Even this blog has been through a few revisions in the last hour or so, and I don't feel that any of them really contribute to the overall theme.
Sometimes, I can't find the right words. The poetry doth not flow forth.
Sometimes, I can't find the right feeling. The words are there, but convey things wrongly.
Hell, this post, which is about as close as I think you will ever get, dear reader, certainly falls under both those categories.
Aren't Oxford commas marvelous?
Anyway, there are a lot of problems with the you blog, because it would never be quite right, and some things are maybe worth doing right or not at all.
So, I've pretty much given up on that, and instead you get whatever this will turn out to be, and then will be left to draw your own conclusions.
In the end, I really just have too much self realization for their to be an honest blog with yourself as the topic. I have no illusions, and even though I doubt you do either, have you ever stopped to ask yourself what I might be getting out of this particular aspect of our friendship? I don't mean this as in some whiney rhetorical "what do I get" or "why are we friends" way - I certainly get something, and the question is quite genuine; What do you figure that something might be?
I think I have a pretty good idea what you are getting out of it, and I know exactly what I get out of it. And frankly, I just won't allow myself or am genuinely incapable of expressing that to you. This is very unusual, as I don't usually have much trouble expressing myself at all when I want to, but not really that unexpected. So if you take nothing else from this blog, feel a little special on that, I guess.
So that's about it, I guess. I wish I could have compared your eyes to the depths of a glacial lake, or said something about what a great person you are for always being so positive and fundamentally kind (you laughed pretty hard when my head hit that window), but in the end, that's not really what this is about.
Don't get me wrong, I would have loved to have spent the next hour or so of this evening hitting on you and enjoying the attentions of your pretty, charming self, but if this blog makes any sense to you, then perhaps you can see why I didn't.
And if it doesn't make sense, then I suppose I apologise though there is nothing I really can or intend to do about it - as I say, I have written this out a few times since we had that particular conversation, and this is really the only way to write this that feels genuine and not falsely flattering or even more falsely unflattering. Though I suspect the significance is pretty minor, you certainly deserve better than what probably looks like a very vague paragraph.
Sometimes, I can't find the right words. The poetry doth not flow forth.
Sometimes, I can't find the right feeling. The words are there, but convey things wrongly.
Hell, this post, which is about as close as I think you will ever get, dear reader, certainly falls under both those categories.
Aren't Oxford commas marvelous?
Anyway, there are a lot of problems with the you blog, because it would never be quite right, and some things are maybe worth doing right or not at all.
So, I've pretty much given up on that, and instead you get whatever this will turn out to be, and then will be left to draw your own conclusions.
In the end, I really just have too much self realization for their to be an honest blog with yourself as the topic. I have no illusions, and even though I doubt you do either, have you ever stopped to ask yourself what I might be getting out of this particular aspect of our friendship? I don't mean this as in some whiney rhetorical "what do I get" or "why are we friends" way - I certainly get something, and the question is quite genuine; What do you figure that something might be?
I think I have a pretty good idea what you are getting out of it, and I know exactly what I get out of it. And frankly, I just won't allow myself or am genuinely incapable of expressing that to you. This is very unusual, as I don't usually have much trouble expressing myself at all when I want to, but not really that unexpected. So if you take nothing else from this blog, feel a little special on that, I guess.
So that's about it, I guess. I wish I could have compared your eyes to the depths of a glacial lake, or said something about what a great person you are for always being so positive and fundamentally kind (you laughed pretty hard when my head hit that window), but in the end, that's not really what this is about.
Don't get me wrong, I would have loved to have spent the next hour or so of this evening hitting on you and enjoying the attentions of your pretty, charming self, but if this blog makes any sense to you, then perhaps you can see why I didn't.
And if it doesn't make sense, then I suppose I apologise though there is nothing I really can or intend to do about it - as I say, I have written this out a few times since we had that particular conversation, and this is really the only way to write this that feels genuine and not falsely flattering or even more falsely unflattering. Though I suspect the significance is pretty minor, you certainly deserve better than what probably looks like a very vague paragraph.
23.4.14
I wonder who picks these pictures, knowing that they are trying to convince people to pay them tons of money to consume a health product that probably won't work. I get "infected nipple fruit" and some of the other pictures I've seen in these ads, but for some reason "giant rotting squid carcass" isn't really something I think I'd want to see on an ingredient label, even if it's healthy as fuck.
After spending about 20 minutes on the site that ad links to, I have watched what seems like a really bad movie trailer, and still have no idea what the fuck I am supposed to be buying or where to put the money in. This is a great example of a whole different type of bad advertising - I'm left thinking the old dude in the picture isn't actually cringing at the collapse of western society, but staring blankly in terror and confusion because he has no idea what the fuck he just watched and what some shitty summer movie has to do with the implosion of the U.S. economy or his checkbook.
This shit's all from the Sun Media series of websites, which for some reason I am now starting to really have trouble remembering, I actually pay a small monthly fee to look at.
The articles aren't much better.
Pretty self explanatory. As sometimes happens, a dude tried to smuggle himself out of someplace, in this case Africa, and died of hypothermia, or oxygen deprivation, or was crushed by the plane's wheels as they retracted.
Because this headline was also in the papers recently...
...Some highly intelligent dude who maintains the website decided to put this poll on both pages:
I guess news and entertainment media aren't really all that far apart, but still.
In case you were wondering.
Been pretty uninteresting over here lately.
10.4.14
Facebook is always so silly
Click the pictures, they never size right.
You mean never, ever have any scientists stumbled opon a dead elephant and cut open the trunk? Edward has been playing this new game, and my facebook has been drowned in shitty game notifications that aren't even really "facts".
I find a few things funny about this. One, these ads are targeted, so apparently something in my searches indicates that I need rehab and would also function well as a drug and health councillor.
Also, 855 people had a lot of fun in rehab.
I now know one of "those people", you know, the ones who post pictures of themselves with ten hashtags on twitter, and then have to facebook about how they posted pictures of themselves on twitter.
You can't see it in the picture, but twelve people liked this.
But you can see it in this picture. I am a little stoned and not super twitter savvy, but it took me a minute to clue in as to the fact that they are not congratulating him on finishing a coke and the posting pictures of it.
A little off topic, but if you've ever been bumped to first class, you know that on commercial flights, the food and salads are the same shitty stuff you get in coach. For somereason "airline salad" seems like a bad marketing move to me.
And, on the topic of advertising. I think my booty would have 2m likes (whatever that means, "m" not actually being a statement of any sort) if I cold afford to advertise it on facebook.
Anyway, had not blogged in a while.
You mean never, ever have any scientists stumbled opon a dead elephant and cut open the trunk? Edward has been playing this new game, and my facebook has been drowned in shitty game notifications that aren't even really "facts".
I find a few things funny about this. One, these ads are targeted, so apparently something in my searches indicates that I need rehab and would also function well as a drug and health councillor.
Also, 855 people had a lot of fun in rehab.
I now know one of "those people", you know, the ones who post pictures of themselves with ten hashtags on twitter, and then have to facebook about how they posted pictures of themselves on twitter.
You can't see it in the picture, but twelve people liked this.
But you can see it in this picture. I am a little stoned and not super twitter savvy, but it took me a minute to clue in as to the fact that they are not congratulating him on finishing a coke and the posting pictures of it.
A little off topic, but if you've ever been bumped to first class, you know that on commercial flights, the food and salads are the same shitty stuff you get in coach. For somereason "airline salad" seems like a bad marketing move to me.
And, on the topic of advertising. I think my booty would have 2m likes (whatever that means, "m" not actually being a statement of any sort) if I cold afford to advertise it on facebook.
Anyway, had not blogged in a while.
27.3.14
21.3.14
Ok, ok, one more kind of funny teacher story. Any maybe a bus driver story if my hand doesn't hurt.
I probably should have realized I did not get along with teachers early on in my school "career".
I remember in elementary, our class would regularly go to the computer lab and either type, or just look shit up on the internet.
I always hated computer class when we were just looking shit up. Oregon Trail was fun, and so was typing, but I think Mr. Blais was frankly just too fucking lazy to bother to make sure we were all typing, or was too busy ogling the girls and deciding who to creep on when we all eventually had him again in middle school, so most of the time, we were just assigned to look up shit on the internet.
I want to take a second here to note that this was never anything informative. Usually, someone in the class would go "Oh look, Pokémon!", and Mr. Blais would then exclaim:
"Regard la! Tout le monde, allez a le site que Alica a trove!"
And then we'd all go spend a while looking at Alica's pokemon website.
Now, the only thing I think I ever learned from that is that you could make decent Pokémon card money by printing off pictures and descriptions from that site and selling them to people at school for 25 cents a pop. Don't try it now though, it's creepy and I suspect that while copywrite lawyers have better things to do than sue little kids, they probably don't have much better things to do than sue petty 20-something intellectual thieves.
As much as I was a problem child, I think I was also really fucking precocious as a little kid, and could probably describe my elementary school years as "profitable" - from selling the boy's side's box full of paper hornets to the girls for meal card tickets, to trading really worn porn mags I found laying around the school yard for my first and most disgusting cigarette, to my $8 bucks a pop gerbil farms, I think I was definitely an 8 year old's version of a millionaire. I could buy all my own shit, and while I am still very, very skilled at taking people's money away from them, I think that if I could have a proportionate level of adult income for a decade, I could retire.
Anyway, back to computer lab. Many more of the classes were pokemon oriented or spent emailing the friends I'd made at French camp than actually learning anything. This was almost ten years before Wikipedia, long before Youtube, and even before Google, when people still used fucking AskJeeves, and actually ASKED FUCKING QUESTIONS like "Can you find me a wicked fucking Pokémon website?". This was at a time when having a porn site called the White House that featured chicks with really hairy vags actually made sense and was kind of funny (I JUST got the fucking joke, fifteen years after seeing that particular website once, and LAWL!). There was barely anything to learn online without looking hard for it, and let's face it, a bunch of kids are not going to look too hard.
Worse than all that, my dad has always been big on gadgets, and thusly, I had a nice shiney brand fucking new Pentium II at home, and even with the shoddy internet one comes to expect in the Great Northern Wasteland, that machine killed fucking lag like Woodie Guthrie's kills fascists, and was faster than a white trash widow at the Indy 500. By comparison, the school had bought possibly the worse glorified fucking calculators available that were internet capable, and everything DRUG ON. Eventually, I got kind of sick of it and stopped bothering to look things up when I didn't feel like it.
This eventually came to the notice of Mr. Blais, who was not impressed at his authority being questioned. I suspect I was over at someone else's computer, rather than my own, looking up things in collaboration with them. The ultimatum he laid down was that I needed to go look things up online, or type in things for the computer to say back to me, or play the typing game, or I could go downstairs and sit infront of the office.
I need to make it clear here - I am very, very literally minded, despite rarely being serious myself much anymore, and have always been very fucking black and white.
So, instead of taking this as what I'm sure was in reality an icy, stern Gallic rebuke and an order to get back to "work", I took it as this understanding sort of "Well, tell you what. If you don't want to use the computers, then you can go sit in front of the office until the end of class." Logic now dictates that I could have sat in class and not used the computer just as well, but at the time, I thought it was a genuine offer of an option to go sit quietly in a nice, comfortable chair somewhere where I could be supervised.
So, I said "Thanks, I'll go sit in front of the office", and did, stopping at the classroom to grab a choose your own adventure book. I sat there for a long while.
Eventually, someone, I don't remember who except that it was not the principal, as she was a truly miserable old wench who would of laid things out quite clearly and thus not have left me so confused during what came next, came out of the office and asked me what I was doing there.
I smiled and said "Oh, Mr. Blais said that I could come and sit down here while they used the computers, and I thought it would be ok if I brought a book."
She gave me a puzzled look and went to go find him.
I don't really remember what happened next except that parents were called, and because they knew what a literal son of a bitch they had raised, it was one of the few times they ended up taking my side. I was incredibly confused about the whole thing, being a cute little disturber back then rather than an angry, intentional one, but it's pretty funny looking back on it.
I think perhaps I will write more kid stories, as most of them make me chuckle.
The porn website was funny because Bush was the President, thusly, the best place for Bush was the White House. Not G.W. Bush mind you, Herbert Bush, the one from Saddam Vs. Bush I, and who was succeeded by the excellent Bill Clinton. Unfortunately, the site no longer exists and I suspect the government pulled some sort of early virtual eminent domain stunt on them, barring them from profiting from Bush the Second and the joke from being even better.
In case you don't get it, I'll reword - there sure was a lot of pussy in the white house for a while, surrounded by Bush.
I probably should have realized I did not get along with teachers early on in my school "career".
I remember in elementary, our class would regularly go to the computer lab and either type, or just look shit up on the internet.
I always hated computer class when we were just looking shit up. Oregon Trail was fun, and so was typing, but I think Mr. Blais was frankly just too fucking lazy to bother to make sure we were all typing, or was too busy ogling the girls and deciding who to creep on when we all eventually had him again in middle school, so most of the time, we were just assigned to look up shit on the internet.
I want to take a second here to note that this was never anything informative. Usually, someone in the class would go "Oh look, Pokémon!", and Mr. Blais would then exclaim:
"Regard la! Tout le monde, allez a le site que Alica a trove!"
And then we'd all go spend a while looking at Alica's pokemon website.
Now, the only thing I think I ever learned from that is that you could make decent Pokémon card money by printing off pictures and descriptions from that site and selling them to people at school for 25 cents a pop. Don't try it now though, it's creepy and I suspect that while copywrite lawyers have better things to do than sue little kids, they probably don't have much better things to do than sue petty 20-something intellectual thieves.
As much as I was a problem child, I think I was also really fucking precocious as a little kid, and could probably describe my elementary school years as "profitable" - from selling the boy's side's box full of paper hornets to the girls for meal card tickets, to trading really worn porn mags I found laying around the school yard for my first and most disgusting cigarette, to my $8 bucks a pop gerbil farms, I think I was definitely an 8 year old's version of a millionaire. I could buy all my own shit, and while I am still very, very skilled at taking people's money away from them, I think that if I could have a proportionate level of adult income for a decade, I could retire.
Anyway, back to computer lab. Many more of the classes were pokemon oriented or spent emailing the friends I'd made at French camp than actually learning anything. This was almost ten years before Wikipedia, long before Youtube, and even before Google, when people still used fucking AskJeeves, and actually ASKED FUCKING QUESTIONS like "Can you find me a wicked fucking Pokémon website?". This was at a time when having a porn site called the White House that featured chicks with really hairy vags actually made sense and was kind of funny (I JUST got the fucking joke, fifteen years after seeing that particular website once, and LAWL!). There was barely anything to learn online without looking hard for it, and let's face it, a bunch of kids are not going to look too hard.
Worse than all that, my dad has always been big on gadgets, and thusly, I had a nice shiney brand fucking new Pentium II at home, and even with the shoddy internet one comes to expect in the Great Northern Wasteland, that machine killed fucking lag like Woodie Guthrie's kills fascists, and was faster than a white trash widow at the Indy 500. By comparison, the school had bought possibly the worse glorified fucking calculators available that were internet capable, and everything DRUG ON. Eventually, I got kind of sick of it and stopped bothering to look things up when I didn't feel like it.
This eventually came to the notice of Mr. Blais, who was not impressed at his authority being questioned. I suspect I was over at someone else's computer, rather than my own, looking up things in collaboration with them. The ultimatum he laid down was that I needed to go look things up online, or type in things for the computer to say back to me, or play the typing game, or I could go downstairs and sit infront of the office.
I need to make it clear here - I am very, very literally minded, despite rarely being serious myself much anymore, and have always been very fucking black and white.
So, instead of taking this as what I'm sure was in reality an icy, stern Gallic rebuke and an order to get back to "work", I took it as this understanding sort of "Well, tell you what. If you don't want to use the computers, then you can go sit in front of the office until the end of class." Logic now dictates that I could have sat in class and not used the computer just as well, but at the time, I thought it was a genuine offer of an option to go sit quietly in a nice, comfortable chair somewhere where I could be supervised.
So, I said "Thanks, I'll go sit in front of the office", and did, stopping at the classroom to grab a choose your own adventure book. I sat there for a long while.
Eventually, someone, I don't remember who except that it was not the principal, as she was a truly miserable old wench who would of laid things out quite clearly and thus not have left me so confused during what came next, came out of the office and asked me what I was doing there.
I smiled and said "Oh, Mr. Blais said that I could come and sit down here while they used the computers, and I thought it would be ok if I brought a book."
She gave me a puzzled look and went to go find him.
I don't really remember what happened next except that parents were called, and because they knew what a literal son of a bitch they had raised, it was one of the few times they ended up taking my side. I was incredibly confused about the whole thing, being a cute little disturber back then rather than an angry, intentional one, but it's pretty funny looking back on it.
I think perhaps I will write more kid stories, as most of them make me chuckle.
The porn website was funny because Bush was the President, thusly, the best place for Bush was the White House. Not G.W. Bush mind you, Herbert Bush, the one from Saddam Vs. Bush I, and who was succeeded by the excellent Bill Clinton. Unfortunately, the site no longer exists and I suspect the government pulled some sort of early virtual eminent domain stunt on them, barring them from profiting from Bush the Second and the joke from being even better.
In case you don't get it, I'll reword - there sure was a lot of pussy in the white house for a while, surrounded by Bush.
After rereading this, I now understand a little more why teachers don't like me, and why I wil likely never pull off a real education
I think I am going back to school. It should be pretty simple - I've now completed most of the math courses offered on Khan academy, which go beyond highschool level anyway, and never had any real trouble with other courses beyond occasionally completely disagreeing with the point of view offered by the textbook or teacher.
Which has really kind of screwed me up a bunch over the years.
Take, for example, my 'Finding Forrester' assignment, one of the few I really remember. We had to watch this movie about this kid who is a basketball star but secretly loves to write, and his relationship with his literary idol.
The big theme of the assignment was "Explain the story, and detail how "Kid's Name" grew and developed across the course of the movie".
The big problem I had was that to be pretty frank, it was a shitty fucking movie, and "Kid's Name" didn't really develop at all, or grow, or change, or learn new things until the very, very absolute end of the movie, when he had to in order to allow everyone to have a happy ending. I get why things are that way - if he'd had an epiphany in the first five minutes rather than the last five minutes, then the rest of the movie would have been pretty fucking dull, because what's the point?
Now, had they picked a classic horror movie instead of a sappy movie, I could have done it. Take a show like "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer". Sure, it's a meaningless story and stars annoying people, and while it could be argued that it's not school appropriate, I distinctly remember reading the novelization around the age of 10, when I stumbled on it in the English portion of the school library.
The point is that it follows a very classic horror formula:
Take a weak, shy, or innocent girl, and place them with some rowdy friends. She will be the wallflower, the hidden beauty, the one without a boyfriend or with a dick boyfriend.
Put them somewhere remote, and start the creepiness.
At first, she will run and cry and hide, and any boyfriend that is present will spend his time trying to protect her.
By about midway through the movie, some people will be dead, and she will have begun to lose her fear. Research into what is happening will probably begin, maybe the boyfriend will die. As things progress, it will become clear to her that someone needs to really step up.
By the end of the movie, our heroine usually is now well armed, and has fought a battle with the villain. Maybe the boyfriend is dead, maybe not, but regardless, he is unavailable, and she will have to truly face her fears. No longer will she be the wallflower - she's pissed and out to kick ass.
Should the villain be defeated, we will usually be treated to happy scenes afterwards of how much our heroine's life has improved and how much more outgoing she is.
And that, poorly written and thought out as it often is, is far more character development that you can squeeze out of Finding Forrester or movies like it.
So, I ended up doing two essays. One as a persuasive attempt, arguing how there is more character development in shitty B movies that in the tripe I'd been assigned to watch. The other was somewhat more in the curriculum, and was about how LITTLE character development had occurred in the movie, despite the main character constantly being mashed headfirst into ridiculously unlikely and blunt situations that would have given any real person plenty of new perspective on life. Though I don't think I'm overly grammatically correct at this point in my life, nor am I an overly good speller anymore, I know both essays were pretty well written in comparison to those of the rest of my "slow class" peers.
I turned in the second and got nothing but a comment that it was not the assignment. Yay.
Another good example of this that comes to mind is an assignment from the same class, but a different teacher. At the start of the year, to assess our skills, we were asked to read an article on a homeless woman, and then write about what difficulties she might face, or how to help homeless people on a larger scale, or how one's life decisions affect you, etc. etc.
I frankly came up with a blank on most of that shit. Every homeless person I've ever known, not met, but actually known anything about, has ended up in their situation as the result of what were either really, really unfortunate fucking circumstances, mental illness, or because of some really obviously terrible choices, like selling all of their shit for crack. How the fuck do you help someone who lost their life because they were convicted of a crime they were later proven innocent for and have now lost it and can't cope with life, or someone who ran away when they were ten and have lived such a rough life they are now this nearly instinctual, feral creature? Or someone who willingly sold all their shit for crack, and would do so again in three point five seconds flat?
Now that I am older, I could maybe come up with something to say on that.
Unfortunately, at the time I had nothing. So, I tried to write about the difficulties she faced.
Even more unfortunately, no matter how many times I reread the article, I just could not see any sort of indication that this lady actually was all that unhappy with life. Granted, it is not easy being homeless and I'm sure it's a shitty way to live, but for what it was worth, she seemed pretty content with how things were. She had some friends, she could make money delivering papers, and she had a nice little shack to shelter her. Food was usually available at banks if she was broke, and she considered a whole wack of critters that hung around her shack to be her loving pets. The winters were really hard, she stated, and she didn't know how many more of them she could survive, but she figured she could always move to the south end of Ontario and things wouldn't be too bad.
All in all, this left me with nothing. So, once again, two essays.
One, certainly rushed through. Winters suck for homeless people. Not having houses or food sucks for homeless people, though our lucky lady seemed ok on that front. Things in general are harder for homeless people, etc. It was admittedly a piss poor show as there was nothing really to quote from the article besides the two lines about winter.
The second was about how the lady in the article seemed pretty happy considering. The general theme was that here we have a lady with pals, food, and shelter. It's a step above rock bottom, sure, but it's still the same things that all people need, and it's still present. On top of that, she spent the whole article referring to herself by a title used by the pre-Revolutionary French nobility, which makes it pretty clear that she's maybe just a little fucking whacked and may not really perceive herself or her situation the same way we do. She has no major drug problems, and is capable of caring for herself. On top of it all, nowhere does she say she's unhappy or worried, and sounds much more like someone describing their lifestyle to someone else leading a completely different lifestyle than someone in distress. While it might not be the kind of life most people would be happy in, she obviously was, and isn't the whole point of life to just be happy?
I turned in the second essay, because the first was dull and wretched, and got it back with a big note asking where I got the idea she thought she was a French noblewoman (art/"planning" teachers are not usually overly well educated, nor apparently motivated enough to look up terms like "Marquess") from and to come see the teacher.
Who then called me insensitive, that I should lighten up and give life a chance because not everyone is so jaded, and said that life gets better when you get to college and meet other gay people.
Which was certainly much better than the school psychoanalyst/career guidance type person I was later forced to go see asking me in the middle of a battery of job placement questions why I hated the Jews. I'd imagine that even if I did, that would be a really fucking hard question for a 16 or 17 year old to answer when put on the spot like that.
And far better than getting locked out of class for a week because I had to go to the bathroom pretty damn bad, and regardless of how many other people were already in the hall, it was going to happen very shortly, either here, or on the toilet.
So yeah, that's how most of my classes went, and eventually, "went" was something I no longer did in respect to them.
Don't get me wrong, though, I was certainly a problem kid in some ways, and felt I was as mature as any of the teachers. I tended to talk to them as though we were both on the same level, something which most teachers I had did not like, and certainly did not respect any of them, even those who meant well - pretty hard to respect someone who knows nothing about you and still thinks they know best about your sexuality. I can remember many meetings with parents, teachers, and principals where I "won" any argument against the lot of them (teachers side with teachers, not their kids), and left with a mutual apology. Once I was in highschool and the parents had stopped bothering to come, I remember a few great meetings with an angry teacher, the vice principal or some other witness, and the principal, in which I could hear Maurer ripping whomever a new asshole through the door for a good few minutes after the meeting had ended. I am totally sending my kids to school with tape recorders - it pays off eventually.
I was not always so contrary about everything simply because I just fucking love being different and constantly argumentative. I did it because I truly felt that there was no real thought behind those types of assignments and so long as what I wrote or said had good substance, a reasonably valid point, and was well written, then everything the teacher really wanted to see was still there, and maybe it would give them something more interesting to read. Also, I do just fucking love constantly being argumentative.
As it turns out, teachers fucking hate actually having to really read things, something which I can confirm firsthand based on the fact that everyone in my direct family, besides my father's siblings and their kids, are teachers. This includes all my aunts and uncles, barring one aunt who is not only completely worthless to humanity, but is also unemployed, and all my cousins, barring two who have become so fucked up from living in our extended family that they have mentally regressed to the point that one cannot leave their room without a crane and can no longer speak, and the other cannot leave the care center because, now, he will forever be an eight year old. I can safely say that teachers hate reading, because none of these fine folks know anything that you can only learn from a book, and because I got to help grade French papers as a kid.
Anyway, so long as these fancy new college teachers have something a little more interesting to throw at me, things should go smoothly.
Maybe I should become a teacher. It's not in my blood, but it's in my heritage, and I think I could do a better job of it than anyone I had growing up. Plus, I love people to respecting me, forced or not, and always being smarter than everyone else. I don't think I admit that too much, but I certainly have a great personality for it.
Which has really kind of screwed me up a bunch over the years.
Take, for example, my 'Finding Forrester' assignment, one of the few I really remember. We had to watch this movie about this kid who is a basketball star but secretly loves to write, and his relationship with his literary idol.
The big theme of the assignment was "Explain the story, and detail how "Kid's Name" grew and developed across the course of the movie".
The big problem I had was that to be pretty frank, it was a shitty fucking movie, and "Kid's Name" didn't really develop at all, or grow, or change, or learn new things until the very, very absolute end of the movie, when he had to in order to allow everyone to have a happy ending. I get why things are that way - if he'd had an epiphany in the first five minutes rather than the last five minutes, then the rest of the movie would have been pretty fucking dull, because what's the point?
Now, had they picked a classic horror movie instead of a sappy movie, I could have done it. Take a show like "I Still Know What You Did Last Summer". Sure, it's a meaningless story and stars annoying people, and while it could be argued that it's not school appropriate, I distinctly remember reading the novelization around the age of 10, when I stumbled on it in the English portion of the school library.
The point is that it follows a very classic horror formula:
Take a weak, shy, or innocent girl, and place them with some rowdy friends. She will be the wallflower, the hidden beauty, the one without a boyfriend or with a dick boyfriend.
Put them somewhere remote, and start the creepiness.
At first, she will run and cry and hide, and any boyfriend that is present will spend his time trying to protect her.
By about midway through the movie, some people will be dead, and she will have begun to lose her fear. Research into what is happening will probably begin, maybe the boyfriend will die. As things progress, it will become clear to her that someone needs to really step up.
By the end of the movie, our heroine usually is now well armed, and has fought a battle with the villain. Maybe the boyfriend is dead, maybe not, but regardless, he is unavailable, and she will have to truly face her fears. No longer will she be the wallflower - she's pissed and out to kick ass.
Should the villain be defeated, we will usually be treated to happy scenes afterwards of how much our heroine's life has improved and how much more outgoing she is.
And that, poorly written and thought out as it often is, is far more character development that you can squeeze out of Finding Forrester or movies like it.
So, I ended up doing two essays. One as a persuasive attempt, arguing how there is more character development in shitty B movies that in the tripe I'd been assigned to watch. The other was somewhat more in the curriculum, and was about how LITTLE character development had occurred in the movie, despite the main character constantly being mashed headfirst into ridiculously unlikely and blunt situations that would have given any real person plenty of new perspective on life. Though I don't think I'm overly grammatically correct at this point in my life, nor am I an overly good speller anymore, I know both essays were pretty well written in comparison to those of the rest of my "slow class" peers.
I turned in the second and got nothing but a comment that it was not the assignment. Yay.
Another good example of this that comes to mind is an assignment from the same class, but a different teacher. At the start of the year, to assess our skills, we were asked to read an article on a homeless woman, and then write about what difficulties she might face, or how to help homeless people on a larger scale, or how one's life decisions affect you, etc. etc.
I frankly came up with a blank on most of that shit. Every homeless person I've ever known, not met, but actually known anything about, has ended up in their situation as the result of what were either really, really unfortunate fucking circumstances, mental illness, or because of some really obviously terrible choices, like selling all of their shit for crack. How the fuck do you help someone who lost their life because they were convicted of a crime they were later proven innocent for and have now lost it and can't cope with life, or someone who ran away when they were ten and have lived such a rough life they are now this nearly instinctual, feral creature? Or someone who willingly sold all their shit for crack, and would do so again in three point five seconds flat?
Now that I am older, I could maybe come up with something to say on that.
Unfortunately, at the time I had nothing. So, I tried to write about the difficulties she faced.
Even more unfortunately, no matter how many times I reread the article, I just could not see any sort of indication that this lady actually was all that unhappy with life. Granted, it is not easy being homeless and I'm sure it's a shitty way to live, but for what it was worth, she seemed pretty content with how things were. She had some friends, she could make money delivering papers, and she had a nice little shack to shelter her. Food was usually available at banks if she was broke, and she considered a whole wack of critters that hung around her shack to be her loving pets. The winters were really hard, she stated, and she didn't know how many more of them she could survive, but she figured she could always move to the south end of Ontario and things wouldn't be too bad.
All in all, this left me with nothing. So, once again, two essays.
One, certainly rushed through. Winters suck for homeless people. Not having houses or food sucks for homeless people, though our lucky lady seemed ok on that front. Things in general are harder for homeless people, etc. It was admittedly a piss poor show as there was nothing really to quote from the article besides the two lines about winter.
The second was about how the lady in the article seemed pretty happy considering. The general theme was that here we have a lady with pals, food, and shelter. It's a step above rock bottom, sure, but it's still the same things that all people need, and it's still present. On top of that, she spent the whole article referring to herself by a title used by the pre-Revolutionary French nobility, which makes it pretty clear that she's maybe just a little fucking whacked and may not really perceive herself or her situation the same way we do. She has no major drug problems, and is capable of caring for herself. On top of it all, nowhere does she say she's unhappy or worried, and sounds much more like someone describing their lifestyle to someone else leading a completely different lifestyle than someone in distress. While it might not be the kind of life most people would be happy in, she obviously was, and isn't the whole point of life to just be happy?
I turned in the second essay, because the first was dull and wretched, and got it back with a big note asking where I got the idea she thought she was a French noblewoman (art/"planning" teachers are not usually overly well educated, nor apparently motivated enough to look up terms like "Marquess") from and to come see the teacher.
Who then called me insensitive, that I should lighten up and give life a chance because not everyone is so jaded, and said that life gets better when you get to college and meet other gay people.
Which was certainly much better than the school psychoanalyst/career guidance type person I was later forced to go see asking me in the middle of a battery of job placement questions why I hated the Jews. I'd imagine that even if I did, that would be a really fucking hard question for a 16 or 17 year old to answer when put on the spot like that.
And far better than getting locked out of class for a week because I had to go to the bathroom pretty damn bad, and regardless of how many other people were already in the hall, it was going to happen very shortly, either here, or on the toilet.
So yeah, that's how most of my classes went, and eventually, "went" was something I no longer did in respect to them.
Don't get me wrong, though, I was certainly a problem kid in some ways, and felt I was as mature as any of the teachers. I tended to talk to them as though we were both on the same level, something which most teachers I had did not like, and certainly did not respect any of them, even those who meant well - pretty hard to respect someone who knows nothing about you and still thinks they know best about your sexuality. I can remember many meetings with parents, teachers, and principals where I "won" any argument against the lot of them (teachers side with teachers, not their kids), and left with a mutual apology. Once I was in highschool and the parents had stopped bothering to come, I remember a few great meetings with an angry teacher, the vice principal or some other witness, and the principal, in which I could hear Maurer ripping whomever a new asshole through the door for a good few minutes after the meeting had ended. I am totally sending my kids to school with tape recorders - it pays off eventually.
I was not always so contrary about everything simply because I just fucking love being different and constantly argumentative. I did it because I truly felt that there was no real thought behind those types of assignments and so long as what I wrote or said had good substance, a reasonably valid point, and was well written, then everything the teacher really wanted to see was still there, and maybe it would give them something more interesting to read. Also, I do just fucking love constantly being argumentative.
As it turns out, teachers fucking hate actually having to really read things, something which I can confirm firsthand based on the fact that everyone in my direct family, besides my father's siblings and their kids, are teachers. This includes all my aunts and uncles, barring one aunt who is not only completely worthless to humanity, but is also unemployed, and all my cousins, barring two who have become so fucked up from living in our extended family that they have mentally regressed to the point that one cannot leave their room without a crane and can no longer speak, and the other cannot leave the care center because, now, he will forever be an eight year old. I can safely say that teachers hate reading, because none of these fine folks know anything that you can only learn from a book, and because I got to help grade French papers as a kid.
Anyway, so long as these fancy new college teachers have something a little more interesting to throw at me, things should go smoothly.
Maybe I should become a teacher. It's not in my blood, but it's in my heritage, and I think I could do a better job of it than anyone I had growing up. Plus, I love people to respecting me, forced or not, and always being smarter than everyone else. I don't think I admit that too much, but I certainly have a great personality for it.
20.3.14
Takes her time when it's time to get ready
Always has her way
Always leaves me waiting by the phone
She told me more than once to take it slow
And I said "Ok"
But lately I've been sleeping all alone
I'm not breaking up inside
I'm much to proud to moan
Baby, please come home
And I feel a little lucky so I try to play it cool
I think she laughs inside
With words that burn like fire in my mouth
Try to be the man like I got the master plan
Night out on the town
Drinking, dancing, we can turn it out
Maybe it's how your body moves
I just don't know
Maybe it's just the way you move so slow.
Ask me why I play myself, play myself for the fool
Swear that I would do most anything, hey
Walk a mile just to see her smile,
Walk for a mile just to rock for a while
Babe, I'm thinking with my dingaling.
But sitting on the verge of tears
Does not become my 24 years
You took my shame
And you took my pride
Now you're going to take me for a slow ride.
I'm not going crazy,
But I just don't know
Maybe it's the way you move so slow
I am depressed. And have nothing to write.
I've been sitting in the tub for hours, and still those two things persist.
If he thinks that he
Is gonna take you from me
Gotta be a crazy, crazy, crazy
Foolish fool
My love for you is soo strong
We went together for oh so long
Now I'm down, in this misery
Is that the way love's supposed to be?
(Supposed to be, yeah)
I told my mama
My sister too
Is this the way it's got to be?
(Got to be, yeah)
Usually, writing out whatever diddy is stuck in my skull will get some words flowing, but today, I have nothing but meaningless reggae beats, mon.
Nothing except the same old, I guess.
I remember when I was a kid and I used to be so angry all the time. Eventually I realized that there isn't much point in always being pissed off, because the world is how it is.
So now I'm older, and instead of being mad, I'm bored, and depressed, and wondering why I even bother to go through the motions.
There is nothing left to do, and nothing left that really interests me. I spend most of my time locked away inside of my head, thinking about anything that isn't this exact moment.
It's always about getting out of this exact moment, whenever that may be. I don't know why. Maybe it's a hope that the next moment will bring something fresh and interesting and exciting. Or maybe just a very sly sort of inertia. I don't know.
I want a drink, yes I do. I want a drink, how about you?
It's not that the world is this terrible place with nothing to do. It's that it's a pretty mediocre place with nothing left to do that I haven't already done.
I have travelled two continents. I can speak two languages with reasonably fluency, play several instruments with proficiency, and am a capable if untalented painter of space landscapes. I've written enough to be counted as a "book" several times over, though it admittedly would not make a good one. I have a pool of knowledge far beyond that of anyone I think I've ever met, and am generally intelligent enough to put that knowledge to reasonably good use. I've worked in lots of industries, and am usually pretty good at accomplishing whatever I put my mind to. I have recognized and dealt with most of my more negative traits, at least those that are not intentional. I've killed stuff, and cared for stuff, and have had far, far more "grand life experiences" than I think anyone I know really realizes and than I think someone of my age should have had.
And in the sense of the more minor things, I've built working submarines out of legos. I've obtained a 2.5 KTD ration in Black Ops 2, and conquered the world several dozen times in the name of various historical empires in myriad Total War video games. I have built two Dwarf Forts that have made it into the archive favorites. I helped design the Nationstates WA, founded possibly the most successful survivor group in the history of Urban Dead, and am an amateur "expert" in both small arm design and naval engineering on several RPG design forums. I don't usually PLAY RPG games, but have those like Skyrim or (using a loose definition) GTA V down to a science to the extent that they are no longer fun - killing an Ice Dragon with a single uppercut is only fun the first two or eighteen times.
I can cook, very well, though will not usually admit it because I hate making food for other people. I can surf. Well. Probably better than you can, anyway. I grow the second or third best weed ever. The summation here is that I've done lots, seen lots, and have even been good at some of it. There is LOTS to do in life, just nothing I at all really want to do, or at least that I can ever realistically do.
I want to have kids, but don't feel like I will ever feel truly satisfied enough to ever actually do so and be capable of raising them right, not to mention having now met enough of my real siblings (like my half-brother, Steven) to know that I should not be spreading whatever vileness is in my genetics around. I kind of want to be an old man for a while, because I think I'd take to it well. I just don't want to deal with the 40 years in between and my body slowly falling apart. I'd like to spend at least some of those 40 years in a monastery, or maybe as a priest, or maybe just living by myself in the forest or on an island somewhere, but while I have self awareness, I have no self discipline, and while I love yelling and lying to strangers, I'm pretty certain I'd get bored after about two sermons and run out of shit to say, and while I can see nothing more appealing than having my own island to think on or a hermit's life in the woods, my current physical shape and survival skillset are maybe a little more suited to writing massive run on sentences in the bathtub than solitary, longterm survival in a harsh environment.
The other stuff that I guess is kind of an expected part of life just doesn't interest me.
I don't want to get married, ever, because the ceremony seems like it would likely be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable days of my life. I want to be somewhere nice with the person I love on a nice sunny day, just a nice breeze in the background, and as few sentient creatures present as possible, ideally a witch doctor who doesn't speak a lick of english to perform the ceremony, and some dolphins for witnesses.
Did you know that dolphins show signs of being able to use tools?
http://www.livescience.com/21989-dolphin-sponge-tools-culture.html
The sentence "Sponges are filter-feeding invertebrates that come in all shapes and sizes but tend to look like sponges, as they are porous" is excellently dumb.
Anyway. I am likely going to get married in a very grand, Roman Catholic way, because the girls I date always have massive, roads-and-suburbs-named-after-them, buy-some-condom sized Roman Catholic families, and because even someone like Lisa, likely the one of the people who makes the best effort at getting me of anyone I've ever met, would not allow me to deny her girly wedding dreams. So rather than something nice and small and personal, I'm going to end up having to act all serious and put on fake poses for a million pictures and deal with two whole sets of family that I neither relate to or am really comfortable being around. Yay.
I don't want to work anymore, either. There is no point. At one time, I was a stock-monkey who put bananas on a produce shelf so that other monkeys could come buy them at an inflated price. And it all went downhill from there. I was a spy-monkey, who was paid to sit in a chair and watch other monkeys ruin their lives and get shot in parking lots and abandon their kids in their cars while they spun away the last of their welfare cheques and ensure they were smiling through all of it. I was a very unskilled baker-monkey, who flipped sugary death in a fryer and watched a real life soap opera starring other baker-mafia-monkeys. I was a dealer-monkey, keeping other monkeys sedated and happy. I was a guide-monkey, who made up stories about my little village to tell old monkeys. I have had a lot of job titles, and in the end, I'm just a hairless monkey wasting my life scamming, sucking up to, or selling to other hairless monkeys. It's all very meaningless and horrendously inescapable, because our world is set up on the concept of wanting things. I happen to have all the things I want, thank you very much.
I don't want to not work. It gets crushingly dull after the fourth or fifth day.
I don't know. I am now tired and sad and unable to complete thoughts in an interesting manner.
On the plus side, I guess I wasn't out of stuff to write after all.
I wanna be that guy.
Always has her way
Always leaves me waiting by the phone
She told me more than once to take it slow
And I said "Ok"
But lately I've been sleeping all alone
I'm not breaking up inside
I'm much to proud to moan
Baby, please come home
And I feel a little lucky so I try to play it cool
I think she laughs inside
With words that burn like fire in my mouth
Try to be the man like I got the master plan
Night out on the town
Drinking, dancing, we can turn it out
Maybe it's how your body moves
I just don't know
Maybe it's just the way you move so slow.
Ask me why I play myself, play myself for the fool
Swear that I would do most anything, hey
Walk a mile just to see her smile,
Walk for a mile just to rock for a while
Babe, I'm thinking with my dingaling.
But sitting on the verge of tears
Does not become my 24 years
You took my shame
And you took my pride
Now you're going to take me for a slow ride.
I'm not going crazy,
But I just don't know
Maybe it's the way you move so slow
I am depressed. And have nothing to write.
I've been sitting in the tub for hours, and still those two things persist.
If he thinks that he
Is gonna take you from me
Gotta be a crazy, crazy, crazy
Foolish fool
My love for you is soo strong
We went together for oh so long
Now I'm down, in this misery
Is that the way love's supposed to be?
(Supposed to be, yeah)
I told my mama
My sister too
Is this the way it's got to be?
(Got to be, yeah)
Usually, writing out whatever diddy is stuck in my skull will get some words flowing, but today, I have nothing but meaningless reggae beats, mon.
Nothing except the same old, I guess.
I remember when I was a kid and I used to be so angry all the time. Eventually I realized that there isn't much point in always being pissed off, because the world is how it is.
So now I'm older, and instead of being mad, I'm bored, and depressed, and wondering why I even bother to go through the motions.
There is nothing left to do, and nothing left that really interests me. I spend most of my time locked away inside of my head, thinking about anything that isn't this exact moment.
It's always about getting out of this exact moment, whenever that may be. I don't know why. Maybe it's a hope that the next moment will bring something fresh and interesting and exciting. Or maybe just a very sly sort of inertia. I don't know.
I want a drink, yes I do. I want a drink, how about you?
It's not that the world is this terrible place with nothing to do. It's that it's a pretty mediocre place with nothing left to do that I haven't already done.
I have travelled two continents. I can speak two languages with reasonably fluency, play several instruments with proficiency, and am a capable if untalented painter of space landscapes. I've written enough to be counted as a "book" several times over, though it admittedly would not make a good one. I have a pool of knowledge far beyond that of anyone I think I've ever met, and am generally intelligent enough to put that knowledge to reasonably good use. I've worked in lots of industries, and am usually pretty good at accomplishing whatever I put my mind to. I have recognized and dealt with most of my more negative traits, at least those that are not intentional. I've killed stuff, and cared for stuff, and have had far, far more "grand life experiences" than I think anyone I know really realizes and than I think someone of my age should have had.
And in the sense of the more minor things, I've built working submarines out of legos. I've obtained a 2.5 KTD ration in Black Ops 2, and conquered the world several dozen times in the name of various historical empires in myriad Total War video games. I have built two Dwarf Forts that have made it into the archive favorites. I helped design the Nationstates WA, founded possibly the most successful survivor group in the history of Urban Dead, and am an amateur "expert" in both small arm design and naval engineering on several RPG design forums. I don't usually PLAY RPG games, but have those like Skyrim or (using a loose definition) GTA V down to a science to the extent that they are no longer fun - killing an Ice Dragon with a single uppercut is only fun the first two or eighteen times.
I can cook, very well, though will not usually admit it because I hate making food for other people. I can surf. Well. Probably better than you can, anyway. I grow the second or third best weed ever. The summation here is that I've done lots, seen lots, and have even been good at some of it. There is LOTS to do in life, just nothing I at all really want to do, or at least that I can ever realistically do.
I want to have kids, but don't feel like I will ever feel truly satisfied enough to ever actually do so and be capable of raising them right, not to mention having now met enough of my real siblings (like my half-brother, Steven) to know that I should not be spreading whatever vileness is in my genetics around. I kind of want to be an old man for a while, because I think I'd take to it well. I just don't want to deal with the 40 years in between and my body slowly falling apart. I'd like to spend at least some of those 40 years in a monastery, or maybe as a priest, or maybe just living by myself in the forest or on an island somewhere, but while I have self awareness, I have no self discipline, and while I love yelling and lying to strangers, I'm pretty certain I'd get bored after about two sermons and run out of shit to say, and while I can see nothing more appealing than having my own island to think on or a hermit's life in the woods, my current physical shape and survival skillset are maybe a little more suited to writing massive run on sentences in the bathtub than solitary, longterm survival in a harsh environment.
The other stuff that I guess is kind of an expected part of life just doesn't interest me.
I don't want to get married, ever, because the ceremony seems like it would likely be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable days of my life. I want to be somewhere nice with the person I love on a nice sunny day, just a nice breeze in the background, and as few sentient creatures present as possible, ideally a witch doctor who doesn't speak a lick of english to perform the ceremony, and some dolphins for witnesses.
Did you know that dolphins show signs of being able to use tools?
http://www.livescience.com/21989-dolphin-sponge-tools-culture.html
The sentence "Sponges are filter-feeding invertebrates that come in all shapes and sizes but tend to look like sponges, as they are porous" is excellently dumb.
Anyway. I am likely going to get married in a very grand, Roman Catholic way, because the girls I date always have massive, roads-and-suburbs-named-after-them, buy-some-condom sized Roman Catholic families, and because even someone like Lisa, likely the one of the people who makes the best effort at getting me of anyone I've ever met, would not allow me to deny her girly wedding dreams. So rather than something nice and small and personal, I'm going to end up having to act all serious and put on fake poses for a million pictures and deal with two whole sets of family that I neither relate to or am really comfortable being around. Yay.
I don't want to work anymore, either. There is no point. At one time, I was a stock-monkey who put bananas on a produce shelf so that other monkeys could come buy them at an inflated price. And it all went downhill from there. I was a spy-monkey, who was paid to sit in a chair and watch other monkeys ruin their lives and get shot in parking lots and abandon their kids in their cars while they spun away the last of their welfare cheques and ensure they were smiling through all of it. I was a very unskilled baker-monkey, who flipped sugary death in a fryer and watched a real life soap opera starring other baker-mafia-monkeys. I was a dealer-monkey, keeping other monkeys sedated and happy. I was a guide-monkey, who made up stories about my little village to tell old monkeys. I have had a lot of job titles, and in the end, I'm just a hairless monkey wasting my life scamming, sucking up to, or selling to other hairless monkeys. It's all very meaningless and horrendously inescapable, because our world is set up on the concept of wanting things. I happen to have all the things I want, thank you very much.
I don't want to not work. It gets crushingly dull after the fourth or fifth day.
I don't know. I am now tired and sad and unable to complete thoughts in an interesting manner.
On the plus side, I guess I wasn't out of stuff to write after all.
I wanna be that guy.
18.3.14
7.3.14
3.3.14
We should have just killed you when we had the chance.
Someone, anyone, needs to slap you. Hard. And then maybe give you a bit of a reality check.
Causes like yours, while nominally for a "good" one, are not all that good when they are supported by people like you.
And people like you only support such causes so vehemently because they, like you, are unpopular and against the norm, and give "depth" and meaning to your useless existence. You have no personality, and a shitty life, so you cling on to stuff like this in an effort to bully others in a politically correct way so that you can feel better about being completely average and uninteresting.
It fucking disgusts me, and in the end, it just leaves me and I'm sure many people like me with nothing but resentment for the otherwise reasonably good ideals your little bullshit factory is based around.
Causes like yours, while nominally for a "good" one, are not all that good when they are supported by people like you.
And people like you only support such causes so vehemently because they, like you, are unpopular and against the norm, and give "depth" and meaning to your useless existence. You have no personality, and a shitty life, so you cling on to stuff like this in an effort to bully others in a politically correct way so that you can feel better about being completely average and uninteresting.
It fucking disgusts me, and in the end, it just leaves me and I'm sure many people like me with nothing but resentment for the otherwise reasonably good ideals your little bullshit factory is based around.
1.3.14
And I feel a little lucky, so I try to play it cool. I think she laughs inside.
People are pretty goofy sometimes.
On a somewhat related note, I.E. goofiness:
http://www.sunnewsnetwork.ca/video/3272438235001#3237878836001
Watch that.
It's times like these I wish I had a wider audience, so I could ask
"What's your thoughts?"
and get more than one reply.
I personally believe that if I am in the midst of ripping those lacey little things off with my teeth, it is because consent has already been given, or at least is very, very much so implied. I am aware that no does indeed mean no, and I'd really like to think whoever I'm with is sensible enough to say so if they are uncomfortable.
Should I ever get down to the skivvy's and find a pair of these, I can almost assure you sex is not happening, no matter what ANYONE wants.
Other silliness:
http://io9.com/nigerian-grad-student-uses-magnets-to-prove-gay-marri-1326215449
Cause, you know, magnets are people too. Or something.
On a somewhat related note, I.E. goofiness:
http://www.sunnewsnetwork.ca/video/3272438235001#3237878836001
Watch that.
It's times like these I wish I had a wider audience, so I could ask
"What's your thoughts?"
and get more than one reply.
I personally believe that if I am in the midst of ripping those lacey little things off with my teeth, it is because consent has already been given, or at least is very, very much so implied. I am aware that no does indeed mean no, and I'd really like to think whoever I'm with is sensible enough to say so if they are uncomfortable.
Should I ever get down to the skivvy's and find a pair of these, I can almost assure you sex is not happening, no matter what ANYONE wants.
Other silliness:
http://io9.com/nigerian-grad-student-uses-magnets-to-prove-gay-marri-1326215449
Cause, you know, magnets are people too. Or something.
The best part about not bothering to go to work for a week is that no one can really say anything - I still have a much better attendance record than most of the people there.
Less fun is finding a convincing way to present myself as still slightly sick.
This time, I've opted to keep it simple - bags under the eyes, scratchy voice, and a bruised face.
Why the face?
Well, I've decided my recent illness is actually going to end up being some form of allergies. As of such, my face has swollen to massive proportions, which means a bruise would logically result.
There are three good ways to do this.
1. I can walk into something, very fast.
2. I can rig a bag of apples to swing from the ceiling, and hit me in the face.
3. I can get someone relatively strong, like Logan, to slap me.
The key to any of the above working well is to get ice on it right away, to bring the bruising out. Otherwise, I will simply end up with a sore face.
Should I be unable to successfully get a bruise, and, more importantly, some nice, big junkie sized bags under my eyes, I will revert to plan B.
This consists of two steps to be executed throughout the week.
Firstly, I will need to vomit at least once a day. This is pretty easy - when you spend your life drinking, you learn to puke on demand - but is quite gross, and I spend the rest of the day feeling my stomach acid eating away my teeth.
Secondly, I need one good collapse, preferably on camera, but when no one is around. I have not intentionally done this before, though there is enough significantly wrong with me healthwise that it will invariably happen after a few days without proper food. I plan to do this in the staffroom - the thump will be audible to pretty much everyone in the store, but no one will be around to instantly offer aide and fuck up my "lie down and twitch for a minute" act.
YOu might be wondering, why all this effort? Why not just say "I was sick" and leave it at that?
There is a simple answer and a complex answer.
Simply put, it's fun, almost like acting, really. I enjoy nothing more in life than always being something and someone new, and "plague victim" is a role I've been keen on for a bit. It's also much more plausible to have taken a week off when you're still a little sick at the end of that week.
Complexly put, if I can miss enough days and still seem legitimately sick, then I am likely to get "laid off", which means I will get both a good reference and a hefty severance package. This is ideal because not only does it give me a problem free way out of my shitty, hateful job, but it will also leave me with a month's pay that I did not need to work for, something which upright quitting would not do. Before this happens, I would like to take advantage of our company's dental plan, so this go around will be nothing more than a trial run. I would also like to take advantage of the fact that my predecessor had a nervous breakdown by emulating it slightly, thusly getting myself a prescription for Valium, which will cost nothing with the company's healthcare plan, and can then be sold to support me financially for at least a month, should I somehow have an issue finding new work.
And really. I am not skipping work because I am lazy - I am doing so because I work with the absolute worst fucking people I've ever met and hate being there. Sitting at home with jack shit to do for a week is really, really fucking boring. Finding creative ways to get fired, and coming up with plausible illnesses, is much more fun that just sitting here and thinking.
More than any of that, I feel my employers deserve shitty performance, because as much as they are rather nice people, they have no management skills, blame me for nearly everything that goes wrong whether I had anything to do with it or not, do not give me any days off, have not given me a raise in two years, and allow the people I work with to fuck around incessantly, to the point where I cannot do my job properly even if I wanted to. They have created a massively shitty work environment, to the point that they're kind of lucky the staff is just lazy and resentful, and not actively suing them or eachother.
Possibly more importantly, despite all the shit I get for my co-workers fuck ups, they are so oblivious to what is going on there that despite the fact I will straight up tell customers how shitty the store is and that they should buy things elsewhere, and it is well known amongst pretty much everyone who works there that I am just itching to say FUCK YOU and quit, no one has ever even remotely commented on it.
So yeah. I'd much rather put my time and effort into something I find entertaining than give it to them.
Let's see, what else is new?
Oh, that's right, nothing. Because I haven't left my house in a week!
Less fun is finding a convincing way to present myself as still slightly sick.
This time, I've opted to keep it simple - bags under the eyes, scratchy voice, and a bruised face.
Why the face?
Well, I've decided my recent illness is actually going to end up being some form of allergies. As of such, my face has swollen to massive proportions, which means a bruise would logically result.
There are three good ways to do this.
1. I can walk into something, very fast.
2. I can rig a bag of apples to swing from the ceiling, and hit me in the face.
3. I can get someone relatively strong, like Logan, to slap me.
The key to any of the above working well is to get ice on it right away, to bring the bruising out. Otherwise, I will simply end up with a sore face.
Should I be unable to successfully get a bruise, and, more importantly, some nice, big junkie sized bags under my eyes, I will revert to plan B.
This consists of two steps to be executed throughout the week.
Firstly, I will need to vomit at least once a day. This is pretty easy - when you spend your life drinking, you learn to puke on demand - but is quite gross, and I spend the rest of the day feeling my stomach acid eating away my teeth.
Secondly, I need one good collapse, preferably on camera, but when no one is around. I have not intentionally done this before, though there is enough significantly wrong with me healthwise that it will invariably happen after a few days without proper food. I plan to do this in the staffroom - the thump will be audible to pretty much everyone in the store, but no one will be around to instantly offer aide and fuck up my "lie down and twitch for a minute" act.
YOu might be wondering, why all this effort? Why not just say "I was sick" and leave it at that?
There is a simple answer and a complex answer.
Simply put, it's fun, almost like acting, really. I enjoy nothing more in life than always being something and someone new, and "plague victim" is a role I've been keen on for a bit. It's also much more plausible to have taken a week off when you're still a little sick at the end of that week.
Complexly put, if I can miss enough days and still seem legitimately sick, then I am likely to get "laid off", which means I will get both a good reference and a hefty severance package. This is ideal because not only does it give me a problem free way out of my shitty, hateful job, but it will also leave me with a month's pay that I did not need to work for, something which upright quitting would not do. Before this happens, I would like to take advantage of our company's dental plan, so this go around will be nothing more than a trial run. I would also like to take advantage of the fact that my predecessor had a nervous breakdown by emulating it slightly, thusly getting myself a prescription for Valium, which will cost nothing with the company's healthcare plan, and can then be sold to support me financially for at least a month, should I somehow have an issue finding new work.
And really. I am not skipping work because I am lazy - I am doing so because I work with the absolute worst fucking people I've ever met and hate being there. Sitting at home with jack shit to do for a week is really, really fucking boring. Finding creative ways to get fired, and coming up with plausible illnesses, is much more fun that just sitting here and thinking.
More than any of that, I feel my employers deserve shitty performance, because as much as they are rather nice people, they have no management skills, blame me for nearly everything that goes wrong whether I had anything to do with it or not, do not give me any days off, have not given me a raise in two years, and allow the people I work with to fuck around incessantly, to the point where I cannot do my job properly even if I wanted to. They have created a massively shitty work environment, to the point that they're kind of lucky the staff is just lazy and resentful, and not actively suing them or eachother.
Possibly more importantly, despite all the shit I get for my co-workers fuck ups, they are so oblivious to what is going on there that despite the fact I will straight up tell customers how shitty the store is and that they should buy things elsewhere, and it is well known amongst pretty much everyone who works there that I am just itching to say FUCK YOU and quit, no one has ever even remotely commented on it.
So yeah. I'd much rather put my time and effort into something I find entertaining than give it to them.
Let's see, what else is new?
Oh, that's right, nothing. Because I haven't left my house in a week!
27.2.14
Oh. Well.
Isn't that just new and exciting?
One thing leads to another, and so on.
It's another day, but it's the same old.
Cliches are clichés for a good reason, I suppose.
I think that I've come to the conclusion that I am speeding towards and impasse of sorts, with very few directions to go. Or at least, very few I have not already travelled. I am genuinely curious as to what future me is going to do.
Isn't that just new and exciting?
One thing leads to another, and so on.
It's another day, but it's the same old.
Cliches are clichés for a good reason, I suppose.
I think that I've come to the conclusion that I am speeding towards and impasse of sorts, with very few directions to go. Or at least, very few I have not already travelled. I am genuinely curious as to what future me is going to do.
I read an article on the Iams pet food company's animal testing today. Little disturbing.
I am usually for animal testing. Certain things are both potentially dangerous and potentially beneficial, and it is likely much better to work the kinks out on a mouse than a person.
That said, if your food or makeup is so potentially dangerous that you need to run clinical lab trials on animals before releasing it, maybe you should just focus a little more on making safer products than working out the issues with dangerous ones. Seems like it would not be hard to do, really.
I am usually for animal testing. Certain things are both potentially dangerous and potentially beneficial, and it is likely much better to work the kinks out on a mouse than a person.
That said, if your food or makeup is so potentially dangerous that you need to run clinical lab trials on animals before releasing it, maybe you should just focus a little more on making safer products than working out the issues with dangerous ones. Seems like it would not be hard to do, really.
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