This is News?

I’ve been watching the news for four hours today, Monday July 6, 2009. I’ve intermittently stepped outside to enjoy the uncharacteristically perfect summer weather, neither hot nor humid. Neither here nor there, this is about the news. Currently three reporters are watching a car chase on Fox News network. Their blood lust is palpable. An anchorman and 2 perfectly painted anchorwomen squeal with delight as the pursued white mini-van weaves in and out of traffic.

“It is impossible to imagine that dude or dudette in a car got into a parking garage and got out of a parking garage.” – Shepard Smith

Thanks for that brilliant insight. Isn’t there something else going on?

I change the channel. The same chase is being shown on CNN. Good thing more than one station is covering this. It’s nice to know I have my choice of camera angle.

Finally...relief. The culprit abandons the car to run and is captured. I feel safer. Now we can start talking about some real issues...like how crazy the streets are outside of the Staples Center for Michael Jackson’s public memorial service. This information is very pertinent to all of our lives....right? The media deserve a major kudos for providing their enriching analysis of a freak show to the citizens of the world. These hard hitting journalists are really fulfilling their civic duty to keep us informed and abreast of the issues so that we may make rational decisions when deciding how to govern ourselves and how we interact with the rest of civilization. North Korean nuclear crisis? Forget that. A self mutilated previously talented accused sex offender has overdosed and we need to grieve. Afghanistan’s not going so well? Yeah, well neither is Michael apparently so get over it.

Where was this exaggerated reverence when Michael performed an impromptu dance atop an S.U.V. to prove he didn’t provide alcohol to and sleep with a young cancer patient? Two men on a CNN chat show state that they believe Michael molested children but that, in his death, that should all be overshadowed by his musical contributions. Wouldn’t it be equally as lovely if the children who were (purportedly) molested had the same blessed amnesia?

It is self defeating to discuss your hatred of how much Michael Jackson kicking the bucket is discussed...but I have to do it.

I must admit, I was shocked at my own reaction to Michael’s death. I felt sad... legitimately sad. The pain I felt was comparable to how I would feel if my pet hamster died. Not as sad as if a dog or cat dies, but still will ruin at least a day. I began feeling nostalgic. I remembered traveling to the grocery store with my mom, “Black & White” momentarily blared through the speakers, and my mother turned it off. Memories. I’m not trying to insult anybody that had true warm associations with Michael’s music throughout there lives, I just found it pathetic how I was grasping to such an inconsequential moment like I had overcome cancer thanks to Michael’s inspiring words. I own Thriller on my Ipod and I bought it a year ago. My point is, the hype behind his death is overwhelming and it consumes you. The illusion of Michael Jackson’s universal importance is so powerful that you’ll make shit up just to feel close to it. The illusion is so powerful that our network news stations have decided to keep up to the minute tabs on the insignificant hooplah surrounding every aspect of this "historical moment". We should all take a lesson from Michael and let it die.

It's been a while since I've done this and I'm feeling (mildly) inspired and bored so here we go. Let's play catch up, shall we? First of all, I am withdrawn from JMU for anybody interested that doesn't already know. So much for Fall's newfound motivation. Yes, it's a certainty folks; I'm a born loser with big ideas. So now my life basically consists of me looking for a job and begging my parents for money. Oh, and drinking, do a lot of that lately. I've been doing a lot of reading as well. I figure if you can't join 'em, read 'em. Not to worry, not that you would, but I DO intend on going back to school in a timely fashion. I've just got a little personal bullshit most are all too familiar with (and probably sick of hearing about) to deal with before my head is straight enough to be formally educated. Some can't understand my reasoning, maybe I am just lazy, but school has not been a priority for me and I regret having wasted another semester figuring that one out. I'm so lost and I have this suspicion that I am waiting for some sort of savior to...save me. Nobody really tells me that everything is going to be alright lately. It seems like they know better. The way things are, even saying that would plant a false hope in my brain. Alright, enough of this pointless self doubt. I suppose it's counterproductive to the cause of being productive. I just want to be a worthy member of society instead of an eking slug.
Well maybe we can stick with the theme of negativity and I can talk about how much I hate women. I truly do. It seems all girls talk about is how fat they are or how imperfect their bodies are, especially those with the most perfect of bodies. I’m even sometimes compelled to give in to insulting my physical self. I don’t know if this is pathetic or a giant call for attention but it is most certainly annoying. I am so tired of hearing ladies gripe about their tiny bit of stomach fat or their frizzy hair I could shoot myself. Personal grievances about the figure exist in all of us, it’s a natural fact. To complain so loudly and publicly, though, is the most pathetic way of searching for compliments I can find. Go throw up or something if you’re so eager to look like a stick with a big head. Just for the love of Satan stop complaining in public so my daily background noises can consist of something less annoying, like sirens or jackhammers. Nobody ever complains about important things anymore, it seems. Maybe if people were more selfless they would realize that their being a size 6 instead of 0 has no affect upon the world. Then, maybe, they would realize that there are children starving FOR REAL, not on purpose (although I’m not so sure they would feel pity so much as envy).
I also hate women’s attempts at being sexy. I think they come off as desperate and silly, but their idiotic ploys always seem to work. It’s as though they have “mastered” what little art goes into enticing the male penis, and not at all entertained the idea of intellectual stimulation. I hate people who turn every situation into an opportunity to be overtly sexual. I hate women who dance on tables. I hate women who make-out with each other just to give boys boners. I hate women’s pseudo-helplessness in convenient moments. “Like, oh my god, it seems my thong has fallen down. Can you pull it up for me?” Ugh, since when did drunk sexy traverse into acceptable behavior in everyday life? I think girls are even purposely slurring their speech these days, to give off those easy and ready to go vibes. All jokes aside, ladies please stop. Stop exploiting yourselves. Remember that before you are a girlfriend, a piece of ass, an object of sexual desire, you are a woman, and you owe a lot more to those before us that busted their ass to be seen as more than a sexual object to simply settle for the easiest method of gaining power. It’s wonderful to be sexy, but the word transcends the physical. I’m such a fem-Nazi dyke sometimes.

Pondering Why Franzia Make Me Crazy

Roar

So it begins...another year at my chosen institute of education. Of course my peers are preparing to graduate, and I myself am preparing to spend another year (possibly half a year if I get my shit together and do a lot of summer schooling) at this prison that holds the key to the door out of menial labor. The more I think of their departure, the more it saddens me, and I can only dread the melancholy that will set in come April. It's only the beginning of the year for God's sake. A disturbing image of me drunk, crying, vomiting, regretting, wishing, and cursing comes to my mind when I think of the class of 06's graduation day. I will attend all of their little soirees and the idea that this was supposed to have been my moment as well will plague my thoughts and I will sink into an inevitable depression where thereafter, for a week, I will lounge about my apartment eating unhealthy chemically filled foods, smoking weed, and trying valiantly to validate to myself why I am still here, a member of those left behind. I can't get past the thought that I am being "kept behind", like a retarded kindergartener who could never quite grasp the alphabet, even with the utilization of that damn catchy song and who cut themselves one too many times with the supposed "Ouchless" scissors. I just feel as though I am being punished for being thrown a curve ball, to put it nicely. But I have realized something recently, through the wise words of my father, and Garrett, and the drunken preacher at Smokehole, and that is that we cannot control what sorts of troubles the inconsistent asshole we call life deals us, we can only control our own reactions to those problems. Instead of demonstrating resilience through these pitfalls, I have fallen through the cracks and let these depressing episodes justify why I was avoiding my responsibilities and just making poor decisions in general. I like to look at every experience as a chance to learn, though, good or bad, and I am grateful for all that happened to me for teaching me that I control my own destiny. This may all sound a little cornball, and we have all heard these words before, but until something traumatic happened to me I had never understood or appreciated the meaning and power behind those words, and maybe if it sounds cheesy to you, neither have you.
I suppose in retrospect (since, unbeknownst to you I have been away from the computer) this whole five year plan doesn’t seem so bleak. Why should I be in such a hurry to exist in that “rest of your life” which nobody refers to as “the good years”? You never hear anybody say “Oh man, my mid-life where I worked a job, got strapped down with a family, and my life pretty much stagnated until that sunrise of an era which we call the “Golden Years” a.k.a. a time where I lose control of my bladder, am stricken with many illnesses, and while away the of numerous hours of retirement dreaming of a time where just normally functioning seems like a pretty fucking good day.” I suppose that’s a completely pessimistic way of viewing the rest of my life, so I won’t let it be that way. I’m sure most people do enjoy that period of their life; I guess that’s just my bitter craving for that life seeping through my fingers and forming nasty insults. I can be such a gloomy person, and that’s the facet of my personality that I least like. *Note to self: be slightly more L.A, less Seattle.
I am so excited about the coming of the fall. It’s my favorite season. I just constantly feel like my middle school self, going to a football game on a chilly Friday night. I would wander around the track surrounding the field with this hopeful feeling that (take heed, this is becoming an embarrassing confession), the guy I liked would make some kind of simple flirtatious contact. I know it sounds pathetic, and the feeling I have now is in no way induced by such frivolous fancy, but the fall brings that same kind of hopeful giddiness I unfortunately completely lose in other seasons. It’s nice to be reminded of a time where such a simple hope could bring such personal pleasure.
This situation is similar to the feeling I get every Sunday, once again a childhood memory. I have this vivid memory of staring out of the window of my bedroom and crying while I watched my sister and the Ellis girls play in the vacant lot across the street. I was grounded for some reason I can’t remember. It was Sunday damn it, my last day to do those things I personally enjoy and here I was wasting a day of my life in my room, which could be interesting when I wanted to be there, but was instantly transformed into a prison when I was forced to stay in it. Now Sundays just depress me because I never feel like I’m taking advantage of every moment I have before I have to be slapped back into monotony.
*Note to self: Annually watching Selena is one of your guilty pleasures. Oh, and you're sort of ripping off Dirty Work.
THE END

Is it sexy?

I haven’t written a blog in so very long, and I was determined not to do so over the summer. I mean, barely anybody reads the thing during the school year, I feel as though my words would be futile in the summer. But alas, I am stoned and I had the intentions of going to the Harrisonburg Public Library and I actually made the fucking venture. My car even broke down. I really wanted to get a new summer read. The stupid bitch at the desk rejected my application for a library card, however, because none of my identifications have a Harrisonburg address, only my Fluvanna one. Fucking shit. Stupid whore. I swear I have had the worst experiences with fucking libraries. It’s as if some higher power is deterring me from reading, or at least forcing me to buy any books that I find interesting. For instance, when I was seventeen, I went to the Fluvanna County Public Library to check out a book. Now how many seventeen year olds, in Fluvanna County particularly, actually go to the library or have an extracurricular interest in literature for that matter? I would say very few highly ridiculed nerds. Well the old sexually frustrated bitch wouldn’t let me get a membership without my mother present. What the fuck? I think seventeen is an old enough age to be able to sign out a book. I mean you can operate a motor vehicle at sixteen years old, what is the hold-up on the literary lending? What could possibly go wrong? So I’m late on my return and I stack up a few late fees? I gave you my license with my friggin address on it, you can hound the hell out of me for the mons! Whore! These two bitches seemed to take such pleasure in denying me such a simple public right. Oh librarians, how incredibly sad it is that your life revolves around a power trip triggered by rejecting nerds from checking out your books. It’s as if you don’t really care about spreading around the wisdom of the authors on your shelves, but rather greedily stockpiling the knowledge for yourself! Cunts!
When I was on the way to the library I started thinking about roommates. I roomed with an old chum freshman year, so I was mildly, keyword mildly, knowledgeable of what types of behaviors to expect and so forth. Being partnered with random roommates, however, is a very iffy process. Certainly there are occasional times where people are partnered up with somebody who they just instantly click with, or at least whom they grow to like. In other unfortunate instances, however, you can end up with the complete antithesis of yourself. Opposites may attract in relationships, but living with somebody whose every behavior is contradictory to your own is naturally maddening. The questionnaire that you are sent to fill out in order to be paired up with a similar roommate is vague at best. I mean the questions merely answer whether you are a morning person or a night own and whether you are typically loud or a quiet type. I know for a fact that my friendships are not based on whether my friend is loud or likes to rise early. The peaceful cohabitation of two individuals must be more coordinated around similar and complicated likes and dislikes. For instance, I generally gravitate towards people with a similar sense of humor and musical taste. They could have a question such as “Which scenario evokes the hardiest chuckle? A) Burping and Farting B) The outrageous exploits of Ashton Kutcher or Bam Margera C) An old lady falling in the middle of the road D) Nothing makes me life, life is bleak” Now, if someone were to answer A, we would realize that there sense of humor is immature and goofy, and we could pair this inevitable frat boy with an appropriate roomie. If the person were to pick B, we would realize that they are of the commercial MTv generation humor, and we could pair them with a similar tool. If somebody were to pick C, we would realize the person was a sarcastic asshole who likes to laugh at the misfortune of others in a usually lighthearted context, and we would pair them with somebody just as seemingly unlikable. If the person were to pick D, our brains would flash “GOTH” and we could pair the eyeliner personality with somebody whose life view is as dismal. I find a musical connection to be very deep, and others maybe not so much. But, I do know that people like their roommate, whom they live in excruciatingly close quarters with, to play music they won’t mind. We need to end our allusion that everybody is so acclimating towards people who aren’t like them, or that this oneness will ever be achieved. If we’ve learned anything throughout history, it’s that people don’t like people who aren’t like them. I’m not saying to divide the rooms into Black, White, Asian, and Bi-Racial. The condoning of cultural diversity is necessary. But, it would be fucking awesome if all of the dorms were divided into those with similar interests. If my whole dorm was stocked with sarcastic, rock music loving, socially cautious (my new word for my type of anti-social. It means that you are eager to meet people LIKE YOU. I don’t generally feel comfortable when I walk into a party, for instance, filled with glamour gals and meatheads. It’s nothing against them, I just know they won’t particularly like me and I won’t like them either. Why try? Maybe my judgments upon people are based on their appearance, since I can instantly walk into a place and know whether I will fit in, but hey, I’m not going to pretend that you can’t tell something about somebody by their appearance. It’s also a vibe, I guess, and an easy one to feel) I would have been a happy clam!
Also, today the Michael Jackson verdict was announced. Not guilty on all ten counts. I know that this whole trial is an overblown piece of garbage, and I feel like I am just conforming to the mold in even mentioning it, but the gossip lover within must make mention. I swear, no rich black male will ever be convicted of a crime again, unless he is a rapper. For some reason, rich black males always play the washed out race card, and it always fucking works! I know race is a touchy issue in this country, but we need to stop being so unnecessarily sensitive about it. Why every time a race other than white is accused of a crime must the white law enforcement or judge or prosecution prove they aren’t racist? And the second that race becomes an issue, the accusations take a backseat to the supposed prejudice. Just what the accused wants. It’s a diabolical scheme, but my God if it doesn’t work every blasted time. Why do you think everybody wanted Johnnie Cochran, may he rest in peace I guess. Oh and the second that Jessie Jackson comes to your trial in support, jackpot! What people don’t realize is that if we keep making race an issue, even if we are trying to supposedly weed it out by flinging wild accusations, we are only causing racism to remain ever present, constantly in the back of our heads. We are making our differences stand out, rather than ignoring their pertinence to the crime in question or life in general. And you know what, if the prosecution really wanted to make Jackson’s taste for little boy blatant to this forgiving jury, they should have had the little plaintiff come out and give Michael a lap dance. If Michael became aroused, he obviously is a freak who is attracted to children. This makes the likelihood of his fondling little boys painfully evident, and an acquittal would be out of the question. Let’s just cut the bullshit and get the truth out there. Maybe it’s a crass method, but shit, the boy was already fondled and stood to make bank, I’m sure he would do a little dirty dance to prove himself truthful. What’s my prediction? Well, Michael’s face would turn bright red, since his skin is so milky white, and he would do that familiar devilish yet uncomfortable smile he often gets when being asked about his experiences with women his own age, the nervous “Ya’ got me, I’ve never really had intercourse with a woman,” or in this case the “Ya’ got me I really enjoy little boy ass” face. His pants would rise, the courtroom would gasp. Michael would throw his arms in the air like “What the fuck” and then would say it was “charming and innocent” and would grasp for his last possible supporter, NAMBLA, to rally outside of the courtroom in his defense. They would graciously accept the challenge and would surround the courtroom brandishing signs that read “Have you ever had sex with a child? Don’t knock it until you’ve rocked it,” with a picture of a smiling boy giving the thumbs up underneath. Or the always popular reference to the lifestyles of the Greek intellects. For instance, “Socrates, Aristotle, Pee-Wee Herman, and Michael Jackson: Great Minds think alike!” proceeded by pictures of more smiling little boys surrounding a partially nude Michael Jackson, whose only coverage is a precariously placed Tinkerbelle doll. Unfortunately, we, the intelligent and informed masses, would naturally only assume the little boy’s smiles are the result of hours of sex with a forty year old man, and would join NAMBLA in the defense of Michael and, alas, he would be set free once more.

I Think I'm Officially Weird

Today is a gorgeous day. And gorgeous days mean about 200 people frolicking on the quad. I'm all for frolicking, but realistically these people bore me. Oh yea! Another game of frisbee or the tossing of a football between a patient boy and an inept girly girl who squeals everytime the ball comes towards her. What happened to when playing outside was less conventional and more imaginative? Just think about how interesting it would be to walk on the quad while people were playing spy games or pretending that they were magical mermaids (a game I dabbled in many a time). Sure we are supposed to grow up, but why does growing up mean sucking the fun out of everything? Let our maturity shine through in the imaginative nature of our games. Make up something complicated! Pretend to be neglected and abused prostitutes in the mid 19th century who are on the run from a diabolical pimp. One of you is pregnant, and escaping from London without a dime to your name and accompanied by a pregnant woman is a feat indeed, but it is accomplished through the kind gestures of sympathetic strangers. Woah! If I saw this being played on the quad, I would be excited and enthralled and possibly even stop to watch. Little mini-plays everywhere! What am I talking about!?!!
Let's switch topic to plastic surgery! I have come to a realization about this phenom which is indubitable. The purpose of these expensive, painful, and popular surgeries is to fix our flaws, yes? People have this surgery in order to be more comfortable with their appearance, so they don't feel so bad when they look in the mirror at their crooked nose or nonexistent lips (<-me). In reality though, all these surgeries do is prove how completely and utterly pointless your appearance truly is. If something can be altered so easily, then how is it in anyway significant? If the option of pumping my lips full of collagen or putting silicone sacks into my breasts is ever present, then having full lips and big breasts is not extraordinary at all. What is unique is being completely pleased with the you that you've got. I know I sound like a motivational speaker, but there is nothing special in being physically perfect anymore. I will admit, when you see a person of astounding and natural form you will appreciate their beauty, but everybody knows that nobody's perfect, or at least in a perfect world everybody would know that nobody's perfect. There shouldn't be some ultimate standard of beauty, and that seems to be the case these days. And what has this standard accomplished?? The transformation of women into "Be Barbie or nothing" and Men into perpetually metrosexual weirdos who treat everyday like they have a hot date and actually care about their hair and whether their clothes match. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for hygiene, and it's lovely and fun to dress up and primp, the population just needs to stop resorting to permanent methods of change or rather needs to stop caring so much in general. So what if your hair isn't perfect everyday! That's not what's important, and if it is...your priorities need to be rearranged to say the least. Having plastic surgery or applying layers of foundation and mascara shouldn't be what always makes you content. Rather, your happiness should be evoked from a compliment towards your personality. That is what is truly meaningful in this life. I am sure when I'm laying on my death bed, my final thoughts will not be "Good God I've looked so hideous my whole life" but instead "I'm fulfilled because of this aspect of my innerself" or unfulfilled, if my life happened to be unfortunate. I have faith that society will stop being so shallow.

Whores of all shapes and sizes and textures

Oyoooooooooooy haven't updated this in a while...and I'm under contractual obligations to do so....or so the publishing company in my dreams tell me!!! Gahhhhhh!!! I'm a loser. Anyway..the lengthy break was due to many unbearable pains caused by certain assholes. I love being stabbed in the back 3 times in a week by the same person. WE won't get into such bullshit though. I have more important things to talk about. How about this current burst of scary movies? Huh...HUHHHHH!!! Being the annoying conspiracy theorist I am, I have come up with an annoying conspiracy theory to explain this phenomenon. With all of this talk about our lovely govy scaring us into silent conformity, I can't help but wonder if their poison touch has grazed the film industry. I saw Sin City the other day..and every single preview was for a scary movie (with the exception of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy..which looks awesome!) Why? It's not Halloween..which is the standard time period for a plethora of horror flicks. These movies are pure shlock..and all remakes or sequels. There is no purpose for their creation. This is a stupid "I'm retarded and high" theory..but it's quite fucking bizarre. One of these movies has Paris Hilton in it. Whaaaaa??? That's all I have to say about that. I hate most movies anymore. It seems like a fat bastard shat them out and brushed the residue away and sent them to Jerry Bruckheimer. It's all epic battle films or slashers or fucking teen sex comedies. And all of the highly regarded films are fucking biopics or remakes of books. Don't get me wrong these movies are well made and enjoyable, but at the same time it's fucking annoying. Have an original thought somebody besides fucking Charlie Kaufman. I'm really partial to him..but jesus. What happened to when screenwriter's inspirations came from their own thoughts rather than only the lives of others or people's books or fucking comic books? I think working at Woelfel is making me mildly retarded. We have to say "We're conducting and important survey about shopping habits." This is a flat out lie. How can shopping habits in anyway be important? Then the tricky survey ends up being soley about fucking Ford vehicles. How misleading!!! The survey makes it seem like the fate of the world relies upon the divulging of your shopping habits, then turns into a greedy survey about Ford's performance. My fave is one for the AARP about Bushy's turning Social Security into private stocks. Once you have stated that you agree with his idea, you are slammed with a bunch of negative consequences of his doing so and "Would you still think that this was a good idea?" I didn't think surveys were supposed to change people's opinions, but rather find out their standing opinions in order to see where this country's beliefs lye. Such bullshit. We treat people like idiots. Do the companies who pay for these expensive ass surveys think people don't see through their blatant persuasive nature? We don't want your opinions, we want you to buy FORD. We don't care if you support Bush, he really is an idiot! We have the facts to prove it. Somebody pass me a needle so I can sew my lie spouting mouth closed....and get paid disability maybe...mwah.ha.