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.
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.
posted by Caroline @ 6:06 PM
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