Berry Surprise

Yesterday, my sister came up to the Cape to get her hair done. She deposited her child (you may remember her mentioned in earlier works as demon spawn) and left me and my mom to babysit.
Everything was going okay. My sister had returned with her Portia haircut and our family friends had arrived for the weekend. I was strolling with my niece in the front yard, and as I turned away, she picked a berry I did not recognize. I saw her swallow it and almost instantaneously my mind wandered to every movie where children try to kill themselves with poisonous berries (The Hunger Games, The Blue Lagoon, etc.). I screamed to my sister that her child just swallowed something possibly poisonous, sending everyone into a panic.

Clip from "The Hunger Games," berry eating scene

I bent down and tried to explain to her, a two year old, why she should spit the berry out: "Now Z that berry may be poisonous. Poisons are substances that are physiologically harmful to your health." Unsurprisingly, that explanation did not convince her to cough up the berry mush sitting on the base of her tongue (who the f' uses physiological in a conversation with a 2 year old?).
And so I jumped to the next logical course of action, while carrying her towards my sister I rammed my fingers down her mouth in an effort to retrieve the poisonous goo. This only caused her to cry. In fact, as I handed her off to my sister, she gave me the biggest "what in the world are you doing" death glare.
My mom, being the green thumb that she is, had me go down to the garden and find the berry. It turned out to be a beach plum. It's not poisonous. More so, its the main ingredient in some edible jams.

Brought to you by Spectacularly Delicious.com

Fruity O's

In regard to cereal, I think I found my soulmate. Brought to you by Trader Joes.

When a Guy asks me to call him

If he's hot:

If he's ugly:

The Effects of Marijuana

A Turn of Events

Scratch the last post, I have been having a fun time. I went out last night and drank so much that I am sure Odin will grant me safe passage into Valhalla. I am leaving tomorrow, but returning in about a week so I can take a summer class (Woot woot). A surprising concession from my parents who apparently would rather not see me, then have to deal with a summer long sulk fest from yours truly. This is of course conditional on me getting a job, something my utter lack of work experience will probably make difficult.

Boredom Strikes Again

I guess boredom is a disease that cannot be resolved with a change of scene. I am in Saratoga Springs, lethargic as a beached whale and hotter than Satans ball sack, and I still find myself wanting something else. I was expecting to see more of my friends, but they (unlike me) secured jobs for the summer and are working. The ones that don't work are taking classes, leaving me with a lot of waiting time in between. 

I have no plans as of yet, which is sad because I thought this trip would be more entertaining. I guess summer fun is for people that are either rich enough to pay for classes or lucky enough to secure short term employment. I wish I had had the foresight to have seen Bill Clinton fucking up my summer plans (see A Brief Introduction to the Craziness that is me). Peace out bitches, theres only so much moping I can take, even from myself.

An Interesting Journey

Honestly, I have to say that I've never been on a trip with such colorful characters.
The first connection from Boston to Springfield was admittedly uneventful. At maximum, the most exciting thing was two music lovers having a nonstop discussion about, you guessed it, music.
The second ride, however, was when things got interesting. Seated in my vicinity (sometimes in front, sometimes behind) was a heart wrenching pair of travelers: a mother and her mentally challenged son. The kid was very sweet, and despite an apparent and understandable inability to pick up on social cues, the boys intrusion was anything but abrasive. He even made me exchange numbers with his mother, making me promise to stay in touch.
As much as I enjoyed they're company, the real story comes from the little snippets of backstory the kid would occasionally let slip. I'm not going to supply any specific details, but suffice to say that the two are having a rough time. The pair were kicked out of their home (it sounds like the landlord/bank/evil entity repossessed most of their property) and now they are making a pilgrimage to Missouri, hoping to crash at a relatives house (Flowers in the Attic, anyone?). The mom appears to have spent most, of, if not all of her money towards this two day bus ride. I obviously don't know the whole story, but my heart goes out to the little boy. I hope he makes it out okay. On a less serious note, I am sure an unscrupulous Hollywood exec would love to buy his life rights when he's older.
When I finally got to albany I had an hour while waiting for the bus that connects to Saratoga Springs. Fortunately, I had some entertainment. An elderly African American women dressed in a flowing pink dress was singing some of Broadway's greatest hits. She was by no means a professional, possibly delusional, and 100% hilarious. I hope my next trip is this exciting!

What to eat

I landed in Boston. I am in the South Station bus terminal, waiting for my connecting ride.
I am really hungry and have three mediocre options to choose from: (1) McDonalds (2) d'angelo sandwich shop (3) Honey Dew Donuts.

Now I could go with the safest option: McDonalds a.k.a. "the golden arch of capitalism." It may be over processed garbage, but it's garbage I know. It's garbage I trust. In many ways, it's like finding a reliable rest stop on a long car ride. Sure I may be able to find one that doesn't smell of antiseptic or has repressed homosexuals staring at my wang as I stand in front of the urinal. On the other hand, the innate racism I have has me fearing change in any capacity. Yes this new rest stop might be better, however, it could be far worse. I might get stabbed. I could bleed out and die. Worse yet, there might be black people there.

The second option appeals to my sense of entitlement. The food is most likely not much better than the diabetes and obesity combo served at McDonalds, but d'angelos sounds nicer. The name is Spanish or possibly even some kind of Italian. It has faux classy option such as lobster rolls, which will most likely give me dysentery. And best of all, I can simply tell my friends the name of the place and their imaginations will conjure up an image that isn't complete shit.
The third eating choice, Honey Dew Donuts, is the epitome of trashiness. I would rather eat a soggy sandwich from the Newsstand, then indulge in one of those lard drenched contraptions. I am sure in the long run my arteries will thank me.
In the end, I decided to go with a quesadilla from d'angelo. The choice certainly fulfilled my inflated sense of self, but lets just say my expectations did not meet reality.

The Kinsey Scale

As you may or may not know, I belong to several gay groups on facebook, and consequently, I see many homoerotic themed pictures on my news feed. Here is a relatively tame one that I just find hilarious.

Life + Procrastination = Television

I booked a 6:30 am flight for tomorrow, so I could make my 10:10 am bus ride to Albany, New York. Nearly 300 miles of travel and at least 3 modes of transportation, my trip to the college town of Saratoga Springs looks like its going to be an all day ordeal. Yippee! (sarcasm: roll eyes).
In light of recent events, this trip is coming at an opportune time. I'll visit some friends, catch up, get drunk, and nurse a long hang over on the trip back. I'm sure my family, particularly my mother, could use a break from my shenanigans.
In the meantime, I am at home sitting on my ass and watching a terrible sitcom. It's strangely depressing, especially since every other commercial is either about creditors or animal abuse. The ASPCA makes some of the saddest commercials in existence.

The Morning After

I woke up this morning. The good news: after consuming a minor amount of alcohol I had no hangover to speak of. The awkward news: I woke up with another man in my bed.
Last night, I insisted, for some strange reason, on bringing someone around for the birthday festivities. He was, and I hate to use stereotypes, a queen. Sadly, not as much fun as I envisioned. We ended up going to this female-hating, man-loving club, much to the dismay of my sister and her friend.
The worst part, and possibly the most awkward, I had to tell my mother that I had someone over to which she responded, "is this simply a one night stand."
On the plus side, there's leftover lobster.

Happy Birthday to me

I am officially 21. I woke up at 1:00 pm today and proceeded to have cheese and sausage for brunch (also known as the breakfast of champions). About the same time, my sister, her demon spawn (toddler of 2), and my sisters british friend came knocking at our door, bringing delicious cupcakes and presents. We (everyone mentioned minus the youngling) are going out tonight. Our destination: Provincetown also known as gay central. I am super excited, as I prepare to lose my bar crawling virginity.

Until the clock strikes 12...

There is less than 5 hours until I reach the age of drunken debauchery. I like to thank many people as I pass this absurd and completely arbitrary milestone. The politicians, campus safety, the police, and all those other wonderful individuals that made sobriety, well, mandatory. More importantly, however, I'd like to give a warm virtual hand of applause to everyone else. Those people who serve underage teenagers alcohol are the true heroes. Keep up the good work.
I am going to enjoy these final pre-21 moments with my parents, eating at a lavish restaurant called Blackfish.

Fathers Birth Update

This just in. As you may or may not know, I am currently in the midsts of celebrating an early fathers day/21st birthday "fathers birth" (sadly the best name combination I could think of). So far the festivities have included watching an awful children's show called Yo Gabba Gabba where otherwise frightening characters sing about the joys of jumping around and not being ugly. Occasionally, the shows pudgy writer comes on with his band so he can relive his glory days in front of toddlers. I hope his paycheck compensates for an utter lack of dignity.
We also went for a pleasant walk on the beach. One that quickly devolved into a discussion about the middle class. Quick quiz: you can tell someones a white liberal when they: (A) use the word privilege (B) name drop the countries they've travelled to (C) talk about how the economy has solely hurt them (D) all of the above. If you picked D you were either (1) there or (2) privy to way too many pretentious conversations.
Yet my favorite part of the day so far is the birthday present I received. A bottle of Chocolate Raspberry Vodka. Now I know you, my imaginary audience, just made a face. It was either one of disgust (because you consider yourself above flavored vodka) appreciation (because your trashy) or joy for a college student that just got free booze. I'm leaning more towards the latter myself. If my niece turns on another episode of Yo Gabba Gabba I know I'm going to need it.

Happy Fathers Birth

Its the day before my birthday. My 21st birthday. A glorious milestone that signifies my right to become legally shitfaced. Some family (My sister, her husband, and their demon child of 2 years old) are here to celebrate an early fathers day/21st birthday hybrid. "Fathers Birth" for short. We are going to eat a cake that I requested, the fathers are opening mediocre presents, and I will then download my gift (Mass Effect 3) from the playstation network. Fun times to be had for sure. It's the best pre-21st birthday birthday ever.

The Sexism of T-shirts

While in the marine store I came across the best tshirt design. Sadly it's only for girls. Adding on to this tragedy, the guys section was filled with a bland assortment of blue. Why do girls have all the fun?

The Ugliest Awesomest Stuffed Animals

I am out on the town (as much as you can be with ones mother) exploring Ptown. In the Marine Supply Store and have stumbled upon the ugliest stuffed animals ever, very much reminiscent of the stitched animals in the video game Little Big Planet.

Idle Summer

I got back from Philadelphia yesterday, signifying the start of my summer. One I am sure will be chalk full of tear-inducing yawns and 12 hour naps. I have applied to several jobs at prestigious organizations such as Sears and Home Depot. Though so far it seems like I am not even qualified to lift boxes for Toys 'R Us. I have even been rejected for unpaid internships and volunteering positions. I know the news has been complaining about the poor economy, but by God (wherever she may be) this economy sucks.

I, however, refuse to let myself get down in the dumps. I have been working on side-projects (you know, those things unemployed people do to pretend their important). I have a novel in-progress. And if that didn't sound like the whitest and most pretentious sentence on the face of the Earth, you just wait there's more: I am also working on a screenplay, a movie, and a video game. Because like every self-absorbed member of the middle-class, I am convinced that my thoughts are important enough to be published.

Family History

I am on a 8 hour bus ride from Philadelphia to Boston and with the obscene amount of time I have decided to give you (my fictitious audience) a little background on my family tree. One that is filled to the brim with ethnic confusion

First things first, I am a mutt. My ethnic background is a peculiar combination of Irish (the Richie Clan), Native American (possibly Cherokee), Islander (though which one I cannot say), as well as a sprinkling of other European Countries that no one really cares about. Its as though a group of ethnicities who hated each other came together (most likely through force) to create a baby. A baby of HATE.

In reality, however, none of these backgrounds matter because Mr. Whitey Von White over there is the only person that contributed to my skin color. I may not be pure enough to pass the Third Reich's Eugenics test, but as far as U.S. culture is concerned I am white. I grew up in a white household. Have predominantly white friends. Go to an overwhelmingly white school. Blah, blah, blah, poor me. Boo hoo. My ancestors essentially had intercourse with everybody.

Anyway, my parents grew up in Collinsville, Illinois. It's a dump not worth visiting. I may be a tad biased though because we hate most of our relatives there and only visit for funerals. The last one was for my Grandma Joe, a women I can barely recall anything about. In fact, I think I learned more about her after death than in life. Her passing impacted my father quite hard (she was his mother after all), but I honestly couldn't find two shits to rub together. She was an infectious chain smoker that had, over the course of her lifetime, transformed the walls of her home into a mildewy yellow. When we made the pilgrimage and inevitably began sorting through all the crap that she had accumulated, I learned a lot about her through old photographs, movies, letters, and drunken ramblings, but little of what I know of her is first hand. My parents spent the better part of my life isolating me from our extended family, funerals being the only noteworthy exception.

A Brief Introduction to the Craziness that is me

Hello world,

I have decided to start a blog. It will be my 11th or 12th run at this, but whose counting? It will, however, be my first autobiographical approach because I have given up on attempting to recreate various themes. So here it goes. Who is Alex? What defines this amazing person?
I guess the first thing people usually comment on is my gayness. I am not the most flaming personality. Granted, I love Showtunes, I hate sports, Cher is my idol, and I belong to four gay groups on facebook (one of which I created). Okay, I am not the straightest personality either. On the Madona scale of gayness I lie somewhere between Jack from Will & Grace and Niel Patrick Harris. I have been called everything from "the gayest person on the planet" to a "bro-gay." I came out last summer and have done all right. I wouldn't call myself a success story, but I doubt lifetime is itching to make a Prayers for Bobby 2 based on my life. Anyway, if my life were to be a movie, the title, Twink College Boy: Figures out Life, would sound more like a porno than anything else.

I am one of those pretentious college kids who thinks he knows everything. I'm 20 going on 21 (less than days 10 days in fact) and will soon be charging headfirst into the oblivion known as adulthood. I am stuck in an awkward in between right now, too young to drink and too old to not know any better. I go to Skidmore College (Go Thoroughbreds!) and am majoring in Government, which is my colleges special way of saying Political Science. It's a very small and very gay school that prides itself in being in the middle of the woods. Oh and weed. The smell is rancid everywhere on campus.

For the summer I am doing absolutely nothing. I had an internship for someones political campaign that I obtained through nepotism, but the guy lost. I even bothered to get funding through my school so I wouldn't have to mooch off my parents like the white person I am. Unfortunately, in the last three weeks of the campaign the evil Bill Clinton (and yes I recognize that I am biased) endorsed the opposition for the primary race, leaving my summer plans shattered. I am now at home, stuck in the seaside nightmare known as Cape Cod, keeping myself entertained through a series of pretentious projects.