Sunday, July 29, 2012
My Passport
I don't know what US passports are made of, but they sure can take a pounding. This is the second time around mines been in the washer/dryer.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Contentment is the Enemy of Invention
I have done absolutely nothing since the last time I aired my thoughts into the blogosphere. Yes, I've accomplished things (chilled with friends, gone drinking downtown, worked out, had brunch, and countless other trivialities), but I've completed zero of the tasks I set out for myself this summer. I wanted to work on a novel, and a screenplay, and a thousand other things, but I'm far too happy to do anything. It's funny really. When I was bored out of my mind on the Cape I had a million side projects I invented in order to keep myself busy. Now I'd rather sit back and let laziness overtake me.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Blurry Vision
I am in downtown Schenectady, waiting for my transfer to Saratoga Springs (I took a weekend trip to Boston) and this random person hands me Clear eyes Redness Relief. I tell him its not mine (thinking he thought I dropped it), but apparently he was aware of that and just thought I needed the eye lubricant. Well that was subtle.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Zenitude
I am taking a zen meditation class. A peculiar social experience where once a week some very crunchy white folks come together and do nothing. The objective is to quite simply look down at the floor while sitting with your legs folded, counting your breaths up to 10 and then restarting from 1. Your not suppose to "force" your breathing, an instruction I found bloody well impossible no matter how many times the facilitator said otherwise.
Although this may seem very relaxing, the reality of the situation is that you become hyper conscious of sounds, especially the ones you contribute to the group meditation. I found myself unable to swallow because every time I made any noise louder than a breath the sound would carry itself throughout the room.
Eventually, a pool of saliva built up in my mouth, forcing me to either swallow or watch the drool drip down to my lap. Every time I did this (swallow that is) the woman next to me would turn at this apparent interruption to her enlightenment and quietly "shush" me. The sound of course was anything but quiet because every noise broke the silence much like a phone call ruins the mood in a movie theater. I found her to be rather hypocritical because I knew for a fact that she was not focused on obtaining "inner peace." Her stomach was growling constantly through the whole ordeal (Jesus lady eat first, it's not a pool). Thankfully, my meditation gave me the time to develop many fat jokes. Fortunately for her, my new found compassion prevented me from word vomiting these clever witticisms. That and the fact that the facilitator (also sitting next to me) scared me to tears.
By the time we reached the walking portion of the meditation, the bottoms of my feet had fallen asleep. In my mind I thought my walk looked like a recently transformed zombie pursuing the flesh of the anorexic shusher running ahead of me. In actuality, I looked more like a depressed teenager that's feet appeared to be fighting the idea of forward motion. One meditator even asked if I was all right when we were putting everything away. To which I of course said yes and then made up some garbage about coming back next week. My conscience is telling me to go. Which I was going to do until I found its off switch...vodka.
Although this may seem very relaxing, the reality of the situation is that you become hyper conscious of sounds, especially the ones you contribute to the group meditation. I found myself unable to swallow because every time I made any noise louder than a breath the sound would carry itself throughout the room.
Eventually, a pool of saliva built up in my mouth, forcing me to either swallow or watch the drool drip down to my lap. Every time I did this (swallow that is) the woman next to me would turn at this apparent interruption to her enlightenment and quietly "shush" me. The sound of course was anything but quiet because every noise broke the silence much like a phone call ruins the mood in a movie theater. I found her to be rather hypocritical because I knew for a fact that she was not focused on obtaining "inner peace." Her stomach was growling constantly through the whole ordeal (Jesus lady eat first, it's not a pool). Thankfully, my meditation gave me the time to develop many fat jokes. Fortunately for her, my new found compassion prevented me from word vomiting these clever witticisms. That and the fact that the facilitator (also sitting next to me) scared me to tears.
By the time we reached the walking portion of the meditation, the bottoms of my feet had fallen asleep. In my mind I thought my walk looked like a recently transformed zombie pursuing the flesh of the anorexic shusher running ahead of me. In actuality, I looked more like a depressed teenager that's feet appeared to be fighting the idea of forward motion. One meditator even asked if I was all right when we were putting everything away. To which I of course said yes and then made up some garbage about coming back next week. My conscience is telling me to go. Which I was going to do until I found its off switch...vodka.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Money money
I officially earned my first 8 dollars today by participating in a psychological survey. A really depressing thought once you factor in my age and economic background.
But screw that thought because I'm 8 dollars richer bitches. I'm having a party and only Washington and Lincoln are invited.
But screw that thought because I'm 8 dollars richer bitches. I'm having a party and only Washington and Lincoln are invited.
Monday, July 2, 2012
To pee or not to pee
I have an ample amount of time while here on campus, and so, I have decided to share a thoroughly humiliating anecdote.
Not so long ago, I was in Saratoga Springs visiting one of my friends (something I melodramatically chronicled a few posts ago). I was crashing at her house and spent my days meandering through the town while she went off to work. One day I came back in the late afternoon and found that the door was locked. Something I thought her many housemates would prevent from happening at that time of day.
This fact, in itself, was not a big deal. I was quite prepared to wait out the few minutes necessary for someone to come home.
At least I was until sudden bladder issues presented themselves. Too little time to trek back to town and use the restrooms there. Too far away to walk back to campus and use its facilities. I was forced to deal with the reality that I needed to urinate and soon.
I looked around the sparsely wooded yard. Two sides bordered a highway with continuously moving traffic. One side was too close to the neighbors house. The yard itself was relatively secluded, but what if at that moment a housemate decided to come back. I would be there, my fly undone, my wang out, standing in the middle of the garden and peeing on their flower beds. Not exactly houseguest of the year material.
The only area that seemed "private" enough for me to do my business was the small strip of woods behind the shed. It separated the backyard from another property, however, I could see no one out there and my mind had already ruled out all the other possibilities as unacceptable. And so, I navigated through some prickly bushes while edging along the perimeter of the shed.
When I at last reached the back end, I prepared myself mentally to pee. I was going to do this. All I had to do was unzip my fly, stick junior out, and make it rain. I had urinated in public spaces often while intoxicated, but somehow then the thought of peeing in an open space made me feel impure. As if I was on the verge of committing some unwholesome act on the same level as perverts who masturbate in movie theaters. I was going to "turn" a beautiful picture (nature) into something that society deemed dirty. How could I do such a thing? What if a child were watching? Then again, I really did have to pee.
In the end, urge overcame artificially constructed morality. I whipped junior out and, sparing you the details of course, urinated all over the local flora.
Now there's an old debate between the sexes about the proficiency of men and urination that predates the "men leave the toilet seat up" argument. Peeing while standing is perhaps the only thing that a man can do better than a woman. However, as any woman will counter argue (often pointing to the toilet ring as proof) the ability to do so easily does not necessarily equate to "good aim." I do not know who is right in this argument. Though in regard to myself and peeing, I neither have luck nor skill.
As I was urinating behind the shed, a little boy came out to play in the yard. He saw me and made a gasping sound. And like a true idiot, I turned around, junior and all, in the direction of the noise. Unable to stop in midstream, I pissed on the patch of yard right in front of where he was standing.
I was horrified. I felt like I had ruined the world for this young boy. How would he explain this to his parents? Then again, it's not like this was anything new. He, after all, had a junior of his own. Feeling better, I finished my business and walked away without saying a word. He would be fine.
Not so long ago, I was in Saratoga Springs visiting one of my friends (something I melodramatically chronicled a few posts ago). I was crashing at her house and spent my days meandering through the town while she went off to work. One day I came back in the late afternoon and found that the door was locked. Something I thought her many housemates would prevent from happening at that time of day.
This fact, in itself, was not a big deal. I was quite prepared to wait out the few minutes necessary for someone to come home.
At least I was until sudden bladder issues presented themselves. Too little time to trek back to town and use the restrooms there. Too far away to walk back to campus and use its facilities. I was forced to deal with the reality that I needed to urinate and soon.
I looked around the sparsely wooded yard. Two sides bordered a highway with continuously moving traffic. One side was too close to the neighbors house. The yard itself was relatively secluded, but what if at that moment a housemate decided to come back. I would be there, my fly undone, my wang out, standing in the middle of the garden and peeing on their flower beds. Not exactly houseguest of the year material.
The only area that seemed "private" enough for me to do my business was the small strip of woods behind the shed. It separated the backyard from another property, however, I could see no one out there and my mind had already ruled out all the other possibilities as unacceptable. And so, I navigated through some prickly bushes while edging along the perimeter of the shed.
When I at last reached the back end, I prepared myself mentally to pee. I was going to do this. All I had to do was unzip my fly, stick junior out, and make it rain. I had urinated in public spaces often while intoxicated, but somehow then the thought of peeing in an open space made me feel impure. As if I was on the verge of committing some unwholesome act on the same level as perverts who masturbate in movie theaters. I was going to "turn" a beautiful picture (nature) into something that society deemed dirty. How could I do such a thing? What if a child were watching? Then again, I really did have to pee.
In the end, urge overcame artificially constructed morality. I whipped junior out and, sparing you the details of course, urinated all over the local flora.
Now there's an old debate between the sexes about the proficiency of men and urination that predates the "men leave the toilet seat up" argument. Peeing while standing is perhaps the only thing that a man can do better than a woman. However, as any woman will counter argue (often pointing to the toilet ring as proof) the ability to do so easily does not necessarily equate to "good aim." I do not know who is right in this argument. Though in regard to myself and peeing, I neither have luck nor skill.
As I was urinating behind the shed, a little boy came out to play in the yard. He saw me and made a gasping sound. And like a true idiot, I turned around, junior and all, in the direction of the noise. Unable to stop in midstream, I pissed on the patch of yard right in front of where he was standing.
I was horrified. I felt like I had ruined the world for this young boy. How would he explain this to his parents? Then again, it's not like this was anything new. He, after all, had a junior of his own. Feeling better, I finished my business and walked away without saying a word. He would be fine.
London Bridge...
...comes crashing down. This is the first thought that comes to mind after being rejected for yet another job. This time I even had an interview lined up. I was "this" close to maybe, kind of, sort of having a summer job. Well closer anyway then normal. I am going to aim lower next time. Although I don't know how much lower I can aim from horse shit scooper, which was where I sent out my last application.
In the meantime, I am in the lovely Saratoga Springs, taking a summer class at Skidmore College. I guess that part is pretty enjoyable.
In the meantime, I am in the lovely Saratoga Springs, taking a summer class at Skidmore College. I guess that part is pretty enjoyable.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Why don't you window it?
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| Source: Wanstrom & Assoc |
My father (who in the drinking world would fall under the classification: tank) had had a bit too much to drink. Essentially, he had crossed that hazy line where one second your amiable and funny and the next drunken second your incapable of following the flow of normal conversation. Once he crosses this line he becomes thoroughly ridiculous. He will either: (1) sit there dead as a door nail (2) utter an absurdly interesting truism or (3) display a peculiar sense of humor that defies explanation.
The best way I can explain his humor is as follows: It's like when someone says something unbearably trite, and you laugh, not because the joke is in anyway funny, but because you had another even funnier thought occur to you at the same time. That person tries to understand why your laughing, but your laughter is so overwhelming that you can scarcely breathe, causing them for some peculiar reason to laugh as well.
When my father gets considerably drunk he becomes both the person that says the unfunny pun and the recipient of that laughter a.k.a. he laughs at his own jokes. Last night, I had another wonderful example of this one-on-one humor. My sister was having a conversation with one of our house guests, something to do with the importance of art (I don't really know, it didn't sound riveting enough for me to care). Yet at some point in her conversation she said the phrase, "I simply adore it?" To which my father turned to us, and said, "Why don't you window it?"
At first we didn't really understand, but after several minutes (10 in fact) we realized it was a bad pun building off my sisters use of the word adore. We all laughed. At first because we found the fact that he found the pun funny funny, but then that infectious laughter grew. Parents may embarrass you, but at least they are entertaining.
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