Joe Joes and Orgasms

There is a beautiful site just across the lane in the computer lab. A young gal in a horrendous pink and green sweater, sporting a robin egg blue cardigan. She is eating Joe Joes which in the lab is a no no. On her screen is a large diagram of a female vagina with the bold words “Orgasm” printed on the top.
The whole miniscule scene is a fantastic moment. For even I know with all my game and show that I would still feel pretty “funky” with a big ol’display of the orgasmic goings-on of the female body on my screen in the bustling pre-lunch hours in the TSC computer lab. This girl doesn’t even stop there no this girl is quickly becoming my C-lab hero. SHES EATING JOE JOES WITH HONEY MUSTARD!!!! (Pause for effect) IN THE COMPUTER LAB!! I have a guilt trip every time (ohhhhhh jeez she’s now on real live photos of the ovulation process) the prowling computer lab techie comes near my sector and I am watching hulu. This girl is doing it all and you know what she just don’t care. I catch the girl next to her look over at her screen with a horrified look. Not that she should have any reason too but alas we all have our limits and boundaries, apparently out of sight out of mind and in her body her motto. I do believe the moment has passed since the slide on her monitor is a picture of Humphrey Bogart being turned down by Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca promoting abstinence. Such is my luck that I was able to see such an awesome display of total isolation from social norms. She is such a rebel!!! Now I will check my facebook listen to cold war kids and watch that gorgeous red head across the lab walk to the desk to get her printed documents. Creepy yeah I know but I am so motivated to not care right now.

The big "Big"

I am sitting here, thinking but not sure what I am thinking. I am sitting here feeling but I am not sure what I am feeling. I have just erased like at least four sentences that were meant to explain what I am experiencing right. I just cannot get those feelings to take a form in sentences and phrases. They can’t because they don’t know why they are there and I don’t know either. My feelings have a purpose just like the ones I am feeling right now, but the ones I am feeling right now do not know their purpose. They have found a way into me somehow and now they are just waiting. Their presence there inside me does not make me feel sad nor does it make me happy. I just feel them. They are not telling me what to do they are just waiting for it to happen. They are not pointing me in a direction they are just waiting for me to get going there.
So I sit here and think where did they come from, maybe if I find where they have been and how they got inside me, then I can figure out where they are going and how they want me to work them out. So I think of the things that have happened today and I present them to my feelings and say, is this what brought you in? Is this why you came inside of me? For every memory of the recent events of today, my feelings say no that’s not what let us in, we didn’t come inside you because of that. So I just don’t know what to do with them, I have tried to find out where they came from but they don’t know either. Both they and I do not have any idea what we are going to do with each other. But then I say to the feelings or to me because I am not quite sure who is in charge at this point maybe you are here so I can feel. In an honest moment I can say that I do not feel like I do now, often. To have this big “Big” right inside of me is yet again inexplicable but it is also not ordinary. My feelings scoff at the notion that their presence is there to give me a break from the ordinary, they did not fill me up with whatever they are for such a menial task. My feelings are great and powerful their reasons must also be as such. So I have resigned myself to the belief that these feelings have come to the very core of me, so they could be felt. Where they took me was where I was already. What they helped me do was what I was already doing as I felt them. I say to my feelings thank you for coming and letting me feel what you feel like inside of me. In short thank you for making me feel, and I would like it if you came back again sometime.

Straight-leg 501 fire

It is 12:35 and you are out walking the many intersecting sidewalks of your campus. Making your way at your own pace and canter to your next class, your car, your humble abode, your point B. You just may be even walking with a friend or with Beyonce crooning in your ear but the point is that you are walking. About 20 yards up the sidewalk that obviously is filled with other transitional students you see a young man round the corner. He is sporting a pair of 501 jeans and a teal green jacket that looks like it keeps him sufficiently warm. He has got his backpack on, and it’s strapped down tight around his waist and chest but it doesn’t keep it from bouncing, it’s bouncing because he is running. Yes, he is rounding the corner at full gallop, not a brisk walk, or even a speed walk. He is lifting his legs and leaning into the wind while pumping those arms. The sound he is making from all the fabric he is rubbing together and the backpack thumping is not doing anything to help him not attract attention. The whole sidewalk population has noticed his awkward dash and is either gawking or veering off to the side to give this man a straight shot. Why shouldn’t we stare? While the whole surrounding population found a way to adjust their schedule to allow comfortable traveling time, our sprinter decides to see he can start a friction fire in his jeans. It’s a slight offense against the jovial code of student transitional activities. Punishable by the countless faces that will stare at this Olympian hopeful with expressions of misunderstanding and entertainment at his expense. In the end I learnt a great lesson from this sad fast man. If I am late for something I will find a deserted and probably longer forest path of which I can make haste without invited the disdain that I am sure everyone is so willing to stare out, as I was.

Caught me catching you

You walk past someone in the computer lab and their view screen is facing you but you can’t see their face. You look at their screen as you pass by and to your unexpectant surprise this person is looking at your facebook page. You stutter in your step and look down at the shoulders, neck and coiffure of the person so shamefully caught facebook stalking. Your surprise turning into curiosity and a bit of alarm as you notice that you do not know this person. Their shoulders draped in a winter jacket do not bring any acquaintances to mind. The style of their hair brings no friends or enemies alike to your memory. You can’t just stay standing behind them for fear of them catching you catching them, so you find a seat. But this seat offers no vantage point, no use to unmask your profile stalker. All you can see is their hand moving the mouse, click click click there goes your spring vacation album. Click click click now the stalker has full knowledge of your music tastes and your poignant motivational quotes. Click click click the unrelenting digger digs out your hometown city and can easily see your current where abouts. Click click click this person knows if you are looking for love, angry at it, satisfied by it, or desperate for it. Click click click this person will tell your children of all the photos of you doing things you wouldn’t want them to do. Click click click this person now knows more about you right now through your status post then your own mother. You sit there, you can’t do anything its unethical you can’t just run up to his screen and throw it off the table, you want to but you say I put that up there for people to see, it is not his fault its mine. But you want to fight back but how and can you now? You stand up and you go walking determinedly towards this unstoppable vile sneek, but possibly with the hint of a guilty 6th sense the person clicks the home page, evidence gone. You are no longer able to call this person on the gross and baseless activity you have witnessed on their behalf. You sit back down and think to yourself as the person logs off and walks away, am I safe now? Is the unidentifiable raping of my viral personality over? Can I go back to normal now? Was this the first time? Was this the last time....?

A POEM

Curse thy name thou art the spawn of pure evil.

A great and terrible contraption

Procurer of smut, anarchy and pure dribble

Thou art not benign

Leaving taste of cyanide

To be written in despicable lore

In Babylon thou would be a whore

From shores east to west

In guise a hideous portrayal

Thou art baseless relative incest

Burn thy records scratch thy mark

Between ocean beasts and thee

I will sleep with the shark

In lies thou elate

In truth thou defame

The sewer thy cradle

Thy taste, the same

In lack of all that is holy

Have thou a name?

Thou art the “iclicker”

I'll be your entertainment today ladies

There are times in your life when you can see a situation and the different forms it can take very clearly. It almost becomes like a multiple choice question, will the next few moments play out like plan A or plan B? In these moments there may be very plain and simple measures to be taken which will force the plan of your choice to surpass. In other more unfortunate cases there is little you can do and anything you try to do has almost no guarantee of changing the outcome. I pondered this as I stood in front of my cash register today at the beginning of our little Thursday lunch rush. I like Thursdays at work of a few reasons. 1. Thursday is chicken pot pie soup day, and I like that soup. 2. The incredibly attractive group of training dental hygienists that with German efficiency and Italian predictability come in to eat every fourth day of the week. There are about six of these little dentally trained vixens and yes I do get a tad giddy inside when their little wolf pack pops in through the door. As I watched this host heavenly hygienists get in line I became excruciatingly aware of what was going to happen. Plan A. I remain the sole cashier and I get to take the order of every single hungry lady in that group. The line was growing as expected during the lunch rush and to my right is an extra cash register to be used in this very lunch rush occasion. Plan B. If this extra register is made active by a fellow employee, I will only treat at most half of those scrub wearing beauties to my bad one liners. So with this terrible reality facing me I try my hardest to get the line as fast through the ordering process as I can. Price accuracy suffered for those ten minutes. But as I said earlier, sometimes you can do everything possible and it just won’t stop the titanic from smashing that iceberg. My shift leader boss, bless her efficient soul pulls herself up to that day-damaging device of a cash register and runs the line right through. I am so disappointed inside my beating heart, that when three of the Cleopatra’s to my Alexander self come up to make their order, I’ve got nothing. I can’t shoot out one witty line to any of their mundane comments that will leave them a bit surprised that yes; I can turn a phrase and your head all from behind this counter. It is not like I will ever ask one of these girls out, I order their food and they eat the food. Dinner and a show is the effect I am going for, not their digits. But there will always be another Thursday and another chance to impress.

Professional Opinion

Take a moment and ponder upon this interesting question. If you have a “Professional Opinion”, what would it be exactly? Of course to have any fun with this little jitta-bug we would have to dissect the compound phrase of Professional Opinion. The noun (person, place or thing) is definitely “Opinion”. These tend to be annoying and quite easy to form and toss around, drawing as much avoidance and annoyance from surrounding people as the common flu. If you are not careful you may even confuse the two because really they act so much alike. “Opinions are the limits of one’s abilities to find enjoyment in things”, I so botched that quote but I feel it gets the point across. But why not see the magical transformation that opinion performs when it is conjoined with the adjective (thing that describes a noun) “Professional”. Professional is derived from profession, or the task that we perform for certain reasons ie. To buy milk and eggs, help your fellow man, get out of the house, or to stay on parole. Dumbing it down and straightening it out, this service that you perform is so valuable that your superiors will pay you do to it. Thereby making you a professional at whatever task you are performing. Your technical knowledge at your profession and physical capability to do it is better than anyone at the receiving end of your service, so you say. Think professional athletes and just know yours is less interesting but possibly less vain also. Now we add them together, and at last your opinion is no longer avoided like a common house-hold plague. It is actually required at moments and nearly always respected when used within your sphere of professionalism. Our opinion has eaten its wheaties or spinach and now its power is really, well powerful. If you really want to bend things in a new gravity then notice that every moment of history is spurred and created by someone’s professional opinion. In reality, acting upon the professional opinion. Hitler was believed to have a sturdy and worthwhile professional opinion on the supremacy of one race over others. Take it too far you say, I think not. Doctors have so highly regarded professional opinions that they have developed a unique way of sustaining or opposing it amongst themselves. “Start him on two drops of nitro-selaphane and put him in traction; do you concur Dr. Hill?” Lawyer’s suits and plumber’s wrenches fit and clamp thanks to their professional opinions. They are paid to do their service so whatever savoir-faire they voice in conjunction with their profession now has enough weight to sink it to the bottom of any lake. So what is your professional opinion? When can you voice it? How powerful is it really? My professional opinion encompasses all that can be inquired about and announced from behind a cash register. I can be your swaying vote towards choosing sourdough over wheat to go with your tomato basil soup. I will be the reason you took a penny out of your own purse instead out of our Styrofoam penny jar. You would have not bought that overpriced pretzel if I had not professionally up-sale’d it to you. I really don’t want to dwell on the current sphere my professional opinion allows me, but more on the life long quest to up-grade and augment the value of our professional opinion. What is college but really a place that once you jump through their hoops you can say to potential paying bosses, “I have the makings of a nice professional opinion. This professional opinion will make our clientele pay, and therefore line your silver pockets”. But do not under any circumstances take anything written here for a cold, hard, unforgiving fact. Because as much as I try to fake it, no one is paying me for this so my opinion does not have a monetary value. In the vainest sense, it does not have value.