(went on a long drive with Lupe Fiasco this is what came out, my first rhyme)(my truck's name is marla)
Please will you grow up and act like you are young and reckless.
Young and in love so please get some mental correctness
I can’t love if you don’t survive
Act your age girl and be young and alive.
C’mon learn the lessons and leave the baggage
Yeah you been hurt,
Like my whole social network
Know the pain know the game
Just like how they know to jerk
I set that up to bring a smile
You was colder than morning floor tile
Its cool but I wont be chill
My heart is looking for a thrill
Flying on a buzz that ya know only how to kill
Wanna String me up on your front lawn tree?
Invite the whole neighborhood cause it’s warm tonight
Sundresses, front porch and ice tea
I’ll be filled with sweets from anotha
But You want my heart for a party piñata
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
I do not want to write this
A forced moment of self-degradation
I do not want to write this at all. But I do not have a choice in the matter. What I don’t want to write about is how I drive myself to the brink and over when I get bored. I do not have a choice because I have absolutely nothing else I can do to stave the boredom. I killed every Scrubs episode till the sucky season (I’ll let you decided which one that is). I have watched every Tremors movie in the series and which I think was genius until thirty two minutes into the second installment. There are 4 movies in that series. I make multiple trips to Wal Mart to get only one or two items that I may need the next morning for breakfast. Then I go back to what? You guessed it more Netflix. Blah blah blah blah how I suffer and how I am my own worst enemy.
I told you I do not want to write this. I don’t. I am sitting here thinking how I can make the little tidbits about how I spend my time funny to a reader. How can I depreciate myself in a pathetic situation like David Sedaris? My heart is not in it, this is a forced catharsis. So it is not really cathartic at all just an explanation. Explaining to whom? No reads my blog anyways. So lets force this catharsis even further.
So I am bored and I hate it. I hate it because I think too much. My mind goes 1,000 mph towards self-doubt-Ville. Bo-hoo me right? Yeah I think of what I’ve done wrong to other people. What other people have done wrong to me and why I might have deserved it or not. What am I doing here, should I be somewhere else? Am I doing the right things in my major, am I in the right major? This isn’t motivated by self destruction, the opposite actually. I want to always to fix things. Find problem and fix it. That’s what I do. Combine that with a good memory and enough free time to solve world hunger and bam we got a problem. We got my last two weeks. This is a problem that I must fix. But how do I fix the problem of me looking for problems to fix. That is a nasty nasty nasty catch-22 right there. I laughed at how pointless it seemed till it went all clairvoyant on me. I don’t fix it. I leave it the akslfkjnadwkjfa alone. To fix the problem of constantly looking for problems I stop trying to fix the problem. I fix the problem by not fixing the problem. Holy mother of cows and other tasty animals!!! This catharsis worked. I seriously wasn’t planning on that. I was just making myself take a break from Netflix, catharsis achieved.
I do not want to write this at all. But I do not have a choice in the matter. What I don’t want to write about is how I drive myself to the brink and over when I get bored. I do not have a choice because I have absolutely nothing else I can do to stave the boredom. I killed every Scrubs episode till the sucky season (I’ll let you decided which one that is). I have watched every Tremors movie in the series and which I think was genius until thirty two minutes into the second installment. There are 4 movies in that series. I make multiple trips to Wal Mart to get only one or two items that I may need the next morning for breakfast. Then I go back to what? You guessed it more Netflix. Blah blah blah blah how I suffer and how I am my own worst enemy.
I told you I do not want to write this. I don’t. I am sitting here thinking how I can make the little tidbits about how I spend my time funny to a reader. How can I depreciate myself in a pathetic situation like David Sedaris? My heart is not in it, this is a forced catharsis. So it is not really cathartic at all just an explanation. Explaining to whom? No reads my blog anyways. So lets force this catharsis even further.
So I am bored and I hate it. I hate it because I think too much. My mind goes 1,000 mph towards self-doubt-Ville. Bo-hoo me right? Yeah I think of what I’ve done wrong to other people. What other people have done wrong to me and why I might have deserved it or not. What am I doing here, should I be somewhere else? Am I doing the right things in my major, am I in the right major? This isn’t motivated by self destruction, the opposite actually. I want to always to fix things. Find problem and fix it. That’s what I do. Combine that with a good memory and enough free time to solve world hunger and bam we got a problem. We got my last two weeks. This is a problem that I must fix. But how do I fix the problem of me looking for problems to fix. That is a nasty nasty nasty catch-22 right there. I laughed at how pointless it seemed till it went all clairvoyant on me. I don’t fix it. I leave it the akslfkjnadwkjfa alone. To fix the problem of constantly looking for problems I stop trying to fix the problem. I fix the problem by not fixing the problem. Holy mother of cows and other tasty animals!!! This catharsis worked. I seriously wasn’t planning on that. I was just making myself take a break from Netflix, catharsis achieved.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
What if i dated my old GF's?
I was reading about one of my favorite bands on Wikipedia (a favorite pastime of mine) and at the end of the article it talked about the possibility of a reunion tour. Can you imagine my delight!!! I would put on my most torn up jeans and my meanest black punkrock tee, lace up my chucks real tight and turn 16 again for one night. Delighted until I read that one of guitarists wasn’t too keen on the idea. He was quoted saying, “you want me to get back up there and play some 10 year old songs, that is like me asking you to go get back with your first girlfriend.” Which got me thinking, what if I went back and dated my first girl-friends? I thought it would be really cool to facebook stalk them and get a good bead on who they were (totally possible thanks FB) now, and see how we would match up today. That idea sadly died fast because I could not remember what their names were accurately enough to chase them down. Give me a break; two of them were German exchange students, of which I am still proud of to this today. So I’ll stick with my original plan.
One of the first girls was a German exchange student by the name of Andrea. She was an Aryan dream. 5’10” blonde that sounded just like the Austrian gal from The Last Crusade, which would make me Indiana Jones, great logic. How did I get her to like me, I lied straight to her face. While walking back from an autumn football game , I told her that I was constantly depressed because I had no real close friends, to talk too (sniff sniff). She took it hook line and sinker. “Troubled boy, who has deep underlying feelings, I want him”, she undoubtedly thought. We made out on top of spyglass hill, in my truck cab (didn’t care that I was 15 didn’t have my license yet) and any park benches on the golf course. She played amazing defense though, i couldn’t score with any trick plays. One night she tried a DTR I caved against every fiber of my being and we became official. The next morning at 6:00AM she texted me this line “good morning sweet heart I dreamt of you last night”. ARRRRRGGGHHHHH! I avoided her for two weeks and then gave her the lets just be friends talk and that was the last time we ever talked. If she could deal with my cockiness instead of depression, this might work now. She was a bit needy though and who doesn’t think that’s annoying now.
I can’t even remember this girls name so her name will be Kelly for ease of printing. She I am ashamed to admit was my first and only Myspace hook-up. She lived up in Washington and I think she started talking to me because I liked the then unknown band called “taking back Sunday”. We held a ridiculously cheesy teen-internet-romance for like 4 months until she moved down to my area. We met in the skate shop in the mall, she was Hella Curvy to my 17 year old delight. She was my first ash-tray; I never ever ever want to kiss a smoker again. But I was that horny at 17. I broke up with her when she drunk dialed me asking me to drive 45min out to get her and her dumb friends one night. I told her to find her own ride or die on the return trip. Never underestimate how much I didn’t care back then. I hate anything long distance and I still hate party-girls. I think I also appreciate girls that have different musical tastes than me, makes for better conversation.
Karma will always be a Beezy. I had a friend who I helped get his first GF. Like he would copy-paste what she said onto my AOL IM chat and I would tell him what to say. Cute huh? She had the most beautiful shock green eyes in the whole school. So when she denied him the rights all high school boys think they earned after a month of commitment he dropped her so quick no analogy can accurately describe its speed. So we were talking and I being the imminent sweet talker told her through AIM chat, “no matter what Cameron says I will still think your super cool and my really cute friend.” We hooked up before we even had finished our Slurpee’s in the mall parking lot. Man, were her green eyes something to look at on the pull-back. I left for college and we moved on after the mandatory Christmas break re-hook-up. My friend Cameron and I stayed pretty tight, until I left on my mission. Karma dictates that I would suffer my mission GF to be knocked up by my friend. Needless to say I haven’t really kept in touch with either the girl or my friend. Thank you Karma. This girl was by FAR the most normal and down to the blessed earth. Never any drama, just hang out, make out, chill out, drop off. Super simple. Now if I could only remember her name…
One of the first girls was a German exchange student by the name of Andrea. She was an Aryan dream. 5’10” blonde that sounded just like the Austrian gal from The Last Crusade, which would make me Indiana Jones, great logic. How did I get her to like me, I lied straight to her face. While walking back from an autumn football game , I told her that I was constantly depressed because I had no real close friends, to talk too (sniff sniff). She took it hook line and sinker. “Troubled boy, who has deep underlying feelings, I want him”, she undoubtedly thought. We made out on top of spyglass hill, in my truck cab (didn’t care that I was 15 didn’t have my license yet) and any park benches on the golf course. She played amazing defense though, i couldn’t score with any trick plays. One night she tried a DTR I caved against every fiber of my being and we became official. The next morning at 6:00AM she texted me this line “good morning sweet heart I dreamt of you last night”. ARRRRRGGGHHHHH! I avoided her for two weeks and then gave her the lets just be friends talk and that was the last time we ever talked. If she could deal with my cockiness instead of depression, this might work now. She was a bit needy though and who doesn’t think that’s annoying now.
I can’t even remember this girls name so her name will be Kelly for ease of printing. She I am ashamed to admit was my first and only Myspace hook-up. She lived up in Washington and I think she started talking to me because I liked the then unknown band called “taking back Sunday”. We held a ridiculously cheesy teen-internet-romance for like 4 months until she moved down to my area. We met in the skate shop in the mall, she was Hella Curvy to my 17 year old delight. She was my first ash-tray; I never ever ever want to kiss a smoker again. But I was that horny at 17. I broke up with her when she drunk dialed me asking me to drive 45min out to get her and her dumb friends one night. I told her to find her own ride or die on the return trip. Never underestimate how much I didn’t care back then. I hate anything long distance and I still hate party-girls. I think I also appreciate girls that have different musical tastes than me, makes for better conversation.
Karma will always be a Beezy. I had a friend who I helped get his first GF. Like he would copy-paste what she said onto my AOL IM chat and I would tell him what to say. Cute huh? She had the most beautiful shock green eyes in the whole school. So when she denied him the rights all high school boys think they earned after a month of commitment he dropped her so quick no analogy can accurately describe its speed. So we were talking and I being the imminent sweet talker told her through AIM chat, “no matter what Cameron says I will still think your super cool and my really cute friend.” We hooked up before we even had finished our Slurpee’s in the mall parking lot. Man, were her green eyes something to look at on the pull-back. I left for college and we moved on after the mandatory Christmas break re-hook-up. My friend Cameron and I stayed pretty tight, until I left on my mission. Karma dictates that I would suffer my mission GF to be knocked up by my friend. Needless to say I haven’t really kept in touch with either the girl or my friend. Thank you Karma. This girl was by FAR the most normal and down to the blessed earth. Never any drama, just hang out, make out, chill out, drop off. Super simple. Now if I could only remember her name…
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
I was wonder bread
97.9, 103.5, 95.3, 96.1 Do you know what these numbers mean. They are not equations from my stats homework; they are not measurements of appendages in millimeters and they aren’t numbers representing my weight though some people would assume so. These numbers represent some semi-saviors of mine. Back nearly a decade ago there was an extremely fresh faced Mitch who just started working his first legit summer job, 8-5 Monday through Friday. I was on an interior-painting crew that cleaned up section-8 $h*t holes and repainted them just to be trashed again by the new drug dealing-prostituting-meth using-porn addicted tenants.
The guys I worked with ranged from a summer working college student, recently paroled felons, high school dropouts, and illegal immigrants. I was the only high school student on the crews and one of two Mormons. Compared to guys who spent the night before work telling girls they were having a relationship with at that moment that they had AIDs just for the reaction, it didn’t matter how much of a punker I thought I was. I was a loaf of wonder bread to them. The first place I helped clean out and paint was a deserted brothel, I was put on sex toy watch. I was to locate any sex toy and store it in a separate bag for later unplanned pranks on the other paint crews. My innocence stood less of a chance than a remnant piece of cocaine on Hunter S. Thompson’s kitchen table. But what did the numbers mean!?!
These numbers are call signs, radio frequencies for all the rock stations in the Willamette Valley. We drove all over that valley for three months in crappy non-AC’d trucks filled with off white paint and old mattresses that some diabetic died a lonely death on two weeks before we cleaned it out of the apartment. But if there was one belief we had in common was that Journey was God. Rage against the Machine made you win any red light stare down no prob. You had insane echoes in an empty apartment with for guys singing more than a feeling. Metallica was a great morning wake-up call and the college radio gave all the Gin n’Juice we would ever need. These were fantastic eye-opening times, because every hourly wage worker in each city would be bumping the same jams. Walk into this paint shop you could finish your new wave anthem “Just what I needed”. The landscaping guys are busting some crazy latina-polka we just heard in the Taco Bell or Gn’R. The talk for all of august was how the college radio was doing every 15minutes up-dates on the top-less car wash going on in front of the West 11th 7/11. It really brought everyone together just like Duck football games did during the fall.
I was stripped of a lot of my innocence that summer, but I gained a chunk of confidence because I didn’t drown in (for the lack for a better word) the shiz of my co-workers but I learnt how to even do a very cocky, jack-assed butterfly stroke.
The guys I worked with ranged from a summer working college student, recently paroled felons, high school dropouts, and illegal immigrants. I was the only high school student on the crews and one of two Mormons. Compared to guys who spent the night before work telling girls they were having a relationship with at that moment that they had AIDs just for the reaction, it didn’t matter how much of a punker I thought I was. I was a loaf of wonder bread to them. The first place I helped clean out and paint was a deserted brothel, I was put on sex toy watch. I was to locate any sex toy and store it in a separate bag for later unplanned pranks on the other paint crews. My innocence stood less of a chance than a remnant piece of cocaine on Hunter S. Thompson’s kitchen table. But what did the numbers mean!?!
These numbers are call signs, radio frequencies for all the rock stations in the Willamette Valley. We drove all over that valley for three months in crappy non-AC’d trucks filled with off white paint and old mattresses that some diabetic died a lonely death on two weeks before we cleaned it out of the apartment. But if there was one belief we had in common was that Journey was God. Rage against the Machine made you win any red light stare down no prob. You had insane echoes in an empty apartment with for guys singing more than a feeling. Metallica was a great morning wake-up call and the college radio gave all the Gin n’Juice we would ever need. These were fantastic eye-opening times, because every hourly wage worker in each city would be bumping the same jams. Walk into this paint shop you could finish your new wave anthem “Just what I needed”. The landscaping guys are busting some crazy latina-polka we just heard in the Taco Bell or Gn’R. The talk for all of august was how the college radio was doing every 15minutes up-dates on the top-less car wash going on in front of the West 11th 7/11. It really brought everyone together just like Duck football games did during the fall.
I was stripped of a lot of my innocence that summer, but I gained a chunk of confidence because I didn’t drown in (for the lack for a better word) the shiz of my co-workers but I learnt how to even do a very cocky, jack-assed butterfly stroke.
Monday, March 28, 2011
-Y girl
(older deal that i wrote a while back but never posted)
There are a few questions about my likes, dislikes and tastes that I cannot answer. I have learnt to dodge answers that get me out of answering them without explaining why I do not like to answer these questions. i.e. what kind of music do you listen too? If I tried to answer that I would end up saying “rock” at some point and feel like should A) try to assemble a 1,000 piece puzzle in the middle of a four lane highway. B) Spend the night with any girl that gets excited when either of the “you’re a jerk” or “soulja boy” songs come on at a house party. Both are hazardous to my health and self-respect. But both are more comfy than trying to answer that question. One of the worst question I can think of at the moment is, “what is your type?”
This type means what is the type of woman that I will be attracted too. I could and you too, could spend hours naming off adjectives. None start with –A- (attractive but that can't end in a -y unless its an adverb) so , bumpy, cozy, dressy, EE-y, freaky, geeky, hotty, irresistibly, jazzy, kinky, lovely, mega-sassy, nippy, obedient, pretty, Quirky, riskay, slutty, touchy-feely, not ugly, very __, wispy, x-rotic, yappy and zesty.
Adjectives can’t explain what anyone can feel when a connection is made. Adjectives rarely can describe what a person is when this person makes you want to stalk them on facebook multiple times before you see them again. Adjectives don’t knock your socks off, they can’t keep you up at nights (even when you didn’t take a nap).
–Y doesn’t. He/She does.
THE PILE
There this pile right in the middle of my room. In side this pile are all me clean clothes all my dirty socks, all my opened school text books, my tax information, my deodorant, my cell phone charger, my laptop power cord, my journal, my other journal (intimidated that i have two?), my wallet and keys are somewhere in there in some pair of jeans, i own two belts and they too are buried in this pile that in more or less everything that i use on a weekly basis. When i get out of my towel that by divine providence of heaven does not get thrown into the pile, i start pulling my outfit out of the the pile. All my clean clothes are in the pile because i washed them earlier that day or when ever and then instead of folding them and putting them into the entirely too small drawer, i just leave them on my bed. So when i am ready to hit the hay i look at my bed and see it is going to be tough to dream on top of all my jeans. So i just move the new clothes to the bench press next to my bed. They will fall off as i try to fine a shirt that actually go with my shoes (its so tough ladies) and start to make the pile. My homework and books will get thrown in there because i am so sick and tired of them when i am finished that i set them on top of the pile and walk out. When i get undressed to climb under my electric blanket at nights i just toss everything on the pile. It takes less effort than you'd think for me to remember which shirts i have worn earlier in the week so i don't pull those out of the pile the next morning. At the end of the week i say i need to clean my room but really it only means to stick the whole pile except my books and tax stuff on most occasions into the dirty clothes sack. Take the sack containing the pile and washing everything in two loads. I will undoubtedly put all those clean clothes on my by there-in-by repeating the entire process again the next week.
I hope by making this known i will stop this ridiculous man-boy tradition.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
He Didn't Even Make It Through A Full Gallon of Milk
This title was the line from an old friend. I watched her as we grew up in our crazy town. As i went down the proverbial hill i watched her slide down the same slippery slopes. I never had much of a attraction to her which always baffled me because she is a pretty gal but more so just a observational interest akin to a JD (from scrubs) closing monologue.
But where were we? Oh yes i watched her as we both did our straying. Once i got my act together and pulled myself out of the pits i was falling into i saw she was super far away in some pits i managed not to find myself in the bottom of; lucky me right? I left and when i got back this girl had married a real idiot, someone we both knew that saw these same pits that we were dealing with as little muddy puddles that one jumps in and gets everyone around all wet and gross. Gets all your friends and family all dirty too.
This kid got sent to jail, which left my friend with a ring on her finger and an empty space in her bed. Two more years with good behavior she told me at a Christmas party as we ate from the brownie tray. In the time he was busy getting prison tat's, my friend got herself a diploma and a job doing what i knew she probably always wanted to do. It just fit her so well. I watched as she pulled herself out of those pits, it was great to see out of all of us that strayed someone else besides me come back. It made church back home during winter break a lot more interesting. Who was there because they wanted to be and who was there because they had a huge fight with their parents the night before and were sitting in those ol'benches but were more uncomfortable because of the awkward family tension.
Anyways where was i? Oh yeah, this idiot got out of jail last week. She had a pizza party for him and even my parents were there to wish them luck. She arranged for him to have a parole officer in the state where she was living. They arrived home and spent the next day getting him some new clothes and by the next morning he was gone. Took the car and left it somewhere in a nearby city and is on the run. Her line, "he didn't even make it through a full gallon of milk", means so much. I love it.
I've watched this girl for most of our lives, and i know that others would consider those three years she waited for her husband a total waste but i know she will see it maybe not right away but she will see it as such a great blessing to have that time to come back to love. Real love. Like love of her family her real friends and her real heavenly father. Divorce is a ugly, terrible word. But every now and again, it brings a big smile to my face for an old friend.
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