bearrugs

[bearrugs]

Givin' thanks.

I thought about not doing this post because I was worried it wouldn't be funny. Then I realized that, dammit, I am thankful for stuff and you ingrates are going to shut up and listen to me talk about it. Seriously, It's Thanksgiving. You can swallow your pride for one minute and admit that not everything sucks. If I did it, you can too.

Here's some stuff I'm grateful for:

1. My roommate, Kirstyn, who set up the coffee machine so when I when my alarm went off this morning there was coffee, in the pot, waiting for me. You guys can't even imagine how I felt. I'm not even a coffee fiend, but this was like Christmas-freakin-morning. I am even making a note to myself not to make fun of Folger's French Vanilla Coffee in the future, which I haven't actually ever done but sounds like something I would do because I'm such a snob. Except apparently I'm not. 

2. The elderly Lady who works at O-house who says hello to everybody in the morning. Oh my gosh, she is so nice. Everyday, I lurch into the dining hall looking like a sad-sack, hair still dripping wet from the shower, one claw clutching my German-English dictionary like I'm Denzel Washington and its The Book Of friggin' Eli. But then there is this adorable woman, smiling and telling me "Good morning!" and suddenly I'm all like "You know what, ma'am? It is a good morning! Thanks for pointing that out!"

Then sometimes she compliments my shoes or something and I feel like I just learned a life lesson. It is amazing.

3. Athens, Georgia, for being as gorgeous in the Fall as the New England private school I forsook to come here. It's like every day I go outside and nature is just pulling out all the stops to impress me--I step on a crunchy leaf and it's all like "Who needs Bennington, amiright?" And I'm like, "Damn, leaf, you are so right!" This place is awesome. This campus is beautiful. I'm too grateful to function.

4. The dining hall. It is easy to take it for granted, what with my eating my every meal there and all. You'd think I'd be sick of it by now, and some days I am. But when it gets around 3:00 pm and I'm sitting in my Philosophy class hoping Pretentious-Fedora-Kid's grandstanding is loud enough to drown out my stomach, you had better believe I am dreaming of the O-house dining commons. I love Philosophy, I really do, but Lecture ends and I am out of there like I am a train car full of molten phenol speeding through the Pennsylvania countryside and the only one who can stop me is the dining hall. 

5. Nicolas Cage. I don't even know how to explain this one. It's not like its even funny. For real, it is not even funny. There is only so much you can make fun of about one person, but there is something about this guy that just gets me every single time. I don't know what it is, but I'm thankful for it anyway.

6. I got into Slavic Folklore (SLAV 2100) for spring semester! I am so excited, not just because I love folklore, but because I love Slavs also. It's almost like my two interests are thrust together in a newly-racially-integrated football team and the SLAV 2100 is the African-American coach, overcoming prejudice and teaching them to play as a team.

7. Running Gags. I love running gags so much, its almost like I was knocked unconscious during the Gulf War and...The Manchurian Candidate.

Okay, that'll do for now. Wow, I'm feeling good now. I feel like one of those water bottles with the little stick people who are all content with their lives. You guys know what I'm talking about? Well, I'm thankful for that too. 

[bearrugs]

Three Things I Am Inherently Suspicious Of

My mom once told be never to trust a skinny chef. In the folly of my youth I paid her no mind, but if I had listened, I might have known what was coming when Giada De Laurentiis came at me with a clam knife. 

 Just saying.

My point is, some things are just sketchy. There are people, places, and situations in this world that you should be instinctually wary of. It's a survival thing. Just as horses can sense when an approaching storm, humans ought to be able to sense an approaching Charlie Foxtrot before it is upon them. Here are some things of which I am inherently suspicious:

1. Orange Things In My Salad

Hmm, that's funny. I thought I ordered a green salad. Are you green? No, I didn't think so. What are you supposed to be, anyway? Some sort of wacked out vegetable? Listen, guy, if I wanted to eat something the color of a traffic cone, it'd be deep-fried, probably from Taco Bell, and they'd give it to me for 89¢. I'm trying to eat healthy, here. I can't have you messing it up. Orange is not healthy. What's that? "What about Carrots?"

What about carrots?

What about oranges? Mangos? Cheddar cheese? Aren't these acceptable salad components?

Well I've got news for you, buddy. This is what carrots look like:

  Wholesome!

This is what mangos look like:

  Luscious!

This is what cheddar-fricking-cheese looks like:

  I'd like to thank the great state of Wisconsin!

This is what you look like: 

You ever put an Oompa Loompa through a wood-chipper?

Stay off my greens.

2. James Franco

What are you up to, James Franco? Maybe writing another short story for Esquire. Or, could be you're contacting Tennessee Williams with a Ouija board. Using your Yale degree for the noble goal of scoring some dank weed? Well, whatever it is--I don't like the look of it. 

  ...my favorite role of yours was in Spiderman.

3. Your Book Recommendations

When I finish a really awesome book, I immediately take it upon myself to whore it out to all my friends. In turn, when people take the time to point me in the direction of a good read, I am truly touched. 

But there are good touches and there are bad touches, and I take all your recommendations with a grain of salt. Or, you know a few grains.

I had to change the layout of my blog so this thing would fit. 

This has been real talk with MacKenzie. Tune in next week for, like, I don't know. Maybe I'll make fun of Nicolas Cage or something. That's never failed me. Over and out!

[bearrugs]

I'm not dead.

Howdy, compadres. You may remember me from such favorites as "I haven't blogged since Christmas" and "I'm a Terrible Person". Or perhaps you remember my minor role in "Shirking Responsabilities". Regardless, you probably remember me. 

If you don't, here's a picture to jog your memory.

Oh yeah, that one. With the moose. 

Well, I hope your memories all jogged now, because, frankly, I hate jogging. That's where you can find me on Tuesdays, by the way--jogging at the Ramsey Center. And hating it.

Oh, the Ramsey Center. You may be unfamiliar with the Ramsey Center if you don't attend the University of Georgia, or if you do attend the University of Georgia and just happen to live under a rock. Which I wouldn't judge you for. One man's rock-bottom is another man's two-person dorm with a shared bathroom.

Because that's where I live. In a dorm, I mean, not under a rock. 

Wow, we have some catching up to do, don't we?

I don't have a lot of time to (re)acquaint you with my life, but I do need to practice my German, so maybe we can do this in a way where everybody wins.

Ich heiße MacKenzie Turner, und Ich bin einem studenten an der University of Georgia. Mein Hauptfach ist unentschieden, aber Ich Philosophie und Anthropologie gern. In Oglethorpe House wohne ich. Ich arbeite bei Die Georgia Museum of Art fünf bis zehn Stunden jede Woche als Wachmann. Ich mag Piña Colada und bekommen in der regen erwischt.

Well, that ought to have cleared things up. Unless you're a German grammatician, in which case the purpose of your life's work was likely just thrown into question. 

Whichever. 

I am contemplating resuscitating this blog partially because I had twenty minutes before Comparative Lit started and partially because my mom requested the link to it, so she could "keep in touch with what's cool!"

And frankly, it would break my heart to tell her that what's cool is starting a blog and not updating it for 10 months. 

Because that is not cool!

I know, because I too have followed blogs that stopped updating without explanation: The Inkwell Bookstore Blog, 30 Is The New 13--these and others have broken my heart. 

THE HEARTBROKEN HAS BECOME THE HEARTBREAKER.

I comfort myself that none of you care as much about my blog as I do about other blogs, but its the principle of the thing. 

So what would you all say I start a new blog? About things I think are cool?

It will be a lot like this blog, only it will suck less. Because I'm older, and wiser, and taking Elementary German,

Yes, this is a great Idea. Look, I've practically convinced myself--I'm doing all the hard work for you! Now I'm hitting the publish button. Here I go. Its gonna happen. Okay, okay, for real-- 

[bearrugs]

After the Show

Good News, everyone! After spending almost two months locked up in what I believe to be Akon's basement, my blog is no longer being held hostage by exams, Lizzie Center's mind-numbingly meme-filled feed on my dashboard, Junk 2 Funk, or my determination to use my coupon for IHOP.

    Bearrugs Held Prisoner: It was too well-lit to be Kanye West's Beautiful Dark Twisted Basement.

.

This unfortunate bearrugs-napping happened shortly after I attempted an ironic New Years movie round-up post of the best movies of--Ha!--2009. Hohoho. Get it? Because last year was...2010. Not. 2009. Haha. Heeheeh. Heh.

...eh.

But let's be real. If you truly want to tell me that 2010 was a better year for movies than 2009, I have one thing to say to you.

  Hey, remember when this guy was in a really good movie?

  ...um, ha, yeah, neither do I. (Unrelated Side note: Screening The Mummy Returns, chez moi, Wednesday. Password is 'Sinbad'.)

.

In other news, rumors that my blog was kidnapped for over-reliance on gimmicky defiance of expectations and over-inclusion of The Rock are Completely Unfounded.

But the point is I'm back, and quite possibly better than ever. And to make up for lost blog, this post will be...

                      ~ E  X  X  X  T  R  A  A  A  A   ~    L O O O O O O O O N G ~ 

I was going to insert a picture of my friend Long Phan right here, but 1.) I didn't have permission from him, and 2.) All I could find was a picture of him playing the piano dressed as a Sunflower.

Actually, those both sound like great reasons to post a picture. 

           Long Phan is my hero. 

 Now, speaking of movies...I've been watching movies. 

Can you major in watching cruddy horror films? Because, let’s be serious, I’ve got an ace in that hole, hardcore. I can get FearNet on demand on Comcast, plus the SciFi channel. Add to that Netflix watch-instant and I’ve basically got an endless supply of carnage and bad taste. Example, the movie I’m watching right now--“Brainscan”? Something about an interactive videogame that blah blah blah and the  kid wakes up with somebody's foot in his fridge. To that end, its pretty effing messed up. But also? This is all happening...in 1994. That means a soundtrack featuring Primus, White Zombie, and, yes: The Butthole Surfers. It also means no caller I.D. and a giant Alice Cooper cut-out on aforementioned fridge. But these are the purest elements of plot. As Shakespeare once said, "A man loves the Crystal Pepsi in his youth that he cannot endure in his age."

Ignoring the fact that it was made by someone who clearly has no idea how video games work, suspension of disbelief can’t quite cover the appearance of  the character called “The Trickster”. Even in a decade as messed up as the nineties, anything that makes T. Ryder Smith come out of your television and dance around on your bed is the opposite of kosher. Dude is channelling David Bowie in Labrynth (mercifully sans-codpiece), filtered through Chuckie, and multiplied by the boogey-men (Boogey PERsons!) Disney Channel’s “Don’t Look Under the Bed”. Incidentally, Smith is the guy who does the voice of Sander Cohen in Bioshock, so...foreshadowing? Or just really, kind of...completely horrible and creepy? Let’s watch and decide.

           ...

Yeah, bright red combination mohwak-mullet says...the latter.

Oh, yup, and now he’s eating a raw chicken. Well, guess that settles that.

SPEAKING OF EATING THINGS, I made the most delicious sandwich the other day. It was so delicious, it made Usher appear out of no where, do the splits over Will.i.am's head, and yell "OMG" into a microphone on national television.

"OH MY GOSH...that is one delicious sandwich."

You wanna know about the sandwich? I'm gonna tell you about the sandwich!

                                                               BAM!

.

roasted onion bagel (toasted!)+gouda+cheddar+poached egg+sliced tomato+spicy mango chutney. 

Don't be afraid.

It's okay to feel the way you do. About this sandwich.

.

Most recently, my adventures took me to Port Wentworth, where every week my good friends Leslie, Alex and Hillary torment a nice woman who just wants to bring them to Jesus. I was fortunate to join them this week, and it was all around a very pleasant experience. 

  Keepin' the Sabbath Holy.

But before all that, the four of us had a splendid campfire in the rain. Alex and I roasted hot dogs, also in the rain, and appropriate innuendos to that end were made. We laughed, we cried, we watched 1960's Batman. I even met a Gypsy.

Only a small fraction of Romani people children will graduate from secondary school. Of these, an even smaller fraction will buy their Uggs at Wal*Mart. 

She told me legends of her homeland, of the Noble Tree-pipe and of Old Gregg. Then she told me that if I didn't finish this blog post in a rushed and awkward manner there would be eight more weeks of winter. So.

                             SHAZAM!

I'M OUT!

[bearrugs]

Adventure Pt. 1 

In Atlanta last year, MacKenzie confronts the dark spooky alley. 

[bearrugs]

Down with the sickness, up with the lights.

They say sarcasm is the last refuge of the weak, so I thought, being weak and all, now is as good a time as any to blog it up. What's been going on in my life for the past week--before, of course, before my untimely sickness--must be of your concern, since you've taken time out of your undoubtably busy schedule to come read about it, you darling people you.

For firsties, I've made and consumed a tremendous amount of Christmas cookies, because my holiday spirit is indomitable. Even my current fever and lack of energy cannot subdue my enthusiasm. Even a band of German terrorists taking the entire Nakatomi Plaza Hotel hostage cannot spoil my Christmas Spirit. This is because my Christmas Spirit is Bruce Willis in the movie Die Hard.

                Yippee-ki-yay, motherf***er.

.

Saturday last, Leslie and I decked the halls* and the tree to peak condition, and so my house has been sufficiently jolly. Night and day I am on holiday patrol, ensuring that all heads are dancing with visions of sugar plums,  that reindeer games are all-inclusive, and that, so help me God, there is a tree in the grand hotel AND one in the park as well. Merry is my word, and my word is LAW. 

*Actually, I only have one hall. But it is DECKED.

  I'm making a list. How often I check it is the least of your concerns.

.

However, as I made ready to hang stockings by the chimney with care, I came to an terrible and unforeseen obstacle.

I don't have a chimney. 

 I couldn't actually find a picture of my chimney-less living room. Please accept this penguin and leprechaun as a suitable alternative.

.

Well, this was a shocking development. No chimney? I circled the house once. Twice. Nothing. Huh. I could have sworn there was a chimney around here somewhere. Or maybe that was just the towering height of junk mail casting that looming shadow. Either way, i found myself at a loss. I couldn't possibly build a chimney by Christmas. If only I hadn't freed those carpenter gnomes from their eternal bondage. Oh well. It seemed as if I would have to find a new place from which to hang my stockings. 

Peter: Kenzie? What are you doing?

Me: Why, dear brother, I am thinking. And, therefore, I am. Rene Descartes. French Philosopher. Scientific Revolution.

Peter: I meant, what are you doing with that sock?

Me: Oh! Yes, of course. Why, I am hanging it with care. In hopes that St. Nicholas soon will be there. Here. Around this stocking, I mean.

Peter: No, I meant, what are you doing pinning that sock to my cat?

Missy: Meow, heavy on the implied discontent.

Me: Ah. Well, funny you should ask. You may not know this, Peter, but we have no chimney.

Peter: Woah, we don't!? (looks around wildly)

Me: No. I'm afraid that we are poor and wretched children without a chimney to our name. But fear not. Missy will be our savior this Christmas Ev'n. (holds up be-stocking'd cat)

Missy: I will kill you as you sleep.

Peter: ...yeah, I dunno if that is gonna work.

Me: What? Whyever not?

Peter: Well, its kind of obvious, isn't it?

Missy: (attempts to eviscerate stocking)

Me: ...I don't follow.

Peter: Well, just look at our cat.

Missy: (mewing of unfathomable rage)

Me: ...

Missy: (filing of claws to lethal sharpness)

Me: ...

 Missy: (launching of heat-seeking missiles)

Me: ...OH. 

Peter: Yeah. We've got three stockings...

Me: ...and only ONE pissed off cat!

Peter: Yeah, dude. They'd never fit.

Missy: (undisguised hatred)

Me: Well, shucks. I guess its back to the drawing board.

Peter: Guess so. Hey, is that cat assembling nuclear weaponry?

Me: What? No, no, no. Peter, Kim Jong Il isn't a cat, he's a dictator. Now run along, I've got gift-wrapping to do.

Peter: Whatever.

[bearrugs]

In the mood.

You feel that? I feel that. And I know you're feeling it too. When you're alone, or when you're with someone special, just thinking about it gets you all excited. You feel a warmth coming from that special place inside you, and when you got that itch, baby, you gotta scratch it. You wanna taste something sweet, light some candles, maybe even get a little blanket action. Aw yeah. You know what time it is.

IT IS CHRISTMAS TIME.

      The special place inside you is your heart. 

Before I go on, I'd like you to know that, due to a Tumblr server failure, I had to type all that festive, holiday-themed innuendo not once, but twice. TWICE I typed it. Twice I googled 'christmas cats'. I do so much for you. Such is my munificence. 

Resuming regularly scheduled programming, I am all about Christmas right now. 

"But bearrugs," I hear you saying, bless your fluttering little hearts, "'Tis not yet Thanksgiving! Surely it is too early yet for talk of Christmas!"

Oh, dearies, you melt me, you really do. But too early it most certainly is not. Why, sweet novices, it is well known that Thanksgiving is just practice for Christmas, so when December the twenty-fifth rolls around you don't wake and find yourself suddenly allergic to delicious food and good cheer. Such disasters must be nipped in the bud. Nipped, I say. In the bud, says I.

Pilgrims, as it turned out, were allergic to good cheer. That's why they didn't do Christmas. The Indians didn't have Christmas because they, as it turns out, were allergic to small pox.

"Aye, but Miss Bearr'gs," you say, having suddenly adopted a charming cockney accent, "hain't there some other 'olidays, wot some celebrate 'stead of Christmas?"

Now now, my cheeky sweetums, if you keep talking like that, I'll have to box your ears and send you back to the poorhouse without supper! Ahahaha. Yes, there are many other holidays in this jolly season, and all are splendid in their own way! Indeed, people are welcome to celebrate whatever they like. I just happen to like my winter festivities like I like my tic-tacs--white, sweet, and filled with pagan traditions adapted to celebrate the birth of the savior. 

                                ♪ Sol Invictus, Sol Invictus, ♪

                           ♪  How lovely is your headpiece! ♪

That, and I'm banned from spinning a dreidel in fifteen states.

The upshot is that Christmas is effectively my middle name right now. Bear-Christmas-rugs. I am like the Macy's Thanksgiving-Day Parade of Christmas, if the Macy's Thanksgiving-Day Parade wasn't kind of already the Macy's Thanksgiving-Day Parade of Christmas. Man, that was the worst analogy ever. That's how giddy I am about Christmas. I'm so alight with the spirit my very ability to write is crippled. Fortunately, I have a solution:

Preliminary Christmas-Cookie Trials™ begin this weekend. Set lasers to jolly. 

[bearrugs]

Who's Afraid of College Apps?

Not I. Certainly not I. Its not as if, after all, the essay I intend to use is about Ayn Rand and/or Avocados. It's not as if meta-writing makes me queasy, that talking about myself makes me chafe. 

What, what, what could go wrong?

   Oh, geeze, Taylor, I didn't see you there. You can't sneak up on my like that.

.

So if you're wondering, man, why is bearrugs such a sad-sack blogger, then you can do two things:

Get your judgemental caboose away from my totally chilled-out and mellow blog-fest.

Understand that some of us are trying to ensure a productive future.

In other news, who is this Fred guy? Besides the guy that Leslie is totally completely dating?

Woah, Leslie, did you not want me to announce that truth on the internet where everyone can see it? 

WELL THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T BE WRITING LOVE NOTES TO HIM ALL OVA YO' BLOG, GAL-PAL. WHAM. 

Anyway. Because I am a caring Best Friend,  I have taken it upon myself to investigate this so-called Fred (Known variously as Freddy-poo, Cornmuffin, "That Dude With The Beanie", and Spud) for the prevention of Potential Shenanigans. 

So okay, this post is a little late to the party. Or more like a lottle late to the party. I've, uh, been trying to do this for months. Variations on this theme have been swilling around in my drafts pile, not least awesome of which was to be a drama of Shakespearian proportions, a excerpt of which I will provide for your entertainment below:

.

In the waning hours of the evening, three friends (LESLIE, MACKENZIE and HEATHER) gather to bid farewell to one of their number. 

Chorus: In fair Savannah, where we lay our scene,

two friends, alike in dignity—

LESLIE: In dignity alike? I should think not.

I loves’t her true, but had my friend more sense

she would fall forward, ‘stead of on her back

for that knave Michael night and day!

MACKENZIE:                                        Oh, please,

You know as well as I she falls forward

oft as back, top-heavy as she is. More,

were we two blessed with such as Heather’s—ah,

say, comely pair, I dare to guess we’d spend

more time upon our backs, should we so choose…

LESLIE: And you the gladder for it be, you bawd.

.

Can you even stand it? That's iambic pentameter all the way, son.

But this format proved far too impractical for the saga at hand, still unfolding as it was, and the subject at hand, perhaps, not worthy of the prose. No offense, Freslie, but your love will have to launch at least 1000 ships before I go back to writing epics about you guys.

Now, I'm more or less familiar with Fred at this point, having been kept abreast to goings-on via the always reliable sources of Facebook Chat and Leslie. As such, I have it on good authority that Fred is "TOO DREAMY OMG!!!1one1!"

                    Good Authority.

.

Hell, I've even met the dude. Once. For, like, ten minutes. And he didn't really say anything. Maybe because the last few times I've spoken to him on facebook I've threatened to violently emasculate him. I don't really know for sure.

Ergo, I've come across a much more efficient method of judging a person I don't know personally...by stalking their Facebook profile, of course!

So, let's see what this Fred guy is about...

Hm, one of the first things I notice (skipping the profile picture of the dog, which I'll let speak for itself) is the little box underneath, wherein it reads "I'm into post-modern irony and thick black glasses."

Hm. Hm, hm, hm. Who do we know around these parts with thick back glasses and a penchant for irony?

                                           Golly, would you look at that. 

.

Next I notice that his Facebook status at the moment is in fact a romantic quote from the film Nightmare Before Christmas. Because of this I was disappointed when subsequently, the band Blink 182 failed to appear on his 'Music' list.

         "WE CAN LIVE LIKE JACK AND SALLY IF WE WANT"

.

What is on his music list: Modest Mouse, Beirut, Bob Marley, Kill Hannah, and more.

What is on his music list that I could probably make fun of if I worked at it: Bright Eyes, Linkin Park, The XX and Paramore.

What is on his music list that I can totally make fun of without even trying: Owl City.

Ha. Owl City. 

Moving on, His info section says that he is, and I quote,

Looking for: Friendship

                     Random play

Heh. Heh. "Random Play." That's an easy shot. Check it.

                                               I'd play that randomly.

.

On that note, I'd like to say to my viewers, Goodnight and Goodluck.

And to Fred? I'd like to say, I'm watching you. 

             Good luck sleeping tonight, compadre. 

[bearrugs]

Forks and Knives (La Fête) by Beirut

Uptown, these streets in a calming way, and outside it's warm as a bed with a mate.

[bearrugs]

It Must Be Wednesday.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, so you all in my Sociology class know what's up. Jeff gets invited out of his 7th period to come to our class and talk about himself for a period of time that I estimate to be between 20 minutes and eternity. And I'm over in the corner snarking it up with Alex because somebody has to. 

   "That was the most narcissistic BS I ever heard, but it wasn't half bad!"

  "You're right. It was narcissistic BS and..it was ALL BAD!" (Hya hyuck hyuck)

But then I'm leaving the room, Mr. Pynn beckons me aside for a moment.

"MacKenzie, are you attracted to Jeff?"

"...What?" says I, unable at that moment,to imagine a more inappropriate question for teacher to ask a student.

"Like, do you find him attractive? Would, like, want to hook up with him?"

Until this exchange I hadn't fully understood the meaning of the word flabbergasted. It sounded silly, more like the sound a plunger would make than an emotion that a human might feel. Well, consider my gast flabbered. I'm not sure what answer I could possibly give beyond the one I did, which in addition to obvious answer of "No" also included such provisions as "not even when I'm drunk" and "I'd strongly prefer to roll around nude in a field of Ferocactus glaucescen."

                                      It's name is Rachel. 

Pynn just raised his eyebrows and looked smug. Have you seen the shape of his head? I thought instantly of crushing gumdrops with my fist. 

Besides being accused of being smitten with Jeff by my social science teacher, I have in the past few days been accused of being irresponsible, of dealing pot, of being an insensitive jerk, of being militant, and of being obsessed with porn. And that's by people who like me. 

So what's up with today? Is it bad karma? Was this for eating all that chicken when I was in Providence? Or do people really thing I'm a militant nympho pot-dealing jerk?

Or is it just Wednesday?

Is it just that its Wednesday night, that I had a bad day, and that I need to go to bed?

I just shook my magic 8 ball. And it said, "Get some sleep, beyotch. Tomorrow will be better."

It will, guys. Magic 8 ball never lies. That's why it gets paid the big bucks.

[bearrugs]

i slept in the heart of the swallows breast

in the tire-swing marina

"who do you love best?"

what is the name that I drank in the dark

whose syllables traipsed through the silt

morning start

who was the pit of my hunger my thirst

i am a tulip, bloom

ing in reverse

[bearrugs]

Non-creepy physical contact.

So let's not talk about school.

Let's talk about massages. Non-seedy massages, I mean. I'm a classy lady.

Examples of non-seedy massage? PLENTIFUL. For instance:

You know who gives good hand massages?  Y'all already know. You a real SAA student, I ain' even gotta tell you. Lizzie R. I don't know if its witchcraft and devil's work or just because she's totally part pixie, but that girl gives a mad hand-massage. 

It's like, one second you don't even know what a hand massage is and the next you've melted into a puddle of relaxation in the middle of Physics and you look over and tiny magical uniforms are prancing delicately over your hand and leaving trails of rainbows and magic. OH WAIT. That's just Lizzie. 

And Leslie?

Leslie has been holding out on me BIG TIME. I've known Leslie for, what, four, five years? At least. You think during that time she might have ONCE mentioned that she was trained by Buddhist monks in the ancient arts of back massage? That she's a black-belt in massage-fu? That Time Magazine called her "the premier masseuse of our century"? That Barack Obama awarded her a medal for Outstanding Contributions to American Massage?

Answer: NO. Apparently she didn't think it was a "relevant detail".

NEWSFLASH: THIS DETAIL IS COMPLETELY RELEVANT.

God, those Gypsies can be cagey.

Anyway, I finally figured out the truth and, upon exploiting it for my own benefit, I have determined scientifically that life before this was a lie.

Now, just because I posted this doesn't mean you can just waltz up to Lizzie or Leslie and just EXPECT a massage. But if you're not a creep and you ask VERY nicely, you might just get to enjoy their wicked massage powers.

And don't go telling everybody, either. My even writing this has probably cost me several valuable massage points, so don't mess this up. You guys don't even know the sacrifices I make for you. I got a good thing goin' here. DON'T. MESS. THIS. UP.

[bearrugs]

Dinner and a Show.

+

[bearrugs]

Friends don't let friends.

Me: Guys, I want someone to talk me out of buying Marvel SILLY BANDZ before I do something I'll regret.

Me: Everyone keeps telling me I don't need Wolverine around my wrist.

Me:...Why don't I believe them?

Toni: Uh, because wolverine is awsome!! GET THE BANDZ you WILL regret not buying them!

Heather: Real friends dont let real friends buy silly bands...Now, drugs on the other hand....but no silly bands.

Deb: DO NOT BUY SILLY BANDZ! You are much too savvy to be walking around with those on!

Toni: I say get 'em. Who DOESN'T want wolverine around their wrist?

Toni: ITS BETTER THAN DRUGS.

[bearrugs]

The Moon of Hungry Ghosts

Every sleeping person is alike. Every insomniac is awake in their own way. 

Tonight I'm awake because of, among other things, the moon. It's full, and thinks it's real fricking funny shining its bright ass through my window while I'm trying to sleep. Okay, moon, you win. I'm up. And you got me to say ass on the internet. Twice. If this is because I haven't blogged in awhile, then you should know I had important business to attend to. 

                     Losing at Solitaire is Important Business (tm).

Lucky for you, one man's inability to adhere to healthy sleeping patterns is another man's informative blog post.

Besides being a pushy jerk, the full moon of July marks the Chinese Ghost Festival, which somehow relates to both Buddhism and Taoism in a way that not even wikipedia was able to make me understand. The upshot of this festival is basically the reverse of Mexicos's Dia de los Muertos: Instead of the living visiting the dead, the dead come back to visit us. Even though I don't fully understand how Buddhism and ghosts mesh, even I get that this is Kinda a Big Deal. Heaven, Hell, outer realms, whatever--they'll let any dead guys into this shindig. People leave food out for the ghosts, bring them gifts, even reserve front row seats for them at concerts.

Now I may not know Buddhism, but I know what I like. And I like parties where there are ghosts and a bunch of unattended food. Personally, I can't really think of any ghosts who I'm scheduled to feed this evening, but if any of you are hanging around, there's some pie out on the counter that you're welcome to. Legit, if you all don't eat it, Peter and his horde will.

Leave the lights on, fellow insomniacs. Ghosts get the munchies too.

[bearrugs]

Giant Shark of Karma.

[bearrugs]

'Give Blood' by Rain Machine.

If you haven't, check this guy's beard in the video.  Too Faboo.