lost in space

better than a diva cup

2007-01-27T13:51:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas!

I am your gift. My name is Steve. You are probably super excited to have me as a ceramic figurine (well, some say that I’m too large to be considered a figurine. I suppose they are right. However, I don’t think “ornament” is the appropriate term to describe me. Neither is “statue.” But then, what am I? What a dilemma! Was there ever a ceramic ________ with such an identity crisis? Why must the English language oppress me so? Oh look! A dust particle floating through the air…).

Goodness me! Where was I? Ah yes. As you can see, I am adorable. I’ve got that “I know that I did something naughty but I’m too cute to actually get in trouble” thing going on. Believe me, it’s not as easy as it looks. But that’s another story. Maybe I’ll tell you about it on one of those rainy nights when we’ve nothing to do but curl up in front of a fire, chase shadows and lick ourselves. Oh. You’re not into that sort of stuff? Sorry, I keep forgetting that cats and humans (well, most humans) have certain cultural differences. I really don’t understand these differences; in fact, I think human culture is quite silly, but c’est la vie. I suppose that makes me ethnocentric. But at least I’m aware of it. That’s something, isn’t it? I mean, we all have flaws, right? Right?

Before I go any further, there is something that you need to know. I’ve got a gambling problem. It all started when I just a young cat, practically still a kitten. I thought I was invincible and I let my youth and confidence fool even me. But, oh, how quickly the mighty fall.

To make a long story short, I started losing. Of course, it didn’t help that I don’t have opposable thumbs and couldn’t hold my cards. But I needed to keep playing, so I borrowed money from some bad cats (actually, they were loan sharks, but you get the picture). Yet, I still couldn’t win.

I couldn’t pay back the loans and now I’m on the run. Before you take me in, you must know that doing so will put your life in danger. I’ve only got two or three lives left, so I need some serious protection (along with an owner who will read to me every night and scratch under my chin just the way I like it).

Sounds of snoring mingled with an occasional purrrrr. And suddenly…

No! Trix are for kids! The canned ham isn’t trustworthy…. Dear me! I must have dozed off! Sorry, but I nap. A lot. What else would you expect from a cat? Get it, “cat naps.” You know, because I’m a…never mind.

Would you look at the time! I had better finish this letter and get wrapped so that you can open me. I’ll be seeing you soon, owner!

Merry Christmas,

(Steve)

imagine yourself in a mercury now

2006-08-23T11:21:00.000-04:00

Am I breathing too loud?

This thing makes me breath too loud.

Or is it just in my head? I mean, could it be the case that I can hear my breathing louder because of the vibrations it causes in my head? I think so. Vibrations. Not sound.

But I don’t care.

Who cares if she can hear me? This is her job. She hears this loud, clicky breathing all the time. But she can’t hear me. Not more than usual.

This stuff doesn’t affect me.

It doesn’t.

But the stupid mask makes a clicky sound when I breathe. I could breathe through my mouth…

…but that would defeat the purpose of the gas. And soon my mouth will be preoccupied with other matters.

"When do you go back to school?"

"Friday. I move back Friday."

Is that my voice? It doesn’t sound like me. I don’t recall forming the words. Don’t remember giving my mouth permission to act.

"Classes start a week from today."

I suppose that was me too.

"What grade are you in now."

Lady, don’t you realize that I’m barely lucid? I have no control over my speaking. I know that you’re just trying to make polite conversation, but I have been rendered loopy. I’m just a log, floating down the river, cruising toward the saw mill. It’s a river of not-water. That’s the best way I can describe it. No choppy waves, no cold spray. Just soft, swirly cotton. Cotton candy. This gas tastes sweet. SMELLS sweet. It confuses my senses. Is sweet good? Antifreeze is sweet. That’s what people say. Does anyone actually know what antifreeze tastes like? I suppose it’s just one of life’s great mysteries.

"I’ll be junior. In the fall."

There’s that voice again, that strange voice you only hear when you watch a home video of yourself. Did I just say, "I’ll be junior"? I am caveman. Me no talk right.

Memory. All alone in the moonlight…

That’s the radio. There’s something about dentist office music that makes it only wonderful when you’re gassed up and have a bunch of shit poking around your mouth. Causes relaxation in the dentist chair, tension and anxiety anywhere else.

I know this song. Cats. It’s from the musical about cats. Now there’s an idea someone could only conceive while gassed up in a dentist chair.

Here comes the dentist. He preps me for the shot. He sticks that numbing goop on the area he intends to stick with the needle. Is that really necessary? Numbing my mouth in order to further numb my mouth? Well, he is the doctor. And it’s not really goop. That’s an unfair description. Sorry, numbing agent. I did not mean to misrepresent you.

They should make a musical about getting a filling. Or getting a filling repaired. That’s what is about to happen to me. I shouldn’t split hairs. But I don’t think Andrew Lloyd Webber would write it. And there shouldn’t be any songs.

I should write it. Right now. They should plug a recording device into my head and record my thoughts because I’ll never remember them when I cross back over into the land of the living.

When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too.

But is it still a memory if I don’t remember it?

I think I heard the radio voice say this was Barbara Streisand. Is she even still a singer? I think the last time she made an album was, like, during the Reagan administration. Did I just say "album?" I guess they still called them "albums" back then. She’s an actress too. But she hasn’t made a movie in years either. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a movie that she’s in. Didn’t she win an Academy Award in the sixties or something? I think she sang a song about memories for that movie she did with Robert Redford. Wasn’t she a communist in that movie? The Way We Were. That’s it. I never saw it. But I think she played a communist. I read about it somewhere.

In goes the needle. I’m not sure if I can actually feel it. It’s possible that it could be my imagination. Hmm. I don’t remember opening my mouth for the dentist to stick in the needle. I suppose I must have at some point.

It’s still in there, the needle. What’s going on? Is he pumping several liters of Novocain in my cheek? I think that’s what they use. But I get my information from movies. And who knows where movies get their information from. Is morphine something doctors still use? Dentists probably don’t use it, but real doctors might.

They use it in World War II movies—and by "they," I mean Tom Hanks and other movie stars who are too famous to die half-way through the movie. At the end, no one ever bothers giving morphine to the dying people. At the end, there’s always too much else going on. No wonder Tom Hanks takes such a hefty check per film.

Vicodin is the big pain killer used today. I’ve never used it. I got a bottle of it when I had my wisdom teeth pulled, but I never needed it. Just ibuprofen for me, thanks.

So I’m pretty sure they don’t use morphine anymore. Or ether. I’m nearly positive ether went out of vogue years ago.

I can’t move my fingers.

Oh. Never mind. I can.

Inhale. Click. Inhale. Click.

This stuff really affects me.

Now the left side of my mouth is starting to feel engorged. It’s supposed to feel numb. Well, it is numb, but you’d think that it would feel like it’s not even there. It just feels huge. And numb. But mostly huge.

Oh great. She’s talking to me again.

"So, what do you plan to do after school?"

I push "play." My canned response kicks in. I think my mouth has temporarily relocated to my sternum. But I have no way of knowing whether that move is temporary or not. So, to be safe, I’d better say that my mouth has relocated indefinitely.

"Well, I was an intern at a TV station this summer. So maybe something in broadcasting."

Going to the chapel and we’re gonna get ma-a-arried…

New song, I notice.

"Did you like working there?"

Don’t say "it was a good experience." Don’t you dare say it. I hate it. It’s so passive. An experience is something that happens to someone. For instance, when you experience a life changing event, something happens to you. It affects you. It acts on you. You do nothing but sit and be changed, affected, acted upon. Experience is an appropriate description of what is happening to me right now. My internship was not merely an experience. Don’t say "experience."

"It was a really good experience."

My chest-mouth has achieved complete emancipation.

You know those times when you sort of go outside of yourself, where you helplessly witness yourself do or say something incredibly foolish or amazing or unexpected. An out-of-body experience. That’s not happening now. But I think it helps to understand that concept. Right now, I’m having an in-body experience. I suppose it’s the complete opposite of an out-of-body experience, but the sensation’s essentially the same. I feel like I shrunk and my whole body is up in the top of my head. My eyes act as giant windows, so I can still see everything from my point of view, but I can’t control anything. Well, I can, but I keep forgetting I have that ability.

Drilling time.

I understand the purpose of the drill. But why all the other equipment? The strange blue light-emitting radar gun, the...well, that’s the only one I’m wondering about. What do you know—dentistry has peaked my curiosity.

The dentist suddenly stops. The hygienist quickly reaches for something from a nearby cupboard. Why the halt? Did they make a mistake? Is that blood streaming out of the corner of my mouth?

Nope. Just drool.

This is transcendence. Lying here, nerve gas flowing through my nostrils, a buzzing drill grinding at my teeth, occasionally drowning out the easy-listening music, my thoughts are clear, even sparkling. At least it seems that way. What should distract, is a catalyst. My mind is a racquetball court where a bevy of bouncy ball-shaped thoughts and ideas have been freed.

I can almost understand why creative-types use certain drugs. It unleases some beautiful thoughts. At least, they seem beautiful. Perhaps they are not real. I concede, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m making a comparison between apples and question-mark-shaped oranges. And they might not even be oranges.

What I do know: this, what’s happening right now, seems real and imaginary at the same time. This loopy lucidity is overwhelming and calming all at once. I’m experiencing—yes, experiencing—sensory overload and tedium in the same instant. In this moment, two parallel and opposite realities have crossed. That’s a contradictory statement; if X is parallel to Y, by definition, they cannot cross. But it’s happening. This conservative apocalypse could not wake even the lightest sleeper. The world is beginning and ending, but the only event that’s really happening is the second-to-last tooth on the top left side of my mouth is being drilled and filled.

This has happened before. This isn’t my first filling. I brush at least twice daily, but some things are out of my control. And yet, I can barely recall the loveliness of having my teeth drilled. I suppose the same forgetfulness will occur once I step out of this dentist office today. What a terrible fate. Worse yet, to know such a terrible fate awaits oneself.

I must write all of this down as soon as I have access to a paper or computer. Some of it will inevitably evaporate too quickly, but I trust that I can retain most of it for a sufficient period of time. Like a dream, I can remember it long enough to quickly record the strongest details.

Inhale. Click. Type. Click.

Confession time. It has been hours since my dentist appointment ended. I tried to record everything, but most of the preceding writing has been a futile attempt at recollection. The beginning is largely accurate. Beginnings tend to be that way.

Just home from the appointment, still numb and mildly nauseated, I grabbed my computer and began typing. But details fade faster than I can type. Then I made a fatal error: I took a break.

What started as a quick online expedition—ironically, looking up the lyrics of Memory because I couldn’t remember them—turned into checking my e-mail, reading 100 pages of Zadie Smith’s White Teeth (without noting the titular connection until now), going to the local fair to watch my siblings show their hogs, eating a burger and fries, reading the newspaper. I’m the silly child who thoughtlessly let go of my balloon, only to fruitlessly run after it. Now, it’s just a speck among the clouds. I can barely see it. It had an amusing picture on it. I don’t recall what the picture looked like—a cat, perhaps?—but I remember that it was there, stretched slightly too much, but still recognizable.

There is a room that stores lost memories. This room is the same place where missing socks and the carbonation from flat soda-pop goes. If you love fizz and lint and balloons with amusing, but forgotten pictures, then this might be your ideal room.

I do not enjoy having my teeth drilled. Who does? It is not pleasant. As a child, I dreaded my regular check-ups at the dentist. The fluoride treatments made me gag; the fear of cavities over-shadowed the prospect of receiving a complimentary toothbrush (I always chose the blue one. Still do).

Bittersweet. I don’t often use that word. But it aptly describes my visit to the dentist today. I enjoyed the visit. The drilling I could do without, but the rest was lovely in a strange sort of way.

Actually, I could not do will out the drilling. It was an integral part of the event—not to mention the whole point of the visit.

Will I look forward to future tooth fillings? No! But if it happen, I’ll enjoy it. And then forget. But today, I did something different. Even if the memory is gone, I know it existed. I captured a portion of it. And that portion will always be mine. I’ll share it with you, if you’d like. But the rest…the rest is floating away to that room. That room full of fizz and lint and too-full balloons.

what would YOU do for a klondike bar?

2006-08-10T12:37:00.000-04:00

Is there a casket behind me? That's a real question. I'm being sincerely inquisitive. This isn't one of those situations where I've already seen what's behind me. You know, where I see something that I don't expect and can't explain its presence. Where I maybe do a double-take and then stare away, mouth slightly open, perplexed -- me, not my mouth. I'm the one who's perplexed. Except in this case, I'm not perplexed because of anything I've seen, because I haven't seen anything. Well, anything unexpected. Nope. If there's a casket behind me, I haven't seen it.

Okay. This is going to sound...strange. Unusual. For me anyway. If you don't know me, please don't judge me solely based on what I'm about to say. The reason I asked if there was a casket behind me, was that...I could...sense...it.

The casket.

There.

I can't explain it. But the thought suddenly came in my head. No -- it was more like a fact. It was suddenly true, like every other fact in my head. Grass is green, two plus two equals four, and there is a casket behind me right now. I want to reject this new fact. I have no reason to believe it. But I can't help it. It...somehow just feels undeniably true. I don't even need to turn around.

I know it's there.

you'll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent

2006-06-07T22:37:00.000-04:00

I'm home. But I think you already knew that. I did.

In case you don't care about me enough to ask, my summer activities include an internship at a TV news station. So far, so good.

Today, I finally discovered the bathroom. Read this explanation:

I usually go out with a reporter during the day, so I'm not even at the station that often. Thus, I was unaware as to the location of the restroom after my first few days. By that time I didn't want to ask for directions, partly because I felt I should have known the locale. But mostly, I craved a challenge.

And I showed that bathroom who's boss. Me! I'm the boss of that bathroom! As I urinated, I taunted, "How you like that, bitch?" The bathroom said nothing in response. Perfect submission.

Actually, I pissed in silence. But while I was washing my hands, I said, "Hey. I'm doing okay. How 'bout you?"

This was a response to a greeting from the entering webmaster.

Bathroom conversation is uncomfortable for me. Good thing I was only washing my hands. Otherwise, things could have gotten messy.

it takes a tough man to make a tender chicken

2006-05-20T01:23:00.000-04:00

Last night in the Grove until August 20-something. But this is not one of those sentimental "year in review" entries. No sir.

This morning, while I was packing in my dorm, I turned toward the door to witness a chipmonk scurry out of a corner of my room, squeeze under my closed door, and high-tail it down the hall.

I screamed a little. Well, it was a more a manly yelp.

How a chipmonk got into my third-floor room, I do not know. But it freaked me out--a little.

But the story doesn't end there...

Tonight, after baccalaureate (which featured a performance by the Touring Choir), my dear friend Kara was helping me load boxes etc. into my car. While I was grabbing the last item, she was outside, waiting for me.

Through the glass door, she saw the chipmonk. She wanted to open the door to let it outside, but, as she doesn't possess a male student ID, she couldn't.

As I rounded the corner, the rodent zoomed under a closet door. But all I saw was Kara's face, amazed, horrified, shocked, listless (and yes, I'm exaggerating--a little).

I don't think this is a normal college experience.

Thank goodness.

Oh. And to validate the title, Bon Appétit was sneaky this evening and brought out chicken patties at the very end of dinner.

good to the last drop

2006-05-14T02:27:00.000-04:00

I am a tour guide.

I am a tour guide who led a tour on Friday afternoon. A very LARGE tour. Honestly, this may have been the largest tour I have ever led. There were...I don't know...A LOT OF FREAKING PEOPLE.

The problem with large tours is that at certain parts of the tour, it is impossible to be seen and heard by everyone. The back hallway of the PLC (Physical Learning Center, for all you non-grovers) is the most awkward section of the tour. The halls are narrow and twisty; the acoustics are strange; and the climate is always mildly to severely tropical.

Moving along...

After I pointed out the pools to my tour, one of the perspective students looked through the window at the competitive pool and asked, "What's the volume?"

To me, this seemed an odd question. Hardly the oddest I've ever been asked, but odd nonetheless.

Of course, I have no idea what the volume of the competitive pool is. I don't even know its length. So, I reverted to my automated "I have no idea" answer.

I replied, "I really couldn't say. Well, not with any confidence. Um...I really couldn't say." Only my actual response was far more wordy and awkward.

The lad appeared perplexed. Surely he didn't expect me to know the volume of the freaking pool. Plus, he didn't specify--metric or English? I shrugged it off and continued with the tour.

After taking a few more steps, the boy's father said to me, "Did you hear him right?"

I undoubtedly did a horrible of job of hiding my "I have no idea what's going on" face.

Then the boy clarified, "I asked, 'Should we follow you?'"

Oh!

That makes more sense.

It was a truly wonderful moment. I realized that this kid on my tour asked if he should follow me and I answered, "I really couldn't say." The awkwardness of the situation was simply beautiful. Nay. It wasn't awkward. It was...one of those moments that is unexpected and barely noteworthy. But it kind of made my day.

After I appreciated this moment, I thought, "I'm the freaking tour guide! Of course you should follow me. So why did you ask? Do you not understand the purpose of my job?"

And then I finished the tour. In the rain. But it wasn't raining. So, I just finished the tour. In the rain.

reach out and touch someone

2006-05-04T00:05:00.000-04:00

Look at the bottom of this (or any) post. Specifically, notice the word "comments" preceded by a number. In case you are unfamiliar with sgolb, this signifies how many comments I have received regarding this posting. A lovely feature, no? For our purposes, let's call this feature the "comment quantity indicator."

However, after someone makes 1 (one) comment, the aforementioned "comment quantity indicator" reads "1 comments." In case you are a moron, that is poor grammar. And it kind of bothers me.

The word "comments" refuses to change, even for the sake of proper grammar.

If there were any other amount of comments, it wouldn't matter that this word remained in plural form. But on this golb, "1" is a popular number when it comes to quantity of comments.

Please! I'm begging you! If you comment once, comment again. If you see a lone comment on my golb, please add to it. Or don't comment at all.

The last option will make me feel like no one reads my golb. Ignore it.

Of course, I could comment on my own golb. I've done it before, so it's not unprecedented. But commenting on one's golb is like reggolb masterbation.

Show me love, my peeps. And help me combat plurals that refuse to become singular when appropriate.

when you care enough to send the very best

2006-04-28T19:15:00.000-04:00

Today in Civ. Arts, the class filled out teacher evaluation forms. As always, the professor asked if any student was willing to bring the evaluations to Dr. Sparks's office after class.

I have never been "that kid." I realize that the term "that kid" is over-used and refers to a grand assortment of individuals. But in this instance, I use it in lieu of "the student who brings the teacher evaluations to Dr. Sparks's office."

I have nothing against "that kid." I do not view him/her as a "front-row Jane." To me, such a person is merely being helpful.

Yet, I have always possessed a strong resistance to becoming "that kid." I'm not sure why. I do plenty of other things that catagorize me as some form of "that kid."

But today, my world flipped upside-down. I volunteered to bring the evaluations to Dr. Sparks's office. The moment Dr. Carter asked someone to be the evaluation delivery boy, I forsaw myself volunteering.

The situation was practically providential; my following class is held within feet of Dr. Sparks's office. I was meant to bring these evaluations to HAL 301. I was meant to be "that kid" today.

I'm still trying to digest this event. If someone had said to me a week ago, "You're going to deliver teacher evaluations to Dr. Sparks's office someday." I would have responded, "That's crazy talk! Your face is in your pants!" I suppose that it's days like today that teach us to expect the unexpected, to find meaning in seemingly meaningless events.

Still, I don't think I'll ever deliver teacher evaluations again. How could I rob my fellow student of such an opportunity? All students should experience being "that kid," at least once.

cameron

2006-04-23T00:51:00.000-04:00

My name is Cameron. I have a cat named Lilly. She is black and has two white feet. My sister, Janie, picked the name Lilly. I wanted to name the cat a cool name. I wanted to name her Jumper. My mom said it was Janie's turn to pick the name because I picked the name for our gerbull. I named him Fang, but he died before Christmas.

My dad picks up trash from other houses. He let me ride with him. My mom is a masoos. She went to a special school to be that.

I am 11 years old and I am in third grade. I was in third grade last year too. Don't think I am dumb, because I'm not. I like third grade a lot. I have Miss G. now. I had Mrs. Kamp last year. I like Mrs. Kamp better but I like Miss G. too.

Second grade was not fun but third grade is fun. I want to stay in third grade more time. Miss G. said I have to go to forth grade next year. I will do bad on my work so that they let me stay in third grade. I did bad last year so I could stay in third grade and they let me stay.

Brad was my friend last year but he is in forth grade now so he we stopped being friends. I play soccer with him at resess but I never went to his house this year.

I want to stay in third grade because we read short books and I don't like chapter books. Also, in third grade we make clay whales in art.

I don't want to go to forth grade because I don't want to read chapter books or do long divishun.

My sister called me dumb but I don't care because she has braces.

In gym I can run faster than everybody, but not Tim. He is very fast. Last year, lots of people were faster than me.

I think staying in third grade is good because forth grade is harder. I want to be in third grade next year and have Mrs. Kamp.

if it tasted any fresher it would still be on a tree

2006-04-01T00:56:00.000-05:00

Quiz time. Put your books away class.

Q1) What is on my bathroom floor right now?
Q2) How did I discover it?

Give up?

Alright, alright. Here are the answers:

A1) Vomit
A2) I stepped in it

If you recall correctly, a similar situation occurred about four weeks ago. However, this time, the barf was on the floor by the sinks.

It's not that I'm totally oblivious to body fluids (is puke a body fluid?) on the bathroom floor. But this puke was virtually clear. There were chunks, but they were hardly noticeable to the unaware bathroom user, such as myself.

So here's a message to whoever threw-up in my bathroom: Come on, A-hole! Clean up your damn mess! Or at least have the decency to barf something with a little color so that it's more visable!

I realize that the preceding story was not very pleasant. So here's something that I read recently. I think it counter-acts the sour taste of my vomit tale:

"Simple glass reflects the beam of light that shines on it only once. A precious gem, in contrast, reflects different sparks with its many facets; a single beam of light that shines on it is reflected and is returned to us greatly enhanced." -F. Meltzer

Yeah. This quote doesn't exactly relate to vomit. But I think it's purdy.

Final question: If there was a point to this entry, what would it be?

Answer: Jesse doesn't like stepping in puke. So don't throw-up in his bathroom!

it sits as lightly on a heavy meal as it does on your conscience

2006-03-27T23:17:00.000-05:00

First of all, I realize that I'm breaking the 1st Commandment (not THOSE commandments). But I want to share some little treats I just found while researching for a paper.

The following are actual slogans of actual products (although, not all of them still exist):

Almaden--Grapes, like children, need love and affection (children need love and affection?)

American Home Magazine--American Home has an edifice complex (simply punderful)

Babycham--I'd love a Babycham (I don't know what Babycham is, but I have a feeling that it's a sin to eat one)

Warner's Body Bra--Do you want a shape like a bra? Or do you want a shape like a woman? (The Body Bra: For the woman who is 100% boob)

Bonded Tobacco Company--Making smoking 'safe' for smokers (the fact that the word "safe" is in quotes sure makes me crave Bonded Tobacco. No thanks. I'll take the Babycham)

Durex Condoms--Crowdstopper (I never thought of it that way...)

L & M Cigarettes--Just what the doctor ordered (if that's the case, I'd consider changing physicians)

Marcus Valley Pickles--At last. A pickle that bites back (about time!)

Mum Deodorant--Has your girl turned into a refrigerator? If her air is arctic, try ... MUM (actually, the refrigerator and I broke-up. I'm seeing a microwave now)

Shell Oil Company--A child is an island of curiosity surrounded by a sea of question marks (am I missing something?)

Volkswagen--While in Europe, pick up an ugly European (nothing I say can make this funnier)

Wagon Wheels--It's so big, you've gotta grin to get it in (is there a clean way to interpret this? Because heaven knows I can't think of it)

You're welcome.

wtf: words that flummox

2006-03-27T01:03:00.000-05:00

Today, I thought to myself, "I'm passive-aggressive." But then I realized that I wasn't sure I knew what the term "passive-aggressive" meant. It's one of those terms that I hear others use, but I've never been certain about its meaning. And I've never asked anyone what it means because I felt that its something I should inherently know, like the fact that Elton John is gay.

But today, I took action; I did something about my suspected vocabularic ignorance: I looked up a word.

My findings? I'm not going to provide the definition. You can look it up yourself. I won't rob you of that experience. Dictionary.com is only a click away.

The repercussions of my findings? Indeed, I now feel confident in asserting that I am passive-aggressive. I'm so damn passive-aggressive that I wouldn't be surprised if lasers shot out of my eyes.

I was particularly passive-aggressive toward a particular someone today. I won't reveal the identity of this person. Hey, I'm passive-aggressive. What did you expect?

My passive-aggressive traits include loud, heavy sighing, rapid tapping of my fingers or feet, and contemptuous glares that I maintain just long enough to assure that the target of my passive-aggressiveness notices. I don't even have to glare at the person. I just fix my gaze on an object or a spot on the wall. That's all it takes. My point becomes clear. It's like I've got a Ph.D. in passive-aggressiveness. And I just found out what it means. Talk about natural talent...

Thank you, the Internet, for helping me discover something about myself.

Actually, this isn't the first time the internet assisted me in finding the meaning of a term which I felt too embarassed to ask of my fellow man.

For years, I did not know what "WTF" meant. Sad, but true.

I had ideas, but I was not certain. And then, one day, I realized that I had a bevy of information regarding crude terms at my fingertips: the internet!

No more are the days where I hear someone say, "He ate the cracker after you did what to it? WTF!" and shamefully and solitarily ponder the meaning. I proudly assert that I know what "passive-aggressive" means; I know what "WTF" stands for.

That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

WTF

(Sigh)

(Tap, tap, tap)

shampoo: part deux

2006-03-26T01:26:00.000-05:00

Well, I suppose it this is actually the third installment in my shampoo saga. No. I deem the first posting a prologue.

Moving on...

Yesterday, less than an hour after my last posting, the shampoo was back. Not my shampoo, but the shampoo that might be mine, but probably isn't; the shampoo that I borrowed until it disappeared. So I used it.

Of course, in the morning, it was gone again. So I stuck my hand in the air, announcing, "I must end this." So I did.

Did I go to 1992 Wal-Mart? No. I stopped in at Rite-Aid, where I purchased a bottle of Suave Waterfall Mist. If you notice that my hair smells like a waterfall, now you'll know why.

Thus ends the shampoo saga of '06.

The final performance of The Pirates of Penzance ended only a few hours ago. I went to the cast party at the Dixons'. But now I'm in my room, feeling some post-show blues. Nothing extreme. Just a little theatre withdrawal. There aren't many other activities that build to a climax--

--and then suddenly end.

Hmmm. Perhaps I should rephrase that. Nah. Too sleepy.

Anyway, I'd now like to give an official "holla" to some old friends. Today, I saw Diana, Chelsea, JZ, Trey, Rainy, and Reagan. In each case, the reunions were brief (or like one of those "saw-you-across-the-room-but-wasn't-able-to-say-hi" situations), but it's always nice to see people from the past.

Gosh. The word "climax" bothers me, regardless of its use. Neither am I a huge fan of self-referential blogs. But both elements shall remain.

Now that I think about it, I pull a lot of that "self-referential" stuff.

If I weren't me, I might not like myself very much. But I am. So I do.

One last Pirates thought: I must admit that I am somewhat surprised that I had so much fun in this show. I'm sure others noticed my occational (and poorly disguised) negative attitude toward the show in general. There were a number of reasons contributing to these feelings. In fact, some of these feelings were unrelated to the production. But related or not, I shall discuss none of them. Basically, I've let myself focus on the "half empty" elements of life. But, thankfully, all ended well--Pirates was some of the most enjoyable work I've ever done on the stage.

Lessons learned recently: life's a cup. It's rarely filled to the brim, but it's never completely dry. Sometimes it contains sour milk, but that makes the cold water that much more refreshing. Sipping is preferrable to chugging, but often requires more self-control than I am capable of displaying. And when I spill the contents all over the dinner table, the best thing to do is grab some paper towels, clean-up, and pour myself a fresh glass.

Drink up, me hearties! Yo ho!

shampoo update

2006-03-25T01:18:00.000-05:00

Since last week, I've "borrowed" the shampoo that might not belong to me. Unless it IS mine, in which case I've simply used it. Please don't develop a poor opinion of me based on my likely shampoo stealing. It's just that I haven't had time to go to Wal-Mart. Plus, it makes me feel sneaky, like I have a cameo on Alias or something. And I don't have the opportunity to be sneaky very often.

Anyway, the other day (I think it was on Thursday), the shampoo I had been borrowing was gone. The way I see it, one of three things happened:

Someone else stole this shampoo bottle, perhaps the same perpetrator who pinched mine.
The actual owner of the shampoo realized that he was being generous without his knowledge. I don't know how this could have occurred, because I was super sneaky. Really.
Something that is too exciting to be true. Maybe something involving the cleaning ladies. I just can't commit to a single specific story. That might be sad. I can't commit regarding that either.

If I were a gambling man, I'd put my money on theory #2. If I'm right, then I suppose I've been caught. But I'm not a gambling man. So I'll just assume that everything is A-OK. And until I make Wal-Mart run, I'll just continue "borrowing" from my hall-mates.

two things perhaps

2006-03-18T01:09:00.000-05:00

First item on the agenda, I've been robbed!

On Thursady night, when I was brushing my teeth, I realized that my shampoo was missing. When I had taken a shower earlier that day, it was there, but since then, it vanished.

I looked in the shower. No luck.

I looked on the bathroom-stuff-shelf and saw what I thought was my missing shampoo--Suave Ocean Breeze. But then I remembered that someone else had the same shampoo as me. Well, I'm 99% certain that I remember seeing a twin shampoo bottle at some point during my time in Hicks Hotel.

Did I take the shampoo? Of course not! Even though I suspected--nay, inkled--that it was mine, I couldn't take it. But shit! This is the second time that someone took my shampoo since I came to Grove City (the initial shampoo-snatching occured in Memorial last spring).

Actually, I'm kind of hoping my shampoo gets stolen once next year, and once the year after that. It'll be kind of like a tradition. I'm like patterns.

Or maybe someone could steal my shampoo again this year, and then three times next year, and fours times senior year. The possiblities all endless, even numerous.

I don't remember what else I wanted to discuss. Well, I think I do remember, but that doesn't seem like something I'd want to talk about here.

I hope I have an out-of-body experience tomorrow. I think I almost had one today.

But I think retrospect is the closest I'll ever get. Eh. You can't have everything. Neither can I.

I know. What the hell? Let's stop this one right here. Continued downward slope would likely result from contrary action.

bunnies and barf

2006-03-11T01:40:00.000-05:00

I saw two rabbits on campus while I was walking back to my dorm this evening. I was going to write about the conversation I imagined we had, the rabbits and I. But then I decided that would take too long. Besides, the conversation wasn't too terribly interesting. After-all, rabbits aren't known for their great conversation skills.

So I came back to my dorm, and went to the bathroom, which smelled strangely of cheetos.

It was while I was sitting on the can that I realized the source of the smell. Someone had puked on the bathroom floor. And I was stepping in the result.

Why can't I be in a world where I talk to small creatures, instead of one where I tread in digested cheetos?

you sunk my battleship

2006-03-10T14:17:00.000-05:00

I am a cliché. A walking, talking, breathing cliché. And I might be in denial. But only if it's the latest trend.

I am repetitive. Sometimes I repeat because I forget, sometimes I repeat because I am flustered, sometimes I repeat because I seek to reinforce. These reasons, I justify.

But mostly, I repeat because I have nothing else to do. Goal for the day: resist, not repeat.

Repetition is comfort. It is natural for me to rely on what I know. Newness equates with risk, unfamiliarity with...I'm blank. No appropriate word comes to mind. But isn't that sort of the goal? Well, only if I'm cheating.

My sometimes response: "I take plenty of risks!" But only when I am almost certain about the outcome. I'm prone to label such risks "non-risks."

Just call me Brad Stand. I repeat the same stories and anecdotes over and over. Does the curtain ever go down? Yes, but that's an ugly situation.

Right now, I am in conflict between safety and progress. These do not have to be rival ideas, but in my case, right now, they are.

I'm prone to say that one of the two combatants is winning, but I don't think that's true. Sometimes, I don't give myself enough credit.

please be my punching-bag

2006-03-08T01:27:00.000-05:00

Let it be known that I an exhausted. I should be sleeping now, but a horrible assignment for a horrible class has prevented me from escaping into sleep.

What a horrible ending to a horrible day. Of course, with time my feelings will moderate. But I'm upset right now. And I need to be upset. I think I might burst if I force myself into calmness.

I'm not being rational right now, but I clearly do not care.

I need to talk to someone. Anyone. I need to shout in a deserted field, I need to run until I collapse, I need to swing a baseball bat at things made of glass.

I have questions that no one can answer. And that pisses me off right now.

I have questions that are not proper to ask, and therefore cannot be answered.

And I know the answers to some of my questions, but I don't want to accept them.

I am upset. Please don't claim to know the reason for my current state, because you are wrong. Even I don't know why I feel what I feel. Many, many things have come to a head, resulting in this entry.

And worse yet, I'm upset at myself for being upset. Why can't I be rational? Why do I allow insignificant things to upset me? Why can't I learn from my mistakes?

I feel the need to place blame where it would be unjust to do so. I need an outlet for my frustration! But my knowledge of the past and hope for the future heed me to contain myself. Passion and irrationality are the parents of regret.

Hope is the most wonderful and horrible feeling. It lifts you up, only to drop further than you would have fallen otherwise. As the saying goes, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

Shame on me. Shame on me a million times over.

if you value your time, don't bother reading this

2006-03-06T00:00:00.000-05:00

This afternoon, as I sat at my dining-room table finishing Sunday dinner with my family, surveying the dirty dishes and the clock on the wall, I nodded at my mother, in effect saying, "It's time."

By this, I meant, "It's 1:25 and I need to start driving back to school in 5 minutes, so let's end dinner." But instead of picturing myself behind the wheel of my car, I envisioned myself in a prison jumper, walking toward an electric chair.

Don't get the wrong impression. I do not equate coming back to Grove City with being executed. No sir. In fact, if I were composing an analogy, I would link college with after-life. Both are destinations. It's the traveling back to school that's comparable with death.

Once again, please don't get the wrong impression. I like driving. I even like driving long distances. But driving 6 hours was not something I wanted to do this afternoon. I am currently of the opinion that driving from school to home and visa versa is just a pain. When break comes, I want to just BE at my home, not travel to my home. And when break ends, I don't mind going back to school. But I don't feel like packing, driving for half the day, and then unpacking.

Thus, break is like life: short and largely unproductive, in spite of one's lofty, unrealistic goals. Likewise, the trip back to school is like dying: sometimes uncomfortable, yet a necessary step in reaching a destination. And finally, residing at school is like an after-life. Well, no...I suppose it isn't. But the final comparison completes the total analogy, so we'll pretend it works.

Speaking of death, why do we celebrate death as something that is beautiful? I understand that death is the vehicle that transports us into eternal life (or damnation, if the case may be). Of course, I have assurance in my salvation, so I don't view death as ominous or uncertain. And I rejoice when God calls a fellow Christian home. But I still view the whole "dying" thing as a punishment for our fallen state.

I've never died, so I can't speak from experience, but to me, dying--the actual event of ceasing to live, whether through suffering a stroke, being shot, or getting hit by a car--can't be pleasant.

I'm not afraid to die. Sometimes, I think it'll be exciting. However, I can't help but compare it to getting teeth pulled. For a moment, let's pretend that all people must get their wisdom teeth pulled. We know it has to happen, but we'd rather put it off until a later time. We know we'll be better off after the procedure is performed, but our focus on the "here-and-now" prevents us from "making the appointment."

Hmmm. I think I may have unintentionally made a case for suicide. And I used quotation marks, which, like suicide, isn't something I really approve of. And now I ended a sentence with a preposition. Have I no control over what I write?

There was more to this entry, but I decided not to include it. Don't worry. You didn't miss out on much. Just use your imagination. I'm sure you'll come up with a conclusion far better than what I wrote.

grove city isn't exactly the wilderness, but...

2006-02-26T00:45:00.000-05:00

The Ten Commandments of blogging.

And Jesse wrote all these words, typing:

"I am the creator of this blog, who brought you this entry, out of the house of my brain.

I shall post no more than twice per week, and no less than once every two weeks.
I shall refrain from blathering on about what I ate for lunch, what paper I have to write, what generic activity I participated in--UNLESS there is a substantial reason--for no one wants to read a transcript of my day.
I shall not be overly negative, for I will not hold myself guiltless if I am a stick in the mud.
I shall remember people who are important to me and give them "hollas," for I know from experience that people feel special when others mention them in a blog-type publication.
I shall honor all comments and criticisms directed toward this blog, thoughtfully considering them, that I may improve this outlet.
I shall not be intentionally mean or cruel (which are not synonymns for angery, upset, or frustrated).
I shall not commit acts of blog vulgarity (or as I like to call it, "blogarity").
I shall not steal ideas for entries from other blogs.
I shall not twist or manipulate facts or events ("Objectivity" is one notch below "puns" in my book of Important Things to Include in Your Blog ).
I shall not covet my neighbor's blog, no matter how clever, witty, or inciteful it may be.

Note: I reserve the right to violate any and all of the afore mentioned rules as I deem necessary or lose my sense of rationality. It's not like they're written on stone or anything.

i figured out how to include a title and i just added one!

2006-02-24T19:16:00.001-05:00

Greetings. I'm sitting here, racking my brains, trying to concoct some clever way to introduce myself to the universe of blogging.

Correction--I'm not racking anything, least of all my brains. I'm just rambling.

How's this? Hello, Blog world! How are you? My name is Jesse and I'm becoming a part of you.

Alrighty. Introduction over. How...sufficient.

Let's jump into my life; it's soft, you won't break your legs or anything.

Business abounds, as it should. Rehearsals, rehearsals, rehearsals.

How strange. I've been a blogger for 15 minutes and I'm already treading on syntactical egg-shells. Rather, I'm looking over my own shoulder, clucking my tongue.

ME: Don't say that!
ALSO ME: Why not?
ME raises eyebrows, glares warningly at ALSO ME.
ALSO ME: I see. Thanks.

Follow? That's what I thought. ME and ALSO ME envisioning generic reader, a wash of perplexion on his or her face.

First of all, I realize "perplexion" is not a word. It should be. Nextly (also wrongfully deemed a non-word), I do not have multiple personalities. And finally, I utilized confusion purposefully (and successfully, I hope).

So, sit back and enjoy the ride (and the clichés). Don't think too much--it'll only hurt you in the long run. And most importantly, REJOICE! for Jesse has entered the realm of online thought exchange!