So I have that theory....

That theory I have about somebody always settling in a relationship? Tell me: which one?

Give me time

Better Lyrics For Dan

He eats filet migon
I'm eating fuckin' Alphabits
And the motherfucker just left me
The consanants

I hold his leash while
He gets all the compliments
He gets more attention than
A one eyed elephant

He's in the club
I'm in my car
Out of my element
In a Honda Element

Feeling irrelelvent
But it's on like it's Vaugh comma Vince
I wanna be gone like I'm
Jon Favreau havin' a fit

He's surrounded by chicks
Rubbing their D cup tits
I flip the toilet lid
Read a Maxim mag, bust a couple kids

Tomorrow

Reminders for class: Same bat time, same bat channel. Cya tomorrow with part 3.

Peckennedy

Every time I watch a film, I get closer to this intangible answer for which I have no question. I have no idea what that means, but I know its true. I put in a movie and something clicks, so this is leading somewhere. Last night I watched 'The Boys From Brazil' until about five in the morning, and when I was done I felt I was really close to figuring out what the hell I'm doing. Mayhaps it has to do with graduating, or mayhaps its because Gregory Peck is one of the few men ever born on this planet.


He and I have something in common. We fight evil. I went to great lengths to paint this picture of a mixture of myself and Mr. Peck fighting evil. In it, we have a cigar. Would you like to see it? I know you would. Those lines on our chest are pecs and abs. Amazingly detailed, yes. So what else is left?

Well as a fusion of Peck and myself, we need to find a job. Greg said he gets royalty checks, but I told him real men earn their money. He said "Man, you're awesome and always right" then quit talking. He decided I needed to quit drinking for 30 days, and center my life around a career. I said maybe. He said 'Yes' and arched an eyebrow. Crap indeed I bowed to his will. Who am I, stupid?

So yeah. Getting a real job. Nazi hunting for fun.

Reminders for class: Never leave college. Never ever. It's such a mistake.

Music To Shoplift To

I hate Walmart. Deep within my soul burns a little Asian man who only shops at Walmart. I hate this Asian man. I have named him Tony. Tony is a prick and agrees with my wallet, who is bilingual, and is also saying that I have to shop at Walmart to save on bills. Tony, like all Asians, is smart - and right.

Those who know me know what I do to roshambo Tony right in the testicles. I won't come outright and say it, as that maybe a confession to a misdemeanor, but you know. Oooooh, nigga you know.

I have also come to the conclusion that it's okay to be a satirist. In that sense I can be a truthful observant, which in turn gives me license to be slightly racist and offensive. Like the claim "Women can't drive". Sure, it may not be statistically true, but every accident I've ever taken a place in has the end results of a failed woman. And not like a failed woman - the doctor got my penis wrong - more like a failed woman - I was on the cell phone crimping my hair. Who crimps their hair well driving? I'll tell you who: Satanists. It's clear there is a connection between women and Satan. Just look at the bible! The part in the fucking back! YOU KNOW IT'S THERE! SHUT UP!

Ok. Just look at this pie chart:
See how messed up that is? The numbers don't even come out right. Man, I'm not even a Math minor, but I can tell something is up. So what? Do I buy a shotgun cross that shoots holy water to prepare myself for the onslaught these female devil drivers are preparing? No. I'm a rational man. I will become ordained and fight alongside the greatest vampire hunters the catholic church has ever had. That's right, James Woods in Vampires.

Go Shoplift from Walmart, do the world some good.

Reminders for class: I'm a college graduate in 12 hours.

Wishing

Trying something new. Skip it if you want. I'll just say that sometimes I sit here and the words can only come out in one form. Those nights I usually tangent, but I've got nothing for you ('cept for maybe a couple of lines about why they always have to glue the first sheet on toilet paper or paper towela... you always end up ripping the first two layers clean off just to avoid undoing the glue)

I'm aware of a stigma that comes attached with a man doing poetry, but only loosely. I've heard it marks him as 'gay'. I'm fine with that, since none of you have burned anything on my lawn as of yet; new development probably won't be happening soon. I'm just that I'm giving you added benefit of being able skip my hollow crap now, instead of later. Put it to rap if it bothers you.

I Wish

I wish straddling the divide
between hopeless and golden
didn’t mean leading a life
that’s already chosen.

I wish for good sleep
and not some restless night.
That my moments in the dark
didn’t feel cut or knifed.

I wish we were both young
And mom’s would care for us,
instead of you being you
and me being embarrassed.

I wish our generation
wasn’t part of a joke.
And when we opened our mouth
we didn’t sound stoned

I wish it wasn’t as simple
As they try to make it out,
that we handled our challenges
and be allowed to stay proud

I wish I wasn’t born
with a soul that's frozen,
driving wheels in reverse
with no idea where I’m going.

I wish that this curse
that I think I have
wasn’t the one good thing
that makes me glad

I wish my life wasn’t crashing
and dreams weren’t fleeting
I wish your head was out of the clouds
but forever day dreaming.

Gay.

Reminders for class: Poke fun at your gay teacher.

The Last Beer

This is the way college ends.
This is the way college ends.
This is the way college ends.

Not with a bang, but a keg.

I'm sure only two of you got that, but it's okay since I only write for two of you. Upfront - apologies for my behavior. I was Captain Sketch of the Sketch Force last night, fully equipped with an armada of sketchy actions and behavior. I do not regret anything that happened, mostly because I cannot remember it, but I won't say I was proud. No, pride is a sin and I must remain virtuous. I'll remind you that we started and finished a keg in one night with less than thirty people, an accomplishment rarely made in my E201 days.

I have an alcohol problem, yes, but it's mildly curbed. I say that in comparison to - oh - Mickey Rourke in Barfly. With that problem in mind, I tried to not drink before eleven. At our parties, we have a habit of starting at nine only to find that no one has arrived by ten. At that point we consider the whole party a bust and go for broke. Then 11:30 roles around and I'm half naked with a lamp shade on my crotch while Sean Deakins is choking me and calling me 'Pasos Billy'. That's also around the point where the place becomes packed. So I waited until eleven last night - gasp - no one was there. So then we all hit the bottle as hard we could. Like magic, they all showed up.

I could recap more, but if you weren't there you probably wouldn't be reading this. Suffice to say that everyone made three mistakes that would behoove them to never think about again. I'm looking at you, Kids Making Out On The Children's Swing Set.

Reminders for class: What a nice way to go.

Who's Excited?

I am having a party. Not a tea party, or a birthday party, or an anniversary party. I'm having a goodbye party. Yes, I'm having a goodbye party despite the fact that I'm not leaving. And you are not saying goodbye to me, nor I to you. I am saying goodbye to my college. A college – I’ll note – I’ve never actually liked.

So what am I saying bye to? The rigid social structure? The taboo that has become doing anything without letters? The utter lack of originality, creativity, or even originality? The niches? The divides? The wars, the feuds, the duels, the bickering, the whining, the sheer banality found in your everyday lunch line conversation?

This is what I’m saying goodbye to: anything that sounds like the following.

Ugly Girl: “I’m so hideous.”
Ugly Girl Who Doesn’t Realize It: “I know, your teeth are awful.”
U.G.: “That’s because I look like a horse.”
U.G.W.D.R.I.: “Whatever, just wear make up and guys won’t know.”
U.G.: “Really? They won’t notice?”
Lunch Man: “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”
U.G.W.D.R.I.: “Cha, look at me!”
U.G.: “You look just like a china doll.”
U.G.W.D.R.I.: “I know. My boyfriend is so lucky.”
[Somewhere, a freshman male transfers]

That’s really it. I’m saying goodbye to that. I’m sure I’ll still be subjected to more hideous conversation in the future, because Burlington isn’t exactly a hubbub for witty banter. Like this one from line at Walmart:

Guy: You hear Latricia’s brother got shot?
Girl: Yeah, it hurts more when you’re shot in the cold.

Really? In the cold. I didn’t know that. Next time I’m shot, I’ll have to make sure I’m in my summer seasonal clothes. That way the sting of the gunshot wound won’t interfere with that light nipping that comes from the winter air.

…..

You know what? Parties off. I’m becoming a hermit.

Reminders for class: Obi-Wan was a hermit. Some argue the hermit.

I and the Universe.... or is it the Universe and Me?

“A man said to the universe: "Sir, I exist!"
"However," replied the universe, "The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation."
- Stephen Crane

I spoke to the universe once. I said 'How are things looking?' The universe replied:

'Meh.'

There's always a need to have someone listen, preferably someone greater and more powerful then yourself. Telling someone better always runs the chance of them being able to help you out. People burdened with secrets know that fact. Holding onto something you never wanted to be saddled with in the first place can often be too great a burden, like tape worms.

'Holy crap!' I hear you say, 'Where are you going with this? Do you have some dark secret about your origins? Are you really a deity from space?' Shut up. I'll tell you where I'm going with this. People who post that they want 'Whatever I Can Get' and 'Random Play' on their facebook. Funk that. Seriously. That's what I want to talk about. Clicking that box is the equivalent of yelling to the universe 'I can't get laid by any of the people I want!', and then the universe silently tosses back "Man, your ass is undesirablee."

Listen up, kids. This post is the equivalent of giant care bear stare in your face. Stop it. Now. Admitting that you would find ass via the internet is - no, no. Just stop it. You will not find your dream partner on eHarmony.com, and if you do - tsk! If you wanted someone to do the work for you, I'm sure your mom still wants to set you up with the Nedlson kid down the street - you know, the one with a good heart but a lazy eye.

If you're a man-ho or a skank, you shouldn't need to check that box anyway. Odds are your picture will have you in either swim wear, shirtless, or drunk in a compromised position. You say to the universe 'Hey! I'm easy!' but you forget to add the post script of 'But don't be confused when I become so emotional unstable around you that it becomes easy to confuse me with Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction!'

Selecting something like that box is fishing with out bait. You know what kind of a catch you're going to get? A retarded one that looks like this. Yes. They're always defective on the internet, so just stop it. The universe thanks you for not addressing it with such meaningless clutter. And so do I.

'cuz I am way too good looking and awesome to be bogged down with something like that.

Reminders for class: Smile

Blind Faith

At least to my face, my friends pretend to have faith in me. It's a odd feeling I can trace back to high school, singularly rooted in the constant question: "When you're famous, can I be in one of your movies."

Sure, I'd answer. Of course. You can even have a starring role! After I'm finished financing the picture with rainbows and dreams, we can all go out for ice cream.

But the questions continue in that fashion, so much and so often that I'll get calls at four in the morning by parents, hammered.

"Dude, dude. Son. Dude. What was the movie with the guy who had that black partner?"
"Lethal Weapon?"
"No, it had something to do with DC. Politics."
"What? Lethal Weapon 2? That had a diplomat."
"No, like an FBI guy. And there was a bomb. In a garage."
"Arlington Road."
"HA! Hey, everyone --- silence --- fucking thanks, man."
"My rents overdue."
"Love you too, son."

I'm not sure why people, or even as much as a singular person, would ever put their trust into a kid who routinely drinks as often as I do. I'm sure there is a job out there for someone as dangerously underqualified as myself that pays well, but I have no motivation to find it.

The trick, I'm told, is to find an environment or workforce I'm comfortable with. I have found that workplace, but my desk at two in the morning rambling on about whatever doesn't pay well. Unless you're Dave Barry.

I suppose if enough people have bothered to tell me - or even muster the energy to lie to me - about being fully capable of doing this film thing, then why not. I know I have poor social skills, even worse speaking skills, but damnit if I don't feel confident when it comes to film. I've got this one thing that drives me, this need to entertain others. And if I have to ride my laundry basket down the stairs with a lampshade on my head and a cape around my neck, I'll do it. I'll even yell 'spoon' all the way down until I break my neck at the bottom to get a laugh. If that' what it takes, I'll do it.

Reminders for the class: We're all here to have fun. I'm just trying to be the one making sure everyone else is doing it.

Come to Bed

I went downstairs to watch some TV and ended up watching a whole episode of Law & Order. It's an addictive show you never can remember. All that sticks out is the crime and the verdict, so in a sense it's a lot like drinking heavy; you remember what you drank and whether you were hungover or not, everything else is inconsequential.

During it I went to the kitchen and brought back to the table a jar of peanut butter, grape jelly, a knife, a plate, and a gallon of milk - no cup. I spread the crap all over the table and began to fashion myself something to eat. Halfway through my second sandwich, I really wanted a wife. Not anyone in particular, just someone to have someone walk downstairs and say "Clean up and come back to bed."

But I don't have that. I live with two men who define bulk. Which is not to say that they aren't cute, it's just that neither seems the wedding type. I doubt I could anyway, what with laws being as they nowadays.

It was like the bummer moment at a party when you realize you no longer want to be there, and all you want is to be home. Being home, I knew I didn't want to be in front of the television, or eating food, or to still be up at 3 am. So I hiked upstairs to find everything quiet.

In this still, I thought I'd sit down and say a couple nice things to you before I lay down and fake sleep. I wanted to let you know that everything will be okay and you're doing fine, so there's no need to worry. Contradict me if you'd like, but you must be doing alright because you've found the time to sit down with me and read these words.

So I wanted to let you know that.

Reminders for class: You're cool.

Youth and Amish Suck

My generation embarrasses me. Not just the guys with popped collars and platinum chains or the girls with two hair colors and caked on makeup, but the whole lot of them. I am embarrassed by them. Not ashamed, or upset with, or annoyed. Embarrassed. If I see someone my age walking around with a mobile phone on speakerphone, chirping after every sentence he mumbles into his hand piece, I'm embarrassed. Phone calls are private - and even if you don't care, I don't want to know what stage you're sister's Chlamydia has advanced to. Your life is mundane and trivial to me. But they still do that eye scan after they say something on it; “Sure, just smear some apricot jelly on it. That’ll reduce the redness” and they look around. Are we supposed to be impressed? “Holy LORD! That man has a phone without wires? Where – does anyone see the wires? Holy crow!”

The only way I would listen to what your speaker phone was saying is if you were a celebrity on VH1 getting your life profiled. And even then, it’s not because I think they’re better, it’s because I want to make sure whatever they’re talking about is as inconsequential as I think they are. You hear me Bronson Pinchot? Nobody cares.

The same goes for tricked out cars and stereo systems. People who love their car should know that it’s always going to be an unhealthy relationship. Why? Your car can never love you back.. Dogs, cats, hamsters – sure. They all show affection. I’m not sure Hammy the Hamster ever really loved me in a poignant manor growing up, but damn sure if he didn’t appreciate me when I dropped a food block into his cage-o-torium.

And it’s not just the tool bags. The Bible Belt kids turned out messed up to. Take this excerpt from a teenager’s column about a teacher sleeping with her 14 year old student.

"No more slut teachers in public schools. If it were me, they'd be burying that 'woman.' First the apple in Eden. Now molesting innocents. Hang her."

Can you say that? Is it allowed? I’m pretty sure that a death threat in the form of shunning. Shunning may have been popularized by the Amish, but those guys are bastards. Oh – what? – it’s not like they’ll ever find out I said that. The Amish suck.

Remidners for class: MLK weekend. Double your sunday pleasure - drink.

Attention Whore

"Women will listen to every single genre of music, only so when they meet a guy who says they're into it they can spout off two or three names in the field."

I had a friend say that tonight while we sat on the outskirts of a poorly planned party. His reasoning could have been derived from year'’s experience, but I think it was more of an attack on our hostess. When she put her iPod on, some of the worst music from time forgotten started playing.

Do a mental checklist of the horrible songs you wish you forgot. Aqua - Barbie Girl? Check. Hoku - Another Dumb Blond? Probably somewhere in there. And I know I heard Love Shack come screeching out of the speakers, because some girl-like man thing started to dance to it like her face wasn't hideous. Is everyone else fed up with that song, or am I the only one?

Back to my friend's statement, which I gather was part of a larger indictment, is that certain women can be attention whores. I'm sure if he had the time, he would have explained to me that it doesn't matter if it's positive or negative attention, just as long as its directed towards her. For that, I'd agree with him and say they'd upset you just as soon as they would smile at you. After all, the desired response is your 100% undivided attention.

But as for the rest of his reasoning, well, I can't say I'd back his statement. It makes a number of claims I don't think I see any logic in, like:
1.) Only males can appreciate music.
2.) Females may only use music as a tool for mating.
3.) That somewhere out there is a cache of women listening to polka, in hopes the man of their dreams bychance listens to it.

I will agree with his version of the attention whore theory, mainly because I got to see it occur while we sat together. Finding faults in other people is always more fun with an audience. [prggrz] See if you can follow the bouncing Betty:

Girl comes in with guy, they sit down together. Dog comes to play with guy. Guy becomes enamored with dog. Girl starts to play with dog too. Dog, nor guy, care. Girl stands up to dance. Guy doesn't notice. Girl plays beer pong. Guy rolls around with dog on dirty carpet. Girl ties her shirt off at the waist to show her stomach. Now he's jealous and everyone else is fixated.

So why is this important enough to tell you? After all, I did visit a biohazard containment area today - that could've made a better story.

It just seems that many people we know have become charmed by themselves, and have forced themselves and others into a position where they have to receive some idol worship to get by. The attention calling is just another way of seeking approval or security. Call it fishing for compliments or what you wish, a relationship that hinders on reassurance might as well revolve around sex, because someone i’s eventually going to get tired.

When you a’re constantly fighting and making up -– or fornicating -– there will come a time when one of you gives up, and youÂ’re left with what was always there. An attention whore is that someone who knows that truth, and is doing anything to not have to face it.

My advice is to stay single until rapture, because you'’d be settling at this age anyway.

Reminders for class: I bash on women in these posts because they a’re more complex than men. Men are simple. We drink, we lie, we cheat, we die. I mean, Jesus, we'’ll never have something as interesting and complex as a period. So I'll talk about women until I'm blue in the face because women are infinetly more engaging.

On The Fence

There is an eternal debate that lingers within my head. I was raised Catholic, but instilled with an education. An advanced education naturally conflicts with matters of faith, as taking something on faith is the opposite of the Socratic method. We are taught to come to conclusions based on fact, to utilize devices like Occam's Razor, the theories of probability, and advanced reasoning to achieve our goal.

To take matter on faith is to throw reason away and accept that although we cannot see, nor touch, nor hear this presence - it exists in spite of these things. A hundred years ago, the idea of a molecule or quark would have been laughable, but it has become irrefutable thanks to advanced technology. Do you think we'll ever make a telescope so large or a microscope so powerful we could see God?

I don't know. That's why this debate rages eternally within my mind:
Could you decide? I bet not. One transforms from flesh to the holy spirit, but the other transforms from a giant robot into a truck. I mean, fuck's sake, I can see how the holy spirit might me lurking around inside J-Man, but do you even see a spot where a giant robot could be hiding a truck? It's not like he crammed it all into those biceps of his. Optimus Prime is magic.

Sure, Jesus is magic too, but Optimus Prime explains the source of his power. He operates on Energon cubes, an abundent space resource mystically located in remote region of earth. Ha! The body and blood got nothing on that!

Laugh at that, but seriously; which is more likely? That some omnipotent being decided two thousand years ago to send a guy to teach lessons in a remote part of the world [further damning those who can't gain his wisdom due to proximity] OR that giant robots from outerspace locked in a galactic civil war crash land on earth, befriend Spike and his dad, then proceed to battle a waging faction in order to recharge their ships with the last of Earth's energon cubes [a resources gone undetected in the several millennia mankind has thrived] ?

The smart money is on the flying robot cars. Then again, if I were Buddhist or Hoodoo, I suppose either option would seem ludicrous. The third alternative, I suppose, involves putting faith in yourself and your own abilities while also making the most of the time you have alive. But then, that would be denying both choices - and I'm sure you're no hoodoo witch doctor.

[Thus ends the Jesus/God trip I've been on for three weeks.]

Reminders for class: If I told you to pick one, you would choose wisely. But all I did was show you a picture.

My Job

My purpose on this planet walks a very thin line between appearing and commenting. I never actually do anything, I'm more like an aberration. I will obnoxiously rattle my chains until I'm told to shut up, or quietly play my video game while I sulk like a bitch. This is my range. I am comfortable with that.

But now college is ending, and that way of life is threatened. I must find a career that allows me to continue with my actual job. Ideally, I would get one of these screenplays sold, but since I won't even show them to friends, I doubt I'll be sending out copies. That would afford me the lifestyle to which I become accustomed. Writing allows me to continue piddling away in my room over a word processor, to continue being obnoxious, and to continue being the greatest thing the town of Burlington has ever seen. Seriously, they will miss me when I'm gone.

As that won't happen, I have compiled a list of alternatives. Let me know if any seem appropriate.

1.) Secret Agent - Have you ever seen my fold my hands together and make a gun out of it? It's scary how close to the real thing I come. This job would be great because I have no problem lying, I can keep a secret [Nobody's figured out Dan's gay yet], and I'm probably good with a gun if I were ever allowed to shoot one. Additionally, I would be good with this because I never have to show up for set hours. It's more like "Ken, we need you to secretively save the world from utter destruction, please do that by Thursday". That way I'm not on a set timetable. I could work from home.

2.) Jesus - We both have beards. That's about it in terms of qualifications. I would have said Chuck Norris, but we all know there will never be another Chuck Norris.

3.) Action Figure Model - They have to have something to base the He-Man and Incredible Hulk action figures off of, so why not me? They could pour latex all over my body and make life size ones. Who wouldn't buy that for their kid?

4.) Guy Who Fills Up Tissue Boxes - I'm sure someone has to carefully lay all those tissues into place inside the box. I could be that guy, doing it one at a time. Have you ever seen my hands? There are surgical tools. If you know someone I could call to get this job, let me know.

5.) Man Who Holds Up 50% K-Mart Sale Sign - I could walk up and down the street, informing citizens about multiple savings being held inside K-Mart. It's a public service, so I'd be giving back to the community.

6.) Your Bitch - How sweet would that be? Hire me out and I'll be your bitch forever. Full time. I'll even dress up in cardboard boxes and paint them silver. That way, I could also pretend to be your robot bitch. All you friends would think you're classy.

That's just a couple of ideas. I hope somewhere in there is something worth keeping. Let me know if they're feasible.

Reminders for class: When time starts ticking down, make sure you note that things like 'being tired' or 'thought foolish' won't matter in the long run. Drink on a school night and make stupid decisions. What will I remember more in five years, showing up to class chipper as a junebug, or having to pull the van over to the side of the road because I'm still puking Apple Martinis?

Charlie

I'm in love with my beard. Not because it looks like roadkill stapled to my face or maybe the drain clog you found in the sink last week, but because I won't look like this. That's right. I used to look like a loser. But in comparison, this beard I have makes me a winner. I now look like the all time high scoring finalist from Jeopardy who won so much money they renamed space after him.

Ever go to the pool during the summer, and when you run around that douche of a lifeguard blows his whistle at you? You hate that guy so much that whenever someone else is up there you don't care. Pol Pot could be rocking a sleeveless with Zinc on his nose and it would be an improvement. My face without a beard is that dick lifeguard. Charlie [if you don't know my beard's name, clearly you've never spoken to me] is the wedgie alternative to the wet willy.

But let me tell you the power that comes with a Charlie. Women want me. Allllll the time. Yup. I fight them off with two hands, a stick, and a moat built round my bedroom. Surrounding the moat is Chippendale's dancers, who will willing sacrifice themselves to sleep with the women trying to get me. The idea is to tire them out. The few dedicated that can get past my sissy slaps and stick hits are in for a three minute treat that they will remember for the rest of the time they're dressing.

Yeah, I get it. The beard looks like ass clown. But without it, I look like the above. And think about it, who would you rather dominating your every move? Me and Charlie or that sickly looking guy?

Reminders for class: I missed blogging.

A Statistical anomaly

My last class at Elon has the misfortune of being all guys. Out of twenty some students, not a single one of them have the burden of original sin. They're also all Business majors and stoners, which makes for a wicked combination in order to give me a superiority complex. Someday in that class I'll talk, but for now my roommate is the only person to have given a right answer in the entire four class periods.

This is a poor way to end my Elon career. Everything I've ever learned about failed relationships has come from listening to Elon women talk before and after class. I was hoping that this last class would break or solidify my long standing metaphor about Elon's female populous. Since I no longer have the ability to test it, let's assume I'm 100% right like always and move on with it.

My metaphor goes something like this: Every woman is a dwelling, and outside that establishment are pieces of baggage you probably never want to open. [I'm not equating women to property, but, uh.... women are property in this metaphor.]

For the moment, we will equate those bags outside the front door to be something similar to 'Emotional Luggage'. Now, as one who has decided to date in Elon, it has become your duty to carry those bags from room to room while within the house. Treat them like a golden Jello mold of your favorite celebrity or family member. Never let them get too hot, never too cold - and don't let anything sticky get onto them. Women, like all well constructed Jello molds, freaking hate it when you get something sticky on them and don't bother to clean it up. Oh, sure! It doesn't matter if they made it happen or not, you have to be the one to clean it up. What did they think was going to happen? Huh? I was going to shoot rainbows straight out of it, while a really good song by The Spice Girls started emanating from my balls? Damnit! You're a 23 year old woman! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW HOW THIS FINISHES!?!?

I'm sorry. That wasn't about you. Anyway, I only half believe that 'women are houses' things. It's more like a storage locker and then there's something about a mystical key quest. Or maybe female relationships are the equivelent of baking quiche. Ah, fudge it. I'm just pissed that I'm stuck in a class with a bunch of dudes who need haircuts. Goddamn hippies, go get a job. I'm sick of smelling pot on the van rides at 2 in the afternoon.

Reminders for class: Pt. 3 and Pt. 4 have been done forever. It's just that some people don't seem to appreciate the way I can vividly remembers the story. It's probably my fault, since I'm probably glossing over all the details with my hinging ability of being the only total sober one their that night.