The beard connection

Amy's mom is making meat loaf, which is great, because I love loaves of all sorts. Her father, however does not like me, possibly because I'm not a scientist or a lawyer or a doctor and basically I'm just some punk who's going to ruin his daughter's future.

However, because of finals and work I have indirectly provided myself a way to way to connect with him: beards.

I have a stress beard. And from this, I can have that girlfriend's-father-to-boyfriend talk about beards. Where my beard is going, how I found it, what others think of it. He can talk about his beard, and we can laugh and the meatloaf dinner will be a success, all because of beards.

Thanks, beards!

(Facial hair and rectangular meat.)

Blade Runner, Internet style

When a new screen name IMs me and I don't know who they are and all their responses seem stupid, it's just like I'm in Blade Runner.

There's a good chance they're a bot. They're not human, but within the context of internet communication, they're just as credible as you and me. It's only through language and ideas that we can prove our humanity.

And you know how I define humanity? Screaming in terror when you see tubgirl (a picture of a woman pooping on her own face in a bathtub). Or swearing at me when you see the goatse man spread his cheeks. Or ask me what the fuck meatspin.com is. And amazingly, this technique works.

I know who is a bot and who is real based on who gets mad at me when I show them butts and poop and penises. I am a new age Rick Deckard.

And, like him, you have no idea if I'm a real person, either.

(Out living my human life....OR AM I?!)

With enough grant money, I'm sure I could devise a way to make Butthole Picture Humanity Detection (BPHD) an official method of differentiating between jerks and bots.

Facebook friend details

Facebook's new 'How do I know this person?' feature is undoubtedly going to make a lot of people very sad.

People will realize that a vast majority of their internet friends are total strangers, and then naturally the next step is to process this fact in your head so that it comes out as OH MY FUCK, ALL MY FRIENDS ARE FAKE.

And that's when the suicides begin. People discover that an entire internet identity is a sham, that all the people they considered online friends have no actual link to them, and that there is no reason to stick around.

Then they'll remember that the internet is full of weak connections and that what's happening here is the nature of the internet. Nobody really knows anybody, but man, can we swap porn.

The end.

(Bed.)

Open letter to TV

Dear TV,
Stop interviewing professional athletes. They are not around because of their thoughts and intelligent words. They are there to throw things and run. I don't want to hear about how it was a great game because they gave some mathematically illogical percent or because that's how the game is played.

You throw the ball, we watch you do that, and the only words I want to hear out of you are swear words because someone else got the ball.

Also I don't think country music should be able to have a song called, 'Honky Tonk Badonkadonk.' Awful rap music has invaded enough aspects of pop culture. Please, rednecks, keep on singing about trucks. The second I hear a country song about skeet skeet, I kill a puppy. No questions asked, just a dead puppy. This is your warning.

Awake from 3:30am to 7pm. This was a long day.

(Bed.)

Laundry room hobo sex

While being done with class is nice, being broke is crappy, so I picked up 8 hours of work today.

Remember the homeless guy in the computing site from last week? Turns out his name is T-Bone, like the steak, and he was caught having sex with his girlfriend in my friend Russell's laundry room.

Not, like, the one in his house. The one in his apartment complex. If you let a hobo in your actual apartment, I say he's allowed to screw on your dryer due to your negligence.

I'm glad the hobos in Ann Arbor aren't notorious for things like singing or being sassy, but rather smelling awful and fucking in public places.

(Work 'til 7.)

elbowdeepinasianteens.com

To me, it's sad that the machine that provides me with email, IMs, pictures of naked ladies, word processing, research information, porn, online shopping, games, and elbowdeepinasianteens.com is just 'Freecell box' to many adults.

I'll tell you what, old people: you give me the computer, I give you a deck of playing cards and a punch in the stomach.

I don't think elbowdeepinasianteens.com exists.

Okay, I just checked, and no it doesn't.

YET.

(Bed.)

Homeless assassins

Sometimes I think about the secret lives of homeless men. The hobo who came into the computer lab last week would be the ideal secret agent.

Think about it. He's got no family, he has no identity, he won't get homesick because the motherfucker sleeps in laundry rooms. Who would you want to send on a deadly mission: your 18 year old son or a drunk killing machine with nothing to lose?

Maybe all the hobos out there are secret assassins, living double lives.

Then I think about how hobos eat garbage and puke in public, and I think to myself, maybe not.

I work from 3:30am to 3pm, so leave a message while I hate myself for picking up so many sub shifts.

(Bad decisions.)

Looks like the Bourne series of books stole my idea before I even had it. Damn.

LAN parties and sexism

LAN parties are great because there won't be any girls there. I mean, I like girls. Heck, I'm even dating one. But when one is around, you can't fart freely, or use swears, or talk about how women are stupid.

I mean, it's all compensatory. Women make us feel dumb all the time 'cause they're all 'wash your hands, comb your hair,' and we just look lazy when you tell us to do the things we should be doing anyway. So we play computer for hours and occasionally say 'bitches make me food' or something, but it's only because we're sexist. And hungry.

So, bitches, I'm at a LAN party, so do my laundry and get pregnant.

I only say that because you make me nervous and my pants are dirty.

(Computers.)

Hooray for Christmas, Pac-Man

Hey everybody, look at this while I go home and hurriedly shop for Christmas presents with the little money I have.

Nothing says 'Hooray for Christmas' like an empty bank account and no idea what to get your dad with the $6.29 you have left.

(Walled Lake.)

It's amazing how there were only two weeks between the some guys filming that video to it being posted all over the internet.

America rocks, PASS IT ON!

When people get old the part of their brain that finds bullshit decays. Or maybe it's overtaken by the part of the brain that wants to make you clap your hands and giggle. Either way, my grandpa forwards me shit now and it's retarded.

The sad thing here is he didn't even send me a list of jokes about Janet Jackson's boob at the Super Bowl or anything along those lines. Oh no, it's a racist, far right political rant about how dangerous Muslims are. to quote:
'If we can't stop the Muslims, how could anyone else?'

I don't know who started this chain email, but you have to wonder who thinks, 'I'll get those foreigners back by making old people even MORE racist,' and then forwarding a wacky far right wing rant to everyone on their bowling team with the message being, 'America rocks, Islam sucks, PASS IT ON!'
(paper.)

LAN party truths

LAN parties, in a word, are fucking sweet.

Tonight I learned:
-I am probably better than you at UT2k4. You will cry and I will make some comment about you liking dog balls. Deal with it.
-Girls at LAN parties are usually sad and/or bored, so unless your girlfriend is special, send her off to buy sandals or some shit while you frag.
-If Call of Duty is any indication, WW2 was fought by waiting for the Axis forces to stop camping like assholes.

and last but not least, my Mr. T. in Your Pocket keychain sound machine taught me this:
Don't gimme no back talk, sucka.

Hope you all have a nice night. Quit your jibber jabber.

(Bed.)

Question for the internet strangers

Allow me to extend a question out to you internet folk:
If I gave out my phone number and asked that people call it at a certain time, who would do it?

I mean, some of you have no problem reading this stuff (for example: RIGHT NOW), then some of you IM me, but what if I needed you wake me up via phone call: who would work up the balls to dial my cell phone number?

I usually don't cross lines with internet-only folk. The first time I ever met someone from over the internet, strange things happened. Long story short, I live with him now.

Seriously.

So fill me in, stalkers, 'cause I'm curious.

I'm also tired.

(Bed.)

This away message yielded only one response from an internet stranger, and it was in the form of a bad joke that provided no actual input. So stalkers, fill me in: you creepy enough to call me?

If you show a hobo porn...

The other day I was showing a homeless guy a sexy picture of the topless redhead on the motorcycle. He had asked me if I could get pictures of women 'on that thing' (referring either to my computer or the internet), so naturally I said, 'Of course you can get pictures of women here,' then I waved my arms all around me, because that's where the internet is.

I guess I thought that if I showed him enough sexy women he'd say, 'Thank you, good sir, I appreciate your assistance' and then he'd kindly leave the computer lab and take a bath. Instead, he just sat there even longer and waited for me to bring up more pictures.

I guess what I learned is this: You show a hobo porn, he can beat off for a day, but teach a hobo to find his own porn, he can beat off forever. In public.

(work party.)

Hobo in the fishbowl

This morning at work a homeless guy came into the computer site. The man smelled like he'd slept in his clothes, wet himself, then rubbed vomit in his hair so he looked hot enough to pick up ladiez. He asked me if I could get any pictures of ladies on the computer and told me he liked redheads, so I brought up this picture.

After a while I got sick of him being smelly, so I asked him to leave. Before he left, he asked me if that was my cup in the garbage can. I said, 'Yep, there it is. In the garbage.' Then he picked it up and I said, 'There it is. In your hand.' and my new magical friend left, never to be seen again.*

(nap.)

*he was later apprehended by campus police.

I'll admit it: I showed a homeless guy what is essentially pornography in a university computing site.

Unicorn fucked

Well, it's story time yet again, which means that with every word I type, I tell a tale of humanity and keg beer and drunk chicks and holy shit I am fucked. Fucked fucked fucked. Prison fucked.

Or worse: Unicorn fucked. This is when that mythical creature, in its infinite mystery, manifests itself before you for the sole purpose of sodomizing you with its magical horn.

So while you're off having your normal Sunday, a fantasy creature is raping me with its majesty.

(Fucked.)

Stressing over finals yields gibberish

This morning I have to pick between studying for an exam worth 25% of my grade or revising a shitty story for a portfolio worth ALL of my grade. This is like picking between two kids I don't really like. The one I pick sticks around and bothers me while the other one shits on my GPA.

And that didn't even make any sense, but I've been awake for about 20 hours straight now (with only about 12 more to go before I can go back to bed) so you can't hold me accountable for anything I type in this state of mind.

One time I deep fried a family of wild gerbils and then fed them to a pack of crocodiles who are allergic to gerbils. dun dun DUN holy shit I'm going to the fishbowl to study now.

If I live through this, people, you may actually see me in real life. And I'll shave this fucking stress beard.

(death.)

Motherhood through narrative prose

I used to think writing was fun. You get to create. You take nothingness and turn it into a leaving, breathing word child. Writing can make you a mother.

Well, now I feel like I'm hella preggers with 40 pages of doom and all I want is this demon word child out of me.

So I'm in a library today, writing things. I don't plan on getting home until very late at night. I have to breathe life into Untitled Document. In the next 48 hours I have to perform CPR on a blank page until it can say something on its own. Fucking literature. If only away messages could be classified as narrative prose...

(Converting creativity to ideas, ideas into words, words into stories, stories into Word documents, Word documents into grades, grades into my future.)

Backroom "Pizzeria"

The other day I got a bagel dog from the Backroom 'Pizzeria'. For those of you who don't know about Backroom, I think these facts sum that place up as an establishment: Backroom is not a word that inspires quality; rather, it implies a certain amount of shadiness. Secondly, Pizzeria is in quotation marks on the actual store. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't get my teeth cleaned by a 'dentist.'

Anyway, the bagel dog. It was nasty. The bagel part was ok, but I got curious and took the hotdog part it. It looked like they stripped the skin from a burnt zombie and said 'Let's wrap this around subpar pork' and ta da! You have a surefire way to make Henry spit food out of his mouth.

(Watching Hartmann turn 22.)

What dudes like

People want to be writers when they grow up because it sounds fun and easy. You just write. Write the words you use every day, only this time, adoring fans pay you to use them. And in our ideal worlds, we use words best, and everybody loves them, and they pay good money for them, and all you had to do was think the words and put them on paper and count your novel money.

Tonight I told some lady friends 'dudes like penetration.' Which got a laugh, but it's a FACT, people. I was there to educate and they just laughed at me. I gave them the secret to global domination and they took it as entertainment. Penetration will get you Planet Earth. Or at least an hourly fee. Plus tip.

Can you believe that you have to tip hookers? I mean, COME ON, I already gave you a ride. YOU should be paying ME.

(Bed.)

Existing in real life is hard

People in real life think I'm dead because I don't hang out with them anymore, but it's really because I've been knee deep in shit. I'm not dead, though. Not yet. Really.

The High Schoolers of the Internet, however, think I'm still alive, which means I still get IMed by complete strangers. Every couple days I'll receive unsolicited messages from people liking my website, which I haven't touched in years.

In real life, you have to talk to people to exist. On the internet, you throw up an away message, you keep your website online (but out of date) and you maintain an active existence. Funny how that works.

(Story, work, story, food, story, mischief, mayhem, soap.)

My favorite part of a porno

My favorite part of a porno is when they build up all the tension and then everybody falls down really fast and they put their hands up and scream! Then they take your picture.

Did I say "porno"? I meant "roller coaster."

(Bed.)

Short, jumpy, missile-launching dick

From the internet:
What a dick. What a short, jumpy, missile-launching dick. This game makes me hate midgets, Japan, and cursors. Mostly midgets, though.

No offense to midgets, though, except that I keep calling you midgets. But 'little people' doubles the amount of syllables I have to use, so it's more grammatically logical to just stick with 'midget.'

Did you know that in medieval times, midgets were thought to bring good luck? And if you painted them green and rolled them around town in a wheelbarrow, you'd bring your good luck to all the good people in the land!

(Back to bed.)

Adderall probably gives you anal warts

Monkey quiz, monkey lecture, superhero lecture, beer, Hitchhiker's Guide, then freaking the fuck out over a short story.

Pretty much all creativity inside me has died, and I think the most ironic part of this is that this lack of creativity stems from ...drum roll.... creative writing. And I blame the internet for this ADD.

Anybody ever try that Adderall stuff? It's supposed to be for dumb kids, but when taken by college students, you're supposed to be able to concentrate on really tedious shit.

Anybody know anything about this supposed miracle drug? It sounds like it'll help you with learning, but knowing how the universe works, Adderall probably gives you anal warts. Sure, you may know everything, but you'll have to do it standing up, 'cause sitting down hurts. Anal warts. Yeah.

(Out.)

Whenever I want to get myself to not try something I convince myself it'll adversely affect my ass.

Ass balls happen

Anybody know an easy way to squeeze out some hot, steamy narrative fiction really quickly? I just want to sit down and then fill an untitled Word document to the brim with character development and plotlines and clever dialogue.

Instead, I'll probably end up sitting in front of a computer mumbling 'fucking asshole shit fuck ass balls donkey turds diarrhea.'

And hopefully, there will be people around me, wondering what ass balls are.

Ass balls are when one wears the other as a hat. Doesn't matter the order.

To those I just offended, I'm sorry, but that's the facts. Ass balls happen. Mostly on the internet, though.

(Fiction/swearing, then sleep/death.)

If only away messages could be turned into short stories, then maybe I wouldn't be so effed in the A.

Also, it looks like everything I write has to involve butts or scrotums (or in this case, both).

Save Arrested Development

There's a protest outside the Law Quad today. No, not one about fundamentalist whatevers in WhoGivesaShitistan. It's about reviving something second to only Jesus, and even then I wonder if they should tie (at least in terms of entertainment value).

The protest is for Arrested Development. I imagine they might be handing out frozen bananas. Not sure when it starts, but if it's going well, you should be able to see it fine. If you can't see it, then it's been a failure and one of the best shows on TV is not returning because of you. That means you killed our television savior. Hope you like reality TV and awful, awful sitcoms like The War at Home, because that's what you'll get if you don't start eating frozen bananas outside the Law Quad.

(Activism.)

This was the only time I really gave a shit about something happening on campus. I'm not directly affected by Israel, or Palestine, or third world labor laws (at least not enough to hold a sign in public), but Arrested Development makes me laugh, so suck it, Meaningful Causes.

Chicago demands one dollar bills

Chicago taught me that anybody can ask for money, no matter how small a favor they do you. If a guy is juggling in a subway station and you happen to look at him, you owe him a dollar. If a man takes your suitcase out of the trunk once your taxi stops and you didn't even ask him to, you owe him a dollar. It's like people think I'm made of generosity and small bills.

And that makes ME want to do stupid shit so I can get all my goddamn dollars back. I'll learn how to ride a unicycle and then go around town on my one wheel demanding money for my unique trick.

I also thought about inventing a counterfeit money machine that only makes one dollar bills, but that's stupid because you should at least make 20s. Also giving homeless people fake money is really mean.

By the way, you owe me a dollar for reading this.

(Bed.)

Christmas gives you Friend Homework

Christmas, though a great time for hugging, seasonal music, snow, and all that other fun stuff that gets old really fast. You pick out the friends you can afford to buy gifts and then you think really hard about what you'll get them. It is now your goal to figure out what is ideal and then purchase (or make, if you're creative/poor) the best gifts possible for your friends and family.

Basically, Christmas gives you Friend Homework.

And it's no big deal if you fail. You just ruin one of the best holidays of the year with your glaring lack of money and thoughtfulness. Just once a year, though. Thank Jesus for that, too. Or blame him, rather. It's his birthday.

Also, I'm cold.

(Work until 11.)

Holy hell, can Christmas be stressful. Hours and hours of thought and overtime for one day of hugging and gift certificates.

Unlimited Shut Up Buttholes

With regular conversation, when someone bothers you, all you can do is stop talking to them. On the internet, you can do all sorts of awful things. You can swear at them, you can USE CAPS LOCK, you can send them horrifying pictures of deformed genitals that you keep in a folder labeled, 'NO!', you can block them.

Score four points for the internet and a big fat fumble for real life. Every time I send a bothersome person a picture of a gaping butt, I feel better about myself. So thanks again, internet. You've provided unlimited Shut Up Buttholes and subsequent unlimited laughs.

Plus ip-relay.com made a lady ask me to fart down her throat.

(Bed.)

She wanted me to fart down her throat

Last night, my phone rang, and seconds later, a total stranger was telling me that she loved woman breasts dipped in barbeque sauce. She continued to say that wanted to be inside a bear vagina, and that she had rollerskates made out of babies. This woman had no choice but to say these things, and I'll be damned if it wasn't hilarious.

This is all because of ip-relay.com. It's a website intended for use by the deaf. The deaf person calls someone via the web, they type things, and an operator reads it to the person being called. This is a free service, yet the operator has to read what is on the screen.

I've had operators call me and say nothing but racial slurs and swears. Last night, courtesy of Brian, an operator told me that she wanted me to fart down her throat.

I love the internet.
(Papers forever.)