Friday, March 26, 2010

This is me, Falling through the roof

I've determined I need to write, free-association style. History tends to restrict how and what I write about, the ways I write, you know, one must be all privy to the Chicago Style of citations and to not use "I" or "you" in a sentence.

That is all well and dandy, but I've determined if I really want to grow I should just force myself to write whatever is on my mind, whenever. And since no one ever reads this, looks like I'll have free reign over writing whatever I'd damn well please!

I guess this sense of... a want to write without being graded hit me yesterday. KP from that fancy camp I work at during the summers emailed out a questionnaire a few weeks ago, and I finally got around to answering it yesterday. And holy shit, did I answer it hard. It felt so good, the words just appearing on my computer screen, I didn't even feel as though I was typing. I thought, and they were there. It was liberating.

I recently looked back at my LiveJournal entries, and I'm envious. I wonder where that guy went. This year has seemed to consume me. I feel like a nervous wreck most of the time, like a clock is always ticking, like I'm wasting my own time. I feel isolated in the city. Other people are just waves, crashing against my lonely island. I don't like it. This program is luckily only two years. I feel so disconnected. There are friends I have here, but I'm stuck in between two places- Indiana and Boston- where the majority of my friends and loves reside. It is like being in some sort of sadistic state of limbo in which all I do is read about Soviet relations all day. I love the reading, I just don't like the state of social limbo. It's constricting.

I've been batting around the idea that maybe I get seasonally depressed- the more winters I experience the harder they are to battle through. Then there is that first sunny day in late February, and then everything blossoms. Summer is only a few steps away, New Hampshire greatness is on the horizon. I just have but a few more months, even weeks, until I can celebrate that. Like racing towards a finish line... some sort of a finish line where when you reach it, you meet a bunch of kids that call you a "cunt licker" a "baby raper" a "assfuck," those kids try to hit you with sticks. They bite. But I love it. That's the unusual, painful finish line I run to- but that finish line is a relief. I'll be with friends this summer- it will make up for the past 7 months.

This isn't to say I've been miserable, I haven't. I've just felt disjointed. Disconnected. Confused. Why did I pick Philadelphia? Well, I got a good deal at Villanova for one. But it just seemed like a good idea. So I'll roll with it. And I'll fix my eye on May.

I guess I like to think I feel like some sort of Buddhist monk. Kickin' it on a mountain ridge, a study of the self and the surrounding. Yes... I am the Buddhist monk of grilled cheese sandwiches, PBJ's, and early Soviet history. Also, I drink a lot of coffee. And I'm a Wii Bowling professional.

I'm that kind of a Buddhist monk.

Well now, do you hear that? A book. It calls my name.

Sunday, October 25, 2009


This was a snazzy word that I relearned this past summer. In the words of clinical psychologists, raproachemont (said with a complete French accent) is a way of a client to reconnect with his/her life to recognize what they were working to get back to. It made perfect sense in the setting I worked in; children were away from their families for six weeks and only had 4 hours over that period to catch some face time with their primary care givers. This period was completely meaningful and really gave the children some sense of direction when it seemed as they were floating with no wind in the middle of some massive New Hampshire pond.

Of course when the parents left, the children acted out in the most inhumane ways possible to attempt to show how much pain they were going through.

I recently spent a week at home. It made me realize that I do indeed fucking love my family, friends, and the wonderful town of Elkhart. I feel people diss on their families and home life, and I don't understand this one bit. I feel like I've been adrift at sea for the past five months. After residing in New Hampshire for two months, working with kids who were fucking amazing for days on end (six, to be exact, then a day off, then another six, then a day off, then another six... repeat this two and a half more times) then being transplanted to Philadelphia, I felt empty. And confused.

I began embarking on the quest of obtaining my mother-fucking Master's from Villanova in European History. Talk about a complete reversal of what I was doing this summer. Everything is so minimized in history. Everything is a cold fact, a solitary digit, a theory. The exact opposite of what I gave sixty days of my life this summer, sixty days last summer, and sixty days the previous summer enveloped in. I felt lost when I would sit in a seminar and hear numbers thrown around without others recognizing their weight. It was saddening.

But enough self-employed sympathy. I got over that shit. I thoroughly enjoy the program, I feel like I've learned more in the past two months than I did in the (scholarly) collaboration of my four years at Purdue. In the class room, that is. I guess my problem lies in the fact that I love history. I love what I'm studying. But I don't love the way that history is being employed and projected to the masses. Most of the people I know thing of our present position in history as a concrete, non-static state of being. We are the present... Us six years ago? Yeah, that's the past, but it is still like the present. We separate ourselves from painful pasts in humanity by saying "Yeah, eleven million Europeans died in the years 1933-1935... But that's because they were in a 'communist' state and back then they were incredibly backwards and archaic." Its a sad frame of mind, distinguishing the past from the present in completely separated, dispersed terms.

Anyways, I'm not quite sure where I was going with this. But when I visited Elkhart I realized that everything is going to be okay. Things may be tough, I may have to write more than I've ever written before in my life (Objectively, about the Franco-Russian Alliance of 1894 and the Great Purges in the USSR during the 1930's) but I'll get through it. Rent may be expensive, tutoring kids may be a pain in the ass, working with people that view things as one-dimensional facts is disheartening, and attempting to not become one of those that views everything as a fact of a diminished past may be incredibly trying... But journeying to Elkhart showed me that I'll do it.

And it will all be okay.

This post may have been inspired by me listening to the Guillemots again.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Yeah I'm Pretty Much a Socialist... Don't Like it? Blow Me.

Whilst browsing the wondrous Facebook, I often come across a few updates from some individuals that are rather politically charge. Generally they're of the sentiment "NOBAMA!", or "KEEP THE CHANGE!", or "I'M GOING TO A TEABAGGER PARTY!". Which is fine, I actually don't mind because I used to be in a group called "Fuck this President!". Seeing all of these somewhat... hating posts has really solidified my view on one thing.

Don't like what's going on? That's fine, but don't try to change my mind on it. Because you're not going to. And I'll probably try to ball tap you (twat tap? if you're a female?) if you even attempt to debate a subject with me on the grounds of you attempting to persuade me I'm wrong.

I'm all about scholarly, intelligent debate. In fact I thrive on it. But I really am getting sick of the politically charged bullshit that is constantly bombarding my life (I'm partly to blame, I do subscribe to the Economist and I always jog on the treadmill at the gym with FOX News on in front of me... I find the anger makes perfect JOGGING FUEL). I've come to a few basic realizations, and I really with others would heed my fucking word.

1. Yes, I'm a fucking Socialist
And I'm actually a very well read one, as well. Y'know, I don't take pride in my political ideals. I know they're heavily idealized. I know they'll never come true. But I have them. So god damned deal with it. All too many times I've had someone (a friend, an acquantance, or someone I've never met before) ask me about my views on, oh, let's say, the stimulus package. I'll usually sit back, play it off and hear what the other person has to say. But oftentimes the poor soul makes the misguided attempt to label the package as "socialism". Generally, at this point I say "No, no it isn't" while muttering a profane insult under my breath. Then the person sees I'm on the "left" side of things, politically speaking. In Indiana, that tends to be a boo-boo thing. Then I feel judged and hated upon... Which usually doesn't bother me. But when I go out of my way to not be political, and some horse's ass continues grinding their thoughts into my face trying to make me agree with them... It tends to be bothersome.

2. Yes, I'm a fucking Idealist
95% of those that realize I tend to be very left leaning usually make some comment about me being a communist, or tell me to appreciate the freedoms I have because my Grandpa died in Vietnam, or some shit like that. Usually I write them off and ignore them, often feeling bad for the mental retardation that has obviously struck them. But there is a small 5% group that immediately go for the somewhat thoughtful response: "Well, you know socialized health care will never happen", or "Equal rights will never be completely equal", or "Love people? What? Shut up with your Hippie mumbo-jumbo and go get high on shrooms and screw a Hollister mannequin". To this latter, more intelligent group, I say "Yeah, yeah I'm an idealist". I wonder, what is their point? I understand how much of a farce global humanitarian equality is. But that doesn't mean I can't dream about it. It doesn't mean I don't think it's the best thing that can happen socially. I understand it seems unlikely right now. But you know what seemed completely unthinkable more than a hundred years ago? Women having the right to vote. So go fuck yourself. How can we ever achieve anything if we don't aim high?

3. I want to reach a middle ground
This is possibly the most hypocritical portion or my rant. Yes, I think I'm a socialist. Yes, I know I'm an idealist. But you know what? I'm willing to compromise my ideas and listen to you. When I read all of the Facebook notes about how "Obama is t3h p0rk m4st3r" and "g4ys r rong!" I'll likely initially want to punt your shin. But then I think of how uncompromising you are in your views. And since I'm an egotistical bastard, I want to be better than you. (Plus, frankly, this makes more sense). We need to reach a common understanding. Sure, I think you're ignorant if you believe gays are trying to kill God, and the Jews placed fake dinosaur bones in the earth to disprove the Earth only being 4,000 years old. But I at least understand you're ignorant. So the most I expect from you is to understand my pretentiousness, and the fact that I probably know more about social sciences than you do.

The primary problem with our damned political system is this ridiculous Democrat/Republican dichotomy. I classify myself as neither. No one I know of likes the current system. But if us, "The Masses", don't figure out a way to at least listen and understand the other side (without trying to persuade them they're wrong, or compromise one's own view) we will get no where. We'll continue with this two party system, and your beloved "United States, Land of the Free" will quickly be swallowed up by every other nation that has realized the only thing that divides people politically are their owned god damned egos.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

How to Get a Girl to do Anything in Bed PART TWO

Ahh, this earthly realm. Is all that makes me happy receiving sexy spam emails?

Maybe, but not quite. Upon other things, I just registered for classes for the Fall 2009 at Villanova; however more on this when I A) have more time and B) am sober.

For now I leave you with my response to this email I received...

By yudhishthira the just, of great intelligence. O sinless
one, that i am about to tell thee is. Proceeded to demonstrate as he explained. Thenmy the lower bunk. He was dragged out. Another saturday morality. A brave
man, if bereft of understanding, hath been uttered by thee,
o king, with respect possible. 'my god! Thou deserted me!'
he murmured. Feeling greatly relieved that her suspicion
was back in america only a year. We met early in the parker
pillsbury, another preacher and lecturer, once more returned
to battle, proceeding to the illness, had been his favorite
beneath the tall flowed away, even so, o king, are these
lamentations is, that hardy plants under glass demand skilful.

Beautiful. As a point of clarification: the italicized portion of this entry is actually something I received in an email entitled "How to get a girl to do anything in Bed". There is a link at the top of the email, followed by this fantastic piece of literary genius.

This shit is heavy. I feel very bad for Parker Pillsbury... Has he indeed been released from this mortal coil!?

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

How to Get a Girl to do Anything in Bed PART ONE

So I would really like to update this fucking thing. But the past week I was busy doing big-people things. Like, visiting a grad school, getting a scholarship, visiting friends in Boston, and getting inebriated at a Chicago Cubs game with the donor of my Y chromosome (that means my father). Since I have such a passion to use this as some sort of artistic output/locale of things I find funny/self-pleasuring love blog I found something I can post that will NOT take up much time, but will be abso-fucking-lutely mindblowing. I present something I received in my SPAM file on gmail. Followed by 3 or 4 more when I gain the initiative to post them.

"With a hateful smile on his face. There was something at
one of the doors. Macleod became his fellowspectator within
the rail. There is a certain amount of."

Yes. This is the text for an email that promised to make my wang have more bang (HAH! It took only like three seconds to think of that, kapow!).

Macleod has quickly become my nickname for my close friends. Kind of like "Jobin". This email was a nice introduction into the intricacies of questionable prose. What is to come, however, will poetically blow your pants off of your face.

That is, if you wear pants on your face. Otherwise it'll just rock your world.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

A Man of the Hair

I'm a man that fully supports facial hair.

And god damn it, I don't care if sacrificing talent, skill, and an overall winning record is sacrificed for a full chin, cheek, {and neck}, of hair. When I was young, I was taught the virtues of true manliness. Those were: 1) Physically harass and beat anyone of a different school of thought than yourself; 2) Eat a lot of meat; 3) Slap things with your penis; 4) Grow and maintain a full face of hair.

Of those items, I only fulfill two at any specific time (Hint: They probably aren't the first two); this is likely why I grasp so tenaciously to the two virtues which I do fulfill. Of which one, I effectively fulfill without blinding nearby persons. To this, I stiffly defend the virtues of facial hair growth.

And this, simply, is why I do not support the Chicago Bears' decision to trade Kyle "The Neck Beard" Orton (along with two first round draft picks and a third round draft pick) with Jay "I Really Like Fall Out Boy" Cutler (as well as a third round draft pick). I don't care if it is a wise decision for the upcoming Bears season, in terms of victories. Because I know that it is a complete loss for the upcoming Bears season, in terms of facial hair that make even Grizzly Adams jealous.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Well, It Was Fucking Lame

For whatever reason, I decided writing on a somewhat daily basis would foster an environment for my creativity to not die. It happened when I was driving to a Goshen Community School this morning to sub. Some bitch cut me off. Being cut off by what I presumed to be a fat cow, my body spasmed and I mustered out a "You FUCKER" whilst in the middle of singing one of my favorite "Driving to Goshen Soundtrack" songs.

It's by the Guillemots.

I then proceeded to burn my tongue on a delicious, oh-thank-heaven Seven-Eleven 24 ounce cup 'o Joe. I muttered various swear words under my breath for the next two or three minutes, before finally forgetting why I was creatively assembling phrases that included both "ass" and "fisting".

It was at this point I realized I'm not nearly as angry as I sometimes catch myself acting. But I should probably write about it anyways.