Color Me Bryan

First Act of my play

2010-05-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

http://scripped.com/script/view/104139

I can never finish ANYTHING in my life. I'm hoping to finish this when I feel inspired, whenever that is.

Prolapse: A Love Story

2009-09-28T07:24:00.000-07:00

I’m a very nervous person, possibly a hypochondriac. I pour over Webmd whenever I have an ailment. My toenail is turning purple? Must be a tumor! Headache? Brain cancer! My thoughts about my innards usually revolve around cancer of some sort.
Until Senior year, I would take my self diagnosis’s in stride, and forget about them after five minutes. That is, until I encountered mucus, from all the wrong places. This was strange to me, I shouldn’t be hawking a lougee from places completely foreign from my mouth. I don’t know who approved my spit a green card to my butt, but they need to be fired.
Of course, I Webmded it, and I found an appalling answer. Anal Prolapse. It’s just as bad as it sounds. When one strains bodily functions, their organs might slide out. In my bizarre sense of reasoning, I thought this would be the perfect condition to diagnose myself with, and it fit the bill for my general personality. I accepted my fate, clicked off the web browser and wallowed on my twitter account.
Approaching the school, my mind was on my stool. I weeped to my friends that at any moment, my intestines might slip out, and how that would be social suicide if that were to happen. They cackled, they possessed the sick humor that I had, and I smirked too, proud that in even my darkest (and slimiest) times that I could humor my friends. They urged me to tell a teacher, not out of fear for my life, but for insane laughs. The peer pressure got to me, and I wanted to see Mrs.Steffen’s reaction to my “little problem”. She smirked at my strained description of Anal Prolapse, closing her eyes and afraid of what I might respond to her upcoming question, she asks, “What are your symptoms?” the class was laughing in their auditorium seats, I had to tell her, but in a way that was respectable to the student teacher relationship. I love having fun and slinging out jokes, but I know when and where to stop, and if I don’t, I feel guilty for years about crossing that line. “Mucus…” I whisper, my hand cuffed over my mouth. She purses her lips with her eyes closed, and lets out a hoarse, “Okay. You need to check that out. But it might be just a hemorrhoid.” A hemorrhoid, even though with Steffen’s theater, raspy, booming voice that usually excites me to the stage, it didn’t sound as appealing as Anal Prolapse. Anal Prolapse sounds adventurous, climactic, and even exciting. It’s a great story to blog about when the organs hit the fan. But a hemorrhoid? Hemorrhoids just stay in a cavern nagging you like Golem, and if they don’t get what they want they just hurt. The bell rings, and I think about this new unofficial diagnosis.
I go home, and tell my father the news. Disgusted, he decides to tell me to call my mother, who’s a nurse. We decide on running tests in the lab, in which I get to “go” in a bag. I find this concept utterly exotic. I’m someone with very strict bathroom policies. It can’t be public, it has to be mine, it has to be cold, and it has to be spotless. But this bag enchanted me, I ponder during my classes about what this bag would look like, who touched it, what it was made out of, did it have a zip lock on the top? Or a special closing mechanism that doesn’t let the fecal matter fall out? The wonder!
I love pondering about strange things. On the Fourth of July, instead of appreciating the fireworks I stay inside and watch the Twilight Zone marathon. When everyone else is playing football, I stay at home singing to French rap while writing plays. I’m an out there person, and if you’re out there then at least you’re somewhere, and I’m happy with that.

Or decide that this isn't what you wanted to do.

2009-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

deer

2009-08-10T12:30:00.000-07:00

My life.

2009-08-08T10:29:00.000-07:00

woot! Comic blog again!

Wilton Rose issue 2!

2009-08-06T15:28:00.000-07:00

Wilton Rose

2009-08-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

Wow! I have no quality control. I've been fine, taking cake decorating classes, hence the future comics, that hopefully don't suck as bad as this one. Everyone needs to read scott pilgrim. MTV still hasn't given me a reason for why I SUCK too much to be on their channel's broadcasting. WoW is back in my life, and I got a cute purple mount (pictures later). I haven't been writing, haven't had anything to write about except cake decorating madness.

Cemetary

2009-07-26T23:57:00.000-07:00

There's a lump in my best friendship
My parents never took me driving in the cemetery.
My joy comes from Disney Techno
My parents never took me driving in the cemetery.
I feel dead inside.
My soul will always be driving in a cemetery.

new creation from TheSims3.com

2009-07-21T16:49:00.001-07:00

view more at TheSims3.com

Week of June 21st

2009-06-29T21:52:00.000-07:00

Billy Mays, Farrah Fawcett, Micheal Jackson, my soul, my goal, my television show, my bestfriend's trust, my self assurance, were all stolen from me.

Book: Chapter oneish twoish

2009-06-12T22:31:00.001-07:00

I walk behind a lemon cat as I walk to my parents’ new house, it’s a crappy neighborhood. Houses crammed into each other, squirming for room. The sidewalks are shot, and the crappy brick job made the house a rusted red rectangle. Entering it, I see my mother precisely alphabetizing her collection, her long auburn hair reaching down to her hips. I crash the box of records I was carrying onto the floor, skootching it into a nook with my foot. Kind of like my neighborhood!
“Honey!” Mother deftly walks over to her record collection, “You know these where a bitch to find!” Her hair now blocking the box and her face, I position myself against the wall near her. I can see her fingers examining each record slip making sure nothing was shattered. “Thank nothing was broken… How about some tunes.”
“All you have is old Fleetwood Mac records.”
“Don’t diss the Fleetwood, god I thought I raised you better.”
I smirk and roll my eyes, and walk away from the wall I was leaning against.
“Shit, Banana!” I turn around, she walks behind me and starts brushing my back, “There’s paint chips all over!” I look at the wall, slightly wobbly white circle remained from where I was perched, “Banana, can you get the broom?” If our boxes where painted red and seafoam green, it could’ve been this city.
“You think I can find a broom?”
“Right… Uhh…” She pulls off a book from the shelf. “Here, use this.” She tosses it to me and tries to cram records into the bookshelf. I study the book, “Spirtual Awakening; A Thirteen Step Program to Solving Inner Calamity.” On the front, and back, of the book I see my father’s face, a handsome 30-40 year old, with brown hair, perfect smile and complexion, and OH WAIT, a scam artist. He published this book, instantly gaining millions of followers, and then decided he could make more money. A gated community, somewhere in Montana. He had all the funds and zoning commissions, one mile of housing was made, and then he ran. Why, we’ll never know. That’s how he met my mother, a spunky book critique that was quickly gaining popularity, she could’ve been the Oprah of hipster moms if she didn’t forgo all “negative agenda’s and thoughts” to explore abandoned land plots with my father. He left her, along with 300 other people, she was devastated, and now, she’s bitter as hell, being abandoned by her fiancee and the literary community. Now she owns a blog and teaches creative writing at the Y.
“Hmm, I wish Harold could clean more messes than just those paint chips. Like my life.” Mom was always overly poetic, during her webcam interview (she loved to amaze using her moderate web process) she went on about the interviewers font selection, and how she can judge anybody by their choice in font, she flattered the interviewer with snazzy word flourishes and flatteries, sucking up to her, saying that her chakra came from her navel, which means a compassionate person. The interviewer used Comic Sans, my whole family are con artists. “Rain, maybe you should go to bed early today, you’re going to a new school, After all.”
“I still go to our school, we’re in the same town.” She stands up, flutters her eyes at her mistake, smiling.
“I know sugar, what are you going to name yourself?” I look at her, it’s my tradition at every new school I name myself something different than Rain, for obvious reasons. “I’m kidding!” She scruffs up my hair, twirls towards to bookshelf (inevitably slapping me in the face with her long locks) and continues filing. I walk up the stairs, unnerved that the steps are so short, my feet can’t fit, it helps that they are carpeted though, which unnerves me even more because I can’t hear my foot steps.
Upstairs is one small hallway, divided into a bathroom, my room, mom’s room and an empty room. I enter my room, the room is a lame white paint, beige carpet with a mountain dew/absinthe stain on it , and a mattress without any sheets smack dab in the center. I hurl myself on the mattress, and look up at the ceiling, symmetrical to the cola stain, there is water stains scattering the ceiling, almost cloudlike. I turn over to my side, grab my alarm clock, set it, and fall asleep.
It’s a frightening evening, the moon is huge, and we’re in a field. There is my new house, it’s chasing me, but I‘m not me. I’m an outside observer to I’s chase scene. The house isn’t connect to the other shanties, it’s on it’s own, legless, sliding through the thickets making this terrifying crumbling sound as it uproots the wheat that lives in this field. I look up at the moon, and it’s being covered by sand colored clouds, it hardly illuminates the field, the field rains towards the clouds, the clouds a magnet to the green drops, absorbing them. I’m in dream world, it’s 7:45 and I turn into an owl in an explosion of off white paint chips and get saved by prince charming.
I wake up with stale sweat dried in my sheets. I unpeel them off and head toward the bathroom stealthily, I crack open a door, and see my mother in front of a window reading a magazine while, “eating the sun”. She looks up, perfectly silhouetted sans the light permeating through her hair “You should really try this with me sometime.”
“Then why are you nibbling on your hair?”
She looks at the lock of hair, drops it. “Hmm, after you shower I’ll make some eggs. SUNNY SIDE UP THAT IS!” She slaps her magazine on her knee and kicks her head back and cackles fakely. I smirk, close the door and enter the real bathroom. I take my shower, with my head leaning against the wall under the spout, which sickly spirts sand colored water onto me for about 15 seconds, and continues flowing clear water. I bathe with extra finesse to account for the uproar of gross.
I pile on a black, argyle jacket and some black jeans, I don’t need to wow anyone today. I’m in the same district, right? And walk down the stairs, seeing my mother cracking eggs, smashing the shells, and then flutters them into the waste basket. I shudder. “I’m surprised you’re making me eggs.”
“I decided to be a real mom today, and not just a robot. Don’t get used to it, I should be sun eating right now.”
“The sun will feel neglected, you should get back to him.”
“The sun could be a woman, and fuck the sun.”
“Your boss won’t like to hear that statement.”
“She’ll just think that I’m a new aged person, but with some realist spunk. The most agreeable hippy.”
“The most agreeable hippy liar.”
“Another word out of you and I’m putting eggshell in your eggs.”
“I think I want to try out Robo-mom.”
“Robo-mom has lasers and no sense of pleasure.”
I stare at her, her eyes widen and stares into the horizon in shame. “You can sass me if you want this morning, I will consider not putting eggshells in your eggs.”

Examination Nation.

2009-06-07T19:42:00.000-07:00

Fleet Foxes' "Sun Rises" plays as I awake, I smirk, Lady Fortune smiles upon me with a well placed track on a c.d I use as my alarm. I go through the main hoops of my daily wakeup, and hour chillfest to tivoed shows and sipping on my weird latte chocolate mutant I call my favorite beverage. I depart for medical check ups, I am a media darling. Or atleast I'm going to be.

The ride to the Pediatrics center, the home of ADD medication, Mrs.Holbert with her gaptoothed grin and her overly optimistic advice that I refuse to believe (even though she's right most of the time.), and an ex-highschool basketball player doctor. Now it's circus for my reality television debut. For I am a warrior on a 100 yard field. Or about to be.

I whisper to myself as he feels my belly, "Please don't vomit." He asks me the questions and statements that's plagued me for months, "So what are you going to be made into? What's MADE? I haven't watched MTV since Bevis and Butthead!" I answer these like a robot, sure, when I first heard the news, I was excited, I whipped out my award to start any conversation with a stranger, now it's an old routine. My mistress has grown old.
"Ok, now I need you to take off your pants for the testicular cancer exam." I knew this was coming, I slide my eyes to the wall. The back of my mind I panicked,
"What should I do to prepare myself for this? Should I trim? What happens if I have micro-penis?"
He scrambled my opposite of eggs, (My moon side downs?) with neither revolt nor colored impressed, a bittersweet victory. He explains why he did that, which doesn't matter. My examination is over, and I go home to nap.
My mother wakes me up, it's time for the next batch of medical trials. We drive there, arrive, and wait for endless minutes for my appointment. As we were signing in for our appointments, the ebony woman with a look in her eyes that she didn't give a shit that I was the dalli llama (If that is how you spell it.) she wasn't going to be fazed. A spritely woman popped out behind her, mid forum signing, and said, "Can I ask you what you're going to be MADE into?" Her eyes were bulging out, and the receptionist had a cold look that she couldn't stand this girl for five minutes. I told her my story. She smiled and said, "Well you need to tell us when it's going to be aired!" Which is the hospital's catch phrase apparently, they should put that on a t-shirt...
I go for my echo cardiogram, "Take off your shirt." "
Shit... I should've shaved my nipple hair." I think as I quietly kick myself. She sticks shiny silver stickers on my body, things I overlook under the fat folds I'm going to lose. They find nothing.
I go meet Dr.somethingindian, who pressed his fingers against my fat, and asked me about my classes. He seemed disinterested, and after I explained what MADE was, he said, "Well that is an experience." I'm bummed, but I continue on to my ekg. I lied down, my mother beside me, she couldn't stand the waiting room, a man in a suit paraded his bratty daughter around in hopes of interaction, she would have none of that. National Treasure was playing as an elderly birdwoman squeezed warm, soap/jizz like substance on my stomach. Again, I try to hide my hair laden breasts from prying eyes. I couldn't help but look at the screen she was watching, the palpatations of my heart. I caught myself thinking, "Please, be something wrong with me." I mummed myself, it wasn't I was afraid of the show. Well, I'm scared shitless of the show, but that's not what I was whispering to myself for. Finding a heart tumor, or a small alien subspecies would be like winning a scholarship. I slap my hand whenever I think this, my grandfather is dying of cancer, but I can't help but think in my warped mind how a diasease would make my life so much fuller, treasured. When people are diagnosed with something, they find the true meaning of life and move to India to help people find their innerselves.
No such unluck, I go to my stress test. They put more of those damn stickers on my torso (FYI, I don't have a whole chest of fur. That I would be proud of and flaunt. It's square on my aeriolas) cover it with an uberly gay fishnet tank that squeezed the electrodes onto my body. Then I ran to Judge Brown as the nurses pandered me for information. The one nurse was witty, with a dark sense of humor. (She was inline at a supermarket, the cashier asked another woman her babies name, it was ridiculous. The nurse (let's call her Jackie) was next in line. "-insert baby's name here- is the worst name ever!" Jackie retorts, "That was my sister..." (Not a big story, but to do that you need some balls.)) the other nurse was a freak, she looked like a maiden of mercy, or that she plays scrabble using only terms of murder and competes against other nurses on how many patients they can murder. She stared at me, and that's all she did. Nurse Creepy got me a drink of water, as I drank it, something came through the straw, onto my tongue and into my throat. It could've been 3 things, a micro-biotic organism that's going to consume my magical essence, a booger, or a stray lemon seed. All of the options would have been creepy. I pant like a dog and run on the treadmill and leave, yearning for sims 3 and a nap.

I wish I could close this better. but whatever, it's a blog no one reads.

Back without a vengence

2009-05-29T21:03:00.000-07:00

Sorry I've been neglecting you children.
Me oh my.
I'm going to be on TV though.
Mhmmm, all behold my might.
I'll post a chapter to ANOTHER book I'm starting.
Eventually.
Maybe.

Back on Blogger

2009-03-28T10:31:00.001-07:00

2009-02-20T21:31:00.001-08:00

I've been on typepad guys!
My s/n is Bryanthelion.

Sorry for the lack of posts.

2009-02-07T13:58:00.000-08:00

I've been super busy!

I'll try to post one today. But no promises.

Yes

2009-01-27T18:25:00.000-08:00

This comic is a true story.

I've been busy lately.

BSG

2009-01-16T20:22:00.000-08:00

I know I haven't been blogging alot lately. Mostly comic making, so I'll add a slight tid-bit.
The new season of Battlestar rocked my socks off.
I'm writing a play, and people say its good. My school might make it a production. This equals self-fulfillment. Yay!
Other than that, nothing else interesting has happened in my life.

JUST NOW!

2009-01-15T20:56:00.001-08:00

Windshield.

2009-01-14T14:53:00.000-08:00

Kanye Blog

2009-01-10T19:19:00.000-08:00

Art

2009-01-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

Walrus

2009-01-07T18:05:00.001-08:00

Cinnamunnn

2009-01-06T18:44:00.001-08:00

uggly

2009-01-05T17:13:00.001-08:00

Sister

2009-01-04T19:12:00.000-08:00

2009-01-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

Get the girl some water!

2009-01-01T21:41:00.001-08:00

PARTAY

2009-01-01T00:50:00.001-08:00

Jelly Belly

2008-12-31T22:03:00.001-08:00

Raisins

2008-12-30T12:05:00.000-08:00

Armpit.

2008-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

2 blogs in one week? Some people might question when I got all, "FUCK YES, I'M GOING TO BLOG ALL THE TIME!". Well, dear reader, I bought "Comedic Writing for Dummies! (Generic Brand of it though)" and it told me to hone my craft, and to force the funny out of any situation possible and that I should spend about an hour a day writing. I remember to do this tonight, right when I realize that I'm fucking tired.

THAT WAS LAST NIGHT. AND TONIGHT, I HAVE A COMIC FO' YOU!

This blog is now another comic blog. Deal with it.

Christmas blues.

2008-12-27T21:10:00.000-08:00

I cannot tell you how much I hate family time. Its not that I hate it (Only the moments spent with Brooke*) Its such a bore. Especially christmas, all of its magic is sucked out of it. Santa doesnt exist, and my Mom doesnt fill the void in my heart that he left. She left gift lists, receipts, and gifts lying around the house this year. Unwrapped, unexplained, and uncool. Half the fun of Christmas is snooping around. Poking and shaking presents to hear the jingles** of the presents behind the beautiful paper.
It doesnt help that my mother's niece and nephew were lobotomized***. Their father is a principal, which demands that they act as mild mannered, scholarly, and sportastic as each occasion requires. I hate them, they come over my house and eat all this shit, and dont even provide decent conversation. Their portly father and their batshit-nervous mother only cough up free movie tickets. While my Mom showers their son with 2 movies and a video game. Thats around a 100 dollars worth of free shit, all because of a family tree blessing. Fucker..
*Homicidal Bitch Extrodanaire.
**Games,DvDs, and CDs dont jingle. LAME! Product makers, make more sound hints.
***In a sense... Theres alot that church, Madden, and Holiday punch can do to you.

Crucial Learning Center for the Lame.

2008-11-18T05:49:00.000-08:00

Hail, Hail!

I am stranded on an island called, "The computer lab." I dont even have the unfinished work for my lame play, which would be my paddle. While someone stares over my shoulder insessantly, odding me out beyond control. It might not seem awkward on paper, but when you're typing about that person who is staring over your shoulder, reading what you're typing, its awkward. Especially when he gets super defensive when I get angered over the computer, and then tries to discuss with me video games. I want to claw him in the face with my monkey paw. Seriously, this kid is the lamest of creepy nerds. Rumor has it, he touched himself while watching fine art in a class.

Also, he sits like L from Death Note. Which angers me. All of those people who watch a show and suck away all of the coolness by trying to act like the character. "Oh I'm Kakashi!" or "Oh, I'm dark and brooding." A girl in my school dyed her hair black, just to look like an anime character. Mother Earth would not approve. I think she would sprout out little barklings and human leaf people to obliterate the anime addicted wabanease. Hateness incarnate. Loud ass, colorful, obtrusive garments somehow look better in a cartoon! Ever see someone dressed as Mickey Mouse? No, because Mickey dresses like a dumbass, like most anime characters. Now, I dont hate anime. The gods I worship smile upon good anime, they radiantly shine their UV rays of Deism down on great anime.

Direct to Helmet.

2008-11-17T19:45:00.000-08:00

Dear fellow soviets, I am bored and lazy. Oddly, lazy enough to start writing (typing) a play. Much fun and imagination will flow out of that process like sweet syrup from a maple tree. It basically consists of me thinking of the weirdest names, trying to come up with a floor plan, and not wanting to sound too pushy with my descriptions of how the actors are supposed to act. Even though I know that this wont be performed in any large audiences, seeing as its a play about of group of people playing dungeons and dragons. A man can dream though, and this man dreams of reading something to his Creative Writing class without wanting to roll around in a puddle or a stormdrain. Jolly me and my stormdrain shannigans, I almost got kicked out by an aqua-rat tenant, Quel' Tor! (Quel' Tor shares his little aquatic mammal shanty with Shi Tzu, the illustrius pearl thief who fled to the sewers to hid from the Persian Police. She is a dog, so she is the brawn of the operation. I dont believe Quel' Tor knows about her sordid past though, if he did, she'd probably rip out his veins with her sharp canine teeth. That or pee on newspaper.)

Speaking of things that flowed, my tears flew out of my eye flaps in Language Arts on Thursday. After that emopost, I went to my LA class. Inwhich I missplaced crucial documents in the theater room. My self esteem already beaten to a pulp by my own psyche, I start quietly sobbing. As Chelsea stares down at me with lecherous, vengeful eyes (She cut her bangs in mourning due to her failed attempt at being a makeout friend to a guy. She also failed at cutting her bangs, she tried a diagonal cut. Not natural cut, god, I need to draw you a picture of that later.) Mr.Quade (In shock of my outragous display of humanity) stared at me and continued checking off his "People Who Deserve to be in Honors LA List." I huddle my head down and silently sniffled. My class gave me the dignity to just ignore me in my pile of filth, and I thank them for that. If it was a class I wasnt trying to impress with my "suaveness" I would have wailed out loud like widows from Sicily

Emo Post.

2008-11-13T05:39:00.000-08:00

I can honestly say that I'm nearing the breaking point that most crazy people get to when they cut off their ear or wear crocs. Everything is just increasing the intensity of my anxiety, I'm tempted to flail my arms and scream just because my hair is greasy and I'm constantly surrounded by attention whores that match my need for glory.
The baby cat isnt helping.
I'm nearing the finish line. I'm almost done bullshitting around with my useless comrades whom I only talk to because they are in the same class as me, I'm losing my cool, I'm losing my flair. I just want to drown in a jar of jello, and fill my lungs with the wiggly~jiggly substance.
In school I'm tempted to start crying just for the mere fact that I dont see myself living past twenty. I look up colleges and make plans, but in the back of my head I see no point. I'm a failure, I'm walking on a road to knowhere. Its just pointless, I should just drop my dreams at the door and go along for a lame ride, working at Giant Eagle like my father. Making faux anniversary cards that only signal the yearning to go back to artschool, to prove everyone wrong.
God, I wish I had a crystal ball to show me what my future lies ahead of me, god, I'm so sick of waiting around for an answer.

I should just go home.

2008-11-05T09:53:00.000-08:00

Its no secret that many people think I am going to hell, and by their rule sets, I would have to agree with them. I do drugs, I talk about sex, and I love two guys going at it. Still, Hell doesnt sound bad. It has 2 of my favorite letter, 2! Besides that, it wouldnt be that bad. I would probably relax in the hot-tobesque volcano. While a scantily clad devil prods me with a red trident. After the miserable incinerations, and have my skin bubbling from the hell-bath. I would move 1000 pound boulders while talking to other sinners. Such as prostitutes, pornstars, gay pornstars, gamblers, and mafia men! Basically, even though I'm being tortured for eternity, atleast I get to spend time with some interesting people.

On the flipside, on the off chance of me going to heaven, that might suck even more. Even though I'm weightlessly floating on comfy clouds, and bowling with angels. It doesnt seem appealing. Finding a one night stand would kill me, and hanging out with the people I hate (A.K.A Born Again Conservatives who whisper nasty-nothings under their breath about me) would crowd around the cloudy golf course. I would hang myself with a halo.

My ideal heaven? It would be communistic, except it would work. People would just come home to find food awaiting on my lounging couch, thing. That is like a paisley drug trip pattern that are constantly changing. Oh, yeah, everyone would constantly be drunk and orgasming. Destroying the need to actually be sober. Also, there would be no consequences! Just because you make-out with a spongey haired loser who fails at singing the national anthem at a football game, doesnt give him the right to walk around calling you "String Bean" to everyone who mentions your name. One who would do this would have their orgasm/drunk existence removed, and they shall be sent into a dark,bland, and blaise forest inwhich they have to eat from the unbeloved Puu Puu beans. They are called "Puu Puu Beans" for a reason. MUAHAHAAW.

Ah, life would be good.

Lame Lame Lame Weekday Update

2008-10-21T04:55:00.000-07:00

I'm a busy bee, what can I say? Now a days, I'm buzzing around pepped up on zoloft and B12, kicking ass and taking names in school. I dont have time to think of my sadness or the minor wrongs done to me. Why have that when I need to memorize lines (Which I should be doing now, but alas, my blog feels neglected (save for a dreadful post about intergalactic sex)) Life consists of drama club, television shows, shadowrun, and dancing. Yes my dear readers, I finally caught the jitterbug. I adopted a new pal, Haele, and her rag-tag crew of dancers. Normally, this type of people I'm not really attracted to hanging out with. But she also makes madlibs about rabbitsblood shampoo, so it works out well.
With this relationship, I found a newfound man inwhcih I will drip my affection on. Some kid named chapwell, who has mutton chops growing in. Yes, my fair readers, mutton chops. Mutton chops are the object of my complete compassion. If Abe Lincon were alive today, I would shag the notes out of his top hat. Four score and seven fucks ago? My humor is flushing down the drain.
What has also improved? Sense of fashion oh yeah. For about a week now I've been wearing amazingly tacky shirts, with four dollar fancy looking double breasted suitcoats. It makes me feel like someone. I strut about the halls with a weird sense of dignity and purpose. I think other people are noticing too.

Damn, this is a boring blog. Happy Lives=Boring Blogs

Tuck it in

2008-09-22T05:26:00.000-07:00

Tuck it In

I wake up
The sun is shining
My cats (Baby Jane and Margot) are purring softly by my bed.
Today is the big day.
I would celebrate the occasion by cooking myself fabulous breakfast, but the Doctor told me not to. So its time for make up.
I want to look pretty for my new vagina.
I know that I probably should just go in as is, but today is the christening. I take my lady pills (No longer will I have boxy panties!)
I walk into the waiting room. Chipper. I don’t make any eye contact with the denizens of the room. I just stare at my obtrusive penis. Who ever came up with that name. Vagina is such a fancy name for a sex organ. Like a Mercedes or a houre dourve. I’m lead to a room in which I change into the hospital garbs. Its dangling freely now, lazy son of a bitch. Just…. Dangling….
I woke up from the anesthetic. I feel a light air blowing into the wonderful valley that just was erected. Odd that I used the word erected…
I am able to go home the next day. I cradle my boys (Margot and Baby Jane) whom went through the same as I did, as we watched Thoroughly Modern Milly. Quietly sobbing, with joy?
I never went to my job as a woman. I walk into the building, enter the elevator. I went all today, deciding on wearing a matronly lilac 3 piece dress combo. I look hot for a 40 year old ex-linebacker. My coworker, Tim, eyed me, “Are you new here?”
What should I say? I look around the bland wooden panels. Okay, I made my decision. No more secrets.
“It’s Max.” I say in my sexy baritone voice. Tim looks shocked, confused, sweaty, and adorable. The tan elevator doors open with a ding, “See you later Tim.” I say in a sweetly Aubrey Hepburn voice.
I walk to my desk, all eyes on me. I remove “Max Ruebenmaucher” from my name slot. I grab my piece of paper, tore off a strip of paper; write “Maxine Ruebenmaucher” slide it through the slot. Everyone gives me a confused look when I do this ritual. I give them a snarl like I’m going to tackle them. Scratch that, beat them down with my shoe. The room is dead silent. They aren’t used to this sort of thing in Connecticut. Its potty time, a new conundrum arises. Little girl’s room and little boy’s room. My co-worker Tabitha comes into the break room sees me with a horrific expression. I walk into the men’s room by instinct. Go into the stall, slip down my skirt, and relieve myself.
I forgot that I can’t stand anymore. I wiz all over my new “unmentionables”.
Oh rats
Oh geeze
Aw, fuck
I hastily enter sitting position. Throwing toilet paper into my soiled underwear to absorb the golden fluids. This isn’t going to work. I sling my tighty yellowies into the trash can.
Going commando! Commanderess?
I walk back to my desk, feeling airy. Damn this feels great. I sit down and start doing the blasé tasks they assigned me. One of my more liberal coworkers, Greg, came up and started talking to me like nothing changed, “Watch the game yesterday?”
“Did I ever!” What? I watch more than just musicals!
I got excited and went into a “relaxed” pose. This exposed “Beverly Johnston” to the prying eyes of my coworkers.
Gasps, shock, anger. They stare at my bajingo, for ten minutes... I close my legs in embarrassment and head back to my work. Allowing Greg to flake away. That’s it, I blew it. My first day of being a lady made me an exhibitionist floosie. I type meekly at my computer, my boss comes out.
“Max”
“Maxine….”
“Max.” He said, motioning to his office.
I glare at him, angle my name slot towards his direction. He doesn’t move. “Max…”I walk into the office. “It isn’t Halloween”
“I know.”
“Then Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m dressed like everyone else.” Seriously, Alice is wearing the same thing except in khaki. Bitch? If it’s in a different color should I still be mad?
“Look, this is disruptive behavior to the staff. Go home and change.”
“I’m dressed the way I should be, sir.”
“You’re dressed like a woman!” He massages his brow.
“I’m a woman!”
“You’re a man!”
“No I’m not.”
“YES YOU ARE!”
I show him my evidence
He shows me the security.
I punch my pillow. Then I decide to cry. I’m jobless. I can’t afford the loans I made now. My boys rub their heads against my unshaved bosom. I wished I could click my heels and land back in Mansas. Where I can pee standing up. Keep my job and tackle anyone I choose. I wish Beverly Johnston would go back to Biff Johnston.
I flip through the classifieds section, looking for a new job. So far this whole woman thing isn’t whole being a woman thing isn’t fitting like a glove it should be. Would being a stylist make this easier? That could work. Don’t I need a certificate or something? I look online for a doctorate in hairstyling; I find a “Create your own Diploma!” application and get to work.
I arrive the next week at “Femme Fatale Hair care.” It’s a ghetto hair care store with an interior decorator trapped in the 90’s.
This is perfect for me.
No background checks.
Fuck ye….
How Splendid!
Betty Davis would be proud (Though I can’t help feeling that Payton Manning wouldn’t approve.)
Time to butter up the manager.
“I love your name! What does it mean?”
“O.B.G.Y.N” Obgyn said with spite. I could see years of people smiling and going “Oh…” to that steaming pile of a name. I got the job, I start the next day. Scared shitless, I buy gloves, scissors, mousse, hairspray, whatever utensils I need for the next day’s challenge. I watch another musical. Fuck it, no musical is going to calm me down. I need to keep the adrenaline pumping, so I watch my favorite pastime.
The next day I’m frightened beyond all belief. Obgyn gives me my own hair cubicle, and I get to work.
This job isn’t cut out for me. The estrogen pills didn’t turn my dark, stubby fingers into long spider long twigs.
I fumble with the scissors like a terrible pass. My customer looks in the mirror in horror. The due turned out to be an asymmetrical bob with a possibility of going into work the next day with a shotgun.
“Where is your boss!?”
I try to soothe the woman using whatever hair care solaces I can give her.
Obgyn came out of the backroom with the expression that she was in labor with an elephant.
I use the only excuse I can come up with “Its avant garde.”
Obgyn looked at me like I spoke Swahili. “Here at Femme Fatale hair care we only do five things. Shampoo, waves, dyes, cuts, and nails. We do any of that av-ant guard French shit.” She motioned toward the distraught woman to sit down at her station. This is only a minor setback in my loglist of daytime televisionesque drama issues. It’s my break; I decide to make my specialty flattops and shaves. The rest of the day consists of those two things, with a few dyes.
I come home, exhausted, slump on the couch and fall asleep to ESPN.
This is my new life.

Two blogs, for the price of one.

2008-08-12T10:17:00.000-07:00

"One dies so another one can live. A fair trade." Sin City? How the fuck do you guys get so good at quoting.

So, in lew of my disaster with Hilary, Ryan and Batman are friends. Pretty neat stuff, I guess there is this weird balance to the world that makes things work. I can now do a one stop shop at Apple Monarchy, Or maybe I should change it to The United Nations of Fruits and the Bats that Eat them (UNFBE Unph-Bee)Also, What I did was inexcusable. Sorry that I did it, But I'm done with you. I cant stand around thinking that people hate me, and you dont like me anymore so I dont really know why I'm writing this. I am though. I'm over it, I bounce back easily. I'm still going to take all the hypocritical things you told me to heart. I'm going to ween off complaining (Which you told me I was doing good at, but when one is searching for things to mudsling they dont really see the date of the before mentioned mud). I cried myself to sleep last night, wanting to die (like the rest of that week). Yet, I dont know if its just kickass Battlestar Galactica and Work out or an epiphany, I want to live.I just let it pour, hung out with Laurel and grovelled. Shes a good person, I'm willing to pass everything off as mistakes and let my gaurd down. Which is actually a really stupid thing considering how all my bestfriends fuck me over in one way or another.

I'm done, I'm over. I'm new, I'm going to make my life better.

I'm going through restructuring in my life. I'm going to start being a vegatarian. I know some of you think that its stupid, or I'm just doing it to be cool, but I'm really not. Anyway, Abi let me borrow the for dummies book, and it seems pretty easy to get meat out of my life. I'm going to be a Lacto Ovo vegetarian, which means I use dairy products and eggs. I also hope I can get started by the end of the month, wish me luck!

Also, concerning Abi. We're going to be starting a new comic soon! Its basically going to be a omage to all of those crappy teen fantasy shows that all of us know about. I hope it will be as funny to you guys as much as it is to me.

My life

2008-08-04T17:55:00.000-07:00

Magic Hair

2008-07-22T19:50:00.000-07:00

This all started sunday. Abi and Laurel come over to snip my luscious locks off, while watching the first season episodes of Charmed. Thats when I got lucky hair. Its like Abi's scissors are made of gold and they snipped away the bad karma I amassed in my past lives. My hideously long and mullet prone Shag haircut is now gone, replaced by a more modern Fade with a kick of spice! First stroke of good luck? Great deal at K-mart. Sure, K-mart is the armpit of the super-market industry, yet you can't argue with the major deal of a five dollar indie-styled, faux layered (they have long sleeves under a button up tee) shirt, and plaid beachcombers to boot. Then, I saw the League of Incredibly Attractive Indie Guys, not once, but twice! First time walking through uptown, past starbucks (the oasis of the dry county I live in) then, near the square, which is older then the rest of the township.
No lies, No four leafed clover, No rabbit's foot, this is all in the hair.
In other news, Dungeons and Dragons tommorow. I'm preparing comebacks for my ultra douchie dungeonmates. Sara, Renee, and Julia. Sara is the usually cool DM, but last game I saw a relative favor over the fairer adventurers. She knocked my character out, and then right after, gave all the hard earned loot, that I earned. Story is, our group went into the Drow dungeons to destroy the Drow King (I dont know if this is adherent to Forgotten Realms lore, but we dont care). Well, here Renee (Half Fae Druid who likes to make me feel stupid for sparknoting Huckleberry Finn) and I (Gnome Bard) were accompanied by 4-6 no name npc and loads of Drows. I grab fire beads that I earned earlier (On a one on one battle with a Giant Zombie) and flung them toward the Drow, annihilating all of them except one, the King. The round plays out with Renee attacking the king, but failing miserably seeing as she wasted two levels in Half-Fae. I use another bead, and the king is kaplooey. Anyway, we were returning to the quest giver, who fancied Julia (Changling Psionic Warrior, who is generally a dimwitted person) for reminding him of his granddaughter. First though, He knocked me out. I repeated, "Give me the treasure" rapidly, since Sara wasnt even registering the fact that my character was doing anything. So, the Grandpa waltzes upstairs to give all the loot to Julia. Which, just my luck, was stuff that her character wouldnt even use, and stuff my Bard naturally was good at. Joy. I still get a slice of the cake, I get elven chango candy. It changes me into an Elf. Now, my gnome has been blue balling life, since gnomes arent the most attractive of the races. So, naturally, Julia and I get our wild thing on.
Pretty much that happened, and the rest of the game was us going on a wild goose chase on a quest Sara made up. Of course, my opinions being ignored, and quest items being kept from me because it was fun for them. New girl and DnD Vet Ganna is coming in. She totally has my back. My plan? Warn them how I feel, and if they continue, I'll blow that up with the remaining firebeads I own. Then leave the group permantly.

Being crafty is being devious.

2008-07-17T15:22:00.000-07:00

I should befriend a diviner, or I should practice divination techniques. I think that should be my new hobby. I could grab an 8 ball and shake it endlessly, giving people relationship advice and asking it how I should treat people, because its really getting confusing now of days. It would be neat if I actually believed in that stuff. If someone knew their fate, then they'd just wait around endlessly not doing anything to achieve it, and then it would be screwed up. Still, it'd be nifty.

Is it pathetic that I go to Starbucks, not for coffee or artsy atmosphere, but to possibly encounter the group of extraordinary attractive gentlemen? I'm constantly looking around when I'm out and about, hopefully seeing them and come up with a plan. I'm chalk-full of plans. I'm a planner. Debating jokes and ice breakers. I was thinking of the line "Oh, you enjoy scrapbooking? I think it would be a great way to relieve rage. Scissoring and Gluing is like egging a house, or saran wrapping a car in the mind of the Scrapbooker." or "You know, in a movie Assassins use cloth to exchange murder targets. Those prints are just too adorable to be used for the purposes of baby clothes." at Pat Catans. Of course, I would never approach them if I didn't consult my tea leaves first (I bet if I ran into the bathroom, I could use the toilet as a boiling device.)

Doo-Pah

2008-07-02T08:46:00.000-07:00

My mother told me to always squat. Never to place my full ass (Doo-pah) on to the toilet seat. She was from Taiwan, where they shit in holes or, if fancier, toilets that dont have any chairs, just a urinal planted on the ground. When she moved to America, she was confused at the fancy chairs with wholes in the middle. What was she supposed to do in this room, eat there? She would sometimes mutter when escorting me to the toilet when I was little. I never understood this philosophy, being born and raised in America. When she wasnt around, I would always sit down on the toilet. Experiencing the ease and relaxation of sitting while I did my buisness.
But I sat one too many times. Someone didnt aim correctly, which landed me in the woes of a Urinary Tract Infection. Even worse, I was still on my mother's healthcare. So the cat was out of the bag. She glared at me, dissapointedly. I could've whiped wrong, been a complete whore, or worse, didnt squat. I can feel the seething disapproving glare. I was the reason she had to clean the toilet seat, I was the reason so many trees died for seat covers. I walked out, took her car (I was twenty years old, I was just a bum.) and drove to the clinic. My doctor, to my horror, was the splitting image of my father. A man as pink as Barbies shoes, with a short brown haircut, and hideously unstylish sideburns. (Would've been stylish on someone 30 years younger.) "Okay Ms. Chang, spead them." I decided to get a pap-smear while there, since I could get a UTI from sitting, I could other horrible diaseases. The inspection commenced, with awkwardness. I could just imagine him spurting out quotes. "You have a UTI, aye?" He was even Canadian, just like Pa. This was too scary to be true, "Can I have another Doctor?"
"Ms.Chang, I ensure you I'm not getting any pleasure from giving you an exam."
Pleasure!? This caused me to shake and sweat at the idea. "No... You j-just.. remind me of my Dad?" I made this sound as a question after he hit a sensitive area. He flicked his eyes away at the wall, as in a way of laughing at a funny situation. I give a nervous smile and a shrug, he took off his gloves with an understanding grin.
"I understand ya know?"
Damn Canadian.
So I went home that day with a bag of pills that, If I dont drink enough water, will turn my kidneys into crystals or something. If I were more crafty, I bet I could make one of my solid kidneys into a nice diamond. How sheik would that be? A kidney dangling off of my ear, or as a toe ring. If I ever hit a soccer ball with it on it could be recorded in history! I was pondering this goal, clutching the prescription bag in glory of the final goal made. My mother was in the living room knitting chrysthanthanum, giving me a glare only 60 years of taiwanease oppresion can form. I drop the pill weighted bag on the counter, take off my jersey jacket, enter the kitchen. I could hear my mother in the other room knitting.I return to the living room with one of those fake-o bak-o television dinners. I unpeel the wrapper with a final rip, sending the plastic cover hovering away. Another wrong doing, My mother worked in a factory that made TV dinners. Everytime a machine missed the tray with the plastic sheet, My mom needed to scoop it up and put it back into the fell down box, where they put it back into the machine. This happened often, and it gave my mother backproblems. I did this little plastic jumpoff in vein of her worsening back. She gave me a smirk at my little lunchbox rebellion. "I told you so.." could of cooed out of her buck teeth. Fucking Bitch, she should be pissed. I didnt heed her advice, she should be rampaging throughout the house in a Ghangis Kahn storm.
You know what would be revenge? I should pee in her flowers. It would be the perfect plan if it didnt involve squatting. At the thought of an awesome, yet inefficent plan, I place down my T.V dinner and go to the bathroom. I sit triumphantly on the seat, if it were down. I fall through the porclain oval and into a sea which is usually populated by clay boats, but not actual clay. I try to wiggle myself free. I couldnt, that bowl had a grasp on me a person who contemplated living at the worst moment. "MOM!" I screamed, it was instinctive. She was the last person I would ask to free me from the bowels of, well.. a bowel's rest stop. She came in, with not a sneer or a mischevious grin, but a look of compassion and understanding. She grabbed my hands and tugged. Releasing me from my watery prison. Which hit me, If I hadnt been in seething hatred of her prescence, I would've placed the seat down. She didnt even make one comment, If I were her, I'd let my daughter soak for a while, punishment for not listening to me. She let down her laurels and saved me. Sometimes, A mother just has to abandon her hard fought beliefs and love for daughter for who she is. Even if shes a sitter. I wash myself up, walk downstairs. I return the favor, I pick up the plastic film from the ground and she gave me the look of mother-daughter understanding. I throw the transparent paper in the trash bin.
I still dont care what she says. Squatting is just too fucking weird for me.

That was when I ruled the world.

2008-06-27T11:22:00.000-07:00

Man, I dont have a life. My plan today after waking up was sitting around on the couch watching the Project Runway marathon, while casually playing Final Fantasy on my DS. In the olden days, this could be turned into chain smoking while listening to the radio. In the older olden days, I could be throwing pebbles against each other to discern the future. In the older older olden days, I would have been eaten by a dinosaur. Lung Cancer, A poor future, and being digested dont seem appetizing to me. But why does sitting on the couch watching flamboyant shows while defending a fictional town seem appealing to me? I should read. I should do alot of things. My wiifit board, being the masochist it is, wants me to stand on it. I need to get off my ass and so something productive.

The Next Day: Yesterday, I ran for around 13 minutes (Wiifit says its around 2 miles. Big news for a Professional couch potato.) Well, that 13 minutes paid off. I do my daily weight test, to see how much eating 8 tacos effected me. Well, it didnt effect me. It said I lost 4 pounds. In one day! I dont know if its a fritz in the system, or an act from god. I dont know, neither do I question this beautiful basket delivered on my front doorstep. I can now be gleeful, I'm now only overweight (No longer obese). I can now only have mild humiliation when I swim, I can go from large to medium! I can no longer make myself look pregnant (I think I still can, It needs to be tested.)

The Day After: Teeming with joy with my recent major weightloss. I step on the wii balance board, with a shocking conclusion. I gained 7 pounds in one night! Sure, I did some serious snacking the night before, but its impossible to gain 8 pounds in one night. Still, this is discouraging. 10 minutes of step-aerobics and 20 minutes of running SHOULD cure this weight ailment.

All the children sing my songs.

2008-06-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

I should just take another plunge. Another plunge into humiliation and self loathing. Its one of those things that afterwards, one just feels completely stupid afterwards. Mortification would be the definition of the problematic situations that me and my people suffer. Its definately suffering. Its one of the lamest sufferings to ever describe.

Though I feel stupid for describing it, I shall. The plight of the gay person is terrible. I shant complain about the whole stereotyping and prejudice aspect. You all know it, and its no fun to read. This is the plight of seeing if a guy is straight or not. This seems like a simple test of perception (Which, by the way, is a new skill in DnD 4.o), but it can easily turn into a excructiating exam of reading people. I dont see how other people do it so well, they should all become poker players. I for one, am not a poker player, my cash in facebook blackjack is-1500$. The gamble is also huge, its completely embarassing to hit on someone who doesnt roll your way. You cant just meekly drink a beverage and shy away. I'm in situations were I have no where to run, so I have to wallow in my own social filth. Theres supposed to be this look I guess. This geisha flash of the eyes, but I dont have the gaydar radio tower to detect it. Even if I could smell the musk of a fellow queer, I wouldnt be attracted. Life cant be that easy for me. I have to be attracted to macho stallions. People so under my gaydar, that I have to use leznar, the sonar to the radar. Its excrutiating, a test of willpower.

Should I plunge? There isnt really anyone worth plunging for. Should I take the dive into self sacrifice and ask?

Edit:
I went to the cleavland pride festival sunday. Whole story short, it was really gay. Near the end of our trip, I wasnt getting hit on. So, I decided to take fate into my own hands and ask a cute boy with a camera and a fledgling beard. Totally my type, so I walked up, nervous as shit, and asked him. As I walked, not paying attention to anything, Julia (my friend from DnD) saw McDreamy nibbling on his girlfriend's ear. She couldnt do anything to stop me from the awkward ness.
"Hi, are you gay?"
"Why?" said Indie & Steamy
"Because I think you are very attractive."
"Um, this is my girlfriend Kate."
"OH! Hey Kate!"
"Dont worry, I think he is cute too!" says Kate whom, in a different life, I would totally hang out with.
"Well, you have good taste then!"
I sheepishly powerwalk away. Later, I had to hide myself behind another friend, Renee, because he and his hip posse were walking by.

Lovey Dovie Smooshie Poo.

2008-06-15T07:05:00.000-07:00

I'm a romantic.

What can I say?

In public, I'm apathetic, angsty, and all of these pessimistic words that start with an A. I act like a cynical kid who believes love is only finding someone you can deal with. But underthecovers and through the woods, I'm really a helpless romantic. I dream of Prince Charming coming on his noble mount, with a +2 Longsword in tow, and saving me from any trouble I'm in. (The only reason he needs to do this is because I ran out of spells for the day.) I fantasize about living a nice flat in new york, complete with balcony with vegatable garden. Typing away at a typewriter*, with the sugardaddy of my dreams comes home and asks me how my day went. I also fantasize about sipping coffee with Diablo Cody and having Amy Tan as my landlady, but those are a stretch.

Yet, its really hard to be this cheerily optimistic.

"This email was sent by Sparkey.
In total, you were reviewed for dating 45 times and one person expressed interest in you. You are more desirable than 44% of 32,519,537 people. Recently you were viewed 2 times and no people expressed interested in you. Review your dates here. Sparkey is a product of Chainn. "
Okay, the whole more desirable than 44 percent of people is a nice touch. Though, out of 45 people, one person expressed interest in me part really hurts. Only .022% of people are interested in me. Wow, this is a shot to my ego, id, and my libido. I know my picture looks like I have a hideous rash all over my face, but please! The whole mechanisim is comparing me to other people, then you click on the one you're more interested in. I have to be atleast more attractive than most people prowling facebook. Maybe I'm showing to much stress over this.

Its just, when emails like this are sent to me, my whole fantasy of a kickass adventuring duo or literary circle of nirvana crashes. It sets me back to the train of though that, I would probably end up with some douche bag who likes to pee on me, but I dont have a choice because he pays for me addiction (I usually imagine it being heroin, cutting, or sex. But I dont see how he can pay for the latter two) Sure, the house is decent. I could still have my vegtable garden, Though the neighbour's pet miniature schnowzer keeps getting into it, ruining my beautiful tomatos. I wouldnt have a landlady, much less a cool asian author. My typewriter would be a crappy one that my dubious Melvin (Interchangeable with Phil, Ralph, Bruce, Bob) bought so he could use a saddle on me. My pessimism rises, I desperately check my datecraft* account to see if that nerdy seventeen year old from the UK messaged me back, Did I scare him away with my lame IM name? Is he mad that I dont play anymore?! IS IT ME!?

I could just look at the glass half full aspect though. One person is interested in me. Though, the initial email has made me feel like "gang-green green". One person, it could be Melvin, Phil, Ralph, Bruce, or Bob. Knowing full well that I would only have one person interested in me, and would be able to use that during sex to get their jollies. Or, it could possibly that one guy that makes my heart sparkle like the spell glitterdust. One can only hope.

*Datecraft is a site where World of Warcraft players find lovers.

Five types of Chicken.

2008-06-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

I made another blogger, I know. How many blogger titles can a guy make without throwing down the pitchfork and screaming, enough is enough! I've been through a botched comic career, a 5 person blog that never took off (due to the fact that no one posted my introduction and that no one told me that we were launching it). I'm a guy of habit, I always come scrounging back to the xanga. Well folks, I already put thirty minutes of hard work and effort into creating this little blissful blog, and by darnit I'm keeping the thing! You may ask why I force my friends to dredge away from their slums in xangaville, and heres one thing. Blogger just seems more proffessional, its like instead of going to the local library to type up your sleazy romance novel, you'd go at home and buy a typewriter that clicks and clacks and does that "Ka-ching!" when you push back the typer. Blogger just does that, except for online journals. It gives me this sudden air of inspiration and "Its all on the line" that xanga doesnt give me. Xanga also doesnt give me a nifty url!
Many of you who might be reading this now, are my friends. So, I dont have to do a formal introduction. If many, if any, of you dont know me, hopefully you will in the upcoming months. So, I'm just going to dive headfirst into my world, and hopefully give a slight biography on people I mention in this blog. To keep folks up to date on the strange history of Bryan.
Today, I went to a graduation party of Shannon. I, a soon to be junior, would usually not have any senior friends due to my lack of clubs and lack of charisma, but I have a sister. Brooke, whom I really dislike and whom has a habit of going bonkers (like, Crazy stalker bonkers). Brooke and Shannon arent friends anymore, due to this crazy stalker persona. They were friends all middle school and highschool, until Brooke called Bob Evans (the place of Shannon's work). See, Shannon is a conesseuir of marijuana. Brooke, didnt approve of it (though she does approve of abusing Nyquil and antidepressants) and called up the job. Stating that "She and coworkers smoked pot by the garbage dump can and that her manager sold her atteroll." Shannon, narrowly escaped this trap and basically sent Brooke to the negaverse in her myspace top eight. I though hung out with Brooke's friends before this incident, and this ruined my chances of getting a job at Bob Evans. So we were basically bonded for life.
Anyway, I was running late to this party, and I was freaking out. I ran out of underwear (the norm) and had to get a ride. I asked my brother to give me a ride, but he complained that his whole body was in pain and he was pissed he had to go to work. I asked him to take me an hour earlier, thanks bro, real pal. So, out of desperation, I asked my sister. She didnt even seem like she realized that she was driving me to the girl she betrayed's house. The drive there was silent, yet not awkward. I was worried that she'd drive into a lake or fire hydrant. I arrived, first friend to be there, and chowed down on the five types of chicken. I didnt even know there could be five types of chicken in one place, like it would be bending some kind of ancient, magical rule. Nothing bad happened though, its like Shannon's family was well read in the Archeological tomes of chicken summoning. Still though, I warily eat the voodoo chickens. I stuck with the pasta salad, which was, in graduation food terms, a novice's dish. Shannon, being the girl of the day, awkwardly said, "Hello, I dont remember you!" to all of the family members she hasnt seen in year. While she did this, and then swam (Which I dont really enjoy due to my horrendous bacne.) sat by a large woman named Laura. Laura smoked shitloads of cigarettes, Virginia Slims. Which blew right into my face, she was very polite about it though. And we shuffled, the wind decided to blow in my face the smoke. Maybe some punishment for eating the chicken? I chilled with her and discussed random topics, with plenty of awkward silences. By the end of the day though, it acted like we always knew each other. Like sitting on the deck watching people swim bonded us. She was a funny woman, who didnt mind swearing. I didnt like the fact that she was a tad rascist (had to mention that the kids in atlanta who stabbed her kid with a fork were black.) But that is just a minor quibble, and maybe blown out of proportion. Anyway, back to the point of how quickly we came into this whole friendship momentum inwhich we were old pals. I'm usually awkward around adults!Also, she said I was adorable. Which made me feel peachy keen and delighted. Which could've made me warm up to her a little bit.
Eventually I left my newfound confidant and went for a swim. Bacne and hairy nipples exposed. Though, I wasnt the most vulnerable. One girl, Jaclyn, wore a t-shirt and shorts. The water stuck to her gianormous pornstar breasts (Which was her only winning feature, since the rest of her looked like a troglodyte). Full nipple exposure. So, that comforted me enough to take a dip. Albeit for a second. Also, I'm the worst corn-holer in the world.