Halloween has come and gone. I am late in writing this story, but I am still vexed about it.
The title of this blog post is confusing in of itself.
Just before Halloween day I went to a surprise birthday party with my girl. The party was for a decent friend. I was actually surprised that I was invited to the surprise birthday party. I guess that tells you how close we are. I get a text a few days before the party that goes like, "Hey, its Alejandro's birthday. Come at 6. Our address is ____. Costumes are optional!"
I reread that text a couple of times - mostly due to the fact that is said 'costumes' and 'optional'. Tough one. Do I were one and run the risk of being the only one with one? Or run the risk of being the only tool without one? There is a difference. Wearing one doesn't make you a tool, but not wearing one and everyone else is makes you a tool. BUT it was optional. A word of advice if you are hosting a Halloween party, make costumes mandatory. It's freaking Halloween.
So the evening comes and I am feeling chipper. Shoot, you gotta have fun and be out there right? That fun quickly evaporates when the hostess opens the door without a costume. The same hostess who suggested a costume in the text. The same person who should be the default to be in a costume. That is like inviting someone to a white elephant gift party and say that gifts are optional and the host doesn't have a gift.
The fun you were having putting on the luchador mask and suit turns into a hot hot heat, when you enter the house, and every soul is in their normal human clothes, and are looking at you like they just watched you bury a baby cat that you accidentally stepped on and killed. They aren't pleased. The hot hot heat is turning into a sweaty face and pits. That sweat turns into looks at your girl with pleading eyes saying,"I am sorry that I made you dress up like a nun. You're awesome though!"
It is pretty hard to overcome that entrance. You try to make friends. You try and be sociable, but you are the leper. You are a freak. It isn't fun to a freak or a leper. You are so desperate for anyone, someone just to say hello to you and ask you one question.
In conclusion, I have two things to say:
1) Costumes are either a "GO" for launch or a "NO GO".
2) Don't be a prick to people that go out of their way to introduce themselves to you. I am not the best at welcoming new people into my circle, but people who are new and try to talk to me, I will talk to them.
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward. Show all posts
tripping
We have all tripped. You weren't expected the next stair-step to be that high. You didn't think that the tile floor would have a raised tile. You hadn't considered that a bunch of wet shoes would be lounging in the middle of a dark room. You weren't looking at where you were going, but your feet found a thick line on the basketball court. No one is immune to the occasional clumsiness.
But have you ever seen someone trip and look back with utter disgust. They look back like they are going to take a jackhammer/knife/Mr. T/prison guard to that whatever just tripped them. It is hilarious.
But have you ever seen someone trip and look back with utter disgust. They look back like they are going to take a jackhammer/knife/Mr. T/prison guard to that whatever just tripped them. It is hilarious.
S.W.E.A.T
I sweat when I am: nervous, in humidity, playing sports, shoveling, taking a test, working out, eating food, wearing too many jackets, sleeping, driving at high speeds, thinking about how I do not want to sweat, snowboarding, playing Xbox, etc. etc. (by etc. etc. I mean, you name an activity, I am probably sweating)
There are obvious situations where sweating is not only allowed, but expected. While there are other times when sweating isn't allowed or expected. Since I can do little to control my sweat glands, I have decided to embrace my talent, and the first step in that process is admitting who I am.
I am a sweater. I love having a sweaty upper lip. I will be that sweaty guy no one wants to guard in a game of pick-up basketball. I will be that guy who always has to wear a sweater to hide his sweaty tacos, but they will ultimately bleed through.
And, the second step is to come up with an acronym:
Secreting Weakness Escalating Ability Today
See, this gives us sweating folks understanding of what the endocrine system is really trying to do with our unique bodies. Every day we become stronger - better. Reaching the echelon of greatness.
In your face non sweaters. Look at you over there without a shining forehead. You're SO cool.... yeah. Pshhhh. You are a NON S.W.E.A.T - meaning, you got all that weakness building up in ya, not getting better.
No, no, that isn't the attitude of a sweater.
Hey, non sweater, I'll let you borrow some of my sweat. I'll rub my sweaty palms on your face. You can guard me in basketball. Yeah, we are on the same team now. That feels better.
There are obvious situations where sweating is not only allowed, but expected. While there are other times when sweating isn't allowed or expected. Since I can do little to control my sweat glands, I have decided to embrace my talent, and the first step in that process is admitting who I am.
I am a sweater. I love having a sweaty upper lip. I will be that sweaty guy no one wants to guard in a game of pick-up basketball. I will be that guy who always has to wear a sweater to hide his sweaty tacos, but they will ultimately bleed through.
And, the second step is to come up with an acronym:
Secreting Weakness Escalating Ability Today
See, this gives us sweating folks understanding of what the endocrine system is really trying to do with our unique bodies. Every day we become stronger - better. Reaching the echelon of greatness.
In your face non sweaters. Look at you over there without a shining forehead. You're SO cool.... yeah. Pshhhh. You are a NON S.W.E.A.T - meaning, you got all that weakness building up in ya, not getting better.
No, no, that isn't the attitude of a sweater.
Hey, non sweater, I'll let you borrow some of my sweat. I'll rub my sweaty palms on your face. You can guard me in basketball. Yeah, we are on the same team now. That feels better.
Something Interesting
Let me give you a recent example... based on true events.
The intros are going around in a circle and everyone is new. The first kid starts, "My name is Robert. I am from Germany," Already more interesting than me. "And I have been to every country in Europe." Thanks Robert you have set the bar extremely high.... "My name is Chris and I am double majoring in economics and finance, and something interesting about me is that I play the accordion." I can play the Mission Impossible hook on the piano with one hand... I need to think of something fast. Maybe they will come back to me if I pass? Who passes on this? Losers do. "Hi, I am Ashley. I go to school at the U. And something interesting about me is... I uh....Oh good, she is struggling too! Good. Please think of something so dull... every two years I cut all my hair off for locks of love. I've done it since I was eight. Are you freaking kidding me.
At this point I am racking my brain for anything. I peed my pants in second grade. The only high school prom I went to was with my sister. I do not mind eating onions whole. I suck at math, all of it. NO! NO! NO! It isn't "tell me something weird and embarrassing about yourself."
It is somehow my turn, just in the same way that 6 is after 5. "My name is David." Hold on, you just started. I thought you were going to crawl under something...great... well don't stop now. GO! Say something from that dumb mouth..."I am from a small town in Nevada...." Clap for the kid from Nevada everyone...
"Yeah... I am Jeffery, I... I am from Nevada? That is what you spewed from your lips. Nice brain drain.... and I built my own car from junk yard parts. Turning my ears off now. Time to think of interesting things that you could lie about.
After I am home I think of several good answers. I have killed an aligator, I have chased wild cows, I fought as the main event for a school sponsored and organized fundraising boxing match, I have directed and starred in my own movie productions, my favorite food is home made soft tacos, my right ear is a half inch longer than my left ear, or even I have caught a seagull while wake-boarding.
Do not find yourself in a bind like mine. Think of things beforehand. Have a list in your mind.
The audacity
I wish I had the balls to do this, but then again, I don't own a handgun... which would be my fail safe if things got really out of control.
i like to make it awkward... with my stench....
an uncomfortable situation is when you smell your own odor and you can't tell if the other people around you can smell it. this situation gets worse when its hot.
you sweat more.
swass.
you start to smell your feet too. from your tennis shoes. the ones that you exercise in.
i wonder sometimes if it all psychological. am i just so worried about it that i am making up that smell in my head?
soon the tacos underneath my arms are swelling into giant burritos.
i wish we lived in a world of a little more polite honesty. all you have to say is, "uh. you smell a little off. not to be rude. you are a really great person. i thought you should be aware that your human smells, which are natural, are coming into my person space. i am feeling a little uncomfortable. sorry if that hurt your feelings."
i mean, can you really be mad? thats like someone telling you that your haircut, as fashionable as you thought it was, has some uneven lines in the back. i hate when that happens... i didnt pay 15 bucks for an uneven haircut. it honestly cant be that hard. if you cant handle it, then tell me, and just shave my head with buzzers. tell me you cant do it. knock off five bucks, be honest, and ill tip you... like three bucks. maybe four.
you sweat more.
swass.
you start to smell your feet too. from your tennis shoes. the ones that you exercise in.
i wonder sometimes if it all psychological. am i just so worried about it that i am making up that smell in my head?
soon the tacos underneath my arms are swelling into giant burritos.
i wish we lived in a world of a little more polite honesty. all you have to say is, "uh. you smell a little off. not to be rude. you are a really great person. i thought you should be aware that your human smells, which are natural, are coming into my person space. i am feeling a little uncomfortable. sorry if that hurt your feelings."
i mean, can you really be mad? thats like someone telling you that your haircut, as fashionable as you thought it was, has some uneven lines in the back. i hate when that happens... i didnt pay 15 bucks for an uneven haircut. it honestly cant be that hard. if you cant handle it, then tell me, and just shave my head with buzzers. tell me you cant do it. knock off five bucks, be honest, and ill tip you... like three bucks. maybe four.
Travel, by way of the hound
I started my summer in Seattle, Washington. Beautiful place, the Emerald City. I had some good times there. Holla Scott Hyde and co. But, I left Seattle after two months for Arkansas. I chased a rainbow in hopes of finding gold. On my journey there, I had to travel by Greyhound.
My brother, Steven, dropped me off in front of a bleak building. It was a stark contrast to the clean streets and the shinning buildings we had basked under that day. In the middle of all of the commerce, culture, and trending architecture, this was a eye sore... no, the terminal was an exposed booger. A cliffhanger. You've seen those haven't you? Those little tykes that are just hanging on a nose hair out of your neighbor's nostril....The structure was a fading peach color, marred by the scuff of tire marks on the walls and sidewalks. This was more like a compound than a transportation terminal. I felt like I was entering a war zone. I looked for some NATO hummers and sandbags.
Inside, the walls were tarnished with black marks, peeling paint, and the occasional tag. Muffled cries of babies and different dialects echoed their way through the halls. The tiled floor was cracked and frosted with miles of grim, that had been smashed into it by thousands of refugees. The air reeked of vinegar, urine, cheap cleaning supplies, and human odor. I descended the stairs into the lower ticketing/sitting/arcade and gaming area. This was either a half-way house or I was being filmed for an upcoming documentary on the "Travel Choices of Crack-Cocaine Addicts." The employees were in on this gig too. Human shells stood behind the counter, with sunken expressions, and blank stares. All of them looked like someone had worked on their faces in someway, trying to repair them, without much success. I kept looking over my shoulder for Astin Krutcher, hoping he would punk me so hard. Instead, I saw a white version of Kimbo Slice buying a Coca-Cola. This was real.
After a brief, and forced interaction, between myself and the shell, I turned to the other actors in this sad tragedy. Transient folks. This was the society of the displaced. All of them seemed to be anxiously awaiting the end of their journey, whether that destination was Santa Fe or Death, I couldn't tell; they were eager. Perhaps it was the smell. I kept my mouth closed, my new found colleagues did not. I counted my blessings that I had more teeth in my mouth than the rest of the room. As I was counting my other blessings, I caught the eyes of a man who looked like a citizen of who-ville that was suckled by a dog. I looked down and burned a hole in the ground with my stare. I couldn't take the foreign region I was in. I was vulnerable to the max.
I can save National Geographic a ton of money. They don't need to go to Africa to get exotic pictures. Go to a Greyhound bus terminal. You're welcome.
I was running through a series of hypothetical life threatening situations that might arise (the bus catches on fire, I get stabbed, the driver falls asleep, I find out I have diabetes, I sit next to a animorph) when the loudspeaker announces that the bus to Salt City is boarding. I got in line, looked over my shoulder, held my bags close to my heart, and scowled at everyone. I was done being scared. Seemed like the sensible thing to do. That is what guys do in prison movies-- A) They look pissed/ready to prove themselves B) then they make allies C) join a gang D) make a shank E) kill F) make money in jail G) and finally take over the gang.
I may have mixed that order up. I was working on steps A and D, but I was unsure of how to tackle the "make allies."
The bus was no better than the terminal. Aesthetically, it failed. In cleanliness, failed. In comfortably, it failed. Our driver seemed to be a former Gestapo. He yelled and promised to shock us with a cattle prod if we didn't redeem our ticket stubs. I rushed on the bus, hoping he wouldn't hit me with his baton. My seat, the one I would sit in for the next twenty hours or so, looked like lice had created an infrastructure that would make Chicago look silly. Before I even sat down, my head started to itch. The cigarette burns complimented the faded and tattered fabric, that looked more like a carpet taken from a Motel 6. The rust scrapped back the metal chrome on the seat. The aura of the bus beckoned me to lay my head down. I tried to resist, but I couldn't fight it. The night had grown old, and in that moment I gave up the fight on germs, the Gestapo, and a watchful eye on my belongings. My survival senses had become overwhelmed and needed a break.
The next few hours felt like days, and they were a blur. We stopped in little towns, waited for bus transfers in Subway restaurants and Exxon gas stations. My fellow journey men and women came from all walks of life. I became more sure of myself as the miles tacked onto the odometer, until a wide eyed man, with frizzled hair got on the bus. He paced the aisle for fifteen minute segments, wore headphones that blared Def Leopard, and his eyes screamed crazy. I poured my whole soul into my book, hoping that he wouldn't prey on me because of my designer jeans. Just outside of Twin Falls, he made his pass. "Hey, got a lighter?" I froze. His veins were bulging out of his head and I could smell way too much mouth wash coming from his oral cavity. I shook my head. His eyes widened. I thought he would sink his teeth into my neck. I wondered how could Bella be alright around all of those vampires. His attention span must have been as long as mine - he left. I lived to ride.
I started my drive on July 8th at 8:40 pm, I arrived the next day at 7:00 pm. We made eight stops. I slept five hours. Transferred buses twice. Made zero friends. And gained one profound truth, selling alarms sucks.
My brother, Steven, dropped me off in front of a bleak building. It was a stark contrast to the clean streets and the shinning buildings we had basked under that day. In the middle of all of the commerce, culture, and trending architecture, this was a eye sore... no, the terminal was an exposed booger. A cliffhanger. You've seen those haven't you? Those little tykes that are just hanging on a nose hair out of your neighbor's nostril....The structure was a fading peach color, marred by the scuff of tire marks on the walls and sidewalks. This was more like a compound than a transportation terminal. I felt like I was entering a war zone. I looked for some NATO hummers and sandbags.
Inside, the walls were tarnished with black marks, peeling paint, and the occasional tag. Muffled cries of babies and different dialects echoed their way through the halls. The tiled floor was cracked and frosted with miles of grim, that had been smashed into it by thousands of refugees. The air reeked of vinegar, urine, cheap cleaning supplies, and human odor. I descended the stairs into the lower ticketing/sitting/arcade and gaming area. This was either a half-way house or I was being filmed for an upcoming documentary on the "Travel Choices of Crack-Cocaine Addicts." The employees were in on this gig too. Human shells stood behind the counter, with sunken expressions, and blank stares. All of them looked like someone had worked on their faces in someway, trying to repair them, without much success. I kept looking over my shoulder for Astin Krutcher, hoping he would punk me so hard. Instead, I saw a white version of Kimbo Slice buying a Coca-Cola. This was real.
After a brief, and forced interaction, between myself and the shell, I turned to the other actors in this sad tragedy. Transient folks. This was the society of the displaced. All of them seemed to be anxiously awaiting the end of their journey, whether that destination was Santa Fe or Death, I couldn't tell; they were eager. Perhaps it was the smell. I kept my mouth closed, my new found colleagues did not. I counted my blessings that I had more teeth in my mouth than the rest of the room. As I was counting my other blessings, I caught the eyes of a man who looked like a citizen of who-ville that was suckled by a dog. I looked down and burned a hole in the ground with my stare. I couldn't take the foreign region I was in. I was vulnerable to the max.
I can save National Geographic a ton of money. They don't need to go to Africa to get exotic pictures. Go to a Greyhound bus terminal. You're welcome.
I was running through a series of hypothetical life threatening situations that might arise (the bus catches on fire, I get stabbed, the driver falls asleep, I find out I have diabetes, I sit next to a animorph) when the loudspeaker announces that the bus to Salt City is boarding. I got in line, looked over my shoulder, held my bags close to my heart, and scowled at everyone. I was done being scared. Seemed like the sensible thing to do. That is what guys do in prison movies-- A) They look pissed/ready to prove themselves B) then they make allies C) join a gang D) make a shank E) kill F) make money in jail G) and finally take over the gang.
I may have mixed that order up. I was working on steps A and D, but I was unsure of how to tackle the "make allies."
The bus was no better than the terminal. Aesthetically, it failed. In cleanliness, failed. In comfortably, it failed. Our driver seemed to be a former Gestapo. He yelled and promised to shock us with a cattle prod if we didn't redeem our ticket stubs. I rushed on the bus, hoping he wouldn't hit me with his baton. My seat, the one I would sit in for the next twenty hours or so, looked like lice had created an infrastructure that would make Chicago look silly. Before I even sat down, my head started to itch. The cigarette burns complimented the faded and tattered fabric, that looked more like a carpet taken from a Motel 6. The rust scrapped back the metal chrome on the seat. The aura of the bus beckoned me to lay my head down. I tried to resist, but I couldn't fight it. The night had grown old, and in that moment I gave up the fight on germs, the Gestapo, and a watchful eye on my belongings. My survival senses had become overwhelmed and needed a break.
The next few hours felt like days, and they were a blur. We stopped in little towns, waited for bus transfers in Subway restaurants and Exxon gas stations. My fellow journey men and women came from all walks of life. I became more sure of myself as the miles tacked onto the odometer, until a wide eyed man, with frizzled hair got on the bus. He paced the aisle for fifteen minute segments, wore headphones that blared Def Leopard, and his eyes screamed crazy. I poured my whole soul into my book, hoping that he wouldn't prey on me because of my designer jeans. Just outside of Twin Falls, he made his pass. "Hey, got a lighter?" I froze. His veins were bulging out of his head and I could smell way too much mouth wash coming from his oral cavity. I shook my head. His eyes widened. I thought he would sink his teeth into my neck. I wondered how could Bella be alright around all of those vampires. His attention span must have been as long as mine - he left. I lived to ride.
I started my drive on July 8th at 8:40 pm, I arrived the next day at 7:00 pm. We made eight stops. I slept five hours. Transferred buses twice. Made zero friends. And gained one profound truth, selling alarms sucks.
Oops... I did it again.
During my freshman year of college, I dated this girl name Melissa. We had a lot of fun together. I really liked her. She was a really cool girl, but I had a problem with her. I just could not keep her name straight...
Right before Melissa I dated Michelle. We didn't date that long, at least it didn't feel like it, but she made a lasting impression on the side of my brain called Randy. Randy would prod me late at night to call Melissa Michelle. Call it a Freudian slip, call it an accident, it was getting out of control. I finally had to pause every time before I said Melissa's name, look at her, and ask myself, "What is her name?" I guess the "Mu" sound at the beginning of the names was too much for me too handle.
I thought I was over this little problem... until I started dating Brittany. One night we were having a serious talk. The kind of talk where if you say something dumb, the walls of Jericho are going to come tumbling down. During the conversation I was getting all close, trying to be sweet, then it happened. Randy makes me spit out an awkward, "Brryyynnnn." I trailed off on the end after I started to hit the "y". I was going for a "Britt" but I made the awful "y" sound.
It was bad. I felt so bad. It couldn't have come at a more inappropriate time. I almost wish she would've punched me in the face, that would have made me feel better. I will never live it down...
Right before Melissa I dated Michelle. We didn't date that long, at least it didn't feel like it, but she made a lasting impression on the side of my brain called Randy. Randy would prod me late at night to call Melissa Michelle. Call it a Freudian slip, call it an accident, it was getting out of control. I finally had to pause every time before I said Melissa's name, look at her, and ask myself, "What is her name?" I guess the "Mu" sound at the beginning of the names was too much for me too handle.
I thought I was over this little problem... until I started dating Brittany. One night we were having a serious talk. The kind of talk where if you say something dumb, the walls of Jericho are going to come tumbling down. During the conversation I was getting all close, trying to be sweet, then it happened. Randy makes me spit out an awkward, "Brryyynnnn." I trailed off on the end after I started to hit the "y". I was going for a "Britt" but I made the awful "y" sound.
It was bad. I felt so bad. It couldn't have come at a more inappropriate time. I almost wish she would've punched me in the face, that would have made me feel better. I will never live it down...
Supress the Sleepness.
I recently woke up in the back of car and thought to myself, this isn't happening. I am in some kind of movie. Or a sick dream.
Fallon is about seven and half hours away from Cedar City, depending on who is driving. It is a journey, and when you are in a two door Honda Civic, which is about the size of a large suitcase, the drive is so much more enjoyable. Every minute counts, because the spacious room of my civic only allows so much sanity. Then you have to consider the price of gas and believe it or not, the route you take makes a considerable difference in both happiness and cash flow. But, we drive.
On the way home of Easter weekend, I decided that Steven should drive. He has made the trip before, plus I thought he and his woman would rather sit shotgun than the backseat, which forces you to gnaw on your knee caps. Mowgli and I fell asleep before we were out of Cedar. I woke up about an hour and half later to the landscape of Caliente, Nevada. This is not our usual route. Gas is more expensive, speed limits are slower, and cops more prevalent. I am a little annoyed. A mistake, but thirty minutes added to the drive seemed like the doctor asking for half gallon of blood. After my irritation ebbs away, we drive. The drive goes on without incident.
We spend two days in the Silver state, until it is time for us to come home on Easter morn. That is when things got dicey.
We reach Ely Nevada, a wretched town, like so many others that litter the barren desert. Mowgli and I are tired once again. We figure Esta-Bon can drive. -- The fastest way to Cedar from Ely is to take route 93. Steven knows this. If he does not, then I do not know how he made it home for holidays. We drive.
I wake up about an hour and half outside of Ely (seems like that is my nap time limit), to a landscape I have seen only once in my life, but like my ancestors, the Algonquin Indians, I remember mother earth and her curves. I remember my home land and the way to and from. I never forget. I know that we are heading east (if you blind fold me, beat me over the head, and take me down into a basement, I promise I can tell you where east is). We are on the road that leads to Delta, Utah. Over a hundred miles past our turn off. I know this because our odometer says so. I think, this isn't happening. I am in some kind of movie. Or a sick dream..... We drive.
I ask Steven where we are at. He has no idea. Complete bliss. I ask him if he turned onto route 93. He says there was no turn off (there is, unless mother earth swallowed it). They never saw a sign (there is, I threw a full soda can at it once). There was too much rain they said (wiper blades). Missing the turn off didn't seem to really bother either of them. NBD.
At that very moment, my insides ignite. I am on fire. My brain is burning hot. My fists are clenched. I know that I am mad because the car is suddenly shrinking and it feels like my eyes are going to fall out of their sockets. I need to get out of the car before it catches fire.
We are past the point of no return, too far away to turn back. We must continue on to Delta and then to Cedar, adding two more hours to our expedition. No apology is given. Mowgli and I will drive.
I get into the front seat, and it is in that moment that I transform into a compete jackass. I play the card of passive aggressive. I felt that would be the most stinging. Finally, outside of Hinckley, it happens, the blow up. --He yells. --I relish in it. I keep my voice calm, at an aggravating even keel. Silence fills the car as the only female raises her cry, turning back the wolves who were about to feast on each others flesh. I swear under my breath that this drive will never end. We drive.
Nine and a half hours later we arrive in Cedar. The drive comes to a stop. I reminisce in the finals minutes, after I drop off Steven, but before I go back to my lonely apartment with Lynx. This will be a great memory, someday. I will laugh. We will drive again together.
Fallon is about seven and half hours away from Cedar City, depending on who is driving. It is a journey, and when you are in a two door Honda Civic, which is about the size of a large suitcase, the drive is so much more enjoyable. Every minute counts, because the spacious room of my civic only allows so much sanity. Then you have to consider the price of gas and believe it or not, the route you take makes a considerable difference in both happiness and cash flow. But, we drive.
On the way home of Easter weekend, I decided that Steven should drive. He has made the trip before, plus I thought he and his woman would rather sit shotgun than the backseat, which forces you to gnaw on your knee caps. Mowgli and I fell asleep before we were out of Cedar. I woke up about an hour and half later to the landscape of Caliente, Nevada. This is not our usual route. Gas is more expensive, speed limits are slower, and cops more prevalent. I am a little annoyed. A mistake, but thirty minutes added to the drive seemed like the doctor asking for half gallon of blood. After my irritation ebbs away, we drive. The drive goes on without incident.
We spend two days in the Silver state, until it is time for us to come home on Easter morn. That is when things got dicey.
We reach Ely Nevada, a wretched town, like so many others that litter the barren desert. Mowgli and I are tired once again. We figure Esta-Bon can drive. -- The fastest way to Cedar from Ely is to take route 93. Steven knows this. If he does not, then I do not know how he made it home for holidays. We drive.
I wake up about an hour and half outside of Ely (seems like that is my nap time limit), to a landscape I have seen only once in my life, but like my ancestors, the Algonquin Indians, I remember mother earth and her curves. I remember my home land and the way to and from. I never forget. I know that we are heading east (if you blind fold me, beat me over the head, and take me down into a basement, I promise I can tell you where east is). We are on the road that leads to Delta, Utah. Over a hundred miles past our turn off. I know this because our odometer says so. I think, this isn't happening. I am in some kind of movie. Or a sick dream..... We drive.
I ask Steven where we are at. He has no idea. Complete bliss. I ask him if he turned onto route 93. He says there was no turn off (there is, unless mother earth swallowed it). They never saw a sign (there is, I threw a full soda can at it once). There was too much rain they said (wiper blades). Missing the turn off didn't seem to really bother either of them. NBD.
At that very moment, my insides ignite. I am on fire. My brain is burning hot. My fists are clenched. I know that I am mad because the car is suddenly shrinking and it feels like my eyes are going to fall out of their sockets. I need to get out of the car before it catches fire.
We are past the point of no return, too far away to turn back. We must continue on to Delta and then to Cedar, adding two more hours to our expedition. No apology is given. Mowgli and I will drive.
I get into the front seat, and it is in that moment that I transform into a compete jackass. I play the card of passive aggressive. I felt that would be the most stinging. Finally, outside of Hinckley, it happens, the blow up. --He yells. --I relish in it. I keep my voice calm, at an aggravating even keel. Silence fills the car as the only female raises her cry, turning back the wolves who were about to feast on each others flesh. I swear under my breath that this drive will never end. We drive.
Nine and a half hours later we arrive in Cedar. The drive comes to a stop. I reminisce in the finals minutes, after I drop off Steven, but before I go back to my lonely apartment with Lynx. This will be a great memory, someday. I will laugh. We will drive again together.
If you have nothing to post.
Post nothing at all... however, I think I have a little nugget of funniness. That has nothing to do with me in this shark costume.
Over a month ago, maybe longer, I went on a date with this girl named Trisha*. How I came to meet Trisha foreshadows what kind of a date we would have. I was at a dance party. The lights were pretty dim, frankly it was dark, but I see this girl who knows how to move. I like girls that know how to move. I make my way over to this blonde headed girl and dance with her. I get her number, which I never do, so I felt pretty good about myself. After the allotted time that guys are supposed to wait, I call her and set up a date.
Mowgli and his g/f, McCall, accompany me to pick her up. The anticipation is running high, I haven't been on a date in a LONG time. I go to her door and the girl that comes out is not the same I remember dancing with. I am a little disappointed. As we get into the car the awkwardness creeps in heavy. I ask some of the pointless first date questions, hoping that they will move the clock faster. I feel Mowgs and McCall listening to everything, which makes me even more uncomfortable.
We get to the APX building, which is a big kids playground. We decide to play horse, but after watching Trisha shoot the ball we agree that pig is a better choice. The whole concept of matching the shot and going in order is just too much for her. Maybe she was nervous, but pig might as well have been taking integrals for her. I noticed something else odd. She kept standing behind me and to the side, so creating a conversation was extremely difficult. I kept having to turn my neck at a funny angle to even see her. Then I smelt her, and realized why. I knew that smell from the dance party. Poor girl, bless her heart.
Naturally, it is now my turn to make this date better. I take her home in my car and the conversation becomes more comfortable. Then I recognize the PoPo5o. The Pearl still doesn't have lights. I pull over before his lights flash bright. She is looking confused. I explain that I am a cheap-o and still haven't replaced the lights for a year and have just been trying to dodge the police. The officer comes to the window and I get my shiznit out. He notices two things in my glove compartment that I have forgotten about, a shiny silver hip flask and my throwing knife. I see that he sees them, and he sees that I saw that he saw them, she sees that he and I saw them. I know he is wondering what I am wondering. She is probably wondering what you are wondering, we are all wondering the same thing. WHY? Why do I have a hip flask and a knife? Hip flask was from a game I played at work... I used to take swigs of it without being noticed. When people did see me, they would give me a really funny look. I promise, not a single drop of alcohol has touched that flask. The knife, you never know when you might need to throw a knife.
I hope I have done justice to this date, because it was the worst of my life. Imagine if I was really into this girl? Gosh, I would be just heartbroken. I am glad that I went through it though. Now, on a first date if I get asked, "So, David, what has been your worst date?" I can tell this story instead of looking at some broad and say without blinking, "You."
*Trisha's name is not Trisha.
Over a month ago, maybe longer, I went on a date with this girl named Trisha*. How I came to meet Trisha foreshadows what kind of a date we would have. I was at a dance party. The lights were pretty dim, frankly it was dark, but I see this girl who knows how to move. I like girls that know how to move. I make my way over to this blonde headed girl and dance with her. I get her number, which I never do, so I felt pretty good about myself. After the allotted time that guys are supposed to wait, I call her and set up a date.
Mowgli and his g/f, McCall, accompany me to pick her up. The anticipation is running high, I haven't been on a date in a LONG time. I go to her door and the girl that comes out is not the same I remember dancing with. I am a little disappointed. As we get into the car the awkwardness creeps in heavy. I ask some of the pointless first date questions, hoping that they will move the clock faster. I feel Mowgs and McCall listening to everything, which makes me even more uncomfortable.
We get to the APX building, which is a big kids playground. We decide to play horse, but after watching Trisha shoot the ball we agree that pig is a better choice. The whole concept of matching the shot and going in order is just too much for her. Maybe she was nervous, but pig might as well have been taking integrals for her. I noticed something else odd. She kept standing behind me and to the side, so creating a conversation was extremely difficult. I kept having to turn my neck at a funny angle to even see her. Then I smelt her, and realized why. I knew that smell from the dance party. Poor girl, bless her heart.
Naturally, it is now my turn to make this date better. I take her home in my car and the conversation becomes more comfortable. Then I recognize the PoPo5o. The Pearl still doesn't have lights. I pull over before his lights flash bright. She is looking confused. I explain that I am a cheap-o and still haven't replaced the lights for a year and have just been trying to dodge the police. The officer comes to the window and I get my shiznit out. He notices two things in my glove compartment that I have forgotten about, a shiny silver hip flask and my throwing knife. I see that he sees them, and he sees that I saw that he saw them, she sees that he and I saw them. I know he is wondering what I am wondering. She is probably wondering what you are wondering, we are all wondering the same thing. WHY? Why do I have a hip flask and a knife? Hip flask was from a game I played at work... I used to take swigs of it without being noticed. When people did see me, they would give me a really funny look. I promise, not a single drop of alcohol has touched that flask. The knife, you never know when you might need to throw a knife.
I hope I have done justice to this date, because it was the worst of my life. Imagine if I was really into this girl? Gosh, I would be just heartbroken. I am glad that I went through it though. Now, on a first date if I get asked, "So, David, what has been your worst date?" I can tell this story instead of looking at some broad and say without blinking, "You."
*Trisha's name is not Trisha.
The Moments
Everyday we are placed in an array of situations. As humans we are all about moments. We look forward to certain moments in our life that we know will raise the hair on our skin. We also know there will be moments that make our stomach feel like it has a crazed monkey inside of it. We pay money for moments of exhilaration. We pray for moments of happiness. And we suffer the pains of hard moments. In the grand of scheme of things, events in our lives are just moments. Now, before you think I am getting all philosophical and such, hold on, I am getting to the point. I want to talk about some of the awkward times.
THE BATHROOM
Whether public or private, this place can be extremely uncomfortable. Cleanliness has a lot to do with it. I wonder if those thin sheets of paper that you place over the throne really does anything... or if the soap is really up to par. Public restrooms have to be the worst. I do not understand urinal/toilet talk. Some stranger thinks I want to talk? I don't know you, and if you don't mind, I wanna just take care of business. I am not camping up in here. We aren't at an art exhibit. In and out, that is what I am about.
Then you have those lines for stalls. Eww. I would rather not know who used the stall before me. Call me crazy, but I do not want to know who decimated the bowl prior to my visit. I like to pretend that the toilets first use was me. It makes me feel better about my situation.
LINES
People often stand too close to you. I love standing in line with girls when people get too close. For some reason they clutch their purse like it has some actual value. Everyone knows it is a knock of Prada bag, and no one wants your used chapstick. But there are some times when it feels like the guy behind you is about to go through your pockets. He is almost breathing down your neck, in fact you can hear and feel his breathing pattern, which is very annoying.
The worst lines is when people are waiting upon you. You can feel their eyes burning into the back of your skull. Sometimes they are staring so hard that your hair actually starts to smoke. The funny thing is that they are going to take just as long as you. Impatient and hypocritical jerks... just look at traffic. The ultimate line game.
YOU'RE IN MY SPACE
Awful feeling. Shoulder peepers are a huge pet peeve of mine. Get off my back. Last time I checked I didn't post a wanted ad on craigslist for a parrot. I hate that feeling on the back of the neck, the one where it makes you bend your neck in an unnatural way. Forcing the back of your head down to your vertebrae.
Part of this is invading someone else space. The forced stare. Have you ever been in a class, or a meeting, some kind of gathering, and you are forced to stare at one person. For some reason you cannot take your eyes off them. You look away, but somehow, like a gravity pull, your eyes are back on them. The thing is they aren't that striking, not in a beautiful way, but in an x-files way. Its as if your eyes can't get enough. Disturbing. You hope they don't notice, but they do, and the game gets out of control.
SMELLY
Adding to the offense is bad breath. Need I say more? Good golly miss molly, ever heard of hygiene? Just knowing any part of me smells like a rotting corpse makes me shiver. If I can smell myself, I am pretty sure everyone else can. I try my best to hide the smell by creating space. People try to engage me in a conversation, I back away. Sometimes I cover myself in a blanket, enveloping the smell in a tightly wound taco. Then I get swass and swalls. That in itself can make anyone go nuts. Sweating sucks. Pit sweat too. Anytime you suffer from the perspiration, you think of that axe commercial, and wonder if that is about to go down.
There are many more examples. Go ahead and submit them. If you dare. Or add upon this incomplete and random list.
THE BATHROOM
Whether public or private, this place can be extremely uncomfortable. Cleanliness has a lot to do with it. I wonder if those thin sheets of paper that you place over the throne really does anything... or if the soap is really up to par. Public restrooms have to be the worst. I do not understand urinal/toilet talk. Some stranger thinks I want to talk? I don't know you, and if you don't mind, I wanna just take care of business. I am not camping up in here. We aren't at an art exhibit. In and out, that is what I am about.
Then you have those lines for stalls. Eww. I would rather not know who used the stall before me. Call me crazy, but I do not want to know who decimated the bowl prior to my visit. I like to pretend that the toilets first use was me. It makes me feel better about my situation.
LINES
People often stand too close to you. I love standing in line with girls when people get too close. For some reason they clutch their purse like it has some actual value. Everyone knows it is a knock of Prada bag, and no one wants your used chapstick. But there are some times when it feels like the guy behind you is about to go through your pockets. He is almost breathing down your neck, in fact you can hear and feel his breathing pattern, which is very annoying.
The worst lines is when people are waiting upon you. You can feel their eyes burning into the back of your skull. Sometimes they are staring so hard that your hair actually starts to smoke. The funny thing is that they are going to take just as long as you. Impatient and hypocritical jerks... just look at traffic. The ultimate line game.
YOU'RE IN MY SPACE
Awful feeling. Shoulder peepers are a huge pet peeve of mine. Get off my back. Last time I checked I didn't post a wanted ad on craigslist for a parrot. I hate that feeling on the back of the neck, the one where it makes you bend your neck in an unnatural way. Forcing the back of your head down to your vertebrae.
Part of this is invading someone else space. The forced stare. Have you ever been in a class, or a meeting, some kind of gathering, and you are forced to stare at one person. For some reason you cannot take your eyes off them. You look away, but somehow, like a gravity pull, your eyes are back on them. The thing is they aren't that striking, not in a beautiful way, but in an x-files way. Its as if your eyes can't get enough. Disturbing. You hope they don't notice, but they do, and the game gets out of control.
SMELLY
Adding to the offense is bad breath. Need I say more? Good golly miss molly, ever heard of hygiene? Just knowing any part of me smells like a rotting corpse makes me shiver. If I can smell myself, I am pretty sure everyone else can. I try my best to hide the smell by creating space. People try to engage me in a conversation, I back away. Sometimes I cover myself in a blanket, enveloping the smell in a tightly wound taco. Then I get swass and swalls. That in itself can make anyone go nuts. Sweating sucks. Pit sweat too. Anytime you suffer from the perspiration, you think of that axe commercial, and wonder if that is about to go down.
There are many more examples. Go ahead and submit them. If you dare. Or add upon this incomplete and random list.
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