My Latest Excuse For Not Posting in Ages

Right, so here's the deal. I haven't posted anything here in God knows how long, as you may have noticed. Life has been a maelstrom recently and I've been terrifically busy trying to keep my head above the water. I've neglected my blog like an abandoned little orphan, and the only excuse I can give is...

Skyrim.

Rest assured, my dear and devoted readers (all 3 of you), I will catch you all up on my incredibly interesting life and fill you in as to why I've been such a fat lard when it comes to posting. The short answer is Skyrim, but the long answer is...not much better than that, actually, but I'm going to take several posts to explain it all. Know that I am bursting with stories, and since my fanbase is undoubtedly full of impossibly sexy and sophisticated individuals who truly deserve to hear of my miraculous tales, the next few weeks will bear witness to a veritable tsunami of blog posts, the likes of which have probably been seen by people who are much more consistent with posting than I am.

Suit Buttons

One day, I was frollicking through a fanciful meadow. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and a variety of other tropes helped to really set the scene. As I bounded with glee and made merry with the creatures of the forest, a mysterious being came to visit.

"Wait, weren't you just in a meadow?" The thing inquired.

"What?"

"You were just in a meadow, now you're in a forest."

...

The thing paused awkwardly at my inability to stay consistent. "Right...well. Anyway. Johann! Behold, I am a creature sent from the Netherworld! I have come to you with a mighty quest that you must undertake!"

I shuddered in terror and awe. The creature continued. "Heed my words! A social situation has arisen that shall require you to wear this suit!" With that, the creature produced a suit and threw it at me.

The strange thing watched passively as I donned my new-found suit. It shook its head in shame as I awkwardly struggled to tie a tie, a process which was completely unfamiliar to me and left me feeling like a failure. When I was finally done, an award-winning grin adorned my face. My excitement was palpable.

Excitement: Palpable.

The thing looked me over with a critical eye, slowly evaluating my appearance. When it saw my suit jacket buttons, it shrieked an unholy demon cry. "What the HELL do you think you're doing?!"

"...what?"

"You're buttons! YOU BUTTONED BOTH YOUR BUTTONS."

"I...was I not supposed to?"

"Oh for God's sake, are you serious? NO."

"But why not?"

"Your suit looks weird with both its buttons done!"

I was starting to get upset. "Well why would they put 2 buttons on the front and then design the whole thing to look weird if you do both buttons?!"

"DAMNIT, DON'T QUESTION MY ARBITRARY FASHION RULES."

"But then your tie pokes out from under your jacket and it just looks weird!"

Our dialogue continued along this path for quite a while. Eventually, the being began to scream at my unforgivable fashion gaffe, its keening voice rising in volume until reality shuddered and it warped out of existence. I was dazed and confused, but I never undid that second button. Instead, I decided to keep it buttoned every time I wear a suit, turning my lack of understanding into an act of defiance.

I want a suit with this many buttons.

Wisdom Through Movement

Here's a video of my philosophy final. The project was as follows: Pick a philosophy/philosopher, become familiar with their teachings and present it to the rest of the class. I chose Parkour because that was one of the few topics that I didn't actually need to research as I already knew most of the pertinent information.

I Love Eating Horses

I came across an article recently which stated that Obama has apparently legalized slaughtering horses for the sake of eating them, or something like that. I didn't pay much attention (article here). The fate of the horses is irrelevant, mostly because I don't care about horses at all. What's interesting is how people responded to this.

So who's up for a Seabiscuit Burger?

I like eating meat. The idea of slaughtering something and feasting on its remains really doesn't bother me that much because that's kind of how most animals work. Obviously vegetarians and organizations like PETA would disagree with me, because they're more fond of animals than I am, and that's understandable. Also obvious is the fact that most people don't look at a horse and think "Yeah it's pretty and all, but it would look better if it was roasted and covered in seasoning." Needless to say, when a friend of mine on Facebook posted the aforementioned horse article, a few people flipped out. Comments included "thats wrong," and "this is so wrong!! :( ," which is extremely insightful. Further investigation (Facebook stalking) revealed these commenters to be avid equestrian aficionados. 

As a human being, I can see why a person who's fond of horses would be upset if they were presented with a horse salad. I myself am a fan of dogs, and subsequently I wouldn't last a day in Vietnam because I'm fairly confident they eat dogs there. However, from an objective point of view, there isn't a big difference between eating a dog, a cow, or a horse. Dogs have been domesticated and hold the prestigious title of "man's best friend," making the very thought of eating them repulsive in America. The Vietnamese couldn't give less of a shit and don't see anything wrong with eating them. Likewise, India as a country is pretty fond of cows, and doesn't really view them as a viable dietary option because of that whole "cows are sacred" thing. Americans also like cows, but only when they look like this.

Mmmm...grilled Hindu deity.

Sure, horses and dogs are generally seen as pets in America. But from an objective point of view, there's no reason why shoving My Little Pony into a meat grinder is somehow worse than shoving in Bessy the cow or Old Yeller. Sure, if Obama legalized eating dogs, I'd be pretty upset too. But think of it this way: somewhere in the world, there's a lonely pig enthusiast who cries every time he sees someone eating a bacon cheeseburger. Talk to him about your horses and see if he gives a shit.

WILBER!!! Oh God, WHY?!?

This Was Awesome

So I auditioned for the school play the other day, and accidentally failed myself into success.

I showed up in the green room (which is basically the locker room for actors) and got settled in. I had over an hour to kill before my audition, so I decided to look over my monologue and maybe make some conversation with people. This soon proved to be impossible, as trying to make conversation with an actor while they're practicing for an audition is tantamount to blasphemy and likely to get you ostracized from a community that generally prides itself on being batshit insane. Bit of a double whammy there, really.

After a moment, something struck me as odd. I nudged a guy that I know kinda sorta well and asked "Did I miss the memo or something? Why is everybody dressed up?"

He replied "Well, most people dress up for their auditions."

"Are we supposed to do it? Like, is it required?"

"Well...only if you want a part in the play, yeah."

I looked down at my grey sweats and brown t-shirt. "...Shit."

There was no way I was gonna find a suit, so I resigned myself to just trying to do amazingly well and hope they didn't care that I looked as if I had just crawled out of bed. Now, the drama teacher usually gives us 4 monologues (2 male and 2 female) to choose from for our auditions. After asking around, I discovered that virtually every guy and several girls were doing the same monologue as me. This annoyed me greatly, as I didn't want to do the same thing as everybody else. "But Johann," I said to myself, "there's no way you're gonna be able to memorize another monologue before your audition. You've got, like, half an hour left!"

"Fuck you," I told myself, which is what I consider to be a great pep talk. I decided that my monologue sucked and memorized another one in less than 15 minutes. Feeling much better, I tried to find a way to calm my nerves as well as take up the rest of the time leading up to my audition. The senseless babble of the other students (there was 40ish of them) was driving me insane, and in a bid to find a quiet spot, I ran to the men's dressing room.

In the dressing room, I stood in the middle of the floor and just stared at myself in the mirror. As I was psyching myself out, I noticed that the closet door was open. With an idea forming in my head, I gingerly opened the closet door and discovered....

A ton of purple robes. There was about 20 them.

Seriously, who needs that many purple robes? I sighed and was about to exit the dressing room when I noticed another closet was unlocked. This time, when I opened it, I discovered dozens of suits. "This is exactly what I need!" I thought. "But wait...no, this won't work. I'm 6"2, none of these are gonna fit me and God knows how long they've been sitting in this closet." Defeated, I left the men's dressing room.

2 seconds later, I said "damnit, I'm finding a suit." After much scrambling and changing of clothes, I found myself in a terribly ill-fitting suit that looked something like this.

Notice the unbridled enthusiasm and the pink phone. My parents should be so proud of me.

And here's my Clint Eastwood impression, before he turned into leather. Also, the ruffles on that shirt were sick.

Unfortunately, I was unable to find any proper dress shoes, so I ended up using my basketball shoes instead.

Awww yeah.

So I performed my audition with a monologue that I had memorized less than half an hour ago in a suit that I cobbled together in all of 5 minutes. The teacher apparently liked me enough to include me in the callbacks, so that's nice. I'll be sure to update this when I find out if I got a spot in the production.*

*Editor's Note: I got a spot in the play. Win.

Sir Francis Chesney: Johann Mannloch (Donovan Lynch).

Why I Will Never Buy Modern Warfare 3

Sometime around 2006 or 2007, it was announced that Call of Duty 4 would break from the WW2 backdrop that the previous games had occupied, and would instead take place in the modern era. This was a bit of a shock, with some seeing it as an attempt on COD's part to break from its rivalry with the Medal of Honor series and stand as its own entity. When Call of Duty 4 was released in 2007, it was a game changer. The game was incredibly polished, innovative, and above all, fun. One DLC (Downloadable content) was released shortly after the game's debut.

This is good.

After that came COD: World at War, which apparently forgot about the whole "breaking from WW2" thing and promptly returned to it, albeit with much more grit and gore than any of the previous entries. World at War also introduced the Nazi Zombies game mode, an incredibly creative and original addition which soon became the only reason anybody bothered to play World at War. Treyarch quickly realized the power of their Nazi Zombies mode and proceeded to whore out 3 DLC packs in rapid succession, each of them featuring another Zombies map. World at War was released in 2008, 1 year after COD 4, and sold for $60. The DLC packs sold for $15 each, bringing the total up to $105 for anybody wanting the "full experience."

This is good too.

COD: Modern Warfare 2 released in 2009, and it was at this point that Infinity Ward slowly began to lose their grip on reality. MW2 featured one of the most convoluted batshit storylines ever conceived in a videogame, and decided to drop the concept of reality in exchange for trying to cram as much extra crap as possible into the game. They apparently didn't cram enough, as they soon released 2 more DLC packs, bringing the "full package" to $90. Unfortunately, Modern Warfare 2 didn't possess Nazi Zombies, as that was Treyarch's territory, so they couldn't whore out quite as many DLC packs. 

This is - wait, what are you doing? Stop that!

COD: Black Ops released in 2010 for the standard $60. As Black Ops was developed by Treyarch, the game featured Nazi Zombies. Treyarch released 4 DLC packs in rapid succession, bringing the full package to $120 dollars. Personally, I gave up playing Black Ops after awhile because I couldn't afford to keep up with all the DLC. When I finally managed to buy one of the packs, a new one was announced the very next day. My friends bought it shortly thereafter and I was left in the dark. 

Stop it! Quit stealing my friends! Damnit, no!

Who's noticing a pattern? The Call of Duty franchise is much more than a series of games. It's a behemoth, a leviathanic monstrosity leaving nothing but destruction and unspeakable horrors in its wake. The money-sucking entities that are Infinity Ward and Treyarch have collectively released 5 games in the last 5 years, pimping out their wares to the poor bastards dumb enough to buy them and doing their best to drive the gaming industry as a whole into the dirt. Infinity Ward hasn't leeched out quite as much money because they don't have the appeal of Nazi Zombies. Treyarch does, and those people are soulless. Their abusive DLC makes it nearly impossible for the average gamer to stay up to date with the games. In addition to all of this, Call of Duty is one of the least innovative franchises in the history of ever. The only game mechanic they've added since COD 4 is the ability to dive, and they didn't do that until Black Ops...which was 3 games later. No change in the game engine, or gameplay, or formula, or...anything.

You twisted bastards...is nothing sacred?!

The effects of all this cannot be overstated. Batman: Arkham City comes with a similar hook designed to maximize profit. The narrative of Arkham City includes several segments where the player takes the role of Catwoman. While they aren't vital to the narrative, they're pretty important to a game as story driven as Arkham City. However, the Catwoman segments are only available as DLC. You can either get a code for the DLC by purchasing the game new, or you can shell out $10 for a copy online if you get the game used. The creators of Arkham City also released a DLC immediately after the game's debut. The only thing featured in this DLC was the ability to play as Nightwing, which is...a bit underwhelming. Admittedly, Arkham City is possibly one of the best games I've ever played, but keeping the Catwoman storyline as a separate DLC was a dick move. 

The point is, COD is setting an example that is both extremely profitable and completely lacking in morals or the whole "caring for the consumer" thing, which sounds a lot like the cesspool we know as Hollywood. While this hasn't affected every single game studio (studios such as Epic Games, Bungie and Valve are prime examples of being badass with their customers), it's still a disturbing trend.

Because of this, I will not buy Modern Warfare 3, or the subsequent Call of Duty that will undoubtedly release next year. I consider Treyarch and Infinity Ward to be evil studios with no consideration for the fact that many of their consumers are feeling the financial pressure of our shitty economy and maybe can't afford all this random crap. Call of Duty is also a horrible franchise that has never heard of innovation, change, or really doing anything different or creative or good at all. Unfortunately, I can't blame either of the studios for wanting to maximize their profit, but I'm doing it anyway. 

Weaponized Apathy

Tired. That's how I felt. Tired, with a raging headache and a sore jaw from grinding my teeth, which is an odd habit that I seemed to have picked up as of late. School had dragged on for what seemed like an eternity, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my room, shut off any and all light sources and vegetate in my bed for a while. Which is exactly what I did.

After about half an hour of this, I finally conceited to the fact that reality was still there and I needed to deal with it eventually. Fully aware of the large amounts of homework that awaited me, I reluctantly pulled myself out of bed. Except I didn't. After a bit of struggling, it dawned on me that I physically couldn't get out of bed.

A little history lesson: In my freshman year of high school, I did a short stint in therapy, for various reasons that don't need much elaboration. After a few visits, the therapist reached the conclusion that I was incredibly depressed, which is pretty much exactly what you want to hear when you're a hormonal unhappy high schooler. This depression has been prevalent in my life for quite a while now. I gave up on it ever going away and eventually, I internalized it to the point that it's now a fundamental part of who I am. The problem with this is that, every once in a while, my depression gets bored and decides to beat the ever-loving fuck out of me, which does a wonderful job of destroying my motivation. For whatever reason, in the brief time that I was laying in bed, depression and apathy came upon me like a massive weight. Nothing in the universe could have possibly convinced me to leave my bed.

Time continued to drag on while I remained motionless. My mind, normally a restless orgy of nonsensical thoughts, was completely blank. My dog was laying in the bed with me and eventually got bored. She punched me, licked me, nudged me incessantly, buried her face in the crook of my neck. No matter what she did, I was unresponsive. At one point, it occurred to me that I had a lot of things to do and there was no way in hell I was getting any of it done. I tried to lament this, but I soon gave up on that endeavor and went back to being borderline comatose. 

Then something happened.

My brain was choked with an apathy-induced haze, and none of my thoughts could coalesce into anything coherent before being whisked away by the wind. But through this thick fog, a blinding light appeared. A brilliant idea occurred to me, instantly dispelling the smoke of my mind.

I could totally use this to my advantage.

My apathy and depression had reached such a point that I didn't care at all about what happened to me. Hell, my house could have burned down and I probably wouldn't have twitched. But therein was the beauty. All my chores, my homework, things that I generally detest, could be accomplished and none of it would elicit a reaction in me. I entered a sort of autopilot, watching with perfect detachment as my body went through the motions of the day, plowing through my work like the automaton it was. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could feel excitement trying to crack through the shell of depression and make its way into my brain. I quietly snuffed it out, and instead simply acknowledged the fact that I now had a new tool at my disposal in my personal war against depression. Not that I particularly cared, but I was capable of acknowledging the fact that this would probably be really useful in the future.

As I have no real way to end this post, here's a picture of Guatemala.

Disclaimer: The author of the blog "Hyperbole and a Half," which I hold in very high regard, has made a similar post here. I'm putting this here because I don't feel like being accused of plagiarism or getting lazy and hijacking her ideas. I would never plagiarize any piece of writing...unless it's school related. Then that shit's mine.

Suburban Apathy

So I'm a complete retard when it comes to world events.

Living in the suburbs is an interesting affair. Being the awkward middle child between rural and urban, the population in suburbia consists of a lot of wannabe cowboys and people who desperately wish they lived in a city. I can't think of a single person under the age of 40 who would like to live in an area like mine, and for good reason: it kind of sucks.

Basically, living in the suburbs is a lot like living in a bubble. Very few things from the outside world manage to penetrate your bubble, and the little that does come in ends up being severely distorted and confused. After all, us middle class white people have much more important things to worry about than what's going on in the world, like passive-aggressively bitching about our boring lives and going to college because you'll fucking die without a college degree. Therefore, when I discover that things are going a little insane outside of my bubble, it's always fascinating to watch.

This is actually what my world looks like: spherical and soapy.

At the time of this writing, Occupy Wall Street is a huge movement that has spread throughout America and has been in full swing for quite a while now. Personally, I haven't taken much of an interests in the protests, but my friends assured me that they were nothing more than unemployed 20-somethings looking for someone to blame for their poor work ethic, so I promptly forgot about it. Then I came across this.

Apparently, protesters in Oakland had a little altercation with the police. And by altercation, I mean some good old fashioned police brutality.

The following is an excerpt from Washington's Blog:

"You can see Scott Olsen standing, with his BACK TOWARDS THE COPS moments before being shotWatch close- the guy who shot him can be seen backing away from the fence and lowering his shotgun (he musta been less then 5 feet from Scott when he shot him in the head….) he then goes behind two other cops and THROWS THE FLASH BANG himself at the people trying to save them. (the other two cops don’t move, but this guys steps back and then forward just as the flash bang is tossed – other two cops in that section don’t even twitch as the flashbang is tossed)

Same Guy shot him and then tossed the FlashBang at the people trying to save him."

The Scott Olsen in question is a Marine veteran who was present at the Oakland demonstration when a police tear gas canister apparently hit him in the head, fracturing his skull and presumably ruining his day. Moments later, when protesters attempted to aid him, that same officer thought "fuck you guys" and tossed a flash bang grenade into their midst. Keep in mind, he's tossing a flash bang at the guy whose skull has just been fractured.

Here's the video:

Now, I'm not here to bash on the police by any means. I know several men in law enforcement who would probably beat the ever loving shit out of the aforementioned officer for his complete disregard of standard protocol. I'm also not here to bash on the Occupy movement, because I really have no idea if they're simply unemployed hipsters with nothing better to do, or people with legitimate concerns and valid arguments. No, what troubles me is the complete apathy with which I've viewed pretty much anything occurring outside my bubble.

Egypt? Libya? Hell, pretty much anything going on outside of the States has completely gone over my head. I didn't even know who Gaddafi was until I saw Libyan rebels apparently trying to sodomize him with a knife.

Again, my aim here isn't to make any sort of claim about the state of the world today. I can't make any claims like that because...well, I have no Goddamn idea what's going on outside of my bubble.

Also, our president is black. When the fuck did that happen?

Showering is Hard

So a while back, I went on a road trip to Utah with my mom and a french exchange student that my family was hosting over the summer. We arranged it so that we would stay at my great-aunt's house, where we would be provided with some of the best home-cooked food in the world and a free place to sleep in for a few days.

This is Utah. Everyone here is a terrible driver.

One night (I believe it was our second day there), I ventured into the bathroom with the ambitious goal of taking a shower. What ensued was a 15 minute ordeal of failure as my brain struggled to remember how to shower without destroying everything.

I walked into the bathroom, which was a small and cramped little room with the sink and counter positioned right next to the shower. I peeled off my clothing and set my new clothes on the counter so I could dress once I was done. As I stepped into the shower, I experienced that brief panic that everyone encounters when they realize they have no idea how to work another person's shower. Not only were the knobs controlling the water flow completely alien to me, but the shower head was covered in strange revolving bits and pieces whose functions were unknown to me. After fiddling with the knobs for a bit, I finally got the water going, and was about to celebrate when I got punched in the chest.

Apparently, the showerhead had multiple ways of spitting water at me, and the current setting was "small boulders." Every drop of water felt like a little cannon impact on my chest, and I quickly backed away. I succeeded in removing my chest from danger, but by taking a step back I put my groin within water-boulder-range instead. My testicles were instantly pelted with hardened water BB's and I promptly dropped to my knees in agony.

Hahaha! Shower? More like I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU IN THE NUTS, MOTHERFUCKER.



After a bit, I finally recovered and managed to change the showerhead to a more tolerable water output method. I then began the process of washing my hair. After a few minutes, I realized that I had inadvertently washed my hair with body soap and was currently washing my body with shampoo. I switched the bottles and was about to start again when I accidentally ripped off the shower curtain.

While I struggled with the shower curtain, the showerhead rebelled and sprayed water all over the floor and my clothes. I replaced the shower curtain, turned off the water and lamented the thorough ass-beating I had just received at the hands of a surly bathroom. Defeated, I dressed myself in my now-soaked attire and left the bathroom, reeking of shame and fruity shampoo.

You Compensating For Something?

Fact: Most Americans aren't happy with everything they have. They wish their car was a little nicer, their job paid a little more, their wife was a little hotter and a little less inclined to cheat on them with the muscular pool boy. Alright, that last example was probably a bit of a stretch (it's much more likely that they're doing it with the gardener instead.), but you understand my point. In this country, people are always looking for a little more, and when they've obtained what they wanted, they quickly get bored and find something else to want instead.

Here's the scene: Several of my friends and I are at the gym, working out and talking amongst ourselves and having a jolly good time. Now none of us are muscle-bound behemoths, and none of us are liable to be mistaken for a beached whale. We all fit rather snugly within the confines of "average build". For us, working out is as much of a health thing as it is a social event.

Occupying the same workout room as us are a couple of thick-neck chest-thumpers. These are the kinda guys who have made a habit out of bench pressing smart cars and would probably headbutt a cinder block if you told them that the cinder block called them a pussy. These guys were absolute leviathans, stomping and thumping about the weight room while growling to each other in some sort of primal communication. My troupe of perfectly average teenagers watched these giants, who couldn't have been more than a few years older than us, with a healthy mix of envy and fear. It's very emasculating when you're struggling to bench just over 100 lbs, and the guy next to you is exerting less energy lifting twice as much weight.

Suddenly, I heard one of them speak. He seemed to be the alpha-male of the group, clad in a torn bright-red tank top and possessing enough muscle to make 80's era Arnie feel slightly insecure. When he opened his mouth, I expected a bass-deep rumble to roll out of his maw like a great boulder. Instead, I was greeted with one of the most adorable and pitiable voices I've ever heard in my life, as the man-bear quietly confided in his burly companion.

"I wish I was stronger."

Sad lump of muscles is sad.

My brain took about 4 seconds to reboot upon hearing this statement due to the difficulty I had connecting that statement with the guy who said it. A violent sneeze from this man could blow my house into the next county, and he wishes he could lift more?

As I've never been out of the country, I can't accurately gauge how severe the issue is elsewhere in the world, but I can see that it is very pronounced here. Woman are force fed unrealistic expectations for their physique by our beauty-obsessed pop culture. Men, on the other hand, seem to harbor the idea that if their penis isn't long enough to be confused for a submarine, then there must be something wrong with them (I'm gonna go ahead and chalk this one up to the popularity of internet porn here in America, because from what I hear, guys are the only ones who seem to care about the size of their lady pokers. Moving on). Girls seem to prefer compensating for their inability to live up to impossible expectations by wearing 1 metric shitload of makeup on their face. Guys seem to prefer massive compensation trucks, because apparently chicks dig a guy that commutes in an impromptu bulldozer.



"If you look at the grill closely enough, you can see the remains of the orphanage that I accidentally plowed into this morning."

What I'm saying is, if you're insecure about something (and everybody in the world is insecure about something), do your best to either (a) not make a big deal of it, or (b) not make an absolute idiot of yourself trying to remedy it. Otherwise you'll turn out...well...yeah.

Ahem.

Newspapers

So the other day I realized that nobody I know understands the concept of satire.

Like most high schools, my school runs a student newspaper. Usually, the articles in our paper consist of whatever regurgitated horseshit the editors decided would be most likely to leave the biggest lipstick mark on the administration's collective ass, which tends to make the paper a burden to read. As a general rule of thumb, I tend to avoid the thing whenever possible for fear of the utter disappointment I feel in people whenever I read an article.

I was in the cafeteria during lunch, idly shuffling along in my own little world, when a friend of mine grabs my attention. He informs me that the student paper contains one of the most outrageous articles he's ever seen in his life. Knowing that I'm a sucker when it comes to mocking what I perceive as ignorant opinions, he conned me into following him to a nearby table. There, a large group of aquaintances of mine were ogling over the article and discussing the sheer stupidity of the author. Upon my arrival, they handed me the paper and pointed out the article in question, which I skimmed over briefly before making the following statement:

"This isn't real."

The others were confused. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, this article is making fun of hardcore conservatives. It's satire."

"....What?"

It was at that precise moment that I felt the force of 10,000 figurative facepalms smashing into my head with all the force of a well-thought out metaphor. The article in question was basically a smorgasbord of barely-concealed societal commentaries masked as an ultra-conservative rant about the immorality of young Americans. It had all the subtlety of an autistic whale and, at the risk of sounding like a conceited asshole (which I may be, but that's beside the point), I was appalled that nobody had managed to see that.

HERPADERP AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH

Needless to say, I was both extremely sad, and impressed with the author for having gotten such a hysterical reaction to his article. Whoever you are, mystery author, I tip my hat off to you.

Unfortunately, I have no real way to conclude this post, so here's a picture of a jar.

Raisins

One day, a little baby grape began it's promising life on the vine. This adorable little grapelet was named Shelly, and she was very excited to grow up and be a successful grape. Unfortunately, Shelly didn't really know what being a grape was like. When she found out what usually happens to most grapes, she became scarred and traumatized for the rest of her torturous, painful life.





Shelly's the little green thing.

Shelly had some very good friends and family that grew near her on the vine. They loved to talk about the most recent gossip that had come down the grapevine, because despite being completely immobile, grapes tend to lead fairly eventful lives. One day, while one of Shelly's relatives was sharing a hilarious anecdote with the rest of the grape bunch, a very large creature came. This creature proceeded to rip all of Shelly's friends and family off of the vine, where it then proceeded to unceremoniously dump them into a basket with hundreds of other grapes. Shelly watched in horror as her loved ones were taken away, and heard their agonized cries as they lamented the severing of their stems. After the creature had made it's rounds, ripping grapes from their homes and causing a fair amount of chaos, it then poured the contents of it's bucket into a massive container of sorts. The creature climbed into the massive container, and Shelly listened in petrified horror as all her loved ones were trampled to a quick, juicy death.





OH GOD NOOOOOOOOO *splat*



Suddenly, before Shelly could react (any reaction would've been futile, what with her being a stationary grape and all), Shelly felt herself being crushed. She screamed as she felt herself ripped from her stem and dumped into a basket. Shelly eventually went into shock and passed out from the pain.

When Shelly awoke, she found herself in a strange place. All around her were the groans and pathetic whimpers of dying grapes. Shelly quickly noticed that she was feeling quite hot, and discovered to her dismay that she was laying directly within a ray of sunlight that was peeking through the strange structure she was in. Unable to move, Shelly eventually produced a blood-curdling scream as the sun slowly dried the life from her broken, dying little body. She remained like this for 40 days.




Pic unrelated. Also adorable.

 Because God hated her, Shelly was the only grape to survive this drying process. She was soon shipped off to an undisclosed location, where she was crammed into a tiny little box with a bunch of other grapes. Shelly had just enough life in her to wish that she were dead, as she spent the next few weeks stuck in a tiny container surrounded by shriveled little grape corpses. Soon, her particular box of dead grapes was purchased by a young child. This child managed to eat every single dead grape except Shelly, whom the child had unknowingly dropped while grasping around the box for more food. Shelly soon died in a small puddle off the side of a road. She died scared and alone.



Yay!



Becoming Stagnant

Today, I realized that I live in a shitty 80's rom-com movie.

It sounds odd. Allow me to elaborate. Technically speaking, this is my blog, and you as the reader have absolutely no input as to what goes in it, so I suppose it's a bit pointless asking for your permission to elaborate. Moving on.

Over the years, I've noticed certain...things, within my community. Everyday things that make me pause for a second and think "huh, that was odd." Small oddities, almost like something that you would see in a movie. These little occurrences are frequent and trivial little things, and I've come to view them as chance events with no particular importance.

Today, all that changed.

It started innocently enough. I entered my Western Civilizations class, eager to finish it up and head home. As the bell rang and the class settled in, I was struck by another of my "movie moments". Everything was perfect-the teacher slowly paced the room, eyeing every student and giving us a brief synopsis on the influence of philosophy on Greek culture. The students bathed in a sea of apathy and fatigue, desperately wishing for a way to silence our underpaid overseer. I silently battled exhaustion with the power of doodling, idly drawing a tapestry of whimsical imagery in my notebook in an effort to stay awake. I looked up from my notebook and surveyed everyone in the class. The clothing, the way they carried themselves, the subtle-as-a-bulldozer texting methods of those who wished to remain unnoticed.

Then it happened.

The moment crystallized. Every detail, every color flashed with brilliance. My vision swam and I became dizzy as the image burned itself into my brain. A thought, a terrible hypothesis the likes of which I couldn't begin to fathom was forming, fragmented thoughts coalescing into a monstrous and amorphous shape that I couldn't bear to look at. Panicking, I asked for permission to go to the bathroom.

Stumbling out of the classroom, I made my way to the cafeteria, towards where the restrooms were. I was reminded of The Truman Show, when Truman's suspicions that his world isn't quite right are all reaffirmed. Mind you, I wasn't under the impression that I was being recorded and televised to the nation, but I couldn't shake the feeling that my entire world was...fake. Trapped within an insulated bubble.

Before I could reach the restroom, my ear was caught by a nearby conversation. A young man named Andrew, known throughout the school as being the personification of a meathead, was regaling a gaggle of young nubile-bodied females with a story. I paused, listened in for a minute, and felt my horror grew. This guy, this Andrew, this perfect movie-trope in a school choked with every conceivable cliche in the book. The thick neck gorilla-man, the guy that currently holds the bench press record for our school, the one whose voice drawls at the speed of hardening molasses while he enlightens his crowd with a tale of him apparently beating the everloving shit out of somebody that got on his bad side. The Jock.

Like this guy, but functionally retarded and just unreasonably massive.

I cast about in a fruitless attempt to convince myself that it wasn't true. I pirouetted around and there, strutting through the middle of the cafeteria like Athenian goddesses, walked a clump of no less than 7 make-up laden sex idols. It seemed as if every attractive girl had banded together into one hormone-baiting superpack, and were in the process of flaunting their obvious control of the entire school. The Mean Girls.

Like this, but all of them were white and platinum blonde.



They were everywhere. Every stereotype, every God-forsaken social clique was present and accounted for. Suddenly, the amorphous terror was complete, the fragmented "movie moments" solidifying into one terrifying conclusion. My childhood has already been written in hundreds of screenplays and award-winning movies, nearly everything I've known up to this point has already been written.

I live in a movie.

Not literally, of course. But my community, my school and friends, almost every facet of my midwestern whitebred suburban existence has already been experienced by a thousand fictional movie characters. The stoners, the hipsters, the band kids, theater kids, football jocks, lax bros. The volleyball girls that have all but replaced the cheerleaders as the dominators of the sexual-appeal leaderboards (maybe that's a bit sexist, but it's totally true). The out-of-touch faculty that has no idea how to approach the 21st century. Everyone here was just a pathetic rehash of the "laughable" cliches from the romantic comedies that plagued the 1980's. The cliches that we've all seemingly tricked ourselves into believing aren't relevant anymore. The cliches that are alive and flourishing, now more than ever, in this purebred caucasian paradise of shallowness and material wealth.

Now that's all a bit melodramatic, but you get my point. Basically everything I know comes from a movie. Whether the movies came first or not is irrelevant; what matters is that my life has become stagnant. Everything has already been written, every action has been performed. Heck, we even have a token jive-talking black chick who's always going on about some "skinny ass white boy tryna get dis piece a chocolate ass," (I wish to God I were making that quote up, but I'm not). I've made a habit of joking that I go to school with a bunch of Barbie dolls, but it's never taken such a literal meaning until now.

Existential crisis, man.

My Brief-But-Terrifying Foray Into The World of Sleeping Aids

"Just take two of these and go straight to bed," my mother explained as she handed me a couple of tablets from her prescription sleeping pills.

"Are you entirely sure that I'm supposed to be taking these?" I inquired.

"Of course, I'm your mother. Now go to bed."

Figuring that any possibilities of hospitalization as a result of these mystery pills were totally her fault, I happily tossed them down my throat and prepared myself for a night of good sleep. Assuming you read the title of this post, you've probably already deduced that my night wasn't exactly peaceful. To put it gently, it was absolutely batshit.

Stupid batshit.

After 20 minutes, nothing happened. A little while later, nothing continued to happen. Frustrated by this lack of eventfulness, I began to toss and turn in a vain attempt to get myself comfortable. While casually adjusting my blanket, I saw something peculiar within one of the folds of my sheets. Curious, I peered in for a closer look, until suddenly I spazzed and became trapped within the confines of my blanket. I thrashed about in a blind panic, dimly wondering why it was becoming so hard to free myself from this simple entanglement.

I soon resigned myself to trying to get comfortable in the blanket rather than try to break free from it's wily grasp. As I lay under the covers in darkness, I quickly became amazed as my blanket appeared to transform, right before my eyes, into a cave! Fascinated, I glanced down to my torso, and discovered that a group of strangely-proportioned garden gnomes had gained a foothold on my chest. I began to engage them in conversation, where I learned terrible secrets. This strange race of miniscule beings (less than 3 apples tall, if I were to make a proper guess) were apparently being hunted by an abominable race of giant flying worms that had an odd habit of wearing dashing sunglasses while feasting on their victims. As the walls of my blanket-cave slowly changed their colors, I was warned by my small garden gnome companion.

"beware leaving the confines of this shelter, lest thine flesh be rendered to shreds by the evil worm demons."

Tempted, I peeked out of blanket, and no shit there was a worm at the foot of my bed. As soon as it saw me it darted for safety behind my bed, but I'll be damned if I let that little bastard run away. Stumbling out of bed, I was taken aback by how heavy my legs had suddenly become. It felt as if lead had been poured into every blood vessel in my thigh, and I could feel it streaming through my body with every step. Losing my balance, I stumbled into the wall face-first and slowly slid my way down to the floor, where I proceeded to crawl into the adjacent room and stare at the ceiling for half an hour. Later, I slowly maneuvered my way back into bed and finally passed out. by this point, it was 3 in the morning.

In the morning, my cousin came to wake me up for school. But instead of his typical "Hey buddy, you needa get outta bed," he was adorned with a fur-trimmed cape and crown, and began regaling me with tales of a journey that I had to undertake in order to complete my journey to Oh my God I was a God damn knight in shining armor. I sprinted out of my bed and jumped into my couch, where my dog proceeded to talk to me and inform me that the portal was in my shower. I bounded for the shower as quickly as I could, turned the water on and waited to be transported.

As soon as the water hit me, I was immediately shaken out of my trance and realized that I had just creeped the ever-loving fuck out of my cousin. Defeated, I quietly got my things together and went to school.

My mom has some potent shit.