Things i want to do during an exam #2
I want to bring in one of those big water bottles like the one you have in office buildings that has the tap attached to them. Then place a straw in it and subsequently drink from it
This is an awesome idea.
Let me get Carrie Bradshaw on you for a second.
The casual hookup thing fascinates me. It’s a world that I’ve only recently breached. I use the term “breached” in the hope that it’ll evoke imagery of falling through a shimmery surface into a co-existing dimension. Casual hookups have always been around me, I’ve heard the whispers and the stories. Only in the past few months have I been privy, first-hand, to how it actually goes down.
So let’s get on the same page. You’re at a party. You see a hot girl and you chat to her for an hour or so. Then you make out, maybe it goes further or not. Then you wake up the next day with a headache and much less whiskey than the day before and continue on with your life. It sounds insane, but this is the fleeting romance we’ve reduced ourselves to - quite willingly, I should add. Much like losing my virginity, hooking up with someone at a party was something to aspire to. Then I did it and then did it some more, and I feel like I should be disgusted with myself, but all I can think of is that it was fun. That’s it. I could take it or leave it, quite frankly. I’ve come to the conclusion that we place wholly too much emphasis on sex and sexuality.
When I was about nine, it seemed like everybody was getting divorced or separated. My Mum, still married at the time, even remarked that it was “like an epidemic”. It was the first time I’d ever thought about the possibility of a marriage ending. This is the point of my life that, in my mind, I’ve pinpointed as the moment when I realised romance was dead. It seems to have given way to an era of impermanence and convenience, and I feel conflicted about that. I’m all for convenience (I once argued that abortion clinics should be used with the same frequency and guiltlessness as a 7-11), and though I wouldn’t consider myself a pragmatist, I try to be practical, though as a child who grew up fuelled by imagination, I’m also partial to romanticizing or idealising notions and concepts.
So, when I made the decision to have the “girlfriend talk” yesterday with this girl I’ve been seeing and got an “I don’t know”, I had to pause. First, I found her hesitation increased my desire for her significantly, though that was relatively easy to dismiss as human nature fucking with me. Second, I realised that I wasn’t hurt by her rejection, and rationalized that to the fact that I knew I didn’t like her that much, which I didn’t; We had very little in common and were on very different levels, intellectually. Then, I began wondering why I’d asked her The Question in the first place. That was the most confronting part of the session. I’d been acting, throughout my casual relationship with this girl, as if I didn’t want anything more than something non-serious. The truth is that’s true, at least for this girl, but I’d asked her out because what I really wanted was a connection with someone, and I was grasping at the most readily available possibility. The fact is, we’d make an awful couple, I know that. And so I realised that I’m not cut from the same cloth as other lotharios, that even though I’d been pretending (quite successfully) for a while that casual encounters were for me, they really weren’t.
Then I spent the rest of the day with another girl, someone I’ve been friends with for a while and that I’m really close to. You know those people that, even though they’re not your oldest friend, you tell them everything, even the things people don’t normally talk about? That’s how we were. Like *this* (imagine I am crossing my fingers). She was reading through messages on my phone, sitting in my chair, while I lay back on my bed watching her. “Personality Crisis” by New York Dolls played from the speakers on my MacBook. Sunshine flowed in from the giant window, basking us in its warm glow. I realised that’s exactly what I wanted the rest of my life to be like.
Now this girl, in particular, is taken by a pretty rad guy, and I wish them much happiness. Unfortunately I’m going to have to meet another billion people before I find someone like her again.
So maybe romance isn’t dead, but more like a Javan Rhino, at extreme risk of extinction. Maybe if we round up all the romantics and start breeding them in captivity, we can help save the species. That’s the romantic side to me speaking. The practical (some might say more mature, or logical) side believes that we should, in fact, continue this path towards eschewing the notion of courting and marriage, and return to a primeval time of fucking for pleasure and reproduction rather than miring it in Feelings. That seems kind of bleak to me, though.
This is where I mandatorily reference think Russell Brand is correct in his philosophy: Through sex, we make a connection divine and powerful. Unfortunately, we’re all so caught up on the aspect of being unemotional about sex that we forget that it doesn’t have to be emotionless. Say what you will about the biology of it, remove its dime-store novel metaphors, fine, but if you don’t feel something during sex, then you are one cold bastard.
So, for all the people considering recruiting a fuck buddy, here are my final thoughts: Choose someone you don’t have much to talk about with. Someone attractive without much emotional depth. Make sure it’s someone you don’t know very well, and most importantly, don’t want to know. This is why the casual hook-up thing evolved: So you can take advantage of someone physically despite knowing you’d be emotionally incompatible.
This concludes my column on unwarranted relationship advice for the week. x x
This post was reblogged from IT is in ME.
Following Chris (monsterbeard) would be an excellent personal choice for you to make, I feel, as it could only enrich your life in ways greater than you could imagine. Read the first page of his blog, I guarantee you’ll be enthralled. MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!
National pride. Goodnight, Tumblr.
niki:
GPOYE. Gratuitous Picture Of Yourself Employed.
I don’t get it, are you the silver-haired dude? Why is Corin from Beauty & The Geek showing you artwork?
This post was reblogged from niki.
This post was reblogged from FUCK YEAH YEEZY.
Picard will always be my Captain
- Jake: Xenogene got his Trek trivia wrong, that fucker
- Arran: He is so bad!
- Jake: He said Captain Pike was the first Captain of the Enterprise, BUT IN FACT it was Captain Archer
- Jake: Obviously he never watched the latest Trek series, Star Trek: Enterprise
- Jake: I don't blame him, it was nowhere near as good as Patrick Stewart's Star Trek
- Arran: You are a king amongst men
“i’m *THIS* close to moving out there and just putting a bottle of Charles Shaw and a Smiths record on the end of a fishing pole and dangling it out my window.”
— How does he come up with this stuff?
Chapter 05: The plot thickens, like molasses. You try to wade through it. You get stuck. It's a swampy marsh of details. You begin to drown, gargling on the foul-smelling gunk.
I glanced over to Guadalupe, watching his body heave as he took sharp breaths, a slightly upwards-curled lip hinting that he was probably having a dream about Kristen Bell. I never understood his fascination with her. Sure, she was cute, and Veronica Mars was a thoroughly enjoyable show (though I’d never admit as much to anybody other than the moleskine in which I now write), but to quote Kanye, “up top: two beestings”, like a twelve year old boy. His quick breathing reminded me of my dog. It was tough watching it get speared by that rhinoceros at my brother’s football match, but that was three days ago, and I had to get over it.
I leaned back against the log cabin wall, the legs on my deck chair creaking slightly under the pressure. I wished I’d studied engineering or physics so I could properly articulate the forces being applied to the chair, and made a note there to call Annie and get him to tutor me if he hadn’t been ganked by ghosts. Several feet away, a bush began to rustle. I rubbed my eyes to try and focus them. Also, a bug had gotten caught in the corner of my eye lid and was pretty fucking irritating. Temporary blindness inflicted, I began to panic, sure that whatever was about to emerge behind the leafy bulwark was either a) supernatural or b) otherwise terrifying. My heart raced, but I stood fast, trying to appear brave to a non-existent audience. The dark mass was hurrying towards me, its matted hair swinging from its fuzzy face. As my vision cleared, I realised it was only Reginald.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hoarsely shouted, foolish in my belief that I was communicating stealthily, though it was self-assuring.
“Looking for a good place to piss,” he replied.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere”
“So?”
“You can go wherever you want, as long as it isn’t on me”
“What about your compatriot?”
“He can go wherever he wants also”
“Toucha toucha toucha touch me,” Reginald croaked.
“I wanna be dirrrrrrty,” I squawked back, hoping dancers would spring out from the pine needle-strewn surroundings, proving that this horrific ordeal was just a scene from a musical episode of the sci-fi show du jour. No such reprieve came, and silence fell once more. Reginald dropped into the seat beside me, joining me on lookout duty. I still hadn’t figured out why Guadalupe chose to sleep in the hammock outside when Jack was enjoying a comfortable, warm sleep in front of the crackling fire inside. I’m sure thoughts of Veronica Mars sidekickery warmed his soul, if not his body. Which is pretty fucking ridiculous, but whatever.
“Do you ever think about your soul, and stuff?” Reginald asked.
“Funny you should say that, I was just writing about the soul,” I replied.
“You’re writing your actions in that book immediately after they happen?”
“And the things that are said” “That is crazy”
“Somebody’s gotta keep a record of all this”
“I suppose” he said, defeated. QED, motherfucker. “I saw that”
“Stop reading what I’m writing” I said as I pulled my book away, positioning my seat at a slight angle so as to prevent him from reading it.
I imagined the embers dying down inside. That’s my way of saying “Several hours passed”, but in a way that isn’t so tired. I guess I just said it though. Note to self: Edit this passage out before sending manuscript to HarperCollins. Reginald had fallen asleep, his head laying in his lap, the follicular mess adorning his crown now covering his entire body in a Cousin Itt-ian fashion. Looking up to the purply black sky, I watched a shooting star, scrunched up my eyes and made a wish. “Show me the way to solve this crisis”. My eyelids lifting, I saw nothing but the night sky. Jack emerged from the cabin, wrapped in a giant bear pelt, and I’m fairly sure not much on underneath.
“Why haven’t we used our cell phones to call for help?” he asked, frustrated, as the embers had died out. Just like I’d imagined.
“No reception out here, buddy”
“What’re you writing?”
“Just ignore it, keep talking. Let’s talk about something else”
“Did you hear about Bruce Springsteen selling his guitar for gas money?”
“No, it was Keith Richards and he sold it for drug money” I hated it when people got their rumors wrong. That’s why I subscribed to the TMZ RSS, for accurate reporting.
“Mmmph hmmph hmmph” Reginald muttered, his head still buried twixt his knees.
“We need to get out of here, now!” Jack shouted, a tone of urgency hinted at in his voice, indicated here by the use of an exclamation mark and the note that he “shouted”.
“Uhhh… why?” I asked, puzzled as heck.
“Dinosaurs have started running around”
“How is it that you know this?” I asked, puzzled as even more heck.
“Satellite phone”
“You learned dinosaurs have started roaming around via satellite phone. Are you ‘fo reelz’?”
“Did I mention this takes place years before Jurassic Park 3 came out?” Jack stated in the format of a possibly rhetorical question. I didn’t really know what to make of it. There’s going to be a third Jurassic Park? Lost World was bad enough. A triceratops started charging towards us, smashing through trees like that polar bear in a TV show that’ll be made one day. Or was that the black smoke? How does smoke even smash down trees? Man, if somebody does make a show like that, they better have some satisfying answers. The heavily plated dinosaur had Guadalupe in his sights. Time seemed to slow to an intolerable 500m/hr as I looked from my friend, still making his short, sharp breaths, and the horned creature charging at him. Violent flashbacks. The color red. The color orange. The color white. They’re all pretty cool colors, don’t you agree? Overcome by the phenomenon of hysterical strength, I leapt off my seat.
This post was reblogged from Deus Ex Machina.
The F Word
Last night’s episode of South Park was magnificent. If you didn’t see it: it was all about the word “fag” changing its meaning to the more broad “irritating douchebag” (specifically, in this episode, with reference to Harley-Davidson-riding bikers). I loved how they made the process of the definition being amended such a big deal, I loved the “bike-curious” joke (best part of the whole episode), and I loved Emmanuel Lewis being the lead “English Dictionary Officiate” (a fairly obscure pun, to me, that I had to have Wikipedia explain). Language buffs will get a kick out of this one, as will anyone looking for a socially authoritative reference for it being ok to call a person a faggot (if South Park satirizing it doesn’t make it ok, I don’t know what does).
If ‘faggot’ becomes socially acceptable, I’m gonna start calling people niggers.
This post was reblogged from Tumblr.Quisby.
“Not tonight,” the boy would say. “I don’t gotta live like that no more.”
— I’ve said this before, but I love reading tales of rehabilitation from drug addiction. Kevin Smith’s eight-part blog about his relationship with Jason Mewes through 17 years of addiction is epic, and emotionally wracking. Links to each post are here.
My favorite part of TMZ is when Harvey talks about his past. It’s fantastic because you can just imagine Grandpa Harvey sitting in front of the campfire, telling stories about how he saw The Doors play at his high school, and the time he sat next to Joan Collins at a restaurant. The payoff is when they cut away from Harvey telling the story to his staff: Their beautiful young faces, rapt by the enthralling tale.
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