My mind is all awhirl. I have experienced emotional moments of ascension and submersion. I am going to attempt to bring the vivacious and disconsolate occasions to life in this entry. I am aiming to create a textual dramedy. Let’s see if I am a sharp shooter.
I have not felt the need to record new content on my blog. It is not because I am busy, although that may have contributed to the cause, but it was just a lack of aspiration too. I have even considered relinquishing my role as curator of this blog and allowing it to create its crease into the blemishes of WordPress. Alas, I have decided to stay for now. I considered retirement, but have made my return. I’m like Favre; minus the greatness. Well, and also the penis pictures. I do have wenis pictures though. I always get complimented on the ferocity of my wenis..Come to think of it, those are the only compliments I get. Hm.
While I have given thought to withdrawing from my blog, I have not only been contemplating but enacting my entrance into a new profession. I am currently teaching at my high school alma mater as a “teacher candidate” (AKA student teacher). It is interesting being on the other side. Some of the teachers I had are still around and now that I am among them it is a surreal feeling. Maybe even a sirreal feeling. Sir, you are real…Sometimes people forget that teachers have lives. It’s interesting. Very interesting.
The one thing I am nervous about is censoring myself. I feel that my profession may hinder my comedic ability. I may have to abridge my comedy so that if my blog does trickle down the leg of local community, that it will be a sterile sample. Hopefully that does not cum to fruition because that would be awfully anti-climaxic. i b hopin dat bloggin aint dey flava.
I’ve noticed that censorship has delved into different aspects of my life. It not only affects my career, but I have noticed it affecting relationships I have with people. I may want to inform someone to not go through with something, but I can’t. I may conceal words or not be able to express all the thoughts that percolate from my cranium because it may be deemed inappropriate to my role. I withhold my jaded antics that are emotionally embedded and try to see through to logic and clarity. Who am I to oppose someone’s happiness? Jealousy is not a good look for me…Although I have been told that my method of logic and emotional separation is not kosher and up for debation, I am adhering to my method.
You may be wondering where the dramEDY went in this script. Hold your clydesdales and do not have a bull. Instead have a cow, because this entry is finished.
There are those who say “I’ll see you later” and not “goodbye.” That option is not felicitously available to all. Sometimes a goodbye is all there is; there is no impasse.
I know. I had to say goodbye to someone whom I wish I did not.
Like a candle, I could tell the wick of this tale was flickering to extinction. I tried to isolate it from external conditions, but it was this tale’s denouement. A tale steered by a series of choices. These choices permeated through the seams of a relationship until an impassible blockade was erected and the entirety of the situation dwindled to a singular stipulation. Are we to continue or not?
The answer was no.
I cannot logically attest the response, but the crux of my being can. Will it though? Silently perhaps, but verbally and assiduously, no.
I am lugubrious. Yet, it all may have been for the best. Unfortunately, not all the best things in life are free. This came at a cost.
Instead of focusing on what was lost, I wish to take this opportunity to reflect, cherish, and thank my friend for that which unfolded. I thank my friend for the conversations and the mental prosperity that was shed. I thank my friend for the memorable occasions that were shared. And I thank my friend for understanding me. Maybe one day the barrier will crumble and our friendship will flourish again.
If this person reads this, know that I will miss you.
Forever golden, and never chrome.
We identify ourselves by that which hangs on a pole.
Flags. Not strippers.
These simple things that flap ferociously in the atmospheric conditions that are presented by mother earth; we associate ourselves with its identity.
Once again, flags. Not strippers.
I have seen quite a few flags, the one I do not understand is the Confederate flag.
The Confederate flag represents the Confederacy. You know, those mid-19th century democratic folks who receded from the Union in order to protect their way of life. Well, when put like that, it does not sound half bad. It even sounds patriotic until you realize they are protecting the institution of slavery.
So it befuddles me so when I see someone waving a Confederate flag. Are people aware of the contention that flag contains? It is supporting the southern antebellum lifestyle.
No, no, no…Do not get overwrought when I question if you are a racist. You should firmly be aware of the adumbration the flag carries. You may be a supporter of the southern activities of today, and that is fine. You just need to find a flag that recognizes that and not that you are a racist hillbilly.
So because of the Confederate flag wavers, I have placed an order for a swastika flag.
You see how you jumped to the assumption that I was anti-Semitic? By Confederate flag logic, I am just a supporter of Germany. That would not fly with the swastika flag (pun intended) and it should not for the Confederate flag.
I would like to add to this topic that I would love to time travel to the 1860s.
You may not ask me why, but I will tell you anyway.
I would like to go back to 1862 and walk into a Confederate meeting. I would take the stand and announce to them that I was from the future. I would then state that their party, the Democrats, would elect the first “colored” president of the United States. Congratulations.
I am assuming I would have to then pull a John Wilkes Booth and hightail it out of there. Hopefully without breaking my leg, or being shot by a castrated man.
I am revisiting the guitar. I have never had adequate skills and I want that to change. I consider myself a beginner at this point in time. I hope to improve little by little. My allergy-ridden-self tried to do a short portion of the song titled Hurt. So excuse my nasally approach to a great song. I love it and it is relatable. I couldn’t help myself.
My exercising is one of those activities that has shriveled away and died. Well, only my cardio has become non-existent. But then there is the whole, I don’t know what I am doing and I am just hoping for results, thing. So I am reaching out for some help. Yes, I know I could do the research and make a concrete assessment, but why bother when I know someone will supply the information?
I have been having an interpersonal debate with myself on what exercise program I should try. I have never done an exercise program. I believe the only exercise video I have ever seen is an old VHS of Sweating to the oldies with Richard Simmons. Advanced stuff. What I have been contemplating is which program would work best for me and what I want to accomplish. I want to lose my love handles and fat around my stomach and waist and improve overall muscle mass. I am currently about 5’9 – 5’10 and weigh 145. I just want to use the exchange rate and sell my fat for muscle. A few hawks told me that P90X was legit if you keep with the program. I have seen their results, and some are staggering. I recently heard from a few vultures that Insanity is also a good program. But I heard that it is cardio intensive, and I am not a giant fan of pure cardio. It could be the death of me…Damn vultures.
(Yeah, I do not just say a “bird told me”, I get descriptive; because what if it was a pigeon. Would you take it seriously?)
The pricing for these programs is outrageous though. Dropping a little more than a Benjamin on DVD’s seems ridiculous, but if it produces results, I am all about it. (I like to mix my bills up sometimes. Drop some Jacksons for the most part with a few Hamilton’s because I like my front and back covered. (Double parenthesis, let’s take it up a notch. (The Hamilton joke is a little complex, if you look at all the presidents on currency, Hamilton is facing the opposite direction.) It’s like Inception, slowly coming out of the different stages of dreaming, or parenthesis.) It’s not always about the Benjamins.)
I am siding with P90X right now. If you have any take on P90X, Insanity, or any other fitness program that has worked Cave of Wonders-like magic for you, let me know!
It is said that roughly ten percent of the world population is left-handed. I am proud to be part of that ten percent (I would really love to be in the one percent economically speaking). I take pride in my left-handed ability. Why not? It is rare and has a multitude of advantages.
1) Lefties have high IQs (Although didn’t Rainman score 87 on IQ? So much for knowledge.)
2) Lefties make more money than righties. (If only…right?)
3) Lefties have better underwater vision. (I am not sure if I believe this one…)
4) Lefties are better at multitasking. (Not to be sexist, but I believe this is a gender thing.)
5) Lefties tend to have better memories. (What was this blog about again?)
6) Lefties are better at video games. (There we go! Agree.)
7) Lefties recover better from strokes. (That is always comforting.)
8) Lefties are more visual and artistic (Concur. We are amazing.)
9) Lefties learn to drive quicker. (Sure, why not. I’ll take it.)
It is not always convivial and merry. There are certain impediments to the left-handed gift. I will not reverberate case records that document the benefits and encumbrances of handedness. That would be too logical and time consuming. Instead, I will share a serving of my own experiences; my personal discrepancies.
As a young lad, I wore a lot of cowboy boots. That was all I wore until I was about five. My style was impeccable. I was blonde, with big heavy glasses, a blue shirt (with awesome marshmallow art on it), grey sweatpants, and cowboy boots. Not only was my style impeccable, I was the epitome of IT. Now, I did not know then what I know now. I stuck with cowboy boots to avoid tying shoes. I was horrible at it. My parents would teach me the tricks. A bunny here a hole there, a loopity loop here and a flick of the wrist there, and we have a knot. Yeah. I was not getting it. Then my grandma, who is also left-handed, taught me and I learned. Now, I am not sure how the right and left handed ways differ, but there is something to it. I know I am knot retarded.
Then there are scissors. Arts and crafts turned out like sharts and laughs. My cutting lines were jagged, if existing at all. Cheap right-handed scissors and left hand precision cutting was an evil combination. I have received my fair share of strange looks in school by asking my neighbor to cut my design out for me. They just do not understand. There is a positive to this though. I learned that if you have a left-handed suicidal friend, and they are attempting to end their life with scissors, they are not serious about dying because those things won’t cut.
There is one true way to spot a left-hander (when they aren’t involved in handed activities). Check the side of their palm for ink or lead smears. I mention this as a hindrance because some left-handers hate turning in smeared papers. Not me. I believe it gives the paper some flare. A three-dimensional look if you will. It is also a reminder that left-handers push and right-handers pull. While right-handers are constantly pulling through life, left-handers are pushing on through to the other side.
Albeit our pushing does not produce award winning calligraphy. That is a problem, but it is not our fault. Do you see what we write on? Have you seen a left-handed desk? What’s going on there? Are only oompa loompas and munchkins left-handed? It is as if they ran out of supplies and used scrap material to piece these tiny rickety desks together. They figure it looks functional, and hell, only ten percent of the world is left handed. This has restricted our penmanship to penboyship.
I recognize my left-handedness as a unique trait and something that separates me from others. I do have one confession though. I am not a complete left-hander. I play sports and guitar right-handed. I believe I naturally developed that instinct in sports, but I was told to switch with guitar. I always imagine how much better I could have been. Nevertheless I still consider myself left-handed. I have overcome the trials and tribulations. We are not only different, we are better. We are never wrong. Left-handers are right! Wait a tic…Oh, well. Left-Handers Unite!
Original Facebook Status:
Are left handed people generally shorter? Left handed desks are so much smaller than right handed desks.
I have had this song stuck in my head. So much so that I recorded myself singing it. Yeah, I am setting myself up for ridicule, but that’s a bloggers life.
The song is called The Girl and it is by City and Colour. I was unaware of this group until a friend of mine informed me of them last year. They are an awesome group/person and have a nice acoustic sound. I am not as talented, but as Dane Cook would say…I did my best! I did my best…
Here is my version:
Here is the original:
Barbie is not the only one to live a life of plastic. Currently I carry no currency. It is much more manageable and applicable for me to use my debit or credit card. It has gotten to the point that I often question why my wallet has an opening at the top. Is that so I can store old receipts I’ll never need and coupons I’ll never use? I think so.
I know many people who live this same lifestyle. It is a life without physical monetary funds. Well, some of them do not have any monetary funds, and that is a whole different lifestyle. For the purpose of this blog we will not be discussing people who Hobo Baggins-it, but those who Captain PiCARD it up. It is gradually becoming an acceptable lifestyle, but there are still situations where only a Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Grant, or Benjamin can bail me out. If I ever call on you pay my collateral please bring a Cleveland, McKinley, Madison, or Chase; I’ll keep the change.
One of the worst places to be without money is at a bar. Yes, many of them accept cards, but there is still a collection of dive bars that deal in money only ventures. This I know through first-hand (left hand too) experience. I was at a little dive bar and I had just ordered some drinks. One by one they were placed in front of me. When all was accounted for, I scooped them up and walked away. As I did, I heard a sharp tone ring from the lips of the bartender, “Hey, you still need to pay!” I turned around, my eyes flashing on the CASH ONLY sign. Damn. I did the only thing I could to get out of this conundrum. I chuckled lightly and said, “All I have are fives…And they are all high.”
Another incident occurred when I was crossing the Bay Bridge. I was new to traveling the area and I was unaware of the toll troll. As I came upon the bridge I began to see signs for CASH or FASTRAK. Where were the signs for neither? Now the logical thing would be to turn around and go get money, but a bridge only has one exit, and I would not need money there. I pulled up to the window that read CASH on its electronic screen. I was hoping that the “/CREDIT”-part had burnt out.. I handed the man two dollars and thirty-seven cents in change. I thought I would receive The Rock-brow raise, but I was just waived on through (Yeah, wordplay). Either the employees at the toll booth care little about their job, or are horrible with math. All I know is it saved me a thirty dollar fine, which I would have paid for with my credit card.
So yes, monetary forms of all types are needed, but you know what, I’ll keep to my cards. It makes for an experience.
Original Facebook Status Update:
I was getting drinks and the bartender said I still needed to pay. I said all I had was fives and they were all high.
Distant Whispers. “We’re losing him! 700 volts!”
I don’t know what I am writing. Is 700 volts too much? I get my medical education from House, so I am only familiar with illnesses that affect one in a billion. Beyond that I am not a medical whiz by any standard. Yes, I do have my CPR certification, but breaking a person’s ribs can only cure so much. I am more like the Fonz in that sense. If it can be healed by punching, allow me to offer up my services.
I am no threat to the nursing or medical practitioner field. I have heard tales from nurses and EMT’s. Bottles in anuses is not my glass of milk. I am good off those experiences. I know it has even managed to ruin apple juice for one person. Apple juice people! A sweet yumified drink. Ruined because its pigmentation is too close to urine. The only thing worse would probably be some hot apple cider. The warmth brings forth reality, if you know what I mean. Let’s hope cranberry juice does not suffer the same fate.
I am not even the person you want to call in case of an emergency.I deal in WORDS not WOUNDS. So give me a phone, I can call 9-1-1, but you better hope the ambulance is quicker than your blood. If the person is yelling on the ground for help, I’ll just look over and whisper, “Sorry, I’m on the phone.” I’ll give that curtsy smile, scrunch of the face, shrug of the shoulders, and point at the phone that is commonly motioned to in this situation. Someone has to call 9-1-1 right? Hopefully my future wife will be experienced in this field or else our children will be in pickle (which a delicious and underappreciated fruit and also a troubling situation).
While I stay clear of the medical field, I do have one regret. I have a deep passion for helping people. If you know me, you know that I am one of the most empathizing beings you will ever encounter. I am heavily invested in helping people who suffer from somnambulism. This is more commonly referred to as sleep walking. Unfortunately, I fear that I will never have the opportunity to work with these individuals. If I was given such an opportunity, I would cherish it…I would be going human tipping all night.
Original Facebook Status Update:
I would love to work at a medical center for sleep walkers. I’d be going human tipping aallll night.