I Hate Being Sick

Like you really needed to hear that. No one enjoys being sick. Well, I'm sure there is some weird Finnish guy sitting in his basement somewhere wearing a traffic cone on his head and gloves on his feet with a garlic-clove necklace on just trying to get sick. But I'm not that guy.

I got food poisoning. Don't ask me how. I eat pretty much the same types of food everyday. Miles also eats those same foods with me, so don't ask me how I got sick and he didn't. Don't ask me what it's like throwing up in the JKB bathroom in the middle of class. And even though it was the middle of class, all of the stalls were staked out when I walked in there like some kind of cruel joke. So I leaned pale-faced over the sink and practiced Lamaze childbirth breathing patterns until one opened up.

I would do almost anything to not throw up. It is number one on my least favorite things. If an evil genie showed up and offered different kinds of torture in exchange for barfing, there aren't a whole lot of options I would turn down. I don't blow chunks very often, but when I do, it's always bad news. I won't go into details, but I'm just a mess afterwards. I look like I've been crying for weeks and I go so pale I make dead bodies look rosy-cheeked. I always  feel like I need to apologize to anyone who has to listen to my harrowing trial. Yesterday, that awkward apology went something like this, "Sorry you had to listen to that, guys."

To which I received the reply, "You don't have to apologize, it must really suck to throw up pieces of your femur."

I would have laughed if I hadn't felt so sick.

[Keep following. I know it was gross, but at least I didn't post pictures.]

Fruits Of My Labor

I have recently been on the hunt for rad t-shirts. I think I called them appropriately ironic t-shirts on facebook. And I just wanted to share with all of you the bountiful harvest which I have experienced. I braved the sweet sickly smell of Savers and Deseret Industries. I braved the crying children and harsh fluorescent lighting. I braved the unhappy cashiers and mustard-stained clothing racks. I braved the wash of cold, odd guilt that came over me as I realized that I have the money to shop elsewhere. I braved the unorganized ruddy shelves and piercing sideways looks from observers in my furious quest. All for these gems. The beacon and source of artesian hope. I had a large budget, yet this is probably the best $2 I have ever spent.

Ok, Donny and Marie Osmond are cool enough in their own right, right? But what about the Osmonds you've never heard of? The coolness is simply exponential. They are even clad in 90's regalia. The 2nd Osmonds have a phallic 'G' as their symbol. It is a symbol of prowess, kinda like The-artist-formally-known-as-Prince. The color scheme is a delight to behold, as are their shining, quasi-toughguy  faces.

There isn't much to say about this one. Maybe it is the unintentional play on words, that makes us read: "Right on! Freedom!" Or maybe it is the fact that everything is starred and striped, but the fact remains, this shirt made my day. I don't know if Lady Liberty has ever ridden a Chopper. But maybe she should consider it. After all, she looks dang good. This shirt also makes me want to Ride On Freedom. I also ride on the fact that America will continually ruin its own patriotism with strange mash-ups of revered symbols. I love freedom just as much as the next guy, but now I can wear it on my chest. Right on!
 
[Keep following children, I'm saving for a motorcycle.]

INterCEPTION

O.K. Here is the deal. I am an elitist. Some of you may know this about me. Some of you may be elitists as well. This causes me to act a certain way in certain situations.  For example, if you saw me in the grocery store or doing laundry you wouldn't even be able to tell. Other times, for example, when I sit nonchalantly in the back of a classroom or pretentiously reading a novel in Starbucks, you'll know just what I am.

I saw Inception for the second time tonight and aside from the fact that this movie is perfect, it is also just as good the second time around. The only problem with this movie is that it is popular. And the elitist in me kicks against this prick. (It's a bible saying. For the layman.) The elitist in me wants people to not like this movie. The elitist in me wants others to "not get it." I hate that everyone and their grandma on Facebook is like "OMG INCEPTION WAS SO RAD DAWG!" Case in Point:

No thank you. I hate that I have anything in common with you. Stop trying to talk to me about this movie. If this movie were any less marvelous I would consider not liking it just to spite this guy ^ . But it was simply too spectacular to justify anything of the sort.

The only way I can reconcile this conundrum is to lie to myself and simply tell myself that "they didn't understand it as well as me." That they simply "don't perceive the movie's metaphorical or philosophical depth." And so it stands. Please don't say that you liked this movie unless you can have a dialogue that ventures deeper than, "I LIKED THE PART WHERE THE GUY USED THE GRENADE LAUNCHER." Christopher Nolan didn't spend $200 million dollars and 10 years perfecting a script so you could ruin it with your insipid, vapid and utterly banal observations. Do me a favor and go get high and watch Marmaduke again.

I know. I am rude.

[Keep following. I told you more rants were coming.]

I've Always Wanted

A scar on my face.

THINK about it. I would have instant street cred., no awkward silences, and I would be super intimidating/sexy.

Street cred. because everyone would be like, "Whoa, he obviously knows how to handle himself on the streets." They would see my sweet gnarled scar tissue and listen up when I spoke. If I escaped with only this scar on my face the other guy would necessarily look much worse. The fact that I would survive any encounter with anything that would leave that sweet of a scar makes me automatically a leader of men.

No awkward pauses. Think about it. If any silence in conversation were to arise, there would only be one option, and that is to ask, "HOW DID YOU GET THAT SWEET A** SCAR?" And if they had asked me, like most, immediately after meeting me for the first time, and subsequently had already heard the awesome story behind it, they would ask about it again. Just because it is so unbelievably awesome. They would need to hear the story again to make sure they didn't miss any details.

How would all men react upon seeing my scar? I'll tell you. They would first get out of my way, second give me all their cash/girlfriends, and third try to elect me into public office because I obviously know what I'm doing. All of that or they would simply cower in fear of my manliness. What would women do? Besides swooning, not much.

THAT is why I want a scar on my face. Not too big to obscure any of my features, not too small to be confused with some minor injury incident, and just deep enough to make all your wishes come true. Like gazing into a leprechaun's pot. Maybe a curved line down one of my cheeks. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Try and tell me you don't want to ask him where he got his scar. Awesome.

[Keep following. Who knows what I'll do next?]