Post 17

When I was probably about 15, a friend invited me and a bunch of other friends over to his house to spend the night. He had just bought Guitar Hero: Metallica, and he had us all over to show his new game off. I think there were 8 of us in total. At one point in the night, one of my friends wanted to check his email, so another one of my friends temporarily loaned him his laptop. My friend wanting to check his email took the computer and typed in the web address for Hotmail. Upon pressing enter, instead of Hotmail loading, a hardcore pornography website, Hustler I believe it was, popped up. All of us who were huddled around the laptop, including myself, were surprised by the porn on the screen, and although none of us were afraid of some naked ladies, pornography is not meant to be viewed by multiple people at a time, especially several teenage boys, so my friend manning the computer quickly reentered the Hotmail web address. Again, the same Hustler page loaded. None of us knew why this was the case. Thinking back now, I’m sure my friend whose computer it was had a bookmark on this porn website, explaining why the Internet kept going to this particular site. But none of us thought (or at least said) this at the time, so none of us could explain the computer’s strange behavior, so the owner of the laptop took it back and tried so fix the problem. He then said, “Well, let’s try the other Hotmail,” and before any of us could process this idiotic statement, he typed in the other Hotmail, as in hot male, and pressed enter. A new webpage instantly loaded, and let’s just say it was also a pornographic website, but one of a much different nature. I saw one photo before someone quickly slammed the laptop shut. It was the only time in my life that I wished a computer had had a dial-up connection.

Post 16

This morning, I was fueling up my car at a gas station in Ypsi, and a middle-aged man walked up to me and asked me for some help. He said he was a former boxer who fell on hard times and was now homeless. He asked me if I would be generous enough to give him some money or clothing. I told him I would give him a few dollars once I was done pumping my gas, which is what I did. He thanked me, said “God bless you,” and went on his way. Now, I’m thinking about it and I feel conflicted about whether I made the right decision to give him some money. I should feel proud of myself for helping out someone in need, but instead I feel taken advantaged of because I have no idea if this man really needed the money. Although he genuinely seemed in need of a little money, I had no way of knowing for sure. He could just be another scammer, someone who panhandles for a living.

Looking back on his morning, I realize how many things could have gone wrong. When he extended his hand when introducing himself, I extended mine, and we shook hands. Nothing bad happened, but he could have easily sliced my wrist and steal my wallet. When I got into my car, he could have easily jumped me and stole my mode of transportation. He didn’t, but I didn’t know that at the time.

So instead of feeling good about my generous act, I feel, in some weird way, violated. Unfortunately, this mindset has been implanted in me because of the many assholes who lie about being in need. We now live in a world where it is seen at dumb to help out someone in need because of the possibility of something going wrong. We live in a world where people make a sufficient living by posing as someone homeless to trick good Samaritans into giving them money. We now live in a world where people pretend to have car problems on the side of the road in order to rob the person who pulls over to help. We now live in a world where people hitchhike and then proceed to perform heinous crimes on the driver who picked them up. We now live in a world where it is unsafe to help, all because some immoral assholes try to profit off the generosity of others.

I feel bad for any person who is harmed because of the sickening behavior of these assholes, but the people I feel the worst for are the people who actually are in need of help. Because of scammers and criminals, the needy are seen as potentially dangerous people, and they are thus avoided, not receiving the items they desperately need.

Thanks assholes. You are truly the parasites of the world.

Post 15

This is the beginning of some fictional narrative I started. I don’t know if it’s going to go anywhere. Probably not. It never does:

 

Yep, I’m dying. I have cancer, and it’s not the good kind either. I have the kind that’s noticeable. It would be way better if I had the invisible cancer, the type when people don’t know that you’re dying. But I’m not that lucky; I have to deal with the type when everyone knows I’m sick and probably dying. That’s the worst part of having visible cancer: people know, and when people know they feel sorry for you. People come up to me, and they say, “I’m so sorry,” or “I hope you feel better,” or “I’ll keep you in my prayers.” Complete strangers—people I care nothing about, and people who are not supposed to care anything about me neither. But they do, or at least they pretend to. They treat me differently. They only care about me because they know I’m dying. They think their sympathy will somehow help me, but they’re wrong. Hey cruel world, I know I’m dying; you don’t have to keep reminding me with your sympathizers!

The type of cancer I have is lymphoma. What variation I don’t know; the doctors over-complicated my diagnosis with their technical jargon, and my parents oversimplify it when they relay the message to me. The only thing I know is it’s killing me. My parents’ health insurance sucks, so when the cancer started to pop its head out at me, they were reluctant to have me checked out. The lymphoma was detected late; now I undergo aggressive doses of chemo. So much for my parents saving money.

The chemo doesn’t work. My body doesn’t respond to it, at least not like it should. Despite its ineffectiveness, the doctors still advice my parents that I still go through chemo. They tell me it may start to work at any time, but I know the true reason for continuing the chemo is because it pays their paychecks. I once tried to tell my mom and dad we should stop the treatments because they are just getting ripped off, but they are the “experts.” I’m the one hosting the killer, but they think the doctors know what works best.

My only hope of living is a bone marrow transplant. They say my chance of survival after a successful transplant is 50 percent, but that’s a lie. That’s a fake number, a number meant to give you hope. But I know better. Plus, my chance of finding a matching and willing donor is slight at best. In other words, I’m fucked. I just wait with my ever-deteriorating bones for the inevitable.

Post 14

Almost everywhere I go, I hear people use the term “African American” rather than “black.” For the sake of political correctness, “African American” is the safe term to use. Even I, someone who much prefers the term “black,” find myself using “African American” in certain situations just to ensure I’m being politically correct (as society has dubbed it). But in all honesty, I feel the phrase “African American” is a misnomer and it should therefore not be considered the politically correct term to use.

I find fault with both words in this term. I will first concentrate on the word “American.” Although I’m sure most people would know it’s not the case if they actually thought about it, I guarantee almost all people, at least Americans, use the terms “black” and “African American” interchangeably—that all black people are African Americans. But in order to be an African American, one must be an American. So what is a black person from London called? An African Brit or perhaps an African Englishman. What who you call a black person from Rome? An African Italian? How about one from Stockholm? An African Swede. Also, does the American in “African American” refer to someone from the U.S. or more generally to someone from the Americas (as in North and South America), meaning does “African American” apply to a black person from Canada or should that person be called an African Canadian instead? After hearing these ridiculous phrases, I hope it shows how preposterous the phrase “African American” is. “African American” should not be the politically correct term because it is not a universal term.

I also have issues with the word “African” in “African American.” First of all, calling a person African because he or she is black is implying that all Africans are black, which couldn’t be further from the truth, the most notable exception being the people of Arab descent living in northern Africa. Secondly, the reason the word “African” is used is because black people originate from that continent, but there is substantial evidence that shows all races have their origins from Africa, meaning that, although it does, this really shouldn’t act as a distinction between black people and people of other races. Also, saying African to acknowledge origin like it currently does creates this sense of not belonging. The term “African American” has undertones of foreignness, and thus exclusion.

I don’t know what the answer to this problem is. Any possible solution I can think of has its flaws, being that every existing word, especially those dealing with race, has a connotation. But what I do know is that for the reasons I have stated above, the term “African American” really should no longer be considered the socially-acceptable term.

 

Post 13

This is a poem called “Coyote Blues”:

 

Some are called bitch, while others have no name.

This one did: Kahlúa, as in the liqueur.   

Why was Kahlúa lucky enough to enjoy a name?

Perhaps her owner felt a special bond,

But probably not.

Most likely a $500 hunting dog is worthy of a name.

She ran amongst the bitches and nameless,

leading the squad, exceeding her price tag.

That was until the cancerous polyps came,

sidelining her hunting duties.

Most mutts would be left to suffer a slow,

cruel death, but Kahlúa hunted too well and

cost too much to be left to die.

She was out of action for a time,

but still alive.

She returned on the first day of the second month

in a fluctuating Michigan winter.

Cold one day, warm the next.

They had one on the run, through the brush,

over unsteady swamps.

She was physically ready, but mentally unprepared. 

On the pond, they all sensed the loose ice,

all except Kahlúa.

They all went around,

all except Kahlúa.

It cracked as she descended into the nipping water.

She yelped,

and yelped

and she clawed at

the surrounding ice.

But she failed,

and she sunk motionless

to the depths

of the shallow pond.

When the hunted

was cornered,

it was shredded

by the others and

silenced

by the owner’s

booming 22.

And he mounted

that mane,

for that was the

son of a bitch

that killed Kahlúa.

Post 12

I wrote this a couple of mondays ago. It is unfortunately true:

Right now I’m sitting alone in a restaurant I have never been in before. Let me tell you how I got here. Today, like every Monday, I attended my classes at Eastern Michigan University. Nothing eventual happened at school—I started at the same time as I always do and ended in the same manner. Like every day, my last class was dismissed at 4:45, at which time I promptly headed to my vehicle and began driving home. My misfortune started while driving on the expressway home. My car had been making this strange rumbling noise for the past couple of days. At first I dismissed the unpleasant sound, figuring it would eventually stop, but as I continued to drive home, the noise became more profound, and I knew something was wrong. I pulled over on the shoulder of the expressway, assuming the unwanted noise was the result of a flat tire. How wrong was I? Right before I slowed to a complete stop, I saw out of the corner of my eye my entire rear, left tire—not just the rubber tire itself, but also the metal rim—go shooting off back into the lane I had just left. Luckily, the cars behind me swerved to avoid the runaway tire, and after a short time of rolling around, it drop motionless in the middle of the passing lane. This, of course, halted all traffic until a man emerged from his car and threw the tire out of the way. I have never seen a tire just completely shoot from a vehicle. I’m lucky it fell off when it did, or else I could seriously have gotten injured. Instead, I was physically unscathed, only my patience damaged. I immediately called AAA, and after holding for ten minutes, I inform the anonymous woman of my predicament. She told me my car would need to be towed, and that a tow truck would take no more than an hour to rescue me. I then called my mom to inform her of my misfortune and that I would be home late.  Sixty minutes passed as I patiently sat in my vehicle, attempting to keep my hands and feet from freezing off. Finally, a service vehicle pulled up behind me, but much to my dismay, it was only a MDOT patrol driver telling me to turn on my flashers (By this point it was dark outside). I did, and moments later he left. Fifteen more minutes passed before the tow truck finally arrived. I sat in the truck while the driver hooked my car to his, fifteen more minutes elapsing in the process. The driver then drove me to the nearest auto shop, an eight mile trip. Once at the shop, a Goodyear, I realized the business of closed. After releasing my car, the tow truck man with his tow truck left, and I was stranded at a deserted Goodyear during one of the worst blizzard in recent memory. I again called my mom, telling her I needed her to drive 45 minutes in horrible conditions to pick me up and take me home. So I wouldn’t freeze to death, I walked across the street to Noodles & Company, a fast food vegetarian haven, and impatiently waiting for my mom, along with my brother, to pick me up. To please my hungry stomach, I ordered some Wisconsin mac n cheese while I waited. It was about as good a box of Craft’s. Now, it 8:20, and I’m still waiting all alone at this subpar fast food joint. 

Post 11

Dear you,

Greetings! You do not know me, but I know you, or your most recent book, rather. A few days ago, I was lucky enough to come across your book, rather randomly it must be added, at my local library. I must admit, I was skeptical when I first examined the cover and inner fold of your book, assuming it, like so many other best-sellers, would be a product of an overused formula adopted by so many authors to please the simple-minded masses. But luckily, despite my initial impression, I decided to give your book a try. Just pages in, I realized my skepticism was completely unwarranted, and after days of almost nonstop reading, I concluded your modern masterpiece. I am therefore writing you simply to express the great level of admiration I have for your new novel.

Being the committed author that you are, it would be pointless on my part you give you a synopsis of your own book. Therefore, I will discuss only how your literary masterpiece has deeply moved me in this letter. Most importantly, I must express how deeply profound I found your novel’s plot. It was aesthetically groundbreaking, like none I have ever experienced before. The way the protagonist digs deep within his often-muddled cognition in order to capture the purely demented killer is absolute magic. The plot’s novelty has inspired me beyond description, making me question the meaningfulness of every so-called classic I have ever read. It has besieged my emotional understanding of the world. It has deteriorated my fundamental grasp of humanity. It has smothered my wanderlust for evangelical prosperity. It has conjured an entity within me that prohibits me from experimenting with quantitative heresy. It has pulverized my omnipotent zeal for the uncanny. And then, after all of this, it has caressed my fragile spirit, comforting me like a mother’s teat back into a rehabilitated yet pleasant euphoria. In other words, your novel’s plot is wonderfully mind-altering.

Being that you must be attentively devoted to researching for your next book, I assume that your time for reading fan mail is limited. Therefore, I will keep this letter short. Please do not mistaken my strong, lively language to be in any way a mockery of your book or you as an author, for everything I have said in completely genuine, and I truly found your novel amazingly powerful.

Thank you again for the inspirational work,

An admiring reader

Post 10

Every Horror Film in Three Minutes:

 

Virginia and Eddy are together.

“Hey Virginia, we should have sex.”
“No Eddy, I don’t want to. I want to wait until it’s the right time.”
“Well when’s that, I’ve been holding out for like two years.”
“I know, but I’m not ready, but when I am, I’ll make it special.”
“Fuck that, I’m sick of waitin’, I’m goin’ go fuck that chick Brittany, she’d sleep with anything that moves.”

Eddy goes to Brittany’s house. Virginia cries over her misfortune.

“Yo Brittany, let’s fuck.”
“Okay, but only if we do it out in the woods, and we film it.”
“Sounds good.”

They go to the woods.

“Yo Brit, your body’s the bomb.”
“I knew you would like my tit implants.”
“Oh yeah, that feels good…”

A noise.

“Hey wait, Eddy, did you heard something.”
“Only your smokin’ hot moans.”
“No seriously, I think someone’s watching us.”

Another noise. Out jumps Ringo from a bush.

“Oh, it’s only Ringo, he’s probably high on weed.”
“Hey guys, yeah, I was just watching you guys get down and dirty, I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine man, you know you’re my boy.”

Suddenly Ringo is stabbed in the back and falls dead. The killer starts walking toward Eddy and Brittany.

“Oh my god, Eddy do something.”
“Good thing I carry an AK-47 with me everywhere I go. Alright you bastard, here’s for killin’ my friend and fucking with my fucking”

Eddy unloads 10,000 high-speed bullets into the killer’s torso. They are ineffective.

“What the fuck?”

Eddy’s head is cut off his body.

“Please don’t hurt me…I didn’t do any…”

Off goes Brittany’s head.

Meanwhile, Virginia is still weeping and contemplating her life. 

“I don’t know why he is so mean to me. I’m sick of his bullying. I know what to do, I’ll go confront him.”

Virginia goes to Brittany’s house, and for some unexplained reason, goes out into the woods, where she finds the corpses of Eddy, Brittany, and Ringo.

“Oh my god, they’re dead, oh…oh…”

Out steps the killer, who heads for Virginia.

“Stop, please stop, don’t do it…”

The killer is only feet away.

Suddenly, Virginia sees a single pebble at her feet. She picks it up and throws it at the killer. It hits him in the foot, and he falls dead (or does he?!?!?!?!?!?!?)

Virginia goes home and lives happily ever after (until she is killed off by the killer who miraculously comes back to life in the very beginning of the sequel).

Post 9

8 Grammatical and Linguistic Things That Makes Me Want to Pull My Hair Out:

• When people use the word “literally” when the thing they’re describing did not in actuality happen.
• “Anyway” is a word; “anyways” is not.
• Using adverbs where adjectives are supposed to be and vice versa.
• When people say “no pun intended” when it clearly was intended.
• 99 percent of the ways the word “got” is used. “Got” is just a dumbed-down way to say “has” or “have,” and both words should therefore not be included because it would be redundant. So, saying “I’ve got two tickets to paradise” or “America’s Got Talent” is really saying “I have got two tickets to paradise” or “America Has Got Talent.” Instead, say “I have two tickets to paradise” or “America Has Talent.”
• Punctuation marks that are placed outside quotation marks.
• Any use of clichés.
• Having a way-too inclusive definition of irony. Irony is me saying any use of clichés makes me want to pull my hair out. Most the things you deem ironic are not actually ironic, which in itself is ironic, but that isn’t what you were going for. And no, saying “no pun intended” when it clearly was intended is not ironic because puns, by their very definition, are not supposed to be ironic.

Post 8

Well, the Super Bowl sucked. Everything about it sucked: the game itself, the commentary, the commercials, and yes, even the halftime show (No bash on Bruno Mars and the 2 seconds we saw of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but what halftime show in history hasn’t sucked? The whole concept of a 20-25 minute “concert” whose sole purpose is to be cool-looking is pretty dumb. I mean really though, I thought the whole purpose of music is to be audibly pleasing, not visually pleasing). Anyway, because it sucked there’s no further reason to discuss it…

But I can’t resist. These halftime shows are so, so incredibly dumb. Again, I’m not hating on Bruno Mars. I’m not a huge fan of his music, but, I must say, he did a pretty good job, and it was the one of the better ones in the last decade (yes, Kanye West, it was even better than Beyoncé’s performance).

But whose idea was it to have a concert at the halftime of a football game? All the show is is a bunch of flashy lights and fireworks, which is cool I guess, but don’t label a light show with music playing as a concert because it’s not. I understand the importance of showing some energy and pizazz while performing a concert, but the halftime show takes it way too far (I remember Madonna didn’t sing about 75% of her show because she was too busy prancing to and fro). Bruno Mars’s performance was dimmed down a lot from shows of Super Bowls’ past, but it was still too much glitter and not enough music. Maybe it’s just a reflection of the music industry today, where there are hour-long TV specials devoted solely to the cinematography involved in worldwide tours of musicians like Britney Spears and Katy Perry; but whatever the reason for the halftime show’s current condition may be, I’m sick of the extravagant hoopla. Just play music, goddammit!

By the way, what was up with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ performance? What’s the point of having the band out for half a song? The show is so short to begin with, why would there need to be two different acts? Maybe it’s because Bruno Mars doesn’t have enough famous songs to fill the allotted time. Hey NFL, next time you determine a Super Bowl performer, make sure it’s someone with enough material to fill a 25 minute concert.

The best music is the music that doesn’t need flashy distractions to make it sound good. Music like this:

And this: