I'm fairly certain we're doing this wrong [entries|friends|calendar] I can kill you with my mind [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

(the world is quiet here) [14 Jul 2007|04:13am] I think the worst gift you can give someone is a Segway, because what you're saying out-loud is "I want to spend money on you," while you're actually thinking "...because I want you to look like an idiot."

(the world is quiet here) Exchange of the Day [16 May 2006|02:31am] [ mood | accomplished ] [ music | Wordsworth's Ridge- Sufjan Stevens ] (Following the Miller "Man Laws" commcerical concerning the "You Poke it, you own it" law of beer) Me: It works the same way with women. Danika: You think women come up with stupid laws like that? Me: No. "You poke it, you own it." I should mention Danika and I were pretty drunk at this point, because we played a 24 drinking game based around taking a swig every time "Curtis is black." If you watch the show, you get that. Junior year is over, and tomorrow I return to DC to grovel for my B&N job until I go to Pennsylvania. And Chansky and Brian might be coming to visit! And also, while I won't post exactly what it was on here, Noah gave me a very sweet parting gift. I'm going to miss him... ...until Caroline, myself, and a host of other Cleos fliy him out for initiation. Also, if you're Alex Truelsen, you're not joining next semester. Don't try.

(3 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) New Story [29 Mar 2006|05:48pm] [ mood | accomplished ] [ music | Going Going Gone- Stars ] A Guide to Your Breakup Today is the day. You have put it off long enough. Today, finally, you are going to break up with your girlfriend of three months. You invite her over, in that way that suggests something serious is to be discussed, but nothing foreboding enough to send her into a panic. You have seen those specials on National Geographic, and you know how lions sneak up on their prey, lulling them into a false sense of security before ripping their throats out. A false sense of security, that’s what you need to create—if she’s too prepared she’ll put up a fight and it could be painful. Painful isn’t good. You know painful breakups, you’ve weathered them before, but you don’t want another one. There was that time in high school that you broke up with that bipolar girl at a bus stop and she cried so much you took her back just so the other people at the stop wouldn’t think you were a monster. Then, of course, you broke up with her again later that night by phone, safely out of earshot of any bystanders who might not have understood how unhinged that girl was and who wouldn’t have known how you were a saint for merely sticking around as long as you did. No, sir. You don’t want another painful breakup. You look away, you look down, you look at every square inch of the room save for her eyes, that you know will pierce you, will burn you if you behold them. What do you say to her now, to end this neatly? How to take this relationship out behind the barn and shoot it. A clean shot. To the head. How to say it gracefully, eloquently, how to say it so she understands. You remember your early childhood, when hand puppets could explain everything succinctly and easily. You glance around your room, just to make absolutely sure you don’t have a hand puppet available. You check yourself, as this is a ridiculous idea. You’d need at least two, after all, to create a convincing dialogue. One puppet delivering a soliloquy just won’t cut it. You drop the bomb. You just don’t think it’s a good idea to continue seeing each other. All of time stands still as you brace yourself for another tear-fest. You eye the box of tissues on your desk, wondering whether it would be a faux pas to hand it to her now, before she has started crying. Would that seem like you were full of yourself? Like you accept that distancing yourself from someone is, by default, going to be traumatic? But no tears are coming. She’s just staring. At you. Perhaps you should repeat yourself. Hand puppets could totally lighten the mood here. She is looking to you for her answers and you are looking to the linoleum tiles for yours. Perhaps, you reason, it will be carved there, at your feet- what to say, how to say it in a voice that sounds like a band-aid being ripped off a cut. But the tiles hold no answers, so you look to them for distraction. You gaze at the brown flecks in them, and wonder if they form shapes, like clouds or stars. Constellations set into your floor, telling stories that you haven’t noticed until now, now that you desperately need to cling to whatever silent tales they may hold to avoid her gaze and her words. Perhaps the three flecks close together in the upper corner of one of the tiles are a family; perhaps they’ve just returned from an exciting vacation from wherever it is linoleum flecks go to unwind, and are ready to share their photos with the other flecks, who will be envious and impersonate the cheap Southern accent of the mother fleck when she is not around. Maybe the fleck in the far lower corner is a loner, who ate by himself at meals in Fleck High School (whose mascot, no doubt, was the fighting formica), and came home in the afternoon to an empty house, while his fleck parents worked to scrimp and save, but not for his education- maybe a boat or a sports car. Anyway now he’s sitting there, watching the other flecks with families and friends, still alone, still dejected. Maybe he’s contemplating death, maybe he cries silent, grainy tears that the other flecks can’t hear. Maybe he’s praying for the floor to be buffed, so he’ll disappear and not have to feel so cut off from the other flecks. You wonder if the speck of dirt from someone’s shoe that sits on your floor could have some sort of forbidden affair with one of the flecks and cause a fleck scandal? Would the other flecks whisper about that “incorrigible slut” that has no shame? Would the fleck care? Would she return to the piece of dirt, night after night, whispering sweet words of how she doesn’t care what the other flecks think, she loves him, loves him? Or would she tell him it wasn’t meant to be, and settle down with a nice fleck who maybe murmured in his sleep and brushed his thinning hair with a $20 comb. You just don’t know. And yet your girlfriend (is it ex-girlfriend yet?) continues to speak, and you wonder how she can have the audacity to ignore the finely woven drama of fleck existence and go on and on about what a terrible boyfriend you’ve been and blah blah blah…You look at your toes, and decide you should clip the nails on them. It is impossible, you decide, to gracefully clip toe nails. No one can do it, you decide, not even a ballerina. You try to picture a slender woman in a tutu, hair in a bun, pirouetting about and leaning forward to clip her toe nails. Ok, you concede, maybe a ballerina. Or a ninja, ninjas could probably do it well too. Could a ninja conceivably clip his nails silently? If the clippers have to make noise, is an in depth knowledge of the deadly arts necessarily enough to silence them? You wonder if there are ninja specks in the floor tiles you can’t see, because they are about to sneak up behind another fleck and snap his neck. She asks you what you think of what she’s saying, and you nod heavily, as though her words have been the only thing you have considered seriously ever. You were not a bad boyfriend; a bad boyfriend would have told her to shut up about five minutes ago and wouldn’t have cared about whatever it was she was saying. You, on the other hand, are showing a great deal of poise and are trying hard to focus on her. You are what Frank Sinatra would call a class act. The image of the Chairman of the Board winking and giving you a sly thumbs up occurs to you, and you can’t get it out of your head. It would be nice, you think, to have your own private Frankie, advising you on all your actions. You can imagine him shaking his head and wagging his finger at you as you decide to cheat on a test; Frank is disappointed in you, he seems to be saying. He would refer to himself in the third person. Of course. It’s a Frank thing. Maybe guiding you in your life decisions is how he’d get his wings, like in It’s a Wonderful Life. Would Frank Sinatra want wings, though? Wouldn’t he think they were gay? Frank’s words, not yours. Frank Sinatra couldn’t clip his toenails gracefully, could he? She shifts her weight; you can see she’s not happy. “Give the lady some love,” Frank would say. No, Frank wouldn’t say that; what are you thinking? Frank would slap her across the face and tell her not to be hysterical. Come to think of it, you could probably find a better disembodied celebrity conscience. After all, Frank had mob ties, so he’s one to talk if you’re cheating on your history exam. You never liked his Christmas CD, either; it was too jazzy. That’s when it occurs to you that you’re really glad you weren’t dating this girl during Christmas. Relationships always feel much more serious during the holidays, when you’re going to parties as a couple, and giving each other gifts. And mistletoe, oh man, do you hate mistletoe. What a contrived tradition. It was probably started by some pervert who wanted an excuse to kiss someone. “Oh, look! You know what mistletoe means,” he probably said to some unassuming young woman standing under a sprig of that stupid leaf. “Kissing time!” How lame can you get, you wonder? No, mistletoe is bad news, and so are the holidays. You’ve had three Christmas girlfriends; that one freshman year in high school—the Mormon one who didn’t appreciate the bottle of expensive red wine you found in your kitchen (an event followed by you breaking up with her after apologizing for not understanding that Mormon meant “allergic to fun”) Crazy McCriesalot who knitted you an orange scarf for the holidays (an orange scarf? Who would wear that? Maybe someone doing construction work during the winter—not something you generally do), and that preppy psych major last year who suspended holly all above her bed, not realizing that it was different from mistletoe. You can always tell, you realize, that a relationship won’t last long when a girl turns Christmas into Valentine’s Day. It means they’re worried they won’t make it to February, that they have only Christmas and maybe New Year’s to have a holiday boyfriend. You briefly address what you think are her main issues. This entails restating what you heard her say with altered pronouns. She nods, looking directly at you the whole time. It’s sort of eerie, the way her eyes never leave you. You never thought of it until now, but breaking up can be easily executed with a grab bag of platitudes. Everything you’re saying is something you’ve said to someone else before. You need space. You don’t have enough in common. She doesn’t understand you. It’s this last one she seems to be having trouble with. You shrug off her protestations, confident in the knowledge that she can only argue this path for so long before you can play the “There Are Things About Me You Don’t Know” card—your favorite, as it makes you sound like you have a tortured past, and when she’s talking about the breakup to her friends, they’ll all pick up on that part and want to be the one who can understand you. You also get to act a little with TATAMYDK—a look to the side, a scratch of the scar on your knuckle (that you actually got from a burn on the grill at the fast food place you used to work at, but she doesn’t know that, does she?), maybe a sniffle or two. You’ve never really decided what you’re alluding to when you tell girls this, and you’ve never really needed to pick something—no one presses you too much. If you’re going to fake a stereotype, after all, the brooding loner is the easiest (and most sexually appealing). She keeps at you, though, insisting she knows you better than you know yourself and claiming she knows the real reason you’re doing this. Maybe it’s because she makes ridiculous statements like that, you refrain from saying. You want to tell her to calm down, but that would probably just have the opposite effect. Better to just let her get this out. You glance at your watch, and she claims you’ve just proven her point. Perhaps you missed the part of her tirade where she accused you of being punctual, because you’re not sure exactly what this is supposed to prove. You reach out your hands, palms out, in the international gesture of “calm the fuck down,” to no avail. Her hair is falling in her face, and she brushes it behind her ear and you can see she’s trying hard not to cry. She used to, you remember, brush her hair out of her face from laughing. She used to laugh a lot. You wish she were laughing now. You want there to be hand puppets, partly because they would make her laugh and partly because you could lightly bat her in the face with them and not be considered violent. Violent people don’t have hand puppets. She’s reaching her breaking point, you can tell. Pretty soon she’ll storm out, and she will officially be your ex-girlfriend. All your stories involving her will be altered to encompass this fact. Your friends will ask you what was wrong with this one, and you will have to give them a good answer. You’ve already dated a crazy girl, a stupid girl, an annoying girl, an evil girl, a slut, a cheat, (suspected cheat, your friends will correct you, like they know what they’re talking about) and a Republican. What will be her title? She’s still talking, pleading with you, and you’re nodding blankly, an action which could either pacify or irritate her, you don’t quite care which. She could be the “chatty one.” Yes, you like the sound of that. “Remember when you dated that girl,” your friends will ask later, “the chatty one?” and you will know who they’re talking about. But you enjoyed talking with her before, so it’s sort of hypocritical to act like you didn’t ever enjoy it. She keeps sniffling as she talks, and you realize that she does that a lot. “The sniffly one” doesn’t quite have the same ring though. You focus on her face and search for any physical flaws you could denote her by. One time you dated a girl whose long dark curls and robust build reminded you of Captain Morgan. “The pirate,” you called her with your friends later. Then you found out that she voted Republican, and that became her new title, partly because you don’t like Republicans but mainly because you thought of her every time you drank rum. Yet the girl before you now bears no resemblance to any pop-culture icon. Her speech seems to be reaching its climax, so you tune back in just in time to hear her refer to you as “an emotional dustbowl,” and you know you’ll only be there longer if you call her emotional tsunami, both because she will want to know what she’s done to deserve that appellation and because she will lecture you on your poor taste in humor (though according to your late grandfather, the Dustbowl wasn’t exactly a hand puppet show). You sigh and scratch your knuckle scar and murmur softly that she doesn’t understand, before she rolls her eyes, stands up, and tells you she understands perfectly. She curtly informs you that you are going to die alone and unloved, and before you can quip that you don’t plan on dying, she tells you goodbye and gets up to leave. There are tears welling over in her eyes, but it would be inappropriate to offer her the tissues now. And so the door closes, leaving you alone with the tissues, the flecks, the image of Frank Sinatra, and an acute lack of hand puppets. For the first time, you can’t think of a nickname.

(4 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) Debut [14 Dec 2005|03:15am] [ mood | high ] [ music | Lo, How a Rose E're Blooming-Sufjan Stevens ] So the novel I started that I'm turning into an independent study now has the tentative title Everything You Run From Will Catch Up, and tonight I debuted the first piece of it at open night mic. So far I have about 20 pages, and while I know I'm working on it all next year as an independent study, I'm also trying to get permission to work on it in my Writing workshop next semester. I have about 20 pages so far, (pretty good considering I only started it like 2 weeks ago and haven't had loads of time to work on it) and I'm really going to try and work on it more during break. Anyway, I'm going to post the same part that I read tonight. Expect more exerpts as they become available. A note on the piece: The book has a really complicated concept that I'll explain more once I fully understand it, but basically it's written in alternating first, second, and third person segments. Obviously, the part below is from the second person section. This exerpt has nothing to do with the cafe story I posted last week, and I promise I can write in other voices than second person. Now then. ( Cuttacula ) In other news, I turned in my penultimate final today- my Victorian lit paper entitled "From Ivors to Awkward: A Society Loosens its Corsets." I'm proud of it, and I only have one more final left and it's easy, So the moral of the story is that English majors always have more fun. The end.

(the world is quiet here) Because cleaning my room is too much of a hassle... [03 Dec 2005|10:14am] [ mood | procrastitastic ] [ music | 7/4 Shoreline-Broken Social Scene-Broken Social Scene ] Open up your itunes. How many total songs?: 3101 (To be honest, though, I only really listen to 3098 of those regularly) Sort by song title - first and last?: "'24 Theme" - Sean Callery "Zissou Society Blue Star Cadets" - Mark Mothersbaugh Sort by time - first and last?: "Random Screaming" - The Wrens (:04) "the sixth extinction crept up slowly" - the red sparowes(19:32) Sort by Album - first and last?: "3.5" -Palomar "Young Liars - TV on the Radio Sort by Artist - first and last?: AC Newman Zero 7 Top five played songs?: "Rita Sue and Jonesy" - Carnivale Soundtrack "For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti" - Sufjan Stevens "Maps" - Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Hounds of Love" - Futureheads "One with the Freaks" - Notwist Find 'sex', how many songs show up?:4 (Including the David Cross track entitled "Even though I am In the Closet, That Won't Prevent Me From Getting a Few Laughs at the Expense of Homosexuals") 'death': 14 'love': 49 'you': 201 'home': 18 'boy': 26 'girl': 20

(4 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) A Story About Working in the Barnes and Noble Cafe [02 Dec 2005|02:22pm] [ mood | productive ] [ music | Meanwhile, Rick James- Cake-Comfort Eagle ] A Brightly Lit and Chocolate Covered Emotional Deathtrap You will tell your co-workers that today is not your day. They will be far too busy with their own lives to notice that this is the caveat with which you begin every day at work. They will smile at you, pat you on the back, say encouraging and obvious things. Someone will tell you look like you could use a hug, and then will give you one, because it would be rude not to, after pointing out your obvious necessity for one. You will punch in, (or maybe you won’t; maybe the computer will be out again and you can get by with penciling your name in just a few minutes before you actually arrived) and you will start your day. People need things, and they need you to get them for you. They will stand in line, and you will watch them, predicting under your breath which ones look like trouble. You have learned what to look for; shifty eyes that indicate impatience, a blank expression indicating confusion, furrowed brows that suggest a general malaise, children, old people. They all spell trouble, and you don’t like trouble, not when it’s not your day. You will explain the minute differences in different kinds of espresso drinks to people, unsure of whether or not they actually comprehend what it is you are saying. They will criticize you for making things too complicated, and you will politely yet firmly remind them that you did not design the fucking system yourself. They will tell you they know that, but you will know that they are still blaming you, still judging you in their heads. You are the messenger, and they would just as soon kill you as the company president. Your palms will grow dark from coffee grinds, as though you have been digging a grave with your hands. As the hours pass, your clothing will acquire a sickly sweet smell, like coffee and cream that hides a hint of malice in it. You will not know this until you leave, until you are in your car on the way home and you wonder what that smell is, and if your friends who you are seeing that night will notice it. You are deft, you are professional, but that will not stop you from possibly knocking over a container of chocolate sauce all over your apron, or squirting your shirt with syrup. Or maybe you will get the syrup on your skin and it will bead into tiny balls of sweet petrified amber that will rip your arm hair out when you pick at them. You will call “Next!” and “Order up!” You will call “Repeat!” You will call “Any Espresso drinks?” No one will hear you, or pay much attention if they do. People will wait until the last possible moment to give you their espresso drink orders, and you will hate them, and you will wonder if they will see you spit in their drinks. You will take a break. You will go to the bathroom, not to pee, but to splash cold water on your face and try to feel clean. You will sit. You will ache, and you will gather the time close to you, like baby chicks trying to run away from your desperate arms. You will take up smoking so you have an excuse to take an extra five-minute break. You will not put enough money in your parking meter, so that you can go across the street and feel free from that building, with its bright signs and brighter, empty smiling faces. The cold air will make you forget for a minute. The icy metal of the quarters and the clink they make in the meter will be something of substance, something that exists outside of that place. You will go back, and you will feel miserable. You will make ice blended coffee drinks, and you will pause each time before you start the blender, bracing yourself for the jarring and jangling noise of ice and syrupy coffee milk mix being knocked together. No matter how much time you give yourself, this moment will hurt. You will die a little on the inside, and you will wonder what will happen if you stuck a customer’s head in this blender. You will ask yourself why working here makes you have violent thoughts, but you won’t try to provide an answer. You will explain to a woman that no, there is no simply “plain tea.” You will read off the elaborate and exotic names. They will be emotions, concepts, places. “Calming,” “Happiness,” “Writer’s Block,” “Winter’s Night,” “Sunflower Warm,” “Season’s Greetings.” She will berate you for not knowing which one is closest to “plain tea.” You will lie to her, and tell her that “Rainy Afternoon” is the one she wants. After all, you’ll reason, isn’t tea the default drink on a rainy afternoon? You will wait for her to leave, and then you will tell your coworkers about “that crazy tea bitch” you just dealt with, but you’ll wonder, despite your dislike of tea, if it isn’t a little odd that there isn’t just a “plain” tea. The thought will irritate you, and make you question your faith in religion and the world at large, and the sound of people ordering moods and feelings will haunt you the rest of the day. Are they ordering the tea for the flavor, or for the way they want to feel? Can teas make a person feel a certain way? You will wish you took more psychology classes, so that you could begin to answer this. You will wonder if more complex and specific emotions, such as “Just Out of an Emotionally Crippling Relationship,” or “Ambivalence towards your Mother’s new choice of wallpaper” or “Feigned Happiness at the Success of a Friend” would make good teas, and if people would buy them to experience vicarious feelings. Would people pay to feel something, you wonder? Would it be like seeing a horror movie, where people pay to be shocked? Would they want these strange emotions? Could you conceivably profit, and then use your massive fortune to destroy the building you’re standing in? You will snap out of your daydream to the realization that you are pouring scalding hot milk on your hand and not into a paper cup. You will discover the store’s first aid kit to be woefully inadequate. You will take a lunch break, and go to the other side of the counter to order a sandwich, because you will be too tired to walk to another restaurant and buy something there. You will also tell yourself that the discount makes it worth it. You will joke with your coworkers and pretend you are a customer. You will do this, of course, because it is what everyone does when they go on break, and in the world of polite store relations, this never gets old. You will never mention that it’s actually pretty obnoxious, nor will you ask the question of how, after working here for a while, anyone would want to even pretend to be one of those soul sucking morons that exchange money for a quick piece of solace. You breathe. In, out. You read part of a book. You eat. You drink. You punch back in. You refrain from explaining the irony of a skim sugar-free vanilla latte topped with whipped cream to the obese woman ordering it. You keep yourself from hitting the man who makes the joke that it’s funny that a “small” is called a “tall.” Maybe you will hit the next person who makes that joke, but you’re too tired to do that now. You bite your lip. You wait. On people. On drinks. On time, in all its oozing maddening glory. You pray, to what you will not know. You will be unbelievably polite to the rude woman with three screaming children, each demanding a different kind of intoxicatingly sweet icy blended coffee drink. Decaf, she will cry at you. They must be decaf. The kids will freak out later if they are not decaf. More whipped cream, she will say. And make sure, make sure they are decaf. Are they decaf, she will ask you pointedly as you hand them their sugary masses of perverted coffee? “Yes,” you will lie. You will zone in and out for several more hours, and the time will be ground up, mixed up in the deafening blender of your day. The early shift will leave, the late shift will arrive. You will start counting down the minutes until you can go. You start counting in increments that don’t even make sense. 47 minutes. 32. 18. Your countdown will be interrupted by a line. This will not deter you though, and for the first time, you will be working with a purpose. Every hand motion will count, every swift and graceful action will bring you one delicious step closer to leaving. You will be the Bookstore café equivalent of Tom Cruise in the film Cocktails. You will be glib, you will do tricks. You will dazzle them with your espresso machine dexterity. You will shine. And then, at exactly 6 o’ clock, you will stop what you are doing and announce you need to leave and demand that someone else take the bar. You will irritate your coworkers, who would like you to stay until the line is gone, but you will tell them you have to run. That instant. Freedom, you will realize, is a moment. It is the instant the fresh air hits you as you step outside, with a new layer of deodorant and a change of clothes on. It is the second you ask yourself what you want to do now. It is the finger you will flip at the customer who yelled at you an hour ago. It is forgetting that you will work the same shift tomorrow. It is the firm belief that like freedom, retail is only a moment, and you will one day never, ever have to pretend to be nice to people who didn’t realize their cappuccino didn’t come with whipped cream and sprinkles.

(3 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) This is not what I had planned [15 Nov 2005|05:19pm] [ mood | bored ] [ music | Malt Liquor- Hope for a Golden Summer ] So I haven't updated in a while. So what? Does that make me a bad person? No. It makes me a productive person. Err...ok no because I just finished Book One of The Awkward Age, the novel for Victorian Fiction that I was supposed to have read 4 books of by class today. I'm really only updating because Danika said she was reading my journal, (and I know Olivia reads it too) and I want to give people a show. So because I usually try and amuse in this thing, let's throw down a couple of mildly entertaining lists, shall we? Yes, we shall. 5 RANDOM AWKWARD MOMENTS (In Random, Awkward Order) 5) My first date ever, when I took a girl to see the colorful Pleasantville starring Spiderman, June Cash, and the guy from Fargo who has his wife kidnapped. (I could have said Jerry Lundergaard, but would you have gotten that, honestly?) Ok it's just occurring to me that this isn't really an awkward "moment" but more of an awkward "afternoon/early evening" (possibly even an "Awkward age...get it? GET IT?). Basically, what made it awkward was not the fact that it was my first date. It was also not the fact that they had the 35 year old Hispanic female equivalent of South Park's Timmy tearing tickets (an awful, awful process that took like two minutes because she could barely move her hands...seriously I think UA hired this woman to make people feel bad about seeing movies). No, it was the fact that this girl WOULD NOT STOP EATING. She ate an entire box of gummy bears, (and then whispered, halfway through the movie in a sexy and fruit filled voice "Are you going to finish yours?") half of my gummy bears, and a large icee at the theater, followed by a large Godiva Hot Chocolate (made with half-and-half and served with a cookie) and a big ol' slice of French Silk Pie at Barnes and Noble. Note: She wasn't even FAT, she was just packing it away. If I had to condense this into one moment, I'd have to go for the minute that followed her asking me if I wanted to finish her pie. This was awkward because there was, literally, one crumb of French Silk Pie crust on her plate. I looked at the plate, looked at her, (her face slightly smeared with whipped cream and what I assume/hope was chocolate) looked back at the plate, and then back down at my book. Not a word was said. 4) The time I called Nina's house a while after that whole fight we had my sophomore year and Nina's mom answered and told me never to call again. Remember that, Nina? Remember how long it took your mother to learn to love/tolerate/not shoot on site...me? Yeah that was awkward, though. 3) ANY run-in with Liz Fisher's parents after they tried to get me expelled. And let me tell you, after that whole debacle, I started running into them EVERYWHERE. At Starbucks, at the Apple Store, in Mazza. And always the same "Oh hi, Chris! It's soo good to see you? How are you doing?" which, translated, meant "So you're still alive? We'd hire someone to kill you, but you know how expensive Brown is. OH WAIT YOU DON'T." (Sidenote- another awkward moment ensued when someone told me that Liz's asshole brother had been hit by an eighteen wheeler and I laughed, thinking it was a joke. It wasn't. [Sidenote to sidenote] He's ok now, and it's ok to laugh because he was drunk and did it on a dare]) 2) Last week, I was working in the library at one of the tables near the lower long walk windows, and I had a huge snotty sneeze. I sneezed into my hand, but was presented with a problem. If I moved my hand away from my face, there would be a huge line of snot that would come with it. But keeping my hand near my face would look weird, especially to the man who was sitting one table over across from me. So I sat there for like a good 5 minutes pretending like it was perfectly normal to read with my left hand attatched to my nose. Then I awkwardly got up and walked through the stacks, hand still on nose, until I got to the bathroom and the sweet release of paper towels. 1) When Kyle and I were dining at Maccaroni Grill this summer and I made an unfortunate comment about the man sitting at the table behind Kyle with his son. Basically, I implied that despite the obviously wholesome nature of the scene, the man was in fact a pedophile kidnapping this child. Kyle and I may have made some rather loud comments regarding this, and we may not have been too subtle about it. So basically, there's a good chance that some poor guy was embarrassed to take his kid to a family restaurant because we were assholes. pedophile was almost foiled by our valient comments. I can't reprint these comments here, mainly because I don't remember them. If Kyle does, though, he should feel free to post them below. THREE FAVORITE SONGS (Ok this is hard because I love a shitload of songs and bands not represented here. This list is based purely on the fact that I have continuously listened to these songs since I first heard them, and have never grown tired of them) 3. Jolene by Cake. 2. Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl by Broken Social Scene. 1. Wonderwall by Oasis. ONE WAY TO AVOID WORK Updating my Livejournal for no discernable reason. This is why I gave it up in the first place, for Christ's sakes. Back to reading. Then Open Mic at Cleo! Then sleep! PS Who from home wants to hang out while I'm there from Tuesday through Sunday of next week?

(the world is quiet here) Live from the basement, it's the Pete Chansky Show! [10 Oct 2005|10:18pm] [ mood | lonely ] [ music | Please Stand Up-British Sea Power-Open Season ] Hey remember when I used to live with that crazy kid Pete Chansky, and I used to write about all his wacky antics? No? Ok, well Pete was my freshman roommate, and, I'm happy to say, we still hang out. And Saturday night, I got to participate in his new talk show, broadcast live from the furniture storage room in the North Campus basement. Ok, "broadcast" is a bit strong. We moved furniture around to create a talk show set up. I was co-host and Brian was the special guest. Well, Brian was the special guest until Pete pointed out that a piece of paper with Scott's name on it (with "is a tool" scrawled cleverly after it) would make a better guest. At that point, Brian started to switch seats with the paper. That's right, he was about to switch seats with an inanimate object. Needless to say, he quickly saw the poor reasoning skills behind this action and refused to surrender his seat. I'm not gonna lie and say that I was sober, and I'm also not gonna lie and say that sitting in a basement storage room pretending to wait to come back from fictional commercials was exactly how I envisioned my Saturday night. But what I will say is that shenanigans like that are what's made my college experience memorable, if not, you know, normal. Tom, Brian, Grace, and I went to the bagel store today. I swear, the joy of going to that store and getting free bagels will never get old. Neither will the joy of talking to Tom's mother, who is just super. There, I said something nice about a friend's mom without implying that I'd slept with her. I feel like I'm maturing in leaps and bounds. I have just tuned into Olivia's show, and I must say that there's too much rap. Ok, I've heard one song. Ok, now two. Officially too much rap. But she tries, so it's ok. I feel really cut off from people a lot of the time. Pete voiced this mentality pretty well a while ago, and I agreed, but now I agree even more so. Living in a single, especially one filled with freshmen, really makes me feel like a friendless loser. Every time I leave the room, I feel like some ignored freshman with no one to talk to. Yet I do have friends and I'm not generally ignored. I should really make more of an effort to get to know people in North, especially the other mentors and RAs. OR I could just continue to i-Pod up when I leave and not make eye contact with anyone. Yes. I like that plan better.

(1 unfortunate event | the world is quiet here) A Gratuitous shot of my ex roommate [30 Sep 2005|03:08pm] [ mood | bouncy ] [ music | The Fallen-Franz Ferdinand-You Could Have It So Much Better With Franz Ferdinand ] Laurence is enjoying Germany. Hooray. And uh...yeah. Seeing Serenity today, so the film I've been looking forward to for like three years will be viewed TODAY. That was a terrible way to phrase that, but frankly, I a) am tired, b) do not care about your opinion, and most importantly c) I am seeing Serenity. Like in an hour. Take my love Take my land Take me where I cannot stand I don't care, I'm still free You can't take the sky from me.

(3 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) To the Technodrome! [11 Sep 2005|04:34pm] [ mood | blah ] [ music | Soon-My Bloody Valentine-Loveless ] The past few days have been kind of a mixed bag. Sure, I've been having horrible problems with my job, (if you don't know, don't ask) but I've been finding a good deal of solace in friends. Hanging out with the aptly named "Crazy" Carl is beginning to take its toll on my liver, but two benders were just what I needed to sort things out this weekend. Last night was the first late night of the year at Cleo, and it really dawned on me how happy I am to be in that group. Seeing all the '05 people, as well as just hanging out and talking to a lot of the actives made me really happy. So today Kyle ims me with this picture of a Krang toy. The cooler kids among you might recall that in the original Ninja Turtles, Krang was Shredder's pink, brain like boss who lived in a robot's stomach in the Technodrome. Now of course, everybody who was anybody wanted to live in the Technodrome with it's tank like wheels and phallic drilling device, but only Krang could command its awesome powers. All that, and he was, essentially, a talking brain with tentacles. Now as I looked at Krang, something dawned on me. After years of attempting to open a gateway to Dimension X (the "cool" dimension) with no clear victory, it seems as though Krang may well have met his goal. Assume, for the moment, that many of the...uh...beings in Dimension X look like Krang. Could it be possible that he opened the portal and let one of his own, hideous kind out? Let's compare: That's right. Meatwad is a harbinger of our inevitable conquering by Dimension X. Oh, sure, he makes the money and gets the honeys, but his real purpose is to remind you that your days in a freedom loving world governed by humans rather than stomach inhabiting brains are numbered. In his adorable little voice, we are taught not to fear, but embrace our alternate dimension hailing leaders. Don't be fooled, though. You will be assimilated. I'm looking back at the amount of time I put into this entry, and I've decided that can't be healthy. You know what, though? I don't care. Because when the Technodrome finally breaks through the portal and the revolution comes, I'll be ready.

(1 unfortunate event | the world is quiet here) Friends Let Friends Play Cranium Drunk- Because it's Fun [30 Aug 2005|11:57pm] [ mood | groggy ] [ music | Crooked Teeth-Death Cab For Cutie-Plans ] So this morning I returned from Brian and Danika's after having crashed there again. I went into the bathroom to wash my face, and low and behold, one of the sinks was covered in a dry red stain. So be it blood or be it punch fueled vomit, we're off to quite the start after the freshmen's first Saturday in North. In other fantastic news, I noticed that the "Chris Basler is the Most Horrible Person at Trinity College" Facebook group has only 16 members now, when it used to have 17. ONE MORE PERSON THINKS I CAN PASS FOR A DECENT HUMAN BEING. (or one less person is on facebook) Friday night Brian, Danika, Carl, Anya, Tom, and Pete and I got together for a game of Drunk Cranium. Fun was had, facts were learned, and the unlikely pairing of Pete and Anya defeated me, Carl, and Tom. I felt bad because I kind of berated Tom for not getting my silent interpretation of the film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, though in hindsight it really just consisted of me drunkenly crouching then hiding behind a couch, punctuated by an ill-fated attempt to brandish an imaginary sword. Oh also, there's a freshman who looks just like Colin Meloy, though I'm sure he's nowhere near as cool. And in case you were wondering, the New Death Cab has two REALLY good songs, and the rest are just sort of...blah. There's really no point to this entry, I'm realizing. Oh well.

(2 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) A Snippet [30 Aug 2005|11:57pm] [ mood | busy ] [ music | Not Not Nervous-Get Him Eat Him-Geography Cones ] Today in the school store, I heard a freshman guy and a freshman girl talking. The guy was clearly trying to establish sexual tension between the two of them, and thought (God only knows why) that the following exchange was a good idea: Boy: Oh man, I love these mints. Girl: I know, those are great. Boy: I love that when I have them, I don't have to worry about brushing my teeth all the time. Girl: What? Boy: Oh..um...nothing. Girl: What'd you say? Boy: Well I said something, but then thought that it wouldn't be a good thing to repeat. Girl: What was it? Boy: Um, well just that I don't brush my teeth when I have these mints. Girl: Oh. Boy: Man, these flip flops are expensive... "And that, son, is how I met your mother- by the embarassing admission that I seldom brushed my teeth..." I begin mentoring tomorrow, now that the surreal-team-building-hell of mentor training is concluded. I assert that I had the best "ice-breaker" of anyone: When we went around in a circle, we had to say: 1) Our name 2) Our job 3) Something we did this summer that starts with the first letter of our name! (How wacky!) My answers were: 1) Chris 2) Mentor for Myth of Faust 3) "I cried every time I had to do a team building excercize." Witnesses described the team building leaders as looking "crestfallen."

(the world is quiet here) That's Me [not] Trying [27 Aug 2005|11:54pm] [ mood | drunk ] [ music | Blues for Uncle Gibb-Broken Social Scene-Feel Good Lost ] I had planned to make a big entry right now, complete with jokes, cameo appearances, and some intriguing subplots. Instead, I find that I had too much to drink at Brian's party, and must bit you all good night.

(1 unfortunate event | the world is quiet here) Just for the sake of continuing this ridiculous experiment. [25 Aug 2005|11:55pm] [ mood | amused ] [ music | Jerk It Out-Caesars-39 Minutes of Bliss (In an Otherwise Meaningless World) (On repeat over and over and over oh my god I love it) ] So today I did some snooping around North and discovered a locked door in the janitor's lounge that Tom had once referred to as the storage room. After deftly jimmying the lock with my id, (or my I.D, rather- not my unconcious psyche, which doesn't make a stellar lockpick but can, I've found, turn me into an asshole when I'm drunk) I opened the door to uncover a treasure trove of furniture. And in the middle of this cornucopia of standarized wood necessities, I discovered a CHEST OF DRAWERS. If you wonder why this is a momentous find, you clearly have not seen my room, which is covered in clothing because of an acute lack of storage space. I just need someone to help me lug it upstairs, and my room will be that much closer to being habitable. I'm pretty happy that my ridiculous interweaving jobs end tomorrow. By Saturday, a lot more people will have moved in, and on Sunday our mentor training begins. The summer is a hairsbreadth away from ending, and I'm kind of psyched to be starting this year. I had a bit of an epiphany today (nothing like that of skyluminaire, but kind of fun) that involved the way people perceive me. I realized, yes, I really am as mean as everyone claims I am, but damnit, that's what makes me fun. I've finally truly accepted the fact that I'm a bastard, and now nothing seems impossible. To celebrate this fact, here's a blast from the past that I suddenly recalled this morning: Me owning Max Spitulnik on his own journal. This was one of my proudest bastard moments. Note that I'm only really a bastard towards the tragically stupid or irritating. That means that no one most of you reading this have nothing to worry about. Had a great coffee talk with tealywhitman tonight. I'm gonna miss her when she goes to Espana. Bedtime.

(4 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) Time, Space, and the Eternal Battle with Office Boredom [24 Aug 2005|12:36pm] [ mood | accomplished ] [ music | Everything is Everything- Phoenix- Six Feet Under Soundtrack ] So I'm updating from my office right now, where I've just made about...oh, let's say a bajillion copies for the Faust seminar. Prof. Wagner has made me her bitch, as I answer to her in both of my jobs. The plus side to this is that I'll be pulling in $300+ paychecks every two weeks. The bad side to this is that I am currently in the employ of a woman who teaches a class on Satan. Today I spent much of my work time well, creating an entirely new mathematical theory. Since middle school, we've all had to learn the Cartesian coordinate system- a gridlike map that Rene Descartes used to find his favorite cafe to be snotty and chat about the enlightenment before his daily bloodletting/douche. Every student knows this system, but I've stumbled upon an entirely new system, based upon the writings of Jean Paul Satre. My new coordinate system works just as well and is much easier to learn. Let me show you. An example of the Cartesian Coordinate System: Now, the same coordinates are presented below using the new "Sartresian Coordinate System" (TM). Note how much clearer they appear: Don't you wish you could be a mathematical and philosophical prodigy like myself, and transcend over 300 years of mathematical theory in the space of 20 minutes while waiting for the copy machine to finish? So does Rene "I'm dead and can't defend myself" Descartes. Bourgeoise pig.

(3 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) Back from Livejournal Hell [23 Aug 2005|07:43pm] [ mood | exhausted ] [ music | There Is An End-The Greenhornes Feat. Holly Golightly-Broken Flowers ] It has been one year and a day since my last Livejournal entry. One year and one day that cannot possibly be described in one entry, so why bother trying? I won't bore you with the details (and if we're close at all you know many of said details of this momentous year), but suffice to say much has changed. "But Chris," you're no doubt asking, in your irritatingly high pitched voice, "Why now? Why go back to the journal you denouced so many times? WHY RESPOND TO THE SIREN'S CALL OF LJ NOW, CHRIS?" Good question. In the coming year, many of my dear, dear friends will be abroad (like skyluminaire) and will not be privy to whatever crap is happening to me at the time. I want to stay in touch with many of these people, and an LJ is, frankly, one of the more practical ways of doing this. Another, more important reason, is that recently I've been having the urge to write a lot more stuff down. These range from observations to questions to trenchant insights and often blasphemous accusations, most of which you don't care about. But it's there if you're bored. Before returning to this murky world of internet information, I've made some ground rules for my journal to keep it from sinking into the Kafkesque miasma of most Livejournals. Rule the First: No Emo Bullshit (NEB). The NEB law basically means that I am not permitted to be melodramatic or vent my frustration on people I know here. This does not mean that I won't, say, complain about sitting next to someone creepy on the subway or bitch about that weird Best Buy employee, but instead means that I won't ever discuss negative relationships with people here. That just didn't work before. I also won't complain about my life here in a depressing manner in a desperate attempt to get attention. Nuh-uh. Not happening. Rule the Second: No Exuberant Tales (NAT). NAT pretty much covers the other end of the NEB spectrum. I want to steer clear whenever possible of overly hyped accounts of my life, and stay more towards the objective middle ground. Sure, every once in a while some good might happen, and I'll talk about it, but nothing like "OMG I GOT ASKED TO TEH FORMAL!!1!!!1 LOLZ!!!" (followed by, say, 12 emoticons) Rule the Third: No Only Friends Entries (NOFE). Friends Only Entries (especially with the custom groups) tend to breed enemies and gingivitis. Thus, everything I write here will be available to either everyone or no one. No exceptions. Anything you see here is seen by everyone. No more picking and choosing who sees what. Ok, so that having been established, I'm going to sign off now, as this one entry has sucked it out of me. I swear to Christ, though, I am back on "the LJ."

(5 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) 'Oed und leer, das meer [22 Aug 2004|11:18am] [ mood | cranky ] [ music | Biomusicology- Ted Leo ] Ok, so Ted Leo joins Ben Gibbard on the list of songwriters I would gladly be enslaved by.  Let's look at a lyric from "Timorous Me," which pretty much sums up many of my old friendships. Me and Johnny sittin' in the green grass - I don’t remember too much from that far back in the past, But man, oh man, was Johnathan a laugh In those days. Apparently he was my very best friend - We spent warm summer days wishing they would never end - But I only know from photographs I look at Every now and again. Now I don’t ever see Johnathan no more, But my life rolls on just like it did before, And I only wonder what it is That I even miss him for. So yeah.  There's that, and then there's the sheer beauty, majesty, and power of "Biomusicology," which never fails to cheer me up and even makes a reference to T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland.  But enough about music.  Let's talk about Cameron, the newbie that I work with who WILL NOT SIMMER THE HELL DOWN.  To better understand him, let's go to the "Cameron Emergency Equivalency Chart" (CEEC) Real Problem                                                              Cameron Equivalent Can't find scissors                                                      Discovery of rape/murder victim 5 People in Line                                                          Hindenburg Disaster No Espresso Beans in front                                        Opening of the Ark of the Covenant 10 People in line                                                          the Sinking of the Titanic No more brownies in front                                            the Civil War 15 People in line                                                          the Holocaust So clearly, understatement is not a word in the Cameron dictionary, a dictionary which no doubt includes such definitions as "OH GOD," "OH MAN I DON'T THINK I CAN HANDLE THIS," "WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO," and the immortal "MY FEET HURT I NEED TO SIT DOWN."  I can see only one solution to the problem. CAMERON'S HEAD A SPLODE. And I swear to God, the book Killer Algae is like the Hot Zone on Dramamine.

(1 unfortunate event | the world is quiet here) Delicately Lifted from Brandon's El Jay [18 Aug 2004|12:49pm] [ mood | contemplative ] [ music | Hang on Siobhan- The Walkmen (who are neither the Wrens nor Ted Leo) ] This is fun, I reccomend you try it! Pick a band and answer the following questions using ONLY song titles Band: The Wrens 1. Are you female or male: Boys, you won't 2. Describe yourself: Hopeless 3. How do some people feel about you?: Everyone chooses sides 4. How do you feel about yourself?: This boy is exhausted 5. Describe an old girlfriend/boyfriend/interest: Still Complaining 6. Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend/interest: Counted on Sweetness 7. Where are you?: The House that Guilt Built 8. Where would you rather be?: Safe and Comfortable 9. Describe what you want to be: Happy 10. Describe how you live: Per Second Second 11. Describe how you love: 13 Months in Six Minutes 12. Share a few words of wisdom: Hats off to Marriage, Baby And now, with Ted Leo and the Pharmacists! 1. Are you female or male: I'm a Ghost 2. Describe yourself: Timorous Me 3. How do some people feel about you?: Where Have all the Rude Boys Gone? 4. How do you feel about yourself?: Walking to Do 5. Describe an old girlfriend/boyfriend/interest: You Could Die (or this might end) 6. Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend/interest: The Anointed One 7. Where are you?: Bridges, Squares 8. Where would you rather be?: Little Dawn 9. Describe what you want to be: The Great Communicator 10. Describe how you live: The High Party 11. Describe how you love: First to Finish, Last to Start 12. Share a few words of wisdom: Better Dead than Lead

(1 unfortunate event | the world is quiet here) Leavin on that early train to Springfield [17 Aug 2004|10:54pm] [ mood | awake ] [ music | Common People- Pulp ] Well it's official.  I've booked a train ticket to Springfield, MA for 7:30 in the AM to experience one day in the life of John Cosgriff.  Huzzah.  I don't think anything could shatter my expectations of Springfield...unless Springfielders don't live in candy houses as I have been led to believe.  Oh man school is getting close now! WOOO FUCKIN HOOO!

(3 unfortunate events | the world is quiet here) Just a whole bunch of nothin' [17 Aug 2004|08:13am] [ mood | cold ] [ music | Shake the Sheets- Ted Leo ] So yesterday I continued to chuckle at this book, which I pass on my way to the break room every day. That is his real name. And it wasn't just me, a whole bunch of us were laughing at it. We B&N employees look for humor wherever we can find it. So today I'm going to attempt to cut through the sea of red tape that stands in between obtainin my DC license to replace the missing Maryland one. I think I'll prevail, if for no other reason than that I really really really want to start driving places again. Hmm, Pitchfork didn't really like the new Rilo Kiley cd. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? All I can think about now is going back to school.

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