Archive for ‘post-college’

October 5, 2010

Things They Don’t Tell You About Growing Up: Part 2: Vacuuming

Bro, do you even know what this is? It's a fuckin Kirby vacuum! This shit right here is like the fuckin BMW or Jaguar or some shit of vacuums. So powerful it'll suck the pubes off of your balls. Just kidding bro, you know I shave.

In order to make this interesting, I have written this in the voice of a character I have created named A. Situation. I am not witty.

Now listen, there are three things in life that are fucking guaranteed to make me happy: Jager bombs, hiekin, and fucking vacuuming. Now bro listen, I know what you’re thinkin’ “What the fuck bro, you all domesticated ‘n shit now?”

Nah bro. Listen, and I swear to God if you say that shit again, I’ma break your jaw-but anyway! For real bros, there ain’t nothin in this world like vacuuming. Now I know that when we were kids our parents made us do it and it was fucking stupid, but when you get your own badass carpet or rug or some shit, it’s fuckin different.

So like, lets say you get a dog bro. A fuckin huge, white ass dog that sheds like a mother fucker (not bein specific here or nothin). And you got this badass rug that’s got fucking lions and shields and shit all over it. Fuckin REGAL shit bro! Now listen, you walk into the room after a night of clubbin, or after your breakfast of protein bars and raw eggs, or you come back from the gym cause you were workin out and you see your rug and notice (cause you gotta fuckin pay attention to this shit when you got your own place bro) that the rug is now a shade of white. You ain’t got that shit to make it lighter or darker you got that shit cause you were in the store and said “Now THAT’S a rug you fuck skanks on!”

Now cause you have all your addrenline rushin to your head you’re fuckin pissed. You turn to your dog and say “What the fuck bro!”

Your dog just looks at you and says “I’m a fuckin dog, bro!”

Your dog is right, he’s a fuckin dog and that’s what dogs do. That’s what they fuckin do: shed.

Kirby All-Star: Survival Mode

This is Kirby. He is a video game character, but he sucks shit up like a vacuum which is pretty cool too bro.

Now if you got bitches or skanks or some bros comin over you gotta clean that shit up. So what do you do? Grab that fuckin vacuum bro! So you start goin at it bro, sucking all that shit up. BAM! Fuckin clean carpet in all the fuckin colors its supposed to be, looks fuckin new too bro. I swear to fuckin God bro, swear to fuckin God-that shit will look so badass now that it’s all clean and shit. Excuse me, I gotta fuckin take this shot down so I don’t get too excited.

Alright back, now I know what you’re thinking: A. Situation what are you doin drinkin in the middle of the day, at a fuckin coffee shop no less. That don’t even serve alcohol at coffee shops. Well you see A. Situation always comes prepared. And like they say, “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere!” KNOW WHAT I MEAN BRO?

So anyway. Vacuuming. Fuck you have no idea. Cause if you did, you wouldn’t have read this far, you would have looked of the title of this shit and said, “FUCK YEAH BRO! FUCKING VACUUMING IS THE FUCKIN SHIT. THAT REMINDS ME I GOTTA GO DO THAT SHIT RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!”

Not to mention nothing gets a fuckin girl soaked up than seein a fuckin bombass rug all fuckin clean and shit. Panties fuckin drop at the site of it bro. Swear to fuckin God bro, swear to fuckin God.

Fuck all this talkin an’ typin about this shit reminds me I gotta go do some vacuuming myself. PEACE!

October 1, 2010

Coffee vs. Tea OR The Dilemna of Working at Home

Since I’ve been working at home lately, getting off my ass to work is harder than before. Before I could roll out of bed and think that work was still a few miles away. Now work is a few feet away and the best way to distance myself from it is by sleeping. Forever.

Since I am human, I need a motivator to get up. And since I am a child of the 1990s and 2000s, I need instant gratification, or something that doesn’t take a week to get. (Money? What’s that?)

Coffee and tea are the likely choices since they both taste wonderful and perk you up. But which one is better and helps you be more productive?

I have experimented with both. However, I don’t feel like writing in detail about it just yet. Since a picture is worth a thousand words I’m going to do just that. You can derive their meanings yourself.


Black Tea

Green and White Teas


Coffee with creamer

Black Coffee

So there ya go, 4 thousand words.

September 15, 2010

Other People Having Kids

Newborn child, seconds after birth. The umbili...

These things have come out of people you knew. Kinda like in ALIENS.

It happens in every High School at least once every year: someone gets knocked up. Yet for some reason, it is never a big deal. This usually happens because the people getting knocked up are, well, that kind of people. You are completely unfazed other than the initial  “O RLY?” factor.

When you started college you went to some sort of orientation or had heard this fact somewhere: two out of four will drop out, one of which will be due to pregnancy. Hearing this, in your head you laughed, Pregnancy? Really? I can understand  alcohol and drug addictions and even bad grades, but pregnancy? Come on man! This is the future; we got rubbers and pills to prevent that!

But then you get half way through college or maybe this even happens once you’re done. Either way it will happen. Maybe you’ll be walking to a Dairy Queen on a nice summer day or maybe it’ll just happen when you’re browsing Facebook. You will see people you knew holding small children. Very small children. Then you notice that the girl you knew holding the child in the photo is in a hospital gown and looks very tired. Wait a minute! You say to yourself, Did fucking X have a fucking child?

Yes, yes they did. And they tend to have this happiness in their eyes that you crave deep down. (Stop denying it, you’re only embarrassing yourself.)

For me this moment came when I saw a former roommate of mine comment on a friend’s…. whatever on Facebook. I noticed the picture of a small newborn child. Knowing this girl my first thought was “oh god she finally snapped and stole someone’s kid. Give me the fucking phone I need to call the cops.” But as I did some stalking investigating I found out she had gotten married and birthed the child.

I was genuinely confused. She was the last one I’d ever expect to have a kid. When she lived with me she had done so many drugs I thought that her body would have been unable to spawn offspring. There were nights where I’d walk downstairs and ask if I could have some sudafed since I was having legitimate problems breathing due to allergies. As she held a half drunk 40 in her hand, she smiled and told me she had just ate them all. The whole pack. Oh, and I think she also had two hits of acid at the time.

I just walked away. My brain was hurting.

But there she was, happy in her photos with the child. I hope she stopped her drug habits now that she was a mother. She wasn’t dumb, just a weird girl who should have grown up in the 1960s. Part of me was jealous of her in a way, she was starting a family. Deep down a lot of us want that; little monsters following us around that think we’re the coolest, strongest, smartest people on the planet. I turned to my fiancee and was about to open my mouth, but then I thought about it for a moment and ran upstairs to give her her birth control pills.

Not now. Maybe in about 10 years.

July 23, 2010

So I got a dog, dawg.

I'm a dog, dawg.

For some reason, when you actually own a house or some land, something clicks inside of you. What looks like a mere house to others now seems like a whole country that needs protecting to your eyes. And what does every country need? Why a badass army along with a moat that has sharks, alligators, and sharks with lasers on their heads. (And cannons-we can’t forget cannons). Now since I can’t really afford to throw in a moat or cannons or anything else that cool, (and I don’t think alligators and sharks can co-exist when lasers are involved) I had to think of ways of making the place secure.  My cats don’t really seem to do the whole ferocious guard animal thing very well either.

Mind you, this wasn’t out of fear; I live in a pretty awesome neighborhood. However, I’m not in denial that Detroit is a mere mile away. Cops do patrol the area as if it was under martial law, but I wanted that extra bit so the damn kids keep the hell away from my yard too.

So I asked the Father-in-Law-to-be what he thought. He told me that his twin brother, a Federal Marshall (a very frightening set of realizations when I first met them, but that’s another story,) always said the best security was getting a big dog. I thought about this, and since the fiancee told me she wanted a dog to keep her company when I wasn’t around, we decided to get one.

I also enjoy doing things that Cory thinks are a bad idea.

We ended up getting a dog from the K-9 Stray Rescue League over in Oxford. We liked them because they actually update their website with who’s adopted and who still isn’t. That and we didn’t want to get some over-priced purebred dog that is probably the offspring of his mother and her sibling. Inbreeding does the same stuff to dogs that it does to people you know.

We brought her home a few weeks ago and decided to name her Misiu (pronounced “me” “shoe”, which is Polish for teddy bear). We were originally gonna name her Les (pronounced “lease”), which is Polish for Fox, since she kinda looks like one, but we aren’t renting her-we adopted her.  Thus Misiu.  She’s a pretty awesome dog, and we’re happy with her. After all, I do attract awesomeness so I really shouldn’t have been worried. Since we really don’t know what she is, we decided to make up a designer breed of German Retriever. Why? Well because actual designer breeds are not recognized by the American Kennel Association anyway.

Take that you Laberdoodle people.

And of course now I get to say stuff like, “When I got home, my bitch was so excited she pissed herself.”

Told you I like bad jokes. (True story by-the-way).

Although I’m told that spayed dogs aren’t bitches. Cause breeding dogs is serious business.

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April 5, 2010

The Origins of a Story (and of a Writer)

Despite the fact that I started this blog about my desires to get published, I haven’t really spoken about any of my writing at all have I? Let’s change that shall we?

You never seem to hear why writers start writing, what gave them that first kick that said, “hey this story thing is pretty sweet! I should really try making this hobby into a lifelong chase” (Stephen King mentions writing for his school paper, but that’s it). I think I know why we don’t: it’s pretty embarrassing and tells you too much about ourselves and our youth. If I was a smart man, I’d delete this entire post before I can complete it, walk away and think of something else to write.

But I’m not a smart man. (And what do I have to lose, other than your respect?)

Being a young lad, I skipped to the rental store with my mother and rented this little game (you may have heard of it) called Final Fantasy VII. I dug roman numerals, and somewhere saw an ad with the anime-ish characters and found myself spell bound. I played, got mad, continued playing, and “meh’ed” at Aerith dying. Then one day while looking up information for the game, I ran into something strange. It was a story about the characters of Final Fantasy 7, but it wasn’t written by the people who made the game, it was written by a normal guy. That’s right, I had encountered my first fanfic. I can’t remember the name, but it was something like FF7: How it Really Happened. It was a retelling of the first quarter of the game, in script format, and was very, very “lulzy” for my young self. I passed it along to my friends and we all enjoyed a heartily, pubescent laugh.

At the time, my good friend Jacob-a man among men-had this thing called Jacob’s News using this new fancy creation called “email” (you may have heard of that as well). It was a sorta weekly thing he had going on where he’d write… well, the news! Mainly stuff going on in his life, but for some reason it was the coolest thing ever. Hell, it was awesome, and I can’t remember why. One fateful day when I found out that Sega would stop making consoles and would only make video games I had this very strange sensation. My head was full of this strange electricity that buzzed and buzzed and filled my mental head-space with vivid images and loud colors.

I believe it was called inspiration (or someone had spiked my Capri Sun with acid).

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January 25, 2010

corporate zombies* Ate My Neighbors OR I’m Overqualified for This…Right? Right!? (Part 2)

I really need to stop keeping lofty goals for myself. Like this nugget for instance; I want to be identified as either the Anti-Christ or as the BFF of the Dali Lama-regardless if I am either.

This has nothing to do with the rest of the story I started in the last post, so anyway…

When I met my actual boss, he was anything but happy. He was already annoyed that he had no control of my hiring process so when I told him that I had no experience in retail he made little effort to hide his aggravation. He began to talk to me about how hard the job was and that I needed to “step-up to the plate” everyday. It was then that he started churning out more cliche’s and corporate buzz words then I had thought possible by a single person. He seemed like a walking stereotype of corporate America. Those people don’t really exist do they? No one could be that souless, right? He began telling me about his career at the department store, and how he had been there for around 10 years or so. Implying that if I work hard enough, I could get his position. Maybe, in another 10 years.

I was laughing to myself. There was no way I’d be stuck here for that long right? I was a college graduate, college graduates don’t get stuck working retail department stores for the rest of their lives right? Sure, in the next few weeks during my computer training (which I later found out was full of outdated information that no longer applied to the floor) I’d met some people who had been with the company for 30+ years, but they didn’t have degrees. I wasn’t the same as them, right? Right?


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January 16, 2010

The Start of DIY Fame and Fortune Or The Start of a Long Winded Suicide Note

I don’t know if this was the result of sobering up or becoming intoxicated (the memory is pretty hazy), but I do remember what I was thinking: I was laying on the floor of my bedroom, my eyes wide open on the unchanging ceiling, as I said to myself  “If I don’t have anything published by the end of my 23rd year, I’m going to shoot myself.”

Now this wasn’t out of any sort of depressed notion or self pity; I was pretty happy at that moment and feeling ridiculously confident. So confident that I didn’t really mind that my friends were shooting off fireworks at 3am in my neighbor’s backyard. (The cops never came when she called anyway). While I have been busy finishing college, getting a house, and working, I have yet to publish anything. I have recently realized, being a month into 23, that I have to do something soon or blow my brains out.

Now, I realize the 19-year-old-me wasn’t that smart, so he didn’t bother with any fine print. He didn’t consider self-publishing, or even self publishing on the internet. (‘Cause that totally counts). So that’s where this comes in. I will chronicle my attempts to get myself published in various forms of media and if by the end of the year I’ve gotten nothing done,  I’ll still have this… blog. So HA! take that Younger Me! You may have a freezer stocked with booze and strange cacti but I have a degree now and therefore am certifiably smarter than you!

But then again, being out of college is a different world. There is no longer an uncaring adviser who will send you back and forth from building to building in order for you to sort of find the right answer that you will only realize is wrong by the middle of the next semester! You’re on your own, and nobody gives a damn about you. Not only that, but once you’ve graduated you realize you now have the rest of your life to either succeed at your life’s ambitions, or horribly fail at them. (Usually the idea of failure is the only thing that actually comes to mind).

Maybe this constant reminder of what my dreams are/were will take it’s toll on me and I will become a shell of a man, regretfully looking back at what I could have been. I will only be able to stare mournfully at my shattered dreams as if they were a dead kitten laying on the cold pavement. The weight of my failure will transform me to the point that I am no longer recognizable and my fiancee will leave me, saying I am no longer the same man that I once was. This will cause me to become an alcoholic; and in a sad, drunken stupor one night in some back alley of Detroit I will finally end it my life by blowing my brains out all over the wall of an abandoned building. (And you would enjoy that wouldn’t you internet).

Or, you know, I just might succeed, but where’s the fun in considering that?

Until one of the two outcomes comes to fruition, since I’m obviously not going to be able to fill this damn thing with simply myself trying to get published, I’ll give you my dear (currently non-existent) readers stories of the horrors of post-college life. Everything from working a job that requires no degree (even though you are surrounded by people in the same position with higher degrees), becoming a substitute teacher, and probably other stories that have nothing to do with anything. And while you may be thinking “Well gee Mister,” because you do talk like that, you know, “that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

Well that’s too bad. (But keep reading anyway.) You see, I have this problem in life where I often do things and crack jokes only caring if I find them funny. Sometimes going out of my way to make a big show out of a really bad joke, which I think makes it funny in a really, really stupid way. I enjoy being over-the-top (as you may have noticed already) which also gets me annoyed stares and in trouble. My sense of humor is off, I’ll admit, so my bar is pretty low. I can’t even take myself seriously. There is no need to feel sorry for me, because in the end, I am easily amused.

Fozzie Bear is my idol.

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