Kevin Stevenson was born in the spring time of 1989. He grew up in the wild north, with aspirations to become a rocket scientist. After many years of practice, and study, he figured that it was below him as a profession, and instead turned to writing.
By the age of six he was already publishing such classics as, "Gone With the Wind", and "Great Expectations."
Kevin attended college with the intent of becoming a professional writer. He got a bachelor's degree in game design, apparently, to stick it to himself. While attending college he began working at the student run newspaper. He was a very hard worker, and after just a year and a half he was appointed to "Head Writer," Which was unusual, because he was just a janitor.
Post college is a place where letters go to learn more about traveling around the country.
After Kevin finished college he set out to cure cancer. He submitted a bill to his local government, but it, along with six hundred others, was vetoed.
He died in 1821, and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery, Rome. His gravestone can be found there to this day. You can see the inscription, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." If you have any comments or questions, feel free to contact Kevin by leaving a comment below.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA
College. Who doesn't fondly look back upon their college days, as the good ones? People who haven't attended? Those who suffer from dimentia? Alright, I'm done asking rhetorical questions to myself while I write. My point is: College was a great time, and I really found myself. In oodles and oodles of debt.
Even to this day I remember the first college girl I exchanged numbers with. Why we didn't just keep the ones we had, I'll never know. She was a good girl, working an extra job through the federal work study program at the school. She worked at the strip club they attached to the dorms. She had to pick up the extra work, because in the rough economy Frat parties even had to charge girls to get in. They issued a statement saying, "We're sorry, but with the rising costs of alcohol, and the fact that we're all in stable loving relationships, we're going to have to charge everyone $5 to get in. BYOB." That was of course interpreted from their original statement : "ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA, ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA, ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA ROCKS!"
Throughout college I did develop emotionally. But I also learned a lot, going to classes and studying. Nothing made classes harder than those characters I'd meet though. You know the ones, the ones who couldn't speak a word of english or the ones who would just smoke pot and have themselves a good giggle all class. Those were just the good professors.(Note to professors: Haha, just kidding. How's that letter of recommendation coming? Do you need help translating it into English?)
Since then I've been paying off my student loans and working. My financial advisor was really helpful in determining which repayment plan was best for me. There were just so many: I could pay a set monthly amount that would never change, for ten years; I could pay an increasing amount over the course of ten years; or they could shoot my girlfriend and dog. It was a tough choice, but I decided that running away to a foreign country and starting a blog was my best bet.
If anyone knows any good lawyers who specialize in "how to sneak back into a country, not go to jail for loan evasion, and apologizing to your girlfriend and dog" I'd really appreciate a referral.
PS: If you work for the government, I'm just kidding about the loan evasion.
PPS: If you don't work for the government, that first post script was a lie.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Road Trip C
This is the next entry in the ever-increasingly-creatively named "Road Trip" bits. You can tell I thought a lot about the title. The first post, I'll admit I only spent about ten minutes coming up with the, "A." For the second part, I mused a bit and considered, "b" before finally settling on the more impressive, "B." So here, forgive me for blowing your mind, but I went with, "C." Next week, who knows what next week will be.((I'll give you a hint. It's going to rhyme with, "D."))
Alright people, you've lucked out. Sure, none of you donated, but I don't remember much of the deliberations that went on while trying to decide where we should go. So I won't get into that more than I can.
My Uncle, who sometimes visits Washington for various secret reasons, said we should visit the Air and Space Museum. In the course of our deliberations, one of us stated, "I think my Uncle said the Air and Space Museum was cool." Which was followed, after a few "Oh[s]" and "Hmmm[s]"((I'm making up the grammar here as I go.)) with us walking to said cool place.
So, there were six of us at this museum and for the first fifteen minutes or so, we all had that "stick together" kind of mentality. We sort of awkwardly followed each other, like the worst kind of dropouts from spy college. Pretending to buy post cards and seem nonchalant, right next to our target doing the same. It was a mess. That is until one of us had the genius idea to "split up, and meet back at the door where we came in, at about 1:00pm." This was met with much shrugging and exclamations of, "Uh.. sure."
There's a great deal of good advice at the Air and Space Museum. One such gem dashed many of my hopes. It stated boldly, "...do not touch unexploded bombs." Though I suppose people who don't follow that advice would have their hopes dashed in a much more explosive manner. Otherwise I learned something quite interesting about something along the lines of bombs being dropped from planes, and inaccuracy and perhaps the shape of the bomb, that I can't remember in the slightest right now. Which infuriates me, for I was quite pleased to have read such an interesting snippet. So, the next time you're at the A&S Museum, please scour the premesis for what I'm talking about. It was up the stairs, all the way to the right down the hall, into the exhibit on the left, right before the exit.
Most of the rest of the party did something, I'm sure. People have expressed to me that they continue to live and be, whether or not I can see them. I just can't comment on what specifically they did. Well, I can say, "Boy whatever they did was stupid-pa-toopid!" But, what I really mean is that I cannot say with any certainty what they did in their time away from me.
We met up generally about 1:15pm in a spot that was almost like the one we agreed to meet upon. Almost like it in that we were all there, but not in the "it was the same spot" sort of way. After that we thought about where we should go next. Our friend posited, "We could go see art. Is your preference modern, or less modern?" The responses varied from, "Modern art is dumb." to "I want to see modern art!" to "Old art is dumb." Suffice to say, we decided upon visiting the lot of art museums.
We started off in the older "classic" museum. Where all the rooms are the same size, and connected in the same way, so that if you lose your friend you cannot possibly find them without resorting to echolocation. Or as the curators call it, "Being a fucking prick."
Here there were quite a lot of pretty statues, and paintings the size of my house. Sometimes you see things like that and think, "Oh isn't that quaint." Then you wonder, "How exactly, did that artist paint that, without leaning on the middle of the picture and riddling it with ladder holes? I wonder if there was a sort of swinging contraption similar to that which skyscraper window-washers use?" Half an hour later one of the security men asks you kindly to stop your slack jawed druling and go appreciate art in some other area, where he doesn't have to look at you.
So, on you go.
This continued, until on we went.
Now, some of you more clever readers have started to point out that "There is no donation button!" That shows a complete lack of drive. Why, if I were reading my writing I would donate every penny I had to me. I'd track me down to do it! I wouldn't take the easy, "But there was no form online for it!" way out. No sir.
So with that I say, next week, we're going to go look at Modern art if you don't donate. If you donate, we can get to the pub, where people sit down quite harshly!
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The second post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Alright people, you've lucked out. Sure, none of you donated, but I don't remember much of the deliberations that went on while trying to decide where we should go. So I won't get into that more than I can.
My Uncle, who sometimes visits Washington for various secret reasons, said we should visit the Air and Space Museum. In the course of our deliberations, one of us stated, "I think my Uncle said the Air and Space Museum was cool." Which was followed, after a few "Oh[s]" and "Hmmm[s]"((I'm making up the grammar here as I go.)) with us walking to said cool place.
So, there were six of us at this museum and for the first fifteen minutes or so, we all had that "stick together" kind of mentality. We sort of awkwardly followed each other, like the worst kind of dropouts from spy college. Pretending to buy post cards and seem nonchalant, right next to our target doing the same. It was a mess. That is until one of us had the genius idea to "split up, and meet back at the door where we came in, at about 1:00pm." This was met with much shrugging and exclamations of, "Uh.. sure."
There's a great deal of good advice at the Air and Space Museum. One such gem dashed many of my hopes. It stated boldly, "...do not touch unexploded bombs." Though I suppose people who don't follow that advice would have their hopes dashed in a much more explosive manner. Otherwise I learned something quite interesting about something along the lines of bombs being dropped from planes, and inaccuracy and perhaps the shape of the bomb, that I can't remember in the slightest right now. Which infuriates me, for I was quite pleased to have read such an interesting snippet. So, the next time you're at the A&S Museum, please scour the premesis for what I'm talking about. It was up the stairs, all the way to the right down the hall, into the exhibit on the left, right before the exit.
Most of the rest of the party did something, I'm sure. People have expressed to me that they continue to live and be, whether or not I can see them. I just can't comment on what specifically they did. Well, I can say, "Boy whatever they did was stupid-pa-toopid!" But, what I really mean is that I cannot say with any certainty what they did in their time away from me.
We met up generally about 1:15pm in a spot that was almost like the one we agreed to meet upon. Almost like it in that we were all there, but not in the "it was the same spot" sort of way. After that we thought about where we should go next. Our friend posited, "We could go see art. Is your preference modern, or less modern?" The responses varied from, "Modern art is dumb." to "I want to see modern art!" to "Old art is dumb." Suffice to say, we decided upon visiting the lot of art museums.
We started off in the older "classic" museum. Where all the rooms are the same size, and connected in the same way, so that if you lose your friend you cannot possibly find them without resorting to echolocation. Or as the curators call it, "Being a fucking prick."
Here there were quite a lot of pretty statues, and paintings the size of my house. Sometimes you see things like that and think, "Oh isn't that quaint." Then you wonder, "How exactly, did that artist paint that, without leaning on the middle of the picture and riddling it with ladder holes? I wonder if there was a sort of swinging contraption similar to that which skyscraper window-washers use?" Half an hour later one of the security men asks you kindly to stop your slack jawed druling and go appreciate art in some other area, where he doesn't have to look at you.
So, on you go.
This continued, until on we went.
Now, some of you more clever readers have started to point out that "There is no donation button!" That shows a complete lack of drive. Why, if I were reading my writing I would donate every penny I had to me. I'd track me down to do it! I wouldn't take the easy, "But there was no form online for it!" way out. No sir.
So with that I say, next week, we're going to go look at Modern art if you don't donate. If you donate, we can get to the pub, where people sit down quite harshly!
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The second post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 21, 2012
When Break Dancing Becomes Literal: A Look at the Elderly
"NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - A fresh look at earlier studies shows there are several steps seniors can take to prevent falls - a major health concern for the world's aging population."(1) We had no idea that, "several steps" was a major health concern for seniors. Though in hindsight, we realize the only way to fall is if you take that first step. So, You heard it here first, it's possible to prevent the elderly from falling. From the same people who told you that "You can move your bed around in your room if you want," we continue to provide only the most accurate and up to date information.
The report states: that while poking seniors with sticks is amusing, it may increase their liklihood of falling. Specifically, when you do so at the top of the stairs. The main thrust of the study was to see if avoiding such antagonistic behaviors, among other common causes, would reduce the incidence of falling. It does indeed! Color us shocked as shit people.
But, in a world where the elderly are constantly depressed, they're always due for a check-up and not getting checked out, what is the solution? The study claims that getting regular exercise "that contains multiple components such as strength and balance training"(1) is most beneficial. So unlike for everyone else, good health for the elderly depends a lot upon diet and exercise. We interviewed some elderly folk to see how they feel about this news.
We interrupted one Mary Ann Winters while she was busy commiserating with her two-year old neice about the woes of diaper wearing. "Well this is simply the best news!" she stated, "Before I was just glad I baby-proofed the house for my neice here, it really saved my patoot when I fell last winter!" So, some people are plussed with these findings, but what about the others?
Benjamin Galfnit stated, "Oh what's the use. I know these hob-knobbing brats are just feigning interest in me. Why, ever since my medicare was replaced with medidon'tgiveafuck and my children moved me into a nursing home, WHICH by the way, is not the same as what baby's get when they nurse, I don't much care for how things end up. Study or no study."
These worries were brought to the forefront recently, when due to a freak accident, the world's most adult adult video was actually released. This breaking footage is too gruesome to share, but it's safe to say that, one woman is not as hip as she used to be. Thankfully, this doesn't have to be the case in the future.
Scientists are still looking into whether or not there's a link between sex in nursing homes and the rise of STDs in the elderly populartion. We continue to give it to you as we get it, thanks for tuning in.
(1) http://www.chicagotribune.com/health/sns-rt-us-preventing-falls-in-seniors-is-possible-studbre-20120912,0,7052248.story
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Wooing the Wealthy
This week, me and Microfriction((Will link when posted)) had a contest to write a story based on a scenario. That scenario was something like, "Suave newcomer Billy tries to woo croctchety hermit Anne." I say something like that, because I changed their names, and crotchetyness levels, and whether or not it was clearly depicted that the main character was a newcomer. But, otherwise I think it's pretty faithful to the scenario.
The Story:
*Ding dong*
...
"Who is that? I thought we were alone today, baby." A sweet young blonde thing, apparently down on her luck, as the underwear she could afford to buy only covered about one-third of what underwear was supposed to cover, said in a we-better-be-alone-today manner.
"Do not worry about it" replied a man who seemed ripped out of an Abercrombie wall picture. The one with abs you could actually see, black and white, contrast kicked up, and 6 times larger than life. "Today, it is only us."
*Ding dong*
"Oh for chriss..." The blonde got up from the bed with a start. The advertisement-boy stared out from the middle of the mattress. Watching short blonde curls bounce and hop as Krissa, the blonde was gifted with a name in her younger years, stomped towards the window. "Oh, ew."
*Ding dong*
"She's like. Is your grandma visiting?" Krissa intoned in a way that made you immediately think, "As if!" or "For sure, for sure." whether you knew those phrases or not.
"OH mierta!, what time is it?! Damn!"
"Baby, this better not be getting in our way."
"Uh. Oh Okay. Baby, you're... you're. You're my baby!" Lightning doesn't strike often, and for Richard, because you need a name like Dick to be an Abercrombie model, it struck even less. What some people would call a bad idea, and brush off, Richard would be ecstatic to trip upon. Usually, he settled for much less.
"I know, but who is that wrinkly... thing?!"
Richard was diving around the room looking to get his clothes back in a seemly order. Hopping around with his jeans half way up his legs, and a beater half down his torso he started aiming for the door. "No, no. You're my baby, like you're my daughter, Okay? Tonight you're my daughter."
"Ohhhh. Kinky."
"No, no. Not kinky. It's normal, okay?"
"Like, ew. It's like, normal for people to sleep with their daughters where your from?"
*Ding dong*
"No. Okay. Listen, you're just my daughter, and she's my girlfriend okay. You're here visiting, on vacation from school. Uh, put your clothes on!" With that Richard made it out the bedroom door, and started down the stairs finishing his last neatening touches.
*Ding dong*
Reaching the front door, Richard jerked it open. "What the hell took you so long? I got gas runnin' all through my body, and it's just waitin to explode out." The old woman shoved her way in. She was wearing what seemed to be a small black hat with a lot of intricate plumage, or quite possibly, it was just a dead crow. Though deceased as her wardrobe may or may not have been, everything about Esma oozed money. A pearl necklace hugged her neck, ever so slightly tighter than the diamond necklace right below it, with rings and earrings to match.
"Esma! You look great this evening, mon amor" stated Richard as he procured a long stem rose out of what appeared to be thin air.
"I know it! But quick, where's your bathroom, before this here hallway turns into a veritable bed pan." At this point the old woman started doing a peculier dance, not unlike she had already begun to go the bathroom. Her blouse reminded Richard of a trash bag that was holding two or three kittens, and the kittens couldn't agree on a way to sit, and were constantly fighting about it.
"Uh, right this uh way, my petit.." Richard tried to remain composed, but was having trouble as just then, he saw Krissa up at the balcony, having utterly failed to clothe herself. Somehow, she had even lost the bra she had been wearing moments earlier. How could she have lost it? Richard wondered. It wasn't even that big of a room.
"Oh, I see it. Why don't you tell me what's for dinner while I'm at it." As Esma walkined into the bathroom, Richard gestured wildly while trying to mouth to Krissa to go get clothes on. "Oh uh. Dinner tonight? My specialty."
"I don't want any oven baked pizza, no matter how much hot sauce you put on it." Esma screeched. Not in an angry way, but rather her voice only had one setting, and it was screech.
A little taken aback, "Well it's too late to go to the store now. Besides, uh, my daughter is visiting, it's her favorite." Said Richard. He was unsure what to do with Esma. She would probably expect some kisses. A few kisses for the older woman, now and again, would surely be worth it. But, could he do it? That, and oddly enough no one had ever complained about his oven baked pizza before. This situation caught him off guard. He usually burned them, the pizzas not his dates, and never got around to eating them.
"Meet, my daughter." said Richard. As Esma finished in the bathroom and walked out, Krissa came down the stairs in a maid's outfit. "The maid?" Esma asked.
"Uh no. That's my daughter." Richard, not being one to switch plans quickly, did not switch plans quickly.
"Your daughter's a maid? What is she, a year younger than you?" Esma, ever skeptical of other women dressed in maid's outfits when she was over for a date, began heading back towards the door.
"No, uh! No! She's not my daughter, my daughter's maid is visiting. Is what I said." Richard, quite pleased he had thought of such an ingenious cover up, was beaming. Esma, confusing as it was to tell which direction she was going, or where precisely she was, based on her wardrobe's many varying velocities, was probably most of the way out of the house.
"Listen bucko. I haven't been this put off on a date since last Thursday. If you want some of my sugar, you better not already have some honey from the pot." Esma said as she slammed the front door shut behind her.
Richard said, "Dammit! Where did you even find that outfit?" Krissa, unsure how she was ever in danger from some hag, was now firmly back in the lead, in courting Richard. Or, having Richard court her.
"Up in your room. I'll show you." Krissa said. With that, she grabbed his hand, and up towards his room, to inspect the stock of his wardrobe, they went.
So, now you should head over to Microfriction and read his version of whatever it is he decided the scenario was. ((Again, will link when posted.)) It's undoubtedly very good, but my take on it was probably much better. Just sayin'.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Road Trip B
So, I received absolutely zero donations since I last wrote. Some of you would much prefer dragons and are still willing to give me money. In which case, I will re-release this, with said more exciting elements.
So here we all are, in two cars on our way to public transportation. Because, after you drive for a great deal of time any alternative becomes attractive to you. Above ground subways, whatever it is they're called, are an endearing and appealing novelty. Just so long as you're not the one who has to turn the stupid wheel on the car, or yell obscenities at people who cut you off. Perhaps a helpful passenger could perform those chores for you, but passengers are often frightened of the prospect.
The way my friend's neighborhood is set up is quite ingenius. That is to say, not geniusly. There are more speedbumps, inopportune hills, and stop signs per square mile than follicles of grass. Maybe there's a word besides follicle. I don't care. The few daring cars that make their way onto these "roads" always come to a complete stop, and then gun their way through any intersection they find, and hope no cars were coming on the cross roads. That's because there are also ingeniously a great deal of bushes and trees that make it so you can't see anything at all.
Have you ever noticed that when you're following someone vehicularly that their accelerator seems a bit more snappy, and traffic laws seem to be more of a nuisance than something that could get you fined? I've always been of the mind that if I just explain the situation to the officer they will kindly track down my friend, who sped off through the next stop sign and hit a pedestrian family or two no doubt, and ticket them, and probably scold them for being inconsiderate.
After running a marathon of yellow lights, we arrived at the station where we would be able to board another form of transportation.
As I so discreetly aluded to last time, we were traveling on Labor day. Labor day in Washington D.C. is a lot like the only day I've really spent in Washington D.C., so I cannot say whether traffic was particularly heavy or not. I can say we got on the trains, and followed my friend and his wife at alternating intervals through the labrynth of public transport. They seemed to disagree, at times, as to which way was out. But only, I think, because out seems more like a subjective hopeful sort of thing down there, rather than an infallible compass or mappable direction. Eventually we got to "the mall."
I say that, because when you get to The National Mall, you're oddly stricken by a lack of ear piercing stands, cellphone case kiosks, and people who offer to do funny weaving sort of things with your eyebrows. Because in Washington they don't know about our modern lexicon. So while regular people understand "mall" as a place to shop, in D.C. they're under the impression it's more a "promenade" or generally cozy place for people to walk. Also, it's about 100 degrees in the mall. Or out at the mall. Either way, it is quite a hot day, and they have utterly failed to air condition the whole of the outside.
As we walked around, thinking of where to visit first, we saw a large number of people waiting around holding rifles, instruments, and wearing heavy wool uniforms right next to their very sporty fancy cars. Though I suppose if you're going to wear a funny sort of uniform and a hat with feathers, you'll probably want a sporty car, so your self respect doesn't beat you senseless and run off with some cute girl.
After some consideration we decided where to go next. Again, I'm expecting donations here! If you don't donate this week, "some" consideration could turn into a vertiable ent moot of consideration, with a timely break for tea and crumpets about halfway through. If we get above $10, we can cut through all the consideration and get right to the place we went to. I won't even describe walking to the place, we'll just be there! Instantly! See you then.
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 14, 2012
Projections
Recently I've been doing a lot of personal projects and looking into self-motivation and what really inspires people to work. But every now and again, I'll log off of facebook.
Pretty much all of my free time is spent working. It's free time, because even though I'm working there isn't anyone to give me money for it. So, it's very important that I have something solid and widely graspable to show when it's time to call it quits, project finished or not. Though recently, I just haven't gotten the same sense of accomplishment from exposing myself in public.
I figure the next logical option is to actually finish a project. Which is arguably the hardest part of any project. If I could get paid just for starting projects, why, you'd see blueprints coming out my wazoo!((Apologies to those who didn't need the mental image. To those who did need it: Ew.))
Obviously then, I've started taking on projects that will help me finish other projects. Also, I've been just trying to accomplish little things that I know I can do. Such as; reading a book all the way through, sending an email to a friend, and challenging bears in hand-to-hand combat.((Haha! They don't have hands, they have paws!)) Finishing each of those tasks fills me with the confidence I need to take a break. I've found out a lot about my motivation and work habits.
If you're curious about your own motivation, there's a test you can give yourself. First, be a child. Second, have someone offer you either; one marshmallow now, or two marshmallows an indeterminate length of time later. Third, no matter how long they make you wait, go for the two. That will indicate you're a strongly self motivated and capable individual. Probably you'll be more attractive too. If you already took one, welcome to humanity.
Pretty much all of my free time is spent working. It's free time, because even though I'm working there isn't anyone to give me money for it. So, it's very important that I have something solid and widely graspable to show when it's time to call it quits, project finished or not. Though recently, I just haven't gotten the same sense of accomplishment from exposing myself in public.
I figure the next logical option is to actually finish a project. Which is arguably the hardest part of any project. If I could get paid just for starting projects, why, you'd see blueprints coming out my wazoo!((Apologies to those who didn't need the mental image. To those who did need it: Ew.))
Obviously then, I've started taking on projects that will help me finish other projects. Also, I've been just trying to accomplish little things that I know I can do. Such as; reading a book all the way through, sending an email to a friend, and challenging bears in hand-to-hand combat.((Haha! They don't have hands, they have paws!)) Finishing each of those tasks fills me with the confidence I need to take a break. I've found out a lot about my motivation and work habits.
If you're curious about your own motivation, there's a test you can give yourself. First, be a child. Second, have someone offer you either; one marshmallow now, or two marshmallows an indeterminate length of time later. Third, no matter how long they make you wait, go for the two. That will indicate you're a strongly self motivated and capable individual. Probably you'll be more attractive too. If you already took one, welcome to humanity.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
A Poem for Rent
Today I sing such a sad, sad song.
I think, "What have I done wrong?"
It appears that without my consent
the terrible time arrived, due is my rent!
Money doesn't with land-people belong...
"RENT" is screamed and wrung is the gong,
the ringing in my head goes BONG! BONG!
Here in my bank account is now a large dent,
Who is there to save me? Where is Clark Kent?
So I drive to the ATM at a nearby bank,
Pull out my plastic and yell, "I'm sank!"
I place the card into its slot
And hope it gives it back, I need it a lot.
Treacherous and vile, who invented rent?! skank!
I'm paranoid that some mugger's now at my flank
Pulling the classicest of all known prank
That's funny cosmically, to those un-shot,
But much lacking comically, to my current plot.
Safe I appear, though who knows for sure?
I aim back for "home" not really mine! And what's more!
Loaded and weighted I enter the abode,
I say, "Want my rent money?" ((I'm not one for code...))
She takes it in her hands, and holds twenties galore.
Calmly and casually she retreats behind her door
Coming back with a receipt. That's all I have in store.
The trade is complete, my roof agrees to not leave me for
anything, in the next month. "I'll stay too" agrees the floor.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Road Trip A
Quick disclaimer: Somewhere between fact and fiction in a fun way. You decide what's true and what's not!
How does one begin writing about one's travels? Possibly, one could converse with two or three and together they could dissect the many facets of moving from place to place. But, perhaps, even better, would be to just, as it were, start, immediately and without hesitation, getting right to the point and heart of things, writing...
So this adventure began in May. Not the early part of may, right after my birthday, when I'm still convinced people owe me presents and expensive dinners, no no. The later May. The time, most closely related to my brother's birthday. That is to say, his birthday.
We had a party for him. I left directly after the party. Well. I left at 4:00am. The party probably ended at 10:00pm, afterwards we played Risk, and generally talked about how silly it was that I would be leaving in a matter of hours for an indeterminate length of time. ((That length of time is the duration of summer employment at Stanford, plus however long it takes me to find a job and become wildly successful, or run out of money and kindly ask for transport home. Currently, still indeterminate.))
This adventure began with four people into a standard Mazda 3. For those of you who are unaware, "standard" means "possesses a stick shift." It is probably not the standard way that car comes. A Mazda 3, the model I got, is a happy constantly smiling sort of car. She's always pleased to see you, even if you haven't gotten her oil changed, taken her out to a car wash as often as you'd have liked to, and so on. She'd still be smiling if you had a hooker and cocaine game of hide and seek involving crowbars and police in the backseat.
Everyone backed about half a days worth of clothes, or whatever they could fit into a space about the size of their pockets, whichever was smaller. To say, the smallest version of a Mazda 3 possible, gets a little cramped with four gents, and bags and boxes galore, is a lot like saying incontinence is shitty and unpleasant. That is to say, a gross understatement.
So anyways, it's four am. Maybe 2:30am, but definitely early. And there's four of us in a car, wondering if caffeine can really help in pretending you're not tired. By the way, Irish Cream Java Monsters are ideal for road trips, the Loco Moca or Mean Bean will do in a pinch. If you're desperate grab one of the Starbucks Doubleshot Energy drinks. Get a regular Monster, or Red Bull if drinking Anti-Freeze is appealing to you.
The lot of us are driving from Upstate New York to Stanford, California. Our first locational goal is Washington DC. Takoma park area. Not to be confused with the post-trip temporary destination of Puyallup, which is not far from Tacoma, Washington. You may, or may not be well versed with America's geography, but I'll have you know, Washington is absolutely not on the way to Stanford. We chose that location, because we had a friend we thought we should see.
We got to Washington sometime in the morning. If you start driving at 3:30am you're bound to get somewhere by morning. We found a nice parking spot in the middle of the sidewalk outside our friends place, and went in for some nice peanut buttery somethings. Maybe it was a sandwich. Perhaps, it was a sandwich with zero peanut butter employed. It's honestly tough to say what kind of sandwich I had at roughly 11:00 in the morning after having tiredly driven for some eight to ten hours. But, there was in fact some sort of refreshing something, that was, if I know my friend's hospitality inclinations, potentially edible. He has a wife you see, and I always trust wives to know what is and isn't edible, and instruct me if I seem to be making some terrible mistake.
Oh, the other people in this story? You want to know names? Well, instead, how about I tell you about their fathers? That's always a popular kind of story thing. You talk about one man's father's father's father and how he was probably a blacksmith of great regard. Well, I can't go that far back, but let's see.
There's me. My father's a lawyer. He works for the law. There's another person, his father is an auto mechanic. For cars, not like an automatic mechanic. But whatever an automatic mechanic is, that sounds great. Another, his father. Well his father has been on the roof of a school where I lost my hackey sack. I'm not positive that he's paid to do that sort of thing, but I can say for certainty he has done that sort of thing. The final of the in-car story members' father is the owner of a gym. He also acts, quite convincingly, as a personal trainer.
So, again, us four with a friend and a wife, the wife is the friend's only and we did not all pick one up during our travels, have all come together through hours of driving and edible goodness, and we're about to set out on more adventuring. Tune in next week to find out what! Donate money and I'll embellish the story to be much more exciting. If we get up to twenty dollars I'm beginning to remember a fight with a dragon at the mall. For zero dollars, we probably watched a parade, because it was Labor Day.
Money for me, gets you dragons. No money for me gets you parades. Maybe just people standing around before parades, depending on how much no money has been donated.
*A note to friends who are referenced in this story:
Namely John, Adam, Bill, Scott, Jim, and Jill((Names have been changed to obscure identities)) if you would like me to further obscure yourself, or your father as I have described him, please send me a personal note, and I'll add vagueness.
((The second post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
How does one begin writing about one's travels? Possibly, one could converse with two or three and together they could dissect the many facets of moving from place to place. But, perhaps, even better, would be to just, as it were, start, immediately and without hesitation, getting right to the point and heart of things, writing...
So this adventure began in May. Not the early part of may, right after my birthday, when I'm still convinced people owe me presents and expensive dinners, no no. The later May. The time, most closely related to my brother's birthday. That is to say, his birthday.
We had a party for him. I left directly after the party. Well. I left at 4:00am. The party probably ended at 10:00pm, afterwards we played Risk, and generally talked about how silly it was that I would be leaving in a matter of hours for an indeterminate length of time. ((That length of time is the duration of summer employment at Stanford, plus however long it takes me to find a job and become wildly successful, or run out of money and kindly ask for transport home. Currently, still indeterminate.))
This adventure began with four people into a standard Mazda 3. For those of you who are unaware, "standard" means "possesses a stick shift." It is probably not the standard way that car comes. A Mazda 3, the model I got, is a happy constantly smiling sort of car. She's always pleased to see you, even if you haven't gotten her oil changed, taken her out to a car wash as often as you'd have liked to, and so on. She'd still be smiling if you had a hooker and cocaine game of hide and seek involving crowbars and police in the backseat.
Everyone backed about half a days worth of clothes, or whatever they could fit into a space about the size of their pockets, whichever was smaller. To say, the smallest version of a Mazda 3 possible, gets a little cramped with four gents, and bags and boxes galore, is a lot like saying incontinence is shitty and unpleasant. That is to say, a gross understatement.
So anyways, it's four am. Maybe 2:30am, but definitely early. And there's four of us in a car, wondering if caffeine can really help in pretending you're not tired. By the way, Irish Cream Java Monsters are ideal for road trips, the Loco Moca or Mean Bean will do in a pinch. If you're desperate grab one of the Starbucks Doubleshot Energy drinks. Get a regular Monster, or Red Bull if drinking Anti-Freeze is appealing to you.
The lot of us are driving from Upstate New York to Stanford, California. Our first locational goal is Washington DC. Takoma park area. Not to be confused with the post-trip temporary destination of Puyallup, which is not far from Tacoma, Washington. You may, or may not be well versed with America's geography, but I'll have you know, Washington is absolutely not on the way to Stanford. We chose that location, because we had a friend we thought we should see.
We got to Washington sometime in the morning. If you start driving at 3:30am you're bound to get somewhere by morning. We found a nice parking spot in the middle of the sidewalk outside our friends place, and went in for some nice peanut buttery somethings. Maybe it was a sandwich. Perhaps, it was a sandwich with zero peanut butter employed. It's honestly tough to say what kind of sandwich I had at roughly 11:00 in the morning after having tiredly driven for some eight to ten hours. But, there was in fact some sort of refreshing something, that was, if I know my friend's hospitality inclinations, potentially edible. He has a wife you see, and I always trust wives to know what is and isn't edible, and instruct me if I seem to be making some terrible mistake.
Oh, the other people in this story? You want to know names? Well, instead, how about I tell you about their fathers? That's always a popular kind of story thing. You talk about one man's father's father's father and how he was probably a blacksmith of great regard. Well, I can't go that far back, but let's see.
There's me. My father's a lawyer. He works for the law. There's another person, his father is an auto mechanic. For cars, not like an automatic mechanic. But whatever an automatic mechanic is, that sounds great. Another, his father. Well his father has been on the roof of a school where I lost my hackey sack. I'm not positive that he's paid to do that sort of thing, but I can say for certainty he has done that sort of thing. The final of the in-car story members' father is the owner of a gym. He also acts, quite convincingly, as a personal trainer.
So, again, us four with a friend and a wife, the wife is the friend's only and we did not all pick one up during our travels, have all come together through hours of driving and edible goodness, and we're about to set out on more adventuring. Tune in next week to find out what! Donate money and I'll embellish the story to be much more exciting. If we get up to twenty dollars I'm beginning to remember a fight with a dragon at the mall. For zero dollars, we probably watched a parade, because it was Labor Day.
Money for me, gets you dragons. No money for me gets you parades. Maybe just people standing around before parades, depending on how much no money has been donated.
*A note to friends who are referenced in this story:
Namely John, Adam, Bill, Scott, Jim, and Jill((Names have been changed to obscure identities)) if you would like me to further obscure yourself, or your father as I have described him, please send me a personal note, and I'll add vagueness.
((The second post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 7, 2012
Condiment of the Gods
I'm particularly a fan of food. I've been eating it for a good portion of my life, and I've become acquainted with its niceties. Not just any food mind you, any food with Frank's Redhot on it. Now that's not a euphemism for Frank the Bull's excitement or anything. It’s just a hot sauce, that Frank happens to be the owner of. How it is this "Frank" came to own every single bottle of the Redhot is beyond me, but I buy it from the store and have yet to run into a Frank that complained about it. I never did understand why people would keep their own personal stock of something in all the grocery stores across the country. Beck does the same thing with his beer. Silly twits.
Anyways, what food, you ask, does this hot sauce make better? The following list is by no means exhaustive but it is a start; brown rice, white rice, fried rice, grilled cheese, plain cheese, sandwiches of any make, subs, bananas if you're crazy, eggs, toast, omelets, pork, steak, chicken, chicken fried steak, anything you would also put Sriracha on, anything you've already put Sriracha on, meat loaf(the singer), meatloaf(the food), in soups, and many other places.
Now, don't mistake me, I don't think Frank's Redhot is more worthwhile than say, the miracle of birth. But perhaps, the whole birthing process would be a bit more amusing if some Redhot was administered during the process. How and why is up to your imagination, but I'm sure great joy will follow. Why, I wonder now if that’s where all baby Franks come from? A sort of rite of passage, if you want to be called Frank, you need an understanding, and non-grudge holding mother.
If you can think of any other time when hot sauces could be indiscreetly applied, please feel free to send pictures!
Anyways, what food, you ask, does this hot sauce make better? The following list is by no means exhaustive but it is a start; brown rice, white rice, fried rice, grilled cheese, plain cheese, sandwiches of any make, subs, bananas if you're crazy, eggs, toast, omelets, pork, steak, chicken, chicken fried steak, anything you would also put Sriracha on, anything you've already put Sriracha on, meat loaf(the singer), meatloaf(the food), in soups, and many other places.
Now, don't mistake me, I don't think Frank's Redhot is more worthwhile than say, the miracle of birth. But perhaps, the whole birthing process would be a bit more amusing if some Redhot was administered during the process. How and why is up to your imagination, but I'm sure great joy will follow. Why, I wonder now if that’s where all baby Franks come from? A sort of rite of passage, if you want to be called Frank, you need an understanding, and non-grudge holding mother.
If you can think of any other time when hot sauces could be indiscreetly applied, please feel free to send pictures!
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Weight Loss Via Wallet Fasting
As a speaker here I don't want to put anyone to sleep, but euthanasia is gaining popularity at a lot of conferences, as opposed to listening to the spea... what? Sorry, I nodded off for a second.
But! I'm here to talk to you about being professionally broke. Sometimes I have to get two to three jobs to maintain being broke. I've got so many student loan payments, car payments, and my rent is due. I can't even afford to eat more than once a day. My girlfriend gets real angry when she sees me having breakfast.
So here's the lowdown, after this you'll know how to get into debt, have questionable job prospects, and feel bad whenever you have fun. People say if you're broke you should get fixed. Dogs don't like it, and neither do we! Here's how to get and stay broke!
Alright, first things first. We need some debt. You're thinking car payments, electrical bills, hospital payments, and that's all great. But first things first, you gotta start young. We're going to college! Slack off in high school, so you don't get any scholarships for college. If while you're in college you want to drunkenly knock a girl up that'll be a great addition to your debt. ((Drunkenly knocking a girl down will get you potential jail time. So really any knocking you want to drunkenly do is cool.)) Also, since you're in school, credit card companies like to take you out on to a nice dinner, movies, and finish off with some expensive wine, then a few weeks later tell you that you owe them for that. So sign up for two to three of those. Use them anti-judiciously.
Alright, now we've got you into debt, and that's great. We've just got to keep you there. So here you have two options, graduate college, or drop out of college. Dropouts have to lie on their resumes to get good jobs, and graduates have to lie on their resumes to secure fast food employment. So it's up to you and whether you like lying to sound more successful, or lying yourself humble. Note: good jobs don't hire you, they just interview you. It's a game they play, HR workers get bored too!
Now we're good and broke. We've achieved a job that nets us anywhere from $7.25hr on the low end to $7.50hr at the tip top. All we need now is to stay in at night and "work on getting a better job" or, "feel depressed" as it were. If that's not working for you, call up your successful friend, the one who magicked their way into Google's loving arms, and convince them to buy you some pity drinks. That way you'll inevitably hear a story about how hard working at Google full time is, if that doesn't make you feel bad, you can go outside and kick puppy dog, or have a baby start crying when you hold them.
After following those three easy steps you've got yourself a good decade of being broke, no problem. If your student loans ever get in danger of running out, there's always grad school!
Monday, September 3, 2012
Back to Reality
A nice vacation. A way to relieve yourself from the stresses of work. A way to forget about what the phrase "work ethic" means, and what anyone would do with such a thing. A way to remind yourself why you can't stand trying to set up an orgy at the zoo with your flaky friends. And, a way to thoroughly depress yourself when you have to go back to ghost writing that blog for work. "OooooohhooOooooOOOOoooo" is a good day and a half of writing for a job like that.
You spend all of the night before your last night of vacation thinking about how tomorrow is your last night of fun, and the day after that you'll have to get back to facing reality. This puts you into a state which psychiatrists refer to as, "A shitty mood, with a bad attitude." The only way to cope is to drink a lot, and talk to your friends about how you really don't want to deal with the day after tomorrow. It doesn't make you feel any better, but man has yet to invent any other solution.((NaCl dissolved in water, poured in the eyes was hypothesized to be superior, but the data remains unclear.))
Then, right at the last minute you get a tiny bit excited about the possibilities of the future. You're going to hit the ground running and really make a difference. You're not just going to be a ghost writer, you're going to be a spirit novelist! Brimming with excitement you think of how great it's going to be and write down all of your plans and thoughts. You then pass out contentedly.
Wake up the next morning, realize you have to snap back to reality tomorrow, and throw out all your ideas, because they interfere too much with your moping. Work begins again.
Then, before you know it, you can't wait until your next vacation.
You spend all of the night before your last night of vacation thinking about how tomorrow is your last night of fun, and the day after that you'll have to get back to facing reality. This puts you into a state which psychiatrists refer to as, "A shitty mood, with a bad attitude." The only way to cope is to drink a lot, and talk to your friends about how you really don't want to deal with the day after tomorrow. It doesn't make you feel any better, but man has yet to invent any other solution.((NaCl dissolved in water, poured in the eyes was hypothesized to be superior, but the data remains unclear.))
Then, right at the last minute you get a tiny bit excited about the possibilities of the future. You're going to hit the ground running and really make a difference. You're not just going to be a ghost writer, you're going to be a spirit novelist! Brimming with excitement you think of how great it's going to be and write down all of your plans and thoughts. You then pass out contentedly.
Wake up the next morning, realize you have to snap back to reality tomorrow, and throw out all your ideas, because they interfere too much with your moping. Work begins again.
Then, before you know it, you can't wait until your next vacation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)