My Library

Don't worry. This post isn't about books. That's Brendan's thing. This is about something much, much cooler. VIDEO GAMES.

Video games are sexy as hell. I adore them. They are always there for you. When your friends are assholes and they have class or homework or "other plans", video games have your back. They say, "Don't be sad, Brian. We'll cheer you up with hours of mind numbing action and story!" And I say, "Fuck yes, video games! Which one of you wants to be my bitch tonight?" And of course all of them are always willing, because I'm a baller like that. But I have standards. So I insist upon choosing the best.

Let's go ahead and define "the best". There are basically two types of video games to me: old school (CLASSIC) and modern (Warfare 2). Here are the standards by which I judge my audio-visual friends.

1. Look good. I'm shallow.

2. Sound sexy. If I don't like what I hear when you open your mouth, I'm walking away. Don't be whiny and annoyingly repetitive.

3. Have an intriguing story to tell me. I've heard so many stories that at this point, I bore easily. Throw me a plot twist. Interest me, forcryinoutloud!

4. Be consistent. I hate when bitches say one thing at one point in the story, and then just change their minds later and decide something else would work better. Sorry, it's kinda too late.

5. Make sure the gameplay is good. If you don't give me good controls, it's just frustrating. I don't care how hot you are or how fascinating your story was, if you aren't DTF and ready to amaze me with your moves by the time we get back to the bedroom, I'm making you find somewhere else to sleep tonight. Bitch.

6. For all of us who have played games, we know the ending is important. This whole song and dance has been crescendoing up to this one point, this one convergence of the fates. Make my climax feel awesome.

Now I know that the older bitches don't have as much visual appeal as the younger ones, but I forgive them for that, as long as they don't look like complete dog shit. They're old. They looked spectacular in their prime. And they're so knowledgable. They have many stories to tell me about the past. The young ladies have a more obvious appeal, with their stunning good looks and smooth movements. They still weave a good yarn, but most of their stories have already been told.

The above picture is conflicted as to its category, like a water polo player with a good attitude (Jon D.), a bro who hates Natty Light (not sure if these exist in real life...), or a vampire who loves to sunbathe (dead). The Playstation games are screaming nostalgia with their square, easy to break cases and simple but sexy cover art. The PS3 games are all like, "Look at me! I'm so hip and modern with my unusually sized cases and my promises of amazing graphic orgies!" And then there are the PS2 games who, while being a solid middle ground, are not as nostalgic as playstation but not as flashy as PS3. And they're like, "C'mon guys...really? Do we have to fight about this every time we hang out? We're all cool and have our different appeals. Why can't we just get along? We obviously love each other because we spend so much time together."

So I've already shown you a picture of my collection of modern games. It's pretty small. There are like 9 PS3 games. I'm ashamed, but what can I say? I'm not exactly rollin' in the dough, and I had to leave my Wii at home because technically it was my mom's birthday present or something ridiculous like that. However, my collection of old school is muuuuch more extensive, because hey! I'm a classic dude. I have a big box of NES games under my bed. There's am N64 on my shelf sitting next to all the N64, SNES, and Sega games I have. Under that is my NES, which has a Sega resting on top of it's cute little head. Now I'd take a picture of this shelf and post it on here like I did for the Playstation games, but my SNES is currently missing from its spot to the left of the NES (it's in Eliot's room because I'm a negligent father to it as it well knows by now), and I just wouldn't feel right leaving it out like that.

I'm gonna take this opportunity to list some of my favorite games ever just off the top of my head, not necessarily in this order.

1. The Legend of Zelda (NES) - Don't even fuck around with this game. It's undeniably one of the most groundbreaking and entertaining games EVER.

2. Anything with the name Final Fantasy in the title besides FFX-2 (PS, PS2, PS3) - OMGWTFORGASM

3. Fallout 3 (PS3) - This game is about as open as your mom. You can do just about anything in here and the game is alright with that. I love how many hours of fun I can get out of this game without progressing anywhere story-wise.

4. Devil May Cry 3 (PS2) - I am in awe of you. You make being a badass douche look so appealing. The way Dante throws down with demons is just hott.

5. Donkey Kong Country (SNES) - I remember this from my childhood as the one video game I ever played with my mom. I think she was almost as into it as I was. And what's not to love? You get to jump around and go apeshit on everybody and just have your way with the entire jungle. (Dear God I made that pun unintentionally. Fuck you Eliot, what have you made me?)

6. Super Mario EVERYTHING (Nintendo) - Super Mario Bros., Super Mario Bros. 3, Super Mario World , Super Mario 64, Super Mario Galaxy, Super Mario Sports...etc. This is the most versatile badass plumber you will ever see.

7. Ocarina of Time (N64) - This is one of the few games I've ever played through completely and thoroughly multiple times. I enjoyed every single second of it, from throwing Cuccos around to make the bitch of a chicken lady happy again to kicking Ganondorf's ugly ass.

8. Starfox 64 (N64) - Despite how fucking annoying Slippy is ALL THE TIME, this game is one of the most awesome flying shoot 'em ups ever.

9. Pokemon Stadium (N64) - This game is so hilarious to play with friends. I've never not had fun kicking people's asses at this game. I remain undefeated. Challenge me if you dare.

10. Lord of the Rings (PS2, PS3) - I really enjoy all of these games, because they're just fun mindless violence with that system of becoming more powerful as you go that I love.

11. Modern Warfare 2 (PS3) - This game is just a better version of its older brother. It does everything better and its system of challenges, callsigns, emblems, and prestiges is more addicting to me than hard drugs.

12. Super Smash Bros. Brawl (Wii) - Some people think melee is better. I can see where they're coming from, sort of. But I disagree. This game is so fun to play when you're bored with friends. I suck at it but getting my ass kicked has never been more enjoyable.

There are so many more games that I love and could classify as favorites, but this post will never end if I keep trying to think of more, so I'll stop here.

Anyway, that's pretty much the end of my shpeel. If any of you guys wanna come hang out with me and the bitches, let me know. You're welcome pretty much any time, depending on how much I like you. But chances are, if you're reading this, you're probably pretty cool. And you're also probably pretty bored, so there ya go. I just fixed that problem for you twofold.

Oh yeah. All my games are alphabetized. I'm THAT hardcore.

CLASSIC out.

Conor - Classic Brian: Season 2

This is our 100th post, guys. That shit's crazy.

I didn't really know how this was going to work out, but it's been working pretty amazingly. It's read by a modest amount of people, but it's read. That's really exciting. We write what we want to write and some people read it, and a smaller but still surprising amount of people enjoy it.

I want this to go on forever. I want that for me, but also for you?

I want to show my new (better/cooler) friends in Oklahoma this as well. And I hope you introduce your new (better/cooler) friends this blog as well, wherever you are. Let's consider this a new beginning. I will now begin pandering to this new, hypothetical audience.

Welcome to Classic Brian. Classic Brian is a blog, in which 6 of my friends and I write about things we want to. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes it's personal. Once a week it's about books. Classic Brian was my idea, but it's not my blog, I'm not in charge of it. I think we'd all say Eliot sortof organizes a lot of this shit. Imagine me as CB's negligent mother, and Eliot as it's unappreciated nanny. Yeah.

Let me introduce you, briefly, to the seven of us.

Sundays are ROBERT LANGELLIER's day. He's a cool guy, undoubtedly one of the most consistently great writers in our collective. He's going into Journalism and minoring in never having a steady job at Mizzou. He's a team player who is almost dangerously dedicated to jokes, to the point of dropping his phone into pitchers of water on a dare. He's the only writer brave enough to pull off satire on Classic Brian, and he's just getting started. He's a bro.

Monday's, NICK DIETRICH is up to bat. He's a smart smart guy. We've lived on the same street since we were born, and we've been good buddies forever. He's going to U of I for science! He wants to be an eye doctor. I DON'T REMEMBER WHAT THOSE ARE CALLED RIGHT NOW. Nick posts insightful things about college and how to be awesome around people, because he recently discovered the art. Thankfully he's a natural at it. He plays drums! In weird time signatures.

Tuesday MADA LARSON shows up occasionally. Mada's the coolest female. She's also a sister to me. She knows me better than basically anyone else, and, understandably, doesn't really like me all that much. She's going to U of I for the maths, because she wants a stable future? She's too cool for things like the blog she's a part of, but for good reason. It's lame as hell that we do this. Mada posts short, sharp posts, and they're enjoyable. Mada's quick, agile, and she has crazy fast reflexes.

Wednesday the charming ELIOT SILL treats us. Eliot likes sports, Final Fantasy, journalism, music, spite, piano, comedy, and making things weird. We all like Eliot. Eliot writes exactly what Eliot wants to, be that about Dragonball Z or football, and he writes it well. He is also going to U of I and he is also going into Journalism. Eliot's a champ, and can operate on any amount of sleep. It really just doesn't affect him. Eliot and I were voted "most likely to marry eachother" in our high school physics class, and our constant bickering over skype confirms that.

Thursday BRENDAN CAVANAGH writes novels about his childhood, his world outlook, and other novels. Brendan is calm, collected, and sleek. He's going to Butler University for English. Always ready with the worst pun you've ever heard, Brendan is secretly a clever bastard. Brendan is the person I know the least on the squad, and I vow to right this wrong next summer. I will bump Robert down to least known. I've learned a lot from his posts, and I like what I see, Brendan. I like what I see. Call me.

Friday is ME. Luckily I already posted a summary of myself on Classic Brian.

Onto our namesake. BRIAN MALONE is one classy guy. He can usually be found at Game Xchange. The only way to describe him is classic. Every statement he makes is dripping with sarcasm and apathy, which make him extremely entertaining to be in a german class with. He has a six pack. He's going to U of I for some kind of engineering. He once stole my giant T-Rex plushy toy, but I like him so much it didn't damage our friendship. He has several hot sisters, all of which he's oddly opposed to me dating.


So here we are. I wanted to give everyone some sort of context. These people represent a large amount of my best friends. These are the people I can't stop mentioning in stories. These are the people I miss. There are others, of course, and I hope they are among our readers.

Let's keep it fresh. Let's keep it fun. Let's keep it classic. Classic Brian: Season 2. Let the games begin.

I Am The Invisible Man

by Brendan Cavanagh

For AP English Senior Year, we were required to read six books over the summer, most of which we would wind up discussing later in the year in class. Naturally I read them all. And naturally, I was the only one to do so.














The second novel I read over the summer (and the first discussed in class, remember that Robert?) was Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. No, not the guy who walks around bandaged all the time eating and drinking stuff so you can see it being digested in thin air, that's H.G. Wells territory. This is a novel about African-American identity in a white-dominated society. It's about this unnamed guy, Invisible Man, who hails from The South, where he kowtows like mad to his white "superiors" all the time, until he's exiled to Harlem, where he joins an underground Socialist Brotherhood that lifts the veil of ignorance and allows him to adequately witness the racial inequalities in society. It's a real page-turner in my opinion, taking on the epic narrative qualities of literature like The Odyssey.

There's one scene in there that really stuck out to me. Invisible Man ambles about Harlem's streets late one night, in the attempt of evading this black Nationalist, Ras the Exhorter, who wants to hunt him down for working with whites. After he buys a pair of sunglasses and a hip hat as a disguise, he's repeatedly mistaken by about a million strangers for some local fellow named Rinehart, who sold out to the whites by assuming multiple identities: a bookie, a reverend, a hipster, a lover, etc. You see, he's able to retain his own personal values within his heart, while merely conforming to society on the outside, on his rind. So anyway, Invisible Man's understanding of this turns out to play a key role in the book, leading to the riotous climax.

But I liked the idea of Invisible Man walking down the street wearing simply sunglasses and a hat, thereby effectively concealing his true identity from everyone. A lot of people just pass him by, which happens a lot in the book- like he's really invisible- and the ones who do happen to see him don't know who he really is, so it's like his real self is totally invisible to the world.

Shortly after completing Invisible Man, I took a train to Wisconsin in order to stay a few days in Milwaukee with my uncle and see Bob Dylan at Summerfest as well as enjoy a respite from the humdrum of daily life in Springfield. When the train got to Chicago's Union Station, there was a three hour layover between that train and the one I would board for Milwaukee. At first I simply explored the Union Station and made sure I knew where to go when the time came to board the next train (I wound up winging it later). But I eventually grew bored of living underground and decided to take my explorations upstairs and outside to the real world. I had never experienced the big city on my own, so I received an immense feeling of responsibility and exhilaration. I donned a pair of Ray Bans and with my bad slung across my shoulder, I delved into the hustle and bustle of Adams Street (incidentally perpendicular to Michigan Street, where Lollapalooza is located, guys).

It was incredible. I began to feel a bit like Invisible Man as I walked that never-ending street and the adjacent park for a couple hours, as I passed myriad Chicagoans and tourists alike, none of whom had a notion of who I was. Granted, I wasn't mistaken for another man, but the fact that no one knew my true identity as I pretended to knowledgeably navigate my way through farmers' markets, heavy traffic and homeless men was really exciting. I began to properly appreciate time spent alone, time spent observing others while situated within their group.

Of course, I don't often get the chance to go to the city or be invisible. But I try to incorporate that type of situation into my life in small ways here and there. For instance, most nights here at Butler University I like to escape the monotony of "school work" in my minuscule dorm room by stepping outside and going for a walk on the small sidewalk that runs along my residence hall. It's a quaint little pathway that, once it passes the residence hall, runs between the street and a narrow stretch of grass, complete with bushes and trees. I like walking along this sidewalk at dusk during these slightly summery Fall evenings, as the sun is in the closing stages of setting, and the cute little black streetlamps (a la Narnia) begin to stream faint, gold light in small circles on the path. It's really rather picturesque.

I almost always take this sidewalk a short ways away from the residence hall where I find this one particular tree- My Tree- that resides between two leafy bushes. On the sloping roots of this tree, I can clearly see the street and the houses across the street (641 standing out in the center), as well as anyone walking the sidewalk in my vicinity. What's funny, though, is that in this spot no one seems to pay attention to me, although I'm practically sitting right in the middle of the sidewalk. People, alone and in groups, walk or drive by me and act like I'm not watching their movements, as if I'm invisible. I test this hypothesis of mine by never saying anything, and every time I've remained in my spot unperturbed. It's wild. It's just another way to feed to my exhilaration at being myself and observing others without the threat of unnecessary human interaction and molestation.

That's my shallow correlation between Invisible Man and my life. But I like it. I am the Invisible Man.

Classic Brian

Five minutes ago, I entrusted Conor O'Brien with the task of providing me an idea to write about. He failed. Good job Conor. I'm going to write about, well Classic Brian.

I came up with that idea all by myself guys!

Classic Brian is an idea that I don't think has often been tried by high school kids. After all, blogging is really lame. I mean, sure, tons of kids our age get the impression that they can write and they have the strict urge to express their ideas. Do they make blogs about it? Do they have the courage to look dumb in front of more than just themselves or their closestest friends? Maybe, who knows. If there are other blogs out there like this, I would like them to be pointed out to me. I'll read 'em. Shit.

Anyway, Classic Brian wasn't my idea. I should have locked the text that I got. It was something I immediately dismissed, but turned into this biz. "Me, you, and Tynan should make a comedy blog and call it Classic Brian." The text was, I begrudgingly admit, from Conor. He thinks he's funny, and he thinks Ty and I make good sidekicks for him. So the next night, at Classic's house, Conor brought up the subject to me. I still was apprehensive, but I had given it thought, and I realized it would be a good opportunity for me to put up words and pretend people are reading them. As for the name, Classic Brian, it stemmed from a Final Fantasy marathon. Brian proclaimed that the left corner of the seat was his entitlement, and that he said it was "classic me." Conor and I didn't let that one by us. Nope. We ran with it. We realllllly ran with it.

So I wavered back and forth and eventually he got me on board. Except it wasn't strictly a comedy blog, I could write about sports if I chose to do so. Also it wasn't going to be me him and Tynan, it was going to be a crew of seven of us. One day of the week each day. We bounced names and came up with a pretty good team. Conor, myself, Classic, Tynan, Nick, Robert and a girl. We tagged Mada, we still don't know why.

We set up an account at Classic's house THAT NIGHT and i contacted everyone and made sure they were down to write. They were. Nifty. I wrote out a mission statement, or as I like to call it, me rambling to see what a blog post actually looks like. It came out pretty decent, and I was excited for the blog. Even if we're the only ones reading it, we unanimously thought, it'll be fun. It's like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, but different. (Side note: What a stupid stupid concept.) Tynan decided he couldn't think of anything to write about (a problem that seems to be afflicting us all here lately, is college over yet guys? Right? that's what they want, more college. RIGHT?). I stepped in, wrote a weirdly formatted post about myself and skidoops! We were off and running. I called Cory Robinson, whose pen is flyer than a piece of paper bearin' it's name. He accepted the offer and replaced Tynan. As for Ty, he found a sweet gig for himself elsewhere. Which by the way, I command you. If you read this, listen to that. Clustercuss on SLU's radio station. Good music and better DJ's and the best commercials money can buy. (GET IT? THERE ARE NO COMMERCIALS!)

We started posting more, I started pimping it on my Facebook and Twitter, and the weirdest thing happened. People started giving feedback. They referenced specific things I SAID. This HAD to mean they were actually reading the nonsense I was throwing out there. Holy crap. I will not be able to handle being a reporter if that day comes.

Classic Brian has become an interesting haven for people whose thoughts I'm interested in to have their ideas strewn about, like words ripped out of person's diary. Things that we have on our minds and can't stop thinking about, we get to just divulge all that worthless information to this page, and I think that's pretty cool. It certainly isn't a comedy blog, and we do tend to get a little overly sentimental, but it's certainly more than droning on about albums by bands you haven't heard much of mixed with sports updates that don't really matter. It's something interesting, something fresh, something fleshy and real.

I'm really glad we did this. And I hope you are too.

Soon I want to do a guest week. Where we all get a guest writer to throw something down for seven days straight. I've already got a few names in my head, I'll contact you if I want your wordsmanship. If I don't and you feel like writing something for Classic Brian, send me a message on Facebook or something. I'll see what we can do. Unless I don't really like you, in which case, you're probably fucked.

Anyway, I wanted to use this as a kind of thank you to the twenty five or so bored mofo's who take the time out of their day to read this. Every new person that tells me they read blows my mind every time. Be it a lot or a little. It's not huge, but it's still cool to think that you guys give half a shit what I say. Means the world. Well not the world, but probably like the state of Indiana. Which is a lot coming from me, I've never been East of Illinois. (MOM! DAD! THANKS!)

All in all, I had my doubts about this site at first, but I would definitely consider it a success story.

They should make a movie about this or something.

--Eliot Sill

PS. Happy birthday mom. I love you and I miss you!

No Pants

I don't like to wear pants. I don't like to wear pants at all.

This is Rachel Zook by the way. I'm writing for Mada. You might think I'm doing this because she's busy. But she's not especially busy. I'm looking at her right now. She's a few feet away watching It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Neglecting her blog night and shit. Being a bitch.

Anyways, yeah, I don't like to wear pants. People here in Chambana have been questioning this. They don't know shit. There are many reasons for going sans pants.

1. Who sleeps in pants? No one. Communists maybe, but other than that, no one. If you're wearing pants during the day, you have to take them off before you go to bed. Waste of time. Even worse, if you're too tired/drunk to remove your pants before crashing, you have to deal with sleeping in pants. It's uncomfortable. And weird. If you never wear pants, you never risk sleeping in pants.

2. No pants is classy. It sends the right message to the opposite sex.

3. It's more fun to do stuff pants-less. This step is strictly underoos-based. Absolutely nothing beyond that. Eating macaroni and cheese, facebook creeping, origami, wearing socks. All better without pants. Try it!

4. Pants get wet and gross on the bottoms in rain/snow.

5. No pants=PARTY TIME. Seriously, everyone knows you're down to when you're not wearing pants. Down to what? Anything. DTF, DTR, DTD, DTS, whatevs. You are DOWN.

6. Gross but if you piss yourself out and about (you knowwwww) it's easier to deal with if you're not wearing pants. True story.
6 1/2. If a friend pisses themselves out and about it's easier to deal with if said friend is not wearing pants. Also true story.

7. Drunk people like to take their pants off. Not their shorts or skirts, but their pants. Shorts, skirts and dresses generally stay on while drunk in public. Not pants. Whenever you drink in pants, you risk taking off your pants and having to explain to the police, your parents, Taco Bell employees, whoever why you don't have pants on. Pants are dangerous.

I can't think of any other reasons.

Get your shit together and get those pants off.

Nick - A Proposal

Because I'm very introspective in nature, I've been very tuned into the invisible but all-controlling dynamics of social interaction since I've been in Champaign. I like to watch how people respond to various courses of interaction, and examine the subtle difference between a smooth conversation and an awkward one.

When you think about it, freshman year of college is like a laboratory for social experiments: nobody has a preconceived notion of you, so their impressions will be tailored entirely to your actions and mannerisms. And there are an infinite number of potential test subjects. So allow me to discourse on the hypotheses, experiments, and conclusions I've formed thus far.

Eye Contact: Necessary or Weird?
I decided the other day to do an experiment: make eye contact with everybody I could while walking. And I did. And it was weird. My instincts were screaming the whole time; who does that? Who do I think I am to stare at casual passers-by like that? I really just did this because I felt like I need to work on my interpersonal skills, so I decided I'd keep doing it.
Here's the interesting part: I did it again today after my first improv practice, so I was more energetic and excited, and it wasn't weird at all. People generally smiled back at me, and one girl I don't know said hi to me. Pretty sweet. Anyway, we can draw some pretty solid conclusions from this:
1. It's about self-confidence. And I don't mean fake self-confidence like I tried to force upon myself in the first scenario, I mean that you have to be in a state of feeling good and high energy. People can sense it.
2. The smile! Anybody can fake a smile. You have to mean it.

I feel like these conclusions extend into the broader world of social interactions: the trait absolutely necessary for interpersonal interactions is sincerity. A sincere feeling of wanting to talk to other people and a sincere smile and energy.

You may have noticed this is titled "A Proposal." I actually do have a proposal for you, so don't think you're getting off easy: I want all of you to try it. Next time you're in a state of high energy, look strangers in the eye. Start conversations if you're in an environment conductive to that.

Maybe you aren't socially anxious like I am and this doesn't seem like a big deal to you. But if you can see where I'm coming from, I want you to join me in stepping out of your comfort zone.

-Nick.

Convenience

--Robert Langellier

I have never been known to go out of my way to do things when they can be done more conveniently by inconveniencing others. But I am not the issue here. My issue is people who allow me to inconvenience them.

I’m sitting my table at Plaza 900 enjoying a nice lunch with a couple friends. Plaza 900 is great because, not only is it a thousand mile walk away to successfully burn off all calories and nutrients consumed there, but the food selection is humongous and, for a college mess hall, absolutely delicious. Sadly, my stomach was cursed at birth with tissue walls, meaning I can only inhale so many Fruity Pebble patty melts before I have to give up and wait another 5 hours to start over again. After a quick prayer to Demeter, goddess of the Freshman Fifteen, I stand up to dump my spoils onto the tray conveyor belt.

With the way the system works, you take your tray, go in through the “In” end, place your tray on the belt, and leave out the “Out” end in a neat and orderly fashion. I didn’t have time for this. I had seconds to shave off my exit strategy and people to inconvenience, so I turned a quick 180 off the tray deposit and hurtled out the “In” door. My acceleration was magnificent and unstoppable, except by the girl’s body right behind me. In a high speed P2P fender bender I grazed her shoulder, moving her slightly off-balance. As any good citizen should do, she apologized to me and bowed her head, effectively confusing the shit out of me.

Obviously, I command respect. There must be something in my smooth posture, or my generally aloof gaze, or my awkwardly long neck that brought fear to this girl. She clearly wanted nothing to do with my dominating presence and arrogant disrespect of those around me, and her pupils slammed to the ground like there was a puppet show on the floor tile. Or perhaps she was rewarding my nonconformity with absolute submission. Either way, I’m a little mad I didn’t knock her tray down afterward, just to see what would happen (probably fainting or a date offering, judging by my knowledge of her past reactions). I haven’t yet pinpointed which superior quality of mine it is that defeated her, so my only hope was that this was a repeatable attack.

I began turning my ruse into a hilarious game. I would bump into an oncoming pedestrian, recoil, squint my eyes and mutter, “Fuck!” like I had a bad case of contact-induced Tourette's. Had I been in a college of 6th graders, I certainly (and rightly) would have been the funniest boy on campus, but instead I was just a jackass teenager in obvious need of an apology for the failure of those around me to get the fuck out of my way. Of course it worked.

I eventually started learning that social respect (or maybe just social victory) is birthed from completely not giving a fuck. For the most part, the average person seems to have resigned himself to avoiding all conflict or slight inquiry by any means necessary. When that crowd of upperclassmen is coming at you on the sidewalk, why not slip through those 6 inches of space between the parking meter and the curb to let them through? Or if Kitty Genovese is getting stabbed on the street down below, why intervene when the safety of the TV’s volume button is aching to be bumped? People love being convenient way more than they like being winners. Bullying (winning) couldn’t be easier.

This really inconveniences my ideals. Our flight instincts are much more developed than our fighting ones. We’re very good at ducking under the social covers. Truth be told, it’s sort of annoying to be apologized to when, to anybody with a functional brain, nobody is at fault except perhaps the receiver of the apology. “Sorry” often no longer means “sorry,” but instead “please relegate your path of destruction somewhere else.” Hell no. I will continue bowling over the weak until someone who isn’t completely jacked stops me. My utter domination of my peers is not due to a conquering spirit, but to a frustration with a system of conflict avoidance. I don’t care from whom, but I demand an apology for that.