Vomiting is so much easier when you're drunk. And, another thing, I haven't even lost my appetite. Maybe my appetite's gone, but I still want to eat so much things. I don't think I could though. I'm sort of exhausted.
--Eliot Sill
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Nick - Justits
Hey, remember when Mada asked us to write about being a girl? Is that offer still standing?
The reason I write this post is because earlier I saw a girl on facebook whose profile picture is just a picture of her tits. And I thought to myself, if I were a girl, would my facebook picture be a picture of my tits? I don't think so, but I really don't know.
The reason I write this post is because earlier I saw a girl on facebook whose profile picture is just a picture of her tits. And I thought to myself, if I were a girl, would my facebook picture be a picture of my tits? I don't think so, but I really don't know.
Here, wait, let me demonstrate. My lovely assistant Justice Ruth Ginsburg will be assisting in the demonstration.
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
Thanks, Ruth.
Anyway, I'm really glad I'm not a girl.
Well, see you next week!
-Nick.
Robert - Conversations with Steve
Me: Hey, Steve, I see we’re incidentally walking directly at each other on the sidewalk. One of us should move.
Oncoming Steve: Nah.
Me: You don’t understand. We’re going to collide. Okay, here, I’ll move to the right. Crisis averted.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the left.
Me: I don’t think you understand how directions work from opposite angles.
Oncoming Steve: You’re right. Look, we’re going to collide again.
Me: That’s OK. Here, I’ll move to the left.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the right.
Me: Steve.
Oncoming Steve: (bump)
It isn’t your fault. No, you’re just walking to class, and you’re innocent. You did all your reading. You double-knotted your shoes today. You even tucked your shirt in. You know, that shirt that doesn’t even really need to be tucked in if you’re feeling especially casual, but you did anyway. You didn’t ask for your happiness to be wrenched from underneath your neatly-ironed chest pocket. Yet, there’s Steve, a stranger in a red flannel shirt and skinny jeans, strolling right toward you, oblivious of his impending collision course.
There’s a thought process here. My first strategy is to call the other person’s bluff. Walk straight, they’ll realize what’s up and move deftly to the side. After all, you’re sort of on the right side of the sidewalk, and that’s how cars work, right? This strategy is made possible by a curious mix of fear and pride. There’s certainly no way I’m moving out of the way first. Whether that’s because I have too much dignity or a complete inability to resolve minor conflicts, I’ll never know.
Eventually the inevitable occurs. Nothing.
Nothing occurs, and it becomes obvious Oncoming Steve over there is equally conscious of the rising issue. By now he’s only about 12 feet away and approaching fast. From there it’s a series of desperate attempts to communicate telepathically and resolve the crisis with minimal actual movement. I study Steve’s face carefully, trying to read his eyes for his next move. I study his hips like I was taught as a sixth grade football cornerback, just in case he tries to juke me. I sort of hope he does.
The moment of truth arrives at about the 8-foot distance. Decisions need to be made here, or I face becoming the laughingstock of the entire sidewalk from here all the way to that big tree over there. I don’t want that. I look into Steve’s eyes. He’s afraid, too. He knows the stakes. With a reassuring smile I let him know everything’s going to be okay. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing, but Steve looks like a nice kid, and I’m sure he has dreams of his own. With a sharp intake of breath, I bite the bullet and veer slightly to my right. So does Steve. Oh god no. It seems he and I are of tragically similar mindsets. With only one more step to go, I make an emergency change in trajectory. I awkwardly swing my leg around and turn back around to the left. So does Steve. Oh god no. With a dull, unenthusiastic bump we lightly collide, mutter apologies and carry on with our heads down. The day is lost.
Oncoming Steve: Nah.
Me: You don’t understand. We’re going to collide. Okay, here, I’ll move to the right. Crisis averted.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the left.
Me: I don’t think you understand how directions work from opposite angles.
Oncoming Steve: You’re right. Look, we’re going to collide again.
Me: That’s OK. Here, I’ll move to the left.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the right.
Me: Steve.
Oncoming Steve: (bump)
It isn’t your fault. No, you’re just walking to class, and you’re innocent. You did all your reading. You double-knotted your shoes today. You even tucked your shirt in. You know, that shirt that doesn’t even really need to be tucked in if you’re feeling especially casual, but you did anyway. You didn’t ask for your happiness to be wrenched from underneath your neatly-ironed chest pocket. Yet, there’s Steve, a stranger in a red flannel shirt and skinny jeans, strolling right toward you, oblivious of his impending collision course.
There’s a thought process here. My first strategy is to call the other person’s bluff. Walk straight, they’ll realize what’s up and move deftly to the side. After all, you’re sort of on the right side of the sidewalk, and that’s how cars work, right? This strategy is made possible by a curious mix of fear and pride. There’s certainly no way I’m moving out of the way first. Whether that’s because I have too much dignity or a complete inability to resolve minor conflicts, I’ll never know.
Eventually the inevitable occurs. Nothing.
Nothing occurs, and it becomes obvious Oncoming Steve over there is equally conscious of the rising issue. By now he’s only about 12 feet away and approaching fast. From there it’s a series of desperate attempts to communicate telepathically and resolve the crisis with minimal actual movement. I study Steve’s face carefully, trying to read his eyes for his next move. I study his hips like I was taught as a sixth grade football cornerback, just in case he tries to juke me. I sort of hope he does.
The moment of truth arrives at about the 8-foot distance. Decisions need to be made here, or I face becoming the laughingstock of the entire sidewalk from here all the way to that big tree over there. I don’t want that. I look into Steve’s eyes. He’s afraid, too. He knows the stakes. With a reassuring smile I let him know everything’s going to be okay. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing, but Steve looks like a nice kid, and I’m sure he has dreams of his own. With a sharp intake of breath, I bite the bullet and veer slightly to my right. So does Steve. Oh god no. It seems he and I are of tragically similar mindsets. With only one more step to go, I make an emergency change in trajectory. I awkwardly swing my leg around and turn back around to the left. So does Steve. Oh god no. With a dull, unenthusiastic bump we lightly collide, mutter apologies and carry on with our heads down. The day is lost.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Buried Treasure
He opened his eyes.
Or, at least, he thought he did. Everything was just as dark as when he had them closed. He had no idea where he was.
A moment of panic gripped him. He couldn't move. A million thoughts flashed through his mind all at once. Was he paralyzed? If so, how had that happened? Why couldn't he see? Was he blind?
He forced himself to calm down. He needed to think. Ok, that's better. Good. Slowly, purposefully, he tried to lift his arm. No good. He wasn't paralyzed though. His arm had strained, it just hadn't go anywhere. He felt resistance on his wrists. What could that mean? Must be tied up. But why was he tied up? What was going on? Who had done this to him?
He struggled mentally for a moment to bring himself back under control. This wasn't getting him anywhere. What he needed now was to get himself out of this place. He might not know where it was, but he sure didn't like it, and he didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be.
As his eyes began to adjust, he started taking in his surroundings. There wasn't much to it. His sight only extended a few inches in any direction. Why was that? He tried to wiggle around a bit to see if he could gain a better vantage point. No luck. He immediately hit a wall. Same thing in the other direction. He abruptly tried to sit up and smashed his head into something hard.
He was in some sort of box. He was pretty sure of it now. He rubbed his skin against the "wall" he had just bumped into. Wood. Smooth wood, with a finish, not construction material type wood.
A coffin. Now he was freaking out again. He was in a coffin. Few things could be this terrifying and macabre. He thrashed about, throwing himself against the wooden tomb, but to no avail. He collapsed, panting. It was becoming harder to breathe. He was running out of air.
He felt pain in his wrists and a moist feeling running down his arms. The enclosed space began to smell slightly metallic. Blood. He must have rubbed his wrists raw in his little fit of panic. He was getting very frustrated with himself now.
Wait. Something sharp in his pocket jabbed him in the side. He wiggled his way into a position where he could grab it. He cupped it in his bound hands and felt his way around its edges. It was cross shaped.
He knew what it was. It must be the cross necklace that his wife had given him as a gift last Christmas. He didn't really believe in God and thought it was silly, so he had never worn it. But he loved her and it reminded him of her, so he had always kept it in his pocket.
Bringing it up to his mouth, he put it between his teeth and bit it. It was made of metal of some sort, tough but a bit malleable. A plan started to formulate in his mind. Yes, he just might be able to find a way out of this predicament after all.
One step at a time. He began to bite the necklace along the side, whittling it to as sharp an edge as he could hope to achieve. It wasn't easy, and on more than one occasional he would slip up and cut his gums. The ensuing blood only made the work more difficult, but he had no choice but to keep on trying. He was running out of time.
When he sharpened the edge to satisfaction, he transferred the necklace back to his hands. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to move it back and force against his bonds. If he dropped the necklace, who knows how long it would take for him to find it again and be able to contort himself into a position to pick it up? He didn't have time for that.
He continued on like this for minutes, minutes that felt like hours until finally his hands were free.He almost cried with relief. Kissing the necklace, he gingerly placed it back in his pocket. If God was real, he would have to thank Him later and hope He could forgive him for defiling a sacred symbol.
With his hands free, he was now able to try and remove the lid. He fumbled around for the edges until his fingers found them. He traced all along them, looking for some sort of hold he could gain leverage from. Bingo. In the back corner near his head, there was a slight gap where the lid met the main body of the coffin. He attributed to shoddy workmanship on the coffin-maker's part. Figures. They couldn't even leave him to die in a decent coffin.
What was he even saying? He should be thankful for this chance, and here he was whining about craftsmanship. He must be losing his mind. With a great force of effort, he refocused.
Wedging his hands in the gap, he grabbed onto the lid and pulled with all his might. Sweat formed on his brow as he strained, and slowly the lid shifted a bit. As it did, dirt fell into the coffin.
So he was buried alive.
He was beyond being afraid now. At least now he knew what he needed to do. All that stood between him and freedom was some dirt.
He made himself think happy thoughts. He was an adventurer, and he was simply searching for riches. This would just be an archeological dig, but in the opposite direction. Right? No big deal. He could do this. He took a deep breath, pulled the lid back a little more, and started digging.
The sun was his buried treasure, and he would reach it no matter what.
-Brian
Or, at least, he thought he did. Everything was just as dark as when he had them closed. He had no idea where he was.
A moment of panic gripped him. He couldn't move. A million thoughts flashed through his mind all at once. Was he paralyzed? If so, how had that happened? Why couldn't he see? Was he blind?
He forced himself to calm down. He needed to think. Ok, that's better. Good. Slowly, purposefully, he tried to lift his arm. No good. He wasn't paralyzed though. His arm had strained, it just hadn't go anywhere. He felt resistance on his wrists. What could that mean? Must be tied up. But why was he tied up? What was going on? Who had done this to him?
He struggled mentally for a moment to bring himself back under control. This wasn't getting him anywhere. What he needed now was to get himself out of this place. He might not know where it was, but he sure didn't like it, and he didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be.
As his eyes began to adjust, he started taking in his surroundings. There wasn't much to it. His sight only extended a few inches in any direction. Why was that? He tried to wiggle around a bit to see if he could gain a better vantage point. No luck. He immediately hit a wall. Same thing in the other direction. He abruptly tried to sit up and smashed his head into something hard.
He was in some sort of box. He was pretty sure of it now. He rubbed his skin against the "wall" he had just bumped into. Wood. Smooth wood, with a finish, not construction material type wood.
A coffin. Now he was freaking out again. He was in a coffin. Few things could be this terrifying and macabre. He thrashed about, throwing himself against the wooden tomb, but to no avail. He collapsed, panting. It was becoming harder to breathe. He was running out of air.
He felt pain in his wrists and a moist feeling running down his arms. The enclosed space began to smell slightly metallic. Blood. He must have rubbed his wrists raw in his little fit of panic. He was getting very frustrated with himself now.
Wait. Something sharp in his pocket jabbed him in the side. He wiggled his way into a position where he could grab it. He cupped it in his bound hands and felt his way around its edges. It was cross shaped.
He knew what it was. It must be the cross necklace that his wife had given him as a gift last Christmas. He didn't really believe in God and thought it was silly, so he had never worn it. But he loved her and it reminded him of her, so he had always kept it in his pocket.
Bringing it up to his mouth, he put it between his teeth and bit it. It was made of metal of some sort, tough but a bit malleable. A plan started to formulate in his mind. Yes, he just might be able to find a way out of this predicament after all.
One step at a time. He began to bite the necklace along the side, whittling it to as sharp an edge as he could hope to achieve. It wasn't easy, and on more than one occasional he would slip up and cut his gums. The ensuing blood only made the work more difficult, but he had no choice but to keep on trying. He was running out of time.
When he sharpened the edge to satisfaction, he transferred the necklace back to his hands. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to move it back and force against his bonds. If he dropped the necklace, who knows how long it would take for him to find it again and be able to contort himself into a position to pick it up? He didn't have time for that.
He continued on like this for minutes, minutes that felt like hours until finally his hands were free.He almost cried with relief. Kissing the necklace, he gingerly placed it back in his pocket. If God was real, he would have to thank Him later and hope He could forgive him for defiling a sacred symbol.
With his hands free, he was now able to try and remove the lid. He fumbled around for the edges until his fingers found them. He traced all along them, looking for some sort of hold he could gain leverage from. Bingo. In the back corner near his head, there was a slight gap where the lid met the main body of the coffin. He attributed to shoddy workmanship on the coffin-maker's part. Figures. They couldn't even leave him to die in a decent coffin.
What was he even saying? He should be thankful for this chance, and here he was whining about craftsmanship. He must be losing his mind. With a great force of effort, he refocused.
Wedging his hands in the gap, he grabbed onto the lid and pulled with all his might. Sweat formed on his brow as he strained, and slowly the lid shifted a bit. As it did, dirt fell into the coffin.
So he was buried alive.
He was beyond being afraid now. At least now he knew what he needed to do. All that stood between him and freedom was some dirt.
He made himself think happy thoughts. He was an adventurer, and he was simply searching for riches. This would just be an archeological dig, but in the opposite direction. Right? No big deal. He could do this. He took a deep breath, pulled the lid back a little more, and started digging.
The sun was his buried treasure, and he would reach it no matter what.
-Brian
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