Nick - THE WORST THINGS

 

  Wasps

Wasps are the worst things. Bees are desperate creatures, and, if need calls, they will valiantly die to protect their hives.

And then there are wasps. Wasps don't die when they sting you. They sting you whenever the fuck they want, because they can. Also, bees pollinate all of our stuff. What do wasps pollinate? Nothing! Actually, probably something. I don't know. Who cares? Wasps are the worst.

Also wasps make those weird little grey tunnelly nests. Those things are unsettling, and they hang around your garage. You never notice them until you are too late.

The Color Beige

The Color Beige is the worst thing. First of all, when I google "The Color Beige," I get like 20 different colors. I don't think I can describe how stupid it is that this is a color when we don't even know what color it is.

One time I was driving my friend home and I asked him which house was his. He responded, "The beige one."

I threw him out of my car right there.

Happiness

Look at these people. These people look so happy. I hope they are all eaten by wasps.

Happiness is the worst thing. Let's run through an all-too-common scenario. I wake up, and turn my alarm clock off with all my fury. I drag myself to my dresser, miserably force myself to get dressed, and painstakingly maintain some baseline degree of hygiene. Then I finally trek wearily down to breakfast, only to be met by my two friends who are cheerily eating breakfast. Also, they are dating. So they are happy, wide awake, and they love each other. And now I'm sitting with them.

If there is anything worse than that, I have yet to encounter it. Happiness is the worst.

The Universe

The Universe is the worst thing. Yep. You all knew I was getting there.

Someday I could go on to eliminate every wasp and every beige-colored thing, and then The Universe would be all like, "Fuck you! You're insignificant!"

Basically what I'm saying is that The Universe invalidates everything I do. Put in a good effort to eat a healthy breakfast this morning? That's too bad, because you're a small collection of atoms that will never leave a rock on a distant arm of a small spiral galaxy.

And you can make the world a better place all you want, but that doesn't change the fact that it will be destroyed in a few billion years. 

Endings

I'm not writing one 

Summertime

--By Robert Langellier

Aw man. Now I have friend groups in multiple states! What a good problem to have, right? Well, after probably the longest winter I've ever been a part of, summer's finally here, and I'm saying goodbye to both states' worth of friends so that I can throw my summer away working, schooling, weeping, wearing jeans, and not hanging out with you. So, effective Friday, have a good summer, everyone. For me. Please.

And just because you're worth it, here's a real post from my friend Brandon that he wrote for our school newspaper in October. It's my favorite album review in my memory banks, and for some reason, I decided once upon a time that everyone should read it. He gave me permission to publish it here when he was drunk.

Brandon - Guster: 'Easy Wonderful' — 2 out of 5 stars

Since the release of Ganging Up on the Sun in 2006, three of Guster’s band members have become fathers. This might explain why their latest release, Easy Wonderful, sounds too happy, too nice and, appropriately, too childish.

The band is known for its straightforwardness, its devotion to clear-cut melodies and its bongos. These have served Guster well, bringing a substantial college-aged fanbase.

But on Easy Wonderful, that simplicity is mixed with a few too many teaspoons of Splenda. This sounds decent at first taste; the “oohs,” “doohs” and high melodies on the first two tracks might even make listeners a fan of Guster’s newfound sweet tooth. And then you get diabetes.

There is just too much high-fructose corn syrup here. The lyrics never stray too far from the gaiety implied by the album’s title. Musically, Guster seems to occasionally resemble the Plain White T’s, and that’s never a good thing.

There are glimpses of that past Guster luster on songs like “On The Ocean,” but they are washed out by the underlying Raffi vibe. Hell, Guster practically delivers the Mufasa/Simba monologue on “This Could All Be Yours.” That is, if Mufasa’s kingdom consisted of Dairy Queens, parades and “the American-y dream.” (Dear Guster, “American” is already an adjective.)

The listener wants to take lead singer Ryan Miller’s advice on “Bad Bad World” and “Grab a hold/Take these melodies/with your hands/write a song to sing.” One would love to ride the raft of melodies that usually supports Guster’s sound, but the flood of subpar songwriting is just too strong. And besides, it’s kind of Guster’s job to write the songs to sing. Maybe that’s the problem.

More likely, however, the real problem lies with whom Miller and the gang are singing these songs to — their children. At least, more often than not, that’s what it sounds like.