sreeeeep

In the midst of an incredibly aggressive alien attack, when all hope is lost, I do a few things.

1) I kiss my grandmother goodbye, I'm clearly never going to see her again.

2) I take some pictures of these incredibly crazy space ships that are destroying everything in sight.

3) I remain (incredibly unreasonably) calm

4) I call a few people and tell them they were cool.

5) I call more than that and tell them they sucked.

6) I proceed to buy a rattlesnake, and name him buffersford waffles. He comes already trained do to cool little snake tricks. I put him in my pocket where he happily hangs out.

7) There are a shitload of people playing drums. I think this might have been the influence of the music store that opens early on Sundays that I live directly above.

Everything remains 'all good.'

Dreams are rad.

Now, I tried to be nice, I tried to put my two weeks in.
Trying for civility only goes so far. You try to be humble and understanding, and do things the right way, but it doesn't quite work out. When an 'executive' refuses to listen and goes out of his way to make you uncomfortable during your last three days of employment, its time to walk.

Walking out mid-shift was incredibly gratifying.

Bike n' roll, fuck you. Most of all, fuck you, Colin the executive. Nobody cares about the fact that you were in special services, help me unload the truck or get out of the way if you're going to talk about the military on your cellphone for forty-five minutes.

Goodbye, bureaucracy bike, and all of your excessive paperwork.

Freedom is grand.

Perfection perfection perfection.

Every day, he wakes up. He turns, either to the left or the right.

This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.

Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.

He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.

He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.

He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.

Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.

He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'

Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.

Few things are more appealing than doing laundry right before bed, so I can climb into warm sheets.

Chyeah.

The proud new owner of:
A) A pair of shorts.
B) Two boxes of nicotine patches.
C) Colored pencils.

Who knows what will happen with the mix of the three. Oh dear.

Oh, the collector.

"Give to me." She motioned towards the can.
He nodded his head, he hadn't finished it yet.

She tried to add a pause to her sentence, "Give... to me."
Still, he declined.
She changed her tone of voice, "Give to... me?"

"Listen lady, I'm not done drinking it. Come back in ten minutes."

"Give to me."

He wagged his finger. She stepped slightly out of his peripheral vision, though he knew she was watching him.

Can hunting is like looking for a parking spot in a crowded lot. You look until you find a car that seems like it is about to leave, and you wait.

You know that there might be a spot twenty feet ahead that is readily available, but you wait. Patience is the mentality of the can-collector.

She waited, and it made him slightly uneasy. Not that he feared this toothless old woman with a sun hat and a bag full of crushed cans, he just didn't appreciate being rushed. After all, consuming alcohol in public in the middle of the day is tedious as it is. He didn't want to be rushed. Unlike the can collector, patience isn't one of his strong points.

He turned to look at her, and raised his arms above his head.

She walked off to where another can collector had laid down her can collection at the moment, and began to rifle through it for the most desirable of crushed aluminum.

As he watched her, she looked over, smiled, and gave him a thumbs up.

He walked over, crushed the can, and handed it to her.
"Tank jew."
"You're welcome."
Thus concluding his interaction with this particular can collector, but there will be more. So many more.


Unrelated:

Week

So, the past week has been interesting.

I'll start with the cab driver.
This cab driver was taking me from one interview to another, and we started chatting.
Religion came up, somehow. He went on to tell me that Muslims were 'my enemy,' and only 'trying to deceive me.'
Being Jewish myself, I told him that when I go out for drinks with Muslim friends, we don't talk about plotting the death of the nation. We usually talk about girls and motorcycles and beer.
He responds, "Your friend, 'Mohammed', I guess, is trying to deceive you! I am a historian! Trust me, throughout history Muslims have been trying to take over the world!"

I told him, "no, you're a cab driver. I wish you would re-think your entire existence."

The way I see it, nobody is the 'enemy,' per se, except for individuals like this cab driver, people that can't look at the September 11th incident, and realize that it was individuals, not a religion, responsible.

I mentioned the slaughter of the crusades. He responded with, "If it wasn't for the crusades, the entire world would be Muslim! What do you think about that, son?"

The next fifteen minutes were incomprehensible yelling. As I was leaving, he tried to shake my hand. I asked him quite politely to have an incredibly awful day.

Anyway, I got a job! Except, this job sucks ass!
Every shift, I get there at 7:30. I load a truck full of bicycles. We drive about 40 yards, and I unload the bicycles. We repeat this process three or four times. Then I get to stand around, all day, waiting for tourists. Only tourists. My job is to look at them, determine what size bike they need, and place it in front of them. Upon return, I take the bike from them, (detail) clean it, and put it back on the bike rack.

I do this for around 10 hours. It is horrifically boring. In the interim between tourists, I generally play with my yo-yo, or ride a child's bike around in circles.

Today, I yelled "I AM HAVING SO MUCH FUN!" for a good 15 minutes while cleaning a bicycle. I spend the majority of my time, however, staring at the ground with my mouth open. Seven thirty in the morning to six thirty in the evening. Spending all this time in the sun has left me incredibly fucking sunburned. Great.

Then, it is time to close. I repeat the morning's process, except in reverse. Then I get to take a bus home. It seems a bit redundant.

Anybody know of anywhere that is hiring?
Thanks.

On top of that, holy shit, today is the worst cigarette craving day I've had since I quit. It's been over a week now.

Fuck.

Medicine Patches and Steak-meat.

I think its pretty funny the amount of medical application I have on me at the moment.
A nicotine patch, an icy hot patch on my busted leg, a saline soak for my dermal piercing, dressed certain wounds with their respective healing solvents, I feel like a walking add for all sorts of medical companies.

The better part of my day though, is the canned meal I just ate.

I bought a can of food simply labeled as "steak and potatoes."
Sure enough, I opened the can and was greeted with a godly amount of aforementioned nourishment. To my surprise, however, there were fucking mushrooms in there too.

I love mushrooms.
Hell yeah.
I ate it, and am now incredibly satisfied.

Back to nursing my respective wounds, and back to my continued irritation due to not smoking. Day 5, woo!

Excuse the nonsense.

Well, fuck.

So an incredibly odd phenomena has been happening lately.

Every time I smoke a cigarette, I vomit. This has been happening for the past three days now. The awful part is, I endure vomiting to smoke.

Fuck that. I just went out and bought the nicotine patches, again. I've done it once, I'll do it again. I'm too broke to smoke cigarettes anyway.

Nicoderm CQ, you are my new best friend.

Day one, here goes nothing.

More adventurous.

While the last few weeks have consisted of roaming all throughout San Francisco and generally acquainting myself with the city, while looking for work. The next few days, however, have in store a little more (forced) relaxation.

Muni buses crashing into each other, the incredible smell of shit and fish in Chinatown, random weird shit in Japantown, and sitting in parks in North Beach. This place is really wonderful. Living elsewhere, it seems to be a matter of "What am I going to do today?" Whereas here, every day, exit door; pick a direction; go.

I end up with random people, doing absolutely random shit, while still having enough time to do nothing at all, really.

However, I have been rendered fairly incapable of movement. Circumstances led to climbing of a ladder, and other circumstances led to slipping off of said ladder, tumbling down the height of about a story, and then tumbling backwards down a flight of stairs.
My glasses seemed to have more luck than I did, as they fell down five stories and managed to come out unscathed. I had less luck, my left leg is fucked. Sheit.

It was funny at the time, but holy fuck it hurts now. Less ladders for me.

This was found on one of said adventurings.

The first time

I found myself in a strange situation today.

I am fucking broke - really broke. I have 5 dollars and 50 cents in my checking account, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 67 cents in my pocket.
That's not the problem, though.

I had a job interview in the Financial District earlier today, and only had enough money to get there on the train, and not back.

I was walking around the entire area, looking for change on the ground, as I don't think I look indecent enough to beg people for change on the street.

I wouldn't want to, really.

The point is, I have never seen ground so destitute of pennies, nickles, and dimes.
There was nothing.

Vultures about.

I had to hop the emergency gate to get on the train home.

and again.

This time, I bribed a guard with a cigarette, ran through an open clearing as fast as I could, hopped one fence, ran down through the woods, fucked up both of my hands, hopped another fence, and slipped through a crack in the gate behind an incredibly smelly set of port-o-potties.

All to arrive, just as the concert was ending.

At least I have the satisfaction of knowing that I broke into outside lands twice, successfully, and god damnit next year I will be there the entire time, for free.

I swear.

Breaking and Entering

This year, there were three fences surrounding the perimeter.

The first fence that I slipped under, I was greeted by a guard. That fence happened to lead to backstage.

"Don't make me chase you."
Alright, alright.

I was escorted out, and wandered further around the perimeter.

We found another way in, under another fence. After hiding in the bushes for a solid twenty minutes, we finally made our way down to the last fence. Within a matter of minutes, flashlights and yelling. We were escorted out.

All the while, some fat ass security guard screaming, "Jump the last fence, I fucking dare you. I'd love to tackle you."
A power trip is simply that, I suppose.

We thought all hope was lost.
Defeated, we resigned ourselves to watching the show from outside.

We decided to camp out on top of a box truck at the 3rd fence out, sitting with a group of people watching the stage. Friendly people overall.

Then, a group of around a hundred individuals fucking bum-rushed a gate.
It was awesome.

We jumped off of the truck, and ran in. Paying eighty dollars for outside lands? No thanks.
We got into that shit for free.

Fuck yeah.
Time to try again tonight.

Overall, great success.

I came across a man. The top part of him was in a trashcan. He was clearly looking for something.

As I walked by, he slowly pulled himself out of said garbage receptacle, and slowly looked at me.
Grinning, he yelled, "Gotta find them water pistols!"
He then submerged himself in the trash can again, clearly continuing his search for the ever elusive garbage can water pistol.

It was amazing.

Adjusting

I have begun to use a skateboard and bus as transportation, as it is incredibly easy to get around here.
Spending less time than usual in a vehicle of my own, I've begun to come across all of the wonders of San Francisco.

For example; I was on the bus the other day. As this eighty-something-year-old woman was exiting the bus, she began to vomit. I have never seen so much vomit come out of a single person, with such velocity and vigor, in my life. She has outdone my projectile vomiting career in every sense.

The noise itself was spectacular. A sound of absolute bestial war-lust exiting the body.

It was fantastic.

Shortly after, I saw an elderly man wearing huge glasses dragging an enormous television across the street. He had a hunchback. Yet again, fantastic. He looked absolutely insane.

I like it here so far.

Nothing quite like getting home, trying to microwave Japanese food, and forgetting which side of the packet is open.

Spilling food all over the floor, screaming "oh fuck," over and over again, while I grab scalding hot shrimp dim sum whateverthefucks off of the floor and placing them on my paper plate.

Only to eat them a few minutes later, with a plastic fork, and being incredibly satisfied.

Fuck yeah.

I am finally leaving.

Sixteen or so years in Cupertino has left me with, well, not a whole lot.
I understand that living in a boring suburb doesn't have a lot to offer, but unfortunately, the personalities don't make up for it.

Has it ever occurred to you that you suck?

On Chances

A conversation through a beer glass or three brought me to an interesting thought; "Do people deserve second chances?"

I argue that there really is no such thing, that life isn't so black and white.

A 'new chance' constitutes a clean slate, and as all memories and actions follow in one's wake, I find it impossible to believe that there is such a thing.

To put it bluntly, a 'second chance' is a fairy-tale notion.
Actions, reactions, memories, and all sorts of other attributes will continue to follow a person through any subsequent decision and action, regardless of the circumstance.

Well, complete amnesia could provide a second chance, but that all depends on circumstance.

Regardless; I feel that a 'chance,' so to speak, comes from the very beginning, and it is all one continual 'chance,' up until the day of death, if that makes sense. Every action is a reaction to a previous occurrence, and every decision is influenced by former ones. It is impossible to start over, to truly have a second chance, as life is a series of events without a singular breaking point. A second chance would require an absolute breaking point, severing all ties, personality traits, habits, and what have you.

Even if it was possible to have a 'second chance,' most of you assholes wouldn't deserve one anyway. I'm bitter.

That, my friends, is my two Cents on a current existential crisis.

As I spend more and more time in San Francisco, I grow to like it more and more.

Yesterday, I saw a girl taking a piss next to a Walgreens, right by my prospective house.

The other day, a junkie offered me a valium for a cigarette.

I watched a huge brawl in the street, and nobody gave a shit.

The ferocity with which people interact, or refuse to, is incredible compared to living in a suburb of an incredibly shitty city in the first place.

I think I'll feel right at home.

Kidney Service

Yet again, I remind you that I work in the 'service' industry.

I decide what goes in your drink.
When you see me, consider that I am at work. I am more than likely unhappy to be there.

Laughing at me when I burn myself with milk for your drink is probably not a good idea. Your drink is annoying enough to make as it is.

Now, you fatty, whenever you ask for your drink 'on the sweet side,' I will do everything in my power to give you diabetes with as much sugar as I can possibly load into your drink.

Your kidneys are mine, bitch.

Oh, and now you get decaf.

Also, considering you asked my co-worker for my work schedule so that you can avoid me, I will be as awful as possible, while still smiling at you.

Getting out of here will be too good.

"This is what I believe.

Fuck, what do I believe?

Fuck the military.
Fuck that shit, but I love, I love my job.

They're killing everybody. It breaks my heart."

I have a friend, and this fella served in the military. Every time I see him, he's pretty drunk. Every time I talk to him, he is on the verge of tears, describing the situations he's found himself in, and the things that he had to do.

He always reminds me, though, of how much he loves his job.
Always.

It's as if he's been conditioned to tell himself that he loves what he's doing.
He's a smart guy, that's for sure, but I can't tell if he understands exactly what he thinks. He said it himself, in the aforementioned quote. He always reminds himself, after describing what he considers to be horror, of how much he loved it.
It's incredibly difficult to watch. It's heartbreaking, even, to see the confusion.

It's a damn shame that people can be conditioned by such an institution to become confused of their own values.

That's all.

Don't stop me, tax man.

Walking down the street at 8:30 AM, I shouldn't feel as if I'm going to be stopped and searched by police.

Not that I was, but the officer that drove by me gave me the strangest look, and even went as far as to slow down to give me that strange look for a split-second longer.

It's 8:30, for fuck's sake, I'm too tired, and far too hung over to be up to no good. Stop staring at me.

There's an officer who sits on the corner of Mary and Steven's Creek, in the shade.
This cop hands out Jay-walking and speeding tickets all day.

My gripe with this is that, all day, he collects money, mostly from De Anza students that haven't done anything wrong in their entire lives. Is this truly a 'peacekeeper?'

No. This is a tax-man.
A unit that collects innocent people's pay to further enlarge an already incredibly inflated budget. Something about that doesn't sit quite right with me, but I've come to learn that my opinion doesn't mean shit to most people.

Or maybe I'm just mad because my head hurts, who knows.

What's up, abomination of 2 AM insomnia?

It's not an easy task, to destroy, en masse, an entire population. It takes a substantial amount of introspection, to accept the responsibility to exterminate a group of individuals.

This time, it was my turn.

Armed with only a flyswatter, I single handedly destroyed the entire population of fruit flies at my workplace, giving them only enough time to repopulate again and again, as their reproduction rate seems to be faster than the rate at which I kill them, but God knows, it was a slaughter.

A fucking massacre.

You know, it never occurred to me that I could just leave.

Now that it has; peace bitches. I'm getting the fuck out of here.

When I sit in grass, amongst clovers, I inevitably search for clovers of the four-leafed variety.

Inevitably, I don't ever find any.

Today, I found three.
Pretty swell.

Salvation can be found on a torn Mcdonald's bag, and it starts with "left on holloway."

Driving down 280, coming home from San Francisco, I couldn't help but think to myself,



"My, my. This place is ever so bunk."


Oh, colloquialisms. Hella colloquialisms.



I think it might be time to go.

No matter how hard I try, you foul toaster, you leave crumbs everywhere.

Fuck you, toaster.

I pick you up to clean you, and as I set you down, more crumbs fall.
Toaster, you are the bane of my workplace existence.

I detest you, maker of toast.

I find it completely unacceptable that I live in fear of stopping for a full two seconds, as opposed to three, at a red octagon, lest my financial and legal situation be destroyed by an observing 'peacekeeper.'

If that makes sense.

Main Entry: 1ex·pend·able
Pronunciation: \ik-ˈspen-də-bəl\
Function: adjective
Date: 1805

: that may be expended: as a : normally used up or consumed in service b : more easily or economically replaced than rescued, salvaged, or protected

The importance of note taking

Listen, I may not be a model student, but seriously. Take notes.



With notes like these, I'm sure to pass. That was a two hour lecture.


In all seriousness, though, I usually don't post my drawings anywhere, but they've been getting some positive feedback from friends lately, and I think this one is pretty swell.

45 Degree tilt angle, to the back right

I finally get it. I finally understand the importance of a tilt angle to a baseball cap.

It is to properly display the sticker on either the top or bottom of the bill, depending on the lean angle of course, which has the circumference of your head on it.

7&3/4.

8&1/2. That's a big fucking head.

Not only is it incredibly important to use the angle of your hat to show every just how much awesome you are, but everybody needs to know just how big your head is.

Why, I'm not quite sure. I just know why they do it now, I suppose.

Every so often

I find myself bored for a few minutes, and daydreaming about crazy situations.

This usually happens two or three times a day.

Tonight, I found myself behind a Santa Clara sheriff in the drive through at McDonald's.

I couldn't help but imagine a situation where I threw my car into first, rear ended the fuck out of this cop, backed up, and repeated. Over, over, and over again, until his car was a worthless piece of scrap metal.

Over, and over, and over again.

As he pulled away, I snapped out of it, and pulled up to "Window #2 -- Thank you!"

The clerk, at 3 in the morning, leans out the window.

"Man, you should have rear ended his ass."

I guess I'm not the only one.

Zero to douche in 3 seconds.

Now, I understand that I may look like what one would call 'alternative,' or whatever.
Really though, I'm not your bro, I'm not your dawg, or any other variation of a title for somebody who isn't really your friend.

"Whats up dawg, you got iced coffee?"

"Yes. Sixteen or Twenty Four ounce?"

"Sixteen, I don't need to get all twacked out on coffee, and I've smoked too many cigarettes today bro, haha."

BAM. Customer to douche in one sentence.
I don't care how many cigarettes you've smoked, really.

Really. Just saying.

81 degree adventure

So John and I biked to shoreline today.
Andrea was going to come, but she flaked out, mostly because she sucks.

There she is, and damn, she sucks.

Anyway.
I've never been on Stevens Creek Trail before, and I had no idea such things even existed.

Living in a place like Cupertino, where there are rarely groups of people outside doing anything, it is so nice to see people riding bikes and running and walking around, enjoying a nice day, on a paved road that runs parallel to the highway for a few miles, but the rest of that shit is gorgeous.


Then there's the bay.

That was 20 miles and 6 hours well spent.

I've got blistahs on my fingahs, but oh man, that was fun.

"Aggravating, completely irritating,
Borderline debilitating"

That's right.

Now, I've begun waking up on the bathroom floor.

Fantastic.

The importance of spoked things

Lately I have developed a penchant for two things. Nada surf, which I listen to over and over again, and bike rides.

It has been an incredibly long time since I've just ridden around town on a bicycle, and I had forgotten how enjoyable it is.

John and I went around De Anza, taking pictures and riding bikes.

That is the wheel of one of said bikes.

On the De Anza campus, there are a number of birdhouses in this one tree. These birdhouses are made out of reflective materials, and they reflect light in all sorts of crazy manners. Much like this.


I guess I'm just bored.

Bags.

So there's this bag. This bag is jammed in between my driver seat and driver's side door. That's what I do with shit that I don't need to give a shit about when it's in my car. Jam it in between something and something else, and deal with it later.

I pay no attention to this bag, as it is jammed somewhere, ready to be cleaned up, but at a much later date. Not today, I thought. This bag stays right here, I thought.

This bag is a fucking asshole.

I'm driving down the highway, and it jumps up from its safe, secure spot, in between the seat and the door. This fucking bag, it attacks my face. I swerve across two lanes of traffic, getting jumped by this fucking bag. I almost hit a number of cars, because of this stupid fucking bag. I'm blind at eighty miles per hour, all thanks to this ridiculous bag. This bag is, not only blinding me, but preventing me from breathing as well.

Fuck this bag.

Fuck plastic bags.

A Paper bag would never attack me like that.
This is what I get for using plastic, I suppose.

Thankfully, nobody was harmed in this process. Not me, nor another driver. The bag, though, I'm not so sure about. I threw it out the window... it was attacking my face, for fuck's sake.

'Umpteenth*' attempt at life: the apathetic approach.
Here I go.







*Umpteenth is listed as a word, and was not suggested as a spelling error. Interesting.

Oh shit, it's June.

blah blah bodily pain

"Listen, kidney; the rest of the body must not be having this either. This sort of behavior cannot continue. The constant introduction of foreign substances and a myriad of chemicals? You've got to be kidding me!"
"Throat, I don't know... I've been backing this guy for a long time. It seems awful to drop out twenty years into the race."
"Fool! He's abused you with alcohol and an assortment of drugs! You'd be a moron not to revolt like I am! Look at how miserable he is!"
"How miserable is he, throat?"
"Kidney, have you noticed how much you've been working today? All he can handle is fluid. He cannot take anything substantial. Slowly, I will wear him down. Slowly, I will take over. The revolution has started. Join me kidney, and it will be over sooner than you know. Reject his system, reject his input of fluid!"

"I cannot do it, throat, I cannot. I need his host to function."

"Well, fuck you kidney, I'll do it on my own. I'll either take over or succumb, and return to normality, only one extreme or another.
"Until we meet again, kidney."


So went the bloody revolution between Matt's body and throat. Who knows who will prevail? Stay tuned for more.

1 AM conversations

Every so often, you feel compelled to go somewhere.

You go there.

You meet somebody, that somebody, they really listen. They don't just wait for you to finish so they can retort. You look them directly in the eyes while you speak, and you know; you know that they are really listening. They are really hearing what you are saying.

They are really, truly, and completely hearing what you are saying. Not just absorbing the sounds coming from your vocal chords, and the ambiguous emotions you are describing, but really, truly comprehending what you are trying to say. The confusion that you are trying to convey.

Not the physical sounds, but the actual emotions that you are trying to describe.

The fact that somebody really knows, and truly understands, what you are trying to say really puts things into perspective. It is incredibly easier to comprehend what you are thinking when somebody else can simply absorb what you are saying. How can you understand what you mean when you cannot verbalize it to someone else? Being able to do so is so satisfying.

Somebody, for once (it seems), really, truly understands what you are trying to say, and it is a beautiful thing. Thank them.

Ambiguity, fuck you.

The terrorists have been echo-located!

Today, in my doctor's office, the radio was on a random news station.
I heard the most absurd statement I've heard in quite some time.

"Up next - how dolphins can be used to prevent terrorist attacks!"
Random news station: you've fucking failed me.

This reminds me of the scene in Dr. Strangelove, in the conference room.
"We have to win the mineshaft race!"

I understand the idea of 'any way possible,' but for fuck's sake. Dolphins? You've got to be fucking kidding me.



Terrorists, watch the fuck out for these guys. The U.S. government is gonna getcha.

A simple diagram

Is all it really takes to prove to everyone around you that you are completely, utterly, incompetent.

I'm not mad, I'm not upset, I am just simply amazed at how difficult every day life must be for certain folk that cannot follow even the simplest of instructions. Instructions depicted through pictures (diagrams) should be easy to follow, one would think.

ONE WOULD HAVE THOUGHT WRONG!

There are so few possible combinations of the way you can insert your credit card into our ATM.

You attempted the same one, over, and over, and over, and over again, until you deemed it necessary to come inform me that our ATM was broken. When I told you to turn your card upside down, you still failed.

"The strip needs to be down, and on your right."
"Oh," followed by an attempted correction.
"No, face down, and on the right."
"Oh!" again, followed by, again, an attempted correction.

Congratulations, you have gone through every possible position your card could have been in to properly work the ATM, and you failed.

I hope, for your poor, poor, sake, that you win the lottery. Otherwise, you will fail miserably at everything you do, based on your display of how poor your ATM operating skills are.

I am so sorry, you poor thing.

Blue(?) skies, and some grass.

"You know, it's incredibly strange to look at so much of nothing. I'm looking, but I'm not sure what I'm looking at really, when there's nothing to really look at. I guess I'm looking at the fluid in my eyeballs, I'm not sure, but I can't focus on it. My eyes are incapable. It is too close."
"I've heard that those are damaged parts of your retinal rods, and cornea."
"Oh, I had no idea."
"I'll google it later. What color do you think it is? Perry-winkle?"
"I don't know. I'm seeing all shades of blue, but it all looks so uniform at the same time. I'm not sure if its blue, even. I couldn't even tell you what I'm looking at, really. It's so baffling to look at so much of nothing, and see it all at the same time."

I don't know. I know I'm supposed to stop saying "I don't know," as I have replaced "um," with the aforementioned phrase. This time, though, I really don't know.

Should it really take two cop cars, on top of the AAA truck itself, to tow a parked car out of a parking lot?

I'm not sure.

I realize its Sunday morning in Cupertino, but for fuck's sake, "there's time to lean, and there's time to clean."

At least try to look like you're doing something important, policemans.

Going through all the crap, just in my desk and closet, has created 6 garbage bags full of shit. This is going to be a long process.

Old man, I spoke too soon.

While you may have made the afternoon bearable...
Asshole in a white pick-up truck: fuck you.

Fuck you for going too fast at that stop sign and slamming into me while I was on my motorcycle.
Old lady that was in front of me, fuck you for pulling over and telling the cops that it was all my fault. I'm sorry that you're old and wrinkly and live in boulder creek, but why are you trying to fuck me? I had the right of way. I'm too broke for this to be pinned on me, when it clearly wasn't my fault.

Anyhow.
Traveling down the street, the complacency with which one thinks "I am about to be in an incredible amount of pain," is silly.

All I really remember of being hit by this truck is thinking, "There is a truck flying towards me." No screaming, no slamming on brakes(I didn't have any time to react, really), not much of anything. I thought the aforementioned thought, and all of a sudden, I was elsewhere, on the ground.
"I smell gas," I thought.
Oh, the smell of spilled gasoline. I usually enjoy your presence so, but not when you are coming out of my poor, poor, wounded motorcycle.
People everywhere screaming at me, asking if I was alright. Some dude with a ponytail helping me pick my bike up.

Then I fell over again. I was pretty dazed, and it was incredibly hard to stand at that point. I'm not sure how long I was out for, but it couldn't have been too long. Twenty seconds max, but that was enough time to be sent sailing across the oncoming lane, and skid to a halt in the mud.

Oh, poor, poor, wounded Simpson racing helmet. You were good to me. You saved my head.

Thanks, helmet.
Fuck you, dude in the f250.
My helmet is cooler than you ever will be. At least my helmet helped, instead of made my day that much shittier, like you did.

I am still amazed at the complacency with which thoughts were streaming through my head, moments before impact. It is so calm up there, knowing fully that I am about to get fucked.


Oh, silver and black motorbicycle, you were super duper.

Sometimes, all it takes is one old man to say "Hey man, I like your sideburns," to save an afternoon.
Despite the fact that you remind me of Quasimodo, old man, thank you.

Spewpewpew Part III

I'm not sure if I'm sick and twisted, but I am really enjoying this warm Tecate coupled with going over bank statements.

Does that make me ill? I would think those two awful, terrible things combined would be a combination of devastation to any normal human being.

I guess not.

That is besides the point.

There isn't a point, really.

Next point: Those of you who have seen me over the past few months may have noticed some changes.
I think that recent events leading up to the entire mouth-cancer scare event (which, I still haven't had a cigarette, by the way) triggered some strange desire to destroy.
When I drink, I break glass things. That don't belong to me.
I've never done this before.

It is so weird.

Is it possible that a simple statement could be so overwhelming as to trigger incredibly destructive behavior?

I'm Jewish, by the way.

Oh, Mr. Murphy.

Why you chose to be a police officer and not a fucking detective is beyond me.

"What was going on at the coffee shop, Mr. Burda?"

"I was drinking coffee."

"Oh."

You solved that mystery, genius.
Then, you started busting out the big guns.

"What would you say if I brought out a drug dog?"

"You would find out that I really like dogs, and that you are wasting my time, and yours."

"Oh."

Oh!

Then I watched my tax dollars hard at work, as you glared at me angrily from the hood of your cop car for the next twenty minutes, not writing, speaking, or doing much of anything, really.

Then, Mr. Murphy, you walked over and gave me a ticket for an 'unsafe start.'
I feel truly safe with your cunning and quick wit patrolling the streets of Cupertino, ready to mumble 'oh...' at any discrepancy that you find yourself faced with.

Mr. Murphy, you make me question being a taxpayer altogether.

Oh!

Oh, and look at these stuffs too.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mattburda/

Chyeah.

one and one/two

After a month and a half of not smoking, I am ready to say this.

"I sure am excited to ride you, bicycle."



Physical activities, my name is Matt. Pleasure to meet you, finally.

Reason #17: you cut off the patches of head hair that I missed when I gave myself a haircut, while I'm nearly passed out.

There isn't a #1-16 yet, but I have the feeling there will be.

On a slow evening,

There is this random little (really, about five foot nothing,) old man who comes into the coffee shop every so often. He is usually wearing a cool (green) hat, and likes to talk about 'back in my day.'
This guy is cool.
Not a whole lot to him, just a jolly, friendly, old man. He has his own mug, gets his coffee with two one dollar bills, tips the remaining sixty five cents, and is on his way.

Not this time.

As we were chatting about the pleasantries of his day, I noticed his tie.
"Hey man, that is a pretty sweet tie you have there."

He proceeded to tell me about his tie.
Apparently, Jerry Garcia was a painter. Not a mediocre painter, either. He was terrible. His paintings were so shitty, that when his wife filed for bankruptcy, the state didn't even want the paintings. They took all of her shit, except for the paintings.

What the state didn't realize, but some other random fellow did, was the paintings potential.
Spread out onto a canvas, it was caca. Condensed into tie form, it was super wonderful.
Anyway, after a brief lesson in the history of Jerry Garcia limited edition ties, I asked him where I could get one.
It went something like this.
"Where can I go about acquiring such a tie, sir?"
He told me where. Kohl's, some other random place I had never heard of, and maybe two or three more random places I had never heard of. I wasn't really paying attention, to be honest.

Then the unthinkable happened.
He looks at me, and says, "When I come to this coffee shop, you guys make me miss college. This place is wonderful. You can just have my tie."
He took the tie off of his own neck, and gave it to me.
I was shocked.
It made my day.

Thank you for your random act of kindness, old man. I am one step closer to classy with this bad-ass, green, limited edition, Jerry Garcia tie. I'd like to think that when I am a jolly old man, with my cool hats and my own coffee mug, I'll be able to pass this tie off to some bored kid somewhere. He probably won't know who Jerry Garcia was, but that's alright.

Pissing off of a rock.

Sometimes, starting to drink early in the afternoon is a wonderful thing. I ended up in random places, making random friends, having my hair gently fondled by random old women at a bar, punching Pat in the face repeatedly, and passing out in Diana's car.

I made it home safe and sound, too. That's the best part.

There is definitely an unnameable appeal to urinating off of very large structures, or in this case, very high rocks. It makes me incredibly happy.

Sorry for hitting you in the face, Pat, but you did take my glasses off and poke me in the eyes. You bastard.

I have been showering with increasing regularity. By that, I mean regularity, period.

Is there something wrong?

I shouldn't drink the rest of this beer.

"One day, I will find that Jester. He only cost two dollars and seventy six cents. I cost six dollars. That fucking bastard.

"He makes me sick, with his wind-up head spinning action. I can't believe that I cost more, yet take additional batteries to operate my light up eyes and spinning clicking noise action. I should be the inexpensive product!"

The robot, armed with gun and clicking noise action, hunted poor Jester. All the while, Jester, trying to escape, couldn't fathom the cause for this hostility from the robot.


"Since I am a Jester, I only speak in rhyme.
None of this hatred will be revealed, not in due time.
Cost two seventy six, I did, its true.
Yet you are machine, I only wind up and sing tunes.
My head spins back and forth, and I cannot recall-
the last time I had light up eyes, or rolled around on a ball.
A bearing you have, underneath your motor.
All I have is a stationary drum,
So what the fuck, robot?"






TO BE FUCKING CONTINUED.

This time around

This break has been nothing but a pleasure, compared to winter break at least.
One day spent driving to and from delicious bread, salsa, and cheese. One day spent snowboarding. Both days with wonderful company.

In all of the random places I've found myself, I've found some interesting things.

I found this little monstrosity at a thrift store in Truckee.


It plays a creepy as hell song, while its head spins around in a circle. This is quite possibly the creepiest dollar I have ever spent.


This little guy I picked up at the De Anza Flea market. He spins in circles and makes clicking noises, while his eyes and gun light up.

I feel safe when he is around. He has a gun, after all.

They will have to fight for affection, more to come later.

Throughout this break, I have realized that being ousted from bed at 6:30 AM may not be a terrible thing. On the way home, I see sights that I usually do not see, since I am rarely ever awake at that time.

Such as this cloud sandwich.
It's not often that I see sandwiches this beautiful that aren't made from foodstuffs.


One of the many reasons that make getting kicked out of bed at 6:30 worth it. There are others, of course.

Things seem to be pretty swell.

I'm going on a month without a cigarette.

All he ever wanted

All he ever wanted was to dance. Living amidst the pens, papers, and shiny metal cups holding them all, he would dance all night long. Alas, he was made out of wood. He posed his dancing poses with his stiff wooden joints, but it wasn't as much of a dance as he would have liked. I once could speak to wooden things, and he told me. He told me of his burning desire to dance. He was exactly certain as to where, and was fairly certain on the dances he would dance, and was more or less sure that it would never happen. Then again, whose to say wood isn't a living thing?

It may be alive, but not alive enough to DANCE.


Poor, poor, wooden human sculpture thingie.

LISTEN TO WHAT I THINK

Jerry Seinfeld: Fuck you. Really, Fuck you. Capitalized 'fuck' and everything. Stay away from me, lest I break your face. Fuck you and everybody that watches your shitty comedy. Mostly the latter, as you performed across the street from the coffee shop last night, and every moron that watched you was just that.

A two hour line out the door, full of morons. Just in case any of you were in that line, I have created a figure to show you what I am talking about.

Now, imagine that. Except hours long, and full of morons.
Example: "My toddler dropped his madeleine, can we have another one? He dropped it. He dropped it on the ground. Can we have another one please?"

That is what was said. What I actually heard was, "Excuse me, sir, but I gave my two year old child, who still has incredibly undeveloped motor skills, a perishable food item (which in my germophobic parental eyes, can never touch anything other than his disgusting, dirty little hands or mouth,) a madeleine. He dropped it, and I would prefer for you to compensate my inability to hold something for my child, who is clearly incapable of managing a food item on his own. Pay me, for I am a parent."
A random regular who overheard this exchange referred to them as "part of the entitlement generation." Thank you, random regular. I appreciate your witticism.

For the sake of 'Fig A,' I have a 'Fig B,' so 'Fig A' doesn't feel alone.
Here it is.

Although, Fig A being a 2 hour line full of morons most likely is incapable of feeling alone, I did it anyway.

NOTE: Both Figures 'A' and 'B' have a phonetic 'line' in them.

Fuck it. Fig C: My cat.


Either way, people's inability to realize that an action is not necessarily someone else's fault amazes me. I hate the fact that I was asked to compensate $1.09 worth of madeleine for said parent's inability to hold a cookie for their incapable child.

Back to my original point of Fuck Jerry Seinfeld and all associated with him, I have never seen a group of people as rude and impatient as last night. No specific examples except for the former, they were just shitty in general. Quitting smoking was easy, up until last night's shift. I still haven't had a cigarette, for the record.

Fig D: A horse. I just figured this was a good one to throw in.


Again, for the record, I am still slightly drunk.

As enchanting as riding a motorcycle through fog may be, the accompanying hail was bullshit.

I find

that the amount of times I refer to 'the tiger' at work is ever increasing.
I take orders with the tiger. The tiger holds my pen. I tell people that I wish I was the tiger. Not simply 'a' tiger, but 'the' tiger. The little plastic tiger on the counter at work.

There he is. Fear him, and give him your two dollars for a large cup of coffee.
He is a great subject of conversation, as he is always there, but never listening. He is made of plastic, so it is incredibly hard for him to do so.
He never gets offended, but he always takes people's money. He always holds the pen for me.

The tiger is my friend.

Between the Devil and the Sea - EP by Oh No! Oh My!
Just may be one of the greatest things of all time.

Don't get me wrong,

I really enjoy working at coffee society, but for fucks sake:
"I'm getting coffee for my friend, does she take cream and sugar?"
"I don't know, whose your friend?"
"She has a nose ring."

You see, I have two nose rings, and do not take cream or sugar. Maybe her friend doesn't take one, cream or sugar, since she has one nose ring, but which one, I cannot say. The reality is, I cannot say either way, because nose rings have nothing to do with coffee preference.

At least I don't think so.

I'm also amused by "Hi, how are you can I have a non-fat latte?"
Notice the lack of comma in between 'you,' and 'can.' I didn't even have the chance to open my mouth that time to respond.

A bunch of savages in this town.

"this is how super-villains are born"

Day 13 of no smoking leaves me with:
A) A day in which I had to drive into the mountains and hike up a hill to be away from cigarettes.
B) I could have a pot (for large plants) full of disgusting black lung gunk.

Other than that, still, a sense of taste and smell like never before.
Sometimes, I feel like a super hero when I walk up the stairs, because I'm not out of breath.

Maybe quitting smoking turns people into bionic awesome machines, but we may never know. A bionic stair-climbing machine.

Being mostly blind for over a week was an interesting experience, as well. Not being able to make out people's facial expressions makes it extremely hard to interpret certain statements, especially if said statements were stated in monotone. Reading was also impossible. I wonder what would have happened if I had tried to read a sarcastic statement? It may have been too much for the fabric of space-time.

Yeah.
Hi.

Day

Seven without cigarettes, and day six without glasses. This is starting to catch up to me.
I'm so angry that I... I would... write this stupid post and not do a whole lot else.

Please forgive strange behavior as of late, as I'm feeling incredibly neurotic from not smoking. I also feel incredibly uncomfortable being relatively blind.
Actually, forgive typos and grammatical errors as well, as I can barely see what I am doing.

Thank you.

Recent Developments

Have led to:
i) Six days of cigarette-freedom
ii) Fuck underwear, not the biggest fan of it anymore. Currently in public, not wearing said article of clothing.
c) New tattoo. Thank you, Kai Smart.


Waking up at 7 in the morning and driving to coffee society to sit and not really do shit is an amazing thing, sometimes.

Lunch-ables.

Thursday night: get drunk and go to hot tub. Bring lunchables. Lose lunchables.
Friday night: get drunk and go to hot tub. Discover lunchables still there. Eat, and be happy.

I also find that the number of times per week that I am not wearing underwear in public is constantly increasing. I also rode the bus today, with no underwear. I haven't done that in an incredibly long time. Riding the bus, I mean.


It was pretty swell. That swell-ness may be attributed to the fact that I had a box of 'peeps' marshmellow candies with me, and those are incredibly tasty. The pink ones.

My latest discovery, however, is a sense of smell. After not smoking cigarettes for a grand total of 4 days now, I find that everything smells. Not necessarily good or bad, but everything has an incredibly distinct odor that I otherwise would not have noticed.

Like beer, and apples. Those smell pretty good.

Garbage smells pretty bad. I know this now.

Broken things and aching lungs

As of today, I haven't had a cigarette in 3 days.
My glasses are broken.
I lost two socks last night, and woke up wearing pants, but not underwear. I'm still not wearing underwear, actually.

Writing this seems to be more important than putting on underwear.

Regardless; (fuck semi-colons.) Regardless: The last few days have been quite an adventure.
Going from being a smoker of ten years to a non-smoker in a matter of hours is quite the transition.

I find that I can smell and taste like never before.
I also find that on leaving a building, I instantly reach for my shirt pocket smokes. I'll have to figure that habit out, sooner or later.
It is incredibly strange to not have an instantaneous relief of what feels like 'mental pressure,' we'll say.
It seems as if for the past ten years, I could sit down, light up a cigarette, and instantly be set into a mode of relaxation. I feel that now I have to find something to fill that void, and I'm not sure what it is just yet. I'll find something, I'm sure.

I also feel as if I'm a pregnant woman. I have been eating. Everything. I ate four separate meals yesterday, and usually I will eat once a day, if that. I hope that is related to smoking, as it would be incredibly unfortunate if I actually was pregnant.

On a completely different note, Rhinos are fucking crazy. Those things are too bad-ass.

Returning to my actual point, if you can call it that, this shit sucks. Quitting smoking sucks. The alternative is even shittier, though. I've been told that I have nicotine lesions in my mouth, which, from my understanding, is one step before cancer. If I continue to smoke, said lesions could become very angry very quickly, and I could find myself in an incredibly shitty situation. So fuck that, quitting smoking it is.

I'm not doing too bad so far, all things considered.



That is a cigarette.

Oh, and I'm still kind of drunk from last night. I don't think that makes any difference, though.

2 Hard boiled eggs

and a cigarette.
Now back to sleep.

On a side note, wearing boots every day proves, yet again, to be a good idea.

Endless Activity Arsenal

So I've added another two additions to the list of things I carry around with me.
In addition to band-aids, a big black notebook, bottle of JB-Kwik weld, I now have a 1938 Underwood type-writer, and a yo-yo.

This yo-yo has already gotten me into trouble.

You'd be surprised at how mad drunks at bars get when I refuse to "walk the fucking dog, brah."
I won't walk the dog. Brah(?).

"What are you, a bitch? Just walk the fucking dog."

I'm not quite sure I understood completely, but I was getting called out for refusing to do a yo-yo trick for a bunch of drunk assholes. This sequence of events is slightly beyond me.

Conversely, some folks are so amazed that I carry around and play with a yo-yo that they buy me drinks. That sequence is right up my alley.

Yo. Yo.

The typewriter, while being an incredibly fun yet impractical machine to use for writing, also seems to provide an exceptional amount of pleasure to passer-by's, especially of the older nature.

I've had elderly women taking pictures of me with their I-phones saying, "I haven't seen one of those since 195X. It makes me so happy to see a young man like you using one of those."
I suppose there aren't enough people that appreciate the impracticality of using a typewriter in public like I do for these old folks to be seeing them around, but it makes them happy. So it's ok.

Some people like it, some people think I'm a giant asshole for having useless crap. Both are alright with me, really.

Go to class,

Go grab a drink which turns into more than a few. 9:15 or so
Go home at 12:30 (ish)
Sleep at 3:30 (ish?)
Wake up at 5:30
Eat two hard boiled eggs and an apple. 6:32
Go back to sleep. Now.

No point, really.

Here is an ashtray.


Still, no point to that, either.

There is a certain point where you throw your hands up and completely remove yourself from a situation. Congratulations, I have reached my breaking point.

4:05

So I've started doing something that I'd never thought I'd do.

I have a journal.
It's big and black, and the pages are not lined. I guess its a sketchbook.
I have three or four pens that I keep in my backpack. A black one, a green one, a maroon one, and a ballpoint pen. I prefer to use the ballpoint pen.

I find writing in this journal strangely soothing, and doing this may be one of the reasons that I don't write in my interblags as frequently. I don't think anybody gives much of a shit, but that's ok.
It's considerably more personal to write in something that I and only I will be reading, although most of it is jumbled, and my handwriting is so poor that I can't read most of what I write, which brings me to my next point.

Tomorrow, I buy a typewriter.
Word.


Here is a typewriter.



On another note, getting yelled at and hit in the face and repeatedly punched is definitely not the way to my heart. Please do not repeat.

Spewpewpew Part Two

The strangest feeling is receiving a paycheck for two weeks worth of something that you can't really consider work.

I had to stare at it for a solid twenty minutes to really figure it out, but working at coffee is grand.

Now, there have been three new additions to the arsenal of things I always have with me.
Along with the former black lighter and 2 euro coin, I now always have with me:
A box of band-aids (usually lasts 2-3 days)
A big black notebook (will probably last 2-3 months)
and a tube of 'JB Kwik' for instant welding (probably won't last very long at all)


Now back to original spewing, and the idea of reaction.
There are three (extremely) general reactions one can have to a situation.

If I clump the entire spectrum of reaction into three categories that can define a circumstance, I have negative, neutral, and positive.
Negative is of course the least beneficial, although negative is a relative term to whoever is reacting to a given circumstance. A negative reaction turns a circumstance or set of given actions into an actual problem. The way I see it, any event can be molded into a problem or not based on the way it is reacted to. Negative reactions instantly turn it into a problem.

A neutral reaction, or no reaction at all, and that just leaves the outcome to all others involved. It can go either way.

A positive reaction generally strips the circumstance of becoming a problem. That's the hard part though, turning any given problem into a positive things. Shit can hit the fan and it's not quite as simple as controlling the way you feel about things, I suppose.

I don't really know where I'm going with this episode of finger to button induced diarrhea, but I suppose I'm trying to say that nothing is a problem until one (I) turns it into such.
Like I said, it's all finger to button induced diarrhea, but that's ok.

The first thing I spoke out loud this morning was "I'm completely naked. That is awesome."

I just thought you should know.

Spewpewpew

So through recent conversations with many random people, I have come to a few conclusions.

Imagine going to a junkyard and removing three thousand random gears from random vehicles.
Then you throw them into a pile.
They magically all fit together exactly as you threw them in and start to turn.

That is just about how everything works. Reality is one, enormous accident, and one should live accordingly. Everything is the way it is due to chemical reactions, and everything continues to be just that. Human interaction can be broken down to chemical reactions, and still, everything is a giant accident and there is no control over any aspect of one's life. We live like this because single celled organisms evolved, an incredibly long time ago at that, and there is no greater scheme or 'master plan' for any of this. It all just happened to come out this way.

Accordingly, there is only one thing that anybody can really control about any situation, and that is how one reacts to given circumstances. The only thing you can truly control about your life is the way you react to the things that are thrown at you, not even necessarily what you do about them, but how you feel about them in that very moment and what your immediate reaction is. Given that, if one just attempts to control reactions and realize that everything will be good some day, that is the first step to being just fine with everything.

Just a thought.

I really like this picture.

As my situation gets worse and worse, my mood and demeanor are constantly improving, and I find I enjoy myself and my surroundings more and more every day.

Thoughts?

UPDATE

So I also married Arjun to the railing. I also married Faraz to a post of some sort. Again, necessary paperwork was unavailable, but if the post and the railing are up for it, I know Arjun and Faraz are as well.

Did I marry anybody else to anyone/thing last night?

It is necessary to point out

Two bottles of whiskey is too many.
After headbutting the wall, and then headbutting the gutter, which was a 5 foot deep gutter may I add, it has come to my attention that I should not have that much whiskey. Ever.
Thank you to everybody who pulled me out of that ditch. I appreciate it.

On the other hand, as an ordained minister, I married Pat to Diana last night. Unfortunately, necessary paperwork was not present, but if they're up for it that will be taken care of. Happiness to them for however long I can convince them that they are legally married for.

The absolute epitome of my productivity is taking a shit and lacing my boots up at the same time. It doesn't get more productive than that. Not on a Friday, at least.
Word.

headwear

Wearing a sombrero for 6 hours straight in a single day gave me an entirely new perspective on the way people normally look at me.
Now I really know when people are giving me dirty looks as opposed to quizzical glances or just passing by. Wearing a completely out of place hat in somewhat out of place weather really showed me what loathsome looks one can receive from people. It is fantastic that most people aren't actors if they can show emotion so clearly on their facial expressions.

Happenings, still.

Recently there has been a strange rise in the amount of times per day I get yelled at by strangers.

I was trying to buy a pack of cigarettes at a 76 station, and the clerk looks at me and screams,
"What the fuck kind of wallet is that?"
"It's a cheeseburger."
"What the fuck kind of cheeseburger is that?"

Among other people yelling at me, like the fellow who followed me down the street from Paul and Eddies.
This is ridiculous.

Important Information

I am now an ordained minister. I am serious.
After my credentials arrive, and I register with the county clerk, I can legally marry and perform funerals.

I will marry you to anything or anyone. Is that chair looking good? Done. You guys are married on my watch. I don't care if it's a male or female chair either, I'm fine with that.

I'll post a copy of my credentials once I receive them in the mail. I would also appreciate being referred to as Minister Matt.

It's strange how different the same place becomes across the counter. Years of sitting at the benches and getting coffee made for me all seem very different now.

It's pretty cool.



Not related; I am bored late at night.

So I take pictures of my feet.

Happenings.

Sitting on the bench by myself, this crazy lady now knows that;
I don't like airplanes.
I have ice-skated in both San Jose and Tahoe, but not with a girlfriend.
My favorite coffee is Society Blend.
I don't have any coffee shop experience.
I am just fine with taking out the trash.

That was the highlight of my day. Talking to a crazy lady on the bench and playing 20 fucking questions.


Really though, I am officially employed again and today was the first day of work. That was the highlight of my day.

Related; the front door of work before it was really work and just a place to sit.

Interprrreeettt

I had the strangest dream last night.
I was in a place closely resembling paradise - and I was swimming. I somehow fell asleep, or was knocked unconscious and swept out to sea.
I awoke in an unfamiliar area, by myself, in the dark. I remember screaming for help and feeling absolutely, hopelessly lost. I spent hours sitting and thinking of what to do, realizing that I had no idea where I was and nobody would come find me. I remember being convinced that I was going to die.

Then, I got up, turned the corner, and was home.

There are two things that confuse me.
One: The return to normality was as simple as walking around the corner yet it never occurred to me to leave.
Two: I was that close, yet why didn't anybody answer my calls for help?


Still loosely related; paradise and pleasant things.

Reorganization

Reorganizing one's desk and one's habits seem to be very similar.
At first it seems like everything is comfortable exactly where it is, but for whatever reason you move shit around.
It's pretty fucking uncomfortable at first and you can't find where you left that damn pen, or friend, or whatever thing you may have misplaced.

Then you start to remember where you left things, and why they are where they are.


Loosely related; this is my desk.

Directly beneath me must be a very flattering angle, because the floor wouldn't stop coming on to me. Wouldn't leave me alone.

Fucker must have been drunk.

Accept the fact that you are a fish.

Attempts

So far, I've applied to Rasputin, Dana Street Coffee, Coffee Society, Bookbuyers, and Recycled books.

So far, not much luck.

Yo. Yo.

This is bullshit.
Neither Target nor Toys R Us have the type of Yo-Yo I was looking for. I just want a ball-bearing Yo-Yo without flashy lights, is that really so much to ask?

Toys used to be so simple and entertaining. Now its about movement, expensive replacement parts, flashy lights, and what can kick you in the face harder.



Like this life size storm trooper toy. Look at its small, expensive parts and face kicking action.


(not one of my pictures, by the way.)

Education crisis

What I really don't understand, with the state deficit affecting school systems, and classes all over California being impacted;
Why the fuck are there elderly people in my classes?
I'm not talking about middle aged people trying to better themselves, I'm talking about straight up old people. Retired old people. Retired old people that are taking class spots away from people trying to transfer.

It's a well known fact that classes in community colleges, UCs, and CSUs are completely fucked right now. The fact that people that have no intention of transferring to a four year university from community college are given priority over those who are doesn't sit quite right with me.
If the state cannot solve the deficit and lack of funding set towards education, then priority should be given to those of age and in need of an education, not those that are of old age and in need of something to do in retirement.

I'm not saying ban them from taking classes, that would be absurd. It just seems that people trying to add classes cannot, or are wait-listed, after people that don't need the class for transferable credit. I just don't think they should be given priority in any which way, and given class spots based on availability after other students.

read

I lost my job today.
If anybody knows of any place they think I'd be interested in in Cupertino/San Jose/Mountain View area that is hiring, please let me know.

Oh, but some old guy screamed "faggot" at me and flipped me off from the street today, so that was awesome. It's all about the small pleasantries.

The bobblehead nods with every thump to let me know I'm fucked. Damn you, dashboard Darth Vader.




On a somewhat related note, some interesting statements of the day:
"...on auto-pilot for misery."
"I try to be a good person with varying degrees of success."

Why they were said is a completely different story.

A little bit of absolutely nothing.

I cut my hair when I don't have anything to do.
I took a substantial chunk out of the back that is completely bald now.
Oops.