Merry Christmas Bank and Loan!

Some things I’m noticing:

- Snow. Snow snow snow. I love snow. It’s ridiculous how much I love it. I mean, I always knew I loved it. But dammit, now I’m starting to appreciate it when it falls. I don’t care if it makes my car hard to see out of and gets my pant legs wet. It makes me happy inside

- Cold weather. I love it. It makes me think of work getting done. Breath puffing out. Red, raw cheeks. Running. People shaking hands vigorously and happily. Happiness. I love this cold weather.

- When I shop for things for my mom now, I shop most selectively for the “ease of use” option. I guess, subconsciously, I realize that technology has far surpassed my poor mother. I should have realized this when she first learned how to use craigslist and sent me every single “Help wanted” ad because she knew how to use the forward option

- Provo finally seems like home. Or something close to it. I’ve settled in just enough so that I’m slightly nervous about leaving for Christmas. I’m excited, don’t get me wrong. I’m really really really excited. But I just feel like I’ve come to know this town just enough, just the tip of it. If I go home and come back, will it all be thrown off again? Will I stay up all night for a week again, like I did when I first got here?
I remember how scared I was of this place right after I moved in. I’d park my car at 2 a.m., walk to the bottom of the stairs in my building, take of my shoes, and tip-toe up all three flights of stairs to make sure I didn’t wake anybody up. I slept on the couch for awhile. Truthfully, I hardly slept. I read. A lot.
It’s funny to me how much I felt like an intruder. But now, I finally feel good. I stomp up the steps at two a.m. I yell in at my roommates. I still sleep pretty sporadically, but I sleep in my bed happily. Will all that get reversed? I hope not. Living on your own is hard. I want a kitty.

- I never thought the words Union, Kentucky would sound so damn good.

Merry Christmas. Happy Doomtree.

I've got all the answers

Alright, so the whole US is freaking out about the bail outs and the economic crisis and the recession. Well, come on people. The answer has been right in front of us the whole time. People keep asking where we're going to find the money in the government to hand out to all these big companies?

Well I suggest you guys shut your mouths and hand over full responsibility to one man:




Now, of course, the solution is obvious. If anyone can find millions of dollars in the infrastructure of the government, it has to be Matt Lesko. I mean, the guy's whole pitch is that the government is just waiting to throw this money at all of us. Do his question marks and mismatched socks lie? I think not.

I wonder if he'll get jailed for conspiring to take down the government... maybe he's to blame for the exploitation of the house market. Maybe it's all. his. fault.

Michel Gondry + David Chappelle equals good

I bought Block Party last night at Big Lots for three bucks. I was in Big Lots because, well, Big Lots totally kicks ass. You can get food for dirt cheap there, and every once in awhile you can get a totally choice cd or dvd for like 2 bucks. In this case, I got Block Party. Oh, and Rollerball. An 80’s post-apocalyptic action adventure centered around a death match based in, shocker, a rollerderby. I told Natalie I brought it back from the future, and that it was a documentary made in 2012. She read the back to me and told me it was “energetic, fresh, and fascinating.” I know that’s exactly how I’ll describe the apocalypse. At least American Apparel won’t exist anymore. Or the GOP. Did you catch that? That was me being kitsche.

So then I came home and was determined to work on an 8 page research paper. The end result; I stayed up all night watching MTV’s NEXT and infomercials, reading about the demise of counterculture. Here’s what I say; I’m just going to become Ernest Hemmingway. Sorry Natalie. Sorry endangered African animals. Sorry Gertrude Stein. I just have to though. I have to forsake material possessions and bullshit media and the thick of self-obsession. I mean, I’ll still be like your average artsy, 30th century, neo-hipster, lolcatz loving twentysomething when I grow up. I mean, shit, I’ll have a cat. But instead of one, I’ll have 100. And create my own race of them. Of course I can’t drink (something that is definitely lacking in these all night sessions these days), but if I did I wouldn’t just drink. I wouldn’t even just drink to alcoholism. I would drink to constant desperation, filled with the immortal power of raw manhood. I would go into the final stages of alcohol poisoning, hallucinating my eyes out, but still finding the sanity to rake my yard, watch a football game, cook a steak, and then sweat the fever out. I wouldn’t give one shit about a damn. I’d move to a foreign country and love it, until it became cool, then I’d tell everyone they’re silly and go kill big game in the Savannah. My writing would boil down to the barest of essentials, leaving nothing but a story, devoid of intention and meaning. And when you try to find either of those things, I would laugh and tell you to give up.

Because, really, Ernest Hemmingway is, and always will be, the true measure of man.

My morals don’t allow me to attempt to fully live up to his stature, and I’m silently thankful for that. I can’t fathom actually attempting to love the world like he did. This is both a saving grace, and a disappointment. C’est la vie. La vie est morte.

I also ordered free blessing bread from an evangelical infomercial this morning. It’s called miracle manna. Holiness is the tits.

So now I’m going to go run, sans music (an entirely new concept to me), take a shower, and get to work in time for Rob to give me some real assignments. And hopefully, I’ll create some awesome copy and hopefully I’ll get a raise and I’ll fly abroad on BYU’s ticket. Now THAT. Would be the tits.

It's all coming together

Everything seems to be happening pretty nicely. I mean, there have been a few uncertain spots. But life goes like that. But it's all looking good. Christmas is coming. Classes are ending. Real school is starting. I'm getting a new friend/roommate. Once that's all over, I'll work until I can't type anymore, drive all over the country, see my family, love my friends, and then get back to the grind. Probably put my mission papers in after that. Christmas, spring. Sometime. Maybe when I'm around 20. That won't be too bad. Right? I don't think so. I swear I'm not wasting your time. I swear I'll understand if it happens like last time. I promise. Just promise not to leave me in the dark.

There's a duality to life anymore. It's like the water on top of the oil. It's the surface tension of feelings. We have what we acknowledge, what we value first. We can shrug off this layer, simplify things, let them roll off our back, beading and falling down and we could care less. Then there's that part of us that we let ourselves into only so often, and that's when we see the true nature of everything within ourselves. I see this place in showers, on car rides, and when I'm pretending dirt hills are mountains.

It'll be hard to do what I want to do. It'll be confusing. But I think I've finally reached the point where I realize I have to trust in something. I have to begin to trust in the solidarity of the world. We'll all end up where we're supposed to. The only thing that matters is that we have to keep communicating about where we're headed.

I kind of find comfort in exploring the uneasy reality of our situation. Because that means that there's a future. That things will continue moving. That we'll change and grow and life will be life. That's the way it's supposed to be. And I think that if I just keep making these leaps of faith, it'll give me substance. It'll give me the ability to make them all my life. And deep down, I know that's what we both want; a life made out of rash decisions and stupid ideas. Those always make the best ones, I think.

All I know is that my life is different, better, sweet, and wonderful for a reason. I came here for a reason. It's so much more than I could ever have asked for. I keep wondering and waiting for when things will change, because I think that's what every human does. We can't ever quite fully enjoy the present because, well, the future is there you jackass and who doesn't want the future? But I'm trying to keep it close enough to me. To enjoy this all. I'm trying to remember the little details that matter the most. I think that's why you think it's silly for me to take so many pictures of nothing. And I think that's what makes me so happy when you appreciate them all. I'm just trying to remember. So that way I'll know how this felt.

I think my goal will be to get you to finally look forward to something.

The Christman Family Gene

Am I the only one who thinks that when people become "fans" of things on facebook it's hilarious? Because it says things like, "Jessica Wilson has become a fan of ICECREAM" or something. that's funny to me. Maybe I'm crazy.

I sweat. All the time. No matter the weather. It's cold in my office. My fingertips are cold. seriously. I keep having to curl my hands into fists to make my fingers a little warmer. it's cold outside. I can see my breath. But my armpits are just pumping out sweat. It's disgusting. It's stupid. It's nonsensical. It's just plain wrong.

I just wish it was an everywhere sweat. So that way I'd look like I just took a run. Or a shower. Or went for the Polar Bear plunge.

But I found a good online radio station. And some new music. So, that's good. And I have little to work on. At least, little that pressing. And I bought a 1 lb. bag of jerky. I'm doing pretty well.

Remember that one time?

I just remembered that one time we all decided to make the Union Kroger's parking lot our living room. Remember that? We drove around with a truck bed filled up with chairs and lights and tennis balls and stupid stuff and finally decided to sit in the middle of the Kroger's parking lot, eating bread and A-1 and playing night tennis.

Was that the same night we drove around stealing letters from the Triple Crown signs? Making things say, "sir farton place" and "chill states"?

Or was the night we went to Sarah Zwinklis' party and were there about 10 minutes before the cops started banging on the door and everybody crammed into rooms, and that kid and I went out into the apartment and started cleaning up bottles and flushing everybody else's pot down the sink? That was the night we waited half an hour on the floor, our hearts pounding, before we got up, looked at each other, put our shoes on, and said "screw this." and beat it out the door and down the block to the truck.

Dude. High school was awesome.

I can't wait

I can't wait for Kentucky. I can't wait to drive down the back roads and see all the hills and be warm with all those people I miss so much. I can't wait for Christmas morning and Christmas time, when everybody is wonderful to each other. I can't wait to see my sisters. I can't wait to bitch at Brady. I can't wait to stay up all night with people I haven't seen in months. It'll be the best moment of my life.

Oh yeah

I forgot to update this awhile ago. I went and saw Mamma Mia about two weeks ago...







Best tampon commercial I've ever seen.

I thought I told you...

"I'd like to ask your help. For all the people in the cheaper seats, please clap your hands And the rest of you, just rattle your jewelry."- John Lennon


I woke up today at every 9 minute interval starting between 7 and 10:30. I've always wondered why my peculiar alarm seems to think 9 minutes is the perfect snooze amount. 9 minutes. It's like it's trying to trick me by not giving me the full ten. And it's one that increases in volume until it's shrieking at you and you're awake. I love my alarm. I sleep through it every day.

I'm at work now. I like my job. I ended up writing about 1200 words yesterday. I track my daily progress based on words. It's like I get paid by wpm. I worked 5 hours yesterday. 1200 words, 300 minutes. I typed 4 words a minute. Based on actual work content, if I were to put that on a 100% scale and figure out how much money I should make based on my productivity, then I'd make .34 cents an hour. Which... maybe I deserve...

I put more time and thought into this post than into an entire shoot yesterday. All I can do anymore is dream about making my own movies or writing my own things. I want to take a screenplay class. Next semester.

I'm out of film. I have too many rolls of film to develop. I want to go home for christmas sooner. I'm Done-tello.

I need some new pants

These pants that I have, all of them. They don't fit anymore. Nothing I own fits me.

Writing things is hard. I used to write somewhere around 1700 words a day when I'd work on scripts. Now I can only hit around 800. I'm too used to documentaries. I've been working almost non-stop on one about Janice Kapp Perry. I now know more about her life than I do my own. I keep substituting her memories for mine. Like the time Doug and I lived in California for 15 months and we'd go to 50 cent movies on the boardwalk two blocks away. Then I got pregnant. Wait...

But I'm glad I have the faith, and I'm glad I'm going to school. I'm glad I'm not a bum. That was my main goal a few weeks ago. I never told anyone. Now that I'm over that stage, I'm telling you. I wanted to be a bum. But I think I'm over that. It's cold now.

Do I have any insights? No. I don't think I do. I signed up for my classes. I'm taking 17 hours.

Here's my schedule:

monday: on campus from 8-3
tuesday: on campus from 8-9. Work until 5
wednesday: on campus from 8-3
thursday: on campus from 8-9. Work until 5
friday: on campus from 9-1. work until 5.

8-5's everyday. It's like a real job. I can't wait until summer when I can work 80 hours every two weeks. It's like this most delicious dream. Because it means lots of money. Then I can take most of the summer off and pay off my car insurance and everybody is happy.

That's too far in the future. time to write some more. stay in the present.

This is a bullet from a gun called what the fu

I'm loving Mason Jennings anymore. He's perfect Utah music. Natalie and I drove up to Heber Valley on sunday and walked around abandoned neighborhoods and looked at mountains and yelled at deer. I like Heber a lot. It reminds me of home. Nothing there, but somehow pretty and wealthy and inhabitable. Plus. Cowboys.

I love "The Dude* Nod."

*dudes herein referred to
do not listen to jack johnson,
wear sandals, or play
ultimate frisbee. they're men


The dude nod. The universal sign of acknowledgement. This event, this phenomenon, is among the greatest social standards in the world. It's practically universal, and it is used to signify one thing:

"I see you and you see me. I'm a bad ass dude. You're a bad ass dude."

That's it. It serves simply to acknowledge the manliness of another man in a silent display of communication. It is an agreement. We will not say hello. We will not talk. If you do talk after a nod, you thereby break the nod and are not a man anymore. Women, when seeing each other, don't understand the dude nod and its complicated feelings. Women must shout and talk and hug and all other manner of reactions when they see their friends or even someone they don't know. Men however judge not when the nod is employed. They simply keep their mouths shut, tilt the head, and revel in the timeless tradition.

It's a mixture of pride and honor to exchange the nod. It's something our fathers, grandfathers, and forefathers employed as a means of manly communication. Scientists speculate that it originated in ancient Germany, coming from the Germanic tribe leaders. While the manliest, most barbaric men were chopping down trees, they often would also be skinning animals. At the same time. And walking back to their harem of women. It is told that the tradition began as one of these busy men was lumbering home, thinking about wood and women, when he met another like warrior on the path. They passed each other, yet too engrossed in all the bad ass stuff they were doing, they both, in a simultaneous display of awesome, nodded to each other in recognition.

Whether or not these highly scientific facts are true or not is irrelevant. The dude nod today exists in all its glory to remind men where they came from and who they are kindred souls with.

For those less informed, (perhaps you grew up in the north and don't truly understand this whole lesson), I've provided a few simple truths about the timeliness and necessity of the dude nod.

Rules:

-While walking or standing in a public place, or even at home, if another familiar or unfamiliar dude comes within your range of sight and you somehow, whether intentional or unintentional, make eye contact, you are to nod either up or down (depending on your ethnicity; multi-ethnic dudes may simply nod to the side if they are currently trying to "figure themselves out").

-If you are approached with a dude nod; if the dude nod is not given by you first, but is indeed prooffered; you must return said nod.

-Do not display emotion or speak during nod.

-If your nod turns into mirth or sadness or hostility, a fight will ensue, or at least hard feelings.

-If you speak, you break the nod rules and are not a man.

-Upon giving and recieving a dude nod, the two parties must look away, as is customary. However, if the space is small or the company poor, the two dudes may take to resuming looking about the room and may catch eye contact once or twice more. From the point of the initial nod, however, no further subsequent nods are required and the dudes may ignore each other as they had originally intended in the first place.

Situations Where the Nod is Not Acceptable:

-If you are in a fight with your girlfriend. Do not exchange the nod to another dude while you are engaged in a fight with your girlfriend. It may give her leverage ("you're not even paying attention, nag nag... etc"), attract the attention of a dude who wants your woman, or could allow you to lose concentration and therefore lose the fight. This is strongly suggested against, and may result in pain, physical or pussy-heartfelt kind.

-When the dude is a woman.

-When a woman looks like a dude and you get confused (this is acceptable, but strongly advised against)

-When you've been hitting on another dude's girlfriend. That will result in a tussel. And the dude who's dignity has been challenged will win, as is established by the Laws of Manliness.

Situations Where the Nod is Greatly Appreciated and Encouraged:

-When you're getting arrested. Nothing spells totally awesome dude like a guy getting arrested. Especially if, while being arrested, he takes the time to give the nod to some bystander. Totally diginified. Even if he has no shirt on.

-When drunk

-When having sex (in a public place)

-While skydiving

-If you're old

-Everywhere, anytime, and in the right way.


Personally, I love the nod. It connects me, mutually, with those other dudes that I know I don't want to talk to. And they don't want to talk to me. And that's ok. It's just a recognition. It's awesome. Let's all enjoy it.

Oh and don't tell the women about it.

Hollywood House Collects Pogs

Christmas is Coming

Things have gotten colder and darker here. It’s throwing me off a little bit. I’ll get up and go to work, then go to class. By the time I’m done, it’s dark already. It’s annoying. And it’s cold. So I can’t even go sit outside and enjoy the world. I mean. I can. Just I have to GET READY for that and getting ready to enjoy things doesn’t spell enjoyment for me. It spells chore. But oh well. Life is such and I’ll get over it.

I found a free tv last night on the street. I knew it was free when I saw the big duct taped sign that said “FREE” on it. So that was nice. Adam is moving out come December and eric is moving in, but I’m pretty sure none of us besides Adam have a tv. So I got this monster. It’s from the 80’s and reminds me of my youth. Which is good because I’m bringing back my super Nintendo and it’ll be nice to remember how it was when I was 8.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’m not creative or talented or accomplished in any way. I felt this way when I was writing at the magazine and I feel the same way now. This job isn’t mine. I didn’t get it. It wasn’t my incredible interviewing technique or my cover letter or anything. I attribute it to the Lord. Because, truly, I’m just not really that good at what I do. I try hard. Because if I don’t, I know I’ll just stop coming to work out of fear of rejection. So I try. But whatever I put out is generally not up to snuff. It makes me think about all the kids who are just a little older than me, and sometimes younger than me, who are currently making everything that I read, listen to, or watch. All the young authors and musicians and advertisers and script writers. I write for people roughly three times my age. They write for me. I think about them and how much responsibility they have and I think about me and my cracker jack job and I’m not depressed or angry at myself for not having accomplished more. I’m just damn impressed.

I’m happy it’s almost Christmas. I got everyone in my family something great so far. I’ve got shopping to do still. I actually have a paying job this year so I’ll be getting thoughtful, beautiful presents for everyone. Hopefully.

Midterms, music, water, and snow. That’s life.

It's novermber?!??

I've been studying a phenomenon. I drink on average about 44 oz of diet coke per day. Aside from it embalming my insides, I noticed that oddly, it was barely making me... uh. energized? I wasn't feeling the 44 oz of caffeine rushing through my blood stream. Most of the time I was just feeling entirely tuckered. It was confusing me. I was very confused. Who wouldn't be? So I tried something I remembered from my childhood.

As a kid I guess I drank a lot of soda. Ok, no I know I drank way too much. I was fat. I didn't care. Who does when they're fat? Nobody. I mean I cared. I worried. I was sad that I was fat. But I didn't care ENOUGH to stop drinking the soda and eating the doritos and not exerecising. Frasier was on. Shut up. So what I used to do was, if I was feeling tired and wanted to not feel tired (this was always true when I didn't feel like going to bed or was staying at a friend's house) was I would drink water. Water water water. At the time I was convinced I was losing weight because of it. Maybe I was, maybe I was just adding water weight. Whatever it was, I was way more awake, alert. I always used to rely on it. But then a funny thing happened. I started to stop drinking soda. Of course, I then lost 50 pounds and felt way better about myself. But the water thing stopped working.

Well this past week I remembered all of this and, on a whim, filled up my 44 oz Super BIG GULP (AHHH ECONOMY SIZE MUTHAAA!!!) with free water from the water coolers here at work (maybe against company policy). Twice (I'm getting fired). And the result? All week, as I've been doing this, I get. Jittery. Alert. Crazy about work. I must complete things. I must work. I must super surf the internet with super surfing energy. I'm so jacked up on caffeine I can't feel my face. I abandoned my family. I live in a basement. A crackhouse basement.

Ok, not that far. But damn I'm full of energy. My assumption? When I drink all that soda and aspartame and caffeine, I dry my body out. I turn into a mysterious "red berry" from Special K red berries before the milk. But when I pump 88 oz of water into my system, all of my blood cells then explode and my heart races. I'm really. Really. Hyper because of it.

My plan of action: unless I want to keep acting like Java Man from Mad TV (that referance is lame and I know it. I'm proud of the way I was raised), I'm going to go back to a big gulp. or maybe a gulp. It's still a discount refill and I'll get just the right amount of energy for my day. Plus a lot of water. And water is good for you. Right?

Ah who am I kidding? I won't change. I'll just let my liver suffer. DIE BODY DIE!!!!

My Weekend

Well here's my going's on. I don't have any great insights today. I never do, but I like to pretend that when I set out to write these things (blog. Blog? That damn word...) I have an idea of where i'm going to go with them. This creates the illusion, in my mind, of a great plan; arching ideas where the reader intently leans against his/her elbows, eyes illuminated, brain racing trying to keep up. You all weep. You all cry. You all clamor for more. I hope this really does happen. That would make me say the word blog.

So last night I finished Running With Scissors. It was awesome, and made me only think, after I was done, "Why can't I write a book then?" Then I realized that my life wasn't his and I wasn't gay and my childhood stories are like laffy taffy jokes compared to Augusten Borroughs' stories. But it still made me want to write a book.

Then this morning I officially switched showers to the secondary shower. I couldn't help it. The old shower is a demon. It's a scary monster and I'm afraid of it. I feel like my grandma who's scared of the dvd player. I don't know how it works, I don't know how to operate it, and I'm certainly not the one in control. So I stole all of my things from it and went to the other bathroom. It's like bliss. The lighting is even better. It's like showering in a rainforest, tropical paradise. I'm in love. And slightly scared of what the old shower will say.

On the way to work this morning my mom said, "BURN IN HELL JAMES FREY!!!" over the phone. Yelled it. I couldn't agree any more.

Tonight Natalie and I will be seeing Girl Talk in Salt Lake. This is awesome to me.

Tomorrow Natalie, Liz, and I are all going trick or treating in the dorms. Liz is dressing as Margot Tennenbaum. I should have been the Baumber. I remember back in the summer I had actually SAID OUTLOUD that I wanted to be Richie. I think it's when I saw some cool glasses and a tennis racket. I just remembered that right now though. It's ok, my costume is great anyways. Natalie and I are being Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. We've got classy clothes and a bottle of Welch's 1975. It'll be an affair to remember. Then after that we're all heading up to Salt Lake to see Rocky Horror Picture show, as done by the latter-day transvestites. I wonder how they're voting Prop 8...

So this is my weekend. We'll see how it goes. I'm sure it'll go awesomely. But maybe our Suburban will flip or I'll break my leg again or something. Somebody pray that doesn't happen. Not me though. I'm not praying that. Then it gives God the idea. Then I'm goin' down.

Today has no point. haha. Except for Girl Talk. Doin' time. Wastin' mine.

Voting is titillating

Voting is the tits.

That's right. There's nothing more sexy, more appealing, more ENDEARING than the right to vote. There's nothing bigger and brawnier than a strong bicep pulling down that lever in that curtained booth. There's not one thing better in my mind than knowing that your vote goes to a representative in the electoral college of my state, who will then vote for the person he thinks is best (probably the party that paid him off). There's nothing better to me than not knowing who the hell I actually am pulling that lever for. And there's nothing better than knowing I'm gonna vote me some local politics.

You see, earlier today, after a very disparaging conversation with my older, purportedly wiser brother, I was distraught. He told me I couldn't vote because I didn't mail in my ballot by yesterday (he was wrong, I am wiser). He then told me I was out of the family. Incensed, I made a call. A call to my EFFING CONGRESSMAN. He answered the phone and looked up my information like a little lap dog.

And yes, I am eligible to vote. This is probably one of the most significant elections in my immediate history. And in case you were wondering; I'm voting Obama/Biden. And then I'm voting Bennion Spencer.

And then I'm eating Gandolphos and laughing and laughing and laughing all the way to the nonexistent bank.

I'm Learning... I'm growing.

Provo is gorgeous right now. There’s not a cloud in the sky, the mountains are nice dusty little friends next door. I had a fun morning. I was up at 2 AM watching kung fu movies in Spanish and making pork chops. I went to bed and woke up at about 9. I made some delicious toast, slathered in chunky peanut butter and honey and cinnamon. Damn it was a good morning. Then I went to 7-11 down the street to get my daily 44 oz of Diet Coke (don’t judge). I even bought a shrimp lime cup-o-noodles (don’t judge). And then, I locked my keys in my car. And I was kind of pissed off. But then I sat outside for an hour and half and just enjoyed Provo. I never knew there were so many homeless people. Natalie’s been telling me for a long time to get a spare key to put under my car. I knew she was right; especially when the homeless black guy told me the same thing. He yelled at me to duct tape a key up there. I loved that guy because he knew JUST how to small talk. Sincere long laughs and then a pat on the shoulder to say goodbye. I think that comes with age, knowing how to talk to people like that. Homeless people are so awesome to me. I sat on the curb after I found a locksmith to call; I sat there with my cup o noodles and my big gulp and tried to look homeless. I wanted people to think it so badly. I’d love to be homeless sometimes. You see so much. Man.

So then I sat there on the curb and I saw a lot of cool things. I saw a funny bike and I saw a man with three Mexican women that were laughing really loudly and he bought them groceries, but looked very ashamed through his small smile. I saw Obama getting gas. He looked just like him. I saw people in very worn shoes and ill-fitting dress shirts getting on buses to go to work. I saw people calling about jobs. I saw a man with a walking stick and very nice clothes followed by a guy with a mustache and a can of soda walk into an alley to a research place. I got to just sit. Finally the guy from the pop-a-lock company showed up in his beautifully emblazoned truck. I don’t understand why every locksmith company gives their workmen a big truck to drive around in. They only have about 2 tools they use. It just seems silly to me. But he came in his huge truck and performed the fastest door jam service I’ve seriously ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot (Austin).

So all in all, my trip to 7-11 took about an hour and half. It cost me a little over 40 dollars. But I like to think of it that I paid to make myself sit still and enjoy the city a little bit. And I saw some cool stuff. Like a helicopter.

Of course, this all probably would have been more interesting if I hadn’t done the same thing about a month ago. I don’t deserve a car.

Blockers of the blue.

I like my blueblockers. A lot. I like them because I put them over my face and they make my hair sweep over the tops of them and they keep things out of my eyes. Like blue. I like them because I can look at a lot of things and they look entirely different than they would normally. Normal colors don’t exist. Things are far more cut, lined, edged. It’s like someone took the world and made every detail finer. With my glasses on I don’t have to worry about a lot. In fact sometimes I get so caught up on wearing them that I’ll realize that I’m driving or something and get instantly scared because… wow, I’m driving. I could hit something. I could run off the road. I could die. This is a side-effect of these glasses. You get so caught up in how they rest against the bridge of your nose and your forehead, in the way that the colors everywhere seem to turn off and on, that you forget where you are or what you’re doing. I like them because people look at me and see big reflective amber plates where they’re supposed to be able to read me. I like them because nobody else has them. I like them because they feel like a friend. I think other people should find something like this that they have in their life. Headphones, an ipod, a pillow, a book, a journal. Some small semblance of who they are that they constantly need near them or on them to help define them. A little placard explaining themselves and what they’re about. A Hello My Name Is sticker. Maybe this would make finding friends easier. You could look at a person and their thing, their one thing, and you could say, “That’s interesting, tell me about it.” You could ask, “What do you write about in that journal?” or “what do you find in that bottle?” Or “What do you carry in that backpack?” And then we could all show each other what we find in our things; I’d put my glasses on your face, and you’d put your headphones in my ears. I’d sip from your brown bag and you’d spill all the books and ink pens and drawing pads out of your back pack. I’d even show you my rock collection. I think that would make the world a little easier to get along with. If we were all just a little more interested in each other’s insides.

My fabulous driving record. (Dear God don't let my mother read this)

Before I moved to this state, I thought of myself as a particularly good driver. I was in control, but daring. I could make moves other people only did so unawares of the danger that would befall them if they failed to perform perfectly. I did fishtails on wet kentucky backroads blasting Jack White. I also caught a car on fire, blew an engine going 90, and ended up in a field with a few friends after we forgot to break for a stop sign (I wasn't driving... but I did yell a lot).

Ok, I wasn't the greatest ever. I'm not Bobby Labonte ok! (If you were wondering, I'm getting a tattoo on my forearm. That's what it says)

But the thing is, since I've been here, I'm the king of motor vehicle infractions. Just last night I got pulled over for a tail light AND a headlight being out. This was, in fact, my second ticket in 24 hours. I awoke to a tasty yellow envelope trapped beneath my windshield. Apparently I had parked across a sidewalk. I looked to my left and right, at the two cars parked in red line spots, and then across the street at the two trucks parked near hydrants and in front of a driveway. No yellow slips. I'm the lucky one I guess.

So I've got two tickets. But that's not all. All of this transpired within the month where I got towed at 3 AM and walked 10 blocks to the impound lot to pay $150 dollars to get my car out. I also hit a pedestrian. I hit. A pedestrian. My car literally hit a girl as she attempted to cross the street. Here's the thing. This happens daily. This is a combination of factors.

1) The drivers here, inexplicably, are more wild and dangerous and TERRIBLE than I am. It's true. I'm not just saying that. They really. Really are. This means that I'm too busy watching THEM to watch you; you slow, backpack laden, snoody Idaho dwelling street crosser. Back off.

2) The pedestrians have a magic power. It's called instant crosswalk. See a street? Is it busy? Do you NEED to cross right there at THAT CERTAIN intersection? Is this the quickest way to the HFAC? Well, look at this! A crosswalk has appeared. You can't see it? That's ok. It's there. Oh is the light green? It's midday traffic in uptown Provo? Is 900 as congested as possible? Perfect, time for me to walk boldly across this street. I swear, it's a deathwish. You aren't protected by your garments or by God's divine love. You're a person walking across a 35 (45) mph street. Act accordingly.


I almost hit people daily. I almost crash everytime I get in the car. I'm scared out of my wits at night to park ANYwhere. It could be an empty street, devoid of hydrant, stop sign, or cross walk with no redlines or driveways or even sidewalks. I'd be afraid. Afraid for my life.

And I'm also pissed off. I've got 5 days to pay this parking ticket. 5. The back of the ticket nicely lists options for payment.

1) I can pay online. I just have to go to payprovo.com. But, of course, this means that I'll need to know the exact way to fill in the online request. I put in the infraction number (do I include the parenthetical number? Maybe...). I also put in my license plate number. Or my VIN number. My license plate number doesn't work, no matter what combination of numbers, letters, state abbreviations, and spaces I add. I look on the ticket to find the VIN number. It is oddly, and frustratingly, not present.


2) I can call in the ticket and pay it over the phone. I've called 85-court approximately 12 times. Nobody picks up. The voicemail box is full. I... don't get it.

3) I can bring it in. I can bring it to the people who are apparently too lazy to pick up the phone or update the website.

4) I can mail it. Does the mail really make it to the designated place in 5 days? Especially over the weekend? Really? No. It does not.

Apparently my options have been limited to bringing it in. So I've got to go find this sucker, hand them my money, and then leave serviced.

Thank you Provo PD. Now fuck the police. do not cross

Damn son!

You’ve got your salted cashews, your lightly salted peanuts, your dry roasted peanuts, your crispy pumpkin seeds, your gummy bears, your runts, your mike n ikes, your boston baked beans, your hot mango, your gummy orange peel slices, your pistachio nuts, your mucho fiesta delicious fun bag, your sour balls…

Standing in line at the 7-11 down the road from my house I’m watching the Indian guys talk to the irish truck drivers with the white stock boy helping the Mexican coffee buyer. I’m driving in my car thinking about how some people really complain about this place. How there aren’t any Ethan Allens or paneras or hip coffee shops or cool places for all these kids to go and look cool. But I think that’s bullshit. I attribute that to the hipster ideal that interest is dead and indifference is ironic and nobody knows if knowing anything is worthwhile. I think that cool is being interested in experiencing the local flavor. I think it’s a beautiful mix we have here. An old town from the early nineteen hundreds that basically stopped developing somewhere in the 50’s. All the houses are those nuclear ranches with big locust trees out front and basements with walk in steps and there are still Sinclairs here with the box pumps. People take that for granted. We have a rich mezzo American culture here. Indian (feathers), Mexicans, English, Germans; those predominant cultures prevail here establishing a weird mix of suppressed Mexican and native American pride, that really only comes out in the some 30 or so Mexican restaurants that peddle half real food to half interested white college students. I say give up the game. Give us real Mexican culture. In fact, unleash it all. There’s a growing Indian (dots) population growing here too. The latino culture needs to embrace them; the latino, mezzo American, Mexican American, latin American whatever you want to call it. Everybody needs to get together and stop giving a shit. Have the Day of the Dead festivals in the middle of Center street. Hold Sego up the road at Pioneer Park. Let the Indians have Hopi dances across State Street. Let the Buddhists and the Hindus pray silently and then dance wildly through 900. Germans go ahead and prost all over town. Irish, fife and dance and punch each others teeth out. I want one big stereotype orgy and I want it now. I want to watch as this town explodes with culture and all the bored white college kids pick up a sari or a kilt or a trash bag poncho and stop caring about anything. I want all the hobos who sit on parkway with their sleeping bags and their bottles of liquor and their walking stick to sit back on their heels and smile at everything. I want them invited into homes and I want them to not steal anything and I want them to leave quietly in the morning and to hike up to Heber to tell everybody about it, and I want these valleys to bloom into big garish color displays of celebration and fall. I want a harvest dammit. Break the pavement into slabs. Bust the windows of cars. Kiss in stairwells and set up wires that criss cross town from window to window, sending gifts and baskets and flowers and cheese to friends and people we don’t know. Just do something instead of being bored and not giving a shit anymore. Celebrate, winter isn’t here yet.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not the minorities here pretend to be different ethnicities. If the Indians put on name tags that say "Juan" when their real names are "Chiraq" or "Dixit." I wonder if anyone notices but me. I wonder if it's a way to abandon everything you've been and where you come from. I'm making a name tag right now that says "Jamaal Washington." I'm testing this out.

I'm over it

I got over my unpleasant experience that occured a few minutes ago. Mainly because I found this on the internet. And I think that this is best marketing I've seen in awhile. Better than those shoddy microsoft "I am a PC ads." Better than the new Burger King ads. These are great. This one is exceptional.

On Hold

I'm on hold for the student services office. This is the most frustrating wait of my life. I learned last night about some big mess up with my tuition and now I supposedly owe 1,200 dollars for something someone, no MULTIPLE people said was covered a month and half ago. Now here I am today. I jumped out of bed, showered, ran to work, only to sit in my cubicle meekly, my ear resting the on the phone that's cradled between my head and shoulder. I've been on hold for somewhere near 10 minutes. 10 minutes. I've been to this office before. There's like 50 people in there. And three windows to help people. The rest of the people just sit around with phones. But not my phones. I called again after waiting 5 minutes. This time they said my wait time was 4:56 seconds. It's been 6:46. They just told me the expected wait time was 4:24. Somehow in this one place on campus, time has slowed down infinitely. The classical music interludes somehow have a calming effect on the laws of time and space. Maybe time smoked a J. Maybe it hotboxed it with all the telephone operators before it came into work. Maybe Brigham Young showed up too, and all the workers for FAFSA. They're all sitting around making out and talking about Heroes, laughing about the lights blinking on all the phones. They're- oh. Someone picked up. Pretty good job guys. It's only been 15 minutes of hold time. Exactly fifteen minutes.

...

Oh cool. Ok. Hold again. Nice. I'm loving this. I'm brushing up on my classical knowledge. I know all of these songs now. This is Tchaikovsky's 5th. This is Maller's 12th. Beautiful. Calming. It makes me ok with this super long wait. If they were playing Jimmy Eat World or Notorious B.I.G. I would be upset and angry because each song would clue me into just how long I've been waiting. But no, not with this music. Genius. I'm soothed. I'm calm.

Seriously, what the hell takes people THAT long to pick up a phone? I always like to imagine what they're doing. Playing paper wad basketball. Filing their nails, staring at the phone just muttering for it to stop ringing. Talking about who got married last night. Maybe no one is there. Maybe the girl picked up and said, "Can I put you on hold really quickly?" And I said, "Ok... sigh" and then she put the phone down next to a little speaker box playing classical music and stood up and walked outside, locking the door behind her. She walks across campus and she sits on the grass with a bunch of people with a frisbee and asks them if they want to play. They all get up-

She's back. Thank God.

...

She. Is it true? Really? She put me on hold again. She's calling someone else apparently. She said she's calling a processor. Here's what's really happening.
She says, "Let me call a processor. I'll put you on hold again."
Me, "...ok."
Linda (that's her name. I made it her name) puts down the phone gingerly. Her nails have just been did, so she doesn't want them to get scuffed. She's got a date on thursday; she's angry that it's on a thursday, but he's cute and funny and loves Brian Regan so it's ok. She's thinking of them getting married, has already looked up wedding dresses and places to take pictures. That's what she was doing for three hours, up until she got a call. She hoped it would go away, but nobody else picked it up, so she turned off her carrel light and crouched under her desk. The light wouldn't stop going off so eventually, after she briefly fell asleep, she stood up, stretched her back, and picked up the phone. She immediately knew she didn't know how to handle this so she put them on hold. She sat back in her chair, and stared at the cieling. All those little tiles have so many holes in them. They look like space in reverse, with little black spots. I wonder what they taste like. She picks the phone back up and says that she's been looking through the account, and now needs to call a processor to figure out what the hold up is. She puts the phone back on the cradle and gets up and walks to the water cooler. She takes a little cup and places it under the blue top spout. She eyes the red spout, wondering just how hot it is... it says caution hot... She switches the cup over to the red spout and lets the water fill up halfway. She then picks it up and looks through the thin waxy paper. She tips it onto her hand and drops the cup, wincing in pain. Yep, it's hot. She looks down at the water across the floor and the cup and her the blotch of red on the top of her hand. She turns around and walks back to her desk and picks up the phone.
Linda, "yeah, I called the processors and apparently they don't pick up for me. So, I'm going to try back later. I'm going to take your name and number and I'll call you back once I get in touch with them?"
Me, ".......... ok. I'll be in class later, so make sure you leave a message please."
Linda, "Ok, thank you have a great day!"
She hangs up the phone and sits down in her chair again. She looks around the bustling office, at all these people with papers and phones and people to talk to and thinks to herself, "I belong here."


I'll never go to college again.

Things I like thinking about

I really like thinking about your house in Kentucky, the way the lanes and rows of houses stuck together, burning down sometimes just because. I liked that big muddy field by the road next to the church, and I loved that trailer park next to it where the kids would go to get high in shaky rooms. I like thinking about the vault gray skies of falls and winters with no snow, and the hard ground. The warm basement with the piano. I liked your house a lot.

I like thinking about all the summers in my house, in the cul-de-sac in front of the field. I like remembering how it felt to come home from Colorado, only gone for a week and a half, but feeling like everything had changed for the better. I like remembering the humidity every summer, how the heat and darkness swallowed our backyard. I like when you stood through the roof of my car and watched the valley when we drove home from the country. I like all the long fields and dirt driveways and big spaces. I like how we always played in the rain. I like remembering staying up all night that one summer, walking streets at night, with friends, sometimes alone, but always staring around, looking at each house, loving each place my eyes fell.

I like thinking about Kentucky a lot. Sometimes I like thinking about Ohio too. But only sometimes. I like to think about Kentucky, with all those kids I've grown up with, with all those places I've grown up with, with all those problems and all those issues and all that happiness I've grown up with. I like when my brother kicked off his side-mirror in a snow storm because it made him angry. I like the creek at the bottom of the field, covered in trash, but always flowing and pushing all that refuse down stream. I like dark nights on that deck that we got so late in my childhood. I like the drinks and the drugs and the friends and the cold.

But mostly, I like it in the past. So I can always visit.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

I don't know if it's the weather or what, but I'm convinced I'm getting sick. My left ear is crackling. That's probably not good. It sounds like its full of water and everytime I shift my head, so that the level of pressure is rebalanced in my ears, it's like little springs are snapping. I open my mouth, and a coil gets loose and bounces around my eustacian tubes. A Keebler elf is jumping trampoline in my ear drum.

Maybe it's the weather. It's been cold here lately. As in, freezing. And I've been walking home a lot. It's been snowing and I've been walking and breathing hard into my scarf and wool collar. Maybe that's it. But it feels so good to have hard pavement under your feet with cold wind in your face.

I never anticipated it'd be THIS beautiful out here. I drove into the canyon and through Heber Valley over the weekend. Even at night, I was just awestruck at those mountains. I was at a campfire on a summit of one of them, and it's intense how far you can see into the range even at 2 AM.

It's perfect for driving with a little heat on, listening to Jose Gonzalez and Bob Dylan. Did anybody get my Merry Christman 06 cd? Listen to it if you're ever out here and it's cold. It sits by you like a warm puppy.

Some people have less tact than Dick Cheney in a quail flush. I'll stop thinking about them.

Speaking of quails, there are quail everywhere. And we chase them yelling "Young Prince! Young Prince!" For some reason that makes us happy.

All I can think about anymore is US 42 in winter. I hope when I come home people will stay up all night, enjoying being outside in the middle of the highway, or parking lots, or car windshields, or music and empty parks again. That would be awesome.

Take it easy, love nothing

I'm at work again. Like everyday. I've been here too long, trying to make my hours this week. I want to be on a shoot holding a white board, making actors wince when I catch the sunlight right in their eyes. Not in my building. It's a wonderful feeling.

This place got more flourescent lighting. Being in here long enough makes me realize that they're blinking to stay alive, these lights. They jump against my face like the Scera marquee, all neon whites. It's like a snow covered tv screen after awhile. All you can see is the swirl of black and white.

I want a sandwich, a drink, and sunlight.

Update over.

If love is blind it must have an Oedipus-complex because it hurts like a motherfucker.

Reasons why I've decided I was cooler as a 9 year old.

Being at work allows me a lot of time to do, well, absolutely nothing. Most of my time goes into reading wikipedia articles. A lot of them. Because of this job so far, I am way more knowledgable on the topics of Conan O'brien, The White Stripes, The Soledad Brothers, Space Ghost Coast To Coast, Adult Swim, H. John Benjamin, Squigglevision, the first season line-up of UPN, Brendan Small, Michel Gondry, and a number of other unrelated, worthless subjects. But surfing through a lot of these pages has caused some hardcore nostalgia. And, I'll admit it, a little bitterness. The result of all this learning has lead me to realize this simple fact:

I was way cooler as an 8-10 year old than I could ever hope to be again in this lifetime. It's true. It's the simple truth. I was way cool. I was part of trends that didn't become trends until I started driving a car. I was part of a culture that was maybe 20 years older than me. Which is weird to think of. I'm not half as cool as I was back then. Not even. If I met myself, I think the 8 year old would blow me off and go back to playing with Alien toys and watching awful sci-fi movies. The reason for this coolness was almost certainly my innocent curiosity. If it was new and intersting, I wanted to be a part of it. This is the reason I started collecting old bottles. And sea glass. And out of date action figures. This is the reason I spent hours drawing up lists of the things I knew about, connecting television show writers to comedians to producers. I once linked the entirety of the Loren Bouchard/Brendan Small/H. John Benjamin collaborative work together. I'd seen every episode of Just Shoot me by the time I was 10. I was unstoppable. That's not all, in reflection, I've come up a lot of other reasons why I was way way way cooler as a young kid. Let's review:

I’d frequently stay up far too late watching new episodes of Home Movies, Dr. Katz, Dilbert, and Space Ghost Coast to Coast.

At the age of 8, I was enamored with Bob and Margaret, that Canadian-based show about the orthodontist and podiatrist. I’d stay up until 1 AM trying to catch it on the Sunday night slot, Oh Canada received.

I’d viewed almost every aired season of Brady Bunch, The Facts of Life, and I Love Lucy.

I was privy to the amazing guerilla marketing and creative take-back that was “What a Cartoon!” show. I gobbled up this new style of cartooning and ad marketing. It was new, incredible, and I think is the main cause for every single bit of neurosis, paranoia, and compulsive awkwardness. Think of it this way. Space Ghost was awkward. So I had to be.

I watched Baby Blues debut on the UPN. And cheered when it came to Adult Swim. And cried when it left.

I downloaded Barenaked Ladies songs for mixes that included Flogging Molly, Boyhitscar, Polaris, and, of course, the Transplants.

I was obsessed with Yu-Gi-Oh, Final Fantasy, and anime classics like Cowboy Bebop, FLCL, Outlaw Star, TriGun, and Akira. I was unashamed in everyway. I knew I was cool. I wasn’t just cool. I was badass.

Even I knew the PJ’s was a bad idea for a tv show.

I beat the hell out of a kid who called me gay one day. With my broken arm. I had broken my wrist by jumping off of a bmx ramp on a mountain bike. I flipped the bike and broke the wrist in two places. I then neglected the injury for two weeks, finally acknowledging its presence when I re-broke it in my sleep watching the UPN show “Bad Girls.” I got the cast on and decided it would be a good idea to use it as a weapon. It was. I was feared.

No shoes was a standard.

I watched Adult Swim evolve from its original air date. I was appalled when they deserted the original swimming pool bumps.

I constantly referred to Salute Your Shorts, Stick Stickly, and Hey Dude in middle school when it was apparent that everybody else was too cool to remember their childhood.

I was too cool to remember my childhood when it was cool to remember your childhood.

It's depressing to know you reached your peak so long ago. Maybe I'll go try and build a blanket fort. But even if I do, I know it won't be nearly as impressive as the one I constructed in the 7th grade (a whole basement. Like. the entire basement. With a sky light. An atrium. Auxillary entrances). It's impossible. I'm giving up. All that's left to do is write letters to the past, hoping one of them succeeds in breaking through time and space and ends up in the hands of former self. Here's the message,

"Never lose it."

How's it gonna do?

I keep wondering how life could have turned out lately. Not in a way that laments my current position. I'm happy to be where I am. I'm happy for the choices I've made, and the things that have happened as a result of that. It's just an old game I play in my head, imagining where I could be right now at this minute if I'd done things differently. I think I started playing when I was about 9 and some wise 4th grader talked to me in circles about the existence of different universes. I would sit for hours absent-mindedly thinking up what could be different in those universes. "There'd be ducks. But they'd be purple. And in another universe off of THAT, the ducks would be purple but I'd have new air jordans. And in another one off THAT one..." and so on. I still don't understand why all I ever altered in my dream universes were the coloration, size, and frequencies of populations of ducks. But some mysteries will never be solved.

So I sit and think about where I could be. Of course to do this, it implies that I know where I am right now. Which, maybe I don't know so much about.


We can start with the surface: I'm on a couch that sort of smells like pee. I'm in an apartment that almost always smells like bacon. I'm in a cold state. There's one light on in the apartment. I represent 1/6th of the apartment's population, 1/72th of the building overall.

We can dig a little deeper: I'm getting tired. I feel sort of bad because it's two minutes from 3 and I promised Natalie I'd actually try and get to bed before 3 tonight. I'm craving green apple Mundet. I'm reading an A.J. Jacobs book and I just watched 10 hours of conference talks over the weekend. I feel church-y.

From here I could think about the things I want: I want it to snow. I want to be warmer in my home. I want to have enough money to get the hundreds of photos I have left to develop. I want to scan in all my other photos. I want to not go to work tomorrow.

But then again we could think about the things I'm grateful for: I'm grateful for the Restored Gospel. My family talking to me while they eat dinner. I'm grateful for my eyesight. For my hearing. For great music on my zune. I'm grateful for pretty nice roommates. I'm grateful for good friends. I'm grateful for the existence of green apple Mundet. I'm grateful for the ability to choose my own life. I'm grateful for my Lord.

Actually, I'm thinking maybe I do know a lot about myself. So let's play the game.

In an alternate universe, I'd be going to Ohio University. I'd get wasted every weekend. I'd grow an awful beard. I'd have a million friends. I'd probably smoke and have a puffy vynll farming vest for the winter.

In an alternate universe much like that, I'd go to Ohio University and I'd have no friends. I'd be awkward to talk to and I'd take to wearing thick-black rimmed glasses that I don't necessarily need. I'd respond to people much too quickly. When people asked me where I'm from, I'd nearly cut them off saying, "Nowhere!" I'd wear a hunting hat like Holden Caulfield. I'd be involved in a very unfortunate event involving my roommates and the girl's dorms, wherein I'd never live down the nickname "Boss Ross."

In an alternate universe, I'd still be in Northern Kentucky working at Domino's. I'd start selling drugs with my manager Jeremiah who, I swear to this day, was Biggie. I'd use the words "shiii" and "gimme a smoke bitch" a lot.

I think if I had my pick, I'd choose the final one. Notorious.

Que?

Watch this. It'll change your life forever.

Things I've learned at college

Here are some things I've learned at college. Take notes:

-If you're in a lecture class and you have a laptop, eventually, no matter who you are, you'll play solitaire.

-Anyone with a general parking pass will soon despise the term "A Lot."

- Alexander the great looks pretty dead on Brad from Home Improvement.






Alexander Ty Bryan

College Dolldrums

Here are some problems I’ve found with college so far:

My shower

Everyday I get up and take a shower in the morning. Our house of 6 has two bathrooms (thankfully. Or else I would literally kill one of my roommates for hot water. Then we’d be a house of 5, which is more manageable). The general scenario is that I squeeze my way into the 2 ft. wide room and turn on the complicated shower mechanism. It doesn’t make sense. The temperature adjustment knob can spin upside-down. You never know what temperature to expect. Once I have it sort of figured out, I wait a few seconds for it to warm up and I get in. In the midst of washing, almost every single time I’m in there, the water decides to turn into a scalding rain of death. Have you ever seen Raiders of the Lost Ark? When that Nazi’s face melts off? That’s what happens daily in my bathroom.

I’ve tried more methods than I can think of to figure out why this happens. I figured maybe somebody in my house was turning on another shower. Or a faucet. Nope, I’ve taken one when nobody was home and the same incredible pain followed. It’s hopeless. I’m forever afraid of water temperature.

Also, the shower is obviously built for those pumpkin farmer dwarves. The shower head turns to face you at approximately 2 degrees. To wash any part of you above your hips, you have to do the limbo to get underneath the stream of unpredictable hell water.

You’d figure all of this would be enough to drive me insane. Not so. The final nail in the coffin seems to be the almost impossible, incredible fact that, despite any logical reasoning, my bathroom AFTER a hot shower (really hot. Lava) is inexplicably COLDER than the shower, the temperature in the house, or even outside. I turn off the shower, and I’m freezing. I wrap myself in a towel and go into the main apartment and instantly I’m warmed by logic and reasoning.

It’s safe to assume that my shower is a portal into a fifth dimension. Hell.

Oh and one of my roommates only has shampoo in the shower. There’s three of us to that shower. I have a combination bottle of shampoo and soap (real manly), and my other roommate has a bar of soap and a few bottles of shampoo (?). But my final roommate only has… shampoo. I am disgusted and confused. Shampoo showers? No bathing period? Stealer? I’d say the latter, but it can’t be mine because my combo would be gone way before now. And I refuse to acknowledge that ANYONE would use anyone else’s bar of soap without a washcloth or louffa.

You figure it out. That’s what’s wrong with college.

Dear everybody

Dear advertisers.
please continue to make your comforting, vague, universally accepted commercials. please allow me to know, in between the malaise of economic hardship and election debates, that everything is ok. life isn't so bad. things can still be shot in high definition, high speed, high resolution. it's all ok. the world is large, but GE is powering windmills in africa, and maytag is selling appliances to people in trendy houses with clean carpets and cool, calm air conditioners. close out with bold, white graphics set against wide angle satellite shots of the earth hovering in space. peaceful.

Dear sprinklers in Provo.
please continue to spit on and off during the night and morning hours. please hiss and pop when first being turned on. continue to force out the water that's deep in your veins. push it through your constricted arteries and soak the pavements and sod and car windshields. splash against my calves when i walk through you and prickle my skin when i let your residue stay.

Dear all the house and street lights i see driving home.
stay on all night. light the trees in my neighborhood. get caught in the leaves and branches like errant kites and children's arms. flicker when the air flips on. kick against the street when the wind blows the trees like weeds. just please never go out.

I'm in college now. this is what people do.

I'm crouched in a cubicle. I'm hunched over my keyboard, typing away trying to get the feeling back into my fingers. My time here has been brief, but almost two hours. It feels like days. The television is still on from where I reviewed the last documentary. I'm staring at the Emerson display screen, wondering how all those little blue boxes got set up next to each other. Where did that ghost dvd come from in the bottom right-hand corner? What does all of this mean to me? My above head light in my carrel doesn't come on anymore. What has my life come to?

I'm at the KMC. Everything I type IS IN CAPS BECAUSE IT'S GOING TO GO ON TV. AND TVS ARE SMALL SO PEOPLE HAVE TO YELL TO GET HEARD FROM THAT TINY SCREEN.

I guess this is what I'm reduced to. I take off my shoes everytime I sit down because I hate the way they feel on my feet. They cut off the circulation and when I pitch them forward onto the balls of my feet, the blood cooly floods into the restricted arteries.

This is my first post. I'm cold. I'm hungry. They keep the air conditioning on in here constantly. We are all frigid. I'm leaving soon hopefully. To breathe in the air by the Cast Iron factory and to look at the sunflowers in the medians.