Saturday, December 31, 2005

You Sure You Want to be With Me I’ve Nothing to Give?

I have deep seated love of depressing lyrics. I don't know why, but they always make me smile.

Let's highlight Cex's excellent "Kill Me" off the equally excellent Maryland Mansions. The chrous goes a little something like,
Things aren't getting any better.
Everything is only getting worse.
I'll apologize for the rest of my life for the rest of my life forever,
unless you
promise to kill me first.
I love that; it makes me grin ear to ear. My enjoyment of depressing stuff doesn't really bother me to much, but I can't help but wonder what it says about my own personal psychosis. Am I manic-depressive (maybe)? Am I going to kill myself (always an unlikely possibility)? Am I getting enjoyment out of someone else's misery and therefore a jackass extrodinaire (the last part is probably true anyway)?

All of those strike me as reasonable possibilities, but I think it's something more mundane and cliche: listening to other people being depressed makes us feel better about out own depression, be it minor or terrible. Maybe it's a sort of, "at least I'm not that bad," for a lot of people or, "somebody understands what I feel!"

I'm not sure where I fall in in all of that; to be honest I don't really know where I'm going with any of this. I suppose my final point is that I've gotten to a point with my deppression, where I can feel a sort of strength in it. It's hard to describe because I'm happy most of my life right now and so I don't really feel deppressed that often. To try to make some sense of that last paragraph: I think I look back on my periods of terrible deppression from a now-happy standing and I feel better about where I've come. Sort of a reassuring reminder that all that stuff happened and now I'm ahead of it.

Bah, I don't know what I'm saying anymore.


Friday, December 30, 2005

Smells Like Vampire Shit

I was going to the bathroom - nothing too unusual there - at a particular Minnesota based retailer that shall remain nameless yesterday. Now, I had to drop a load like you would not believe, but, much to my dismay, all two stalls in the men's bathroom were occupied. This fills me with a dread I cannot describe because men are the worst crappers in the entire world. Get us in front of a urinal, we are in and out with minimal time. You sit yourself down in a stall and as soon as you click that lock into place, you are on vacation. You've got time to doodle, scratch out a political manifesto, scratch that nasty itch, and even do a bit of yoga if that's your thing. Needless to say, with this knowledge in hand, I am not looking forward to the purgatory I was now facing. My vision narrows on the two stalls and my ears flick about, listening for any sounds of flushing.

Now, as I'm standing there, desperately trying not to do something rather embarrassing to my fine pair of pants, I can't help but to inventory my options in case I get desperate. I furtively glance about the tiled confines of my rapidly narrowing world and decide in case of an emergency I can do my business in the sink, trash can, floor, or one of the two open urinals.

I discard sink off hand, as that kind of destroys the purpose of a sink. The floor quickly follows because I try to avoid feeling like I live in a third world country when I don't. The trash can I linger on for a moment, even rationalizing that it'll get taken care of faster than any other option I have considered. Reason quickly sets in as I realize that it is way to high up along the wall and would require far more acrobatic skill than what I like to employ when going to the bathroom.

That and if I were cleaning trashcans at this particular retailer, I would hate my job already and this would probably push me over the edge, and I would hastily quit my job and regret it as soon as I got to my car.

Anyway, this leaves me staring at the two open urinals. The longer I glance at these un-utilized receptacles of human waste, the more irritated I get. I have, at this point, ruled out using the urinals for what is definitely not their intended purpose, and have simply begun to stew with impotent rage at the inefficiency of the whole situation. At some point in my inner anger-ridden rant, I come to the conclusion that urinals should be removed completely.

Yeah, I said, man's personal piss playground should be removed and replaced with fully functional toilets. Here's my reasoning: guys piss in standard toilets all the time; at home, at a friend's house, unisex facilities, when there's no urinals left, and at male-only retreats at locations that have both bathroom types available, but the men's bathroom is all full up and since there's no women anywhere nearby you can use the women's bathroom. So, why can't we all just agree to put in four stalls where we currently have two stalls and two urinals and be done with it? No more wasted ceramic space, no more awkward half-muttered comments like,
"Looks like there's a line."
Do you hear me public restroom management of America? Do you fucking hear me?


Sunday, December 25, 2005

You Can Smell It. Smell It Like You're Some Crazy Wolf-Person.

Little baby Jesus, it's your birthday. How does that feel, especially with being all dead and shit?

Finals have been done for a couple days, but I've been reveling in the freedom, thus the delay.

I find myself loathing the so-called spirit of the season. Not that I'm against people being kinder, but it always seems to stick in my craw. I mean, why can't you just not be a jerk the entire year? Do you really need the fear of baby Jesus? Call me new-fashioned, but why is it so hard to just be a better person all of the time?

I really don't have a lot of ideas right now. I'm hungry and I'm tired, not a good combination; the spiritual panda slaughter, if you will (lot's of screaming and blood).


Thursday, December 15, 2005

I Would Be Happier if, “Mr. Scalpel,” Did Not Meet, “Mr. Sternum.”

Dying is for suckers.

Well, the pressing onslaught known as finals has temporarily lessoned. So, instead of applying myself constructively, I thought I'd do this.

Now, I'm not one for talking shit, except for very sarcastically, but I just cut some hot jams and they are the mother fucking jam. They walk up to your shit and say, "Yo, mother fucker, you think you're hot jams, don't you? Well you ain't. You just some punk-ass fucker who could touch me like you're Michael Jackson and I'm a small child. Even if you tried there'd be all these sirens and lawsuits and shit." I'm lying; they're actually not that good. They're not bad, but I'd be surprised if more than two people find them enjoyable.

I think now would be a good time to introduce Kwong's Law of Getting Action. The law is as follows:

If, and only if, one is not in a relationship that includes action as a benefit, the amount of action one receives is the inverse of the amount of action one expects to receive.

I have yet to be proven wrong.


Monday, December 05, 2005

You're on Fire. Yes, Your Flesh is Burning

Two points:
1) Grand Buffet can't be, "like the best thing ever," because they're so close to being the best thiing ever, we just round up.

2) I was wrong about Massive Attack's Blue-Lines, it is awesome. However, I maintain that it is not on the same level as Mezzanine, which is in an enternal duel with Portishead's self-titled record for the greatest trip-hop record of all time.
Anway, minor-hiatus is now being declared official as I brace for finals. Sorry, I want to pass this semester.


Thursday, December 01, 2005

With a Face Like That, How Could I Say No?

Why do some guys not flush urinals? I mean as much as I love public hygeine there is something missing when you say, "I'm not touching that urnial flushing lever; that's germ-ridden. I would rather leave my urea to splash on some poor sucker when he tries to pee."