SOCKPUPPETARMAGEDDON

I created this blog upon request for a class. Since then it has become somewhat dear to me. I realize that (starting with this post) I, meaning you, Bryan, are the only person that is going to be reading/writing anything pertaining to this blog. Is it worth continuing? Wouldn't that be kind of strange? Writing a blog to and for yourself?
Probably.
You could try and gain a devoted fan-base—form a cult, perhaps. The Bryanists. But that will never happen, because you're an INFP and you don't seek attention,, acknowledgement, or fame.

But, am I not writing this, and this, and this and THIS, because I crave attention? Am I not writing this in hopes that, perhaps, God willing, some stranger (possibly some literary talent-scout-stranger?) might stumble upon my blog and see my writing for what it truly is: Brilliant and Original and Twisted and Poignant and Clever and, let's just say, a myriad of other cliched adjectives.

Anyway. Maybe this really is your last blog entry, Bryan. What do you want to say? Do you want to say something Poignant and Twisted? Or maybe you want to say something Brilliant with a dash of Clever and maybe just a pinch of something Twisted?

Something Like:

As I was driving to work today I counted seven flags at half-mast. The flags, of course, got me thinking about the Newtown massacre and how fucked up things can get in this world. Then I started thinking about December 21'st and how it might be the end of the world and how, especially for the parents of the Newtown victims, it might be a good idea for God to seriously consider following through with that plan.
If I was God and if I was trying to come up with a cool way to kill the earth, I think I'd gather up all the guns and the ammunition and the steel and the iron and the copper and the gold and the silver and the nickel and all the things that have built up our collective conglomerate of evil and I'd melt them all together and form them into a massive bullet-shaped-projectile-device and I'd blast that bitch at the speed of light straight into the earth's black heart.

Mr. INFP

Today my work asked me to fill out the online questionnaire: Carl Jung and Isabel Briggs Myers’ Typological Approach to Personality, and, to be honest, I really didn’t want to be a part of it. I didn’t want some internet site telling me who I am, or who I should be, or could be, or can’t be, et cetera. And even now, after having taken the questionnaire, I’m not really sure what to think about it. I will say that I’m a bit surprised at the depth of the end result. It wasn’t just some formulaic answer to life’s conundrums:

*You do not do well in stressful situations, Mr. Nolte. You might consider seeing your doctor about a possible risk of high blood pressure.

No, the results were detailed and thought-provoking. I ended up wasting a few hours at work (they started it) researching this stuff, and everything I’m reading seems to be pretty legit. Reading something that describes who you are specifically, in an almost obituary-esque fashion, is a rather surreal and uncomfortably revealing situation. I can only liken the experience to one that I had three years ago, an experience in which I was given the rare opportunity to speak with my future-self in the year 2067.

So, this is who I am:

INFP

Introvert (100%)
iNtuitive (50%)
Feeling (25%)
Perceiving (89%)

The percentages are important and have meaning, but I don’t feel like going into that. Which would explain why I answered “YES” to the statement: “Your decisions are based more on the feelings of a moment than on the careful planning”

If you want to know who I am (this article is possibly a blogpost/non-published/POS, but it's ripened with flattery and doesn't focus so much on the fact that the word "introvert" is really just a synonym for "asshole". But, then again, INFP's rarely give themselves enough credit.) click here:

http://www.personalitypage.com/INFP.html

If you want to know who you are, click here:

http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

Rolaids for writers-block

http://www.tinhouse.com/blog/podcasts

sorry, but you're a racist pig.

Are you feeling good today? Are you feeling good about yourself? Are you feeling confident with your fine-tuned persona? Are you feeling confident and assured with the way you view/perceive/tolerate your fellow man? If so, then perhaps you are in need of a serious reality check, my friend.

Take some time with this site:

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/

By doing so you will most likely come to this singular, incontrovertible conclusion:

YOU SUCK.

Perfect Paragraph / #2

Two paragraphs from 'Disgrace', by J.M. Coetzee:

He has dinner with his ex-wife Rosalind. They have been apart for eight years; slowly, warily, they are growing to be friends again, of a sort. War veterans. It reassures him that Rosalind still lives nearby: perhaps she feels the same way about him. Someone to count on when the worst arrives: the fall in the bathroom, the blood in the stool.

"That's wonderful, then. I'm sorry, my child, I just find it hard to whip up an interest on the subject. It's admirable, what you do, what she does, but to me animal-welfare people are a bit like Christians of a certain kind. Everyone is so cheerful and well-intentioned that after awhile you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging. Or to kick a cat."

more people watching

A boy and a girl are sitting together at a small round table. His hair is big and all in disarray like a young Einstein. His demeanor seems to be saying that he has no time for her. He is obviously busy and deep in thought, or at least he is trying to appear so. His face is craned over scattered books and papers. He refuses to look up at her. He completely disregards her pleadings. She is desperately trying to gain his attention. She wants to know something. I can see her mouth form the words, “Tell me, please, just tell me!”
She seems to be entirely out of his league—blonde and just plain gorgeous head to foot, so I’m intrigued by his subtle and reserved ability to resist her. She clearly wants him. She is leaning over, revealing everything she has and everything that he could ever want, yet still, he shows no interest whatsoever. His gaze remains fixed on his books.
She lays half of her body over the table. She puts her hands on the sides of his face, forcing him to look at her. He seems repulsed. He seems to not know her at all. She tries to kiss his lips but he averts his face and pulls away.
Her body goes limp with defeat. She says, “Fine. Whatever,” and takes a big bite from his sushi platter. She stands up and waits for a sign of recognition that never comes. She looks around the room, embarrassed from her rejection. She puts on her coat and gathers up her things and before leaving him there to be alone and free of her, she leans over and whispers something into his ear. Whatever it is, it causes him to lift his head and watch her walk away through the busy crowd of student bodies.

So,

So, I'm walking aimlessly around UVU because my class is cancelled and I'm looking at everyone walking around and I start wondering why no one else is looking at everyone walking around. Why am I the only person staring at other people? Am I some kind of creep? Must be.
This also happens when I'm in a car. Whenever I'm at a stop light, or whenever I pass people, or whenever people pass me, I always have to look. For some reason I always have to see whoever is in that car. And I'm always impressed with the people that don't have to look. I'm impressed that they can just mind their own business and not give a rats ass who's next to them at the stop light. Cheers to them.

Sometimes

Sometimes I'm like a dog that's sniffing poop and then my nose gets kicked and I go running off all sad that my nose got kicked and I think to myself NO BRYAN! you're not going to go back and sniff that poop but then I do go back and sniff that poop because I can't remember why I'm not sniffing the poop so I go and sniff the poop and I just keep getting my nose kicked and I keep going through this cycle of not knowing why I'm being kicked and not knowing why I keep sniffing poop but one day I'm telling you one day I'm going to snap and I'm just going to go ahead and sniff all of the poop that I want to sniff because it's my life and if I want to sniff poop then by God I'm going to sniff poop and there is nothing that anyone in this world is going to be able to do about it.

nanowrimo—day 4

I hate writing. If I could alter the chemicals in my brain to be addicted/obsessed/passionate with something else, I would. Why do I want to write? Why do I want to write a novel? What's the real reason? Am I writing for others—an audience? Or am I writing for myself—so I can feel important and accepted and fulfilled? Either answer sounds awful. What are my real intentions for putting some nouns and verbs and excessive amounts of articles, et cetera, onto a blank piece of paper? I just don't get it. It intrigues me beyond measure—to write, yet with every word, every sentence, every paragraph—I feel like a conceited, self-gratifying, attention-deprived asshole.

Oh yeah, and I'm dyslexic and I write as slow as a constipated tortoise—therefore, this writing fixation that has been instilled into my soul, drop by drop, must be a result of God's obvious disdain toward my very existence.

In other words— No. NaNoWriMo is not going very well for me.

NaNoWriMo

I recently found out about NaNoWriMo from a friend at work. It's a non-profit, friendly writing competition—meaning there's no real prizes, or, I guess I should say, no tangible prizes. All prizes from this competition will come in the formless form of self-gratification and confidence in your writing abilities—which, actually, sounds pretty damn good to me right about now.
Basically, the idea is to write 50,000 words in one month (November). In other words—the idea is to write a novel (draft) in one month. Right now, for me personally, it sounds crazy, and scary, and pretty much impossible—especially when considering my past history of spending weeks writing opening paragraphs to stories that end up going nowhere—end up being stuffed into various trash-receptacles. Despite all of my weaknesses and insecurities, however, it's these impossible things—these seemingly unattainable things that keep me breathing and moving forward in life.

Or, maybe I just really like to write.

Anyway, wish me luck—whoever you are.

Perfect Paragraph

"Ann's skirt is made out of a shiny red fabric that looks as if it could be used for spacesuits. She's wearing a transparent chiffon blouse and her usaual three-inch-heels—today they're opera pink. When Amos leaves, she catches me staring at her and makes a fish face."

—Frederick Barthelme, from his story, "Box Step"

Dancing spiders

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GgAbyYDFeg

trying to comprehend addiction

When I was seventeen I became addicted to the prescription pain medication, Lortab. I had shattered my elbow while snowboarding (while pretending to be way more cool and experienced than I actually was) and my doctor, in order to to help get me through the intense physical-therapy that lie ahead, prescribed to me what seemed to be a Costco sized bottle of the pill (with no set limit on refills). After returning home from my surgery and my hospital stay, I quickly realized that the prescribed dosage stated on the bottle was not going to be satisfactory. I had become accustomed to a constant flow of morphine, and now I was somehow expected to get by on just two 7.5 Lortab pills every six to eight hours?
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
Within one week I was taking four pills every six to eight hours. By the time I was done with physical therapy, six months later, I was taking six pills every six to eight hours. I leveled off at six pills. That was my max, and I knew it. I'd tried seven once. Seven made me completely immobile. I was at work "watching", "assisting", "accommodating", a group of mentally-challenged individuals. These individuals required 100% of my undivided attention, but with me being on seven pills, all I could do was lie on the carpet and watch the blades of the ceiling fan turn into spinning sabres of fluorescent light. I remember getting kicked in the ribs and in the head. I remember someone defecating in a corner of the kitchen. I remember the front door opening and several bodies going in and out. I remember sweating and laughing and not giving a shit, but at the same time wondering if that apartment was going to take my final breath.
After that experience, I decided to keep my dosage at a maximum of six pills. Six was manageable. Six was safe enough. Six made me feel somewhat invincible, which was perfect, considering the fact that my job required me to be little more than a human punching-bag. These mentally-challenged individuals that I "looked after", for the most part, seemed to have been genetically bred to administer pain and suffering upon any and all physical beings. On six pills, I could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day my mom came home and informed me that my prescription for Lortab could not be renewed anymore. I was to ween myself off  by taking tapering dosages of Tylenol.
Yeah— No. Sorry. Not gonna happen.
But it did happen. The only thing that seemed to bring me joy in life was suddenly removed— Distinguished. Eradicated. Extricated. And I know that that thing was bad for me from the very start, but like a knife in the chest, it tends to feel better if you just leave it in.
I started stealing meds from the mentally-challenged (psychopaths) that surrounded me. Before they went to bed I would give them all their meds, all the while making sure to save a little bit for me. "A little for you, a little for me, a little for you, a little for me." I didn't even care what they were. Red ones, blue ones, pink ones, yellow ones, white ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— I took them all. What did it do to me? Well, it did lots of stuff. Lot's of fun stuff, lot's of scary stuff, and everything in between. Who knows what the lasting effects are, or will be.
Then I found out that a guy I was working with was selling pain killers. Don't ask me why, but for some reason when I started buying pills off this guy— that's when I finally realized that I had a problem, and I needed to stop. Why did it take so long for me to come to that realization? I'm not sure exactly. Denial; the inexplicable euphoria of a high; the chemical imbalance in my brain— all of these things probably played a factor in the long duration of my addiction. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, I decided to begin my ascension to recovery. I decided to do it alone, and now, looking back, I wish that I would have sought some help.
I pushed out the toxins through sweat, anger, tears, despair, relapse, self loathing, determination, perseverance, sheer will, and then, perhaps, some help from someone/something above. A year later I was pure of that vice. Unfortunately, this cleansing process did not rid me of a myriad of other problems that were tearing away at my soul. For every one thing healed, there will always be another crutch to fill its place.

The beginning stages of relationships have the same dopamine induced effects on the brain as narcotics (there are studies on this, you can look them up). Whether the relationship is a one-night-stand, or the bud of some lasting love, the brain doesn't give a flying fuck— it just wants more and more. Pretty soon your behavior spirals out of control, becoming erratic, reckless, and unpredictable— doing anything for another fix. Pretty soon you can't live without it. Pretty soon every waking moment of your life becomes devoted to this high— this high of being accepted; being admired; being adored— desired.  And just like the effects of the excess Lortab, you become somewhat invincible. You could get punched, clawed, kicked— whatever, and not feel a goddamn thing.
Then one day you are informed that this drug— this drug of intense human connection, must come to an end.  You try to ween yourself away. You try smaller dosages— longer durations between hits, but despair inevitably sinks in.
You start to seek acceptance and understanding from anyone and anything that comes your way. You take anything you can get— red ones, black ones, white ones, yellow ones, big ones, small ones, medium ones, giant ones— you take them all.
You try to go back. You try to back-peddal your way to where it all began. But nothing is the same. You're just a fool now. A fool who's been fully revealed— naked and ashamed, you have become nothing more than a lost and fallen duplicate of your past-self.
Then comes rock-bottom, swift as a knife. And this is where you are now— down on the rocks of that dark place.  So, what comes next? What's the next chapter? How do you fix this? Detox? Could you do that? Do you have what it takes? Could you handle the sweat, the anger, the tears, the despair, the relapse, the self-loathing, the determination, the perseverance, the sheer will, and then, perhaps, the help from someone/something above?

Don't think twice— just make a move towards something that makes you smile. If you can smile, then there's hope. There must be. Smiles don't lie.

Worlds #1 Badass / Way to go Felix!

I watched the entire thing. I felt like the man deserved all of my attention. This is what I was referring to in my previous post— we, the human-race, are capable of doing anything. Felix Baumgartner (a "Daredevil" they call him. I wish that I could be referred to as a Daredevil. How badass is that?) The man sat down in a little capsule attached to a huge (the largest ever constructed) helium filled balloon (the thickness thereof was something like the thickness of a sandwich-baggy), then floated up 25 miles-ish, 128,100 ft. into the stratosphere, stepped out onto a platform the size of a skateboard, and let himself fall into the void. 
You can read all about this online. I'm not saying anything new, but still, I feel compelled to write about it. It was special. Is it strange that I almost cried? Maybe— maybe not. I had my son next to me, and I was trying to get him pumped up about it (I succeeded, I think). I told him that this crazy guy was going to jump out of a spaceship and go faster than any man has ever gone before. I tried to explain about the sound-barrier, but he wasn't having it. 
When Felix fell from his craft, and the cameras were showing his body mercilessly spinning around and around, as if he were about to disappear into the drain of Earth's kitchen sink, my son looked at me and said, "I want him to do it again, Dad."

Today a man broke the sound-barrier with his body— what did you do this weekend? I sat on my couch with a Diet Pepsi (wishing that I had a RedBull—all of those advertisements were really taking a toll on me), and watched Felix fulfill his lifelong dream. Way to go Felix. Unfortunately, you will probably be forgotten by Wednesday of next week, but for now, you're the #1 Badass on Planet Earth (last week it was that guy that gave his life for his lifelong dream of devouring twenty-pounds of cockroaches).

Some stuff that I believe in right now.

I believe that the outermost reaches of the known universe are born out of the intellectual capabilities of man.
I believe that the mysteries of man are not attached to discovering new depths in scientific/technological/biological explorations.
It's true, I believe— that we are literally capable of accomplishing anything that our minds can conjure.
Then what are the so called "mysteries of man"?
I believe that they are the things that we cannot see, but must believe in:

Faith, Love, Trust, Empathy, etc. I believe that these things are the real mysteries.

Advances in science, medicine, exploration, technology, etc.— come what may, these things will unavoidably come to pass because of our innate, natural fear of complacency; our fear of being alone; our fear and realization that this life may be the end of us.

–––––––––––––––––––


All streams are born out of the woodwork of the earth's foundations.
All streams, surging with the juice of life, give birth to rivers.
All rivers flow and give birth to the ocean.

A greater whole.

All capillaries and arteries are born out of the foundations of man.
All capillaries and arteries, surging with the juice of life, give birth to veins.
All veins flow and give birth to the flesh of man.

A greater whole.

McDonald/Derrida/Deconstruction

I really enjoyed listening to Prof. McDonald speak. I can imagine that an hour long discourse on Derrida and Deconstructionism would have been emotionally taxing had it not been presented by someone like McDonald. I'd never met/seen him before, but the man exudes passion and enthusiasm (he reminds me a lot of Quentin Terentino). I was blown away by the material, not so much because it was new to me, but because it was presented by someone that really cares about the subject.
I won't pretend to know much about Deconstruction, or Derrida. I can't even think of a solid definition. But the concepts get me riled-up, and anxious— anxious to learn, anxious to know more, anxious to figure it all out. I think a lot about the concepts of deconstruction without consciously being aware that I'm thinking about the concepts deconstruction. I have a tendency to "deconstruct" pretty much everything that I see and come in contact with. I don't fully understand anything, and I am not able to comprehend the "entirety"/"definite-value" of anything, therefore, I find myself constantly questioning the reality of myself and my immediate surroundings.
McDonald discussed how any object (a dog, a cat, a chair, the Queen of England) becomes that object in our mind— only through language ("Nothing exists outside of the text"), also, that "things" only exist in our minds because we compare them with other things that they are not.
That's a very interesting concept; one that coincides with another similar theory (do theories only exist because of the existence of other theories?), that nothing exists outside of the conscious mind— everything, before we consciously view and interpret it, is nothing more than probability waves waiting to be constructed. But that's a whole other animal to dissect.
I enjoyed the presentation, and now my mind has something to munch on for the next few months.

Psychoanalytic Group Project Idea

Hey guys,I found some stuff. I came up with an idea.
What if we based our presentation around Mourice Sendak's, 'Where The Wild Things Are'? Too childish? (I don't think so.)
I found some stuff online that I'll attach.
The book is short, everyone knows it, it's deep in a non-deep way, it's fun, I have the movie (we can show clips), etc.
Let me know what you think. It's just an idea. CALM DOWN! We don't have to do it.

http://www.thepsychologist.org.uk/archive/archive_home.cfm?volumeID=22&editionID=180&ArticleID=1569

http://voices.yahoo.com/where-wild-things-as-method-psychoanalysis-4539535.html?cat=72

http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/health/2012/05/08/maurice-sendak-the-pointed-psychology-behind-wild-things/

Let me know what you think, people.

Death of the Speaker/Birth of the Listener

If someone is talking to you and what they're saying is upsetting you, or maybe it's just not sitting well, then try to view their words as a mere rough/first draft, or nothing more than verbal-vomit (with future potential). People should not be held accountable for all of the ignorant bullshit that comes out of their pie-holes. What I'm writing here, for example, might seem like bullshit to you. I'm not really thinking much about it. I'm just writing what I think, what I feel. And if you don't like it, that's fine, you don't have to. But don't fucking judge me for it. Anytime that anyone says anything that's anywhere near "off-the-cuff", you can, without a doubt, be sure that it's 95% bullshit. Right now, for instance, you might be wondering where I got that obviously inflated statistic (completely justified/understandable).

Answer: I made it up. I'm making all of this up. This may not be much of a revelation/groundbreaking information, but it does, however, prove my "Bullshit Theory". Which in and of itself is nothing more than pure bullshit, or verbal-vomit (with future potential).

PRUFROCK YOU! (english humor)

"The Death of the Author"= the author is absent from the text. I do believe in this theory, but the term "DEATH" seems a little drastic. The book did say that it was radical, so I guess that's the point. And the phrase came from Roland Barthes, which means that it must be cool to believe in (if you want to be the cool person in a group of literary freaks, just mention Roland Barthes. Just the name Roland Barthes rolls off the tongue like a melted jelly-bean).
I like how the author randomly started talking about the intentions of a horse. "…out of the horses mouth." is what I'm referring to. But if the horse says something, is it telling the truth? Is the horse lying? Is there such a thing as a lying horse? If the horse does speak, and if we actually hear it speak, does this mean that we will know what the horse is really trying to say? What if a porpoise were to speak to us– do these same inqueries apply?

Any happy little thought?

I'm not particularly crazy about J.M. Barrie or anything (Peter Pan is pretty much all I know of his work), but I found myself thinking about him today. My thoughts weren't revolutionary by any means, but they were deep and true. I took my son to the park- something I hadn't done for a long time, but should have. I brought a book to read, but found myself just watching him run around and play with another girl that looked to be about his age. They had no emotional reservations, my son and this girl. They saw each other and that's all it took. They became instant friends- with no hidden agendas or preconceived notions. They just wanted to have FUN.

FUN OR BUST!

I was so jealous of them. Their friendship was pure and innocent and based on simple principles. In an almost methodical sequence, I watched them as they slid down slides, and hung on bars. They threw wood-chips at each other and pulled up big clumps of grass. They looked at me in stunned confusion as I scolded them, telling them to stop pulling up the grass and to calm down. My repremand was false and fell flat, however. I didn't really care, and they could tell. If it weren't for my inherited adherance to the often steifeling status-quo, I would have helped those kids rip that park to shreds.

The concept of Peter Pan is simple: Never grow up. There are a million rebuttals against this concept, but I'm going to follow my gut on this one and declare that they're all bullshit. What did that one guy say? "...Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Now, assuming that Jesus actually said this, and assuming that Jesus was a God in the flesh- why would he say this? Is he saying that heaven is just a bunch of little kids running around? I don't think so. If that were the case, heaven would be a giant day-care center. And that would be fucking Hell. I think he meant something more than that. I think he was referring to a mindset. I think he knows that if people want to be happy, then there can't be personal judgement of others, there cant be social status and bigotry and corruption and hatred and envy and all of those things that depress us and bring us down to despair as we grow older. Heaven is an ideal. Heaven is a Revolution.

Anyway- OFF TO NEVERLAND!

This is awesome… and somewhat relative to our class.

fhttp://www.wired.com/entertainment/music/magazine/16-01/ff_yorke?currentPage=allf_yorke?currentPage=all

I want to create a series of childrens books with this title:

The Heinous Adventures of Ronald, The Fatherless Son, and Jenny, The Female Dog

When people read the things that I write on this Blog, I want them to:

- Cry. (Happy tears, or sad tears- it doesn't matter to me.)

- Have a sudden burst of self-confidence and self-worth. For example, maybe a tormented soul will have some kind of life-affirming moment while reading one of my passages, causing this person to abstain from jumping off a bridge- or something like that.

- Post comments in my 'Comments' section that say things along the lines of: "I'm so jealous that you can word things so perfectly and beautifully and intelligently! You are everything that I want to be as a writer! You are SO smart!"

- When I walk into class I want everyone to get really quiet all of the sudden, and start whispering things to one another- things like, "Ooooo...It's him! It's him! It's the guy that wrote that one thing that was SO AMAZING! Look at how mysterious he is!"

- I want my Professors to secretly adore me more than they adore any of the other students. For example, if we are having on-on-one appointments with our Professors, I want them to make you feel like they think that you are special and great- but when I come in for my appointment, we sit there for like, an hour, just shooting the breeze and talking about our favorite authors and novels. One Professor might ask me if I want to assume teaching responsibilities while they're gone to see a Nephew get married in Nebraska. I'll accept, and I'll come into class and I'll give an amazing discourse on 'Judge Holden', and everyone will wish that I was the real Professor.

- I want all of my fellow students to desperately try and become my friend. They do this because I'm just the kind of friend that everyone needs. But, unfortunately, I just won't have enough time for everyone. But every once in a while I'll make time for, perhaps, one of the not-so-popular/intelligent kids in my class. For example, maybe I'll put my arm around one of these tepid beings in the hall, and I'll tell this person something like, "You know, (insert name), you're tryin' too hard, Brother(or Sister). Listen to this- Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." Then I'll stop this person in the hall, in a spot where warm sunlight is beaming down and illuminating us from an open window located somewhere above, and I'll put my hands on this persons shoulders, and I'll ask, "Do you know who said that?" And this person will then look into my eyes in absolute wonder and say, "No." And then I'll lean in close, uncomfortably close, almost-kissing-close, and I'll say, in my coarse scholarly voice, "Da Vinci." And then I'll rub my hand over this persons head, thus messing up their nerdy hair.

- Tell all your friends about this Blog. Tell them it's pretty much pointless to follow any other blog– even yours. Tell them it's unlike anything you've ever experienced– in a good way. Then maybe I can get a sponsor and get paid and then maybe Good Morning America will have me on the show and talk to me about how my Blogs' popularity has just EXPLODED all over the planet. And then I'll feel too much pressure from all the fame, and I'll snort too much crack at Eminem's house and I'll end up in some rehab facility with Paris Hilton and Jack Nicholson. And in ten years I'll make a comeback in the form of a cheeky music video that humorously portrays what it's like to be a washed-up Internet sensation.

(I'll be adding to this list as things come to me.)

A Brief Assessment of David Foster Wallace' "Little Expressionless Animals"

George Saunders and Thomas Pynchon are two amazing authors. George Saunders, because of his ability to take absurd situations and environments and turn them into something true and humanistic- and Thomas Pynchon because of his ability to challenge the reader in new and exciting and difficult ways. If Saunders and Pynchon's intellects got together and mind-fucked, then the brain of David Foster Wallace would inevitably be the end result. Wallace is able to blend absurd characters and situations, intricate plots and themes- often in ways that confound the reader, but in the end, the reader is rewarded with a deeper understanding of what it means to be human.
At the beginning of his story 'Little Expressionless Animals', Wallace introduces four vignettes, and at first glance, it is difficult to imagine where he is going with this, and how he intends to pull it all together. 1) We first see two young children left on the side of the road. Their mother tells them to hold on to a fence post until she returns. They stand there all day, and she never returns. 2) Then we see a woman and a child watching a cartoon in a a dark movie theater. A creepy man is fondling the woman's hair, but she does not make a sound, in fear that the child will become horrified. 3) Then we see Alex Trebek, from "JEOPARDY!", goofing around his studio. 4) And lastly, we see two lesbians, Faye and Julie, having sex together in a posh L.A. apartment.
It is understandable then, to be somewhat confused at this point, perhaps wondering where this story is going. How does Wallace, in fact, end up pulling these scrambled threads together? And how does he make those threads feel important and life affirming? After reading and reviewing this story, I have come to my own conclusions. I will briefly expound on how, in my view, Wallace has written a story of depth, feeling, and intelligence.
1) The children left by the road: We find out the children left by the road are Julie, and her autistic/special needs infant brother, Lunt. While standing there, holding onto that fence with her brother, she watched a cow in a pasture chewing grass and cud all day long. The expressionless facial features of the cow never left Julies memory. They were standing there in need, in agony, in sadness- and all the cow could do was stand there, expressionless, and chomp away. She later expresses her views that men, in general, are this same way. Men have this same expressionless attribute. And perhaps, though it's never stated, this is a major factor that contributed to Julie becoming a lesbian. She also has a peculiar fondness for her mother. Julie states that the man her mother was with, made her abandon the them as children. And that her mother, in reality, was only abandoning Lunt, but needed Julie to be there to take care of him. I believe that Julie, though these stories could possible be true, is telling herself these things in order to cope with her life.
2) Woman and child in a movie theater: There is a part of the story when Faye and Julie are exchanging different anecdotes, some true, some not, in order to explain why Faye is a lesbian. Faye recounts the story about her and her mother, Dee Goddard, going to the movies when she was a little girl. A man, unbeknownst to Faye, is fondling her mothers red hair. The incident is so traumatic that it sends her mother into a downward spiral of drugs and alcohol. Her husband, years later, re-marries a woman practically identical to Dee, and tortures her with this fact, like a knife in the back. This story could be entirely true, somewhat true, or mostly fabricated- the reader never knows for sure.
3) Alex Trebek: Alex Trebek and his cronies on the set of "JEOPARDY!", I believe, act as a vehicle for introducing the varying themes in the story. Faye and her mother work on the set. Julie is a prodigy contestant. Lunt is also a form of prodigy contestant, sent in to dethrone his sister (for thematic impact, implemented to generate more TV viewers). There is an undertone theme of TV's secret agenda to control our minds. How we subconsciously, by viewing TV, are allowing this to be so. This theme is not heavy handed, It comes into the story by means of a conversation. I believe that Wallace had no hidden agendas, or hidden themes to present to the reader in this story. Any themes outside of the obvious text and storyline undoubtedly came about amorphously- through the structure of his story. Wallace is often intrigued by unique settings and pop/current popular culture, and how this culture affects our lives.
4) Julie and Faye have sex: The story, in retrospect, is ultimately about Julie and Faye- their devotion and love for each other. They bring home the most human elements of this story. Their relationship, as expressed through excellent dialogue, is beautiful, sweet, and sincere. They both have insecurities and flaws. But they compliment each other. Wallace said it best in that first vignette: "Julie and Faye lie in bed, as lovers. They compliment each others bodies." This, I believe, could be interpreted in two different ways. 1) Literally, they are speaking to one another, complimenting each others bodies. Or, 2) Because they are lesbians- because they are two lesbians in love- their bodies compliment each other, and therefore, are one.
Did I personally relate to all of these stories? No, I must admit, I did not. Did I fully understand all of these characters? No, I did not. But I don't believe that Wallace did, either. He was brave enough to venture into unknown territory, and make it as real and human as his mind could conjure. Little Expressionless Animals, may not invoke in you feelings of personal renewal, or transcendence, but hopefully it shows you that there is humanity and truth to be found- even in the most unlikely of places- even on the set of "JEOPARDY!".

That "Getting To Know You" Class-Prompt Thing

Favorite Film?
Here- let me impress you with my multi-cultural taste in cinema: 'The 400 Blows' Directed by: Francois Truffaut. - It was so gritty and natural and minimalistic for when it was made. Jean Pierre Leaud (this film being his acting debut), was a revelation. A prodigy in the making. It's in black and white, It's got French sub-titles, it's a coming-of-age story, it's old and artsy-fartsy - in other words, it's amazing.

When I shop (if I shop), where do I go?: I'm loyal to Levi's 501's. I have chicken-legs, and 501's make me look less chicken-leg-ish (or at least that's what I'd like to believe). I like pants. I like cutting pants at the knee, making little triangle cuts - so they look like Peter Pan Pants. I like jackets. Jackets make me look good. That's honestly why I look forward to cooler weather - so I can wear jackets and pants. I care what people think about me. I worry often about my looks. And so do you- just admit it.

I can read anywhere. I read and write at work when I shouldn't be. And I read and write on my breaks. It is often difficult for me to finish reading something, because the material starts compelling me to write. I read slow. I'm dyslexic. So is Richard Ford - so, it's no excuse for anything. I write fiction mostly- in its various forms.

First literary influence/inspiration? Nick Hornby, Raymond Carver, Richard Ford, Jack London, Thoreau, Chekhov, Kafka, Nabokov (all the "ov's").

Current influences? All of the above - George Saunders, David Foster Wallace, Jane Austen, Lorrie Moore, Steve Almond, David Sedaris, Harold Brodkey- I'm a sucker for Cheevers and Updike and those guys- Bellow, Roth.

I've started a novella- 'Onward'. That's all I'm gonna' say about it. Don't want to jinx it.

I started seriously reading when i was 21-22. Before that I didn't know how to read. I could read, but I didn't know HOW to read. I'm still learning, actually. but then I read Nick Hornby's "About a Boy" - laughed my ass off, cried- all that. It made me realize that books were cool. That authors were crazy-badass-lunatics. Just like me!

What literary figure would I be? I wrote down 'Frank Bascombe'. Why? It's hard to say. He's a loner and self-centered. He's an asshole most of the time. But he cares and he tries and he feels so much. Like me. So maybe I just want to be myself. Imagine that.

That's all I had written down.

Some Flash-Fiction

The Dress

Put on the dress and twirl around. Hike up the hem and point out your foot. Show him the white pumps with the fake diamonds and say, 'Aren't they just perfect?' Then do another little twirl (you're brimming with excitement and anticipation). He says that he’s never seen anything so beautiful– and you believe him. You believe his words as he holds you tight in front of the mirrors. You look so good together. You wish someone had a camera. He’s so handsome and sweet. He's the man for you. He's the man you've chosen. 

Traditionally, the groom should not be permitted to see the dress. But the two of you don't follow traditions. You're not like other couples. You're unique in the way you do things.

Buy the dress. It's perfect. It's the one.

Now, take the dress out of your closet every day and spread it out on your bed. Touch the beads and the embroidery. Think about your future daughter wearing the same dress. Look in the mirror and imagine what you will look like on your wedding day. It's a pleasant surprise, because all of your pre-wedding muscle shreds and food diets have really paid off. You're so beautiful. You will make such a beautiful bride. Life is going to be so wonderful.

It's the big day. So go ahead, put your dress on for the last time. Put it on slowly. Remember every moment. Tell your Mother and your Sister to leave the room for a few minutes. Tell them that you just need some time alone. They'll understand. After they leave, let yourself fall onto the love-seat (your dress will poof out- making you look like a giant cream-puff). Try to suppress the tears, but then, let them flow. You're scared and dazed and  thrilled and nauseous. You're really doing this. This is really happening.

The wedding goes beautifully. As does the reception. The dress is admired and flaunted again, and again. You catch your man eyeing you, so you give him a seductive smile. You are both thinking the same thing. 

That night, in the hotel suite, he is removing the dress from your body. He is too anxious, and moving too fast. He is fumbling and frantic. One of the buttons on the back of the dress rips off and rolls under the desk that has the phone and the lamp on top. You gasp and plunge to retrieve it. In that moment– the moment is ruined. You try and act like it doesn't matter. “It’s just a button.” you say. “It’s an easy fix.” You try and resuscitate the moment– you rub his bare shoulders as he sits on the edge of the bed– you kiss his neck and his ears. You ask him if he’s too tired– but he doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head and lights a cigarette. 

This is horrible, you think to yourself, It can't be like this. This can't be what's remembered!

Years later, after he has left you– after he has left you and your daughter, you are cleaning out the closet and you come across the dress. You unzip the cover and smell the stale odor of moth-balls. You spread the dress out on your bed. You touch the beads and the embroidery. You look at your daughter, sleeping there on the carpet in front of the television. She is eight years old. The dress has already turned to a shade of yellow that reminds you of French-Vanilla ice-cream. 

She'll never wear this, you think to yourself, not this ugly thing. 

You flip the dress over and notice that a button is missing. Memories that you'd forgotten are now flooding your mind: You remember him putting his pants back on. You remember him going to fill the ice bucket. You remember walking out onto the balcony and throwing that button into the cold dark night. You couldn't see where it fell, but you didn't care. You didn't care about that stupid dress anymore.