I Bid You Adieu

It has been a good ride here on Blogger. I've shared some laughs and some tears.  The highs and the lows of my senior year here at Loyola University Maryland. I struggled to figure out what my last piece would be about. I did not want to half-ass any new material so I decided that it would be best to just end it with a goodbye to this Blog and a goodbye to senior year.

Writing this blog has been a good experience for my sanity. Everything that has ever been written is 100% original which should give you a sleight idea on what sickening thoughts go on inside my head. Looking back I think my favorite post is "The Forgotten Tops." It was the catalyst that started this insanity and after I wrote it, I never looked back. Everyday on campus was exciting because I was just searching for new material, waiting for something to blog about. Sometimes things fell right into my lap, but others it was difficult to create. It's mentally exhausting trying to make a boring world dramatic. In fact I think this is the hardest work I have done all year.  Assign me a paper comparing slave rebellions, no problem. Tell me to tell a story about babysitting a fish that does nothing AND make it interesting...good god that was tough. I don't want to get philosophical on you because that was never the intention of this blog, but I will say this. Don't go through life in a gaze. Keep your head straight, but your eyes wandering. There is nothing interesting on your phone or on the ground in front of you. Look around, you might just see a dead ranch packet, or a malicious snowman.

It has been a real privilege writing on this blog. To anyone that has been with me since day one, I thank you. My friends, while always telling me I am fucked up for thinking of some of this stuff, supported my writing. I write for you....Just kidding, I could care less about you. I write for myself. I write to enjoy the boring world around me. Take a walk in my shoes, see the world through my glasses and you might just smile a little more and laugh more often.

Congratulations Seniors and remember, bushes are the worst shrubs on this planet.

Dry Salad

Good god what did I witness today. It is such a strange coincidence that this post is following the Hidden Valley Slayer story. Yea you guessed it, this will be about salad. Who doesn't like salad. With a couple of good toppings and a bomb dressing, a salad can easily become a meal. Well...in most cases it can. One case it cannot. And that ladies and gentleman is what I witnessed today. As I sat and ate my lunch, my eyes locked with a lass by the name if Christine. What was she eating? A salad? What kind of toppings, oh just some shredded carrots, some beans, a walnut here and there. And the dressing? Nothing. As we continued to cha........wait what. Back track. Holy mother of the Roman Empire. Salad...yes. Toppings...check. Dressing....Holy nope!

It takes a real sicko to eat a salad without dressing. That is basically the equivalent of being a rabbit or a gerbil. You are a rodent Christine. How dry can one person's mouth be after eating leafy greens and nuts without some moisture. Like how? As I stared in disbelief I began openly criticizing her in front of her peers to show my disgust. Imagine just walking into the woods and picking up some oak leaves and acorns and just popping them in your mouth because that is essentially the equivalent.

There was a weird tint in her eye that caught my attention however. Like a glint, a sparkle, a shine. I began to think about that deceased ranch packet. The packet that never got to do its job. And then it hit me. She? Could it be? No....maybe? As I quarreled with my thoughts she began to glare into my soul. Chew after chew became more vicious. I could hear each crunch because remember salads are dry without some sauce. I think she was on to me. As I began to open my mouth to accuse, she flicked a walnut at my eye and emptied the contents of her salad bowl upon my friend Julia's laptop. Luckily the laptop survived because there was no dressing to damage it. The Hidden Valley Slayer sprung from the table like a gremlin and sprinted to the door. Salad was everywhere--dry salad.

Only the Hidden Valley Slayer would eat a meal in a such a savage way. How naive I was...


Remember those we lost in 2015. RIP Ranch

Hidden Valley Continuation

Ranch dressing is just so innocent. It can come in packets, bottles, maybe even as a crusty topping to a pretzel. None of this warrants a sadistic murder. The events of the murder were most likely as follows

A disgruntled Loyola student exited the cafeteria in hysteria. In his left hand, lay a salad. Poorly tossed, minimal onions, and a lot of croutons. In his right hand lay the perfect packet. A supple, plump, plastic bag of the white rain; Hidden Valley Ranch. As he exited the cafeteria, his heart rate rose. He knew what he was doing. The salad was just a ploy. "How could they not see past me. Poorly tossed? No onions and a lot of croutons...what fools!" You see the salad was a trick. A trick to get his hands on the ranch packet. You cannot just walk out of the cafeteria dawning a lone packet of dressing. As he walked the familiar path, his gaze straightened and his grin widened.

Ever since the incident, he had always hated ranch dressing. About three years ago, a lone freshman on the first week of classes stepped into his shower to start the day. As he applied his shampoo, he smelt something a little funky, but continued his morning ritual anyway. As he began to dry his hair, it hid him. "Those fuckers!" His roommates had switched his Dove Men's extra Moisturizing shampoo to some good old fashioned white cream: Hidden Valley Ranch. The smell was unbearable. Imagine the smell of moist hair, coupled with the mixture of warm water and buttermilk ranch dressing. His first week of classes was plagued by the smell. Everyone avoided him. The only friend that he had was that smell that followed him everywhere. But it was no friend of his, it became his enemy. Imagine earning the nickname Hidden Valley Harry your first week of college classes.

As he approached senior housing he looked to his left, right, front, and rear. The only witness was a squirrel too busy with his nuts and a cat too engaged in attacking the squirrel. He gently placed his victim on the curb, petted it, and stepped back. He ditched the salad in the bushes, hiding any evidence of his most recent purchase. He raised his right heel and thrusted it towards the packet. The last thing that ranch packet saw was the heel of a Nike Air Max plummeting towards its "tear here" tab. SPLOOOOOSH. The packet exploded as its sides tore apart secreting its contents for the whole world to see. Hidden Valley Harry looked upon his victim with disdain, licked his shoe to get just a taste of vengeance, and strutted away. A trail of ranch blood followed him a few steps and slowly faded away. The deed was done. Hidden Vally Harry was no more...he had become the Hidden Valley Slayer.

RIP Hidden Valley Ranch Packet. Your bitter, sour sauce changed many a boring salads into explosions of flavor and lust.

HaZe iN a GaZE

OK. So I apologize for that title. Just inappropriate, unprofessional, and uncalled for. But I am back. It only took a day, but I can feel my creativity juices just flowing.

Want to know what I saw today? It was horrible. A massacre of the worst scale.  As I walked to class I was brought to my knees. I saw it laying there. Crushed, destroyed, murdered, and shamed. There in front of my two walking feet sat a crushed Ranch packet. Its top opened, its contents scattered about in the ugliest of fashion. The sweet, bitter, creamy, thick dressing flowed out of the packet like a bleeding carcass.  There was nothing I could do, but watch as a close friend of mine dressed out on the warm Baltimore pavement. What monster could have done this. It reminded me of muffin top girl.  Look at the first post to relieve that horror story. I decided that the tale of Mr. Ranch must be told. As a warning to other .$58 cent packets of Ranch, beware of the Hidden Valley Slayer....

I wanted to get to the bottom of this murder mystery salad. I wanted to get inside the mind of the Hidden Valley Slayer. What was his beef with the buttermilk infused salad dressing. What had the farmers on Hidden Valley Ranch done to push this man towards slaughter. It was necessary to dig deeper, look harder, and harvest answers.

Creativity Bug

I sometimes wonder if the world of Spongebob Squarepants is actually just a cartoon version of the one we dwell in.  I had forgotten much of the philosophy that Bikini Bottom preaches until my friend Hallie bombarded my life with Spongebob quotes, pictures, and videos. As I began to engulf my life back into watching Spongebob, one thing seemed all the too real.  Pictured above is a seen from the show that is supposed to be Spongebob's brain essentially shutting down.  All the workers inside are destroying everything that does not have to do with being a waiter.  I won't go into the details, but to make a long story short, Spongebob forgets everything except for waiter etiquette and knowledge. 

And that's where I am at.  Except it's not being a waiter I forgot how to do, it's being creative.

I feel as though there are actually workers chilling in my noggin who decided yesterday to just screw me over. "It's been real Kevin, I know there's still a week left, but were done. Good luck!" I'm not sure what method they used, but I can tell you it was severely effective.  I can barely think, let alone concentrate on anything and I feel as though any creative juice that remained in my head was drank by some sadistic brain worker.

It's gonna be a tough week. Somehow I have to pump out about six more of these bad boys and I am not sure how I'm gonna do it.

Free Flow Round 2

Wow I felt really good after that last free flow that I decided another was necessary.

Tea, lets talk about tea.

I always have been a little suspicious of tea.  I have grown to like it since being in China where that is literally all people drink. But back to the suspicion.  Tea.  What is it made of?  Leaves....let me spell that for you L.E.A.V.E.S. I am, you are, we are drinking leave juice.  Ok so maybe some tea is made with orange peel, or rose petals, but for the most part we are drinking watered down leaf secretions.

I would like to know how the human race decided it was ok to put leaves in water, drink said water, and then just wait to see if it was a good idea.  How many mistakes occurred?  I can tell you that Oak leaf tea would be disgusting and don't even get me started on poison ivy tea.  Think about it, that had to have been experimented with once.  That brings about my next suspicion, who were the brave individuals that tried different leaves to see what tasted best.  Personally, there were no brave individuals; I think parents used their kids as Guinea pigs.  Kids trust their parents; they listen to what they say and mirror their actions.  A long time ago in different parts of the world, parents maintained a collective consciousness with one another and agreed to start brewing up some tea for their kids.  All they had to do was tell them, "Drink this" and the kid would joyously raise the mug to his lips.  Whether that first sip was met with glee, disgust, vomit, or even death....ok maybe not death, but you get the point.

So the next time you enjoy your Chai tea, your Arnold Palmer sweet drink, think of the children.  Think of those poor souls who gulped down natures piss water just so you could enjoy some Early Grey as you sit upon your couch.  Maybe I should start experimenting with new brands of tea. I am a camp counselor so I have access to a bunch of excited and willing kids.  Maybe one day I bring them to nature, maybe I even bring a tea kettle.  Who knows whats going in that pot.  Some pine-cones, pine leaves, hell I am feeling adventurous, lets toss some dandelions and old grass in the mix.  As I wrote that I realized that is probably a one way ticket to jail. But it is for a good cause and I could argue that in court. "Listen your honor, I understand how this appears to be my fault that Thomas had an allergic reaction to that concoction.  BUT. We all learned something today haven't we?  We learned that when you brew dandelions and swamp grass together it causes horrible diarrhea.  We know that tea won't work!!! On to the next experiment...am I right or am I right"  I will see all of you in county prison! Bon appétit!

Free Flow

Keeping an otherwise boring life dramatic is extremely taxing on my creativity center. It is not that life has gotten dull for me, but that I feel I am a little drained.  I think I found the perfect cure for my condition--a little free flow writing.  I learned this technique in high school and it works wonders for a slow mind. Basically a topic is chosen and without hesitation, no stopping whatsoever, I have to write continuously for ten minutes or so.  It may be erratic, it may not make sense, it may not flow, BUT it is the perfect window into what is going on through my mind.

Without further ado, the topic of bushes...

Bushes. I always wondered if there was a dispute in the plant world between all the different shrub like plants.  Do bushes mock grass?  Grass is so short and small, yet bushes are much bigger.  Grass cannot grow on top of a bush, yet a bush can grow on top of grass.  Is this like a big "fuck you" to all the grasses of the worlds. At night, when everyone is asleep, do bushes uproot themselves and just walk all over grass?  Does morning dew not have a scientific explanation at all, it could just be the result of bushes leaving their spots, peeing all over grass, and going back to home before humans wake up.  What if when grass dies it is actually from the hands, or should I say leaves, of the bushes.  Like some bush mafia lives in the deep woods, far away from human contact, and keeps an eye on grass.  God forbid grass does not buy fertilizer insurance or geese protection from bushes--they would be in for a world of hurt.

I feel like bushes and trees do not get along either.  Yea bushes tower over grass, but what about trees?  They do not stand a chance in hell.  Trees have more leaves, thicker trunks, and longer branches. Trees are to bushes as bushes are to grass.  I feel like trees have manipulated us humans into finding them more aesthetically pleasing than bushes.  Bushes try to be trees but lack any skills.  Have you ever seen a bush provide shade for a person, no.  Was the apple that fell upon Newton's head from a bush....NO. Yea they provide us blueberries and whatnot, but no blueberry is gonna help people understand the laws of gravity.

Fucking bushes man.  Pointless shrubs.  Bob Ross may have painted "happy bushes" in his paintings, but I can tell you they are not happy pieces of shrubbery.  They are bullies.  They pick on grass because it is a weak set of organic blades.  Trees are the only things that keep bushes in line. Without trees it would be pandaemonium out there. Maybe this free-flow writing is less about bushes and more about trees.  

Camo Hat Revisited

Camo Hat, confused and afraid, watched as Armani tackled his father to the cement floor. He stood and stared as the two fought in the columns of hanging meat. There was nothing he could do, he was small and weak, and most importantly frozen with fear. Armani had Giorgio pinned.
"My business is nothing because of your family...I hope you enjoyed your sons birthday because that was the last one you will ever see," screamed Armani.

Armani stood up, stared into Camo Hat's eyes and a small smirk came across his face.
"Your father made a big missed steak..."

At this point in time, positioned above Giorgio was a fresh cow carcass. Giorgio had killed it the other day and was preparing it for his son's high school graduation feast. Armani looked it up and down, hit the chain, and watched with joy as the carcass slammed down on Armani. He turned, and walked out the door. The deed was done. Camo Hat rushed to his father's side desperately trying to get the meat off his father, but to no avail.

He grabbed hold of the chains and tried to deadlift the meat of his dying dad, but he was too weak and small and the carcass didn't budge. Giorgio knew this was his last moment with his son so he pulled him close.
"Son...I leave you this business. Take care of the family...and take care of the meats" His last breath was accompanied by a gift. In his trembling hand, Giogrio presented Camo Hat with a camo hat, hence the name. Camo Hat dawned his new gift from his dying father and made a vow. As he wiped the tears from his eyes he knew what needed to be done. He could have saved his father if only he had been strong enough. He needed to dedicate himself to the art of lifting weights so nothing like this would ever happen again.

This is how Camo Hat came to be. Everyday he enters the FAC dawning the very camo hat his father had given to him after being crushed by a cow carcass. Every lift is for his father. Every grunt, every scream...every slam. He pretends each lift is the cow carcass, he resents himself for not being able to lift that everyday. Who am I to blame him for making a huge scene everyday in the gym. He dedicates each workout to Giorgio.

While moving, I still feel as though the screaming and slamming should come to an end. One of these days he will be too confident, lift too much weight, and be crushed just like his father was. Except instead of a cow carcass, it will be made of steel.

Camo Hat

Working at my schools gym has blessed me with a lot of perks.  I know many of the employees that work there and can get away with stuff that regular patrons cannot.  I am surrounded by fitness, so I can always stay in shape and up to date on new workouts and whatnot. However there is one perk that many people are blind to. I am surrounded by idiots. I love my coworkers and I have come to know many of the patrons, that being said they are the minority. I could probably write a book on the stupidity and absurdity I have seen go on at the FAC. One such individual, we will call him "Camo Hat," continues to throw me for a loop everyday.

Before I tell the tale of how he came to be, I should tell you a little bit why his story needs to be heard. Everyday without fail he manages to ruin the workout of anyone in his vicinity. He enters the free-weight section with a vengeance--what have these weights done to him?! He throws his gym bag around like a god damn rag doll. But this is minuscule compared to what he does to the weights. Regardless if he is lifting 50 lbs. or 200 lbs., he tosses them to the ground with pure aggression, making a resounding BOOM CRASH that disrupts everyone around him. It is all for attention, that is it. That sort of action is unnecessary; I have seen people lift two times as much as he can and they somehow manage to do so quietly....shocker. Anyway, enough of this rant, onto the birth story.

It had always confused me why Camo Hat felt the need to take so much unwarranted aggression out on the free-weights. Why was he so dedicated to being an obnoxious lifter? Well it all stems from his 16th birthday.  Camo Hat grew up in a very italian neighborhood in New York City. A family of butchers, Camo Hat was the oldest sibling of six in the Fetogianna family. He was an apprentice butcher at his father's shop; it had been in the family for three generations and Camo Hat was next in the Fetogianna to own and run the shop. Everyday he awoke early to open the store and left late to clean it up.

His sixteenth birthday went great. His father threw a small get together, a BBQ if you will, but an italian one. As the family was cleaning up the mess, Camo Hat's father, Giorgio, pulled him into the back. As they wandered the maze of frozen meat, a silhouette appeared in the distance.
"Happy birthday," the words were masked by the sound of refrigerators.
"Well if it isn't Armani Fortoganni. Can I ask what in the hell you are doing in my shop," questioned Giorgoio.

Armani Fortoganni owned a rival butcher shop down the street. His shop had been overshadowed by the Fetogianna since its founding. Their meat was dry, stale, and lacked flavor. Yet, Armani always seemed to blame the Giorgio for his failing business.

"You know god damn well why I am here...I have come to take what is mine!" Bellowed Armani as he sprinted towards Camo Hat and his father....

Moon Man continued

So what about love? What is this new song that has exploded on the internet?  Cudi revealed that this song was originally supposed to be on the Satellite Flight, but it was cut at final production.  He released this single on March 3rd, just in time for me to abuse the replay button for a week straight.  Not to be a comedian, but I LOVE "love." It is exactly what I and everyone else has been waiting for.  This song is special.  If there is a one word to describe it, it is special.  It may be one song, but there is an incredible amount of meaning stemming from this 5 minute 39 second track.

Right off the bat the listener hears the familiar haunting guitar riffs of Ratatat.  Ratatat was featured on his first album and I always wanted them to return to future albums.  The guitar riffs command attention and drag the listener into the song.  Upon first hearing it I told myself, "The man is back. He is FUCKING back!" As I said in the last post, I did not hate the filler albums, however I did want Cudi to come back with the sound I fell in love with in high school.

The song is special because it is a map to the release of Man on the Moon III.  Cudi stated that the album would be ready in 2015 and he has been toying with the fans issuing spoilers and pictures of studio time.  The release of "love." is a statement.  It says that Cudi is ready with the album, he is in the right mindset and is creating a masterpiece.  In 2013 Cudi had this to say about MOM3, "You’ll see it coming from a person who is looking at things from a more mature mindset, with more understanding and growth."  This album has been hyped up for a while for good reason. Cudi had a goal in mind with it and wanted to make sure his head was in the right place before writing.  I want to show you some lyrics from "love." 
                        
                                    Don't be so down, c'mon young homie
                                    You'll be ok, you'll find real love
                                    All of the stories, the hero gets lonely
                                    Now is the time to show what you're made of

These are the lyrics of a mature Cudi.  No longer struggling with depression or identity issues, the artist sings lyrics of motivation.  To the fans worried about love, Cudi gives them advice and words to push forward.  It is not a time of lows, but highs.  This song is special because it shows a mature Cudi, and a mature Cudi means a Man on the Moon III.  To the fans wondering where he went he sent a personal message by releasing this track.  Be patient, the album is in the works, and I am ready this time.  "love." is a teaser, something to hold people over until the ultimate release of the long-awaited album.

I am excited about the coming months and I will brush up on the story of Scott Mescudi to ensure I will be ready for Man on the Moon III.

Return of the Moon Man

This post will be different than that of the recurring theme on Make your own tale. I would never stray from the theme unless it was an emergency and in this case it is. Last week was our spring break and I was stuck in the 100+ inches of snow in Boston.  Not exactly what I had planned for my senior year spring break, but I digress.  One thing kept me going throughout the week--the return of the moon-man; Kid Cudi (Scott Mescudi).  He released his track "love." last week and it was everything fans have been waiting for.

If you don't listen to Cudi or even know who he is I highly suggest you venture over to his music kingdom and give him a listen. I grew up listening to Cudi's unique hip-hop style in high school and have followed his releases ever since.  His first two albums, Man on the Moon: The End of Day and Man on the Moon II: The Legend of Mr. Rager, were a breath of fresh air in the hip-hop culture and a great new musical experiment.  Each of these albums offer a continuos story and a look into the mind of Scott Mescudi.  These albums hold an important place in my heart as they do in many people my age.  The stories of these two albums match perfectly with the lives of high schoolers; the struggles of attempting to find yourself, being misunderstood, and experimenting with different people and things resonate within these two.  While everyone was expecting for the story to continue and Man on the Moon III to be released, Cudi had different intentions.

Instead of following the path everyone expected, Cudi split from his record label and produced three albums the way he wanted to. The first was his experimental rock group WZRD where he released one album conveniently named WZRD. His next move was Indicud, followed soon by Satellite Flight: The Return to Mother Moon. For many, these three releases came off as disappointing and lacking in the Cudi style of the first two albums.  I disagree. The reason why I love Cudi as an artist and respect and revere him as a musician is his ability to express himself.  He is not confined by a record company and strays away from the hip-hop culture. I am disappointed with the hip-hop/rap culture as of late; creativity is at an all time low and the same drum beats and drops are overused and ruined.  The lyrics are crass and lack ingenuity. There appears to be a major inferiority complex going on with the males in hip-hop; all they do is brag about "bitches, hoes, guns, and partying." It is all about THEM. They don't tell stories anymore they just vomit words that don't resonate in anyone.

Cudi on the other hand stands out in hip-hop. He's different and this is immediately apparent upon first listening to him. What makes him different is his lyrics, music samples, and the direction of his music.  His lyrics send a message to his audience; they range from feelings of loneliness to words of inspiration.

                     I'm super paranoid, like a 6th sense

                     Since my father died, I ain't been right since

                     And I tried to piece the puzzle of the universe

                     Split an eighth of shrooms just so I could see the universe

                     I tried to think about myself as a sacrifice

                    Just to show the kids they ain't the only ones who up at night

                    The moon will illuminate my room and soon I'm consumed by my doom

In his song "Soundtrack to my life" from his first album, Cudi lets the people know he has struggled with identity issues and with that normalizes the phenomenon so people know its gonna be ok.  

             Wish I could tell my brother something for some motivation
             And get him out that gutter
             He's leaving behind a family and a mother
             Damn you must understand when I speak about a song its how I really am
             Yeah this is how I really think
             You could see what I see, yes I really wink

In his song "Mojo so Dope" from his second album, Cudi tells his fans that his music is about his life.  Through his music, Cudi lets the people inside his mind to see the world from his point of view. There is a special bond between Cudi and his fans because he really lets them into his life.  For people struggling with personal issues, his music is uplifting because it shows raw emotion. For someone struggling top explain how they feel, a Cudi song can perfectly sum it up with a few quick stanzas.

His music samples are far-reaching and offer a new sound to listeners.  He has used everything from deep bass infused themes to the psychedelic, electronic sound of MGMT and Ratatat. He stands out because he is not afraid to experiment and be different. He ventures into unknown territory and allows other artists to influence his music.  His albums, Indicud and Satellite Flight, received mixed reviews because of this experimentation.  The sound was different, the production unique, and storyline was choppy.  That being said I liked both albums. Cudi is doing exactly what he is supposed to be doing. He is not letting others tell him how to produce, he is doing it himself.  He is experimenting and trying to find happiness.  Satellite Flight  was the final clue the fans needed.  This album revealed that Man on the Moon III was coming.  This was his last attempt at filling in the blanks between the last Man on the Moon album.  His journey to happiness has weeded out the bandwagon fans and created a strong, loyal group of space travelers.

And this brings us to the present and the release of "love."

To be continued....

Atticus Continued

I couldn't wait until my neighbors returned from their ski trip.  This fish had to go.  Every night I would destroy his nests of dominance and, sure enough, every morning they would be back, stronger than ever.  I wanted to cut him off completely--hide his food, drain his home of water, and watch him die in the bubble nests he has mocked me with.  But that is a little too barbaric for my tastes and my neighbors would never forgive me.

I learned to keep my distance from Atticus, nothing good could come out of me getting to know him any better. I still did not know what those nests were for and I did not want to find out.  It was about this time that I began to miss Tea Kettle and my old friends.  Sure they had their flaws, but they were not actively plotting something evil.  They had turned their backs on me.  They saw how excited I got when the fish showed up; they abandoned me.  Now that Atticus turned out to be evil, I have no one to fall back on...no one.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
Could it be?! Yes it was! My neighbors.  They returned.  As they interviewed me on the events of the weekend, I maintained a straight face and nodded yes to everything. "Reveal nothing to them," I thought to myself.  They exited my apartment and my problems were solved. For a brief moment I thought about warning them, but it was their fault and it's their problem now.

I haven't heard from them in a couple of days now and their apartment is leaking water. Goes to show you, don't trust a fucking fish.

Atticus the Fish

Aquinas 208, my place of dwelling, had been missing something recently.  4 guys living in a small Loyola apartment does not sound like an atmosphere that breeds loneliness, but you'd be surprised.  I am usually home alone here so I decided to befriend the objects of the room to fill the void in my life.
Human beings are incredible creatures. We landed on the moon, we cure diseases....we truly are capable of great things. Yet here I sit talking to a football, eating dinner with a tea kettle, and crying in the shower with a variety pack of Crayola markers.....I mean singing in the shower.

Thursday had been a tough day, the football was becoming a bit of a nuisance; I think he might even be a racist. Tea Kettle was busy boiling water or something, I think she might be cheating on me with the coffee mug, but I cannot be sure. He's always like, "Hey you boil water so good." And she's always like, "you're so good at holding my boiling water." Im not sure if I should read too much into that. And the markers, well, let's not go there.  KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. My silence was broken by a knock at the door.  I opened the door to find my two neighbors holding a huge margarita glass with a fish in it.  Long story short, they asked if we could babysit their fish, Atticus Finch, for the weekend while they went skiing.  I joyously accepted the offer.

A new friend.

Atticus is a male Betta fish.  He seemed harmless.  He didn't do much, swam slowly, displayed his fins from time to time. Nothing he did prepared me for his actual motives.

Everything started out normal.  I greeted Atticus ever morning with a hello and five pebbles of fish food.  He greeted me with his burp bubbles. He would go to the surface, look me in the eyes, and burp a bubble to the surface.  I could sense a real bromance brewing between man and fish. Gone was the feud between fish and man that had been established long before the first fishing pole was invented. Each day the routine continued--more hellos and more bubbles.

I noticed something wrong when the bubbles were not going away.  There was probably about 20 of them and they were not disappearing.  Everyday more and more of these weird bubbles. I did not want to mess with them either. Remember when someone would pop your bubblegum bubble when you were a kid?  Remember how pissed you were? Well now imagine being a fish, swimming in a Margarita glass.  All you have to live for are these bubbles.  I let him live.

By Saturday morning I noticed something strange about the bubbles.  They were forming into words.  HE WAS BECOMING SELF-AWARE. What in the holy hell was happening?! This fish went from a peaceful bubble blower to a maniac water creature spelling "Kill" with burp bubbles.  I began frantically googling everything and anything about Betta fishes to see if these bubbles were legit.  Turns out there is some truth to the bubbles.

Male Betta fishes create something called bubble nests when they are ready to mate. Ready to mate? I hate to break it to you man, but there are no female fishes in sight...Unless he is trying to tell me something.  Maybe I am not his friend, maybe he wants to mate with me.  Or maybe he is trying to tell me that my female neighbors are his territory.
  To be continued...

Snow Day?

"I'll text you tomorrow that work is cancelled."

My boss gave us this hopeful news at the end of our staff meeting last night.  A blizzard was approaching and that meant I could sleep in due to work being cancelled. I found myself Cinnabon status in my bed; the covers were the warm cinnamon dough and my pajamas resembled hot icing.  I was ready for my big day (or lack thereof).

I awoke at 8am to check my phone to ensure my boss had not given me false promises the night before.  I pressed the home button sensually to ensure my phone had a nice, proper wake-up.  The screen lacked any texts, missed calls, or emails; only Ron Swanson (my background) stared back at me.  LIAR. FALSE PROPHET. BLASPHEMY.

My day now had to start because the weathermen of Maryland decided to rain on my parade. Actually no, that is not dramatic enough.  What they did was equivalent to sneaking into my house during Thanksgiving dinner, lick all the turkey, and claim it as their own.  Giving me the satisfaction of seeing a delicious future only to destroy it before my eyes.

As I looked outside I did not see snow, I saw flurries of white lies and lost hope.  To make my day even better, my car was covered in this stuff.  Instead of scraping the snow and ice off, I decided to leave it on in hopes that I might blindly drive into on coming traffic.  Unfortunately I made it safely to work and thus my day began.  I stood behind my desk pondering what evil brought this day upon my person.  Who had it out to get me?  I'll tell you who, Frosty the fucking Snowman.  That snowy motherfucker has been after me for 10 years...waiting for his moment to give me the yellow snow.

In my younger years I crossed paths with Frosty a few times, but one such occurrence is engrained in both of our memories.  Every snowstorm my next-door neighbor would construct this spawn of Satan, placing him so his beady black eyes could watch me sleep at night.  No one believed me, "it's just a snowman, he's not alive," they would say.  I know that collection of snowballs is behind every cold draft or chilly feeling.  One day I had enough and sought out to insult him in the best way I knew how.

I snuck out of my house in the early hours of the morning to find that cold creature sleeping.  What I did next was the middle finger in terms of the snow people.  I did what every young boy likes to do in the snow, change its color.  Yea that's right I peed on Frosty! I finished my deed with pride and fled to the safe zone--the fireplace.

This year we have not had much snow, therefore Frosty has not greeted me in my Baltimore neighborhood.  But I know where he is, he's up in the clouds waiting to fall.  I'm not gonna lie my foe got me good today.  I see his end game.  My pee only insulted him momentarily, his act was more sinister and had more consequences. He is the god of the snow and decided not to share his gift today. That selfish, low life, pile of nothing kept his bountiful treasure to himself.

Frosty the snowman was a disgusting, mean soul
With a broken arm and crooked nose
And a heart made out of coal.

Frosty the snowman destroyed fairy tales, they say
I made is snow yellow, and now I know
Why he ruined my life one day.

Frosty pissed on my dreams and my snow day.

The forgotten tops

Our class had been lucky lately.  Just last week our Professor brought in a box of homemade chocolate chip cookies for the class to feast upon while learning about ethics in Psychology.  What new surprise would greet our watering mouths today?

     It was blueberry muffins.  As I passed the tray to the next lucky classmate I gazed down upon my pastry.  The top shimmered like a lawn covered in morning dew; it maintained the correct ratio of moisture and fluffiness that every muffin should.  But as everyone knows there is always someone who wants to ruin your muffin eating experience.  Today that person sat three columns to the left of me dawning a red cardigan of destruction.
   
     My first bite went well. I was able to obtain a large portion of blueberries paired with an equally large portion of pastry.  I never got to experience a second bite. Red cardigan made sure of that.

     Sitting unevenly on her desk sat the top of her muffin. It had its bottom torn from beneath it. You don't do that! You don't!  I gave her the benefit of the doubt--maybe she was just saving the best part for last.  No, no she wasn't.
   
    That muffin top sat hopelessly on a dirty, crumpled napkin knowing it was never going to be eaten.  A muffin's sole purpose in life is to be eaten, and it could not even fulfill that.  I then turned my eyes towards the monster who decimated this innocent breakfast delight.  Her eyes had a mixture of disdain and joy.  A look only Lucifer himself could pull off.  All I could think was, why? Why eat only the bottom, questionably the worst part of the muffin, and leave the top?  Did she have a grievance towards muffin tops?

     There must be a story. I could not leave this situation unexplained.  It is possible muffin tops had wronged her in the past.  Flashback five years ago.  Red cardigan was a senior in high school.

     Prom was in a couple of months and being the progressive female that she was, decided to ask her date instead of waiting for the question.  She looked mediocre that day.  Her red cardigan was still stained from that Quiznos sub she inhaled at lunch...(sorry I am letting my personal bias against her muffin top hatred get in the way, she probably looked fine). Anyway. She was enjoying her post-lunch muffin.  She had eaten one at the same time everyday; it was her favorite part of the day. As per usual she ripped the bottom off, discarded it in the proper waste receptacle, and consumed the top.

     As she dove into a pumpernickel paradise her "date" caught her eye.  No time to waste, it was now or never.  With crumbs still on her lower lip she scurried in his direction.  She now had a difficult decision to make. She thought to herself, "Do I eat the rest now? Or do I hold it in my hand like an idiot?"  With the options weighed, she decided on the former.  She shoveled the cake-like-breakfast-pastry into her mouth sans water.  She was toast.  She couldn't even get the words out because the pumpernickel nightmare dried her mouth out like a sun dried raisin.  She choked not only on her words, but on the muffin top as well.  "Wangbdh goem....ehahhhhh," she vomited her words at him.

     Disgusted, the would be date, snarled and possibly dry heaved a little.  The answer was clearly no.  She soon was tasting her own tears.  They were salty and regretful.

     Back to present time now.  I saw her past and now I knew why that muffin top sat sadly on the napkin.  But before I could muster up enough courage to save it from its trashy fate, the muffin was en route to its demise.  She could have laid it gently in the trash; just show a little respect, c'mon.  She embarrassed that muffin top in front of all the other muffins.  She dropped it a couple of times on the way; each time it broke apart more and more.  I sat motionless in my seat, my face lost its color--I was witnessing a massacre...a muffin massacre.  Finally the top was put out of its misery, but not before she got the last word.  She pulled it close to her lips and whispered one final insult, so disgusting I cannot repeat it here.  It had to do with its ingredients, you don't mock a muffins ingredients, especially to its top.
 
    She embarrassed that muffin out of revenge.  Mark my words red cardigan, your time will come.  Muffins are feisty creatures and when the boysenberry boys hear about this insult to baking, they will come for you.  Mark my dough.