Facebook Friends and Other Ways to Determine Your Self-Worth.

First of all, let me say that I was not going to write this blog, but saw that i had 33! Facebook friends online, and I panicked at the possibility of getting my blog to 33! VIEWERS! Then I realized I don't physically HAVE 33 friends, however, digitally, and technologically, I have upwards of 300 friends which makes me social, and it also makes me a potato.



Everybody knows the feeling, you sign in to facebook and you see that fateful little red box that says you have new updates. Perhaps wall comments, perhaps photo comments, perhaps a million dollars.



However, you click on this little red box and you see new updates, only to find out that it is just the lousy "Your friend compared you on HOT or NOT...see what you rated!"



After your fist goes through the screen, and you contemplate how you are going to explain to your mom why your laptop has a hole in it, you reflect on how genuinely disappointed you are.



Then, you realize that you're upset about Facebook.


Around this time is when you realize you are a bad person for being upset about Facebook. Get a life. And read my blog.



Then you finally succumb to the pressure...because Facebook wins everytime, and you realize you indeed are not HOT...you are...NOT.



Ow...



It's okay, I never liked her anyway.




I am speaking strictly hypothetically, because I have better things to do other than check my ''hotness'' rating...like write blogs in a hurried fashion when I have more than 20 facebook friends online.



Once again, Facebook prevails.



I was enjoying the triple overtime game between the Bulls and the Celtics when my roommates stormed in like they had just experienced oral sex for the first time, besides that one time that they were really pumped on Mountain Dew and their guitar hero broke, and they were experimenting.

Roommate #1 comes in, turns the corner with 3 medium Domino's Pizzas and a large order of CinnaStix. Before I could formulate my plot on how to steal his CinnaStix and bathe in the icing-dipping-sauce, he looked me in the eyes, cracked an eerily large smile and said, "I...LOVE DOMINO'S!"

Then, roommate #2 walks in, with an equally oral-sex-experiment look on his face, raises two full Wal-Mart bags containing Red Bull, Monster, and Gasoline.

"We're gonna pull an all nighter! I've got energy drinks!"

I could hardly hold back my excitement, anticipating another full night of guitar hero, random expletives and sugary drinks, especially when I have to wake up at 7:30 to lift weights that hurt my 60 year old joints. Awesome. All nighter. Party.

So, as you may have guessed, my response was less than thrilled.

"What the hell are you going to do with 3 full pizzas? You guys weigh 200 pounds combined. And you better be quiet during this all-nighter. I have to wake up early."

The mood in the room came to a considerable halt.

I felt like the dad in step brothers, telling my son's to keep it to a dull roar.

The best response I got out of my retarted children was, "We are 260 lbs. combined! I love Domino's! I'll eat one by myself!"

Oh, kids...how they grow up so fast.

Then, as I was flossing my teeth, as I do everynight at approximately 10:52, I eavesdropped on their enlightening conversation as they were discussing a Nirvana album cover on their itunes.

"Dude, it's so gross, I don't get why they put a BABY DICK on their cover...It's like...coooool dude, thats GROSS!"

"No, it's not gross. I mean, it's a baby dick."

"Yeah, but I don't get why they put it in the cover!"

"It's not like it's huge though, like, it's small, cuz it's a baby dick. So it's kinda like a little bit of nature."

At this time, my dental floss is approximately 3 inches deep into my gums, and I am bleeding all over the sink, trying to hold back my sheer joy.

"Dude...I don't care if it's big or not...it looks like ASPARAGUS!"

Before immediately bursting out in laughter, I tried to make the connection between a penis and a vegetable, and I came to only one conclusion, and that is both are considered delicacies in france.

That, and if you eat them, they make your pee stink. But I wouldn't know. Asparagus is gross.

I then proceeded to do the only thing I really could do, which was kick down the door and ground both of them.

I sent them to their room. Then i realized I was in their room. And my skin was green, and my shirt was ripped, and my genetalia was a piece of asparagus.

And I was coated in a heavy layer of CinnaStix Icing, which immediately deduced my rage into a state of blissfullness, then we ate Cinnamon flavored bread, talked about boys, drank energy drinks, played very obnoxious video games in a very loud fashion until the sun-rose, when we would indulge in a partially naked group-slumber, sharing intimate details about our past.

I love college.

Guitar Hero, Penis Jokes and Other Things That I Love.

This just in: the dorm walls are very thin.

If you have ever heard of, or played the game guitar hero, or rockband, slap yourself on the wrist before reading the rest of this blog.

My roommates happen to enjoy these games very much, and they also enjoy playing them very loudly, late at night, with fierce obnoxiousness.

Guitar Hero is bad enough, and the constant PAT PAT PAT PAT of RockBand is annoying in itself, but when they play songs that I originally liked, then BUTCHER them via Guitar hero, a little bit of myself dies.

There's something unsettling about hearing Jimmy Eat World's "The Middle," and between every other lyric, there is a loud, pre-pubescent yelp that varies anywhere between "FUCK," or "FUCK THIS SONG," and I think I once heard "THIS SONGS FUCKIN HARD."

On top of that, I have a NEW roommate who also shares this passion for fake-music-playing. The dialogue between the two goes as follows.

Unfortunate Roommate #1: "I can't keep rhythm with this fuckin' song cuz I am WHITE."

UFR #2: "Yeah dude, this songs FUCKIN hard!"

UFR #1: "I fuckin' Hate this song!"

UFR#2: "Dude, yeah, This song's FUCKIN hard!"

UFR#1: "Yeah dude, thanks for the insight. I'm glad our relationship is based on a plastic guitar. But seriously...Fuck this song."

(Song Lyrics): "It just takes some time, little girl in the middle after a while, everything everything will be just fine, everything will be alright")

UFR #2: "Hey...It just takes some time. After a while it will be alright."

UFR #1: "Thanks dude. Hey...let's talk louder and play our retarted video game louder so the basketball player that lives in our dorm writes a blog about us."

UFR #2: "Okay, that sounds like alot of fun."

This is a typical Sunday night for me, and every once in a while I will get a rare glance at the men...in the flesh. He once walked out to do his dishes that he never does, complaining about how he tried to get with this one 'chick' but she 'is a slut, because she doesn't like me,' and then he proceeded to tell me how she never texted him back and said her phone can't text.

He then saw her texting with her cell-phone, fully functioning, and he lost it.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT SHIT!!!!"

Me: "Um...did you steal that cup from the cafeteria?"

"Yeah I grabbed it and was talking to her when I was leaving, and was so nervous I forgot I had it in my hands. She's such a slut."

I managed to not openly make fun of him, but upon him leaving the room, I noticed he had his Guitar Hero Axe slung across his right shoulder...as he walked back to his room, his laboratory, his guitar-hero sanctuary.

My roommate then brought to my attention that he thinks he knows why our fellow dorm-mate has a hard time with women.

"I think it'd be hard to get a girl's number walking around with a video game guitar on your shoulder."

Touche'.

"It just takes some time, little girl your in the middle, after a while, everything will be just fine. Everything, everything will be alright."

In other news, I went to the La Grande guitar and Stereo store today to buy a textbook, and when I was leaving the guy behind the register told me to "Keep a stiff pick."

Appauled, I looked back at him, and assured him that my protruding erection was NOT from him...but rather from the warm weather, as with any other 19 year old, when it raises above 55 degrees farenheit, I achieve an uncontrollable erection.

Slightly embarrassed, I looked down at my pants, and I DID NOT have an erection.

As strange as that may sound, it turns out it was 54 degrees and he was referring to me literally keeping a stiff pick when I play guitar.

Little does HE know that I actually prefer a floppy pick, and all the flags around town are currently only raised to half-mast...for what it's worth.

There are no sexual inuendos in this post, so get your mind out of the gutter.

This semester has been the first educational experience I have ever had with Art, and I wish I would have started earlier.

It's really fun to look at a painting of some guy on a horse, and talk about how it is expressing the power and social isolation of the common man during the Neo-classic era, the yellow on the horizon indicates a sense of optimism and gives the painting an everlasting positive outlook, and the shading in the left corner really illustrates that fact that I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT!!!!

I basically say this in class everyday, to the teacher, and he acts like I just struck artistic GOLD.

"YES! That is an EXCELLENT observation Sean! Great work! I love you."

The last part doesn't happen, but regardless, he is a good teacher, and he makes me feel good even if I am technically looking at a picture and essentially making shit up.

HOWEVER....

Not ALL art teachers are cool.

There are a select few who do way too many drugs in their youth, make films, teach a couple classes at EOU and have a noticable problem with armpit-sweat and need to be more specific in the directions they give in class.

Let me explain.

I recently had a confrontation with my Digital Media Arts teacher, because I brought notes to the test, after asking him if notes were okay to bring for the test.

Our conversation went exactly like this:

"Hey professor, is it okay to use an index-card for our test?"

"Yeah it's fine. Bring what you need. However, remember that I did alot of heavy drugs in my youth, so odds are I am not technically conscious right now, and I will not technically remember what is happening right now, and technically...this is a salad. (See retarted Taco Bell commercial)"

Then...the day of the test comes, and he walks in, sweaty armpitted and reeking of artsy-farts. Not the good kind.

He says to me "Hey cool are those notes?"

"Yeah."

"Cool do you want me to throw them away or give them to you after the test?"

"Um...I'd like to use them. That's why I made them."

"Um...this is NOT an open note test."

"You told me I could use them. I asked a few weeks ago and you said index cards were allowed."

"No I didn't. That wasn't me."

Oh...right. It was the other professor on campus who smells like marijuana and references taco bell commercials while talking about Pixels, Bit-Depth, and other technical jargon that makes me want to slit my wrists and drain the blood all over your stupid...STUPID chalkboard.

I didn't say that. At all.

"Yeah it was. You told him we could use notes," said a random kid who was standing up for me. Thank you random kid.

"No...I am not going to let you use notes on your test. I am not going to let you cheat."

He took the index cards, wiped his ass with them, and challenged me to "Use your shitty index cards now,"

Enfuriated, and more so disgusted, I refused to touch the poop-cards, and he then told me "Welcome to college," where apparently if you break the rules, with 100% innocence and good intentions, you get your notes shitted on by a very confused professor.

The test was given on 4-20, so i am assuming he was not entirely aware of his existence, and he was really nice to me the next day so I'm assuming he has no idea or recollection of what happened.

Long story short, I got a low C on the test, and I am in the process of finding a way to use index cards as a weapon, because he already figured out a way to use them as toilet paper.

In conclusion, don't make fun of Erectile Disfunction, take an art class and the next person you see walking around with a guitar-hero axe over their shoulder, give them your phone number...and preferrably a blow job, so I don't have to hear anymore bullshit.

Also, tell that person to do their dishes. That peanut butter knife is getting to be ridiculous.

April 20th, 2009. The day my ass exploded.

(Please note that flatulence is incorrectly spelled right there, and is also a very popular topic of mine, but had little-to-nothing to do with this post.)

Incase you didn't know, today was Monday, April 20th, National Look-A-Like day. After Brad Pitt and I got done taking pictures for the media, it was time for me to return to my college-student-alias and go to school and stuff.

Apparently, April 20th means different things to other people.

My attention was drawn to the courtyard between North and South halls, with that big ugly whale-looking thing that art majors think is an expression of social isolation and plankton (the spongebob character.) Ooops, I am a Media Arts major...which in turn makes me a 1.) Pussy and 2.) Bad at Math.

Anyway, i peeked out of the window to see one of my classmates riding on a bicycle, whose seat is 8 feet in the air, smoking a blunt and yelling out loud "Smoke Weed Everyday!"

Then, in less theatrical form, his fat friend, struggling to pedal his bicycle was breathing heavily and puffing in the marijuana smoke from his blunt, saying "Yeah...smoke weed...oh god I'm tired...LEGALIZE IT!"

After seeing this, my day couldn't get much better, until I ate some special brownies that had me totally baked and trippin' balls. Just kidding, I don't eat brownies. Way too much fat.

For the rest of the day, I played a really fun game that was especially entertaining today, but would probably be very entertaining most days for a college student.

No, I am not talking about competitive curling, or cow tipping, I am talking about the game "Who can pick out who is presently high in class right now!?"

I always won, because I don't have any friends to play with, and I had a drug-dog from the LGPD helping me out.

It was never more apparent than the 8-feet-high-seat-biker when he was in my ART 206 class. He and a friend walked in 10 minutes late, with a smoke cloud following them and a bong protruding out of his left rear pocket on his backpack. And a sign that said "I AM HIGH."

His friend had a T-shirt that didn't sell too well in all months besides late April that said "I'm with High----->"

They couldn't have been more obvious, so of course, instead of taking notes, I decided to stare aimlessly at the pot-smoking art students. They were doing group work with another lady, and literally looked like they were having the time of their life listening to this 40 year old woman ramble on about "time-based-media," which to my understanding, is made up and only exists in fairy tales.

I was having approximately 1/8 as much fun as these pot fiends, so I figured I'd give myself a little lift...so I walked within a 20 foot radius of them, and i breathed in for approximately one .24 of a second, and retained the most intense make-believe-secondary-high I have ever experienced. It was totally sick, dude, and I was all of a sudden seeing so many brilliant ideas, and getting really hungry.

Long story short, I ended up eating my group members, and my teacher, and my desk, and the left shoe of the very fat man that sits to my left. After a very upset stomach, and some interesting bowel movements, I have realized the TRUE meaning behind april 20th.

It's look-a-like day, and if you eat people when experiencing an imaginary secondary-high, you will shit fire for days on end. Especially if you combine cannabalism with protein shakes.

Also, in partially unrelated news, a student that sits 2 seats to the left of me unmistakably looks like the golden retriever from Homeward Bound, so I think my day wrapped up pretty fittingly.

Now i just need a bike that seats 8 feet in the air, and a fat friend. A fat friend who rides a bicycle and smokes weed.

I'd love to stay and chat but Brad is a stickler for tardiness, and we have a double date with Angelina Jolie and Jennifer Anniston...AWKWARD...I know.

Decision 2009: Subway and more of life's complexities

If you are like me, you've spent 5 hours in a car by yourself this weekend, and you've realized how nit-picky you are, and how you hate standing in sandwich lines.

Assuming we are on the same page, let's converse.

Today I was in line for a submarine sandwich at a popular restaurant chain, commonly known as Subway.

The man in front of me had evidently never heard of the word Sub, -Way, or Bread in his life.

"Hello sir, how may I help you today?"

Man: (Slightly yelling) "Yeah can i get that crunchy bread? Bread that's crunchy on top."

(Silence from the Subway worker...)

Man: "Uuuuughhh....uh...just give me like a...uh sourdough or somethin',"

"We don't carry sourdough sir, would you like Italian Herb and Cheese, Honey Oat, Wheat, White or Parmesean Oregano?"

Man: (Visibly upset that Subway would DARE have so many bread options, let alone not offering Sourdough. You bastards.) "Oh...jesus...um....sure...white. I'll take 3 white footlongs. Club Sandwiches."

"Okay sir, would you like cheese on these sandwiches? And what kind?"

"Provolone on one. American on the other. And swiss on the other."

"Sorry sir, we have no swiss."

Man: (under his breath) "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Um...sorry sir, would yo-"

"PROVOLONE. Provolone on the 3rd one."

"Okay sir, would you like them toasted?"

"No"

"But...you said you wanted the 'crunchy-bread'. I think toasting the bread will make it crunchy."

"(Offended that anyone would question his sandwich-construction") Yeah...and you didn't have sourdough. God Damnet."

Meanwhile I have bitten a quarter of an inch through my tongue, and blood is spilling down my chin and neck, trying to not say anything that will make me this man's wall ornament at home. I tried my hardest, and was extra polite to the cashier, meanwhile I was pondering how hard ordering a sub-sandwich really could be.

Then...it was on to the veggie section. The god forsaken veggie section.

"Would you like some veggies on this sandwich sir?"

"Ugh...I dunno...Are there veggies on club sandwiches?"

"Yes...usually sir."

"Gimme some lettuce."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah...some uh....some....uh....some..."

At this very moment, I gripped a pen and was ready to puncture this man's voicebox with the blunt end, in fear that he might actually take 30 seconds to say the word OLIVES.

"Gimme some olives."

The sandwich artist made the biggest mistake of her life...

"Um...sir...usually club sandwiches don't come with olives."

The man's brain actually exploded inside of his head, and started dripping out of his ears as his cheeks blushed red, and he muttered the most intelligent come-back to date.

"THIS ONE DOES."

Oh god, somebody get the olives...QUICK!

Needless to say, the guy ended up getting every possible vegetable possible, even asking for mushrooms...which they obviously do not have, and even more obviously do NOT go on club sandwiches.

He then proceeded to ask for "Um...Uh...Ordinary" potato chips and complain about them being priced 99 cents as opposed to 1 dollar, because this random Subway man evidently hates pennies.

When the cashier handed him the change, 3 pennies, the man asked "What are these for?"

In my day-dream, the cashier replied "To shove up your ass, sir," and hopped over the counter, and beat him to a pulp with the "EXTRA-crunchy bread," While I coreographed a High-School-Musical like dance that ended with me filling my car up with gas for free because the workers were all doing the can-can over random subway guys unconcious body.

In real life, she said "It's your change," and the random subway guy snickered angrily and accused the cashier of pocketing the money he'd handed to her.

I politely asked for spinach and no Mayo on my footlong, and proceeded to hopefully forget this moment forever.

Until the woman behind me asked for specifically 4 jalapenos and exactly 2 tomatoes on her sandwich. She then asked for a "Pinch" of cucumbers, and had a look of disgust when the sandwich artist gave her a pinch-and-a-half.

I can understand her turmoil. I was once served a pinch-and-a-half of salt, and proceeded to grow into an adult female who was very particular about her serving portions.

Anyway, I got in my car and sped off towards the sunset with a new appreciation and respect for Sandwich artists and Crunchy Bread everywhere. Except there was no sunset, because the deep black clouds were pissing all over my windshield, and people who work at Subway should go to college.

Anybody that has gone to high school has seen the kid who graduated a year or 2 or 5 ago, and still attends all school related functions, and takes the new hot-sophomores out to lunch, even though they are 15 and he is illegal, and pumping gas for her dad's porsche.

You know exactly who I am talking about, and you know that you would rather die than be this person.

This weekend I was back in Bend for the first non-break (Spring, Winter) related occasion. Just a random weekend to be home, and the entire time it was a total and complete covert operation.

I was going to great, borderline ridiculous lengths to NOT be that sophomore-dating-gas-pumping alumni. Although I did hang out with several 16 year olds, and did carry around a Squigee and Gas Pump just for looks, I did a pretty good job staying out of the public eye...mainly high school's eye.

UNTIL...I realized Bend is not a very large town, and I was spotted by several former peers, and inadvertantly took them out to lunch. Ooops.

That last part was a joke, obviously, because I was dressed in Camoflauge the entire time, in fear of being asked the question "Aren't you supposed to be in college?"

To that, I would respond "You must feel very, very dumb right now. You are talking to a bunch of twigs, and a tree stump. Can't you tell by my outfit?"

They would then check themselves into a mental institute, because the bush and twigs are talking to them. Sad, sad story.

Anyway, I am never going back to Subway, or Bend ever again, because gas prices suck, and I haven't even SEEN high-school-musical.

Um.....uh......um....uh....gimme olives.