Hump Day!

I've been thinking alot lately about the reasons people go to college. Most people go to college to further their academic success, and open gateways to bigger, better things. Some people come to college to be social, play sports, get drunk and hook up with chicks. Others come to play Rockband, drink tang, and write internet-based diaries about their day to day adventures.

I, however, came to college for one reason, and one reason only. To hand-write assignments in an illegible fashion SOLELY to PISS my teachers off.

Today, I got an assignment back from my Health teacher, whom I am convinced is a convicted pedophile, so he automatically has a vendetta against me because I am not 16 or female. I recieved the assignment, i got a 40 out of 50, which isn't terribly bad, but it was the comment at the end of the paper that really made me smile.

Let it be known that I have turned in 2! research papers in this class, and the most extensive comment I recieved was "good."

But no...not today. Today, I recieved an actual SENTENCE from my beloved educator, as he wrote next to my score, "Your answers were good, some were too short. The syllabus clearly states that this assignment was supposed to be typed---it was painful to read."

P.S.- "Fuck you, you inconsiderate adolescent non-female. How dare you not wear revealing clothing to my class and flirt with me. Your actions are almost as selfish and inconsiderate as your handwriting, you bastard. Also, I hate you, but if you find a female counterpart to replace you, prefferably one that has a similar face to you, but is more slightly built, I will change your grade to an A." Love, your pedo-professor.

That last part may or may not have ACTUALLY happened, but the principle remains. The last time I was told my work was "painful" to look at, was in 3rd grade I brought a kidney stone to show and tell, and my teacher was just short of impressed. I'd like to think I have learned from my calcium deposits, er, mistakes, but apparently not.

Next, it was time for lunch, where I would venture to the beloved Mac's Snacks, where I am always going to find 2 of 3 things, awkward social interaction with the cashier, delicious food, and sexual inuendos on the chalkboard behind the register. Today, the food was terrible as always.

The cashier, who has awkwardly made comments to me all year, continued to do so when she called me handsome repeatedly and maybe threw in the term 'good-looking' a few times, then slipped me her phone number after making my purchase. Turns out it was a reciept, and she was actually saying 'good-cooking,' but I like to make up stories to improve my self esteem.

Either way, I took the awkward flirtatious interaction to be just another day in Mac's, until I looked up at the chalkboard, which read "Today is...WEDNESDAY! Hump Day!"

I thought this was normal enough, until I saw the writing to the side that read, "Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah."

Maybe it was because I was just verbally molested by the cashier, but I couldn't help but take that chalkboard to be remarkably sexually suggestive. The only thing that was missing was an extra line of text that read "GET IT!!!??? HUMP! HUMP DAY! OH YEAH! OHHH YEAAAH!!!"

Did I mention that the chalkboard was shaped in form of a GIGANTIC VAGINA?

Need I say more?

Today I was taking a test, and it became obvious to me the reason I am at college. And it isn't to play Rockband. It is to FLUNK tests!

Unfortunately, this can be nobody's fault but my own, because I went to the computer lab 30 minutes prior to my test with all the best intentions to study for the test, but instead of doing THAT, I went to the LAtimes website, and read about sports to numb my mind.

Then, once I actually got to the test, I proceeded to stare at the keyboard for a solid 5 minutes, looking at the various stains, wondering how they got there, and trying to formulate a strategy to take this test, but never actually touch the keyboard.

That task proved impossible, and despite the 5 minutes space-out, I finished the test first, and glanced around the room in a very uncomfortable fashion, wondering why the hell I finished before everyone.

Probably because I have no idea what I am doing.

I accidentaly made eye contact with the professor, the one who wiped his ass with my index cards, and his eyes pierced through my soul, into my heart, and out of my asshole as I was sure he was planning a plot on how to kill me.

I felt an immense amount of guilt, like I just basically said to my teacher, "Hey faggot, this test was too easy. Look at me, it's just been 10 minutes and I am already done. Yeah, I read about the Laker game instead of studying, and I stared at the keyboard for a good 5 minutes, but I WIN. I WIN!"

He looked at me like he was saying, "Just wait 'til you get your grade, you aarogant freshman."

Let it be known that NO WORDS were actually exchanged, but as far as I am concerned, we had a full conversation through our 2 seconds of awkward eye contact.

The test results are pending, but I will be sure to post them online once I find out, because I am sure you cannot wait.

Or maybe I will Twitter it. Which, for the record, might be the worst thing to happen to America since the Lakers loss in game 4 v.s. the Houston Rockets.

But the good news is...today was HUMP day, so that means the rest of the week is easy. Or it means the rest of the week wants to hump you. And by "rest of the week" I mean "lady working behind the cash register."

To college.

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.