Delusions of Grandeur Posted by Happy Blogger , 18.2.11 at Friday, February 18, 2011, in

I'm going to go off on a rant if that's okay with you.
Great.

I finished all my Diploma's in january and technically I have almost enough credits to graduate twice. Why am I still staying at school? To take calculus and phsyics 20. Clearly I know where the fun is at.

I've been studying psychology which I find oddly fascinating, and according to textbook terms, I'm going into a state of 'moratorium'- essentially where a young person is stuck at a crossroads, and struggles to make adult decisions.

I was taking a psych test, and the provided example of moratorium is a student who goes travelling after high school and takes a year off to figure some things out. This will be my life starting next september.

My cousin and I have started planning a trip to Austrailia around this time next year. Our plan is to tour for a month, and then work for 2-3 months. Hopefully we'll either get jobs as an assistant in my uncles company who has an extension in Perth, or we will be working on a farm. In all honesty- I want to work on the farm.

Even though out of all the kids in my school, I probably have the least to worry about because I don't really have to worry about finishing school or anything, I always find myself stressed.
As cliché as it it, I'm stressed about the unknown. The drop off. The get out and do something with your life factor.

I realize I'm smart enough to get a job and to travel, but still. My doctor told me I should meditate to relieve my stress. Maybe I'll take up yoga classes...

Back to psychology. It's probably the general area I want to pursue in University, however there are so many branches I don't even know which path to take. I could take the more forensic root, clinical, behavioural, research, counselling. I study it all. Ambitious- I would think. Oh well. I'll give myself time to think.

I always tend to think that even though I get average marks, I'm actually smarter than all the kids in the school. That I get these marks to blend in, when actually I could be the next Einstein.
Curse you delusions of grandeur!

I'm sure everything is going to work out just fine.

I'm now going to meditate.
Or atleast try.
Wish me luck

-Happy Blogger

Oprah Has Brainwashed Me Posted by Happy Blogger , at Friday, February 18, 2011, in

To put it bluntly, I tried being vegan for a week because Oprah went vegan for a week.
Funny thing is I'm not even that big of a fan of Oprah. I realized that if she said let's jump off a bridge, I would be one of those people who jumped because Oprah did. Unfortunately I'm a brainwashed zombie. Damn.

I chose a terrible week to do it, with Superbowl sunday sitting right in the middle of the week, and my friends 18th birthday.

I only lasted 3 days. I gave up when the honey garlic chicken wings were served during the half time of the game, I mean, who could give up honey garlic!?

I think I probably could have committed if I really focused. I mean, I'm not always the biggest fan of meat, and most animal by products as it is. The worst part about being a vegan in my opinion, is the lack thereof of cheese. I was seriously deprived. Cheese is stupidly amazing.

Veganism isn't for me. Maybe I could sway vegetarian? I could still keep my cheese...huh!

I want a cheeseburger.
That's all.

-Happy Blogger

Speaking In Circles Posted by Sad Blogger , 27.1.11 at Thursday, January 27, 2011, in

Today I started writing a story because I thought I had an important idea to share but figured just coming right out with it wouldn't be creative enough. I've been struggling with my own ego lately. I tend to think that I'm a rather spectacular person but realized yesterday that I basically do nothing with all this potential that I think I have. I spend a lot of time telling myself that it doesn't really matter if I do nothing with my spare time because I'm pretty much awesome all the rest of the time. But yesterday I watched some videos of a guy who is actually going out and getting acclaim by doing exactly what I think I'm good at. Then I created a little mental video in my mind of me watching him doing what I think I'm good at. If you compare the two videos, I'm the loser. Even if you don't, the fact that I was jealous of a guy that is doing something that I could be doing...yeah either way I'm a loser.

SO!

I sat down with my notepad and brainstormed about what I had to tell the world. I wrote this in class while my professor droned on about the definition of family:

There is an unfortunate difference between having something to say and simply saying things. I hear people in my school talking all the time. A constant stream of hollow, self-obsessed babble. I have to wonder if their friends are thinking the same thing I am: Nobody cares how long you let your phone charge last night. Some of them think they have an important thought to share, but it's mostly recycled anger from smarter people who had a good point several decades ago. So much of their reactionary cynicism is inspired by people they didn't know and can't even identify with. Get your own righteous indignation, I say!

I have since reread that passage and find it to be empty and wholly unoriginal. You might even call it hypocritical...bitterly scribbling words out of the pretentious presumption that I was being intelligent and superior.

So after having my crisis of self-esteem yesterday, I figured I'd sit down this morning and actually create an original piece of work. I landed on the idea I felt needed to be shared and began to type out the following

I would like to tell you a true story about a seed. Most stories that that people tell you that have seeds in them start with the seed getting planted and then growing into something good and lush and covered in moral leaves and plot-twigs. In this story, a seed gets planted which is quite bad--a bad seed you might say--but then that seed plants another seed which grows into a thing that is full of ambiguity-buds and possibility-bark.

That's how far I got before I decided I was really going nowhere with a rather plain idea that wasn't necessarily going to have an effect on anybody. Anybody. I am, after all, a blogger. I should be getting my shitty opinions across in short, to-the-point...well...blogs. So here's the point plain and simple.

I think internet culture is leading to an eventual universal acceptance of homosexuality. As it is, internet and online culture is charged with homo-eroticism that I would guess most of the people it affects are completely unaware of. Being that it originated from hatred and intolerance, it makes sense that they wouldn't even realize it. But the truth is that the overexposure to eat-my-dick and you-know-you-want-it "humor" has made homo-eroticism normal and widely accepted among a generation that started out drenched in 'gay is bad' propaganda.

Like I said, eventual. It's a long-run sort of thing but I think it could be a good thing some day. I dunno, maybe I'm naive and hopeful. Anyhow, I got my point across goddammit! Chew on it.

Still pretty sure I haven't said anything,

- Sad Blogger

Can You Use it in a Sentence? Posted by Sad Blogger , 17.1.11 at Monday, January 17, 2011, in

I can't quite recall the first time I heard anybody use the word "ginger", but I remember how wrong and not-allowed it seemed. I must have been close to 10 years old, maybe older, and all I wanted to do was go home and quietly repeat the word to myself. It wrapped so pleasantly around my tongue and gently slid off the tip like a fried egg out of a pan. I hadn't really known any gingers at the time. There were a few of them at my school, but they mostly flocked together so I had no way of identifying with them.

I met my future friend, Jonny, at a youth retreat when I was in the seventh grade. I didn't pay much attention to him at that time; not knowing anyone, I had latched on to his friend, Mike, and paid only a minimal amount of attention to Jonny. It was the first time I'd really ever joined in conversation with a ginger, though, and I was surprised at how normal he was. Following that retreat, I can't say I started going out of my way to befriend any other gingers, but I certainly wasn't as quick to judge or avoid them.

I didn't see Jonny until two years later, when a mutual friend suggested him as a drummer for a band I was trying to put together. We immediately began bonding over our love for music. As well as a friend, I gained a window into what life was like for his people. I would often tease and affectionately call him a ginger, to which he would weakly protest, but never take offense. However, following one particularly scathing session of mockery on a day trip to Edmonton, he finally broke down and admitted that "the ginger thing" was funny now and then, but that I had to consider the history of the word and what it meant in a social context. I had to admit that at that time in my life, I'd never been fully conscious of the meanings of words. To me, they were just collections of letters, but Jonny was right. Over time, the Gs and the I and the E and the R and the N have come to represent so much more. They have been used to oppress and subdue. In Jonny's case alone, years of verbal abuse and ritual bullying at the hands of those monsters we call schoolchildren had transformed a simple word into fears and insecurities. In a slightly less political context, having grown up somewhat overweight, the tear stains in my childhood pillow slips can attest to the effect words like "fatty" and "chubchub" can have on a person. I can only image the torment gingers have gone through to be something like my miserable, tubby little broken heart multiplied by a thousand.

I became increasingly aware of when and how "ginger" wormed its way into my life and the lives of my friends. I commonly heard people justifying their use of the word with the excuse that gingers commonly use it within their own community. We really have to respect that if these people, as a group, choose to reclaim the word as their own, it doesn't mean the rest of us have a right to its use. Even as the friend of a ginger, I have not earned the right to take a word with such a storied past and toss it around as if I am some working type at a party and it is a joke about lawyers. One does not gain the right to perform life-endangering surgeries by cutting oneself while shaving, and one has not earned the right to called a ginger a ginger simply by having seen one on TV.

I can't claim to be perfect, though. On the first day of one of my second-year college classes, I was talking to a friend and a ginger sat down at the desk immediately in front of us. There had been one in a class we'd taken the previous semester and I couldn't help muttering, "Look, there's one in every class. The good ol' token ginger."

I guess I'd been loud enough for even the professor to have heard me. She called me out on my attitude and I apologized to the young man, but I regret that I continued to harass him in both my writing exercises—the kind that get read aloud—and conversation—the kind that is not quiet or in any way inconspicuous.

As I got to know my classmate better, I began recalling Jonny's wise advice all those years ago in his mom's Impala. Looking inside myself, I knew that I had no issue with this ginger. I had no problem with any gingers. How is it that a prejudice can be pulled over our heads like a scratchy, woolen sweater and we just accept it without protest? So some angry people a long time ago were biased against certain sections of the color wheel. How did that become any of my business? I'm proud to say I've since gotten over my prejudices.

I've also started therapy to get over my dyslexia. I think I'm doing quite well. I've improved to the point of only messing up a small collection of words. Unfortunately for my ginger friends, they'll just have to wait. See? There I go again.

With crimson love and ginger affection, -Sad Blogger

Three and a Half Weeks Posted by Happy Blogger , 3.1.11 at Monday, January 03, 2011, in

Three and a half weeks ago, I entered a foreign house.

A couple months ago I was asked by a friend of a friend of mine if I could house sit for them while they were away in Austrailia over the span of three and a half weeks starting December 9th. Desperate for money, I agree. You see, I'm going to China with school, and I kind of need to pay for some of it, and so with a promise of money at the end of this adventure I commence.

I'll be honest, initially it was kind of weird. I mean, you have the keys to someones house, you're watching someone's pets, taking showers in their showers, watching their movies and sleeping in their bed- not to mention you are going from an obnoxiously loud house to a barren house. The first night was a little rough, and I barely slept... however that soon changed as the days went by.

So, the main goal was taking care of the three pets. Lacy the dog, Sparkles the cat, and Skittles the hamster.

Lacy looks reminsicient to a bijon shitzu, however she is much thicker boned and she is covered in fluffy black fur. If I'm honest, she looks like a mini "Ewok", and so that's the pet name I usually called her. Not to mention her incescent need to be comforted at all times. She always wanted more. It starts with me sitting on the couch, and her on the floor. She whines, and she jumps up. I casually stroke her back, however that's not enough. then she climbs up onto my lap, and I continue to stroke. The next thing you know she's licking your entire face and if you don't continue to pet her, she whines like no other until you begin to pet her. I will state that she was probably the cutest of the three, however he constant need for attention became redundant and exhausting.

Then there is Sparkles the cat. Coming into this job, I wasn't really a cat fan. It's probably because my friend used to throw her cat at me and I was scared, and ever since her cat and I have a mutually disliking. However, she was the kind of cat that was routine. Get up at 6:30, feed her, on occasion give her a treat, and then at 11:00 at night, she would go on the bed that I slept on, would roll around begging to be petted and then would sleep at your feet. On occasions if you were sitting down, the cat and the dog would be competing for your attention, as they were both 'lap' pets. Towards the end I would chose Sparkles and I began to like cats. Apart from the name, she was my favourite.

Then there was the Hamster. If I'm honest I think hamsters are disgusting creatures and I don't understand why any one would want one, however I kept him fed and watered. Then there was the day, it was probably about the 15th day in, and I went to go change the shavings in the cage because it was starting to stink, and I went to go move Skittles, but he wasn't moving... after further examination, he wasn't really breathing either. I called to my sister who had slept over, and she came over and looked. We stared for a couple minutes hoping for a miracle, however the hamster was dying and there was nothing I could really do about it- I mean, it was really old.

So I came home to a officially dead hamster, put him in a box and put him outside where he could become frozen. I couldn't believe it! I killed their hamster! Imean, ofcourse he died, I did all I could, I fed him and what not... but I couldn't believe it! So I sent an e-mail, and it only gets worse from here. In the e-mail I sent, I addressed the Hamster as a girl and wrote that her name was Oreo (where I got this name I'll never know). I later found out that the hamster was in fact a boy and was named Skittles, and I was further embarassed and in complete shock. When Christmas came around, the news of me killing a hamster spectulated and I became the laughing stock- all in good fun though.

As a began to spend more time with these animals, I realized that I was kind of like the dog and the cat in some ways, mainly the attention. Now I'm not saying I always need to be in the spot light- I'm referring to the stroking and petting. I kept thinking about all the times at home when we are watching a movie that I beg for one of my sisters of my mother to 'play with my hair' or 'brush my hair' and massage my back. It was then that in that respect, I was like a dog.

The house was relatively easy to manage. As for food, I would go to my house for supper, and conviently, my house was only a couple blocks away. I bought some breakfast foods and bags of salad which did it's job. After the first night I began to sleep much better- and discovered that the bed was possibly the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. The Tv was great, because they have lot's of channels that I don't usually get so that was great. In the basement they had a ton of old 80/90's romatic comedies that I eventually watched.

I couldn't help but think 'this is the life'. I could stay up as late as I wanted, I could sing in the shower and not worry that I would be annoying someone. I could dance around the kitchen to music and sing to the dog without anyone knowing. I could get up and play the ABBA CD every morning when I was making breakfast. I could lay on the couch the entire day without being told to get up and do something.

For three and a half weeks I managed on my own and it was great. I discovered that I could in fact run a house on my own (naively however, seeing as I'm disregarding the money aspect, and any electrical/plumbing issues). I also discovered that when I am older, I want a cat over a dog- they can be just as cute and loving- and easier to manage.

Three and a half weeks later I have a cheque to put in my bank account and a souvenir koala shirt from Austrailia.
Three and a half weeks later, I am back at home.

-Happy Blogger

seven letters off the bat Posted by Sad Blogger , 6.12.10 at Monday, December 06, 2010, in

Time for one of them rare personal updates! Yaaaaaay!

-cough-

I've been going out with a kind of a younger chick lately and she's pretty cool I guess, but her father is a nightmare. As a rule, dads are bad no matter how deep you keep your hands in your pockets, but this guy has it out for me. I understand the whole "Daddy's little princess" thing and I guess for dads, whenever princess brings a new boy home, their minds go into like a mini salvia kick and their eyes glaze over with blood and all they can hear is screaming babies and domestic abuse calls...but I'm a pretty nice guy I think. I mean I look as harmful as the Pillsbury dough boy. Or the Pillsbury dough boy's left thigh.

Anyhow, here's the story. Her parents were out the other night so naturally I came over to get in a few rounds of Scrabble. I did the trick where I spelled out "D-E-S-T-I-N-Y" with the first letters I got. We locked eyes. She giggled. I pointed out I'd got 100 points before the game had even started. She cried. So we scrapped Scrabble and made our way to her room. Lights off, on her bed, Letterman providing our soundtrack, flickering in the background. We're going at it pretty good and all of a sudden I just hear -click-. All I can do is wince as her father's voice batters against my shame:

"What are you DOING??

SHE'S TWO!!!"

Awkwaaaaard.

And So Starts Another Year... Posted by Happy Blogger , 21.9.10 at Tuesday, September 21, 2010, in

And there off...

I'll be honest, my first couple weeks of school have been very different than I anticipated. The night before my last first day of High School, I headed off to dance. This would be my first dance lesson back since the summer holidays. So I arrive at dance, get my shoes on and get warmed up. I walked back and forth in the dance studio, stretching, talking, getting in trouble for talking, though we continue to talk... and my dance teacher announces we are going to do reels. So, naturally, I go up first, and start dancing. Within the first 8 bars of the dance ( I hadn't even completed both right and left feet of the step) and I fall doing a 'push-two-three'. I'll be honest, it didn't really hurt, though we decided it was in my best interest that I sit out for the rest of the class, and then start up next class. I can remember thanking God that I had hurt my left foot, as I was driving home that evening. So I get home, and ice and elevate it. Next morning, I wake up and my foot is throbbing to the point where I couldn't even put pressure on it. So we called up a few favours from a friend, and they lent me crutches. So there I am, heading back to my first day of Gr. 12, and I'm in crutches. As I was heading down the stairs from orientation, the yearbook commitee snatched a couple shots of me struggling down the stairs; I can only hope that that doesn't make an appearance in the yearbook. That afternoon I made a little visit to the doctor to see what I did. Apparently I strained these two tendons in my foot, and that I should wear a brace for the next 6 weeks... Great.

The first day was a huge change for many of my classmates. You see, over the summer, I cut off atleast 12 inches of my hair for cancer, and barely any of them were accostumed to my new haircut. It took most people a couple of seconds to recognize me, and I'm pretty positive some of them still don't... It was rather terrible though, because the way the camera for my school pictures depicted my haircut as more of a 'bull cut' than I guess a longish pixie cut. Now looking at my ID tag, I say that if it wasn't my feminine eyebrows, I would look like a man.

This year, in my schools music program, because of the bagillion Gr. 10's that have started at my school, they've had to separate the ensembles into different levels to accomodate all the kids. The 'elite' group if audition only, and I'm the only Gr. 12 french horn player, and so going into school, it almost felt like an obligation that I audition. Anywho, I had to decline the audition, as the classes are on thursdays, and I won't be going to school on most thursdays of the year, and I wouldn't want to commit if I know I can't make those classes. You may be wondering, why will you be absent on these days?! Well, as I've explained to my TA and the music teacher, I will be 'helping out' my friend who can no longer go to school because of her recent cancer diagnosis, by going and working on some classes she's taking online that are the same as the ones I am currently in...

My TA was recently upgraded to vice principal, so my TA group has moved from the 5th floor Social, to the Main Floor office, which was a very strange concept at the beginning, though I've adjusted. Also, my locker is now on the first floor, and though it's weird not being on the 5th floor, I am greatful, and I am sure my thighs are too, and we no longer have to venture up the thousands of stairs it takes to get to social! I'll be honest, I always found it exhausting!

As the weeks gone by, my ankle has gone from not being able to walk- to limping- to walking normally but with pain to no pain. I started going back to dance, although dancing is more painful than just walking. A girl at my dance school also strained the tendons in her ankle, though much more minor than mine, and I'll be honest, I bickered on endlessly how she 'stole my injury' and how much she really doesn't need that massive brace that she bought...GAHHHH. Okay, I'm done. Sorry, I realize it's stupid. Any who, schools been going great, all my courses have all started off with no grades below 90 so far, so that's great.

(I promise I'm almost done ranting...)

Yesterday, I had the best day ever!!! I had a cheese bun for lunch, and then after lunch I got a major craving for some chocolate. So I put in my $1.50 to get a 'cookies and cream' and out popped not ONE but TWO chocolate bars. I'll be honest, I stood in front of the vending machine jumping up in down for happiness... that wasn't embarassing at all. Then I make my way to a Bio Seminar, where we would be learning about 'Mitosis', so explain Mitosis, my teacher instructs us to make a cell using licorice as chromosomes, and marshmellows as other random organelles. At the end we had a little verbal quiz, and a sucker would be rewarded to those students who could tell what happens during a phase of Mitosis, and as brilliantly as I am, I got a sucker. As we were leaving, he said we could eat the licorice and marshmellows. BAH! Yum Yum in my Tum. Not to mention I discovered a sneaky recipe to make cinnamon buns really quickly but they still taste good!

That was my sugar rush for the day.

Until next time
-Happy Blogger

Saturday Night Cleaver Posted by Happy Blogger , 23.8.10 at Monday, August 23, 2010, in

It's nearing the end of summer, and everyone's preparing for the various things to come for the year. As it is, I am heading back to my last year of high school and a new year with dance. In my dance school, I have become really close with most the girls there, and it is sad to say that there a couple of them heading off to University. We decided that we would have to get together atleast one last time before everyone leaves. So, we thought, how 'bout a Murder Mystery game? That will be fun, right?

I didn't know much about Murder Mysteries, but I was told that we were supposed to dress up. In most cases, the people know their characters and what they are supposed to look like before they show up for the party, but we were a little disorganized and got the game only hours before buying it. I figured, let's dress up anyways, so I went through my Dress up box, pulled out all the old costumes and headed over. I decided to wear this White, blue, mint green, pink floral dress from the eighties that was decked out with massive shoulder pads, and I put a black scarf around my head. Apparently I was the only not to get the text that it is themed 70's. I was a decade too late, Oh well.

There were 8 characters and only 6 people, so two of us had to take on two characters. So, I soon became mysterious dealer 'Chaka Moon' and ballad singer 'Manny Baritone'. The game was layed out where you were given profile booklets describing your character(s), followed by rounds with stuff your character knows and can be used to interrogate others. It alsohad information we should keep to ourselves unless asked directly and clues that needed to be revealed. My friend brought along with her a plastic cleaver, not knowing the title of the game. Weapon in hand, we proceeded.

The scene: A disco club owner, Stan A. Live was found dead on the dance floor with a cleaver in his back. Smell of bubblegum lingered on the dead body. A mood ring was found in his hand. There was a hearing aid that had fallen on the floor, and broken glass. Outside, DJ Wolfman Bob was dead in a puddle of water with electrical wires hanging down.

Everytime we flipped a page and had to read about information about our characters, each of us nearly peed our pants laughing. There were so many references to songs and the 70's, it was ridiculous.

We had 'Chaka Moon' who was known in her younger days as the 'deaf, dumb and blind kid, who sure played a mean pinball'. Stan was envious and hired Brady Bunsch to break her wrists so he could be better than her. She dropped her hearing aid the day of stan's murder, and often wears bubblegum flavoured lipgloss. Oh yeah, and she has a baby who she tells is stan, but is actually Vinnies (that was the night that the lights went out in Georgia). She also secretly married stan a couple weeks earlier, and the time of stans murder, she was in the DJ booth gettin' jiggy with Brady Busnch. Woah, lol.

Manny hated stan as a kid, and was bullied because he was chubby. (Though one day, he fell into a chocolate river and was sucked up a tube and was thinned out). His father was business partners with Stan who worked in a mortuary. Manny was outside at the time of the murder, in the puddle with Wolfman Bob, but wasn't killed because he was wearing platform shoes! (?). Oh yeah, and he was in a heavy metal band called LIKK. (what!?)

Not to mention Angina Palpitori who was possessed by the Devil, and killed her boyfriends, hoping stan was her next victim. Brady Bunsch who was an exorcist who made a deal with the Devil to live part time in Angie. Brady wasn't actually Brady but some italian man. Then there was Vinny who loved Polly Ester Stuffincup, but was dating Angie and was planning to kill her. Then there was Stans wife Belle bedham who was working with Angie to kill stan because there marriage was not official, and she wanted his money. Knight Feever who was a bionic man who was being black mailed by stan who worked as a butcher, and had the meat cleaver that night. Polly and Manny were doing business together, and Polly is notorious for chewing bubble gum. Vinnie likes to be naked, Belle had broken her glass as she was an alcholic, Polly was with Stan when he was murdered, but who did it?

dun dun dun dundundundundundundUNDUNDUNDUN.

No other than the deaf, dumb and blind kid, Chaka moon.
Of course it would be my character.

You probably can't understand a single thing that I just explained, it was too complex. I couldn't have imagined if they told you from the start. I would not have been able to hide it.

It probably wasn't that funny, but as we were a bit hyped up, it was freakin hilarious.

As a side note:

Clue #9.

Dear Stan
(I really wish I remembered what the note said...
blah, blah, blah, stan getting a divorce and not
giving money to belle, blah blah blah)

May Divorce Be With You- George Mucous.

-appy Blogger

Just Kinda My Policy. Posted by Sad Blogger , 17.8.10 at Tuesday, August 17, 2010, in

You: Cute girl at the bar.
Me: The guy you chatted with while waiting for our drinks.
The Topic: Why I didn’t buy you a drink.
The Audience: Women everywhere, please read this. I know it’s long, but I feel the length is expedient to truly illustrating and arguing my point.

I was waiting to order right as things were getting crazy. It was obvious that it would be a long wait. What can I say? I can’t compete with all the douches yelling for jager bombs. It was then that you appeared. A cute, petite, slightly hipster-ish girl standing next to me, waiting to order as well. The conversation began in the typical manner, simply relating on how frustrating it is when you spend half a night out just waiting for a drink. It then evolved into a true conversation. I spent the next twenty minutes finding out you have great taste in music, movies and literature. You laughed at my jokes, and that’s a big deal to average-looking guys like me.
Unfortunately, after we’d both finished our respective drinks, but were still immersed in discussion, you dropped a bomb that sent shrapnel into my heart.

“So are you gonna buy me a drink or what?”

I had been dreading this moment. I’ve learned from hard experience that any prolonged conversation with a girl at a club or a bar inevitably requires a fee of rum and coke, vodka tonic, or God forbid, a cosmo. As cute as you were, I felt obligated to retain my self-respect.

“Sorry, I don’t buy girls drinks. Just kinda my policy.”

You looked at me like I told you I was going to rape your dog Charlie (yes, I remember his name). Your face morphed from a beautiful smile into a twisted caricature of shock, revulsion, and utter disbelief.

“Seriously, you’re not gonna buy me a drink? What’s your problem?”

Well sweetheart, let me explain to you in detail my logic regarding this decision that you found so unbelievable:

1. I’ve been going to bars for the past year and a bit. I enjoy meeting people when I do. I enjoy meeting attractive girls like yourself. I have, however, learned that buying girls drinks is a sucker’s game. 90% of the time, all it does is give me a higher bar tab. Now you might say I’m a prick for expecting a girl to indulge me just because I buy her a drink. I agree an $7 cocktail does not and should not equal any sort of obligation. However, I believe spending time and money on a girl when I could be having a good night out with my friends does entitle me at least one of the following things: You reciprocating by buying me a drink, you giving me your phone number and/or going out on a date with me, where once again I will be spending time and money on you. Notice that sex is not a requirement or expectation that is coupled with any of these options. Now, of course, if I had offered to buy you a drink, and you accepted, you are not obligated to any of these things. The big distinction here is that you asked me to buy you a drink, and were shocked that I wouldn’t do so. This brings me to my second point.

2. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re an attractive girl, and when you go out there is no shortage of guys offering to buy you drinks. You know that they are all doing so with the hope that it will lead to sex with you. You know that it’s not going to happen, but you will accept the free drinks anyway. I don’t hold this against you. If they’re dumb enough to think that buying you a drink is the key to your heart and that they are somehow different from the other Ed Hardy-wearing frat-bros then it’s their own damn fault. You’re using your god-given assets to get free alcohol, nothing wrong with that. But it is precisely because I know that you do this that I will not be another douche who thinks he can get into your pants with a mixed drink. It’s insulting to my dignity as a man and your honor as a woman. I noticed you when you first walked in. I saw you dancing with that hopeless collar-popper. I saw him go to the bar and bring a drink back to you on the dancefloor. I saw how the second the glass was in your hand, you gave him the “Thanks for the drink, it was really nice meeting you” treatment complete with the obligatory pat on the chest. I saw the pathetic, defeated look on his face as you walked away. He will enter the next round of bar hopping a little wiser I hope.

3. You took my unwillingness to fall into such a trap as an insult. You accused me of being stuck-up. You then said that I had a chance at fucking you, but that I’d ruined it by being an asshole. What exactly are you trying to tell me? That the asinine idea that getting a girl a drink will get you in her pants is actually true? That your decision of whether or not to sleep with a guy is based on him liquoring you up? We had a good conversation, and maybe you were actually interested in me. But the fact that any rapport we built was destroyed when I wouldn’t buy you a gin and tonic means that I am no longer interested in you. Not all guys are desperate sperm donors. Some of us actually value a good conversation, and we value girls who have enough respect for themselves that they don’t view sex as a transaction.

4. We established during our conversation that we are both broke-ass arts students. Why then would you expect that I, someone who shares your financial woes, would want to spend money on you, a girl I just met? I don’t believe that chivalry is dead. I’ll hold a door for you, I’ll pull out your chair or take your coat. I’ll help you change a flat tire, carry you over deep puddles, figure out the remote, reset your modem. I’ll even help you move when I know you a little better. Why? Because I’m a gentleman. I will not, however, buy you a drink under the pretense that it is what a gentleman does, because I simply cannot afford it. If you want a guy who can afford to buy you whatever you want, find a fifty year-old sugar daddy. There was no shortage of potentials at the bar the other night.

I hope this illustrated my thought-process clearly enough. I hope you realize that you seemed amazing at first, and that declining to buy you a drink was in no way an insult. Your reaction, however, revealed the self-entitled, game-playing she-devil that was lurking underneath. I thank god for the out that he provided at that moment though. Just after you finished your little rant on what I dick I was for not boozing you up, a group of girls emerged at the bar right behind you. Two of these girls were thin and pretty. They immediately got the attention of some bros and had free drinks within minutes. The third girl was overweight and out of place. She had clearly spent a great deal of time and effort on her appearance, but alas, she was once again forsaken by her prettier friends and left to stand by herself, looking miserable. Luckily, I know when the universe has given me a profound gift. There were two incredible moments that filled me with an elation that could not be rivaled by the orgasm I could have had while fucking you. The first was the sincere, excited smile that the chubby girl gave me when I moved past you and asked what she wanted to drink. The second was turning back and seeing the look of horror on your face. You pathetic “have fun with the fatty” remark as you walked away was priceless. I may be broke, but I was willing to go into the red to make this girl’s night and to piss you off. I’m sure as soon as you left you got plenty of free drinks and plenty of idiots drooling over you. I just hope that I got under your skin enough to prevent any enjoyment of those things.


The moral: Ladies, accept drinks if they are offered. Do not expect them. And if you’re feeling particularly wild on a given night, offer to buy the guy a drink. He will be instantly smitten.

Merely platonic,

Sad Blogger

inconception Posted by Sad Blogger , 29.7.10 at Thursday, July 29, 2010, in

[Edit: As the comic strip mentioned in this post is no longer displayed on this website, it can be found for reference here.]

Aaaannnnndddd...we're back. Or at least I am. It's been summer, can you blame us for taking a break from staring at a dim screen and laboriously toiling over a blog post that you don't even read? Anywho.

You'll notice a song at the top of the current playlist titled "Cosmic Love". Listen to it and tell me it doesn't move you. It's been moving me for the past few days and as I was sluggishly oozing through rush hour traffic yesterday it really got my creative juices flowing. I couldn't wait to get home and play guitar or start working on a new short story or even contribute something to this dismal website. I just needed to create.

Now you'll also notice a new feature that I intend to update frequently. For now it's an excerpt of a comic strip. I'll have to discuss with my co-author what we will do with that space in the future. But at the moment it is a piece of a Calvin and Hobbes strip that I clumsily edited and threw in some text. The strip reminded me of Christopher Nolan's new film, Inception in that Calvin repeatedly falls to his death only to find that he was dreaming. Above, you see the final panels in which Calvin has once again fallen to his death and woken up with a fear of even leaving his room again. One of the big ideas in Inception is that true inspiration is a rare occurrence at which point the subconscious ignores all pre-acquired data and creates a completely new idea. An idea not influenced by ideas already recognized or memorized.

Stay with me. This has all been a long-winded exposition to preface the main idea behind this post: is inspiration possible?

K so dictionaries define inspiration as either "divine influence of the intellect" and stuff like that as well as the more reasonable "action or power of moving the intellect or emotions". So given this interpretation along with Nolan's rule that inspiration results in a new idea, let's get into it shall we?

Driving along in my little orange car, screaming the backup vocals to "Cosmic Love". I suddenly feel the need to create. To create something that will play "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" on people's heartstrings. To create beauty and laughter and colors and warmth. According to the dictionary I've been inspired. So I go home and record a guitar track with hints of the Florence song in it. I outline a short story about a man searching for closure from his parents' divorce. I write a blog about the song I heard and the movie I saw. As far as I can tell, I haven't really done anything original. The guitar track contains notes that every other musician uses and contains themes that I liked from "Cosmic Love". The short story is a reinventing of a story I meant to write a long time ago except replacing an old man with a young man and shellshock with divorce. And my parents just got divorced so that's completely uninspired. Then there's the blog. Who DOESN'T have a blog? Not to mention the fact that several ideas I'd had over the past few days are the basis on which I am attempting to suggest that I was inspired. See where I'm going with this?

Sure, there may not be another song that sounds exactly like my recording, but it's not a completely new sound unexperienced by any living creature. The short story contains tried and true archetypes and themes taken from my own life, nothing new there. And I just won't mention that blog again. It's too indulgent, ya?

Now even this isn't a new concept. I know I can't be the only one that thinks it's nearly impossible to invent anything anymore. As humans we've explored almost every capacity for the technologies we have available to us. Once an action has been invented (such as communication or transportation), the devices that make that action possible (such as phones or buses) are simply refinements of the devices that came before them. If a guy says "I have invented a phone that also dances and reads your Sunday paper", he hasn't invented anything. He's simply improved (and kind of creepified) an idea that already existed, the telephone. Any ideas we dream up or conceive are "inspired" by data that has already been stored in our subconscious. But to say that we could be inspired from absolute nothingness to create pure originality is...well...inconceivable.

If you disagree, shoot us a comment. We'd love to see what our reader thinks.

From my subconscious to your conscious,

Sad Blogger