Romper Stomper
The activities of today have led to much sublime cogitations, and the discovery that in spite of my desperate need to brush up on much lacking break dancing skills, clearing the living room does not compensate for bushy carpet and long legs. Consequentially, I have rug burns to compliment the nice, fat hip bruises acquired from failed windmills on the gym floor. Certainly something needs to be done about my tendency to crash land, or flip over my shoulder with much head smacking, but since none of my other frat brothers seem to be able to break dance, the burden and the pain is all on my lovely shoulders. It's nice to know that I have some modicum of normalcy, at least pertaining to various bodily injuries. It would not be proper for me to be pain free for long. The grievous injuries to my fingers are now healed, to some extent, so I look forward to other damage. I'm hoping that the bruises on my hip will be enough to stave off something a bit more serious, but I will not cross my fingers for fear of breaking one in the process.
Speaking of healing, I have taken the bandage off my right pinky finger in hopes of speeding up the healing process. Scarring appears to be minimal, however, the grafted skin has taken on a bulbous, jelly appearance. I expect, any day now, that it will some how amoeba itself off the finger and terrorize my remaining digits. My roommates will find me running from room to room screaming something about flesh beasts consuming everything and they will shrug it off as normal Jon behavior. At the moment, it is complacent, and gives off a very cool purple colour under black lights. I use it to initiate conversation with fuckable girls. Hey, do you want to see my injury? I got it in Iraq, saving kids from nukulear(SIC, pops to ma boy, Bush) bomb shrapnel...
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Other than abortive attempts at break dancing, the day has had the decency to move at an appropriate pace. Next week threatens to supreme damage, and last week was filled with the stress of a Grandfather's less than stable heart. I am brought to remember childhood interactions with the question of his heart's stability. Grandfather's heart has never been good, according to him. Medicine was imbibed regularly and came in the delicious form of 12yr Glenlivet. I once asked him why he drank scotch nightly and was told that he did so in order to help his heart. I resolved then that when I came of age, I would have a glass of scotch nightly as well. It is only natural that I came to associate the smell of scotch in the evening with Grandfather. Years after that, when I was in high school, Grandfather went to the hospital with heart problems. I told him that apparently his years of scotch drinking didn't help as his heart was junk. His response was standard Grandfather. He said that if it weren't for the scotch, things would have been much worse. That pretty much ended the conversation. When I was old enough to purchase scotch legally, I came to the conclusion that drinking Glenlivet was about as pleasing as chugging antifreeze. I am determined, though, to develop a taste for it. It's a respect thing, yannow? And, maybe one day, my grandkids will come to associate the smell of scotch with my evening habituations.
Ruminations aside, days of searching through dirty laundry in search of socks that don't stink have led me to the conclusion that laundry ought to be done on a reasonable basis. I am tempted to simply go out and purchase new socks, an action that I did often my freshman year at Gallaudet, which led Wenchy's mother to call me a typical Jew. I guess some problems can be solved by throwing money at them. Clean socks, in the mean time, are an extreme form of motivation, right up there with a dominatrix snapping a whip. The thought of bringing a girl back to my room, only to have her repulsed by the fetid stench of my unbridled and living socks is enough to drive me to the laundry machines. I will eventually have to clean my room as well, but that is a task that will not worry me until later this week. The room is not livid, and I can see patches of floor underneath paper and trash. I promise that the room was marginally clean until I bought my new camera, then camera junk has proceeded to take over every element of room space. I am tempted to call my camera Rommel, but I will not dirty it further.
My camera has already had interesting experiences, and I have not owned it for more than a few days. For those of you wondering, it is a Sony Cyber-shot, with a 4.1 mega pixel capacity. I nabbed it for $40 of list price, because it was an open stock item. I could have gotten a 5.0 mega pixel camera for only fifteen dollars more, but consoled myself with the 4.1 because, really, I don’t need 5.0 mega pixels and knew that I'd find myself with a very expensive 6.0 mega pixel camera because I'd tell myself that it was only $30 more than the 5.0, and so on and on.
I have not had much time to play with my new camera, but my roommates have taken an immediate liking to it. I came home after an evening of drinking and smoking up, only to find half-nude roommates wandering around my room and occasionally striking up compromising poses for the camera. I was immediately and severely traumatized. They later found me rocking myself in the living room, babbling something about extended nipples and pasty man flesh. For some reason though, I cannot bring myself to delete the pictures. I am completely tempted to post them on the internet for revilation (I know it’s not a real word. I don’t care) and mockery. I took much joy in showing various girls Blondie's completely hairless body. Their reactions were kodiak moments. I should have asked them to freeze face for more pictures. I will make a website, with the roomie pictures, and female reactions to them. It will be funny. It will be grand. I will wake up in my bed with camera parts scattered around me much like a Godfather flick. If y'all reading this, I demand small, unmarked bills and access to both y'all cars.
------
Tonight promises much action and my liver has battened down the hatches. In the mean time, my Plantain has become overripe and is in desperate need of a good frying.
To my sister:
I'm not sure if you read comics, but I have found a pretty good one about the Punk world. I read it over and think you would enjoy it. It is below;
http://www.nothingnice.com/
Enjoy
Speaking of healing, I have taken the bandage off my right pinky finger in hopes of speeding up the healing process. Scarring appears to be minimal, however, the grafted skin has taken on a bulbous, jelly appearance. I expect, any day now, that it will some how amoeba itself off the finger and terrorize my remaining digits. My roommates will find me running from room to room screaming something about flesh beasts consuming everything and they will shrug it off as normal Jon behavior. At the moment, it is complacent, and gives off a very cool purple colour under black lights. I use it to initiate conversation with fuckable girls. Hey, do you want to see my injury? I got it in Iraq, saving kids from nukulear(SIC, pops to ma boy, Bush) bomb shrapnel...
--------
Other than abortive attempts at break dancing, the day has had the decency to move at an appropriate pace. Next week threatens to supreme damage, and last week was filled with the stress of a Grandfather's less than stable heart. I am brought to remember childhood interactions with the question of his heart's stability. Grandfather's heart has never been good, according to him. Medicine was imbibed regularly and came in the delicious form of 12yr Glenlivet. I once asked him why he drank scotch nightly and was told that he did so in order to help his heart. I resolved then that when I came of age, I would have a glass of scotch nightly as well. It is only natural that I came to associate the smell of scotch in the evening with Grandfather. Years after that, when I was in high school, Grandfather went to the hospital with heart problems. I told him that apparently his years of scotch drinking didn't help as his heart was junk. His response was standard Grandfather. He said that if it weren't for the scotch, things would have been much worse. That pretty much ended the conversation. When I was old enough to purchase scotch legally, I came to the conclusion that drinking Glenlivet was about as pleasing as chugging antifreeze. I am determined, though, to develop a taste for it. It's a respect thing, yannow? And, maybe one day, my grandkids will come to associate the smell of scotch with my evening habituations.
Ruminations aside, days of searching through dirty laundry in search of socks that don't stink have led me to the conclusion that laundry ought to be done on a reasonable basis. I am tempted to simply go out and purchase new socks, an action that I did often my freshman year at Gallaudet, which led Wenchy's mother to call me a typical Jew. I guess some problems can be solved by throwing money at them. Clean socks, in the mean time, are an extreme form of motivation, right up there with a dominatrix snapping a whip. The thought of bringing a girl back to my room, only to have her repulsed by the fetid stench of my unbridled and living socks is enough to drive me to the laundry machines. I will eventually have to clean my room as well, but that is a task that will not worry me until later this week. The room is not livid, and I can see patches of floor underneath paper and trash. I promise that the room was marginally clean until I bought my new camera, then camera junk has proceeded to take over every element of room space. I am tempted to call my camera Rommel, but I will not dirty it further.
My camera has already had interesting experiences, and I have not owned it for more than a few days. For those of you wondering, it is a Sony Cyber-shot, with a 4.1 mega pixel capacity. I nabbed it for $40 of list price, because it was an open stock item. I could have gotten a 5.0 mega pixel camera for only fifteen dollars more, but consoled myself with the 4.1 because, really, I don’t need 5.0 mega pixels and knew that I'd find myself with a very expensive 6.0 mega pixel camera because I'd tell myself that it was only $30 more than the 5.0, and so on and on.
I have not had much time to play with my new camera, but my roommates have taken an immediate liking to it. I came home after an evening of drinking and smoking up, only to find half-nude roommates wandering around my room and occasionally striking up compromising poses for the camera. I was immediately and severely traumatized. They later found me rocking myself in the living room, babbling something about extended nipples and pasty man flesh. For some reason though, I cannot bring myself to delete the pictures. I am completely tempted to post them on the internet for revilation (I know it’s not a real word. I don’t care) and mockery. I took much joy in showing various girls Blondie's completely hairless body. Their reactions were kodiak moments. I should have asked them to freeze face for more pictures. I will make a website, with the roomie pictures, and female reactions to them. It will be funny. It will be grand. I will wake up in my bed with camera parts scattered around me much like a Godfather flick. If y'all reading this, I demand small, unmarked bills and access to both y'all cars.
------
Tonight promises much action and my liver has battened down the hatches. In the mean time, my Plantain has become overripe and is in desperate need of a good frying.
To my sister:
I'm not sure if you read comics, but I have found a pretty good one about the Punk world. I read it over and think you would enjoy it. It is below;
http://www.nothingnice.com/
Enjoy
posted by Jon at 4:22 PM
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