An exercise in brevity, maybe.
I shall slaughter AIM and use its blood in rituals to unholy to write of in here. See, I do enjoy my AIM, but occasionally, in fits of mad advertising, it blasts weird sounds and attempts to show me movies that I would rather not see. I understand that my free use of AIM brings with it some peculiar treatises, and I expect any day now that goons sent from the AOL office will demand the use of my vas deferens for populating a large population of sentient guinea pigs, however, blasting sounds over my music is an outlandish invasion of my ears' sensitive, yet extremely damaged, cavities. It is particularly galling that the music and movies AIM is throwing in my face is of something called Curious by Brittany Spears. My intense dislike of anything teenage pop is relatively well known and having it shoved down my ears leads too much ranting and raving at the computer, as well as threats involving blood and Christian babies. Unlike many contemporaries, I do not wish pain on Brittany Spears. Federline is more than enough punishment for the odiferous wastes she has purloined on society. AOL, on the other hand, is much deserving of severe crucifying.
In the mean time, I take measures to keep my penis' internal tubes internal.
----
In a fit of boredom, I registered for a Myspace.com account. I put up that stylish picture of me popping my ivy cap and put in the usual Jon-crap in the profile. Strangely enough, my friends list has been filling up with good looking girls and many have taken the time to IM me and tell me that they are very much interested in me. I find this phenomenon rather strange and marvel each time a girl sends me an interested email, or decides she wants to befriend me for no other reason than for some reason she approved of my lousy attempt to grow a beard. If this continues, I will have to buy a big, floppy pink cap and a pimp cane, and lease a large pink Cadillac for optimal street cruising.
You are all welcome to join my entourage. We will prance down the streets sporting fur-lined jackets and ray-bans. I will wear platform shoes that have goldfish in the heel, and lots of sparkly bling on my fingers. My chest will be adorned with ice and its glimmer will reflect in all of my posse’s dollar sign earrings. Of course, I’ll need my own rap-beat background and some short, monkey-like guy in front telling everyone to get the fuck out of our way.
----
I finally finished that paper I have been avoiding all week. It took me a half hour. I am rather disgusted with myself, but have come to the conclusion that I operate best under stress anyway. I have four more papers due this week, and each is over eight pages long. They will be finished, some how, and I will make it though simply because pressure beckons. Without set deadlines and without the unbearable weight of failure hanging over me like a damned sword of Damocles, I simply will not start. Caution, sudden starts results in a frazzled Jon and short bursts of unsustainable productivity. Please insert beer into the proper orifice at scheduled maintenance times in order to keep a well running Jon.
-----
School starts tomorrow and I am none too pleased. This was my last undergraduate spring break and it was spent not partying, but slacking off. From here on is seven weeks of torture and then graduation. I feel as if I am on the last half mile of a marathon, and my legs have already given out on me. Certainly, I will crawl to the finish line with bloodied knees and a wicked charlie horse, but in the mean time, the agonizing crawl requires much focus. My parents have already made reservations for my graduation ceremony. That requires my presence. I'm going to have to make it otherwise my dear mother, for the rest of my life, will guilt me about it. Believe you me; my mother is a master guilt-tripper. I refuse to introduce her to my future wife for fear that she will train my wife how to guilt me properly. At times, I like to claim that I can survive any guilt trip, but there are two people whose trips I cannot handle well: my grandmother's, and my mother's.
Blast them and their little doggies, too.
At least everyone's back. I have a lot of people I've been looking forward to seeing again, and all of them are easy on the eyes.
-----
At times, while lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling (of course, good jazz is on), I try to imagine what my next lover will look like. This isn't much different that those damned MASH-like games girls played in grade school, or that silly girl-talk board game my sister had when we were kids. The only difference is that I have no intention of dating this lover unless she meets my criteria. Future lovers fascinate me because each lover I have had leaves a little piece of herself in my mind. I assimilate certain qualities of hers that I find endearing, and at times, I reminisce about what each of them have brought to bed. Granted, I have kissed more lousy kissers than good, and I have done things with more unskilled people than skilled, but their personalities resonate. In my imagination, my next lover has big eyes, and wit.
Wit is more of a turn-on than bed-skill. Although, proper junk-in-the-trunk is a necessity for a relationship.
----
I have been listening to too much Blur. Come on, come on, come on...
In the mean time, I take measures to keep my penis' internal tubes internal.
----
In a fit of boredom, I registered for a Myspace.com account. I put up that stylish picture of me popping my ivy cap and put in the usual Jon-crap in the profile. Strangely enough, my friends list has been filling up with good looking girls and many have taken the time to IM me and tell me that they are very much interested in me. I find this phenomenon rather strange and marvel each time a girl sends me an interested email, or decides she wants to befriend me for no other reason than for some reason she approved of my lousy attempt to grow a beard. If this continues, I will have to buy a big, floppy pink cap and a pimp cane, and lease a large pink Cadillac for optimal street cruising.
You are all welcome to join my entourage. We will prance down the streets sporting fur-lined jackets and ray-bans. I will wear platform shoes that have goldfish in the heel, and lots of sparkly bling on my fingers. My chest will be adorned with ice and its glimmer will reflect in all of my posse’s dollar sign earrings. Of course, I’ll need my own rap-beat background and some short, monkey-like guy in front telling everyone to get the fuck out of our way.
----
I finally finished that paper I have been avoiding all week. It took me a half hour. I am rather disgusted with myself, but have come to the conclusion that I operate best under stress anyway. I have four more papers due this week, and each is over eight pages long. They will be finished, some how, and I will make it though simply because pressure beckons. Without set deadlines and without the unbearable weight of failure hanging over me like a damned sword of Damocles, I simply will not start. Caution, sudden starts results in a frazzled Jon and short bursts of unsustainable productivity. Please insert beer into the proper orifice at scheduled maintenance times in order to keep a well running Jon.
-----
School starts tomorrow and I am none too pleased. This was my last undergraduate spring break and it was spent not partying, but slacking off. From here on is seven weeks of torture and then graduation. I feel as if I am on the last half mile of a marathon, and my legs have already given out on me. Certainly, I will crawl to the finish line with bloodied knees and a wicked charlie horse, but in the mean time, the agonizing crawl requires much focus. My parents have already made reservations for my graduation ceremony. That requires my presence. I'm going to have to make it otherwise my dear mother, for the rest of my life, will guilt me about it. Believe you me; my mother is a master guilt-tripper. I refuse to introduce her to my future wife for fear that she will train my wife how to guilt me properly. At times, I like to claim that I can survive any guilt trip, but there are two people whose trips I cannot handle well: my grandmother's, and my mother's.
Blast them and their little doggies, too.
At least everyone's back. I have a lot of people I've been looking forward to seeing again, and all of them are easy on the eyes.
-----
At times, while lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling (of course, good jazz is on), I try to imagine what my next lover will look like. This isn't much different that those damned MASH-like games girls played in grade school, or that silly girl-talk board game my sister had when we were kids. The only difference is that I have no intention of dating this lover unless she meets my criteria. Future lovers fascinate me because each lover I have had leaves a little piece of herself in my mind. I assimilate certain qualities of hers that I find endearing, and at times, I reminisce about what each of them have brought to bed. Granted, I have kissed more lousy kissers than good, and I have done things with more unskilled people than skilled, but their personalities resonate. In my imagination, my next lover has big eyes, and wit.
Wit is more of a turn-on than bed-skill. Although, proper junk-in-the-trunk is a necessity for a relationship.
----
I have been listening to too much Blur. Come on, come on, come on...
posted by Jon at 10:39 PM
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