The critically acclaimed animated program makes its unwelcome return to HBO for another season of inexplicable eccentricities. Join your most hated characters Harold, The Editor, Tom, and many others as they learn about themselves, and why that is usually too much information to know. Fridays at 9 only on HBO.
Season 2 was trickier to create episodes for than Season 1, I'll admit. In Season 1, you can take as many liberties as you can with the characters in order to develop them, but in Season 2, you make choices that determine whether or not the characters are behaving like they should be. Also, certain plot points, such as Harold's job as an animator, can go so far as to what kind of problems they bring for him, and with this, you have to think creatively which can be very easy when your life plagues with you with unusual thoughts and situations. Season 2 definitely takes more risks than Season 1, but usually, such risks determine whether or not the show can establish its own identity rather than fall back on past influences. I hope you enjoy Season 2, the most daring season yet.
P201-The Director The worst director in recent history begins filming his sci-fi epic of a city on the verge of being swallowed up by a black hole(a small one, however). After catching one glimpse of Harold and his co-workers in a childish argument about exit signs, he immediately hires them for the movie.
P202-The Dead Best Friend Harold, working on a long shift at Flowers United, suddenly sees his dead friend(buried in Season 1's The Funeral) right in front of him. Harold becomes horrified and tries to curse away the evil spirit, while the best friend tries to convince Harold that seeing him is worthwhile.
P203-Animatorcide Harold's failure leads to a spiraling depression that
leads to him making minimalist remarks of perfection. Since every animator at Flowers United knows
about the mythic "animatorcide" that killed a famed animator, they keep a
close eye on Harold to make sure he doesn't try to use it.
P204-The Writer When the studio realizes that their television program is on the verge of cancellation, they group together all of the writers for a show-changing brainstorm session. One writer isn't amused by the idea, curses everything in existence, and then quits. Harold goes on an impossible journey to replace him.
P205-A Weird One For Sure Hal finally gets his driving permit and drives around Los Angeles for two hours, celebrating. After a while, he drives in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and in a panic, drives in reverse into a homeowner's garage while the homeowner is still at home. The homeowner takes Hal in as a hostage until Hal is able to pay for a new garage door.
P206-The Cameo Spot Harold gets the opportunity to work on another channel to increase his notoriety. Unfortunately, it requires a cameo on a television program he hates with a star he despises. When Harold tries to switch places with Tom and fails, he gets into a childish argument with the star and accidentally exposes the star's homosexuality.
P207-Wellesian Connection Harold meets an ambitious voice actor who notices Harold's stress and suggests he tries some weed. Harold refuses and sees the actor's vocal performance, only to realize he's become attracted to the actor's voice.
P208-A Nightmare Someone Else Had After a long and frustrating day, Harold daydreams about meeting up with famous figures from horror movies(Chucky, Jason Voorhees, Alien(as a joke)) that ruined his childhood. It leads to an therapy session that the figures remorsefully give him.
P209-Wait, Say That Again? Harold, who decides to walk in on the animators
working, meets Arlill Rodriguez, a 25-yr old animator brimming with possiblity. When Harold recalls their first meeting, he begins to realize that
it might be a reincarnation of him, a theory everyone dismisses.
Harold's suspicions are heightened when Arlill refuses to open the door
for him.
P210-Flowers United Inc. Harold is woken up by a sudden phone call from The Editor. The Editor blames Harold of not being a team player, so Harold is forced to leave his house early to go to work. Arriving, he's surprised to see that no one is there except the Editor who sits in his disorganized office. Harold works on the filing while the Editor regales him on a tale of just how Flowers United was established.
P211-The Bartender Harold slips out of the office one day, and sneaks into a bar where he meets a bartender who hates people but wants to become a barber. The bartender's existence fascinates Harold and Harold gives him his contact information. After a week of no replies, the bartender begins stalking Harold.
P212-The Awkward Conversation Between Two Boys Harold notices his son Hal is finished with his homework and is now watching TV. Harold uncharacteristically walks up to Hal and begins asking him about every aspect of school, including awkwardly enough, Hal's past romantic experiences which Harold can recite from memory and in consecutive order.
P213-The Sandwich Harold meets up with Sarah, an old friend from high school who wants to break out as a voice actress. As they're having lunch, Sarah suddenly leaves in a hurry. She leaves her sandwich behind, completely untouched, and Harold becomes tempted to eat it. He slowly slides the plate towards his side. Looking left and right, he takes a bite and has an orgasm. Harold wonders if it was the fact that she made the specific order or the sandwich itself that made his body react so strongly.
What's more surprising than the show getting picked up for a second season is the fact that there is still only one main writer who's come up with 13 more episodes to entertain the lessers with, those who can afford an HBO subscription. In this second season, with most of the characters well-established, the show takes on an unusual turn in order to dissociate itself from its source material(Curb Your Enthusiasm, South Park), and becomes its own program. The situations range from normal experiences heightened to ridiculous levels, to moments of intimacy and consciousness between the characters. The problem with an animated series is that it's expected to be very comical and hilarious all of the time, and a series won't have any space to develop if it's reduced to making rapid-fire jokes. In the spirit of Louie on FX, the show will go in whatever direction it has to for telling a story, whether it requires breaking the laws of physics or the demands of an audience. Understandably, there's very little episodes about Harold's wife since I still don't know who she is or supposed to be, and it would be insulting to her character to include in every episode as a background device. With that, I also admit that the series is becoming much more personal with certain episodes that deal with issues that I constantly think about, such as the possibility of meeting your equal(not in a romantic sense) and having horror film characters apologize for a damaged childhood, as well as reuniting with your ex-love interest. This series is meant to defy expectations, but also take viewers daring enough to watch on an unforgettable journey. If the second or first season of the Presenters has done that for you all, I'm satisfied. Third season? We'll see.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
You're Not Gonna Open With That, Are You?
You are never supposed to go beyond your bedtime, especially when you're a mischievous 10 year old. Mine was at 10pm, but I was just too invested in professional wrestling to respect the 10pm curfew. I'll admit that I never paid any attention to the intersecting storylines, I just loved watching The Rock kick ass. He was my favorite wrestler, and I remember I bought one shirt that could be more suitable as bed covers or a duffel bag; I knew my parents were waiting outside, watching the seconds cross into the forbidden zone of 10pm, waiting to whip out the belt. PHEWCHA! At 10, I always turned off the TV, dove into my covers, and hid under my pillow, watching from a small opening to see if my parents were coming. One night, I forgot to turn off the TV. I heard their footsteps coming closer and closer to my room. With the most stealthy silence a 10-yr old can make, I jumped towards the television and silenced it. The steps shrunk in silence. Wait a minute, what is this? It's a man, holding a microphone, red suit, very clean, and quite the hairdo. I rose the volume up just a bit out of curiosity of wanting to hear what this strange, and well-dressed man was talking about. No longer was I interested in the exploits of half-naked men and women putting themselves in unusual positions. This was my first exposure to a show that became my obsession for countless months, a little program called Seinfeld. The night Seinfeld was introduced into my life was the night I saw "The Parking Garage", one of the show's most famous episodes. I didn't understand most of the jokes, and I didn't know why the characters were in the parking garage to begin with, but for some reason, they were compelling characters to look at. I know, I know, what the hell could I be talking about? Well, all I understood was that the four guys were looking for their car, with no luck. When they found the car and started shouting and dancing, I applauded them for their efforts, the four guys with no name. When they got into the car and it wouldn't start, I knew I came upon something special. Every night at 10, right after my parents would come and go, I'd watch Seinfeld back-to-back, and though I sacrificed a good night's sleep, it was all worth it to see Kramer sliding in and out of Jerry's apartment. With more episodes came more characters: the eccentric billionaire J. Peterman, the diabolically nnnyehehh postman Newman, the incorrigible Frank Costanza, as well as the almost impressive catalogue of failed relationships. Despite the praise, I found other experiences, curiosities, and Seinfeld became a dormant interest for nearly 6 years. High school, life became ever more complicated, I fell in and out of love, and schoolwork began to grow exponentially. YouTube became yet another escape from reality as I preferred to deal with being Rick Rolled than with another goddamn English paper. Seinfeld bloopers, what could this be? From season 1 to 9, I saw this seemingly perfect group of actors break apart in unprofessional giggles and yelps as their scenes hilariously collapsed into something incomprehensible. One of my favorite bloopers was Kramer's unused take of ...check it out yourselves and bloopers from The Tape. After having nearly fatal giggle fits, I decided to watch two documentaries on the conception of Seinfeld, and it was truly fascinating to learn about how drastically different Seinfeld was compared to other shows airing in the 90's and it made me appreciate the series in a more profound way than I had when I was 10. Recently, I wrote a paper on George Costanza's effect on pop culture, and later on, I hope to demonstrate my appreciation towards this wonderful and groundbreaking series in many other ways. I've recently had difficult experiences to deal with, and revisiting Seinfeld has rekindled my appreciation for life, even if life treated the New York Four unfairly most of the time.
Thanks for reading, if you did. Below are episodes I would recommend above all others, or as an introduction to the series.
"In No Particular Order"
-The Limo
-The Tape
-The Chicken Roaster
-The Parking Garage
-The Contest
-The Marine Biologist
-The Mango
-The Pitch
-The Hamptons
-The Deal
-The Opera
-The Outing
-The Heart Attack
-The Cafe
-The Sniffing Accountant
-The Opposite
-The Yada Yada Yada
-The Library
-The Trip(Pts. 1 and 2)
-The Boyfriend(Pts.1 and 2)
Monday, November 14, 2011
Pink Elephants
The rosy cheeks of a boy chewing an apple.
The bright, glowing shirt that weaves a path in the air.
Dense as cotton candy.
Loveliest of beings.
A day where your head can pop right of your neck socket.
A trip lasting forever in a second.
“I’m floating on pink elephants.”
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Middleness
Originally written in 12th grade.
In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11
Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door. “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
“Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
“Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)
In the creative writing club, one of our most popular projects had our group creating characters only with a few descriptions that defined them and then writing a story about these characters. I ended up with a bitter old man living in Russia and a 14 year old girl trying to find some kind of connection in the world. The story itself doesn't make much sense since the old man and the girl meet in Russia under serendipitous circumstances and an drunken Russian boy who can communicate perfectly with the old man and girl, as well as a planned subplot of the old man being a spy undercover who is trying to behave like a 95 year old when he is in fact, 72. And if there's one thing Russia is known for, it's drunken people and spies. Clearly, I have a very biased perspective on Russia and in order to complete the story, i would have to extensively research Russian culture and give a hint as to what would invite the girl to come to such a place. The story also deals with the problem of acceptance in a complicated world that rejects others, in this case, the innocent girl running away from the law, and the old man who couldn't stand to be around people he understood and moved to a country where he can remain as the foreign treasure. Originally, I wanted the girl to fall in love with the old man, but I realized that spinning a story with that kind of angle would be difficult to believe. I might eventually complete the story but only when I'm not boggled with other projects to worry about. Please leave comments and thanks for reading, if you do.
Characters by Creative Writing Club ’11
Masks of different kinds lined up his closet. Each looked like a fog of color that oversimplified its meaning.
“Rrrg.”
He trotted towards his drawer and picked up his glasses shaped with dark, thick frames and a 5-cm diameter circle. With the glasses, he could see beyond his field of view. He stumbled back to the closet and picked out today’s mask, a bleak expression that could remind someone of a fierce and unholy battle. Upon the slipping the mask on, he left his house and walked to a bar. He hated using a cane; he thought it was a sign of weakness even though he could seriously bludgeon someone if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’ll stumble off and get to a liquor store though he doesn’t figure it out since both places have similar odors. The bright lights confused him, the swear words even more so.
“You’re too young!”
“So what if I am?”
“Go away! And don’t come back!”
Kye stood for a while outside of the bar. Every time she saw the bartender, she made a face.
“Nyag!”
Inaudible. John bumps into Kye.
“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you, old man?”
“That’s a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“Old man,” he said while adjusting his glasses. “People usually call me a geezer or a wiseass but not old man. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What-uh-whadda ya mean?”
“I’ve walked on this street for the past 47 years; never have seen someone as thin as you. Did you move in recently?”
“You can say that.”
“Now why did Frank do that earlier? He doesn’t give a damn about the drinking age.”
“Oh, he saw me staring at one of his sons, it seems, and got worried that they might be taken by my beauty.”
“Frank’s son is almost 20.”
“Well, he’s still a man.”
John slowly nodded his head. Compared to the lesser-minded individuals he was forced to interact, day after day, there hadn’t been a reason to nod at anyone. For a moment, John thought he was nodding incorrectly.
“What’s your name?”
“Kye. What’s yours, old man?”
“John. John Smith. You can laugh at the mediocrity later, ok?”
“What’s mediocrity?”
“Literally middleness. Halfness.”
“(chuckles) Seriously?”
“Very.”
The bar door swings open, smacking and dividing Kye away from John. A blue coated boy stumbles out of the bar, carefully choosing his next step. He opens up his coat and sees a broken bottle.
“Aw, shit! That was for my (burps) mother.”
“My fucking nose!” yells Kye, closing the door. “You little-“
“Easy, Ki. Don’t’ forget you walk this way to go back home.”
“Right. I always go-um-wrong way.”
“Tell you what,” says John holding his cane with both hands. “How ‘bout I take you home?”
“Ok.”
John holds the little boy’s hand and walks carefully so the boy doesn’t throw up on his shoes. Kye, still massaging her nose, walks behind them. It’s a wonder, she thought, how much more attractive the old man was compared to the bartender’s son. Has it really been that long, she wondered.
“Mommy wanted the bottle. But it’s broke. She wont want it now.”
“Well, maybe I can take care of that, too.”
“Jesus, it’s cold out here!”
“Well, how long were you in there?” insisted John to Kye.
“A few hours, maybe minutes.”
The sidewalk remained consistent with the same pattern, gray, black, gray black. The walls of each street were colorless in nature and display, even the paint cracking under was a bleak eggshell white, not nearly as exciting or as whimsical as the snowflakes vibrating above their heads.
“We’re almost there. Keep your head up, boy.”
“I’m try (spits)’n. It’s (burps) nasty.”
“Ki, how much can you lift?”
“Uh…some amount.”
“Would you mind carrying the boy?”
“Nnnno…if he doesn’t spread his mouth shit.”
“Sure. You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Kye approached the boy carefully. Never had she seen a more delicately constructed creature. His features were perfectly symmetrical, eyes were a glowing green, and even the little spittle at the side of his mouth reminded him of a teardrop that only a sensitive person could create. She gently lifted him up and carried him in her arms. Like holding a feather.
“Brooul!”
“Ugh, uh, ew!”
“You shouldn’t have picked him up that fast.”
“I..couldn’t help myself! He’s so cute. Ugh!”
“Urp…sm…I’m sorry.”
“It’s..okay, I guess.”
They continued walking; leaving behind the only original color the sidewalk will have for a week. In a short while, they arrived at John’s doorstep.
“I thought we were going home,” exclaimed the boy quizzically.
“We are. I just don’t want you to come empty-handed.”
John opened the door, and Kye stepped in, wanting to drop the boy on the couch. What surprised her, aside from the house smelling appropriately, was the lack of furniture.
“Jon, where can I drop him?”
“On the floor, I guess. Just don’t make another mess.”
As he commanded, she carefully placed the boy on the floor, unusually colorful and confusing from the repeatable tessellations she’d seen before.
“Here we go,” said John, looking at the only furniture at his house: a liquor cabinet with a beautifully engraved handle of a dragon on it. “Have a little vodka left over from my birthday party. Hope your mom likes this.”
“Thanks. I hope she does, too.”
“Do you want to leave now?” asked John.
“Not yet. Thank you.”
“This feels like Kindergarten.” replied Kye despondently.
“How so?”
“Sitting on the floor like misbehaving shits. Looking up at the teacher and listening to her. Or watching her lips open and close. Like a fish.”
John chuckles.
“What grade are you in, little boy?”
“The one you say. Kinder-garter.”
“Do you like it?”
“I no know. I was there once. But not again.”
“Hmm…mmm.” So innocent. So little.
“Ki.”
“Hm?”
“So what’s a sweet, innocent girl like you finding drunk, impotent men in Russia?”
“Well, (clears her throat), I’m an emancipated minor, my parents…were horrible people, and I’ve been traveling the rails, as they’d say in the 1800’s. I was at a library once, looking at pictures of buildings, when one of Russia’s (put her hand on her chest) in-credible buildings caught my attention. I was flabbergasted at its design, its colors, its inventiveness. I just had to see it. Just once. Touch it once. Oh. Crazy, huh?”
“No. Not at all.”
John was a detail-oriented person, in thought and execution. He cross-examined Kye’s words, dissected every gesture and pulse she made. If Kye was aware of John’s ulterior motive, she would’ve been flattered.
“It was tricky, but luckily, I was able to sneak onto a flight and was on my way. To touch that building. I couldn’t wait, but life had other plans. Shortly after, the airline became aware of the stowaway and I ran, till I got to the bar. Eh, shit happens, Jon.”
“Amen.”
“By the way, is it J-O-N?”
“No. With an h.”
“That’s all right. Like I give a damn about my name, anyway. Yours is K-I?”
“No. K-Y-E. I give a bit more of a damn, but enough, it seems.”
“Thing is,” said John, sitting upright and moving his hands, “if you corrected your name every single time someone mispronounces it, it becomes a chore and your name’ll lose its initial significance.”
“Huh. You’re right.”
“This time, Kye.”
One spoke, the other responded, an instinctive act neither of them had accomplished in a while. Inside, both of them wondered why the other hadn’t left yet.
“Hungry, Kye?”
“Oh, fucking. Whaddya got?”
“Well, let’s see.”
(TBC…)
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Twentithird One
Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I may or may not be losing my fucking mind right now. At this point, I have no evidence to confirm either diagnosis, but I'm pretty sure I'm losing it. My back aches right now, the pain is mostly around the right shoulder blade, due to the amount of crap I lugged around yesterday for some goddamn reason. And I'm swearing a lot, another thing to check-mark. Why is this relevant, ladies and gentleman? Where's the connection with losing my mind and having back pain? As it turns out, I have also been shaking uncontrollably for the past hour and a half. Now this may have something to do with the window being open, but most likely, my thoughts have been racing incredibly fast, and my body has to compensate for it. As each thought makes its way across my body, I can feel each thought blazing right through.
I apologize in advance for this post. As you can tell, it's more disorganized than my posts usually are. I've had several conversations with some close friends and each of them, whether they were a sophomore, or a senior in college, convinced me that my life in college was only an illusion, and that I'm only taking on a separate personality. It's fair to say that, if you're someone who studies more often than you sleep, and if all of your classes are terrible and complete wastes of time, but for some reason, I never thought of college this way. I've enjoyed the 2 months I've spent in college so far, and yes, they have been a difficult two months, but at no expense to myself as a human being. Maybe I was wrong. When I realize the things I've had to give up in order to turn in a certain assignment in on time, it's really depressing. Most of the time I spend on weekdays is in my room or at the library studying. Is that a fair reason to complain about not having a life? I think my real problem is that I'm gullible, superficially gullible. I've never considered the negative aspects of a person, and when I hear them for the first time, it's always a shock. Why? It's true. So-and-so instead of being this, is actually this. We all have the skeletons in our closet about disturbing things that wouldn't be acceptable in polite society. I'm afraid of having sex. Deathly afraid. Why? I've been having an identity crisis for quite some time, between my adult self, the crazy, swearing, cynical 18 year old, and my past self, the crazy, sweet, intelligent 10 year old, and when I think of myself in a bedroom with someone, I'll hesitate because of the 10 year old self. It's the same reason I'm always shaving, and trying to stop swearing. It's just so damn confusing. One more thing, it took me years to break my habit of not saying "so", since I thought saying "so" would make me sound stupider; well, I don't have to sound like a brilliant person every day, especially when formulating the thoughts precisely enough to make sense of it is complicated and frustrating enough as it is.
Is there any reason to be complaining right now? Is my life, at this point in time, better than it has been before? Of course it is, and yet, there's still something wrong. I woke up this morning, thinking about someone's request of no longer asking invasive questions, and I don't know what to do about it. I've asked a lot of unusual questions before, but how can anyone react politely with that kind or request? You'll only be spurred into asking more "invasive" questions, such as "What kind of questions wouldn't be invasive?" Frankly, I feel terrible that I made them feel this way, and I imagine they've felt this way for a long time, and finally had the courage to ask that question. Should I feel insulted by the fact that they asked it? Personally, I've always asked questions like that, so being asked not to do that is an attack to my personality. Maybe I'm reacting childishly about it; I'll admit I had a tantrum just a few minutes ago, and yesterday when I was at the park. Maybe the reason I'm asking all of these questions is only because of their request. If asking invasive questions isn't an appropriate way to develop a friendship, then what is, and if it's supposed to be really obvious, why can't I understand that?
Life can be complicated, sometimes. All the time.
I apologize in advance for this post. As you can tell, it's more disorganized than my posts usually are. I've had several conversations with some close friends and each of them, whether they were a sophomore, or a senior in college, convinced me that my life in college was only an illusion, and that I'm only taking on a separate personality. It's fair to say that, if you're someone who studies more often than you sleep, and if all of your classes are terrible and complete wastes of time, but for some reason, I never thought of college this way. I've enjoyed the 2 months I've spent in college so far, and yes, they have been a difficult two months, but at no expense to myself as a human being. Maybe I was wrong. When I realize the things I've had to give up in order to turn in a certain assignment in on time, it's really depressing. Most of the time I spend on weekdays is in my room or at the library studying. Is that a fair reason to complain about not having a life? I think my real problem is that I'm gullible, superficially gullible. I've never considered the negative aspects of a person, and when I hear them for the first time, it's always a shock. Why? It's true. So-and-so instead of being this, is actually this. We all have the skeletons in our closet about disturbing things that wouldn't be acceptable in polite society. I'm afraid of having sex. Deathly afraid. Why? I've been having an identity crisis for quite some time, between my adult self, the crazy, swearing, cynical 18 year old, and my past self, the crazy, sweet, intelligent 10 year old, and when I think of myself in a bedroom with someone, I'll hesitate because of the 10 year old self. It's the same reason I'm always shaving, and trying to stop swearing. It's just so damn confusing. One more thing, it took me years to break my habit of not saying "so", since I thought saying "so" would make me sound stupider; well, I don't have to sound like a brilliant person every day, especially when formulating the thoughts precisely enough to make sense of it is complicated and frustrating enough as it is.
Is there any reason to be complaining right now? Is my life, at this point in time, better than it has been before? Of course it is, and yet, there's still something wrong. I woke up this morning, thinking about someone's request of no longer asking invasive questions, and I don't know what to do about it. I've asked a lot of unusual questions before, but how can anyone react politely with that kind or request? You'll only be spurred into asking more "invasive" questions, such as "What kind of questions wouldn't be invasive?" Frankly, I feel terrible that I made them feel this way, and I imagine they've felt this way for a long time, and finally had the courage to ask that question. Should I feel insulted by the fact that they asked it? Personally, I've always asked questions like that, so being asked not to do that is an attack to my personality. Maybe I'm reacting childishly about it; I'll admit I had a tantrum just a few minutes ago, and yesterday when I was at the park. Maybe the reason I'm asking all of these questions is only because of their request. If asking invasive questions isn't an appropriate way to develop a friendship, then what is, and if it's supposed to be really obvious, why can't I understand that?
Life can be complicated, sometimes. All the time.
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