When your workweek doesn't end on when the whistle blows with everyone else on Friday, there's something odd. I mean, why is there a whistle? What self-respecting business today that isn't a coal mine or lumber mill has a whistle? Anyway, that not being the point of this blog, it can throw off your clock to get up on a Saturday morning, stumble through coffee, bagel, clothes, and doorway, and then arrive at your job for the drudgery of an eight hour day.
Eight hours. Do you all hear me? EIGHT HOURS. Ha! Take that, all those who say I'm slacking off.
So, if you have a workweek that consists of a work weekend, it gets a bit odd to you.
I like saying "odd". Noticed that?
Let's all be honest. The weekends were invented for vegitating, lounging, and relaxing. Blow the proverbial whistle and put your feet up. If you're a college student, you're supposed to study and investigate that thing known as knowledge - but let's all face it. You're a college student. The last thing you're actually going ot do on a weekend (unless you're me, and me is weird) is to sit down and hit the books.
You are a college person. You must now sit down and pretend that you give a care about things that have nothing to do with you, such as education, and write it all down, peruse it carefully, commit it to memory- NOOOOOOOOOOO!
Get up! Run! Throw open the window and frolic in the fields! Okay, that might be a bit strange, but for our sakes, do it anyway.
As for those of you, like me, who are in the middle of that workweek, get up and run for it. You do not have to be a slave to the work whistle which never rings.
Unless, of course, you have bills to pay, you have work to do, and you want to buy things for yourself which are frivilous and useless. Like food, clothing, shelter - who needs these?
Oh, wait, that's right . . . you.
Get back to work.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Smelly Smell That Smells Smelly
There's something you need to get used to if you ever plan on moving to Cape Cod. That particular thing, which you have to get used to, is the smell.
An apology, then, goes out to everyone who lives on Cape Cod. I think your place smells, and you'll know this too if you ever leave for about ten minutes, but since you all live here, you don't get it and you don't know what I'm talking about, so I'll just get on with this at any rate.
Cape Cod smells. I said it.
There is something in the air. Actually, there are somethings in the water, but those somethings in the water actually move up to the air and it becomes something in the air, and it stinks. Perhaps it doesn't exactly stink, but it actually causes a smell and you smell it.
I don't even know if I'm making this clear. I should be blunt:
CAPE COD SMELLS VERY MUCH OF FISH.
Every tree, every road, every house, every person who stops through. You all smell of fish, and I don't mind pointing this out to you as it will likely happen to me within a month or so. Perhaps I even smell of it right now, just don't even notice it. That would be tragic.
Maybe it is that big ocean-thing. Full of fish, right? And there's a lot of ocean around Cape Cod, so there are a lot of fish. Take a look at the place, you'll see that there is nothing worse than an ocean that smells of fish. Well, an ocean that smells of seaweed, but let us not be particular.
However - the ocean DOES smell of fish. So, get used to it.
I love Cape Cod, I really do. I love the place. I love my internship, I love my apartment. But the fish smell is something that we're drawing lines in the sand over. Sorry, Cape Cod.
And now that you mention it . . . I smell a bit strange myself now. Like . . . flouder.
An apology, then, goes out to everyone who lives on Cape Cod. I think your place smells, and you'll know this too if you ever leave for about ten minutes, but since you all live here, you don't get it and you don't know what I'm talking about, so I'll just get on with this at any rate.
Cape Cod smells. I said it.
There is something in the air. Actually, there are somethings in the water, but those somethings in the water actually move up to the air and it becomes something in the air, and it stinks. Perhaps it doesn't exactly stink, but it actually causes a smell and you smell it.
I don't even know if I'm making this clear. I should be blunt:
CAPE COD SMELLS VERY MUCH OF FISH.
Every tree, every road, every house, every person who stops through. You all smell of fish, and I don't mind pointing this out to you as it will likely happen to me within a month or so. Perhaps I even smell of it right now, just don't even notice it. That would be tragic.
Maybe it is that big ocean-thing. Full of fish, right? And there's a lot of ocean around Cape Cod, so there are a lot of fish. Take a look at the place, you'll see that there is nothing worse than an ocean that smells of fish. Well, an ocean that smells of seaweed, but let us not be particular.
However - the ocean DOES smell of fish. So, get used to it.
I love Cape Cod, I really do. I love the place. I love my internship, I love my apartment. But the fish smell is something that we're drawing lines in the sand over. Sorry, Cape Cod.
And now that you mention it . . . I smell a bit strange myself now. Like . . . flouder.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A State of Soredom
When you exercise, something happens to your body. Namely, you suffer in unimaginable ways for the sake of being slender and slim, buff and brawny, or trim and tiny. You give up your food, you give up your need to down an entire place of cheese fries within ten minutes . . . make that five . . . and you also assign a time every day in which you perform the following:
- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises
Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.
Not today, buster. Or sister.
What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?
No, not the point here.
I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.
I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.
Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?
I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.
- PAINFUL exercises
- HEARTRENDING exercises
- BONEJARRING exercises
- Water break
- AGONIZING exercises
Alright, it isn't all that bad, but here is the problem we all face. While the workout may be promising and lovely and there's that prize at the end of the tunnel (far end, mind you), there is always the next morning in which you open your eyes, smile at the sunshine, and suddenly realize - after you've tried to leap from the bed like Tom Cavanaugh in his short lived 2006 tv series - that you are so sore and pained that you won't be moving.
Not today, buster. Or sister.
What the heck is a buster? Is that some form of brother? Or is that someone who actually busts things and is called that. Shouldn't they be called a wrecker then? Or a smasher?
No, not the point here.
I am in pain. I am happy for it, as it means I'm working hard, but the muscles I forgot have come back to haunt me. They protest, they scream.
I therefore douse them in this little bottle of alcohol-stuff that you dab on sore muscles. The results is that the pain alleviates, but the body stinks like you've dived head-first into a vat of turpentine. Now, that's a pretty image.
Think of it: have you ever had an amazing workout one day, felt new and affirmed on life and on yourself, and then woken up the next morning in a state that guaranteed you would feel those glutes for the rest of the day?
I'm in that. Care to join me? After all, while misery may love company, so, decidedly, do those of us that still need to work out.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
My Own Personal Cell . . . Phone
I don't like cell phones. I loathe them, to be quite frank. As opposed to being Larry or Bob, I'll be Frank.
That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.
A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.
Because, yeah, it can play music too.
It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.
And I want it to do none of these things.
When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.
My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it
Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?
So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.
I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.
I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.
That was a joke. Laugh. Or don't, just get it.
A cell phone is a piece of technological hoo-hah (and I have no idea what hoo-hah is, but it sounds full of contempt so it sounds perfect) that allows people to contact you at any moment of the day, at any place, in any situation. If you are falling off a mountain, the GPS chip will track you across the globe, whereas if you even attempt to listen to a song on the radio, your cell phone will suddenly get jealous and burst forth in song.
Because, yeah, it can play music too.
It can also take pictures. Record video. Email people. Surf the web. Fire a proton laser beam.
And I want it to do none of these things.
When I had to trade in my old phone as it had finally expired on the plan, I was told that I was to get something new and fresh. The smiling men, clasping their fingers together and chuckling, insisted that I choose something expensive and unnecessary.
My criteria:
- thin
- good price
- makes phone calls
- that's it
Their criteria, which they informed me of the moment I said all this and after they stopped laughing hysterically:
- covered in a sold-separately leather case
- has the ability to download music
- carries all the film equipment of a major Hollywood film production studio
- will ring incessantly and loudly
- did I mention expensive?
So, I have a phone. I have a ball and chain, and it costs more than my monthly rent. It costs and it costs me arms, legs, ribs, and my health.
I have with me a phone with several features I do not use. For instance, I don't take pictures with it, listen to music on it, and I don't use the email. Which defeats the purpose of this phone as all I wanted it for was to make phone calls, but I guess I lost.
I have a cell phone. And it does practically everything but what it should do: make calls.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Virus-Like-Thingy
At school, I was safe. Whenever my computer was near, I was connected to the world. And then, when that computer got struck down by some unexpected virus-like-thing, I was covered. I merely had to get up, walk across the campus in whatever weather Mother Nature had provided for me on that day, and say the following to the geniuses at the laptop central office:
HELP ME! HELP ME! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW HELPLESS I AM NOW? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW UTTERLY POWERLESS I'VE BECOME??? DO SOMETHING!
And they would, in a flash, fix the problem.
Really, there would be a flash. I'd blink because of this bright light and then my laptop woul dbe as good as new. The internet would be repaired and everything would be perfectly fine.
No longer.
Here, in my summer house, I have no laptop central nearby. I also have no convenient flashing light to repair things. And at the moment, I have a problem.
I have a virus.
Or something like a virus.
Or a thing that is like a virus.
I can't access some sites, and the moment I try, I am logged out. I am frustrated and upset and I work hard to find any possibly clues to the source, but cannot prevail. And the harder I try, the more the virus seems pleased with me and is content to laugh at my futile attempts.
I mean this too. I heard it chuckling not moments ago.
HELP ME! HELP ME! DON'T YOU REALIZE HOW HELPLESS I AM NOW? CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE HOW UTTERLY POWERLESS I'VE BECOME??? DO SOMETHING!
And they would, in a flash, fix the problem.
Really, there would be a flash. I'd blink because of this bright light and then my laptop woul dbe as good as new. The internet would be repaired and everything would be perfectly fine.
No longer.
Here, in my summer house, I have no laptop central nearby. I also have no convenient flashing light to repair things. And at the moment, I have a problem.
I have a virus.
Or something like a virus.
Or a thing that is like a virus.
I can't access some sites, and the moment I try, I am logged out. I am frustrated and upset and I work hard to find any possibly clues to the source, but cannot prevail. And the harder I try, the more the virus seems pleased with me and is content to laugh at my futile attempts.
I mean this too. I heard it chuckling not moments ago.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Summer On Mars...er, The Ocean
Spending my summer away from the rest of my family in an alien territory which could be possibly dangerous seems like a rather drastic thing to do, and completely foolhardy. Well, damn the man and throw logic to the wind, I'm doing it anyway.
For the summer, I will be working an internship on the Cape, and for the summer I will be in my own apartment, away from my mom and dad and away from everything that is remotely familiar. Which is not to say that I've never been to the Cape, and I'm really quite familiar with the place.
The problem is that when you've been here as a tourist or a guest, you eat at nice restaurants, see pretty lighthouses, and find the task of avoiding shellfish as easy to do as dance naked in front of a pack of starving lions while doused in meat sauce.
Paints an image, doesn't it?
I can tell you how to get to the Chatham Lights. Sort of. I can name some delicious breakfast places by the Sagamore and Bourne Bridges. I can recommend the best place to go if you want to lie on the beach and catch a tan (who coined this phrase? Are you literally in camoflauge in the grass, watching the elusive tan as it eats at the watering hole nearby, unaware that you are about to jump out and nab it?). I can even name a joke shop or two.
But . . . supermarket? Home supply store? Post office? Please, ask someone else.
The Cape is an amazing place, I'll give you that. However, I wish that I had done one thing before I had set out for the Cape, which was carefully plot on a map exactly where everything is, and furthermore install a GPS chip in my brain so the police can track me when I accidentally wander into the sea.
Take some time, I dare you. You'll do this to. You can move to a new home somewhere, you can say it is perfect, but then step out that door and I DARE you to walk straight to the laundromat without asking for directions or consulting the map.
I'll wait.
Couldn't do it, could you? Ha. Well, we're in the same boat, all of us who move to a new place, even for a short time. The world may be pretty, but in between, you still have an alien world to live in and navigate.
The things that are necessary, you never consider that important until you're wandering the streets with a compass, trying to find them.
For the summer, I will be working an internship on the Cape, and for the summer I will be in my own apartment, away from my mom and dad and away from everything that is remotely familiar. Which is not to say that I've never been to the Cape, and I'm really quite familiar with the place.
The problem is that when you've been here as a tourist or a guest, you eat at nice restaurants, see pretty lighthouses, and find the task of avoiding shellfish as easy to do as dance naked in front of a pack of starving lions while doused in meat sauce.
Paints an image, doesn't it?
I can tell you how to get to the Chatham Lights. Sort of. I can name some delicious breakfast places by the Sagamore and Bourne Bridges. I can recommend the best place to go if you want to lie on the beach and catch a tan (who coined this phrase? Are you literally in camoflauge in the grass, watching the elusive tan as it eats at the watering hole nearby, unaware that you are about to jump out and nab it?). I can even name a joke shop or two.
But . . . supermarket? Home supply store? Post office? Please, ask someone else.
The Cape is an amazing place, I'll give you that. However, I wish that I had done one thing before I had set out for the Cape, which was carefully plot on a map exactly where everything is, and furthermore install a GPS chip in my brain so the police can track me when I accidentally wander into the sea.
Take some time, I dare you. You'll do this to. You can move to a new home somewhere, you can say it is perfect, but then step out that door and I DARE you to walk straight to the laundromat without asking for directions or consulting the map.
I'll wait.
Couldn't do it, could you? Ha. Well, we're in the same boat, all of us who move to a new place, even for a short time. The world may be pretty, but in between, you still have an alien world to live in and navigate.
The things that are necessary, you never consider that important until you're wandering the streets with a compass, trying to find them.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Go Ahead, Laugh
I laugh at you. I laugh in the face of every last one of you, and you know who you are, and I laugh and laugh and laugh until I'm blue in the face, which is not good considering it would clash horribly with my eyes.
You have exams. I have nothing. I have freedom. FREEDOM.
So . . . this is my way of saying "nyah nyah nyah" to everyone who isn't me.
The school year has come to a close, and with that close, I have seen the end of the world that was filled with desperation and misery in the form of fill-in-the-blanks and multiple-choice. For three months, at any rate, but that's all I have to worry about. Now, I move onwards to a job.
No, let's not talk about the job. I want to talk about the boundless mirth I have, stemming from the misfortune of everyone else and the fortune of me.
So . . . that's my way of saying, "nyah nyah nyah" but with more eloquence.
The library here is filled with priceless novels and computers on which you can completely ignore the novels and simply upload the Sparknotes version. At the moment, every computer terminal is occupied and every book that could be of concievable use (and right now, concievable use goes as far as being a flat surface for someone to write on top of while they hold a study sheet in their lap) has been checked out. The atmosphere of the library is one of panic and fear and hypertension.
Walking through it, I am allowed to snicker at everyone else, because I do not have any.
Everyone is eating. Every table in the dining hall is full, every table in the rec center is taken, and everyone is craming in as much food and caffience-pumped food as they can. Everyone is insane here, and I get to calmly eat an ice cream for the purpose of enjoyment, rather than to benefit off the sugar for study purposes.
Cake Batter flavor. Trust me, it is good.
And the grass? Don't get me started on how little of it I can actually see. If a plane flew overhead and looked down, there would be a sort of carpet of blankets and books on every inch of the ground available, what with the library being filled with crazies and the dining hall bursting at the seams. We are all trying to study and cram every last bit of knowledge into our tiny little brains because we know that one extra second might be all the difference between failure and brilliancy.
"We" excluding me, of course.
So . . . nyah nyah nyah.
You have exams. I have nothing. I have freedom. FREEDOM.
So . . . this is my way of saying "nyah nyah nyah" to everyone who isn't me.
The school year has come to a close, and with that close, I have seen the end of the world that was filled with desperation and misery in the form of fill-in-the-blanks and multiple-choice. For three months, at any rate, but that's all I have to worry about. Now, I move onwards to a job.
No, let's not talk about the job. I want to talk about the boundless mirth I have, stemming from the misfortune of everyone else and the fortune of me.
So . . . that's my way of saying, "nyah nyah nyah" but with more eloquence.
The library here is filled with priceless novels and computers on which you can completely ignore the novels and simply upload the Sparknotes version. At the moment, every computer terminal is occupied and every book that could be of concievable use (and right now, concievable use goes as far as being a flat surface for someone to write on top of while they hold a study sheet in their lap) has been checked out. The atmosphere of the library is one of panic and fear and hypertension.
Walking through it, I am allowed to snicker at everyone else, because I do not have any.
Everyone is eating. Every table in the dining hall is full, every table in the rec center is taken, and everyone is craming in as much food and caffience-pumped food as they can. Everyone is insane here, and I get to calmly eat an ice cream for the purpose of enjoyment, rather than to benefit off the sugar for study purposes.
Cake Batter flavor. Trust me, it is good.
And the grass? Don't get me started on how little of it I can actually see. If a plane flew overhead and looked down, there would be a sort of carpet of blankets and books on every inch of the ground available, what with the library being filled with crazies and the dining hall bursting at the seams. We are all trying to study and cram every last bit of knowledge into our tiny little brains because we know that one extra second might be all the difference between failure and brilliancy.
"We" excluding me, of course.
So . . . nyah nyah nyah.
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