The term "shotgun" or "calling shotgun" derives from the days of cowboys and stagecoaches. The man riding "shotgun" actually rode up front with the driver and carried a double-barreled 12 gauage "coach gun" that was used to defend the passengers of the coach from indians and highwaymen, etc.
Now-a-days, "Shotgun" means the guy who gets to ride up front with the driver, and all the status that's implied with said seating. To ride "shotgun" tells other people that, aside from the driver of the vehicle, you're in control; you have all the powers that the driver does except for driving the vehicle. Nay, some could even argue that you're more powerful than the driver because he has to remain focused on the road, while you get to fiddle with the radio, your phone, your iPod, your computer, etc. You also get the best view, and people tend to think you're more important than the poor sons of bitches in the back seats, forced to look at the back of your skulls for the duration of the trip.
But there has to be rules to calling "shotgun", lest you engage in an actual "arms race" with your fellow passengers.
Yes, we all know the "can't call it before you see it" rule, which implies you have to actually see the vehicle in question before calling it. And of course you have to respect the first person to make the call, even if they've been calling it all day like a total dick.
But there are other, often over looked rules to "shotgun" that fall to the way side. How about "deferring to seniority" meaning that a good car mate should give the eldest rider at least a chance to call "shotgun" while walking across a mall parking lot, well within the sights of the vehicle? To this I would suggest that if you're practically on top of the vehicle and they still haven't called it, then it'd be acceptable to nonchalantly "call it." Calling it excitedly makes it sound like you were chomping at the bit the entire time we were walking and not paying attention to my story about the Victoria's Secret sales lady hitting on me.
How about the "door handle" rule, where, if you call "shotgun" and my hand's on the door handle to the front passenger seat, all bets are off. You dare call "shotgun" when my hands on the handle, or even - Jesus, the door's open, I'll probably shoot you in the stomach, and we can reinact the scene from "Resevior Dogs" where Mr. Orange is bleeding to death in the back seat.
In the back seat.
And then there's the two rules which negate calling every time: The "my shit's in the front seat" rule, and the more precident "this is a two-door coup and I'm being dropped off first" rule. The latter is self explainitory, however the former seems to get over looked all the time. Listen, if my shit's in the front seat, whether it's my iPod, or purchased items, or a sweater, fucking leave it there and let me take my seat. The only way this rule can be vetoed is if by some chance, you can prove I left my shit in the front seat on purpose to act as a place holder.
Which I invite you to try, Balls Mahoney.
I'd also like to dicuss some of the over looked responsibilties of the co-pilot riding "shotgun:" When stopped to get gas, the shotgunner should get out and clean the windows. If you think you're slick enough to jump my seat while I'm out of the car, cleaning it, then god help you when I get back into the car. I'll be sitting behind you, making your life a miserable Dante-esque-9th-Ring-Hell.
Other responsibilities include: when pulling up to a toll booth and the driver doesn't have an E-Z Pass, they fish for the change or pay the toll out of their own pocket. Also they clean up all front seat trash accrued through the trip.
And of course, should the vehicle be overrun by blood thirsty savages, they lay down a heavy barrage of gunfire to cover the escape.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Our Country's Love of Stupid Shit
If there was one thing I enjoyed immidiately following 9/11 was that the nation took this somber tone. No one cared about scandals; cheating politicians, murderous husbands, what-who-was-putting-up-their-nose, etc. People focused again on what mattered most in life, which was community.
But almost seven years later, we've pretty much reverted back to our pre-September of 2001 ways. You can't turn on a television without seeing some celebrity leaving rehab, or watching Britnay Spears self destruct or whatever. We've folded back into the days about caring about stupid shit.
I understand that we, collectively, need a distraction from the mundane aspects of our lives. And hey, I'll browse through the entertainment section on Huffingtonpost.com once a day myself, but as a whole, we are so unbelievably fucking consumed with high amounts of talentless ridiculousness that we're practically begging Al Qaeda to blow up one of our shopping malls.
Americans love stupid shit, and it's been showing for years, and by "years" I mean since about 1971, when hippies stopped caring about the world, and started caring about cocaine. Since then, we as a nation have been inandated with such excessive bullshit that we willingly swallow it piecemeal and grin happily as we chew.
And this is how we ended up in Iraq.
Why do we give such a big shit about little shit like some hick climbing his way up the steep slope that is "American Idol?" How come everytime Lindsay Lohan leaves a Rodeo Drive couture, there's a fucking helicopter following her? ...America, we need to refocus.
There was this ad campagne when "The Sopranos" were just wrapping up; it was called "The Family vs. Your Family" as was largely featured in print ads as well as in commericals on HBO. The ad went like this: On one page you were first presented with a list of three questions pretaining to the HBO hit drama, such as "Who Shot Tony" and "What's the name of Adrianna's Club?" and so on. You'd flip the page and there'd be one question: "What's your grandfather's middle name?"
I knew more about the intricacies of a fictional crime family than I did about my own, and I think that's what the ad was getting at in a round-about way. I was stunned, as I sat on the toilet trying to think of grandfather's first name, let alone middle. I too was a victim of caring about stupid shit.
I'm not saying we should totally boycott TMZ.com or People Magazine, but we don't need the "text2phone" updates every time Paris Hilton puts on oversized sunglasses or blows some douchebag. I'm just saying that for once in this country's history, could we possibly start focusing on the important things in our lives before we're reminded about it later by the next bridge collapse or terrorist attack?
But almost seven years later, we've pretty much reverted back to our pre-September of 2001 ways. You can't turn on a television without seeing some celebrity leaving rehab, or watching Britnay Spears self destruct or whatever. We've folded back into the days about caring about stupid shit.
I understand that we, collectively, need a distraction from the mundane aspects of our lives. And hey, I'll browse through the entertainment section on Huffingtonpost.com once a day myself, but as a whole, we are so unbelievably fucking consumed with high amounts of talentless ridiculousness that we're practically begging Al Qaeda to blow up one of our shopping malls.
Americans love stupid shit, and it's been showing for years, and by "years" I mean since about 1971, when hippies stopped caring about the world, and started caring about cocaine. Since then, we as a nation have been inandated with such excessive bullshit that we willingly swallow it piecemeal and grin happily as we chew.
And this is how we ended up in Iraq.
Why do we give such a big shit about little shit like some hick climbing his way up the steep slope that is "American Idol?" How come everytime Lindsay Lohan leaves a Rodeo Drive couture, there's a fucking helicopter following her? ...America, we need to refocus.
There was this ad campagne when "The Sopranos" were just wrapping up; it was called "The Family vs. Your Family" as was largely featured in print ads as well as in commericals on HBO. The ad went like this: On one page you were first presented with a list of three questions pretaining to the HBO hit drama, such as "Who Shot Tony" and "What's the name of Adrianna's Club?" and so on. You'd flip the page and there'd be one question: "What's your grandfather's middle name?"
I knew more about the intricacies of a fictional crime family than I did about my own, and I think that's what the ad was getting at in a round-about way. I was stunned, as I sat on the toilet trying to think of grandfather's first name, let alone middle. I too was a victim of caring about stupid shit.
I'm not saying we should totally boycott TMZ.com or People Magazine, but we don't need the "text2phone" updates every time Paris Hilton puts on oversized sunglasses or blows some douchebag. I'm just saying that for once in this country's history, could we possibly start focusing on the important things in our lives before we're reminded about it later by the next bridge collapse or terrorist attack?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
On The Road: The Blackberry Chronicles
I'm sitting in Panera Bread in "recovery mode" thinking that I'm living the The American Dream. I'm the 21st Century's Gatsby. I'm everything Fitzgerald wote about.
Also... Panera Bread is delicious.
Also... Panera Bread is delicious.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
For Once, A Post Not About My Roommate
Yesterday I was at the mall, by myself.
I like going to the mall by myself because when I do go by myself, I'm like a special forces soldier; I know my objective, I know the location of the target, I'm in, I'm out, and no one's the wiser. It's like I was never there, no bullshitting around, no staring at the cute chick that works at the hair salon, ... I just do what I got to do, all the while skirting the ridiculous grunge-emo kids in black parachute pants and Insane Clown Posse hockey jerseys and the sexual predator-esque T-Mobile kiosk salesman.
No, I'm not going to "just buy" that over priced fucking Blackberry wannabe, to return it tomorrow... and everyone knows T-Mobile is the shittiest of the big-three networks. I mean, I have AT&T, so I would know all about shitty phone networks, bro.
Anyway, so I'm in the mall looking for a birthday present for a, uh, friend, and a copy of Capote's "Breakfast At Tiffany's" for the roommate to hopefully inject some culture into his Volcom covered skull (granted I said I wasn't going to post anything about the roommate, but... well fuck it, there it is.).
So I make my purchases at Barnes and Noble, and then cruise over to Best Buy to browse cds and dvds, make a few selections (first season of [adult swim]'s "Frisky Dingo" which is probably the most genius show that network has ever made) and then head to the register. What was interesting about all of this was that for the first time since I can remember I had actual paper money in my wallet.
My roommate paid his portion of the bills in plain old-school-ass cash. So here I had like, 100 bucks in my wallet in various denominations: 20s, 10s, 5s... I felt as if I was playing Monopoly.
The point I'm trying to make is that, in order for me to cash out from Best Buy, all I would have to do is simply hand the correct amount of bills to the overweight blue-clad cashier and be about the business of getting an Orange Julius.
But what was hampering me was the fact that some dude, someone's dad I presume, was trying to purchase a Nintendo Wii with his credit card, and could not maneuver the little card-swipey thingie at the register.
C'mon man, I know you're old, but shit, those little machines have been around since like, 1998, if not before that. You mean to tell me, that in the last ten or more years you haven't had to fucking navigate one of these things often enough to understand that you swipe your card as indicated by the little fucking picture of the card on the top of the slide, and then when prompted, enter whatever information they want - WITH THE FUCKING PEN, YOU JAGOFF - not your fat fucking finger or ... coke nail or whatever you're jabbing at the screen with, and then sign.
I mean, even my dad... my pot-smoking, anti-technological, hippie father can figure out e-Bay. Seriously.
This ... Mayor of Doucheberg... swiped his card about eleven-hundred times before realizing it wasn't being read. Then he flipped it a few times, tried it that way, so on, until he got the right combination. Then when asked to enter is PIN or whatever, he just started punching the screen with his finger, over and over again, while giving plaintive glances to the non-pulsed cashier who clearly was only thinking of his upcoming 15 minute break so he could stand in line in front of me at the fucking Orange Julius. After struggling to enter whatever had to be entered, the cashier, still off in Oz forgot to click something on his end of things, ... fuck people, you do this shit all day everyday! Get your head in the fucking game, Kevin!
Or... Hank! Or... whatever!
So now this guy, who's created a line longer than that of which one would have to stand in to get Hannah Montana tix is told by the cashier to sign in the box.
"What box?"
"The box on the screen," says the helpful cashier.
"What screen?" And the man paws at the bag which contains his fucking Wii. The cashier leans over and touches the box. "Oh, what do I sign it with?"
HOLY FUCK DUDE! Are you serious?! Are you kidding me! ...
By now I'm sighing like Al Gore debating G-Dub back in 2000; my eyes can't roll harder. I look back at the people behind me in line, and no one seems to have a problem standing there, being held up by someone else's ineptitude.
Fucking cattle.
Finally the guy realizes there's a little electronic pen tethered to the box. Audibly expresses his discovery, and scribbles. He scurries away, not realizing he came *this close* to getting his spinal chord removed like I'm Scorpion from Mortal Kombat.
I reach the front of the line, pull out the cash that my roommate gave me for his share of the bills, and it should be mentioned that since it was the first time I've paid actual cash for an item in a while, I did fuck it up. The total came out to $41.98, so I gave the guy $41 even, and just stood there, looking at him. Conversely, he stared there looking at me, waiting for the extra dollar. When I asked him what was wrong, he kinda just looked at me like I was full on retarded and just lifted the wad of bills for me to see and count.
My thing is that, unlike an XBox 360, I'm not backwards compatible. I'm always moving forward.
Like a shark. A Special Forces Shark.
I like going to the mall by myself because when I do go by myself, I'm like a special forces soldier; I know my objective, I know the location of the target, I'm in, I'm out, and no one's the wiser. It's like I was never there, no bullshitting around, no staring at the cute chick that works at the hair salon, ... I just do what I got to do, all the while skirting the ridiculous grunge-emo kids in black parachute pants and Insane Clown Posse hockey jerseys and the sexual predator-esque T-Mobile kiosk salesman.
No, I'm not going to "just buy" that over priced fucking Blackberry wannabe, to return it tomorrow... and everyone knows T-Mobile is the shittiest of the big-three networks. I mean, I have AT&T, so I would know all about shitty phone networks, bro.
Anyway, so I'm in the mall looking for a birthday present for a, uh, friend, and a copy of Capote's "Breakfast At Tiffany's" for the roommate to hopefully inject some culture into his Volcom covered skull (granted I said I wasn't going to post anything about the roommate, but... well fuck it, there it is.).
So I make my purchases at Barnes and Noble, and then cruise over to Best Buy to browse cds and dvds, make a few selections (first season of [adult swim]'s "Frisky Dingo" which is probably the most genius show that network has ever made) and then head to the register. What was interesting about all of this was that for the first time since I can remember I had actual paper money in my wallet.
My roommate paid his portion of the bills in plain old-school-ass cash. So here I had like, 100 bucks in my wallet in various denominations: 20s, 10s, 5s... I felt as if I was playing Monopoly.
The point I'm trying to make is that, in order for me to cash out from Best Buy, all I would have to do is simply hand the correct amount of bills to the overweight blue-clad cashier and be about the business of getting an Orange Julius.
But what was hampering me was the fact that some dude, someone's dad I presume, was trying to purchase a Nintendo Wii with his credit card, and could not maneuver the little card-swipey thingie at the register.
C'mon man, I know you're old, but shit, those little machines have been around since like, 1998, if not before that. You mean to tell me, that in the last ten or more years you haven't had to fucking navigate one of these things often enough to understand that you swipe your card as indicated by the little fucking picture of the card on the top of the slide, and then when prompted, enter whatever information they want - WITH THE FUCKING PEN, YOU JAGOFF - not your fat fucking finger or ... coke nail or whatever you're jabbing at the screen with, and then sign.
I mean, even my dad... my pot-smoking, anti-technological, hippie father can figure out e-Bay. Seriously.
This ... Mayor of Doucheberg... swiped his card about eleven-hundred times before realizing it wasn't being read. Then he flipped it a few times, tried it that way, so on, until he got the right combination. Then when asked to enter is PIN or whatever, he just started punching the screen with his finger, over and over again, while giving plaintive glances to the non-pulsed cashier who clearly was only thinking of his upcoming 15 minute break so he could stand in line in front of me at the fucking Orange Julius. After struggling to enter whatever had to be entered, the cashier, still off in Oz forgot to click something on his end of things, ... fuck people, you do this shit all day everyday! Get your head in the fucking game, Kevin!
Or... Hank! Or... whatever!
So now this guy, who's created a line longer than that of which one would have to stand in to get Hannah Montana tix is told by the cashier to sign in the box.
"What box?"
"The box on the screen," says the helpful cashier.
"What screen?" And the man paws at the bag which contains his fucking Wii. The cashier leans over and touches the box. "Oh, what do I sign it with?"
HOLY FUCK DUDE! Are you serious?! Are you kidding me! ...
By now I'm sighing like Al Gore debating G-Dub back in 2000; my eyes can't roll harder. I look back at the people behind me in line, and no one seems to have a problem standing there, being held up by someone else's ineptitude.
Fucking cattle.
Finally the guy realizes there's a little electronic pen tethered to the box. Audibly expresses his discovery, and scribbles. He scurries away, not realizing he came *this close* to getting his spinal chord removed like I'm Scorpion from Mortal Kombat.
I reach the front of the line, pull out the cash that my roommate gave me for his share of the bills, and it should be mentioned that since it was the first time I've paid actual cash for an item in a while, I did fuck it up. The total came out to $41.98, so I gave the guy $41 even, and just stood there, looking at him. Conversely, he stared there looking at me, waiting for the extra dollar. When I asked him what was wrong, he kinda just looked at me like I was full on retarded and just lifted the wad of bills for me to see and count.
My thing is that, unlike an XBox 360, I'm not backwards compatible. I'm always moving forward.
Like a shark. A Special Forces Shark.
Friday, April 4, 2008
On The Road: The Blackberry Chronicles
Since my roommate apparently still lives in the 20th Century he paid his share of all the bills with straight cash.
This marks the first time since 2003 that I have more than 20 dollars in cash on my person.
This marks the first time since 2003 that I have more than 20 dollars in cash on my person.
That's Gross.
When asked, I couldn't tell you why I seem to write so extensively about my roommate's social/sex life. Maybe it's because I like to live vicariously through him, or probably it's because I don't think my social/sex life is all that interesting.
Or maybe I just think that its none of your fucking business. Not to mention my stalker tends to read my posts (on that, thanks for sending me that kitten's head in the mail the other day, appriciate it.).
Anyway, the roommate was scoring some trim the other night. How do I know this? Because I could hear him achieve orgasm through the bedroom walls. The only downside to all of this is that the young lady in question moonlighted as a stunt whale at SeaWorld.
But it's whatever. Every guy's had at least one nasty lay that they're not proud of. I know I have, shit, I have a few. Actually, I have a whole stable of unsavory sexual encounters that I would love to forget if it weren't for the warts.
..Joke....
Anyway, so this story starts off where again, innocent me is padding his way out to the rest of the apartment, in my robe and slippers to fashion some sort of chinese food-left over-breakfast. I enter the kitchen, make myself something to eat and then go into the living room to watch the news or the Weather Channel, or whatever it is that white people watch with their morning meal, when before me lays this little crumple of black on the floor in front of the tv.
I set down my bowl of food and take a long stare at this bit of black fabric and curiously wonder, slightly under my breath as to what it is. I walk towards it, bend, and with two fingers pluck it up from the rug. What unfolds before me was as horrific as the events that took place on the morning of 9/11.
It was my roommate's date's lacey little black panties. However, there was nothing 'little' about them.
I gagged and dropped them back to the floor. They were likely size 11 or greater and smelled like sweatsocks. I chuckled a little and then picked them back up, daintily, and flung them on to my roommate's still sleeping head (teaches him a lesson about A-not picking up after himself, and B- not closing his door.).
What irks me so much about this whole situation is that it's just plain disrespectful for this she-beast to leave her things literally laying around our apartment. She left early in the morning, but after the sun was up and shining through our picture window. You don't think she would've remembered that 'oh yeah, hey, those are my underwear,' and retrieved them?
I mean, not to mention she ... probably wasn't wearing a set?
Obviously she meant to leave them there, and I would suspect that she probably even went so far as to plant them there on purpose. I mean, in front ... center front at that... of the big LCD display television?
She wanted them to be found, and she was - in a round about way - ensuring that my roommate would have to see her again to return said property. Bitch, there's other ways of getting a second date; leaving your filthy, used under-things behind as a souvenier does no one a favor.
And it's very disrespectful, in case I haven't already mentioned that.
Regardless, upon waking an hour or so later and discovering what was placed on his head, the roommate quickly put the evidence into the rubbish, exclaiming "that's gross!"
"So... how did it go?" I ask from over my cup of coffee. He grins like an adolescent: childishly, yet endearingly shy.
"It went ok... did you hear me through the walls?" He references his ... and my... homage to a by-gone wrestling star that he and I both have been shouting at the top of our lungs for the past two days.
"The 'Rick Flair-Woo?'" I ask.
"Yeah, did you hear it? I did it twice!"
"No, I had my ears in," I lie. I heard it, twice, and the thought of his ... exclaimitory orgasm embarrassed and grossed me out at the same time. I mean, I share bowls of Cap'n Crunch with his kid, I don't want to have to think of him jettisoning his spunk across the stretch-marked back of a female moose.
"But I did it for you!" And not only does the conversation become so awkward that I can no longer look him in the eyes, it becomes kinda gay as well. I clear my throat,
"Well, I'm glad you had a good time, are you going to see her again?"
"No way bro, she was gross!" He says. I concur, she was in fact gross. Now he starts to get sorry for himself.
"I want to find a hot chick, one that I can like, take out to places," He says.
"You took out this chick, you took her to Sam Diegos."
"Yeah, well, I want to be able to take out a chick that doesn't eat like the T-Rex from 'Jurassic Park',"
I hate the game where people leave their shit behind on purpose only to get you to see them again. It's such a weak and desperate and sad manuever. If you find yourself resorting to those kind of tactics, it's probably because your gut's telling you that the other person really wants nothing to do with you. And you know, 90% of the time, it's painfully obvious. People tend, through body language or even verbally, telegraph that they are no longer interested or in some sort of phyiscal pain just being around you. Fucking.. take heed, man. Suck it up, move on, lick your wounds, yeah it hurts, but do you really need to leave a momento behind so you can call a day later and be like "oh hey, yeah, um, I think I left my laptop in your car...." Dude! No one "leaves a laptop" in someone's car. That's like me saying "Oh hey, you know that $800 dollar gun I just bought, yeah, oops, left it in your car. Can I maybe have you swing by and drop it off for me? The door will be unlocked so just let yourself in... if you hear the shower running, feel free to stick your head in the door and say hello...."
Fucking sad man, fucking sad.
Or maybe I just think that its none of your fucking business. Not to mention my stalker tends to read my posts (on that, thanks for sending me that kitten's head in the mail the other day, appriciate it.).
Anyway, the roommate was scoring some trim the other night. How do I know this? Because I could hear him achieve orgasm through the bedroom walls. The only downside to all of this is that the young lady in question moonlighted as a stunt whale at SeaWorld.
But it's whatever. Every guy's had at least one nasty lay that they're not proud of. I know I have, shit, I have a few. Actually, I have a whole stable of unsavory sexual encounters that I would love to forget if it weren't for the warts.
..Joke....
Anyway, so this story starts off where again, innocent me is padding his way out to the rest of the apartment, in my robe and slippers to fashion some sort of chinese food-left over-breakfast. I enter the kitchen, make myself something to eat and then go into the living room to watch the news or the Weather Channel, or whatever it is that white people watch with their morning meal, when before me lays this little crumple of black on the floor in front of the tv.
I set down my bowl of food and take a long stare at this bit of black fabric and curiously wonder, slightly under my breath as to what it is. I walk towards it, bend, and with two fingers pluck it up from the rug. What unfolds before me was as horrific as the events that took place on the morning of 9/11.
It was my roommate's date's lacey little black panties. However, there was nothing 'little' about them.
I gagged and dropped them back to the floor. They were likely size 11 or greater and smelled like sweatsocks. I chuckled a little and then picked them back up, daintily, and flung them on to my roommate's still sleeping head (teaches him a lesson about A-not picking up after himself, and B- not closing his door.).
What irks me so much about this whole situation is that it's just plain disrespectful for this she-beast to leave her things literally laying around our apartment. She left early in the morning, but after the sun was up and shining through our picture window. You don't think she would've remembered that 'oh yeah, hey, those are my underwear,' and retrieved them?
I mean, not to mention she ... probably wasn't wearing a set?
Obviously she meant to leave them there, and I would suspect that she probably even went so far as to plant them there on purpose. I mean, in front ... center front at that... of the big LCD display television?
She wanted them to be found, and she was - in a round about way - ensuring that my roommate would have to see her again to return said property. Bitch, there's other ways of getting a second date; leaving your filthy, used under-things behind as a souvenier does no one a favor.
And it's very disrespectful, in case I haven't already mentioned that.
Regardless, upon waking an hour or so later and discovering what was placed on his head, the roommate quickly put the evidence into the rubbish, exclaiming "that's gross!"
"So... how did it go?" I ask from over my cup of coffee. He grins like an adolescent: childishly, yet endearingly shy.
"It went ok... did you hear me through the walls?" He references his ... and my... homage to a by-gone wrestling star that he and I both have been shouting at the top of our lungs for the past two days.
"The 'Rick Flair-Woo?'" I ask.
"Yeah, did you hear it? I did it twice!"
"No, I had my ears in," I lie. I heard it, twice, and the thought of his ... exclaimitory orgasm embarrassed and grossed me out at the same time. I mean, I share bowls of Cap'n Crunch with his kid, I don't want to have to think of him jettisoning his spunk across the stretch-marked back of a female moose.
"But I did it for you!" And not only does the conversation become so awkward that I can no longer look him in the eyes, it becomes kinda gay as well. I clear my throat,
"Well, I'm glad you had a good time, are you going to see her again?"
"No way bro, she was gross!" He says. I concur, she was in fact gross. Now he starts to get sorry for himself.
"I want to find a hot chick, one that I can like, take out to places," He says.
"You took out this chick, you took her to Sam Diegos."
"Yeah, well, I want to be able to take out a chick that doesn't eat like the T-Rex from 'Jurassic Park',"
I hate the game where people leave their shit behind on purpose only to get you to see them again. It's such a weak and desperate and sad manuever. If you find yourself resorting to those kind of tactics, it's probably because your gut's telling you that the other person really wants nothing to do with you. And you know, 90% of the time, it's painfully obvious. People tend, through body language or even verbally, telegraph that they are no longer interested or in some sort of phyiscal pain just being around you. Fucking.. take heed, man. Suck it up, move on, lick your wounds, yeah it hurts, but do you really need to leave a momento behind so you can call a day later and be like "oh hey, yeah, um, I think I left my laptop in your car...." Dude! No one "leaves a laptop" in someone's car. That's like me saying "Oh hey, you know that $800 dollar gun I just bought, yeah, oops, left it in your car. Can I maybe have you swing by and drop it off for me? The door will be unlocked so just let yourself in... if you hear the shower running, feel free to stick your head in the door and say hello...."
Fucking sad man, fucking sad.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
On The Road: The Blackberry Chronicles
Ugh. I am never going to eat spicey thai food and watch 'American Psycho' before bed ever again.
Lesson learned.
Lesson learned.
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