Old Entries
Okay, this is just an entry consisting of entries from my old journal, since that one is now defunct; just wanted to back them up. Read on, if you like: they're pretty funny. So much has changed in the last two years. Wow.
Tossed Salads, India, and Other Unhygienic Subjects
2001-08-24 1:37 PM
Yesterday was quite draining.
Instead of conserving my energy for walking to the refrigerator, I actually went out and spent it on social activities. And as I left my safe haven, I felt the natural light and fresh air hit me like a drunken boxer trying to break a vending machine for eating his change.
My first stop was Khristina's house for a pool party. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped inside the car, it started raining cats, dogs, mules, frogs, and even water! Oh well. I decided to drive there anyway.
As I got closer and closer to her house, my nerves coiled themselves around me tighter and tighter; by the time I parked the car, I could hardly stand up. I hate fear. Especially since there's no real reason for it--I'm not being chased by an axe-wielding maniac--I'm simply going to a girl's house. It's just my head fucking with my body.
I rang the doorbell once, heard faint hustling-and-bustling inside, and then saw the doorknob turn slowly. My heart stopped. The entrance to Khristina's castle swung open and...her mother welcomed me in. "Now there's three people," she said. Indeed, there was only Khristina’s boyfriend and this other kid who I've never seen before: the rain must've stopped everyone from coming.
Because I'm sure you don't want to hear about all the things that went on in the house, I'll provide a brief synopsis of what I learned there:
-Whenever Steve, the one that everyone hates, invites males over to his house, he wants them to strip and run around in the woods with him.
-A "Tossed Salad" is a pretty disgusting thing. I'll explain it if you want but those of you with weak stomachs should turn back. It is a sexual act involving eating out the ass. I wonder how you'd even approach the subject: "So honey, you like croutons?"
-I have no drug stories to tell because I've never taken drugs. Rats!
-Never, EVER go to India. My friend Parag told me that whenever he had to take a piss, he'd use the shower to avoid touching the toilet. However, when he had to shit, he'd be forced to touch the disease-ridden bowl, obviously. Since he touched the toilet with a part of his body, he'd have to use the shower to get clean--the one everyone pisses in.
After shooting the bull till nine, I left the rained-out pool party to go say goodbye to Joe. He was leaving for college the next day and we were going to take him out to dinner. I called up my friend Anthony's cell phone, wanting to know where they were. When Anthony answered the phone, I could tell by the clanking of utensils that they had already arrived at a restaurant.
Anyway, I met up with them as they finished eating their ribs and cheese fries.
Apparently, Joe, Chris, and Alfred were feeling adventurous because they ventured into MY car. Let me make a something clear. It's not that I'm a terrible driver but I never know where I'm going. Therefore, I make a lot of illegal mistakes. To make a short story long, this time was no different: driving on curves, swerving in and out of lanes, performing backwards K turns...maybe I am a terrible driver.
Somehow, by a minute chance, we made it to Joe's house without any casualties. We didn't really do much besides play The Simpsons Trivia Game (that lasted about ten minutes).
During my stay, Joe and I hardly talked about college life; we spoke more about the hidden sexual jokes in Disney movies. When it was time for me to leave, I just said, "Bye" and that was it. No emotional stuff. Strange, I guess this college thing hasn't fully hit me yet. I said bye, like I would see him again tomorrow.
As I drove home, I hit a curve and laughed. Then I realized I was all alone.
The Best Bunk of Your Life
2001-08-31 10:42 PM
Well, in two days I'm off to college. However, I haven't yet decided if that's a good thing. As the cliché goes, it's "the best years of your life". I hope that's not true: then what do you have to live for after college? Nothing but retrospect. Four fucking years of happiness and then it's downhill from there? I hope not.
To put more stress on the tightrope that is called my life, I have not one but--of course--two roommates to share my oxygen. So you're probably thinking, "Well I'll be sheep-dipped! Gee goly wiz, Patrick, at least ya get a bigger room. What are ya complainin' 'bout?" (or maybe you're thinking that in correct grammatical form). I object, your honor! The prosecution has no evidence to back up that claim.
That's right, voyeurs of the net, I don't think I have a bigger room; I probably have bunk beds. Bunk beds. You know, those stupid, dinky piles of shit that are cool when you're twelve years old. I have beds stacked like a deck of cards to look forward to.
I'll be able to handle all of this as long as I don't hear, "I've got the top one, boys!" when I walk in.
A List of College Complaints or: A List of Reasons Not to be Like Me
2001-09-04 12:46 AM
Well, I'm typing this from my dorm. Yep. Yay. Yippy-skip. As you might have figured out, I'm bored as fuck here. I've been at this college, William Patterson, for two days now and let me tell you: don't believe the hype. College isn't exactly how I pictured it would be. Although I may have to give the place a few more days, right now I'm feeling like shit. It's not new and exciting; it's slow and tedious.
Okay, it's time to complain like I never have before.
I'm stuck with two roommates in a two-person room.
I am on the top bunk (should have seen this one coming). This may not seem like a big deal to the casual reader. However, how would you like to wake up, step out of bed, and wake up once again an hour later in a pool of blood? Yes, you Diary Land perverts, I'm scared that I'm going forget that I'm closer to the ceiling than the floor.
The cafeteria food here is beyond terrible. I've resorted to eating fingernails and cobwebs hanging from the walls.
Classes don't start till Wednesday so I have another wide-open day ahead of me.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Miseducation of Patrick
2001-09-08 10:46 PM
I should really learn to update everyday. Maybe not. Should I update only when I have some interesting, witty witticisms or should I write daily just for the sake of updating? Ah, well, I'll think about it tomorrow.
Okay, so I know my readers (plural? Hmm...probably not) have been excruciatingly tired these past couple of days. Why? Because I haven't given y'all too much information about college; you've been staying up every night, waiting patiently, staring at the monitor, wondering when I was going to update this masterpiece in progress. Well, your prayers have been answered! You can sleep easy tonight, baby! Also, for my added convenience and yours, I am writing this at home. Therefore, it's pure, uncensored, too-hot-for-TV infotainment. That's right, no nosy roommates to pry.
I never thought I'd say it but a lot has happened this week. Let's break it down day-by-day:
Sunday
I arrived at William Paterson University on Sunday. Unless you want to read about the minute details of moving ten tons of shit into a three inch by two inch room, I'll skip ahead. I met my roommates, Mike and Jacob, and was relieved that neither of them said, "I took the liberty of moving our beds together". Then Mike started dry-humping the bed. "Um," said I, "what are you doing?" He replied, "I'm testing the bed out, man, 'cause I'm gonna be knee-deep in pussy, man! I'm gonna be rollin' in the stuff, drownin' in it, even! OH MAN! I WANT A FUCK RIGHT NOW, CAN YOU FEEL ME, DAWG?" Oh boy. At least Jacob's cool. Now, don't get me wrong, Mike's not a bad guy; he's just the type of person that really steals my kishka. He's so damn cocky and all he does is talk about smoking "mad blunts", drinking "mad shots", and "fuckin' mad bitches". Oh brave new world which has such people in it.
Monday
I saw my first drunk on Monday. Don't laugh. Since I've never gotten drunk and I stay away from places where others are "wasted", this was pretty much my first experience with alcohol. The King of Slurred Words, or Mr. Wobbles, was none other than my suitemate, Matt. He stumbled into my room and asked if he could use my laptop. Noticing his ever-so-subtle regression of basic motor skills, I immediately knew he had been drinking. HA! Just kidding: I completely denied it, giving him the benefit of a doubt. Finally, after seeing him struggle with Instant Messenger (i.e., drooling on the keyboard, falling off the chair, typing phrases such as, "jsdfsljsdfl;jyreut"), I asked if he had been drinking. As he opened his mouth, I knew the answer: I mean, one could get lightheaded simply by breathing in his fumes. How did I handle the situation, you ask? I was a bit frightened at first...then the fear turned into acceptance...then the acceptance turned into delinquency. That's right, I fucked with him as much as possible. For example, he said he needed to take a shower so I took his bath supplies out of the bathroom. After looking for his soap and shampoo for a half hour, I placed his stuff, in clear view, back in the bathroom. When he saw his Lost Ark, he said, "Now how'd I miss that?" Then I told him he could fly...but let's not get into that. Oh yeah, and if anyone thinks I was too hard on him, think about what would happen if the RA found out there was a drunk in my room.
Tuesday
Umm...I don't think anything occurred on Tuesday besides bawling in a fetal position in the corner.
Wednesday
Classes finally started on Wednesday. Since I wanted to be punctual for my 9:30 AM class, I woke up at 8:00 AM. I took a shower, got dressed, packed up my books, and was out the door at 9:00 AM (I left really early because of my poor direction skills). Anyway, I found the class and was in a seat at 9:15 AM. The minutes ticked by without a teacher in sight: 9:20, 9:23, 9:25, 9:27, 9:30, 9:35. Now, perhaps my dear readers are wondering why a class that's supposed to start at 9:30 doesn't have a teacher in the room at 9:35. Congratulations! That's exactly what I was thinking as the time continued to tock around my head: 9:37, 9:42, 9:45. Suddenly, a voice rang out: "Isn't there a fifteen minute rule?" The class, quick to agree, marched out. "Wow," thought I, "what a way to start the year."
Thursday
Classes began on time on Thursday, albeit both were uneventful. Since I don't have any Friday classes, MY DAD PICKED ME UP AND WE WENT HOME!!!
Yay, I survived my first week. Now, if I can just get through the second...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Death
2001-09-12 10:51 PM
I have heard so much hate in the past two days that I can't filter it all out, like I usually do. Hearing so many horrible phrases has made me realize how futile trying to be optimistic really is; humans will never change. Despite the illogical acts of violence yesterday, most people want more blood to pour. They want all the "towel heads" to be wiped off the face of the planet. You cannot reason with people like that--people who think that burning the flesh of innocents is the answer.
If the US retaliates, against a huge group of people who had nothing to do with the actions of a few, then the leaders of this country will be considered terrorists to me. Pain and destruction only begets more pain and destruction. I've seen enough blood.
The cause of these arbitrary mass killings is this: segregation; the human race has the tendency to pigeonhole people into groups. We cannot do this anymore. It has to stop, for sake of humanity. We must understand that everyone has feelings. This might seem like a simple undertaking but groups are faceless to other groups. Think about it: when you see footage of America fire-bombing another country on the news, do you ever see a single dead body? Of course not, because the government wants the public's support. The propaganda that the media shoves down our throats is probably the main reason why so many people in my school want to kill a whole nation of people.
And the news organizations love these horror stories: the Columbine shooting, JFK Jr., and Princess Diana are just a few of the pawns in their game of ratings. They call these events tragedies while fattening their wallets. The power-hungry networks compete to see how long they can film wreckage. This makes me sick to my stomach. If they are so compassionate, why don't they take the cameras off the poor, lifeless families of the victims?
Enough of this. Nothing will ever change. I know this as I watch the smoke continue to hover over the remnants of hope.
Radio is a Cruel Mistress
2001-10-21 2:33 AM
Do you think "diary" is too girlish a word? From now on, I shall call it "Patrick's Scratchin'-of-the-Nuts, Eatin'-a-Rack-'o-Cow Log" (pretty good, huh?). You see, when people read these words, they immediately imagine a stereotypical male who's in dire need of some jock itch cream, red meat, and a logger. HAHA! Henceforth, "Scratchin'-of-the-Nuts, Eatin'-a-Rack-'o-Cow Logs" will be the subject of locker room discussions everywhere:
Jock #1: "Yo, man, I was updatin' for ten hours straight, playa!"
Jock #2: "Without reloading? No way!"
Jock #1: "I'm serious! Me and my bitch took this course. Ancient Indian methods...Tantric Updating."
Anyway, I have seen the births of many suns at this school already and have found something quite disturbing. This probably won't come to a surprise to many, but college is not intellectual in the slightest. Tell me, when you think of a university, what thoughts stew in your brain? Perhaps an image of bright-eyed students having a deep, philosophical discussion over the existence of being; maybe your musings turn to pupils reciting Shakespearean sonnets under a mature oak tree.
Okay, Professor, let me take the cloud from under your ass to bring you and your monocles crashing down onto the jagged rocks that we on Earth call somber, pathetic reality: those bright-eyed students are off getting glassy-eyed and having a deep, philosophical discussion over the existence of pork chops while lying on a pile of used syringes in a dumpster. And those pupils under the proverbial old oak tree? They're probably reciting sailor songs under the shade of a porcelain toilet in Busty Belle's Booby Burgers Buffet.
That's right; call me cynical if you want (HEY! I don't remember saying you could call me a Chimney-Eater). But I'm only calling it as I see, smell, taste, touch--eww, it's not coming off--and hear it. While we're on the subject of hearing, what the fuck happened to "college albums"? The only "music" I've heard here so far consists of songs with brilliant
lyrics such as "Hey, where the party at? Girls are hypochondriacs" (Note: I have no idea if that's what they actually say, but it sounds like that), "And the game done chose me", "Keepin' it gangsta", and "I was beaming in my beamer just beaming to the sunny beams on a beaming balance beam" (Note: I think I added a few "beams"). IF I HEAR THAT BLASTED ALICIA KEYS SONG ONE MORE TIME, THE RADIO THAT PLAYS IT WILL KEEP ON FALLIN' IN AND OUT OF MY WINDOW. I think they play five songs on a continuous loop.
Well, that felt pretty good. I just needed to get all that out of my system. Time to go to bed and dream about a land without Z100, beer funnels, and the word "beam".
Titled
2001-11-06 3:01 PM
For once in my life, I have nothing cynical to write.
*GASP!!!*
(Patrick stands at the podium, a glass of water by his side. Since he doesn't like the beverage, one assumes it's there for effect. Two taps on the microphone and his mouth opens.)
"I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!!!"
*GASP!!!*
(A woman in the audience reaches for her brow, in the old-fashioned, stereotypical manner, and faints into a sailor's arms.)
Yes, that's right, faithless readers: Satan has bought a parka with matching mittens and pigs are studying flight manuals as I type. I know more about the inventor of the pet rock than I do about the opposite sex, yet I'm going out with one of the greatest girls on the planet. If you've read my previous entries (which is highly doubtful since I stare at the counter below, waiting for it to change and it doesn't), you know that I was futilely trying to figure out if Jen liked me. It turns out she did. Finally, my discount voodoo dolls have paid off!
Do you want to know how I asked her out? Oh, you don't? Okay, fine...Let's talk about the housefly: "musca domestica is a small, two-winged fly, gray with dark stripes, often found in and around human habitations. If it has recently walked in excrement, it may transmit pathogens causing typhoid, cholera, dysentery, leprosy, poliomyelitis, and infectious hepatitis, as well as the eggs of--"
Ah, now you're begging for my anecdote! I will proceed then (Note: I apologize to all the housefly enthusiasts out there) without further derailment.
*Ahem!* Jen arrived at my dwelling on Friday, November 02 at 6:03 PM. Although I knew that she would say yes if I asked her out--my sister had a discussion with her about it--I was still shaking in my skivvies. I wondered if she was expecting something elaborate and creative. I hoped not, because I didn't have anything like that planned.
Here's what I had in mind: before watching "Life of Brian", I would simply spill my guts all over her shirt and then pray. Ingenious, right?
Unfortunately, when everything looked ready to fall into place, disaster struck (God, I sound like the fucking "Behind the Music" announcer); Khristina called, asking if Jen and I wanted to come over to watch the movie at her house. Guess what I said?
We arrived at Khristina's house a few minutes later. Now, understand that Khristina knew I was going to ask Jen out so I still can't fathom why she summoned me there.
Anyway, when it was time to go (shoes on, coat buttoned, hand on doorknob, fly...still unzipped) Khristina uttered these words: "So, Patrick, did you ask Jen out yet?"
OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
ME: Umm...no, not yet.
JEN (Looking at me, then smiling): HAHAHA!
KHRISTINA: Oh.
Yeah, so at this point, I don't know whether to shake her hand or ring her neck. Probably the former (she saved me the trouble of bringing it up).
As you can imagine, the car ride home was a bit awkward.
Finally, she said, "Well?"
I, like a complete moron, said, "What?"
"Are you going to ask me?"
"Oh, Khristina's remark didn't count?"
"Nope."
"Um, will you go out with me?"
"Of course!"
Then I stumbled out of her car and she drove off into the...moonset???
TO BE CONTINUED...
Why People Don't Talk to Me
2001-11-08 2:42 PM
Lately, I've been asking myself, "Why do I write?" Do I have some pompous, lofty intention to change the world? Am I a complete narcissist who loves to hear the sound of my rhythmic typing? Do I consider this journal a therapist, forever silent as I complain on a plushy chair? I don't have an answer. Surely, that came as a shock.
But I wonder if anyone can respond to the question without it sounding like a clichéd copout: "I write because I must!", "To express my innermost thoughts!", "I want to help everyone with their problems by offering my experience!", etc. Ughhh. Well, I'm going to repeatedly stab Creativity's skin and hope that some O.J. (Original Juice) trickles out onto the keyboard.
20 Minutes Later...
Okay, I'm back with a coffee mug filled to the brim with Creative Juice! I now know why I write! It's to keep the Chapstick people away! You see, they've been trying to get into my head for the past decade and the only way to keep them out is to write furiously! They'll never steal my brain! I'm sending this out by carrier pigeon in the hopes that a dry-lipped brother will read it and spread the word!
Oh man...I think I used too much O.J.
A "Fuck You" Letter to Fundamentalists Everywhere
2001-12-04 1:17 PM
Dear New Jerusalem:
A few days ago, I saw your website, "Is Masturbation Sinful?" With every facet of my body, I hoped that what I read was some elaborate satire on the insanity of some religious organizations. I think that now I can safely say--after much deliberation--that this is not a joke; you people are actually serious. I cannot believe that anyone would want to spread such filth. Hopefully, no one follows your "teachings", for these distorted views can only inflict pain and destruction on innocents.
Firstly, I can't see how you can alter the Bible so much. One of the passages you cite to offer proof to your claim is utterly ridiculous: the quote, "If your right hand offends you...cut it off! It is better to enter into heaven with only one hand, than to sin with your hand...and go to hell" is definitely not what you think it's about. Secondly, who cares if a person is "choking the sheriff and waiting for the posse to come"? The majority of the population engages in this natural activity; in fact, it could be called the real national pastime. I'm actually in the middle of self-stimulation by means of an intricate pulley system as I type this letter.
Although I am not spiritual at all, I do respect the teachings of any religion that spreads love and gives hope to people. However, I won't acknowledge fundamentalist groups who take a fork and try to convince others that it's a spoon. You melt words with your burning hatred and smear whole countries with your diseased ideas. Shoving misconstrued text down the throats of vulnerable people, you eternally taint the religion that you supposedly stand for. The only purpose you serve is to engulf the world in the fires of warfare.
So, good luck, vultures. May this letter touch you, since you won't do it yourselves.
Sinfully,
Me
Killing Yourself in a Room of Cackles
2001-12-11 11:10 PM
Humor can be an extremely sharp weapon. If you're trained to handle this dangerous piece of equipment, you can make ripostes at exactly the right time; however, one wrong move and humor can leave you bleeding on the ground. So, when is comedy welcomed and when is it shunned? There's no definitive answer. It depends, mostly, on someone's mood. Obviously, if you were to make the fishbowl of a person's recently deceased goldfish into form-fitting underwear, it wouldn't go over very well. But maybe it would be funny once the grieving process was over.
In the classroom, comedy is almost always appreciated if done at the right time. Allow me to illustrate my point with something that is called an "example". My sixth grade History project was to either write a research paper or make a video. Thinking it would be less work, my friend Austin and I decided to work on the latter together. Instead of actually researching our topic (The Battle of Tippecanoe, or something of that nature), we concentrated on making it as funny and creative as possible. The end result was "Sox", a sock puppet/stuffed animal freak show of a History project. Although it featured Sox--a sock, clearly--and Buzz--his sidekick--going back in time to witness the battle, it was almost void of any information on our topic; a few bits and pieces of text from our book were pasted in last minute. But did I mention it included sock puppets and stuffed animals? The class loved the video and, most importantly, the teacher threw back her head and cackled into the ceiling over it. Needless to say, we got an A.
As I mentioned before, there are also times when humor can come back and bite you. This has happened to me a number of times. Sometimes, when I want to tell someone how I feel, I get nervous, and it ends up coming out unclear. Instead of clarifying what's really on my mind, I cover up by making it one big joke. Too much humor can underscore your other emotions. This is definitely something I have to correct: if I can't tell my girlfriend how I feel, then I'll destroy us.
Comedy is almost always a good thing. In my case, it led to higher grades. The problem is that it can turn flesh and blood people into caricatures; they become clowns to others and let humor override their other emotions. I must work to make sure that I let people see my other sides. Either that or I'll become a clown full-time.
Consciousness is a Leech
2001-12-13 2:41 PM
I'm such a baby; sometimes I wonder if the doctor forgot to snip my umbilical cord off. If he didn’t forget, it sure feels like it's still attached.
This atypical-yet-typical teenager is starting to think he's emotionally stunted. No matter how hard I beat myself, I can't seem to tell Jen how I feel about her. The cause of this is unknown to me, but I'm sure that if you traced your pencil backwards through the maze, you'd find it stemmed all the way back to my gestation in the womb. Maybe my mother didn't watch enough soap operas as I stirred inside her uterus. All I know is that I don't think I've ever been able to open up to anyone.
Finally, I realize why I write: I only have a voice on paper. It's so much easier for me to articulate how I feel in my pretentious little prose world. That's why I'm such a better boyfriend online; I can talk comfortably to Jen for hours on the dreadful Instant Messenger, but put us in a room together and I freeze up. Although you probably won't believe me, we have only pecked on the lips so far--remember that it's been a month and a half. I just can't seem to touch her or talk to her the way I want to, and it's tearing me apart.
I want to be happy. I should be happy. I deserve to be happy. And I abhor all the Freudian garbage that's getting in the way of my happiness; my unconscious is my worst enemy. It's what's making me feel so nervous around Jen that I almost vomit.
Well, from this day I promise to never overanalyze my relationship with her again. I'll leap off the cliff and only look up at the shrinking skyline, refusing to acknowledge the inevitable jagged rocks below.
Tossed Salads, India, and Other Unhygienic Subjects
2001-08-24 1:37 PM
Yesterday was quite draining.
Instead of conserving my energy for walking to the refrigerator, I actually went out and spent it on social activities. And as I left my safe haven, I felt the natural light and fresh air hit me like a drunken boxer trying to break a vending machine for eating his change.
My first stop was Khristina's house for a pool party. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped inside the car, it started raining cats, dogs, mules, frogs, and even water! Oh well. I decided to drive there anyway.
As I got closer and closer to her house, my nerves coiled themselves around me tighter and tighter; by the time I parked the car, I could hardly stand up. I hate fear. Especially since there's no real reason for it--I'm not being chased by an axe-wielding maniac--I'm simply going to a girl's house. It's just my head fucking with my body.
I rang the doorbell once, heard faint hustling-and-bustling inside, and then saw the doorknob turn slowly. My heart stopped. The entrance to Khristina's castle swung open and...her mother welcomed me in. "Now there's three people," she said. Indeed, there was only Khristina’s boyfriend and this other kid who I've never seen before: the rain must've stopped everyone from coming.
Because I'm sure you don't want to hear about all the things that went on in the house, I'll provide a brief synopsis of what I learned there:
-Whenever Steve, the one that everyone hates, invites males over to his house, he wants them to strip and run around in the woods with him.
-A "Tossed Salad" is a pretty disgusting thing. I'll explain it if you want but those of you with weak stomachs should turn back. It is a sexual act involving eating out the ass. I wonder how you'd even approach the subject: "So honey, you like croutons?"
-I have no drug stories to tell because I've never taken drugs. Rats!
-Never, EVER go to India. My friend Parag told me that whenever he had to take a piss, he'd use the shower to avoid touching the toilet. However, when he had to shit, he'd be forced to touch the disease-ridden bowl, obviously. Since he touched the toilet with a part of his body, he'd have to use the shower to get clean--the one everyone pisses in.
After shooting the bull till nine, I left the rained-out pool party to go say goodbye to Joe. He was leaving for college the next day and we were going to take him out to dinner. I called up my friend Anthony's cell phone, wanting to know where they were. When Anthony answered the phone, I could tell by the clanking of utensils that they had already arrived at a restaurant.
Anyway, I met up with them as they finished eating their ribs and cheese fries.
Apparently, Joe, Chris, and Alfred were feeling adventurous because they ventured into MY car. Let me make a something clear. It's not that I'm a terrible driver but I never know where I'm going. Therefore, I make a lot of illegal mistakes. To make a short story long, this time was no different: driving on curves, swerving in and out of lanes, performing backwards K turns...maybe I am a terrible driver.
Somehow, by a minute chance, we made it to Joe's house without any casualties. We didn't really do much besides play The Simpsons Trivia Game (that lasted about ten minutes).
During my stay, Joe and I hardly talked about college life; we spoke more about the hidden sexual jokes in Disney movies. When it was time for me to leave, I just said, "Bye" and that was it. No emotional stuff. Strange, I guess this college thing hasn't fully hit me yet. I said bye, like I would see him again tomorrow.
As I drove home, I hit a curve and laughed. Then I realized I was all alone.
The Best Bunk of Your Life
2001-08-31 10:42 PM
Well, in two days I'm off to college. However, I haven't yet decided if that's a good thing. As the cliché goes, it's "the best years of your life". I hope that's not true: then what do you have to live for after college? Nothing but retrospect. Four fucking years of happiness and then it's downhill from there? I hope not.
To put more stress on the tightrope that is called my life, I have not one but--of course--two roommates to share my oxygen. So you're probably thinking, "Well I'll be sheep-dipped! Gee goly wiz, Patrick, at least ya get a bigger room. What are ya complainin' 'bout?" (or maybe you're thinking that in correct grammatical form). I object, your honor! The prosecution has no evidence to back up that claim.
That's right, voyeurs of the net, I don't think I have a bigger room; I probably have bunk beds. Bunk beds. You know, those stupid, dinky piles of shit that are cool when you're twelve years old. I have beds stacked like a deck of cards to look forward to.
I'll be able to handle all of this as long as I don't hear, "I've got the top one, boys!" when I walk in.
A List of College Complaints or: A List of Reasons Not to be Like Me
2001-09-04 12:46 AM
Well, I'm typing this from my dorm. Yep. Yay. Yippy-skip. As you might have figured out, I'm bored as fuck here. I've been at this college, William Patterson, for two days now and let me tell you: don't believe the hype. College isn't exactly how I pictured it would be. Although I may have to give the place a few more days, right now I'm feeling like shit. It's not new and exciting; it's slow and tedious.
Okay, it's time to complain like I never have before.
I'm stuck with two roommates in a two-person room.
I am on the top bunk (should have seen this one coming). This may not seem like a big deal to the casual reader. However, how would you like to wake up, step out of bed, and wake up once again an hour later in a pool of blood? Yes, you Diary Land perverts, I'm scared that I'm going forget that I'm closer to the ceiling than the floor.
The cafeteria food here is beyond terrible. I've resorted to eating fingernails and cobwebs hanging from the walls.
Classes don't start till Wednesday so I have another wide-open day ahead of me.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Miseducation of Patrick
2001-09-08 10:46 PM
I should really learn to update everyday. Maybe not. Should I update only when I have some interesting, witty witticisms or should I write daily just for the sake of updating? Ah, well, I'll think about it tomorrow.
Okay, so I know my readers (plural? Hmm...probably not) have been excruciatingly tired these past couple of days. Why? Because I haven't given y'all too much information about college; you've been staying up every night, waiting patiently, staring at the monitor, wondering when I was going to update this masterpiece in progress. Well, your prayers have been answered! You can sleep easy tonight, baby! Also, for my added convenience and yours, I am writing this at home. Therefore, it's pure, uncensored, too-hot-for-TV infotainment. That's right, no nosy roommates to pry.
I never thought I'd say it but a lot has happened this week. Let's break it down day-by-day:
Sunday
I arrived at William Paterson University on Sunday. Unless you want to read about the minute details of moving ten tons of shit into a three inch by two inch room, I'll skip ahead. I met my roommates, Mike and Jacob, and was relieved that neither of them said, "I took the liberty of moving our beds together". Then Mike started dry-humping the bed. "Um," said I, "what are you doing?" He replied, "I'm testing the bed out, man, 'cause I'm gonna be knee-deep in pussy, man! I'm gonna be rollin' in the stuff, drownin' in it, even! OH MAN! I WANT A FUCK RIGHT NOW, CAN YOU FEEL ME, DAWG?" Oh boy. At least Jacob's cool. Now, don't get me wrong, Mike's not a bad guy; he's just the type of person that really steals my kishka. He's so damn cocky and all he does is talk about smoking "mad blunts", drinking "mad shots", and "fuckin' mad bitches". Oh brave new world which has such people in it.
Monday
I saw my first drunk on Monday. Don't laugh. Since I've never gotten drunk and I stay away from places where others are "wasted", this was pretty much my first experience with alcohol. The King of Slurred Words, or Mr. Wobbles, was none other than my suitemate, Matt. He stumbled into my room and asked if he could use my laptop. Noticing his ever-so-subtle regression of basic motor skills, I immediately knew he had been drinking. HA! Just kidding: I completely denied it, giving him the benefit of a doubt. Finally, after seeing him struggle with Instant Messenger (i.e., drooling on the keyboard, falling off the chair, typing phrases such as, "jsdfsljsdfl;jyreut"), I asked if he had been drinking. As he opened his mouth, I knew the answer: I mean, one could get lightheaded simply by breathing in his fumes. How did I handle the situation, you ask? I was a bit frightened at first...then the fear turned into acceptance...then the acceptance turned into delinquency. That's right, I fucked with him as much as possible. For example, he said he needed to take a shower so I took his bath supplies out of the bathroom. After looking for his soap and shampoo for a half hour, I placed his stuff, in clear view, back in the bathroom. When he saw his Lost Ark, he said, "Now how'd I miss that?" Then I told him he could fly...but let's not get into that. Oh yeah, and if anyone thinks I was too hard on him, think about what would happen if the RA found out there was a drunk in my room.
Tuesday
Umm...I don't think anything occurred on Tuesday besides bawling in a fetal position in the corner.
Wednesday
Classes finally started on Wednesday. Since I wanted to be punctual for my 9:30 AM class, I woke up at 8:00 AM. I took a shower, got dressed, packed up my books, and was out the door at 9:00 AM (I left really early because of my poor direction skills). Anyway, I found the class and was in a seat at 9:15 AM. The minutes ticked by without a teacher in sight: 9:20, 9:23, 9:25, 9:27, 9:30, 9:35. Now, perhaps my dear readers are wondering why a class that's supposed to start at 9:30 doesn't have a teacher in the room at 9:35. Congratulations! That's exactly what I was thinking as the time continued to tock around my head: 9:37, 9:42, 9:45. Suddenly, a voice rang out: "Isn't there a fifteen minute rule?" The class, quick to agree, marched out. "Wow," thought I, "what a way to start the year."
Thursday
Classes began on time on Thursday, albeit both were uneventful. Since I don't have any Friday classes, MY DAD PICKED ME UP AND WE WENT HOME!!!
Yay, I survived my first week. Now, if I can just get through the second...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Death
2001-09-12 10:51 PM
I have heard so much hate in the past two days that I can't filter it all out, like I usually do. Hearing so many horrible phrases has made me realize how futile trying to be optimistic really is; humans will never change. Despite the illogical acts of violence yesterday, most people want more blood to pour. They want all the "towel heads" to be wiped off the face of the planet. You cannot reason with people like that--people who think that burning the flesh of innocents is the answer.
If the US retaliates, against a huge group of people who had nothing to do with the actions of a few, then the leaders of this country will be considered terrorists to me. Pain and destruction only begets more pain and destruction. I've seen enough blood.
The cause of these arbitrary mass killings is this: segregation; the human race has the tendency to pigeonhole people into groups. We cannot do this anymore. It has to stop, for sake of humanity. We must understand that everyone has feelings. This might seem like a simple undertaking but groups are faceless to other groups. Think about it: when you see footage of America fire-bombing another country on the news, do you ever see a single dead body? Of course not, because the government wants the public's support. The propaganda that the media shoves down our throats is probably the main reason why so many people in my school want to kill a whole nation of people.
And the news organizations love these horror stories: the Columbine shooting, JFK Jr., and Princess Diana are just a few of the pawns in their game of ratings. They call these events tragedies while fattening their wallets. The power-hungry networks compete to see how long they can film wreckage. This makes me sick to my stomach. If they are so compassionate, why don't they take the cameras off the poor, lifeless families of the victims?
Enough of this. Nothing will ever change. I know this as I watch the smoke continue to hover over the remnants of hope.
Radio is a Cruel Mistress
2001-10-21 2:33 AM
Do you think "diary" is too girlish a word? From now on, I shall call it "Patrick's Scratchin'-of-the-Nuts, Eatin'-a-Rack-'o-Cow Log" (pretty good, huh?). You see, when people read these words, they immediately imagine a stereotypical male who's in dire need of some jock itch cream, red meat, and a logger. HAHA! Henceforth, "Scratchin'-of-the-Nuts, Eatin'-a-Rack-'o-Cow Logs" will be the subject of locker room discussions everywhere:
Jock #1: "Yo, man, I was updatin' for ten hours straight, playa!"
Jock #2: "Without reloading? No way!"
Jock #1: "I'm serious! Me and my bitch took this course. Ancient Indian methods...Tantric Updating."
Anyway, I have seen the births of many suns at this school already and have found something quite disturbing. This probably won't come to a surprise to many, but college is not intellectual in the slightest. Tell me, when you think of a university, what thoughts stew in your brain? Perhaps an image of bright-eyed students having a deep, philosophical discussion over the existence of being; maybe your musings turn to pupils reciting Shakespearean sonnets under a mature oak tree.
Okay, Professor, let me take the cloud from under your ass to bring you and your monocles crashing down onto the jagged rocks that we on Earth call somber, pathetic reality: those bright-eyed students are off getting glassy-eyed and having a deep, philosophical discussion over the existence of pork chops while lying on a pile of used syringes in a dumpster. And those pupils under the proverbial old oak tree? They're probably reciting sailor songs under the shade of a porcelain toilet in Busty Belle's Booby Burgers Buffet.
That's right; call me cynical if you want (HEY! I don't remember saying you could call me a Chimney-Eater). But I'm only calling it as I see, smell, taste, touch--eww, it's not coming off--and hear it. While we're on the subject of hearing, what the fuck happened to "college albums"? The only "music" I've heard here so far consists of songs with brilliant
lyrics such as "Hey, where the party at? Girls are hypochondriacs" (Note: I have no idea if that's what they actually say, but it sounds like that), "And the game done chose me", "Keepin' it gangsta", and "I was beaming in my beamer just beaming to the sunny beams on a beaming balance beam" (Note: I think I added a few "beams"). IF I HEAR THAT BLASTED ALICIA KEYS SONG ONE MORE TIME, THE RADIO THAT PLAYS IT WILL KEEP ON FALLIN' IN AND OUT OF MY WINDOW. I think they play five songs on a continuous loop.
Well, that felt pretty good. I just needed to get all that out of my system. Time to go to bed and dream about a land without Z100, beer funnels, and the word "beam".
Titled
2001-11-06 3:01 PM
For once in my life, I have nothing cynical to write.
*GASP!!!*
(Patrick stands at the podium, a glass of water by his side. Since he doesn't like the beverage, one assumes it's there for effect. Two taps on the microphone and his mouth opens.)
"I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!!!"
*GASP!!!*
(A woman in the audience reaches for her brow, in the old-fashioned, stereotypical manner, and faints into a sailor's arms.)
Yes, that's right, faithless readers: Satan has bought a parka with matching mittens and pigs are studying flight manuals as I type. I know more about the inventor of the pet rock than I do about the opposite sex, yet I'm going out with one of the greatest girls on the planet. If you've read my previous entries (which is highly doubtful since I stare at the counter below, waiting for it to change and it doesn't), you know that I was futilely trying to figure out if Jen liked me. It turns out she did. Finally, my discount voodoo dolls have paid off!
Do you want to know how I asked her out? Oh, you don't? Okay, fine...Let's talk about the housefly: "musca domestica is a small, two-winged fly, gray with dark stripes, often found in and around human habitations. If it has recently walked in excrement, it may transmit pathogens causing typhoid, cholera, dysentery, leprosy, poliomyelitis, and infectious hepatitis, as well as the eggs of--"
Ah, now you're begging for my anecdote! I will proceed then (Note: I apologize to all the housefly enthusiasts out there) without further derailment.
*Ahem!* Jen arrived at my dwelling on Friday, November 02 at 6:03 PM. Although I knew that she would say yes if I asked her out--my sister had a discussion with her about it--I was still shaking in my skivvies. I wondered if she was expecting something elaborate and creative. I hoped not, because I didn't have anything like that planned.
Here's what I had in mind: before watching "Life of Brian", I would simply spill my guts all over her shirt and then pray. Ingenious, right?
Unfortunately, when everything looked ready to fall into place, disaster struck (God, I sound like the fucking "Behind the Music" announcer); Khristina called, asking if Jen and I wanted to come over to watch the movie at her house. Guess what I said?
We arrived at Khristina's house a few minutes later. Now, understand that Khristina knew I was going to ask Jen out so I still can't fathom why she summoned me there.
Anyway, when it was time to go (shoes on, coat buttoned, hand on doorknob, fly...still unzipped) Khristina uttered these words: "So, Patrick, did you ask Jen out yet?"
OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
ME: Umm...no, not yet.
JEN (Looking at me, then smiling): HAHAHA!
KHRISTINA: Oh.
Yeah, so at this point, I don't know whether to shake her hand or ring her neck. Probably the former (she saved me the trouble of bringing it up).
As you can imagine, the car ride home was a bit awkward.
Finally, she said, "Well?"
I, like a complete moron, said, "What?"
"Are you going to ask me?"
"Oh, Khristina's remark didn't count?"
"Nope."
"Um, will you go out with me?"
"Of course!"
Then I stumbled out of her car and she drove off into the...moonset???
TO BE CONTINUED...
Why People Don't Talk to Me
2001-11-08 2:42 PM
Lately, I've been asking myself, "Why do I write?" Do I have some pompous, lofty intention to change the world? Am I a complete narcissist who loves to hear the sound of my rhythmic typing? Do I consider this journal a therapist, forever silent as I complain on a plushy chair? I don't have an answer. Surely, that came as a shock.
But I wonder if anyone can respond to the question without it sounding like a clichéd copout: "I write because I must!", "To express my innermost thoughts!", "I want to help everyone with their problems by offering my experience!", etc. Ughhh. Well, I'm going to repeatedly stab Creativity's skin and hope that some O.J. (Original Juice) trickles out onto the keyboard.
20 Minutes Later...
Okay, I'm back with a coffee mug filled to the brim with Creative Juice! I now know why I write! It's to keep the Chapstick people away! You see, they've been trying to get into my head for the past decade and the only way to keep them out is to write furiously! They'll never steal my brain! I'm sending this out by carrier pigeon in the hopes that a dry-lipped brother will read it and spread the word!
Oh man...I think I used too much O.J.
A "Fuck You" Letter to Fundamentalists Everywhere
2001-12-04 1:17 PM
Dear New Jerusalem:
A few days ago, I saw your website, "Is Masturbation Sinful?" With every facet of my body, I hoped that what I read was some elaborate satire on the insanity of some religious organizations. I think that now I can safely say--after much deliberation--that this is not a joke; you people are actually serious. I cannot believe that anyone would want to spread such filth. Hopefully, no one follows your "teachings", for these distorted views can only inflict pain and destruction on innocents.
Firstly, I can't see how you can alter the Bible so much. One of the passages you cite to offer proof to your claim is utterly ridiculous: the quote, "If your right hand offends you...cut it off! It is better to enter into heaven with only one hand, than to sin with your hand...and go to hell" is definitely not what you think it's about. Secondly, who cares if a person is "choking the sheriff and waiting for the posse to come"? The majority of the population engages in this natural activity; in fact, it could be called the real national pastime. I'm actually in the middle of self-stimulation by means of an intricate pulley system as I type this letter.
Although I am not spiritual at all, I do respect the teachings of any religion that spreads love and gives hope to people. However, I won't acknowledge fundamentalist groups who take a fork and try to convince others that it's a spoon. You melt words with your burning hatred and smear whole countries with your diseased ideas. Shoving misconstrued text down the throats of vulnerable people, you eternally taint the religion that you supposedly stand for. The only purpose you serve is to engulf the world in the fires of warfare.
So, good luck, vultures. May this letter touch you, since you won't do it yourselves.
Sinfully,
Me
Killing Yourself in a Room of Cackles
2001-12-11 11:10 PM
Humor can be an extremely sharp weapon. If you're trained to handle this dangerous piece of equipment, you can make ripostes at exactly the right time; however, one wrong move and humor can leave you bleeding on the ground. So, when is comedy welcomed and when is it shunned? There's no definitive answer. It depends, mostly, on someone's mood. Obviously, if you were to make the fishbowl of a person's recently deceased goldfish into form-fitting underwear, it wouldn't go over very well. But maybe it would be funny once the grieving process was over.
In the classroom, comedy is almost always appreciated if done at the right time. Allow me to illustrate my point with something that is called an "example". My sixth grade History project was to either write a research paper or make a video. Thinking it would be less work, my friend Austin and I decided to work on the latter together. Instead of actually researching our topic (The Battle of Tippecanoe, or something of that nature), we concentrated on making it as funny and creative as possible. The end result was "Sox", a sock puppet/stuffed animal freak show of a History project. Although it featured Sox--a sock, clearly--and Buzz--his sidekick--going back in time to witness the battle, it was almost void of any information on our topic; a few bits and pieces of text from our book were pasted in last minute. But did I mention it included sock puppets and stuffed animals? The class loved the video and, most importantly, the teacher threw back her head and cackled into the ceiling over it. Needless to say, we got an A.
As I mentioned before, there are also times when humor can come back and bite you. This has happened to me a number of times. Sometimes, when I want to tell someone how I feel, I get nervous, and it ends up coming out unclear. Instead of clarifying what's really on my mind, I cover up by making it one big joke. Too much humor can underscore your other emotions. This is definitely something I have to correct: if I can't tell my girlfriend how I feel, then I'll destroy us.
Comedy is almost always a good thing. In my case, it led to higher grades. The problem is that it can turn flesh and blood people into caricatures; they become clowns to others and let humor override their other emotions. I must work to make sure that I let people see my other sides. Either that or I'll become a clown full-time.
Consciousness is a Leech
2001-12-13 2:41 PM
I'm such a baby; sometimes I wonder if the doctor forgot to snip my umbilical cord off. If he didn’t forget, it sure feels like it's still attached.
This atypical-yet-typical teenager is starting to think he's emotionally stunted. No matter how hard I beat myself, I can't seem to tell Jen how I feel about her. The cause of this is unknown to me, but I'm sure that if you traced your pencil backwards through the maze, you'd find it stemmed all the way back to my gestation in the womb. Maybe my mother didn't watch enough soap operas as I stirred inside her uterus. All I know is that I don't think I've ever been able to open up to anyone.
Finally, I realize why I write: I only have a voice on paper. It's so much easier for me to articulate how I feel in my pretentious little prose world. That's why I'm such a better boyfriend online; I can talk comfortably to Jen for hours on the dreadful Instant Messenger, but put us in a room together and I freeze up. Although you probably won't believe me, we have only pecked on the lips so far--remember that it's been a month and a half. I just can't seem to touch her or talk to her the way I want to, and it's tearing me apart.
I want to be happy. I should be happy. I deserve to be happy. And I abhor all the Freudian garbage that's getting in the way of my happiness; my unconscious is my worst enemy. It's what's making me feel so nervous around Jen that I almost vomit.
Well, from this day I promise to never overanalyze my relationship with her again. I'll leap off the cliff and only look up at the shrinking skyline, refusing to acknowledge the inevitable jagged rocks below.