2008 (A Montage)

Readers, I am very tired. It is 5:35 in the am, but it's my last opportunity to stay up this late, so i've taken advantage. I was rereading every blog entry, and certain bits poked out at me, and I decided (both out of hubris and for the benefit of my legions of new readers) to gather them and create the literary equivalent of a KFC famous bowl. (Read this while imagining Michael Ian Black making snarky comments between each)

Dream explanation: This one is the most straightforward. I text Lindsey a lot and I would like to kiss Claire. It also says a lot about my personality in that in a dream, where I can be or do anything, I describe myself as only "kind of cute." (I am very cute)

This is from my first entry, I decided it was important because it established Mr. Parentheses and the atmosphere of the usual Magic Blog, (Pathetic!)

You may ask, Why? Why do you feel the obsessive need to relive these painful memories that everyone shares some semblance of and doesn't care to read about. The answer is because I am an emotional masochist. I must constantly relive my grief in my head and share it with others. That seems like a very unproductive and probably unhealthy way to spend your time, but I'm getting better about letting it go, so hopefully this will help in that regard.

This is from #2 where I outlined the original Nick Hornby plagiorization that this Blog was conceived as. (It really hasn't evolved from this point)

Why on Earth would I want to be myself? Myself is selfish and controlling and jealous and everything a relationship shouldn't be. I thought the beauty of romance was the willingness to sacrifice yourself, to give up on the things about you that could hurt the other person in favor of pleasing them. But maybe I'm just a pussier Francine Rivers.

This is probably the truest thing i've ever written. (Which makes entries 4-26 irrelevant)

This blog was created for one purpose and one purpose alone, to celebrate me.

Still true.

Now the sound of her breathing seems a cruel joke, of which he is always the punchline. Rather than smile at the thought of her breath on the nape of his neck, all it reminds him of are the chills and itches he gets when his stash of Meth is exhausted and he collapses on the floor wrapped in a threadbare blanket, weeping.

This is from the most depressing entry. It is also the only one to receive no comments. (Short fiction is dead)

She leans over the partition and asks, "Are you listening to Ben Folds?" I respond in the affirmative. "I love him! Have you heard the new single?" I reply that I am listening to it right now and then we go on to discuss the merits of the song, she shares my opinion that it sounds like Ben meets Sondheim, Regina is better than I am willing to admit, and we are both amused by the classic Ben Folds harmonizes with Ben Folds on this track (Eg, Jesusland, Not The Same).

At this point we get off the bus together, skip class, and just make out all day while listening to Rockin' The Suburbs.

I'm still waiting for this. It seems to be more and more unlikely.

I have often pondered what if would be like to be a super villain. A menace of the most maleficent kind. I bet I would be pretty great at it.

Classic KMB silliness.

I thought about talking to you, but what would I say? "Hello, You are very pretty, please be nice to me." Also I had my headphones in, so even if i said anything I wouldn't be able to listen to your response. But rest assured, if we had spoken, I would have offered to pay for your waffle fries (please don't let me, my mom only gives me $200 for food).

This is proof that I am the most romantic human being to ever exist.

And every girl who has ever rejected me will look over at their sloppy husbands and sigh and wonder what could have been, they will want me back, but it'll be too late, I'll be marrying my author/doctor/chef wife, who is also a model. And she's in a band, a good one named after an obscure punctuation mark or Kafka short story, and she won't be the singer cause girl bands suck, she'll play bass or something. And when they play at Madison Square Garden I will come onstage and just pull off the most bitchin' tambourine solo.

You'll all be jealous then!

Here is the transcript:

Facts about Billy Bob
-Doesn't have a Facebook
-Likes black hats
-Father liked Westerns
-Still wears a watch
-Finds women, "Very different, but cool"
-Hates Iran
-Didn't play kickball
-Had ADD
-Uses a PC
-Did research group recently, fascinated with protestors
-Member of college republicans
-Slow note-taker
-Expert on computer dvd technology

Fun Fact: Billy Bob, sadly, dropped the course.

When I got home, Tibby was gone and since all of my experience with death up to this point was how it had been portrayed on Nickelodeon, I assumed that we would bury her in the backyard. But, she had already been cremated. I realize now that up until this minute, in my mind I always imagine Tibby dying in the same place I had left her, my mom sitting in the chair with her lips tightened into a slight sad frown at the corners, her hand ruffling Tibby's ears, but she probably died at the vet.

The closest the Blog has ever come to dealing with anything that genuinely happened and affected me that didn't boil down to, "Girls are mean! I'm so misunderstood! :( :( :(" 

I may not be the best looking, most charming, or nicest, but I was always there.

Most honest section from my most honest entry.

Don't get all wrapped up in one girl, cause when it doesn't work out you're just left twisted in a knot wondering how the hell you got there.

Learn from this.

It was just intended to discuss how the people I know that are sad are sad because it's almost fashionable, you take 2 parts Barsuk records, 2 parts Wes Anderson, and 1 part moody Europeans and you essentially can create the emotional state of any of my friends (or myself).

"I am hip and moody"  

But that's not true, life just sucks sometimes and you have to have faith that it will get better, or milk your misery for fame and fortune.

I'm a freaking oracle.