An Open Letter to the Beautiful Girl Behind Me In Line at Chick Fil A (An Introduction)

Beautiful Brunette,

Hello, you may not remember me, but about 5 minutes ago we were both in line for delicious breaded chicken from a family friendly restaurant in the Student Union Building. I was the guy wearing the grey American Eagle hoodie. (Don't worry about the smell, it's new and the rain gives it a vomity odor). I couldn't help but notice that not only were you beautiful, but you were not wearing a T-shirt espousing the merit of the sorority that you joined. This gives me hope that you aren't a stupid vacuous slut (no offense to all you God fearing sorority girls, but you're mostly whores!). I also noticed that you were with your less attractive friend, hopefully this means you value personality and aren't trying to make yourself look better by comparison. Whenever I stole a furtive glance at you, you didn't immediately turn away and face the opposite side of the line, this did wonders for my self-esteem. (I just saw Alex Natarajan, I thought he was dead). 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). Your hair was wet, which makes sense because it is very rainy outside, but if we happened to hit it off and you wanted to walk to class together i would totally let you use my umbrella, even at the risk of making my jacket smellier! And whenever we encoutered a particularly precarious puddle (there are many in this flat town) I would help you get over them (you would think I was so sweet). Then maybe after you got done with class you could come talk to me at the information desk and we could listen to the new Say Anything rarities that I found on the internet. It would be a pretty awesome day. Then when I got off, maybe you could come hang out at my house for a little while, but you'd have to leave soon because Thursday is when I go to Buffalo Wild Wings with my friends.

Love Always,

Kyle

Nothing In the World Makes Me Happier Than This (A Sad Commentary)

It's an elephant wearing an adorable hat.

If I Were a Super Villain (A Fantasy)

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.

You may do some pondering yourself, and in this period of reflection you may wonder, "If Kyle were to proclaim himself a super villain, what would his name be, what powers would he wield, and what havoc would he wreak? (If you pondered this I would commend you, because you pondered in parallel structure)

Well, I am prepared to answer those questions as long as you promise not to betray my secrets to any potentially interested parties (CIA, FBI, Christian Bale) because I fear both clandestine organizations and men who yell at their female family members.

When choosing a super villainous name, one must reflect on the image one is projecting to one's subordinates. That is why I chose a name that not only reflects my magical background, but also my mastery of alliteration.

*Merlin Man*

I know what some of you are thinking, you are thinking, "Kyle, isn't that name a little too intense and graphic for a silly trip to the land of imagination?"

You people are thinking wrong.

I don't want my subjects mocking some ridiculous name like Dr. Doom when they are mining in the Frito pits of Juarez, they need to know who is boss. (Merlin Man is boss)

You may wonder what my main method of madness will be.

It will be riddles.

Like the mighty Sphinx I will pose the mightiest heroes of each town a riddle, and like Oedipus they will fall before the power of logic. New Deal, Hereford, Abilene, each will be subjugated to my will.

I will constantly try the psychological patience of my subjects. They will drink nothing but Capri Sun (both disgusting and made of plastic straw impervious material) and all of my correspondence will be typed in ALL CAPS.

I may or may not fashion some sort of death ray or kill beam or maim light.

I also to the liberty of creating some concept sketches of my costume.

For those of you not gifted with a wizard's looking glass I will take the liberty of describing the labels and details of the costume.

Boots of Fury
Jorts of Rage
Mustache of Riddling
Awesome Hat!

Now that my plan for domination has been laid out, all that I have to do is wait for a foe to defeat and then rise to national prominence. (I'm waiting Nicolas Cage)

How Things Work in My Brain (Or, Further Evidence That I am an Idiot)

College has started for me and it is a magical experience.

The one thing about Tech that smacks you right in the hormones is that, as you cavort across campus you must hunt to find an unattractive lady.

This would be good news if you were not the type of man to attach yourself to a lady who was spoken for the majority of your school time then get pissy when she leaves.

Unfortunately that is precisely the type of man I am.

But college is a time of change, and so I have resolved myself (like Daniel) to change, and let the latent ladies man lurking beneath my gentle exterior burst forth like a beautiful mutant from a storm drain.

No longer will I awkwardly court women who are oblivious to my intentions (It's 11:11!) , or not talk to attractive women because they scare me.

My main strategy so far is to silently ride the bus across campus listening to my ipod and wearing dirty sweatshorts, (dirty sweatshorts are like spanish fly for sexy college women) while making it abundantly clear through a series of grimaces, squints, and self conscious whistles that I don't want to talk to anybody.

(That was a joke that kind of fell flat, i was trying to set it up like i was being all cool in college then juxtapose it against what i really do in the hopes of comedy gold)(It appears unsuccessful)

Luckily, being the idiot that I am, I am able to justify this isolationist strategy to myself (like James Madison) by concoting a ridiculously cliched scenario where I meet the woman of my dreams on a bus.

The scene is thus.

I amble onto the bus and take a seat near the back with a partition on my left and an empty seat to my right.

You may or may not know, but Ben Folds has a new LP coming out soon and I'm just stoked out of my mind. I got the new single off itunes (feat. Regina Spektor!) and it's pretty sweet.

So I've been jamming to Ben Folds all week and in this fantasy that I have concoted (on the bus) I am listening to the new single and trying to make sure at least the pointy tip of my faux hawk has not yet collapsed (it probably has), when an intoxicating woman walks on the bus.

She is petite with dark emo/scene hair, wide oval eyes, and a shy small smile that is quick to meet her lips whenever she makes eye contact with someone.

She is wearing dark eyeliner that only serves to enhance the hypnotic quality of her gaze and her complexion is so soft that she doesn't need make up.

She sits in the empty seat beside the partion, so she is beside me, but we are seperated by an angry peice of gray plastic.

I smiled at her when she first walked on but then went back to absentmindedly staring at the window/trying to sneak discreet glances at her figure.

In one of my super sneaky ogles I notice that she has 3 stars tattooed on her right bicep (cliche, I know, but this is my fantasy) and perhaps a cross with a verse on her right wrist, so I know she's down with JC.

If the verse was Rev 3:1-2, I'd know she was the one. Or even the phrase Wake Up!, that might be even better.

I change the song on my ipod and she glances at it.

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.

Then we date, get married, and live happily ever after.

Also she reads my blog and thinks I'm funny.

Now if any of you are savvy readers (I love you all even if you aren't) you may realize, as I did, that I just essentially combined the love story plots of The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

If you are unfamiliar with those two works, the first is a novel by Milan Kundera, where two people fall in love over the book Anna Karenina. The allegory is more appropriate than I even realized because I think they totally bang after that!

So in this instance, Tolstoy = Folds, and Banging = Make Out Sesh.

Maybe I could do a modern reinterpretation of that classic work, like West Side Story.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a film by Michael Gondry where Jim Carrey falls in love with a girl on a train and then it gets all sci fi. But we will focus on the beginning of the movie.

In this film, Jim is a loner who takes the train to work and while absentmindedly scribbling in his diary (Magic Blog?) a precocious girl with DYED HAIR! bugs him until he talks to her. They proceed to talk and joke and long story short, they fall in love. Also I think he skips work and hangs out with her that day, so another parallel.

(I just realized that I was drumming along to my ipod and the other people in the SUB may
not appreciate that)

Does this ridiculously serendipitous situation speak to my immaturity? Have modern and classic romances emotionally stunted/gayed me up? (These aren't rhetorical, answer in the comments) I hope not. Is there not a certain kind of beauty in this old school romantic ideal, or is it just totally misguided?

I would like to explore this further, but I have class and have to jet, but if you are a beautiful girl and meet the aforementioned description, please get on the citibus at tech around 9:50 MWF and 12:15 Th.

Writing Experiment (Alone in the Ticket Booth)

As an experiment to keep my skills sharp, I am going to attempt to describe this crazy stapler that I just met.

He lives in the ticket booth in the Texas Tech University Student Union building.

He is multiethnic, I'd say half black, half latino, he also had some exposed metal bits, so either he is part robot or has had significant body reconstruction after a terrible accident.

He is very limber and can straighten himself into almost a 180 degree angle. He must have been a gymnast in high school.

He lives under a shelf with a scotch tape dispenser and a screwdriver, I like to pretend that he is secretly in love with the scotch tape dispenser, but feels he is not good enough for her because he doesn't have his GED. The screwdriver is just the dick who lives in their shelf-house but pays rent.

The front of his staple dispensing area is rusted and grimy. He is sensitive when asked about it, but I believe he secretly freebases crystal meth in an effort to distract himself from his crippling social and relational anxiety, as well as to forget about the shambles he has made of his once promising life and gymnastic career.

He knows there is no shame in honest hard labor, and dog gone it, things need to be stapled in this world. Still I think at night, when all the lights are off and the night manager is sleeping instead of doing his job, Mr. Stapler emerges from his shelf-house and gazes at the soft red glow of the exit sign (his only light in this dark place) and wonders what could have been.

Maybe he promises himself that one day he will prove himself worthy of Lady Tape Dispenser's serrated love, that the next morning he will get clean, go back to school, and tell her how he really feels.

But as sure as the fluorescent dawn will spark at 7 am the next morning, Mr. Stapler will wake up and be waterboarded by depression. As he struggles out of bed, his breath reeking of turpentine and WD-40, he will walk silently past Ms. Dispenser's room and quietly sigh and hang his head. Leaning against her door frame we will listen to the rythmic zip zip zip whirr of her breathing and wish that he was there to hold her whenever her spinny middle falls out and she feels useless.

These few minutes of fantasy ultimately are nothing in his monotonous and largely useless life and as the dizzy of reprieve gives way to the chill of cold tile and the feeling of old Corn Pops sticking to his base, the harsh realities of the world seem that much worse.

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.

Suddenly exhausted, he turns from her door, wishing that he had never been brought into being, that the concept of the staple was nothing but the dream of a lunatic.

He plods to the shower, numb, turning the water to it's highest setting. He'd rather feel his plastic blister and bubble than feel nothing at all. As wave after wave of pain collapses on him, he weeps, the first of many crippling battles with himself, each inflicting wounds in his psyche deeper than any he could inflict on his body. (As hard as he might try).

He gets out of the shower and composes himself. He glances at his face in the mirror. His youthful features are obscured by the rust and scratches that come with hard living. It's just as well, he thinks, I don't deserve to have anyone love me.

He wanders to the kitchen and poors some cornflakes in a bowl, he reaches into the refrigerator for the milk and howls with rage. There is nothing but 2 drops left. He can't stand it. He throws the bowl across the kitchen, shattering it and sending a small battallion of roaches scattering. He collapses on the kitchen floor.

Mr. Stapler comes to two hours later. He curses himself for missing work and hopes that the foreman will show him a little mercy.

He is given a reprieve if he works for half pay for the day. It will mean no breakfast for a few days, but he needs the job.

Which brings me to my meeting with Mr. Stapler. He sees in me a new hope, someone who may understand his tale and befriend him, bringing him back from the precipice of destruction.












I avoid him, the man is an addict.

I've Had Enough of You (Go Away)

Manny, we get it, you do really well in LA, you're wild and unpredictable (You have dreads!) LA is wild and unpredictable, (Gays!) it's a perfect match. Now you no longer have arrogant annoying white people supporting you, but arrogant annoying Latinos, this is truly a great development for baseball. You'll notice that they traded you, a man whose origin i don't know to multicultural LA and Bay, who is totally white (Canadian, he's like the white equivalent of superman) to totally white Boston. You know what this trade is really about? Bud Selig projecting his own racism on America. I hope you are pleased with yourself, Manny being Manny? No, Manny destroying the foundations of this country.



Brett Favre, I understand life really sucks in Mississippi, but must you project your own wanderlust on the rest of America? I really don't care about the state of your text message inbox. The worst part is that you were going to make $75 million if you stayed retired, do you know how many surgeries that could have paid for for Daunte Culpepper? Poor Jeff Garcia was worried he was going to have to work the streets of Tampa Bay if all the text rumors between Scott and Wilbon were true. So gratz on the Jets trade favre, you're now supported by the only fan base composed of people as old as you. Also you should be contractually obligated to play in Wranglers.

Michael Phelps. We get it, the man can swim. You know who else can swim? Every animal ever. Fetuses. Wind up toys. Eight gold is quite the feat, but do we really need to hear about how he is the greatest athlete of all time. He's not. As a swimmer he barely qualifies as an athlete. There is more to being an athlete than sheer ability, there has to be some thinking involved. You think michael phelps knows what to throw a lefty on a 1-2 count with a runner on 1st? Probably not, but I'm sure he could totally outswim me, very helpful never. Another annoying thing, his name similarity to David Phelps, Michael could never hope to match david's voice control on Virtuoso, even with his swimmers lungs.

Also I hate to ruin his image for all the pre-pubescent and post-menopausal fans of his, but the man got a DUI when he was 19. Does that sound like an American hero to you? It sounds like a criminal to me.

You Asked for it (Bringing the Hammer)

(Your Next Entry Topic)

Well Internet, you asked for it, and you got it.

Due to the dearth of comments praising my insight, writing ability, unconventional good looks, I am done regaling you with tales of my high school romances (you won't even hear about bromances). No more will my tearful ruminations dance in front of your eyes like a literary lambada (the forbidden dance!).

This is hard work people, I plumb the depths of my soul to bring you into a fuller understanding of the human condition, and how do you repay me? Not with with the laud and exultation I deserve.

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

If you aren't prepared to do that then you are in for more posts about bacon and cryptozoological creatures.

I hope you are proud of yourselves.