Sorry (I'm Not Interesting When I'm Not Angsty)

I don't really have much to say.

(That's not some retardedly enigmatic call for attention, I just felt bad not updating for a while, but the fact of the matter is that nothing really interesting has canoed down my brain river. Also I realize that writing a single definitive sounding sentence reeks of the finality of a 12 year old girl; but you know what, Hemingway never wrote a sentence longer than 6 words. So take that.)

Checkmate (A Resignation)

I'm done readers. It's been a long few months but I think I've overcome my thing for you know who. (Claire, not Voldemort)

It's not so much an overcoming, a conquering, mostly it's just defeat.

I had great things planned for this entry, a passionate discourse and dissection on the woes of romance, but I don't really have a passion anymore, romantically or angrily.

I used to have the first, but that went away, I thought, turns out it just spun a cocoon and burst out as a rage filled butterfly. (Mothra)

I got worn down you know?

It was very frustrating dealing with Claire.

I just desperately wanted to prove to her that I was the guy she needed.

Every time she came to me because some dude hurt her I just tried to be supportive, in hopes that she would one day realize that I was the one that was always there for her.

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

And that was tough.

When a girl comes to you calling some guy mean names or saying she's not good enough for him and throwing the biggest pity party for herself it takes a lot of self control not to explode.

"If you're not good enough for him, what does that make me?!"

"Don't you get it, don't you see it, all these guys are just stupid jackasses that are trying to manipulate you!"

But I suppressed that, and maybe that was a bad thing. Maybe honesty would have been the better route.

I had this allegory that I used to describe the relationship between claire and I.

We play gender chess, trying to feel better about ourselves while simultaneously not letting the other person get too close, and she is the best female player I have ever encountered.

Our styles of play are polar opposites.

I try to draw her out of her shell with total honesty, telling her every silly and serious thing that pops into my head.

She is a robot. She will never say what she is thinking, and offers only the vaguest idea of whatever situation is distressing her to illicit sympathy.

This would infuriate me.

I felt like my transparent honesty would be moving and reassuring, letting her see that I really meant the best and wasn't trying to trap her with boyish posturing and manipulation.

One day, I thought we had turned a corner.

She opened up to me somewhat unprovoked about some guy that hurt her.

And even though I knew that this guy was probably not right for her and just another joker that thought she was hot; I kept my cool and consoled her.

I didn't mind consoling her though. Because she was so closed I always thought that she hurt a lot more than she ever let on. I just hoped that by comforting her through whatever she chose to share with me that would somehow transfer to the things that hurt her in secret.

It's nice to know someone is there.

I felt pretty good about myself after that. Sad for her, but I thought maybe she would finally take off the blinders and realize that there was a guy out there that was there for her always.

Later she said they patched things up, but I still held out hope.

Her reconciliation raised a question in my brain. "Why do girls chase jerks when they have perfectly nice guys waiting for them?"

I queried this to a more knowledgeable source and her response was, "we are stupid."

She elaborated that girls appreciated that they could make jerks like them, apparently it validates them more than an affirming man.

This was a new paradigm for me. I realized that I had been playing chess with missing pieces. Perhaps being honest with my anger would be the rook I needed to put her in emotional checkmate.

I meditated on the things she did that pissed me off, working up a good head of rage to unleash the next time she came to me for comfort.

Then things took a turn to where it would be wildly inappropriate for me to be jerk, so i put that one in the back pocket for later.

The week progressed without any chance to unleash my dormant fury.

Then friday night, I come to find out that she is off gallivanting around the hometown of the dude she was 5 days from calling names unprintable in the magic blog.

She went to some romantic weekend getaway with some dude she had known for a month.

I found out via text that she was having a "wonderful" time.

The only response i could conjure up was "awesome."

You can't see it, but if you zoomed in really close to that passive aggressive period at the end of "awesome." you would read pages and pages hurt, and confusion, and angst, that I wouldn't dare express out loud and had to hide behind one tiny piece of punctuation.

Then I finally gave up.

I realized that it just wasn't worth it.

I still love her and want her to be happy, but it was too much and I wanted nothing to do with her for a while.

I spent the next few days avoiding her, it wasn't worth talking to her, we would never be more than friends and it was too painful to be that close without it leading anywhere.

I decided to move on.

A few days later she finally started talking to me and we just picked up where it ended the week before, superficial displays of friendship.

It's unfair to say superficial because I really do love and care about her, but it just doesn't go beyond the platonic anymore. Which is probably what she's always wanted.

It just feels strange to me, the lack of passion or enthusiasm.

I don't want her to become just another girl that is my friend, I like to imagine that one day there would be some sort of romance, that all the waiting would pay off.

But I'm done and it's easier.

She wins gender chess, I'm not going to use my angry pieces. Instead I'm knocking over my king and conceding victory.

(Don't read this and think that claire is a bitch, she's not, well sometimes she is, but mostly i'm just a sensitive little guy)

I suppose that I might just be going through that nihilistic phase. You know, what does it all mean? Where am I going? Does my life make a difference?

I've always been a big believer in seeing the beauty that God has laid out in front of you in the world. If you take a few seconds to stop being a self absorbed dumbass and just look around you'll see a lot of really amazing stuff.

Cliche stuff, like clouds, and sunsets, and pretty girls.

And then there's stuff that seems like it's just for you, stuff that makes you happy.

Dogs for me, or driving down an older part of Lubbock.

I dunno if it's maturation or emotional erosion, but I'm losing that romantic sensibility that made me interesting to myself.

I see people walking around campus holding hands, or kissing when they get off the bus, and I know it's nothing more than an automatic response. There's no real affection.

I used to hate that, but now I wonder if that's all love is, faking it until you trick yourself into believing you need this person.

I realize that at 18, it's foolish to give up on the idea of fulfilling genuine relationships, but i'm just in one of those ways, you know?

In one of his comics, Neil Gaiman writes, "I don't know if I much believe in love. I think people are just horny and scared. So they find someone who makes them horny and cling to them because they are afraid to face the darkness around them."

If I believed that entirely, I think the world would be a pretty sad place. It would cheapen every spec of relational bliss that makes things a little brighter. Old married couples, the bond between your parents, Robert Jordan and his gypsy princess. (I realize how gay that sounds)

But that might be just indicative of the way culture has shifted toward cynicism. In the old days, Dante proposed that the love of a woman (Beatrice) could save his soul.

Dante is more highly regarded than Gaiman, but I don't know if he's any more right.

I just get annoyed that more people don't think like me. To be fair, I don't really associate with anyone beyond my high school friends, and people don't normally expound on their perceptions of romance when you first meet them, but still, you'd think two people of my nature would find a serendipitous way to get together.

I sort of talked about this earlier, in the blog about my imaginary bus ride.

Of course, that blog was just an attempt to illicit sympathy and admiration for my cute, sensitive nature/generate comments. And I partly succeeded.

The only comment that actually addressed the non-rhetorical question was Meagan's.

"a part of me feels like i'm holding out for some sort of romance that doesn't actually exist. it's just a myth that's been passed down by authors and screenwriters through the generations."

And now i'm starting to feel that way too. It doesn't make me too sad though. (I started writing this like a week ago, hence the emotional vacillation). I don't know how it makes me feel really. Like I understand conceptually that life is not a movie or a book or a song, but I still like to feel that it is.

The best way that I feel I can describe it is that that romantic center inside of me has kind of gone into hibernation. Right now I just don't want to think about girls or about friends or about college, I just want to put my head down and get through the semester; but I know it'll be back.

I never thought that I'd become one of those "I have to get out of Lubbock" people, but I'm just feeling emotionally capsized.

I went down to B/CS for the game this weekend, and even though I despise all that is aggie, I had to admit, my friends down there seemed to be a lot more stable and mature than my friends from HS that live here (no offense) and I'm just tired of feeling like I'm still in the 12th grade.

Apparently, a lot of people get kind of bummed the first semester of college, so maybe it will pass.

But if it doesn't I'm submitting my transfer application to UT in May.

Nothing to Think About (Nothing to Write About)

I'm sitting in the ticket booth right now, and it is very miserable.

My old friend the stapler is here, but I don't care to reveal the rest of his tragic story. (He gets hit by a car)

I should be writing a history paper, but I don't feel like doing that either, and I don't really want to write in the Magic Blog, but I have nothing better to do.

I don't have a story to tell, all of the entrances to my domicile have been adequately barricaded to prevent unwanted domestic animals. (David also scared the cat away with a bb gun)

I have been doing a strange experiment lately (the past 18 hours or so) in that I have been intentionally thinking angry thoughts so that I can be mean.

You may ask why I am doing this, I'm afraid that information is not appropriate for the Magic Blog. Due to my vast readership I am unable to be as intimate with you beloved listeners as I wish. I am trapped in my own kingdom.

I hate the ticket booth though. I was pretty cheerful today, but this place likes to eat every happy emotion and amplify every negative one. It's like being in Azkaban.

I had a lot of good thoughts this week (good in the sense that they made me feel like i was intellectual), mostly about the nature of selfishness. But I used up all my emotional energy complaining to people/soliciting advice. If the energy comes back, I may jot some stuff down.

It is strange how KMB has evolved. It was never intended to be this way.

It started as a way to distract myself at work during the summer.

I did have an outline though.

I started with the dream thing, just as a trial run.

Then I was going to go through my old xangas and juxtapose them with how i feel about whatever I was writing about 3 or 4 years into the future. (Still an interesting idea, I think)

Then it changed to where I was just going to do a High Fidelity sort of thing where I went back and retold the stories of all my failed relationships. (I'm being generous with the term "relationship")

This was all essentially an exposition to where I would post excerpts from a letter I wrote that I was particularly proud of at the time. (It was to claire [duh] and I still like it)

People (3 of them!) would read my correspondence and clamor for more peeks into my personal life. (Like Ben Franklin)

But I had to wait until the right moment to spring the word-trap.

Then I realized that I would essentially be posting the Livejournal of a 13 year old girl and stopped that nonsense.

Then it went whimsical with the restaurant thing, which was cute, but I think I'm funnier (I realize that is hubris) when I write slightly more intellectual things, non-sequiturs have their place but they get old.

Then I went back to the mope format (it's my go to) with some deviations.

I personally was very proud of Money Monster, but I think it was too cerebral for the audience.

I think the one about Mr. Stapler was a little weird, it garnered no comments, I almost didn't post it because I didn't want people to think I was severely depressed (I'm not, just a vagina) but I thought the joke was too classic to pass up.

I believe that was my last attempt at short fiction. I dislike short fiction. It's easily the most pretentious genre. (No offense to my good friend and commenter, Jordan). But short fiction isn't my bag if you aren't exploring the 3 laws of robotics. I bought a book of the 50 Greatest Short Stories at B&N like 4 months ago, and I like a ton of the authors. I've read 1 story.

(I realize that I have often claimed that I want to be an essayist which is probably considered much more pretentious)

Actually, amateur poetry is the worst. If you write poetry and you aren't impoverished, suicidal, or a minority, your poetry sucks.

What was I talking about?

Right the blog development.

Anyway the blog developed into what it is today, which I'm not sure what it is, just a way to distract myself at work.

So it really didn't develop at all.

I've had some more ideas for blogs though.

I already have "Me at Work" which is lame.

But I've thought of a series.

Like "Kyle's Magic Music Blog," this was going to debut with the new Ben Folds album, but my laptop was broken at the time so it has been delayed until I am particularly bored.

Then I could have, "Kyle's Magic Move Blog" and I was recently inspired to do "Kyle's Magic Rant Blog."

As you can see, I'm like Tinkerbell with all the magic I am capable of spreading.

There is more to this concept, but I'm leaving work and feel it deserves its own exposition.

Caterwauling (A Pun)

Tonight was pretty intense.

I fought off a home invader.

First, an exposition.

David and Nick are off hunting this weekend. Being the sportsmen that they are, they will sit for several hours in what is essentially a treehouse and wait until a deer goes to eat the food that has been left out for them for several weeks and then shoot them in the heart.

Meanwhile, I am at home alternating between watching college football, arguing on the internet about college football, and playing NCAA football 2009. I might watch a dvd or two. I assume at some point during the weekend I will have a dream that causes me to wallow in self pity for the better part of the day, until I see a dog or have a good cry.

This is a deviation from the topic, but still animal related, so I will proceed.

Ever since leaving home, I have been somewhat lonely, if the 23 pages of self reflection I have produced haven't revealed that fact yet. But the one thing that always cheers me up is seeing a dog.

This clearly has roots going back to infancy.

My first dog was a Boston Terrier named Tibideaux. (My parents lived in Louisiana when they bought her and reflected the geography with her moniker). There are pictures of me in my nascent state (infancy) rolling around on a blanket, with Tibby (her nom de plume) laying beside me.

Tibby was a major source of comfort for the next 6.5 years. She died one day while I was at school and I have very vivid memories of the night before her death, when my parents told me that Tibby was sick and probably wouldn't make it through the night, I read 3 Hank the Cowdog books and cried myself to sleep on the top bunk of my metal bunk bed.

The next morning Tibby was still ok and I said goodbye to her and got on the schoolbus and went to school. My mom was sitting in our old blue lazyboy recliner with Tibby lying with her head in her paws squeezed between my mom's left thigh and the armrest of the chair.

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.

I wasn't very sad when Tibby died, I don't think I was young enough for it to really affect me yet, but looking back on it now, I imagine it must have been really tough for my parents, they had had Tibby for 6 years before I was born, and she was probably a reminder of those early years of marriage.

6 months or so later, my parents got a new Boston Terrier puppy. She was adorable and it amused me to no end that she was afraid to walk across the tile of our kitchen because it was cold. So I would ferry her back and forth, whether she wanted me to or not.

After about a week of deliberation, we (my parents) decided to name her Piha. They should have named her "Piha, it means freckle in czech" because that is how she is always introduced. My grandparents came from the small Eastern European towns in South Texas, and my Granny speaks Czech, so that's where that came from.

From ages 7-18, Piha has remained a part of my life and continual source of comfort whenever I'm sad. Whenever I was sick or feeling depressed I would force Piha to come and sit on my bed while I moped.

And now, in this awkward transitory stage, without any of those comforts that are so easy to take for granted, dogs are an endless source of joy. Whenever I see people walking them, they make me smile. Once I got to pet a lady's Great Dane and it made me happy for like 2 days.

I get to see Piha every Sunday, so that also makes me happy.

Back to the topic.

I'm home alone, and I hadn't had a cigar in a long time so i figured that I would smoke one tonight in my boredom. I went out to the porch to smoke and brought my computer. A friend invited me to a movie, and we always leave the backdoor open because both our fences are locked, but I forgot that I left the glass door open as well.

I go to the movie. (Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist)(It combined many of my favorite things)(Movies about music, love stories, michael cera, movies set in one 24 hr period). And I return home.

I go into the backyard to get a water bottle, and when I return, who is there to greet me but a large annoying black cat that frequents our porch.

I yelled at him to get outside, but apparently he found my tone rude and ran into the bedroom area.

I didn't know which bedroom he ran into, so thinking quickly, I grabbed Glenn (the roomba) and put him in my room to scare him out.

The cat didn't appear so I checked the other rooms, but he was elusive.

I was worried about him jumping out and scaring me, so I got on Ichat and started a video chat with someone so I wouldn't feel so creeped out.

I proceeded to go around the house poking things with a tennis racquet for 20 minutes.

I eventually heard the dogs next door barking so I can only assume that the cat made an exit.

If you don't hear from me after a while though, it's because the cat was hiding in my room and I died of an allergic reaction.

People I Meet (Attempt #2)

Dear Readers, I apologize for the turn our last adventure took, here I will attempt to complete what I set out to do the other day.

College is a fairly magical place, everywhere you turn there are many statues, which is always a sign of high society. Also there is a fairly high concentration of limestone, which lends an air of academia.

Now I will list my classes and professors and the various characters that inhabit my college world, if you've read a blog by a student in the Fall or Spring you know how it goes.

I start every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 9:00am. My alarm is set to "Blues" which is nice because it's like I'm being awoken by BB King with a recorder.

I shower, drink orange juice, take vitamins, get dressed, drive to North parking, get on the bus, get off the bus, walk to the Mass Comm building, and sit in my chair.

In Mass Comm, I sit at the back between a chunky sorority girl and a dude with long curly hair that wears rolled up jean frequently. I chose that particular seat because on the first day I was pretty petrified about actually looking at anyone so I sat next to the nearest open seat that was beside a girl.

Little did I know that me and the girl (her name is Kelsey, i saw on the roll sheet) would soon become mortal enemies. I don't know why we are enemies, but there is a palpable hatred between us. Perhaps it is because she is chunkier than I thought and she crushed my expectations? Perhaps it is because I was sick earlier in the year and she kept looking at me when I sniffed. Maybe it is because she is clearly dumb as a box of rocks.

Regardless, my distaste for her has caused me to ally myself with long curly haired dude (greg). Greg and I don't actually speak, except for once when we mocked a Celine Dion video we were forced to watch, but those snickers cemented a resolved stance against fat sorority girl.

There are many women in this class and it is easy to distinguish between the serious students of journalism and the girls after an easy degree. The journalism girls are not very attractive, also they email Dr. Dean about people looking at Facebook in class.

It is it really their concern what people do in class? My guess, jealousy of the pretty girls.

The professor for that class is Dr. Dean. He likes to start every day with a joke, but i think the funniest part about him is that his title is Dean Dean, double name = comedy gold. He's a good teacher and bald, plus he presupposes that all students drink, so he isn't an idiot.

My next class is Music Appreciation with Dr. Wilson. (Real name, Dr. Fried). I call him Dr. Wilson because he looks exactly like that character on House. He really loves music, which is charming, but he also loves very boring music. This class has a couple of characters in it that I would like to address.

Super Well Dressed Homosexual Black Man: Scott Schuman would bust a nut over this kid. (That's right ladies, I read the sartorialist). This guy seriously brings his A-game with every outfit. He sports a tie almost everyday, but usually with blazers or a cardigan, occassionally a vest. He rocks some pretty legit Chanel sunglasses as well. I always appreciate the effort he puts into his outfits, I can only assume he feels the same about my cargo shorts and t-shirt espousing my favorite Wes Anderson movie/Texas Tech.

Girl With Short Blond Hair: I appreciate your boldness with the short hair, and your macbook, and your diligent note taking. I spent the entire first week of class trying to determine if I found you attractive, the final verdict was not really. Also you ride a pink bike, which I would probably find endearing if i wanted to date you, as it stands, it just looks like you are trying too hard.

I now go to History. My professor is Dr. Kriedler, and he is the most animated of the bunch. Also he looks like Robert Downey Jr. so I like to pretend that it's him. When he talks about how people struggled during the Great Depression I know that he can identify after his stint in rehab. Also he is a pretty hardcore Southern apologist, which is entertaining. Time to outline some folk from this class.

Ginger Eric Eberhart: Name is self explanatory, we talk every once in a while.

Pretty Girl With A Mole on Her Chin: Your constant talk about your partying on your cell phone before class is irritating, but I gave you a cough drop the other day because I am a gentleman.

Girl with Lots of Tattoos and Stickers on Her Macbook: I think your tattoos and stickers are an attempt to be cooler than you really are. If it's any consolation, I think your music staff tattoo is neat.

That about covers that class, with the exception of Bifocaled Blond that Always Looks Stressed Out and Never Speaks.

My last class of the day is Sociology.

Sociology is terrible.

The professor is foreign and despite her best efforts, fails to interest anyone in GH Mead's theories of child development.

Luckily for us, whenever there is an awkward pause before she answers her own question one man dares to break the awkwardness, with more awkwardness.

His name is Billy Bob, because he looks like Billy Bob from Varsity Blues. He has a hick accent and loves to wear a backwards Tech hat, jorts, and a short sleeve button down. Whatever the topic at hand is, he will interecept it and turn it into some uninteresting and unnecessary confessional from his childhood.

I find him so fascinating that in addition to taking sociology notes I have begun to take them on Billy Bob.

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

The only redeeming qualities about this class are that we get open book exams and that we watch movies on wednesday and the cutest girl in the class is in my small group.

Tuesday I get up at 7:00am and work from 8-12 then 5-10, it's a pain. In between work sessions, I have math class. Math is a joke, it's all super easy, I do it online, and I don't have to show up. I do anyway, because I am dedicated. The class is full of shapeshifters, I can't pin down what anyone really looks like.

Thursday is the best day, I get up at 11:30 and have class til 2, then work til 5. It's the best.

That is essentially how my life goes, with little to no deviation. I apologize for this being one of the weaker entries, it belongs with "If I Was a Super Villain," unlike the previous one, which turned out better (more about me). I realize that most people will speed read through this hoping to get the end.

I'm sorry I failed you loyal readers.

People I Meet (I don't actually meet them, I'm too shy for that)(Turns Out I Don't Do That)

Hello avid readers, I have to warn you, this blog will probably be pretty terrible, ranking down there with "If I was a Super Villain." I am doing this to alleviate the suffering of a friend who is trapped in a land of fakers and heartbreakers. I feel his pain, even though I'm here in Lubbock with tons of friends I feel a little left out of the college scene, but hopefully that will get better.

After a month at Tech, I have finally got around to typing the cliched "Here's my Life in College!" post, but it has to be done, it's a Blog Law.

As those of you that know me personally know, I'm living with David and Nick. (For my readers across the nation that is new information)(Rhyme Alert!)

This is a pretty tranquil existence, the only major issue was when I once left an empty bag of popcorn on the floor and David didn't speak to me for 2 days.

As a journalism major my classes are not particularly rigorous, a basic math, intro to mass comm, sociology, history, and music appreciation.

Whenever any adult I ever encounter inevitably asks what my major is and I respond and then I am forced to justify my degree choice I find it very difficult to respond, because, let's be honest, Mass Comm is barely a step above Human Development and Family Studies in terms of degree. The last resort of youth pastors and future teachers. (No offense, but the degree is not difficult)

So, here in my blog (which I can only assume all future employers and acquaintances are reading) I will lay out my future plans.

I am going to graduate, already a cult figure due to the popularity of my blog and pieces in the venerable Daily Toreador.

This will lead to a lucrative editorial position at a magazine in a cool city like Austin, Nashville, or New York, where my incredible wit, intelligence, writing ability, sports knowledge, pop culture savvy, and charming anecdotes will cause me to be labeled the next Bill Simmons/Chuck Klosterman/David Sedaris.

At this point I will develop the wanderlust inherent in brilliance and travel the world (my knack for mastering languages will lead to several foreign women falling in love with me, and hopefully treasure!). During my travels I will have all sorts of experiences that would look super meanigful and poignant when overlayed with Sigur Ros or the Shins, and hopefully start a revolution (musical or political) and return home safely.

I will then write about these experiences and sell them to GQ, where I will be offered a job.

That will begin my "New York" phase, where I gallavant around the city making money and connections, all while dressing impeccably.

Soon I will become cooly disenfranchised and return to Texas to reconnect with the Earth. I will travel the trails as a cowhand, never revealing my true identity (and getting totally ripped as well).

When I get tired of working the land (which will be soon cause i'm kind of a puss) I will buy a house and work on my first book of essays in dark room on a typewriter, clouded in pipe smoke.

After the book is released, things really get going. My genius will be fully recognized by literary critics, sexy indie girls, and people that listen to NPR.

This will lead to a booming social life, and not because I am a famous writer, because I am actually that awesome.

Also, anyone that was ever mean to me or didn't appreciate me will take a long hard look at themselves and realize that they are just big failures.

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.

After my first book comes out and I am regarded as the preeminent essayist in the United States I will start work on my novel.

The novel is gonna be pretty bad-a, it will be dark and gritty, but hilarious, and actually hilarious, not just retarded like American Psycho. Think Chuck Palanhiuk but without all the rape. Also there will probably be either a wizard or big foot.

The novel will come out and I will be called things like, "grasps emotion better than Foer," "More sinister than McCarthy," "Best satire since Swift," "a Chobsky for people with testicles," "Gaimanesque storytelling," "wordier than Faulkner!," "The American Hemingway who didn't write all his books in Paris," and, "Makes Shakespeare look like a faggot."

After this book comes out I try my hand at self producing/directing/writing/starring in a feature film. The film comes out and I am a critical and commercial darling, like Diablo Cody but with talent.

After all this wild success, you'd think I may develop an ego. Well you'd be wrong, I would not only be the nicest guy in Hollywood, I'd be the nicest guy anywhere. And I'd impress you with my humility.

I'd then return to Texas and get back to my roots. I'd get to work on a departure from my previous literary excursions with a book on theology and spirituality. It would be lauded as better than Miller, Bell, McLaren, Chesterton, Lewis, Spurgeon, Luther, and Aquinas. People would read it and finally "get it."

Then after all my success I would disappear and spend the rest of my days as an anonymous music critic with my wife and family, occassionally releasing new books under a pseudonym, like I already do, as John Grisham.

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