Tender vittles

MMMMMMmmmmmmmngggggrrrrr....!

I really love couscous. We just had it for dinner and it was GruUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUBbbbbbbb!

(apply appropriate, hard-rock wolfmother falsetto to that last line, please)

Hello everyone. What did you eat today? Yeah? Awesome! What do you think I ate today? Give up? I just told you, dummy! COUSCOUSMoFo'ah!

I bet when I asked you what I ate today, you paused and thought that maybe I ate people.

It's alright. You can admit it.

That's something that people often ask me: "Hello Scott," they say. "What do you like to eat?"

And I'm, like, "Food. You?"

Yeah. I know. Reeeeeeally witty, huh? But these are other 15 year old virgins that usually ask me so they laugh at my shitty jokes.

"Hahahahahahah! No really. What do you, you know, eat for food? Is it like brains and shit?"

So, yeah...if you haven't noticed yet: I'm a zombie. All too true. As you probably already know, attached to zombies is the stigma that we just eat people. Well that's just silly. I need you to listen to me, and listen to me now. Zombies don't eat people only. I know that we've all seen the movies where zombies are all eating people and shit. But that's the movies! Do you believe everything you've seen in the movies? Do you? You all saw "Schindler's List", right? Do you believe that actually happened?

Now, I can't really blame you. You're ignorant. All you know about my kind is what you see in the movies. So, it's understandable that you think that we eat people only. This isn't true. We eat lots of things. But we do not eat just people.

Yesterday I sat down to lunch in the caf' with J, Jenny and my brown bag full of lunchety lunch goodness that my "latina" maid, Khieu (she told me she prefers to be called "latina" over "mexican"...actually, she told me she prefers to be called "cambodian", but i'm not going to humor her delusions...so she's "latina"), packed for me. I was shooting the shit with my peeps and about to bite into my sammich when Jordan, the guy who tripped Jeff last month, if you'll remember, plops down next to me and yells, "Hey losers! What's up!"

I don't really like Jordan. He's popular and good at sports and everything (he's on the swim team with J), but he's kind of a dick. I looked at Jenny and rolled my eyes. She rolled them back. I looked at J, expecting to share the same response, but he was just smiling at Jordan.

"Hey, Jor-dawg. How's your penis?"

Jordan turned a little red and just looked away. I don't know. It must be a swim team thing.

Unfortunately, he turned his gaze directly at me and my sandwich. "What you got there, Lan-FEAR? A people pasty? A man-on-rye? Who's in there? Monty and Carlo?"

"Uhhhh...a meatloaf sandwich, Jordan," is the best I could come up with. Unfortunately, it wasn't good enough.

"A PETEloaf sandwich, huh? Tell me. Did Pete struggle much?"

"Leave him alone!" bellowed Jenny, bless her soul. But it was for naught.

"Stay out of this, Sam Elliot!" retorted Jordan. "I hear we're dissecting that Wookie on your face next Biology class."

At this Jenny left crying. She should have known better. A woman doesn't try to come to a man's rescue. That's just silly. But I was still pissed at how Jordan treated her. I wanted to eat the smirk off his face. Instead I took a swig from my Ocean Spray.

"What you drinking there, zombie? Is it blood?" Jordan taunted.

(don'tlethimbateyou...don'tlethimbateyou...don'tlethimbateyou...)

"No. It's a juice box." Once again, it's the best I could come up with.

"What's that, zombie? a Bruce box?" he continued. "How does Bruce taste? Did he struggle like Pete? Was he helpless? Was he, like, a baby? Is that it, zombie? Was Bruce a baby? Do you eat babies, zombie? Huh? Do you eat babies?!?"

(don'tlethimbateyou...don'tlethimbateyou...don'tlethimba-fuck it!)

"YES! Yes, I eat babies! They're the veal of humanity! Mmmmmmm! So tasty! I like the way the meat falls off their little, bendy, un-developed bones without even cooking them! The best part is sucking the head like a crawdad...because that's where they keep the stem cells! Mmmmmmmm. Babies! Can't get enough of them! In fact, isn't your mom expecting?"

"Ye...yeah. My brother. In March," Jordan replied, agog.

"My mouth waters thinking of him basting in all that amniotic fluid."

At this, Jordan started looking a trifle green. I continued.

"You think you could get me a copy of the ultrasound? I'm compiling a menu."

Silence.

"No? Could you at least be a champ and fry up some of the placenta for me after he's born?"

I've heard people joke about it, but I never thought anyone could actually vomit in their own mouth until I saw Jordan do just that.

And then he ran.

Afterward, J looked at me and just said, "Dude!"

And I picked up my sammich and took a big bite, which contained almost zero people.

Especially Petes. There were no Petes in my sammich!

Maybe a Drew or two...and some worcestershire sauce.

So now you know a little about zombies...like not to fuck with us. So go a write a term paper about us or hold a useless march and spread the "good word" (as jesus says)...

ZOMBIES DON'T EAT exclusively PEOPLE!

Alright everyone. Love you mean it.

Until next time.

phhrttttt?

My dinner with J

Ow. My ass hurts.

Hey everybody?

I say "everybody?" because I'm not so sure there's anybody out there. Where are you guys? I'd say I miss you, but I don't even know you. Because you don't comment on my bloggety blog blog!

(...and after i bloggety blog blogged all over her knee caps, she asked me for my number and i was all like, "girl, i ain't even given you my name. what makes you think you'll blog a number out of me?") LOL

J's such a slut.

Speaking of J, I hung out with him yesterday. It was pretty on point. Although I'm a little worried about J. I think he may be depressed or something. I don't know. I'll get to that.

Anyway, we went on a picnic. Daaaaaamn...I hadn't been on one of those in years. He called me up yesterday morning and says, "What UUUUUUUUUUUP, Scotty McHottie! Pack some shit! You and I are going on a picnic."

And I was like, "Daaaaaaamn...I haven't been on one of those in years."

So I packed up a basket with some drinks, chips, a blanket, a thermos full of some awesome left-over hobo stew from the night before (my mom makes the best hobo stew. i don't know how she gets the hobos so tender, but they're perfect) and some of my grandmama's famous fudge (that shit is on point). I finished getting ready just as J pulled into the driveway (J only has his learners permit still, but that doesn't stop him. he's so fucking cool). I hopped into his dad's Landcruiser and we made like a fetus and headed out.

On the way we listened to the '96 Broadway revival cast recording of Chicago. When We Both Reached For The Gun started playing, J turned it up and said, "Scotty, you gotta belt this shit out of the park. You're on point when you sing this." And I did. And when it got to the end, where James Naughton does the big 16 measure hold on the last note with the slide, I fucking nailed it.

We went to City Park. The park is still pretty messed up from Katrina, but they're making good strides on getting it back on point. The fun park is running again and there are some spots that don't totally look like Kthulu wiped his butt with it. What's kinda cool is that because so much of the park is still being rebuilt, people don't really care about it. Not many people know where the good, secluded spots are. J does. J knows all of them. He found this really good spot off the foot path that was surrounded by trees and bushes and has really good grass. He's so on point.

I laid out the blanket and we started to set out food. It was a really nice day and when the food was all set we fucking... grubbed... out. We didn't talk at all while we ate. We just chowed. By the time we were done, the sun started getting pretty hot (for November at least), so J said, "Fuck this, man! I'm hotter'n two rats fucking in a wool sock! Are you hot?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty hot."

"Yeah. You look it. Let's take off our shirts."

So we did. It's hard not to get a little self conscious with your shirt off around J. He's got a pretty good body. He's on the swim team and is in varsity lacrosse and shit, so he's pretty ripped. Me, I'm in jazz choir and a zombie. I need to start doing push ups.

Then J took a tube of sunscreen from his bag, threw it at me and said, "Put some of this on my back."

So I did.

While I was applying the cream, J just sorta sat there, really quiet. It was fine and all, but something seemed like it was missing. I kept expecting J to blab on about some date he had the night before with one of his "duty-free who-weres" as he calls them, because "there's no tax and you can catch 'em when you're comin' or goin'". But he didn't say anything. He just sat there. Then he said, "So, here's something I've always wanted to ask you, man."

I stopped rubbing him for a sec. He was just staring off into the sky. "Sure, man. What's up?"

Still watching the clouds, J asked, "Have you ever...you know...turned someone?"

"Turned someone? What do you mean?"

"You know. Into... like you."

"Oh." I continued rubbing in the cream. "No. Never. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know." He said, dropping his gaze and picking bits of grass out of the ground. "I just feel sometimes like I don't know anything about you. What's it like being... like you?"

"I don't know. Pretty cool I guess. I don't have to worry about wearing seat belts and that impersonation I do of Christopher Reeve falling off his horse always gets laughs at parties."

J laughed, "Heh. Yeah. That shit's on point. But it's pretty creepy how your neck does that sideways thing." J paused for a full minute. I kept rubbing. "So... you just can't die? At all?"

"Well, yeah I can die. Everyone dies. It's just... I'm already dead, so I can't die like you." I started wondering what J was getting at. He didn't seem like himself at all. I finished rubbing him. "What's going on, J? You alright?"

"Yeah! I'm just wondering about what it's like to be a... like you."

"A zombie, J. You can say it." I reached around and squeezed his cheeks together so he made fish lips. "Zaaaaaaahm-beeeeeeeeee."

He slapped my hand away, "Get off me man! I'm serious! I just-" J stopped there and turned to me. I saw in his face... I don't know how to describe it. Confusion is the closest word I can think to approximate it, but even that isn't quite right. "You ever... you ever feel like you don't know who you are? Like you're just living a lie and that you need to do or be someone else?"

I looked into J's chocolate brown eyes and tried to read him. He didn't look like J. He looked... innocent. Pure. The expression on his face looked as if it was an expression his face had never made before, and it was painful for him to wear it. Like a mask with spikes and really pissed-off piranhas glued on the inside. I didn't know what to say. I was struck dumb.

"No," I finally belched impotently. I was all too aware of the onion on my breath from my mom's hobo (made with real hobos!) stew "I've never felt that way."

J's expression changed. He looked disappointed. Beaten. Completely alone. While it sucked to see my dear friend look as if I just told him that not only is there no Santa Claus, but that the real St. Nicholas was a dirty Turk, it was a lot better than looking at the painful countenance he wore a second earlier.

"Never mind, then," he moaned. "Forget it." And he turned around and continued picking at the grass.

I didn't know what to do. I was stuck. In my family, food and a good speech always helps. I had no idea what I would say, but I did remember that I still had fudge. I stood up and walked to my basket, hoping beyond hope that I would know what to say by the time I walked back to J.

I didn't. No idea. So I sat next to him, put my arm around his shoulder and just started talking.

"Listen, man. I may not know what it's like to be where you are right now. All I know is that I can be me for you... right now. And what I can do as me is sit here and tell you that you... are... the shit. Look at you! You are good looking, bang bitches, the only sophomore on the varsity lacrosse team and you drive your dad's car without a license! It's like you don't give a fuck and everyone loves you for it. You're what every guy in school wants to be and who every girl in school wants to do! No! I don't know what you're going through at the moment, but I do know that I wouldn't really mind going through it because... honestly? I kinda wish I was more like you."

Afterward, J remained quiet for what seemed like forever. Then he looked over at me. "You really think I'm good looking?"

"Dude! Look at you! Shut up!"

"Can I ask you one other thing?" he bleated meekly.

"Anything, bro."

"If ever you do want to... you know... change someone into... someone like you, could you make it me?"

I turned to him. He was looking at me again with that inexpressible expression. The one that hurt to look at. Once again, I didn't know what to say. I just talked.

"Tell you what. If it ever comes down to it, you'll be first on my list."

J went back to looking a little defeated but not as bad as before. "Alright. Fair enough."

Another pause from J, broken by, "You want... you want me to put some cream on you. You're gonna burn."

"Naw, man. I'm a zombie, 'member? We may be pasty but we don't burn."

"Alright," J sighed.

Then I remembered the fudge. Fudge'll cheer him up. "Hey! I forgot! I brought my grandmama's fudge!" and I held it up.

He looked at the fudge. "You packed fudge?"

"Yeah!"

"Heh," he chuckled. "Fudge packer."

"Fuck you!" and I smashed the fudge in his face.

Then we laughed and wrestled and rolled around on the grass. And, I tell you what, J knows how to fucking wrestle. He mostly pinned me into submission, but I blame it on the fact that his body was greasy from all the cream I rubbed on him. At one point, when he had my shoulders pressed firmly to the ground, he looked me in the eye very seriously. I could feel his breath on my face and it made me conscious, once more, of my mom's hobo (one whole hobo in every batch!) stew. I held my breath.

He asked tenderly, "We on point, right?"

"Yeah, man," I squeaked out, trying not to breathe roasted garlic and expired transient on him. "We on point."

And then I somehow kicked free, catapulting my body up in the air. I almost gained my footing but then slipped and fell backward against J, who caught me in his arms and broke my fall. We both came out unscathed, although I think I fell on his phone or something because when I fell backwards on him, I bruised my tail bone on something hard.

And that's why... ow!... yeah, my ass hurts.

Alright, everyone? (where you at?!?!) Until next time.

merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrn ghh plllbtthtbt...

Fact from fiction

I really love the movies.

I love that feeling I get after I leave one. Afterward, I always end up walking like the character I most relate to. I walk awesome. And it feels gooooood. See, there's a residual patina that film leaves on me (i just learned that word "patina" in lit class today. kick ass that i could actually use it). I think it's because I spend 90+ minutes so identifying with the character and their story that I end up feeling like them after the movie is over. It's kinda weird but it's kinda cool.

I remember the first time it happened to me. I was seven, and I saw The Matrix for the first time. After that I was convinced that I could dodge bullets, do kung-fu and my mom kept yelling at me because I would always hide the spoons before dinner time.

Even though I've matured some, I still feel that way after I watch movies. Especially in the theater. I don't know why it is, but I do know that I just don't want to let go of the movie experience after the credits roll.

Today my besterestest friend in the whole world, Jenny, and I made up. And I can tell you, I walked a lot more awesomely than I ever have after any movie I've ever seen when it happened. It felt gooder than gooooooooood.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're all thinking, "So...was, like, Third Eye Blind playing in the background and did he say some sappy words that, at the onset, seemed like he was reinforcing the point he made that pissed her off in the first place and then turned them around in such a way to show her that the thing that he was actually saying was the sweetest thing anyone could ever say to her, and then she ran into his arms and and they spooned and cried and the soundtrack switched to Mazzy Star and they lived happily ever after in a Calvin Klein commercial?"

No.

Jenny...has...a moustache.

I like hot chicks. I'm on a strict hot-chick diet. I can't stomach girls who sport facial yetis. I don't dig girls who need to epi-dude their face.

What I did do was sit next to her in English Lit class and set an apple on her desk. She looked at the apple and then looked at me and said, "You know I fucking hate apples."

And I replied, "Yes. But that's not an apple. It's a canary."

And she said, "Izzawhuuuut?"

And I was like, "Ancient minors from, like, the 1940s used to carry cages with canaries in them to tell them when the air was too thin in the shaft, or when they hit a pocket of methane or some shit. If the canary died, they knew they needed to get the fuck out. This apple is a canary. I know how much you hate me right now, and you have every right to. I also know how much you hate apples. I'm gonna sit next to you this entire period. If you can sit through Lit with that apple on your desk, it'll show me that you mind that apple's presence less than mine and I'll know where I stand and get the fuck out. If you throw it away, I'll know that we have a chance of patching things up and I should apologize for being the biggest dick-face in the world."

And then she bit into the apple. I wasn't expecting that.

"Maybe you should just apologize for being the biggest dick-face in the world," she gagged through her mouthful of apple, pieces of it getting stuck in her grotesque lip-ferret.

"Oh. Alright. I'm sorry. I was a dick-face. We cool?"

"Yeah. We cool," she said, spitting apple chunks into the aisle.

"Good. You wanna see a movie tonight? My treat!"

"Your treat? No. I want to see three movies tonight." She insisted.

I couldn't help but notice that there was a bit of apple stuck in her moustache. I rubbed my finger across my upper lip and said, "Uhhhhh...Jenny. You got a little apple right he-"

"DON'T YOU START!"

"You're beautiful. You look perfect. BEST FRIEND EVER!" And shut up.

And so we went to the movies. Three of them. If you've been keeping score, that's three different walks for me in one night. For a guy who usually just meanders aimlessly, that's a lot of different walks.

The first was the bad-ass, don't-fuck-with-me walk of Clive Owen's "Smith" in Shoot 'em Up. After the movie was over, Jenny was all like, "Go get me another Diet Coke while I find us seats for the next movie." I and was all, "Fuck yeah, I will! I buy you a Diet Coke! I'll buy the shit out of that Diet Coke!" And I went.

At the concessions counter, there was too much of a line. So I took a handful of complimentary, butter flavored topping and I smeared it on my chest. Then I slid across the counter, length-wise, and stopped perfectly face-to-face with a teller who was absolutely agog (well...not really face-to-face. i suppose i had to scootch back about a foot and a half. but the teller was still agog). I then stuffed a crumply $5 bill into his pocket and said, "Diet Coke. A hard top. And make sure it has a big trunk."

I know I got bad-ass Clive Owen films mixed up there, but I was in the moment. Deal.

Either way, the concessions guy knew what I meant and gave me a large Diet Coke.

The second walk was modeled after Andrew Garfield's character in Lions for Lambs. Basically, I walked around like a nonchalant and spoiled white kid with a winning smile. I stood in the coffee line for 15 minutes, and then when I got to the counter and the barista asked me what I wanted, I just stared at her...not speaking...for a long time...and then walked away.

I think, really, I was pretty much any character in that film. Not just Andrew Garfield's. Ineffectual and impotent. Kinda like the film.

As a movie that preaches the evils of passivity, should it like itself for being the most passive film ever made?

Finally, we got through 30 Days of Night. And you know what I walked like after that? Take a guess.

I walked like a fucking zombie. That's what I walked like! You know why? Because there was absolutely nothing with which I could relate!

Let me get one thing straight right now: vampires don't exist!!!

At all.

Period.

Never.

And I really don't understand why you livers are so fascinated by them. They're faggy. They can't dress. They're fucking mean. And yet you romanticize them like they're the next fucking coming!

You know what a vampire is? A vampire is a zombie on a liquid diet.

THAT'S IT!

That would mean my fucking mom is a vampire. I haven't seen her take down anything but Maker's manhattans in years. You want to make a movie about her?

No? I thought not.

30 Days of Night sucked.

Pun fucking intended!

Alright. I'm gonna stop now before I get too emotional. In the end, Jenny and I had a good time at the movies and I'm glad we made up.

Alright everybody. Have a good weekend.

Just remember: VAMPIRES DON'T FUCKING EXIST

What a ridiculous concept.

Until next time.

phhpbbbbbbptptptptpttt...vampires

Does it hurt being retarded?

I found my college!

So today after school I was thinking about what to write when I decided to see if google has picked up my blog yet. You see, no one has dropped by or commented, which kinda depresses me [but don't worry, not in the Emma way...although I do kinda miss her...(sigh)], so I checked google to see if I'm listed yet. I started with googling my name, but that was pretty useless. There are, like, 712 Scott Lanphiers out there. One is an licensed traffic engineer (whatever that means...does he, like, have a license to engineer traffic or something?), one is a guitar player (pretty cool, pretty cool) and one is a fucking nerd (i'm mentally giving you a wedgie right now, fucking nerd).

Because that didn't work, I started googling keywords that I've used in my blog ("...and then she put the blog gag in my mouth and i was like, "mmmmmfffblogblogblog...mggfffffff!" hee hee). Things that would most likely give me a hit. Like "zombie" or "eye jelly" or "LINDSAY LOHAN DOING ANAL" [alright...I didn't use that in my blog, but i'm bound to get hits now ;)], and I found that no fewer than five of the words or terms I used in my last post have been banned from the Queen's English according to the "Lake Superior State University 2007 List of Banished Words".

How...frigging...AWESOME. Sure, according to the sage and learned philosophers of language at "Michigan's smallest public university with an enrollment of 3,000 students, known for its academic programs such as fisheries and wildlife management", my vernacular is sub-par. But my feelings aren't hurt by this. I mean, a bunch of fishers and zoo keepers have called out my vocabulary. But it's cool. They can teach me how to talk properer! We all know what paragons of linguistic excellence those guys are. At any rate, it probably isn't the greatest strategy for Lake Superior State University (i didn't know that lake superior was a state? i though it was a lake! and part of it is in canada, too, so it's part commie lake!) to publish this list of banned words as it may deter some students, students like me, from ever applying to attend their prestigious mecca of learning about how to gut fish and unblock horses' colons?

Sorry. Wild horses' colons.

But I'm bigger than that. I won't let a little verbal challenge deter me from scholastic excellence. I mean...that's probably the reason they only have 3,000 students. Only 3,000 students! They must be awesome. So, I wrote their admissions staff. Here's what I sent.



From: Scott Lanphier <braaaaaaaaains at gmail dot com>
Date: Nov 07, 2007 4:35 PM
Subject: Am I laker material?
To: admissions@lssu.edu

Hey admissions...

My name is Scott Lanphier. I'm 15 years old and a sophomore at TE Lawrence high school (GO SAND MONKEYS!) in New Orleans, LA (that's louisiana, not los angeles...just in case there was any confusion). I know it's a little early for me to be looking into colleges, but I like to get a jump on things. I came across your University website and, I have to say, I'm intrigued. With only 3,000 students, you must be a highly elite school. I wonder if I have what it takes to be a "laker". Let me tell you a little about myself and you can tell me if I'm worthy to be part of your selective student body.

I currently have a 3.8 GPA and my focus is on English. I want to be a writer when I grow up. Do you have any of those where you are? Writers? How about English? Do you have English there, too? I'm also very active in extra-curricular activities like student government and jazz choir. I'm a soloist for my jazz group and we've competed many times. I'm going to be on American Idol someday. Do you have that where you are? American Idol? How about television?

The last thing I should tell you is that I'm a zombie. Some people tell me that I shouldn't call myself a zombie as it's considered an epithet, but I really don't mind. I take pride in my heritage. If you feel uncomfortable with calling me a zombie, you can call me "retched un-dead" or "slow-motion American" if you like. I don't care. Whatever.

Do you offer any zombie scholarships?

Anyways...please get back to me. I'm interested in hearing back from you.

Thanks in advance. I know I have everything it takes to be a laker.

Best,

Scott Lanphier

PS - On your website it says, "Every generation that sets foot in the historical buildings of our campus or walks the ground where many have before, leaves something of themselves for others to find."

What do they leave behind for others to find? Is it, like, fingers and stuff?

I don't know about you, but studying makes me awful hungry.

I hope they get back to me.

Hopety hope hope.

Until next time.

thhhhhllrrrrrrrrrrrm...PWNED!

PS - To the guy who left the comment on the LSSU website's banishment page that reads "When did the notorious Guantanamo Bay Naval Base change to 'Gitmo'?"

The answer is 1903. When the base was established.

PWNED!

Congratualtions! It's a dictator!

Do you like gum?

It's scrumptious.

There's the chewiness and the awesomeness and the life-savingness of it. It rocks my zombie cock off!

Hello everybody. How was your weekend? Mine? Well, it was absolutely horrific. Pretty much the worst 48 hours of my life, honestly. Absolutely miserable.

I just stayed in my room. I didn't even shower or brush my teeth. And that says a lot. I'm very particular about my hair, finger nails and teeth. I was depressed. I couldn't stop thinking about what a tool I made of myself at the party. How could I possibly think it was a good idea to tell Emma that I was dressed up like her? Let alone subtly offer to, you know, kill her. How could I possibly allow myself to belittle my besterestest friend in the whole world just because her upper lip looks as if it's going to pupate. How could I possibly live with myself after all that humiliation and an entire weekend of listening to fucking Dido?

Scotty is lonely and Mary's in India now.

But this morning, before school, as I was doing my hair and still listening to Dido, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, "Really? What's the point? Who am I doing my hair for? To hell with this!" And I dropped my blow dryer and Dirt texturizing paste by Jonathan and ran out of the bathroom almost in tears (but not in a faggy way. i was really hurting).

And then I tripped on the chord of the vacuum cleaner, which was being wielded by Khieu, our mexican maid, and fell hard and got "let me eat my own scrotum kneed" like Jeff did a few weeks back (you like how I'm linking now? it looks like all the bloggers do it so just call me a lemming...or a blogemming...a blemming? heh heh). It was then, as I sat there on the edge of tears (but not really, because I'm not faggy), screaming, "GAAAAAAAAAAAHH-ha-ha-hAAAAAH! GET ME A KEBAB STICK SO I CAN SATAY MY PRECIOUS GACK FACTORIES," I thought that my life couldn't possibly get any worse. And then Khieu, who's a mexican, came over and started talking to me.

And it got a lot worse.

No no. Not because she's mexican. I don't mind that she's mexican. I mean, usually I don't want mexicans talking to me, sure. It's like, unless you're asking me if I want to super-size it, then silencio por favor, right? But it wasn't like that. She was all, "Mr. Skote. Are you the o.k.?"

And I just looked at her. I was in too much pain to answer. I don't know what she saw in me but she looked at me with some of the most tender and loving eyes I've ever seen on a liver, so I guess I was looking pretty pathetic. Not wanting to seem too faggy, I finally willed myself to speak.

"You smell like onions." I whimpered.

"Mr. Skote," she replied smoothly, "I know you just, how you say, pwned yourself, but I have something to show you. Come." and she lifted me up like a baby, cradled me into her massive, chipotle bosom, and carried me to the back yard where she laid me down in a lawn chair by our pool.

"You stay. I return right back." she said, and she waddled her grande mexi-nuggets to the servants' cottage and left me alone to my thoughts.

While I was alone I thought about Jesus. I wondered what he would do if he were in my situation. Surely he felt the same type of depression I was going through all weekend. I mean, when you're up on a cross with thorns digging in your skull and nails in your hands, you gotta stop and think, "Shit. People don't like me very much. My life fucking sucks." It's gotta take a toll. But then I remembered that he forgave those who persecuted him. He asked his father (although I really don't know why) to "forgive them, for they know not what they do". And I decided to forgive Emma and Jenny for being such bitches. For they know not what they do, either. They're girls.

And I felt a little better. Until Khieu came out of her cottage carrying a box and dangling my cat, Tendons, from a stick.

Tendons was dead.

I went off.

"YOU FUCKING UNDOCUMENTED BITCH! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CAT?!? WHAT DID YOU DO TO TENDONS!?!?"

And then Khieu showed me the box and how it was full of kittens. She explained how she woke late the night before to a strange noise coming from under the servants' cottage. When she went outside to investigate she found Tendons under the entry stairs giving birth to these kittens. She helped Tendons deliver them all but, unfortunately, Tendons gave up the ghost after squeezing the last one from her pussy and died.

"She died to give you these beauties right here."

I looked down at the kittens. They slept so peacefully. One of them was suckling the end of its own tail.

"I didn't know Tendons was pregnant," I said, feebly.

"They hiding it really good." She said, her thick mexican accent making her sentiment almost unintelligible. "Is not beautiful? The Tendons sacrifice is sad, but she give many more Tendons to us! I thinked you may cheer happy from this."

"I didn't even know Tendons was a girl."

And then I ran. I ran to school. I didn't have my book bag. I hadn't brushed my teeth. I was still in my pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt, for fucks sake. I didn't care. I had to get out of there. My necrotic brain couldn't process it. I had a bad weekend. How the fuck would Tendons's death make that any better? Fuck you, mexi-bitch! I'm sending your ass back to Gitmo!

On the way I got hit by a car.

I completely phased through homeroom and Geometry. I jumped at every whisper. I thought everyone was talking about me and my embarrassing show at the party. Turns out...they were actually talking about me, but not for the reasons I thought. If it's gonna be this bad now, I can only imagine what third period would be like. I dreaded third period. Jazz Choir. How could I face Emma?

I walked into the conservatory, and the whole room went silent. And then it just started up again. No laughter. No mocking. Everyone just looked at me for a second, in my pajama bottoms and with unbrushed teeth, and went about their business. Class had started. I expected much worse.

Until Mrs. James, our choral director, said she wanted to rehearse "Up On the Roof", the number where Emma and I have a solo. I thought I would die.

But you know what happened?

You know what?

Emma and I took our places in front of the choir. And she didn't hit me. She didn't scream at me for being such a freak. She just stood there, very cutely snapping her gum in her teeth. She then looked at me and said, "You got a little something right here," while motioning in the general area of the back of her head. I reached back and found that the license plate of the car that hit me was still embedded in the back of my skull (btw - if the owner of a grey pontiac, license plate imb-007 is reading this, you're an asshole).

I took it out.

"And your breath stinks." And she threw a stick of green Extra at me.

Now, normally I would have been mortified to...well...death. I mean, the girl I loved, whom I asked to homecoming and who answered, "I'll think about it", the girl whom I dressed as for Halloween and whose life I offered to end tells me I have a license plate hanging out the back of my head and that my breath stinks? Yeah! I'ma normally fucking shrink up to a little nuthin' nuthin' and just...well...die! That is fucking bad.

But you know what? I can see the silver lining in almost anything. I can take a negative and find any positive in it. I can. That's the kind of person I am.

Emma told me about the license plate. Emma threw gum at me. Emma still cares.

That turned me around instantly.

So you know what I did? I picked up the gum...and I ate it!

And then I said, "So...homecoming. Are you still thinki-"

"No."

"Cool." I said. And I chewed my gum.

I chewed the shit out of it.

After school I ran home. I was elated. The birds were singing. I was out of my funk. I wanted to tell mom and dad about how Emma cured me from my blues, but all I found was Khieu and that dumb box of kittens. So I told her. Even though I knew it was pointless. Mexicans don't have feelings.

"...and then she threw her gum at me and I was cured. Isn't that GREAT?!? I feel GREAT! Isn't gum GREAT?!?!" I finished to Khieu.

"Yes, Mr. Skote. That's the wonderful. But what do you thinking we should do with small cats?"

"Shit. I don't know. We should name them, I guess."

"Yes. Good idea. What should we name them?"

"You know, Khieu...I realize now that you were trying to cheer me up this morning. I want you to know that I'm grateful for your attempt, even though you dangled my dead cat in front of me on a stick. So I think you should pick one and name it yourself."

"Oh...Mr. Skote. I could not do this."

"Sure you can! Why don't you name it after an influential leader from your country. Who had the biggest affect on your heritage?"

"Pol Pot."

"Pol Pot. I see. Wasn't...wasn't he Cambodian?"

"Yes. Like me. I'm Camodian."

"I see."

Silly mexican. She doesn't even know where she's from. Mexicans are so cute.

Kinda like my new kittens, one of whom is named Pol Pot.

Until next time.

Hrrrrrrrrngggggggh....4outof5dentistsrecommendit

PS - I think I need to apologize for saying that Emma had an abortion in my last post (dag...linking is handy). It's not true. She didn't (that i know of). I made it up. I was just hurting and angry and needed to lash out irrationally. She's a good christian girl. She'd never have an abortion, let alone sex.

Ever.

ever.

Shuffle on this mortal coil

I don't want to talk about it.

I just...I don't want to talk about it.

I just want to give you...

The Top-Ten Ways I Would Kill Myself If I Weren't Already Dead.

Brought to you by the fact that I hate my un-life and have been listening to Dido for the last 24 hours.

10) Cry until I die of dehydration

But not fagilly. I'd still want my death to be a manly one. Like if I feel like I'm all cried out, I'll force the tears out like a stubborn turd through my eye sockets. I'd probably die of an aneurism before dehydration, but that's ok. At least I'd be dead.

9) Swallow a frisbee

I don't know. I saw it here once. It made me wish I was alive so I could at least have the option of taking my life in such an original fashion. I envy you livers.

8) Smoke 9,986,400 cigarettes at once

They say smoking one cigarette takes three minutes off your life. If I was alive, I'd have 57 years left in me. That's 29,959,200 minutes. Divide that by three and that's how many cigarettes I'd have to smoke at once to die immediately. Granted, I'd need a mouth the size of a small country to smoke that many cigarettes at the same time. But if I did, I'd name that country "Flavor Country".

7) Sing the complete, Broadway Cast Recording of "Jekyll and Hyde" featuring David Hasselhoff

Because, really, you have nowhere to go but dead after you've sunk so low.

6) Go back to 1997 and be Michael Hutchence

But not fagilly. I just love INXS. But his death did need more rock to it. I'd add more tattoos and fewer broom handles.

5) Death by fjord

I don't really know what a fjord is, but I know that people die from them all the time. It sounds pretty manly, I guess. "Built fjord tough!" I just don't really know how to get a fjord to kill me. Do I mock it?

4) Die for your sins

I wouldn't mind going out Jesus style. He is the MAN!

3) Share a Coke with a gay guy with AIDS

They say that sharing a Coke with a gay guy with AIDS won't put you at risk for getting the AIDS. Something about how the Coke will kill the virus before it gets in your system or something. But I don't believe them. I mean, it didn't work for Emma that time she douched with it to have an abortion. She had to have an actual abortion instead. Anyway, I think I'm bad enough that I deserve to get AIDS. But I don't want to do the other stuff homos do to get it. Besides, I like Coke. And quilts.

2) Shoot myself in the foot

Which I've pretty much already done. Emma (notice she's plain ol' Emma now) won't go to the dance with me. Jenny won't talk to me. I may as well be done for. Besides, you always hear about those soldiers in Viet Nam who used to shoot themselves in the foot to go home. Those guys are pussies. Just once I think it would be funny if one of them actually died from their foot wound. But I wouldn't want to just die from something stupid like blood loss from a foot wound. I deserve much worse than that. It's gotta be like, "Hey, Dallas. Did you hear what happened to Zombie?"

"No, Joker, what happened to Zombie?"

"He fucking shot himself in the foot and died!"

"Aw, shit! That fucker owed me five bucks and a pack of nudie cards! Did he fucking bleed to death? That pussy!"

"No, man. Not that fagilly. After he shot himself his wound got all infected."

"Aw, shit! Did he fucking die of jungle rot? That pussy!

"No, man! Hear me out! After he got the infection his wound started to smell. One day the scent attracted some wild boars who tried to eat him, foot first. So he started runnning. Well, because he couldn't get away fast enough because of his hurt foot, the boars caught up with him and started chowing on his feet. And he started screaming for help. Well all that noise attracted an entire VC envoy that was mobilizing to flank his platoon's position. Knowing that he couldn't let the little gook bastards get his buddies, he started shooting at them instead of the pigs that were eating him. He killed every...single...one of those yellow commie fuckers and didn't stop firing until the pigs ate his trigger finger."

"Aw, shit! Did he fucking die of a slow painful death that he could have avoided if he didn't selflessly sacrifice himself for God, Country and Corps? That...awesome som'bitch!"

"Yeah, man! That Zombie was built tough."

"Yeah. Fjord tough. Want a rip on my thai stick?"

"Yeah, man. Pass it over."

"'ear..."

1) Eat my own head

Because I'm pretty sure it hasn't been done.

Until next time.

BOOM!

mhhhhrrrrr...still alive

Alright. I lied.

Everything is a disaster. It's all fucked.

I know I said my next post would be more positive, but it's kinda hard to write about puppy noses and chocolate covered gerbils when your whole fucking world is crashing down around you.

So I went to the party last night dressed up as the slutty police officer, right. Well guess who showed up with the exact same fucking costume.

You guessed it! Hot, alto, style biting Emma.

If I wasn't already dead, I probably would have died from the embarrassment then and there.

My first instinct when I saw her was to bolt, run home and put on something...anything...other than what I was wearing. But it was too late. Eileen, Emma's friend (and a shitty soprano) saw me and screamed, "OH...MY...GAWD! Emma! Some bitch is wearing your costume!" At which point, hot, alto, style biting, enraged Emma saw me and was all like, "SCOTT!?!"

Alright, maybe it was here that I would have died if I weren't already dead.

Then she stormed over to me, holding a Jello shot, and started screaming, "What are you doing dressing up as a slutty police woman! (k...she didn't say "slutty") I'm the [slutty] police woman! You can't be the [slutty] police woman! You're not even a [slutty] woman! You're a boy! I can't believe you!"

And I froze. I didn't quite know what to say. So I just said the first thing that came to my mind. "I'm not a [slutty] police woman [hot, alto, style biting, enraged yet still ravenously edible] Emma. I'm...you."

Ok. It should be said. I'mmmmmmmm...not the smoothest when it comes to women. I can hold my own, but when I get all nervous, I choke. My mouth opens up and the wrong things come out. So, when I said that I came to the party dressed as (hot, alto, style biting, enraged yet still ravenously edible and now even more enraged) Emma, I could tell that I would be spending the next five minutes digging myself into a grave far deeper than any of my kind has ever (allegedly) clawed their way out of.

"WHAT?!?!?" I think was her reply.

"Ummm...yeah. I dressed up as you. heh heh."

"WHAT?!?!?" I think was her other reply. "You think this is what I look like?!? You think I look like a...a..."

"Slut?" I idiotically finished for her.

Silence. Her face scrunched up like an elderly Muppet. Her Jello shot jiggled furiously.

"Yeah," (oh shit no) "WAIT! No! I don't. It's just..." (lielielielielie) "...I...knew that you were going to be here tonight as a [slutty] police woman and thought it would be funny if, you konw, I did the same thing. (changetacticschangetacticschangetactics) I mean, come on! Lighten up! How many people dress up as freaking zombies for Halloween, huh? You don't see me screaming at everybody who comes dressed up like me, do you?"

She softens a bit, her Jello shot, until now rippling hideously, goes still. She eyes me suspiciously. I think, for a moment, that I may have appeased her. That's the bonus of being a minority. When in doubt, pull the race card. Shit, it works for Al Sharpton. Either way, it looks as if I have her. All I have to do is not fuck up.

(don'tfuckupdon'tfuckupdon'tfuckup)

"But you always come as something dead. Dead disco and that sort of shit. How can you be me? I'm not dead."

(don'tfuckupdon'tfuckupdon'tfuckup)

"Well...we can remedy that."

(FUCKUP!FUCKUP!FUCKUP!)

It's then that (hot, alto, style biting, enraged yet still ravenously edible and even more enraged and totally not going to homecoming with me) Emma threw her Jello shot in my face and stormed away.

Why am I such a fuck up? Why?

Jello shots in the face aren't really that pleasant. They're fucking gross.

And then, to make matters worse, my besterestest friend Jenny walks up, dressed as some dude in a Hawaiian shirt with a parrot.

"That could have gone better." she laments. "Did you really come dressed as her?"

"No. Of course not. I...wait. What are you supposed to be?"

"Me? I'm Magnum PI?"

"Nice! Good call! You didn't even have to splurge for the fake moustache."

At which point Jenny throws her Jello shot in my face and storms off.

Seriously. Jello shots in the face? Fucking ew.

Whatever. Bitches is crazy, right?

Right?

Shit. If I could die, I'd die alone, huh?

Until next time.

FBBLEGGGGGHHHNNNNNNNNNNfuck...

sHalloween

Happy Halloween and everything everybody. Y'all have your costumes sorted out? Let me guess. You're going as a slutty (fill in the blank), aren't you?

If all my readers were women, I'd be 100% correct.

Do you like Halloween? Really? I'm sort of up the air about it. Halloween has always been a really weird time for me. You'd think that I'd be all into it and everything being as that it's my day and all. It's kinda like...I don't know...flags not really being sure whether or not they like Flag Day. Not really true, though. I just can't get excited about Halloween. It's not just the confusion I feel over everyone dressing up pretty much like me and wandering aimlessly in the streets, although that is pretty weird. I mean, how would you feel if you were African-American and everyone rolled in the mud and hung outside of popeye’s chicken every Martin Luther King Jr. day? you’d get a little creeped out, huh? I mean, people go out of their way, sometimes spending tens of dollars, just to look as much like me as possible on Halloween, and most of the time they get it completely wrong!

For starters, we do not drool blood. We don’t have any. We’re dead, get it? And if we had some blood dribbling down our chins after chowing on heads, honestly, we’d wipe it off with a hanky or a wet nap. I mean, do you, as a liver, walk around with spaghetti sauce or mayonnaise globbies on your chin? No? I didn’t think so.

Another one that gets me is the dangly eyeball. If you had a dangly eyeball pendulously swinging from your face, wouldn’t you do something about it? Maybe go to the doctor or, I don’t know, PUT IT BACK IN YOUR FRIGGIN’ HEAD?!? It just makes no sense. You’d never see me with a dangly eyeball. We have three cats in my house. How would I snuggle with Carnage, Tendons and Ginger Snap if they kept batting at this puttytat punching bag suspended from my skull? Get real!

But I’m getting beside the point. I really don’t mind people dressing up like me. Aside from the blatant errors in consistency, I’m actually kinda honored. What makes Halloween a difficult time for me is, while everyone else is having fun getting gruesome and shit, I’ve really got nowhere to go with it. I’m already there. I mean, I’m by no means hideous. I’ve actually been told that I’m quite handsome. But I am most definitely a zombie. Where do I go from there? I feel kinda left out. Like all those African-American people must feel on Martin Luther King Jr. day. Once a year, everyone gets together in awareness of the fact that it sucks to be black, while the black people are aware of this all year ‘round. It's not so special for them.

I suppose I could go in the opposite direction. You know, get all fancied up and stuff. But that isn’t really in keeping with the whole idea around Halloween, is it? It would just be stupid. Like all the girls who use October 31st as an excuse to dress up as a slutty nurse or slutty devil or slutty girlscout or slutty...bowl of congealed turkey gravy. I tried it one year and no one got it. I dressed up in a three-piece suit, slicked my hair back and even put on some makeup to look more living. They didn’t understand that I was making a statement on everyone dressing like me. I even wore a flowery thong on the outside of my pants as a statement on how they always get zombies wrong, but that went over their heads too. They just said, “Damn, Scotty. You’re looking good! Nice panties. Want a Jello shot?” It was kinda embarrassing.

But I figure, screw it. This day was custom-made for me and my people (in mexico it’s the next day, november 1st. but that goes without saying. they’re lazy. of course they’re going to be a day late.). If I can’t make anyone appreciate me on Halloween, I’ll appreciate me on Halloween. So I just dress up conceptually as things that tickle me. I’m already dead, so I use that as my basis. After all, you gotta play to your strengths, right? The girls do when they dress up as slutty plumbers and slutty...girls. So I play up the dead. And even though no one gets me, at least I do.

Last year I put on a dress and made a fake FBI badge. Everyone was all like, “HAHAHAHAHA! Scotty’s a woman!” And I was like, “No I’m not. I’m J. Edgar Hoover.” And they were all, “J. Edgar Who?” and I was like, “-ver...yes! J. Edgar Hoover. Ex-director of the FBI.” And I’d show them the badge I spent hours making with a photo-chopped picture of J. Edgar Hoover on it. They’d look at it and say, “But this dude is a dude and you’re in a dress.” And I’d say, “Yeah. But he’s dead. And I’m dead. I’m dead J. Edgar Hoover.”

And they’d be like, “Oh. Want a Jello shot?”

Three years ago I put on a big ol’ afro wig, wore a sequined bell bottom leisure suit and walked around with a mirror ball hanging ‘round my neck. People were like, “Are you, like, 70s Flava Flav?” And I would go, “No! I’m disco!” And they’d say, “I see! Like, a disco dancer?” And I’d say, “No! The social phenomenon of disco. I’m dead. Disco is...you know...’dead as disco’?” And they’d go, “Oh...I get it. Want a juice box?” (because we were too young for jello shots three years ago)

Whatever. I thought it was fucking great.

This year I’m cutting them to the quick. I’ma put on some fishnet stockings, really short black shorts with a yellow stripe up the side and a gun belt, a blue shirt buttoned down to my navel and a policeman’s cap. That’s right. I’m going as a slutty policewoman. I’m dead. The dressing up as a slutty policewoman on Halloween movement is dead. It’s genius.

And even if someone asks, “So...are you, like, one of the Village People or something?” I can smile, look them square in the eye and then gouge it out of their head until it’s all dangly and twitching on their cheek.

Because if you’re gonna get your costume wrong, you should at least do it up right.

Until next time...

trick or mnnnnhhhhhgh...

P.S. - I realize that my last couple of posts have been kinda negative. I'm really not that negative a guy. Honesty honest. I promise that my next post will be about fluffy bunnies and marshmallow dreams. Until that time, Happy Halloween. Unless you're Mexican. I'll wish you feliz dia de los muertos when you finally wake up from your nappy naps.

If at first you don't succeed, try to eat some heads!!!

So I figured out how to put pictures up on my blog ("...and then, just when I thought I was blogged out, she pulled out this huge, miss piggy, double-barrel blogo and started bloggening me with it." heh heh heh. i don't think i'll ever get enough of that). Hence the picture in my last post and my profile pic. It should be noted that I realize the photo in my last post was a little obscure. One thing that you need to know about me is that I'm a cartoon freak. I Louvre all cartoons. Cartoons and british comedies. Have since I was un-born. So, if you didn't get my last pic, you and me is gonna have the problems, esse. Comprende?

[scott adjusts his hairnet, refastens the top button on his flannel shirt and brandishes his pistola, sideways, at su asno negro]

Just kidding. I still, like, like you. Not like like you. That's reserved for (did I mention she's hot and alto?) hot alto Emma. But we'll get to that later.

The profile pic was a doodle my besterestest friend in the whole world, Jenny, made of me yesterday in English Lit class. Isn't it great? Isn't she great? I love her. Not love love her. She's not that kind of friend. Seriously...she isn't.

Alright! I'm gonna take a break and just put an end to this right now. This isn't one of those romantic stories where the best friends grow up together and the girl kinda likes the guy and the guy is oblivious and he takes the hot, hot girl named Emma (hopety hope) to the homecoming dance instead of her, and then she shows up with his arch-enemy, looking gorgeous, and he suddenly sees her in a different light and they find themselves out on a terrace somewhere, perhaps the observatory where James Dean saw his tires getting slashed, and they look out at the city and stars and cry and finally realize that they are right for one-another afterall.

No!

Jenny has a moustache. I find that repulsive. I want to kiss...not floss.

We're not happening.

I'd blog her, though. (heh)

But she is my besterestest friend in the whole world. She gets me. If she was a little hotter, she'd be my soul mate. And by a little hotter, I mean...shaved regularly...but we'll get to that later.

I mean, I don't even floss when I'm supposed to. But, yeah...later.

So, yeah...I guess I'm doing better. I didn't have Butttoine today, but he did corner me in the guys' locker room and apologize for stabbing me in the FUCKING NECK. Well...he didn't apologize, as much as say, "Stuff still coming out your neck, Lanpier!?! No!?! Good! JeBEEZooS!" and then he threw some boxer shorts in my face and ran away. So that's alright, yeah?. He's been through a lot of stress lately and he had a cold that day so he was probably high on Robutussen. Anyway...I consider that a sorry.

And WWJD? J would D up some fo'givness fo'im. So I did. I D'd some forgivness...tar tar...on the grill of my Looooooooooooove!

Heh...sorry y'all. I'm a little giddy today. I realize I shoula been giddy the last time I wrote...but I wasn't. So I won't apologize. But I have some HUGE news. HUGEr than HUGhE Jackman when he was...you know...actually relevant and less homosexual. HUGEr than HUGhE Lorrey when he was...you know...actually funny...

...and less homosexual.

Hot alto Emma totally said. "I'll think about it," when I asked her to homecoming!

I am so fucking IN!

I can't wait to see what happens when she caves into me. Fuck that. She's already caved by saying that she'd think about it (when she told two others "no"). I just can't wait to see what the rest of our lives will be like (likety like like).

I see us holding hands through the rest of high school. We'll probably lose our virginity (yes...i'm a virgin...and proud of it!!!) on Prom night and then move on from there. We'll have a rough spot in college, because I want to go to William and Mary (go tribe!) to study literature in the footsteps of our founding fathers, and she'll want to go to Johns Hopkins to study pre-med in the footsteps of, I don't know, Nancy L. Craig? In college she'll be TOTALLY faithful to me. I mean...TOTALLY. And I'll be at her graduation, smiling, maybe crying (but not too fagilly), because I'm so proud of her. Then she'll go on to med school (where she'll continue to be faithful to me) while I hone my literary craft by living in a squat in London and experimenting, sexually (but not too fagilly). When I come back, she'll have set up a practice in Peoria, Illinois, and her vagina will still be as tight as Simon and Garfunkel harmonies.

And we'll live happily ever after.

That is, if she says "yes". Actually, what she should say is, "I've thought about it, and my answer is a resounding YES. In fact, I don't know why I balked in the first place. Maybe I was playing hard to get. Maybe I was intimidated by your masculine charms. Maybe I NEED TO HAVE MY BRAIN EATEN FOR TRAIPSING YOU ALONG LIKE A CHUMP!"

That's the answer she should give me. That's the only answer I deserve. I'll tell you what'll happen if she says "no". I won't eat her brain. That's so 7th grade. Instead, I'll suck the eye jelly out of her left peepin' ball so she has no depth perception. Then I'll take her to a 3-D movie and laugh at her because she's the only one not having fun. Then I'll saw off her tongue, make her eat it and, without respite, ask her how it tastes. Afterward, I'll sit her down and make her watch "Heroes", because...shit...ouch. And for the grand finale, I'll dress her up as "Dora the Explorer", huck her into a Doll-Fuckers Anonymous meeting and scream, "Here's your thirteenth step, bitches!" and run.

And then afterwards, maybe eat her brain.

So, yeah...I'm probably going stag for homecoming. I probably won't even go.

Fuck! I was feeling great before.

I wish I could kill myself.

Until bllrgghhhh.

flrrrm....

We not laugh

Hhhhnnnhhn...

Gllllrrrrrrrrphlllllpbbt jeeernnnKklbtbttttbtbttttt! FFFFfrrrrrjemmn!

Jerrrrrgn, KKklabshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,,,

GOORRRRRRRJJJJJJJn, FFFLOORRRRRRRRJJJJJJn, GEORGE STEPHANOPOULOS!!!

ow!

Don't you hate it when you accidentally hit that little patch of nerves in your elbow that shoots blinding hot pain down the rest of your arm? You know what I'm talking about, right? And all those tiny pins and needles, all that heat, concentrates at the end of your pinky? Yeah. You know it. I call it "fire pinky" because, well, YOUR FUCKING PINKY IS ON FIRE! That's why.

I just hit my fire pinky spot on the edge of my desk. It's still smoldering. It hurt. It hurt like a bitch. A bitch with a knife. A bitch with a knife that's on fire and who is rubbing it up and down my pinky.

Oooowwwwwwww! Nothing hurts worse than that.

Anyway, today went alright, I guess. I mean, a lot of great stuff happened and everything, but I'm still sorta "meh" about the whole day. It's funny how one little thing can totally take the wind out of your sails when everything else is kicking ass. It's like, I don't know, scoring a goal in soccer, taking off your jersey in celebration, getting your collar caught on your chin, tripping, falling, hitting a rock with your elbow and getting fucking FIRE PINKY. And there you are, writhing on the ground with your shirt half way over your head, screaming "owowowowowowowowowOOOWWWWWWW...FIIIIIRE PIIIIIINKYYYYYYYY!!!" in front of everyone.

I mean, that's enough to fuck up almost anyone's day.

So today, in second period, I found out I got an A on my Geometry test. Pretty friggin' great, right? Sure, I'm a good student, but considering that I have absolutely no aptitude for math what-so-EVAR, the day was looking up from the get-go.

Then, in third-period Jazz Choir, I heard from Christina that Emma, this really hot alto in my group, turned two guys down for homecoming because she said she's waiting for someone else to ask her, and I'm pretty sure its me (hopety hope). She's hot, sweet and has a smokin' body. Did I mention she's hot? I've had a crush on her since the 8th grade so going to homecoming with her would be, like, I don't know. Something cliche like a dream come true or some shit. This is really really good news, so I was flying high by the time I got to DBC.

What other schools call PE, my school calls DBC. We don't know why. No one knows what DBC stands for. Dick and Ball Collective? Deflowering Boy Chodes? Dodgeball Builds Character? (I wish I was funnier so I could come up with a good acronym for that.) It's a mystery. Anyway, we were running a 2k race in the gym because it's rainy out today and Jeff was kicking everyone's ass. Jeff is a little, nerdy chinese kid who's really fast. I don't know how he got so fast with those skinny little yellow legs. Maybe he uses his math skills to make himself more aerodynamic or something. Anyway, he had just lapped us all and was about to pass Jordan, who was second by a long shot. As Jeff started passing Jordan, Jordan totally tripped him and Jeff went down hard. We all stopped running when we heard the >SMACK< so it was completely silent when Jeff started crying.

The way Jeff was sobbing uncontrollably, I would have guessed that he got fire pinkied. Instead, he got "let me eat my own scrotum kneed". Yeah. I think you know what that is. It's when you hit that little patch of nerves in your knee that make you want to feel anything else, even the agony of dining on your own sperm purse. We all gathered around Jeff to see if he was OK, when Mr. Antoine, broke through and started yelling at Jeff. He was all, "Come on, Sevilla! Walk it off you pussy! Pain is in your mind! What you got to do is let go of the pain by letting go of your mind! And your problem! Boy! Is that you got too much mind!"

He then looks directly at me and says, "Look at Lanphier, here. (oh look! he's a poet and didn't know it...and an asshole) He's a zombie! He's got no mind! He doesn't feel any pain! Watch! HopTOOKI!" And then he takes out this ninja knife that he keeps in his sweatpants and fucking STABS ME THROUGH THE FUCKING NECK!

I mean...fuck! Through the fucking NECK! It's not as bad as fire pinky but...yeah...it fucking HURTS. Everyone just sort of stood there laughing as I coughed in agony, dust and stuff falling out of the new wound in my FUCKING NECK. I looked up at Jordan and he mouthed the words, "Loo" and "Ser". I could have gone epidemic on their asses, but I just kept my cool.

My fucking NECK!

Then Asstoine finishes with, "See! He's tough! He doesn't even BLEED! Now pick yourself up you smart sissy and be more like mindless, meandering, zombie Lanphier! HaiooROOken!"

And then he exploded a smoke pellet and ran away. And then the bell rang. And we went to lunch.

I don't know. I suppose it's no big deal. It's just...I don't know. Jeff's a nice guy, even though his people dropped the bomb on Pearl Harbor and Jesus forever hates them for it. He still doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. But that's not what's bugging me. It's not even that everyone was laughing at me or that Mr. Fucktoine stabbed me in the FUCKING NECK...and it hurt. It really hurt.

What's bugging me is just that. It did hurt. A lot. And Antoine told everyone that it didn't. I mean, just because I'm different doesn't mean I don't go through all the same shit everyone else goes through. Sure, a stab through the FUCKING NECK would kill most anyone else that isn't a zombie. Yeah, I'm already dead so it's no big deal. But come on! It's not that I don't feel. I do feel. I feel a lot. I was feeling great until you stabbed me through the FUCKING NECK, Antoine, and then told everyone that I don't feel a thing. Now, I just feel...I don't know. A little victimized, I guess.

And you know what? I think that just might hurt worse than fire pinky.

I'm different, but I'm the same. "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" as Shakespeare's Shylock said. (some people say that shylock is talking about the jews in that speech but i disagree. jews aren't that eloquent. and there isn't a single mention of kvelling or gefilte fish in the entire soliloquy) And while I do not bleed, I do feel. So maybe I should instead quoteth, "If you tickle us, do we not laugh?"

And, yes. Yes we do. Especially if it's hot Emma doing the tickling (did i mention she's hot?). I need to go figure out how I'm going to ask her to the dance. It's gotta be good.

Until next time.

grflllllrrrrrrhhhhhnn...