It has been a few days since I've posted...

But I promise I haven't forgotten. It's been a crazy busy week at school, and life is crazy sometimes. So hopefully this weekend will provide me with some good down-time to finish the post I have been working on for a few days now.

Don't worry, this isn't like every other project I ever start where for the first few days I post like crazy and then I slowly just forget about it. Ohhhh no. Not this one.

Stay tuned, my loyal subscribers. A post is on the way!

No pictures?!

It's currently 1 a.m. and I am probably keeping my roommates up, but I was lying in bed when I had this sudden realization:

Plato = platonic love.
Pythagorus = Pythagorean theorem.
Homer = Homeric simile.

Then I started thinking about the ancient Greek Hippocrates, and what he was responsible for discovering.

Except the problem was, I thought his name was spelled "Hypocrites" (pronounced hip-PAH-crit-ease, in case you were struggling). This made me come to the conclusion that he was responsible for hypocrisy, and that at some point in time, there was a guy who went around consistently saying that things were wrong and then going ahead and doing them anyway. He probably had no friends and was a real jerk.

So I got out of bed and hopped on the internet and Googled "hypocrites" thinking I'd get the Wikipedia page of some ancient Greek douche bag. I just kept getting dictionary definitions for the word. In my half-sleep, I failed to realize that hypocrites is the plural of one single hypocrite, and that it was leading me nowhere. So I Googled "hipocrites", thinking that maybe he spelled his name differently in ancient Greek. Thanks to Google Instant Search, I came up with the wikipedia page for Hippocrates, the Greek guy whose name I was thinking all along, just spelling wrong. And then I was like, "OHHHHH like Hippocratic Oath? Like a doctor?" And sure enough, Hippocrates was a doctor who did a bunch of cool shit. I guess. I didn't actually read the page, just skimmed until I saw "doctor" and then admired the drawing of the bust that is based on his head and shoulders.

Hippocrates = Hippocratic Oath.

Makes a lot more sense than Hypocrites.

But I still think that Hypocrites would have been a huuuuuuuuge douche bag.

The Legend of Black Bob

Today, I unearthed what is possibly the greatest legend in the history of the University of Colorado at Boulder.

I was hanging out with my friend Meghan at the little pond by her dorm. There were ducks and we decided to be super cool and go get bread from her dorm to feed them with.

We were having a jolly time feeding the ducks and some stupid mean geese that came over (we were playing duck, duck, goose... get it!?) for like 15 minutes when Meghan ran out of bread. We each had 2 pieces. So she started sharing mine. I had only been using little pieces to try and train this one particular duck to catch when I threw the bread to him (and she was SO close to getting it, too...). Then we realized that the little fish that eat your spit (we spent a good half hour spitting into the pond like a month ago and watching the little fish eat it) also liked bread.

After throwing a few crumbs to the fishies, we heard this severely starting noise that sounded like someone had just jumped into the pond right underneath the bridge we were standing on, which of course is preposterous because there are about 3 inches between the water and the bottom of the bridge. Needless to say, we were both scared shitless.

We looked into the water to see what had caused this noise. We couldn't see anything besides the little tiny fishies that were there before. So we dropped our one remaining crumb down into the pond to try and stir some sort of response. It went something like this.

"HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST!" I exclaimed. "THAT'S BLACK BOB! I'VE ONLY HEARD LEGENDS, BUT HERE HE IS!! IN THE FLESH! Er... SCALES!"

"Black Bob?" Meghan asked. "What the hell is Black Bob?"

"THAT." I said, pointing to the ominous shadow swimming in the murky waters below us. Black Bob is a giant (maybe 2 feet long) catfish that lives in the pond. I had only heard legends about him, but here he was, eating our humble bready offerings. He gets his name from the distinctive black color of his dorsal fin, the last thing you see before he devours your ever-loving soul.

We were a little freaked at first, but once we identified the sound, we were overjoyed and ran back to her room, giggling and cheering and shouting profanities about how cool Black Bob was. We got the rest of the loaf of bread from her room and spent the next 30 minutes feeding the ducks and the geese and the fish, but most importantly, nourishing the tired, hungry soul of the legendary Black Bob.

And that's what I do on Monday nights. Also, I built a Star Wars Lego set today. So. Happy Monday, everyone.

More things that I hate when they happen.

Sam made me write this. So this is dedicated to her.

The other day, my roommate, his friend that is a girl that might be his girlfriend but I don't know, and myself were all chillin' in our room. They were doing whatever they do, and I was playing my ukulele. I out my uke down on my bed and went into the hallway to use the water fountain to fill up my Brita pitcher. I came back to find this:

The worst part was, he is way better at uke than I will ever be. Also, he is way better at guitar than most people could ever hope to me. My roommate is an all-around beast at music. He records and junk with his laptop, like profession-level recording. Anyway. I saw him playing my ukulele, which was like him ripping my legs off, beating me to death with them, and then putting them on instead of his legs and proceeding to win the World Cup. There might have been a slight discrepancy between how I acted and how I felt...

No one touches my ukulele but me.

Another thing that I really hate is when people bend over to pick something up and you get a face-full of their ass crack. But what I hate even more is when you are at Walmart and you walk around the corner and see some grouchy old fat lady on a power scooter bending over and showing the entire world her thong. Yes. I said it. Her thong.

I'm not sure what was worse, the fact that we accidentally were forced to lose a part of our souls that day, or the fact that she had more impressive facial hair than me. Pat and I proceeded to weep and try to pluck out our eyeballs with whatever sharp instruments we could find. Turns out there are not a whole lot of those in the Nerf aisle of Walmart.

Please, for the love of all that is fun and wonderful, stop doing things that I hate.

Things that I hate when they happen.

These things all happened between my last post and right now.

1 a) When I am sitting in a lecture hall before class and there are maybe 5 other students in the 250-seat room, and someone sits right next to me.

Now, not only where there like 250 other seats he could have sat in, but when I first walked into the lecture hall, I wanted to go sit in my usual seat (top back corner, extra leg room and no one watches me secretly Facebook). Sadly, I couldn't sit in my normal seat because there was already someone there. Well as soon as I sit down, the guy that was in my spot gets up, comes two rows down and sits right next to me. I wanted to punch him.

1 b) I was standing at the bus stop after class. I was feeling good about catching the bus the first time around (see #2) as there were not many other people at the bus stop with me. All of a sudden, this guy walks by, eyeing me weirdly out of the corner of his eye. He then proceeds to stand right next to me. And not like, "Greetings, stranger. I, too, am waiting for passage upon this vessel, here at a safe distance from you because you could be rabid or perhaps in an angry mood!" No. He stood RIGHT next to me, like the kind of close you stand next to someone you've been friends with for a long time, or perhaps someone you are discreetly trying to drug with roofies.

I did the math. There really is approximately 500 square feet at the bus stop.

2) I wait for the bus at the bus stop. People start crowding up all around me (see #1 b) and I am irritated. I was the first one at the bus stop today, but I definitely wasn't the only one who needed to use the bus.

Since I was the first one at the stop, I am at the back of the mob that has assembled. So when the bus comes, (already packed; everyone inside is standing up) I am the last person in line to get on. But since there were so many fucking idiots pushing and shoving their way ahead of me to get on this one particular god-forsaken bus...

The bus is overflowing with apathetic children and I have to wait for the next one. "It's okay," I think. "This bus came promptly and on time. I'm sure the next one will be just right around the corner!"

Then this happens.

In a fit of murderous rage, I being screaming in my mind at every living thing that comes within 100 yards of me. Douchebag on bike, bigger douchebag on vespa, HUGE gang of douchebags in one of said douchebag's father's Land Rovers, fucking squirrels trying to get food from every goddamn person on the sidewalk. I hate my life.

The plus side is, when the bus DOES come, I am the only person on it. But today there was one super-model-esque girl as well. When the bus stopped at a red light, she strutted to the front of the bus, asked the bus driver to stop at 30th street, then proceeded to sit down and give an extremely sensual hair toss and pouty-model-faced glance around the bus.

So I guess it's not all bad.

It's Friday!

And since nothing interesting happened to me last night, I have nothing to post.

Well... That's not entirely true. There WAS a girl in a power scooter, my friends spinning around until they "got drunk," and I finished The Odyssey.

But nothing worthy of a (politically correct) story. So here's what I am thinking I'll do: I have an entire folder called "random stuff" that's full of random drawings I've done, so when I temporarily run out of post ideas, I'll give you one of those pictures.

I drew a picture of my ukulele. It's sort of an abstract painting that really embodies the emotions I experience when I play/hold/look at it.

Happy Friday.

Story of my life.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I don't have class until 3:30 pm. Which means I have a legitimate excuse to sit in my jammies all day and watch stuff on the internet.

Today, I was watching an episode of Arrested Development on Hulu. I looked at the clock, it was 2:45 and I had yet to shower. I quickly did the math in my mind: 5-15 minutes for a shower and getting dressed + long time/short time on the bus depending which one comes first = probably gunna be late to class. So I did a really fast shower and got dressed and all that junk and I stepped outside. It was 3:00 on the dot.

Now, there are 2 bus loops that go from my dorm to campus. One of them goes all around campus before dropping off right in front of the building I needed to go to. The other drops off maybe 50 yards from the front door and goes right there. I was hoping for bus loop #2, but all that was there was a #1 bus.

I decided to get off at the first stop for bus #1 and walk to my next class.

The problem was that the walk, when standing at the stop I got off at looked a little something like this:

In my mind, this seemed quicker than taking the bus all the way around campus before it delicately dropped me off at my destination with a lollipop or a unicorn or something magical like that. I am so dumb sometimes.

After the long and brutal walk, I had finally made it there... Literally 2 minutes before the same bus that I got off of arrived at the magical stop of childish wonder.

And I was still 15 minutes early for class.

This really happened.

Being a college student, I stay up late doing random crap. Like last night. I was up until about 2 a.m. drawing random stuff I thought of to put on this blog some day. I finally got to sleep, but that didn't last long.

First of all, let me just lay out a floor plan of my dorm room.

So, as you can see, my bed is literally right next to the door. This floor plan is generous and has a space between everything, but in reality, most things overlap. Like the door. When it's open, you can't see my bed because the door completely blocks it. That has led to a lot of funny stories on its own, but those are for other posts.

Anyway, it was about 2:45 in the morning. I had been asleep for maybe half an hour. All of a sudden I heard some knocking on the door. Not like, "LET ME IN BITCHES" kinda knocking, just quiet knocking.

Seeing as how I just woke up, I naturally had an answer for everything.

I pride myself in my half-asleep comments being somewhat intelligible. I thought that, perhaps the combination of A/C and oscillating fans in our room was causing the door to shake a little and it made little tapping noises. Seemed pretty legit. So I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

But the knocking just kept getting louder.

Since my oscillating fan theory had just been debunked, I began forming a list of possible causes of the knocking and jiggling of the door handle. I started with least likely and worked up: 3) it could be a drunken idiot on our floor. 2) Serial rapist. 1) The hall monster.

In retrospect, I maybe shouldn't have made the quantum leap from drunken stranger to serial rapist, and I should not have been so nonchalant about the serial rapist either. No, what freaked me out the most was the hall monster, a demonic beast that feasts on the souls of chubby college boys whose beds are too close to the door. That terrified me. So I lied in bed for a few more minutes, trying to drown out the sound of the knocking. Then I thought, "Well shit. Maybe I'm dreaming." But just as soon as that thought came into my mind, the hall monster unleashed a fit of panicked knocking and door handle jiggling. I wanted to cry. Soon, roommate #1 (with his flowing golden locks) got up to see what it was.

He looked through the little peep-hole in our door and said, "It's roommate #2!" and opened the door.

Sure enough. There was roommate #2, clad only in his boxer briefs, standing in a daze out in the hall. He came inside and got back into his bed and the terrible knocking stopped. I finally got to sleep about an hour later, visions of the hall monster still dancing around in my head; he was pissed that he didn't get to devour my soul last night so he's building up his powers to try again twice as hard tonight.

Probably.

But anyway. As soon as I woke up this morning, I thought about what happened last night. And that it did, in fact, really happen. I asked roommate #2 about why he was out in the hall in his underwear at 3 a.m., because he was already asleep in his bed when I went to sleep. He said he didn't know, and after further ponderment (is that a word?) decided he sleepwalked out there. He had no recollection of getting out of bed and walking out into the hall in just his boxers.

College is interesting.

Hula hoops suck.

Tonight, I was helping my buddy Pat do his chemistry homework. Well, no... That's not entirely true. I was  sitting on my bed PRETENDING to help him do his chemistry homework, with the occasional Googling of a chemistry term for him.

I tutor him every Wednesday night because I used to be in AP Chemistry in high school and was so great at it almost all the time!

So anyway, we decided that enough was enough (after we took a Dairy Queen break... More on that some other time) and that we should live the dream we grew up knowing and loving: Going to Walmart late at night when nothing else is open. In Boulder, there are like 7 bagillion things to do at night. But in Parker, where we grew up, there is absolutely nothing open after 9 p.m. except for Walmart and Waffle House. So we drove (and got lost) for about half an hour before we finally found the nearest Walmart. We went inside and spent a solid hour planning out our Nerf arsenal for the next Nerf war. Of course, we didn't buy anything. We're college students, and whatever money I DO have goes to other more important things, like clothes and shoes and pizza at 2 in the morning :)

After a little while of meandering through Walmart, nostalgically re-living our childhood through vintage StarWars LEGO sets they had, we made our way to the "good ol' fashioned old-timey fun!" aisle. The aisle that sells pool noodles, hula hoops, make your own birdhouse kits... You know. The stuff Gramma got you for Christmas when you were 12 because she didn't know what an XBOX was.

It was there that I saw it. The magical hula hoop of DESTINY. This particular hoop was the like Audi R-8 V10 of hula hoops. It had LED lights all around it, so when you were vigorously thrusting your hips to and fro, it would light up like a Pink Floyd laser show and blow everyone's fucking minds.

I remembered the glorious days of third grade when I was a beast at the hula hoop. I was as close as a third grader can get to being pro without getting endorsements and sponsorships and touring the globe cuz I am so talented for a lil' guy. I triumphantly held the hula hoop, feeling the glorious power coursing through my veins. I looked at Pat and said, "Pat. Buckle your mother-loving seatbelt because this shit is about to get REAL." I placed the hula hoop around my waist, ready to shake it like a stripper at happy hour. And the whole thing played out something like this.

I stood there, ashamed and close to weeping. How could I not hula hoop? It's the most simple goddamned thing in the world. Step one: Put it on your waist. Step two: Gyrate like a cheap whore with daddy issues. Step 3: Bask in the glorious cheers and shouts as throngs of scantily-clad women rush around you, begging for your phone number and throwing panties all over you. But for some reason, I couldn't do it. I tried again. Same result. 3 or 4 more tries later, and I had given up. "Pat..." I said, tears welling in my sad little eyes. "Pat, I've failed you... I let you down." He looked me right in the eyes and said, "You know what? I believe that you were once the greatest hula hooper on the playground. You know why? Because so was I." He took the hoop and in a state of pure childish wonder, I stared at him like the first time a girl sees a pony and decides she needs one for every birthday of her young goddamned life.

Pat places that wonderfully beautiful piece of plastic around his waist, steadied his footing, took a deep breath and began to thrust his pelvis around in a motion that can only be described as breathtakingly professional. But after about 3 seconds of that, it became quite apparent that neither one of us still held that glory we once were so proud of in the third grade.

Perhaps we will never know why 18-year-old men can't hula hoop. Maybe it's some sort of fairy magic that wears off after the third grade. Maybe we're just out of shape college kids. Maybe the hula hoops were broken and it wasn't our faults at all. I guess we'll never know why hula hoops suck so much.

Why I hate riding the elevator with more than 2 other people.

I live on the 13th floor of my dorm. Sometimes, when I'm home alone, I like to stand in the window and flip people off, because if you are staring into the 13th floor window of someone else's dorm, you deserve it! 

It's nice living on the 13th floor, but sometimes it sucks trying to get up to my room. One time, I tried taking the stairs.

So my options are pretty much elevator, or sleep on a bench out in the little courtyard thing. The elevator in my hall is a pretty average elevator. It's kinda small, maybe 7' wide by 4' deep. This is an ideal situation for 2-3 people.

First of all, I feel like I need to give you some background information on myself. I'm a giant. Like, a for-realsies, 6' 8" fucking HUGE guy. So this tiny little elevator is perfect when I'm all alone. And I don't mind sharing it with maybe 2 other people. But any more and I get a little claustrophobic and feel like I'm all up in everyone else's grill and it's unpleasant.

So the other day, I was going down to eat dinner or spray paint a cat on the side of a bus or something. The elevator finally came to my floor. Whenever it comes to my floor, I usually am standing there, totally alert to the sounds and aura coming from the elevator before it stops to make sure it's relatively empty. If it sounds packed, I just slink around the corner and wait for the next one like some kind of ninja. But this particular day, I was more wrapped up than usual in a game of solitaire on my phone to notice. So as soon as the door opened, I was standing there like an idiot for everyone on board to see. No ninja slinking away this time...

Everyone looked just as unenthused as I felt. So I couldn't say no, I felt bad denying their gracious offer to let me come with them. Besides, there was just enough room for one more person and I was really hungry/itching to spray paint that cat, so I just got on and let it happen. I felt like such a jerk. As I mentioned before, I'm on the bigger side of things. So I felt like I was all over everyone and I was fairly sure that if someone tried to touch me I would cry, or if someone breathed at me I might kick them in the face or something.

So we went down a few floors, me standing awkwardly at the front of the elevator, my face practically up against the door, complete and utter silence. We stopped at the 7th floor and the guy in the back corner quietly said that this was where he needed to get off. So, being the big oaf in front of the door, I felt terrible.

So I stood weirdly in the entryway of the elevator, as if to say, "Fear not, normal sized human, I will prevent this door from closing on you in the 2 seconds you will be walking out! I'll protect you with all of me!" Only I didn't say that, and it looked more awkwardly pathetic than it did brave. The next 6 floors were brutal torture in the silent, now really tense elevator. I was still perched a mere inches from the door even though everyone else had filled in the empty spaces and gotten more comfortable. I was almost too mortified to move when the elevator opened at the first floor and we all got out.

And that's why I hate riding the elevator with more than 2 other people.