Thursday, May 26, 2011

Four Days of Pretending To Be a Rabbit

I don't know why I do half the things I do. I like to think of myself as this spontaneous, carefree vagrant, but I fear the truth might be that I'm simply an impressionable ne'er-do-well who lacks self control. It's probably the latter. One look at my bank account and you'd think, "this dude clearly has no foresight. And did he really eat at Taco Bell four times this week?"

Case in point: last week I was talking to my friend Jeanie on the phone and she started telling me about this all-juice diet she was on. Jeanie is the kind of hippie dippy gal who makes her own clothes and can spend an entire afternoon dumpster diving. I usually don't put much stock in her whims, but perhaps since I had nothing of importance going on in my own life, I indulged her.

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"That sounds like it would make you shit constantly," I said.

"Oh yeah," she replied. "I'm shitting right now."

She told me juicing would clear out all my toxins. It was clear neither of us actually knew what toxins are exactly, but nobody really knows anything about anything. We all just pretend. If asked, I'd probably describe toxins thusly:

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The more I thought about it, however, the more appealing it sounded to drink nothing but fresh juice for a whole week. I had a big hulking juicer in the closet that I hadn't put to use yet, so I figured this might be an interesting little experiment. So the next morning I woke bright and early and hoofed it down to the farmers market in search of fresh fruit and vegetables.

It didn't take me long to locate and purchase the items on my list, but as I wandered around the vendors' tables, it dawned on me what odd places farmers markets are sometimes. Apparently anyone can rent table and sell whatever kind of weirdo shit they want.

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Later, back at home, I unpacked my juicer, skimmed the directions half heartedly, then plugged it in and started feeding big chunks of apples into the spout. I was instantly alarmed at how loud this juicer was. It sounded like it was in excruciating pain, but I suppose that's what I get for purchasing the cheapest appliance I can find on Amazon.

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Despite the juicer's robotic shrieks of death, it pulverized the apples efficiently enough. I added kale, then lemons, then ginger and celery, and after a few minutes I had a large cup of what easily could've passed as pond scum. And it tasted like pond scum, too. Pond scum with lemon and ginger, but pond scum all the same. Still, I was committed, so I slurped it down and made some more for later.

Truth be told, it made me feel pretty damn good. Despite the wretched taste of the juice sludge, I discovered it gave me more energy throughout the day, and I no longer saw flaming skulls when I closed my eyes at night. The first couple days were mildly euphoric for me.

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The honeymoon phase didn't last long, though. By the third day of this misbegotten juice fiasco, I was craving meat. Juicy, unadulterated meat. In fact, that night I actually dreamed about cheeseburgers. Sweet, sexy cheeseburgers.

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The cravings only got worse. In the days that followed I'd stumble around like some malnourished zombie, muttering about mozzarella sticks and Oreo milkshakes. I'd wander around the grocery store, stopping to stare longingly as the frozen pizzas, and that's when I knew it had to stop. Thankfully, like an angel sent from on high, one of the grocery ladies was serving samples in aisle eight. She was dishing out Bagel Bites.

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Following The Great Bagel Bite Debacle of 1994 (which involved me spilling a plate of piping hot pizza bagels all over my bare chest and leaving me with second degree burns) I'd sworn them off for good. But standing in front of that tray of cheesy, freshly microwaved little morsels, I couldn't imagine a more divine treat. I plucked one off the table with my boney, corpse-like fingers, struggling to lift it in my weakened state, and raised it to my lips.

Something peculiar happens when you deprive your body of real food, I've found. I'm not saying Bagel Bites are "real food," but bear with me for the sake of argument. I don't know what it is exactly, but it's like your taste buds begin to hibernate after a few days of choking down repellent green slime, and then when you present them with something tasty and savory, they flip the hell out.

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Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. I learned I shouldn't structure my diet around buzz words like "juice fast" and "toxin." I learned kale tastes like dirt. If anything good came out of it all, I suppose being reunited with Bagel Bites is a plus.

Or maybe that's a negative. Whatever.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Never Be My Friend

When I'm bored, I browse through my friends' Facebook images, choose my favorites, and draw them.



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Sometimes I take... liberties. Let's just call it artistic license.

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R.I.P. Chloe's grandma. I wasn't aware you were an actual corpse 
when I drew you looking like a corpse.

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I occasionally wonder why I still have friends at all.

And no, Michael Cera is not my friend on Facebook.

Yet.

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You can find more of my Facebook drawings here.

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Friday, May 6, 2011

The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

Having a moderately popular blog, I receive a fair amount of spam in my comments section. The auto-filter does a good job of catching most of it, but every now and then something slips through and I have to delete it myself. So I'm sorry if you're wondering where all the hot singles are, or what daily supplements will make your junk grow in just four short weeks!!! because you won't find it here, I'm afraid.

Yesterday a bit of spam fell through the cracks, and it blew my mind a little bit. It was clearly funneled through an automated translation program, but all things considered it makes a surprising amount of sense. Though it was littered with links for a Croatian dating site, after cleaning it up a bit I realized it was a surprisingly dramatic story of forbidden love. I figured it would be a crime to let it go unnoticed by my readers. So without further ado, I present you:

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Annie was no help. She ode there, at one authority draped lazily over her face, her trunk rising and falling slowly while she moaned softly. She was quiescent coming down away her genital extraordinary, drifting somewhere between genuineness and her own doll-sized world...

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Betty was on her hands and knees, crawling disown, her eyes sizable with terror. Brushing deny her covet blonde locks, stretching her to be honest arm behind her, she aeons ago more looked about in the interest of a slip-off path. There was none.

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Hank stood between her and the staircase, his desire belt doubled in one hand. He had slipped it from his Levi's earlier.

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He doubled it, tapping the looped purpose lightly against one thigh.

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These days he was advancing toward her, his eyes off the mark, glistening with a hanker for Betty had hitherto to understand. It was odd, whatever it was. She could perception that, wisdom the growing animality in Hank's mind. Katherine moennig and ian somerhalder dating Laws about dating

"I'm gonna tame you, baby. I'm gonna make you unified of my girls, know that? When I listen to through with you, you're gonna be like Annie," Hank said, licking his lips like a starving wolf while he tapped that terrible-looking belt against his thigh steadily. That horrible, bad wolf-like look in his eyes made the girl shiver with horror. Raising both hands, she rubbed her fingers briskly against her meat, feeling goose-bumps rising.

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A diagram from somewhere blew through her hair.

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In the qualifications she could hear Annie's soft common breathing. The piece was entirely in his power. He was talking to her as if he were bringing her into some kind of harem.

"No, no, don't ... cheer don't spark me off with that gismo," Betty moaned, her eyes shifting toward the stairs, then move backwards withdraw from to the belt. "Is rupert grint dating katie lewis? Jehovah dating asia."

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"It's gonna caress real nice," Hank said. "Of course, you won't be competent to outlast from one end to the other, too profuse classes as a replacement for awhile."

"No!" Betty gasped.

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Betty scrambled around like an fleshy, her momentous tits jiggling and slapping together. She half ran, half demolished down the hallway.

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She had practically made it around the junior stud when he reached out and grabbed her before inseparable arm. Twisting her everywhere violently, Hank nearly jerked her arm from its socket.

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Pure poetry.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Two Milligrams of Sunshine

Finals week is a joke and every college student knows it.

Alright, correction: every cool college student knows it. No one actually studies, and if they do, they're nerds. Every semester in college I'd spend finals week sleeping 'til noon, playing videogames, and acquainting myself with different Boston microbrews. Somehow I'd still manage to ace my finals, but don't ask me how. It's a mystery.

One spring during junior year, I decided it would be a welcome change of pace to do something worthwhile with my free week. I stumbled across an ad for summer camp counselors, and the duration of camp just happened to coincide with finals week. I fished my cell phone out from under a pile of empty Sam Adams Imperial Stout bottles and dialed the camp's number.

I spoke to a pleasant woman on the phone named Mrs. Wilson, and she asked me a series of simple questions.

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To my credit, I was under the impression that any moron could perform CPR. I mean, it's basically just giving someone a really intense hug from behind, right? No, turns out that's the Heimlich Maneuver, and it's ineffective in returning life to a person in cardiac arrest. I should count my lucky stars no child has ever needed my medical assistance.

Mrs. Wilson asked me to fax her a resume, and a week later called back to notify me I had a job teaching Arts and Crafts during the first week-long phase of camp. I was required to attend a day-long counselor tutorial in the city, after which I was instructed to be at camp every day for my scheduled hour of Arts instruction. It all sounded easy enough.

Still, during the days leading up to the start of camp I grew increasingly nervous. I'd basically lied to get the job. What if they found me out? What if a kid died under my watch? I'd read the Harry Potter books, I knew that the forests are full of giant spiders that fucking eat children. My anxiety about camp grew, becoming unmanageable. I lamented to my friend Lucy about my predicament.

Lying to Mrs. Wilson was my first mistake, and confiding in Lucy was my second. I should have known better. Lucy wasn't particularly reliable. She was the kind of girl who would disappear from campus for 6 days and then suddenly return with a fading henna tattoo, half of her head shaved, and wearing six belts for no discernable reason.

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Lucy was always on the go. This was the girl who could barely pause to have her student ID photo taken, resulting in her looking like a melty beast.

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Still, I implored Lucy for advice. Hardly interested in my situation, she fished around in her desk drawer and responded, "Here, take some of my Xanax. I used to get really bad panic attacks, but it'll get rid of your anxiety, too."

Should I have trusted Lucy? Of course not. Lucy still had last Tuesday's mascara flaking off her eyelids. She wasn't exactly a well put together human being, but my nerves were affecting my common sense. I pocketed her Xanax with relief, and the next day hopped the train that would carry me out of town toward camp.

I only wish Lucy had notified me of the proper dosage.

I'd never been prescribed medication before, so I didn't know pills occasionally have to be cut in halfs or even fourths. As my train neared camp, I swallowed an entire pill, confident it would take the edge off. It took the edge off all right, and then some.

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Before long my anxiety had dissipated completely and was replaced with a wholly different sensation.

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To onlookers, I probably looked like someone who was just super jazzed about life, like maybe I'd finished an entire book of Sudoku puzzles on the train, or perhaps I'd had a particularly awesome BM that morning. On the inside, it was a different story. I felt invincible.

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It probably would have been wise to arrive at camp with ample time to spare, but I'm the type of guy who'd show up late to his own funeral. Besides, I wasn't required to be on-site until my scheduled teaching time, so I arrived high as a kite and with a dozen 9-year olds waiting for my instruction. Incapable of feeling nervous, I beamed at the children.

Let's get this party started, went my internal dialogue. Let's make some goddamned CRAFTS.

I was handed a list of names by a senior counselor, who then left me alone with the kids. I took roll and ordered everyone to gather around one of the art tables, barely able to contain my feeling of obscene levity. The campers all seemed jovial and well-behaved, and I believe everything would have worked out fine if it weren't for one treacherous snake of a child. Her name was Phoebe, and she was a sneak.

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While the other children gathered around politely and waited for my guidance, Sneaky Phoebe climbed all the way up onto the table, grabbed a hunk of clay, and began violently stabbing it with a popsicle stick. I would have stopped her but I was too high to care.

Watching Phoebe go apeshit on the clay, it dawned on me that I had no real lesson plan, and I briefly pondered what kind of flawed screening process this camp had to let someone like me slip through. I debated what to have the children create. Every possible avenue sounded amazing.

Of course, everything is amazing when you've taken too much Xanax.

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I instructed the kids to "make macaroni necklaces or whatever" and for a time they obliged and strung noodles on lengths of yarn. Before long, however, their collective placidity gave way to ennui.

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That's when Sneaky Phoebe spoke up. She had a suggestion, and she knew full well it would immediately take root in the hive mind of the other children.

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There was no going back after that. The kids erupted into mass excitement at the idea of a hike. What I should have said was, "No hike. Now make more pasta jewelry." But alas, I was messed up on benzos, and had absolutely zero risk assessment. Pressed with a dozen tiny goblins shrieking to go hiking, I stupidly replied:

"Sure, why not?"

Five minutes later I was leading a group of children down a trail through the forest. I was effectively a child abductor. All told, it was a pleasant hike. It might've been the fact that I was completely off my rocker, but everyone seemed to be having a good time, and for about 30 minutes we wandered carelessly through the peaceful wilderness.

Regrettably, the pleasantries would not last. Before long the Xanax started to wear off, and I became cognizant of two facts: the first was that I was starving and a Pepperoni Pizza Lunchables would taste incredible. The second, much more distressing fact was that I had gotten us hopelessly lost.

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The realization that you've just shanghai'd a herd of children and led them astray into the forest will sober you up quick. Though surrounded by the tranquil noises of chirping birds and babbling brooks, with gentle winds caressing my face, I was on the verge of completely losing my shit. Without saying a word, I blindly chose a direction to walk in, praying I'd lead the kids back toward civilization.

Thankfully, we didn't have to walk long before I heard the faint sounds of campers laughing and yelling, and from there it was a beeline back to the campground. Unfortunately when I approached the Arts and Crafts center, I was met with a frantic Mrs. Wilson who demanded to know where I'd been for the last half hour. I didn't even have time to explain the situation before Sneaky Phoebe blurted out the obvious.

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I was ejected from camp right then and there.

I suppose it could have been worse. They could have called the cops, but that might've reflected worse on them than it would have me. The whole fiasco lasted maybe an hour and a half, but it became permanently imprinted onto my subconscious, a giant rubber stamp that read, "CHILD ABDUCTOR." If ever there was a moral to be learned, it's this: don't get high and attempt to teach children crafts. It will not turn out well.

For obvious reasons, I leave "camp counselor" off my resume.