I'm In a Really Good Mood: I Think It's Because I Just Discovered You Can Get High from Eating Batteries

So yesterday I was on the roof of my girlfriend's house, cleaning my gun, when I got to do some thinking. You know, if I knew any of you in real life, I probably wouldn't hang out with most of you. If I was in your Honors Calculus class or a guy in the cubicle next to you or a fellow inmate in prison, we most likely would not be friends. I'm pretty shy when it comes to meeting new people, so a good many of you would label me as a boring, funny-looking fellow who may or may not have a mental handicap and forget all about me. I might look at some of you and see that you play football, or that you do drugs, or see that all of your friends are people that I consider airheads, and go on to ignore you for the rest of the short time that I know you.

I might discover that you listen to Katy Perry, or that you go to a party every Friday night, and choose not to talk to you unless you talk to me. Maybe you say the word "like" nine times in every sentence and that ticks me off so much I want to stay at least nine feet away from you at all times. Maybe you notice that I often hang out with nerds and rejects and outcasts, and so you're really not interested in me. Maybe you're creeped out by my bizarre infatuation with the 80's, or perhaps it annoys you that I refuse to wear clothes in public on Wednesdays and Fridays. Then again, maybe not. Maybe we'd be best of friends. But probably not.

And that's what I like about blogging. I'm getting to know people who I would probably never talk to in real life, whether because of their social status or height or gender or socioeconomic level or appearence or the fact that they're a racist. With blogging, we have the ability to appreciate each other for our more deep talents and features without prejudice.

On a slightly less serious note, I might inform you that we got our track uniforms last Friday. Perhaps I should have seen this coming, but the uniform shorts are incredibly short, and the jersey is extremely loose and pretty much tiny. The shorts, which are black, only cover up a quarter of my thighs, so the ladies get the full view of my golden monkey legs. (If I really was a monkey, I would be as blond as a monkey could get without being considered a polar bear.) The jersey only covers the middle of my torso and the neckline goes halfway to my belly button. I guess it would be sexy for body builders and macho gorilla men, but for guys like me who draw a sharpie six-pack on their stomach every morning to impress women, it's not really sexy.

In addition, the coach has made it mandatory to get spikes as well as black tights. I don't see how tights have any practical purpose in running track, so I'm pretty sure he's just doing it for the look. If he tells us we all need a yellow headband that says "Hot stuff" on it to wear during the meets, then my suspicions will be confirmed.

Remember when I posted so long ago about my problem with blushing? Yeah, that's still a problem. And like I said then, it really is crippling. If I didn't have a blushing problem, I would be like Superman. I'd be the funny guy at parties and the smartmouth in English class. I could really speak my mind whenever I wanted, and I could even use pick-up lines at bars like, "Hey, is there a mirror in your pants? Because I can see myself in them."

Last Friday I passed a girl in the hall who I previously described on this blog as having the face of a smiling moon beam. She said, "Hey, Chris, how are you?" I wanted to answer like my charming alter-ego Devon would and say, "Fantastic, now that I've talked to you." Instead, and not surprisingly, I blushed. And I answered "Good, thanks."

In conclusion to this post, I think I might shock you all by telling you that I've actually followed through and started writing for the song "the Rainbow Policeman Hippo." I just couldn't resist, especially since my friends and I talked about starting a band. (If we do start a band, we decided, we would call it the Little Engine That Wanted to Die.) Anyway, here's the first verse:

The Rainbow Policeman Hippo wants to steal your ears away
So grab you all your candy canes and let's fly off to space.
There are so many things in space for us to admire
With our eyes of ruby emerald and arms of rubber tire.
There are planets made of babies, that smile at the stars
And little furry aliens that drive banana cars.
But if there's one thing missing from the land of outer space
It's the Rainbow Policeman Hippo and all the hippo race...

Hippos can't talk...
But they can sing...
So Rainbow Policeman Hippo...
Won't you...
Sing with me?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of the top 20 songs of 2011. The first thing I'm going to do when I get famous is meet Miley Cyrus and then cure cancer. I just hope all of my instant and explosive fame doesn't go to my head.

As a final note, I'd like to add that, no, you can't really get high off of eating batteries. I don't want to have indirectly killed any of you because you were looking for a good time and all you had availabe was a pair of AAA batteries and a cube of cheese.

And if you haven't read the post below this one, please do so. And comment on it too. And then give me a hug. I need it more than you would believe.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

So I Was at the Supermarket Last Week, Killing a Guy...

Salutations, my precious Wilbur piggie followers.

I changed my ring tone from Something Is Not Right With Me to The Strokes' Modern Girls and Old Fashioned Men, feat. Regina Spektor. I think it was a practical decision, because whenever my cell phone rang, the words "something is not right with me" kept blasting in the lead singer's harsh, loud voice and people thought I had confidence issues. This song doesn't come off as quite so intimidating, and it's fitting, considering I'm both a modern girl and old-fashioned man.

I'm still hanging in there with track. One thing I've noticed about power athletes is that when they touch their privates in public, whether over the pants or under, no one questions it. When other guys do it, it's an outrage and astounding and disgusting and everyone notices. When really athletic guys just stick their hand in their pants and fish around in there a bit, everyone pretty much ignores it. They're all thinking, "He knows what he's doing. He's an athlete."

One of my friends drove by a Baptist church last week with a sign in the front that read, "Stop-Drop-and-Roll doesn't work in hell."

I'm starting to realize that I have a very specific problem when it comes to girls (and it's not just that I sometimes lick their faces when I'm trying to tell them that I like them). Upon first seeing any girl my age who is not grotesque or obscenely overweight, I believe a hormone is released in my brain that makes her look considerably more attractive than she really is. When I set eyes on a plain-looking, geeky, or slightly chubby chick who I haven't met before, that hormone is released and suddenly she looks less like Kathy Bates and slightly more like Keira Knightley before the anorexia. Every pimple becomes a beauty mark. Every klutzy collision with a door in the hallway becomes full of grace. Every mustache hair becomes invisible, and every noticeably oversized left ear can be considered nothing but another adorable feature that makes her special.

Remember the somewhat quiet girl I said I slow-danced with at Homecoming? I think the hormone was in effect when I met her, and I became intoxicated by the promise of the first impression. After months of seeing her in the halls, I am now pretty sure that she is a guy. I guess I should have picked up on that considering our conversation went something like this:

Me: "Would you care to dance?"

Her/Him: "You do realize I'm a dude, right?"

Me: "Uh...I mean...I don't mind...well...I think you're pretty...uh..."

Her/Him: "Works for me. Let's get our boogie on, hot stuff."

And remember the supposedly hot girl I mentioned in my introduction to Academic Team post at the beginning of the year? Yeah, she is not so hot as I first thought. Just today in English, for example, she walks up to me and our conversation goes something like this:

Her: "Hey, Chris, do I have blood on my cheek?"

Me: "What? No."

Her: "Okay, thanks. You're lucky you don't have acne. I've been popping pimples all day."

So she walks off to the bathroom, and I'm left with this sort of horrified, disgusted expression left on my face which I imagine I also wore when we watched the "Miracle of Life" video in 7th grade science.

In conclusion, this is a problem I have to work on. In the future, I have to make sure to be even more judgemental of females based on their appearence, and I can never let my standards drop too low when it comes to women.

SNL: The Roommate

Pep Talk

If I ever start a garage band in high school where all of our songs are based on acid trips we had at this one party a year ago which we only got invited to because we had connections through marching band, then the name of my first song is going to be "Rainbow Policeman Hippo."

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Tell Me I'm the Dancing Queen. Tell Me I'm Pretty. TELL ME I'M PRETTY!!!

Does God suffer from allergies? If not, then He has no right to claim that He is superior in any way to humans. It's like claiming that men are superior to women even with the knowledge that men do not have to suffer through childbirth.

I've had a cold since Wednesday, and I haven't even missed a day of school. My mom just sent me off with a fannypack full of cough drops and tissues, reminding me as usual that I cannot fail if I try my best, and that private parts are private. So for the next three days, I just sat in my desk and sniffled for seven hours at school and then went to track practice, where I ran and sniffled for two hours. Track practice on Thursday became so painful that I started crying. I was then sent to the school nurse, who dabbed my forehead with a warm washcloth and comforted me in hushed tones until my nannie picked me up.

What's more, I've had to work vigorously on my term paper every minute of the day both today and yesterday. It's on Carl Jung, and I didn't even start writing it until yesterday. Writing this post is the longest break I've taken today. And every time I get a text, e-mail, or phone call, I give the exact same, painfully cute explanation for why I can't talk:

"Sorry, man, but I've got a date with the founder of analytic psychology."

Yeah, I imagine I murmur that in my sleep.

The only things that keep me going with this paper are my short but frequent snack breaks, gallons upon gallons of Coke Zero spiked with vodka, and the Mamma Mia playlist on my iPod. I mean, I really am interested in psychologhy, but term papers can make anything seem boring, even the TV show Skins or the process of how dolphins make love.

Yeah, the past few days have been very stressful. I've been sucking on my thumb a lot lately. Like, more than usual.

As you might have guessed, I did not go to the movies with my dream girl and her friends last night. Apparently they were too busy being super-popular and gorgeous. (Their words, not mine.) I think I took it well. I drank a lot of warm apple juice, cried into my cat's fur for a solid four hours, and watched the pilot episode of Twin Peakes.

Fool, that show is messed up. Here's the first scene of the pilot to give you an idea of just how weird the show is. But weird is good. In fact, weird is great. I'm already addicted to it. It has everything you could ever want in a TV show: good music, total bizareness, mystery, irony, murder, and Sara Flynn Boyle. I love it.

What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you? Would you rather die an extremely slow, moderately painful death or a reasonably quick but excruciatingly painful death?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Excuse Me, Does This Rag Smell Like Chloroform To You?

Arguably one of my favourite rude pick-up lines in existence, right after, "Wanna have sex while we eat pizza?" (Girls gives disgusted look.) "What's wrong? Don't like pizza?"

Since I know I've been keeping all of you on the edge of your seats for the past few days or so since my last post, I'm going to go ahead and tell you that I didn't give the girl the poem. I walked into school on Valentine's Day with every intent of giving it to her (the poem, not my virginity), but the moment I saw her, I was filled with terror. I got so nervous, I crumpled up the poem and ate it. Then I ate the carnation I was about to give her as well. Since then, everyone at school has been calling me "Goat Boy" and bringing me empty coke cans to eat, so I really need your moral support.

As I predicted, it was a pretty disappointing Valentine's Day. It was a day like any other, pretty much, although I did get a flower...from the leaders of my peer leadership group. At the end of the day, though, I went to my locker and found a Valentine from one of my sister's friends, which cheered me up a bit. Not very much, though, since he's a guy. But it's still good to feel attractive.

Fact: I've never been to a concert or traveled outside the United States.

Last Saturday was actually a pretty fun day. I went to an Academic Team tournament, which is always nice for me because there are oftentimes loads of donuts. Plus, nerds are always way more interesting to talk to than other teenagers, as long as they're not talking about Anime, video games, or their very limited understanding of sex. Saturday night I went to a fund raiser at my Church where we babysat kids for five hours while their parents went on a date for Valentine's Day weekend. Not remarkable, but there was one 8-year-old kid who could dance like Michael Jackson. He was pretty sweet. I'm still not positive that he's not Michael Jackson.

VOTE ON MY NEW POLL!!! I actually have a productive question to ask this time. And you guys can be pretty bad about voting on polls sometimes. Just sayin'. It's so easy. Just scroll up and click once on the answer that best fits your opinion. Are you really just sitting there for nine minutes thinking to yourself, "Hm...Who would I rather sleep with...Scarlett Johansson or the lady rabbit from Bugs Bunny? I can't decide. I don't think I can vote on this poll."

I'm listening to the Band of Horses right now. They're so awesome. If they were jelly beans, they would most likely be my favourite-flavoured jelly beans.

You know that girl I wrote the poem for a while back? Not the one I mentioned in the last post, but the one I wrote "Such Blue Eyes" for? If all goes well, I'll be going to the movies with her, a couple of her friends, and a couple of my friends either this weekend or next. Then again, she might have accepted my friend's invitation to go out with us as a joke--as if to make fun of us. But maybe that means she would have sex with me as a joke too.

Has anyone else here come up with a name for their private parts?

I've been making a lot of sex jokes in the post. Like, more than usual. I think it's because I've been eating a lot of red velvet Yoplait yogurt lately. Although it tastes more like strawberries and pistacchios, it reminds me of red velvet cake. And red velvet cake gets me into these certain moods because I start thinking of hot Russian lady spies. I don't know why, but it just always comes to mind. Am I weirding you out?

Golda, do you love me?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Cupid is Black and I Have a Crush on Valentine's Day

I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking, what?! Cupid can't be black! I thought the same thing too, until a few days ago when he made a surprise visit to my house. He fluttered in on his miniscule little white wings and his noble arrow poised at me with grace.



"What in the world is a baby like you doing here?" I asked.

"How now, gentle sir, I am called Cupid. And I am here to pierce thou with mine arrow of love," the baby answered with dignity.

I laughed. "No, I'm pretty sure you're not Cupid."

"Truly I tell you, sir, I am."

"Uh, no you're not," I assured him.

"Why not?"

"You're just...not."

"Don't worry--I get it. It's because I'm black, isn't it?"

"Nah, man, come on."

"It is because I'm black. Bitch."

"It's just that...I never pictured Cupid as black."

"Jesus was black."

"Um, no. Jesus was Middle-Eastern. He was from Israel. And I don't have a problem with the fact that you're black. You're just different from what I expected."

"Different from what you expected?! Am I supposed to buy that shit? I'm a minor god--I have everlasting life. I don't have to put up with this racism."

"I didn't mean to be racist. I'm sorry, okay? Anyway, aren't you supposed to be shooting me with the arrow so I can fall in love or something?"

"You can forget it now. I'm leaving."

"Wait! Before you go, I'm really sorry about that. This was a huge misunderstanding. Some of my best friends are African American. I totally accept you for who you are--I was just acting kind of immature back there. I can't even imagine how much idiocy you have to put up with in this world just because of how you look. I think it's cool that you're African American. We have a black president--it seems only fitting that we have a black Cupid."

"Hey, don't sweat it. I imagine I'd be pretty shocked too if I found out that, say, Dustin Hoffman was Jewish."

"But he--nevermind. Thanks for understanding. Just tell me if you ever need a culturally-embracing shoulder to lean on."

"Well, you know, I do have something else I kind of want to get off my chest."

"Sure. Anything."

"I'm a homosexual."

...


"GET OUTTA MY HOUSE, BITCH!"

Valentine's Day is fast approaching--like an ADHD alpha male cheetah, hyped up on Redbull, which has just spotted a shiny object in the distance. For some of us this may be an exciting occasion. Others may spend the entirety of Valentine's Day at home watching The Notebook and eating heart-shaped chocolates in their bathrobe.

I don't really belong in either of those categories. I have to admit that I think Valentine's Day is a cool concept. A pagan holiday commemorating a saint who no one remembers and providing the opportunity for all to put an end to their love-sickness and just ask the damn girl to Arby's. Maybe you can take that opportunity to slip that secret-admirer's letter into her locker, or send an e-mail to the hunk three cubicles down from you telling him his cheekbones make you hot, or knock on her front door totally naked, strategically placing the box of chocolate in front of your sensitive parts so she's not creeped out. You can go naked. Just not too naked. Otherwise, she'll love it.

On the other hand, it never seems to live up to its expectations for me. It's like that scene from 500 Days of Summer where it's comparing Tom's expectations and reality. Valentine's Day is always slightly disappointing for me. I always expect to walk out of my front door and all of a sudden every attractive woman on the face of the planet is attracted to me, desperate to seize the opportunity of the holiday to make their move on me. It's not until about 8:16 in the morning until I realize that I'm just an average-looking, slightly nerdy guy who makes morbid jokes and walks around all day with no pants on. And I have to watch all of the other guys get Valentines, and all the other girls get flowers, and then I find myself sobbing in the Boy's bathroom in the Science building and being offered a smoke by the school's most prominent Anime-fanatic.

There are a number of girls I've bided my time drooling over for the past few months. One, of course, is the adorably awkward indie rock lover with a laugh like an iridescent bubble of soap bursting in the kitchen sink. The other is the Jewish blond with piercing blue eyes like a watercolor sky and the no-longer-lost jacket. The third has a neck like a mother swan, and every time I think of her, I think of the splash red wine makes when it hits the bottom of the glass. The fourth has hair that falls over her face like your favourite fountain at your favourite park and a smile that melts all negative emotions. Another has a face like a smiling moon beam, and another makes me squirm with lust every time she tells me to shut up. One has a face so kind that it would make a saint feeling ashamed and sinful, and yet another is a thirty-six-year-old biology teacher. He's 200 pounds, and he has a thick walrus mustache.

I'm thinking about giving one of these girls the poem I wrote for her on my poetry post for The Chin Scratcher, To the Leaves and Your Smile. I probably won't, but I like the idea.

Maybe Valentine's Day is a scam. But it's a nice thought. And I like all of the chocolate.

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

Ramune Noodles and Rabbis with an Unhealthy Obsession with the TV Series Jersey Shore

Today is Day 5 of my withdrawal from Flipped. My symptoms have included unresponsiveness, moodiness, irritation at squeaky noises, suicidal thoughts, and tendency to mutter "Julie?" whenever in the presence of a pretty girl. I've also been listening to a lot of 50's and 60's music, but who can really blame me for that?

You may be wondering why I'm feeling so depressed after watching a coming-of-age film with a happy ending, but you wouldn't understand unless you were as lonely as I am. Happy movies make me just as sad as sad movies, except it's even worse because I fall in love with them and have difficulty living without them. They're like a drug for me. I can't go on for half an hour without thinking about them and then starting to cry and passing it off as "Eye-Stinginess Disease" when I get weird looks from classmates. I think Flipped, though, has been my most serious case of this problem since 500 Days of Summer. Which was pretty close to a psychotic breakdown for me. I still twitch every time someone mentions the movie The Graduate.

Over the weekend I was sending letters to a handful of authors as I do sometimes, (Jamie Ford replied!!!) and, in the spur of the moment, I even sent a letter to Madeline Carroll, who played Julie in Flipped and also starred in Swing Vote. I just sent the typical fan letter, you know. I told her about how I sometimes have sexual fantasies about her dressed up as a lion tamer and I'd be the lion--and also about how we were made for each other and I am her destiny and if she tries to counter fate, very bad things will happen. I don't know why I sent her a letter, because I know she's not Julie Baker. I know that. Madeline Carroll wears heavy eyeliner and listens to Justin Bieber. But, I have to admit, part of me was hoping Julie Baker would respond.

Did you guys watch the Superbowl? I had money on the Steelers, even though I don't watch football. Ever. At all. (I had to come up with a mnemonic device to remember which teams were playing.) I thought the commercials were disappointing, and the Half-Time show was pretty awful. I hate the Black Eyed Peas more than I hate black eyed peas, and their singing was just wretched. It was like they didn't even have microphones. Don't get me wrong--I like Fergie's body. I just don't like her music.

In other news, I got my first ever F. I've gotten D's before, and I've gotten my share of C's. But this was my first ever F on a test. It was a 58. God, that's such an awful number. It rhymes with "thrifty Kate." I broke down the minute I got the test back and started crying right then and there. I threw a tantrum, banging my little fists on the desk and swearing I wouldn't stop screaming unless one of the girls in the class gave me a kiss.

I also saw the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind over the weekend. Fantastic cast, and a very intriguing movie. The entire concept of the movie was very unique, and I wasn't bored for a single moment of it. Jim Carrey's role in it was different from his typical role, which I thought was interesting. It was strange to see Kate Winslet in it, though, as such a bizarre character. Blue hair, ADHD, and hoodies? I kept expecting her to turn to Jim Carrey and say "I do believe you're blushing, Mr. Big Artiste."

How are you guys? Did you miss me? If you had the choice, would you marry me?

What's your favourite colour?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy

The Worst Feeling in the World and Why Am I So Obsessed with Romantic Comedies?

I think one of the worst feelings in the world is stepping out into the pouring rain, which usually makes you feel so strangely powerful and optimistic, only to glimpse the girl you love, or think you love, in the distance--sharing an umbrella with a guy in your English class who's slightly better than you at everything. She's laughing, he's wearing a smile bright enough to bring the sun back out, and they both look so happy together.

Arguably, the worst feeling in the world is actually being tortured by Russian mafia members shortly after recovering from a severe Coconut Blast Smoothie brain freeze. But the first one makes you feel pretty rotten as well.

Bad things from today: I lost both my sports coat and my school jacket, I had to suffer through a Varsity girl's basketball game followed by a boy's basketball game with a guy who was feeling depressed today, I got a handful more C's on some tests, and I got mugged and raped by a metrosexual polar bear. Good things from today: I finally talked to a really beautiful girl in my grade who I've been drooling after for the past month, we played powerball for the entire track practice today, it was raining, I finished my book and was not at all ashamed to cry, I've been listening a lot to the Black Lips, I recently found out that Billy Crystal is actually my uncle, and I just watched Flipped.

I have no idea what's happened to me. If someone had told me two years ago that I would later love romantic comedies, I would have pushed him to the ground, kicked him in the ribs, and then cut off a lock of his hair to keep on my beside table and smell every night before I went to bed. But I really do--I love romantic comedies. Only good ones, though. Flipped is directed by Rob Reiner, the same guy who directed When Harry Met Sally. This movie made me both sad and happy. Happy because it's a romantic comedy set in the 50's with middle school kids, and sad because I know it's likely that I might not ever meet a girl who is "truly iridescent," in the words of Brice's grandfather.

I know I came up with that list a few months ago about what my dream girl would be like. But all I could really ever ask for in a girl would be that she reminds me to look at the stars every night. That she can choose the right words to describe a beautiful sunset, and that she would never miss an opportunity to help a person in need and never hesitate to stand up for what's right. That her head is always in the clouds, and she can tell what a person is like by looking in their eyes.

And also, she would have enormous breasts.

AWKWARD MOMENT OF THE WEEK: There's this friend of mine who can play the song Yesterday on the harmonica. He'd been playing it all day today, and Yesterday was stuck in my head. So when I saw a couple of my friends walking to the bus stop, I jogged to catch up with them. I said hello, and immediately began to sing the song Yesterday. I had been singing for about half a minute when one of them grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. It was then that I noticed the other one was crying.

As I later found out, the one who had been crying broke up with his girlfriend that day. And my other friend who pulled me to the side must have been comforting him or something, and I had just waltzed up to the two and started singing,

"Why she
Had to go I don't know, she wouldn't say.
I said,
Something wrong, now I long for yesterday."

Not the best song to sing to someone who has just broken up with their girlfriend. I was horrified and had to track him down later to tell him I was not making fun of him. It was also at this time that I told him the reason his girlfriend broke up with him was because I slept with her last Saturday at a really wild party, and she is now pregnant with little Indian-American blonde babies.

As a side note, I've been cyber-bullied by a lesbian David Bowie fan on YouTube for the past week or so, and I'm feeling very insecure right now.

I love you all so much. Promise you'll never leave me?

Cheers,
That Blond Guy