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