Sunday, May 1, 2011

Informal Essay: Work Part 1

I begin my day by lurching from a wonderful dream-filled coma into a noise filled atrosity, full of bright and terrible futures and responsibilities. This is me getting up for work, as I shake off the dream and realize what's happening, I curse and start punching my pillow, because there is nothing else to do about it. I put on my old work shirt, it feels uncomfortable and looks terrible, and I place most of the blame on this shirt for the lack of phone numbers I recieve from customers. I then put on shorts, because even though it's winter, the workplace is always slightly too hot, this quality is amplified in the summer times. I get the rest of my morning routine taken care of and then it's out the door. I'm low on gas, of course, so I have to hope the ungrateful customers actually leave decent tips, for although I have more responsibilities and tasks than any average waiter, for I am also a bus boy, dishwasher, drink and desert maker, and occassional cook, I receive less than half the amount of monetary appreciation. I'm not sure if it's because the establishment doesn't seem like a regular restaurant to most people, and therefore they don't feel the need to tip, or if it's because my boss has cranked up the prices time and time again on food that is of lesser and lesser quality. It could also be that I am usually not in a cheery mood, because of the fact that I get payed a pitiable amount and get treated like dirt, or the fact that no matter how hard I work I stay at the same wage, and get blamed for every mistake that happens whenever I was around. A woman puts a BLT she ordered in my face, and expresses her outrage that the BLT is called a "super" BLT on the menu, pointing out the complete lack of super-ness in the sandwich. I tell her in a very calm tone that I did not write the menu, or make the sandwich, so I wasn't aware what I was being scolded for. She tells me to take it back and put more B L and T on it, I comply. She also states aloud that it is rediculous that the sandwich costs 10 dollars, I do not correct her by telling her it is 7 dollars. 

Monday, April 18, 2011

Haiku and Monologue

Bulging Tumescence, 
Pulsating Musculature, 
Perverted Haiku

Also, a Monologue I typed up for a class. It's my version of what goes through a criminals mind when they're running from the cops.

The lights are dancing in my mind, and in the mirrors, signaling other entities opposed to my passing. I breathe in. That's power I smell, the power currently flowing through my veins, giving me the authority to oppose these cockroaches. They don't understand I'm answering to a being they can't comprehend, one that is wild and unpredictable, conflicted and unstable but undoubtably powerful. This is good coke, and it clears my senses, makes me feel free. I roughly turn the wheel, hitting a sidestreet I have determined is the least likely to be guarded by the opposers of free will. Amorality is what they call it, I call it making a choice, and being allowed to make that choice, not waiting for others to tell you what you can or cannot do, not waiting for your mind to catch up. It's all in the action, the action that breaches the walls of normality and monotany. I was right about the side street being unblocked. It is not lucky, it is part of who I am to realize when there is not luck responsible, but my own mind. A single tear rolls down my cheek as the song playing from the speakers hits a crescendo, the violin cries a wonderful melancholy experience that combines with the pictures in the mirror to form a beautiful moment, the only kind of moment worth living for. I feel the power of the car's engine reverberating through the fiber of my being and for a second I feel as though it is a part of me, but I am wrong. The turn I meant to make perfectly as a combined vessel of magnificence is cut short by one of many possible hindrances, the sight of a young boy. I realize then that it is not myself and the car that are one, but me and the child, and his eyes tell the tale of our moment of connection. As I am dragged inevitably out of the smoldering heap of hubris I leave behind, I realize the nature of an unpredictable power is that it does not always fall in your favour.

Thursday, March 24, 2011


 This is a description and review of a dive bar near where I live, I love this place. I wrote it for a class.

        When first marching in there are numerous signs announcing days which may be more beneficial to those of low incomes, and behind these informative decorations lies the faint scent of spirits, and of spirited competition. A television displays an infomercial concerning what seems to be a nourishing cream, the purpose of which is never entirely mentioned. Later I would notice this infomercial plays repeatedly, and as far as I know, never ends. I come upon a line of square stools, the shape of which makes it difficult and cumbersome to sit on, especially seeing as many of them are falling apart in the are of the cushion, which one might argue is the most important feature of a stool. A variety of stains and puddles greet me on the counter, besides which is a spotless towel, rolled up and ready to initiate a cleaning regimen, however the fact that it is not being used makes me feel as if I have some obligation to clean the stains and puddles myself. I proceed to do so, and in response an older man waves at me, not in congratulations, but in a motion that indicates I should continue cleaning the entire counter. I find this counter-productive and degrading, although I do consider it for some time.
          Next I come upon a large screen, displaying a song with lyrics although nobody is singing. The video displayed alongside the song (A country song mind you) is of a group of Chinese children playing in a garden, then a very gaudily dressed Chinese woman dancing. None of it seems to have anything to do with the lyrics. The sign on the bathroom says Colts, which is the name for a male horse. As I enter the bathroom I am confronted with a hallway so thin I am already devising a strategy on how to get out, the only difficult part I'm seeing is turning around. The urinal, I find, Is directly next to the sink, with no means of blocking those who are washing their hands from peering directly at your crotch, and even if they weren't, it's likely they would be able to see it in their peripheral vision, even if they didn't want to. For these reasons I choose the stall, which is barely large enough to stand in comfortably, and the door of which needs to be firmly held against the frame so that the lock will work.
          In order to walk outside, you first walk through the washing area and storage compartment, and then emerge into what some might refer to as a “patio”, and at first glance I'm reminded of the bathroom hallway. I will say this for the patio, it is large lengthwise. There is a bench running along the left wall, however, I have never seen it being used, seeing as a toddler would have trouble sitting comfortably on it without falling off. The perils of walking through this patio while there are people occupying it are very evident, you would be lucky if you and whatever beverage you're holding escaped alive and unspoiled. There are large frames on some of the inside walls, full of pictures of friends, obviously people who frequent the place, above and around these frames are murals, usually depicting horses or the height-challenged people who ride them.    
          There are many notebooks scattered around, although some are now merely many pieces of paper struggling to stay together. On these papers are the names of many country songs, and many oldies, although the oldies that do appear on the pages aren't the ones people have actually heard of, and when there is a popular classic band listed, the only songs underneath seem to be the ones even the band has forgotten about. There is a dart board on the wall, the electronic kind, that uses plastic tipped darts and automatically calculates scores. This would be a fun way to pass the time, if half the darts weren't missing, and the other half weren't all missing some small yet incredibly important part. I take all of this in, then I sigh, sit down, and order a vodka club. What I receive is a club soda with ice, and a dry wedge of lemon carelessly tossed on top. I take a sip, and prepare for an excellent evening.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

These are things from random moments in time.

I wrote this when I was messed up on painkillers: There is little inspiration to be found in contentment. The fact that that's all I have to say tells you how content I am.

This is what i have to say about manipulation: I've never significantly manipulated anyone, then again, I don't think I've never met anyone worth manipulating, or had a good enough reason to try. It's a strange thing, people are always on the look out for manipulators, at work, at school, and they always accuse people of meddling or controlling. I believe you have to be a weak or immature person to be significantly manipulated. The manipulator, on the other hand, resides in a grey area, it depends on what they are persuading the person to do, and for what reason. Not sure where I'm going with this but it's an interesting thing to think about.

I'm starting to get a good amount of responses and follows, I guess that means I'll keep up with the posts, hope you guys enjoy psychology and literature as much as I do!

P.S. Currently reading Frank Herbert's Dune for the first time, if you haven't already read it, check it out.

Monday, March 21, 2011


When you're on the internet, you realize certain stereotypes apply very fiercly, and yet at the same time they do not. For instance, a typical "nerd" could be everything you expected, the same voice as you hear in your head, the same subjects of speech. But you may find a person who knows just as much or more than a nerd, and yet talks lightly like what you may think of as a "cool dude". It really comes down to whose afraid to improve their people skills and who isn't. Some are so obsessed with their mindsets of alienation that they are
not willing to change, for whatever purpose.

Friday, March 18, 2011

This is incredible and terrible.
These are some translated twitter messages from people in Japan during the disaster, I did not translate them.

At Tokyo Disneyland:
Tokyo Disneyland was handing out its shops’ food and drinks for free to the stranded people nearby.  I saw a bunch of snobby looking highschool girls walking away with large portions of it and initially though “What the …”  But I later I found out they were taking them to the families with little children at emergency evacuation areas.  Very perceptive of them, and a very kind thing to do indeed. 

国連からのコメント「日本は今まで世界中に援助をしてきた援助大国だ。今回は国連が全力で日本を援助する。」 に感動した。良い事をしたら戻ってくるのです。これがいい例なのです
Message from the UN
Secretary General Ban Ki Moon: “Japan is one of (the UN’s) most generous and strongest benefactors, coming to the assistance of those in need the world over.  In that spirit, the United Nations stands by the people of Japan and we will do anything and everything we can at this very difficult time.”  I was moved at his words.  What better example that good things happen to those who do good.

At a congested downtown intersection …
Cars were moving at the rate of maybe one every green light, but everyone was letting each other go first with a warm look and a smile.  At a complicated intersection, the traffic was at a complete standstill for 5 minutes, but I listened for 10 minutes and didn’t hear a single beep or honk except for an occasional one thanking someone for giving way.  It was a terrifying day, but scenes like this warmed me and made me love my country even more. 

This is Important

Read this and do your part:

Also, here is a poem for you:

Dear jaded person, drifting away,
don't you hate when someone changes their status,
and it's meant for you but they address it to everyone?
So here I am rehearsin', bereft with dismay,
at dolls in the night, meant not to snatch us,
from the days we loved when all of us were one,
Who can rip your soul apart with a click?
This isn't clue, put down the candlestick,
shit's more complicated, much more severe,
our phobias instigated, too much to fear,
technology, etomology, estimology,
give me the numbers to make it right,
the feeling that we get, puts an edge in the night,
and we wake to the thoughts that once begot,
the fear once more of the idol that's caught,
among the waves of the future, nihilistic,
moral relativism applied to whats missed, it,
gets to what we came here to see,
that in the end what I fear is just in me


How to be the ultimate addict: pour some vodka and milk into a glass (or half and half) add 

coffee, then grab whatevers in your medicine cabinet and grind one of each into powder and 

mix that in, inhale deeply from a tabacco/marijuana mixture, and while holding it in your 

lungs, chug the shit out of that mixture. Exhale, ascend to godhood.