February 26, 2006
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| A lot of people go to college for seven years. |
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| Yeah, they're called doctors. |
I'll be lucky if I graduate in 2008, actually—I don't know which major I'm shooting for, even. I have no idea where I'm going with school, and it's making me somewhat uneasy.
I know I'll do fine, and I'm already ahead of some in the game, and I've immersed myself with computer knowledge ever since high school. On top of it all I'm not fully recovered. BUT, I'm privy to a new vim in life where the desire to create is there, ensuring that I will write a full novel in years to come and other cute shit. I'd like to prove myself in the obstacle course of English while heightening my writing in that time.
Nonetheless I'll be the fucking guy who's just slightly above the age bracket and who laughs, when looking at the scrumptious freshman, feeling that he may hear the little girls speak of "getting hair down there."
I'm not a pedophile, but it does feel awkward for me to be above (reads: behind) so many with their college careers. I've cozied up with many younger girls who've been on a straight shot through college ever since 2003 or so, and I feel somehow inferior to their no-hassle, no-trouble sprint with the ABC's. Yet I want you to keep in mind, I only have one friend and one cousin who've seen that quick and easy journey through school—evidently I've befriended many no-gooders. Kidding. My friends are an interesting sort, but I'll not get into that.
And, given the fuck you to my parents yesterday, I would love to explore living on my own. I've admitted, yes, I clung to the parental teet as a sort of mooching and, now, I'd love to explore my own path with my own shit and my own living space, and my own nook to hunch over the keyboard without having to worry about an eyewitness.
February 23, 2006
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Get me out of my fucking house.
February 19, 2006
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Sennheiser headphones
You are familiar with the acoustic beauty of the Bose Wave Radio. Perhaps you've enjoyed canapés and bruschetta at a well-to-do friend's house and overheard the clarity offered through its precise tweeters.
Using that memorable ring as example, Sennheiser has compacted the known auditory beauty into the form of headphones.
I had noticed some static in the earbuds of my iPod, and I decided that I must choose the finest aural pieces for both it and an XM radio to enjoy.
I had long heard of Sennheiser, the choice of audiophiles near and far. I ordered a set of their MX-450 earbud headphones and found myself in tune with an acoustic enlightenment emanating from the smooth mesh. Treble pleased my soul with its strict frequency, and bass was present but stood second place to the high tones.
In short, I recommend Sennheiser headphones for a celestial journey with sound.
February 14, 2006
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February 9, 2006
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I've submitted this story to a Creative Nonfiction class.
The C Word (four pages)
For anyone in my class, you can reach me: jeff@justchillen.com
February
4, 2006
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for breakfast I had. . .
full plate of alfredo pasta
rockstar energy drink with much sugar
chocolate protein shake
and then I got to school where I had
milkyway slammer milk drink
3musketeers slammer milk drink
and it was only 9 a.m.
This might seem a little much, and it certainly is for most, but I'm trying to put on a bunch of weight before Spring arrives. You should see me at the gym; I'm stronger than most of you. And I've taken myself to such heights with my GNC knowledge and while spilling a hatred for having wasted so much potential.
Nonetheless I normally slurp energy drinks like a stimulant addict, chow down on alfredo pasta throughout the day, and sip whey protein shakes like a connoisseur of amino acids; all because I'm trying to add muscle to my 184lb physique.
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| my gut as of today |
I'm in the process of (yes, fat included) bulking up—can you ladies tell me where the weight room is?—before sliming down for summer—did you see my six pack?—as part of my quest for beautiful b-beauties. I don't drink; it's no wonder I'm looking to get in shape.
I shall see 190 soon, and might think about 195, and then I'll simply eat less to carve abdominals from the bodyfat buffer. One thing I've noticed, we snack farrrrr more often than we think we do. We always wander into the kitchen, and I've noticed this since my appetite has decreased. I'm not flaunting thin skin layed over muscle yet, but you must consider the fact that I've been on the stomach tube for weeks, fed with yummy baby food for a few more, and then left to nibble on scrumptious hospital food delectables. I've seen the worst, and a little dieting pales in comparison to what I've experienced.
Until Spring arrives, I'll be the fucking warrior at the health club. who begs for rides from his mom
A lot goes on at The Playa's Club.
February 3, 2006
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I don't have Creative Writing until Wednesday.
February 2, 2006
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I just go on and on about the spiritual junk.
Dana, I want
to hate you—but I know this internal debate of the unknown is good
for me.
Okay I talked with a friend earlier about dun dun dun, death. And he brought up some interesting factors I hadn’t contemplated until now. He posed the question, "Is the afterlife merely a fabricated reality brought on through a dying brain?" Maybe it is. I mean, everything would play its own little dream upon dying. Nothing really matters. It also bothered me with its dying brain factor for obvious reasons!
If that’s the case, my injured brain has only “blinked”
and shown a glimpse of something falsely spiritual.
If that’s the case, what’s important?
If that’s the case, we’re all lucky to be here; wherever here
is.
The idea of an injured brain skewing reality interests me. Something as far out as, maybe I've died and this that I now experience is somehow an afterlife, has crossed my mind. Think about it, you don't know that anyone else is alive like you are. You don't know that anyone is viewing reality as you are. Creepy. This brings me back to my Junior High days where I'd walk home with Melanie Olson and say, "Maybe you're just a part of my imagination. I don't know that you're thinking in the same way as I am." And then she'd kick me.
I know it appears fucked up that I still think about the afterlife, but I now know how bad I was—and it’s fairly close—as I do hear often. I haven’t gained enough ground in the real world yet; my hospital days are often a topic of conversation. And I’ve had many thoughts.
What do you think goes through the mind of someone falling from a skyscraper at terminal velocity? Do you think that their life will flash before their eyes?
What will they see?
Will they see a lover, a la Kristen Johnson?
Will they see much time wasted with leisure
pursuits?
What would YOU see? Let me rephrase that; what do you wish to see?
I only know how flimsy life is, but if you want to roll your eyes at me, go ahead, I can’t stop you. Me, I didn’t see much, and I’m doing what I can to change that nothing existence through the productive everything I do. And Dana, thanks, a crumb of me will debate whether I am really living until the day
I die?
And I bring ye much entertainment through The Playa's Club. I invite you to saddle up a chair, post something worth my attention, and sip on Crissy all nizzy lizzy. At The Playa's Club.
I work to improve my words; there's a thread Write Every Day in February where I try to post often.
