Social Experiment: What Happens When We Meet The Social Norms Of Our Race/Ethnicity/Creed?

Givers – “Ripe”

Just hit a dry spell? Need sex? Here’s a thought: dress like a tool.

Think I’m joking? Look at this.

I’ve always been of the understanding that girls of my own race/ethnicity/creed are easier to get than outsiders. It’s not uncommon to think that most people want someone that’s within their own race. Their own religion. Share their families view points. Things are easier this way.

As a result, girls of similar backgrounds tend to like me more than others. I’ve passed for quite a few races, but the main ones tend to be black, indian/native american or hispanic.

I’ve seen these type of girls show more interest — the prettiest of the pretty, the prudest of the prude. As a result, I tend to have pretty high standards for all three. Average black girl wants me? Yeah, right.

Black is my most common asset and black is what I often associate with. For blacks I offer that alternative negro. Educated, two-parent home, “Black on the outside, white on the inside,” I suppose. Not that I necessarily agree with that (what characterizes as acting a “color,” anyways? is that even possible?) but I embrace it if it gets me ahead.

Before I go further, let me say that this doesn’t just exist in the black-white mix. Speaking in generalities, there’s the white-asian mix in which we often find Asian women and white men together. The thing about this mix is that there isn’t that emphasis on stereotypes. Blacks and Asians have been stereotyped for years, but Asian and White are generally closer than Black and White.

This is a conclusion of a lot of things, but for the efforts of this post let’s keep at it this: expectations are that a black person will act in ignorance due to urban upbringings while an Asian person is likely to act in book smarts due to a suburban upbringing. Asians have even developed the persona of the “model minority.”

There’s a sheer exoticism to the idea of interracial relationships. A different color against your skin could be one of them. Maybe a big fuck you to the parents that said they’d never allow this. Maybe love overbears all of this (and it should!)

For me, I often enjoy white women more than others. This isn’t a knock on black women or any kind of woman. It’s simply a matter of numbers. Whites are the majority, they constitute 2/3rds of our population. If I walk outside, I see white. When I get married, I’ll probably marry white. There’s a 2/3rds chance that it happens just based on numbers alone.

My issue has always been crossing over. Looking black doesn’t possess some of the stereotypes that many white counterparts expect when they meet a black person (hence, black on the outside, white on the inside.) What I’m getting at it is that being black isn’t enough for a white woman that only dates black men. You have to look the part. Act the part. Be one with the stereotypes.

It doesn’t hurt that college is the ideal time for experimentation. You’ve all heard about black men. That “once you go black, you never go back.” Your mother warned you about us. Your father condemned you ever bringing one of us home. Here’s your best shot to stick it to ’em in college. You’ll only live once, so take a black dick or two while you’re here. God knows you can’t do it in five years when your college experience is over and you bring some nice white man home. And college is the place for experimentation.

Oh and he better be a real black man. One that fits the stereotypes. If you’re going to go black, you mise well get the authentic experience. None of this educated bullshit!

Me, normally (left)

For the purposes of this post, I’ve embraced the stereotypes in my own social experiment via clothes. I dressed as a “thug,” on three separate occasions.

So what happens when I appear as a thug? Black enough for the black population; exotic enough for the White population?

This past weekend I experimented with just this. I took my nerdy hipster glasses off. I put a flat brimmed hat on. Place it backwards. Simple, but effective.

The results were envious. Girls throwing themselves at me. Pointing me out of crowds. This never happens to me. Ever. Once in a blue moon. MAYBE.

Let’s start with Thursday night. I hit the bar. My friends and I always joke about how difficult it is to meet a woman at the bar. How we have to lower our standards at the bar. Older women are tough. You can’t just thrust your genitilia near their ass, grab their hand and dance. These girls are “classy.” These girls are “lesbians.” These girls are “uninterested.”

Me, Thursday night (right)

Their 18 and 19 year old house party counterparts? Oh, they’re “sluts.” Only because they like to have fun though. You throw your pelvis near their bum, and they dance. Unlike the bar women, they actually go to house parties to dance with men. And get dry humped in the process.

So I go to the bar on Thursday. Walk into Thirsty’s, a local bar that’s a minute off campus. Some girl with a crown comes up to me. It’s her birthday. She grabs my hat, puts it over her crown and asks me to dance. Then my hat falls off her head. Suddenly I freak. She lost my hat. Bitch. She keeps pulling me closer to dance, but I tell her to fuck off. She just lost my hat. Social experiment over before it even started.

Or not. My friend Mike finds my hat. Social experiment continues. I go around the bar, clearly on the creep. Mud is on my hat, but it doesn’t diminish whatever swagger I displayed (ironic emphasis on “swagger.”)

Thirsty’s girls tend to be a bit classier than girls at other nearby bars. Classier in the sense that they’re more likely to turn you down, tell you they’re lesbians, or tell you they’re uninterested in dancing with you. Uninterested? So why did you come to the bar in the first place? Drink your ass off and dance with your three friends in mini skirts? Couldn’t you do this at home without creeps like me trying to dance with you?

Tonight was a different night though. Every girl danced with me. When I say every, I mean  every. I was turned down once, in a near impossible situation.

My friend Elvis has the insatiable need to desire dancing with girls on the stage. If you know anything about anything you know the chances of getting a girl to come off stage to dance with your lame ass is less than Rosie O’Donnell taking a dick next Tuesday.  You’ve got a better chance of being the 1% on Wall Street. I’m not kidding.

We look at each other before we make our move.

“Which one do you want?” he asks.

“The one on the left,” I reply.

“Good. ‘Cause I wanted the other one.”

He goes up to his girl on stage. She denies him. He does the smooth Elvis thing but she continues to deny him. In the process I’ve barely said anything to my girl besides putting my hand out and a simple “do you want to dance.”

She denies me of course, but also asks me to forgive her. Um, what? Are you sorry because you don’t want to dance with me or are you sorry because your friend denied my friend and you would have danced with me if not for your shitty friend because I’m your ideal black thug? Hmph. Fuck the 99%. I am the 1%.

I go to Huskies. The less “classy,” version of Thirsty’s. Some girl immediately points me out, touches my chest & tells her friend to dance with me. What? Does this happen to anyone else?

Night can’t get any more weird, right? I can’t possibly receive any more attention than I’ve been receiving all night. I leave Huskies for food. My friend Chris’ is there & offers to sober drive me…& three of his other friends. I sit in the passenger seat & mind my business. The girl behind my seat grabs my shoulders from behind the seat. Gentle massage. Grasps parts of my back….for the entire ride. I don’t even know her name. Weird. Really weird.

Not only am I not used to this type of attention, I’m actually a bit overwhelmed. Is this what the basketball team feels like? Is this what those macho frat guys feel like? Those 6’3, jacked, pieces of shit that I loathe? Partially because their douchebags, partially because they use Greek life as a means to get laid (and women fall for it like morons.)

Me, Friday, clearly obliterated

It doesn’t end here though. Thursday night was a success, so why not try my luck Friday? I hear about a house party at my friend Devin’s house. I attend with about ten friends or so.

Admittedly, this night wasn’t nearly as flattering as the night before. Surprising too, considering it was a house party. You know, where the “slutty,” girls reside.

My success rate at thrusting my genitilia into the bum of a female (dancing) wasn’t nearly as great. I was turned down about half the time, which is still better than a typical bar night. Where the night really shined was on one simple occasion.

I go up to my friend Joyce, whom is dating my friend Ethan. I whisper in her ear something that I don’t recall. The girl next to Joyce asks Joyce what I whispered in her ear. Joyce like the lovely wing woman she is replies”He said he wants to dance with you!” to this random girl. Random girl doesn’t think this could be possible. I, of course play along and say I’d love to dance with this girl. The details are fuzzy, but somehow we dance for half a song. Then she turns around & says I’m probably a douchebag.

Harsh words for a girl I’ve known for less than five minutes. We continue chatting, with the only parts of the conversation I truly recall are basics about her life, where I work and how tall I am. She consistently denies throughout the conversation that I ever wanted to dance with her. She’s difficult. Really, really difficult. She says that all men are cliche’. All men are shitty. She tells me I’m probably like all of them. She tells me I’m cliche’. She tells me I’m shitty.

I, of course deny. Denial is the key to success in these type of situations even if she may in fact be right. I even bring up small instances to sound “less cliche’.” I remind her that  cliche’ guy probably wouldn’t spend 20 minutes on a broad as difficult as her (the fact that I’m calling her a broad tells you all you need to know about me.) I tell her that she’s actually my type physically (which she is…I think.) I tell her before I’m going to throw a cliche’ line on her, to diminish how cliche’ it may sound.

It comes down to this. Her friend is trying to get away from my friend Tom & they have to “find their friend.” She tells me she’ll give me her number on one occasion–that I remember her name. I draw a complete blank. I don’t remember her fucking name. I’ve been talking to her for 30 minutes, fighting with her on how I’m not “like those other guys.” How I’m a “nice guy.” The last thing I remember is her fucking name! Hell, I remember her state of residence, age, height with & without heels and other unnecessary information over her name.

She looks pissed. Deservedly so.

Her: “You don’t remember my name…do you?”
Me: “…you never told me your name”

And yet, for most girls this is a complete deal breaker. The nerve of this shitty guy to talk my ear off for 30 minutes about how he’s “different,” and a “nice guy,” only to not remember the one piece of information about me that’s been inherent since birth. My fucking name. What a tool.

This is the response I deserve. This is probably what she’s thinking. And yet, she gives me her number anyways. What? I just don’t get it. This would never work for me in any other situation. Ever. Fuck, I didn’t even think a girl like this would spend 5 minutes on me, let alone 30 with a phone number to boot. A phone number that works too, might I add. We’re eating with one another on Friday. Funny how a slight wardrobe change makes all the difference.

My only dilemma now is this–do you dress like the “stereotypical black guy,” to get girls or not? Sure, women will possibly overwhelm me with attention, but is it the attention I want. She’ll see me soberly and probably be upset. This guy wears glasses? Chucks? Skinny jeans? I thought I was getting a thug.

I guess I can’t complain. It takes a shallow female to only dance with me because I came off as a thug based on clothing style. But I guess I do the same thing when I decide to dance with the skinny girl over her fat friend. Or the brunette over the blonde. Or the tall one over the short one. Preference is preference, I suppose.

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Top 40 Albums, Top 20 Songs Plus Honorable Mentions All On Music Tab

Everything’s written and posted. Take a look. Complain to me on facebook or twitter.

And yes, for the next week I’ll go back to normal blog entries. Expect something in the next two or three days! I’ll have to put some writing in before I go back to school next Sunday.

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Top 40 Albums posted…

My top 40 albums have been posted. Leave a comment or talk to me on Twitter about how crappy my writing was. Or my list for that matter. Think something deserved to be up there? Questions as to if I missed an album you expected to be up there? Let it be known.

The top 40 can be found on the tab listed Music of 2011.

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So I’ve started my top music list of 2011

And it can be found above in the Music of 2011 tab. I’ve only posted albums 40-34 and some honorable mentions. Hope it holds readers over for the time being.

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All for one and one for all…and if I’m going to suffer, so are you

Sufjan Stevens – “Star Of Wonder” -> irony that his best song may actually be from his Christmas LP? I think not!

“All for one and one for all…and if I’m going to suffer, so are you,”

That’s what my kid brother said to me this afternoon at 2:03 p.m. as I woke up.

I had just awoke from a post-Christmas family time nap. I don’t know about anyone else’s family does Christmas, but in my house we wake up early, open presents and then I take a nap until everyone’s ready to head out for the day. Waking up early for Christmas day hasn’t been fun to me in about ten years. The perils of getting older are sickening.

With Christmas comes the obligatory “where are we going for Christmas this year,” conversation. Assuming you’re not a product of incest, you have two sets of extended family. Each parent wants to see their family, but each child has a preference as to which side they’d rather see.

Herein lies the dilemma and there are three choices.

Choice A: Split up, mom takes a few kids, dad takes a few kids
Choice B: Everyone ditch one parent because the children have a preferred destination for holidays
Choice C: We all go to one place

My family has always preferred the latter, but occasionally choice B comes into fruition and my father is left to see his family by himself. Now, it’s not fair to ditch my father’s side & see my mother’s side on Christmas and Thanksgiving or vice versa. Alternating is fair, but does anyone really want to alternate? No. Fuck no, actually.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I dislike my father’s side of the family. It’s not that I dislike them. I don’t. I just don’t understand why they’re so over the top about everything.

In contrast, my mother’s side is fun. My aunts and uncles smoke cigarettes and weed. They drink and sneak it from my grandparents with cologne and gum to cover up any trace of their intolerable behavior. My 50-year old aunt throws parties with my cousins who are  20/30 year olds ’till 4 in the damn morning. That’s my kind of aunt.

My mother’s side isn’t just drugs and drinks. There are a ton of people at these gatherings as my mother has five brothers/sisters, all of which have at least four kids. Kids that hae kids. My grandmother cooks her ass off. The food is damn good too. My grandmother’s food is so damn good that I want to invite my friends over just to eat. Just so that when she dies I have proof from some outsides of how damn good the food is.

As their 22-year-old nephew/grandson/cousin I admire the people here because they’re willing to be themselves. They’re not squares. They never were. I’m not either.

My father’s side is completely different. The place is trounced in Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. I’m not anti-religion–everyone’s entitled their opinion on religion, but there’s an unfair level in which their beliefs matter and mine don’t.

I’m no whining atheist either for that matter. They piss me off as well. I’m of the belief that everyone is entitled to their opinion and no one should relentlessly attempt to convert people that are different. I won’t drown my beliefs and you shouldn’t drown yours. It’s not easy being a Christian and it’s not easy being Agnostic Theist (me.) It’s not easy to believe in anything.

I walk in today and my grandmother wants to do Commencement for Christmas. I understand the biblical implications of Christmas. I understand reviving those implications as soon as the family is together for the holiday. I’ll even participate to an extent.

I’ll hold hands when everyone prays. I won’t bow my head, close my eyes or say ‘amen’ but I’ll hold hands. You won’t see me drinking wine & crackers to ‘remember the body of Christ.’ That’s not what I believe in. Sorry.

My issue at this house is the Christian hoopla that’s force fed down one’s throat. You’re not just drenched in baby Jesus blood at the door, you’re reminded in every conversation about the blessings & the sanctifications of Jesus Christ.

There are other issues of course. Having only 3 cousins on this side of the family sucks. The food is terrible. It’s as if it were seasoned in dog shit and left outside for days. My uncle nags me about irrelevant shit because he has no friends. My other uncle feeds into the dramatic hoopla of this house and gets super emotional during prayers.

So much so that my 6 year old cousin was laughing at how emotional he was. I know I shouldn’t use a 6 year old as justification, but she knows it’s supposed to be a serious moment. When she can’t get her head around some emotional fanfare put on for the cameras, I can’t imagine anyone doing so. There’s real emotion & there’s emotion for the cameras. It’s always the latter in this house and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s not being honest with yourself.

That’s what really lacks on this side of the family. There’s just an incredible lack of reality and that’s sad. They’re so detached from reality and that’s not because they’re religious. It’s because they’re so over-the-top in everything that they do.

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For now, I drown in the beat

Coma Cinema – “Eva Angelina,”

This is the most difficult time of the year for me. More difficult than finals week. Let me explain.

  • Christmas is overrated: It is a second rate holiday and everyone is freaking out about it. Christmas presents, and Christmas cheer. Blah! The only thing I dig about Christmas is the killer Christmas music. “Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer,” will forever be a classic. Sufjan Stevens’ cover of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” still puts a tear in my eye. The idea of Christmas being a super important holiday. Meh. I beg to make this argument against anyone who dares to argue with me. Maybe I’m a grinch. I probably am a grinch.
  • New Years Eve is a bitch: Two days after Christmas all anyone can think about is WHAT AM I DOING FOR NEW YEARS?!?!?! Well, fuck that. I’m already thinking about what I’m doing. It goes without saying that I’ve never had that perfect New Years. That kiss at 12 a.m. That great house party. I don’t care what you say about house parties, New Years almost HAS to be done at the quintessential house party. A bunch of people your age. A bunch of drinks. Some people you know. Many that you don’t. It goes without saying that this is what I want for New Years this year. We’ll see what happens.
  • That After Christmas Spending: Will kick my ass. I’m one semester short of graduation. I’ve finally realized that I have maybe 2 dress shirts. After Christmas spending has always kicked my ass but this year I think it’s a given that I’ll be shopping for business attire. I’m thinking at least a half dozen shirts. Maybe a sweater. Then whatever else I want. This won’t help my chances of going to Miami, Cancun or Panama City for Spring Break but it will help my chances of getting a job after school’s over.

Yes, I’m complaining. My complaints are minuscule, but valid. My priorities are a bit out of wack and naturally money, having a good time, and alcohol are the only things that really matter at the age of 22. Well, and writing. Here’s my writing dilemma.

I wrote a 2010 end of the year list for music for Gamespot & Football’s Future (could only link to this one, which is the original rough sketch — excuse the poor writing), two forums that I frequent. More than anything else, I’ll be spending the next few days listening to music. Drowning in the beats. Thumping into the bass. Writing allows me more time to listen to music. So does video games. I’ll probably be doing a lot of both.

The most difficult part of all of this is just time, really. Do I really have 79 minutes of my day to re-listen to the latest Drake record? What about multiple times. Do I really have the time to tell you every intricate reason as to why Grooms’ “Into The Arms,” is one of my favorite records? Can I really name all of the influences from the latest Yuck record, or all of the instruments used on the Juan Maclean record? Can I really sort through the 94 albums I’ve already graded (and the other 8 I plan on grading) to give you my 20 favorite songs of the year?

I mean, I can. It just won’t be easy.

/rant

Sidenote: Little music tab at the top will link to my top 40 albums & top 20 songs of the year. I’ll be announcing when these things will be posted here. Stay tuned.

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Round 22

Mr. Muthafuckin’ eXquire – “Cockmeat Sandwich/Pissin’ Between Train Cars”

I’ve fought 3 times in my life. Only twice would a punch land to my face.

I’ve lost once. Two kids sucker punched my friend Ethan and I. Ethan laughed about it. I was heated. Kid would have gotten his if he didn’t run away. He’d have gotten his if my glasses hadn’t fallen off.

I don’t pretend to be a badass. I’m not. Far from it, actually. But I’d never fight like I’d fight today. I’d never come so close to losing on Thanksgiving Thursday. My foe kicked me in the ass. We traded jabs until the fork hit the plate.

Collared greens, sweet potatoes with marshmallows and brown sugar, rice, turkey, ham, roast beef, potato salad, green beans, macaroni & cheese. And more. Much more. Stacked on top of one another. Three layers on my plate.

Potato salad on turkey. Turkey on turkey. Sweet potatoes on sweet potatoes. Ham on rice. Rice on rice. As I pack my plate, their juices and seasoning seep into one another creating one Thanksgiving juice. Hidden under the food like the underground railroad.

Round 22 rang at 4 p.m. I could barely make the plate upstairs without spilling the food. The damn plate nearly split in two. I don’t blame it. My grandmother has actually invested in stronger plates over the years because she knows how we eat. She suggests we double up just in case. With the way I take control I should have used the double plate. Surely my fork will go through one plate and leak.

I sat in my seat with the Dolphins-Cowboys game beginning. I wasn’t watching. I was eating. I love eating. This is the only meal of the day so I have to make it count.

I have a strategy but when it comes to Thanksgiving I sometimes lose composure. Often times I eat one section at a time. Save the drink for last.  It’s the best strategy. The drink fills you the quickest. The food doesn’t.

As I take apart my meal limb by limb I get closer to the white paper plate. Fork holes everywhere. Thanksgiving juice leaking. Dammit, should have double plated.

I dig into the rice. Yellow with small beans. The turkey is dripping of juices. The ham as pink as it was before it was cooked. The roast beef leaks like a bachelorette at Chip n Dales. There’s not a dry food product on this plate.

The collared greens and green beans are the whores on my plate. Delicious in nature, but actually nutritious due to vitamin content. How could something so good for me make me feel so bad?

Today I’m a glutton and everything will be soaked into my stomach. I mean everything. I scrape my plate for the first time. Forgive me Buddha.

I’m allergic to gluten, but today I’m eating macaroni & cheese. I haven’t in months, but I make exceptions for my Grandmother’s food. It’s better than I remember.

I look at my plate in hopes for cornbread. The perfect sponge to soak up the juices left on my plate. I expected cornbread and received none. Where is my goddamn cornbread?

No need for complaining now. 20 minutes deep and I’m at the tail end of my meal. The potato salad is heaven. The sweet potatoes to die for. They’re my favorites so I save them for last. They’ll leave me with the taste to keep going. Enough for a second plate. Maybe a third. In an hour at least. Fuck if I want my stomach to explode. I haven’t been going to the gym this year.

Four forty-five. My cousins children are pissing me off. The itis has left me with an upset stomach. I haven’t slept much. Thanksgiving Thursday is supported by my unprepared nature. Did I think I could go to bed at 4 a.m., wake up at 10 a.m. and not fall asleep at some point during the day? And with Thanksgiving Thursday the next day? Who am I kidding?

I’ll lay in my grandparents room. Close my eyes for a brief second. A short nap should do. 15 minutes is a brief knockout. If I don’t recover and get another plate, I lose; If I sleep too long I’ll never recover.

I nap.

“Mikey you awake?”

“Damn nigga, were you drinking last night?”

“This is just a bad case of the itis. Niggeritis.”

I hear them. They haunt me like a fat bitch eating my dinner plate. My cousins expect more from me. They shake me. I struggle.

“We’re leaving soon.”

I recognize the voice. It’s my little brother. I peel one eye open. Wipe the coal from the other. Look at the clock. 7:45. Fuck.

I roll over. This can’t be life. After 22 rounds of fight I leave this thanksgiving with one plate eaten? A fat plate, true. Scratch that. A nigga plate. Three layered plate is enough for 2 normal plates at least. But this isn’t me.

I sit there. I’m disapppointed in myself. My defeat. Have I actually lost? There has to be time.

I go downstairs. My cousins make fun of me for sleeping. So do my aunts & uncles. I’m a ball breaker so I deserve this. Before I ask if we’re actually leaving, I make my move.

Pass me another plate.

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Being Drunk on Thanksgiving or Participating in Black Friday? Why you won’t see me doing either

Veronica Falls – “The Box”

Ever.

I love my alcohol. I love cheap shit.

But never will I ever participate in such nonsense and tomfoolery.And everyone that does is out of their damn mind. Let me explain why.

First of all, Thanksgiving is probably the 2nd greatest holiday in the world, right after Halloween. Why Halloween first? I get my alcohol fix on Halloween. I drink excessively. I get to dress up as whatever the fuck I please. Women are allowed to (and expected to) dress in their sluttiest get up. Alcohol and slutty costumes are a recipe for my hormones to skyrocket. And they do. If thou dress like a whore, thou should expect to be treated like one, but in this case, and this case alone being a slutty camera/kitten/paper plate is totally acceptable.

On the flip, I love Thanksgiving because I get to eat. I get to be fat. I’m myself–none of this ‘go out, get drunk and have balls all night while we try to pick up women’ bullshit. No. That’s not to say I don’t love drinking and hunting for women (I do) I just understand there’s a time to hunt and a time to take it easy.

For today I get to unbutton my pants and let my stomach hang out. For today I get to eat some of the greatest cooking known to man from my grandmother. She is the greatest cook I’ve ever known. No one is even in the same stratosphere. When I eat, one plate is good enough. Two plates is just gluttony. I strive for three plates, not including the plate I bring home. After I eat, you know what I want to do? Sleep. Watch football. Be fucking fat. This is what EVERYONE should want to do on Thanksgiving!

If you don’t then the cooking must suck. I’m serious. I know everyone can’t cook like my grandmother, but there ought to be one good cook in your household that makes you want to put down the wine/vodka/beer/rum/gin/whiskey/brandy/whatever for a night and be a fat piece of shit. Alcohol isn’t all there is to life. I don’t mean to preach, but I’ve never wanted to drink over eat on Thanksgiving. Ever. Why should you? You eat like a fat pig a handful of times a year. You drink every weekend. Get over it.

Black Friday is another debacle entirely. My main issue is, why on earth would I ever want to do any of the things that Black Friday has to offer to save a few extra bucks? Especially when I can save all that extra money by shopping online (on or around Black Friday) or after christmas. That brings me to another issue–why get people presents for christmas when everything is so incredibly marked down afterwards?

Black Friday has nearly nothing to offer me. Lets wake up at 4 a.m. before daylight has shown its’ face and sit outside in the freezing cold of November. Let’s bring out our innate animal instincts to act like a pack of raving hyenas. Let’s claw, scrape and rush to save that extra 20% on a toaster.

That’s exactly what people do on Black Friday. Sit outside, losing all forms of courtesy and humanity for a bunch of material items. For a couple of hours, it’s OK to knock over the bitch next to you so your son can get his hands on Pokemon Yellow version. For a couple of hours, it’s OK to dig in other people’s carts. For a couple of hours, it’s OK to throw away whatever dignity you once thought you had. If nothing else, this act of propane hedonism could be somewhat enjoyable to watch with a video camera. Just to see how ridiculous the rabid animals look as they fight for position to get that last 3-D TV.

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My Blog: Only Relevant During Breaks & Boredom

Still Corners – “I Wrote In Blood,”

Oh hey there!

*crickets*

So it’s been over a month since I’ve written in my blog. I promise this wasn’t exactly on purpose. I actually had a blog planned before Halloween but it fell through considering the theme was…well, Halloween costumes. In any case, tons has happened in the past month and change.  Nothing of which I’ll speak on in detail, but I’ll certainly mentioning a few things in upcoming topics.

One thing that’s really been grinding my gears is the idea of jealousy and crossing streams. I’m not talking urine here either (though I imagine it’d be pretty fun, and a bit homoerotic to cross streams with your friend and his urine but, errr…that’s for another time I suppose.) I’m talking about the consistent conflict of interest of this being a small world–a consistent theme in my life for the past few weeks.

I admit, I’m one that hopes to make another jealous. More to get a reaction than anything else. I don’t like making women upset–rather just see where I stand. In that sense, a reaction makes all the difference. Sometimes it backfires. I once was really fond of this Australian girl. We kissed once. Nothing else ever happened. I recall dancing with my friend to ‘make her jealous’ once at the bar. As my friend danced sexier, so did the Australian. What made it better was the 5 feet that separated my friend from the Aussie. It was like watching a really awkward situation in a sitcom. She got the last laugh, surely.

Sometimes, you win. I went to the bar with this girl last semester and was only with her. We fought at the bar, so she danced with another guy. I danced with another girl. She gets jealous, pulls me away from the girl and dances with me the rest of the night. Did I mind her dancing with another guy? Of course. She came with me and was leaving with me. But we didn’t “date,”…weren’t “exclusive,”…so it wasn’t my place to tell her who she could and could not dance with. She broke first and pulled me away. I took that as success on my end.

Other times, you get a reaction you couldn’t care any less about because the reactor is old news that you’re simply disinterested in. Take a month and a half ago for example. I hook up with this girl at some party and get her number. We see each other a few times. I text her about 2 weeks ago. She tells me she has a boyfriend now. Ship.has.sailed.

Now this past weekend occurs. I’m at the bar with a friend of the past year. Her and I are hooking up in the bar, dancing and getting closer. As she’s turned around, girl from about a month and a half ago decides its time to talk to me at the bar. She comes clean about her new boyfriend, tells me she really liked me but that she can’t see me any more. As if I’m supposed to care? The ship has sailed, can’t you see I’m with somebody else?

The idea of jealousy and crossing streams always makes for fantastic morning after stories…and tons of anxiety. The best reaction…or at least the mature one, is to have no reaction at all. Easier said than done. Otherwise you’re feeding into the other persons game. And as I said before, I play games, I hope for the jealous reaction. Not because I want to. I don’t think anybody wants to. Just because that’s the way things are–girls are afraid if they don’t play games they’re labeled as sluts for being too forward, and guys are afraid if they’re way too nice the girl will be disinterested (surely finding someone douchier and a bit more edgy.) Its a way to keep both sexes on their toes. The added kick of drama keeps things interesting, which is why the chase is always so interesting…at least for men.

I can’t speak for women, as I simply have no idea how they can sit on their asses and wait. And wait. And wait for some guy they really dig to sweep them off their feet. The whole idea is ridiculous to me. If you want the job, you go out there and get it. You want the good grade, then go out and get it. You want a man? Sit there and hope he notices you. I haven’t been passive in years, I could never be a woman.

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People Are Gross.

Grooms – “Into The Arms”

Sometimes I think people are gross. Completely gross. I’m not one of those anti-society, anti-humanity, anti-America people but it goes without saying that there are a lot of people whom kind of disgust me. As there should be.

Being a gross person isn’t a bad thing. If you ask me, gross people are the types that do well in school (my roommate Greg for example, is an engineering major and I find it gross that he wakes up religiously at 8am on Sundays to study for the next 8 hours.) Gross people are the types with good jobs (Doctors disgust me; ‘Oh hey Dr. Jones can you come in at 4 in the morning for this heart transplant? I know your wife just had a baby but we have no one else’) and really bad jobs (Oh hey there Journalism majors! 10 hour days for 20K a year! Same goes to you construction workers, factory workers and poorly paid blue-collar Americans!)

Maybe my own mind has skewed my perception (OK, my own perception on things has been pretty fucked for years) but gross people tend to be the types that can commit to a cause and stick with it. For that I commend them. I could never do the shit that they do, and for that reason they’re probably grotesque in my eyes. Maybe I’m jealous of them. Actually, I probably am. Fair enough. I’ll never go to Med or Law school. When I’m married my wife should expect me to go out on weekends with my buddies. When my mother, best friend, or whomever dies, I may cry for a day. No more than that. I can’t imagine crying over someone a few days after the fact. That’s just not who I am.

But does my sheer lack of commitment mean I’ll never date? I have 3 other friends like myself…single forever. It’s not a bad thing. We kind of set ourselves up this way. One of my friends goes out every few weekends, makes out with a few guys, maybe even half a dozen on a good night and then drunk texts and calls until she passes out. She deletes her texts the next morning for fear of what she might have said, and keeps it moving. She’s bubbly, and nice, funny and a bit egotistical, loud and a bit obnoxious but can’t understand why no guy will date her (oh, did I mention that she’s smart as shit? She has a 3.9 GPA.) It’s been so long that she feels like she has to wait it out for the right guy, but will the right guy come when she’s making an ass of herself every few weekends? Probably not.

Yet, I kind of understand her dilemma. I’m not going to date just to say I’m doing it. Fuck that. I did that when I was younger and I cheated. That’s a waste of your time, and mine.

Maybe I should be gross though. My roommate was in a relationship for three years. He broke up with his girl, and was single for a month. He was miserable. We’d go out hunting and we’d delete his ex-girlfriend’s number. He’d find a way to get it back and text her by the end of the night. He met a new girl and they were together for a week or so….but he ended up back with his ex. They’re together and I sense the relationship is stronger than ever. He’s crazy for her. He should be.

Some people may see his situation as a bit pathetic. What, you couldn’t hunt for girls without texting your ex-girlfriend? Maybe it is. But the amount of dedication he has to his girl is fucking admirable. You have to respect it. I do.

I can sit here, and say I’m non-committal but as I typed this I’m realizing that maybe I’m just committed to certain things. I’m committed to writing. I love writing. I’m committed to my friends and the people I love (though if they die I’d shed tears for a day and keep it moving? I’m not really sure what that says about me.) I’m committed to staying up-to-date on music. I’m committed to going out and getting hammered on weekends with my friends (herein may lie the problem!) Outside of those what do I really love? My priorities are clearly not in order. I’ll take my music over love. I’ll take writing this over volunteering. But I’m 22. I’m young. Maybe my priorities are right where the should be. What’s the point of having your priorities in order at the age of 22 anyways?

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