Explicative Deleted

Ok, so what is the point in teaching a class -- nay, in being a teacher at all -- if you don't listen to your students?

If you ask a question and then go on to answer your own question for the sheer joy of hearing your melodious voice that no doubt leaves your students with a pleasant and sated feeling… why are you even asking the question?

And if one such student attempts to answer said question and you proceed to bowl them over with your own verbal splatterings while staring the poor creature down… should you not wrap up your diatribe and then inquire as to what the curious student was asking about?

I hate my thruZday eve class -__-

Glocks and Cops

Omg. Omg. Omg. My heart just exploded from my chest.

Its 3am and I'm sitting on my futon writing an email to someone when some jackass comes and BANGS on the apartment door. No doubt one of the pismire meat head jocks that always get too drunk to find their way back to their women around here.

I set my laptop down and walk over to the peephole expecting to see a swaying moron holding his penis and a can of beer. Instead I see a lot of pink.

Okaaayyy? So some dipshyte holding up a pamphlet for a party that I should be at?

Meh, I figured I would let the drunken moron realize he had the wrong house and he would go on his merry way.

No such luck. The idiot BANGS on the door again. This pisses me off greatly. Not only is it 3am, but my sister is asleep and I'm having my writing zone interrupted by some pothead who doesn’t know how to count apartment numbers.

That and the banging sounded very aggressive. And since aggressive behavior tends to make me even more aggressive than I already am... I went for my Glock.

I grabbed my baby, marched to the front door and checked the peep again. Still covered. Whatever, Id show this asshole that I wasn’t some little sorostitute and I didn’t appreciate being disturbed this early in the morning.

I flipped both the locks on the door with my left hand (My right still clasped around my Glock) and stood back enough that I could get a view of the upper landing and whatever cheap beer drinking dorkus might inhabit it. In order not to be violating my Right to carry arms I kept my gun out of site behind the door lest Beer Boy think I was brandishing it and piss himself all over my doorstep.

Well, the meat head turned out to be three guys.

All dressed in uniforms.

POLICE OFFICERS.

I stood there for the proverbial second that seemed like hours and assessed the situation. I was standing half naked in an open door way facing three cops. One of them had a Maglite the size of my thy held up over his head (my apartment was pitch black). I had a loaded (but not chambered) Glock hidden behind the door. I was frakked.

One officer acted like he was going to push the door farther open and step inside so my self preservation kicked in and I spout: “I have a gun!” Not in a menacing way, but in a tone that indicated complete and total disbelief.

The three officers glance at each other and then back at the girl in glasses and the United Way Staff shirt and the tall one says: “Well, just put it down on the floor and step back.”

No shyte, I thought. The Glock felt like it weighed 100LBS and was on fire. I bent down and set it on the orange entry carpet and stepped back into my kitchen. I wrapped my arms around myself to stop from shaking.

The three Officers came in and started looking around. The black one with his massive Maglite. The short, heavier one finds the lights and flicks them on. I stupidly thought that I should have done the dishes.

“May I ask what this is about?” I asked. Mom would be proud. Even during chaos I was polite.

“We got a call for a Domestic [Disturbance] for this address.”

I look around my apartment and see the game cube strewn across the floor from where I was playing Mario Sunshine and my laptop sitting beside it playing MC Chris’s “Geek” softly. I glance back up at the black cop. It registered in the back of my head somewhere that he looked really kind. He smiled.

“This is apt 34*?”

I nodded and looked around again. The heavier cop had picked my Glock up off the floor and popped the magazine out and cocked and locked the slide back and set it all on the kitchen table and was looking it over.

I took the time to be proud that I had hollow points in the mag and had cleaned my gun since the last time I shot it.

Tall Cop realizes that they might have the wrong address and radios in to confirm while Heavy Cop walks back further into the apartment.

Black Cop: “Anyone here with you.”

“Just my Baby Sister. You can go back and check on her, but you’ll scare the crap out of her.”

He chuckles.

Tall Cop comes back. I could hear the call he made over the radio through Heavy Cop’s radio at his waist. It was defiantly apartment 34.”* But they realize something isn’t right.

Tall Cop: “Well, she doesn’t look beat up.” They all laugh.

I spurt out that I took karate. Pointless. Hadn’t I just answered the door with a loaded weapon?

“Is there any other apartment 34’s* around here?” one of them asks.

I pondered for a min. I kind of felt like I was brainstorming with them and I liked it. “Across the way, maybe. I think they are all labeled the same save for the actual building number.”

They take one last sweep. Black Cop bends over and checks out my Glock.

“40?” he inquired. (Referring to the caliber.)

“Nah, 9 mill. Daddy got it for me for Christmas. We go shooting a lot.”

They all laugh and I want to bust out doughnuts and bad coffee and sit around shooting cop shyte. So, that Vic from last night was suspicious. What about the Perp? Total scumbag! Too bad we never fingered that UNSUB in the White Case.

Before I was done daydreaming they had nodded and smiled and closed the front door. I stood there for a beat and ran to see if Steph was ok.

Whores with Parking Issues

Ok, everyone knows I have anger issues. I’ll be the first to admit it. But, damn it… yesterday I was down right homicidal. Hack someone open and plant daisies in their chest homicidal.

I live in college apartments (and will until hell freezes over unless I get a worthwhile degree soon) that come with their fair amount of idiots. But I dwell above two of the biggest crack whoring fucktards on the planet. And no, this isn’t my jealous opinion because I think they are prettier than I am… they are honestly fucktards. No social skills outside of blowing their abusive (and apparently shared) boyfriend and bugging their dealer for cocaine. No common courtesy at all. This includes playing their music loud enough to shake the frame of my bed at 4am in the morning, and parking on TOP of my Jeep.

I love my Jeep. I've named my Jeep… I frakking talk to my Jeep on a regular basis. Outside of my sister, my Jeep is about the only thing I give a damn about in this town. So one can imagine my concern when I noticed tiny dings on his passenger door and missing paint flecks.

To further explain my anger I must get across a simple point. One of property. The foundation our country was built on. The right to own property… and not have it shyte upon by the brainless piles of genetic abortions that I live above.

It’s not that they are angry with me in some manner. It is simply that the concept of maneuvering a two ton piece of metal in BETWEEN two blinding yellow lines eludes them. They apparently were held back in kindergarten for not being able to color within the lines and it is catching up with them in their “adult” life.

Now, not everyone is going to be able to park perfectly between the lines the first time every time. However, if one is pulling in between two other vehicles on either side, then there is the expectation of the Adjustment. This is where one backs up and pulls in straighter. I've timed it… it takes exactly 15 seconds to do.

I'm assuming the crack whores are really jonesing by the time they get home so the 15 seconds is precious time they cannot afford to waste. Because they don’t. They simply leave their tore up silver POS car parked over the yellow lines and hit my passenger side door every time they open their driver’s side door to get out. I have to back OUT of my space to let Steph into my passenger side to avoid hitting their car….

Anyway, as it happens they did this for the 10943th time yesterday… and I was grumpy yesterday. Steph pointed it out to me from our upstairs window that the silver car was again parked too close, so I decided I would just simply move my Jeep. No big deal.

As I walked down the steps and came closer to my Jeep and the silver monstrosity parked to its left I slowed my steps and finally came to a stop… and stared. It couldn’t be. There was no possible way. Was there? Did this genetically inferior, coke addicted, back woods, trailer trash moron really park like THAT and not Adjust?

I walked up to my passenger side and glanced at my side mirror… I couldn’t fit my pinky between her’s and mine. I snapped. My heart rate shot up and I ceased to be able to hear anything save for the blood rushing through my veins.

I went and pounded on their door and stood to the side lest they see a raging psycho and not open. When the tiny mouse did answer the door I grinned and pointed to her car:

“Is that silver car with the NY plates yours?”

She piped up and smiled (no missing teeth, I noticed… I guess she hasn’t been addicted as long as I had thought), “Yeah! It is!”

“Ahh,” I nodded and tried to breathe and stop my hands from shaking. “Well, would you mind not parking so damn close to my jeep every time? You are dinging my door and it’s starting to irritate me.”

Mouse girls face fell a little and she stepped in behind her door. “Oh well, I made sure not to hit your door when I got out.”

Mhmm, I thought. Bullshyte. I called her bluff. “Well, I've seen you hit my door on several occasions.” At this time the heavier roommate came peeking above her friends head. She glanced at me nervously and stepped back into the apartment and out of my vision.

Mousie decides she is no longer happy, or afraid… but righteously enraged! “Well, why don’t you tell whoever owns that yellow piece of crap to park straight and I wont have to park like that!”

As she pointed to Jerika’s nice yellow car (she lives across from me on the top floor) my mouth fell a little in disbelief. Not only is Jerika parked halfway decently, but there are approximately 700,000 other parking spaces in the lot that are empty…

“Well, sweetheart,” I cooed, “What is your excuse when the parking lot is empty? It’s two yellow lines… you park BETWEEN them. Not on top. It really isn’t that hard of a concept to grasp, ya know?”

It all gets a little fuzzy after this point. I think she mumbled something about going now and retreated back into her little whore house.

Now, am I wrong to expect a certain level of competence in my fellow man? It is too much to expect someone not to repeatedly hit my Jeep? I mean, if this is a ridiculously high level of expectation I think someone should tell me. Because the next time someone hits my Jeep out of pure stupidity I am going to burry them alive under my bedroom window and let their screams lull me off into dream land.

SoybeanZ Own You

Kids build the darndest cars

The buzz at the the recent Philadelphia Auto Show focused on a car that can go from zero to 60 in four seconds and get more than 50 miles to the gallon, running on soybean biodiesel fuel.

The innovative design didn't come from any car company--it came from five students at West Philadelphia High School, who built it as an after-school project.

According to a report on CBSNews.com, the project not only produced a car, it helped turn struggling kids earning C's and D's into straight-A students.

"If you give kids that have been stereotyped as not being able to do anything an opportunity to do something great, they'll step up," teacher Simon Hauger told CBS.

http://news.com.com/2061-11199_3-6044541.html

-It's amaZing what ppl can come up with if inspired in the least bit. Space Station here I come!

Life SuX

So, barring religion, what are people here for anyway? Seriously, think about it. Is life really worth it in the long run? No one really remembers their first five years and it wouldn’t be worthwhile if we did. Who wants to recall running around in diapers and shytting yourself?

Ok, so the first bit of your childhood is a waste. Too much to learn and adapt to call it a life.

Let’s say 5-10 isn’t much better. You start school. Your first taste of being socialized by a morally bankrupt system. You learn to count and some of us learn to read. This is also the stage where you find out that the opposite sex sucks ass and you shouldn’t ever touch them for any reason. Later in this time period you start developing (or the lack of developing) social skills. This determines whether or not you will be a weird ass loser in high school. That’s right… THIS stage of your life will set you up for failure. Therefore it sucks too.

So, 11-15. Geez. This age span might be a tad better for some of us. We make some new friends that don’t just love us for our play dough and crayons. However, if you aren’t super mega cool from day to day in this stage then you get ditched (we haven’t learned loyalty yet) and it screws us up for life. Your best friend of a year suddenly meets more popular people and you are swept away with the garbage. Wow, how exciting. Also, we suddenly start to find the opposite sex really fracking appealing during this period. Which adds a whole new layer of suckdom to life. Who the fck wants to spend hours pining away over whether or not Johnny is going to call? Or if Stacy really winked at you? Your brain begins to shut down right around here too… school starts to get harder and the common sense that you never developed begins to fail you. This is probably the shyttiest stage for anyone around us that is in an older stage.

Next we enter the 16-21 stage… the ultimate fck up stage. The drugs, sex, and alcohol (or again, lack thereof) stage. You either totally ruin this whole span of your life with drugs, pining over the opposite sex, and booze… or you cannot get the opposite sex, drugs, and booze. Either way, you are a loser. You’ve either totally shunted your brain and wasted your time on thinking of sex, or you were mistreated because you didn’t dedicate yourself to high school entertainments and you studied. Again, either way… you are fucked. You’ve now become a druggie loser with less than 4 brain cells or an antisocial nerd that actually learned to think for yourself (you guys will have better end results… but getting their slightly ruined your life).

So now enter the real world. The world of jobs and politics (mostly ignored by the United States and its education system). Money starts to mean something and your social life (considering you had one) begins to flounder. Here the nerds have an advantage because the never developed a social circle… this is why they succeed. There is no transition period. They never had a social life; therefore they don’t waste precious time adapting. They go on to become Bill Gates and Steve Jobs. If you have a family this is the point where you start ignoring them to work overtime… to provide for them--even though you are beginning to ruin another generation of children by ignoring them.

The next years of your life fly by with nary a reward in site. You got promoted (or fired if you never gave up the pot), big deal? What’s it matter in the grand scheme of things? Did you ever see the pyramids? The Grand Canyon? The Great Wall?

Did you ever do anything that had any meaning? Did you invent something, save someone, help a stranger, dedicate your life to something bigger than yourself? Did it ever occur to you that you could? Or were you too wrapped up in yourself and your struggles to branch out?

If you suddenly found yourself in a doomed situation and began to look back on your life would it make proud? Or would you have nothing worthwhile to remember?

Doctor Suicide

Ok, so I went to the dermatologist to have a “biopsy” about… meh, six or so months ago. One of my nifty little vampyre bite moles on my chest was disappearing and (considering genetics) it caused me no small amount of worry.

When they were ready for me (apparently after seeing how long I could wait without breaking down into tears of boredom) they ushered me into this yellow looking room and told me to undress my top half and put on a paper towel-esque garment.

So I lay down on the table that I know they took straight out of the Silent Hill hospital and the nurse started to numb me… on the wrong mole. Why I didn’t run screaming out of the offices and hide under my bed for a week is beyond me.

After clearing up what part of my body to numb, in comes

Dr. ImTooRushedToSpendVeryLongWithYou... ButYouShouldBeThankfulForEveryMomentYouHaveWithMe...
ForIAmWOnderfull.

I was reclining during the procedure so I couldn’t see what was going on, but from my sister’s account Dr. TooRushed took out a cookie cutter like object and started wheedling it down into my chest. I could feel the pressure from the tunneling as she did this. Obviously she took out WAY too much tissue.

After totally REMOVING my mole (Hey, I thought I was in here for a small biopsy?!) and half of my underlying muscle layer, she began stitching me up. Good thing I was numbed, right?

They didn’t even do that correctly. Out of five stitches total, I felt all the outside stitches (just three, but that still is not pleasant). She even bungled one of them, went “oops” and ripped it out to start again.

But, whatever. That isn’t my problem. My issue with Dr. DoNothing is that she made a circle in my chest… and tried to stitch that up. You can NOT make a neat closure out of a circle… simple geometry.

After brutally closing me she handed me a brown paper bag and mumbled something about ointment and ran from the room like I hadn’t brushed my teeth in a month.

Needless to say I have an icky pink scar on my chest where my pair of cute vamppy bite moles used to reside. It even had eyelashes where she allowed the stitches to grow into the skin (she waited 13 days to check up on me again).

I get to go see her wed morning (with my enraged father -- he happens to be a medical doctor -- and very fiery mother). I almost feel sorry for Dr. Wench.

Almost.

HitlerZ MinionZ

Ok, here is the question that has been nagging me for the last year:
If writers are meant to be such awesome creative beings then why is the publishing process/industry such a Nazi institution?

For those of you who really have no clue what I am babbling about, here are a few examples:

1. http://www.speculations.com/format.htm The writer’s manuscript (MS) must -- and I seriously mean MUST -- be formatted exactly as this link shows. It must have the same font, same spacing, same underlining and dividing techniques.
2. http://www.speculations.com/slush.htm If said writer’s MS is not, indeed, picture perfect then this link shows how your Magnus Opus, your hearts pouring, your piece of art that you have spent months if not years working on, will end up… in the recycle bin.

Everything I've read says these miserly guidelines are to make the editor’s job an easier one. The font and the double spacing are there to protect the editor’s eyesight, adding the universal # to signal the end of chapter is there because… well I've no clue. To top it off, the writer must have the word “end” at the finish line of his MS… or if they are feeling particularly inspired they can even get away with “####” but defiantly no more than the four #’s.

I can understand that text that will be italicized must be underlined in the MS because italics are easy to overlook, however, when an editor busts out a ruler to check that my margins aren’t an mm off? What is that exactly? Ill tell you what that is… it is a kickback from Hitler’s rule.

In an industry that requires the writer to be more imaginative, artistic, and original than those that came before him, how are these rigid rules helping to maintain that creativity? How can they expect such resourceful beings to accept such stifling rules so easily? (I'm not going to answer that, I'm just posing another question that has been scratching away at me.)

-end-