It’s Time for MOAR DRAMA PLZ K THX: My Girl Relations

Hello Drama Girl Posts

Last time I attended a presentation by a speaker, I attended a “First Friday Fractals” exhibit by one Jonathan Wolfe, a man apparently obsessed with repeating patterns in geometry. On this occasion, I attended a presentation by a man obsessed with putting iron sticks into a fire, and then hitting them repeatedly with large sticks. This obsession, called “blacksmithing”, is an important concept in the history of the human race, as it has given us nails, which us humans use to put pieces of wood together. These pieces of wood form houses, and these houses form timber with which large fires can be started, often destroying all of the furniture inside, which incidentally is also made of wood and nails.

I mention this not because I am obsessed with fires, but rather, because I want to discuss girls again.

I know, I know, I hear the howling peals of laughter through my little online audience. I know that in the past, whenever I discussed girls, it invariably involved law enforcement officials beating me with sticks. I also realize, however, that my torment is an outlet of incredible enjoyment for you, my Internet audience. So I have decided once again to discuss my relationships with the womenfolk, no matter how strained they are or how embarrassed I am at my geekiness. I aim to please.

Chapter I of my Odyssey with the Womenfolk:

I am currently friends with a girl named Shari, of whom I know very little, excepting of the details with which she has divulged to me. These details are indeed quite interesting. For example:

  • She gets irritated whenever I start talking nonstop about pickup trucks and how much it pisses me off that they quit making the Subaru Baja.
  • By the time a person has drank three-fourths of a bottle of Mountain Dew, according to Shari, “85% of the liquid is backwash.”
  • She has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken together, leave only one possible outcome, namely: that I need to spend more time talking to Shari about her interests. Unfortunately, this is not possible, because while I live in a pink double-wide mobile home on the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico, Shari has a dorm in central Albuquerque, New Mexico, and I am afraid to drive my car any distance further than a mile, because it is a Ford. This means that we have had to communicate primarily in class, and because we are both afraid of getting any lower than a B-plus in any class our discussions are primarily related to the “classroom material”, which in this case amounts to Cadillacs buried in the ground by some Rich White Person.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Shari are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a four out of five stars.

Chapter II of my odyssey with the womenfolk:

I have been conversing with a girl I know in one of my classes named Quian. I think that’s how her name is spelled. She is very nice and does not seem to hate me. I have learned the following:

  • She is an actual artist.
  • She is from China.
  • She also has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken as a whole, suggest one possible outcome, namely, that I need to learn to speak Chinese. This would allow me a realm of possibilities, not just in this particular situation, but also when China takes over the United States for the usage of our women. My abilities would also come in handy with discussing possible takeovers of American corporations by the Chinese, particularly Chrysler, which just needs to die.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Shari Quian are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a four out of five stars.

Chapter III of my odyssey with the womenfolk:

I have also attempted to be friends with another girl I know, Brittany, who I have known since high school. I have also had little time to talk to her. I have learned the following:

  • Apparently, Kaycee’s little sister is very different from Kaycee, the Girl of Pure and Ultimate Beauty.
  • She (Brittany) works at a deli.
  • She, too, has a boyfriend.

These facts, when taken as a whole, suggest that I should probably stop talking about Kaycee. Just guessing from the amounts of hatemail I am going to get regarding this post I can honestly say that I will never forgive myself for having written this, ever, and I feel considerably saddened by the fact that I had to be told specifically that Kaycee, the Girl of Ultimate Beauty’s little sister is far different from Kaycee herself. These facts make me cry inside. I do not like Kaycee’s sister.

After all, Kaycee’s sister is too young for me.

My chances of any meaningful relationship with Kaycee Brittany are strained, primarily because I have now written about her ON THE INTERNET, but also based upon my almost universal track record with women, which usually involves my untimely demise and unnecessary hatred and random death. Thus, I give this relationship a three out of five stars, assuming that her boyfriend does not kill me.

I hope that I have enlightened you on my current situation, and I also hope that you are laughing, assuming of course that you have not whipped out your shotguns and are planning my untimely demise as I sleep peacefully. At the very least, please do not be too mean. My current relationships are bad enough.


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Does Maxwell’s Silver Hammer Make Paper Pinatas? UNM Thinks So

Lupe and the Blacksmith

I have never before had a day where blacksmiths and hamburgers factored heavily in its outcome. I can safely say that that milestone in my life–that is, a day wherein I was directly involved with both blacksmithery and hamburgery–has been broken.

I did not think that this was going to happen. I thought, being a red-blooded American, that I was going to spend the day learning to make pinatas. The art of pinata-making, one that dates back to at least twelve years ago–one which has inspired Americans to new heights of animated immaturity with groundbreaking shows like “Viva Pinata”–was supposed to be shown today at the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology according to a paper hastily printed out by the University of New Mexico Department of Arts and Journalism Mixed Together Into A Fine Paste (UNMDAJMTIAFP). Specifically, they said that it was to be held on Saturday the 18th, and if you haven’t yet noticed, Saturday falls on the 17th, which means that something is amiss.

Whatever the case, the curators of the Maxwell Museum of Anthropology nobly replaced this act with a blacksmith, Gary Williams, who I noticed probably could have created swords, the same type of which could have been used to destroy pinatas. I will leave you to connect the dots here, but I will say only that the curator seemed awfully hurried in asking him to leave, and yet he continued to speak, unhurriedly, just pushing his bellows up and down and making pointy nails. I can only imagine going to UNM Hospital later tonight and seeing the entire cast of Viva Pinata ripped apart in hospital beds, getting an intravenous mixture of paste and paper mache.

Tools for Pinata Destruction

Potential pinata-destroying weapons.

However, as it turns out the UNMDAJMTIAFP paper (NOT referring to the pinatas) was incorrect on another point. First off, the blacksmith could not be called up until 1:00 PM, but the paper had said that it was to start at 11:00 “PM”, Saturday November 18th. That meant my mother and I had three hours to spend. We spent them as follows:

11:30 “PM”–Proceed to Zimmerman Library, where I was to find books on New Orleans.

12:15 “PM” or possibly “AM” depending on what the paper says–I realize that I have spent 45 minutes looking for books and yet have still not found any books using the University of New Mexico’s ultrafast EBSCO research database.

12:16 “PM”–My mother humbly suggests that we use the library’s paper brochures to try to find the books. I disagree, realizing of course that I was dealing with a lesser mind that was simply too old to get modern technology.

12:19 “PM” (three minutes later)–I have found five books relating to colonial New Orleans.

12:25 “PM”–My mother and I decide to go to the Route 66 Diner to eat.

Now, this was where we began to enter the world of retro diners, where nobody thinks anything of seeing a neon pitchfork mounted on top of a disco ball. It’s a strange world, one in which old dilapidated gas stations are used as restaurants and there are at least three pictures of Marilyn Monroe for every twelve square feet of wall space. No room is spared:

Route 66 Diner Bathroom

Yes, they seriously had a Marilyn Monroe photograph in the bathroom.

Our waitress was very sweet, but I noticed that she wore those black earlobe plugs like Goths wear. I also noticed that she seemed very concerned, because I continuously looked into the kitchen to try to figure out whether she was seriously wearing black lobe plugs with a light blue 1950s-style diner uniform. One can only imagine what was going through our heads:

Waitress: My Lord, they’re really serious about their order. Why does that guy keep staring at me? Is it my hair? Good God, is my hair messy or something? Or is he just waiting for his order and watching me to see if I bring it out to him? Am I not moving fast enough for his chauvinist pig ass? GOOD GOD IS HE UNDRESSING ME WITH HIS EYES?!

Me: Is she seriously wearing earlobe plugs?

Whatever the case, my mother and I finish our meals by 1:15, so we were about a half hour late to the presentation.

Blacksmith Presentation

It was badass.

So, all right, maybe I won’t be able to use this lecture for my paper. Maybe I’ll have to find an event involving something else, like (God help me) quilts. Who knows. All I know is, today involved hamburgers and blacksmiths and lots of them, and I can’t help but be proud for being a part of the glory of it all.

And God was it glorious.

red_wagon_disco_ball


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The Tralfamadorian’s Hall

(In remembrance of Kurt Vonnegut and my birthday)

The Tralfamadorian’s Hall

I walk. Forward, into the long, winding hallway. A light enters in from the end. Though enshrouded on all sides by darkness, I am able to find my way through this hallway, using only this light.

I am confused at my situation. I have designed all of this hallway; yet, I do not understand any of it. The hallway does not find its own way, it is my job to find the hallway’s sides and its floor and its roof. I can choose whatever way I wish in the hallway, and I can build its walls, I can draft it all. This hallway is of my planning and mine alone. So why can I not understand my own handiwork?

Throughout I rack my brains to find where I was and where I am going. Where is my motivation? What is the architectural form that I am using to draft this maze? Where is the single-minded goal of it all?

Here and there, the hall entangles. In parts, the walls seem to crumble, while in others they hold steady and fast. In making my walls and my roof and my floor, I on occasion find that I have crossed a hall which I made years ago. I break down the walls of the older hall, realize my mistake, and yet cannot simply walk down the same hallway I did so long ago. My only choice is to accept my mistake, continuing on the path I was already creating by tunneling through the next wall.

This is my situation now. It is an unusual situation. I most certainly cannot explore the older hall; I can only survey, as far as I can see, as far as the light will let me. Then I must continue to walk through this new path, hopefully to a better place, slowly winding my way down this pathway until eventually the hall will stop.

What happens next has always been of controversy for myself. What finishes this hall? Will I find a door leading to oblivion? Will I find my bedroom, for a final rest to the endless drafting and designing of this pathway? Or will I find a parlor, so that I may discuss with others the pressing matters of the day: how well their halls turned out, for example, or the parlor light that was so bright that it could enlighten even the most tangled and troubling of pathways. However, until then I must keep driving forward. All I know is, this hallway will eventually stop, and then I will find the final door.

Ah, yes, the final door. Oh, quite certainly I have found others. Four so far, in fact. I found one not too long ago, and it opened into another hall. All of them have opened to strange things. One–which I found after winding my way through myriad miles of hallway–opened into a small closet, which contained only a pedestal. Upon this pedestal I found a necklace, with only a pendant on the end. I wear this upon my neck. I do not know why. It simply has always been there.

I have found closet after closet, and the only thing I am sure of is that each will contain some small trinket. I take them and leave them as I see fit. Sometimes I sense that I am ready to take this or that trinket with me, and then I wind up placing it back on its pedestal, for some other person to stumble across.

As I look upon this older hall which has been crossed by the newer, I consider for a moment its length. It is so very long, like a winding, discarded mining tunnel. The light had disappeared from it long ago. I see now only transparent phantoms of an earlier hour, ghostly remnants of what I remember from so long ago. Yet in these phantoms I see life, and in one of these long winding phantoms I see color, a life among death. I do not understand why this one, of all these phantoms, has come to see me once more; he walks towards me.

I expect him to begin to ask me questions. I remember long ago that I had a plan for all this, and yet I have deviated from that plan so many times as to boggle my mind. I fear that he will begin to ask questions I cannot answer. Yet he does not. He merely nods, somehow understanding what he could not whenever he and I had built these earliest of walls.

Perhaps someday these phantoms will become real again. Alive. Until then, they are only phantoms. And even that one with life in his body and color in his face cannot escape the myriad passageways. What would they do? Could they ever join me in the final doorway? Can we the Tralfamadorian ever act as one?

As I pass this hall, I expect him to come with me, yet he does not. He stands still amidst the other phantoms, for how long I do not know. He only watches me as I pass down this hall, a row of ghostly phantoms trailing my every step, transforming me from one into many; a long centipede, winding his way down a long hall towards an uncertain end.


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