Jacobmu and the Shame I Feel

I love swimming in pools and I love entertaining people. At one point I was able to combine these two passions into one spectacular event that can only be described as the low point of my adolescence.

As an overweight twelve year old there are only so many ways to pass time. Your options are basically narrowed down to eating and finding ways to make people laugh. In the movies, the protagonist is never fat...but his best friend usually is. He also usually has red hair and freckles and provides the majority of the comic relief. I aspired to be that guy. I also aspired to be accepted by my older siblings. In such a pursuit one is subjected to doing things that when you look back on them weren't funny because you made them funny, but were funny because you were fat when you did them.

My older sister successfully manipulated my love for acting and marine life, thereby nurturing the creation of a character that has come to be known as Jacobmu. It is a play on words of the name of the popular Orca whale, Shamu, who regularly headlines at the animal prison known as SeaWorld.

A typical Jacobmu performance included me diving underwater, pushing up from the bottom of the pool and breaching the surface with spectacular grace only to splash back down with a resounding smack. My sister found this hilarious, which pleased me, which made me keep doing it. And then I realized. "I don't think they're laughing with me."

And so, with a shame similar to that felt by a white guy in Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, I retired Jacobmu. I have taken a vow against ever doing any physical comedy involving my weight ever again. Unless I get paid.

While I am extremely ashamed of my Jacobmu phase, nothing compares to the embarrassment felt when I think of the Sharky McSharkington incident, which involved one of these and very little, if anything, else:

I'll let you figure it out.

I'm Doing it for the Babes

Everyone makes bad decisions all the time. For instance, just yesterday I ate at Burger King. That restaurant has the most expensive fast food but the quality and taste isn't even that great. I was left to ponder questions such as, "Why did I pay 8 dollars for this?" and "Why is my burger hot everywhere?" Turns out they microwave your burger right before they give it to you. Buns, lettuce, tomato, everything just gets nuked before they serve it up. It's an abomination.

But that's not what this is about.

I was using the bathroom at BK when I noticed several epitaphs scratched into the porcelain sink. It was the same type of graffiti you see in every public bathroom but it made me wonder, who actually takes the time after they're done peeing in Burger King to pull out they're keys or whatever and scratch "tweetyburd" into the urinal? People who want to be famous that's who. Do you really there was any ethical/dignity induced restraint keeping me from scratching the URL to this blog on the toilet seat? There definitely wasn't. I only didn't do it because I didn't have my car keys and also I sooner die than touch a public toilet seat. And please don't comment on this post saying that there is more bacteria on the floor of the bathroom than the toilet seat because that was just a lie spread around by pervs who don't wash their hands. But seriously it is disgusting how many people leave public facilities without washing their hands. "Oh I didn't touch anything" is the non-hand washing persons excuse most of the time. BS! because A) that's impossible and B) it's just effing disgusting. The tenth circle of hell is reserved for those people.

I digress. Fame entices a great number of people. I mean, all of the plans I've made for my future depend on this blog becoming famous*. So I can't really blame "tweetyburd" or "AXLEHAMMER" for their amateur epitaphs because dey really only esspressin demsselves da only way dey know how. Who knows, tweety is probably an amazing poet but the world doesn't recognize his talent and so his meekly carved name on an unkown bathroom sink represents a small plea for some recognition from his fellow human beings. Right on tweetyburd, right on.

Just kidding. It was probably just some angsty 13 year old with identity issues and a rusty nail.

*but seriously if I don't start making some money off of this thing soon I'm looking at the inside of a refrigerator box. But at least in a nice neighborhood.

Speech! Speech! Speech!

What does it take to motivate somebody with words? Because I can say to you, "go save Africa" but that's hardly inspirational and you'll most likely just continue watching the Cricket match on the telly instead of saving Africa.

But, if I say to you, "go save Africa" and I tell you a couple heart wrenching stories about sick children, along with a couple reflective rhetorical questions and a "shame on you" or two thrown in there, then BOOM! you are on the next flight to Zimbabwe with nothing more than a canteen full of water and a heart full of love.

But words can be dangerous too. The old adage, Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is a lie that was generated by Bullies so they wouldn't have to feel bad about saying mean things. I mean sure, maybe I wasn't physically wounded by that insult, but if you were to open me up you would probably find a bunch of dead butterflies. (the butterflies obviously representing happiness)

So i have written an inspirational speech, and I hope to one day give it to a crowd of thousands. Hopefully they will laugh, and then cry, and then be like, "that was awesome." People will then say for years afterwards, "that was a wonderful speech he should give another one" and "whatever happened to that fellow who gave the best speech ever?" and they will never find out because I will be living under a different name, in the English country side, raising chickens and wearing finely knit sweaters while composing a Symphony based on the life of Abraham Lincoln. My friend, Edgar, from London, will visit and we shall sit in the study and discuss all manners of things, from Philosophy to how his Aunt's bicycle shop is doing. And then one day I will be tending the spice garden outside of my cottage and a lovely young lady will walk by and I will say, "I once gave the best speech ever" and she will say, "Marry me." and I will. And we will have three children, Emeline, Linus, and Delia. All my chickens will die in an unexpected blizzard and we will have no income, but then my lovely wife will convince me to send my numerous poems to a publisher who will then publish them and thereby put food on my families table. Unfortunately Delia will develop a rare disease that can only be treated in America. I of course, loving my child, will return to America so she would be able to recieve treatment. Eventually I would be recognized as the awesome speech giver and will have to leave as soon as Delia gets better. I will spend the rest of my life writing Jeff Facer's biography and eventually passing away at the wonderful age of 82.

This is what I think about in Math class. As opposed to, well, Math.

You Are all Invited to my Wedding

Usually it is the bride's job to plan and carry out all wedding plans since she is the one who actually cares about what a wedding looks/smells/feels/tastes like. While the bride is making decisions which caterer to hire and whether or not to have live music, the groom is playing golf with his future Father-in-law and making a reservation at the Motel 6 closest to the wedding venue.
Unfortunately, my future wife has no time to plan a wedding. Also, her husband might get suspicious if he finds her looking at different flower/color combinations for the centerpieces. Because let's just face it, when you're Zooey Deschanel there isn't much time for anything.

Which is fine, because I don't mind planning a wedding, in fact I kind of want to. I have already made most of the important decisions:

Wedding Location: Forest Lawn Memorial Chapel. (sure it's kind of creepy, but there's plenty of parking and they gave me a fantastic rate.)

Reception Location: Mike's apartment. (he just got a Wii)

Colors: Dodger blue and Mustard yellow

Music: a mix tape I found in my grandpa's car titled: "Sweet Jamz"

First dance song: "The Christmas Shoes" by NewSong.

There won't be any need to hire a photographer to take pictures, becuase I've already made my own:

Never Take Candy from Strangers...Except on Halloween

I am going to knock on your door. I will be dressed as Charles Dickens while also wearing a mask. I will hold a satchel in your face. I will offer a threat, meant to be carried out if you don't meet my demands. You will comply with my demands and I will leave.

It is called robbing your house.

It is also called Halloween.

And it is awesome.

As a child, I loved Halloween for a myriad of reasons, almost too many to count, but one of the best parts by far was wearing my costume to school. Halloween was a big deal at Mountain Avenue Elementary School. There was always a carnival the Saturday before the holiday which included fun games and prizes and Korean BBQ. Then on Halloween itself you would wear your costume to school and this was always my favorite part because my mother is an awesome sewer and I thought I always had really cool costumes. My costumes included A baseball player, A naval officer, a police man, a lion, and a scarecrow. And it was always awesome because we got out of class in order to participate in the school wide costume parade in which everyone walked around the playground in their costumes. It sounds less exciting now, but for a 7 year old it was friggen the best.

Number one part of Halloween though, trick or treating aka free candy aka a child's dream aka a diabetic's nightmare.

I never let myself get visibly excited for trick or treating but on the inside I was fricken excited. Once when I was 8, I went trick or treating as usual with my father, Floyd.

We were making the rounds when we got to one ladies house, who when she answered the door explained that a group of boys had just grabbed her entire bowl of candy and run away. Upon hearing this, my father ceased being Floyd and became Floyd Pope Walters III. With a firm "Follow me son" he walked back down the pathway and up the sidewalk. My mind was racing as to what was about to happen, all I knew is that this man in front of me was very determined and as we came up to a group of boys sitting on a lawn with an empty candy bowl it dawned on me.

I was about to witness something terrible.

I froze in my tracks as Floyd Pope Walters III marched right up to the young thieves. He grabbed the empty candy bowl. I held my breath. The four 11-13 year olds looked at my father with wary gazes.

And then, with no warning, my father spoke. He spoke in way I had never heard before and haven't heard since.

"Did you boys steal that woman's candy?" he asked in the most terrifying way I have ever heard a question be asked.

"N-no s-she gave it to us!" Replied the stupid, stupid boy.

Floyd wasn't having any of it.

In a scene straight out of the Andy Griffith Show he picked up the empty candy bowl and said with sheer anger, disappointment and fatherly instinct, "You boys better straighten up! You know better than this! You are going to go and apologize to that nice woman right now!"

And they did. And I just stood there, awestruck. I didn't feel much like trick or treating after that. At first I was embarrassed, but then as I have gotten older I realize that those punks got less than what they deserved. (which is a severe smacking).

It makes me yearn for the day when I can invoke angry wisdom on the youth of America. But it also makes me yearn for the day when I can take my own child trick or treating and use it as an opportunity to teach them a valuable life lesson by scaring the crap out of them.

Happy Halloween.

Because I Care

I guess you can call me a humanitarian...because I only eat humans. Sorry that was a cheap joke but it helps me introduce my topic for this post because what I'm going to write here is something I feel very strongly about.

The other day I asked myself, "Self, what are you doing to make a difference in this world?" I thought for a little while and came up with the following list of things I am doing to make the world better:

1. I give firm handshakes (there is nothing worse than a dead fish handshake)
2. I pet dogs
3. I burn all my trash (no need to crowd the landfills!)
4. I gave a quarter to a vagabond
5. I refuse to listen to techno

All of these things are great for the world, but even after I came up with this list I was left with an empty feeling inside, and even after 6 rice krispy treats and several glasses of lemonade it was still there.
I deduced that the emptiness was there because I was doing some but I wasn't doing enough.

So I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time and then all of a sudden it came to me!
I needed to start a non-profit to fight disease, not sure which disease, I haven't decided yet but I've already come up with the name for my life saving venture.
It's called "Mustache for the Cure" and not only will it help people who suffer from an as of yet undetermined disease, but it will once again return the Mustache to it's rightful place as an image of sexiness and manly pride. For far too long has it been a symbol of child predators and creepy uncles.

The focus of this movement will be to raise funds for those among us having to deal with debilitating disease. What will happen is we will get male volunteers who will agree to grow mustaches after they receive sponsorship from one or many donors. A donor will pledge X amount of dollars and the volunteer will grow a mustache. It is sort of like Relay for Life but a lot sexier.(Relay for Life is cool though and I suggest you check them out if you don't know what it is)

I'm going to need some backing from large corporations and beloved public figures, *cough*Rose Queen*cough* but most importantly I need support from you, especially those of you who can grow mustaches.

Together we can change the world, one fuzzy upper lip at a time.

P.S. Some other names/ideas I came up with for good causes:

1. Hip Upper Lips (not meant to be a charity, just a club for cool mustaches)

Soul Patch Soldiers (organized disaster relief with teams comprised entirely of men with soul patches)

Die Communists Die (pretty self explanatory)

P.S.S. Happy Birthday Saige Miley.

Fat Kids Hate Running

Think back to a time when you didn't have stress in your life. For me, that time was never. Because even as a baby there was always something to worry about. Like, what if mother forgets to feed me? or What if I poop my pants?(which is something I did like everyday) or even, What if I get sold to a homeless man? All of them are legitimate worries that progressed into even more legitimate worries as I got older.

When I was in fourth grade there was nothing that I feared more than the timed Mile-run test in P.E. It was a death sentence on my poorly shaped body and I really didn't want to have anything to do with it, but the State demanded that I participate so I had no choice. As the date of the test approached I began to get more and more stressed out and began praying harder and harder that I wouldn't have to do it.

The day of the test came.

And it was raining.

We were informed that the test had to be postponed until the next day and I was so happy. Until I realized that the next day would be coming very soon and the dread once again set into my stomach.

The day of the test came again.

And so did a forest fire.

The bad air quality made it unsuitable for running therebye further postponing the test and solidifying my belief in God.

The test literally got postponed 4 times for different reasons and it turns out that it wasn't such a good thing because my stress level just continued rising until I was on the verge of an emotional break-down.

Finally the day came when I had to run. I began the test with low spirits and finished 16 minutes later with even lower ones. There is nothing more embarrasing than coming nearly last in front of your peers. Nothing except farting in the face of the girl holding your feet during the sit-up portion of the fitness test.

I will never forget the look on that poor girl's face.

I am so sorry.

At Least I'd Have an Eyepatch

One of my earliest memories is when I was four years old and I was trying to create some sort of art project. I don't even know what it was, all I know is that I needed scissors so I could cut out whatever I had made.
As a four year old I was not allowed to use the scissors for obvious fear that I would lacerate myself, but I didn't realize this because I considered myself rather dexterous and so I grabbed the scissors off the counter...to be honest I don't remember how I actually acquired the scissors, all I know is that I got them somehow.
The only problem was that in order to get them to my room where my art project was, I had to get past my parents room where my Dad had the door open watching the news. I peaked around the corner to make sure he wasn't looking but as I stepped into the hallway he turned around and saw me with the scissors and he let out one of his Floyd-esque "Jacob! what are you doing? What are you carrying? Are those SCISSORS!?"'s.
The jig was up and the sensible thing would've been to stop and put down the scissors but like I've said before, I don't make sensible decisions when I am faced with punishment.

When motherly figures advise you to "never run with scissors" you probably think to yourself "Why would anyone ever even need to run with scissors in the first place?"

Well apparently four year olds facing restriction from any future art projects do, because that is what I did. Or at least tried to do, cause I only made it about halfway down the hallway before I tripped and fell on my face. I'm not really sure when I started crying but I definitely cried and it is a good thing I was at least holding the scissors in the correct fashion or I might've had one less eye.

The moral of this story is never run with scissors. That's it. I just wanted to make sure you were all transporting your sharp objects responsibly.

side note: If you were wondering what "restriction" is, then I don't blame you. It is Floyd's alternative to "grounding". Like for example, if you were put on restriction from the computer then you weren't allowed to use the computer. One time I was threatened to be restricted from coloring and I snarkily responded that I had to color in kindergarten and then Floyd said that he would call the school and tell them that I wasn't allowed to color so then I just shut up.
I never actually did get restricted though, I was always just threatened with it. "Restricted" sounds so much more menacing than "grounded" does, so I think the threat was all that was needed to make me be good. That and Santa Clause.

Interview with Myself

I was bored recently, so I sat down with myself for a quick interview.

Q: How are you feeling today?
A: My heart rate is up. But it's not too bad I guess.

Q:Why do you think your heart rate is up? Are you nervous about something?
A: I've never been interviewed before.

Q: Well don't worry, all I do is ask questions.
A: Well I'm not stupid.

Q: I didn't say you were.
A: Well you implied it.

Q: Forgive me. May we move on?
A: Only if you apologize first.

Q: I just did.
A: Well then ok. Ask away.

Q: I've forgotten what I was going ask now.
A: Well then you are a terrible interviewer. And your mother is a tramp.

Q: Well that was just uncalled for.
A: I'm sorry. I get cranky when I haven't napped.

Q: Let's start off easy, where were you born?
A: Glendale. In a hospital. As a baby.

Q: And why did your parents name you Jacob?
A: It rhymes with "country club", very high class, you see.

Q: If you could go anywhere in the world at this very moment, where would you go.
A: 1996.

Q: ummm, ok...why 1996?
A: That's the year I proposed to the love of my life.

Q:Weren't you four?
A: Yes.

Q: Care to explain this one?
A: Her name was Emily I think. We went to pre-school together. I was madly in love. I think she felt the same way. I mean you don't just teeter totter with someone without being committed to that person!

Q: I suppose not. What happened with Emily?
A: I proposed to her behind the swingset.

Q: What was her answer?
A: I never did find out.

Q: Well why not?
A: She got nailed in the head by the swing before she could reply.

Q: My goodness! That's awful!
A: That was probably why we weren't allowed behind the swing set. Anyway, she didn't talk to me for a long time and I eventually dropped out so that was that.

Q:You dropped out of pre-school?
A: Yup.

Q: Care to explain that one?
A: I'd rather not to be honest. Got any other questions for me?

Q: What is your favorite color.
A: I'm colorblind you insensitive fool.

Q: It says here that your favorite food is ham? Why?
A: It tastes good.

Q: Yes. But why?
A: You are really bad at this.

Q: At what?
A: At interviewing. You ask questions that nobody cares about and that don't even make sense.

Q: Well forgive me for trying.
A: I do not accept your apology.

Q: I say! Your rudeness is only exceeded by your complete disregard for proper manners!
A: When did you become British? And rudeness and disregard for manners are the same thing pal.

Q: Get out of my face.
A: Look who's talking, you're the one who came in here and just started asking questions. Your mother is still a tramp by the way.

Q: You know what? I'm done, I am done with this, I don't have to sit here and listen to you insult me anymore.
A: Nobody asked you to be here in the first place. I was just trying to take a nap you son of a tramp.

Q: What makes you so bitter?
A: Annoying people. A.K.A. you.

Q: So you're saying that you hate yourself?
A: Well played, Self.

I Lied

This is a bit awkward because this one time I was like, "I'm going to end my blog" and I meant it too. But then school started again and I remembered why I started writing blog posts in the first place, because I was bored and because I didn't want to do math homework. Once again I find myself bored, and not wanting to do math homework, so I apologize for lying and promise to never do it again.*

Lying is one of the many things that my mother taught me to never do. She also taught me to never talk to strangers, chew with my mouth open, or eat any sort of red meat. I would like to focus on the last one, not eating red meat. I was told as a child that if I ate any meat that had the slightest of pink tinges, that I would either: immediatley breed a family of worms inside my stomach that would do terrible terrible things to me, or die, or both...but most likely both. As evidence, my Mother would point to the story of the kid who died from eating a hamburger at Jack in the Box that was undercooked. I have no idea if this is true or not but as a child I believed it one hundred percent and I always had this image in my mind of a kid biting into a Jumbo Jack and immediatley keeling over and dying on the floor of the restaurant. It is for this reason, that when I was six and I found out that my brother was going to Jack in the Box for lunch that I started crying because I thought that he was for sure going to die and I think I tried pleading with him not to go much like a heroine addicts friend tries to keep a heroine addict from injecting himself with too much heroine. I was like, "Seth, please don't do it, it's not as good as you think and you are worth way more than this, you are breaking your mother's heart!" My pleas fell on deaf ears and he went to Jack in the Box, and he came back...alive.

My fear of red meat continued...and then I tasted it.

I have been in love ever since.

I eventually learned the truth about read meat, that it wasn't as scary as it seemed and now I am no longer afeared. Red meat is absolutely delicious, especially around full moons, and I can't stand hamburgers that are cooked "well-done".
I can't blame my mother at all, she herself refuses to eat any sort of red meat. She was just trying to protect me from worms and other meat related diseases.

I now also eat at Jack in the Box...although I still view it as a definite possibility that I will die as a result.

*Lie

The End

Alas I have come to a decision that is very difficult. This will be my last post on The Sneaky Narwhal. I have decided to put all of my time wasting efforts into a different, but yet slightly similar project that I hope will be instrumental in getting my name as a writer out there. To my faithful readers, I thank you heartily and I hope you will be there when I finish my next project because somebody is going to have to read it.

I will probably post something on here from time to time, but not as often as usual, so just check in every once in a while.

It's ok to cry while reading this, I know I am. The Narwhal will forever be in my heart...right next to Saige Miley and honey baked ham.

<3

How God Punished Me

Allow me to introduce you to Cream Puff:

She is a dog. A Pomeranian to be exact.

You may be thinking, "She is cute." or "What an adorable dog!" or if you're Asian, "Looks good!"
But all of these thoughts are incorrect. (except maybe the last one) . Don't be fooled by her seemingly adorable appearance. Beneath that soft and cuddly fur is the most retarded animal ever to walk this earth. I hate her with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. I mean, as much as I loved getting licked in the face while taking a nap on the couch by a dog whose favorite activities include licking itself and eating poop, there's just something about her that makes me want to kick her through the glass door.

Maybe it's the incessant barking, or the constant whining, or the fact that her breath smells like something off the bottom of an elephant's foot but nothing would make me happier if she would just stop living soon. I saw her get kicked in the face by a deer one time and she rolled down the hill, yelping all the way, and it was the funniest thing I have ever seen. Somehow she wound up uninjured, which was disappointing.

She is my sister's dog. She got her for Christmas a few years back and promptly named her Cream Puff.(don't get me started.) We celebrated Christmas in Utah that year, so we had to make the 10 hour drive home with the puppy version of Cream Puff in the car. At first i was receptive of the dog, because it was a puppy and was cute, but then on the ride home she peed on me, thereby establishing the basis of our relationship for the next couple of years.

She has the habit of barking very loudly whenever I walk by my sister's room. I have the habit of kicking her whenever I walk by my sister's room.

It's not a love/hate relationship, it's a "I'm a retarded dog/"I hate this dog" relationship. I keep hoping that a pine cone will fall on her head and kill her or that she will run away. She is right behind me at this very moment, chasing her tail and growling. So dumb.

Korean BBQ for dinner tonight I guess.

UPDATE: The dog is now in heat. Oh the joy.

The Root of All Evil

Whoever in their right mind decided to give Nicolas Cage his first acting job should be hung in the courtyard. If there is one thing that I have unabated hate for in this world, it is Nicolas Cage. He has ruined so many good things in my life. Like National Treasure, which would have been cool had his crappy, annoying, terribly unique, acting not gotten in the way. I can't even describe why I hate him so much, it's inexplicable. There's just something with the way he talks and the way he looks that makes me want to yell at the movie screen. He looks way too unique to play different roles, especially lead roles. I saw the previews for that "Sorcerer's Apprentice" movie that he is in and I want to personally water-board the person whose idea that movie was and ask them why they thought it would be ok to have Nicolas Cage star in it.

This is probably my shortest post ever, but I just really hate Nicolas Cage.

The day he wins an Oscar for best actor is the day the world officially sucks.

Oh wait, that already happened in 1995. Kill me.

One Year Older Means One Year Closer to Dying

I'd be very happy to have the opportunity to slay a bear. Preferably it would be with my bare hands, but I'd be happy enough to do it with an awesome knife. Even better would be to kill the bear in order to protect a defenseless baby. That is something that will make your life complete right there. The only downside would be all the publicity you would get for defending a baby from a raging grizzly. I'd have paparazzi following me everywhere, asking me questions like, "Why'd you save the baby? Is it yours?" and "What about the Bear's family? You killed some baby Bear's father! How does it feel to be a daddy killer?" They wouldn't get too close though because they would know what I am capable of.

The fact that I'm going through scenarios like this in my mind makes me believe that I am currently going through a mid-life crisis, which isn't good because that means I'm only going to live to about 36. If I had the money I'd probably be getting hair implants and buying expensive cars right now, but instead I'm taking a lot of naps and making up bear killing fantasies. I'm also playing a lot of Xbox.(my gamertag is Stenkyjenky, add me.)

I think that it's a good thing that I'm going through my mid-life crisis now, because by the time I reach my actual mid-life, which is hopefully somewhere around 45, I don't think killing a bear will be quite as possible.

Other things on my Mid-life crisis to-do list:

1.Go to the North Pole
2.Be an astronaut
3.Fight the Spider King.
4. Marry Zoey Deschanel
5. Win a carnival game
6. invent a breakfast cereal
7. Avenge Jeff Facer's stingray sting.
8. Barbecue a delicious steak
9. Get a compliment from a judgemental person
10.Find a leprechaun.

Maybe if I'm lucky enough, I'll get all this done by tomorrow...unless I fall asleep first.

What a Load of Cacophony

Everybody has their distractions for when they're sad. For me it's writing stuff. It's weird because I'll come out of a situation feeling bad for myself and being like, "well that was gay" and then I'll instantly feel better when I tell myself that I'm going to go write something. Like this one time I didn't achieve a goal I had set and was feeling pretty down about it and then I told myslef that I was going to go write a story and get it published and do a book tour and become famous and I instantly felt better. I never wrote that story, but it doesn't even matter because at the moment I made myself feel happier. It's like I tricked myself.

This one time when I was pretty young, I had crafted a giraffe out of clay and toothpicks and for some reason was convinced that the Zoo would pay big money in order to put it on display. When I proposed this to my mother, she wasn't as entusiastic about the idea as I was, and I felt a little disheartened, but being 5 years old, I forgot about it 2 minutes later. Point is, that when I was younger, it was much easier to overcome dissapointment than it is now. What used to be a matter of a lack of attention is now a weird cocophony of mixed emotions and tears of sadness.

Life is just full of crappy moments that you can't control. Like this other time when I was probably 6 years old and I woke up in the middle of the night. Something seemed wrong but I couldn't see in the dark so I started feeling around my bed with my hands and came across a bunch of slimey things that felt like sliced up bannana and I was like, "wtf, why did someone slice bannanas in my bed?" So I called out for my Dad and he came in the room but before he could turn on the light he stepped in something and said ,"arghhh what the....?" then he turned on the light and realized that he was standing in about 7 gallons of my freshly puked up fruit salad from dinner that night. I had thrown up in my sleep. I was lucky I didn't choke and die, but I didn't realize it at the time. I was more upset at the fact that I had thrown up on my buzz light year action figure than anything else. It was just one of those things that I couldn't control. Like the weather. You just have to deal with it.

Anyway, it's late. I have nothing more to say other than I am basically the one who started the blogging trend at La Canada High School. I'd share my other favorite blogs with you but I have a rule against putting links to other blogs on mine mostly because I don't know how, but also because my grandather once told me to "never do anything for free." It's some pretty wise council.

Here's to you gramps.

But Mom...He's Weird

I was the undisputed hula hoop champion in first grade hands down. Then again I think that I was the only one using the hoola hoops. I was also the only one that would sit at the same lunch table everyday, third from the end, no matter who else sat there. Often times a girl named Annie and her friends sat at that table and in order to discourage this behavior I invented the "Annoy Annie Show". A daily show in which I invented new ways to annoy Annie so that she would leave. (It was then that I knew I was meant for the stage.) I was the only walk the perimeter of the playground, alone, during recess. Looking back and thinking about first grade I get very sentimental, and also very intrigued, because it wasn't until now that I realized that all the other kids who I thought were weird,(which was everyone), weren't weird at all. I was the weird kid. I had all the symptoms. I kept to myself, I played with the hula hoops, I ate alone, I complimented the Playground Monitor because I was afraid of her, and I enjoyed quiet environments. Some might call this gay, but it's not. I was just reserved and enjoyed keeping to myself. I think the most telling evidence that I was the weird kid was the fact that my teacher called me in at recess so that I could feed the class turtle. Only the weird kids that you are afraid will become serial killers are asked to feed the class turtle at recess. I know that I was the hula hoop champion because my teacher said so. She came and timed me one time and declared me the record holder. I think I got this attention from my teacher because she felt bad for a couple of incidents.
The first was when one day I had just arrived at school and I was walking up the ramp that led to the classrooms and I found myself walking next to two fourth graders. One of them, the one with spiked hair, we'll call him Queerius, noticed me and commenced to comment on my stature.
"Look at the little first grader and look at his baseball backpack, awww so cute, not! hahahaha, puny little first grader!"
I don't know what it was about the situation but I all of a sudden got really, really scared and wanted desperately to get into my room. I was so distraught by what happened that when I got into class I went up to my teacher and told her about it and in the middle of relaying the story I started crying. My teacher told that the next time I saw the kid that I should tell her and she would deal with it. And the very next day as we were walking as a class to recess I say Queerius but I didn't tell my teacher because I was too afraid of the repercussions I might suffer as a result.
The second incident that made my teacher feel bad for me was when one day in the computer lab I had to go to the bathroom really, really bad. The rules was that you weren't allowed to leave your seat unless you raised your hand and got permission from the teacher. Knowing this rule, and being the obedient child that I was, I raised my hand so that I could go to the bathroom. But the teacher wasn't in the room. As a 6 year old I had the bladder capacity of about a teaspoon and I had drunken at least a half-cup of water that day So I was bursting at the seams. I wriggled and danced in my raised computer seat but there is only so much movement one can do to stem the undeniable flow of nature. With no teacher in the room and no other options the following thought came to my head I kid you not, word for word, "Let it go, just let it go, it'll be ok just let it go."

And let it go I did.

Instant relief. Instant warmth. Instant waterfall down the front of the raised chair directly onto the 12 reams of computer paper stored under my desk. Even while I was urinating over everything I didn't really think about the aftermath and how awkward it would be. I soon came to realize that I was sitting in pee and so did my teacher who just reentered the room. To make a long story short, my mom came and brought me new clothes and when I walked in the classroom thinking no one would notice anything, the very first thing that happened was a kid named Peter called out, "Hey, Jacob, why are you wearing different pants?" Great.

Needless to say I think my teacher, Ms. Silvestro, took pity on me and decided to keep a close eye on me from then on. Who knows, maybe she is the reason I am not a serial killer. But I am a cereal killer, from the way I dominate box after box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I swear they sprinkle crack on that stuff.

This one's for posterity

An embarrassing thing happened to me one time when I was hanging out with some of my friends(real ones), and we were on youtube. We were doing that thing where everybody shows their favorite/funny videos and what not, and I showed one that the last time I had watched it, it was hilarious, but when I showed my friends, it wasn't funny at all and they got mad at me for making them watch it. This was puzzling, becasue the first time I had watched it I almost pee'd my pants I thought it was so funny, but this time I didn't even laugh.
Then I realized that the first time I had watched it, it was 2 o'clock in the morning. I hadn't slept in like 20 hours and I was so loopy that the stupidest things were funny to me.

Kind of like now.
It is 2 o'clock in the morning and I guarentee that the video I just watched isn't going to be funny tomorrow. I'm on what I like to call a "sleep deprivation high". I'm in an extremely pleasant mood even though I haven't slept in a long time and I feel whimsical, light hearted, and good natured. If you were trying to get me to donate to your charity, now would be a good time to call, I'd probably give you all I had...not really, I'd pretend to give you all I had, and in reality, give you monopoly money. tehe!

Earlier today I went to the hardware store and I was standing in line at the checkout and as she was ringing him up, the cashier asked the old guy in front of me if he wanted any Ant Bait, and the guy all serious faced says, "No, thanks, I'm trying to quit the stuff." I thought it was the funniest comeback ever and I lol'ed, but the cashier didn't even react, she just kept on scanning items. Art is lost on the youth these days. I wanted to shake the man's hand and ask him to be my father but he got away before I could reach him.

The real reason I'm not asleep is because I was trying to take a nap earlier when I saw a spider run across my comforter. Before I could kill it, it got away and I have no idea where the blasted thing went, so I won't be sleeping in my bed for a couple days. Oh well.

Bands and writers always have their music or books that they wrote while they were on drugs, and I guess this post is the closest I'll come to doing something like that. If I actually were on drugs I'd probably write something like this:

poop ha ha hahahahahahahahahaha poop.

The Day Mcgruff the Crime Dog Was Taken Out Back and Shot

I am sorry to say that today's youth has been corrupted beyond hope. I draw this conclusion from my everyday observances. The other day I was in taco bell waiting for my order to be ready when I spied two young girls, about 11 years old, standing by the counter. I looked as they asked the guy standing there for water cups. At first I applauded their decision to stay hydrated, becasue Lord knows that if there is a problem among today's youth, it is improper hydration. Lord also knows that if there is another problem among today's youth, it's stealing...which is exactly what these girls did. I couldn't help but overhear the conversation that they had once they reached the soda machine with their cups.

Theif 1: "Just do it Sarah"
Theif 2: "I'm not so sure Claire."
Thefi 1: "Quick, no one's looking."

False.
I was looking.

I was looking as they both filled their free water cups, not with water, no, with Mountain Dew. I am fully aware of my authority as a citizen to make a citizens arrest, it is one of the activities on my list of things to do before I die, but I was too shocked by what I had just seen to do anything. Two seemingly innocent young girls committing theivery in broad daylight. I watched in disgust as they snapped lids on their cups and hastily made their way out the door. My heart ached for these two children who had strayed from the path of innocence. Today it was soda, tomorrow it's a bank.
I only wish I could have intervened before these girls made a decision that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. I have no other reason for writing this than to lament the loss of a generation and the pain that I feel for not doing something to bring goodness into these girls hearts. We must educate our children that stealing is wrong and will not be tolerated. I suggest we find Sarah and Claire and make examples of them and their unrepentant souls. It was only 8 oz. of Mountain Dew, but it caused infinity oz. of regret.

R.I.P the innocence of children.

I feel like Holden Caulfield.

Cast of Characters

Just like any play or movie, my life has a wide range of characters, all of whom play a different part in my ongoing saga as a struggling student with a dream of one day having a dream to fufill.(in the words of great-grandam Jones(r.i.p.), "You probably weren't good enough anyway")
I've decided to write up a cast list of these characters sand tell you a little about each one:

Floyd Pope Walters III-
My father, and yes, that is his real name. He is a very light sleeper and is quick with a story to relate to the current situation. He grew up in the middle of nowhere in California. His favorite activities include being a mortgage broker and sitting in the armchair next to the lamp, hoping that I miss curfeww so he can scold me.

Diana Walters-
Mom. She was born and raised in Argentina. She has an accent and makes good food. Her activities include scratching my back and tucking me in.

Veralden-
Veralden is the short hand for my sister Veronica and her husband Alden. Alden is bad at video games and chess and thinks he can steal my mother's love. Veronica just sort of sits there. It's almost embarrasing how much better than Alden I am at everything. They currently live in Utah.

The rest of my siblings:
There's 3 of them. Two girls and a guy. The guy, Seth, speaks chinese and is in Austrailia right now. Meh.

Jeff Facer-
I support him in all he does and he supports me. We have none of the same interests but we've been friends for a long time. And by friends I mean I want to be his friend. Please Jeff. Give me a chance. His activities include shredding hardcore and musical theatre.

ChiChi-
She has a blog too. It's pretty good. She is very nice and sleeps a lot. I think she is good at singning but i have never heard her sing alone. She is very loyal, like the dog Chance, in "Homeward Bound". Great movie. I recommend it.

John Potter-
This guy. He wrote a novel. I plan on riding the coat tails of his success. He is always on my team when we play army men.

Saige Miley-
I just met her, but something tells me that it's just the beginning of a long aquaintanceship. Ouch. I bet that hurt Saige, I bet that hurt real bad. Just kidding...friendship. she is nice. Her activities inlcude...I'm not sure what, I haven't known her that long. Hopefully it's nothing creepy like fetus worship or smoking crack, cause then I wouldn't be her friend.

Harry Potter-
I got through Middle school by reading Harry Potter and eating ice cream.

The guy living in my brain-
get out. GEEEEETTTTTT OUUUUUTTTTTT!!!!! Stop telling me I suck and have man breasts, because for your information I don't!!!!!!

I forgot the mention a lot of people. I'm sorry. To be honest, this was just a ploy to satisfy one of my friends request for a blog post about them. I'll let you guess which one it was. I promise something better next time.

The End

Return to Sender

I have written an open letter to the Modern Language Association.

To Whom it May Concern, ie: the weiners at the MLA:

First of all, to anybody who wants to criticize my letter format or plans on making note of my spelling errors, you can just stop reading now. Your sassiness and snarky attitude are not welcome. I don't care that my heading is done wrong, or that i forgot to capitalize "I" just now, you are not better than me because you spell gooder. Bothers you doesn't it? Your dumb. Did you catch that one? I wrote your instead of you're. I don't understand it when people get bothered by other peoples grammar. (oops! forgot an apostrophe!) Im allowed to miss spel thigns if i want. The only people who have a right to get upset about grammatical and spelling errors are english teachers, and even then it is annoying because it seems like it's their job to be condescending weiners. Have you read some of the comments they write on essays? One time I got an essay back that said, "This part doesn't make sense...but nice try." and on another one, "This is what you came up with?"

I blame you MLA. You sit up there, their, they're,(circle the correct form of the word), on your high and mighty throne of grammatical correctyness. Who are you to say how I can and cannot write things? Who gave you the write to tell me how to format my papers and letters? Nobody. You weren't elected by me and therefore have no control over me.

Who are you to say that Me and Bill can't go to the park? Your poisonous propoganda (alliteration!) has infected people outside of school and affected the lives of fun loving children everywhere. I was sitting n McDonalds the other day when a kid came running up to his Dad with some exciting news, having just come from the play pen. Very excitedly the kid ran up to his dad and said "Hey Dad! Guess what! Me and Kevin got to the top of the jungle gym!" his dad looked up from his paper and instead of taking a vested interest in the kid's adventures, said, "Who?" The kid, thinking he wasn't loud enough repeated, "Me and Kevin" The Dad again said, "Who?". This happened two more times until the kid, his spirit broken and the light gone from his eyes, "corrected" himself and said, "Kevin and I." The dad didn't even care about his kid's story, he was too focused on the stupid corect way of listing two people. I can only assume he had been indoctrinated with you evil rhetoric. The blood of that boys innocence is on YOUR hands MLA.

I am writing to inform you and the world that the oppression stops now. I am officially announcing my campaign to win the Presidency of the MLA. Based on a platform of grammar reform and free ice cream for everyone, I plan on running for and winning the top seat in the Modern Language Association's heirarchy. Unless you immediately renounce your postion as the standard for modern english, I will be forced to continue in my mission to liberate the restricted pens of Men, Women, and Children everywhere. If this request is not met within the next ten days, prepare to have several thousand copies of the MLA Literature Handbook burned on your doorstep. The choice is yours, idiot faces, step down or be forced down. The line is drawn, the ink is drying, make you'RE choice.

Not Sincerely,
Jacob Walters esq.

Reindeer Games

I'd like to think that I have made some great decisions in my life. Like the decision to wear my grandpa sweater on the first day of seventh grade, or the decision to be born. That's right, I 'm taking credit for my birth.

But the best of all my decisions, and I say this with the heaviest sarcasm possible, came in the winter of my freshman year.

One of the best things about Christmas time is all the festive decorations holiday loving people put out on their lawns. There are all sorts of different decorations nowadays, you have your Santas and your candy canes. Some people go all out and have moving ferris wheels and actual trains snaking across the yard.

The one decoration that has come to live in infamy though, at least for 5 guys in La Canada, CA, is the lawn reindeer. You know what I'm talking about, the frames with christmas lights in the shape of reindeer just chillin and grazing on your lawn. Well anyway, i was at Michael's house and there were three other guys there, Jeff, Zando, and Matt. (I've left out the last names to protect the innocent. Except for Zando, his last name is Ward.) We were bored and it was only 9:30 so then I had a fantastic idea, which would also be my terrible decision.

There's is an activity among them miscreant youth that I had heard stories about and I thought it would be funny/cool to do. Excuse me for being crass, but it's called reindeer humping, and it is when you take the decorative reindeer and in peoples yards and put them in compromising positions with one another. Funny right? ya I thought so too.

When I suggested it, the idea was popular and to make a long story short we ended up doing it, or better yet, me ended up making the reindeer do it.

It must be noted however, that I did not participate in the mischeif. Ironic right? I was the one who suggested it and then I was the one who was too cowardly to even leave the car. Neverless the night progressed and several houses fell victim to the dastardly prank. The climax of the night came when we were on the way to my house to drop me off and "we" decided to get one more house on the way, less than three blocks from my home. It would have been fine if they hadn't seen us.

We got spooked and drove to the top of ocean view and camped out for five minutes in the street above mine until we felt it was safe and I walked home while they drove away. I went to bed that night with this ominous feeling that something terrible was going to happen but I didn't know what, so I just put it out of my mind and went to sleep.

The next day was a saturday so I took up my usual ritual of playing video games all day.

It was around 1 o'clock in the afternoon and I was sitting in the garage watching t.v. when my dad came in and said this.

"You're coming to the store with me."

This was odd. It was a command, not the usual question asking if I wanted to go with him.

"No thanks" I said.

"No, I would like you to come with me." He was very stern this time and he is usually never stern so I knew I better comply.

At this point I hadn't heard anything from my partners in crime the night before so I wasn't really sure what had happened.

So I go to the store with my dad, Floyd, and we are silent the entire way there. I stay in the car while he goes into the store and I sit there wondering what is going on. Obviously he wanted me to come because he wanted to tell me something, or he wouldn't have let me stay in the car, I just didn't know what it was. I was sort of worried that he knew about the night before but there was no way he could have found out what had happened. Or so I thought.
He got back in the car and as we were leaving the parking lot, he says all quiet like:
"Son, is there anything you'd like to tell me about last night?"


Uh-oh.

My heart started pounding and my face started sweating and I never have felt so scared since that moment. The smart thing to do would be to confess then and there what I had done, but when you're backed into a corner, you're less than likely to make rational desicions.

Me: "ummm, no."
Floyd: "What did you do last night?"
Me: "I don't know, we just...hung out."
Floyd:"Hmm, I see. Nothing involving reindeer?"



Again, the rational thing would have been to give up the act and admit guilt, but again, I don't make rational decisions in stressful situations.


Me: "Reindeer? What are you talking about?"

Floyd: "Matt's dad called me today and told me what you did last night. After they dropped you off they got stopped by the police, and they all got tickets."

Me: "uh-oh."
Floyd: "Yup. Uh-oh's right."

I got a pretty big lecture and I felt pretty terrible and Floyd was pretty dissapointed when I told him it had been my idea, but that I didn't participate, not sure if he believed it though. I may or may not have cried during this. I can't be sure. As part of our punishment we all had to go and apologize to the people who caught us and called the police. We gave them a poinsettia and basically said "Sorry for making you reindeer do innapropriate things." And we just stood there as the lady called us immature but appreciative of the apology. I was happy that I didn't get a ticket, and the only ones who had to pay theirs were Michael and Jeff, cause the Judge let Matt off and the court lost Zando's papers. Matt also lost his driving priveledges which meant I wasn't going anywhere for a while. All in all it was a learning experience in which I learned the following lessons:

1. Don't rearrange reindeer.
2. If Floyd makes you come to the store with him, you've done something terrible.
3. Never take Foothill Blvd as your escape route, becasue that's where the police will be.

There was a little vindication when my uncle came to visit and upon hearing the story, said to me, "You know what really cracks me up? When you get the reindeer that have the moving heads."

Awesome.

Bangin' on a Trashcan

Since I turned eight it has been my job to put the trashcans on the curb on trash day. I was extremely reluctant to take this job but in reality I didn't have any choice, because my parents said so. They tried to make it better by offering me one dollar every week that I did it which really isn't very much at all, but then again, it was a very easy job....or was it? I didn't have a problem with walking the cans to the curb, a very easy thing to do, my problems were with the on the job risks that I'm pretty sure were not factored into the salary I was offered. You may be wondering what risks could possibly be involved with moving plastic cans approximately 100 yards once a week.

All I have to say is: How dare you.

How dare you think that I didn't work hard and put my well-being on the line for that weekly dollar. I don't think you understand how many spiders decided to make their homes, tucked up under the handles of the cans, just waiting to crawl out onto my hand and do whatever spiders do once they make contact with human flesh. I wouldn't know, I've never let that happen.
The first time I found spiders on the infernal cans I taught them a painful lesson on housing choices in the form of a lot of WD-40 and a kithcen match. Unfortunately, there would be new spiders every week and it became an issue for me. My dad refused to listen to my continued pleas to release me from trashcan duty and as a result I suffered from a good three weeks of spider related dreams, making it impossible for me to go near those cans.
Ever since, I have had an unfixed fear of spiders. If a spider ever crosses my path I send it straight to hell, because there is no such thing as a spider going to heaven. They are inherently evil and forever will be, and unless a giant spider saves me from an oncoming train I will continue the arachnid genocide.(but even then I would still probably stab the giant spider in the heart.)
I still take the trashcans every week, except I don't get paid anymore, and they are in a location where spiders don't really thrive, but I will still refuse to touch a thrash can if there is even a shred of evidence of recent spider activity, or as I call it, a code 51(current or very recent presence of a spider larger than 1cm.)
Code 51's can be taken care of pretty easily though, with a shoe, or as I call it, a Spider Annihilator.

The Score:
Jacob:347
Spiders: 1*

*a very, very dark and terrible day.

True Charactering

They say that you can only judge the true character of a man by seeing how he acts when no one is looking. Well that is just pure ridiculousness because by telling me that I have trained myself to always act like someone is watching. That is, unless, the family is gone and the blinds are drawn. Then I am free to shed my pants and roam the halls in my underwear, sipping ginger ale from my goblet while listeneing to the soothing voice of Dennis Bartell introduce my favorite symphonies on classical KUSC. Oh the simple pleasures of life, often reduced to instances few and far between. The cause of such a lack of peaceful and glorious moments is vanity itself. We are told that we must always be on our toes, worrying what might be percieved by others as unacceptable. Alas, it is the fate of the human heart to be forever wrapped up in a tangle of judgement and servitude. Even the self endowed "individualists", with their crazy fashion trends, wacky hair styles, and "I don't care what people think of me because I'm quirky and weird and I march to the beat of a different drum" attitudes are prisoners of the vain wories we all face.

But what is the cure? How do we overcome this insane self bondage?

I don't know.

But Miriam Condor, author of "How to Stop Stress and make a Fantastic First Impression" does.
The book's entire message is that the best way to do it is to stop worrying so much about what people think about you, to just be yourself.

I basically wasted $18.99 on a book that taught me a lesson I could have learned by watching any american sitcom produced after 1980. The moral of this post is to not buy self help books. because then you're not helping yourelf, the book is helping you. Only you can help yourself, and prevent forest fires, which is a terrible ad-campaign by the way, because I'm pretty sure most of us don't spend our time in the woods looking for ways to not burn the forest down. The ones who do start the fires are too sick in the head to heed the advice of a talking bear anyway. But maybe that's part of the true character thing, which makes me a great person, because I don't start forest fires, even when no one is looking.

FIN

Naptastic!

My napping habits have gotten to the point where my mom doesn't let me go into my room after school because she know if I do that I will just fall asleep. There are few things I enjoy more than taking naps in the middle of the day. One time I walked into my room and there was a suit bag on the floor,(the kind of bag you hang your suits up in to keep them fresh) and I was curious to see if I could fit myself inside and zip it up. After struggling for about five minutes I grew sleepy and fell asleep in the attempt. It was one of the best naps I have taken, which is saying something, cause I've taken a lot of naps. I think they're good luck as well. I met one of my best friends immedietly after waking up from an afternoon nap, I also found a dollar that very same day.
My naps also account for why, if you notice, most of my blog posts are posted in the middle of the night. My irregular sleeping schedule certainly makes things a little weird for me, come one in the morning. I have a host of characters inside my head that manifest themselves while I'm up late at night, and I've notived that the longer I go without sleeping the more real those characters become. (things have gotten awkward with them recently though, ever since that unintentional spooning session with Arrogant Dan...I think Grumpy Kyle got jealous).

Naps also decrease decision making skills. Like my recent decision to tell you about my head characters. I'm probably gonna end up in a psychiatrist's office if my family reads this, but that's ok, because at least it means that somebody is reading my blog besides my mind friends.
I'm gonna go get some sleep now. I know I need it because these youtube videos are getting funnier and funnier as the sleepless minutes tick by and I know that if I watch them again tomorrow, they won't be funny at all.

p.s. I hate people with weird nostrils.

You say tomato, I say shut up.

Everybody has somebody that they want to punch in the face. For me, it used to be the majority of people that I met. I would skirt the hallway sides with silent malice for my peers quietly seething through my body. "I hate that kid" was a common utterance on my part, even for people that I had no reason to hate. I could hate somebody for anything.

When that one asian kid would run to the cafeteria to be first in line: "I hate that kid"
When that one guy tried to be funny in History: "I hate that kid"
When that one guy read books 24/7, I'm not even kidding, he was constantly reading, I never ever saw him not reading a book: "I hate that kid"
When that one relly nice girl said hi to me: "I hate that kid"

I was a bucket full of hate drawn from the well of misery and spite.

Then one day I realized that I had very few friends.

I said to myself: "Self, what's the point?"

I was letting the smallest of things bother me and as a result I was creating my own, unneccessary, misery. I couldn't expect to keep friends and continue being extremely bitter. It is a formula that doesn't work. So that is why I decided to change my ways. People who in the past I would have hated, I know have indifference for. So what if people want to talk really loud in an enclosed space? And who cares that certain people make you want to kill yourself? It's better for everyone to just ignore them. Cause you never know whose gonna have a metaphorical* gun to your head later in life, and it's always helpful to be on the weilder's good side. Unless of course they have wronged you in unforgivable ways.**


*9mm
**Eddy Curtis, 3rd grade. I will never forget.

ACT'ing Lessons

I will be waking up in a little less than 6 hours in order to take the ACT and thereby seal the fate of my future in higher education. Well sort of, cause technically I can take the test a second time or a third or fourth, but I've come to realize that in order to succeed at something you have to go into it thinking that you only get one shot. So far I'm doing a terrible job because I'm not getting a good nights sleep, I wouldn't bet on a balanced breakfast, and I definitely haven't prepared for the test itself at all. Actually I take that one back, because at this very moment I have another tab open to the ACT website and I'm looking at sample questions. It's sort of last minute but I felt it would be a good idea to at least know what I was going to fail before I had to fail it for real. The thing I'm worried about most actually is finding parking at the community college where I'm taking the test, cause last time I was there it took me forever to park. The fact that I'm taking it at a community college could be some very ironic foreshadowing.

When the school college counselor raised her eyebrows after I told I hadn't taken any ACT Prep classes it seemed a little ominous, which I don't understand. I see all these kids taking these test prep classes, but it doesn't make any sense. You either know the stuff they're asking you or you don't. They publish these thousand page books on "SAT and ACT prep!" but there's a limit to how much you actually know how to do. It makes it seem like I'm doing something wrong but I actually feel pretty confident going into tomorrow. Sort of.

Maybe if I wish at the stars hard enough I'll wake up as a Pickachu and won't have to take the test. Or maybe if I drop enough acid it'll yield the same result.

Just kidding kids. Drugs aren't funny: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LLxAAxwPdg

Discouraged Defiance

I never talked back...ever. I still don't, and probably never will because whenever I see other people talk balk to teachers, coaches and other adults I always get that awkward feeling that makes me wan't to leave the area. I don't like confrontation, and you'll never see me seeking it. This is a lesson I learned back in the sixth grade, a lesson I learned the hard way. In front of the entire sixth grade class...

Physical education, especially in elementary school, is a joke. I don't even need to explain why, because everybody knows that there has never been a single kid who has overcome his weight issue becasue of a rigorous P.E. course. My elementary school, Mountain Avenue Elementary, had a P.E. teacher named Ms. MeanLady. We had P.E. three days a week and every single time we would go I was scared crapless. To me, the ultimate mark of failure and humiliation came from having a teacher get mad at you. Ms. MeanLady was the last teacher in the world who you wanted mad at you. She could stare down a mountain lion and just by barking a single angry syllable, make it stab itself in the heart. So when one day in the sixth grade, she gave us the assignment to bring the fitness sheets we had been given to the next P.E. class, I was sure to make a mental note to not forget to do so. Well to no suprise of my own now that I look back at it, I forgot to bring the fitness sheet the next class. As I sat in my line while she took attendance I began to get really nervous and scared about what my punishment would be for forgetting. I wanted to run away. When she was done with attendance she stood up in front of the class and asked everyone who had remembered to bring their sheet to hold it up. "oh no oh no oh no oh no" I thought, "i'm done for, I just know it, there's no way out of this. what are they serving for lunch today? oh no oh no oh no." But then as I looked around I realized that only half the class had brought the fitness sheet, which means half of the class didn't. This sent joyous hope rushing to my heart.
If there is one thing that every school kid knows it is that there is safety in numbers. You know that if you didn't do your homework, as long as most people also didn't do it then you knew wouldn't get in trouble. There was no way that I would get in trouble with Ms. MeanLady if i was only one of twenty who didn't do as instructed. I could see that she was upset that so many people didn't bring the sheet but there wasn't really anything she could do. She got her clipboard and told everyone who didn't bring the sheet to come up and sign her paper.
Well, having been newly inspired by the mass defiance I had just witnessed and having a lesson on the signing of the Declaration of Independence fresh in my mind, I proudly walked to the front and pulled a John Hancock. I signed my name really big in all caps like this: JACOB WALTERS. I guess I did it to show that I was not ashamed of forgetting my fitness sheet and that I would not be intimidated by Ms. MeanLady and her very stong upper body. Class went on it's way without incident and pretty soon it was time to line up again so we could be dismissed.

When people ask if you could go back and change something about your life, what would it be, this is one of those times i would change. I knew something was up when she didn't immediatley dismiss us after we lined up. She took a long look at her clipboard and in her deepest most scariest voice said, "Where is Jacob Walters?" The four scariest words I have ever heard in my life.
I timidly rose my hand and her sunglassed eyes focused on my quivering, pudgy countenance.
"Come here." she said. I did. She took of her sunglasses and shoved the clipboard in my face. She pointed to my extremely large signature and asked, "What is this?" "My name." I replied. Then she really tore into me:
"Yes I can see that, this is depsicable, completely ridiculous. Look at how your classmates signed, nice and neat! This looks like a first grader wrote this! Who do you think you are? Thomas Jeffereson?"(I think she meant John Hancock, and I wanted to correct her but I didn't think it was a good time for a history lesson.) She went on for a bit and got right up in my face. She wasn't saying this quietly either, she was legitimately yelling two feet from my face in front of the entire class. I have never felt so humiliated. Not even when I farted while doing situps while the girl I liked was holding my feet was I as embarrased as that moment when Ms. MeanLady tore apart my dignity. She ended with an arm gesture and a sharp "Sit down!". I hung my head and walked back to my place.
It is this experience that made me promise that I would never yell at a little kid becasue it made me feel terrible, and really didn't accomplish anything at all. She wasted her time harshly yelling at a good kid and made him feel really bad inside. Maybe I was oversensitive but still, she was out of line.
I have however always been careful how I sign my name on things since then. The last thing I want is the bank teller yelling at me for writing like a first grader. Oh wait, that's right, normal people who aren't bitter becasue they are Elementary School P.E. teachers don't care how I write.

More like Wiki-speed-ia.

Of all the injustices that I have been served with during my attendance at public school, the worst one is not being allowed to use Wikipedia as a source for research. I don't think my teachers understand how much the quality of my work would incerease if I could just cite the bastion of knowledge that is the wiki-verse. My research papers would be done in ten minutes if Wikipedia were allowed. My time after school is spent like this:
20% -napping
15%- staring at the wall
25%-napping
40%- Wikipedia

As you can see from the, I guess you could call it a chart, above, the majority of my time is spent on Wikipedia. I will literally go onto wikipedia and search for random things that I want to know more about. For instance, today I looked up "the two dollar bill" and the plots of all the "Saw" movies cause I wanted to know what they were about but didn't want to actually watch them. EVERYthing is on wikipedia. It is the one stop shop for fun facts and a bioggraphy on Chris Farley. Whenever I watch a movie and don't understand the plot, I'm ok with it because I know I can just go onto wikipedia afterward and read the plot synopsis. Just the other day I ruined the ending of "American History X" for myself because at the last comercial break I went onto Wikipedia and looked it up. And you know what? What wikipedia said would happen is exactly what happened! Not credible! HA! If it wasn't credible then how did it correctly relay the ending of a hit film hmmmm?

Basically my point is that because I can't use wikipedia as a source I am procrastinating my reasearch paper by writing this blog post. I'm also not doing the laundry I need for tomorrow, but that's because I'm a little bit afraid of the washing machine. It makes weird noises and it's dark in the garage and the cat sometimes scratches me when I go in there and it just puts a lot of stress on me when I'm trying to wash clothes and my leg is bleeding and I cant see anything cause it's dark and I end up putting milk in the washer instead of detergent and my mom gets mad at me and yells in spanish and I go to my room and I try to take a nap but then I remember that I have a reasearch paper due so I go on the computer and just end up on wikipedia learning how the show "Boston Legal"* was conceptualized.

*worst show ever created.

Mistake = An unmarried piece of beef.

Sometimes I wish I could be walking down the street and I would pass by a park bench and there would be an old man sitting on it. He would be wearing and old man coat and scarf and one of those old timey hats and he'd have a pipe and his hair would be white and he would beckon me over to sit next to him. I would do so and he would proceed to give me fantastic life lessons based on his own experiences and we would have a stimulating disscussion on life in general and its purpose. However I feel that I am fairly safe in my assumption that this will never happen, due to the lack of park benches and old british men in my area. I think the reason that I want this to happen is because I always feel like I need guidance for myself. It could also be that there is something psychiatrically wrong with me but I'm always too afraid to go see the psychiatrist at my school. (who I recently discovered exsisted.)
I realized recently that I would have to be my own old man. Nobody in my life is going to call me over to their park bench and help me learn from their mistakes in life. I have to call myself over to my park bech(or in this case, the armchair in the living room) and learn from my own mistakes. What mistakes do I make? quite a bit actually. I have a top five list of my mistakes that I think have the most to be learned from:

1. Walking behind the swingset.
2. Eating too much food at the Golden Corral
3. Eating at the Golden Corral in the first place (my sister said it was a classy buffet...ya, nothing classier than a 300+ pounder taking the Advert for endless shrimp a little too literally.)
4. Sharky Mcsharkington (long story)
5. Introducing myself as Poo P. Pants at a Coprophobia convention

These definitley aren't the only mistakes I've made, just the ones that have interesting stories behind them, which will be the topics for my posts for the next couple of weeks.(expcept for #4, that story has to be told in person.) I do this with the hope that you won't make the same mistakes I did.

and also with the hopes that you google coprophobia.

Sincerely yours,
Poo P. Pants

Contemplation Constipation

Dear Diary,

Just kidding. I don't have a diary, but I was having trouble coming up with a beginning. I actually have a journal with a total of three entries spaced out over a good 17 months. I used to keep a journal regularly from the time I was a small boy of 5. I couldn't write effectively so I dictated to my Father and he would painstakingly record every word exactly as it left my mouth. This helped ensure complete historical accuracy. It's interesting to go back and see what exactly was going through 5 year old self. A lot of entries were just recaps of my days adventures which included activities such as, watching my cat, counting the stones in the walkway, eating chef-boyardee, and losing the legos that my brother specifically told me not to play with but I did anyway. A lot of the things I recorded were very arbitrary but every so often I would delve deeper into my inner thoughts and emotions, like this gem from April 17th, 1998:
"Today I thought about a lot of things. But mostly school because school is stupid, kind of like Karen."

This passage made me happy to reread because it reminded me of two things, 1. I hated school, 2. I hated karen, and 3. I was capable of deep thinking. (I realize that I said it reminded me of two things and I put down three. It's what we in the buisness call "comic relief" What buisness you ask? Funny Buisness.)

My thoughts were very clear and easy to express at that age, and that is something I am currently not capable of. Recently I have had a lot different thoughts and ideas running through my head but it's all been very confusing and conflicting. I call it my contemplation constipation, or contemplationstipation for short. I think it is because I haven't gone to my thinking place in a while. (Side Note: Never let anybody else into your thinking place. It creates conflicting thoughts and awkward conversations.)
I tend to cope with these contemplationstipations by taking a lot of naps, but that doesn't always work because now my mother doesn't let me go into my room after school to "do homework" because what I actually do is fall asleep. I take naps anywhere I can get a spare space large enought to lay down. One time I was trying to fit myself into one of those suit bags but I fell asleep in the attempt and stayed that way for a good four hours. Anyway, what naps do is help clear my mind for a while so those clogging thoughts have an opprotunity to rest and not bother me. On the other hand, whenever I take naps I'm always cranky afterwards, and that doesn't help when trying to interact with other people and convince them that you don't hate life.
I'm not really sure what message I am trying to get across, because of the whole constipation thing, but I guess I can end here. I really don't have anything else. So just like I said on October 18, 1997: "I hope tomorrow is better because today I did not feel good. Oh, and I forgot, I had a peanut butter and banana sandwich for lunch and it didn't taste good."

The Great Escape

Valentines day is a fantastic day for napping. Nothing eases the pain of loneliness and depression, as good as being unconsious does. Sleep is a great way to get out of things, like important desicions for instance. Anytime anyone asks you something important you can just say "I'll sleep on it" which is complete bull crap because I do my worst thinking when I'm asleep, in fact I don't do any thinking. I'm not even sure it is possible to think while asleep. I wish I was as smart in first grade as I am now. Actually, let me rephrase that, because I think I was smarter in first grade than I am now, What I meant was, I wish I had known about the "sleeping as a defense" theory back then cause I think it would have saved a lot of emotional heartache. Allow me to explain:

It was a rainy morning in April during first grade ,please take note of the fact that it was April, and Junior Chorus practice had just ended just like it did every Tuesday morning. In case you were wondering, I was a soprano...along with everyone else, except for one Alto,but he had been held back in the third grade. Anyway, I was retreiving my backpack which was shaped like a baseball, when I was approached by Karen.
In first grade, I did not like people, especially girls, and especially Karen. My reccess activities included, walking the perimeter of the playground several times, being the hula hoop champion, talking to myself, and coming up with ways to weird the other kids out so they wouldn't talk to me. So needless to say I was very wary when Karen approached me with a paper something in her hand.
She stopped right in front of me and I think I tried to move around her but she moved to block my path. She handed me the homemade card she was holding and asked, "Will you be my valentine?" I opened up the paper and sure enough, it was a homemade Valentine card.
I had no idea how to react to this. Nothing in my six years of existence had prepared me for this moment. Looking back, I realize that what I should have said was. "I'll sleep on it" but I was much more logically practical than that because what I did say was, "Save it for Valentines day." Which is a very cold and heartless thing to say, but then again, at that age I was very cold and heartless. and also it was the middle of friggen April.
Luckily i never had to find out if she really did save it for valentines day because by the next year she had moved away.
But that doesn't mean there were no lasting effects from the incident. Ever since that day I have never had a request to be a Valentine. It's like the curse of the Bambino, (except that curse was broken when the 2004 Red Sox won the world series) . Which is perfectly okay with me, because to be honest, I still sort of don't like people and I still do weird things so they won't talk to me.
But if you really want to be my Valentine, just submit a request through my secretary and I promise you...I will sleep on it.

Jerkface Magee

I would like to meet the jerk that decided middle school was a good idea. No such person probably exists because Junior High is sort of necessary in order to bridge the gap between the innocence of elementary school and the cesspool that is High school. I remember the first day of 7th grade at Rosemont middle school and it’s not a happy memory. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be a good idea to wear on of my Dad’s old/huge sweaters. I looked completely ridiculous and I didn’t realize it at the time but I think I liked wearing my Dad’s old sweaters because they hid my fat boy breasts that I denied existed. I remember lying in bed the night before the first day of school and coming up with this awesome one liner that I was going to zing at my Father as I got out of the car in the morning. As he dropped me off I said “You may want to call the local morgues and compare prices.” I said it all somber and dead-pan and I thought it was hilarious. Let’s just say that that moment was the high-point of the next to years. The whole sweater wearing thing was just the first of many mistakes that I made in my middle school career. Another was overanalyzing every single interaction I had with females. I was a mess. Anytime a girl spoke to me or acknowledge me I would pick the moment apart and leave nothing to speculation. I remember one time, this one girl waved to me during passing period and it opened up a whole floodgate of confusion. “Why did she wave to me? Does she like me? Why would she wave to me if she doesn’t like me? Was she just being friendly? Did I eat that donut I put in my backpack? Should I take this relationship to the next level?” These were the sort of thoughts I preoccupied myself with on a daily basis. They never amounted to anything, surprisingly.

I was very impressionable at that age I think and very meek when it came to my relationships with my teachers. I think what made middle school the worst was the mean teachers. I had one experience in 8th grade that gets me upset just thinking about it. It was in English class and as a group of three or four students our teacher was having us prepare a debate on abortion. Why the deuce she was having us debate abortion, I have no idea, but then again, she was related Satan. Anyway, as members of a group we each had a job to due, something we were in charge of. Me and this guy, Eric were on the pro-life side of the argument and this chick, Leanne was on the pro-choice side. Leanne is sort of the co-antagonist of this story and to understand it, you have to realize that Leanne was the kind of kid who would carry the lunch monitors clipboard and rat you out for anything. She was a real pill, believe me. Anyway, the day of our presentation came and the day before, Leanne had taken our entire notes home because she said she didn’t trust us to not lose them. I didn’t object because I figured that she was probably right. But lo and behold our time came to present and the notes were nowhere to be found.
“Oh my gosh! I lost them!” squealed Leanne.
Fantastic. The show had to go on and interestingly enough, Leanne had no trouble in firing off her arguments while Eric and I just stood there sounding like fools. I was pretty upset at Leanne for forgetting the notes, which I’m pretty sure she did on purpose, and as we were leaving the class I said to Eric,
“You know, if we fail, its Leanne’s fault.” I said this because it was true.
Eric nodded in agreement and we left the class.
Fast forward 24 hours to the next English class. We had just finished an excellent lesson on why we should worship the devil and were getting ready to leave when the teach, we’ll call he Jerkface, called Eric and I to the front of the room and asked us to stay after class. “Oh no” I thought, “We are screwed.”
I wasn’t even sure what for though; I had done nothing that I could think of to warrant an after class meeting with Jerkface. Everybody else filed out of the class so the only people left in the room were Me, Eric, Jerfkface, and Leanne. Jerkface started off like this:
“Yesterday I heard something that I could not believe I heard.(I nodded my head) And it came from your mouth (she pointed at me). Do you mind repeating what you said?”
I had no idea what she was talking about so I just shrugged my shoulders. Just as you never run from a mountain lion, you never shrug your shoulders at a teacher who is yelling at you. She continued fiercely:
“You said that if you failed it was Leannes fault, is that correct? (nod) You made me sick to my stomach and I couldn’t even sleep last night because of the hateful words I heard you say.”
She went on and on yelling very angrily at me mostly and went on to say “shame on you” several dozen times. She made me apologize to Leanne who just stood there with a smug look on her face and she also made me verbally say that if we failed that it was my fault. I would like to take the time now to officially redact my apology. I am not sorry at all. I still stand by my original statement. To hear Jerkface going off at me you’d think I had openly blamed black people and Jews for our terrible presentation. The fact that she got so angry over an offhand comment that only a retarded person would take offense at is what makes me most upset.
This was not the first or last time I would be yelled at in middle school for absolutely nothing but those are different stories for different times. I have a lot more stories from middle school, it was a very volatile time in my life, and I am a very bitter person sometimes, so you can count on reading them in the near future.

I should probably let experiences like this one go…but that’s no fun now, is it?

Write Now=Pun

How famous does someone have to be to write an autobiography? I realize that you don’t have to be famous at all to write one but if you want it to be published you are going to need have obtained a certain level of notoriety. I think that is why so many random people blog, like me, I’ll probably never be famous enough to write an autobiography so I put random thoughts on here hoping a few people will read it and pay me compliments, cause that’s what all of are ultimately after right? Compliments.
I like to fancy myself a writer, even though I’ve never written anything longer than anything on here and I am currently failing English. But I feel like I really could write a novel or something if I just set my mind to it but my attention span is the same as a goldfish and every time I write something I come back to it and realize that it really sucked.
My whole plan is to become a teacher in the public education system, because let’s be honest, it’s a pretty easy job and it provides me the opportunity to give those unfortunate enough to be stuck in high school an at least competent teacher that enjoys his job. The earnings from my best selling novel will more than make up for my scant teacher salary and I will be able to support my family of four in a lakeside home in Connecticut. (our summer home is in the English Country side). By that time I will be famous enough to write an autobiography or maybe even a memoir. (I think you have to be slightly more famous to write a memoir but I’m not really sure what the difference is, I’d look it up online but I’m in the library and you need a password from the front desk to access the wi-fi and I still owe them $87, so we’ll go without for now.) I’m even thinking about writing the autobiography first because I’m not sure I can trust my future self to do it, especially if he is anything like my current self. That way, all I would have to do is fill in what has happened since now and I would be set. That’s the plan anyway.
But don’t worry, if that doesn’t work out I have an even better back up plan. Today I read in National Geographic that NASA is planning to send a manned mission to the moon in 2018. That puts me at 26 years old, and I have no idea how you do it, but I am going to be an astronaut. I want to walk on the moon really bad. Plus, if I become an astronaut and go to space then I can still write an autobiography.
If I ever do become a famous writer then there will be a question on Jeopardy that is like: “This best-selling author failed an English class in High School” Buzz “Who is Jackal Smith?” “That is correct, you now have the lead.”
Jackal Smith is my pen name, or at least one of them. The other is Rex Condor and a third is Jenkem Walters, but that is for more controversial works. Having a pen name is so much better than using your real one. That gives me an idea, time to go open up a library card under Maverick Stallworth.
Until next time,
-Jackal

Focusing in the Library

Typing for the sake of typing is sort of comforting in a way because it makes you feel like you are being productive but in reality you are completely ignoring what you set out to do. There are a million different distractions that can catch my gaze and I give in to every single one of them. Focus is not something that I succeed at. There is always something more interesting going on around me that I want to witness. Why do something boring when something interesting is going on? Because if you don’t, then your grades get screwed up and you have to take remedial English come summertime . I might as well do the work now when its cold and rainy outside with not much else to do instead of when it is sunny and warm and the number of interesting things going on around you increase ten-fold. That’s what I tell myself, but I am a very unconvincing person.
You would think that the library would be a good place to focus on your work but you’d be surprised. The problem with the library is that other people are always there. Especially small public libraries, there are always tons of people .On television you always get this idea that libraries are quiet places where you can do intense studying or meeting you soul-mate. I have yet to do either in a library, let alone anywhere, especially the first one. Like I mentioned before I have a focus problem.
Getting distracted is like doing jenkem, you know you shouldn’t do it and you’ll regret it terribly at some point but you just can’t stay away. Not that I do jenkem, because that is absolutely disgusting. It’s an addiction, if you will. My mom thinks I have ADD but that’s just crazy talk. I’ve seen those kids with A.D.D. and I’m fairly sure that I don’t have it, but the fact that it took me an hour just to type this much doesn’t really help my case.
Whoa! There I go again getting off topic , I was talking about libraries but I got distracted by the kid and tutor sitting next to me having a conversation about flux capacitors. They had no idea what they were talking about, and I was going to offer to show them the one I had in my DeLorean, but they left before I could muster up the courage to not be shy.
My being prone to distraction has gotten me into some pretty sticky situations before, like the time I got distracted by talk radio and went 88 on the freeway(there were a lot more distractions in 1955.) , or when instead of writing a paper for English I did an experiment in my kitchen(This one was quite literallt a "sticky situation" never mix mint jelly, baking soda, and vinegar over an open flame.)
I went to go buy one of old, cheap books they have up in the front of the library but the librarian asked me for my library card. I told her that I didn’t have one and she asked me if I would like to get one. I told that I would not because I don’t like being able to be tracked. She assured me that they didn’t give out the information to anyone and then I made the point that that is exactly what she would say if they did give my information to other shady organizations. She couldn’t argue with my logic but I still need a card in order to buy the book so I just said “Forget you” and walked away.
The truth is that I really do have a library card and I give my information away to complete strangers for no reason but I didn’t want them to know that because I have an outstanding fine of about $87 in overdue fees that I owe. I’ve come to accept the fact that never again will I be able to check out a book, but it’s just one of those things you have to live with… like polio .
This whole thing has been a huge distraction. I get distracted on top of distractions. I have no idea what I’m going to do for a career. Hopefully not a surgeon because focusing on your triple bypass is way less interesting than Tetris on my cell phone.
Whatever I do end up being, I know that it will be the right job for me, and no matter how distracted I may get or how terrible of a job I may do,I take comfort in knowing that I will always be able to sleep at night…because I have no soul*.

*I handed it over for 3 new pennies and a ham and cheese sandwhich.