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.