So, like... Blog

[ Note: This chronicle was written nearly a moon ago, but due to web site problems, I forgot about it. Here it is. Yargh. - Ed. ]
Night falls faster than the pull of gravity (which can be represented by the equation, ("L" representing the acceleration of night): L>9.81 m/s²). I sit in a 2002 Pontiac Grand AM SE (And as we all know, SE means "little raised up lines on the sides of the car.") I glance at the blood red liquid crystal display with more than slight distaste. It's only 5:30 Post Meridian, and the sun has already retired from her journey on this half of the world. I gaze hopelessly out the window, noting the bitter and early onset of winter; The trees are naught but blackened fingers somehow spawned from a suppurating, stunted slime of what might once have passed for green. A sign rushes toward the vehicle, feeding my melancholy: "3 hours of boredom." Actually, it says "3 miles to Utica," the ugliest city in all of Central New York.

No, this is not a dream, or some version of my personal hell, guaranteed by the countless Slim Jims I've stolen from the school cafeteria throughout the years. Of course, the only real difference between the Hells and my current situation is that there is no orgy going on next to me involving Richard Simmons, Rodney Dangerfield, Roseanne Arnold, and a boxer (the breed of dog) with bad breath. I'm on the road -highway, actually- to a banquet celebrating the termination of another year of high school girls' swim team. Yes, there's nothing I enjoy more than spending three hours of my life listening to people pander about things I could not care less about. It's strikingly similar the later Final Fantasy games, except we were not attacked by a wyvern on our trip over, and I'm not quite moody or angst-ridden enough. - You know, I really do enjoy watching as my bowels are eviscerated, so I suppose my previous statement was a lie. - I digress.

My only female sibling has had the luxury to remain efficient in water at high velocities, and was one of a deuce of freshmen high-schoolers that were allowed to journey toward sectionals (a sort of tournament), and join the varsity swim team. I still retain the utmost of pride for my sister, yet I believe it would be more productive to express my feelings in a way other than spending three hours doing absolutely nothing. To clarify: we were all invited (forced, by my maternal guardian and mother by blood) to attend this... "celebration" for "The Lady Aqua Knights." I had never felt the faintest whisper of the soon to be location of my misery in my ear, nor noticed the slightest sleight of hand that the red queen dealt. And yet, for some inexplicable reason,-although I know quite well that all reason is inexplicable if pressed hard enough- I knew in my very core that she would always deal five aces. The house never fails to conquer, be it Spain and the Incas, Britain and India, or The Kitty on the Canal and this lowly, wretched, beast of the race of Men.

I arrive at the abominable chamber, retiring first to the lavatory and then to my seat, remaining as cordial as I am able to the kind object that allows me some comfort.- It is difficult to spend three hours with a companion if one does not get along well with said companion - I am greeted warmly by the majestic view of Monroe Muffler and a Motel 8 in the distance, a splendor to behold in the middle of a dirty city, I assure you. I sigh, and promptly begin my preparations to chronicle this journey on my lowly website. I am poised to lament at the complete and utter lack of a reader base - My readers should know that of the few I have, I cherish and consider my highest of friends that I've never personally met.- when mine eyes are assaulted by such beauty as to render my thoughts immobile, speech intolerable. My convenience has granted me clear vision to the female my heart doth fancies. This fair and radiant angel, whom shall be nameless on this website forevermore, though she still graces the Earth with her divine beauty, and will (Fortuna be with her) continue to do so for years to come.

My heart grows weary, as I am forced into a vexing quandary not even the ancient Grecian philosophers would have the ability to solve. "Cruel world! Why do you mock me so?" I remark in a fit of apostrophe to my half empty glass of flavored carbonated soda. As my father and mother have not yet arrived to our table, so my lapse of self control remains unnoticed, however, doing nothing to elevate my depressed state. You see, the maiden I fancy has yet to display any signs of returning the favor, and coupled with my lack of entertaining social skills on subjects other than temporal mechanics, philosophy, and old-school video games, I am filled with self loathing at my inability to converse with humans for any period of time. Unless, of course, they institute the conversation. And yet again, Clothos insults me, weaving the girl I desire with the same gravity towards silence that plagues me. Silence is not gilded on the receiving end when one wishes the other to converse. My morose attitude deepens as my mind incessantly reminds myself of my lesser desired attributes: a low Charisma and Appearance score, caused by a constant onslaught of facial blemishes, despite the many feints, counter-attacks, and excellent stratagems applied on that battlefield. This is further hindered by my inclination toward shyness, which, while not so great as to cease all bodily functions when I speak to her, most often leaves even the most trained of my conversation skills in the mire of sudden urgent need.

Aye, what a fascinating and revolting trait for the human race to possess, is it not? To find ourselves utterly devoid of our most sought after traits in their hour of need? The martial arts suddenly escape one when confronted by a loaded pistol or the sliver, nonchalant smile of the knife. And yet, even were my highest of wits to become unfettered as I open my mouth, I would still lack the charm required to beguile her into smiling. Alas, my sad fancies shall not be conceived in this lifetime; I am devoid of the knowledge of proper technique to approach the fairer sex with success.

I shall not trifle the reader with more of my experiences, lest I return to fits of narcolepsy as I attempt to recall them from the file in my mind labeled "DO NOT OPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, STUPID!" I exaggerate not in my description of the tediousness that engulfed my disquieted brain, and fight a torpor even as I reference said description. However, one thing still amuses me, and occurred gradually, when sharing my boredom with my father. As we mechanically expressed our feigned congratulations at the various awards given through applause, I noticed a most curious happenstance. My father claps with both of his palms, while I applaud fingers to opposite palm. I remarked off-handedly to him that my way created a further reaching effect, and therefore was obviously the more correct manner in which to applaud, and he simply made a warped version of the "quotes" sign, that irritating malady of the fingers, as if to defend himself. I chuckled and replied that his symbol meant nothing, and proceeded to demonstrate my method of clapping further. This situation lasted the entire night, keeping my visage from making contact with what supposedly passed for food.

Uh, I wrote this ages ago, and I forgot how I was going to end it. For those of you that read my story, thanks for the compliments, and I'm going to write more of it soon, I hope. Segue is beautiful.

posted by Slade at 5:59 PM