Dead and bloated

A terrible cold has settled in over San Luis Obispo, a cloudy bitterness that refuses to leave. It seems appropriate.

School starts tomorrow.


In my creaking old age, seeing the youth and eagerness of the incoming freshmen fills me with a deep, overpowering nausea. As I shamble onward towards graduation, dealing with the same old bullshit that Cal Poly loves to dump in my lap, these bright-eyed greenhorns scurry around yapping about meal plans and trying to find people to buy them booze. I guess, in part, I’m jealous. I’ve had a good time so far, but I worry that I haven’t taken advantage of college to its fullest. So many goals remain unmet. Sure, I’ve clawed my way through the majority of my classes, wheedling and conniving and bullshitting at every opportunity. Sure, I’ve made excellent friends and partied hardy and learned to do a cartwheel with no hands.


I mean, come on. I haven’t cut a rap album. I haven’t woken up in Mexico after passing out in Bakersfield. I haven’t even been in a knife fight. Not even one.

Those are the things that validate life, not paychecks and DVDs and programming projects. Or women.

All that being true, here I am, teetering on the brink of another dismal three months of paperwork, programming, and wasted youth. Not much else I can do at this point, however. I mean shit, what’s the alternative? Bail out now? No way. Change majors? My already waif-like savings account shoots that idea full of holes. Move to Morocco and learn to make beads or some shit? Hmm…. Perhaps…

You know that feeling of Sunday afternoon when you’re a kid, and you just want to fucking play your heart out and do all this fun stuff because you know you’ve got school the next morning, but it’s already two o’clock and you end up just sitting around agonizing? Well, stretch that feeling out across an entire school year and add a ton of loathsome hectic bullshit like working and filling out forms and coding in C. Let the feeling simmer, then take it off the stove. Wait until the foul brown grease rises to the top of the pan, then skim it off into a bowl made of the skull of someone terrible, like Atilla the Hun or Rosie O’Donnell, and mix it with powdered Despair. Then add a whole bunch of weird thoughts about totally whacked out deep left field shit, like panda bears and submarines. Mix thoroughly and serve with a side of God Dammit, and you’ll feel the way I do. Not that I recommend it.

Who knows, maybe this year will absolutely rock and I will be so completely fulfilled that I will pray for death as I backflip across the graduation stage. Maybe I’ll get caught up in routine and forget about all these negative thoughts, pushing them back and letting them fester like a good American. Maybe I’ll flip out and go to Achmad’s Moroccan Beadmaking School. Time will tell.

Fuck it.

Just gonna have to sack up and do the thing. If you’re going to do something, after all, do it righteously. I’ll catch you scumsuckers on the flipside. bounce

p.s. I had a genius idea when I woke up this morning, still a little woozy from last nights drinkin/ass-shakin: the TAI.

The Trevor Awesomeness Index, a specific and quantifiable value that a person is assigned based on measurable criteria. A single number representing your entire worth as a human. Things like the number of books read in a month, height of vertical leap, Warcraft record, felony convictions, number of Cadillac Tah albums owned, and distance from city of birth to Hayward in miles could all contribute… This is definitely a concept that bears further investigation. Booya.


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