Same as the old boss

Damn it’s late.

This can’t be healthy.

It’s been a while, and for that I throw myself on the altar of your mercy, oh great and all-powerful Reader. Between programming my fingers to the bone, playing capoeira, and killing an average of 200 gnolls a day on that cursed video game, I have little time for brooding.

I can’t fucking wait to do my new English project. When the assignment was described, I was, to say the least, apprehensive. A final project, counting for a fair chunk of your grade, to be displayed and graded at an English Language Faire hosted by our teacher. Art projects. Scenes from plays. Dioramas.

Call me elitist, but fuck you I’m an engineer. Engineers do not make dioramas, we design space shuttles and robots and ICBM’s. You think those fools you see on Modern Marvels ever made dioramas? Hell no.

Rather than caving in and slopping together some pathetic scene out of The Canterbury Tales made with GI Joes and popsicle sticks, I asked if I could do a writing project. Sure, she said. Sure.

Oh ho ho, lady, you done dropped the ball on this one.

What I proposed was a retelling of Act 2 of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in modern, northern California slang and context. It would be educational on both a literary and linguistic blah blah blah whatever who cares. The point is, I’m going to turn in a paper with words like “shiznit”, “booya”, and “badonkadonk” in it and get an A from a linguistics teacher. ph33r it, fool. It’s gonna be the most tangled knot of sarcasm, rap quotations, and inside jokes ever created, and it’ll be a god damn miracle if anyone outside of my very closest friends can decipher more than half of it.

Fools don’t know about us, man. Back in the stack with throw so much slang bitches can’t grasp a thing we sayin. Like Navajo code talkers with gold teef. Fool.

Other news…. went to some parties, nothing exciting there…

Oh yeah so, parties. What the hell. I don’t know how the rest of humanity functions, but when the Johnson crew and I go to a party, we just stand around talking to each other and nobody else. What’s the god damn point? I meet more new people in line at the bank or skulking around the mortuary (don’t ask) than I do at a party full of college students. I could blame everyone else at the party, but

no wait, let’s do that, that was a good idea. It’s all their fault.

Perhaps it’s my conviction that I’ve pretty much already met and befriended everyone worthwhile in this hemisphere; maybe it’s the way I start shrieking and foaming at the mouth when I meet someone outside my very narrow spectrum of tolerance (Republicans, stupid people, religious people, people into cycling, the poor, Mac users, etc); maybe I should wear something besides ripped Dragonball Z t-shirts, tapered jeans, and sky blue Tevas. Ah who gives a shit, I’d rather sit back and laugh when Mike from the Ski Club falls off the second story balcony after a botched keg stand and starts bleeding through his meshback hat. Maybe if it was a regular hat instead of a meshback it would have shielded you better from that massive head trauma, or at least staunched the flow of blood better, right Mike? Guess that’s the price of fashion, isn’t it.

This is what programming does to me; it turns me into a miserable hateful ass who actively wills the unsuspecting to die horribly and dreams of things like hunting manatees with a speargun or setting ice cream trucks on fire. What did those stupid manatees ever do to me?

Wow it’s 3:30, I need to put my ass to bed. You scum have kept me up too late as it is.
Gotta get up tomorrow and break some bottles at the Wa wa, maybe burn some wood or dig a hole.

Keep on keepin’ on.

-T.

p.s. For the record, I do not own Tevas, tapered jeans, or a Dragonball Z tshirt, ripped or otherwise.

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