I drink on a daily basis, but it seldom cools my temper.

Just when you thought it was safe to browse the internet.

I’m back. Not so much back with a vengeance, more back with a penetrating, effusive disdain. Which is the more threatening of the two? I leave that to you.

Some wonder where I’ve been. An unexcused absence of such length raises questions about things like my health, both mental and physical. Worry not your pretty heads, kids. Although I’d like to attribute my hiatus to something awesome like a brief tour of duty in a guerilla army, or a jail sentence, the truth is that I just stopped writing for a while. Somewhere between our pilgrimage to the icy wastes of southern Oregon, the loathsome burdens of the academic life, and that whole Christmas horseshit I just lost track of you all. But now I’m back. Less sabbatical, more writing; that’s today’s motto.

As for the lost winter months, well… Our brave assault on Pilot Rock near Mount Ashland was completed successfully just days before the true dark of winter closed the roads and the paths for the season. While in Ashland, a strict regimen of raging recklessness, hard drinking, and pickup volleyball at the YMCA saw us through, despite the horrid horrid god damn cold. The rest of my stay in the Yay Area was… non-descript, I suppose. New Years in San Diego was another worthy event, as any of the lucky ladies who saw our crew pimped out in our suits and ties can tell you. A four alarm hangover was probably not the best way to usher in this foul year of our lord 2005, but fuck you I did it anyway. Me and Tom Collins. We did it together.

Enough of the past. Dwelling on the past is for the elderly. Now we look to the future.

Despite the fact that my writing went into remission for a brief moment, it’s back again, and we can only hope that no further distractions, lazinesses, or government censors prevent me from yapping off into the void of the internet. For your amusement, of course. After all, where would you be without me, the patron saint of bad handwriting, three AM, and trashtalk. Probably doing something productive with your life, you tool.

Two omens lead me to believe that my upcoming year will be a reasonably good one. To begin with, lab is cancelled on my birthday. For those of you unfamiliar with Computer Engineering labs, listen up: Working through a computer engineering lab is like walking a tightrope while orangutans throw shit at you, except less glamorous. Let’s use our powers of literary analysis to decode the symbolism in the previous sentence:

Walking the tightrope – The author uses this image to convey his attitude toward the labs themselves: like walking a tightrope, a CPE lab is exceedingly difficult, slow paced, and (if you think about it) completely god damn pointless.

Orangutans throwing their shit – Lab teachers are fucks.

Thus, the skipping of a lab, especially on the day we all gather to commemorate My Birth, is an occasion for joy.

The second omen: Chinese New Year also falls on my birthday. I don’t know how many people partied on your birthday, but I’ll bet my 2.5 billion beats it. The world’s most populous country, united in celebration on one glorious day. That’s a lot of good vibes coming my way.

And good vibes I do need.

I spend my days in a torpor of scholastic suffering, scraping by and tooth-and-nailing my way towards the promised land of spring graduation. Proximity to freedom just piques my distaste for engineering that much more, especially with no cake-walk bitchbettahavemyA+ English class to balance out the bad grades.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, I suppose. Capoeira still rules. Engineering still blows. The ladies, well, we all know about the ladies.

My experiences have led me to believe that fanatical austerity ranks somewhere between Smells Like A Goat and Is A First Cousin on the datability criteria list. Why hang with the ice cold dude when you can have Mike take you out to Mother’s on Thursday night? Shit, he even gets the ski club discount. He’s nicer and has a bigger truck, plus he doesn’t start snarling and spitting like yellow-eyed foul-mouthed hyena when he reads the Mustang Daily opinion pages. He might give you the herp, but at least he won’t give you a hardbackLord of the Flies and the entire Bruce Campbell film collection on VHS for your anniversary. He might be confused by shiny, complex things like digital watches or windchimes, but at least he won’t break up with you for buying songs off Itunes or falling asleep during Star Wars.

You know what it is? It’s the weather.

75 and sunny in February is the railroad spike in my side. I just figured this out, let me think for a second.

Definitely on to something.

Ok so it goes like this. One builds up a… resistance to beauty. Just like alcohol, or iocane powder. The spring springs, and all of a sudden one is confronted with the teeming hordes of the young and pretty. For that first sun-drenched week, you’re either optimistic, appreciative, hateful, or dead. Then you acclimatize, things repolarize, and you’re once again steeled for your life as a bachelor. You can think about the things in life that are more important than physical and emotional companionship, like push-ups, the government, or where to set that bear trap for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Things are normal.

What happens, then, when you’re assaulted by gorgeous weather in the dead of winter, for several days at a stretch? The beanies, the sweatshirts, and the scarves disappear, and all of a sudden you’re blindsided just when you’re least prepared. Youth and beauty at every turn. The only solution, I suppose?

ice cold.

The more things change, indeed.

So where do we go from here?

Where do we go now?

You want the big laughs, you brought your quarter and you want to see the monkey dance. No monkeys dancing today, bitches.
I could sit here and write for three hours about how much I hate the god damn Republicized Zealots that are taking bloody shits on the glory of our nation as we speak, about how much I hate people that think Jesus would shave His Head, join the Army, and kill Iraqis, gays, and abortion doctors like a good American, about how ridiculously good I am at World of Warcraft, but nobody wants to hear that.

You wanna hear about how I spend my days writing dark and cryptic notes on ripped-up Albertson’s bags; notes full of Spanish swearwords, Greek mythological references, and treasure maps that lead to nothing; notes which I then stick in random Economics textbooks in the bookstore just to fuck with the meek, quivering minds who stumble upon them.

Does my villainy know no bounds?

Let me tell you kids something: the future is coming. The future is team TPOM’s absolutely 100% unavoidable and assured victory in the robot design contest in April, where Raabot Itself will stun the electronics and embedded systems world with its genius, agility, and snazzy paintjob. The future is our skyrocketing movie career once our martial arts masterpiece is finalized by the tender, talented hands of our producer Danny Han of the New York Film Academy. The future…

well who the fuck knows.

We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.

Peace, you miserable scum.


p.s. Thanks for the words of encouragement and gratitude I received in my absence.
They weren’t so much, you know, actual encouraging letters… it was more of a slight decrease in the daily flow of hatemail. But that’s just splitting hairs.



2 Responses to “I drink on a daily basis, but it seldom cools my temper.”

  1. Nice to have you back. My world is once again complete now that the angry rantings have returned.

    Oh yes, and thanks again for hosting Quint-a-Palooza 2005. That fucking RULED!

    Ice cold brotha, ice cold.

  2. anonymous Says:

    i’m glad you’re enjoying WOW. it’s at least bringing you some joy in your gloomy outlook on life. take care and keep leveling :)

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