That Awkward Moment When…


So, I’m driving to work this morning, trying to beat my record-setting commute time I set yesterday morning (75 minutes…I live in Northern Virginia) when one of my “pet-peeves of driving” occur: as I’m exiting the interstate and merging onto a main road, this white truck in front of me decides to take the merge lane all the way down to the end and then merge over, which would essentially cut me off; considering I’ve already merged. Thoughts go racing through my head. Do I speed up and pass him, leaving him with the vibe that I don’t have time for his non-sense this early in the morning? No. Do I be polite and slow down, giving him plenty of space to safely merge over? HA…no. Or, do I be a complete dick and just idol right next to him, making him decide his own fate? Bingo. Well, my plan of being a complete dick backfired. Turns out traffic was backed up to the end of the merge lane, so I didn’t want to be a COMPLETE dick (yeah, there’s a difference between complete and COMPLETE) and leave him with no space whatsoever. Luckily I did, because that’s when I noticed it.

When both him and I came to a complete stop,  I thought to myself, “this guy better give me the fucking wave for letting him in…” with my head resting in my hand. Sure enough he did exactly that. “Yeah, that’s right. You don’t want me to get out of this car”, I said under my breath, but then I realized his wave was very emphatic, almost like he knew me. I inch closer to his car to get a good look into his review mirror, when I realize, “holy shit – that’s so and so from Accounting…” Instant awkwardness ensues.

(You remember that time you were in middle school and you saw your teacher out in public? You probably did what any middle school kid did and froze as if your deceased grandmother just walked in front of you and then fled the scene, because god forbid you risk your popular status and get caught talking to her/him outside of class. Well, that feeling still applies when you’re driving and the person in front/behind/to the side of you is someone you know. You don’t know if you should make eye contact and wave awkwardly or just flat out ignore them, because fuck interacting with people.)

When I finally rid myself of the awkwardness, I realized I would have to follow him for the next 2-3 miles into work and most likely have to ride the elevator with him (fuck! What did I do to deserve this?!). From that moment on, I kept my distance from him. I didn’t want him to see my aggressive driving tactics: I drove a lot slower than I normally do; I came to a complete stop at stop signs, looking left, right, and then left again; I even allowed people who obviously got to the 4-way intersection before me go first. I tried everything, yet he was only one car ahead of me. I was doomed.

As we’re two blocks away from our building, my heart begins to pound. “I’m going to have to ask him what he’s doing for the weekend…” I thought to myself. (That’s my go to whenever I’m stuck, alone with a coworker I don’t usually talk to. If it’s Monday or Tuesday, I ask what they did the previous weekend. If it’s Wednesday or later, I ask what they’re doing the upcoming weekend. Works like a charm.) Suddenly, the truck pulls off and parks in front of this building where construction is going on (phew – dodged a bullet there!). I drive past the truck, not even bothering to look into the truck to see if it is So-and-So, and continue on my merry way.

Turns out it was exactly who I thought it was. He came in, asking what kind of car I drove, and we both had a nice little chuckle about following each other into work. Little did he know, that was the most awkward car ride of my life.

Why is it so awkward seeing people you work with outside of work? Is it the fact we all think they just live at work? At least that’s what I think…




Last Friday I wrote this extravagant post about ketchup, went to reread it for mistakes when I got home, and was shocked to find out that it didn’t save. It was complete bull shit. So, I will try my best to remember all that was said for your enjoyment.

For those of you who do not know me, I am completely terrified of ketchup: the sight, the taste, the smell, the feel, the sound (yeah – it definitely has a sound) EVERYTHING. I don’t know when or how this phobia even started, but ever since I can remember I’ve steered clear of said condiment. I can be around someone who is eating that grotesque thing people refer to as “the heavenly blanket that tucks their cheeseburgers in”, but if you offer it to me I will turn it down faster than Charlie Day turns down a free trip outside of Philadelphia. My hatred of that tomato paste is so intense that I’ve gone as far as drawing a sign that says “POISON” and has a skull and crossbones on it for 30-minutes one night, just to tape it to the bottle my roommates have in our fridge. Some of you may think that’s a little much, but I thought it was necessary.

The Sight: Have you ever taken the time to sit and examine ketchup? I mean, have a record-setting staring competition that not even a manikin could win? Well, I haven’t. BUT, from a close enough distance I have, and let me tell you this: it’s so fucking red that it almost looks fake. Seriously. It’s so grossly red that it’s like looking at a bad injury; you just can’t look away. I wouldn’t be surprised if Crayola has it’s own colored crayon named “Ketchup”, because there’s nothing in the class of red that compares. Oh, and remember those green and purple colored Ketchup’s they came out with in the 90’s? Talk about a nightmare come true.

The Taste: The following list represents the ingredients of Ketchup. I’ve only ever accidentally tasted this wretched poison, and I’m pretty sure I threw up, so my description of the taste wouldn’t paint you a good enough picture: TOMATO CONCENTRATE FROM RED RIPE TOMATOES (ew), DISTILLED VINEGAR (double ew), HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP (isn’t this the stuff that makes you fat, more prone to cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and non-alcoholic fatty liver disease?), CORN SYRUP (sounds like a close relative to High Fructose Corn Syrup, so I’ll use my logic and say it’s practically the same thing), SALT (betcha it isn’t kosher), SPICE (pretty sure that’s a drug), ONION POWDER (this sounds like kitchen-talk for “cocaine”), NATURAL FLAVORING (semen’s natural and, from what I’ve heard, has a flavor).

The Smell: Yesterday I went to the Nats game with my girlfriend, my roommate, and my dad. Around the third or fourth inning, we all went to go get some food. I was determined to get a Five Guy’s burger, even though it was on the opposite side of the stadium. So, my girlfriend and roommate set out on the quest of getting one. We get to where the escalator is, and to our surprise it’s still running up. Filled with fury we were forced to take the walk way, which has an angle of decline of probably three-degrees. After walking what seemed like 10 miles (fucking walk way), we get to where Five Guy’s USED to be. Yeah, you read that correctly, it’s not there anymore. Turns out we wasted 15 minutes walking there, because there was a burger stand two sections down from our seats. What does this story have to do with ketchup? Well, we completed the circle around the stadium and went to the burger stand. I got my burger, go over to the condiment stand to get my napkins and a straw and set my burger basket down on some ketchup that some ASSHOLE leaked onto the counter. Not knowing what I just did, I pick up my basket and get ketchup all over my hand. My face turned white. My hand smelled like Ketchup all day. Seeing how there’s ketchup contains vinegar, and vinegar smells like shit, I leave you with this: If A=B and B=C, then A=C. Fuck you, Five Guy’s.

The Feel: Ever feel a dead persons cold, clammy hands? If you haven’t, don’t worry – just splatter some Ketchup on your hand and you’ll get the same feeling.

The Sound: Now, this is kind of far fetched, but I figured I’ve touched all the other senses, so I might as well bring’er on home with the fifth. If ketchup had a sound, it would be that of an 80-year old women who’s smoked since she was 12 asking where her martini is. The kind whose voice is as raspy as Macy Gray’s in her 99 hit-single, “I Try”. Yeah…pretty annoying.

Anyways, now you know one of the best ways to get me back if I ever did something mean to you. Luckily for me, I rarely do anything mean to anyone, so I’m safe. But, DON’T BE THAT ASSHOLE WHO USES KETCHUP ON ME JUST TO SEE A GROWN MAN CRY. I’LL FLICK YOU ON THE SHOULDER SO HARD, YOU’LL THINK YOU JUST GOT HIT BY A FUCKING TRAIN.

Why You Gotta Do Dis to Me?


Before I get started, I would like to talk about my last post. That post was a result of me spending way too much time on this reading scary stories to pass the time at work. I thought to myself, “hey, I can write stories like these!” so, voila! I may continue it, I may not, you’ll just have to come back and see. But, since I haven’t been on that subreddit since starting that story, you’ll have better luck putting your money down on California Chrome winning at Belmont June 7th, to complete the first Triple Crown since the product of world-renowned(?) breeder Harbor View Farm’s very own Affirmed won it 1978. Anyway, on with the show!

Graduating from college is one of the most depressing things a human being could ever endure. One day you’re waking up at 2:00pm from a night of drunken embarrassment, just to stumble your way to your only class of the day – Underwater Tech Decking 576, 2:30pm (that’s right, you read that correctly, that, my friends, is an advanced class) – and the next day you’re in the real world, begging for a job like the desperate girl who wants to fit in so badly she stumbles her way across the Quad to her 2:30pm advanced Tech Decking class (obviously all the cool kids are taking it, so don’t tell me you wouldn’t risk your life to get to that class). It’s such a dramatic change, no wonder people prolong it and go to graduate school.

Here’s what really rubs me the wrong way about the application process: you’ve done all you can do – submitted application after application, tweaking your resume and cover letter to the job description; watched all of the interview videos your post-college career brain can handle on YouTube; got your suit pressed for the time your interview comes; etc. then comes the worlds longest waiting game. All you’re hoping for is to hear back from that one company who noticed one of your accomplishments is taking home Gold at the 2013 U23 Tech Deck World Championship (finally, all those late night study sessions paid off!) and thought, “Hey! I’ve never seen that before! Let’s bring this young-buck in!” But, in today’s world, where it’s not really what you know, it’s who you know – i.e. no stranger is worth anybody’s time, because time is money, and money is the most powerful thing in the world (hey! What about social media? – any millennial you’ll ever speak to, ever) – you’ll be waiting longer for that email/phone call to come than that girl who got stood up in that one movie about the thing, you know…the one you’re currently thinking about.

Shortly after you apply, you most likely get an email stating they got your application and someone from HR will review it and get back to you within three weeks. So, during those three weeks you begin to paint a picture of yourself sitting in the new age, modern office, equipped with the top of the line iMac’s, where everyone is dressed in the newest fashion trends you find on Urban Outfitters, and you can’t help but to get your hopes up (I mean, that IS one appealing picture, amirite?). You mark off on your calendar 21 days to initiate the countdown, and the closer you get to that date without receiving anything from Mr./Mrs. HR, a little piece of your heart breaks off. You then come to realization your email never did make it to HR, the stupid fucking algorithm that sends out automatic replies is a pathological liar, and you start that process all over again; this time, more depressed than ever.

Excuse my French, but is it that freaking hard for someone to stay true to their word and reply back to you, even if you don’t get the job, within the given period of time? It literally takes less than a minute for someone in HR (hell, utilize the intern) to draft up something along the lines of:

Dear Mr. Aponte (enter x2) Thank you for applying for the [insert job title here] position at [insert company of your choice]. Unfortunately, we have found someone else whose qualifications better suit the job description. We appreciate your time applying and will keep your resume on file for future positions. (enter x2) Thanks and good luck, (enter x1) Sandra Dean.

Even receiving an email as simple as that mends a few pieces of your heart back together after suffering through the countdown. Never in your life will you be somewhat relieved to have gotten bad news, simply because you have evidence stating your application and resume were actually reviewed (even if it was just another pathologically lying algorithm).

For all of those virgins-to-the-real-world who recently graduated and don’t have anything lined up yet, I seriously encourage you to A) go back in time and fail your finals, B) start passing out your resume as if you were a Lady of the Night who is 5 jobs away from her monthly quota with only 3 hours left, or C) strongly consider graduate school while you’re still in college mode. It’s a pretty rough life out there.

Good luck,

Ms. (soon to be Misses!!!!11!1!111!) Dean.

Human Resources (BITCH) Rep.

The Never Ending Night


There we stood holding our breath, as the only source of sound came from the wind forcing its way through the broken shutters, whistling like a janitor waxing the floors at the end of the work day. Darkness filled the house around every corner. I’m not talking about the darkness you have when you turn your bedroom light off to go to sleep. You know, the kind where you can maneuver your way to the bathroom if you need to, thanks to your alarm clock illuminating just enough to make out the door. I’m talking about the darkness you get when you close your eyes, not even able to make out your own hand three inches in front of your face. “So, this must be what it’s like to be blind” I said, attempting to lighten the mood, but failing miserably. “Shut up and turn on the damn flashlight” directed Sarah. I reached for the flashlight I had in my back pocket and turned it on.

The house was just like the kind you see in horror films: old, Victorian-styled house with rotting wood panels somehow keeping the house upright. Shutters hanging on by nails that, if pierced your skin, would have tetanus coursing through your body almost instantly. Layers of dust so thick if you breathed in too heavily, you might literally cough up a lung. There were stairs that ran along the left side of the house, leading the way up to three bedrooms on the second floor. To the right of the front door was a room occupied by a grand piano. If you walked further down the hall you came to a formal dining room with a chandelier not even the heirs of oil-tycoons could purchase. Opposite that was an office occupied by a large oak desk, stained with a blood-red finish, facing a wall filled with every type of book you could imagine: medical, law, economics, even taxidermy. At the end of the hall was where you found a large living room and kitchen, as open as the Great Plains. The living room floor was filled with furniture resting peacefully under bed sheets and broken glass. On the walls hung picture frames and mirrors that were turned around, so the only thing showing was the back of the wooden frame. In the kitchen lied the most profound smelling foods, rotten to the core.

The beam of light pierced through the darkness, revealing the back door leading to the deck. I turned to the right towards Sarah, only knowing she was in that vicinity due to her snark demand. She raised her hand to block the light from her eyes and groaned, “are you trying to make me go blind?” Chuckling, I turned and shown the light to my left where David stood facing the wall. “Well, this is embarrassing…I thought I was facing you guys”, he said. He turned around, grinning from ear to ear, “so, now what?” As we stood there, contemplating the next move, it hit me like a ton of bricks. “Uhhh…guys? Where’s Elena?” Fear struck Sarah’s face as she began yelling Elena’s name. “Elena! Elena! Where are you?!” Sarah’s voice bounced off the walls, filling every room in that house. She stopped, pausing for a response, but received nothing.

The flashlight began to flicker on and off. I could feel Sarah’s eyes pierce my skin, giving me the sensation of that year I did the Polar Bear Plunge. “Stop acting so immature, Josh. Can’t you tell I’m already freaked out enough?” I banged the flashlight a couple of times on my knee. “I’m not doing this on purpose, Sarah” mimicking the sound of her voice. When the light stopped flickering, David cleared his throat, “I guess we should go look for her, huh?”

We walked down the hall in a single-file line, as if we were kindergartners going to lunch. I shined the flashlight in each of the rooms passing by, but to no avail Elena wasn’t in any of them. As we were approaching the living room we heard this loud crack that echoed throughout the house. We stopped, frozen in our tracks, hearts racing and heavily breathing yet again. “Should we go up there?” I proposed. “If we do, you’re leading the way, Columbus; considering you have our only source of light” David said. I stood there, ruminating about what David just said, but the only thing that kept running through my mind was me reaching the top step and getting hit in the face by a blunt object and never seeing the light of day again. “It was probably just wind slamming a shutter shut”, I cowardly said, “let’s keep going.” When we reached the back room, consisting of the kitchen and living room, the smell hits us instantly. “Oh my god, Sarah, close your legs”, David jokingly said. Another smack filled the air, but this time I think it’s obvious as to who made that noise. “What the hell, Sarah? I was kidding. Relax” David painfully said.

Scanning the kitchen with the flashlight, realizing I wasn’t finding anything significant, I turned to the living room. As I guided the flashlight across the open room I came across Elena sitting in the corner, curled up in a ball. Sarah couldn’t help but scream when Elena’s body filled the circle of light cast by the flashlight. “Elena? Elena?”, I whispered. “Is everything alright?” She raised her head, tears running down her face as if she were at a funeral. She jumped up and sprinted into Sarah’s arms, squeezing her so tightly you could hear Sarah’s spine cracking. “Now that’s what I like to see!” David said, as he raised his eyebrows up and down repetitively. Elena turned to David, giving him the nastiest of looks.

“I thought you guys left me” Elena sympathized. “Did you not hear us calling your name?” Sarah asked. “No. I guess the fact my mind was racing with thoughts as to what was about to happen to me effected my hearing.”

That’s when it happened. A light other than my flashlight seeped through the shutters, filling the living room with a casting lined shadow on all of our bodies. Struck with fear, my reflexes somehow kicked in and I turned the flashlight off. We all stood there hoping the occupants of the car mistakenly pulled up to the wrong house. As the tires rolled across the gravel driveway, the breaks sang the highest of melodies and the car finally came to a stop. The house was once again filled with darkness as the headlights turned off. The door to the car squeaked open, sending shivers down our spine as it slammed shut. Then, silence.

Never Ending Footsteps


For those of you who know me, I’m a sucker for scary things. Let me rephrase that: I’m a sucker for scary things that I’m not physically apart of (e.g. watching scary movies, reading scary stories online, etc.), unless it involves clowns, fuck clowns. Yeah, I get goosebumps, the chills, and sometimes my eyes gloss over as if I’m about to cry, but even though I get these same reactions every single time (mostly from reading scary stories or hearing someone retell a scary story, as opposed to movies/tv shows) I eat that shit up! (Out of curiosity I looked up that last “symptom”, because I was young and naive and thought it only happened to me. Luckily I was wrong, so I’m a little less weird than what I previously thought.) But, turn the tables and put me in a situation where I’m about to see some unexplainable shit, I, just like the majority of human existence, try to play it cool and then casually freak the fuck out. As is the case with this story. Enjoy!

I’m just going to cut straight to the point: my parents house is haunted. When we first moved in, we took a picture of the house to send to relatives and there was a silhouette of a girl in one of the windowpanes on our front door; my dad woke up to a girl (same one?) sitting in his computer chair in his office; my dad saw a figure at the end of the hall in the windowpane of our basement door; I’ve gotten in bed at night only to find warm spots as if someone was previously sitting there; etc. Anyway, apart from the bed thing, I’ve never really encountered another instance of paranormal phenomenon until that night.

It was sophomore or junior year of high school and I was telling some friends of mine at school many of the stories I just previously listed. Reaping all of the glory that comes along with living in a haunted house (of course there’s glory to that!), one of my friends asked me if I’ve ever physically saw this ghost, to which I said no, thus tarnishing my paranormal street-cred. But, I wasn’t going to let that disappoint me. Just because I haven’t seen anything doesn’t mean it’s not true, so I brushed it off and continued with the school day.

Fast-forward to later that night – my mom, the only other person home at the time, was downstairs working out in the basement. I, being the studious person I am, was sitting in my dad’s office “doing homework”, minding my own business, when suddenly I heard the faintest of footsteps on their hardwood floors. It was noticeable enough to catch my attention, but I brushed it off and told myself it was probably my mom downstairs. A few minutes went by and suddenly I heard them again, but this time they were clear enough that I could pinpoint where they were coming from; the hallway parallel to the office. So, being the brave person I thought I was, I mumbled to myself, “I’m going to regain my previously tarnished paranormal street-cred and sit right here until I see this ghost.”

Glossy eyes fixated on the open door, I sat there as the steps got louder and louder. What started as a valiant effort towards this whole “being a man regaining that street-cred” thing, I began to break with every step I heard, trembling in the chair. Each step sounding like it was the last step until I saw the mystery person/thing, I couldn’t take it anymore. I hopped up from the chair and took off down the basement stairs. With how fast I was going down the stairs, I’m surprised I didn’t fall like the dumb girl in those scary movies who always fall when they’re running from the killer. Once downstairs, I poke my head into the workout room to see what my mom was up to. Of course I already knew she was working out, but to my surprise she wasn’t there…

Just kidding, she was there wondering what all of the commotion was. I didn’t want to tell her exactly what happened, so I said what any loving son would say: “Oh, that was just me running down the stairs to check on you :)”

So there you have it – my anticlimactic ghost story, in which you probably thought you were going to find out just who, or what roams the halls of my parents house. Of course, looking back on it now I’m pissed at my 16-17 year-old self for not having the balls to see the outcome, but put me in that same situation again and I’ll sit through the whole thing. I think. It’s probably the same thing that tried to choke me while I was sleeping a couple of months ago at my new house, but we’ll save that one for a rainy day.

Bro-ad Trip


This past weekend two of my roommates and I hit the road heading to my home away from home – Charleston, South Carolina. Our 4th roommate, God rest his soul, wasn’t able to come and it kind of put a damper on the trip. (Wait, that made it sound like he died, which is not the case (oops). He just couldn’t get the time off from work.) Not only was the trip satisfying in and of itself, it was also satisfying because we actually followed through with a plan we made. This is how the planning process goes between the four of us (Come with me, and you’ll see, just how indecisive The Camp can be):

Jwil (sitting on one of the couches, laptop on, well, his lap of course): “So, what do you guys wanna do for dinner?” Shawn (sitting in his wicker chair, pondering the many mysteries of life): “I’m down for whatever.” Jon (sitting on the other couch, on Instagram or cycling mag in hand): “Yeah, it doesn’t really matter to me.” Manny (sitting in recliner, on instagram or watching some skate video): “We can either go out to eat or make something here, but nothing here has been defrosted soooo…(leaves conversation open, hoping someone will bite)”

Two hours later

Jwil/Shawn/Jon/Manny: “So, what’s the plan for dinner?”


I promise you, it’s exactly like that. You can judge all you want, none of us care; it’s what makes us unique.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Charleston. We decided to go there because: a) the city is amazing; b) we have a free place to stay; c) the beach is a 5-minute drive from our house; d) the weather is perfect down there this time of the year; e) Shawn’s never been; f) I know the area pretty well; g) the southern hospitality is fantastic; h) traffic down there is similar to a normal commute up here;…and z) we had to get away, and boy did we ever.

It’s about an 8-hour drive down there, but it definitely flies when you’ve got 80’s Cardio blasting on Pandora a majority of the ride down. Thursday and Friday we were at the beach by 11:30 am, beer in hand, soakin’ up the rays. After the beach, we went home, showered, and then headed downtown to walk around/get some lunch and hit up happy hour at some local bars. On Saturday, we enjoyed a nice brunch outside, mimosas (as the first round of drinks) on deck, and then went and hung out at the pool, but not before we took a quick cat nap at home (again – judge all you want). Saturday night we enjoyed a nice dinner at my favorite place in Charleston, Taco Boy, with my mom, my sister, and my brother-in-law. Now, does that not sound like the most relaxing vacation ever? It was so relaxing, we were all in bed by 10:30 pm. (I know, I know – you’re dealing with some of the most badass people in the lands).
All in all, it was a successful trip; the sunburn was well worth it. We’re looking forward to the next Camp Getaway, hopefully with all four roommates included. We were talking about possibly going to Miami. Or, back to Charleston. Maybe it was New Orleans? Vegas? Fucking indecisiveness…it really is a disease.

Hell in a Hand Basket


That’s exactly where this world is going (thanks to my roomie Jwil for that lovely expression!). Apart from all of the violence-inducing activities that take place around the world every second of the day, have you seen the two stories of people making light of recent terrorist attacks (and, by recent I mean one that took place in 2001 and one that took place last year, so, yeah, recent)?

Some 14 year-old Dutch girl tweeted this exact tweet to American Airlines: “@AmericanAir hello my name’s Ibrahim and I’m from Afghanistan. I’m part of Al Qaida and on June 1st I’m gonna do something really big bye” (It took all of my strength not to correct the grammatical errors of this tweet.) She then back peddled faster than Lance Armstrong during the seventh stage of Le Tour de France when American Airlines tweeted this: “@queendemetriax Sarah, we take these threats very seriously. Your IP address and details will be forwarded to security and the FBI.” But, hey, she did receive 1,000 new followers on twitter, and having followers on social media in today’s society is viewed more valuable than money.

As for the other event that occurred a couple of days ago during the one-year anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombing, some ass**** (can’t attach “hole” on publicly accessible media) thought it was okay to leave an unattended backpack – you know, what the bombs were in during the race last year – at the finish line, causing a chunk of the city of Boston to shut down while a bomb squad came in to safely detonate the backpack. Although this 25 year-old man was deemed mentally ill by a health expert, he went on to tell the cops during his explanation, “I knew what I was doing, it was being conceived in my head. It’s symbolism.” Symbolism? For what? Killing people? But, he has a video blog on YouTube, and he’ll probably gain a few hundred subscribers, which is equivalent to the $100,000 bond set for him, because, you know – 21st century society.

Now, if you recall the post I wrote about people who use the comment boards at the bottom of some articles, you know how much I like to skim through those almost more than I like reading the actual article. But, some of the stuff I was reading on these comment boards were making me sick. People weren’t necessarily defending these two individuals per-say, but they were saying the two events were being blown out of proportion (pun NOT intended). As for the Dutch girl, people were saying that American Airlines overreacted with their response (take a scroll through the comment board yourself). HOW DO YOU NOT OVERREACT TO A THREATENING TWEET LIKE THIS?! HELL, I’M OVERREACTING TO YOU THINKING AMERICAN AIRLINES WAS OVERREACTING AND THERE ISN’T EVEN ANYTHING TERRORISTIC ABOUT WHAT YOU SAID. FUCK! Sorry about that *brushes bangs away from eyes*. As for the other dipshit, people are using his mental illness as the excuse as to why he did it. And, for that, I would like to refer you back to earlier in this post about him confessing he knew what he was doing the whole time, regardless of sanity.

Hell in a hand basket, man.

Does this Thing Work?


Well, well, well – what do we have here? Is this the blog I used to be ever so on top of, in which I would write posts just about every other day? With me being a month+ older than I used to be when I was so actively blogging, I feel like Will Ferrell in Talladega Nights not knowing what to do with his hands during his interview. Do I use them to type, thus making words appear on the screen? Do I sit on them and speak through the microphone, finally utilizing the speak-to-text function on my laptop (does my laptop even have this function?)? Do I use them to massage my temples, as I concentrate ever so hard on making words appear like magic? This shit is too confusing. Why did I get back into this?

Since it’s been an eternity in dog years, let’s try to catch you up on what’s been going on in my life and events that have occurred since my last blog post:

  • The entire 2014 Winter Olympics.
  • The entire MLB Spring training season, plus the first 11-12 regular season games.
  • Two of my friends and I are in the early stages of starting a skate company.
  • The Camp had its first kegger, in which 30ish(?) people stopped on by.
  • Bubba Watson took home is second green jacket in three years.
  • The Caps choked yet again (at least it wasn’t in the playoffs this time, amiright?).
  • The Sox visited the White House, something I should have gone and tried to see; considering I live 20-30 minutes from Obama.
  • A Malaysian Airline got abducted by Aliens.
  • I got a new pair of shoes and a new skateboard.
  • I had a pretty long beard going, in which I didn’t trim for 2ish months, only to trim it because I got sick, and every time I blew my nose snot got stuck in my mustache (I learned something the day I trimmed it: it’s possible for you to look younger when you trim your beard even when the ending result is you still having facial hair. I thought that only occurred when you clean shaved. Who would have thunk it?)
  • My roommate Jwil and I planned a trip up to Boston to see the Sox play the Yankees in the final series of the season, which just so happens to be Dick Beater’s Derek Jeter’s last Friday night game of his regular season career.
  • And, saving the best for last: I have a girlfriend!!!!!!111!!11!!!1!1!!! 🙂

Ummmm…I think I blogged correctly. Come back in another two-months to read the next post. I need time to get back into the swing of things.

Table Talk: Episode 1


One of the pro’s that comes with living in the same house as three of your closest friends is when you sit down for dinner, which we try to do together every night, you often times come across some interesting topics of conversation. I can’t recall who brought this up the other night, but we got on the topic of how nothing can be deleted from the internet; social media in particular. You may think the 6-second Snapchat of you provocatively using an article of fruit you sent to your boo last night is now only accessible through his imagination, but you’re wrong. (Before I could even complete the Google search in the link provided, the search engine was already filling in the search bar for me.It’s not only Snapchats that can be recovered. You think just because you deleted that tweet seconds after it went public it’s erased forever? Not in a world where Twitter sees 100 million daily active users it isn’t. All it takes is one simple screenshot, and boom, controversy.

We’re only just now beginning to see how tweets/statues/photo’s can ruin a celebrity’s reputation, but think about the future. For all we know the 55th President of the United States could have just tweeted something racist while sitting in Mrs. Smith’s 6th grade English class; the next star athlete could have Snapchatted a sexual picture to all of the girls in his Freshman Spanish class; Time’s next “Person of the Year” could have just Instagramed a picture of the newest addition to his bong collection; etc. It may not effect these individuals now, but all it takes is that one accusation and everything goes out of control. With how messed up this world is, I guarantee there is someone out there who would not hesitate to go back and pull up a future celebrity’s social media page just to get a share of the limelight; even if that means ruining the career of someone they don’t know, or better yet, an old friend.

I’m not here to tell people what they should and should not post on social media, because that conversation could be as annoying as the thousands of times Mom and Dad told you not to take candy from a stranger. I’m just doing what I normally do: giving you all food for thought. With how big social media is now-a-days, your past is as easily accessible as that girl standing on the end of your street at 3 in the morning in her stilettos. Family members, friends, friends of friends, strangers, employees, potential employers, just about anyone can access your social media pages if they really wanted to. That alone should make you think twice about the things you post to Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc.

The Best Kind of Compliments


Disclaimer: I am not racist: (I know, I know – if you have to make a disclaimer, odds are people will disregard your disclaimer and accuse you of the things that follow (kind of like when you say, “I’m not trying to sound _____” knowing that you’ll sound exactly like the adjective within the blank when it’s all said and done). And, because this is about a race other than my own I feel the need to add it anyways, just to make things clear. But, seriously – let’s all try to view this as a comical post and nothing more. You know how my logic works by now, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise.)

Saturday night my roommates, friends, and I went out for a night on the town to bid farewell to my main man Luis during his final weekend in Nova (I’M GOING TO MISS YOU, MAN!). Because I’m the type of person who laughs at everything, and my bladder was to the point where even the faintest of chuckles would have caused a warm stream to run down my legs, I figured I had to do it: I had to break the seal. So, I did exactly what the books tell you to do: I put a napkin over my glass (I ain’t tryin to get roofied again), announced to the table where I was going, and headed off to the bathroom.
I get to the bathroom and notice all of the stalls are taken, so I patiently stand there waiting for one to open up. While I’m waiting, this gentleman of African American decent comes in and stands behind me. As we both stand there I see him look down out of the corner of my eye. Time to go off on a tangent: now, when I was preparing to go to New Orleans in October I did a little research. Apart from reading about all of the violence in that city, which freaked me the fuck out, I read a comment someone wrote that said, “if you drop something on Bourbon Street, don’t bother picking it up: it’s hers.” Back to the story: when I saw this guy look down I wanted to make a joke similar to that, because I wouldn’t have minded making a friend in the bathroom. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him make any movement down so I refrained from doing so. To my surprise, he had actually looked down at my shoes and gave me a compliment. This is where my post gets interesting, with all intentions to be comical:
In my opinion, black people can pull anything off. I mean ANYTHING: e.g. this black guy at school wore this beanie that was the shape of a tigers head and had long tassels. Did he look dumb in my eyes? HELL NO. He was pulling that thing off as if it had been in style for 10 years. If it were a white person wearing it, I would have politely told him he’s trying to hard, and that he needs to tone it down.
So, whenever I get a compliment from a black person about my attire I freak out. It happens every time. It’s almost like black people are the gatekeepers of the fashion world, and they just let this scrawny white kid through to the next round. The last time I got a compliment about my shoes from a black guy I was wearing these at a bar. I literally took them off of my feet, held them up to his face for him to get a better look, and said, “right?! I just got them today!” with this huge grin on my face. Looking back on it I’m only a little embarrassed, because he probably thought, “look at this dumb, drunk white boy”. At that time, I was through to the other world and nothing was stopping me.
There you have it: my not-so-racist-comical-post that involves black people. I guarantee you I’m not the only one who feels this way. I may just be the only brave soul man enough to talk about it.