tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2359111603151635852012-02-06T14:27:37.881-05:00P.S. F**k cakes.cuntasaurushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08926816531672152972noreply@blogger.comBlogger1311100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-16558908183095745342012-02-06T14:26:00.000-05:002012-02-06T14:27:37.902-05:00<a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.tumblr.com/"><img src="http://www.ellipsispress.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/tumblr-icon.png" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1655890818309574534?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-13801725429102744552012-01-30T14:30:00.003-05:002012-01-30T14:41:20.983-05:00<div class="text"><p>Cover letters are recommended to accompany resumés when your search for jobs. They provide a personable twist in which you express your interpretation of your job skills and abilities, which is in stark contrast to the often rigid and objective goals of the resumé.<br /><br />Having experience in writing and in bragging writing about myself, I will be taking the time to show you, step-by-step how to scribe the best cover letter possible. I will be using my own cover letter as an example, because it is so great.</p> <div> <div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-reKb2DOFP9g/Tybkw9klgYI/AAAAAAAAAPw/7fXKZCrIVfM/s1600/Greatness.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703497507924181378" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-reKb2DOFP9g/Tybkw9klgYI/AAAAAAAAAPw/7fXKZCrIVfM/s200/Greatness.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You are welcomed.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Step 1: The Date</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It is incredibly important to show your potential employer that you are aware of what month, day, and year it is, in that order.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://l.yimg.com/hu/shots/37278-shot.jpg"><img src="http://l.yimg.com/hu/shots/37278-shot.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Because fuck this day first shit.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This shows you have a stellar sense of time; a requirement for many job fields.</span><br /><br /></div> </div> <div>Ex: 1/14/12<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Pay attention to the subtlety of the backslashes.</span></div> <div><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;">Step 2: Personal Information</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The employer should know who he is hiring.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://compassiondave.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/woman-cooking.jpg?w=300"><img style="width: 279px; height: 318px;" src="http://compassiondave.files.wordpress.com/2012/01/woman-cooking.jpg?w=300" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“She” bosses are chefs.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">So it is important to leave details of your systemic existence.</span><br /><br />Mr. Indie Day</div> <div>69 Cookiesville, Landmine, BS</div> <div>1-555-366-5437 - cookiesandlandmines@gmail.com<br /><br /></div> <div><span style="font-weight: bold;">See how in this detail I included my name? Remember that detail, and as always, check with your social security card if you happen to forget.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://michid.org/what_papers/social_security/social_security_626_article2.jpg"><img src="http://michid.org/what_papers/social_security/social_security_626_article2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">My name is 000-00-0000.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Step 3: The intro.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You always want to make sure you begin with “Dear”, and a grateful yet unadulating title to call your potential employer. This indicates respect for authority, while still maintaining pride; a delicate balance. The phrase to keep in mind is “Deference and dignity”.<br /><br /></span></div> <div>Dear Fuckmouth Loserbitch,</div> <div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9xsnZ-wNWqY/TR6grV_XJEI/AAAAAAAABiQ/UGWusB7qO34/s1600/blow-up-doll.jpg"><img style="width: 249px; height: 143px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_9xsnZ-wNWqY/TR6grV_XJEI/AAAAAAAABiQ/UGWusB7qO34/s1600/blow-up-doll.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There is no greater honor.</span><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Step 4: The Opening.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Always let your employer know why it was you replied to his offering. Make them feel as though you understood their request, and that you can fulfill it.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.toastmasters.org/ImageLibrary/MagazineSection/2-09--Magazine-Images/209--Bragging.aspx"><img style="width: 252px; height: 303px;" src="http://www.toastmasters.org/ImageLibrary/MagazineSection/2-09--Magazine-Images/209--Bragging.aspx" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Before bragging like an asshole.</span></span><br /><br /></div> <div>I’m pretty good at the shit you wrote about. Like, I can do plenty of that customer service stuff. I remember this one time at CVS this guy asked me for a CVS card, right? And you know what I did? I was like “Here you go bro. Here’s an application.” And he fucking filled that shit out. Bam. New card carrier. It’s like nothing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As I articulated in this paragraph, I am more than capable of any customer effort, which pertained to the field I was inquiring for.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.consumerqueen.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/CVS-card.png"><img style="width: 240px; height: 152px;" src="http://www.consumerqueen.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/CVS-card.png" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">“Customer service.”</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Notice the subtle use of laymen language. Words like “man”, “bro”, and “I” create rapport with a person who does not know you. Words of icebreaking, so to speak.</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.anitashouse.com.ar/images/fotos/508.jpg"><img src="http://www.anitashouse.com.ar/images/fotos/508.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Or icebuilding. </span><br /><br /><br /></div> <div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Step 4: The Body</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">This is the standout paragraph in which you methodically detail your abilities while skirting any attitude that may sound boastful. Tough though rewarding, it is where you tightrope walk between personal expression of skill and excessive enthusiasm. I would prescribe less a focus on speaking of your personality, and more an effort to interpret, through your own words, what you can logistically provide to the employer.<br /><br /></span></div> <div><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ask yourself these questions as you conjure your words, “Would I hire this person for his stated skills?” “Do I sound overly confident?” “Do my statements translate into productive work ethics?” And, as always, “Do I fit this employer’s needs?”</span><br /><br />I only smoke weed once a week.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.trustthebrain.com/images/Odd-Future-Wolf-Gang-Kill-Them-All.png"><img style="width: 308px; height: 218px;" src="http://www.trustthebrain.com/images/Odd-Future-Wolf-Gang-Kill-Them-All.png" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Still icy.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span></div> <div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Step 5: The Conclusion.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rewind and find your opening paragraph. Condense its objectives and flank them with your previously stated abilities. This provides an excellent summary that expresses both why you are applying, why you fit this company, and why you deserve acknowledgment over other applicants.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSsWz-llSP8R1beBms2mrcMyE__6dac_91nvB1AyiMIWYWH79jb"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSsWz-llSP8R1beBms2mrcMyE__6dac_91nvB1AyiMIWYWH79jb" border="0" /></a></div> <div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You’re specialer.</span></span><br /><br />Listen, man, I’ve done this kind of work before and I really need the money. So I’d be good, right? I mean, let’s be honest, who really cares about your company? Nobody. Except for me. Well not really. But I know I can do a good job looking like it man. Trust me on this shit.<br /><br />With all these powers combined I am,<br />Captain Planet.</div> <div><br /><a href="http://captainplanet.me/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/feature_image_blog.jpg"><img style="width: 334px; height: 271px;" src="http://captainplanet.me/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/feature_image_blog.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Wow. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Notice the minimal injection of humor there. This shows that while you are a serious candidate for hiring, you can be a sincere person when required of you. This is a key trait that a resume cannot express, as resumes are often inundated with such stringent logistical information that there is no room for that personal touch a cover letter can bring.</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.fhm.com/imgs/630/500/0/original/5-hot-women-you%27ve-never-heard-of-christina-hendricks-palicki.jpgx"><img style="width: 276px; height: 438px;" src="http://www.fhm.com/imgs/630/500/0/original/5-hot-women-you%27ve-never-heard-of-christina-hendricks-palicki.jpgx" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Which she makes me do. To myself.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">As of yet, this cover letter has not received any feedback.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://i3.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/original/000/000/015/orly.jpg"><img style="width: 295px; height: 274px;" src="http://i3.kym-cdn.com/entries/icons/original/000/000/015/orly.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">NOOOOO WAAAAIIIIII</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">But in comparison to many cover letters, this one is certainly one that stands out in both personality, sincere interest, and applicable skills for the trade. I will be posting this cover letter on its own for anyone’s future use, as I encourage you all to take use of my outstanding efforts in your future endeavors.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I only want to help my peers and/or adoring fans in succeeding in their goals however I see fit. Good luck. And if you fail, it is your fault.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUx09ICchDI/TdKs1GCLg3I/AAAAAAAAAm4/PrNI5a1XKXE/s320/humble.jpg"><img style="width: 269px; height: 246px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LUx09ICchDI/TdKs1GCLg3I/AAAAAAAAAm4/PrNI5a1XKXE/s320/humble.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wat</span></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1380172542910274455?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-72220415334058338842012-01-18T14:17:00.010-05:002012-01-18T14:28:34.352-05:00<span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><br /><br />█ ██ ████ ██ ██████████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ████████ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████</span><a href="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/401008_10150495072518644_694533643_9002762_618945917_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 347px;" src="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/401008_10150495072518644_694533643_9002762_618945917_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;"> ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ </span><a href="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/401008_10150495072518644_694533643_9002762_618945917_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 345px; height: 345px;" src="http://a7.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/401008_10150495072518644_694533643_9002762_618945917_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="line-height: 14px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</span> <span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;">█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ lopl██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ </span></span></span><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQo1mJPR7NXdupXT2J9EYcZauBW7G6D9P2lVyL8RxpUARuPPS6C"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 197px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQo1mJPR7NXdupXT2J9EYcZauBW7G6D9P2lVyL8RxpUARuPPS6C" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;">██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████<br /></span></span>█ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████cunt.<br /><br /><br /></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7222041533405833884?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-4165873641652764172012-01-11T09:32:00.005-05:002012-01-13T15:31:46.923-05:00<span style="font-style: italic;">Part II/Conclusion. Sorry for delay.</span><br /><br />------------------<br /><br />Certainly, the impact of promiscuous sex and backstabbing relationships are not positives by any means. They’re more probably negative, as after some time, they’ll develop a sense of distrust and the feeling of being unfulfilled.<br /><br /><a href="http://placeitonluckydan.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/paris-hilton-whore-2006.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 446px;" src="http://placeitonluckydan.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/paris-hilton-whore-2006.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The caption is inherent.</span></span><br /><br />However, trauma is a necessary evil. Without trauma, we do not develop an understanding of how to better resolve situations, because we do not know any of its consequences. Like a child who touches a flame before ever understanding that it is, in fact, hot as shit.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQLePdh0_kiN_fWfl6mDs2TXgyu0STnhmZfESOcbF5cbxWVwTF_"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 202px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQLePdh0_kiN_fWfl6mDs2TXgyu0STnhmZfESOcbF5cbxWVwTF_" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">n00b.</span></span><br /><br />Emotionally, flames have to be played with in order to be properly handled and used for future, more positive uses. If this holds true, then essentially promiscuous sex is that child playing with fire. It is the active trial and error to discover what sex is, what your emotions are about it, how the dots connect, and what it all means to you.<br /><br /><a href="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/61964_156787541007084_156785047674000_428791_4322212_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 330px;" src="http://a6.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/61964_156787541007084_156785047674000_428791_4322212_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Problem solved.</span> </span><br /><br />This means promiscuous sex and all sex out of the normal “I love you/you love me” context breaks the established truth of sex being a sanctimonious ritual of love, loyalty, and longevity, and is thus more progressive than a standard relationship.<br /><br />It is, in fact, “deeper” than your best friends or your nicest, more withstanding relationships. Your “fuckbuddy” is better for your psyche than the love of your life.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTLgszQaYFTwBh11IEqBGpjk4P1sesCNZsfRaUKCWUHNUcFE40kow"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTLgszQaYFTwBh11IEqBGpjk4P1sesCNZsfRaUKCWUHNUcFE40kow" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Buy the vowels, get it done.</span> </span><br /><br />But here is the disclaimer: This significance is temporary. Like the analogy of a child playing with fire, at some point, the child will have to understand that he/she’s beyond playing with matches. Eventually, the more significant actions of grilling, cooking, or boiling will have to grow from sliding a match against the box. And if it does not, he/she is not developing.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRTzhHomLADwC-OEBVm8gapbDyLNAZuHPUkEsvKcVbYPrvsYgetA"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 175px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTRTzhHomLADwC-OEBVm8gapbDyLNAZuHPUkEsvKcVbYPrvsYgetA" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Development.</span></span><br /><br />So at some point, promiscuous sex begins to wain in significance and positivity, level with the established monogamy of relationships, and inevitably become less developmental and more detrimental.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.pharmaage.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/hangover.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 252px;" src="http://www.pharmaage.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/hangover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Like this, except with your emotions.</span></span><br /><br />For the moment, I’m in the age group where promiscuous sex still holds some positive footing over a monogamous relationship or a decent friendship. But this will stop. It will get old, and it will stunt your psychological growth.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR-4jPIl0hBTjlp5WenqEGR35aaOGZx2obFemK8yfprH3nwDnZlpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 227px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR-4jPIl0hBTjlp5WenqEGR35aaOGZx2obFemK8yfprH3nwDnZlpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is what you <span style="font-weight: bold;">really</span> look like.</span></span><br /><br />And it will always have to be done with some careful emotional footing; damage of some nature always occurs when sex is had this way, and while I’ve argued this as a positive, you do not want to set the damn house on fire when you only meant to burn your finger.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.esquire.com/cm/esquire/images/bT/01-christina-hendricks-cleavage-0909-lg.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 365px;" src="http://www.esquire.com/cm/esquire/images/bT/01-christina-hendricks-cleavage-0909-lg.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">brb burning nations.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-416587364165276417?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-77137384975500939302012-01-11T08:39:00.008-05:002012-01-11T09:45:10.270-05:00<span style="font-style: italic;">This is by no means a persuasive effort to ask people to fuck one another randomly (Or fuck me, which would be preferred).</span><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vteU663pvxI/Tw2R-PFiOdI/AAAAAAAAAPk/KvQwgISiskM/s1600/PRODIGY.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vteU663pvxI/Tw2R-PFiOdI/AAAAAAAAAPk/KvQwgISiskM/s200/PRODIGY.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696369602081208786" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Does this make you wet?</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This is more or less an insight into an argument that, seemingly, is never openly made. I’m interested purely in the objective truth of all things, and if this argument does unveil that truth, then I am invested in it.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://burninghouserecording.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/House-on-Fire02.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 247px;" src="http://burninghouserecording.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/House-on-Fire02.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Like an arsonist's invested in fire insurance.</span></span><div><span ><span style="font-size: 14px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><i><span >There is a part II, and it will be posted tomorrow.</span><br /></i><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-------------------------------------</span><br /><br />It is essential to the idea of decency that friendship, love, and other relationships of platonic nature (Or simply, relationships which do not immediately imply TONS OF SEX) are tethered to the belief that they are emotionally “deeper” than those of an outwardly sexual nature.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTrbM2XpXfkoPGvE3_UeHsPYFm2361Y9kGi-Nx80zei-ISBwTVK"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTrbM2XpXfkoPGvE3_UeHsPYFm2361Y9kGi-Nx80zei-ISBwTVK" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Looks pretty deep to me.</span><br /><br />In the general definition of “deeper” (General being the collective inferences gleaned from conversations throughout my life), this means that they have stronger emotional ties, and thus are more progressive, and positive, to the human experience.<br /><br />But why?<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwmfoTMVc1UNi6PH5eVtzx0cY-SJmb3u5Sq_cvUyJ32HCrQrFCNA"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 183px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwmfoTMVc1UNi6PH5eVtzx0cY-SJmb3u5Sq_cvUyJ32HCrQrFCNA" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Because you touch yourself.</span></span><br /><br />We do not immediately question the idea that friendships are of a more significant nature because conventional thinking deems it so, and our innate moral compasses would prefer it to be the case.<br /><br />But what if that fuckbuddy has a far greater emotional implication than your best friend ever has?<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQdfZ2SC5r7txHss5hpuNTXdICOV0ci13vVhjz65I6KzFwN5qvMAw"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 183px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQdfZ2SC5r7txHss5hpuNTXdICOV0ci13vVhjz65I6KzFwN5qvMAw" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">But this is my best friend.</span></span><br /><br />In truth, sex in humans has deep psychological bounds. Generally, the type of sex had, who it is you have sex with, how it is you have sex with them, what it is you enjoy about it, is all entirely dependent upon what occurred to you psychologically.<br /><br />For example, it’s a nearly subconscious fact that a person who was raised without their father has a wildly different approach to sex than a person with a father (I would say “without one parent/with both”, but I don’t have an observational experiences involving this).<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwVwOUvt5DPHqcgFnMB1wfY03sLzdTGMQDLvbvfTeWaRVC3JS_"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 184px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSwVwOUvt5DPHqcgFnMB1wfY03sLzdTGMQDLvbvfTeWaRVC3JS_" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks Newark!</span></span><br /><br />Of course, being without a dad will affect your entire approach to life, let alone sex.<br /><br /><a href="http://todaysfacilitymanager.com/facilityblog/wp-content/uploads/etown-college-2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 351px; height: 196px;" src="http://todaysfacilitymanager.com/facilityblog/wp-content/uploads/etown-college-2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">wat is college</span></span><br /><br />But this does legitimize sex’s deeply-rooted nature in our psychology, which empowers my next point.<br /><br />Trauma of any kind, physical or emotional, is a massively dominant force in the way we perceive our reality. A victim of rape is less likely to enjoy sex as opposed to a non-victim, a driver who took part in a menacing car accident will be less comfortable driving, etc.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQJApK3SDOK0fGizw8QmZLLgTk-dBnCCajhjdB9ikCRXVT15GCC"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 334px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQJApK3SDOK0fGizw8QmZLLgTk-dBnCCajhjdB9ikCRXVT15GCC" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">'Cause you don't want a car accident photo from Google Images. </span></span><br /><br />The irony is, the same does not hold true for events of perceived “normalcy”, or how they’re expected to go. When something goes as established, it passes through your psyche meaninglessly. When both parents love you, you do appreciate it, but you will be unlikely to highlight or express this in your behavior as someone who’s parents did not.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_Z7dw1WeXYM0V0YI2vV5kceyrEnnxE1F9g5uXsdPWY3VmBeVZ"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 262px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS_Z7dw1WeXYM0V0YI2vV5kceyrEnnxE1F9g5uXsdPWY3VmBeVZ" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bet I know what daddy was like. Or wasn't.</span> </span><br /><br />When you drive your car without any car accidents, you will not be affected in anyway near as significantly as you would’ve been if that one drive went horribly awry. So an established truth going as established does not make an impact. Only when the establishment is broken does the brain learn some shit.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS1nhC9j_-gq3YXyLodhMFP3yRalwVRTrA-ElUz6zfBrL4ZOrcG3w"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 230px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS1nhC9j_-gq3YXyLodhMFP3yRalwVRTrA-ElUz6zfBrL4ZOrcG3w" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">FUCK THE (moral) SYSTEM!</span></span><br /><br />Placing this context onto friendships and sexual relationships, a deep friendship or successful relationship does not have the same profundity in the mind as the one person who cheated on you, or the friend who stabbed your back.<br /><br />You are in fact more likely to react to these situations in anyway than you are to the established ideal of friendships working cooperatively and relationships blossoming beautifully.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSv_yn53fQbIjgJWgRNzo2MjtuCD6LahEidXuUg3O1OGsDHSKw5Gw"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 273px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSv_yn53fQbIjgJWgRNzo2MjtuCD6LahEidXuUg3O1OGsDHSKw5Gw" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Or tits being perfect.</span></span><br /><br />So if a sexual relationship of an adverse nature to the participant is more likely to have a bigger impact psychologically than a healthy one, is it not, according to the general meaning, “deeper”? Is it as shallow as we perceive if its affects are far more prolific than the established truth?<br /><br />Essentially, when you fuck promiscuously for funsies, is it not more impacting to your psyche than when you fuck someone happily for a long time? And if so, doesn’t it make it “deeper”?<br /><br /><a href="http://dailygrindhouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/FIST-psd9385.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 176px;" src="http://dailygrindhouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/FIST-psd9385.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A fistful of deep.</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7713738497550093930?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-19042952597820096672012-01-04T15:45:00.002-05:002012-01-04T15:46:06.962-05:00More like I have <b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/CookiesandLandmines">an FB page.</a><br /></b><br /><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lo8kdf09tF1qex0qj.jpg"><img src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lo8kdf09tF1qex0qj.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 284px; " /></a><br /><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; ">Thanks, Cunt.</span><br /></i><br />Like the page, it'll get better as we go along. I promise.<br /><br />------------------------<br /><br />There was a disturbing lack of Christina Hendricks in the previous blog. As a result, here.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zKTNDgCTyVU" allowfullscreen="" width="500" frameborder="0" height="315"></iframe><br /><span style="font-size: 12px; "><br /><span style="font-style: italic; ">Ignoring my audience all day everyday.</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1904295259782009667?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-82562303548471156512012-01-03T08:26:00.000-05:002012-01-03T08:27:02.894-05:00Dear Don Omar,<br /><br />I want to be just like you when I grow up.<br /><br /><a href="http://image.lyricspond.com/image/d/artist-don-omar/album-king-of-kings/cd-cover.jpg"><img src="http://image.lyricspond.com/image/d/artist-don-omar/album-king-of-kings/cd-cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 369px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">If you don't get your excalibur wielding ass.</span></span><br /><br />There is nothing more I want to emulate in my life than wielding a sword with a mic on it.<br /><br />No seriously look at it.<br /><br /><a href="http://image.lyricspond.com/image/d/artist-don-omar/album-king-of-kings/cd-cover.jpg"><img src="http://image.lyricspond.com/image/d/artist-don-omar/album-king-of-kings/cd-cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 369px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">yo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dawg</span> i herd u <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">lik</span> swordplay and rap.</span></span><br /><br />That is so fucking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">badass</span> and logically sound considering I'm sure I can talk into the mic while swinging the sword.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTadsXeJidhQnRXm13Wno7-7QyzMkdB3McwryHq2tnohgUWLy5t"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTadsXeJidhQnRXm13Wno7-7QyzMkdB3McwryHq2tnohgUWLy5t" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 276px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">yo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">nigga</span> back off my kingdom</span></span><div><span><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i><br /></i></span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-size: 12px; ">Waiting for awkwardness after saying "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nigga</span>" to dissipate...<br />...<br />...</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12px; ">...</span><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nzBYyXlyOOo/TT1uk_kHAfI/AAAAAAAAAWs/CpAAB1LNRZ4/s1600/And+We%2527re+Back.jpg"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nzBYyXlyOOo/TT1uk_kHAfI/AAAAAAAAAWs/CpAAB1LNRZ4/s1600/And+We%2527re+Back.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 203px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">And we're back.</span></span><br /><br />And it's every young Dominican-kid-who's-been-alienated-by-every-community-he's-ever-been-apart-of-including-the-shitty-ass-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Puerto</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Rican</span>-community.........<br /><br /><a href="http://www.rswny.com/breathe-in.jpg"><img src="http://www.rswny.com/breathe-in.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 234px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">Take a pause.</span></span><br /><br />... boy's dream to be a minority and pretend like they would've accepted me in the medieval era in which they totally wouldn't have quartered me on sight.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://media1.helloatlanta.com/media/articles/large/185_image2_large.jpg"><img src="http://media1.helloatlanta.com/media/articles/large/185_image2_large.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 329px; height: 214px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">Diversity.</span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: 14px; "><br /></span></span>I mean like wow <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">how'd</span> you even think of that? That is such a fucking cool and terrific and awesome concept to relate to all the braided Hispanic kids.<br /><br /><a href="http://imagecache.blastro.com/images/feat/rakim_y_ken.jpg"><img src="http://imagecache.blastro.com/images/feat/rakim_y_ken.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 410px; height: 255px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">YO u herd about Arthur and shit DAT NIGGA WILDIN'</span></span><br /><br />You are my hero of heroes. Maybe, perhaps, my king of kings.<br /><br />Yours Truly,<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">MrIndieDay</span>.<br /><br />P.S. Okay fuck off though there's a mic on the sword I mean what the fuck seriously?</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8256230354847115651?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-68348063927947884262011-12-24T09:47:00.015-05:002011-12-24T19:13:41.524-05:00It appears to me that, even for the more religious folk, Christmas has agreeably lost its moral center, preferring instead to be a holiday seized by capitalism, gift-giving, and PC twats.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.holyobserver.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/ChurchSign_1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 298px;" src="http://www.holyobserver.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/ChurchSign_1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">No one likes Kwanzaa. Sorry.</span><br /></span></i><br />But, even for them, they still kinda have an unearthly investment, whereby it remains a celebration of the savior, their lord, Jesus Christ.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gQe0JJ7ARK8/TbOKIEsvTPI/AAAAAAAAEyo/iV43-wYitvA/s1600/zombie+jesus+loves+you.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 342px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gQe0JJ7ARK8/TbOKIEsvTPI/AAAAAAAAEyo/iV43-wYitvA/s1600/zombie+jesus+loves+you.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Obligatory meme is obligatory.</span></i><br /><br />So for those of us who've opted not to believe, how do we salvage this strange time of the year? I can't speak for all Atheists, as I've got a hint of Agnosticism.<br /><br /><a href="http://livingwithhealthyhunger.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Anne-Indecisive-300x231.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 194px;" src="http://livingwithhealthyhunger.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Anne-Indecisive-300x231.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i><span style="font-size:85%;"> <span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">FUCKING</span> <span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">PICK ONE ALREADY!</span><br /></span></i><br />But Christmas isn't really a shit time for me.<br /><br />If the super cool duo of God &amp; Jesus act as the precedent for human behavior in Christians, then without them, I'd need to create my own standard. Like I've said before on this blog, the precedent I live up to is whatever the most desired traits of human interaction is. This means high standards for compassion, understanding, logic, and Christina Hendricks.<br /><br /><a href="http://i36.tinypic.com/30ru33p.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 263px;" src="http://i36.tinypic.com/30ru33p.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Precedent set. Erection had.</i></span><br /><br />With that compass in mind, I find a kind of fondness for Christmas. A nice little time in the year where, at least it seems, all the vices get washed away, everyone's shortcomings are ignored, and in their places are respect and admiration for whoever the hell you are. It's really kind of sweet.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://static.desktopnexus.com/thumbnails/28683-bigthumbnail.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 451px; height: 338px;" src="http://static.desktopnexus.com/thumbnails/28683-bigthumbnail.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Awwwwwww.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>A lot of this comes from my own nostalgia, where, being the youngest kid in the family, I was swarmed by presents and gifts. So it seems easy to think my wintry infatuation is associated with McDonald's Playpen and a fucking huge Megazord that I totally ended up breaking.<br /><br /><a href="http://prometheusrising.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/mighty_morhpin_power_rangers_megazord.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 403px;" src="http://prometheusrising.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/mighty_morhpin_power_rangers_megazord.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">It's okay, Pokémon cards are just a few years away.</span><br /></i><br />But those temporary pleasures have long since evaporated. And what's left is a silky residue of emotion, elicited not from the plastic comforts of China-crafted playthings, but from why it was they landed in my hands.<br /><br />Why is there an annual ritual of getting inside a car, toiling through traffic, landing in a mall, being annoyed by similarly busied people, and getting inside a store to reluctantly purchase an object you know full well will be obsolete in 4 months?<br /><br />And why is the process initiated, executed, and repeated with full willingness, motivated by no personal incentive, <span style="font-style: italic;">on a yearly basis</span>?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It's the only time we actually care.<br /><br /><a href="http://images2.fanpop.com/images/photos/3200000/Santa-Claus-icon-santa-claus-3269872-318-312.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 296px; height: 291px;" src="http://images2.fanpop.com/images/photos/3200000/Santa-Claus-icon-santa-claus-3269872-318-312.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><i>Ho, ho, ho, Merry Give a Fuck!</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>The highest regard is given to the most venerable characteristics of the human spirit, and everyone seems utterly willing to adhere to them. It's the epitome of everything I'd ever ask from humanity. All this because someone decided "Let's just fucking be nice this month", and attached a little baby Messiah to the whole thing.</div><div><br /><a href="http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2009/362/5/2/VCF__CHIBI_JESUS_by_nonzequitur.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 288px;" src="http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2009/362/5/2/VCF__CHIBI_JESUS_by_nonzequitur.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thanks chibi Jesus.</span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It's a testament to who we are, and what we can be. And it's certainly questionable. And strange. And unusual. And selfish. And retarded. But goddamnit, people actually give a fuck. And it's wonderful.<i><br /></i><br />I wake up this morning to find I have no qualms with Christmas. I love everything about it. I embrace it, and hope to embody its spirit. I only have to ask, at this point...why isn't it Christmas everyday?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Merry Give a Fuck, everyone.</span><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6834806392794788426?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-52031674011001467502011-12-21T04:40:00.007-05:002011-12-22T15:57:41.775-05:00So having written 2 blogs in the past 5 days (The 2nd coming soon), I am very quickly realizing something.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/180537_10150089805358644_694533643_6385108_2363422_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 200px;" src="http://a4.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/180537_10150089805358644_694533643_6385108_2363422_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">I am the opposite of Tupac.</span><br /><br />Christina Hendricks is immensely attractive.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRqCa8zpjWAy3q_gVpPqp_SK3tyVo5IOsYbvBHG3r_qo7CuHPHk"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 251px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRqCa8zpjWAy3q_gVpPqp_SK3tyVo5IOsYbvBHG3r_qo7CuHPHk" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Annnnddd....</span><br /><br />...deserves being posted in every blog.<br /><br /><a href="http://s3-ak.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/web04/2010/2/16/11/christina-hendricks-has-a-body-like-a-luxury-liner-20431-1266336071-42.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 369px; height: 246px;" src="http://s3-ak.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/web04/2010/2/16/11/christina-hendricks-has-a-body-like-a-luxury-liner-20431-1266336071-42.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Fucking yes.</span></span><br /><br />I know, I'm saying some revolutionary shit man.<br /><br /><a href="http://bookhaven.stanford.edu/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/che-guevara.jpeg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 291px;" src="http://bookhaven.stanford.edu/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/che-guevara.jpeg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Indie Guevara.</span></span><br /><br />But I'm going to work Christina Hendricks into every blog, and that is final.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.modelsandmoguls.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/christina-hendricks-want-to-be-wonderwoman.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 275px;" src="http://www.modelsandmoguls.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/christina-hendricks-want-to-be-wonderwoman.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Case closed.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Feminist Disclaimer: Hey, listen, at least this isn't Etsy-knitting shit, alright?</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-5203167401100146750?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36321136514409753512011-12-18T21:44:00.017-05:002012-01-04T15:17:27.369-05:00In the recent couple months, I've delved extensively into the Occupy movement. I've learned lots of things, met tons of people, and did what I've always loved.<br /><br /><img style="width: 351px; height: 266px;" src="http://www.garagecompanycustoms.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Circle-Jerk.jpg" /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Circle jerk?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br />Expressing myself, and being appreciated for it.<br /><br />This has led to a remarkable boost of confidence, and a feeling that, frankly, I'm beginning to actualize the meaning of my existence.<br /><br />It is within this beautiful little sentiment that an underlying concern nags at the ends of my consciousness, like a child tugging at the calf.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><br /></span><a href="http://www.garagecompanycustoms.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Circle-Jerk.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 342px; height: 289px;" src="http://www.garagecompanycustoms.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Circle-Jerk.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >That you don't circle jerk enough?</span><br /><br />I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://hiphopwired.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/my-aunt-2pac-tupac.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 246px;" src="http://hiphopwired.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/my-aunt-2pac-tupac.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Oh.</span><br /><br />I mean, inevitably, yeah. But like within the next 5 years.<br /><br />Of course, I have no viable evidence. The only thing I can successfully point to is that I have never been able to envision myself beyond the age of thirty. I have never been able to fathom the career I would have, the family I would be maintaining, or the adulterous slut I'd invariably ruin my marriage with.<br /><br /><a href="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2011/stylewatch/blog/110314/christina-hendricks-440x330.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 239px;" src="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2011/stylewatch/blog/110314/christina-hendricks-440x330.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">But she'll be worth it.</span></span><br /><br />Future slut aside, for all 21 years and 12 days of my life, I have not been able to crystallize my future, and though I hold no spiritual beliefs of any kind, I feel like whatever ether I trust in granting me foresight should have the vision if the vision was there.<br /><br />But it isn't.<br /><br />The psychological quirk that takes fetish about death is my intense discomfort with social success. As a kid, having been the victim of bullying, racial/social discrimination, and all-around dorkiness, I'd always felt like I would not achieve success. And that if I did, it would be sharply equalized by an ugly consequence.<br /><br />'Cause for every time I thought I was a good writer, been a good person, or, goddamnit, thought I looked good that day, there was something waiting to destroy all of it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.homefacts.com/images/offenders/newjersey/thumb/309193B.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 253px; height: 256px;" src="http://www.homefacts.com/images/offenders/newjersey/thumb/309193B.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >A man with a van and two fingers.</span><br /><br />This is probably a plausible, and perhaps more accurate, reason for the increased paranoia over my own mortality.<br /><br />But I admit to innately preferring a young death.<br /><br /><a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyGjdcJ1QQH71XnpVR_T6aouNLzSMAj7ljFOpxFxe3UqsffnnkPs9R5Gwb"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 234px;" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyGjdcJ1QQH71XnpVR_T6aouNLzSMAj7ljFOpxFxe3UqsffnnkPs9R5Gwb" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Fag.</span><br /><br />I'll preface it with this:<br /><br />The success of one's impression is directly affected by the age of that person. For example, a 5-year old reading material years beyond his age is more impressive than a 25 year old reading that same material. In some unwritten truth, there is a list of things you should already be capable of, and list of things you should not be capable of. To do the former is expected. But to do the latter is impressive.<br /><br />And as you get older, your expected capabilities grow more vast, and you are less likely to impress anyone. After all, if you're 45 years old, shouldn't you be good at something? And if you're 10 years old, shouldn't you suck at everything?<br /><br /><a href="http://img0.etsystatic.com/il_fullxfull.149564604.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 296px;" src="http://img0.etsystatic.com/il_fullxfull.149564604.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Get better, twat.</span> </span><br /><br />Having established that, if my self-imposed purpose in life is to make an impact and be impressive, wouldn't it be in my vested interests to die early? Lest my ability to impress stagnates, and my impact becomes less notable?<br /><br />Also, in truth, if I died right now, the potential I leave behind is left to one's imagination, which can far exceed any potential I can bring into fruition. i.e. Dead, I could've been a President. Alive? A blogging twat who worked at a hipster hotspot.<br /><br /><a href="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/269638_10150227245428644_694533643_7448502_24843_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 247px;" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/269638_10150227245428644_694533643_7448502_24843_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That's either way, really.</span><br /><br /></span></span>And it goes without saying everything I'd ever done will be hindsighted the fuck out of. I don't mean to pretentiously predict my friends will just feverishly read/hear everything I've ever done, but that it happens every time someone dies. Look at Amy Winehouse; I'm pretty sure someone would be flinging crackhead jokes right now if she weren't in an underground box.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTiPsw-teAyUhuA0djGEkdwLPqhnNwUpMpt12Wc2iyW6H_Ua4ob"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 259px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn3.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTiPsw-teAyUhuA0djGEkdwLPqhnNwUpMpt12Wc2iyW6H_Ua4ob" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">It's okay Amy; I never liked you.</span></span><br /><br />Too soon? <span style="font-style: italic;">Exactly.</span><br /><br />Will I die in 5 years? I think so. Do I want to? Vaguely. Ultimately, I'm pretty scared of death. I think any sane Atheist should be.<br /><br /><a href="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSGs_DD-8m5cSuQ1AyuLYOC66OM4OEB0FFkD9s1-VH6QaSde9wzyw"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSGs_DD-8m5cSuQ1AyuLYOC66OM4OEB0FFkD9s1-VH6QaSde9wzyw" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">omg i can't wait to see this forever!!!!111</span></span><br /><br />Ideologically though, I'm prepared, most especially if it's because of my beliefs or principles. At the very least, my death could be absorbed into an idea. And ideas cannot be murdered. No this was not V for Vendetta-inspired.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.theblaze.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/guy-fawkes2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 229px;" src="http://www.theblaze.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/guy-fawkes2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Fuck off with the masks.</span></span><br /><br />But that at least there will have been a purpose, and that my eternal nonexistence will be paralleled by a similarly eternal idealism. Perhaps one that's actualized in my wake.<br /><br />I wouldn't prefer it, I suppose. I guess I just wouldn't be surprised. No matter how much logic I use to anchor the generic scarification of bullying, occasionally poor parenting, discrimination, and alienation, I'll always be inundated by it's ever looming presence.<br /><br />I don't really expect you, the reader, to have any particular reaction. Please, don't let this sway your normal response. 'Cause like everything else, I just want you to know what I was thinking, and why I thought it. And I want unadulterated opinions, not coerced sympathies.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">I will release 5 blogs post-mortem.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3632113651440975351?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-79508123037002665792011-11-09T01:59:00.007-05:002011-11-10T01:43:34.093-05:00<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_qBLuLa6o77U/TCPVZuLiWEI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/MgEjf18Bb6A/s1600/49536.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div>my obsession with this woman is unsettling</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://pessimiss.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/j6mdqozlgr2ijh6hwtvecbino1_400.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://pessimiss.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/j6mdqozlgr2ijh6hwtvecbino1_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/k085ZtX6P0Q" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JkEwk7wZVV8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div>p.s. </div><div>i blame you, jennifer herrema for starting my irrational love affair with sassy, chain smoking, shaggy haired, big hat wearing, native american/cowboy wannabe white girls.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_qBLuLa6o77U/TCPVZuLiWEI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/MgEjf18Bb6A/s1600/49536.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 600px; height: 400px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">i hate you. please die.</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7950812303700266579?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cuntasaurushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08926816531672152972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-25159512468241646702011-11-01T18:52:00.005-04:002011-11-01T18:55:41.953-04:00CLEARLY, your entire persona can be based off said comment. <div><br /></div><div>CLEARLY, 30 or less letters can define 20 years of social conditioning and hundreds of years of genetic programming. </div><div><br /></div><div>OBVIOUSLY we have a RAPIST here.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2515951246824164670?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-35553109577084185632011-10-27T12:44:00.007-04:002011-10-27T12:54:32.882-04:00To thine mysterious author that has dost bestoweth upon me this glorious meme that is inappropriate porn labeling:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lt76tv984b1qza3e8o1_500.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 351px; height: 263px;" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lt76tv984b1qza3e8o1_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Awe-inspiring.</span> </span><br /><br />To intertwine the fragile innocence of such Disney channel visuals with the powerfully disgusting label of a well-known porn site is simply the act of the divine; a message of great humor that could only be attributed to the Gods themselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyADEfgYmh9M5fCyH_FCNDCeFrrxKgxCLFZSwgw-Dj0091KEKQ"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRyADEfgYmh9M5fCyH_FCNDCeFrrxKgxCLFZSwgw-Dj0091KEKQ" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Thanks, bro.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3555310957708418563?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-64212821614636610312011-10-26T11:48:00.003-04:002011-10-26T11:58:58.699-04:00"Give me a means by which to exercise opinions and beliefs freely with no oppression, or give me perpetual and immutable lack of existence!"<br /><br />"I had fallen asleep last night, a mixture of being exhausted and general laziness, but yeah, I had funny visions in which a few different looking people did a few things that were generally unacceptable in this day and age but should be acceptable because that's what's right."<br /><br />"Something like, I dunno, eighty...eighty and some odd years ago? Seven? We'll check that."<div><br />"People are asking these really stupid questions, like 'Bro, I wanna do stuff what can I do' and I'm all like 'That's a stupid question, because you should ask this other question right here' which was to make them do stuff instead you know."<br /><br />"Holy shit this leap is crazy for us, guys."</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6421282161463661031?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-42540439774446103452011-10-24T07:37:00.007-04:002011-10-24T08:03:03.373-04:00I am going to ignore the fact that this meme is clearly a parody on Hispanic people and offensive to the culture I so strongly disassociate myself with.<br /><br /><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9f/Flag_of_the_Dominican_Republic.svg/800px-Flag_of_the_Dominican_Republic.svg.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 283px; height: 177px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9f/Flag_of_the_Dominican_Republic.svg/800px-Flag_of_the_Dominican_Republic.svg.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >wat is dis.</span><br /></i><br />If you've read this blog in a thorough fashion, you will have almost certainly noticed that I am indeed a prodigy.<div><br /><a href="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/166885_491144758643_694533643_6216946_4624562_a.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 202px;" src="http://photos-c.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc6/166885_491144758643_694533643_6216946_4624562_a.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><i>Confirmed.</i></span><br /><br />Being prodigious is a burden I shoulder every day of my life. "Oh Indie, you write so good!" "Oh Indie, teach me how to be musical like you!" "Oh Indie, please don't touch me there!"<br /><br /><a href="http://tappinginto.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/creepy-van-512x217.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 512px; height: 217px;" src="http://tappinginto.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/creepy-van-512x217.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><br />My prodigy van.</span></span><br /><br />These stresses create vast pressures on me, from which I have little respite. There has to be some time I can designate as a solace for when I'm not undoing blindness and fornicating asexually with supernatural connotations.<br /><br /><a href="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/269638_10150227245428644_694533643_7448502_24843_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 279px; height: 231px;" src="http://a2.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/269638_10150227245428644_694533643_7448502_24843_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><i>Or at least looking asexual.</i></span><br /><br />Cookies and Landmines is the leisure of my genius. The intellectual nap of my day. The ideological scratch of my balls.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />Please don't make me Google Image this.</span><br /><br />This grants me greater focus when I apply my infallible thinking process to greater purposes.<br /><br /><a href="http://elevenmagazine.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/rtemagicc_sage-de-cret-cardigan-1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 223px;" src="http://elevenmagazine.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/rtemagicc_sage-de-cret-cardigan-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><i>Critical thinking.</i></span><br /><br />And that is why I do not tackle issues more worthy of my astronomical intellectual fortitude.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And/or I suck at writing that shit.<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-4254043977444610345?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-34464715083962917062011-10-22T10:48:00.003-04:002011-10-22T10:54:27.074-04:00<b>Situation #1: Friend has a new girlfriend.</b><br /><br /><i>Congrats on the fresh vag.!<br /><br />So glad you have a new pocket for your dick!<br /><br />How many drinks did it take???<br /><br />She better not be black!</i><br /><br /><b>Situation #2: Pregnancy announcement on FB (Female)</b><br /><br /><i>So in how many pieces did your life shatter? :))))<br /><br />Let's all pretend this has no negative consequences! *Like*<br /><br />Faallllccoooon punch!<br /><br />She better not be black!</i><br /><br /><b>Situation #3: Pregnancy announcement (Male)</b><br /><br /><i>This is why we have condoms, bro.<br /><br />Shit you too, bro????<br /><br />Hey, my GF's name is the same bro...<br /><br />She better not be black!</i><div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />....Bro!</i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3446471508396291706?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-84163675857850691302011-10-21T04:04:00.006-04:002011-10-21T04:58:59.115-04:00In trying to undo what self-righteous anger I've wrought in my 20-year-blink of unbridled awesomeness, I find it a tad bit difficult to divorce the petty anger that so drunkenly careened my creativity into various social/racial/ideological poles.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thewildones.com/wp-content/uploads/ryan-dunn-698366l-1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 195px;" src="http://www.thewildones.com/wp-content/uploads/ryan-dunn-698366l-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Too soon?</i></span><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Which means I have to settle this problem like you would with any possessive bitch who's clearly told herself she knows you better than anyone else and cries when she's told she doesn't two months after you've broken up.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR6CRuUmyQJCvLIsvHQHHv6eMScYy10v61dE16OW_SJa3diEiTw"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 200px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR6CRuUmyQJCvLIsvHQHHv6eMScYy10v61dE16OW_SJa3diEiTw" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Enough, Aesop.</span></span><br /></i><br />I could </div><div><br /></div><div>A) Come to terms, and bite my scathing tongue.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or<br /><br />B) Find an outlet.<br /><br />The former scares me. "1984" was a book that has molded me into believing that utter ideological freedom is one of our most utmost sociological ideals, and that any form of repression leads to the corruption of humanity.</div><div><br /></div><div>And no, I don't have more words that end in "logical".</div><div><br />So in realizing this, C'n'L will remain alive and brazenly offensive. Albeit with a sharper focus; having minimized verbal knifefighting in my personal life, this'll be the means by which I avoid psychological implosion.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://androidguys.com/wp-content/uploads/sike.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 235px;" src="http://androidguys.com/wp-content/uploads/sike.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Yeah, it happened like that.</i></span><br /><br />This is important to note because what may have constricted the flow of 190 proof Grade A sarcasm here has been its persistent use in real life, and my lack of control over it. Like a kid doing his first kegstand. I have profusely vomitted, and you know what, I feel better now. I think I'm ready to do it again.<br /><br />And with my higher tolerance for sarcasm and its bitter, bitter aftertaste, I can let proper conscience take the wheel as designated driver when I so need it in real life.<br /><br />However, this blog is my weekend frat party. <span style="font-style: italic;">And we are getting fuuuuucked up.</span><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8416367585785069130?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36327265676825529232011-10-20T01:40:00.010-04:002011-10-20T02:03:54.507-04:00In an effort to search for something I'd written 3 years ago, I took a trip to my ol'<b><a href="http://www.myspace.com/blackpeopledontturnred/blog"> Myspace blog</a></b> and found myself re-reading more than a few things. I'm kind of alarmed at the striking self-awareness I held at that time. I'd assumed I was operating in blanket self-denial about my problems, when in reality, I just lacked the means to act otherwise.<br /><br />There's one sentence in which, tongue deeply buried in cheek as always, I suggest that I'll change someone's life. Before anyone could even fathom it, somehow, I knew I was someone worth being on this planet.<br /><br />That's the flag I hoist with every waking moment. Every breath I take, every word uttered, every smile delivered, all with the intent of having impact. Of being substantial, and prolific.<br /><br />This is the irony that I don't understand. While being my most persistent critic (Which I know to be the demon of any artist), I somehow was my greatest ally. Throughout all the shit people and myself had given me, I held a diligent glimmer of faith. That being a little twat was a temporary affliction, and not the ultimate prognosis. <div><br /></div><div>This makes me feel <i>good</i>. I feel positive. Imbued with an aura of bountiful determination, self-preservation, and an utterly disgusting amount of idealistic integrity. I have a desire not only to succeed at my goal of footprinting the fuck out of this planet, but to make sure it's a more positive place in my wake.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>i.e. I'm 20.</i><br /><br />At the same time, however, I wonder how the operation of this machine works. For years, and featured prominently on this blog, I'd ran on anger. Not merely for creativity, but for social renown and charm as well. I'm to avoid this, and today was the first day in actualizing this. And it felt fantastic.<br /><br />I feel trepidation departing the warmth of caustic retort and double-edged bravado. I suppose it doesn't have to be entirely eliminated. Hitler jokes and unabashed questioning of female intelligence have a bit of a charm when someone sweet is saying it.<br /><br />A bit.<br /><br />But it feels about right. This, while having all the (lack of) style of a Peace Corp. quota, does not feel generic. More over, to suggest these as "ideals" would be to deny the very real impact I've already made these past several months. I know that if I died tomorrow, I can say I'd changed a few things 'round here. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm happy. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Shit this blog is gonna suck now.</i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3632726567682552923?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-68967366904062622422011-08-03T13:12:00.006-04:002011-08-04T16:18:00.947-04:00Masturbation is not an act that just happens. And, generally, it isn't premeditated: It's an action initiated spontaneously by the right image or moment. The beauty involved in this is that the keys to jack-off ignition is usually random and unexpected, and can range from a variety of things.<div><br /><div><a href="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTXFS-9Ti6YTKNXruJ_rG1RenZuSDEwLhv-iHcrXXFyQMQb-9VB"><img src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTXFS-9Ti6YTKNXruJ_rG1RenZuSDEwLhv-iHcrXXFyQMQb-9VB" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 155px; height: 325px; " /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; ">Someone just got a chubby.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>One of the few things in life that is truly non-routine and completely without anticipation, this has become something of a rarity as I approach (more like disastrously collide into) adulthood. Not masturbation of course.</div><div><br /><a href="http://twnr.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/1008deffmm01.jpg"><img src="http://twnr.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/1008deffmm01.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 399px; " /></a><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">That flight has no stops.</span></span><br /><br /><div>But spontaneity. My days are usually as follows:</div><div><br /></div><div>Monday:</div><div>Work, generally in the afternoon through evening.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tuesday:</div><div>Day off.<a href="http://www.facebook.com/Argonautsnj"> Band</a> practice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wed:</div><div>Work, generally midday</div><div><br /></div><div>Thurs:</div><div>Work, generally morning</div><div><br /></div><div>Friday:</div><div>Work, generally morning, used to involve <a href="http://www.facebook.com/betweenthelinesnj">band</a> practice (Band died on me :()</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday:</div><div>Day off. The same two friends and I do something that involves verbally pirouetting around homosexuality.</div><div><br /><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQoetQswrCJQ0dTBWxNLMGdpQwN3YbEWMi1dFDR9Z57GvovRk7r"><img src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQoetQswrCJQ0dTBWxNLMGdpQwN3YbEWMi1dFDR9Z57GvovRk7r" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 225px; " /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>Like this, but with grace.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Sunday:</div><div>Work, generally midday. Possible hangout time with a friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've inadvertently established a routine of things to substantiate my life with. This usually leads to the homogenization of human thought, though my personal routine has enough variety in it to keep me sharp, or at least not like those other boys with the college sweaters.<br /><br /><a href="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTi53TRcNbkeWqKseoJ5ljkt1Xr_pNfA8Kfs-ISeRb1QdjL7iR4"><img src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTi53TRcNbkeWqKseoJ5ljkt1Xr_pNfA8Kfs-ISeRb1QdjL7iR4" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 162px; height: 311px; " /></a><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; "><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; ">This hatred is brought to you by my lack of college.</span><br /></span><div><br /></div><div>So in order to avoid becoming a gray blob in a tannish shell adorned with some variant of a tanktop or a cardigan, I've made sure to cherish and create moments that destroy routine, or the established "supposed to's" of life. And one of the microcosms of all this?</div><div><br /></div><div>That's right, masturbation.</div><div><i><br /></i><a href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ5kcad14D-kxc-L19y6QT6To_8gv5uxo8eX_40ew__lfcDf6UdNA"><img src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ5kcad14D-kxc-L19y6QT6To_8gv5uxo8eX_40ew__lfcDf6UdNA" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 248px; " /></a><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><br /></span></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>I am aware this is probably not your initial answer.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>When masturbation is initiated spontaneously, as it often is, the actual session that follows does not usually involve whatever fucked up fetish rattled your jigglies in the first place. In other words, female Link sending sexy signals through your dick doesn't mean female Mario will be what sends the cumsies flyin'.<br /><br /><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9VycP71GdY8Nvnhgo6YOTlxxQoUpNnA3K3f1OjIjd-8qN2trK"><img src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9VycP71GdY8Nvnhgo6YOTlxxQoUpNnA3K3f1OjIjd-8qN2trK" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 225px; height: 225px; " /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>But it should.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>In fact, it may be something entirely different. In an entire session of masturbation, you very well may have explored a myriad of different fetishes before landing on one particular minute that a Youporn vid featuring Eva Angelina got super hot. And before you know it, in 15 minutes, you just visited 3 websites, viewed 8 to 10 videos, and watched God knows how many people put their pink squigglies together. I dare you to find any moment as culturally varied as the act of masturbation in your daily life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe just male masturbation. Because women don't masturbate.</div><div><br /><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRs9szV0hgvoaIX5qZ3ZKRD93m7fGompnff2fM5isvBwdWmYUdC"><img src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRs9szV0hgvoaIX5qZ3ZKRD93m7fGompnff2fM5isvBwdWmYUdC" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 174px; " /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>But she will.<br /></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>And sure, actual sex is all fun and good. But banging the same partner saturates the fuck market. And promiscuous sex is like post-Blitzkreig London in WWII; yeah you got a lot of cool shit to say, but really, you're all dead inside.</div><div><br /><a href="http://jpetrie.myweb.uga.edu/churchill2.jpg"><img src="http://jpetrie.myweb.uga.edu/churchill2.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 398px; " /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>Keep calm, and offend war victims.<br /></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>This blog is, in all seriousness, less about masturbation and more about the embrace of all things different. The things that keep you waking up in the morning, quietly muttering "Oh yeah, <span style="font-style: italic; ">that </span>happened". The things that have you re-reading texts you fired off in whatever emotional (Or drunken, haha <span style="font-weight: bold; ">*regrets*</span>) haze you might've undergone. Because they grow scarce as we get older. And I honestly believe these wonderful rarities keep us, as intellectual members of society, mentally fit and emotionally upbeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>So make the world a better place. Get to jackin'.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><span style="font-size: 12px; ">I am a professional, upstanding citizen of the world.</span></i></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6896736690406262242?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-73126880571473200292011-07-31T23:59:00.011-04:002011-08-01T00:28:22.431-04:00<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Comic Sans MS', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: normal;font-size:16px;"><br /></span></span></b></span></span></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hcVKxYyxA0/TjYnfN9Q0XI/AAAAAAAAAEs/jSDnDyL4VTQ/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-31%2Bat%2B23.57.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1hcVKxYyxA0/TjYnfN9Q0XI/AAAAAAAAAEs/jSDnDyL4VTQ/s200/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-31%2Bat%2B23.57.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635735400976798066" /></a><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KCJVTWwZnNE/TjYk4Tm6gkI/AAAAAAAAAEk/hrayJwQbpVQ/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-31%2Bat%2B23.58.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KCJVTWwZnNE/TjYk4Tm6gkI/AAAAAAAAAEk/hrayJwQbpVQ/s200/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-07-31%2Bat%2B23.58.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635732533455520322" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Academy Engraved LET', serif;font-size:7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:36px;"><br /></span></span></p></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7312688057147320029?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cuntasaurushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08926816531672152972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-62106775738770536862011-06-11T08:00:00.008-04:002011-06-11T08:35:14.232-04:00Sitting in the midst of Wendy's with a couple friends, there was a funny looking sight to behold. The three of us sat in a triangle shape, reminiscing about things that happened days ago, and looking to recreate those forgettably unforgettable nights.<div><br /></div><div>But I realized. All three of us had our phones on the table. And we weren't all necessarily using them; we were actively waiting for an excuse to do so.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In seeing this, the conception of this generation's addiction to the screen became clear. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we go home, we sit in front of a screen, and interact with it. When we are outside, we bring a miniature screen to serve the same yet portable service. And it's become not just a common occurrence, but apart of my generation's life. There has not been a physical human interaction for this generation after 12 years old that did not involve someone eventually pulling a mini-screen from their jeans, or sitting in front of a bigger one at home.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are essentially the first generation to depend on this technological interaction not merely for convenience, but as a distinct part of our culture, and the first to grow up through adolescence and young-adulthood with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The beauty in this statement is that it can be corroborated by physical, statistical evidence. If you look onto the Facebook pages of people older than, say, 26 (People who did not have social networking or texting as preteens or teenagers), they do not have the same amount of friends as someone younger than them. So as the FB accounts get younger in age, the more friends those accounts are connected to.</div><div><br /></div><div>This doesn't mean that the younger you are, the more people you know. Merely that the younger you are, the more likely your peer group is immutably connected to the social network, and so there is a bigger pool of friends you'll have access to.</div><div><br /></div><div>The negative in this increasingly addictive need to utilize every screen available to us is that we've become perpetually connected to our closest social circle. This gives us little reason to venture beyond that group, and thus means we're less likely to make an effort to create deep relationships with people as we get older. Why leave the comfort zone if it's always available for you?</div><div><br /></div><div>This is unlike the generations prior to us, because when they left the house, they were unable to interact with anyone who wasn't physically there with them (No Facebook, no cell phone, no wi-fi, no laptop). So they were forced to sustain deep physical interactions with various people at all times.</div><div><br /></div><div>The counter claim to this is that we can maintain contact with people from miles, and perhaps oceans, away. This is true. But those interactions contain little substance, and for the most part could have not happened, with no consequence on your maturation.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, the positive is that the pool of texts and Facebook posts that we insatiably imbibe from is pristine, and has sincere human behavior. The Internet is a place clean of commercial/government influence, where people are about as much as they can be without the worry of propaganda seeping into their heads and casting shame.</div><div><br /></div><div>Granted, this also means that we are delicate about our status in our peer group, as the Internet provides a constant view into the world of others, which means we have a constant source of people to compare ourselves to.</div><div><br /></div><div>But changing the perspective, this means we hold social allegiance to one another. Not a nation, a corporation, or any vague entity. The people who hold the most influence over this generation and every generation after us are ourselves. And there's something kind of pretty about that.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6210677573877053686?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-33347224403095278602011-06-05T23:23:00.004-04:002011-06-05T23:28:54.013-04:00<i>This is a short story I wrote about a girl who meets a boy. The final few paragraphs are very adult in nature, and you probably don't want the wrong people around while you read it. Or maybe you do. Fuck 'em, right?</i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She boarded the bus haphazardly as she ever did. The bus driver gave his look of acknowledgement, she reciprocated, and the 1.50 transaction was completed. Her walk down the aisle involved, as it always does, a few stares from unintiated masses. She took a seat in the back, as she always did, because it was "fun to watch unfun people".</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She reflected upon the day she had. As the sun poured into the back window of the bus, floating upon sharp brunette eyes glazed by deep thought, her mind was screening a less delightful view. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Scurrying between tables, she found herself slightly overwhelmed. And the patrons weren't particularly considerate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hello! I'll be your server. How are you guys today?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Let me have a --"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And the words "obnoxious cunt" would often spring alive between her ears, like the sudden zombification of the dead. But her smile, modestly sized and well-curved by her palpably soft and gently pink lips, played facade for the verbal whiplash cracking behind it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">This rude style of exchange ("if you could call it that", she'd often say) was not unusual. In fact, it was routine. But she awoke everyday to the same black polo, tight black spandex, and the classic chucks that have endured years of manifested teenage angst. And everyday, as she ritualistically ponytailed her boldly brown hair, the long bang bounced enthusiastically as ever around her right eye, embodying the borderline psychotic concept of waking up to the "same ol' bullshit" with stark eagerness. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But her affably blunt nose edged downward with the same boldness she aproaches her daily life. And her politely tanned skin humbly hides the scars her psyche persistently endures.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">These thoughts and descriptions of her were the very same that scrolled behind her narrowed eyes like an animated news ticker. And they were not unusual.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The bus found itself slowed to a halt at a fairly obscure stop near the park. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"That's when he got on", as she often uttered when she recanted this tale.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He was tall, slender, and fairly confident in the way he seemingly refused the banility of this bus ride. His long, pale face did not care, his long, unkempt black hair did not care, and his white button up, black dress pants, and black sneakers did not care. This wasn't apathy or nihilism, however. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"That sort of hipstery 'fuck society' kind of thing", she'd elaborate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He walked down the aisle in almost perfect syncronicity as his aura. He sat a few seats ahead of her. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"The perfect staring distance."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She understood it to be the back of his head, but she registered it as something far deeper. And in the same thoughtful manner as she had done earlier, his head titled slightly towards the window. He captivated her. And her eyes pierced through his skull like a sniper, with all the deadly accuracy of a marksman.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">There was a rising fountain of urge in her stomach. Why, she did not know. Only that it begged for conversation from him. And with every exerted mental effort to inundate the compelling cries of her nerve-wracked intenstines, it would ricochet with greater force.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"...so what is there to be scared of..." she reasoned, mid-sentence. "It's either....he ignores me and it's all the same...or I get what I want....but I really don't....avoid rejection..."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Her logic argued for apprehension. But little do emotions care for what reason has to say. The buzz in her stomach swelled to her head, and her heart was at the peak of its crescendo. The urge was making its argument by force, and it was quite convincing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Somewhat uncoordinated, she stood from her chair, and began a small walk down the aisle "that felt like fucking forever", as she'd explain. The world was shrouded in a blurry veil, made of concentrated anxiousness and makeshift courage. During that walk, there was nothing but him, and her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She sat next to him, and the world suddenly flashed back. Having forgotten, it was then that she realized there is no context for their meeting, and that this was completely unsolicited.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Um."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She'd forgotten how to introduce herself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hey." he exclaimed, softly as he carefully turned his head to acknowledge her, and back towards the window.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"...is that like...a dismissive hi...." she thought.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It was.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But her urge would not allow it to be fully digested. And so she trembled onward. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I've been staring at you for like a minute."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It had been 15 minutes since he boarded. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"And it felt like forever."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"That's because it's been 15 minutes since you've been staring at me." he sharply replied.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She found herself mentally slackjawed and physically ill. Her hands burrowed slightly into the crevice between her legs. She'd assumed the worst, and seemingly, the worst had happened. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"...And I would've stared back had I not sat here."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Like a hand pulling her from the edge of a cliff, abundant relief cascaded over her previously disconcerted body. Reciprocation was made. It was only a matter of time. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"So...."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"So."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It was during this brief silence she'd realized he had not been looking at her throughout the conversation.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"So let me see your face."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Later."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She blushed. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Later? That's pretty presumptuous of you."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Then fuck off?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She was amazed by his sincere bravado. He was irrational, and perhaps antisocial, but he was right. And irresistably so.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I don't think you want that."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I don't." he said, somewhat begrudingly.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She made her way in, she thought. But still, she was lost. She'd made her thesis statement. But what was there to argue for, exactly?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Which stop do you get off at?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She found herself surprised. She did not ask that, she thought. She couldn't have even fathomed that question. Something else asked it for her. A question like this entails many things. But in this instance, she knew there was only one implication. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"The next one."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">His well-toned response answered the question explicitly as it did implicitly. They had agreed to a million things with 9 words.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">In the gap prior to the stop, a silence had fallen. In this silence, she found a shame lying beneath this entire encounter. She was not a nice girl, by any means. But she wasn't entirely removed from naiviety. And while she was clever enough to understand any situation she was placed in, a childish guilt was crippling her. "I don't normally do things like this", she'd often say, as if to excuse the events of that day. So she found herself "extra out of place, you know?".</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Back and forth, she volleyed thoughts of retreat and thoughts of indulgence. She looked to his face for persuasion of the latter, but to no avail; he had refused to turn to her at any time during this trip, and did not do so then. "I was a goddamn mess" she'd later admit. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Knowing she was chest-deep in hesitation, she broke the momentary silence.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"So what's happening later?" she slowly asked, emphasizing "later" with great curiousity.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Shit."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Aren't you a goddamn charmer."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"You're still not fucking off?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I won't." she jabbed, with annoying glee.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Good." he replied, his face stoic as his mouth remained flat and shut. A strange sight next to her brightened eyes and crescent smile. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The silence took its original place, but with an underlying voice that marked what was about to happen. It whispered a mutual enjoyment of what was to come.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He remained peering relentlessly out the window and she facing her front. But she suddenly found herself less "awkward about the whole thing". </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The bus found itself slowing down, the sounds of its engines steeped from an incessant growl to a confident hum. This drop in noise was in sharp contrast to her climax of emotions; as if the void in sound was filled by a sickening ball made of her nerves and self-doubt. This was it. This was their stop.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Without cognizance, they rose from their seats and exited the bus's back door, much to the shagrin of the small bus crowd they had been discreetly offended by their promiscuous charms. Their eyes trailed their exit, as though to brand the back of their heads with a scarlet letter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I felt them burning my spine." she muffled, apparently thinking aloud.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"They do that." he immediately replied, as if violently brushing any scrutiny off her shoulders.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">They scuffled off the bus, walking in equal cadence. The doors closed behind them, and the bus vanished in the middle of the distant horizon.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He swerved left with pride, but she percieved there was little in the way of actual direction. In fact, everything about where he was headed and how he was headed there implied he may have been as lost as she was. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"You're leading the way."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Yeah."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"...So why does it look like you've never been here before?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">They paused, and he insisted on staring forward.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Does it really matter to you?" he asked.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Duh."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Why the hell should it?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She caught herself speechless. Why should it matter?, she thought. As long as whatever they've serruptitiously agreed to happens, what is it that's so important about the destination, and who deemed it so?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">They began to pace forward a little more as this thought embedded.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">And then she found a response.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Because if I'm banging a strange guy, I wanna make sure it isn't a strange place."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"We're not banging." he replied, offended in tone, but calm in nature.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I could've sworn that was the point." she said, almost satisfyingly startled with a half-smile. "Everything about this stupid...thing suggested it."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"We share a few words and you assume I'm having sex with you?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She'd ignored this, and suddenly realized how unusually deep she took this encounter. But before she would succumb to feeling naive, she realized something. He does not express agreement explicitly. That it only occurs beneath a harshly layered crust of curt conversation and perpetual angst. So it was clear to her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"This is the part where you say 'I was right'." she said smugly, with a sardonic smile to compliment her profound discovery.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"No."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">They stopped, and he turned right towards the porch of a dimly lit, one-story home. He took his steps deliberately, as though giving space for a signal to sound between every step. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">As he made his way for the door, her sardonic smile faded. She'd realized he wasn't inviting her in, and seemingly had no intention of doing so. His body wreaked of rejection, and his relentless sense of disgust was waiting to be allieviated by the door closing behind him as he slowly walked in, and her face no longer being there. Nothing was going to happen. It was all for naught.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Her face twisted as she percieved this, and embarrassment tied a deep knot in her stomach; a feeling which forced out the one innocuous phrase that summarized the sudden futility of this encounter.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Fuck you!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">The door opened from its closing. He turned to face her.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Before she could process whatever clever wordplay landed her here, his sharp arms were securely gripping her supple waist, her legs twisted around his lower back, clenching alongside her arms for whenever she felt her tounge needed further thrusting onto his. He stumbled from the front of the house into his bedroom in a flurry of salvia-ridden sucks and gulps as he let her control the situation. But this was a momentary lapse in dominance; as he stumbled into the bedroom, he placed his arms underneath, his protruding wrists dug into her deep rear, and took force as he slammed her into the wall.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">A pulse of uncivilized pleasure electrocuted her innards, and compelled her right hand onto the back of his head. She gripped his hair unflinchingly, and in response, he bit her lower lip for one of the few moments their tounges were not conjoined. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Her lip sent desperate messages to the brain, begging for mercy. But she'd knew that he would not stop. Not unless, of course, it was reciprocated.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She took her left arm, cocked backwards, and slapped him across the face with no hesitation. She braced herself for the oncoming drop, and landed awkwardly, falling against the wall a little, her palms reaching for grips that weren't there. He took a few steps back, as though to provide her space, with his arms bent at his sides, unsure of what to do.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She felt a small trickle edging towards her delicate chin. He had drawn blood. And his face had endured a small bruise to the cheek. And for a moment, only the sounds of their syncronized panting could be heard.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"Fuck you!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He smiled. This was not a rejection. This was not a denial. And it was not a plea to stop. No, in this instance, "Fuck you" was an invitation. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Before he could take his steps towards her, she stomped across the room at him and pushed him towards the bed several times, until he was forced to fall on his back. They both knew to remove their pants, and they scurried doing so, to where they'd forgotten to remove their shoes. They had to connect. He had to be inside her. And that was all that mattered. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She jumped onto his erection and her vagina warmly housed it. They stared upwards in their respective directions, relieved by what they'd been foreplaying all along. She grinded foward and backward, her knees and shins on the bed, and her thighs providing leverage. He dug his hands inside her inner and outer thighs, and he could not help but to scratch the delicious curves that surrounded their union. She began undoing his button-up to reveal his wonderfully gaunt upper body, which seemingly awaited her nails, and so she did oblige. He winced quietly to himself, but his penis certanly did not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He motioned his upper body towards her. She had assumed it was for a kiss, but instead felt his hands clawing at her biceps, and before she knew it, she was on her back. It was his turn.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">He thrusted into her erect legs violently, so as to indulge in the sounds of their thighs slapping against one another. And with each thrust a soft "oh" escaped the girl's lips. With his left arm holding him up, his right hand grasped a part of her face, and dug in, as though to find the source of her beautifully gentle moaning. She'd known he was scratching her. But the burrowing of her face compelled the burrowing of her cunt to be all the more enjoyable. She grabbed his hair again with greater passion, to signal the unquantifiable pleasure he had been providing. And he replied by dragging his hand downward, from her eyes to her neck, and occasionally cutting her breathing off. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">With one arm around his lower back, she'd been begging for it deeper. And he had been giving it to her. Moan, panting, moan, panting; each picked up louder, and louder. And before either of the two understood it to be so, they climaxed into one another, in a glorious collage of nails, bruises, blood, and cum.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She did not know what occurred. Only that it did occur. And at that moment, she did not care. In the wake of sheer euphoria, she found herself drifted into sleep.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"I'd never forget that morning", she'd often say. She awoke to find herself alone, in the strange bed of that forgettable room. She "felt like shit...and it was wonderful. Like I've never done this before, and always should've.", a thought reinforced by a small smile that curved onto her tattered face. The previously kempt ponytail and bang was replaced by an unkempt mangle of brunette strings. And her polite tan was marred with discolorations and reddened streaks. Her waist, arms, thighs ("Hell, probably my cunt too") were equally as decimated.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She got up from the bed, and looked at the empty spot that belonged to him. He had long since left. Perhaps right after she went sleep. There was not a single reminder of his existence. And she found herself smiling again. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">All that was left to ponder was what would happen when she returned home to her parents, uninformed of her impromptu tryst. She plotted the conversation, and concluded it would only consist of two lines. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">She would go home with cuts and bruises in various places, and would she be asked "What happened", her sole response would be a monotone cut through thin lips; "I had a good time".</span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3334722440309527860?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-31655951871379701472011-04-23T01:19:00.005-04:002011-04-23T01:43:30.696-04:00Sorry I haven't been as consistent with writing as of late. Material hasn't been coming through. Mostly because instead of lolz, I've been waxing philosophically about myself. <div><br /></div><div>I put on my leather jacket the other day, adorned in pins that I believe represent some amount of my thought process. Since I brought it, it's become a sort of trademark of mine. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I felt wrong. A sort of odd disgust happened when my arms slipped into the sleeves and it gripped my shoulders. It felt wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also dealing with situations that thrust me into worlds I've never delved in, namely being a leader. Leading I can do well. Feeling comfortable doing so is another issue entirely. Why?</div><div><br /></div><div>The cynicism I apply to myself, a clever ruse to both maintain self-awareness and provide a humble foil against my naturally pretentious style of speaking (Like right now), has started working against me. It's bumming me the fuck out. Instead of certifying that my own faux-narcissism doesn't destroy me, like a cancer, it's defected against me. Unable to keep control, I ravage myself in moments where it was not required. Leaving me feeling like a failure in situations where there was no success to be had. Like losing a race that never happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so as I lead, or even as I do anything I've never done before, I destroy myself for understandable errors.</div><div><br /></div><div>And when I do succeed, I don't allow myself to enjoy it. Which means when I rarely do, I don't know how to properly do so, and end up alienating everyone when I sound like an arrogant ass.</div><div><br /></div><div>In an effort to salvage what little self-esteem I have left (And, in the future, properly perceive success and failure), my psychology has opted to temporarily avoid the levity of humor and seek actual building blocks for confidence, instead of painting ridiculous caricatures of it to contrast the grotesque moments of self-doubt. This requires that I avoid practicing cynicism. And what is this blog, at its heart, if it isn't a picture of toothy-smiled cynicism?</div><div><br /></div><div>We'll pretend like this never happened in the next blog. Well, no. But we'll get back to poetically denouncing the injustices of sperm during nutbustings. Eventually.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3165595187137970147?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-18301290985977357302011-04-19T17:00:00.007-04:002011-04-19T17:08:41.438-04:00Inflammatory<div>The 6 million cried</div><div>Group divided by simple primal binds</div><div><br /></div><div>Of psychology, atrocity, it was</div><div>The thing that bothered me</div><div>To do so so wantonly</div><div>Was a saddening dichotomy</div><div><br /></div><div>So traveled the hand </div><div>That waived off their demands</div><div>And jettisoned the group with no remorse</div><div>And vicious plans</div><div><br /></div><div>Inflammatory</div><div>The 6 million cried</div><div>This is a poem about ejaculating guys</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1830129098597735730?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36487519178484489402011-04-15T12:16:00.013-04:002011-04-15T12:54:07.863-04:00Having recently delved into the world of Bob Dylan's music, I decided to take a brief look at the lyrics and found myself feeling as though I'd absorbed more information than I'd read. I decided to speculate even more so on the lyrics of "Mr. Tambourine Man", and found myself in awe of my discovery, during the first verse through to the second:<div><br /></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">T<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><b><i>h</i></b></span>ough I know th<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>a</i></span></b></span>t evenin’s empire<b><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:130%;"><i>ha</i></span></b>s returned into sand</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Vanished from my hand</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">My weariness amazes me, <span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>I’m</i></span></b></span> branded on my<span style="font-size:130%;"> <b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>f</i></span></b></span>eet...</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Hey! Mr. Tambo<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>u</i></span></b></span>rine Man, play a song for me</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I’m not sleepy and there is no pla<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>c</i></span></b></span>e I’m going to</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Ta<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>k</i></span></b></span>e me on a tr<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>i</i></span></b></span>p upo<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>n</i></span></b></span> your magic swirlin’ ship</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">My senses have <span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>b</i></span></b></span>een stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">My t<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>o</i></span></b></span>es too num<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>b</i></span></b></span> to step</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Wait only for my boot heels to be wan<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>d</i></span></b></span>erin’</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I’m read<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>y</i></span></b></span> to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Into my own parade, cast your dancing spel<b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span style="font-size:130%;">l</span> </i></span></b>my w<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>a</i></span></b></span>y</span></div><div style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I promise to go u<span style="font-size:130%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>n</i></span></b></span>der it</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Fascinating.</i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3648751917848448940?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-25191730415160278792011-04-08T13:02:00.007-04:002011-04-08T14:04:29.179-04:00I brought those glasses.<br /><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZA6IHuYeT0Y/TZ9IEDw1_yI/AAAAAAAAAPI/4PVwDRkqG5I/s1600/31330_399115138643_694533643_4443675_115135_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 201px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZA6IHuYeT0Y/TZ9IEDw1_yI/AAAAAAAAAPI/4PVwDRkqG5I/s200/31330_399115138643_694533643_4443675_115135_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593268496784293666" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><i>Proudly.<br /></i></span><br />But Juno does not speak to my life.<i><br /><br /></i><a href="http://www.newsonweb.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/dominicans.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 194px;" src="http://www.newsonweb.org/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/dominicans.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Or any Dominican's, for that matter.</span><br /><br /></i>Scott Pilgrim does though.<i><br /></i></div><div><br /><a href="http://www.filmofilia.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_01-535x294.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 339px; height: 186px;" src="http://www.filmofilia.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/scott_pilgrim_vs_the_world_01-535x294.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Annnd my Dominican license has been revoked.</span><br /><br /></div><div>But I like my music with raucous energy.</div><div><br /><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Sea_shell_%28Trinidad_%26_Tobago_2009%29.jpg/800px-Sea_shell_%28Trinidad_%26_Tobago_2009%29.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 239px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Sea_shell_%28Trinidad_%26_Tobago_2009%29.jpg/800px-Sea_shell_%28Trinidad_%26_Tobago_2009%29.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>What hipster songs are recorded with.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>And I like bleeding on my drums.</div><div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D1tufCtda6k/TZ9KoyXyXUI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/1ruwjm--Oow/s1600/168612_181275721902577_174609959235820_548999_7652545_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-D1tufCtda6k/TZ9KoyXyXUI/AAAAAAAAAPQ/1ruwjm--Oow/s200/168612_181275721902577_174609959235820_548999_7652545_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593271326794210626" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>This is not crayola.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>But I do have a <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://mrindieday.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>.</div><div><br /><a href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSo2sc8rN8V7EOrHqRVELuJ0rG_64Oi9z-GG2hx6BqS0rHo1C65&amp;t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 157px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSo2sc8rN8V7EOrHqRVELuJ0rG_64Oi9z-GG2hx6BqS0rHo1C65&amp;t=1" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Fuuuuuuuuu--</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>But I don't post skinny scene whores.</div><div><br /><a href="http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lepuc76OVo1qe5gavo1_400.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lepuc76OVo1qe5gavo1_400.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>WowI'veneverseenthoseglassesbeforewhere'dyougetthem.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>But I do think Zooey Deschanel is cute.</div><div><br /><a href="http://visualimpactforwomenreview.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Zooey-Deschanel-Diet-Zooey-Deschanel-Workout.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 400px;" src="http://visualimpactforwomenreview.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/Zooey-Deschanel-Diet-Zooey-Deschanel-Workout.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Goddamnit.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>But how could you not?<br /></div><div><br /><a href="http://moffling.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/zooey-deschanel.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 226px;" src="http://moffling.files.wordpress.com/2010/07/zooey-deschanel.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Seriously.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I fluctuate between diametric sub-cultures. This could only mean I align myself with one, very specific group.<br /><br />Me.<br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fAmze6mLOWw/TZ9N3ePIBgI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wLQGXrK9wYk/s1600/167058_482758998643_694533643_6087775_7899501_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 181px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fAmze6mLOWw/TZ9N3ePIBgI/AAAAAAAAAPY/wLQGXrK9wYk/s200/167058_482758998643_694533643_6087775_7899501_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593274877622093314" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >I don't think "douche" is a sub-genre.<br /></span></i><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But I'm happy like that.</span></span><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2519173041516027879?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-78858554184794398962011-04-05T12:48:00.011-04:002011-04-10T00:43:50.205-04:0005 Apr 2011 16:39 <div>Source: Reuters // Reuters*</div><div><br /></div><div>Toilet papers, outraged by satirist and all-around hipster douchebag <b><a href="http://mrindieday.tumblr.com/post/4366548097/wonder-what-it-says">MrIndieDay's tumblr. post</a><a href="http://indiecog.tumblr.com/post/4366548097/wonder-what-it-says">,</a></b> have protested en masse on the streets of Newark, NJ.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm not sure what happened," said MrIndieDay in an interview via satellite, "seeing as the tumblr thing was just a joke. I make the post, walk into my bathroom, and there they were. Or weren't."</div><div><br /></div><div>The toilet paper has apparently upped and marched out in the wake of MrIndieDay's comments, not long after he decided to actually utilize the toilet paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's out of spite and nothing more. I know it." </div><div><br /></div><div>The toilet paper organization, better known as Charmin, has fired back at the 20 year old humorist in an official statement.</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote>"We do not take our use lightly. We strive to supersede the second-class mark that has been branded on us. To be more than the years of oppression and attempts to wipe us out. We take pride in our recent streak of successful paper integration, and seek equality among our lined brethren in the world of paper-usage. MrIndieDay has opposed these efforts, and we will not tolerate his tarnishing our cotton-white facade."</blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>This recent revolt is in lieu of previous toilet paper abuses, namely the damaging "Coffee and Pizza" catastrophe, which Charmin has described to be "our own Holocaust."</div><div><br /></div><div>"The coffee and pizza thing was brutal, as I understand it," says MrIndieDay, "but that doesn't mean later toilet paper mentioning need to be viewed under such harsh scrutiny."</div><div><br /></div><div>Expressing his disdain, he later added "You just can't take shit so seriously nowadays."<br /><br /></div><div>Charmin continues to march up and down the streets of North Newark, seeking to further its civil rights cause.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Joke or not", a Charmin representative stated, "we will not let him stain us."</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>(Additional reporting by Scott Bounty, Brawny Cottonelle, and Angel "Soft" Viva)</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7885855418479439896?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-40489092179730902432011-03-29T16:36:00.005-04:002011-03-29T19:02:54.741-04:00There's a quietly understood notion that when something is occurring in New York, even if it's a pigeon taking a shit from a Central Park tree, it somehow holds more significance, or is of greater interest. <div><br /></div><div>So much so that, as unscientifically evidenced by various FB postings, people will make note that when they're doing something, they're doing it in "New York".</div><div><br /><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/21/28107517_f647100ee8.jpg?v=0"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 375px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/21/28107517_f647100ee8.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Staring at birds shitting...in NYC!!!! (Uploaded via Blackberry @ 4:33PM)</span></div><div><br /></div><div>This is in sharp contrast to saying something like "Hanging out with friends...in Neptune, NJ". By the way, don't forget the leaves may be placed at the curb starting Friday, as written on the <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.neptunecitynj.com/events.htm">town's event page</a>!<br /><br /><a href="http://blog.codesignstudios.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/rebecca-black-friday-video.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 323px; height: 206px;" src="http://blog.codesignstudios.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/rebecca-black-friday-video.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Which rake can I take?<br /><br /></span></span></div><div>I say this in an almost disconnected fashion, but I also succumb to it. It's a particular stigma in the northeast US; just the very mention of NY elicits images of concrete glamor and Julian Casablancas-esque swagger. </div><div><br /><a href="http://www.culturebully.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/Phrazes-for-the-Young-casablancas-cover.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 410px; height: 410px;" src="http://www.culturebully.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/Phrazes-for-the-Young-casablancas-cover.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Though I'm sure NY doesn't have an awkward solo album.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>It is, however, a shit city. There. I said it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I visited NYC recently as a trip just to hang out and pretend I have the social stature to be snooty at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art"><b>Metropolitan Museum</b></a>. Living in Newark, NJ, it's a couple train rides away. That's all well and good. I have nostalgic Dominican memories as a kid of riding the train with my parents to NY and back, because...well, I don't remember. But I got Pizza Hut. So there.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://itsallfreeonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/pizza-hut-logo.gif"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 240px;" src="http://itsallfreeonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/pizza-hut-logo.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>...Hooray trains?</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>But then we actually get to New York. And there came the sociological atrocities. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/05/trip-to-nyphilosophical-epiphany.html"><b>I mentioned in a post a year ago</b></a> about the massive amount of human traffic that incessantly pervades the town. People constantly to your side; you cannot take 4 paces without someone brushing past you. This was exemplified in the train ride, when, in trying to exit, the passengers hustled and found themselves abruptly choked by the fact that the door is 4 feet wide. Exiting the train was disastrously uncomfortable.</div><div><br /><a href="http://greatexpatations.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/japanese-train-pushers.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 344px; height: 315px;" src="http://greatexpatations.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/japanese-train-pushers.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">The Japanese are unimpressed.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>What?? Too soon??</div><div><br /></div><div>As we make our way out of the subway and to fresh (But not really) air, NY greets us with frantic vehicular traffic that makes me wanna smoke a dimebag. If there is one truth about NYC that foreigners don't fully understand, it is that you do not, by any means, want to drive in it.</div><div><br /><a href="http://www.gothamgazette.com/graphics/2009/02/congestion.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 177px;" src="http://www.gothamgazette.com/graphics/2009/02/congestion.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Ever.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually, me and my friend found ourselves lost and somewhat frustrated as we exhausted ourselves trying to find the right subway train to get to our ultimate destination. The town takes itself for granted; it is a city that has its own learning curve.<br /><br /><br /></div><a href="http://www.rotatingcorpse.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/bt5.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 270px;" src="http://www.rotatingcorpse.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/bt5.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Trying to look for the subway controls in the manual....</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Once we did find our particular subway (After walking literally in a square like retards), we found ourselves again overwhelmed by a populated train. Fortunately, the impromptu Mariachi band that entered the train gave me some delight. I clapped along, both because I did like it and because the passengers were being jaded douchebags. I know, this happens in NYC often, but staring into the abyss while someone plays their heart out is a shit way to look coolly jaded. </div><div><br /><a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/177/454103720_6bdb9095b9.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 371px; height: 247px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/177/454103720_6bdb9095b9.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Or maybe they should've just gotten it over with and play "La Cucaracha".</span></span><br /><br />Or maybe they were an indie Mariachi band, refusing to play conformist pop material.<br /><br /></div><div>We exit this subway, and start making way towards the MET. By this point, we've found ourselves a bit frustrated, and our legs a bit tired, however undeterred. Still somewhat excited, we entered a bustling MET and made our way through its various sections. We were drawn to the paintings in particular. This environment's a little unusual to me; my life has not set me up to properly appreciate art and culture for what it is. But being a creative person, I found what little pleasure I could in looking at antiquated ugly people and <a href="http://www.lib-art.com/imgpainting/2/4/8742-judith-with-the-head-of-holofernes-lucas-the-elder-cranach.jpg"><b>casually painted beheadings</b></a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then, I felt it. It was in the air. It pierced through the ears. It echoed against the walls. It emanated from their v-necks. Hipsters.<br /><br /></div><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSZzwOyVPIi8oLS15JTwu4xohyigJmTb8NUtkXmWl5cex4lOXjxA&amp;t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSZzwOyVPIi8oLS15JTwu4xohyigJmTb8NUtkXmWl5cex4lOXjxA&amp;t=1" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><br />I am cardigan and what is this.<br /></span><br /></span><div>I take pleasure in pointing them out. Namely because they can look so ridiculous, they parody themselves. But there was no point; they were everywhere. It would've been like gawking at a blade of grass in a meadow. </div><div><br /><a href="http://kevingong.com/Hiking/Images/ZumwaltMeadow/35Meadow001.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 334px; height: 221px;" src="http://kevingong.com/Hiking/Images/ZumwaltMeadow/35Meadow001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">OH SHIT GREEN.</span></span><br /><br /><div>The glasses, the art history majors, the lazy hair, the flannels, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZDMLQM2Ps4">the shoes that look like hooves</a>. It was in full force.</div><div><br /></div><div>What annoys me about them isn't their choice of style or music. It is something a little deeper than that. That pretentious wave of persona that wafted through the cubes of the MET. That's what got to me. That the MET became less a place to appreciate history/culture, and more a place to be seen appreciating history/culture.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is, admittedly, very presumptuous of me. But instinctively I felt what I felt, and was promptly discomforted.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is, though, this ethereal douchebaggery pervades the entire city of NYC. It is an enormously inconvenient grid of buildings, cars, trains, and people who don't care. And yet, it has an arrogance about it that whispers to you with every step, "We're so awesome 'cause we're us". Or maybe that was me.<br /><br /></div><a style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);" href="http://www.sybilsfriend.com/sybil-444.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 330px;" src="http://www.sybilsfriend.com/sybil-444.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>In our head.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>We made our way out of the MET, visited Central Park to play the "Let's stare at how weird people are" game, and, showered in exhaustion and homesickness, made our way home. The final blow was the dark hole in my wallet that laughed in my face every time I looked, which speaks to how expensive NYC is with little actual reason. Again, another whisper.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we rode the train back to obscurity, I realized that it does provide situations and circumstances that you probably would've never experienced elsewhere. Even now, I look back somewhat fondly on this massively inconvenient trip.<br /><br /><a href="http://dc.streetsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/59a_confusing_road_signs.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 182px;" src="http://dc.streetsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/59a_confusing_road_signs.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This was so much fun let's do it again!!!!!</span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But the city itself is not actually a great place. It is a city that has forgotten to appreciate humanity, and takes pride in apathy. It is a place where shops exist not turn a profit, but merely to act as 3D billboards, because the rent is too expensive to make any positive revenue. It's where sincerity is murdered, and jaded facades hi-five bloodied hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, the city will continue to host my friends' various "omg lets go to ny" trips, in a perpetual search for those strange moments that just could not happen anywhere else. But the city's lost it's luster for me. </div><div style="font-style: italic;"><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic;">Let it be known that I've written this blog without one "Empire State of Mind" reference.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-4048909217973090243?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-13321205924764294712011-03-25T05:44:00.012-04:002011-03-26T08:21:31.030-04:00<i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>This collection of words was written on the fly as I observed. Every break in the writing was real, and none of this was pre-drafted or brainstormed. You are reading the stream of my disorganized consciousness. Let the creeping begin.</b></span></i><div><br /></div>I wonder how customers view shot calibrations. When shots are too long or too quick to draw, it means the espresso/water mixture is fucked up, resulting in murky or watery shots, respectively. So there are times, as is right now, when baristas will stop the drink making process and fix the shot time. Customers generally don't seem to understand this, because lattes, to most people, doesn't involve espresso shots. It involves hot milk, sugar, and coffee. <div><br /></div><div>I think I can hear "...don't give a shit." trailing off from a sentence in their heads.<div><br /></div><div>Look at her go. She can't shut up, and manager lady doesn't care about her convo anymore. Neither do I. <i><u>IT IS SO CUTE.</u></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Another social oddity involving SB is the intimacy involved-</div><div><br /><a href="http://www.militaryphotos.net/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=96113&amp;d=1238210091"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 227px;" src="http://www.militaryphotos.net/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=96113&amp;d=1238210091" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">I've got to stop staring at her ass.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>...Between its partners and its customers. They are incredibly well-acquainted, with every facet of one another's lives commonly shared and known. Ever stopped to chat with a D&amp;D employee on break? Hell no. Not that you'd know how to speak Indian anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is deeper, however, then the mere openness of us baristas. It is the environment that engenders interaction. Often, customers will speak and be overall more talkative amongst themselves as well. There's also a constant amount of laughter and smiling that happens, particularly at the register. All of this would be almost maniacal in, say, a Wal-Mart. </div><div><br /></div><div>It lies in the architecture/design of Starbucks. The atmosphere is especially created to not only keep people coming, but to keep them inside the store. The collusion of its soft, home-like browns and greens, the dim lighting that's only particularly strong around the barista workspace, and of course that persistent scent of fresh coffee charms people in a subconscious way. </div><div><br /></div><div>Starbucks' mystique is in fact not an inexplicable mystery; it's a testament to the power of architecture, design, and the nostalgia, purposefully designed and wielded to positively influence a person's social experience there. It's kind of amazing.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1332120592476429471?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-19941786112815995382011-03-24T04:02:00.012-04:002011-03-24T19:39:18.123-04:00<div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>This collection of words was written on the fly as I observed. Every break in the writing was real, and none of this was pre-drafted or brainstormed. You are reading the stream of my disorganized consciousness. Let the creeping begin.</b></span></i></div><div><br /></div><b>Big-Worker Momma Lady</b> - Thorough, attentive, robotic. Experience up the ass, I'm sure. Knows the words to rattle off for every situation. Manager? I asked: of course she is.<div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: Seems a little too directive, but she's a manager. It's in her blood.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>That One Lesbia</b>---</div><div><br /></div><div>Goddamnit I like her. What is it with me and dykes?</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>That One (Assumed ((As In I Hope Not))) Lesbian</b> - Talkative, considerate, smart. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: Doesn't know when to shut up. Not that this is annoying. She's a quirky dork. That's TOTALLY cute. Okay. Dismissing stupid smile/gushing now.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Straight Guy</b> - There's always the one. He's a great barista (The foam on this milk is fucking sexy). He's passionate and kind enough. A winner. Probably a shift supervisor.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: Looks bored/has hipster-esque "Ehhhhh yeah" aura. But it's hardly disconcerting.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Chubby Girl Who's Way Too Happy</b> - Another Starbucks staple. Unlike my store's CGWWTH, she seems genuinely nice. Everyone gets along with her. Is likable. Yay. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: None. Well, that I could discern; people who smile too much are always broken toy dolls on the inside.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe she's not gay? Maybe she's just that nerdy? Or maybe I'm gay. I'll shut up.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Old Lady</b> - Has kids. Aces mundane conversation (A must-have skill for SB). She's a blast to talk to though. I usually hate moms, but I'll make exception.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: Despite the overwhelmingly sweet demeanor, she has the face and voice of someone who's yelled about wire hangers before. A lot. It's nothing evidential, though. Just an inference.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think the CGWWTH goes out with a black guy! Wow! I'm proud of her. And sad for African-Americans.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Gay Guy </b>- SB staple #3. Has a strange fauxhawk-ish hairstyle, a bit of eyeliner, and a popped collar that beautifully (I'm lying) hides a neck that has decided to recede into his chest, forming a pelican swoop.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Issues</b>: Trying a little too hard to be stylish. He came in with large white-rimmed sunglasses. The collar-pop, besides being an obvious compensation for his hermit neck, looks less about throat insecurity and more about looking cool. The baristas also became a little more introverted upon his debut, but I could be applying subjectivity here. 'Cause I'ma hata.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>More SB-related <s>disturbingly stalker-esque rambling</s> analysis tomorrow.</i></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1994178611281599538?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-22790910859117742662011-03-19T03:07:00.004-04:002011-03-19T03:11:35.149-04:00"Hey, Brian, you'll be burned out."<div><br /></div><div>"Nuh-uh, fuck your face."</div><div><br /></div><div><i>I'm burned out.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Spending an immense amount of time being a bandmate and barista has left this blog hanging. Don't worry though; it's nowhere near dead. I'm just spent. I'll be back, as big a pretentious twat as ever.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2279091085911774266?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-22709748413890492162011-03-11T14:04:00.006-05:002011-03-11T16:20:27.066-05:00As you might've already heard, an unprecedented earthquake, and its tsunami aftermath, has decimated Japan, and potentially other parts of the globe. This will/has undoubtedly dismantled the structure for modern civilization in some parts of Japan, and will likely be a lengthy, and arduous, rebuilding process.<div><br /></div><div>But before we roll off the melodramatic FB statuses and the telethons where Kanye will have another opportunity to use reverse racism while Mike Myers wishes he was dead, please, let's remember to keep a smile on our faces. To laugh not only despite, but in spite of this grave situation. It's never done anyone any good solely to sit there and pout about something. </div><div><br /></div><div>And if you are making an effort to openly cry for Japan, please make the same effort to donate to or volunteer for the inevitable campaigns that will come of this. Because no matter how many people answer "What's on your mind?", that society will remain in its drenched rubble until you get the fuck up and do something.</div><div><br /></div><div>....</div><div><br /></div><div>Someone should've stopped <b><a href="http://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/Team_Magma">Team Magma</a></b>.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2270974841389049216?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-4022402724935338272011-03-10T03:32:00.001-05:002011-03-10T03:32:42.258-05:00<div>Later in the day, as I took the bus home from work having forgotten this touching moment and the rest of my Miralax-laden morning (Last "old people have diarrhea" joke I swear), the bus found its last stop, my stop, and people began to unload. It was an unusually packed bus, so I became somewhat jaded by the sight of all these people. I was perhaps 4 or 5 people behind when I noticed something a little strange in the corner of my left eye.</div><div><br /></div><div>2 people were left before I realized that at least 6 or 7 people had walked right in front of a small elderly lady, who was at the very first seat of the bus on the left, when the exited. They streamed past her undeterred. The last person before me actually bumped into her right shoulder as she cowled, waiting for the gush of people to pass by.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you want to understand what has driven the recent anger on this blog, this moment is the perfect microcosm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Annoyed, I abruptly stopped, feeling the slight misstep of someone rushing behind me, and waited for this lady to make her move. She noticed the opening, and began a slow drift for the exit. She had particular difficulty getting off, easily taking her about 4 seconds to get down 3 steps.</div><div><br /></div><div>Feeling impatience behind me, I grabbed both handles of the door in a gesture that could only be described as a roundabout "Fuck everyone on this bus". She was getting off first.</div><div><br /></div><div>Amazingly though, she did this without making one sound. Completely hush, she exited the bus, and entered another. It was as though she didn't care. Not just for the river of dumbassery that blocked her on the bus, but even for my white-knight antics.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah old people are slow. Yeah they're intolerant. And come on, it's just funny when they slap an emergency lever like it's a stop button.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I do love that they're able to avoid giving a shit in a world that provides too much of it. That there is an incessant protest against the mainstream structure of society that is implicit in their quiet and meticulous actions.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is something I wish I saw more of in my peers, whom I feel don't understand and don't utilize the control they have in their lives. Lives that have been dictated for 20 years by an unsubstantiated obligation to go to school, and what little television has to offer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not gonna suggest everyone uses the elderly as a model for their convictions, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to observe them a bit, and embrace the attitudes and experience they convey with every step.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm totally gonna be that old guy everyone hates. Fuck.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-402240272493533827?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-69531909824839171702011-03-08T16:11:00.007-05:002011-03-08T16:23:15.575-05:00Taking a bus at 10 in the morning provides a glimpse into a world someone my age doesn't often see. Mostly because we don't want to. Usually doing something else during this time, we forget one very significant detail about the proverbial hump of a day's routine:<div><br /></div><div>The elderly own it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's why the Price is Right is on and why the world feels like it's in the middle of a Prunelax-addled enema. It's the senior primetime.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their prescence is felt so strongly it's almost as though they anxiously await the 10AM hour like a 20 year old Facebook's excitedly about Friday night.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Like this if you can't wait to bother everyone in line at the Shop-Rite this morning!!!"</div><div><b>(Uploaded via <a href="http://reviews.cnet.com/cell-phones/samsung-jitterbug-j-graphite/4505-6454_7-33667244.html">Jitterbug</a> at 8:59AM)</b></div><div><br /></div><div>This was reflected by my bus ride (Oh that's where I started), which passes through the obligatory "All the old people sit in front of this" apartment complex, a small town neighborhood, and eventually a shopping center.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Tangent time:</b> What compels the elderly to sit on benches routinely as they stare in the sky? I dunno, but it sounds like an opening to a terrible joke.</div><div><br /></div><div>They slowly and delicately settled onto the decrepit caravan with an engine with complete oblivion; one of the strangest, and most admirable, details of the elderly. If punk/anarchy at its truest form is dependent upon little a shit you give for the feelings/convenience of others, the elderly are the most real punks I've ever seen.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was surmised by this small black lady, who found her stop was coming soon, as noted by her apt unseating, a move which looked as though she was having her own framerate issues.</div><div><br /></div><div>In an effort to relay this, her left arm made a move for a red object in between windows as her right arm meekly held her frail body in position. She then wantonly slapped at it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the emergency lever.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately she didn't pull it down, and as she was standing I was making the effort to find the "STOP" button for her, which I did successfully. But I couldn't let this small detail go; she simply took it for granted that this must have been the stop tape, and did not care (Or perhaps even fathomed) that she would be making a silly mistake.</div><div><br /></div><div>She walked deliberately towards the front, helped by an older gentlemen who grabbed her arm while he was in his seat towards the front. I thought this sweet of him, but my cynicism quipped "Maybe he just likes that. What if he just wants to touch arms 'cause it's hot?"</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6953190982483917170?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-30156847581086374192011-03-05T22:35:00.005-05:002011-03-05T22:39:59.151-05:00After reading <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.kdvr.com/news/kdvr-after-neardeath-experience-boy-writes-book-heaven-is-real-20110210,0,2566980.story">this article</a> and, of course, being highly skeptical about it, a piece of the story caught my eye:<div><br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"Over time his visions became more believable. He described Jesus..."</blockquote></div><div>Something tells me he didn't say "Jesus looks like your gas attendant, daddy."</div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://img.ibtimes.com/www/data/images/full/2011/01/17/59292-petrol-pump-employee.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 368px; height: 261px;" src="http://img.ibtimes.com/www/data/images/full/2011/01/17/59292-petrol-pump-employee.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Let he who is without NJ state law cast the first pump.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>But what if he did? What if he said "Jesus was black"? What would this story have been then? Would the integrity be any different to the readers? Hell, would they have even mentioned that he described Jesus?<br /></div><div><br /><a href="http://personalityspirituality.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/colton-21.jpg?w=480&amp;h=281"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 330px; height: 193px;" src="http://personalityspirituality.files.wordpress.com/2011/02/colton-21.jpg?w=480&amp;h=281" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Haha, okay Colton, but seriously shut the fuck up.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Bet the book, which is 4th on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/bestsellers/books/ref=pd_dp_ts_b_1"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Amazon's Top 100</span></a>, <span style="font-style: italic;">probably</span> wouldn't have happened.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The undercurrent in this story, and the very reason why it's even a "news" story at all, is that it confirms ideologies many people already believe in. It's another piece of psychological reinforcement; an anecdotal representation of "I WAS RIGHT!!!!". Look back: this month old "news" is the most popular page on the site. We eat this shit up.<br /><br />Yeah, I keep placing "news" in irritatingly sarcastic quotations. But not because "OMG RELIGION SUX".<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lepuqaqmBP1qanb21o1_500.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 273px; height: 254px;" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lepuqaqmBP1qanb21o1_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Said Emma Dawkins.</span><br /><br />More because there is nothing new about someone getting high on anesthetics and seeing shit. Much less a kid, who's clearly predisposed to and familiar with the concept of God and Heaven. His dad's a pastor, after all.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>There is a bit in this story, however, that catches me frozen. Apparently, in the drugged-up premonition, he learned of his mom's miscarriage and brought it up, much to the mother's surprise. </div><div><br /><a href="http://www.dealbreaker.com/images/entries/women%20in%20kitchen.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 250px;" src="http://www.dealbreaker.com/images/entries/women%20in%20kitchen.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Donotmakeakitchenjokedonotmakeakitchenjoke</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Colton was supposed to have no prior knowledge of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>The only reasoning I could figure is that Colton could've have overheard discussion of this, without understanding what exactly was buzzing in his ear. The sounds colluded in his subconscious, add some drugs, and voila, "omg mommy had a miscarriage".<br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fH8htQAGABs/S9i3DTyVm9I/AAAAAAAAAKk/0gp_Wp0sEws/s1600/omg.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 247px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_fH8htQAGABs/S9i3DTyVm9I/AAAAAAAAAKk/0gp_Wp0sEws/s1600/omg.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">It's the proper verbal reaction.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>But even then I'm making a pretty tough shot in the dark. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not that it matters though. This doesn't shift my philosophies on God and whatnot. But it makes me kind of sad that this is considered a piece of news. A story that people apparently have to hear. I mean, clearly, they want to. Hell, I want to. But do we have to? Does this really do anything more than help us seclude ourselves in our little psychological bunkers?</div><div><br /></div><div>And where are the "I had surgery, I woke up, and there's no God, bro" stories? What if Colton got up and told his pastor dad "Daddy, I didn't see anything. God doesn't exist."? I'd imagine this entire story AND book would've been nothing more than an awkward moment between a father and his son. </div><div><br /><a href="http://www.geekosystem.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/david-after-dentist.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 164px;" src="http://www.geekosystem.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/david-after-dentist.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Or Dave After the Dentist.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3015684758108637419?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-87289248172883093812011-03-05T13:39:00.005-05:002011-03-05T13:55:25.196-05:00<div style="text-align: left;">oh, rutgers. just when i thought u were done being ridiculous. from the <a href="http://www.ilovethepersonals.com/"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: none;">overtly philistine online ramblings</span></b></a><b> </b>of ur students (and not just the beer-soaked frat boy variety) to that total moneysuck-black hole new stadium for a team that hasnt won a game since......since.....ok, i dont follow rutgers sports, but i know they suck. its just a fact. but i digress....i know what happened last semester really bummed u out; but <span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/us_rutgers_gender_neutral_housing">this</a></b></span> is NOT THE ANSWER. i know plenty of ur students dont by any means NEED co-ed dorms to continue their already established tradition of collecting and trading Heps A-H. but i need to level with u about the possible outcome of ur actions. just think about it; humor me for a moment....(completely hetero) boy requests girl roommate. boy gets girl roommate. boy meets girl. boy and girl get along and discuss their mutual love of ok go and zach braff movies. boy goes to frat party one night. boy gets s***faced. boy stumbles into dorm at 3 in the morning and girl gets "bad touched" for the next 4 hours. see, rutgers? see what u did?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lgbqsgN4d21qf0zq4o1_500.jpg"><img src="http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lgbqsgN4d21qf0zq4o1_500.jpg" border="0" alt="" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 341px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Now u f***ed up! Now u f***ed up! You have f***ed up now!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>please reconsider. remember, i love u, and i dont want to see u get hurt. but mostly, i dont wanna give that prick Princeton anymore reasons to laugh at u.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>xoxo,</div><div>munky</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8728924817288309381?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>cuntasaurushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08926816531672152972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-8010205335040656282011-03-02T02:02:00.003-05:002011-03-02T02:08:22.843-05:00Props to BoN on their latest nod: <a href="http://soccerwrapup.blogspot.com/"><b>Soccer Wrap-Up</b></a>. It's actually a great summary of the day's events in all things soccer, and breaks the monotony of their previous blogs.<div><br /></div><div><s>Now if only it wasn't about soccer.</s></div><div><br /></div><div>(I'm kidding, put the caps lock away)</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-801020533504065628?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-80378845076041501602011-02-28T11:18:00.007-05:002011-02-28T14:43:51.259-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://students.cis.uab.edu/alesley/breakin2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 277px;" src="http://students.cis.uab.edu/alesley/breakin2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Because horrible movie titles never get old.</span></span><br /><b><br /><br /><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1358654/The-worlds-biggest-family-Ziona-Chan-39-wives-94-children-33-grandchildren.html">How to protest baby-making restrictions.</a></b><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2011/02/obama-bahrain-tom-donilon.html">Like a neighbor who lives 6 blocks down complaining about your noise.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://www.kdvr.com/news/kdvr-arvada-police-arrest-11yearold-over-inappropriate-stick-figure-drawing-20110221,0,7099823.story">Stick figures are doubleplusungood.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://boston.cbslocal.com/2011/02/23/breastfeeding-mothers-share-milk-with-other-moms/">#SHARETITMILK (You liked this.)</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://chicago.cbslocal.com/2011/02/24/man-74-accused-of-spiking-juice-sexual-abuse/">Senior citizens touch back.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://uk.reuters.com/article/2011/02/24/uk-libya-protests-gaddafi-idUKTRE71N4IJ20110224">Bring your own Nesquik.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-0225-gps-kids-20110225,0,5243827.story"><b>This just in: Overparenting.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://www.chicagobreakingnews.com/news/local/chibrknews-farrakhan-mideast-uprisings-will-come-to-us-20110227,0,1665375.story"><span style="font-size:78%;">Lronhubbardisgreat</span>UPRISING IN AMERICA!!!!</a><br /><br />Because why not - </b>Band does show. Play well. Here is video. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/Argonautsnj"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Like us on Facebook</span></a>.<br /><br /><b><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GIJHGbfgFJ0" width="460" frameborder="0" height="289"></iframe><br /></b></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8037884507604150160?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-84589613900379453472011-02-25T15:13:00.008-05:002011-02-25T15:27:44.880-05:00So my band reveres Blink-182 and Weezer. Being a trio, this leaves me, the note-less Dominican drummer, out of their pop-punk universe. They insist on playing Blink-182 songs, and when I tell them I don't know it, their faces melt into an unvocalized question:<div><br /></div><div>"HOW DO YOU NOT LIKE THIS?!?!?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>During these moments <s><b>I yell "I DON'T LIKE YOUR TRITE POP SHIT"</b></s> I sit there and give a mute response to their disembodied question. Why DON'T I like them? What specifically compels them to respond to Blink and Weezer in a way I don't understand?</div><div><br /></div><div>Playing detective, there's only one dramatic difference between them and I.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.toomanychefs.net/images/plantain.jpg"><img src="http://www.toomanychefs.net/images/plantain.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 205px; " /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>Plantains.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Our teenage environment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our bassist moved during the last few months of high school, to find himself knee-deep in reggaeton knockoffs who thought he was a faggot; something that startled him. That's because who he was and what he enjoyed was once in symmetry with his environment.</div><div><br /></div><div>As for our guitarist, well, Bloomfield, NJ is where the white trash congregate to mutter green about their upper class Montclair neighbors and say the word "coffee" like an "a" "w" gangraped the "o".<br /><br /></div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RtAW_wxaxQ8/TWgH_923tKI/AAAAAAAAAOw/e3ABLmMJvFE/s200/44267056.NY.jpg" style="width: 335px; height: 335px; " /><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size: 14px; "><i>Let's tawk abouwt Lindah over some Vehginiah Slims 120s and a lahtay, sweeahrt.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>So he was in his comfort zone too.</div><div><br /></div><div>My sub-culture experience wasn't quite so arms open. Newark, NJ is the epitome of every African-American/Hispanic stereotype. It's laden with rap/hip-hop influence, hood rats, and rampant fucking.</div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.pubarticles.com/member/user_img/896/1297846896.png"><img src="http://www.pubarticles.com/member/user_img/896/1297846896.png" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 207px; " /></a><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; ">Rampant fucking is a decent super.</span><br /><br /><div>It was taboo to go against that.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a result, the few of us in my high school who did embrace rock music found ourselves in bed with obscurity. Why? Because the further we moved in towards our persecuted love for rock, the further away we moved from the cunts that hated us. We wanted nothing to do with a mainstream that didn't want us around. Some of us loved death metal, some of us adored indie rock, but all of us were underground as shit.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we formed our rock niches and crept inside. To my recollection, I cannot remember any pop-punk band like that being revered by any circle in my high school.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is in stark contrast to my fellow bandmates. <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">There were no angry minorities yelling at them about their music preference.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">In fact, that's what was </span><span class="Apple-style-span">cool</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "> to like.</span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><br /></span></i></div><div>They didn't have to dig deep like we did, 'cause their world was content with one another. And so, their planets revolved around the unified joy that was Blink-182.</div><div><br /></div><div>So therein lies the difference; us Newark kids enjoy our source of music with a strong sense of "Fuck you". It's not merely love with us; it's also a need to protest the world that hated us for it. It's too close to the surface of the fucks we fought against, and their lyrics express a cultural harmony that we've never fathomed, let alone experienced.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that's why every time our bassist spins that "Carousel" bassline, my body reacts like a cancer's infiltrated it's vessels. It just doesn't speak to me as it does to them. It's too <i>popular</i>. And <i>popular</i> has never treated me well.<br /><br /><a href="http://atlasshrugs2000.typepad.com/atlas_shrugs/images/2007/03/27/newark_demiocrats_in_charge.jpg"><img src="http://atlasshrugs2000.typepad.com/atlas_shrugs/images/2007/03/27/newark_demiocrats_in_charge.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 224px; " /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size: 14px; "><span style="font-style: italic; ">Not that this is actually popular.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div>I think I'd prefer it this way, however. Even if it means Newark has left me with a permanent and sometimes unnecessary struggle against the mainstream, it's instilled some punk in me. I've learn to respect people's preferences and not to piss on their happy parade. But what's wrong with being a little rebellious?</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8458961390037945347?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-24844670742834725022011-02-22T17:27:00.000-05:002011-02-22T17:28:09.868-05:00After realizing that, okay, I was kind of a dick to the Blogger-world, I took a different approach.<br /><div><br /></div><a href="%20http://th01.deviantart.net/fs34/PRE/i/2008/309/0/f/Shut_The_Hell_Up_by_ChiiYu.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 355px;" src="http://th01.deviantart.net/fs34/PRE/i/2008/309/0/f/Shut_The_Hell_Up_by_ChiiYu.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" >Shutting the hell up?</span><div><br /></div><div>I looked at the situation and still felt something was fundamentally wrong, so I moved the pointed finger at the system, and not its subjects: the BoN nominators themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no written criteria for BoN glory. The blogs are scoured by whatever dweeb in the enigmatic Blogger HQ deems noteworthy when they hop links that day. This means the spotlight is cast seemingly at random. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://primetime.unrealitytv.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/michaeljfox.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 328px; height: 248px;" src="http://primetime.unrealitytv.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/michaeljfox.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Please welcome our new lighting operator.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Or is it?</div><div><br /></div><div>When you sift through the BoN page and glance at the nominees, there are existing patterns. They are so consistent, in fact, that they do imply ways to please our Blogger lords.</div><br /><a href="%20data:image/jpg;base64,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"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 236px; height: 172px;" src="data:image/jpg;base64,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" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">And then God said, "Let there be small hobbies and material interests."</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I will make an effort to demonstrate this:</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://ameganfindsartinphilly.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/red-church-door-1-29.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 274px; height: 363px;" src="http://ameganfindsartinphilly.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/red-church-door-1-29.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Pictures of doors and shit!</span></div><br /><a href="%20http://www.made-in-england.org/images/crochet_strapon.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 203px;" src="http://www.made-in-england.org/images/crochet_strapon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wow crochet and shit!</span></div><div><br />Actually, I quite admire this. But let's move on.<br /><br /><a href="%20data:image/jpg;base64,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"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 195px;" src="data:image/jpg;base64,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" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Fancy food and shit!</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://images1.chictopia.com/photos/ClaudiaPaola/5377639506/the-bridge-bag-zara-cape-zara-blouse-headband-etsy-accessories_400.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 462px;" src="http://images1.chictopia.com/photos/ClaudiaPaola/5377639506/the-bridge-bag-zara-cape-zara-blouse-headband-etsy-accessories_400.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Like my blouse? I brought it from shitsy!</span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://dstgeorgephoto.smugmug.com/photos/1183192224_V55WK-L.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 239px;" src="http://dstgeorgephoto.smugmug.com/photos/1183192224_V55WK-L.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Hey here's a picture I turned black and white! Aren't I artsy? And shit?</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I just wish Blogger would bother to give more credence to writers and less to what amounts to Internet scrapbooking. Not (just) because writing is of greater value, but because, seriously, that's all the BoN appears to reward thus far. A blog should succeed on the quality of its writing, not the quantity of its pictures.</div><div><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic;">And shit.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2484467074283472502?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-47414480221221969132011-02-19T01:55:00.003-05:002011-02-19T23:32:51.423-05:00<div>(This one's a 2-parter. Best you start with <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2011/02/brianosophy-101-incentives-of-predator.html">the first one</a>.)<br /><br />I'll pull the curtains up for a bit; in <a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2011/02/ps.html"><b>the blog "P.S."</b></a>, I was perfectly aware of 3 gaping chasms in my argument against the presumed girly-girl content Blogger is filled with:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Really, a lot of Blogger is filled with decent content of just the subject matter I so deemed honorable.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. My request would heavily marginalize the diversity in Blogger's content.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. It's hypocritical of me, as someone who's heavily into being yourself absolutely, to ask someone not to post the content they so feel like posting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Despite this, I still posted the blog. Why? 'Cause people pissed me off. Because it pains me to see people be so simple. This is also why that, despite posting the first three, the only blog that deeply annoyed me was the "TV" blog; the others have creative merit, and perhaps driven by some sort of venerable passion. But to solely recap the event of a glowing box as your entire blog epitomizes my disdain for America's culture in general.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this is a whole other blog for an entirely different day.</div><div><br /></div><div>So clearly, I'm capable of great love, and fierce hatred. And I play both cards well.</div><div><br /></div><div>The beauty in this, however, is how I don't believe this is so dissimilar from anyone else. We as people have chosen to isolate ourselves in a universe revolving solely around us. This leaves little room for deep introspection into the understanding of others. As a result, we end up more or less greying who we are; giving ourselves a little of every quality/character trait, even if we don't truly own them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even though I'm assuming, I'm pretty certain that everyone else has/does practice the duality of great love/fierce hatred in some form. That these two foils co-exist with us day-to-day, and is not a unique feature of anyone's.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is this lack of awareness that causes us to grow insolent and, ultimately, a little lonely. And this is also why it is not kindness necessarily that we admire, but the courage it takes to be kind.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the midst of all this gift-wrapping, I've lost the pretty bow to tie it together. I guess you'll just have to take my word for it that it does. "Be nice, don't assume, and don't be a douche" maybe? Yeah. Let's go with that.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-4741448022122196913?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-55736611531481685352011-02-18T00:39:00.002-05:002011-02-18T08:32:11.818-05:00When I look at people, I see nothing.<div><br /></div><div>There are no presumptions made, no inferences drawn; a blank slate. Or tabula rasa, if you wanna get pretentious, though I'm probably already there.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stare at them directly, eyes empty, waiting to be filled by their personality.</div><div><br /></div><div>Admittedly, I draw judgment after the initial impression. But I provide a decent filter of skepticism, giving room for the person to break any assumptions.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the blueprint to my system of first impressions.</div><div><br /></div><div>While this is all meticulously crafted for optimal objectivity, what I'm unsure of is the incentive. Whether or not this is absolutely sincere, or if it's because of an underlying condition.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think it's the latter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have an unyielding thirst for approval. I'm a predator of attention, endlessly hunting through a winding forest of philosophical and psychological thought. And people are the prey.</div><div><br /></div><div>This implies manipulation, and I'm well aware I'm capable of that. However, I've never intentionally practiced it. And while I do seek approval, it is not without some reciprocation if/when I do receive it.</div><div><br /></div><div>My kindness and willingness to connect is not entirely generated by my propensity for attention-whoring, however. There is some choice being practiced here.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why? Simple. I sometimes find myself being greatly annoyed at the ignorance of others. I can craft a drink with care and precision, then make eye contact and gently exclaim a sincere "Thanks" and "Nice day". And yet some of them can't scrounge for a few words to reply. No, this isn't all of them, and perhaps not even the majority of them, but it's enough to ingratiate some tumorous hatred of them in my calculated way of being.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've made the choice not to encourage this side. At least, not ultimately.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is a hole here, though. It's possible my said "choice" in the matter is still subject to my psychological shortcoming; that, in conjunction with the rules of approval-seeking, the optimal route is to be consistently kind and upstanding.</div><div><br /></div><div>But ironically, as you'll read tomorrow, I find myself bitching in a way that's not so golden.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-5573661153148168535?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-42335408066005017752011-02-16T02:40:00.002-05:002011-02-16T02:40:53.148-05:00<b><a href="http://www.nme.com/news/beyonce/54919">And the music world groaned.</a></b><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/41521922/?gt1=43001">Be patient.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.miamiherald.com%2F2011%2F02%2F10%2F2060729%2Fflagler-memorial-makes-cameo-in.html%23ixzz1Dbv7LPYU&amp;h=d6cd1">Preview's on Pornhub.</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Argonauts/174609959235820">This isn't a band I'm in, and you should not like them.</a><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=140&amp;title=the_strokes_under_cover_of_darkness_what&amp;more=1&amp;c=1&amp;tb=1&amp;pb=1">Puttin' on my indie douche mask.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/162907_482748173643_694533643_6087532_1312587_n.jpg"><img src="http://a8.sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/162907_482748173643_694533643_6087532_1312587_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 234px; " /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">It's never off.</span></i></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><b>(Although the song is fantawesome).</b></span><br /><br /></span></i><b>Here's a deal -- <a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=694533643">Friend me on Facebook</a> </b>and I'll make a blog about you. I don't bite. <a href="http://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=196685223691545&amp;id=694533643" style="font-weight: bold; ">Generally.</a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-4233540806600501775?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-69103860122538574372011-02-13T00:27:00.015-05:002011-02-14T02:11:01.440-05:00For some time I've wondered why this blog has flown under the Blogger radar.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hitler.org/images/young.hitler.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 380px;" src="http://www.hitler.org/images/young.hitler.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">'Cause Hitler shows up on the LinkWithin?</span><br /><div><br /></div><div>Then, I looked at the (as of this post) first three "Blogs of Note".</div><div><br /></div><div><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://bakingthroughgermany.blogspot.com/">Flour Indeed Can Pop into Food</a>, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://pleasewelcomeyourjudges.blogspot.com/">I Looked at a Screen Today-Here is my Regurgitation of it</a>, <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://cariblogs.blogspot.com/">A Person with a Vagina who Reads.</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Of course. How could I possibly garner the attention of a Blogger audience who's attention span is only as wide as the channels between Oxygen and the Food Network?</div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.greatereader.org/wp-content/plugins/rss-poster/cache/81682_konami_code.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 183px;" src="http://www.greatereader.org/wp-content/plugins/rss-poster/cache/81682_konami_code.png" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"> </span></div><div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I spent my day doing the Konami code on my remote.</span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose I can't argue; I am here, and the audience that dominates this space is what it is. I could get the hell off if I was really that displeased, but alas, I'd find myself with nothing to bitch about.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'll settle for this instead:</div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Audience of Blogger (i.e. Every registered user on Etsy),</div><div><br /></div><div>Please, stop being so generic. For the love of vintage clothing, broaden your goddamn horizons. No, this isn't a terribly conspicuous plea for your traffic.</div><div><br /><a href="http://bentcorner.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/hair-hat-head.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 222px;" src="http://bentcorner.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/hair-hat-head.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">He lied.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>But rather, that you not be so easily categorized. We as humans should press to make ourselves as distinguishable as possible. We should strive to utilize Blogger as unique and unadulterated form of social, philosophical, and psychological expression. Not into a chimera made of Vogue and whatever those shit little tabloids are with the weight loss advice. You know; the ones that are 6 inches preceding the Reese's and gum at a checkout lane?<br /><br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7_WPXAajGdM/SXQrPkgFFqI/AAAAAAAAIOY/iQL_DlcINig/s400/ReadersDigest_012009.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 315px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_7_WPXAajGdM/SXQrPkgFFqI/AAAAAAAAIOY/iQL_DlcINig/s400/ReadersDigest_012009.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:14px;"><i><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thirteen things I've never cared about.<br /><br /></span></span></i></span></span>And I know that, the lot of you being chicks, you're interested in chick things. But for once in my life, I'd like to see not just a girl, but anyone who's willing to break all of his/her stereotypical gender barriers and be more than their bestowed genitals.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sincerely,</div><div>Someone who clearly isn't an 18 year old white girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. Fuck cakes.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6910386012253857437?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-60879335758414271772011-02-05T13:40:00.001-05:002011-02-05T13:41:21.719-05:00<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Qb4Zb-HdVu8" frameborder="0"></iframe><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6087933575841427177?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-62415153558005705902011-02-01T16:46:00.011-05:002011-03-06T12:40:11.585-05:00There is a common phenomena amongst scene kids that is rarely documented and yet widely experienced. It is the sudden sensation that rages when two members of similar sub-cultures cross eyes in a territory that they would otherwise be unique. This sensation has been coined "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Indie Cognizance</span>".<br /><div><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/12/17/juno_500.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 280px;" src="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/12/17/juno_500.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Let's have an obscure baby together.</span><br /></div><div> </div><div><br />This often occurs during public transportation; the perfect setting, as it forces every individual from a varied pool of neighborhoods to congregate in one place. Generally, a bus or train is tightly packed with average American citizens, who have made no considerable effort to aesthetically define themselves. There are many features indicative of this, but namely:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Clothing:</span><br />- University/College sweater/hoodie.<br />- Sweatpants.<br />- New Balance sneakers.<br />- Nike's most rejected set of running shoes.<br />- Uggs (Now unisex).<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2716/4403724257_d3d50a8b69.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 500px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2716/4403724257_d3d50a8b69.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My future child.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hairstyle:</span><br />- If female, forgettable ponytail.<br />- If male, forgettable conglomerate of follicles.<br /></div><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://legacy.flagler.edu/product_image.php?imageid=22"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="http://legacy.flagler.edu/product_image.php?imageid=22" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Being a Billboard 101.</span></span><br /><div><br />With this to provide a blurred background, features indicative of a flamboyant individual gleam quite easily. Indie cognizance, however, is not dependent upon any particular scene. It is merely dependent upon two people of the same (or nearly the same) scene to be within visual range of one another.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Example:</span><br /><br />You are metal douchebag #346. Your hair can be a variety of unkempt styles, but today you've decided to swing it just barely over your eye. After all, you must avoid looking <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> emo.<br /><br />You are wearing eyeliner, and happened to feel "As I Lay Dying" would look particularly fitting on your chest. Hot Topic has also adorned you with those ridiculous pants that Sora almost certainly wore from Kingdom Hearts 2. And your shoes are indiscernible as your dual-bodybags hang over said apparel.<br /><br /><a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/boxedup_assets/gift_images/71251/new_tripp_rubber_strip_handcuff_pants.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 477px;" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/boxedup_assets/gift_images/71251/new_tripp_rubber_strip_handcuff_pants.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">You might've killed Xenmas, but Sephiroth's gonna take a few levels.</span> </span><br /><br />You are on your way to your local community college by bus, and you have begun boarding. As you take those melancholic steps towards "your place of hatred", you look left and find yourself paused.<br /><br />There is a girl. She has eyeliner. And <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs70/i/2010/325/d/3/black_veil_brides_tshirt_by_derder_chan-d33c2sg.jpg">brides with black veils</a> are yelling from her bosoms. She is distinctly androgynous, and her blue hair dye is abruptly birthed from her brunette roots. You feel a stir in your chest; one that compels you to relate with her.<br /><br />However, you are a shy idiot, and instead sit several seats behind her so as to devour her with your eyes, because you cannot bring yourself to talk to her.<br /><br />Or because she's black. <i>Passive racism wins again.</i></div><div><b><br /></b>The actualization of indie cognizance does not imply that the two subjects will interact. In fact, it almost definitively means they will not. Ultimately, there are two reasons.<br /><br />1. Because it's crushingly nerve-wracking to talk to a stranger.<br /><br />2. Because "Who the fuck is this bitch and what is she doing in YOUR indie territory????"<br /><br />Despite this, indie cognizance undoubtedly forces one to stare like a potential school shooter, and disable your environmental awareness. This psychotic staring is caused by a mental tennis game involving your personal convictions, and the contradiction of them. This staring is generally marked by a distinct disappearance of the Passion Pit song that was playing in one's ears.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_z2w8ZENiqLo/SfnGW0YPIHI/AAAAAAAAALI/ovE5j51eKCg/s400/passion+pit+ban-pp1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 319px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_z2w8ZENiqLo/SfnGW0YPIHI/AAAAAAAAALI/ovE5j51eKCg/s400/passion+pit+ban-pp1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">And everything is going to th............</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Further details</span>:<br /><br />Indie cognizance, as mentioned earlier, does not require two members to be of the "<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.deathcabforcutie.com/">indie</a>" scene. It is simply the most fitting term for anyone who does not blend in with their environment. This is because "indie" is short for "independent". You do not have to purchase pins from <a href="http://www.etsy.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Etsy.com</span></a> or amuse your fixie-fancy on <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://bikesnobnyc.blogspot.com/">Bike Snob NYC</a> in order to be indie.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://capitalcitycycles.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/snobbook.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 357px; height: 500px;" src="http://capitalcitycycles.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/snobbook.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">One could say I'm </span><span style="font-style: italic;">nonplussed about this misconception.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div>Furthermore, because the environment must contrast against the two IC subjects, indie cognizance is not possible in Starbucks, Hot Topic, American Apparel, Urban Outfitters, <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&amp;source=web&amp;cd=1&amp;ved=0CCgQFjAA&amp;url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.lastnightsparty.tv%2F&amp;rct=j&amp;q=Last%20Night%27s%20Party&amp;ei=6H1ITdqYBoGClAfK_IiiBA&amp;usg=AFQjCNF_WY2M9vJc5S_r8Pd68hZ7GIfrqw&amp;cad=rja"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Last Night's Party</span></a>, or the entire neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY.</div><div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Summation and Personal Inquiry:</span><br /><br />Indie cognizance is a powerful emotion that numbs the senses of even the most expressive scenester. It is mostly likely the offspring of a primal human urge; to connect with those of your kind.<br /><br />Unfortunately, its thrilling rush is met with apt anticlimax as it creates an earthquake of awkward throughout one's body, its epicenter the tectonic shifting of being a <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://hipsterhitler.com/">try-hard</a> and one's crippling self-doubt.<br /><br />It is with this observation that I feel IC is less a mere emotion and more akin to a legendary sword; its power, so great, is both intimidating and irresistible. And with the proper wielding, is a great asset for revolution. Overcoming IC's inundating paralysis is an action I have yet seen, but my belief is that doing so could lead to great things.<br /><br /><a href="http://gamesnet.vo.llnwd.net/o1/gamestar/objects/424530_main.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://gamesnet.vo.llnwd.net/o1/gamestar/objects/424530_main.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">Or so I assume.</span> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6241515355800570590?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-92053214433864073262011-01-26T16:05:00.003-05:002011-01-26T16:09:38.508-05:00We visited Barnes and Nobles, and stumbled upon an uninhabited building. All very sophisticated business.<div><br /></div><div>Check out our respective pages, my band <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Argonauts/174609959235820"><b>here</b></a>, their band <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Two-Step-With-Marlon-Brando/176974595650175"><b>there</b></a>.<br /><div><br /></div><div><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/495203458643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/495203458643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/495204508643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/495204508643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object></div><div><br /></div><div><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/495204678643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/495204678643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-9205321443386407326?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-39765837721478326942011-01-24T07:21:00.000-05:002011-01-24T07:22:48.726-05:00<iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ZSdqhRvaQck" frameborder="0"></iframe><div><br /></div><div>I'm actually proud of this one!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3976583772147832694?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-29576500112297867322011-01-10T09:56:00.010-05:002011-01-18T00:18:01.195-05:00<a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-501465_162-20027837-501465.html"><blockquote></blockquote>http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-501465_162-20027837-501465.html</a><div><br /></div><div><blockquote><i>"President Obama is planning to hand the U.S. Commerce Department authority over a forthcoming cybersecurity effort to create an Internet ID for Americans, a White House official said here today."</i></blockquote></div><div>This sounds like a national ID card!</div><div><blockquote><i>"We are not talking about a national ID card,"</i></blockquote><div>What. Government-controlled system then?</div><div></div><blockquote><div><br /></div><i>"We are not talking about a government-controlled system."</i></blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh come on. Give me something to get pissed about!</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote><i>"What we are talking about is enhancing online security and privacy and reducing and perhaps even eliminating the need to memorize a dozen passwords, through creation and use of more trusted digital identities."</i></blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>So the President and an entire government department are involving themselves in what is assured to be an intricate process involving the Internet...to save us from spyware and the inconvenience of passwords?<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_l6jS7oU2Chs/TTSPkyEA1DI/AAAAAAAAAM0/cawcV-AIJkU/s1600/048.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 294px; height: 221px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_l6jS7oU2Chs/TTSPkyEA1DI/AAAAAAAAAM0/cawcV-AIJkU/s200/048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563229301786072114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Me furiously typing in a password.</span></span><br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty sure that's a banal excuse for such a grandiose project. This involves personally linking every American user on the Internet to a unique ID. That's <a href="http://www.internetworldstats.com/top20.htm">310,282,863</a> individuals. And we're supposed to assume that you're marginalizing anonymity because of Bonzi Buddy and how annoying it is to type out a phrase?</div><div><br /></div><div><div>"I don't have to get a credential if I don't want to."</div><div><br /></div><div>Because we're supposed to assume you'll undergo this massive project solely to provide an <i>option</i>?</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder who asked for this. Not which forgettable political lackey, but which<i> citizen</i>. Who were <i>the regular ass people</i> that asked for this? Which private user of the Internet really felt it necessary to have these security measures, after nearly two decades of a system for privacy that's clearly been satisfactory? Honestly, since when does anyone ever feel their information is vulnerable? And how often does anyone ever have their information stolen in proportion to the millions who don't?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Schmidt stressed today that anonymity and pseudonymity will remain possible on the Internet."</div><div><br /></div><div>If you ask all 310.2 million of us to use a universal alias, this would mean that every single website that requires personal information could have said information attached to the unique ID.<i> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span></i>How is that anonymity? It's like how the Japanese use the narrow-line tool from MS Paint on monstrous penises and call it "censoring".<br /><i><br />Find your own picture.<br /><br /></i></div><div> </div><div>Compound this with the increasing number of companies who encourage Internet bill pay by charging a fee for any other method of payment, and voila, the government knows precisely who you are and what your favorite 8thStreetLatina scene is on Youporn.<br /><br /><a href="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:LAe5nvvEspPdzM:http://i457.photobucket.com/albums/qq294/ManicHispanic18/untitled.jpg&amp;t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 194px;" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:LAe5nvvEspPdzM:http://i457.photobucket.com/albums/qq294/ManicHispanic18/untitled.jpg&amp;t=1" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Critical information.</i></span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I don't even like bitching about politics. It's why I very seldom post about it. Everything about it seems so inexorably absurd, from its characters to the actual governing, that I feel I'd be more productive trying to get <a href="http://www.nme.com/news/foo-fighters/54498">NME to shut the fuck up about the Foo Fighters.</a><br /></div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://static.nme.com/images/gallery/atmos210809GE3.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 459px; height: 368px;" src="http://static.nme.com/images/gallery/atmos210809GE3.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Godlike genius, pictured here.</span><br /></span><br /><br /></span></div><div>But this particular piece of information, one that has swept quietly through the news, seems a lot more incendiary than the media's whispering suggests. I just thought someone might as well stand on a soapbox and get mad as hell about it.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2957650011229786732?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-86462517153902921732011-01-09T05:13:00.014-05:002011-01-09T23:49:18.618-05:00Writing about specific things doesn't interest me anymore; rambling seems something my words are more interested in doing right now.<br /><div><br /></div><div><i>Nothing new.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Which explains this blog's recent silence. That, and life has been pretty evolutionary for me as of late. Before I had enough quiet time to contemplate people and events; this created a sea of thoughts to fish for the blog. Now it's been overrun by rival fishermen donning green aprons and rock instruments.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's start with the latter. I've been in a band called <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.facebook.com/#%21/pages/Argonauts/174609959235820">Argonauts</a> (I'm the drummer) for about 4 or 5 months now. Recently, we've finally gained some ground in our music and played our first show (Videos at the end). Practice and the myriad experiences that come with being in a band have been replacing any need for me to write clever whims about stupid people. All my creativity has been transferred into music and my drumming, leaving little for my poor intellectual side to scavenge for this blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, it would be possible to <i>drum up</i> (Puns are always a good idea!) some bits of meticulous sarcasm if I had spare time beyond the band. But Starbucks replaces that, and does so ruthlessly. It's not just the amount of hours, but that Starbucks manages to stunt any consistent train of thought. This is new for me, because if ever you find me blankly staring into the distance, it isn't because my brain's matching my eyes. And yet the noise pollution of Starbucks, and how absolutely generic the level of thought is there, has been suffocating for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong. The job, as it is, is still enjoyable. But when you add the variable that is humanity, the equation always ends up undefined. The customers/co-workers aren't rude. Okay, generally. But the conversations they have and what they deem important has me smashing my cup of Perfect Oatmeal from time to time.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>"It's cold out there huh?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>"How was your [recent holiday here]?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Did you sleep well last night?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Which leaves little room for any thoughtful answer:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Yes."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"It was good."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"No (Implying: Because I seek caffeine like Velma Dinkley looking for her glasses and am unable to apply self-control)."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Then, like my favorite blogger Kate's mentioned, the <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://tangerinewolf.blogspot.com/2010/03/kfjhdsm.html">back-and-forth tennis-like quality</a><a href="http://tangerinewolf.blogspot.com/2010/03/kfjhdsm.html"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">of most conversation</span></a> means this entire mindfuck of an exchange happens <i>again. With these exchanges happening multiple times. IN THE SPAN OF 10 MINUTES.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I don't want to misconstrue my hatred of shitty conversation with a hatred for human interaction or something. But when you have the same people coming in and conversing about the same bullshit, with thoughts about as deep and interesting as a baby's asshole, it gets incredibly grating after 5 months.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think it's simply my age that creates this friction. I suppose these middle aged adults that swarm my Starbucks with particular fervor have gotten the swing of this shitty way of existing. Alright, that's kind of unfair. I just don't feel like having the same 5 conversations 10 times in 30 minutes. I think it's a sociological shame to do so.</div><div><br /></div><div>So at some point I might end up transferring to a Starbucks where old people don't enjoy being old. Starbucks is still a great place to work at, and its highs are probably better than any job I've ever had, but I've never been as intellectually annoyed as this before.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, that's more or less what I've been doing lately. I'm going to find ways to create more time for things like this. There's a part of me that really misses it, and starves for it. I can't neglect it.<br /><br />Oh and don't bother asking what constantlychangeshername is doing. Soy beans and kittens is a really underwhelming response.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now here are the videos that blatantly yell "I hope this compensates for my lack of pictures."</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/482774533643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/482774533643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/482762108643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/482762108643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/482764253643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/482764253643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/482764333643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/482764333643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8646251715390292173?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-79850508377418698152010-12-12T15:13:00.008-05:002010-12-19T08:37:45.001-05:00I don't normally go about disclosing personal emotions on this blog. There's a variety of reasons, but mostly because my emotions are vapid and temporary. However, as mentioned briefly in the previous blog, the interesting dynamic between me and people has been the focal point of my days lately, so I kind of can't help it.<br /><br />Besides, something weird happened that I didn't expect.<br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/Users/Brian/AppData/Local/Temp/moz-screenshot.png" alt="" /><br /><a href="http://www.moviefancentral.com/images/faq/blog.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 332px; height: 250px;" src="http://www.moviefancentral.com/images/faq/blog.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">You posting a blog?</span></span><br /><br />I feel that I'm unconditionally kind to people. So, in an effort to bring some balance, on Dec. 5th, the last day of my teenage life, I would seek this balance.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5-fV-zk9T_Q/SwHGPZTAgeI/AAAAAAAAAJM/RSmH98XEh9k/s1600/Unbalanced-Web-500px.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 349px; height: 191px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_5-fV-zk9T_Q/SwHGPZTAgeI/AAAAAAAAAJM/RSmH98XEh9k/s1600/Unbalanced-Web-500px.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Except it turned out like this.</span></span><br /><br />So I did some bad things. Nothing crazy. Thing is though, the day has had an unintended effect. I want to do <span style="font-style: italic;">more</span>.<br /><br />Since that day I've only grown less tolerant of people and whenever I self-righteously deem someone insolent, I'm engulfed in this strange passion to correct them. The shallow conclusion is that what I did wasn't enough. Honestly, I think it just sparked something.<br /><br />What comes of this teenage aftertaste I'm not sure. And, like I ended my last blog, I'm not entirely sure these sentiments are so unique. I wouldn't be surprised if a million and one 20 year olds feel the same way. Still though, what occurs between today and the next two years will solidify who I am forever. And this isn't how I thought things would go.<br /><br />Nevertheless, the night was fun. Here are a few clips that will either make you laugh, totally deflate the grandiose nature of this blog, or both. Probably both.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/469188493643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/469188493643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/469188998643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/469188998643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="400" height="300"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://www.facebook.com/v/469189123643"><embed src="http://www.facebook.com/v/469189123643" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="400" height="300"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7985050837741869815?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-23171055099601747992010-11-24T08:09:00.020-05:002010-11-24T10:51:22.289-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://sithoughts.mu.nu/archives/trainwreck.jpg"></a>Amidst the long (Okay, 3 months) hiatus, there's one very prominent thing I've learned about myself and the relationship I have with people as a whole. I hate them.<br /><div><div><br /><div><img style="width: 300px; height: 300px;" alt="" src="http://cdn.buzznet.com/media/jjr/headlines/2009/03/alexander-ludwig-kids-choice.jpg" border="0" /></div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">What a profound audience you've touched.</i></span><br /><br /><div>But what feeds this is a starkly contrasting duality; two opposing sides intertwined like the infinity symbol, constantly circulating and generating one another's energy.<br /></div><br /><div>The contrast? I love them.<br /></div><br /><div><img style="width: 390px; height: 314px;" alt="" src="http://guerillastickers.com/ErectGOP.jpg" border="0" /><br /><span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">XOXO</span><br /></span><br />It's something out of 1984's "doublethink", where I can somehow hold both emotions and feel like there's a real logic behind it without my brain melting. I'm not sure which is the base emotion, but because we're all dumbass young adults, it's more entertaining to start with why I hate them.<br /><br />They're stupid. Really, it's that simple. Advertisers, corporations, and media perpetuate the belief that people are easily generalized into a few categories. Not only do people still unflinchingly support them despite that, but they don't even bother to notice that they are the stereotype they've been told they were.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, fat white women DO eat ice cream when they're sad. No, they DON'T care about that. Yes, black people DO love watermelon/grape-flavored products. No, they DON'T care about that. Yes, we hispanics DO mow lawns and work construction sites illegally. No, they DON'T aspire for more than that. Yes, white guys DO drink miller lite at bars and think mediocre girls are hot. No, they DON'T know they look just like the beer commercial.<br /><br /></div><div><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><img style="width: 341px; height: 260px;" src="http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/desert-landscape-roseann-gilmore.jpg" width="355" height="414" /></i></div><div><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">This blog is sex without foreplay. And no condom.<br /><br /></span></i></i><span style="font-size:85%;">(That might as well be rape, right? <span style="font-style: italic;">Is this blog raping you?</span>)</span><br /><br />And God forbid they're social when they play consumer at a store; 'cause it's not like using the automated cashier is an affront to all of humanity. No! In fact it's faster! Yeah! What a great train of thought!<br /><br /></div><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><a href="http://sithoughts.mu.nu/archives/trainwreck.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 289px;" src="http://sithoughts.mu.nu/archives/trainwreck.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></i><div><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><i><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;">All aboard!</span></i></i><br /><br />And yet, it's why I love them. I coddle them like an affable retard. Like a wounded animal, I feel as though they're unable to see their own flaws and that I, as a righteous do-gooder who may or may not laugh at gay porn as recreation, have to care about them for their own good.I treat them kindly and with the utmost respect whenever possible.<br /><br />When the homeless ask me for change, I give it to them. And if I don't, I make change for them. If some drug-addled straggler decides he's going to have a weird conversation on the train with me (And we've all been through this), then yes, I will have a fantastic conversation with him. That old guy who's probably a Vietnam vet. but obscures this detail because he's making shit Q&amp;A jokes like anyone does those in the 21st century?<br /><br />Yeah, I've given that guy the time of day. Because I know no one else has. And I know no one else will.<br /><br /><div><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nKa-dM7PvEo/S7-ZQ4BMgKI/AAAAAAAAEVo/k2uv22Pcqx0/s1600/high_horse.jpg" width="406" height="275" /></i></div><div style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><i>I know. Get me a stool.</i></i></span></div><br />All because I hate them. Because I know that there's people who seem to lack that special level of awareness, or maybe stopped giving a fuck, but either way, it makes me despise them.<br /><br />Don't misunderstand me here either. I perfectly understand that this sounds like one of those rants some kid makes as he stands up in the lecture hall during his political science class only to find the class was nodding the whole time, and no one knows why he was screaming a sermon at the choir.<br /><br />I suppose this is more or less a journal entry, and not really a "Oh my God, NO ONE THINKS LIKE I DO" diatribe. A marker that, yeah, I felt this way at some point.<br /><br />Also this is a nice preface for my next blog. Okay, it's totally a preface for my next blog.<br /></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2317105509960174799?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-1191589641528386112010-09-03T12:51:00.001-04:002010-09-03T12:52:41.890-04:00<div><b>I'm a rookie: </b>Still getting the hang of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Windows Movie Maker</span> ProTools, which causes lil' mistakes like the sound cutting out about 3 times.</div><div><br /></div><object style="background-image:url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/jz0iDEadSis/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jz0iDEadSis?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jz0iDEadSis?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-119158964152838611?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-29131365007203212632010-09-01T20:38:00.005-04:002011-02-18T07:15:54.878-05:00<div><i>Not quite down the same observant vein of the previous "Ramblings", but certainly a rambling. As you'll see, these are my disjointed thoughts when I should've been dead asleep.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>For all you amateur philosphers; the trick to a proverb isn't obscure wisdom or interesting articulation. It's all about the visual/audio symmetry of the proverb itself. Here's a random one that pompously occupies my Facebook status:<div><br /></div><div>"Zeal lies in the unstable."</div><div><br /></div><div>The "the" makes things a little awkward, but it appears about even and is likable to say.</div><div><br /></div><div>"A banker is someone who will lend you an umbrella when the sun is shining, and who asks for it back when it start to rain."</div><div><br /></div><div>This isn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>So the next time you practice your Facebook status philosophy, make sure it doesn't feel like shrapnel in your mouth.</div><div><br /></div><div>---------</div><div><br /></div><div>The deadpan terraforming that occurs in my brain when I'm sleepy is incredible. With a solid face, I can deliver biting lines of criticism and humor, all the while legitimately not giving a fuck. Not that I'm proud of this, but that it's quite the opposite of what I am normally. Which is to say I'm unfunny, unimpressive, and sharp like a pound cake.</div><div><br /></div><div>--------</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, or tomorrow (But probably never), I'm going to post to you guys the worst shoes I have ever seen in my life, courtesy of Urban Outfitters. I love the place as a clothing store, but wow, "Made in China" is indeed the exact opposite of "Sturdy".</div><div><br /></div><div>-------</div><div><br /></div><div>I've recently decided to dedicate myself to a somewhat "Scene" look. Scene. I hate the very thought of it. But honestly, I do feel I look awesome, and that it best expresses who I am. If I didn't, or if I felt I was merely following a temporary trend, I wouldn't. So far I've avoided those blazingly queer half-pants and slip-ons those indie Williamsburg kids flame around in. So I think I'm okay.</div><div><br /></div><div>------</div><div><br /></div><div>Hispanic women are the worst customers. It's like their hands have a homing device directed at the counter when they exchange money. And they practically avoid pleasantries. I've honestly looked into the eyes of these 5'3'' 3-toddler-having-crib-pushers and wondered to myself, "Are they afraid I may deport them?". With legitimate reason to believe so.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>-------</div><div><br /></div><div>None of that was racist, just honest. Why? Because my mother is one of them. She's a total bitch as a customer. I love you though.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2913136500720321263?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-67781195006866489172010-08-31T11:48:00.002-04:002010-08-31T11:50:24.150-04:00<div>I've joined the rest of the nerds in 2010 and started using a camera. Now you can actually hear me babble and view my unkempt room! I apologize in advance for the kind of abrupt ending. I'm learning here.</div><div><br /></div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/x1DVXFJ-bNM?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/x1DVXFJ-bNM?fs=1&amp;hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-6778119500686648917?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-75499972236054231312010-08-30T16:40:00.008-04:002010-08-30T16:57:53.431-04:00I hit deadlines about as well as JFK gets through Dealey Plaza. <div><br /></div><div>About every time I state something will be posted at a certain date, you could bet a fortune it's simply not gonna happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, this time around with the Bomber's Dozen, my proverbial block wasn't simply procrastination but something more legitimate; THERE HAVE BEEN NO NEWS STORIES.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll open the veil to the backroom: I gave the Bomber's Dozen stuff a 2 week hiatus to allow the world to bubble with more absurd news for me to harvest. Except it didn't. Instead, I got more Katy Perry being Katy Perry and how the Leeds Festival substantiates my tragedy of not being British.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did however save six stories which are worth doing something goofy with. I'll have to goof on them when I've stopped being an exhausted rookie Barista. Which, by the way, has been going awesome and needs to be blogged about.</div><div><br /></div><div>This blog had two titles, because along with revealing to you that I'm about as reliable as Judas and the world has done nothing of relevance for 2 weeks, I've just spent this entire morning watching "Doctor Who" from 10AM to 4PM. And it was fan-fucking-tastic.</div><div><br /></div><div>I initially watched the show back when it premiered years ago in England through fileshare programs and eventually lost track. Downloading got incredibly grating after a while. It's such a fun series that I'm pretty disappointed I've missed out on it over the years.</div><div><br /></div><div>More importantly (Or really, slightly more narcissistic), I haven't had a moment to just sit and drool for 4 hours in a while. I've been trying so hard to consistently do something with my existence that I've kind of forgotten to give my brain levity. Not that I've been curing cancer for the past few weeks, but I haven't given time to just let myself be completely lazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a result I've ended up fatigued in more ways than one, which resulted in the barely audible haystack that's rolling through this blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>But look at me now. 4 hours of British people with aliens, and I'm rambling off trite metaphors like a 14-year-old poet. My life needs a little more lazy and a little less discipline. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or maybe I'm wrong and my procrastination has become parasitic. Oh God.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-7549997223605423131?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-25296562033776687752010-08-22T12:26:00.002-04:002010-08-22T15:22:17.347-04:00<span style="font-style: italic; ">The Bomber's Dozen will be back next weekend. Instead, here's some smug advice:</span><br /><br />I've been around Blogger. Well, I had to be; if you own a blog, you're bound to have scoured the lands in search for ways to cyber flash your tits for cyber Mardi Gras beads.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.spatcave.com/gras03/jmods/images/mDSCF0020_jpg.jpg"><img src="http://www.spatcave.com/gras03/jmods/images/mDSCF0020_jpg.jpg" alt="" border="0" style="cursor: pointer; width: 338px; height: 253px; " /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>LOOK AT MY BLOG THANK YOU!!!</i></span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The mediocrity I'll run into on Blogger though can be kind of annoying. Well, it's not so much mere mediocrity as it is the way there's a million of the same blogs over and over again. I'll (to my own disdain) avoid linking any particular blogs here, but holy shit, you don't know how often I've seen blogs with the header "The Story of..." or "My life..." or "The Ramblings of" or any dramatic lead-in.<br /><br /></div>Along with this is how below the novella header lies the same poop dollop of words verbally wreaking about how they woke up and found out Amy was happily pregnant and Zack had a lot of trouble in math class.<br /><div><br /><img src="http://www.jeannewolfe.com/Images/NeighborhoodsPictures/New%20Suburb%20Beautiful/New_Suburb_Beautiful.jpg" style="width: 332px; height: 248px; " /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; "><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); ">Such thrilling suburban adventures.</span><br /><br /></span></span></div><div>Now look, it's not to say that you can't write about your life. But rather, if you do, try to weave the writing to maximize its level of intrigue. A few months ago, in a post called "<a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/04/best-blogs-ever.html"><b>BEST BLOGS EVER!!</b></a>", I'd complimented India Volkers' "<b><a href="http://indiavolkers.blogspot.com/">but it turned out I hadn't</a></b>" for doing just that. Again, here's an excerpt (...Of an excerpt) from that fantastic piece of blogging "<a href="http://indiavolkers.blogspot.com/2010/04/cheer-me-up.html"><b>Cheer Me Up</b></a>":</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote>"....the perfect opportunity to organise a nice coffee with an old friend, in which they inform you through a series of awkward unfinished sentences that you are essentially friend-dumped owing to the complexities of boy/girl friendships, the inextricability of past from present and a girlfriend who is 'NOT A PROBLEM'...The rest of the week has largely been passable in the South East, perhaps a five point five rising to a seven in places, but approached with a vaguely droll smile and shadowed by generally vast and looming exam-shaped shadows...."</blockquote></div><div><br /></div><div>I've read that over like 8 times and still find myself amazed by how she took an unoriginal conversation with her friend and her mundane day experiences and turned it into a literary gold chalice with a pimp drinking out of it.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://www.pimpcostumes.com/images/products/GlassPimpCupGoldMd.jpg" /></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); "><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>A pinnacle in storytelling.</i></span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>That post could've easily gone like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yesterday me and Jake were out and he sat me down. We had a nice coffee (it's so funny how we always have coffee) but he started telling me things about his girlfriend. It came out of nowhere! I was wondering where he was going with this and that's when he said that his girlfriend had been worried about me! I mean seriously! He swears that she's "not a problem" or whatever but guys, if an old friend does that, what would you think???</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah exactly!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanna punch my taint for writing that.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><img src="http://taoofdan.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/10/UNICORN_taint.gif" /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;">In case you didn't know.</span><br /><br />And I am, indeed, a unicorn.<br /><br /></div><div>Anyways, Volkers is the "DO" of this post. But instead of a hypothetical, here is a real and random "DON'T" from the Blogger universe:</div><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div>"I didn't get to see Adam all morning. He worked overtime this morning and got off right as I was leaving for work. As I pulled up, one minute before my shift starts, I see Adam's car parked in the lot. He came to see me just for a quick hug and brought me a sweet tea. :] He sure does know how to make me feel special. Love.it. Love.him."</div><div></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>You know how thoughts are voiced by yourself in your brain? Mine just yelled "AAAUUUGGGHHHH". It hasn't stopped.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead of vaguely reacting to that slice of boring, here's exactly what's wrong with it:</div><div><ul><li>No one <i>really</i> knows who Adam is.</li><li>She didn't preface the post with anything that would make us care about Adam.</li><li>Even if she did, the moment she's typing about has been in a movie a million times.</li><li>And finally, she wrote it at an 8th grade level.</li></ul></div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, maybe she established Adam in an earlier set of blogs. But what good is that to new readers? And even so, this isn't hooking them into reading earlier blogs about Adam.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm sure this girl is sweet and that Adam is just a lovely man, but to write about it so simply is to imply it is worth caring about, and nothing about it has been made worth caring about. Especially when you ended it like a tagline for "Eat. Pray. Love."<br /><br /><br /><img src="http://womantribune.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Eat-Pray-Love.jpg" /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; ">Love. It. Love. Him.</span> </span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; ">Shoot. Self.</span></span><br /><br /></div><div>So what should you do to avoid this? For starters, if you're gonna post about your life, pick and choose the life situations you're going to blog about. Run it through your head and think, "If I were telling a stranger this story, would he just pity laugh the whole way through?".<br /><br /></div><div>Secondly, since you can't dramatically act out the scene on the Internet, try to write the moment in the most clever, descriptive and succinct way possible. For example, in <a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/08/tales-of-budding-barista.html"><b>my Barista blog</b></a>, I give the Barista's obligations a sense of depth and intrigue as I quickly describe the principles of Starbucks and the intricacies of its drinks. This piques the reader's interest, and gives my chosen story a stronger mystique. Thus, making it worth posting.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.grokdotcom.com/wp-content/uploads/Melissa/starbucks_foam.jpg" /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;">Or as interesting as milk jizz and sugar can be.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Third, humor is your best friend. Even if you can't turn your daily life into Shakespeare, using humor can make your post overall more likable. It doesn't even have to be so witty; the fact that you have used humor shows that you are trying to make a friendly connection with the reader, as opposed to smugly implying we should care about your PMS drivel.<br /><br /><img src="http://www.ruggli.com/bilder/inhalt/produkte/cl-3m_tampon.jpg" /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;">I shouldn't think "Always" when I'm reading.<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><b><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/RedMeansGo/~3/aGwVNYniLvk/world-is-full-of-dickheads.html">Red Means Go</a></b> does a great job at this, where she uses self-deprecation and witty drawings to humorously jacket her topics and stories. It's not the greatest piece of writing I've read on Blogger, but it's definitely the one with the most understanding and tactile use of humor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lastly, pictures are the greatest weapon any Blogger has. Utilizing pictures, be it pictures of yourself or pictures of other things, provides a visual element for the reader to be entertained by. The right pictures also give the blog post a sense of life, and accentuate the blog's message, allowing it to drive it in deeper than words can. Like how me and Ms. I Change My Name Like I'm A Repeatedly Rejected Dog use pictures of children often to counter the caustic sarcasm and keep things tongue-in-cheek.<br /><br /><br /><img src="http://the-grayline.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/10/free-candy-van.jpg" style="width: 375px; height: 249px; " /><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; ">And to remind them that we have candy in our van.</span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>A great example of this, even though she doesn't actually write much in between, is the blog <a href="http://georgefacee.blogspot.com/"><b>georgetown</b></a>. She often takes pictures of her romps through life. Mere writing may make these experiences uninteresting and redundant. But the pictures provide an aura for her site and for herself, making it infinitely more interesting for the reader than it could've been.</div><div><br /></div><div>So let's go through it again:</div><div><br /></div><div><ol><li>People don't care about Adam.</li><li>No seriously they don't.</li><li>Use colorful and descriptive language. Makes it less boring.</li><li>Try to be funny. Makes you likable.</li><li>Always use pictures. Gives your writing life.</li></ol></div><div><br /></div><div>And remember, always add a heaping dose of your own personality. This is what will make your site unique. These guidelines provide a blueprint, but the architecture is up to you. So always try to be the most <i>you</i> that you can be when you blog.<br /><br /><img src="http://rlv.zcache.com/be_yourself_button-p145847131737314595tmn2_210.jpg" /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153); font-size:85%;">Seriously. It's that simple.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And there you go, you (should) have a decent blog that stands out from the hundreds of "Story of My Special Vagina" blogs, and won't make me gossip about you in an elongated blog like a high school girl.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2529656203377668775?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-81406537390266176762010-08-18T09:59:00.013-04:002010-08-18T10:23:20.664-04:00<b>Let's all get plastered</b>: <i>Take a shot for every variation of "whore", "cunt", "useless", and the like.</i><div><br /></div>This title is great and all, but really, we're not here for sociological understanding. So just say it with me:<br /><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Reality TV is a piece of shit.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-style: italic;">Feels good man.</span><br /></div><br />So much time is given to meaningless whores (Literally and figuratively), who do meaningless things, and receive meaningless attention.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://www.intmath.com/Differential-equations/HTML/AIDS__1.jpg" /></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">But the AIDS is forever.</span></span></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It's the sociological equivalent to someone getting pulled over; poor asshole runs a stop sign, and I'm sure we've all been through this, but we'll all slow down drastically and stare at it anyway in the vain hope that something dramatic has happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the most amazing things about reality TV, though, is that it is the most blatant way to walk up to the American Dream and politely tell it to get the fuck out of your way. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Queue predictable Kim Kardashian picture.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="width: 408px; height: 613px;" src="http://i305.photobucket.com/albums/nn212/ruben243/kim-kardashian-showing-stuff.jpg" /></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">These are the breasts of our demise.</span></span></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>All delicious hyperbole aside, let's break down Kimmy's illustrious career:</div><div><br /></div><div>- 1980 to 2005: Obscure whore.</div><div><br /></div><div>- 2006: Oh, neat, a TV show. Maybe she'll be an actress or ---</div><div><br /></div><div>-2007: Release a sex tape with Brandy's eternally teenage brother Ray J, that totally wasn't intentionally released whatsoever nope. Especially when she sued Vivid Entertainment but it went down like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>"YOU HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO RIGHT <a href="http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/item_k4U38GcyWUjEW2TRrBK5zK">to hand me 5 million dollars and I'll be on my way.</a>"</div><div><br /></div><div>And it totally wasn't the reason why she was offered to pose nude for Playboy.</div><div><br /></div><div>- 2008: Or to be a <a href="http://news.lalate.com/2008/02/13/kim-kardashian-bongo-jeans-picture-kim-kardashian-model-ad-campaign-bongo/">face model for a fashion line</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or generate enough interest to make a reality TV show.</div><div><br /></div><div>And be given various acting, film, and guest appearances.</div><div><br /></div><div>...And her own workout DVD, called "Workout with Kim Kardashian". Great name, by the way.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i430.photobucket.com/albums/qq30/MrIndieDay/Sarcasm.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 475px; height: 264px;" src="http://i430.photobucket.com/albums/qq30/MrIndieDay/Sarcasm.png" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Welcome to my new blog.</span></span></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what more to write. Seriously; <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kim_Kardashian">her Wikipedia page</a> is incredibly small. My favorite part is that it lists her as a "celebutante". Which is a gentle way of saying she's a mutated spleen.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/adam/images/en/spleen-removal-normal-anatomy-picture.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/adam/images/en/spleen-removal-normal-anatomy-picture.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">How does an existential splenectomy work?</span></span></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>To circle it back to the American Dream point (Because incessantly implying "slut" almost wrecked this blog's point), she reached a level of stardom that has made her ubiquitous with fame and success. Along with her development deals, Kim Kardashian constantly receives media and tabloid attention through her bajillion bikini shots and her undying lust for athletes.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://a.abcnews.com/images/Nightline/ht_little_league19_070627_mn.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://a.abcnews.com/images/Nightline/ht_little_league19_070627_mn.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Nice throw. Let's connect genitals.<br /><br /></span></span>Essentially, she has made it in America without any substantial or credible effort on her part. Fortune, fame, adoration, attention; found through the quick insertion of a mediocre pop star's fleshy tube and the ambitious lenses of a digital camera. How is that possible? And more importantly, why did we encourage this?</div><div><br /></div><div>Alright enough with the intellectual bullshit; she's famous for being a dickpocket, and I'm pissed.<br /><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.smh.com.au/2009/04/03/449130/shot_glass_lead_gallery__542x400-420x0.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 420px; height: 309px;" src="http://images.smh.com.au/2009/04/03/449130/shot_glass_lead_gallery__542x400-420x0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><i>Yes dickpocket counts. Take the shot.</i></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-8140653739026617676?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-30371581610641584762010-08-14T13:12:00.004-04:002010-08-16T14:32:03.857-04:00<b>(There's a few minor spoilers in here; no key plot elements, but I do give away a bit of the movie's one-of-a-kind style. You may want to see it without my coloring.)</b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Scott Pilgrim vs. The World is fantastic for a variety of reasons. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media.kansascity.com/smedia/2010/08/11/21/ScottPilgrim_Jump_08-13-2010_VA1GQRMB.embedded.prod_affiliate.81.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 450px;" src="http://media.kansascity.com/smedia/2010/08/11/21/ScottPilgrim_Jump_08-13-2010_VA1GQRMB.embedded.prod_affiliate.81.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Or just because Mary Elizabeth Winstead is sexy douchebag.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Firstly, Micheal Cera and the rest of the ensemble is perfectly casted. No one seemed out of place, and the personality of the characters perfectly reflected the looks and actions of the actors. Cera does a fantastic job as the cool yet nervous dork Scott Pilgrim, delivering his quick-witted lines and hilariously deadpan faces wonderfully, as does Pilgrim's love interest, Ramona Flowers.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:sTJWq1SayF16XM:http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BMTc2MjM4MjcxMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTgzMTU2Mw@@._V1._SX640_SY427_.jpg&amp;t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 260px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:sTJWq1SayF16XM:http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BMTc2MjM4MjcxMF5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTcwMTgzMTU2Mw@@._V1._SX640_SY427_.jpg&amp;t=1" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">The contrast between them is perfect.<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>The movie's pace is incredibly fast, with seamless scene transitions that are almost dizzying, as some start with Cera's face in one background, and instantly changing to another. It's way of cutting from scene to scene was refreshing, as it never used the same transition twice, and did so with complete understanding of how to apply certain cuts to enhance the humor.</div><div><br /></div><div>The storyline, while in retrospect a little bland, was perfectly exploded to ridiculous proportions, so you'd forget the story is as simple as one kid fighting seven people for one girl while being in a band (Which, by the way, made great music that I have to find). Not to mention the movie is smartly self-effacing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, no one has ever actually thought to apply video game aesthetics onto a movie before, and to see it done on this huge screen is like Mountain Dew for my sugar-starved eyes. The flashes of points as enemies evaporated into coins, the comic book onomatopoeias ("RRRrrrring"), and the cartoon-esque moments (Such as in one scene when Cera leaps through a house window to escape a girl) were things movies, the ones I've seen anyway, never executed so well before. This makes Pilgrim not only a refreshing movie, but quite possibly the most unique movie I'd ever laid eyes on.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://brusimm.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Scott-Pilgrim-vs-the-World-Michael-Cera-and-Satya-Bhabha.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 384px; height: 292px;" src="http://brusimm.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/03/Scott-Pilgrim-vs-the-World-Michael-Cera-and-Satya-Bhabha.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">If you hate this, please e-mail me so I can berate you.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>And of course, the fight scenes were lovingly over-the-top. My favorite was actually Ramona's fight scene.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="%20http://images.hitfix.com/photos/463147/Mary-Elizabeth-Winstead-as-Ramona-Flowers-in-Scott-Pilgrim-vs-The-World_article_story_main.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 217px;" src="http://images.hitfix.com/photos/463147/Mary-Elizabeth-Winstead-as-Ramona-Flowers-in-Scott-Pilgrim-vs-The-World_article_story_main.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is completely absurd. I love it.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>But the battle against the Vegan gets the nod for the most ridiculous. It exemplified the movie's self-awareness, as it subtlety breaks the fourth wall and makes fun of pop culture stereotypes, all the while providing visuals (Dr. Manhattan much) and moments (I mean seriously....a bass guitar battle in a movie? Fantastic.) simply never fathomed. </div><div><br /></div><div>And, on a side note, the in-movie music is actually pretty good on its own. It's worth watching just for the few "Sex Bombomb", Scott Pilgrim's band, songs.</div><div><br /></div><div>All in all, Scott Pilgrim is probably my favorite movie of all-time, and quite likely culminated what was easily the best at-the-theater experience I've ever had. It had the sights, the sounds, the humor, and the intelligence, with little left to be desired. I couldn't ask for anything more from this movie or that night. <i>Best movie night ever.</i></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-3037158161064158476?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-20757705400870295462010-08-14T00:02:00.008-04:002010-08-15T14:09:58.222-04:00<div><i>Bomber's Dozen's off this weekend. Instead, here's this awesomeness:</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Scott Pilgrim vs. The World is fucking fantastic.</div><div><br /></div><div>But did you need me to say that?</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Yes, because it totally was.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>It first caught my eye when its trailer popped up before "Get Him to the Greek". Though the music-based premise and video game visuals intrigued me, what really caught me was Be Your Own Pet's "Black Hole" playing in the background.</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew I had to watch this movie right at that moment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward to Friday, 12 AM, and there I was, AMC theaters, walking towards the screen. But I had no idea how much more awesome the night was gonna be, beyond the movie itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me and my friend found our seats 4 rows down from the very top. I kept iterating to him that the crowd tonight was different; it wasn't a bunch of Puerto Ricans trying to be as sexy as possible, or a bunch of white girls trying to be as Peurto Rican possible, it was just nerds. Scott Pilgrim fans, comic book dorks, and everything in between. The buzz coming from them was fantastic; the theater was a lit with chatter about various dorky topics.</div><div><br /></div><div>To drive the nerd point home, someone next to us actually pulled out an iPad and starting surfing the Internet on it. Seriously. I think he pulled it out of his pocket Looney Tunes-style.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the crowd wasn't done impressing me. Me and my friend, Chris, were waiting on someone else and his girlfriend. He asked me if I wanted to partake in yelling his name out when he entered the theater. I was nervous, but I could never pass up such a silly opportunity. </div><div><br /></div><div>And thank God I didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>The moment we saw him enter, I signaled the friend next to me and we aptly got up and yelled his name at the top of our lungs. This was followed by some people to the left of us yelling "HEY YEAH IT'S THAT GUY" in a sarcastically affable way, and then, after a few cheers from me and my friend, we led the entire move theater crowd in applauding and cheering my friend's entrance.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the greatest thing ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>The crowd's concert-like atmosphere continued during the trailers, in which we openly "WOO"ed as they started. My favorite part though was when M. Night Shamaylan's "Devil" trailer came up. The crowd was a bit quiet, seemingly interested. But they didn't know M. Night was the director, which me and my friends did. </div><div><br /></div><div>The moment his name flashed on screen, my friends and I yelled a timely "AWWWWWWWWWWWGHHHH" followed by the crowd booing and complaining about "The Last Airbender", which indeed is a terrible movie. </div><div><br /></div><div>I made few yells about how God is so much better than the Devil, and after the crowd's laughter, I immediately expressed to them my appreciation by yelling "I love you guys" and "YAY CROWD".</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Best movie crowd ever.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>But of course, we were all here for one movie. And it's easily the best movie I'd seen all year...</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2075770540087029546?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-58816648259971242502010-08-12T10:52:00.016-04:002010-08-14T00:53:31.663-04:00I remember writing <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/06/starbucks-ramblings.html">the Starbucks Ramblings</a> with a vague adoration for the store. I think everyone kind of experiences this little bit of intimacy with the place that satiates their caffeine addiction like an enabling girlfriend.<div><br /></div><div>But I never once thought (Hoped, but, not thought), that I would don the green apron and affably yell what sounds like discontinued M&amp;M flavors. </div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs247.snc4/39673_415149688643_694533643_4846390_5995257_n.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 412px; height: 309px;" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs247.snc4/39673_415149688643_694533643_4846390_5995257_n.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Yes, I serve food now.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I have handed my 2 weeks notice in to CVS, and have begun my transition to being the world renowned (Or quietly-despised) Starbucks barista.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've so far gone through 4 days of training. The first day was physically underwhelming but mentally uplifting; it consisted mostly of my shock that SB's mission statement is kind of an exact shadow of my own. Howard Schultz's (CEO of Starbucks) quote comes to mind here:</div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"> "We’re in the people business serving coffee, not the coffee business serving people." </blockquote><br /><br /></div><div>It's pretty much every I've ever asked for. Or maybe it's just CEO PC garbage.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xc/82481470.jpg?v=1&amp;c=IWSAsset&amp;k=2&amp;d=F1683185B4CC7809C0D06CC8ACD4FB86F15904D42B74E82C9CAEAD6853CF0C1D"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 311px; height: 327px;" src="http://cache3.asset-cache.net/xc/82481470.jpg?v=1&amp;c=IWSAsset&amp;k=2&amp;d=F1683185B4CC7809C0D06CC8ACD4FB86F15904D42B74E82C9CAEAD6853CF0C1D" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Shut up shut up shut up shut up.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Still, it's likable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day two was simple. And by simple, I mean holy shit, tedious recipe memorization makes my frontal lobe ache.</div><div><br /></div><div>Starbucks' core, ironically, is not in its actual coffee, but its lovely peripheral drinks. These involve lattes, teas, their iced counterparts, cappuccinos, frappuccinos, and smoothies, plus the variety of customized options, such as the shots of espresso, pumps of syrups, particular flavors of said syrup, the type of milk, inclusion/exclusion of whip cream and the amount of ice, where applicable.</div><div><br /></div><div>No, I'm not a robot. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.wired.com/news/images/full/chip03_f.3080.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 345px; height: 181px;" src="http://www.wired.com/news/images/full/chip03_f.3080.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">They haven't turned the chip on.</span></span><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I've spent the last two days or so learning and practicing these recipes, on occasion being mobbed by uppity white customers out of nowhere and being forced to kick my speed into high gear. This happens a lot in this Starbucks; a lull often turns into two whites chicks terribly arguing over caramel macchiatos.</div><div><br /></div><div>None of that was an exaggeration. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was handing off my very first caramel macchiato, the chick who very promptly grabbed it was immediately interrupted by some other chick. My trainer, who's an incredibly youthful and dedicated girl, immediately tried to settle it by saying "The next one's coming right up." She needed to say it twice, me joining in harmony the second time, because the two were passive aggressively debating who was first in line. </div><div><br /></div><div>The lesson here is that you don't fuck with a white girl's caramel macchiato.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or patience.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>But really don't fuck with their shit.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, since then I've just been destroying frappuccinos with my legendarily terrible whip cream applications. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://andrewlawlor.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/philosophy_ghandi_4.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 397px;" src="http://andrewlawlor.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/philosophy_ghandi_4.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Seriously, Ghandi would hand my shit back.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>But I've started memorizing the recipes and the basics have started entrenching themselves in my brain. Soon I'll start branding my personality onto the job. Which just means drawing dicks in the syrup boxes</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i31.tinypic.com/zydkle.png"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 420px; height: 236px;" src="http://i31.tinypic.com/zydkle.png" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">I would just kinda sit around all day...and draw pictures of dicks.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>The store and the atmosphere is an absolute 180 from CVS, with its undying obsession to customer service, and customers who are actually willing to reciprocate (SOME OF THEM REMEMBER MY NAME! PEOPLE ARE SO NICE!), and a pace like a 4 way intersection with traffic lights that change every 5 seconds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, the radio plays "Lazy Eye" by Silversun Pickups from time to time. Yes, the song is 2 minutes longer than it should be, but fuck me is that a massive improvement over whatever heartbreak Leona Lewis is throating again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty in love with Starbucks. And not just because Starbucks gives me free drinks. But because they stand for friendship, community, and best of all, humanity. And my first four days on the job has already proven that in a variety of ways, be it through the memorable and receptive customers, or through my dedicated co-workers.<br /><br />Okay, mostly because they give me free drinks.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://tonychung.ca/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/tony_macchiato.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 357px; height: 480px;" src="http://tonychung.ca/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/tony_macchiato.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Okay, <b>only</b> because they give me free drinks.<br /></i></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-5881664825997124250?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-27834048108756020352010-08-09T08:44:00.012-04:002010-08-11T06:30:36.003-04:00<div><div>13. <a href="http://www.thefirstpost.co.uk/66898,people,news,julian-assange-threatened-by-pentagon-over-wikileaks#ixzz0vqOnVM28"><b>War of the Leaks</b></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Or my prelude to homeless ranting.</div><div><br /></div><div>So the Pentagon has finally made a statement that they will <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:x-small;">assassinate</span> diplomatically assert themselves onto Wikileaks to cover up for its recent leak of 76,000 Afghanistan War files.</div><div><br /></div><div>The internet-savvy are quite aware of Wikileaks, but in case Blogger's #1 demographic, cute white girls, aren't so aware, here is my brief summary of what Wikileaks is/does:</div><div><br /></div><div>Wikileaks is a website site that discloses classified government files that it so deems necessary for the world to know. It leaks these files through anonymous sources. They are incredibly integral to our understanding of government and politics, since it opens doors to information we, the public, weren't supposed to know. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.salon.com/news/opinion/glenn_greenwald/2010/03/27/wikileaks/index.html">One of their most notable achievements was when they released files that suggested corruption lead to Iceland's economic collapse.</a> Because no other institution figured this, Iceland became very receptive to Wikileaks, <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/8504972.stm">and they are now working together to foster a more receptive environment for journalists and reporters.</a> Pocket this info for later.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wikileaks' claim to fame, however, is a video called "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rXPrfnU3G0&amp;has_verified=1">Collateral Murder</a>", which is footage from a helicopter of the US adamantly attacking visibly unarmed Iraqi civilians.</div><div><br /></div><div>In short, Wikileaks is easily one of the most globally relevant sites on the Internet, and is a symbol for political transparency across the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>So let's get back to the Pentagon, who've made a "Hey bro what the fuck" motion with this "compel" statement.</div><div><br /></div><div>This push marks the first time the Pentagon have openly declared a discontent with Wikileaks' action (Besides secretively bitching about it in more files Wikileaks discovered). If Julian Assange, the site's founder and owner, is irked by this, his solace would lie in Iceland, who have openly sworn to protecting him and his type of service.</div><div><br /></div><div>You may now take Iceland out of your pocket.</div><div><br /></div><div>If Wikileaks discloses information that is substantial enough, which the Afghanistan files were quite close to being, the Pentagon and/or any other government involved with the leak may feel the need to assert themselves onto Wikileaks in spite of Iceland's safeguard. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so begins the catfight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both sides would feel violated, be it the aggressors, having lost their government privacy, or Iceland, having been furtively (or otherwise) invaded. This could easily end in a diplomatic resolution in which the U.N., as Iceland nervously yells "<i>HOLD ME BACK MAN!</i>", holds them back.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or it could divide the world on the logistics of government transparency and net neutrality.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some would protect Iceland. Others, mostly those having been exposed by Julian Assange, may fight alongside the US, but in a fashion more or less similar to the union between Germany and Russia during the WWII era. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, some factions defending Iceland may do so solely to war against the US, which furthers the intricacies of the social-political relationships occurring in this fanciful struggle.</div><div><br /></div><div>The US may also shutdown the Internet in the midst of the Assange-bonanza (Which would be the only way they could thoroughly rid of any files leaking to the American public). This would lead to a major, perhaps revolutionary, backlash amongst the American public. And thus, WWIII begins, and the world hits the eject button to blow the dust from its cartridge.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>During this ridiculous dissertation, you've just learned that I'm kind of a war nerd. And that you give a rapidly declining shit about it. So I'll just top this off with something important:</div><div><br /></div><div>Wikileaks is quite possibly the most important website on the Internet. What Assange's site offers is completely unique, and substantial to our understanding of world politics. Keep up with its material. And be prepared to defend it. Because while it may not lead to WWIII, it damn sure is worth fighting for.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2783404810875602035?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-16182484759805985402010-08-08T15:09:00.007-04:002010-08-12T10:21:52.086-04:00<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/08/bombers-dozen-august-1st-august-7th.html">The Tasty 6.</a><br /><br />7. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.nme.com/news/morrissey/52337">Morrissey knows what's important.</a><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.nme.com/news/morrissey/52337"></a>Imagine; you have a piece of paper, a pen, and the influential voice to rightfully express your political/social concerns. Your words will be formed to persuade the Queen. What is your concern?</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.national-army-museum.ac.uk/exhibitions/shortVisits/animals/images/104988.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 241px;" src="http://www.national-army-museum.ac.uk/exhibitions/shortVisits/animals/images/104988.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Dear Queen of England...</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>8. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.music-news.com/shownews.asp?H=Ne-Yo-once-spent-andpound;5,000-on-a-hat&amp;nItemID=35779">Goddamnit I thought we talked about this.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><i>To whom music/news may concern, if it does at all over there,</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I can't parody you as well as yourself. Please stop. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Or continue. For me. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>But for your sake, stop.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>9. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.news9.com/Global/story.asp?S=12899662">Yeah, fuck dust!</a> </div><br />EPA clearly has a legitimate and relevant agenda, as dust is also a serious issue in our deserts and warehouses, and has recently infiltrated our homes in the form tiny balls between our furniture.<br /><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rodale.com/files/images/dust_bunny.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="http://www.rodale.com/files/images/dust_bunny.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.sureyoucan.com/Computer_Dust_Bunnies_for_web.jpg"></a><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>It must be stopped.</i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>In a second letter released by the EPA, it states they will be sending a team of 5 men to combat clouds of dust across America with a high-tech vacuum whilst Ray Parker Jr. plays in the background.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.nme.com/news/eminem/52339">Ya don't say?</a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;">"Where you're famous, doctors will kiss your ass because they love the celebrity," he said. "'Oh, I can call up Eminem and get him on the phone right now. Oh, hi Marshall, how are you doing? Do you need that [prescription]?' There are doctors that will give you certain things just because of who you are."</span></blockquote><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://www.smartbizconnection.com/movie_posters_files/image016.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 298px; height: 450px;" src="http://www.smartbizconnection.com/movie_posters_files/image016.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">She thinks you're late.<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>11. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.nme.com/news/the-dead-weather/52395">Oh my God Blake Jack White called us motherfuckers!</a></div><div><br /></div><div>As much as I appreciate any artist tearing a shitty crowd apart, doing it to NY hipsters is like suffocating a fire with a flamethrower. Jack White's dignified their Israeli scarves and that fucking out of place facial hair they always seem to have.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img154.imageshack.us/img154/5730/5747857143d7ec903oyx2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 356px; height: 356px;" src="http://img154.imageshack.us/img154/5730/5747857143d7ec903oyx2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Of course there's a picture.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>12.<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2010/aug/05/lily-allen-pregnant"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lily Allen's baby is not mine.</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This is an absolute travesty. The only clever pop songwriter in the world has been impregnated by some savage man who clearly has no right, like I do, to do such a thing to Allen.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.mrpaparazzi.com/post/8833/image/945cec18-d/Lily%20Allen,%20Sam%20Cooper.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 339px; height: 467px;" src="http://www.mrpaparazzi.com/post/8833/image/945cec18-d/Lily%20Allen,%20Sam%20Cooper.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">He is a monstrous brute.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>It's strange that the media is obsessed with bellies filled with ever-mutating cellular clusterfucks. </div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.ndparents.org/images/Cute-Baby.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 207px;" src="http://www.ndparents.org/images/Cute-Baby.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Some people call them babies.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>If only because after it does its last swing from the umbilical cord, it's as though the baby were dropped into a figurative abyss and the media moves along to the next impregnated stomach.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like, whatever happened to Tom Cruise's baby? She was a frenzy 4 years ago.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/cbb/2008/04/17/suri_cruise_16_title.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 329px; height: 580px;" src="http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/cbb/2008/04/17/suri_cruise_16_title.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">Bet you didn't know she looks like this now.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><i>After some deliberation (Which for me is 3 seconds of "Eh why not"), I've decided this week's 13 will be a separate post, which will be up later tonight. See ya then.</i></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-1618248475980598540?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-56847839044465931102010-08-07T12:13:00.015-04:002010-08-09T09:06:45.244-04:001. <a href="http://www.music-news.com/shownews.asp?H=Soccer-Star-Lionel-Messi-to-form-Oasis-cover-band&amp;nItemID=35681"><b>Lionel Messi asks "What's the story, morning glory?"</b></a><div><br /></div><div>Further proving the idea that Argentinians love Oasis, one that I did not perpetuate just now, Lionel Messi wants to gather some guys for an Oasis cover band.</div><div><i></i></div><blockquote><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>'Our disguise is based on how Oasis looked in the mid-'90s,' he told the paper. 'We have our wigs, clothes and glasses sorted. I also spent a lot of time getting the mannerisms right.'</i></div></blockquote><div><i></i></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://sanvalentinorossi.blogspot.es/img/cristiano-ronaldo-kaka-lionel-messi.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 351px; height: 329px;" src="http://sanvalentinorossi.blogspot.es/img/cristiano-ronaldo-kaka-lionel-messi.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And buying the right booster seat.</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Definitely not two cultures you would've expected to intersect, but if you knew anything about Argentinians like I so vastly do, you'd know, their passion for Oasis is undying, and that I am not lying about this or quietly hoping you spread this.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. <a href="http://www.nme.com/news/iron-maiden/52312"><b>Iron Maiden's Bruce Dickinson thinks wishfully.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote><i>"If heavy metal bands ruled the world we'd be a lot better off. There would be more a lot more drinking and a lot more shagging and nursery rhymes would sound like this."</i></blockquote></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.babycenter.com.au/i/podcasts/images/hush-little-baby-lullaby-lyrics-small.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 264px; height: 231px;" src="http://www.babycenter.com.au/i/podcasts/images/hush-little-baby-lullaby-lyrics-small.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And if that mocking bird don't sing, 6,6,6 is the number of the beast.</span></span></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I can't wait for my inevitable "Proud Parent of a Drinking Shagger" bumper sticker. Thanks, Bruce Dickinson!</div><div><br /></div><div>3.<b> </b><a href="http://www.nme.com/news/dr-dre/52361"><b>Astrophysicist Dre.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div>He wants to make an instrumental based on our solar system:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">"An instrumental album is something I've been wanting to do for a long time," Dr. Dre told Vibe.com. "I have the ideas for it. I want to call it 'The Planets'. I don't even know if I should be saying this, but fuck it. It's just my interpretation of what each planet sounds like."</span></blockquote></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div>I actually think this is pretty neat. Albeit goofy.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/B1TPN21uumS._SL600_.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 396px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/B1TPN21uumS._SL600_.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">On a related note, Gustav Holst is conducting "The Chronic".</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Also his reluctance to spill the details ("I don't even know if I should be saying this") is understandable.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3314/3172470213_de07bec0fe.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 289px;" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3314/3172470213_de07bec0fe.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I doubt they're fans of celestial bodies.</span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div>4. <a href="http://www.music-news.com/shownews.asp?H=Sheryl-Crow%92s-new-music-is-so-good-she-could-strip-to-it&amp;nItemID=35661"><b>Make it rain on her.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Sheryl Crow a.k.a. "Who is she again" says her music is:</div><div><br /></div><div>'...so good I could strip to it. And I'm 48.'</div><div><br /></div><div>But can Alex rape to it?</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blogue.us/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/alexhot.thumbnail.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 270px;" src="http://blogue.us/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/alexhot.thumbnail.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">I'm siiiiinnnggggginnn' in the raaaiinn....</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite piece of that quote is "And I'm 48." Because being 48 normally implies that you are lawfully barred from undressing. Sheryl Crow; <span style="font-style: italic;">pioneer of women's strippage.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>5. <a href="http://www.music-news.com/shownews.asp?H=Justin-Bieber-pretended-to-be-Akons-illegitimate-son&amp;nItemID=35659"><b>Bieber plays Akon's illegitimate son.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div>And everyone wondered how this could've possibly worked.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media.hollyscoop.com/admin-RS-post-main.aspx?filename=38192022---bieber.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 249px;" src="http://media.hollyscoop.com/admin-RS-post-main.aspx?filename=38192022---bieber.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">No seriously how.</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>After pranking Akon's presumptuously deaf manager Scooter, Bieber obnoxiously confirmed to the world, which was clearly on pins and needles, that he is such a card:</div><div><br /></div><div>''R u Kidding of course I do!! I prank everyone!! No 1 is safe :)''</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://breakfastwithspanky.site50.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/text-speak-lol.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 345px; height: 208px;" src="http://breakfastwithspanky.site50.net/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/text-speak-lol.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">bieber ur so gr8 i hop u fall on a nife LMAO</span><br /></span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>6.<b> </b><a href="http://www.myfoxdc.com/dpp/news/local/man-arrested-for-spraying-substance-073010"><b>I can go all day on this.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Someone sprayed some lady with semen blablacontextcontext QUEUE THE PORNOGRAPHY RIFFS!:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://best.complex.com/assets/images/Best2000/brands/610x305/bangbus_bestofbrands.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 428px; height: 214px;" src="http://best.complex.com/assets/images/Best2000/brands/610x305/bangbus_bestofbrands.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">He then dropped her off in South L.A. and gave her 200 dollars.</span><br /><br /></span></i></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://static.stuff.co.nz/1233108507/107/219107.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 360px;" src="http://static.stuff.co.nz/1233108507/107/219107.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Claims to have been frequent victim</span><br /></span></span></i></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.spiegel.de/img/0,1020,999459,00.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 312px;" src="http://www.spiegel.de/img/0,1020,999459,00.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Unedited footage of incident can be found here.</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.famouswhy.com/pictures/people/randy_spears.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 382px;" src="http://www.famouswhy.com/pictures/people/randy_spears.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Randy Spears was later acquitted of all charges.</span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><b><a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/08/bombers-dozen-august-1st-august-7th_08.html">The Fiery Seven</a></b></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-5684783904446593110?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-27944609812580441842010-08-04T22:39:00.006-04:002010-08-04T23:27:18.424-04:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">Here's an old classic of C'n'L.</span><br /><br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://users.sfo.com/%7Ejdavis/Ruben/00y/dFourMonths.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 379px; height: 284px;" src="http://users.sfo.com/%7Ejdavis/Ruben/00y/dFourMonths.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);font-size:85%;" ><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Haha, you're old as hell.</span></i></span></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/08926816531672152972">Munky's</a> "things that should go away immediately":</div><div><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">-----------------------------------------------------------</span><br /><br /><br /></div><div>1. girls who try soooo hard to be "one of the guys." no. you're not. you have a vagina. i'm sorry. and those guys you are so proud of hanging out with, the ones you're referring to the countless times you proudly declare "i don't have girl friends. i hang out with all guys. they're just easier"---those guys; they don't think you're cool or funny or different from other girls. they really dont care. you're just a backup f*** in case there's no one else available.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. people on the bus/train who hold loud conversations just so everyone can hear how witty and clever they are. seriously. no one thinks your constant use of phrases like "Epic Fail" and "FML" are clever. they just want to throw you into oncoming traffic.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. people who sigh dramatically loud in public to garner sympathy or attention. nobody cares. go away.</div><div><br /></div><div>4. The "Twilight" kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. that really depressing guy on BBC news this morning. when i first wake up in the morning i dont wanna hear things like "Will Obama's string of victories continue, or will the sheer weight of the American political system send him crashing back down to earth?" actually....that was pretty funny. he can stay.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. guys who seem to be incapable of pulling off a hoody over their heads without having their shirt underneath lift up to the point where we can all see your nipples. STOP THAT! its not sexy. you just end up looking like an inept chimp, all tangled in masses of fabric with no way out.</div><div><br /></div><div>7. girls who are pms-ing and decide to write angry blogs to exercise themselves of all the malicious energy. *cough cough*</div><div><br /></div><div>8. the use of *cough cough*</div><div><br /></div><div>9. girls who buy clothes that are outrageously smaller than what their actual size is, and then have to constantly adjust themselves; pulling and tucking things in and stretching the fabric. why are you torturing that poor shirt? its not its fault you're a trollop. BUY YOUR OWN SIZE and leave the smalls and mediums for us girls that are actually small and medium! im tired of swimming in your rejected larges and XXL's.</div><div><br /></div><div>10. the term "sexting." people over 40 think they're so clever when they throw that word around. you can see it in their eyes. that old person pride. F*** you Doctor Phil.<br /><br />11. That formspring thing on Facebook. as if facebook and twitter and blogs werent enough for our attention starved generation. its not enough that random people can follow your life through your incessant posting of your every jamba juice run and bowel movement? you need to add to that an open forum? we get it. you exist, now shut up already.</div><div><br /></div><div>more to come. maybe</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/235911160315163585-2794460981258044184?l=cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-22514084459953030032010-08-01T22:19:00.017-04:002010-08-02T15:03:07.572-04:00<div><b><a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.blogspot.com/2010/07/bombers-dozen-tasty-six.html">The Tasty 6.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Now with number 13!</b></div><div><br /></div><div>7. <a href="http://www.music-news.com/shownews.asp?H=Avril-Lavigne-is-very-happy-with-her-new-boyfriend-Brody-Jenner&amp;nItemID=35637"><b>Avril Lavigne dates and hangs out with the Hills.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Exhaling the last breath of her reputation.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i330.photobucket.com/albums/l416/Emmanuel_Avril/0021-1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 245px;" src="http://i330.photobucket.com/albums/l416/Emmanuel_Avril/0021-1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><div style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><span style="font-size:85%;">The very last puff.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>This is like if Pete Doughtery hung out and dated Kate Moss, except that would never happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>8.<b> </b><a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/39491-vampire-weekend-respond-to-lawsuit/"><b>B</b></a><b><a href="http://pitchfork.com/news/39491-vampire-weekend-respond-to-lawsuit/">londe chick on "Contra" album is 2 million bucks worth of mad.</a></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Which I don't understand. You become the face of a band who's one of the most beloved acts of our generation. And by association, you become a near mythical indie-rock icon.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>And you sue?</i></div><div><br /></div><div>You go from preppy white bitch #643 to psuedo-rockstar and your response is "I DO NOT LIKE"?!</div><div><br /></div><div>Because seriously, your name is Kristen Kennis.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://cdn.pitchfork.com/media/1263368483vampire_weekend_contra.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 348px; height: 348px;" src="http://cdn.pitchfork.com/media/1263368483vampire_weekend_contra.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Her name is Kristen Kennis.</span></span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>You were supposed to die in that Ralph Lauren polo, accompanied by a white frilly skirt and K-Swiss sneakers, all sponsored by your father's trust fund, based in South Hampton, NY. Be happy you've been de-stereotyped, stupid.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Don'tsaycuntdon'tsaycuntdon'tsaycuntdon'tsaycuntdon'tsaycunt<br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>9. <a href="http://www.nme.com/news/tom-jones/52243"><b>NME says Tom Jones wants to hook up with Eminem.</b></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://thegreendove.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/paris_giggle.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 306px;" src="http://thegreendove.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/paris_giggle.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><div style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"><spa