tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2359111603151635852024-03-12T23:24:12.824-04:00Cookies 'n' LandminesP.S. F**k cakes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-16558908183095745342012-02-06T14:26:00.000-05:002012-02-06T14:27:37.902-05:00Everyday I'm tumblin'.<a href="http://cookiesandlandmines.tumblr.com/"><img src="http://www.ellipsispress.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/tumblr-icon.png" /></a>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-13801725429102744552012-01-30T14:30:00.003-05:002012-01-30T14:41:20.983-05:00A C'n'L How To: Write a Cover Letter<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-72220415334058338842012-01-18T14:17:00.010-05:002012-01-18T14:28:34.352-05:00SOPA/PIPA bullshit<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;">█ ██ 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██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████</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; 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██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████ ██ ████cunt.<br /><br /><br /></span>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-4165873641652764172012-01-11T09:32:00.005-05:002012-01-13T15:31:46.923-05:00Justification of Your Fuckbuddy II<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-77137384975500939302012-01-11T08:39:00.008-05:002012-01-11T09:45:10.270-05:00Justification of Your Fuckbuddy Pt. I<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-19042952597820096672012-01-04T15:45:00.002-05:002012-01-04T15:46:06.962-05:00Hey, we have an FB page! And an atonement.More 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-82562303548471156512012-01-03T08:26:00.000-05:002012-01-03T08:27:02.894-05:00A Letter of Sincere GratitudeDear 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-52031674011001467502011-12-21T04:40:00.007-05:002011-12-22T15:57:41.775-05:00An Announcement.So 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36321136514409753512011-12-18T21:44:00.017-05:002012-01-04T15:17:27.369-05:00Kinda like Tupac.In 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-25159512468241646702011-11-01T18:52:00.005-04:002011-11-01T18:55:41.953-04:00So you make a Facebook commentCLEARLY, 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-35553109577084185632011-10-27T12:44:00.007-04:002011-10-27T12:54:32.882-04:00An Ode.To 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-64212821614636610312011-10-26T11:48:00.003-04:002011-10-26T11:58:58.699-04:00Roundabout."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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-42540439774446103452011-10-24T07:37:00.007-04:002011-10-24T08:03:03.373-04:00Indie, y u no srs?I 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-34464715083962917062011-10-22T10:48:00.003-04:002011-10-22T10:54:27.074-04:00Inappropriate.<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-84163675857850691302011-10-21T04:04:00.006-04:002011-10-21T04:58:59.115-04:00Hi, my name is MrIndieDay.In 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36327265676825529232011-10-20T01:40:00.010-04:002011-10-20T02:03:54.507-04:00Unusually SpontaneousIn 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-68967366904062622422011-08-03T13:12:00.006-04:002011-08-04T16:18:00.947-04:00Here's an obscure thoughtMasturbation 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-62106775738770536862011-06-11T08:00:00.008-04:002011-06-11T08:35:14.232-04:00Texts, posts, and Wendy's.Sitting 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-33347224403095278602011-06-05T23:23:00.004-04:002011-06-05T23:28:54.013-04:00A Good Time<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-31655951871379701472011-04-23T01:19:00.005-04:002011-04-23T01:43:30.696-04:00This is not about ejaculate.Sorry 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-18301290985977357302011-04-19T17:00:00.007-04:002011-04-19T17:08:41.438-04:00Poetry for the FallenInflammatory<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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-36487519178484489402011-04-15T12:16:00.013-04:002011-04-15T12:54:07.863-04:00A Detailed and Critical Analysis of Bob DylanHaving 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-25191730415160278792011-04-08T13:02:00.007-04:002011-04-08T14:04:29.179-04:00Pledge of A-Scene-Giance.I 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&t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 157px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSo2sc8rN8V7EOrHqRVELuJ0rG_64Oi9z-GG2hx6BqS0rHo1C65&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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-78858554184794398962011-04-05T12:48:00.011-04:002011-04-10T00:43:50.205-04:00Offensive Tumblr Remarks Incite Toilet Paper Revolt05 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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-235911160315163585.post-40489092179730902432011-03-29T16:36:00.005-04:002011-03-29T19:02:54.741-04:00MrIndieDay vs. New YorkThere'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&t=1"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQSZzwOyVPIi8oLS15JTwu4xohyigJmTb8NUtkXmWl5cex4lOXjxA&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>MrIndieDayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13998931578886916219noreply@blogger.com2