Gonna Ride A Southbound / All the Way to Georgia / Til the Train, It Run Out of Track

Dear Blog,

It's 4 AM. I'm in my friend's house, typing very loudly, with Road Trip playing in the background. Yet I am still unsatisfied.

Matty offered me a place to stay if I wanted to move out of my parents' house. Actually, his mother was the one kind enough to offer. Apparantly he had an aunt or something that had to find similar sanctuary with her best friend. That is, she moved in with him because she couldn't live with her parents. The idea sounds lovely - he called it a little "vacay" - but I'm way too old to be running away from home. I told him I'd have to walk all the way to his house, with a red bandanna tied into a sack on the end of a wooden pole holding all my necessities. It's hard to cram everything you need into a red bandanna tied into a sack on the end of a wooden pole. Really hard.

So I just sang the lyrics to "Can't You See" by The Marshall Tucker Band.

It seemed fitting at the time.

P. I. Staker

When Granny Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy

Dear Blog,

Granny just walked into my room and told me she was mad at me for still being awake.

I wanted to get this post out before Christmas day was over, but I didn't make it. I'm sorry, Blog. I miss you. It's been too long, and I have lots to say, and miles to go before I sleep, et al. But right now, I think it's important we talk about war. In war, it is never a good idea to use truth as ammunition. Which hurts more - the truth, or a right hook? Right hook, obvi. People in soap operas (or my dearest family) never seem to get this concept. When Kelly finds out that Seth's been cheating on her with Mandi, Kelly lets him know Mandi's really his half-sister. But that's hardly enough to get them to stop fooling around together. (I mean, Mandi's cut from marble). The crucial flaw in this is that after a while, the sting just goes away. So what if Mandi's his half-sister? Kelly's been keeping so many crucial secrets lately (is that a baby hiding in your swelling tummy?) that Seth doesn't know a pig from his own eye. Thus he picks and chooses what he wants to believe, and accepts the fact that he may never actually know the truth about anything. So, when Kelly pops out a baby sitting at the dinner table over roast beef, or when he notices that Mandi really does have his father's chin, he isn't shocked. Not one little bit.

Yesterday in the Christmas Ever service, I sat behind a middle aged man who was most assuredly bald. He had a giant circle in the middle of his head where no hair grew, as if someone had put miracle grow all over his head except for that one spot. The perimeter of the giant bald circle was covered in hair. Surrounding it, kinda like the Indian's in Custer's Last Stand. There were a few stray hairs caught on the shine of his baldness, but aside from that, nothing. He had a freckled head, and it was very very glossy. I couldn't figure out how it got to be so gleamy, but I liked it. He must condition.

I better get to bed, before Granny becomes even more irate.

Goodnight, dear, and merry Christmas,

P. I. Staker

Free

Dear Blog,


Some things should always be free. Mailboxes should come free. Today I had to mail 3 letters, and I have a mailbox, but I wasn't really near it per se, so I drove to the custom postal way up there on the road uppaways and mailed them all. And I'll be damned if it wasn't free. Free. Granted, the stamps cost money, but it was free for me to take those letters and just pop 'em in the box. No one made me pay.

All mailboxes should be free.

Water should come free. At The Summit the other day, I walked in and asked to buy a bottle of water. Simkis told me they had free water for us in a pitcher on the counter, but I said I didn't want to be "That Kid". You know, that kid who sits in the coffee shop all day drinking the free water and never (ever) buying anything. "That Kid". I didn't want to be her.

Matches should be free. To date, I've had 3 people try - and in most cases, succeed - (sorry Thomas, you didn't) to light a whole book of my matches on fire. A whole book of my matches! What, do they think matches grow on trees? Hells no. If those little fuckers weren't free, I'd be in a hole right now.

There are more things that should be free, and so I will add more to this list at a later date, but right now I need to put on my face to go to my high school's young allumni christmas party. (Fuck capitalizing christmas).


Until next time,

P. I. Staker

Frog

Dear Blog,

Alright, Blog, I have a fucking story to tell you.

So once upon a time (that time being prehistoric), there lived this frog in a bog, Blog. This frog was a happy frog - probably all big from evolution and about to become an alligator or something - and he spent his days hopping from lilly pad to lilly pad eating gross mutant bugs and sleeping at night under the stars. It was never too cold to sleep outside and it was never too hot to have to wear a hat. Frogs don't wear hats, you know. He had oodles of friends; the other frogs liked him, they thought he was funny and caring. Which he was, of course. He cared very much about other frogs and their well being. But the frog began to notice that alot of times, the other little frogs would have a damned good time at the expense of his feelings. I mean, there really is nothing funnier than watching a frog slip on a lilly pad and fall in the mucky part of the pond, but they could have picked him up after having a chortle or two, couldn't they? Moreover, all the other frogs kept on getting kissed by prehistoric princesses and turned into Prince Charmings. And, though the poor frog spent alot of time with the princesses and enjoyed their company immensely, none of them seemed to think him worth the trouble of a kiss.

Though they sure thought him one hell of a friend.

This made the frog sad. But he wanted desperately to make the other frogs happy, so he said nothing of his sadness. He just kept hopping from lilly pad to lilly pad until he hopped his way to Spain, where he became an ascetic and morphed into the abominable snowman.

He ended his days in a cave, skinning the flesh off of some fish as an ascetic abominable snowman.

The End.



XOXO,

P. I. Staker

Curses

Dear Blog,

The other day I was talking to Brian, and the subject of curses came up. I mentioned how people are oft to say room 208 in our dorm is cursed. Immediately, he got upset. "I hate when people say that. There are so many blessings in this world, but people see one thing they deem a curse and are so quick to point to it."

Blog, I'm worried. When I was in 8th grade, I went up to the board in class and drew a tiny dot, and then asked everyone what they saw. They all said they saw a dot. When I made the radius of the dot bigger, they all said they saw a bigger dot. They were all so quick to ignore the white space surrounding it, the white space that virtually swallowed the tiny dot.

The teacher thought I was being stupid, but I don't care. Completely contradicting my 8th grade self (and Brian, for that matter) I still say I'm cursed, even though I'm equally blessed, if not more so.

Just something to think about,

P. I. Staker

Love Notes

Dear P. I. Staker,

You're not giving me enough of your time. I'm sorry to say this so bluntly - but I miss you. I miss you writing in me, the feel of keys being pressed, mouse clicking... It was oh-so-tender and gentle. Where have you gone, P. I.?

Have you...found someone new? Have you? Say my name! Say my name! If no one is around you, say "baby, I love you".

Blog, that's my name. Do you even remember? Do you even care?

If you don't come back to me, I'll kill myself. You know I will. I love you too much to have to live with the pain of knowing some other hussy is getting your TLC.

I know I'm a blog, and I know I can never satisfy you fully. But you sure as hell satisfy me. Please come back, please.

I (still) love you,

Blog


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Dear Blog,

I'm shocked. Really and truly shocked. I had no idea you felt this way. Honestly, I didn't mean to lead you on. I just pushed your keys and clicked your mouse platonically. I thought you knew that. God, I'm so sorry you misunderstood my intentions.

Don't get me wrong, you're a great person. You have a soul unlike any I've ever seen. And, yeah, if you were human, I'm sure we could boink and have a damned good time. But the fact of the matter is, you're a blog. You can't satisfy me the way I satisfy you every time I write on your blank block of space on my computer. I wish we could pursue this further, I really do. We could have made each other very happy, if only you were human or I a blog.

It just wasn't meant to be.

You'll always be my friend.

Love (in a friendly way),

P. I. Staker


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Dear P. I. Staker,

I promise you, I will never be your friend. I love you too much to be something like a "friend".

Never leave me, please. Even as a friend, I still want to feel your fingers on my keys. My mouse being clicked...Aaahhhh.

Forever yours, until death.

Blog

Psychosis

Dear Blog,

It's funny the way people can erase things from their head. In psychology we call that "psychosis". It was present in my film class when we watched a clip from "Spellbound". Basically, Ingrid Bergman plays this therapist working with a man who many suspect to be a serial killer. Turns out, he's not, he was just blocking something traumatic about the way his little brother died. He knew his brother died, but he didn't know how or the circumstances involving the death. It's all very sad and tragic, really, but what's worse is when people try to induce psychosis. You can't induce psychosis. You can try to erase and erase and erase but those little smudges will still be on the blackboard, letting you know the phrase "trickle-down economics" was once written in chalk. You can never get those smudges clean, really. I never had a problem with the smudges - metaphoric or literal - but I think if I did it would be useless to do anything about it consciously. The whole point of psychosis is that it's done unconsciously- trying to erase something will only push it farther and farther into your mind, where there's no evasion. It's like shoving an annoying kid into the foyer of your house filled with cookies and N-64 in hopes of getting him to leave.

It's cute, though, when people think they have more power than they do. Stupid fools.

P. I. Staker

Hope

Dear Blog,

My dear friend over on Xanga wrote a post recently, and it made me think about something I hadn't thought about in a long while. You see, this past summer I realized how much of a menace hope is. Hope breeds disappointment. If there were no hope for something better, than no one would be disappointed when they tried and failed. No one would even try. People would be satisfied with their lot in life, they'd have no reason to complain or to want what they can't have. But they'd also have nothing to fight for, and maybe even nothing to live for. Because without hope the world would be a dismal place. I guess it's like picking the lesser of two evils: a world with no hope, and therefore no disappointment, no need to fight for something or believe in anything, and therefore no need for passion. Or a world filled with passion and wants and deep regrets and sorrow. Perhaps this blog is truncated by the fact that we don't have a choice. Despite getting shot down, hope springs eternal, right? And of course you get shot down, metaphorically speaking, and you claim you won't get back up. This is the last time, you tell yourself. Yet just like that song, you get knocked down, but you get up again.

Maybe we should all fix ourselves a whiskey sour and try to be content on the floor.

P. I. Staker

Love is in the Air...

Dear Blog,

Yesterday night my most bestest bosom buddy had his first make-out experience. At first I didn't believe him. I mean, we're supposed to do everything together, right? Not that I'm saying I should have been his first make-out experience, heavens no, but he's not supposed to have firsts without me. We're supposed to have our firsts together, synchronized, at the same time, that way we can call and tell each other about it. And the other person will go "no way, ohmigahd" and "it was kind of like struggling for air while drowning" and "yeah, I completely agree, it was awkward". This just isn't cool, Blog.

I mean, I'm proud of him. I'm honestly proud of him that he made it with a (senior, holla) girl. But, hell. He was supposed to wait for me.

I'm being completely selfish, and I know it. Moreover, I don't care. I was loafing in The City again today, and Brian (high as a kite, mind you) wanted to write a poem about "ego". That was just it, "ego". I'm being egotistical, I know, and I don't care.

We lost the Big Game again today. By 8 points. Or 7. Something high like that, so now I'm stuck listening to the dull hum of the techno version of "Sweet Caroline", which actually could be really good if the frats didn't insist on ruining it. That and Journey, and all rap. I'm hating the frats more and more each day. I probably wouldn't be so antagonistic if they would just mind their own business and stick to themselves. Instead, we hear the thump and hump of the frats all the way at my dorm room. That, and the girls in my hall just eat and drink up techno-Neil-Diamond rip-offs like pretzels and cheap gas station wine.

I think I'll go find a park. The sun's setting and I'll go find a park. Until then, "Sweet Caroline....badababaa...Good times never seem so good (so good, so good, so good), I've been inclined, to believe they never would...."

Sincerely,

P. I. Staker

I'm sick and tired of you blog, and I'm still terribly lonely.

P. I. Staker

Country Squirrels Running Amok in the Big City

Dear Blog,

The Big Game was last week, and Jason and I ventured into the Big City to get lost and in way over our heads. He wanted to drive my car. I wanted Katy to come. She, along with 99 other students, stayed on campus - yet when we returned, there was still a parking space in Belk. Fate? Luck.

We were sitting in the student section, Jason trying to be all "I'm too cool to care about college basketball" and me trying to be all mysterious, when this huge man-man (supporting the other team, no less) walks up and says in a man-man voice, "that's my seat". I wasn't in it, I was just sitting beside it, but some other poor soul's hoodie was in it, and I'll be damned if he didn't move it himself to make room for his other-team-supporting behind. It was really awkward, and Jason made me sit beside the guy. (Thanks, buddy. No, really, thanks.)

We were in the lead for most of the game, but ended up losing by a handful of points. When we left the arena, we passed a can wall in the shape of The City, to be donated to charity eventually. I kinda liked it just as decoration. Post-lost, we decided to drown our sorrows in bright lights and loose women. We went to Fuel and got some pizza, and made friends with a security guard who looked sad and lonely, loafed around a graveyard, and parked for free.

Here's a new joke:

What does a dyslexic, agnostic, insomniac do?
~ Stays up all night pondering the existence of dog.

It took us an hour to get home. And we lost The Big Game.

P. I. Staker

Weekend Plans

Dear Blog,

I have a theatre presentation due tomorrow and I don't know what it's on.

I have a 10 page religion paper due Friday by 9 AM. I started this on Sunday.

The Big Game is tomorrow.

I have to watch Psycho.

I have an 8 page film paper due Thursday by 10 AM. I haven't started this yet.

I skipped religion today to play billiards in the union.

I'm getting smashed this weekend.

Keepin' it copasetic,

P. I. Staker

Things I Need to Let Go

Dear Blog,

Things I Need to Let Go:

X_____________________________________________

Curses

Curses

Curses

Curses

Sincerely,

P. I. Staker

Post Scriptum: How do you think curses work, Blog? Do you think they last from, say, puberty until maturation? Or from puberty until forever? I really hope it's the former, I don't want to have to deal with curses all my life.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud...

Dear Blog,

There are 3 different types of gaits. Of course, these three can be broken up into subcategories, but generally speaking, there are three different types of gaits.

There's the Walk. The Walk is just a walk, neither slow, nor fast, but just right. You Walk when you have 5 minutes to get to class. You Walk to your car. You Walk to dinner. Subcategory of Walk includes Power Walking. Power Walkers are always middle-aged, upper/middle class soccer moms (see also: Hale Moms) who wear short-shorts, a myrtle beach t-shirt, New Balances, and a clever baseball cap. The baseball cap is always pink or lavender or powder blue but never (never) yellow. (I mean, ew). These women park their BMW's on the side of the road near an anonymous park and then put their 2 year-old in a stroller and start Power Walking before they even hit the trail. That's the walk of dedication, or of women who want to make moving harder than it already is.

The Stroll. The Stroll, though possible to take during any hours of the day or night, is best experienced in the early afternoon. Do not confuse the Stroll with the Slow Walk. The Slow Walk is merely a slower Walk, the Stroll is something much more. It entails a very slow speed, approx. 1 or 2 MPH, and a slight sway of the hips as you take your steps. Kicking out your feet from under you occasionally is necessary. Frequent or infrequent stops must be made either to: 1) stare at a curious leaf, 2) stare at a curious squirrel, or 3) tie a shoelace. You may or may not have an intended destination or purpose to your stroll, but you must walk as if you had no reason for strolling. That's the whole point of the Stroll - looking as if you need not take this stroll, you're just doing it for your own pleasure. The Stroll may be taken in the company of others or alone, but you can't let the others distract you from your ultimate strolling desires. You may suck on a blow-pop or other lolli-pop item while strolling, so long as you use it as an extension of your arm when speaking.

The Run. The Run is different from the Jog. The Jog is done for exercise. People who can do the Jog include: Old men from the ages of 47-58, teenagers who are already physically fit and "in training" (the girls tend to wear only sports bras and shorts, the guys, shorts and no shirt), and physical trainers/coaches. The Run is done by those escaping a: murderer, boss, ex-lover, parent, or cop. Those also able to do the Run include: fat kids in P.E., fat kids trying to catch a bus/train/plane, fat kids trying to get to class, and fat kids trying to get anywhere quicker than a Walk.

So there you have it, Blog, three different types of gaits. I'm glad we could clear this up.

P. I. Staker

Clowning Around

Dear Blog,

This is so exciting! I made an 83 on my psychology test!

On a somber note, I'm a little sad, because I've skipped psychology a couple of times and on one of the days I skipped the profesor had everyone stand up and cover their nipples with their hands. I would have really enjoyed that.

I once read a book about a boy who fell asleep by playing a game of chess in his head. He'd set up the game and move the pieces on both sides, all in his mind, but he'd never finish it. That used to be the thing I looked forward to all day, falling asleep to a certain day dream. Not so anymore, blog. Now I don't have time to set up my dreams for the night, I just crawl in bed and pass out.

Yesterday night was a blast. In preparation for a play, the jesters and I were sent to the union by our fearless leader and told to "clown". "Clowning" is a very simple thing, it's a form of miming where you treat everything you encounter the way a little child would treat it, the key to this being wonder. You have to be completely entranced in what you're doing, that others can't help but notice, walk over, and wonder too. You can't talk either.

My night began in the union with a little computer playing. I sauntered over to the desktop and began pressing keys, pulling out the mouse, and crawling in the cupbard underneath the monitor. People noticed, but just thought I was drunk.

And, let's be honest, I kind of was.

I was not satisfied with this computer. (Typing the letter "Q" repeatedly, though fun, can only entertain for so long). So I went into the cafe and bought a bag of ritz chips, a slice of pizza, and "this many york peppermint patties" (the small kind). I proceeded to some chairs and tables just outside the cafe and set up shop. I took every chair, turned it over, and made a perimeter around the tables. Then I took my ritz crackers, opened the bag, and spilled them everywhere. I motioned for Jeremy, the guy who works in the cafe. He laughs, comes over. I'm telling him what to do with my hands - the Ritzes need to be put into piles, 5 crackers in each pile. He's good at this, I tell him, which is true. Next come the peppermint patties. We unwrap every single pattie, and then place one wrapper in each of the four corners of the tables. Again, Jeremy's good at this. Back to the Ritz crackers, I motion for Jeremy to make a smiley face with our piles, which he helps me with.

Unfortunately my plan was foiled by Rob running over and stealing my crackers, the bastard. Jeremy had to get to work, so I entertain myself with the cleaning crew vacuuming. I'm hopping all over the cords, crawling around on my hands and knees following this guy, and all the while kids in the union are laughing at me. Or with me? With me.

I'm on the ground crawling around, making a big to-do over picking up every single Ritz cracker from the carpet (I can't leave all my shit to the cleaning crew, can I?) when this girl crosses in front of me, says "sorry" and walks on. I follow her on the ground, crawling. Apparently she thinks she'll find sanctuary in the cafe with her friends. She obviously doesn't know who I am. I follow her into the cafe and see that she's quite freaked out by this whole thing. Lauren's in there as well, trailing another person, mimicking her motions. The girl I'm following is about to break down and cry so I take that as my cue to exit. Once outside, Nathan gathers the gang together and sings our praises aloud with alot of "that was fucking amazing!" and "you were so good with getting people involved". Werd.

We go back inside to explain ourselves, and I book it to Jeremy and that girl I trailed. Jeremy's calling up people, saying, "Dude, you gotta get over here. These people are fucking crazy." He loved it, and laughed when Maria told him what was going on. The girl I trailed, however, did not enjoy it so much. She eyed me liked she hated me, but I guess that's just a by-product of her being a bitch. I apologized, and she said that maybe we should do this in the union during the day when people aren't as high strung as they are at night, trying to get work done.

I wanted to point out a couple of things to her:

1) Everyone loved it, except for her. Even the cleaning guy, Ricky, had a laugh or two at what was going on.
2) People will always be high strung at this college, no matter the time.
3) We're not going to drink during the day. That's just depressing.


Sincerely,

P. I. Staker


P.S. - I feel kinda bad for that last paragraph. I can see how it can be kinda rough when you have work to do, and there's people clowning all over you. Ahhhhhhhh'm sorry, you're not a bitch, and I promise that if you promise to lighten up a little bit next time we go clowning, then I won't torment you with my presence.

"I'm Not Really a Waitress"

Dear Blog,

I'm kind of frustrated with God right now, but I guess that makes us even, because I'm sure He's pretty frustrated with me too.

I realized this morning that I haven't been down to The Summit in a long time, so I went at around 7 and got 5 shots of espresso.

I have a tummy ache.

My roommate was supposed to go out tonight, and I was kind of excited because that would mean a party in my room consisting of me lying spread-eagle in the middle of the floor while I studied Ecclesiastes and played really loud Christmas music from my 'puter.

That plan fell through, but it's all good. The caffeine from the 5 shots hasn't hit me yet and I can't wait to feel it's effects.

I have a huge religion test tomorrow and I haven't really studied for it at all. Moreover, I skipped Theatre today to get my nails done at this swanky salon. It cost me 15 bucks, damn-it-all-to-hell, but I figured I deserved it because I feel pretty much like one pound of shit that's just been pissed on. I'm pretty sure there are flies swarming around this mental picture as well.

I got a part in another play - or, rather, a scene from a play that a student is directing as a final project for a Theatre class. I may or may not have to kiss a guy and I'm both excited and horrified at this proposal. I don't even know the bloke, but my nails are painted this pretty awesome red color ("I'm Not Really a Waitress") so I guess that means I have confidence now.

My heart's pumping pretty fast, I think I'll go down to the Union and set up shop for a long night of religion.

"Goodbye's too good a word, babe, so I'll just say 'fare thee well'",

P. I. Staker

If I Was Invisible

Dear Blog,

What I Would Do If I Could Be Invisible for a Day:

1) Spy on my friends and get their good secrets.

2) Spy on my enemies and get their good secrets. Proceed to blackmail.

3) Get on an airplane and go to Madrid.

4) Get back on an airplane and go to the North Carolina Museum of Art. Steal "The Garden Parasol" by Frieseke.

5) Go to the desert of Nevada, steal a luxury sportscar convertible, and cruise at around 120 on the desert roads. It must be sunny while this happens. Hopefully, I'd be pulled over by the cops and they could have the time of their lives figuring out how in the hell a car could drive itself.

I get excited just thinking about the prospect of invisibility.

P.I. Staker

Things I Hate

Dear Blog,

Why do I always screw shit up?

Things I Hate:

1) Bags of potato chips. It's not that I hate potato chips, actually I like them. I just hate the bag. They never fill it up all the way, they never even fill it up a meager half of the way. They put about 15 potato chips inside the bag, no matter what size the bag is, and then seal it and slap a 99 cent stamp on it. Plus the bag's always greasy, and not the good kind of grease, but the bad kind. It makes for an unenjoyable eating experience.

2) 50 Cent's album(s)

3) When you carry something really heavy with your left arm, (and only your left arm) so that when you move it afterward, it kind of quivers unhappily, while your right arm watches bemused.

4) Charley horses.

5) Charley horses in both legs at the same time. This has only happened to me once, (I'm blessed, thank God) and I can't imagine anything to be worse than that.

6) The first floor of the union at 2 AM. There's no one around and it's realllly lonely.

7) Pumpkin pie

8) Davidson cheerleader uniforms designed to fit little kids.

9) Davidson cheerleaders who can wear uniforms designed to fit little kids.

10) Those obnoxious sunglasses that cover up entire human faces. Included here are key rings that say things like "Your village called. They're missing their idiot."

11) Noun/verb disagreement

12) Misspellings

13) Hatas. Playas. Cheatas. Ballas.

14) Sleeping.


I may have lied about # 14.

P.I. Staker

A Gross Exaggeration

Dear Blog,

I know it's a no-no to have an affair with a teacher in high school, but I'm in college now. Do the rules still apply? What if it's a torrid love affair? Can I have one of those with a professor? But what if he has a tongue ring?

Fuck you, blog, and your righteousness.

I took a quiz in psychology today, aptly named "How Passionate Are You?" Turns out, I'm a very passionate lover. I scored a 251/270. Which roughly translates to a 92.96296296. That's the first "A" I've made in psychology all semester. (Cue Auntie: "How could you fail psychology? Dumb blondes go to college to major in psychology, you twat.")

Idea for a prank: (April fools?) Sneak into the cafeteria (it's easier than it sounds) and fill the juice dispensers with vodka. Arrive early at breakfast and watch the madness ensue, then bolt once the authoritative figures realize someone's spiked the juice bar.

There has been talk of using my genius for good, not evil, but where's the satisfaction in that?

Just kidding, blog.

My bed's broken. It's been broken since the beginning of the semester, when my dad realized it and said "huh, that's weird. Look at that." Everytime I climb up in it, it creaks and shakes eerily and scarily. A couple of nights ago, it made a popping noise and then got really quiet. I wouldn't be so worried, except I know that if the bed were to collapse in the middle of the night, the chances of me surviving would be slim if not nil. I mean, it's me. And it's a tall bed.

Here's to making it through the night,

P. I. Staker

It's 10:14 PM and There's Nothing to Do

Dear Blog,

It's 10:14 PM, and there's nothing to do. Frats are open, but hold no appeal. I saw The Darjeeling Limited, good movie, comes highly recommended on my list. Beautiful seems a good word to describe it, the colors are positively splendid.

I am terribly bored, Blog, and terribly tired, which doesn't make sense, because I got 10 and half hours of sleep last night.

Maybe college isn't for me.

What do you think, Blog? With my high school diploma I could drop out of college and either A) become a secretary B) um...Be a librarian? Maybe? Do you have to go to college for that?

I don't know, Blog, it's looking kind of dismal. Maybe I'll sleep. Maybe I'll watch TV. Maybe I'll write another blog post. Maybe I'll find people to entertain me. Hah, that's alot to wish for.

Maybe I'll paint my nails.

Sincerely,

P.I. Staker

Happy Hallowthanksmas!

Dearest Blog,

A few interesting tidbits about my day:

~ While sitting outside Chambers, witnessed an older couple running. Man had massive erection, and running was altered because of this. And it was damn cold too.

~ A bug flew in my room through the window. Normally this would not merit a mention in my blog, except the bug was a bright, bright, teal and green color. I showed it to Jennifer and she said it looked like a mutant bug, which leads me to consider the nuclear power plant 5 miles down the road. Maybe....? Nah....

~ Am sitting in my room, listening to the radio. Which brings me, Dearest Blog, to my next point.

Christmas music is on the radio. The radio station I wake up to every morning is playing continuous Christmas music (because "Christmas is [their] middle name") until that blessed day of the birth of our savior.

Reasons Why I Shamelessly Love Christmas, Even Though Everyone Loves Christmas, So It Really Isn't That Big of a Deal:

~ "Santa Clause Is Coming to Town" by Bruce Springsteen. Perhaps it's the colloquial intro of Bruce chatting friendly with his bass player, or the really fast piano riffs, or the fact that it was the first Christmas song I heard on the radio this year. The reasons don't matter, the fact is, this song is ah-may-zing.

~ The fact that I have an excuse to listen to and sing along with Christmas music during the first week of November.

~ It's cold, thank God. Which means I get to wear the ever-desirable, ever-so-cute pea coat, scarf, driving gloves, and hat. It may be a scientific fact that bundling up in the cold gives you a more pleasant warmth than just being in warm weather. I mean, come on. It's a pea coat.

~ The Hershey Kisses come in red and green tin foil, and they show that commercial where the hershey candies are bells being played to "Carol of the Bells".

~ The M&M's come in red and green colors, and they show that commericial where the M&M's candies walk in on Santa spreading out presents under the tree. ("He does exist..." "They do exist...." "....Um, Santa?")

~ Christmas cards, I love them. I love them, Christmas cards.

~ Really cheesy and/or awful Christmas movies (that everyone loves). Sample films include, but are not limited to, the following: It's a Wonderful Life, Jingle All the Way, Scrooged (with the dapper Bill Murray), Die Hard, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Dr. Suess' How the Grinch Stole Christmas, Miracle on 34th Street, Home Alone (and Home Alone 2: Lost in New York), The Muppet Christmas Carol, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, The Ref, White Christmas, and (of course) The Santa Clause. (Please note that though Home Alone 2: Lost in New York is a viable Christmas movie, Home Alone 3 and The Santa Clause 2 are not. Santa Clause 3 is still up for debate, as is Elf and that new movie, Fred Clause.)

~ Parties. Quiche. Those little meatball appetizers served on toothpicks cooked in a crockpot all day drenched in heaven sauce.

~ The Christmas Coffee from Whole Foods. I discovered this coffee a few years back when I was with Mother buying a lamb roast or something. They had little samples out, and I partook, and then forced my mom to buy the coffee for our Christmas party. I rediscovered it a few weeks ago, when I was sitting outside my dorm with Jason, working on a paper, and drinking the Christmas Coffee that he had stolen from some poor bloke living on his hall. The coffee pot was set up outside, percolating right there with us, while we smoked Cloves (the christmas cigarette) and listened to my Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby Christmas CD.

~ Cloves, the Christmas cigarette. Cloves are good anytime, but they're better during yuletide.

~ My Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby Christmas CD.

~ Christmas potpourris. These can be Glade or even Febreeze, they just have to smell like spice and Christmas and be named something like "Christmas Pumpkin Pie" or "Candy Cane Lane". The best, however is what you make at home. Here's a quick How-To Make Your Home Smell Like Christmas: 1) Cut a hole in the box. (just kidding) 1) Pick out one plump cinnamon stick. 2) Set a saucepan full of water on the stove to simmer. 3) Put the cinnamon stick in the saucepan 4) Sit on your couch and read the paper, as Christmas wafts over you. It would please you to be wearing socks at this time as well.

~ Hot chocolate at any anonymous coffee shop. You must be wearing the attire as mentioned in bullet point #3, or else the full effect of this experience will be lost.

And there you have it. That's the annotated list of the things I love about Christmas, abbreviated and cut for your pleasure. Now I've worked myself into a Grandma-missing frenzy, I must now write a 10 page religion research paper.

Until next time, Dear Blog, keep it rill.

P. I. Staker