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