I made this video for my fiancee for Valentine's Day. Now that it's safely after Valentine's Day, I can share it with everyone.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
I Got 99 Problems and a Beach Ain't One
In these frigid winter days I often find myself day dreaming about the warmer (better) seasons. Sometimes I forget that the glowing ball in the sky has the potential to produce both light and heat, especially when the air lashes at my skin as I bolt to thaw out my frozen car in the morning. These day dreams mostly consist of my childhood adventures at Cape Cod beaches with my family. I spent most of my time near the sea break looking for hermit crabs. Usually I'd just find snails which I referred to as "boring hermit crabs." I would place all my sea creatures I had found into a pail filled with sea water, take them back to the blanket where my family was, and watch the critters die in my bucket. I never took enjoyment out of watching all my new friends die it just happened, like when I watch all my friends die at school.
My family and I usually arrived at the beach by 10:00am and so of course my attention span for the beach was already spent by 10:25am. By this time I usually started digging in the sand in hopes I'd find something to amuse me like a video game or a human skeleton, but I rarely found those. Digging holes too deep was dangerous, because it could easily be turned into a tomb for which my sister could bury me in. I spent a great deal of time avoiding death at the hands of my sister. At the beach she had many devices at her disposal to plausibly get away with my murder. "Oh EJ must have fell off the sea break!" she could say if they found my body battered against the rocks. I do thank my sister for developing the invaluable skill of... paranoia.
My favorite part of the beach was the snack bar and its many ice treats. The treat I found most pleasing was the popsicles shaped like a Ninja Turtle head, except that the eyes were surgically removed and gumballs were crammed into the freshly excavated sockets. It was a morbidly delightful, especially on hot summer days.
It may be cold now, but soon the ice will melt, flowers will bloom, and my sister's blood lust will rise. When that time comes, the beach will call me again and I shall suck gumballs out of the mangled faces of turtles once more.
My family and I usually arrived at the beach by 10:00am and so of course my attention span for the beach was already spent by 10:25am. By this time I usually started digging in the sand in hopes I'd find something to amuse me like a video game or a human skeleton, but I rarely found those. Digging holes too deep was dangerous, because it could easily be turned into a tomb for which my sister could bury me in. I spent a great deal of time avoiding death at the hands of my sister. At the beach she had many devices at her disposal to plausibly get away with my murder. "Oh EJ must have fell off the sea break!" she could say if they found my body battered against the rocks. I do thank my sister for developing the invaluable skill of... paranoia.
My favorite part of the beach was the snack bar and its many ice treats. The treat I found most pleasing was the popsicles shaped like a Ninja Turtle head, except that the eyes were surgically removed and gumballs were crammed into the freshly excavated sockets. It was a morbidly delightful, especially on hot summer days.
It may be cold now, but soon the ice will melt, flowers will bloom, and my sister's blood lust will rise. When that time comes, the beach will call me again and I shall suck gumballs out of the mangled faces of turtles once more.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Finding Yourself Bored?
Laid off recently? The economy is tough and brutal, and most likely you find yourself with way more time than is necessary. Here's something you can try to pass the time. It's a neat trick and it doesn't put a dent in your savings! On a clear day at around 1pm go outside and locate the sun. Once you have found it, stare directly at it for approximately four hours. You should now be blind. If you are already blind, have a friend or dog point your head toward the sun for the same amount of time. Stumble to your room and feel for your bed or sleeping area. You will find that someone has placed a seashell where your head rests. Hold the seashell to your ear and you will hear a voice repeating the message, "Hold until your command." Whisper into the shell, "You may proceed." Upon completing this step your sight should return (or come to you for the first time in your life). You will notice the temperature rising rapidly. If you go back outside you will see that the sun is exploding, Mercury should be destroyed followed soon by Venus. Every tree will burst into flames and you will be able to hear every person you know and love wailing. The super nova will destroy Earth and continue to devour the whole solar system. This trick works every time! Try it out!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Graduate Application Tips
As you may or may not know, I am applying to further my education by applying to graduate school. I have completed many applications so far including University of Massachusetts, Boston University, and Vermont Mysterious Cave University (It's in a cave!). So far I think I have filled out several dozen applications and many of them having very similar requirements. The one exception was Harvard University, which demanded that I kill someone from Yale and send in their fingers as proof of execution, but that was hardly a challenge. I realize many people have trouble applying for grad school, so let me bestow upon you some of my newly attained knowledge of the application process. These tips can be adapted to all areas of study. Note: These tips should work for applying for most undergraduate programs as well, however it has been proven that throwing up into a swimming pool is easier than applying for undergrad studies (Throwing up into a swimming pool is a standard community college application).
First off, most graduate schools desire Greek students. This makes sense as the Greeks are historically considered enlightened. Don’t worry if you aren’t Greek, just fake it. The mimicry of Greeks is just as desirable to schools as actual Greeks. Many students succeed in their academic careers by mimicking the Greeks (It worked for the Romans!). To seem more Greek, try writing your personal statement with a Greek accent. Name-drop a famous Greeks as much as possible, or insinuate that you are related to them. For example, in my statement of purpose I sent to the University Of Texas I wrote, “My fondest memory of my family vacation was hanging out with my cousin, ALEXANDER THE GREAT.” Attempt to insert the word “gyro” as many times possible and as naturally as you can. This will award you extra points.
You may get to a point in the application where if asks you for a GRE score. Think of these as passwords. If you guess the correct one you are automatically granted admission. If you are very fortunate, the password might earn you credits so you can skip classes. Many sites on the web claim to have cheats and passwords for many grad applications, but more often than not they are just hoaxes, so you are better off guessing. One password I will give you is JUSTIN BAILEY. This password will start you in the grad school of your choice wearing only a bathing suit, but you have all the best weapons and abilities (Naturally Professor Kraid and Ridley will be dead).
The most frequently asked question is “Who should write my letters of recommendation?” That’s easy! Just ask a professor from your undergraduate studies that knows you well or with whom you are sleeping with. If you aren't sleeping with any of your professors, ask yourself, "Why not?" If you still aren't sleeping with any professors, try heading to the park and asking random people to write about someone they love or desire. Tell them to replace every instance of their lover's name with your name and have them send the message to the school of your choosing. That should suffice. If you do not live near a park, you are obviously poor and won’t get into grad school anyways.
After all that you may think that the application process is just a bunch of guessing and lies. THAT IS BECAUSE THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS. No doubt it will prepare you for whatever your career might be, you naive, naive little boy...
First off, most graduate schools desire Greek students. This makes sense as the Greeks are historically considered enlightened. Don’t worry if you aren’t Greek, just fake it. The mimicry of Greeks is just as desirable to schools as actual Greeks. Many students succeed in their academic careers by mimicking the Greeks (It worked for the Romans!). To seem more Greek, try writing your personal statement with a Greek accent. Name-drop a famous Greeks as much as possible, or insinuate that you are related to them. For example, in my statement of purpose I sent to the University Of Texas I wrote, “My fondest memory of my family vacation was hanging out with my cousin, ALEXANDER THE GREAT.” Attempt to insert the word “gyro” as many times possible and as naturally as you can. This will award you extra points.
You may get to a point in the application where if asks you for a GRE score. Think of these as passwords. If you guess the correct one you are automatically granted admission. If you are very fortunate, the password might earn you credits so you can skip classes. Many sites on the web claim to have cheats and passwords for many grad applications, but more often than not they are just hoaxes, so you are better off guessing. One password I will give you is JUSTIN BAILEY. This password will start you in the grad school of your choice wearing only a bathing suit, but you have all the best weapons and abilities (Naturally Professor Kraid and Ridley will be dead).
The most frequently asked question is “Who should write my letters of recommendation?” That’s easy! Just ask a professor from your undergraduate studies that knows you well or with whom you are sleeping with. If you aren't sleeping with any of your professors, ask yourself, "Why not?" If you still aren't sleeping with any professors, try heading to the park and asking random people to write about someone they love or desire. Tell them to replace every instance of their lover's name with your name and have them send the message to the school of your choosing. That should suffice. If you do not live near a park, you are obviously poor and won’t get into grad school anyways.
After all that you may think that the application process is just a bunch of guessing and lies. THAT IS BECAUSE THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT IS. No doubt it will prepare you for whatever your career might be, you naive, naive little boy...
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Enemy
If you read my blog often: I apologize. If you don't: Welcome to my well maintained blog! I have been applying to several graduate schools this winter. This is a product of one of the applications.
Marcel is pacing around his immaculate apartment clutching a handheld tape recorder. He runs over to his bathroom door. He stops for a moment before rushing to the other side of his apartment. Sweat is beading on his face. Standing in the middle of his kitchen, he clicks on the tape recorder and speaks into it, “It’s Judgment Day. I’ve been compromised…” He pauses suddenly and quickly moves the tape recorder away from his face and listens as if he’s heard something. Hearing nothing he begins pacing and whispers into the tape recorder, “I don’t know how much longer I can evade them… my… enemies… our enemies. Obviously they are after what I know...” Staring forward, he lowers the tape recorder and swallows audibly before continuing. “They’ll want to torture me.” Marcel whimpers slightly before cramming the tape recorder into his coat pocket and staggers over to a small shrine in his living room. The shrine, like every thing else in Marcel’s apartment, is simple and clean: just a table with two white candles and a plain crucifix hanging over it. The only other object on the shrine is a pair of black rosary beads, which Marcel scoops up and clutches in his hands. With his eyes closed, he mumbles into the beads while rocking back and forth,“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”
Someone begins knocking on the door.
“Dominus tecum…”
More knocking.
“Benedicta tu in mulieribus…”
The knocking gets louder.
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei…”
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
“…nunc et in hora mortis nostrae….”
The knocking ceases. Marcel opens his eyes and turns his gaze away from the shrine and to the door.
“Amen.” He gently sets the rosary beads on the shrine, his gaze still fixed on the door. “What do you want?” Marcel inquires sternly. He tiptoes quickly to the door and presses his cheek into against it, listening intently. A muffled voice of a man from the other side of the door begins to speak.
“There’s a leak in the room below coming from the ceiling. I think it’s coming from your room.” The speaker stops, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. None comes, so he continues, “Are you having any problems with your plumbing?” Marcel timidly puts his eye up to the peephole. On the other side of the door stands a balding, middle-aged man who looks slightly impatient.
“No,” replies Marcel. He shifts to the side of the door and crams up against the wall, eyes still directed towards the door.
“Do you mind if I come in and take a look?”
“Yes, I mind.”
“Look, the water is doing a ton of damage to my building. Just let me take a look.”
“You can’t come in.” Marcel widens his eyes and tenses up.
“I need to come in.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Myself. I own the damn building!”
“You can’t come in.” Marcel repeats.
Heavy sighing is heard on the other side of the door. Marcel sits in silence for several moments clinging to the wall next to the door. Breaking his gaze with the door for the first time, he turns his head and listens. More silence. He relaxes away from the wall while letting out a breath of relief. Using his sleeve he wipes the sweat that drips off of his face. He giggles to himself for a moment and smiles. Marcel suddenly hears a jingling on the other side of the door and a clicking of his lock. Before he can react, the door swings open, barely missing him. The landlord, holding a set of keys, storms in.
“I’m sorry, Marcel,” he grunts. “I can’t let you ruin my building.” The landlord begins marching toward the bathroom. Marcel’s face turns beat-red, and his eyes grow wide. The landlord makes it to the middle of the living room before Marcel, bearing his teeth, grabs hold of him by the back of his shirt, spins the man’s front toward him, and slugs him directly in the nose. The balding man crumples to the floor and lands on his back, blood issuing from his nose. Marcel pounces on the man’s fallen body and wraps his hands around his throat.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME IN!” Marcel rages, squeezing down on the landlord’s throat. Still dazed from the initial blow, the landlord struggles very little. Marcel’s face quivers with fury as he pushes down until the man stops moving. Marcel slowly gets to his feet, staring at the corpse and blinking slowly. He digs into his own coat pocket and pulls out some hand sanitizer. He pours some into his hand, and rubs both hands together. He dashes to the small shrine, swipes the rosary beads and mumbles, “Pater noster, qui es in caelis….”
Marcel calms down, drops the beads, and fishes for his tape recorder. “I’m not safe here anymore. One of them came for me....”
Suddenly realizing something, he looks at his tape recorder. He gives the device a pained expression then shakes his head. He opens a drawer on the shrine, grabbing a box of matches before making his way to the bathroom. The tub is overflowing with water, which splashes onto the floor. He reluctantly drops the tape recording into the tub. It sinks to the bottom, resting next to a computer, a LAN phone, and a cell phone. With matches in hand he runs to the living room window and tears the curtains from it. Marcel lays the curtains over the body of the landlord, an obvious blemish in the pristine living room.
“Sed libera nos a malo,” Marcel whispers as he sets the curtain ablaze. He makes his way to the door, wheezing heavily. He tries to will himself out of the entrance, but he can only stare down at the line where the hallway meets the apartment. He drops to his knees, gasping, and then falls to the floor.
A monitor glows, displaying Marcel waiting in a police interrogation room. Two detectives stare at the screen from the adjacent room.
The younger detective remarks, “He kept screaming, ‘I’ve been compromised’ or something to that effect. Does he work for a government agency?”
The elder replies, “No. We’ve contacted his employers. He’s a graphic designer and an agoraphobe so he works from home. They haven’t heard from him in two weeks.”
“What a fruit-cake,” the younger detective says, shaking his head as he leaves the elder detective alone in the room. The elder detective smiles, turns off the monitor displaying Marcel, and enters the interrogation room, locking the door behind him. Marcel begins to scream.
Marcel is pacing around his immaculate apartment clutching a handheld tape recorder. He runs over to his bathroom door. He stops for a moment before rushing to the other side of his apartment. Sweat is beading on his face. Standing in the middle of his kitchen, he clicks on the tape recorder and speaks into it, “It’s Judgment Day. I’ve been compromised…” He pauses suddenly and quickly moves the tape recorder away from his face and listens as if he’s heard something. Hearing nothing he begins pacing and whispers into the tape recorder, “I don’t know how much longer I can evade them… my… enemies… our enemies. Obviously they are after what I know...” Staring forward, he lowers the tape recorder and swallows audibly before continuing. “They’ll want to torture me.” Marcel whimpers slightly before cramming the tape recorder into his coat pocket and staggers over to a small shrine in his living room. The shrine, like every thing else in Marcel’s apartment, is simple and clean: just a table with two white candles and a plain crucifix hanging over it. The only other object on the shrine is a pair of black rosary beads, which Marcel scoops up and clutches in his hands. With his eyes closed, he mumbles into the beads while rocking back and forth,“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”
Someone begins knocking on the door.
“Dominus tecum…”
More knocking.
“Benedicta tu in mulieribus…”
The knocking gets louder.
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei…”
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
“…nunc et in hora mortis nostrae….”
The knocking ceases. Marcel opens his eyes and turns his gaze away from the shrine and to the door.
“Amen.” He gently sets the rosary beads on the shrine, his gaze still fixed on the door. “What do you want?” Marcel inquires sternly. He tiptoes quickly to the door and presses his cheek into against it, listening intently. A muffled voice of a man from the other side of the door begins to speak.
“There’s a leak in the room below coming from the ceiling. I think it’s coming from your room.” The speaker stops, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. None comes, so he continues, “Are you having any problems with your plumbing?” Marcel timidly puts his eye up to the peephole. On the other side of the door stands a balding, middle-aged man who looks slightly impatient.
“No,” replies Marcel. He shifts to the side of the door and crams up against the wall, eyes still directed towards the door.
“Do you mind if I come in and take a look?”
“Yes, I mind.”
“Look, the water is doing a ton of damage to my building. Just let me take a look.”
“You can’t come in.” Marcel widens his eyes and tenses up.
“I need to come in.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Myself. I own the damn building!”
“You can’t come in.” Marcel repeats.
Heavy sighing is heard on the other side of the door. Marcel sits in silence for several moments clinging to the wall next to the door. Breaking his gaze with the door for the first time, he turns his head and listens. More silence. He relaxes away from the wall while letting out a breath of relief. Using his sleeve he wipes the sweat that drips off of his face. He giggles to himself for a moment and smiles. Marcel suddenly hears a jingling on the other side of the door and a clicking of his lock. Before he can react, the door swings open, barely missing him. The landlord, holding a set of keys, storms in.
“I’m sorry, Marcel,” he grunts. “I can’t let you ruin my building.” The landlord begins marching toward the bathroom. Marcel’s face turns beat-red, and his eyes grow wide. The landlord makes it to the middle of the living room before Marcel, bearing his teeth, grabs hold of him by the back of his shirt, spins the man’s front toward him, and slugs him directly in the nose. The balding man crumples to the floor and lands on his back, blood issuing from his nose. Marcel pounces on the man’s fallen body and wraps his hands around his throat.
“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME IN!” Marcel rages, squeezing down on the landlord’s throat. Still dazed from the initial blow, the landlord struggles very little. Marcel’s face quivers with fury as he pushes down until the man stops moving. Marcel slowly gets to his feet, staring at the corpse and blinking slowly. He digs into his own coat pocket and pulls out some hand sanitizer. He pours some into his hand, and rubs both hands together. He dashes to the small shrine, swipes the rosary beads and mumbles, “Pater noster, qui es in caelis….”
Marcel calms down, drops the beads, and fishes for his tape recorder. “I’m not safe here anymore. One of them came for me....”
Suddenly realizing something, he looks at his tape recorder. He gives the device a pained expression then shakes his head. He opens a drawer on the shrine, grabbing a box of matches before making his way to the bathroom. The tub is overflowing with water, which splashes onto the floor. He reluctantly drops the tape recording into the tub. It sinks to the bottom, resting next to a computer, a LAN phone, and a cell phone. With matches in hand he runs to the living room window and tears the curtains from it. Marcel lays the curtains over the body of the landlord, an obvious blemish in the pristine living room.
“Sed libera nos a malo,” Marcel whispers as he sets the curtain ablaze. He makes his way to the door, wheezing heavily. He tries to will himself out of the entrance, but he can only stare down at the line where the hallway meets the apartment. He drops to his knees, gasping, and then falls to the floor.
A monitor glows, displaying Marcel waiting in a police interrogation room. Two detectives stare at the screen from the adjacent room.
The younger detective remarks, “He kept screaming, ‘I’ve been compromised’ or something to that effect. Does he work for a government agency?”
The elder replies, “No. We’ve contacted his employers. He’s a graphic designer and an agoraphobe so he works from home. They haven’t heard from him in two weeks.”
“What a fruit-cake,” the younger detective says, shaking his head as he leaves the elder detective alone in the room. The elder detective smiles, turns off the monitor displaying Marcel, and enters the interrogation room, locking the door behind him. Marcel begins to scream.
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