A Nightmare On College Street

It’s beginning to sink in…

You see, college is just around the corner, and I feel unprepared. It’s not as if I’m not ready, which I am; c’mon people, gimme a break! But it is scary to consider there will be no more guiding leash. Only yesterday, my mom was telling me I had to get a full-time job this summer. Geez Louise, Mom, I’m eighteen, it’s not like I can be a functioning member of society!

Eight hour work shift, my ass. I’ll go the full nine yards–yep, that’s me, being the overachiever. Get busy at a restaurant washing dishes, or pile horse crap onto a trailer at some farming store. Sure. And how much am I getting paid again?

College’ll be fun, of that I have little doubt. I’m studying for a teaching degree, gonna educate these high schoolers about the beeuty of grammar–oops, spelling error. I look forward to attaining my degree and becoming a teacher, which will be my safety net while I write stories and send them off to publishers. I’ll teach stuff. I’ll say stuff. I’ll write stuff on a whiteboard. Man, it sounds like the best job in the world, don’t it? Add on top of that a shitload of coffee and–well, you know what comes after you drink a lot of coffee.

Dorms don’t seem my cup of tea. I have heard plenty of horror stories about roommates and their different variations. It’s like someone puts together a Build-Me-Frankenstein doll kit and sticks all these body parts and brains on bare bodies. Yuck, gross image, right? Might have to go wash out the old noggin after that one.

But I digress–God, I hate when people say that–college is not all it is cracked up to be. No…it’s much more terrifying, a real fright for the kiddies. When people leave college, they always say…”I had to ask where the bathroom was on the first day” and, even scarier, “The kid in the desk next to me drooled on my notes.” The horror! Oh, what a monstrosity!

And on top of all that,

I have to pay for it!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Prom and Punch

What is the number one stress of high schoolers all across America?



I’m talking about prom, people! The biggest dance of your teenage life prom? The one where the guy asks the girl, and then–it–well, it goes on as normal from there. Anyway, it’s coming up for a lot of folks, which is exciting!

Don’t know if I’m going or not. I did the whole asking thing, but it didn’t turn out in my favor; go figure, huh? Might as well go stag and freak out a shitload of people with my dancing skills.

Woah, check this cat out!

Is he doing the worm? No, it looks like the anteater! 

Dude, didn’t the anteater go out of style three years ago?

Yeah, man, this cat is kicking at a dry litter box; let’s beat it. 



Excuse Bill and Ted there, they sometimes pop up. But I don’t see Keanu Reeves much anymore; rumor is he finally found the sweet spot of Hollywood and is chomping on feature film candy as we speak.

If I do go to prom, I’ll likely stand in the back and drink punch like a creep. Girls’ll walk up to me, and I’ll say, “Hey…you think the punch is good, or what?” I will name it a victory if they don’t dump their punch in my face–oh, not the shirt, please not the shirt!

It’ll be nice. It’ll be real nice.

And you know? That’s exactly what the farmer said to Old Yeller before he shot him.

Actually, I haven’t watched it in a while, so what do I know? Guess I have plans now.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Here Goes The Post-Pubescent Teen…

So, I’ve got a cheap band-aid wrapped around my thumb. It’s irritating the hell out of me , not only because it’s hard to wash my hands, but it does not seem to be doing its job of stopping the soreness. While you’re reading this, imagine me in mortal pain: the tears, the blood, the guts–oh, dear Lord, someone get an ambulance!

I’m kind of in a pissy mood though. Generally, that doesn’t happen me too much, as I am a  pretty optimistic dude–and I almost misspelled optimistic, this is going great–but sometimes you gotta bite the onion and breathe in someone’s face.

That’s a weird image. Don’t do that.

You ever like someone and–

Oh, here the Teenager goes…blah-de-bloo…so sad romance…boo-hoo. 

Anyhow, as I was saying, you ever like someone and tell yourself: well, I suppose this is the one, the one I’ll wait for, the one I’ll spend money on, the one I’ll ask to dances, the one I’ll be able to fart around. You know? And then life bitchslaps you and says, You got it wrong, son! It’s snake eyes for you! Then you want to punch life in its happy little face because you’re so angry and depressed and demotivated and tired and hungry and overworked and overpaid and–okay, back on track, I promise.

If you haven’t felt that, go feel it. You’ll think someone dropped a bowling ball on your heart.

What I am pissed about, and I know all are listening with bated breath, is–at last breaking free of that one sided game of Tag, You’re It…but then, sooner than you think, coming right back to it because a stinking piece of hope crept back into your brain and said:

Oh, heeeey, remember that one girl, you know, that one, the one you said you were done with for all eternity, not including loopholes? That one? Thaaaat one?

Yes, but why are you bringing that up again? I was thinking about Rocky Road ice cream. 

This is just me, you know, speaking out loud, but, you know, you might, maybe, have a little–a teensy bit, a smidgen, really–chance, or, opportunity, at, well, having a shot with them again? So, sign here on the blue line and seal your life away! Ding-Ding-Ding! We have a winner!

Yeah. That happened to me. It sucks. Know’s what worse? It’s still happening.

And, for the holy, high school, almost a graduate, life of me, I can not get the thought out of my head. I think God took a bottle of Gorilla Glue, laughed, and lathered it on the back of that puppy before slapping it on my brain. Hey…maybe that’s why I had a headache last week.

Or I ate too much ice cream. I’m a fiend for it.

Sorry, God, you can go back to shopping at the Hobby Lobby in Heaven.

Oh, girls, or boys, if you’re a girl reading this post, they can make you soooo–

Oh, ah! Brain Freeze! God, come back–quit fantasizing over coupons!

Think daily,

A Southpaw