BREACH!

I have figured out how phase two was foiled. He-who-must-not-be-named has been reading the blog all along! For weeks! He's even been commenting under the guise of "Stu Crabshack."

I should have known. I should have instantly recognized this feeble pseudonym as the work of my rival, Brodycus Assholicus. So, now that my every word is being watched...

Know this, dickwad; any and all advantage you have derived from reading this blog is gone. You leave yourself, now, completely unprotected. In your hurry to make your presence known, you have made yourself naked within the enemy camp.

If I could promise you death, I would, but I am not so merciful as to allow your suffering to end prematurely. When you are at your weakest, your frail bird-bones crushed, your spirit splintered, your mind in tatters, that is when I will appear. Though your eyes will have ceased to focus, you will know it is me by my smile, the biggest you've ever seen. You will be broken, sir.

That's what you get for fucking my mother.

Abort

Phase two has failed. I am not sure how, but I am looking into it. I suspect sabotage. Sabotage most foul.

Chaz told me, just a few minutes ago, that I was supposed to come up with some sort of theme for the week. Well, fuck if I knew I was responsible for that. So, if you give me a little bit of time, I'll come up with something. I will note that none of our theoretical readers have suggested any ideas. I know you exist, because we installed a site-meter. I know where you are, how long you stayed on the blog, and your blood type.

So give me some damn suggestions!

That is all.

The Calm

I don't quite understand it. It seems like this phone call would get nearly immediate results :

911 : Emergency 911. How can I help you?
Caller : No emergency, just a report.
911 : Go ahead, sir.
Caller : A friend of mine has recently purchased contraband marijuana, which he is now keeping in his dorm room. I don't want him to get in trouble, but I think things could only be worse if he got high and did something reckless.
911 : Where does your friend live?
Caller : Dauten 23. His name is David Brody.
911 : Thank you, sir. We'll dispatch the first available officer.
Caller : No, thank you.

I thought, for sure, that he'd be handcuffed and beaten with nightsticks within the hour. It's been almost 18 hours, now, and still nothing. I'm not even sure he's left the building. I've had Chaz posted on the roof of Danforth all night, and he says he didn't see anything go down. Though I have ample reason to doubt Chaz's vigilance, I doubt he could have missed a bleeding, broken, curly-haired schmuck being dragged down the steps of Dauten, tied to the back of a WUPD bike, then dragged 1000 feet to the station. Unlike a train wreck, you would want to stare, and maybe point and laugh.

At any rate, if nothing develops in the next six hours, I'm sending someone in to do recon. Maybe tonight is the night for Vlad to meet Brody... if we knew where Vlad was, that is. Last anyone saw him, he was arms akimbo, strolling around WILD with two girls on either side of him. I fully expected it to be a long night in Suite 3100, full of wall-banging, grunting and shrieks of delight, but Vlad never came home. Maybe he thought his bed too small to accomodate so many women.

Ah, I suppose I should explain my cheery mood. Despite the apparent failure of Phase Two, the sexual debauchery of my suitemate, and the likely incompetence of another, I'm absolutely on top of the world. She calls herself Dystopia, and she is everything I have ever dreamed of.

I'll admit, I've never been fond of the world of blogging. It seems the lowest form of digital masturbation, lower even than cybersex, which at least has two active partners. Basically, everything you read on a blog is what I like to call "Mental Ejaculate," or, in layman's terms, "Brainspank". Bloggers operate under the illusion that some other mind will catch that mind-gism and new thoughts will be born; in reality, they might as well be jacking off into a plastic cup. I use this blog simply as a way of appeasing my roommates, and occasionally to preserve thoughts for my own purposes. I do not subscribe the the illusion that ANYONE is reading it.

As it turns out, at least one person does. She calls herself Dystopia. She IMd me while I was using Starbucks' Wi-Fi to talk to Chaz. She's been reading this blog for a few weeks, and she has fallen in love with me. She is.... ahhh, she's so perfectly hateful of the world. She wants to kill her parents in their sleep, she does drugs but hates druggies, she has body piercings and smokes cigarettes. Even now, I feel strange calling her my dream girl, but that's the only way I can think to put it.

Cliff doesn't buy the whole thing. He thinks I might be in for some trouble, and, though I trust him, Cliff gets by on an unnatural amount of paranoia and superstition. I doubt he'd trust his own mother, were she to come back and claim him.

Oh, how could I forget?! I never explained Cliff!

Cliff lives in Westfield Shoppingtown. He isn't a part-time resident, like me. He literally lives, sleeps, eats, bathes, does everything within the walls of that mall. I've asked him for his story a number of times, and he invariably gives me a different answer every time. Here is what I've been able to piece together : 1. He is somewhere between 23 and 30 years old. 2. His metabolism is such that he can survive on Icee's and jumbo pretzels, if he needs to. 3. He claims that he was abandoned by his mother when he was six, but the Westfield Shoppingtown is only about 3 years old, so....

I've pretty much figured out that Cliff is either a compulsive liar, or completely insane; it would not surprise me if he were both. It doesn't really matter what he says; it's what he does that amazes me. He has the run of the place. He can get food from any vendor, at any time, for free. He can loiter anywhere, in any store, without the manager hassling him. He can do anything, and nobody seems to care. He acts like he owns the place. He knows the ins and outs, and all the various nuances of living inside a mall. He has taught me so much already, and yet there is still so much to learn.

Oh, I have said so much in this post. This'll be a pain for me to read through, later.

That is all.

Webcomics Week

I've seen what my suitemates have to offer, and despite the allure of Communism versus Fascism, I feel that my cohorts have a terrible affliction. We, in the English Department, know it as "Poor Taste".

Gaze upon the beauty of great literature merged with great art. I give you Peter Pan. This wonderful project has only just begun, and I couldn't be more excited. The idea of telling the full story of Pan, especially through this medium, is visionary. Just wander around the site; the only story with content is "Pan I" but the others have information.


Peter is jibed by his friends for his love of Shakespeare. Ah, now there's something I can relate to.

That is all.

EDIT (9/23/05) : Link fixed. Sorry.

Two Weeks In Westfield

It is just a matter of duty which keeps me coming back to this school. My parents have invested a great deal of money in my future, yes, but that is not what I mean when I say duty. Like the bodhisaatva, I return from my shoppingtown nirvana to make the mortal sphere a little bit better (better for all but one, that is. I'm sure, at this point, I don't have to name him).

But all work and no play makes Alfonzo a dull boy, so I bring you news from the other side; from 2 miles south on Big Bend and 7 miles west on Manchester.

Sunday, September 4th, 2005 : I took refuge in the Westfield Shoppingtown after starting phase one of my grandest revenge. I thought it best to stay away from campus, just in case any inquiring minds might wonder about my involvement in the bust behind Danforth. I resided in the Dairy Queen/Orange Julius until they told me I'd had enough, at which point I decided I might hide in Hot Topic for the night. For clarification, I loathe Hot Topic (and, perhaps, hoped to do a little damage before leaving), but the color scheme which is most prevalent in their store happens to be the same color scheme of my wardrobe; I chose to camp there thinking that I would be well hidden amongst the novelty "I See Dumb People" t-shirts. Alas, 'twere my genes that undid me. The moment I walked in the store, it was instantly illuminated by the lustre of my (naturally) blond hair. Many a mascara-ed eye turned towards me, and I stepped out before the sound of sizzling skin became overwhelming. I left the mall, dejected.

Monday, September 5th : I was unable to make it to Westfield, as my class schedule did not permit it. I decided, though, to adjust my schedule to better suit my needs.

Tuesday, September 6th : I made my involvement in phase one public by writing to you from the Apple Store on the second floor. I attempted to spend the night in the LoveSac, but was unable to find any clerks who were interested in men. I buried myself under a pile of stuffed animals in the Build-A-Bear Workshop, and slept comfortably into Wednesday.

Wednesday, September 7th : I had set my cell phone to wake me up at 8 am so that I might make it back to school in time for my 9'o'clock. I did wake up at 8, but found that not a single Westfield employee did the same. I was trapped until 10 and made it to my 11'o'clock class on time. I decide that a schedule that starts at 12 would be ideal.

Thursday, September 8th : Again, unable to make it to Westfield.

Friday, September 9th : I can only explain my mistakes on this night as being a result of a prolonged separation from Chick-Fil-A and greater Westfield. I won't recount the events again, as the above link will tell you what you need to know.

Saturday and Sunday..... again, just check the link above if you've forgotten.

Monday, September 12th, I return to the promised land for some much needed R&R. I arrived 15 minutes before closing, and managed to pose as a remote-controlled robot with dead batteries, granting my a night in one of Brookstone's fabulous vibrating chairs. In the middle of the night, I am woken by a man named Cliff, but I don't have time to go into that tonight. Expect a post devoted to Cliff at some point in the future.

Tuesday, September 13th - Thursday, September 15th : With Cliff's help, I managed to stay on Shoppingtown grounds for over 48 hours. Yes, I realize that I had to skip classes to do this. It was a necessary sacrifice, as Cliff used the time to teach me the many wonders and secrets that Westfield holds. I am drawn away, Thursday evening, by news of Brody's half-ass punishment. Cliff warned me not to interrupt my training, that I was not yet ready to leave, but he doesn't understand....

This weekend : I've set phase two into motion. The anvil is in place, now all I have to do is bring down the hammer.


My friends, sometimes you want to go where only one guy knows your name; they don't even know you came. You wanna be where you can see a Chick-Fil-A and a Gymboree. You wanna be where nobody knows your name.


That is all.

The War At Home

I recieved word today (nevermind how, or through who) that Mister Brody has gotten off somewhat light for his drug-related indiscretions of two weeks ago; I had anticipated this, somewhat. I did not think he would get away so "scot-free," but the liberal leanings of Wash U never fail to surprise me. Even so, I fail to see how calling his mother and telling on him is an adequate punishment, or even a punishment at all. Renee is the party mother, who buys her son wine and lets him smoke weed on the front porch. The mother who would probably buy her son's weed if such a transaction wasn't so damaging to her career. What's worse, Brody gets to call home FIRST. So much for the off chance that she might handle the situation poorly, let slip some indication of her lieniency and have the school take issue. No, she gets to be forwarned and instructed. They might as well give him his weed and pipe back, too, with a few extra nuggets thrown in for all the trouble they caused him.

But, like I said, no matter. As frustrating as this is, I knew nothing major would come of the first offense. The second, however, is a different story. Yes, Brody, you will pay. You will pay, remaining oblivious to my hand in all of this until the very last moment, as your doom crashes down onto you and it all becomes clear....

I stand here, waiting, scythe in hand, conducting the symphony of your destruction. A brush of the cymbal, an oncoming storm. A low murmur of tuba and trombone and baritone horn, the thundering hooves of fate. The trumpet, the braying of the firey-eyed horse upon which I ride, coming closer, ever closer, to you...

I have not forgotten. I will never forget.

That is all.

good grief

auuugh... my god... this might be the worst i have ever felt. what on earth did i do last night?

oh god. it's sunday night. fuck! oh no, this cannot be real. there's no way i've been out for... 46 hours?

i have lit to read. i have movies to watch. i had a life, and now it has all slipped away from me. curse you vlad, you and your fermented potatoes.

i can vaguely recall snatches of images; chaz and me at the loop, "stocking up" for phase two... i hope chaz took care of the goods, because i'm fairly certain i've vomited in every plastic bag in my room (though, on second thought, that might add to the effect). did we go into blockbuster?

.....


merde.


Ladies and Gentlemen, I have become what I hate most in this world. If my memory serves me well, then I believe I propositioned a fellow student through the window of a Blockbuster video.

Oh no, I remember all of this now. I asked her what her name was, and where she went to school, and then I asked for her number. She asked me which dorm I live in, and I'm certain whatever I said was incorrect; I can't even be sure I named an actual dorm. In the end, probably just to get away, she took my number; when I say this, of course, I mean that she accepted a string of numbers that I spoke taht may or may not correspond to my phone number, or even to a phone number within the United States.

Chaz, why didn't you stop me?

Moderation, everyone. Moderation is all I can say.

That is all.

Buddha And Golf

I write to you, my dedicated readers, from the Westfield Apple Store. I have taken refuge from the scalding, disapproving world in this, the soothing oasis of Westfield Shoppingtown. My plan is to spend as much time here as possible. I have restructured my schedule so that my classes are early and grouped together, giving me entire afternoons and evenings to reside here. I will trade my meal points for money, which I will use to buy food in the food court or one of the autonomous eateries for mid-mall snacking.

If possible, I will try to seduce my way into the heart of the salesgirl at LoveSac, so that I may take naps in one of their giant beanbag chairs.

I have caught wind of Chaz having some trouble with the police. I am sad that he had to get caught up in that mess. Such is the price of fraternizing with a man with as many enemies as David Brody.

I was walking back from a sulk in the park when I saw him. He was one, maybe two-hundred feet away, but I could tell it was Brody by his slouch. A group of five others followed him around the back of Danforth; it brings the Pied Piper to mind, though Brody was certainly wielding an entirely different kind of pipe--one which he would gladly share with his mice.

I contemplated the various ways of attacking: the direct assault is always more thrilling, though then I'd run the risk of being thwarted. After all, we are not technically allowed to drop anything from dorm windows. I wished that I had prepared for such an opportunity by renting or purchasing some sort of vicious animal, or at least one which sprays a horrible musk when frightened.

It was either out of laziness or sadism that I chose the indirect method; WUPD would do nicely. I sat on our balcony and waited for the boys in blue to arrive. It was a long wait, and I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. Waiting for Brody to suffer has much in common with Buddhism: life is suffering, and there is only one way to end that suffering. Of course, Siddhartha and I disagree on the last step.

So while waiting requires tantric patience and concentration, orchestrating Brody's suffering is much like golf. One must aim from very far away, using broad strokes, ultimately coming closer and driving the point home. Calling the cops is only phase one of this hole.

So, Chaz, I'm sorry you had to get caught up in this. If you call me, I can pick up something from the Shoppingtown for you. Something nice. I hope you can forgive me.

That is all.

Westfield

I am not a man of many indulgences. Sometimes I think that my greatest pleasures are monotony and insignificance. However, I am occasionally taken by an urge that is far stronger than my formidable frontal lobe, and I find myself drawn over great distances to locations of only marginal practical significance.

In short, I love chicken. More specifically, I love Chick-Fil-A. Let me explain.

Every aspect of the Chick-Fil-A experience is tailored to be beyond your wildest dreams. The food, though central to the experience, is hardly the whole reason to go. For example, the experienced staff of friendly order-takers (Chik Jockeys, as it were) are, far and away, the best in the fast food game. The staff of Burger King will not make eye contact, taking your order while having a conversation with Louie at the Drive-Thru window, and giving you a cheeseburger when you asked for a slice of pie; these are unempowered people, who are taking advantage of their position as the spout through which your Whopper flows. They abuse you because they aren't in a position to abuse anyone else.

Not so with Chick-Fil-A. No, S. Truett Cathy recruits only the best and brightest from his army of enthusiastic young Christians to take my order. They won't abuse you, because they are serving you the Glory Of God on a buttered bun, with a side of waffle fries.

In all honesty, read the company's mission in the link above. Chick-Fil-A really wants to show you the glory of Jesus by serving you chicken. I am as agnostic as they come, and still, somehow, they've got me curious in the ol' Jesuchristo. The food is that good.


Last year, I was without my car. I knew of a CFA location within a few miles of school, but I was not able to get there without walking a great distance. "Westfield Shoppingtown" was the place my beloved chicken was purported to reside. I did not know, when I set out this afternoon, that I was on my way to the first mall which I have ever desired to stay in for longer than absolutely necessary. Nor did I know that, on the 9 mile journey to Westfield, I would pass almost every store I longed for last year, including some stores I've longed for my whole life.

Ladies and Gentlemen, there are three... count them, THREE, 7-11 locations between here and Westfield Shoppingtown. There are BP stations. There are two Steak N Shakes, two Sonics, one Rally's, an ALDI grocery mart.....

Truly and honestly, I wanted to cry. The joy was that overwhelming.

Now, my mission is simple. I need to expose all of my friends to Chick-Fil-A, and surely they will open a location closer to school. Maybe even on school grounds. Maybe I can live there next year.

Praise the Poultry. That is all.

Fucking Alpha-Males

Am I defective? Am I just a broken man, is that it? Why is it that guys like Chaz and Vlad, with their limited vocabularies and cro-magnon social skills, can simply find sex whenever they want?

Is there some sort of radar for loose women, analogous to the fabled Gaydar? Is there something about a decent education that breaks this radar system? Perhaps reading books does it, or having intelligent conversation. Maybe these frat assholes are lining up to play Halo because it imparts some secret to finding women.

I don't sleep much. I find my thoughts are more my own when I have had little sleep; I am at home in a state of constant irritation, grogginess, and bed-hair. So I spend my time reading, writing my short stories, sometimes poetry; basically bettering myself and making the most of society's millenia of dedicated documentation. Chaz, it can be assumed, has spent the last 8 hours drinking beer and eating junk food. I believe a friend of his had a birthday yesterday, so it's certain that not a single mind went unintoxicated in the course of the evening. So, here I am, awake late at night, when I hear a great clatter; but I'll be damned if I move to see what is the matter.

Chaz, the only suitemate unaccounted for this evening, is returning home, and he is not alone. He fiddles with his keys--loudly, I might add--and shushes his mysterious second party, before they duck into his room. Shortly thereafter, the squeaking of the bed commenced.

Ah! Something has gone wrong, ladies and gentleman. Our mysterious guest has just left. I guess Halo doesn't teach you everything you need to know to please a woman.

I am consoled by this, and I shall take my consolation to bed with me.

That is all.