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.
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.
posted by Alfonzo Debussy | 2:58 PM
1 Comments:
luv the links
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