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June 24, 2008 |
I guess I'll tell about an unfortunate event that occurred in my life not less than a week ago.
My companion and I had decided that, living the hectic lives we do, it was time to go and purchase a bag of marijuana to smoke and enjoy. Anyway, we accomplished that with relatively little trouble and proceeded to get high, really high, on the way to his house to play some video games.
So I'm driving a solid 36 miles per hour down the street to his house where the speed limit has been set at a paltry 30. With the streets being clear of dangerous criminals and all other threatening acts of crime under apparent control, a young police officer decides that the best course of action for the night is to pull over 'lil 'ole me and my friend.
Now, granted we both were stunningly high, driving always remains far from difficult, so the harm being done to anyone is a virtual zero. When you open your door and hand a cop your license and registration, and his immediate response is that the car smells strongly of marijuana and both sets of eyes appear visibly red and glazed over, what is one to say?
"Uh, no officer. Marijuana? We haven't been smoking any."
"Oh, the smell? That was someone else. One of our other friends. We dropped him off."
"This tinfoil pipe with marijuana resin in it? Well, that certainly must be said friend's also."
And he makes us step out of the car. I see he is young, inexperienced, and looking a little intimidated, because if I were to choose I could thoroughly kick his scrawny ass. He doesn't even know how to administer the roadside sobriety tests. He has to read them out of a little pocket notebook.
I stand on one leg, the other leg six inches off the ground and slightly in front of the other for 30 seconds, with little effort required.
I follow a light with my eyes. Right to left. Up and down. Side to side. Don't move your head. I'm performing circus acts or something.
I walk a line, one foot in front of the other. I don't sway. I turn and walk back, doing it again. I pass the sobriety test, and he looks visibly disappointed.
A female officer arrives on the scene. Also young and inexperienced. She is good-looking, and I think about having sex with her as she is standing there. I'm still pretty high.
The officers search my car.
"That bag of marijuana? That glass pipe? Well . . . no, those aren't ours. Who could those be? I wonder."
The male officer at first wants to send us to court for this, but we convince him to remember his younger days, recall how many upstanding young men use marijuana, so he writes us each a $137 ticket. The blond dyke wants to cite me for driving under the influence, even though I passed the roadside sobriety test. She is a bitch, and I think about having sex with her again.
As my friend and I sit on the curb, while the male officer is looking up secret police stuff in his car, the dyke stands before us. I attempt to lighten the mood.
"Hey, did you know marijuana is, like, legal in the Netherlands." I laugh. "This shit should totally be legal."
She goes off on me. She is screaming at me. I've been making a joke out of this, she says. I have not been showing respect to the police officers, she adds. If it was up to her, I would be in jail, facing a DUI. She knows I'm high, she says, pointing her finger at me. She doesn't care what I say. She repeats the phrase, thinking this will have a stronger effect. I hold my tongue, and inside I laugh, for I know my pride must be held in during situations like these. I think how she's lucky she's wearing that uniform, or else I'd tell her to make me a pie, knit me a sweater, and get down on her knees and blow me.
She later comes to apologize for yelling at me while the male officer is writing up the tickets. She offers us jobs as "informants" to get the tickets erased from our records. We could turn in dealers, wear wires, and be a part of a secret police bust. It would be kind of cool, I think. We get her card, and say we'll think about it. I don't actually consider it, however. I have morals. She walks away and says the other officer will have the tickets ready soon, and I look in my rear-view mirror as she walks away and think of tapping that ass.
We get away with a ticket and a scolding. I am required to call my probation officer about any law enforcement contact. She says I could potentially face up to 90 days in jail. What the fuck, I think. She says, however, that is unlikely. She says I may have to do community service or serve a few days in jail on the weekend. What the fuck, I think again. I had marijuana. I wasn't dealing cocaine to kindergarteners or raping little girls.
I am a little concerned. Now I have to go to court anyway for a violation of probation hearing. And I'm out $137 and a bag of good weed. Shiiiiiiiit. |
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June 4, 2008 |
This will probably continue to be neglected during the summer months. |
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May 26, 2008 |
Well I sure had an eventful weekend. Besides being handcuffed, sent to jail, and my bail being set at $250 for shoplifting a $9.99 hackey sack, I also got completely smashed twice and made quite the character out of myself.
Either way, I kind of want to die right now. |
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May 19, 2008 |
I'm going to a pretty place now where the flowers grow.
I'll be back in an hour or so . . . |
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May 19, 2008 |
Oh it was another one of those sweet high school reunions tonight. I talked to this guy I haven't seen in about a year. He was exactly the same. Should that be considered a bad thing? I'm not sure, but it was actually nice in a way. He's got kind of a funny story. Everyone bet that he would drop out of college after one semester, but it took two. Now he works at a hotel and smokes cigarettes in the back all night. He's the only employee for the entire hotel for about five hours. It's actually pretty awesome when I think about it.
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May 9, 2008 |
I went to sociology at 11, took my final, and left. I don't think I did too great. I didn't study at all. I literally skimmed over the chapters and that was it. I won't be too surprised if I got fucked with a C in that class. After that I did kind of a curious thing. I went through the courtyard over to the theater area and went in the bathroom. I got out my plastic baggie which only had a pinch left in it, stuffed it in my bowl, and got about two nice size rips out of it. Then I went back out in the courtyard and smoked a cigarette. I actually don't have any cigarettes right now, but I also barely have any gas, and no money (!). I think I might have a dollar on me and some change. Shiiit. I should go to the bank.
Anyway, I went into the library when I finished my cigarette and listened to my ipod. I think I listened to some Bon Iver and some Sonic Youth. It was great. I didn't have class again for an hour. I figured I would just kick it at school, go buy some candy from a vending machine, and maybe study a bit for my next class, which was American History.
I started my trek to the vending machine, and when I got there I bought a rice krispy bar and a bag of peanut m&ms. I noticed I didn't have my gatorade, so I ate my rice krispy bar while I walked back to my car for it. After I finished my bar I opened the m&ms and ate them. Then I walked back, with my gatorade, to some benches where I always smoke. I was gonna just smoke and chill and maybe listen to some music, but this girl I know walked out to talk to me. She is really fucking hot. Wow, .. just yeah. So I talked to her and we smoked a cigarette, then she left and went to class. I still had about 30 minutes until my class.
I walked over to a new spot to sit and smoked another cigarette. I only smoked about half then flicked it to the ground. As I walked back to go inside, sit down and look over my notes, I saw the girl Kayla who sits by me in the class. This is another girl that is just unbelievably beautiful. Better looking than the previous girl. She's smoking a cigarette (everyone fucking smokes here, I swear) and as I walk by to go inside she smiles at me and I, behind my sunglasses, return the small. I went inside to look over my notes and I could see her through the window on the phone. I spent about ten minutes reading and then thought I would start the walk to history.
When I walked outside, Kayla was still on the phone and I stopped to smoke yet another cigarette. When she got off the phone she yelled to me, "Have you studied for the final yet?"
"No, not really," I said. "I think I might do a little reading this weekend."
"Yeah, I haven't studied either. What about the quiz for today?"
"I've looked at the notes a little bit," I said. Then I see Dane, walking toward me with his long, orange hair dusting his shoulders. I knew I would have to acknowledge him, probably talk to him for a bit, but I wanted to be talking to hot Kayla, not him, even though he is a really cool guy.
I'm still talking to Kayla when Dane walks up. He's smoking a cigarette.
"Are you taking the quiz today?" I asked Kayla.
"Maybe, I'm not sure." We're in the bonus round for our quizzes. He gives us seven quizzes and he takes our best five.
Then there was a small lull in the conversation and I felt obligated to talk to Dane. "So how was yoga yesterday?" I asked him. We are in racquet sports together but on our last day the teacher was going to put on some type of relaxation tape.
"It was pretty stupid. She put on this tape for 20 minutes and then we left."
I didn't go to class on Wednesday because I felt sort of sick.
We're almost done. Only one more day--the final. I wonder what it is she wants. |
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May 6, 2008 |
Oh my fucking god, you have to be kidding me. That is just fucking low, that's like.. shit. |
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May 6, 2008 |
Okay this deserves it's own entry. Joanna Newsom.
She seems so, like strange, yet kind of hot and intriguing in a way . .
Joanna Newsom |
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May 5, 2008 |
"Oh, good fucking god, the boy exclaimed! I have a marvelous Sitdiary entry." No fucking joke. Don't you think it feels weird to type about yourself in the third person? Anyway, that thought actually surfaced inside my mind when I was driving. Like I was anticipating to come home and do this!
Think about this: For our Intro to Comm class we have to write these journal entries. There has to be 25 of them. They are off this pink sheet, which is found in a blue folder where I keep that massive stash of paperwork I have acquired from this class. Just in case .. One time in high school, this first year teacher (who had a tramp stamp, no less! In fact, she looked like a slut gone bad. One who had just let it go. Drank a lot of beer, probably fucked a lot of guys, based the merit that many men will just fuck slimy holes in the wall. I'm not saying she was ever a 9, or even a (Oh my God! I just realized about putting a thought in parentheses once, and then another thought came to me, so I would ultimately have . . 3 sets of them, and it would be a strange sentence. Anyway, the outcome would be many parenthese and a somewhat confusing, but interesting, sentence)) 10,[i've become confused.. and will edit this part later...]
anyway, The all coveted set of grading is a number scale, not a numeral scale. There are no A+'s, or B-'s, or occasional F's. There are only 1 through 10's. But halves can be be used, of course. So I could say, eh, 8.5, and that would be acceptable. However, something like 7.25 is really kicking it, which kind of makes you just start to sound like a machine.
Ok. Back to the story! (I read about some ship getting attacked by pirates in the news! Pirates, you idiots! Every childhood dream across America has been granted!! They really do exist! My dream profession! I am 100% honest about the past five sentences.)
This teacher was probably somewhere around a 6.5 when she was . . less plump? Like, I assume that most tattoo artists deny fat girls wanting to get tramp stamps, just based upon principle, right?
She lost maybe 3 of my assignments totaling like 20% percent of my grade, which I had to find in the trash can because she had apparently "forget to mark them down as graded" or whatever, even though there were no scores written on them. So I just looked at what the score was actually out of on someone else's, and then I used a red pen to create my own score on the tagboard or whatever the fuck the assignment was, handed it to her and she simply marked down my perfect A's in the grade book. So that was cool. In a way it had a good outcome, but how likely is that what's usually going to happen?
I think this story just took a slight branch into me talking about how I had to stash a lot of papers in my blue folder, when this is really none of what I had planned from the start. I still have the core story coming up!
Anyway, my main fucking point is that I am doing journals (more often longer than I write in the school journal, I might add) on my own and I should deserve my points anyway, even if I don't write all 25 entries! I have 23, or was it 22? entries. So I don't have all that many left to do, but still. These entries were place on the pink sheet I think I mentioned up at the top, and they had a set of like 16 entries, and I guess the other ones were apparently "assigned in class" or at least that's my assumption, because I only have 23, or was it 22? entries. So I'm short. I thought maybe I should just make up some of my own entries, relating to the class, and see if she would take those, because the journal is due on Thursday. We don't have class Tuesday like usual because the 'professor' has a meeting. So I don't have school tomorrow, which is a plus to this situation.
So technically I should get points just for the task of writing. I don't think it should really matter a whole lot what it's about. All the, "Ohh, what did I think was the best presentations?" and all that. They were all about the fucking same in quality, ok? I could not pick out a best one. There were four groups. Neither group especially, "shined," shall we say, but neither did any group fall into a shithole of doom, so I guess we're about even on the spectrum. I can't pick one. But I must pick one!
(By the way, I use Firefox, like you should too, and I need an add-on that just let's you highlight instead of manually typing out the html every time. That's laziness for you. I'm going to make a search.)
So I write ambitious comments on the paper. The group whoever talked about this shit, and actually did not engage my interest in any aspect of their topic, .. ill edit more later |
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| Balance of Dystopia, Utopia |
May 5, 2008 |
I met this kid named Justin about a week or so back at a party. He's a pretty cool guy, and he has now become my main source of buds. Now, I didn't plan on falling back into that lifestyle, but this is only the third time he will have hooked me up, so I'm only on the verge. Either way, I'll be pretty high later tonight when he gets off work 'round 6ish.
The thing that really sucks is that it's always $60 a bag, which is quite steep. It is some killer prime snow-capped buddha, but regardless . . . oh supply and demand, I suppose.
Then my fucking history teacher--well, ok--the word "vanguard" came up in our notes, and he's like, "Does anyone know what that means?" Then he looks straight at me and says, "I bet Tom knows what it means."
Is that supposed to be some disguised compliment, in that he expects me to know what it means? Or is it just his way of poking fun at the arrogance I'm sure he thinks I'm full of? What sucks is that I thought I knew what it meant, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure, so I said I didn't know, not wanting to sound like an idiot. But I did know! I was right, and if I would have actually went with my instinct I would have scored major, um, intellect points.
I'm going to write my paper for History of Rock and Roll on Sonic Youth. You have to choose a band that spanned at least 20 years, and you cannot pick the Beatles. It's due Wednesday night, and I haven't started. It'll be easy 'cause we don't have to make in-text citations, which I hate. Anyway, I think it will actually be kind of a fun paper to write. Sonic Youth is pure talent. Earlier works: check out EVOL, Daydream Nation, and Sister. Later works: check out Sonic Nurse, Rather Ripped, and Murray Street. |
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