And I’m like:
And you’re like:
I’ve always lived by one rule in my writing: For every sincere and thoughtful piece you share, be sure to post at least one video of something taking a shit. Thanks to Warming Glow for this one. This is why the internet exists.
Ten years ago I was in an algebra class joking about a plane that had crashed into the World Trade Center. “Maybe it’s the Canadians declaring war!” A few kids laughed, but only because I was more popular than them. Our rattled teacher wheeled a TV into the room while we pretended to care about what was happening. She turned on the news and we watched, because anything was better than a negative integer worksheet. We were watching as the second plane flew into the South Tower.
The ball of flame. The hushed scream that echoed throughout the school. Oh my God. The anchor’s panicked reaction. The plane was going so fast. Was that on purpose? Will they cancel school? How many people just died? I hope they cancel school. Was that real?
They didn’t cancel school of course, and in the education system’s single greatest failure to teach children what was important, they turned the TVs off. We weren’t allowed to watch as our generation’s defining moment played out, live, on every channel from CNN to MTV. Fortunately my parents checked me out almost immediately. “You need to see this. You’ll never forget it.”
I watched the frantic coverage, heard the desperation in the omniscient voices of the news. People jumping from the ledges of the towers, choosing that drop over what was inside - how can you ever unsee that? I couldn’t look away.
Ten years is nearly half my lifetime. Long enough to stop wearing cargo shorts, get a senior superlative, and try to grow up. But not long enough to grow a beard. And certainly not long enough to heal the pain that all those strangers I’ll never know must still feel every second.
I didn’t know anyone who was killed on September 11, 2001. What that day meant to me is nothing - nothing - compared to those who had taken from them the ones they loved, counted on, cared for, believed in. But it is still the most surreal, visceral collection of moments in my life. Everything felt more important that day because we saw how simply and unpredictably everything could be lost.
Ten years, but it could have been yesterday. Should ever there be another morning like that one, I hope we can do more than just watch.
It’s Saturday in Malibu!!
Grad school orientation is today.
I bring up a great point here.
Hey you, girl I don’t really know who’s simultaneously searching my name on Google to see if I played sports in high school (don’t bother, the government destroyed those records after the 50 yard line dump incident) and reading this - I’m talking to you. Wouldn’t your chances of making out with me on the beach at Georgia/Florida quadruple if you asked me a question on here, even if it was anonymous? You could get some frat weiners to help you funnel a beer because hey, the only thing cooler than this purple hat and Wal-Mart tanktop is a fine ass chicken hittin’ the beer bong with the guys, start buzzin’, find me on the beach surrounded by bartenders, and grab my arm. Time freezes. You’d look at me and I’d look at you and instantly I’d know.
Your unblinking stare, nervous smile, and toned calves, the calves of a fierce soccer player turned fierce table dancer in Bourbon street turned fierce sort of fat girl turned fierce girl whose formal date was ugly it’s time to get hot again turned Sasha Fierce - betray you. She’s the one. She asked me a question on tumblr.
But I let you tell me anyway, because I love myself.
“Hi,” you muster.
“Hello,” I muster, brushing the hair off your forehead as the beach quiets. A douchey fraternity down the beach has even turned off the Dead Mouse. All of St. Simon’s watches in breathless silence.
“I…I have something to tell you. I asked you that question on Tumblr,” you muster.
“I know,” I mustard and we kiss, and the beach erupts into a lavish and spectacularly staged dance number , and Corey Smith is on a helicopter playing “21”, and I’m kind of bored because you taste like you threw up jizz earlier, and look! there goes Dobby the House elf through the sky on a broomstick, and now the kiss is over and I’m grinding with your grandlittle.
What I’m trying to say is, ask me a question at http://casuallyhotguy.tumblr.com/ask.
There was an earthquake in Georgia when I was in middle school. I remember waking up to the room shaking and thinking, “Sadaam Hussein is bombing us,” which is the same thing Eddie Griffin (black guy on the bike for 99% of you) exclaimed at the beginning of Armageddon. After the ground stopped moving I realized had I been blown to kingdom come right then, that would have been my last thought, which was pretty shitty. I also realized that thirteen of the twenty-plus WinMX porns I’d left downloading overnight were finished, which was pretty awesome.
Since then I’ve wondered often what my last thought might be, mainly because I love myself so much that I’d buy a word-for-word audiobook (read by Harry Connick Jr.) of my thought processes, or internal monologue, and make girls listen to it like Assnectar to show them how cool I am. For instance, had someone transcribed my train of thought in the shower when I decided to write a post tonight it would have come out like this:
I look so good naked I need to shave my nipples Hmm I need to remind girls I’m funny I wish I looked like Josh Hartnett in Pearl Harbor I should write a blog post No one reads that shit My close friends think I’m gay Am I gay No way I love bitches Okay What will I write about Diarrhea That’s all I can think of when I’m trying to be creative Immaturity I should move home and get addicted to meth Okay Focus Should I start using conditioner Earthquakes I’ll write about earthquakes Shit I forgot to shave my nipples
Anyway, I’m pretty certain my last thought is going to be “fuck”. That’s what I think when I get a paper cut, stub my toe, talk to girls, throw up, play sports, front-to-front grind, and write. It’s a humorous catchall and dying seems like the sort of big event that “fuck” would cover. I don’t mean to be morbid and hope I don’t ever find out (I have 69 Horcruxes scattered throughout the land), but it’s an interesting thing to ponder.
I hope I’m wrong. I hope one day, when Harry Connick VII reads my last audio book, these are the words he drawls:
I can’t believe how much this is like the end of Armageddon I’m so glad I got a senior superlative I hope in Heaven I can read online about me sacrificing myself to save the planet I would get so much ass for this I’m going to really miss laughing with my friends I’m really lucky I’ve had so many friends to laugh with I’m really lucky I’ve had so many douches to laugh at I look awesome with a beard Okay I have to blow up this asteroid This is it I loved it here Shit I forgot to shave my nipples Fuck
Thanks.
I wanted to know how to do something this morning but got distracted looking at my past “how to” searches. None of these ended up being very helpful. The football one was for my friend, really.
I drove up to San Francisco this week with my mom. The parts of California that you can’t skateboard to are massive, wide open, desolate places and I spent most of the car ride in an agoraphobic state of panic. It was great.
The best part of the trip, aside from a French girl asking me if I was Mark Wahlberg, was seeing how happy it all made my mom. If you found this post on my Facebook, you’re probably a girl in Athens wondering if I’ll ever bartend again. You’ve also probably admired my recent photo tag portraits - most notably, “Michael By The Sea”, “Michael By An American Flag By The Sea”, and “Michael On A Rock By The Sea”. Why would someone so acutely aware of their online persona - when girls want to tag me in photos, they must first send the picture to me so I can Photoshop my wrists and forearms - consent to such an easily lampooned West Coast photoshoot? The short explanation is that I’m a vain douche.
The longer explanation is what was actually the best part of the trip, aside from seeing how happy it all made my mom and imagining that a French girl asked me if I was Mark Wahlberg. We stayed in Fisherman’s Wharf, which means nothing to most of you and doesn’t serve a purpose in the story, but don’t I sound cultured and well-traveled? After checking into the hotel, we decided to take a walk around the neighborhood before spending the rest of our night in this spectacular new city in the room on the internet. As we made our way toward Ghiradelli Square (also irrelevant to the story), I heard someone shout one of my favorite phrases:
“You farted!”
At a bench to our right, two old homeless guys were yelling at one another over a fart. A homeless person is a human being that lives outside and doesn’t have a bathroom. Have you ever sniffed a homeless person? It’s not an endearing scent.
What I’m trying to say is, I don’t think a fart would normally bother someone who can’t buy toilet paper. So this one must have really sucked.
“Who cares?”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why?”
“You can’t fart on my bench, man!”
The guy had a point. If someone is kind enough to share a bench with you, farting isn’t the way to repay them. “Thanks for letting me sit next to you, now here’s a gaseous expulsion inches from your leg.” Anyway, I hoped it would escalate into a knife fight but instead the fart victim just stomped off to another bench and tried to catch a pigeon. Right after that my mom made me hang out of a trolley car and smile while she took pictures.
My mom’s been out here for a while now, mainly because I’m chickenshit and really scared to be by myself 2,500 miles away from everyone I know. She’ll go home soon and I’ll be able to bring gorgeous actresses back to my apartment and I’ll finally have to be alone, but I’ll be alone knowing that someone cared enough to put their life on hold for as long as it took to make sure I was okay.
It’s sort of embarrassing to get tagged by your mom in a hundred posed pictures, but it’s sort of amazing to see how genuinely thrilled and proud she is when she’s editing those pictures to make my nose smaller or my teeth whiter.
I love my mom a lot because she’ll always have a spot for me on her bench, a bench I’ll never fart on.
