I'm sort of lonely right meow, but no matter. Here is the unnabridged version of my predicted autobiography from 10 years down the road, in the form of a health assignment:

Ten years from now, I will be a disgraced writer of nonfiction-turned disgraced writer of children's books, and it will all be because of pizza. I will first falsify information about a study I claim to have conducted in which I ate nothing but Hot Pockets for several months. My daily intake supposedly consisted of the follwing: A breakfast pocket in the morning, the delicious pepperoni pizza pockets in the afternoons, and the vegetable/sausage/pepperoni pizza hot pockets for din-din. I will claim that, despite each respectable Pocket's 11 essential vitamins and minerals, being on a strict diet of them caused me to develop genital warts on my face (I guess those are just regular warts) and bleed profusely from the ears. Although upon further analysis my hypothesis will prove to not be entirely far-fetched, I will be disgraced within the writing community and forced to live in seclusion for several months.

During this time I will write children's books under the pseudonym of The Pizza Warlock. My pseudonym will then be disgraced within itself for my highly controversial first work, "The Pepperoni Manifesto: A Brief and Informative Introduction to the Goals and Ideals Held By The Pizza Party." In the Pepperoni Manifesto, I will propose an idea through which our entire economy is converted toward producing and relying upon nothing but Pizza. It will be our main export, import, and source of guiding light in the pursuit of happiness. Jobs will be assigned to all, regardless of race, religion, sexual orientation, or taste in music. Society will be comprised of farmers, chefs, soft drink-pourers, and those in charge of bread sticks and ceasar salads. Since no economy has yet proven to infallible, there will be government-issued Tombstone frozen pizzas for those who can not afford more high-quality pizzas.

The Pizza Party's Leader and HNIC will of course be The Pizza Warlock. His cabinet will consist of the Head Secretary of Seasoned Breads, The Department of Sauces and Cheese, and of course the department of Foreign Affairs (who will spend the bulk of their time figuring out ways to fight other countries that live under governments who like other kinds of food). We will be a country for the Pizza-eater, by The Pizza-eater.

Mysteriously enough, I will not be married for some time. However, this will be no matter of concern when I become the most powerful and dynamic man in all of American History. It will be all thanks to nothing but the love for pizza that myself and other Americans who aren't total weirdos share.





It may also be worth noting that, in relation to health class, my response to this assignment is a good example of "passive aggresive" behavior, brought on by the overwhelming feeling of bullshit that comes with having to take another semester of health to get the proper credits to graduate, when I could be taking a cool class like cooking or art instead.

I think if God exists or there is some kind of a superior force acting on the universe, it really doesn't want me to get into college.

Point in case: Aside from the 3 seperate-but-equally shitty guidance counselors that I could use as scapegoats (maybe rightfully so), out-of-state applications have way higher expectations (I moved just in time!), my grades have been consistently shitty (completely my fault), now...


Drexel has somehow managed to lose my application. I know these things happen, but how do you lose something that's sent electronically? Especially after sending me an email and a letter both confirming that I sent it in. On top of that, the lady who I talked to when I called asking why I hadn't heard back yet was a total bitch and talked to me like I was a moron because I couldn't understand how they couldn't have gotten it.


I had a longer post that wasn't a giant complaintfest, but internet explorer shut itself down as I was finishing typing it. Heh

Some time last weekend, I dropped a spatula on the floor, grabbed it by the end that you stick in the deep fryer, and charred the non-living shit out of my index finger and thumb. The very first thing I thought of was that scene in Raiders of The Lost Ark when the Nazi tries to pick up the burning medal thing, screams, and runs outside and sticks his hand in the snow. This was somewhere inbetween yelling "OH FUCK OW OW OW FUCK" and still scrambling to make more french fries.

the night before I got to leave early cuz I sliced my pinky open on the corner of something and bled into the ice cream. This is the second or third time that I may or may not have bled into someone's ice cream. I think I have hemophilia. I think I am a lil' bit of a pussy, too, because I started wigging out when Lou tried to pour hydrogen peroxide on it. The hospital turned me away because they were busy and the cut was at a funny angle and it was hard to tell how deep it was.

I want to live in Uptown and go to every restaurant (or maybe just pizza place) and then feel really restaurant savvy when I take someone there.

I'm about to have 20 people I don't know sleeping in my basement. Most of them are probably going to be drunk and annoying. I wish I had a stash of barbituates for situations like this.


oh, I'm 18 now. That means shows in the future, most immedeately Blitzen Trapper this week and Animal Collective in May. Am I hip yet?

how the hell?

Does it mean that you're exceptionally guilty
if you sometimes worry that the point of existence
is that everyone in the world reads your thoughts
and has some kind of agreement to only laugh about them when you aren't around
and act surprised when you share them.
I mean, I would never know!

Maybe it's kind of flattering when you star in my wet dreams, being that I'm the center of existence and all

I really wish I could have some kind of do-over in high school. I mean, I guess the only thing I would really change is how I was under the illusion that I was going to somehow manage to get into college with shitty grades and absolutely nothing impressive on my transcript, but it looks like instead my sentence might be another year in Minnesota. Granted, I've only heard back from one of the three schools that I've applied/am going to apply to, but I don't feel like there's anything that's going to really give any other school any more reason to admit me.

Needless to say, if I'm still commuting between school and home and working at Snuffy's this time next year, I'll probably take a drink out of the deep frier.

dear lyfe,


sometimes - not all the time, but sometimes, you are a real disheartening cunt.

New years resolution: Double up on socks. Everywhere I go I feel like my feet are on the verge of turning black and falling off. Maybe I'll take the outtermost pair from one day and wear them on the inside the next day so I don't create a ridiculous pile of laundry. I don't really know if that would be gross or not.

Pitch for a new TV show on TLC: It's called "Wouldn't That Fucking Suck?" I can't decide yet, but it's either going to be about the obese, midgets, the deformed, or a family with way too many kids. Maybe all of those things at once.