My Life

The familiarity of my bed brings me happiness. I feel her body pressed softly against mine, sort of like a blanket wrapped around an infant quickly after it’s taken from the hospital. She is my blanket, my protection, and my comfort. She is my joy, my passion, and my life. She is my everything.

My fingers begin to tingle in the tips of my left hand. When did she think it would be a good idea to roll over and put all of her weight on my arm? I try to pull my arm away without her noticing. I try, as gently as possible, to slide my arm out from beneath her. Not too hard… Not too hard… She rolls over toward me, our faces inches apart and her weight slightly higher on my arm. Fuck, too hard. I give up.

I can see the drool still hanging from the ends of her mouth. I’m sure that on the other side of her head sits a small puddle of human saliva, possibly large enough to legally be considered a pond, drowning my pillow. Her breath on my face makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s hot enough in this damn bed without her breathing all over my face. I hope she’s been eating healthy, I really don’t want to break out.

I try to roll over to avoid any further discomfort. The lower half of my body twists but my upper half stays locked in place. I seemed to forget I had been pressed against the very end of the bed since we started “cuddling.” The top half of my body is locked in place thanks to the arm which has turned numb and been forgotten about. I look over her body and see at least two and a half feet of space. I feel with my open hand the quarter inch on mine.

Okay, I can’t do this… I take my free hand and place it on her shoulder. I try, as softly as possible, to roll her over to not only free up my arm and stop the CO2 release party going onto my face, but to also try to get a little bit of room to move around. She won’t budge. I push harder. Still to no avail. Fuck…

I give her one hard shove, cursing under my breath, and her eyes open. I immediately stop and my cheeks redden. I feel like a boy whose mom just walked in on him digitally relieving his membrane. I hope she doesn’t know I was sort of pushing her away from me. She licks her lips and removes the drool string which was hanging from her upper lip. Her warm eyes gaze into my own for a minute, and I realize she has no idea what has been happening. Her mouth slowly opens as she yawns, I wait for the words which I know are coming,

“I love falling asleep with you, I feel so peaceful.” Her half open eyes reassure her statement. She looks pretty with the drool cleaned off. “Does snuggling make you feel this good too?”

My arm which has lost all feeling by now screams to my mind. My face which has began to sweat due to the heat radiated off of her breath falls down my brow. Half of my body hangs off the bed and it’s like doing a sit-up trying to keep from falling off. Ohhh yeah, I feel SO wonderful.

“Yeah, it’s really nice being here with you.” I decide to dance around her question. I figure she won’t notice because she just woke up.

“What’s it make you feel like, Travis?” I sit as my mind races through adjectives to describe the way “snuggling” makes me feel. Uncomfortable, crammed, numb, gay, hot, lazy, gay, and slightly homosexual.

“Oh, it makes me feel just wonderful, babe.” I look into her eyes and give her a smile of dramatic irony as I watch her head move back a few inches directly over the drool she left behind. “Just wonderful, babe.”

A young man named John received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary. Every word out of the bird’s mouth was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity. “Fuck this,” and “fuck that” seemed to be some of the only words the bird would squawk out of his little beak. John tried and tried to change the bird’s attitude by consistently saying only polite words, playing soft music and anything else he could think of to “clean up” the bird’s vocabulary. It appeared that nothing in his power could do a thing to change it. Try as he might, the bird still cursed about.

Finally, John was fed up and began to yell at the little parrot. The parrot began to shout back, and the entire situation evolved into a five minute battle of curse words. The parrot stepped over the line, however, and  John grabbed the parrot and began to shake him with all his strength. This did nothing, the bird simply got more emotional and his attitude continued to worsen. John, in desperation, threw up his hand, grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer thinking that the cold would simply scare the parrot so badly he would stop. For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed “fuck you” to the extent of his vocals. Then suddenly there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute.

Fearing that he’d hurt the parrot, John quickly opened the door to the freezer, the parrot calmly stepped out onto John’s outstretched arms and said, “I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I’m sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything in my power in order to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior.”

John was stunned at the change in the bird’s attitude. As he was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior, the bird continued, “May I ask what the turkey did?” 

Many of you avid readers have read (and enjoyed) my initial blog post, in which I began to express my hatred of public restrooms. You all spammed it, stumbled it, and showed it to your friends (do it again, do it again, do it again!). I got many e-mails asking for an update on my emotions, and honestly, they sufficed. That is until today, which leads me into yet another journey into terror, horror, and utter disgust; the return of my abhorrence…. The Restroom Dilemma.

My eyelids close and I hold them shut for a few seconds longer than normal. I open them wide, one of those eye stretches where your eye brows raise and make your forehead crinkle. I’ve been staring at my computer for three hours trying to write a story. I look to the right and see two empty water bottles and an empty Mountain Dew can.  Uh-oh, I think my bladder is about to explode. 

I reach for my bathroom keys and drop them in the pocket of my newly acquired, 140 dollar white jeans which took me three months to find. I quickly walk out of my dorm room, not hesitating to close it myself, it slams and an echo rings throughout the hallway. Normally, I wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, but my pocket snake is about to spit up all over my jeans.

I power walk down the hallway, the carpet feels funny underneath my socks. They’re sort of thin and the carpet pokes through and kind of tickles my toes with every step. I use my key to unlock the door, it lets off a loud SQUEEK because our dorm building is too cheap to spray it with WD-40. My feet fall onto the tile of the bathroom, it’s cold and it kind of turns my feet numb on contact. The windows of the room are open at all times regardless of temperature, it’s our way of diluting the horrid stench of human deposits which intertwine in the air around us. I don’t understand it, it still smells like shit– just cold shit.

By this point I’m running, I swing open the door to my favorite stall on the far left, I let it close on its own because I don’t have time to lock it, the anticipation is building like a young boy’s seconds before he loses his virginity. I unbutton, unzip, and let the liquids flow. It’s not just a normal pee, it’s one of those which leave you with an open mouth and a feeling of warmth and delight. I can feel the heat raising through my body, particularly through my sock covered feet. Wait a second… Why do my feet feel warm? My eyes look down in curiosity. My white socks are stained yellow as I stand in a puddle of warm piss. Not just a few drops which fell off at the end of someone’s water hose, no, a puddle. It looks as if someone just aimed straight down onto the tile and emptied their tank.

“Oh fuck!” I scream in reaction, and I feel my muscles constrict then convulse, my body leaves the ground as my legs force me to jump out of Lake Urine. Fearing to lose my balance, I take both of my hands and use them to center my weight, forgetting that I was using Righty to aim my pocket rocket.

My loaded Super-Soaker falls down limply and begins shooting its stream of fury straight down. I watch in horror as my new, previously white, jeans get stained with a jet-stream of my own bodily fluids. I scream and reach down, but my attempts are in vain. By the time I re-aim my shotgun, the battle has already been lost.

My head falls in defeat as I begin the walk of shame, my wet fleet splooshing and splashing all over tile. I walk over to the trash-can and remove my socks like a defeated knight removing his armor, head hung in shame and embarassment. I drop them with a loud “PLOP” into the black bag, and sit on the counter to wash my urine covered feet in the sink. The stench flows up and punctures my nostrils.

As I begin to pump soap onto my hands in hopes of disinfecting my feet from whatever horrid and rotten diseases are covering them, I hear the door SQUEEK open from its hinges. I look up, and of course, it’s a pretty girl I’ve been trying to get the courage to ask out. To my amazement, the “Men” sign on the door continues to be a suggestion rather than a requirement.  She looks at me with an interrogative facial expression and I look up with the shocked look of a deer in headlights.

“What in the world are you doing?”

“Cleaning a stranger’s piss off my feet.” I allow a brief moment to pass. “If I were you, I wouldn’t use the stall to the far left.” I drop my head and continue scrubbing away my misery.

Moral of the story? Never forget your shoes.

*Ring, *Ring, *Ring

(Stupid music plays in background) Hi! You’ve reached WellsFargo’s Telephone Service. We are proud to serve you! If you would like to listen to account information, press 1, if you would like to make a phone transfer, press 2, if you would like to… 

10 minutes later

If you would like to talk to an operator, please press 0 now. That’s a great thing to put last! It’s like the person who was making this was like, “Well, the majority of people are going to be calling the bank to talk to a person, so let’s fuck with them and make them sit there for 10 minutes.”

I pull my phone away from my face and press 0. Please hold, your call is important to us. Oh yeah, that’s why you put me on hold.

“Hewo sur, can ay git yur name pweese sur?” Oh jesus christ, and I thought the automated bitch was bad, at least she spoke English.

“Travis Johnson.”

“Thank ya’ sur. Wut yoo cawing abowt, sur?

“I opened a checking account a while ago for online purchases and never recieved my card, but it says that I withdrew 200 dollars using that card from an ATM machine.”

“Yessur. This wuzzn’t yoo hoo did dis, sur?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Why the fuck would they hire someone who doesn’t speak English for an English speaking telephone job? I can’t imagine what they do at interviews for this. It seems fairly straight forward.

Sir, can you read this line for me?

Yes, it says hello sir, how can I be of service to you today.

Hired! What about you sir?

Ay phink. Hewo sur, wut ca’ I du fo’ yoo, sur?

Not hired!

Where in this process did this man get hired? I don’t know a simpler job to find someone qualified for it, or an easier subject to test someone on. But still, they insist on hiring the one applicant who speaks English about as well as Bush runs a country.

Moral of the story? If you want to hire someone to speak on a phone for you, you should probably hire someone who speaks English.

Her voice begins to raise and she sees she has no argument left to make. She advances around, her head digging for a response which is sure not to come. Her face begins to redden, words begin to pour out with no value whatsoever. “Well you’re arrogant, pompous, and pretentious.” I can see her anger begin to build. I can imagine her and her roommates sitting around in a circle calling me all of these names. The irony is that she just called me three words which mean the exact same thing. I decide not to mention it, it’ll just piss her off.

“That’s besides the point and has nothing to do with anything. Ad hominem; you’re attacking me rather than attacking my points. The fact is I posted a blog which says nothing bad about fat people, and your overweight roommate took offense to it. She’s never even talked to me, but she hates me for describing a fat person walking up a flight of stairs.”

“You did too say something bad about them.” Her voice sounds like more of a plea than a statement.

“I did not. It was a description, and an accurate one at that. Fat people have more trouble doing physical activities than people who are in shape; it’s the way things work. I said she was tired walking up stairs, but I wasn’t. How is that saying something bad?”

“That’s not true, it’s not only fat people. I get tired walking up stairs.”

“What a greaaattt point.” I put a lot of emphasis on the word great, I show off my sarcasm like it’s a tattoo.

“Oh my god. I can’t fucking deal with you Travis, you’re just like my brother.” I smile to myself after she says this. I watch as her body language turns upside down. Her eyebrows tilt down, I can watch her heart beating quicker through her neck. “It’s bullshit. It isn’t their fault, Travis. It’s genetic, and why the fuck would you post that in a blog?” She begins breathing deeper than she was before.

“It’s genetic? I had no idea genes were set in stone. Silly me. I just thought that the 80% increase in obesity over the last 20 years indicated that it was something a little more than genetics involved. And I post it in my blog because people read it. That’s the point of a blog, you post things that people want to read. If it pisses off your roommate, tell her to stop fucking reading it. If she wasn’t so insecure about her weight maybe she wouldn’t care so much.” This is ridiculous.

“It isn’t because she’s overweight, it’s because she thinks you’re a dick. She’s so pissed about it she tore the sign off your door.”

“Maybe I’m a dick but at least I don’t walk around ripping down people’s door decorations. That’s ridiculous. And I’m glad she ripped down my sign. I hope she burned a few extra calories with  the energy she exerted. It’s probably the most exercise she’s done in the last year.” Fuck, I probably shouldn’t have said that… “She’s never fucking talked to me, but she reads through my blog, sees that I describe a fat girl walking up some stairs, and hates me for it.”

“It’s not just that, it’s how you treat people in your blog. You wrote ’slap a hoe’ in one of them. That’s fine if you’re talking to your buddies, but you can’t say that stuff in public.”

“And I took that off the day after I posted it. It was too much and I was going for a cheap laugh, which it would have gotten. And why could I say it behind someone’s back but not in public? What’s the difference? And do you not know how ridiculous this is, listen to yourself, ‘you say this IN YOUR BLOG.’ It’s a blog for God’s sake.”

“If you say it in public you look like a dick, that’s the difference. You’re such a fucking asshole, I can’t deal with you!” Oh god, she’s pretty pissed off, I think to myself.

“Bye Phill, bye Matt, bye Albert, bye Armando. Fuck you Travis.” She then proceeds to tear down the collage I spent a few hours on the day before. She leaves up all the pictures of Phill, but rips the ones of me and throws them on the ground.

Maybe I’m an asshole, but at least I don’t act like a fucking 10 year old about it.

Moral of the story? No one’s forcing you to read this, so if you’re getting upset about it, stop. Secondly, grow up. If you’re gunna hate me for posting a blog fine, but that you still look like an idiot ripping down my door decorations.

Her warm hand gently rubs up and down my arm as her head rests on my chest. My rhythmic breathing causes her head to rise and sink in perfect unison with my body. My mind and body feel elated, we just had our first kiss and everything went perfectly.

She lifts her head and places her chin on my chest. We sit and stare into one another’s eyes for somewhere around thirty seconds. I know that I should feel comfortable doing that, but I couldn’t feel more awkward. Why doesn’t she just say something? I think to myself.

I break eye contact to avoid any further awkwardness in my mind, I know that she has no idea I feel this way. People always think they understand me, but they rarely do. She’s probably thinking about how much I like her. It makes me laugh that someone can be wrong so many times in such a short period of time. I don’t think that I truly like her yet, just the idea of her. The idea of having someone to hold and someone to care about. I wonder if I’ll start to like her as I learn more about her.

She starts talking and I smile and nod after each sentence. I look deep into her eyes to appear as if I’m interested, but in reality, I’m thinking about how bad of a kisser she was. In between sentences, she begins to cough. My mind travels out of my imagination and into reality, I guess I should appear as if I care, I think to myself.

“That doesn’t sound good! I hope you’re not getting sick or anything…” The words flow off my tongue like I truly mean them. I would have been a good actor, I think to myself.

“Aw, no way. I’ve actually been super sick the past few days and I’m just starting to get better,” she replies.

I stare at her in utter disbelief, get up, and leave without saying a word. There goes my ego…

Now I sit here, two days later; my throat feels like it’s coated with acid and my nose feels like someone stuck a concrete hose in it and filled it up

Moral of the story? Colds are contagious.

My legs grow tired as I stand in the line of a small smoothie shop on my college campus. I glance to my right and see my roommate Phill. Phill has the smile of a little boy as he eagerly waits to order a smoothie, which is his self-proclaimed favorite drink in the entire world. The smile makes him look kind of retarded. A smell crawls through my nostrils and I begin searching for the source. The boy in front of me is wearing a bright red button up shirt, a Spiderman tie, a black suitcase, and his hair leaves the impression that he hasn’t showered for weeks. The stench emitting from his body reminds me of a pile of throw up sprayed with cologne, then covered with a layer of whipped cream. I notice that there is a space of emptiness surrounding him, everyone trying to stay as far away as possible. I begin to feel sympathy toward him until my mind reminds my self that it’s his own fucking fault. This realization instills a sense of dislike in me. How dare this boy ruin my smoothieing experience!

Time moves slowly, as it so often does when we are miserable. I wonder if time has slowed for the rest of the people within range of the ghastly odor. I seriously begin contemplating hitting him in the back of the head and expressing my rage, but before I get the opportunity, he moves up to the register to place his order. He walks over to the waiting spot where a group of people are waiting for their smoothies. The group scatters like a flock of birds when a rock is thrown toward them; the aroma serving as a symbolic rock, hitting each of them in the head and nearly knocking them unconscious. I smile and begin to walk toward the cashier to place my order.

“What would you like, sir?” I find it funny how this man, 40 years my senior refers to me as “sir.”

“A raspberry banana smoothie, ple” my speech is interrupted by Spiderman.

“Oh my gosh, I almost got that! Do you like those?” I shake my head in utter disbelief. How did this fucking moron get into college?

“Not a bit!” I respond. “I actually just like spending money on things I don’t enjoy. It’s this weird habit of mine.”

He smiles and nods his head in approval. I think he believes me. I reach for my wallet in shame and disgust, pay the man and go outside to get some fresh air. My roommate comes out and stands next to me and we look for a place to sit. Phill notices some blonde girl with boobs bigger than my head sitting by herself, so naturally, we sit in the empty seats. Without asking our names, she looks at Phill’s tattoos and says,

“Oh my gosh, tattoos! Those hella hurt!” I look toward Phill and watch as his eyes linger up from her breasts to her face. He looks stunned.

“Do they really? I had no fucking idea!” Obviously missing his blatant sarcasm, this sad excuse for a college intellect continues,

“Not to mention, they stay on your skin forever.” She says this as if she’s speaking to a teacher, clearly expecting to impress. The whites in Phill’s eyes begin to grow, he looks toward me with a face of clear surprise.

“No way!” He reaches down to his tattoos, and begins forcefully scratching and rubbing them in an attempt to wipe them off.

Moral of this story? Good news! You don’t have to be smart to go to college….

I stare up into the eyes of a woman, our eyes lock and don’t move. This is passion, I think to myself. Her body looks vague and ominous under the ashen light that finds itself through the blinds of her bedroom window, but an evil which invites you for more and more. I dote upon her eyes as if each were a jewel, my gaze lingers upon her body as if I were starving and she grand feast arrayed an inch beyond my reach; I want it.

Our lips are pressed against one anothers, my hands exploring up and down her body leaving nothing to my imagination. Slowly, her lips begin moving down from my face to my neck. Her warm breathe pretudes a tingling sensation which crawls through the spine of my back with fury. Her tongue slides across it and I feel my body begin to shake. Her hand slides from my hair down my body, it feels like her mouths guide. She kisses down to my chest, the shaking turns instinctive and there’s nothing I can do to supress it.

Her hand slides lower and lower on my naked body, traveling down past my belly button, her lips upon my skin. I feel a burning sensati…

EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My eyes shoot open and I begin looking around my dorm room, I see a clump of pillows on my roommates bed which I conclude to be Phill. My eyes hurt, I haven’t slept enough. The fire alarm continues to ring EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My confusion evolves into utter hate as I realize someone in my dorm building just cock blocked my dream self. I’m ready for blood, for the sweet scent of ruby liquid to be spilt and dranken by the soil. No one cock blocks me, especially in my own dreams.

I get up and rub my eyes. I hear the clumsy steps of my dorm floor exiting the building, I hear words like “mother-fucker” repeated over and over again. I grab my rooms keys, put on my new glasses, and join the herd.

We walk out the sliding door to the group of people who had just been herded out of their rooms by some invisible sheppard. We all remind me of sheep.

I see girls drooling as they look at me, nothing out of the ordinary. I see their eyes undressing me and making love to me in their minds, given away by the mounds of spit emitting their mouths. Same old.

I feel hands upon my ass. Not normal. I look down, and realize I’m wearing my short-shorts. The fire alarm stops, so I begin to run to get back into my room trying to avoid the hundreds of female (and some male) hands trying to grasp onto my private areas. Luckily, short-shorts help the sprinting time, so I escape with nothing other than a single handprint on the right side of my ass. I get back into bed, my heart still beating from the terror. Slowly, I begin to fall asleep.

..on to push her head down lower and lower, but I resist the temptation. I want her to take her time, to make me want it. I watch as she slowly unbuttons my jeans, her lips kissing the pant line which encircles my body. Her hand slides across my stomache which makes me want it more and more. She slides them too the floor, nothing separating me from a blow-job but my animal print boxer-briefs. She begins inching them lower and lower, using only her teeth. I feel the anxiety building up inside as I think about how good it would feel to blow my loa….

EEEeaaaAKKKK  EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK EEEeaaaAKKKK. My eyes open again. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Moral of this story? Well for one, short-shorts get the ladies. And for two, never let a dream girl take her time; just cram it into her throat and let the juices flow!

When you sign your lease agreement to live in a dorm, it is understood that in doing so, you are giving away every trace of personal space and privacy that you have. I guess I don’t have a ton of room to complain considering I’m coming to school here on a full-ride scholarship, but regardless, this loss of privacy hit me fairly hard in the past few days.

So you no longer have your own bedroom. Fine. You learn how to deal with it and it is fully understood when you come. Nothing that you do is done alone. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. Wanna eat dinner alone? Not going to happen. Before you know it you’ll be bombarded with new people who all think that you’re lonely. Fine. I can deal with it. One thing I didn’t know I signed up for, as I’m sure you can infer from the title, is not having the privacy to shit in peace.

Upon arrival, I was fairly weary of public bathrooms. Everytime that I sit down on a toilet, touch a handle, or open a door, I can’t help but think of the hundreds of people who have came in here, done their business, got it all over their hands and decided they didn’t need to wash their hands. Until recently, I didn’t understand how few of people wash their hands in bathrooms. I’m not going to preach to you or anything, do what you want, but just for the record it’s fucking disgusting.

When I go into a bathroom, it is my time. I don’t like to rush it, I like to let my body do its thing at its own pace. I bring a book sometimes, other times I play Tetris on my cell phone, but I never just rush in and rush out. So, when I sit down, I don’t expect to be bothered.

The stalls are set up three in line, no urinals in the bathroom. I found comfort in the stall furthest to the right because I decided that the fewest number of people would go there. So I sit, and at first, it was fine.

With three stalls, one occupied in the corner, and two open, which one do you sit in? If you said the one directly next to the occupied stall, you deserve to have your eyes gouged out and fingernails ripped out. What the fuck is wrong with people? When I’m sitting down for my alone time, I don’t want to have some 18 year old kid sitting so close to me that I can hear his painful grunts followed by moans of pleasure. It’s a personal thing, get away from me! I don’t care who you are, it’s one of the most awkward moments in your life when you can see the persons feet, you hear them struggling as if they’re fighting with something inside of themselves, their feet lift off the floor, you hear a “splooosh,” and then they begin rapidly breathing as if they just ran a mile. How am I supposed to enjoy my alone time next to that?

So, I decided that I’d just figure out when the off times for the bathroom were and go then. Right? Wrong. It doesn’t work like that. I’ve tried it all… 1AM, 2AM, 3AM, it doesn’t matter. Someone is always in their stall shitting on my parade, literally. And what’s even worse, they ALWAYS take the stall next to me.

So this had all built up inside of me for the past few weeks, and I began to understand why people shoot up schools. It’s for this. When they’re shooting around they think of all the inconsiderate people who just shit wherever they please regardless of who is two and a half feet away from them.

So as I began to grow sort of accustomed to it, or at the very least accepting, it got worse.

I’m sitting my stall, doing my business, and it was going fairly well. A few guys came in and pee’d in the stall next to me, left without washing, but I’ve grown to ignore it. I was content with my shitting enviroment. Then, of all people, a group of girls walk in.

Seriously, what the fuck man? It clearly says “Men” on the door, and for those of us who can’t read it has a handy little picture. There is a women’s bathroom like 30 feet down the hallway, but an endless swarm of them begin coming into this one. It was like an army of people dedicated to making me feel as strange as possible. Two come and sit down on their chosen toilets, I see feet standing outside waiting in line and I’m too frightened to count. I heard noises coming from females which I never wanted to hear, and hope I never have to hear again. The feet lifts are not limited to males, neither are the grunts. So I sit, in utter disbelief, waiting for my time. Me, being the gentleman that I am, could not bring myself to let anything go; they were not so kind. One sits down, and lets out a stream of pee that lasted for what seemed like minutes. Not only was it flowing, but I if I closed my eyes it sounded like there was a firehose next to me. What kind of a human waits to pee so long that it shoots out of your organs like niagra fucking falls? Just as I thought this couldn’t get any worse, one of her friends says, “wow Jamie, you really had to go!”

So one after another, they took their turns publicly shattering any sex drive I had for the night.So I waited till they left, quietly finished my business, washed my hands, and walked to my room with a look of absolute terror.

My advice is simple…

The “Men’s” sign on the door is not a suggestion. And if you’re on my dorm floor,  just let me fucking shit in peace. 

“I need inspiration,” I thought to myself as I sat down to write in my blog. I was spinning through my ipod searching for some passion that would inspire me to write something so wonderful, so breathtaking, that I wouldn’t feel bad that you wasted your time reading it. I thought I saw a winner-Paris Hilton. With the words of the sex goddess echoing in my mind, I didn’t think there was any way I could fail. So I sat, and sat, and sat… And unfortunately for the both of us, the words were flowing just about as well as my roommates dance moves…That’s Phillip by the way, and that looked even worse in person.

They say that we learn something new every day that we live, and I have truly taken that to heart. Today, I learned something that will stick in my mind for the rest of my life…

White men really can’t dance.