NOTE: This piece is not mine. This is my friend's. He wants some feedback so I told him I'd post it on a board for him. Basically he is aiming for this to be funny. He call's it "Neo-Vonnegut." Tell me what you think so I can relay your comments to him.
"Autobiography"
I like my hair short. Its tidier, more manageable, calculated. I wouldnt say that I like to plan things ad nauseam; entropy provides a needed source of excitement, thrill and surprise. In fact, at times I just say Fuck it and take long shot, risky chances. As the years have rolled on; 15, 16, 17, 18, I find those times occurring with increasing frequency. In fact, I have been told by many that my hair looks better longer, and I would be lying if I say that I didnt agree with them, at least in part. But how long is too long? Well, after careful thought, I have concluded that when getting decent shampoo lather in the shower makes you late for school, its time for haircut. But I digress. I would like to go back to one night, three haircuts ago, when I was sporting something loosely resembling a traditional Jew-fro.
Shot of 151! I resolutely ordered, who am I kidding, commanded, the middle aged Latino bartender at the seedy New Haven salsa bar. So what if I had a final the next morning, I worked hard all summer and nows the time to celebrate. Of course, a buffer period would be nice. Many of the other summer students at Yale had already finished their exams and were all packed up, ready to board 747s capable of holding 200 people only differentiable by 5 digit identification codes following by 2 letter combinations. Ah, numbers. Thats the one thing I could never stand, being a number. I refused to tell schools my social security number for several years. At the time, I considered it a mental lapse. An inability to remember nine numbers when I had never failed to memorize anything in my life. Of course, flukes like this dont just happen. Mental idiosyncrasies cause one to forget things on purpose, while being unaware the entire time. But, again, I digress.
I throw back my third shot, no chaser of course. This was my first time drinking hard liquor, but like everything I do, I had to come off as a pro, an expert, an authority. My taste buds burned as my vision blurred a bit, my smile widened a bit, and all of the girls got just a little bit prettier. As I stumbled to the dance floor, lights of every color imaginable shone down on me. Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, well, thats about it actually. At the time it seemed like a rainbow of vision, however, at the present moment it comes off as a rather lackluster display of prismatic spectacle. Anyways, I soon started to dance. Ive never been much of a dancer, but this night I seemed to be one with the Salsa. Every move was perfect, at least in my mind, and that was all that mattered. And so, I danced and danced.
After about a week, or perhaps three minutes, maybe more like ten, anyway, I got tired. This was to be expected, anyone with a middle school education has been force fed state mandated health classes. Alcohol is a depressant, it will make you tired I heard my gym teacher slash health teacher echo to me as he must have done for the last fifteen years. Have you never noticed that kind of goes together? Gym and health teacher? Really, its two completely unique and unrelated disciplines, just look at gym teachers. Mostly fat and out of shape, they obviously didnt pick up much in health class. Once, I had this gym/health teacher named again, for another day, back to the matter at hand.
I strolled over to a female friend of mine. This girl was always very attractive, however, tonight I could swear she bore a chilling resemblance to Katie Holmes, except with long dirty blonde hair. Over the summer I had developed somewhat of an addiction to Dawsons creek. It was the only time I could have the TV room at Branford to myself, 9 a.m. Focus Man. I struck up a conversation with her, all the while simultaneously entertaining myself with how interesting I was being and how funny the bowl of cashews besides me looked. Before I knew it, we were back in her dorm room, throwing back shots of tequila and blue frost Gatorade. This time, I appreciating accepted the chaser.
After ten shots or so, probably more like three, or four, our eyes locked. Shes hot. Wow, she is a fucking wool sweater in the middle of fucking Africa in the god damn summer... Her long sandy hair seemed to shine like the ocean under the cheap florescent lights. Thats the thing with the top colleges, you pay for the name. The facilities, kind of disappointing. The professors, kind of unreachable. But the name. The name is what will get any random girl you meet at a club to ooh and aah. Back to the girl. She was wearing tight jeans. I love when girls where tight jeans with a nice belt. Of course, theyve gotta have the body for it. Not too quaint, but too voluptuous and its downright repulsive. This one, this was the ideal. A benchmark. Even better, she was wearing a pink polo, preppy, I like preppy.
Of course, several months later I would receive a troubling phone call. It consisted of a deep voice, oddly similar to an emulator or something, asking what the difference was between a Pizza and a Jew. This was promptly followed by a screaming, Jews dont scream in the oven jackass!!! Youre a fucking dirty . I was able to trace the call to OGLESBY, Illinois using the internet. Thats the town the girl lived in. Turns out, she had been mixing medications. That coupled with a strict Irish Catholic upbringing in the Midwest can have disastrous results. In this case, it took the form of anti-Semitism. But I digress.
The shirt was so tight though. Must be a children size. As I moved closer, I saw the tag: C-M.
No wonder. I havent worn a childs medium in over a dozen haircuts, 14 to be exact. Before I hit my growth spurt. Back then I used to gel my hair, with a little flip at the top. Kind of like Ross from the show friends. I never tell anyone I like that show, I claim to despise it as the litmus test for the downfall of Western civilization. But, honestly, its pretty addictive.
There must be over 150 people here, I thought to myself, worried. I made my way through the ever thickening crowd of rowdy, horny, intoxicated teens. That word seems to have taken on a life of its own. Likely originated with the purpose of describing the 13-19 year old demographic, now it seems to have morphed into a blank check for mayhem, anarchy and experimentation. Back to the crowd though. I heard a roar come from the screened in porch and rushed over to check it out. Apparently, while slamming empty cans of Coors Light against the gutters, one of the bigger teens had pulled a 360 reverse between the legs, good for a score of 9.5 or better in any NBA dunk competition.
As I stood there, a mix of emotions ranging from relief that it was not my house being torn apart to the thrill of being at such a wild party encircled me. I walked over to the fridge and separated a cold Coors from its five brothers. Who has five brothers anymore anyway? Declining death rates worldwide along with a shift away from subsistence agriculture have all but made obsolete the need for a big family. I suppose in nations like the Philippines, where the Catholic Church rules life and contraception is viewed as a sin worthy of eternal damnation. Or in China or India, where the pressure to have a son carry on the family name outweighs any degree of sanity. That or Mormons, I love that Ken Jennings, what a character. Again, I digress.
The lid of the beer sprung open, and a hiss of carbon dioxide rushed forth. I like that sound. An instant guarantee of a fresh, frothy, beverage. Just kidding, I hate the taste of beer, cant stand it. Of course, I didnt know that then. As I strutted over to two girls from my grade, I could honestly say that I felt like the shit. I was yelling, laughing, and amazing myself at how interesting I was at the same time. I thought I was drunk, but I clearly wasnt. A quarter of a light beer cant get anyone drunk. Not even a baby at a bris.
After a few minutes, or an hour, well maybe a half hour, the placebo induced buzz wore off. The confidence that cloaked me had disappeared, and I became a bit more sheepish, a little more reclusive, and just a tad frightened. I walked away from the girls, as if to prematurely surrender my pursuit, and started the long walk home.
A mosquito, or maybe it was a Nat, flew onto the back of my head. Attempting to swat it away, I narrowly missed by all of a quarter millimeter. Flies are fast. Anyway, I couldnt help but notice the back of my hair was getting a bit shaggy. I needed a haircut. Maybe Ill get it really short, like last summer. Practically a crew cut. I hadnt worn my hair that short in at lest five haircuts.
I hopped out of the shower, as a crowd of filthy sixteen year olds pushed and shoved to fill the vacancy. I always prided myself on taking quick showers when there was a crowd waiting. It was the only decent things to do. After all, it wasnt that hard, I could wash my hair in about forty seconds. So tidy, so manageable, so calculated.
But I digress. Im sitting at home, stuck at a crossroad. Everyone looks to me for an answer, as it was me who put us in this situation. I am forced to list the pros and cons of both going to a hookah bar in the city with our school friends, or abandoning those girl to the mercy of a certain red haired college freshman and going to another certain red haired high school seniors party in the next county. The city would be a dent on our respective wallets, and as none of us have steady jobs (save of course the kid that wouldnt be going to the city anyway due to crowd conflicts and unnecessary exclusion) this is a big deal. I know that if I ask my dad for money, I will have to get a job. With three months left in high school and Frisbee season around the corner, this just wont do. Also, the city means girls weve known for five, eighteen, and even nine years. Essentially, in crudest terms, no chance of action. Dont get me wrong, its cool to just chill, but once in a while you get the itch, and it only gets worst.
As we come to a decision, it is clear that the group has coalesced around the idea of the party. Almost instantly, five instant messages pop up in the chat room named 6789243 declaring NOT DRIVING! This was, as is the custom, promptly followed by four assertions of Shotgun and three pleas for Not bitch. I didnt fare too badly, no driving and bitch one way, but I dont mind, its all good.
As the nervous boy next to me passes a Poland Springs bottle filled with Absolute Vodka, I throw it back like a pro. Ive gotten considerable better at this, and now I can do it without the teary eyes and scrunched face. But, I digress. As we enter the house, if it can be called a house, more like a sort of castle or mansion converted into a dwelling, I catch the glance of an attractive blonde haired girl in tight jeans and a red halter top. This was a problem for three reasons. First of all, my type is usually the smart, innocent brunettes; however, Ive always had a weakness for a blonde. Second, tight jeans. Thats another weakness. The third, though seemingly subtle and insignificant, is quite the contrary. Red is my favorite color, the color of fire, power, influence. Napoleon praised red, Caesar was fascinated by it, and it tickled Kissingers fancy as well. But, I digress.
I approach the girl, empowered by two triple shots of Jose Quervos, a triple shot of Bacardi Vodka, a shot of absolute. I hand her what I call my signature drink. One shot Tequila, a shot of vodka, a slice of lemon and a slice of lime. Of course, this isnt my signature drink, it just has a lot of alcohol in it. Her face squeezes as she sips it, and I fear that it may taste awful. I go to take it away from her apologetically, but she protects it with all her might. Stop, its amazing, I love it she protests. My longtime friend and canoe partner walks over, and I give him a slap on the shoulder and a few high fives. When I get fucked up, I love high fives. The girl asks each of us if were interested in some Coke, and I walk over the bar and pour her a glass of fizzling Cola. The bubbles jump up and spray into my face, as I hand her the glass. Unfortunately, she shakes her head and laughs. She says shell be right back.
She returns about twelve seconds later or maybe an hour, or five minutes itching her nose a bit, and wraps her arms around each of us. Hot tub? she proposes. We scramble up the stairs following her. These winding staircases are very difficult, as we trip and fall ever few seconds. As we follow her into a miscellaneous room, she starts to undress. Yeah, shes hot. As I struggle to help her find a bikini top, I begin to lose myself in the tropical colors. Pink, Yellow, Hot Orange, Hot Pink, Neon Green, Red, Red.
I struggle to remove my pants. Theyre not really cooperating with me. In an ideal world, I would have brought a bathing suit or board shorts perhaps. But, as they say, life isnt perfect. The belt is still buckled, no wonder. I throw down my shirt and pants as a dozen or so snowflakes fall upon my head. They say no two are alike, but sometimes I wonder, how do they know. Has someone rounded up every single snowflake ever in existence and compared them.
This girl isnt really a good kisser. I feel like shes some sort of Venus Fly Trap and I a bug in the process of being devoured. Wow, my tongue is getting a bit tired. How long have we been going at this, an hour, five seconds, a minute perhaps? Anyways, this satisfied my temporal craving for some action. I like to be in control, but, as they say, you cant win them all. Life isnt perfect.
Okay, this one is more my type, the innocent, shy brunette. She looks great in the bikini too, not red, but you cant win them all. Much better kisser. I suppose French Kisses were first brought into the mainstream by the French. At least they gave us something, despite an extremely pathetic surrender in the Second World War to Hitlers Blitzkrieg. They get a reputation for being snotty, elitist, rude cowards. I agree with that 99.9% of the time, but hey, at least they invented the conventional hook up.
But I digress. Now, the lighter is giving me attitude. The first and inappropriately least troubling aspect concerning this particular lighter is that it refuses to light. My thumb starts to swell and ache in the chilly temperatures of February. The second problem is that the lighter will not stay a constant color. It goes from green to orange. Orange to green. Green to orange. It begins to freak me out a bit, but I just go with it. It is, after all, unfittingly amusing. I drift in and out of consciousness.
"Autobiography"
I like my hair short. Its tidier, more manageable, calculated. I wouldnt say that I like to plan things ad nauseam; entropy provides a needed source of excitement, thrill and surprise. In fact, at times I just say Fuck it and take long shot, risky chances. As the years have rolled on; 15, 16, 17, 18, I find those times occurring with increasing frequency. In fact, I have been told by many that my hair looks better longer, and I would be lying if I say that I didnt agree with them, at least in part. But how long is too long? Well, after careful thought, I have concluded that when getting decent shampoo lather in the shower makes you late for school, its time for haircut. But I digress. I would like to go back to one night, three haircuts ago, when I was sporting something loosely resembling a traditional Jew-fro.
Shot of 151! I resolutely ordered, who am I kidding, commanded, the middle aged Latino bartender at the seedy New Haven salsa bar. So what if I had a final the next morning, I worked hard all summer and nows the time to celebrate. Of course, a buffer period would be nice. Many of the other summer students at Yale had already finished their exams and were all packed up, ready to board 747s capable of holding 200 people only differentiable by 5 digit identification codes following by 2 letter combinations. Ah, numbers. Thats the one thing I could never stand, being a number. I refused to tell schools my social security number for several years. At the time, I considered it a mental lapse. An inability to remember nine numbers when I had never failed to memorize anything in my life. Of course, flukes like this dont just happen. Mental idiosyncrasies cause one to forget things on purpose, while being unaware the entire time. But, again, I digress.
I throw back my third shot, no chaser of course. This was my first time drinking hard liquor, but like everything I do, I had to come off as a pro, an expert, an authority. My taste buds burned as my vision blurred a bit, my smile widened a bit, and all of the girls got just a little bit prettier. As I stumbled to the dance floor, lights of every color imaginable shone down on me. Red, Yellow, Blue, Green, well, thats about it actually. At the time it seemed like a rainbow of vision, however, at the present moment it comes off as a rather lackluster display of prismatic spectacle. Anyways, I soon started to dance. Ive never been much of a dancer, but this night I seemed to be one with the Salsa. Every move was perfect, at least in my mind, and that was all that mattered. And so, I danced and danced.
After about a week, or perhaps three minutes, maybe more like ten, anyway, I got tired. This was to be expected, anyone with a middle school education has been force fed state mandated health classes. Alcohol is a depressant, it will make you tired I heard my gym teacher slash health teacher echo to me as he must have done for the last fifteen years. Have you never noticed that kind of goes together? Gym and health teacher? Really, its two completely unique and unrelated disciplines, just look at gym teachers. Mostly fat and out of shape, they obviously didnt pick up much in health class. Once, I had this gym/health teacher named again, for another day, back to the matter at hand.
I strolled over to a female friend of mine. This girl was always very attractive, however, tonight I could swear she bore a chilling resemblance to Katie Holmes, except with long dirty blonde hair. Over the summer I had developed somewhat of an addiction to Dawsons creek. It was the only time I could have the TV room at Branford to myself, 9 a.m. Focus Man. I struck up a conversation with her, all the while simultaneously entertaining myself with how interesting I was being and how funny the bowl of cashews besides me looked. Before I knew it, we were back in her dorm room, throwing back shots of tequila and blue frost Gatorade. This time, I appreciating accepted the chaser.
After ten shots or so, probably more like three, or four, our eyes locked. Shes hot. Wow, she is a fucking wool sweater in the middle of fucking Africa in the god damn summer... Her long sandy hair seemed to shine like the ocean under the cheap florescent lights. Thats the thing with the top colleges, you pay for the name. The facilities, kind of disappointing. The professors, kind of unreachable. But the name. The name is what will get any random girl you meet at a club to ooh and aah. Back to the girl. She was wearing tight jeans. I love when girls where tight jeans with a nice belt. Of course, theyve gotta have the body for it. Not too quaint, but too voluptuous and its downright repulsive. This one, this was the ideal. A benchmark. Even better, she was wearing a pink polo, preppy, I like preppy.
Of course, several months later I would receive a troubling phone call. It consisted of a deep voice, oddly similar to an emulator or something, asking what the difference was between a Pizza and a Jew. This was promptly followed by a screaming, Jews dont scream in the oven jackass!!! Youre a fucking dirty . I was able to trace the call to OGLESBY, Illinois using the internet. Thats the town the girl lived in. Turns out, she had been mixing medications. That coupled with a strict Irish Catholic upbringing in the Midwest can have disastrous results. In this case, it took the form of anti-Semitism. But I digress.
The shirt was so tight though. Must be a children size. As I moved closer, I saw the tag: C-M.
No wonder. I havent worn a childs medium in over a dozen haircuts, 14 to be exact. Before I hit my growth spurt. Back then I used to gel my hair, with a little flip at the top. Kind of like Ross from the show friends. I never tell anyone I like that show, I claim to despise it as the litmus test for the downfall of Western civilization. But, honestly, its pretty addictive.
There must be over 150 people here, I thought to myself, worried. I made my way through the ever thickening crowd of rowdy, horny, intoxicated teens. That word seems to have taken on a life of its own. Likely originated with the purpose of describing the 13-19 year old demographic, now it seems to have morphed into a blank check for mayhem, anarchy and experimentation. Back to the crowd though. I heard a roar come from the screened in porch and rushed over to check it out. Apparently, while slamming empty cans of Coors Light against the gutters, one of the bigger teens had pulled a 360 reverse between the legs, good for a score of 9.5 or better in any NBA dunk competition.
As I stood there, a mix of emotions ranging from relief that it was not my house being torn apart to the thrill of being at such a wild party encircled me. I walked over to the fridge and separated a cold Coors from its five brothers. Who has five brothers anymore anyway? Declining death rates worldwide along with a shift away from subsistence agriculture have all but made obsolete the need for a big family. I suppose in nations like the Philippines, where the Catholic Church rules life and contraception is viewed as a sin worthy of eternal damnation. Or in China or India, where the pressure to have a son carry on the family name outweighs any degree of sanity. That or Mormons, I love that Ken Jennings, what a character. Again, I digress.
The lid of the beer sprung open, and a hiss of carbon dioxide rushed forth. I like that sound. An instant guarantee of a fresh, frothy, beverage. Just kidding, I hate the taste of beer, cant stand it. Of course, I didnt know that then. As I strutted over to two girls from my grade, I could honestly say that I felt like the shit. I was yelling, laughing, and amazing myself at how interesting I was at the same time. I thought I was drunk, but I clearly wasnt. A quarter of a light beer cant get anyone drunk. Not even a baby at a bris.
After a few minutes, or an hour, well maybe a half hour, the placebo induced buzz wore off. The confidence that cloaked me had disappeared, and I became a bit more sheepish, a little more reclusive, and just a tad frightened. I walked away from the girls, as if to prematurely surrender my pursuit, and started the long walk home.
A mosquito, or maybe it was a Nat, flew onto the back of my head. Attempting to swat it away, I narrowly missed by all of a quarter millimeter. Flies are fast. Anyway, I couldnt help but notice the back of my hair was getting a bit shaggy. I needed a haircut. Maybe Ill get it really short, like last summer. Practically a crew cut. I hadnt worn my hair that short in at lest five haircuts.
I hopped out of the shower, as a crowd of filthy sixteen year olds pushed and shoved to fill the vacancy. I always prided myself on taking quick showers when there was a crowd waiting. It was the only decent things to do. After all, it wasnt that hard, I could wash my hair in about forty seconds. So tidy, so manageable, so calculated.
But I digress. Im sitting at home, stuck at a crossroad. Everyone looks to me for an answer, as it was me who put us in this situation. I am forced to list the pros and cons of both going to a hookah bar in the city with our school friends, or abandoning those girl to the mercy of a certain red haired college freshman and going to another certain red haired high school seniors party in the next county. The city would be a dent on our respective wallets, and as none of us have steady jobs (save of course the kid that wouldnt be going to the city anyway due to crowd conflicts and unnecessary exclusion) this is a big deal. I know that if I ask my dad for money, I will have to get a job. With three months left in high school and Frisbee season around the corner, this just wont do. Also, the city means girls weve known for five, eighteen, and even nine years. Essentially, in crudest terms, no chance of action. Dont get me wrong, its cool to just chill, but once in a while you get the itch, and it only gets worst.
As we come to a decision, it is clear that the group has coalesced around the idea of the party. Almost instantly, five instant messages pop up in the chat room named 6789243 declaring NOT DRIVING! This was, as is the custom, promptly followed by four assertions of Shotgun and three pleas for Not bitch. I didnt fare too badly, no driving and bitch one way, but I dont mind, its all good.
As the nervous boy next to me passes a Poland Springs bottle filled with Absolute Vodka, I throw it back like a pro. Ive gotten considerable better at this, and now I can do it without the teary eyes and scrunched face. But, I digress. As we enter the house, if it can be called a house, more like a sort of castle or mansion converted into a dwelling, I catch the glance of an attractive blonde haired girl in tight jeans and a red halter top. This was a problem for three reasons. First of all, my type is usually the smart, innocent brunettes; however, Ive always had a weakness for a blonde. Second, tight jeans. Thats another weakness. The third, though seemingly subtle and insignificant, is quite the contrary. Red is my favorite color, the color of fire, power, influence. Napoleon praised red, Caesar was fascinated by it, and it tickled Kissingers fancy as well. But, I digress.
I approach the girl, empowered by two triple shots of Jose Quervos, a triple shot of Bacardi Vodka, a shot of absolute. I hand her what I call my signature drink. One shot Tequila, a shot of vodka, a slice of lemon and a slice of lime. Of course, this isnt my signature drink, it just has a lot of alcohol in it. Her face squeezes as she sips it, and I fear that it may taste awful. I go to take it away from her apologetically, but she protects it with all her might. Stop, its amazing, I love it she protests. My longtime friend and canoe partner walks over, and I give him a slap on the shoulder and a few high fives. When I get fucked up, I love high fives. The girl asks each of us if were interested in some Coke, and I walk over the bar and pour her a glass of fizzling Cola. The bubbles jump up and spray into my face, as I hand her the glass. Unfortunately, she shakes her head and laughs. She says shell be right back.
She returns about twelve seconds later or maybe an hour, or five minutes itching her nose a bit, and wraps her arms around each of us. Hot tub? she proposes. We scramble up the stairs following her. These winding staircases are very difficult, as we trip and fall ever few seconds. As we follow her into a miscellaneous room, she starts to undress. Yeah, shes hot. As I struggle to help her find a bikini top, I begin to lose myself in the tropical colors. Pink, Yellow, Hot Orange, Hot Pink, Neon Green, Red, Red.
I struggle to remove my pants. Theyre not really cooperating with me. In an ideal world, I would have brought a bathing suit or board shorts perhaps. But, as they say, life isnt perfect. The belt is still buckled, no wonder. I throw down my shirt and pants as a dozen or so snowflakes fall upon my head. They say no two are alike, but sometimes I wonder, how do they know. Has someone rounded up every single snowflake ever in existence and compared them.
This girl isnt really a good kisser. I feel like shes some sort of Venus Fly Trap and I a bug in the process of being devoured. Wow, my tongue is getting a bit tired. How long have we been going at this, an hour, five seconds, a minute perhaps? Anyways, this satisfied my temporal craving for some action. I like to be in control, but, as they say, you cant win them all. Life isnt perfect.
Okay, this one is more my type, the innocent, shy brunette. She looks great in the bikini too, not red, but you cant win them all. Much better kisser. I suppose French Kisses were first brought into the mainstream by the French. At least they gave us something, despite an extremely pathetic surrender in the Second World War to Hitlers Blitzkrieg. They get a reputation for being snotty, elitist, rude cowards. I agree with that 99.9% of the time, but hey, at least they invented the conventional hook up.
But I digress. Now, the lighter is giving me attitude. The first and inappropriately least troubling aspect concerning this particular lighter is that it refuses to light. My thumb starts to swell and ache in the chilly temperatures of February. The second problem is that the lighter will not stay a constant color. It goes from green to orange. Orange to green. Green to orange. It begins to freak me out a bit, but I just go with it. It is, after all, unfittingly amusing. I drift in and out of consciousness.