Everything Happens for a Reason...

Fucking tired of hearing this/reading this.

Not to pick on the girls and contribute to the misogynistic undertones of this blog (even though they are completely fucking unintentional), but I'm doing my away-message stalking today and I notice this written in about four different profiles -- all girls. Now, if I remember correctly, these are females who like to e-wear their relationships on their sleeves. For example, previous away messages/profile entries have been to the extent of I LUV BEN!!!1 or Ur just jelous cuz were yong and in luv or Brad 4/2/03 or some shit.

Right now you're probably asking why I have such people on my buddy list. I'm asking the same fucking question. I'd delete them but I'd feel like a loser cleaning house on e-friends. What's the fucking difference anyway? So on we go.

Gone were the bon mots and first pregnancy scare anniversaries. All proclamations of undying love and vows to live like two assholes in a country music song had disappeared, replaced with Rascal Flatts lyrics and EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON. Yes, everything does happen for a reason. That reason is cause. The world is full of cause-and-effect relationships. If I get the shits then it's probably because I ate that funny-tasting burrito. Was it the beans or the gamy meat?

Everything happens for a reason.

Ben left? Maybe you shouldn't have dyed your hair reddish-brownish-blondish. To sit here and delude yourself that he left because it was "in the cards", because that what "God wanted" is fucking laughable. If God gave us free will then why would he feel the need to intervene for some Elementary Ed major from Shitsburg, KY or wherever? By the way, I'm not talking about anybody specific here (you know me; I work chiefly with stereotypes). :)

We reassure ourselves too much. We try to convince ourselves that our fuck-ups, no matter how big or small, are somehow going to benefit us down life's road. If your leg falls off in your sleep, is it a blessing in disguise? Probably not, although exceptions do occur (see Mark Zupan in the movie Murderball).

Shit happens, okay? Shit is not good. That's why it's shit. To sit here and say that shit works in our favor is fucking ignorant and silly and stupid all a once, like a basket full of poison muffins. If Ben leaves you then he leaves you. You may meet somebody better, you may not, but if you do it's not because that's what was "supposed to happen." Tell that to the fucking families of 9/11.

Girl: Your son was supposed to die on that plane. It happened for a reason.

Mother: Bitch, I will fucking kill you for saying that.

One thing's certain though:

If you get your ass kicked, it's for a reason.

Define stereotype.

Shirtless fratboys in frayed shorts and sandals throwing a football in front of "the house" while Margaritaville blasts from speakers on the porch.

My Writers Workshop Class

Workshops are breeding grounds for some of the worst shit that will ever be written. Ever. And I'm not excusing myself either. Not because I can't write something decent. I can. It's just hard to perform when you don't give a shit (see my grades). There's something about a writers workshop that just sucks every last ounce of fucking creative energy from your body. You don't even want to touch a coloring book after you're dismissed from one of these things.

Imagine a bunch of odd-looking wannabes sitting around with your latest piece of shit in their hands, trying to think of nice things to say about it regardless of whether they like it or not. They never say anything bad about your work, and if they have to say something negative, it's usually to the extent of "I really like this part, but I think here you could do this. But that's just my opinion. I mean you don't have to."

There's this one girl in my class with hairy forearms and the ugliest haircut on a girl I have ever seen (besides a bowlcut on an Asian chick). It looks like pubic hair tangled up in a shower drain. Anyway, she grew a set one day:

"I don't like how the lesbian character's last name is Hole. I think that's offensive. You might want to change it. I also don't like the part where you write, 'If he were Italian he'd be beating her [his wife] right now.' I'm part Italian and that offends me."

I guess she expected me to nod and respect her opinion. Wrong.

"I'm not going to change it. The name has no significance; it's as arbitrary as "bog" or "coffee." And I'm mostly-Italian so I'm not changing that either."

"Oh, well, I mean I was just saying. You don't have to..."

"I know."

At this point the professor chimed in: "Doesn't that bother you that she's offended?"

"You can't please everybody."

Nobody said anything after that. They all just kind of looked down and then passed me back my papers. The extent of their written comments was, "good job!" and "I like this part!" or "Funny!" And, I admit, this was some of the shittiest stuff I've ever written. Way to workshop, classmates!

These are comma-happy people who don't know when to use colons or hyphens. They shift tenses mid-paragraph. They have no grasp of voice or dialogue. And they love to talk shit about commercial writers like Stephen King and Danielle Steele. These people ALL think they're the next fucking Hemingway or Welty. Dog-arms, the girl that tried to call me out, started off her final essay (required for a grade) with, "I was so lucky to be born a writer." LOL funny if you read her story.

Which brings me to my next part:

These people have NEVER heard the old maxim "Write what you know."

In my class there's a dorky white guy with B.O. writing a love story set in ancient China. He thinks because his girlfriend is Asian (and not a hot Asian chick, but one of these immigrant Asians with hair growing out of their ears) he's an authority on the subject. The sad part is his story is probably the best. Definitely a step up from his original idea, "Yukon", which was about a man chasing down a bear who swallowed his wife's necklace. Nevermind this kid has never been to the Yukon; he didn't even stop to think that maybe the man should be digging through the bear's shit for the necklace.

Awww, man!

A middle-aged white woman is writing a story about a Mexican gangster just released from prison. One of her standout lines: "You're an OG now man." (verbatim)

Dog-arms is writing about this odd little girl named Wren. Obvious biographical allusions aside, this story is still shit. She thinks she's smart because she drew a comparison between Wren and a bird and a wren is a bird. Get it? Fuck.

The cute girl next to me (as cute as a girl can get for an upper level English course) decided to do a Winesburg, Ohio type thing and write multiple stories about Bowling Green townsfolk, some of which include a blue-collar worker and an eleven-year-old girl. The voices are mangled beyond repair and, somehow, these people have special powers because one second they're in a field or school bus and the next second they're in a truck or room.

Other people are experimenting with stream-of-consciousness and point-of-view and etc. I don't want to talk shit about them because they're the only halfway cool ones in the group. I keep catching this this redneck-ish kid stealing glances of my arms during class. I can't tell if he's gay or wants to arm wrestle.

Nobody in this class has tackled anything that they may actually be good at writing, myself included. Apathy's a bitch. I've been swamped with my script, other classes, masturbation, etc.

And I want to say this right now:

All of these people will get a better grade in this class than I will. Not because I haven't been doing the work or going to class. The professor, the infamous weasel I've clashed with on previous occasions, is teaching this piece of shit. It also doesn't help that my story is an allegory for my perception of his pathetic life. I think he just figured that out tonight. He was quiet.

He is going to grade my work as subjectively as he can. I'll be surprised if I make a C.

But then I'm out of here and I don't have to play copy editor to Wren and her bird-like manners anymore. I'm flapping my fucking wings over that.

Call me Howard the Duck.

A Nugget

Funny conversation I heard in the Subway line today between two Phi Mu sorority girls. One was already wearing white pants.:

Girl 1: What do you think "disclosure" means?

Girl 2: I dunno.

Girl 1: Like do you think it means to hide something from somebody, like keep it from them, or to give it up?

Girl 2: I dunno.

Girl 1: Well, okay. Listen to this, k?

Girl 2: K.

Girl 1: So I'm in class and I'm doing my speech and I say, "Disclosure of information hurts the truth" and at the the end the teacher's like, "How can disclosure of information blah blah blah?"

Girl 2: Okay...

Girl 1: Anyway, I guess she said disclosure means to like put something out there for somebody and I was all embarrassed because I messed up all bad.

Girl 2: I would've thought what you thought.

Girl 1: I know, right? God. I was so embarrassed.


Note: I think I captured this dialogue quite well. Hurray for me.

Second note: They both then asked for the Sandwich Artist to dump a whole bottle of mayonnaise onto their six-inch chicken salad sandwiches on parmesan oregano bread.

God bless these people for entertaining me.

Marlboro Lights to Misty 120s

What's the suicide rate in Kentucky?

Scenario: Wake up today. Beautiful day. 65 degrees. I'm kinda-sorta having trouble breathing. Still trying to get over this whole sinus thing that puts me on my ass around this time every year. This shit never happened until I was in Kentucky. Anyway, I go to fucking Spanish class because the teacher -- the nice lady who uses the textbook curriculum almost verbatim -- docks three percentage points off the final grade for every absence. Conceivably I could get an A on every assignment and still fail the course. So I go and I try not to pass out and I leave for a moment to blow my nose and I come back and we leave and then I go outside and the weather has fucking dropped fifteen degrees. And what about the blue sky and white clouds? Gone. Hello, gray.

I blame Kentucky.

Sure, shit happens, but here it runs its own company. And when Shit retires, Shit Jr. will keep his legacy alive.

Excuse the triteness, but words can't express how fucking sick of this place I am. I have all the funny, disgusting anecdotes regarding America's heart and soul -- the "real" people -- that I'll ever need. Remind me to tell you the one about the morbidly obese girl with dried shit stuck in between the folds of her lower back. Or about a different morbidly obese girl who cashed a twenty dollar child support check in a liquor store and made the whole fucking store stink like curdled buttermilk and ass sweat. You'll never guess what happened next...

Another time. I'm sucked dry of creativity right now. So close to finishing my script and I have to deal with an illness, a diet, a professor who wants me to fail, tons of busy work because professors don't know how to pace their fucking classes, and Kentucky. I have to deal with Kentucky.


I was walking to breakfast after class this morning and this sorority bitch was gabbing away on her Razr phone about some asshole named Matt and his truck or something. One word struck me though. Senioritis. "I think it's senioritis," she squawked. Now was she talking about herself or Matt? My guess was herself.

Now how the fuck can an Elementary Ed Major get senioritis? She's spent her whole college career learning about different types of construction paper and how Crayola crayons are superior to Rose Art crayons. She's read every Berenstain Bears, Amelia Bedelia, and Mr. Frog and Mr. Toad. She probably didn't even take the honors class, which involves Goosebumps, the Boxcar Children, and the Babysitters Club (Claudia and the Phantom Phone Calls, baby).

And she has senioritis?

Here's the rest of her life:

If she's not already married, she will be. Maybe to Travis. She'll have a kid soon. Maybe in Travis's truck. She'll take residence in her hometown. She probably won't teach. I see clerical work in her future. More kids. Her hair gets big. She graduates from Marlboro Lights to Misty 120s. She goes to the football games every Friday night. She dreams her kids will grow up to be something, just like her parents dreamed the same of her.

The cycle will continue. And that's why places like Kentucky are the way they are.

It all reminds me of an episode of MTVs "Made" I saw once. This Ole Miss cheerleader, this fucking bottle-blonde Southern Belle, wanted to dance in New York City. Here she was at school with an omigod! hawt boyfriend, tons of popularity, and bffs gushing from her anus. God, a girl like her could do anything.

Except dance in New York. Or live in New York. Or just visit New York. She was on a different fucking planet. People weren't charmed by her dumb, coquettish methods. I-hate-you looks ran aplenty from everybody. Even her coach. And all she wanted to do was go home, back to where she could hide away from the rest of the world and get married and grow big hair and talk about how mean and strange big city folk are because nobody recognized her sickening sweetness or called her princess or stuck a fucking glittery star sticker to her over-rouged cheek.

There's no place like denial.