“the only thing hotter than a hot chick is a hot chick with an english accent!”

imagine the following said with the absolute most incredulity, shock, and disapproval imaginable:

so in hindsight, my response to him saying “i have something important to tell you. i think she and i are in love” probably wasn’t all that supportive.

i don’t remember writing any of this, but that’s okay becuase it’s from 2004.

There’s just something bout this little box of a room that appeals to me. Maybe it has to do with the twisted discomfort I get from sleeping in open spaces- not the out-of-doors kind of open spaces, just the large room kind. Example? I could never sleep in a gym. Or in a library. Or a grocery store. Or even in my Fraternity’s foyer. I like small spaces. My bed at school is ideal; the middle slot of a tri-bunk with three of the four sides closed off by adjacent walls. There was something very comforting about being able to lie on my side with my back against the wall.

Maybe it has to do with the static colors of the running water and fan, which tend to drone out near every other sound. I can’t hear myself breathe. I can’t see cars, or wind, or people outside in their loud boats, or the sounds of my old house settling. There are no brown squiggles dancing across my eyes from the sound my pencil makes as I write. After awhile it’s almost like there’s not sound at all…

Here I sit, in a bathroom, with my back against one wall, my shoulder against another, and the ball of my left foot pressed against a third. If I slide my computer off my lap, I could reach over and touch my right hand against the remaining wall.

It’s simple here. I can see everything. There are no distractions. This is how I want my life to be.

But I digress.

recently i was asked what my favorite place was. my answer is still the upstairs bathroom of my parent’s house.

forget for a minute that i’m a serial dater. and also that aside from monogamy i have maybe the worst relationship ethics out of anyone alive. and that i hate text messaging and talking on the phone.

because there’s this girl. and she’s just really fucking kick ass.

needless to say i got caught a bit off guard. if i were feeling cliche this is where i’d say something about ms. rights vs ms. right-nows or finding things when you stop looking for them. however, since i’m not feeling cliche, this is where i’ll say that yes, i do have a ‘yellow green’. i am short a ‘green yellow’, though, but only because i used it up making the shorter lines around all of my suns.

res·er·va·tion (rěz’ər-vā’shən)
n.
1. The act of reserving; a keeping back or withholding.
2. Something that is kept back or withheld.
3. A limiting qualification, condition, or exception: has reservations about the proposal.

I was going to write this obscenely vague analogy about how running the bases in a game of baseball is a lot like running the bases in a relationship because baseball is boring and so is a relationship past third base when you know you’re going to slide into home so why even bother? But before I could do that, I got distracted by googling semi-related concepts like “third base”, which resulted in this gem from urbandictionary.com:

“Ah yes 3rd base very pleasureable…… As you have gotten thru 1st and 2nd than thing’s really start to get passionite (But I am warning everybody do NOT do this unless you are going to stay with this person this is something people should wait to do and you should love this person like really love them please just don’t do anything stupid) Anyway’s….. For the guy’s….. Now guy’s this take’s practice you won’t get it right the first time but this is all very exciteing, Now 3rd base is what they also call oral now this is called fingering and this is where the guy will bring his hand down to the womans vagina and start to put his finger of choice (Middle or pointer finger works best) And start’s to put his finger in her vagina kinda like sex but your useing your finger just keep moving it back and forth….. Now this is what’s called “eating out” This is where the guy goes down the woman’s vagina (Like his head) And start’s to lick her vagina just constant (I have a great tip on how to please her it’s probably the best way to eat out a woman Email me at ChickMagnet_CAN@hotmail for the tip) Now for the woman you will get on your knees while he stands or maybe he lays down and you do the same just as long as your mouth in reach of the penis now the “Blowjob” You will lock you mouth around the mans penis and move in and out or up and down (Depends what position your in) and you repeat this until the guy lets out the semen (Cums) in to your mouth and he is pleased and after this tho you can either swallow or spit (But most men like it when you swallow) Ok Now this is the “Handjob” this is where you wrap you hand around his penis and move up and down at a rapid pace (Kind of like if the guy was masturbateing but now he is lucky enough for someboyd to do it for him) and just keep going till he lets out the semen (cums) Now this is more messy it will just shoot out and it’s unpredictable where it will go. I hope you all have fun (Don’t do anything stupid remember)”

xtntx: We should get together sometime. Throw stones
xtntx: Stuff like that.
Kraft110: only if its at old people
xtntx: Only old people.
xtntx: They have it coming.
Kraft110: i’d never throw rocks and geese or animals or anything like that. that would be mean
xtntx: Oh it would be! I would feel bad doing that.
Kraft110: and throwing stones at street signs is disrespectful and delinquent
xtntx: Old people are bitter.
Kraft110: and dying anyway so who cares if they bleed on the ground or fall down
xtntx: Throwing stones keeps old people fit. If they’re alert enough they can try and dodge them.
Kraft110: “if you can dodge this rock, we won’t bury you in the shallow mass grave behind the toolshed. at least not today.”
xtntx: Perfect.

On a notepad infront of my computer I’ve written “7:17″ twice. They have big circles around then and are underlined. Clearly that time was important, but I can’t remember for what; so to make it important again it’s now the title of this entry. Work it, 7:17!

Let me set the scene for you:

I’m in the 4-story parking structure walking back to my car after class. I am parked up the ramp and on the left. When I get to my car, I hit the remote unlock button but nothing happens. Huh. The battery must be about dead. So I unlock the door with my key, toss my bag across to the front passenger seat and sit down.

I had the key in the ignition and the engine running before I noticed that my XM receiver wasn’t on the dash. SHIT! SHIT SHIT SHIT! Someone stole my radio! SOME FUCKING COCK ASS BITCH MOTHER FUCKER GOT IN MY CAR AND TOOK MY GODDAMN RECEIVER AND NOW I’M GOING TO HAVE TO BUY A NEW ONE BECAUSE LOL@CAMPUSSECURITY. FUCKING PRICKS! HOW THE HELL DO THEY LET SOMEONE INTO THE PARKING GARAGE AND ALLOW THEM TO GET INTO PEOPLE’S CARS?! FUCK! FUUUUUCK! GAAAAH! GUUUUU! ASDFLKAJDFLASKDFGJASDFLKJ!!!!

…

And then I noticed the baby chair in the backseat. Huh.

Three things then occurred to me in rapid succession:
1) This was not my car.
2) My XM Radio was most likely safe and sound on my dash.
3) Knowing that my car was fine didn’t make me hate campus security any less. Fuck those guys.

I look around the interior of the car a bit confused; I poked at the cubby in the dash for my CDs and checked the floor on the back seat for empty water bottles. You know… just to be sure that I hadn’t just forgotten that I had a kid and this actually was my car.

I turn the car off, open the door, and stand up. Three cards down I see my roof. Huh. I sit back down in the car and put my key back in the ignition and turn the car on again, just be make sure I’m not hallucinating. I consider for a moment that I might be dreaming but quickly discard that idea - almost all of my dreams are lucid and the ones that don’t start that way always end up that way when I question whether or not I’m actually awake. So the reality of the situation is that I’m sitting in someone else’s car and my key unlocks their door and starts their engine. What are the odds of that?

I have another realization: This is never going to happen to me again and I need to make this count.

I take my key out and stand up again. I look around. No one. I close the door and walk to my car. The remote unlocks the doors and I toss my bag into the passenger seat. My XM radio is on the dash, my CDs are in the cubby and the back seat is littered with water bottles. No doubt about it; this one is actually mine.

I start fishing around behind me for a pad of paper and dig a pen out of my backpack before walking back over to the other car. I go through a couple revisions before I finally settle on a note I’m happy with:

Tell me, Clarice… have the lambs stopped screaming? What if they’ve never seen Silence of the Lambs? No.
I’m watching you. No.
You’re wearing my favorite shirt again. Too creepy. No.
I wrote this while listening to your radio. No.
You should really face that car seat the other direction. It’s a lot safer. Better, but no.
You’re never as safe as you think you are. Better, but it needs more.

Eventually I settle on the following message, written on both sides of a sheet of paper that I then fold hospital-clipboard-style over the steering wheel.

[outside] Remember: you are never as safe as you think you are…
[inside]…and neither is your kid. Turn that fucking car seat around!