Didi’s and Tin’s columns

I.E. my brother and cousins.  Here they are, and their wonderful collection of grossly morbid thoughts.

DIDI SAYS::

A rainy day passed, letting us suffer and fight for our lives. [Tin says, "O que la."]

Walking down the streets of Barcelona, stepping on old gum, sharing three tiny umbrellas with 7 people.  It was a fight for our lives.  We knew we had to kill each other in order to survive [Martin says, "Or my dad."]

I knew who we were going to choose who eat first, and that meant it was Martin, and now since I said that, he’s drooling on my pillow and farting on my pillow and pooping on my pillow.  I tell Martin scary stories about a person sleeping so close to him that they’re touching saying “I love you; you are Squishy and you are mine.” The end. >:(

TIN SAYS::

I don’t want to write anymore; I don’t need to.

And those are my cousin and brother, respectively.  It was full of nonsense and I laughed a lot. Yeah…you can see how hanging out with them atrophies my grammar to nil.

Spain > France in terms of Internet

Normally, vacations are suppose to be fun and exciting, full of laughter and hilarity and smiles and adventure and awesomeness.  Normally, one does not liken a vacation to the barracks or a war in some tropical wasteland while one is waylaid by vicious guerilla fighters.  Normally, vacations are suppose to have a calming and satisfying effect…like one has woken from a pleasant slumber with a very pleasant dream.  Normally, normally, normally.

This vacation has been far from normal.  As I am typing my “adventures” on a day to day basis [Spain has free Internet.  France does not] it feels like I’m doctumenting my last moments in a war or something or writing my dying momentos while I’m bleeding to death on a battlefield.

It feels more exciting or at least suspenseful if I write about my vacation when I get home, and I shall keep to that promise; however, this injustice shall no longer be ignored!

It rained in Barcelona today.  Apparently, July’s and August’s in Barcelona are exceedingly hot, and if we were here a week earlier, it would have been a scorching desert.  Remember about that one blog I wrote about about Thanh and I running in the rain and how we got wet?  Well, consider that the Mojava…Mojavo…mojave…Desert- whatever.  The rain was pounding, pouring.  Our clothes were incredibly wet, and my uncle made us tour Barcelona because we HAD to, because we were going to leave, and what was a vacation without touring such a wonderful and vibrant city?  Walking, slipping, and almost tripping from the rain, winding around twisted corners and getting lost, trying to listen to inscrutable instructions from the locals with a stupidly lost look on our faces.  The best part of the entire trip was going to the beach, which was amazingly clean.

For lunch, we ate at this kebab place.  Dude, if looks could kill or at least if poisoning people were legal, we’d be massacred in Texas Chainsaw Massacre style.  They either hated foreigners because they get a lot of inconsiderate ones, or they just hated us. Eh, whatever.

Then we went home and slept and that was almost the end of the day, but then I forgot some important details that my dear brother and cousins reminded me of.

The taxi driver.  Ah, taxi drivers.  The stereotypical New Yorker with the Brooklyn accent and whatever-screw-you attitude.  Huh, either the stereotype is wrong, or my taxi driver was exceptionally cool.  He’s from Spain/barcelona, lived in London and in the East coast of the United States.  Cool accent, really nice, and gave us a pretty foreboding heads-up for the rest of the trip.  Hey, Barcelona is chaotic, right?  Serpentine streets and confuzzling streetsigns and streetlights that make you wonder if you’re Alice in Wonderland.  According to him, Barcelona is chaotic.  Rome is 5 chaotics…traffic’s there so terrifying that you need to defy grammar to describe how horrific it is.  I’m scared, and am mentally in the fetal position sucking my thumb.

Oh right.  thanks chi Nghi for telling me about the Berkeley thing.  I don’t want to be in the yearbook, so yeah.

Email me if you want to talk privately.

Okay, catch you guys later, either sometime in summer or a couple years later in hell/heaven.

Goodbye.

My brother is cute/cool.

Frownyface cousin is also cool but likes to wear underwear on her head…and is evil.

And Martin is well and perveted as always.  Plus he still plays hecka games. mass effect. ftw.

Another tragic story

I am sitting here with not much to do except wait for my uncle to get the car, get in the car, and violate every single traffic rule ever known in the Spanish drivers’ handbook.

I can now call you a slut/prostitute in Spanish, and in 2 weeks, I can probably do it in Italian [they are notorious drivers with notorious tempers], and maybe in German.  I’ve always wanted to learn how to speak German.  You see, this is the valuable cultural experience you will never get if you’re on a tour bus; however, Martin is sexy.  She made me put that, that sexy beast, him.

Right, so- 3 on Ap Chem, and 5 in everything else, I think.  There’s a part of me that wants to jump for joy and scream out in pure blissful ecstasy, but then again I’m about to embark on another cardiac-stressful crusade. [My cousin is grunting "yes" in a manly and orgastic voice.]  See what I have to live with?  Disgusting, squalid conditions with a pervert who does weird things to us when we sleep.  Ewwww, Martin.

Martin is sexy.  Martin is sexy.  Martin is sexy. Ohhhh yeah.

quick post from Europe because that’s what I traveled thousands of miles to do.

First things first, my cousin has an awesome frowny face.

It’s rather sad to think that the only thing I look forward most to is coming back to the hotel, read Candide/some esoteric book debating against God/ watching American shows dubbed in French/German/ Spanish.  Anime in Spanish is awkward.

Now there’s a German guy with a Jamaican accent singing the Hot and Cold song by Katy Perry or however you say her name.

Now, I must address my faithful viewers.  Thanks for loving me and such.  And Chi Nghi… my posts are full of moral lessons such that they rival that of those taught in the Bible or something.  I don’t appreciate your comment. :[  Anyway, I MISS YOU.  SO MUCH.  I HATE BEING HERE.  IT'S FULL OF FAIL AND NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCES AND BEING KILLED AND ALMOST KILLING FOREIGNERS WE DON'T UNDERSTAND WHEN THEY CUSS US OUT FOR CRASHING OUR OVERSIZED CAR INTO THEM.

Lots more ranting to come, but my time of normalcy is limited by a tyrannical force, so all my trepidation, angst, and dpression will be compacted into a cutesy post.

Hey Chi Nghi... can you check if my AP scores are posted?  Hopefully they won't be epic fail.  Thanks.   And I don't know how often I can have Internet, so please don't expect regular posts.

A quick recapitulation of Europe.

Or rather, a list of cities we have and will have visited by the end of this trip.

Paris, Bordeaux, Marid, Barcelona, Marseilles, Nice, Roma, Venice, Vienna, Lucern, [some small city in Germany with the nasal phlegm sound], Amsterdam…THEN FREEDOM.

I shall be back on the 24th of July with my awesome cousins who are forcing me to type this at gunpoint.

Rather, I wish to say a few things about the sights I have seen, the things I have witnessed, and the people I have tried to communicate with.

The Moulin Rouge in France is nothing like the Moulin Rouge of Hollywood.  There is no Nicole Kidman.  Truth, love, freedom, liberty, all the ideals of man proclaimed to be celebrated and venerated by the hedonistic and idealistic crowds?  Fuck that.  Strap-ons, cosplay clothes, naked models, girls on posters screaming in orgastic ecstasy.  Hedonistic pleasures and sensual images full street after street.  Videos promoting all sorts of unimaginable lust and love light up the streets.  oh, and it’s next to the Sacred Couer.  The Sacred Heart.  The most sacred church.  Ironic, isn’t it?  Hows that for sacreligious for you?

Since my cousins are all despotic right now, I can’t talk about the interesting things that happened to me.  I have to talk about them.  Interpolation- black gangsters in France have a waaaay better fashion sense than the ones in America.  They look BADASS.  They also make some sort of living, or make a sport out of, terrorizing women coming out of the subway station by crowding at the entrance, chanting some sort of …something…and handing out pieces of paper with half naked extremely built men on them.

But yeah…traffic here sucks.  It’s like driving in New York without all the traffic signals…like a labrinth…like…having near death experiences every other minute.

But back to my cousins.  I also havve to talk about my brother and my cousins, who are all very awesome and apparently are my new best friends…next to trees and dirt.

When we went to the L’Arc de Triomphe, my brother and cousin were taking pictures of “my best friends” since I told them that they were at the bottom of my friends list.

Them:  OH MY GOD, BURRITO GUY.

Me:  What the hell are you talking about?

Them:  LOOK. LOOK.

And as their high-pitched and excited voices promised, I looked to the direction their grubby little fingers pointed.  Lo and behold!  There was a guy wearing his hat tilted to the side, wolfing down a gigantic burrito.  No, my friends, he was just not “wolfing down,” his mouth contorted to positions I never knew existed, his eyes portrayed a sense of orgasmic serenity that looked like some religious figure nearing Nirvana.  His mouth just wrapped around that thing and gnashed, gnashed, gnashed.  It was disgusting.  It was beautiful.  I never knew such happiness could be achieved from eating a burrito in France.

So that’s Burrito Guy, my new best friend.

There was also Trashcan Guy- a really tall black man putting trash into a trashcan.  There was also Guy- some guy with his shirt way up and his belly exposed for the world to see.  My eyes burned.

My brother is awesome, cute, and almost 11.

My cousin’s frowning is awesome and a sin against mankind.

Martin is mean and everyone thinks he’s a child abuser because people saw him choking my brother in public.  Whoot.  International criminal.

So yeah…that’s about it.  A short little piece of my world.

Oh yeah, I read some of Breaking Dawn and Eclipse.

I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT.  I wanted to strangle myself and kill my cousin who showed me the book, but luckily I restrained myself and I only beat her into unconsciousness.

Harry Potter whores himself out here a lot.

HE’S EVERYWHERE I GO. OH MY GOD.

so yeahhhhhhhhhh

That’s my life.

I ahte it.

Please get me out of here.  Sad face Sad face sad sadfadsklfhadsfdsfsd

Europe may very well be beautiful, but I hold an egregious view of it currently.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind being the awkward American tourist traveling in those obese tourist buses and being scorned by people.  I wouldn’t mind being charged outrageous prices, hearing loads of English, and eating McDonalds and Burger King.  I don’t mind being derided.  At least not yet.  Because this sucks serious monkeybutt.  Waking up at 5, not understanding anything, getting lost, crashing, crashing, crashing, crashing, having the stick-shift car stall on you while you’re going downhill, almost killing people and crashing into parked cars, almost dying, being stressed out, and being annoyed by ….excruciatingly unbearable cousins/brother.  Ugh.

So yeah.  That’s Europe for you.  Hopefully it’ll get better, or at least we wouldn’t have heart attacks every other minute.

A post from Europe…because this is what I traveled thousands of miles for.

First things first, my cousin has an awesome frowny face.

Now there’s a German guy with a Jamaican accent singing the Hot and Cold song by Katy Perry or however you say her name.

Now, I must address my faithful viewers.  Thanks for loving me and such.  And Chi Nghi… my posts are full of moral lessons such that they rival that of those taught in the Bible or something.  I don’t appreciate your comment. :[  Anyway, I MISS YOU.  SO MUCH.  I HATE BEING HERE.  IT'S FULL OF FAIL AND NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCES AND BEING KILLED AND ALMOST KILLING FOREIGNERS WE DON'T UNDERSTAND WHEN THEY CUSS US OUT FOR CRASHING OUR OVERSIZED CAR INTO THEM.

Lots more ranting to come, but my time of normalcy is limited by a tyrannical force, so all my trepidation, angst, and dpression will be compacted into a cutesy post.

Hey Chi Nghi... can you check if my AP scores are posted?  Hopefully they won't be epic fail.  Thanks.   And I don't know how often I can have Internet, so please don't expect regular posts.

A quick recapitulation of Europe.

Or rather, a list of cities we have and will have visited by the end of this trip.

Paris, Bordeaux, Marid, Barcelona, Marseilles, Nice, Roma, Venice, Vienna, Lucern, [some small city in Germany with the nasal phlegm sound], Amsterdam…THEN FREEDOM.

I shall be back on the 24th of July with my awesome cousins who are forcing me to type this at gunpoint.

Rather, I wish to say a few things about the sights I have seen, the things I have witnessed, and the people I have tried to communicate with.

The Moulin Rouge in France is nothing like the Moulin Rouge of Hollywood.  There is no Nicole Kidman.  Truth, love, freedom, liberty, all the ideals of man proclaimed to be celebrated and venerated by the hedonistic and idealistic crowds?  Fuck that.  Strap-ons, cosplay clothes, naked models, girls on posters screaming in orgastic ecstasy.  Hedonistic pleasures and sensual images full street after street.  Videos promoting all sorts of unimaginable lust and love light up the streets.  oh, and it’s next to the Sacred Couer.  The Sacred Heart.  The most sacred church.  Ironic, isn’t it?  Hows that for sacreligious for you?

Since my cousins are all despotic right now, I can’t talk about the interesting things that happened to me.  I have to talk about them.  Interpolation- black gangsters in France have a waaaay better fashion sense than the ones in America.  They look BADASS.  They also make some sort of living, or make a sport out of, terrorizing women coming out of the subway station by crowding at the entrance, chanting some sort of …something…and handing out pieces of paper with half naked extremely built men on them.

But yeah…traffic here sucks.  It’s like driving in New York without all the traffic signals…like a labrinth…like…having near death experiences every other minute.

But back to my cousins.  I also havve to talk about my brother and my cousins, who are all very awesome and apparently are my new best friends…next to trees and dirt.

When we went to the L’Arc de Triomphe, my brother and cousin were taking pictures of “my best friends” since I told them that they were at the bottom of my friends list.

Them:  OH MY GOD, BURRITO GUY.

Me:  What the hell are you talking about?

Them:  LOOK. LOOK.

And as their high-pitched and excited voices promised, I looked to the direction their grubby little fingers pointed.  Lo and behold!  There was a guy wearing his hat tilted to the side, wolfing down a gigantic burrito.  No, my friends, he was just not “wolfing down,” his mouth contorted to positions I never knew existed, his eyes portrayed a sense of orgasmic serenity that looked like some religious figure nearing Nirvana.  His mouth just wrapped around that thing and gnashed, gnashed, gnashed.  It was disgusting.  It was beautiful.  I never knew such happiness could be achieved from eating a burrito in France.

So that’s Burrito Guy, my new best friend.

There was also Trashcan Guy- a really tall black man putting trash into a trashcan.  There was also Guy- some guy with his shirt way up and his belly exposed for the world to see.  My eyes burned.

My brother is awesome, cute, and almost 11.

My cousin’s frowning is awesome and a sin against mankind.

Martin is mean and everyone thinks he’s a child abuser because people saw him choking my brother in public.  Whoot.  International criminal.

So yeah…that’s about it.  A short little piece of my world.

Oh yeah, I read some of Breaking Dawn and Eclipse.

I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT.  I wanted to strangle myself and kill my cousin who showed me the book, but luckily I restrained myself and I only beat her into unconsciousness.

Harry Potter whores himself out here a lot.

HE’S EVERYWHERE I GO. OH MY GOD.

so yeahhhhhhhhhh

That’s my life.

I ahte it.

Please get me out of here.  Sad face Sad face sad sadfadsklfhadsfdsfsd

Europe may very well be beautiful, but I hold an egregious view of it currently.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t mind being the awkward American tourist traveling in those obese tourist buses and being scorned by people.  I wouldn’t mind being charged outrageous prices, hearing loads of English, and eating McDonalds and Burger King.  I don’t mind being derided.  At least not yet.  Because this sucks serious monkeybutt.  Waking up at 5, not understanding anything, getting lost, crashing, crashing, crashing, crashing, having the stick-shift car stall on you while you’re going downhill, almost killing people and crashing into parked cars, almost dying, being stressed out, and being annoyed by ….excruciatingly unbearable cousins/brother.  Ugh.

So yeah.  That’s Europe for you.  Hopefully it’ll get better, or at least we wouldn’t have heart attacks every other minute.

Twelve more hours

Until I have to wake up and go to a continent once fraught with bloody wars and messy treaties and alliances, now overpopulated with probably annoying tourists like myself taking pictures of a beautified scene while the locals smirk and go on with their lives.

I wonder if that is what it means to be a tourist- to be hated and derided and ridiculed and pounded on the proverbial dirt again and again and again until we’re figuratively pieces of trash vicariously living a different and more exciting life.

God, this heat is amping up my cynicism/pessimism. I FUCKING HATE SUMMER. AHHHH.  It’s just… TOO hot. HOT HOT HOT.  Can’t friggin’ stand it.  Quite literally, it feels like someone is slowly roasting me over a small  flame in some perhistoric time period and I’m just strapped on that spinning stick while my skin peels off and I burn to death. Darn it all anyway.  Here’s Mother Nature going “Fuck you guys.  This is what you get.”  Yay for revenge.  It’s truly a dish best served hot.

Anyway, I suppose this is perfect weather for swimming, which I’m about to do in 16 minutes, and perfect weather for going to the mall and help the economy recover, which I also did later today, and perfect weather for running with a black sweater on and really cool sun glasses, which I saw some madman do earlier.  It’s simply astounding what some people would do to stay in shape.  Forget diet pills and anorexia- you want to lose weight?- run in winter attire on mountainous terrain.  That’ll do ya.  But still, I admire that mystery man.

And note of sadness- Billy Mays aka the OXYCLEAN guy died earlier this morning.  Now I can’t hear his booming, obnoxious voice in the mornings interpolated between showings of Anthony Bourdain.

On that note, I really want to be that kind of traveller…only I can’t exactly drink or smoke yet [not that I really want to since my goal = marathon= not choking on my own saliva and spasming in the middle of the street like that chick from the exorcist].

So yeah, Europe here I come!

Just wait, there’s another post after this one.  I’m planning to deviously bombard your heads with as much useless information and annoying rambling as much as possible.  My goal is to piss you off enormously; I mean, you have a month recovery, after all.  So yeah, miss me, love me.  I know you idolize me and all.

AGAIN, BECAUSE I KNOW YOU’LL MISS ME SO I’LL WRITE ABOUT USELESS SHIT YOU WON’T READ ANYWAY.

It’s so obnoxious that in any other circumstance I’ll probably gnaw the writer’s head off, but I’m leaving in a day…meaning that I won’t have any juicy tidbits for you to read for almost an entire month unless I can find some abandoned computer equipped with the working Internets and blog about how I got mugged in France and swindled in Italy.  Lovely, ain’t it?

In recent events, I met my aunt’s baby.  She’s a really sweet little girl, and I swear on my soul that Martin doesn’t have one because he said that the baby looked like she was going to kill him.  too much Assassin’s Creed for you, my friend.  Normally, I’ll go though the generic and often socially demanded protocol of children-meeting, which calls for a biased physical description in which euphemistic and heart-tugging words are used liberally and lots of heart-melting and tear-inducing effects on my part.  Nothing you haven’t been burdened through before, not that your own children-meetings aren’t full of warm fuzzy feelings and all.

I feel like I’ll violate her privacy, but I really wanted to talk -er, write- about this.  My aunt’s an amazing person- clever, street smart, fun, gorgeous, quirky, sweet.  She’s also a sophomore in college.

You hear about these social “shush shush” situations a lot; adults and children gossiping around the family dinner table or during a showing of Paris By Night.

The implications are boundless, the words sharp and full of bullshit.  You can hear it, can’t you?  Accusations saturated with whores, prostitutes,  irresponsibility, trash.  Oh god!  she doesn’t listen to her parents!  Oh goodness! she just goes galavanting off with guys!  How disgusting.  Nasty. Slutty.  Shameless. Why doesn’t she save her virginity until marriage, like a good girl?

Showtime.  The baby’s actually there, in the flesh, wide eyes staring at these conflicted and tortured souls.  She’s so cute. She’s so adorable.  Isn’t that the most precious thing?  But behind their backs, deep in the comforts of their hypocritcal minds cycles the snarling and derision. Ew, it’s trash.

Taking into account the idiosyncracies of my family on my dad’s side and the quasi perfect little angels on my mom’s side, I find it ironic that I’m so drawn to imperfection.  It’s annoying, how perfect they are.  How protected, sheltered.  Not that I find them annoying; I just find all their innocence and sheer immaculate quirks so perfect. All aspiring doctors, lawyers, corporate beasts, surgeons, world changers.  All staring so wide-eyed and hopeful.

My dad’s side.  What can I say?  Homos and hobos.  One almost has a pathological fear of talking.  They’re eccentric- in love with violence or not, in love with disgusting and dreadful thing or not.  Dirtied and transformed into vulgar figures of our world.  Maybe I’m so drawn into their oddities…their topsy turvy lives because I’m so egregiously flawed.  I identify with that- that blunt, blatant, obstreperous, flagrantly brash and flashy personality, which in pithy words means to be…human…me human.

So I am enchanted and captivated by her.  This fleshy manifestation of upcoming years of hard work and care, this object of so many conversations in which the speakers have never seen its face.  The story of someone who’s gone through life and felt its lessons for what may be for the very first time, and learned from it. There’s a beauty in it, of someone who rose up and breathed so cleanly when everyone else said it was a lost cause.

I’m inspired by that medical student who puts up with endless nights of studying, that aspiring researcher trying to find the cure to cancer, but I’m so drawn to the mother of a baby who wants to go back to school and succeed in life, to a boy who’s gone to too many parties and had too many drinks yet still offers amazing life advice.

It’s their personal story I can feel so intimately and so strongly.

So back to my aunt.  Hey, I really admire you, no matter what people may say or think. Please keep striving, please succeed, and please stay awesome and sweet.

Malapropism

I’ll get around to that later.  I believe that I should leave my readers laughing and full of good thoughts and happy feelings inside.

That aside, I want to whore myself out to commericalism and promiscuously advertise myself out there.  Hey, if any publishers are seeing this, I’ll do this for money, too.

So begins a gigantic book listing of …books… that I’ve read and totally recommend to everyone.  You’ll either feel that orgastic feeling of a really amazing book, or you’ll feel like me when I found out the fucking Jonas Brothers did a cover of the Beatles, and little air-headed pubescent girls, who would take up prostitution to sex the disgusting trio, actually have the audacity to say that the Jonas Brothers > Beatles.  Yeah, I have chainsaws on the ready for you.

Anyway, this year has been a rather interesting year for me.  Not like the rest of my life isn’t a demanding and rigorous adventure on a day to day basis, but on the deeper and more emotional level — yes, I actually can feel — I’ve been delving into worlds people deem as depressing, morbid, and well,  “anti-religious.”

I like reading eschatological books.  Books about the end-of-the-world.  Books about humanity’s suffering.  Books about humanity’s greatest pitfalls and mistakes and sins, all amalgamated into a dark and often unredemptive novel.  Books that question authority and are often conquered by it.  Books where the good guys never win.  Books where there may be no good guys.  Books that force me into a one-sided epistemological discussion with myself.  Books that hold God on a pedestal and push him down again.  Books by equally morbid people fabricating a draconian universe.  Books that appeal to my depressing and anti-everything nature.

Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood. A man falls in love with a porn star he saw as a child.  His best friend manufactures the perfect race of humanoid species.  Humanity crumbles and collapses due to a mass-produced drug promising health, vitality, and mind blowing sex.  Porn is art of the body.  He’s not even that awesome; he’s only human.

The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood.  A woman drives her sister to suicide.  She cheats on her husband.  She ends up lonely and depressed.  Even the side fantasy story where ponies run around and everything’s suppose to be a happily-ever-after is filled with hot cannibalistic women and the perfect society that sacrifices little girls and crosses the line on child labor.  The couple don’t even end up together.

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.  This book is probably the most, well, cheery book out of the lot.  People are mass-produced.  Literature, religion, family, love; basically everything America holds dear and true are thrown out the window in favor of a more utopian and materialistic society where people are forced to buy, buy, buy and spend, spend, spend…and sex, sex, sex.  The one character who is able to make a difference- who asserts that God exists, who idolizes the ideals of love, who quotes Shakespeare- succumbs and bam.  There is no redemption.

1984 by George Orwell.  Can I say more?  I already wrote about it.  There’s a movie of it.  Apple even used Gates as Big Brother and hired a sexy female to smash his image into bits. Come on.  You know the saying:  Down with Big Brother!  Down with Big Brother!  Down with Big Brother!  It’s fucking depressing!  Humanity as a whole loses any chance of salvation it ever had.

A fantastic collection of epistemological essays aruging against theism by a bunch of philosophers and writers.

I think that reading these books makes me a very cynical human being.  After all, one does not usually indulge in things that proclaims one is a dirty, despicable, and superficial creature with cirually no chance of survival, literal and figurative.

Now that I’m sure you’ve fallen to a state where you feel all hope for humankind is lost or that I’m a very arrogant and depressed indivdual in need of psychotheraphy of some sort, I’ll move on the happier, cheerier, and more comforting books.

Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom.  Trust me, it’s redemptive.  Plus there’s lots of life lessons to be learned.

The Namesake and The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri.  Although the former is quite the epicurean novel that- dare I say- almost promotes sexual exploration it still gives you the happy feeling in the end.  The latter is a composition of short stories that illustrate a very hopeful end for any sad story.

The Last leaf by O’ Henry.  Hell, any short story by O’ Henry save for The Furnishing Room, or something like that.  That one particular story is incredibly touching, though.  Drunkards are people, too.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.  Any Dr. Seuss will work.  His wonky rhymes, LSD-influenced art, and storylines offer such empowerment.

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck.  Again, on the human experience and the traumatic outcomes of hardship, but there’s so much hope in this one, even when it seems so pointless.

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.  Raw. Real. Reverberating.  As in I cringed and cried on the tour bus while I was reading this and was awarded with awkward stares.  Very worth it, though.

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST.

CALVIN AND HOBBES BY BILL WATTERSON. FUCK YES.  Need I say more?  Childish adventures of a boy and his tiger interjected with sparse but insightful commentary on mankind’s predictament alongside very adorable yet simple illustrations of his redemption revealing that amid all that hopelessness and depravity exists an opportunity to prove to everyone and everything that, with the help of a lovable stuffed animal antropomorphized into a wise man/woman…we should just say the hell with it and have the time of our live.  Of course I’m suppose to add something moral here, so in the end: don’t watch too much TV, question authority, love the environment, go outside more, waste time, laze around, sleep under shady trees during the summer, have an overreactive imagination, bully your babysitter, and love your friends.  They’re always there for you no matter how much you screw up or don’t want to feed them tuna sandwiches.  I must admit.  This “book” is my favorite one.

Oh, right…my malapropism.

Uhm…I don’t know.   No witty nor clever things are popping into my head right now.

Boy, that was anticlimatic.

FUCKING JOHOES.

This is what I feel like listening to their covers of the Beatles. I died inside. I really did.
I’m going to go curl up in a corner, take a chainsaw to my wrist, cry until my body shrivels from dehydration, and hope that the Jonas Brothers…
Oh god, I started tearing up.

Another artist lost

Celebrities shouldn’t be so magnified and glorified.

Likewise, some shouldn’t have been shoved away and forgotten.

One of the greatest artists of the 21th century.

You shall not be remembered for the rumored bleached skin, the chopped up nose, for being labeled as a pedophile by some jacked up family.

Perhaps as a singer, a dancer, a philanthropist, a child at heart.

I wish for the best of luck wherever you may go.  Goodbye, Michael Jackson.