Dia De Silo

Re-proverbs

Mon, 14 Mar 2011 16:00:46 -0400

True beauty lies within- especially if you’re a twinky. Let’s be honest twinky, everybody’s in it for the filling. Don’t feel bad though, we all know that you wouldn’t be the same without your little pastry overcoat, but you’re no ho-ho.

An eye for an eye- makes cyclops completely blind and far more likely to cause some serious destruction. Next time you come up against cyclops you think about that.

Say what you mean and mean what you say- unless you are prone to being brutally honest. There is a time and a place for honesty and sometimes those little white lies do the world some little white good. Like that time you forgot your mom’s birthday because there was a marathon of COPS on tv- that’s not something you should bring up with her. Also, don’t bring up that fact that you accidently killed Fluffy in fifth grade. It was a freak mailman accident and we’ll just leave it at that.

Necessity is the mother of invention- but there’s a reason they don’t look the same. You see invention was adopted from an orphanage in the developing world and necessity is holding off on explaining until invention’s 12th birthday. It’s really been the cause of some very awkward situations.

Gpa

Sun, 19 Dec 2010 14:20:12 -0500

My grandfather turns 80 today. He has lived three and a half times longer than I have… He saw a massive world war, and the Vietnam war- undoubtedly watching many friends leave home and never return. Learning how to say goodbye in a more permanent sense. He married a wonderful woman at the age of nineteen and had three fiesty daughters with whom he fought about first dates, allowances, playing records too loudly. They made him laugh. He’s laughed thousands of times but seldom cried- at least to anyone’s knowledge. He is a tall, skinny, quiet man and he loves dogs. I venture to guess that he has spent over a year of his life caring for his slobbery friends. He was a game warden- he loves nature and he spent his life protecting it. He makes duck decoys for hunters as a hobby now- meticulously painting each feather onto a handcarved wooden specimen- as they appear on the water, line by line. My grandfather believes in rules. He has never put his socks on before his underwear, he wakes up and goes to bed early, and he followed his doctor’s orders to treat his cancer with a great sense of exactitude… And that gave him eighty years. Eighty years of dog loving, duck painting, nature conserving, law respecting life. Eighty years of terrible and wonderful.

It’s easy to forget that you could live that long. And how quickly “that long” passes by… Only so many moments- might be important to live in them.

I will say, however, that I’m planning on living at least that long. I want to live long enough to listen to oldies on the radio and be reminded of a high school dance and to curse myself for not wearing sunscreen. And maybe get a hovercar. And watch google take over the world- let’s be honest they know everything about everyone. Cheers.

I'm on a list kick.

Sun, 12 Dec 2010 16:59:51 -0500

Top five people I don’t feel bad not liking:

1. The guy who bought the last 5 maple bars right in front of me this morning. I hope your arteries appreciate that culinary adventure.

2. The stranger who says “terrible” to “how are you doing?” and then doesn’t want to talk about it. Now I feel bad and I don’t know why, that was an unnecessary addition to my day, thank you very much.

3. People who complain about having a) too much money b) too many parties to go to OR c) five maple bars.

4. People who don’t scoop the poop. I hope your hell consists of constantly scraping poop off of other people’s shoes.

5. The talking commuter- no one needs to hear about the ridiculous things you did five drinks in on Saturday night. No one. And no I don’t think Joey will ever call you back but goodluck with that.

Top 5 Most Narcissistic Things You Can Do To Love Yourself More

Tue, 30 Nov 2010 15:19:43 -0500

Just got back from the gym where every magazine and its mother (they have mothers too you know) has some kind of suggestion for how to love yourself more. I have my own.

1. Wear shirts with pictures of your face on the back so that no one has to miss your face as you walk away

2. Date someone who looks like you and put up lots of mirrors in your bedroom**

3. Write your will- leave everything to yourself in your next life

4. Take yourself out to dinner. Invite someone who wants to pay for you but don’t feel the need to chat- you’ve got the best conversation going on in your own head.

5. Get artsy! Make a photo montage of you in the park, on the lake, skiing… so many great memories! Hang it in your cubicle.

**When dating someone who looks like you- the excuse “it’s not you, it’s me” is not only perfectly valid but probably necessary.

"whilom" is the coolest synonym for "formerly" that I have ever heard.

Sun, 28 Nov 2010 18:54:00 -0500

I am in a relationship with my i-Phone. Or was, at least. I know this only because it broke up with me today. I decided to listen to music out loud during the half marathon I was running, got a little too sweaty, and now the little guy is just dead to the world. No words can do this loss any justice. I feel like it just flipped me off with its little middle i-finger and told me to go i-f*ck myself. What do I do with all of these memories? We had so many apps together. And the holidays are coming up- who wants to be without their significant technological device during the holidays? I can’t sleep- because I have no alarm. I can’t eat- because I have no urbanspoon. I can’t even listen to my i-Tunes… it all reminds me of a love lost.

I’m going to give it a few days, and then I think I might just say screw it and go with the upgraded model. I know it’s not right, and I hope my old phone never sees us together on facebook or anything… but the 4G has Skype, and that is something that my old i-Phone could just never do for me. I’m trying to look on the bright side here. I’ll miss you- dear, sweet 3GS. But I’m really glad I thought to backup my photos before you left me high and dry. You may have taken my apps, but you can never take my iTunes library.

10 percent

Sat, 30 Oct 2010 21:22:03 -0400

I live in Seattle. I recognize more colors of grey than there are excuses for not going to church on Sundays. People get fooled into moving here because they come to visit in the Spring or the Summer, on one of our few sunny days, and they see all of the greens and blues that exist because of this persistent cloud layer. Ninety percent of the year we are just taking it for the environmental team- but that other ten percent of the year Seattle truly does become one of the most beautiful places to live in the world. I have luckily had the good fortune of doing some fairly extensive global traveling- and I can honestly say that on a sunny day, there is nowhere else I would rather be than Seattle.

This is a tricky argument, however, if you think about that ten percent factor. Think about a good-looking young woman for instance. Does good-looking operate as an average? If I am pretty sad, miserable, and unattractive ninety percent of the time that you see me- but the other ten percent I am Gisele Bunchen material with a personality that matches my dimples- am I still worth dating? It’s like living in the worst bipolar relationship you’ve ever had. Oh but then you take a little vacation- you go down to California for a few days. You think about Seattle everyday sure but suddenly, two days in and a couple of beers deep, you find yourself saying, “I could really see myself living here…”

You don’t mean it. You try to cover it up but everyone heard you. You feel terrible, awful- all of your Seattle friends are judging you and you pray that word doesn’t get back to your beloved city. Your first urban love. How could you do this? It was just so sunny, and warm, and ahhh but it’s no excuse! How could you? You get back home and you can hardly look that skyline in the face. It rains for two weeks straight but you know you deserve it. Screw sunshine and Vitamin D- you lost those privileges when you let that California visit go to far. You will be pasty and glued to that parka and you will like it. Now go sit in the corner of your Prius and think about what you did.

I feel bad about my economy

Fri, 29 Oct 2010 00:00:00 -0400

The economy is so terrible that I am beginning to take it personally. You know how they joke about things that are so unlikely to happen to you that they’re practically impossible? Like plummeting to your death via a grate on a city street or being hit by a boat while on a ski-doo? Well I have a better chance of those things happening than getting a job right now- ANY job- I have been to graduate school and cannot get a job in retail. I would sell my soul for a part-time hostess position at Red Lobster. The economy did not know, when it decided to render me indefinitely unemployed, that it was dealing with an overachieving sensitive young woman BUT that is no excuse. Dear, sweet, selfish, failing economy- I want my pride back. And I’m suing you for defamation of character on the grounds that I almost agreed to become my friend’s personal assistant for less than minimum wage. I’ll see you in court.

Oh Jeez...

Wed, 18 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0400

There is no excuse for how bad I am with names. My inability to remember the syllables that mark a person’s identity is not only shameful, but also almost impressive. Your name could be panther- and you could introduce yourself ten times in a row while taking different yoga positions- and the likelihood that I will remember your name is on par with that of me running for President in 2012.

I am not stupid, and not even memory-challenged for that matter. I do very well on tests, I am an expert crammer, and I am excellent at remembering phone numbers- there is just something about names that doesn’t grab me enough to reserve the vacancies in hotel cranium. I blame my parents. Who names their child the Gaelic translation of a Joanna with three silent consonants and two odd vowels? No wonder I want to forget names- I would rather people not butcher mine in the process of meeting me.

On the other hand, I am always impressed by the few and proud who know how to pronounce the Irish monstrosity. They see my name written in front of them and they get this crazy gleam in their eye like they just figured out where Captain Hook put his treasure- and then after they say my name correctly they play it off like they knew how to say it straight out of the womb. It’s okay… it’s weird… I get it. And while yes I am impressed, I am also humored by the strange satisfaction that this accomplishment brings. I respond the same way every time- “wow, cool!” I say cool, like an early nineties teenager- I’m not sure why- but it’s like someone baked a soufflé properly or remembered the capital of South Dakota. Honestly what else can you say? Mazel Tav?

The worst part about not remembering names, however, is that I just recently dated another poor soul who couldn’t remember names either- that makes for some of the most awkward introductions you have ever seen. “Oh hey so this is ummmm wait yeah what did you say you were up to this year? Oh yeah great okay well yeah we gotta run… yeah great to see you, okay bye!” We started creating code words or signals for a few situations: (1) we had just run into someone that he knew but didn’t know the name of- this signal was pretty simple- if he did not offer an introduction within a few minutes of contact it was time for me to interject my name. This does not always work- and often leads to an early exit. (2) we had both just met a stranger and forgotten his or her name immediately. This is a tricky situation. The codeword for this was “grab a drink”- this was created at an evening event and, as you can imagine, was not an appropriate codeword for mornings and early afternoons but at least it made for a few laughs. The idea is that once you have both figured out that neither person knows the stranger’s name- one person has to announce that they are going to grab a drink (no matter what you are actually doing). The other person then “loses” and has to fess up to the stranger that they do not remember their name while the “winner” gets to go grab a drink- whatever that may mean at the time. (3) Neither of you care enough to pull a (2)- this one was my favorite. The codeword is “oh jeez” with a Wisconsin accent. This is when you both start to act far more intoxicated than you actually are- and start calling the person by the wrong name. This is a winner.

I’m not saying that you should implement these strategies- it’s honestly probably a terrible idea. But if you are also struck with nomialdysplasia (yes this exists- great word huh?)- then you might at least want to consider only attending functions with nametags (just don’t forget to take them off when you go out to bars- another great story).

Sometimes when I'm bored...

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 12:39:49 -0500

I like to think about board meetings- no pun intended. Especially ones that revolve around creating a product or a commercial. I find advertisements and marketing to be a fascinating world about which I know basically nothing. And I like that I know nothing about it, because it allows my imagination a little bit of wiggle room that it doesn’t have in such areas as, say, seedless vascular plants or centripetal force (a few of my favorites, really). I recommend you try this at home…

So you’re watching tv and a commercial comes on about something COMPLETELY USELESS. Not just mildly useless, like an utterly disgusting waste of materials. Like a canine genealogy kit (that exists- I saw it in a Skymall catalog). Or an oversized, stuffed replica of a church organ. First of all, someone made that product and honestly thought that it would fill a missing niche in the economy. Secondly, a meeting must have ensued to debate the possibilities for advertising said product. There were probably around 8 people there. It was a Friday so it was dress-casual day at the office. Everyone was really excited for this meeting because the older man who created this product, Norman, really likes to bring in those large jugs of popcorn with the three different sections organized by flavor- the popcorn triumvirate if you will- whenever he presents a new product. No one likes the spicy popcorn, that section always goes last. Anyway, they are all sitting around this table and Norman walks in hands full of popcorn jug, stuffed church organ replica, and a briefcase that probably cost him all of what he made on his last product- the oversized, stuffed sitar (of course). Norman is so excited that he is almost hyperventilating. It’s embarrassing for everyone. Especially Linda from HR.

The conversation begins- loaded with the assumption that this product is actually a necessary and desired piece of artistry. Who is the market audience? Well honestly, who isn’t? Harold chimes in with a brilliant plan. (Harold likes to speak with his hands a lot and is usually far too overzealous about allocating funds to the advertisement of Norman’s products). Picture this: You’ve got two little children (with some impossible representation of diversity that magically blossomed out of two Caucasian parents) sitting in the front row at Sunday School. They are laughing and giggling about the Three Wise Men and sheep and such when suddenly, you pop into little Harold’s head (Harold likes to name these characters after himself which is painfully awkward for everyone else at his company) and see that all he can think about is playing the organ. He is accompanied by a gigantic chorus, going Miles Davis on that thing and everyone loves him. Zoom out, zoom out, zoom out and cut. No explanation necessary, the point is- if you have this product, everyone will love you. Norman is pumped. Harold has accomplished his outlandish, slightly narcissistic rant of the day. And everyone else at the table could not care less.

And THAT is how you sell an oversized, stuffed church organ. Copyright silo 2010.

Olympic Dreams

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 23:33:15 -0500

I used to have an actual complex about being 15 years old and not yet having a gold medal. Like the kind of complex that requires you to dismiss yourself awkwardly while watching the semi-finals of figure skating, sob in the bathroom for two minutes, make it look like you weren’t crying, and rejoin your family to watch that tiny Russian girl complete a triple sow-cow. A common complex I’m sure.

I’m fairly certain that this stems simply from my type-A personality (with a dash of B- only truly discernible on weekends). However, I must say that it is truly shocking that by the age of 15, someone could have won a gold medal. It got me thinking about what I had accomplished by the age of 15…

I can say with true pride and certainty that I was potty trained, algebraically able, and hooked on phonics. I was struggling with the beginning of high school, still convinced that the WNBA held a place for my too-short-too-slow-slightly-clumsy-self, and probably figuring out how to get asked to a formal dance. I find it hilarious now that I could have sat in front of my tv screen, as I did this very evening, and watch the Olympics with utter disdain for those youth who had accomplished more than me. They made it look so easy- all those gymnast girls with sparkles like a drag queen who could land a double back flip more reliably than I could actually hit a volleyball over the net. I mean- who doesn’t feel a little bit less than exceptional after watching Olympic performances.

I saw a commercial the other day, however, that made me feel a lot better. A female skier had been filmed going full speed through powdery snow- speaking in the background about the wherewithal required to make it to the Olympics. This line really got me: “I didn’t make it to my high school prom, but I love what I do every day.” I finally felt like I had one up on an Olympic athlete. Take THAT- I DID make it to my high school prom, and I have done a lot of other really normal things too. Things that did not involve me waking up at 5 am everyday from the age of ten to who knows when and having a chance at a piece of gold once every four years. I have never been so proud to be so normal. And if not wearing sparkles all over my body means no medal for me, than I would rather be void of Olympic accolade forever.

Snow snow snow

Mon, 08 Feb 2010 12:47:46 -0500

Paulo Coelho once said, “we wouldn’t worry nearly as much about what people thought of us if we recognized how seldom they do.” True story, Coelho. And a fitting thought upon spending my 48^th hour snowed in to my blizzard-wrought apartment complex- thinking, inevitably, about the many ongoing issues that pepper my life. Our mind wanders at an astounding rate- zooming through would-haves, tripping on should-haves, and stopping only briefly to enjoy the view of a could-have- all with a serving of narcissism as generous as Paula Dean’s use of butter. It is entirely natural to be caught up in ourselves, because frankly, if we don’t worry about our own lives, who else is going to?

I used to feel that to be self-involved was a rather selfish tendency. What I misunderstood, however, was that there is a difference between selfishness and self-acknowledgement. If you spend too much time outside of yourself, you will not be able, ultimately, to enjoy your presence in the world. It is those people who have spent enough time wandering through their minds and memories and getting to know themselves who are ultimately able to make the most positive impact on anyone else’s life. Because as the years go by, the physical hills get smaller and the metaphysical hills get larger- and often you have to go up those hills by yourself. BUT if you aren’t hiking solo, you’d better hope you’re with someone who can pull their own weight and maybe help you out a little bit too.

Exploring.

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 18:45:03 -0500

I purchased this book the other day called How to be an Explorer of the World. I was so excited to explore- thinking that I had stumbled upon the key to a lost city or a map that would lead me to an underground lair. But what this guide actually wanted me to do was simply to take a closer look at my immediate surroundings.

I turned to a page called Smell Tour and found a friend of mine on gchat with little else to do but read my stream of consciousness. This task required of me one basic skill: nasal recognition. Now there are a few things in the world of which I can take great pride- I am an excellent bad dancer, I have a lot of friends who still can’t spell my name, and I am fantastic at giving relationship advice that I should probably be taking myself. BUT nothing gives me more to smile/chuckle awkwardly about than my impeccable sense of smell. I chalk this up to too many hours in Biology labs. Formaldehyde smells no better the last time than the first- and I’m pretty sure it does some kind of lasting damage.

A smell tour consists of two basic steps: (1) whiff (2) describe. My friend was kind of enough to suggest that I give him a smell tour of only the main floor of my parent’s house. A favor to the lifespan of my olfactory nerves… however, this includes several rooms that have some really intense smells. Intense and intensely complicated. The powder room does not smell like powder and the living room does not smell like… living? The hall closet smells like 9 years of dog walking jacket, old flip flops and accidental gum-sidewalk reunions. The den smells like vases, old photos, piles of mail with that glossy ink and dust in hard to reach places. The dining room smells like fresh wood cabinets with musky china and silver polish and left-over smoke from blown out candles.

The truth is- that nothing really smelled like anything because too much smelled like everything. These weren’t smells, they were just memories- and I was so mad at this book for trying to convince me otherwise. I apologized to my friend online and flipped a few pages to search for any task that would redeem the 20 dollars I had forked over for this waste of paper. This book asked me to find words, watch clocks, read old newspapers, name colors after people, and start a collection of objects inspired by the first thing I saw. It contained quotes by Calvino, Einstein, Emerson and Vonnegut- all amounting to the same idea. At a certain point, apparently, we as humans forget to live where we live- in our cities, homes and bodies. We learn what we are capable of in grandiose terms, and forget what we are capable of as far as a connection to our being- our senses, thoughts and imaginations of here and now. We live in the future or the past, but rarely ever in the present- and then, to quote a fan of yellow submarines, life happens while we are busy making other plans.

What was funny to me, about this book, is that those words of brilliant minds asked of the reader not to contemplate anything deeply intellectual or mentally taxing, but instead to step back into our minds and bodies and to complete a task so simple that one could be annoyed merely by the suggestion. Roses smell like Spring, a high school date on Valentine’s Day and the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. But they also smell like roses- and sometimes that is all they need to be.

Dia Diez

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 00:03:45 -0400

This blog post is dedicated to Anna, because I love her.

I’m not so sure that it was a step in the right evolutionary direction for us to become such complicated emotional creatures. We have a basic duty in life, and if we were judged purely upon this goal of biological fitness, we could probably all be successful at our endeavors. Funny to think about really… if we were actually just meant to procreate… we would be so good at what we did that cigars and champagne would abound. Maybe. Or maybe we would complicate that task also… of course we would want to create the best possible offspring given our circumstances. We would be so proud of meeting our best suited genetic match, and so concerned about recessive traits… if it ever evolved, internet dating would turn into a basic checklist of genetic predispositions, IQ scores, and objective remarks about appearance. I don’t care if you like long walks on the beach, but do you have dimples, curly hair, a family history of early menopause, and can you do that weird tongue rolling thing that I would like to pass on to my children?

But because we could do more as a species, we inevitably decided to do so. I am not talking about more in terms of how civilizations evolved and the basic quest to define success and surpass mediocrity- I am talking about our emotional functions. Mostly love. A funny concept- and something that we do not even agree upon as a species. How many different languages communicate the idea of love? And what do those words actually translate to in English (if you could properly translate anything anyway)? Humans are obsessed with love. As we should be- it is the unknown that everyone knows- the thing that you can’t ever describe perfectly in words- that frustrates, angers, saddens, bewilders and humbles us- if we are lucky enough to find it.

Think about the first human who said “I love you.” Clearly it was not those three words, it was just an expression of a similar idea. But the first person to attempt to describe the physical and emotional idea of love must have been met with a lot of confusion. I like to picture this person as a very old woman telling the person that she spent her whole life with that she has a feeling about him/her that will be difficult to express, even harder to understand, but the most compelling thing she has ever experienced in her life.

And little did she know that was creating the most important tool in our lexical toolbox. She also invented fire, the wheel, and Crocs- which were later recreated after drawings were found in caves in Southern France.

Dia Nueve

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 23:12:27 -0400

Here is an oversimplification: baking cookies is a lot like life. Especially when you get half way through, figure out you don’t have a crucial ingredient, do a little cost beneft analysis of going to the market to pick it up, and then end up slightly altering the recipe and hoping for the best. Cookies don’t work without butter, and only specific ingredients can adequately sub in for the missing sucre… But you can get away with a lot more than you think. I once made cookies, GOOD cookies, with a stick of butter, a pack of oatmeal, vanilla yogurt, and flour. Thats like buying a new house, losing your job, taking up a paper route, and somehow making it work. Kind of.

My question is this… Why do we try so hard to define the recipe for a good life, when inevitably, we are given completely different ingredients? And why do we think we can just eat all of the dough before we stick it in the oven? Too much instant gratification is bad for you… Too much instant gratification can give you anything from a stomach ache to e. coli.

If baking cookies can teach us anything it’s that some cookies are in fact better as dough, some right out of the oven, and some after having sat for days hardening in the pantry. To quote my mother, it takes all kinds.

I’m hoping I’m the pantry type. Otherwise I may or may not have forgotten to add the butter… Really hoping it was just the vanilla extract.

Dia Ocho

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 16:20:37 -0400

Our bodies are such crazy universes. There is so much going on all of the time to keep us alive- and we all know this of course. We are a crazy complex of cells, a strange and complicated biological algorithm that just so happened to work. And thank God for that, because if certain individuals did not exist in my life, I would be nowhere. Actually I would be lost in a dark cave somewhere, probably reminiscent of my last home in Georgetown.

I’m not talking about my friends and family. Sure they’re important, I guess… But no no, not them. I’m not even talking about humans. I am talking about individuals of the canine persuasion. Dogs make me happy. So happy. And I am not alone on this… in fact, it has been shown (in a study by someone, somewhere, I don’t know I read it online…) that the presence of a dog in your life automatically lowers your blood pressure. I am going to assume that this study was done only on people who had never been attacked by dogs as children. Safe assumption, unless it was in fact done on people who HAD been attacked by dogs and are pseudo-masochistic.

I have been missing my dog terribly and wondering why, thinking that perhaps the void left in her absence could be filled by something or someone else. But the qualities of a canine companion seem, upon reflection, to be both unique and irreplaceable within a human context. They are softer than we are, they are more forgiving that we are, and they lick more than we do- which is an important example of a species barrier that should be maintained. Another characteristic of note is the ability of a dog to listen, really listen, to a human. We are so often caught in conversations that resemble a table tennis match of self-relevance- waiting only for the moment to relate someone’s comment to a story that is inevitably more important because it pertains to us. I don’t pretend to think that dogs wouldn’t do this if they could, but unlike humans, dogs can look you in the eye, listen to your voice, and not pass any judgement on your words. And unlike cats, they can look you in the eye, listen to your voice, and not meow until you do something to please them.

It is also an important exercise to speak when there is no one else around… it’s kind of like the tree falling in the woods idea. Sure, your dog is there, but who are you really talking to? Yourself! Now this is something I have never understood. If you sing to yourself, you are having a good time. If you speak to yourself, you are crazy. Is it really that important to put your words to a melody? What if we spoke songs to ourselves? What if we sang our thoughts? You can sing in the shower… but can you just talk in the shower?

Sidetracked… my apologies. One last thing about dogs. Humans, as previously stated, are complicated messes of physical and emotional chaos. Dogs provide simplicity. They are hungry, tired, scared, excited, happy… usually only one emotion at a time. They have very little baggage. They are loyal. They want food, warmth, shelter and sex (well some of them). This can express itself in ways that we, as humans, find hard to take. When I was in Kenya, I worked at an orphanage where a female dog had just had ten babies… within the first week she had eaten all of them to stay alive. Sad, yes, but she would have had no way to keep them alive even if she had tried. These qualities can also manifest themselves in wonderful ways that reflect purpose in life, that can keep us humans grounded- connected to a natural world that we often forget/ignore/overlook. You can see this when you curl up in bed next to your dog. It is a symbiotic relationship- you are keeping each other warm- and you are saving each other from being lonely. And if for nothing else, your dog needs you for that. Attention, warmth, shelter, food… it sounds like a lot but it’s not very much if we consider what we would give to a human who provided us with this kind of unconditional love. Dogs are realistic- and it is comforting to know that even through that realism, the importance of relationships and togetherness survives. Hobbes was right, we are selfish, but so are dogs. We should take a hint from our canine friends: this world is rough… we need to cuddle to survive.

Dia Siete

Tue, 15 Sep 2009 21:28:46 -0400

Well I’m pretty sure that this orgo/bio/physics party I’m having has all but sucked the creativity out of my bones but I’ll try to post again…

By the way, never have this party. This party is NOT as fun as it sounds, even if you were on the math and chess teams and asked for a chemistry set for christmas every year. This party leaves you as bitter and anti-social as a mime at an a cappella competition.

Anyway… This post-bacc year is making me appreciate one thing more than I ever have before: the power of humor. There are few things in this world that are not improved by this glorious facet of human social function. And let’s be honest, there are also few things that are not just a little bit funny.

One thing that never ceases to entertain me on a daily basis is our ability to rationalize just about anything. Im not talking about deeper philosophical, political, or legal issues. I’m talking about the banalities that are far more interesting to me as my mind grows increasingly exhausted from this scientific deluge. Things for which I am no longer even trying to understand the justification. Things like: that woman who wears a pink helmet, on a pink Vespa, with long white socks, purple crocs and a bedazzled denim jacket everyday. The number of people who purposely look up revolting things on YouTube. The game of handball. The amount of packaging around things at the grocery store. Iowa. The Macarena. Oh, and people who think it’s okay to steal your piece of gym equipment before you are done with it (I’m talking prior to water bottle removal).

Okay Iowa, I’ll give you corn.

If anyone can properly defend handball or the macarena, I will name my firstborn after you.

Dia Seis

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 19:44:14 -0400

After much contemplation… If you’re saying “that sucks,” chances are… Whoever you are saying this to is already aware of the suckiness of their predicament.

Better phrases to eject into conversation: “it could be so much worse, you could have swine flu” (or caught it last night if you know what I mean). OR “that’s awesome.” which, meant to change persective on the situation, can easily be misconstrued. So be careful with that one.

A better go to… Start singing. So awkward for everyone involved. Showtunes, Disney songs, an R Kelly ballad. Because hey, if something sucks for your commrade, it now also sucks for you that you’re singing in public. Misery loves company.

I didn’t write that last blog post, but wow. Shock and awe… mostly at the three buck...

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 00:46:54 -0400

I didn’t write that last blog post, but wow. Shock and awe… mostly at the three buck chuck comment because clearly it is two buck chuck… coming from someone who used to know it well. cheers.

Deep breaths

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 00:43:52 -0400

swannspot:

Diet Rockstar… you are the kin of battery acid - hot piss potion! You are the distilled exudate of hot garbage. I actually feel kidney pain right now. I doubt there is a natural molecule in your entire chemical makeup.

I drank this caffienated Centaur urine not an hour ago. I don’t feel like studying anymore so before lay in bed trying to fall asleep for the next hour or two I thought I might share some fun facts about pulmonology.

Uranium miners have an increased risk of developing small cell carinoma of the lung. That is, if the high intensity gamma beams can penetrate that steel-wool like mat of chest hair. Can you think of a manlier job? I can’t. They make lumberjacks look like lumberJILLs (bam!)

There is a disease called Acute Interstitial Pneumonia. It is what is known as an Idiopathic Interstitial Pneumonia, which in layman’s terms means “we have no idea where the hell this came from pneumonia, but its all up in your lungs.” By the time you experience symptoms you only have a couple days to live. There is no cure except lung transplantaion and unless you have a bank account that would make Bill Gates blush, the chances of you landing a lung that fast are zero.

There are only a handful of medical complications that can kill a man instantaneously. A large blood clot that gets stuck in your lung arteries, known as a “saddle embolism,” is one of them. The clot starts in your legs, travels up your inferior vena cava, enters your heart, gets pumped into the lungs and corks them like a bottle of Three Buck Chuck… though I don’t know if anyone would actually save a bottle of three buck chuck.

Thats it for tonight. Cue the “don’t hold your breath for the next post” lame joke.

shhhhleep.

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 00:42:15 -0400

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep