Feenin'

Yes, I know I just bought two pairs of shoes recently, but I needed these. The craving for shoes just doesn't go away until I pick up at least one pair of Nikes. It's my crack. I figure this makes sense, though. If you're feenin' for some crack, some meth might work out for a second, but it really comes down to getting that crack. The Penguins and the Pumas are like meth, and Nike is my crack. I can't live without it; I will sell VCRs and shit for $1.99 just to build up my money to get my next hit.

Nothing can stop me.

Introducing the Magic Hate Ball

There has been a serious decline in how angry I am at the world. This is unacceptable, and I am annoyed to the point of anger. See how easy it was to fix that deficiency? So I'm bringing out something I've had on the backburner for a while: the Magic Hate Ball. Occasionally, people will ask for my advice, and I am usually at a loss. I mean, if I was capable of identifying good life choices, wouldn't I be a nice, well-adjusted person instead of this smoldering volcano of bitterness, whose inactivity is occasionally interrupted by the spewing of molten crazy all over everything in its path? There is nothing about me that says:

Ask me to help! I'm cheerful and all that bullshit!

Despite this, every once in a while I'll receive a question from a member of my (imaginary) adoring public. Normally, I simply toss such inquiries into my imaginary trashcan, but after reconsideration, these can be used as excellent blog filler. Here's what I'm gonna do: I'll read the question, shake my magic hate ball, get its answer, then extrapolate upon said answer. So let's get on with the show:

Dear Magic Hate Ball,

I’ve recently become fascinated with Asian culture and I want to get a tattoo with Asian letters, most likely Chinese or Japanese. I want to honor my girlfriend and get a tattoo of her initials (H.A.G. fyi). The thing is: she doesn’t want to do the same for me no matter how much I insist. I mean, it’s only fair, right?

I Do Idolize Overwhelming Tats

And the Hate Ball says: My god, you're an idiot.

Dear IDIOT,

There are a number of problems with your letter. I’ll make this easier for everyone and just make a list:

1. I’m “guessing” that you’re not Asian, and you probably know, at most, one person of Asian descent, who must deal with your constant greetings of “Nihao!” every damned time they see you. In general, it just makes us uncomfortable, especially if we're not Chinese.
2. Here’s the dirty little secret: Asia is not a country, it’s a continent, dumbass. And if you do realize this, China and Japan aren’t the only ones there. Look at a fucking map for once.
3. There are no Chinese or Japanese “letters.” I’m guessing you want to have very complex, very “Asian” looking characters tattooed on your idiotic skin. Why don’t you find out what something constitutes before you have it permanently embedded into your skin?
4. Just because you want to make a bad decision, doesn’t mean your [soon-to-be-ex-]girlfriend should have to make the same one. Especially after the fact when you find out from the Chinese delivery guy that while your tattoo is an everlasting homage, it is not to your girlfriend, but fried bull testicles.

Part of me wants to recommend against getting this tattoo, as it will be an extraordinary exercise in ignorance and bad decision making. In addition to this, it creates a horrible domino effect in which other ignorant assholes will be impressed by the physical manifestation of your idiocy and acquire their own horrible tattoos. However, the larger part of me (I'd guess around 98%) recommends that you do make the investment and hopes that the result takes up a large portion of your body, thus making it impossible to hide your stupidity from the rest of the world.In conclusion, I suggest you get the tattoo, then continue to persuade your girlfriend to do the same. Soon, she’ll dump you, and you’ll just be that dumbass with “Fried Bull Testicles” or something equally idiotic on his torso with no girlfriend. Good Luck!

i write i

SRT #21

I'm at a loss for topics today, so I'm going to take this opportunity to make a very important Public Service Announcement. Click here to learn an important life lesson. Take heed, children. Take heed.

The Root of the Problem

I have an unhealthy addiction to shoes. In the past, when faced with a choice between shoes and food, I have chosen shoes at least 75% of the time. When these stretches of starvation are accompianied by constant trips to the mall or South Street, it's a wonder that I was never forced into some sort of eating disorder program. Case in point: my freshman year of college, I lost 10-15 pounds. For the average freshman entering school, you'd think this is a good thing, since it is, in effect, the anti-freshman fifteen. Unfortunately for me, this means I ended that year under 100 pounds. But it was worth it.

That school year I accumulated at least 20 pairs of shoes.

People often wonder what it is about shoes that I love, and in all honesty, I'm not really sure. What mostly confuses people is the type of shoes that I enjoy. Most girls are into the whole heels thing (a la Carrie Bradshaw). They do not float my boat. Yes, I do own a couple pairs of heels, but these are only worn when absolutely necessary. If I could wear Dunks to a wedding, I would; if I could get away with Air Forces at job interviews, there would be no other option for me. I would feel a sadness the likes of which the world has never seen if my shoes were somehow taken away from me. (I've designated which shoes are coming out with me in case of a fire.) The real question, or at least the question of the moment, is: Why do I love shoes so much?

Personally, I think it stems from the fact that my mom was a big fan of the Payless when I was a kid. I hated it. I thought their shoes were ugly, but couldn't exactly explain why, so I could never convince my mom to not get me shoes from there. I now realize that Payless simply holds the market for shitty fake-me-out shoes. Until I started high school, I was forced to subside on Payless shoes, and I am still bitter about it. Perhaps the reason for this bitterness is connected to the fact that I've gone to Catholic school since the first grade. Catholic school equals uniforms. The only thing unique about your uniform was your shoes. At my particular elementary/middle school, the rule was girls had white sneakers, and boys were to wear black ones. When my classmates all had the new Air Tempos, I had some horrible Payless knockoffs of Asics. I was deeply ashamed of my god awful shoes. And then I got to high school.

Again, in Catholic school, the most freedom we were allowed in dressing ourselves was via footwear. Unfortunately, sneakers were only allowed when the Fall/Spring uniform was in effect (August-September, April-June), but I used this time to its full potential. The summer before school started, I acquired my first pair of Nikes,* and an addiction to nourish through the ages was born. I was hopelessly anal about these shoes. If anyone so much as touched them, I would flip the fuck out. Few things would annoy me more than seeing someone else wearing the same shoes as me, but instead of them being well cared for, they would be in shambles. It made my heart cry. What matters is since the age of 14, I have never stopped loving shoes.

Everything else is a distant second.



* Brownie points if you can pick them out.

My Latest Conquests

Beautiful, aren't they?