Garden of Weeds

Life is like a garden. There are flowers that you really want to grow to be beautiful, so you can look at them and bask in the glory of your accomplishments. But grass keeps popping up to kill your flowers.


So you weed the grass, which just facilitates the growth of even more grass. The grass keeps growing and growing and your flowers keep dying and dying until the grass has completely overrun your garden. Eventually you give in and try to tell yourself that your garden isn’t that bad. But not so deep down you know the undeniable truth and accept it. The grass is ugly. Your garden is ugly.


You are ugly.


And your neighbors stare at the scene that has become of your garden. So you stare back, drop your Budweiser, raise your middle finger, and shout, “That’s right! I’m masturbating on my front yard! There’s nothing wrong with it! This is beautiful! Beautiful!” Then you lay back, pull up your pants, and fall gradually into unconsciousness in the middle of your garden of weeds.

Notes From My 8AM Chem Class!

Pure substance - matter that cannot be separated into other kinds if matter by any physical process. Element – substance that cannot be broken down by any chemical reaction into simpler substances. Atom – every five minutes of my class, a part of my soul dies. Why am I punishing myself? Please someone, anyone, just kill me now. Just kill me now. No one’s killed me yet. Damn it.

…

Significant figures 1. All non-zero digits 2. all zeros between non- zero digits 3. ending zeros to right of decimal and non-zero digits 4. zeros at the beginning are NOT significant 5. ending zeros in number without decimal may or may not be significant 6. Oh my god, this never ends. Is it time to leave yet? Oh, it is still the first ten minutes of class. Damn it. That girl just left. Is it time to leave yet? Oh, she is just taking a call. That’s pretty rude. I should pretend to take a call and just leave. Oh, I’ve got an emergency call, I must take my backpack to answer it, I’ll say. This is very important, my mother’s dieing, I’ll say. She needs my backpack, I’ll say. Yes my mother was dieing last time, I do have more than one mother and they are all dieing, I’ll say. That’s right, and my last mother died while I was tying to leave Chem class thanks for fucking bringing it up, I’ll say. You should be sorry, I’ll say.

No, wait, better idea: I’ll have someone call me so I don’t have to make a beeping noise of pretend I’m being vibrated. Pretending to being vibrated is pretty funny, lol.

Wait, did I just laugh out loud?

Did anyone notice me? I should try to inconspicuously look around.

Okay, here I go.

…

I am positive that there is no way to inconspicuously look around a blank lecture hall. I guess I can pretend that I am really, really interested in the bland walls. It is statistically more probable to be interested in bland walls than to be interested in chemistry. Okay, here I go.

…

Oh my god, It looks like they are watching home videos from Auschwitz. I couldn’t have laughed, because all positive emotions are nullified be the abyss that is 8:00 AM Chem 101 in Forum Hall 103. I think looking at their faces made my day worse. Seriously, I feel awful. Like I’m vomiting poop. Like someone kicked my puppy, and by kicked I mean skewered and by puppy I mean my penis. I probably should be taking actual notes.

…

1in = 2.54 cm. 1 lb = 453.6 g. 1 cm3 = Why am I punishing myself? Please someone, anyone, just kill me now. Just kill me now. No one’s killed me yet. Damn it.

Introductory Paragraphs of Papers Juxtaposed With What I Was Really Thinking

The worldviews of ancient peoples survive today through the texts Epic of Gilgamesh and Genesis (What the hell do I know about Genesis and Gilgamesh? Time to bullshit!). The texts share similar themes; however, their perspectives on life differ drastically, and in many points oppose each other (Crap, all I wrote down in my notes Genesis=Happy, Gilgamesh=Sad). Because of certain differences, the worldview portrayed in The Epic of Gilgamesh is more appropriate in the modern age (If my response is different from the rest of the class, maybe he won’t know that I am bullshitting. Go team me!).


Modern students are able to learn the philosophy of Socrates through the works of his student Plato (But I don’t care). One such work is Plato’s The Apology, which describes Socrates’ courtroom defense against the accusations that Socrates corrupted the youth of Athens and committed blasphemy (I still don’t care). In The Apology, Socrates was found guilty of the accusations and sentenced to death (Sucks to be him). Despite the fact that Socrates did not fully prove his innocence, his philosophy is still useful and appropriate for modern students (I’m so stealing this one from Wikipedia).


The Satyricon was written by Petronius in the mid first century (What? There was a paper due last week? What the hell? Why didn’t anyone remind me?). A passage within The Satyricon, “The Banquet of Trimalchio,” features a fictional formal dinner during that time period (Oh right, I didn’t go to class). Moreover, the story describes the effects of freeing slaves in Roman society, which was at that point a recent social change (Believe me, I was doing something of the utmost important. I was fighting my addiction. That’s right I’m addicted. To laziness). By evaluating “The Banquet of Trimalchio,” one can easily perceive the negative attitude Petronius had towards the freed slaves (Hey, could I borrow your notes?).


In the early 14th century, Dante Alighieri wrote The Inferno, which details a journey through Hell by a fictionalized version of the author (So what’s this prompt about?). In the late 20th and early 21st century, Joss Whedon produced the television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which followed the adventures of the fictional character Buffy Summers (I can compare this poem to any post-modern depiction of hell that I choose? Really?). In the series finale “Chosen,” Buffy Summers enters Hell with other women in order to fight the forces of evil (It’s really that open-ended?). Due to the corresponding settings, one is able to easily recognize the many thematic differences of the two works (Awesome). By examining the thematic differences between The Inferno and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, one can evaluate the many differences between 14th century Florentine culture and 21st century American culture; such as the different perceived natures of Hell, the different roles of women in society, the different views on sexual ethics, the different mediums of storytelling, as well as the different moral approaches (I’m going to milk this one for seven pages. Then I’m going to put it on my blog. Twice.)

Me circa 1991

I know. I was such a badass in those pink shorts.

As this shows, I have yet to master the art of smiling sincerely. Must be all the cynicism and spite.

THE REAL Snow White

Snow White, a member of the royal family, must flee from her castle home due to a violent regime change. Isolated in the wilderness, she becomes insane and begins to sing to forest creatures. After a month of holding a bluebird hostage whilst shouting, “My precious, the tree will eats us! The tree hates us!” she stumbles upon a cottage inhabited by an inbred family of little people.

The family consists mainly of six lonely men in their sixties, several of which have degenerative, genetic disorders as well as psychological afflictions. One’s immune system never functions, resulting in perpetual sneezing. Another is narcoleptic. One suffers from generalized anxiety disorder in addition to several specific phobias, which prevent him from easily communicating to others. Another is schizophrenic, but the dopamine overactivity and encouraging hallucinations do not impede his ability to function with others; in fact he is in a continuously good mood. One, with a narcissistic personality disorder, forces the others to refer to him as their ringleader “Doc” despite the fact that he has no training in the medical field.

However, the most extreme case of genetic malady is the second generation inbred, “Dopey,” who never possessed the mental capacities to speak. He is also unable to follow even the simplest of instructions. His birth, forty years ago, resulted in the death of the clan female which terminated the family’s ability to procreate. The incident sparked clinical depression in another little man. The others labeled him with a dispiriting nickname which only furthers his depression.

For a few weeks Snow White and the seven little men coexist peacefully. White fulfills the traditional female role that she has been trained to do, such as cleaning and doing the dishes, while the seven little men hunt/gather food and devise stratagems. When White requests to leave, however, the little men inform her of their plan to use White as the clan female. White, realizing that any straightforward attempt to escape would result in her being overpowered, pretends to fall into a persistent vegetative state. The seven little men divide the day into three eight-hour shifts, therefore at least two men are always on guard in case White’s condition changes.

White desperately waits for her old boyfriend to rescue her…

THE REAL Scooby-Doo

Upon graduating high school, a group of local burnouts engage in a road trip in one’s hippie van while experimenting with recreational drug use. One’s use of marijuana causes an overabundance of the munchies, but his high metabolism rate plus his increased forgetfulness prevents weight gain. After ingesting several “Scooby-Snacks” the teenagers hallucinate that their dog has the ability to speak.

The teenagers become a disturbance to the peace in Middle America when they have delusions of the local museum’s suit of armor abducting community leaders. The gang, determined to solve the mystery, break into the museum after business hours and terrorize the night staff. During a bad trip, one female appears to have the ability to sprint while carrying three others and the dog.

A member of the night staff calls the police, which exacerbates the situation for a few more hours. The gang only settles down after a local officer praises the teenagers for their bravery and pretends to take a man into custody. The elderly night staff admonishes “those meddling kids” as the gang returns to their vehicle.

The teenagers circle their hometown and the surrounding countryside in the hippie van, repetitively finding “monsters” and “mysteries” every time they take a hit of acid. The cycle continues until the gang hallucinates Don Knotts pathetically performing several roles in order to remain on broadcast television.

Shocked out of their bohemian lifestyle, the foursome settles down. Daphne marries Fred, markets their stories as a children’s television series, and they now live together with their two kids in the country club. Velma teaches gender studies at a regional university. Shaggy continues to tour the countryside with the dog.

Both experience flashbacks of their days as a part of Mystery Inc…

Beginning of the Semester Observations

Ahh, stress, how I have missed thee.

Has it been almost a month since we last were together? I know we briefly got it own while I was visiting relatives. But otherwise I actually rested, read for leisure, and laughed over our break. And we were on a break so don’t look at me that way, I know you moved on to retail business owners, anyway. But now it’s just you and me baby. Say hello again to weekly all-nighters. Not the fun, I’m so drunk I can’t fall asleep and this other drunk keeps smooshing into me , kind of all-nighters but the ones filled with over preparation, anxiety, and thoughts of inadequacies.

I shouldn’t be jumping ahead of myself. It is 1 AM while I write this so I may actually fall asleep tonight. Maybe.

Yesterday was first day of my second semester at my second cheap commuter school. And that is way too many numbers to think about in my current mental state. I have three classes so far Nutrition (ugh), Chemistry (double ugh), and Learning Theory. Let’s take them apart in the order from least to most intimidating:

A) Nutrition is full of Ed majors. And something about their preference to associate with children and their inability to make any decisions without calling their significant, soon to be married to and visibly pregnant by, other (who is always their third fiancé, if you count the ones in high school) makes me want to bludgeon them to death their color-coordinated three-ring binders. But other than that, I should be fine.

B) Then there is Chem. I have one of those professors who, if there were a God, would not be paid. The professor started off the semester trying to make himself relatable by saying “he wasn’t the best student ever”, i.e. he failed every course because he was too busy honing his beer gut. Somehow, he has landed an adjunct position and has chosen to hold his captives to standards that he himself was unable to meet when he was in our position. His idea of homework is for us to do one hundred problems and then he will grade us on the two problems the least amount of people finished.

I tell myself a little mantra to get through the hour, “After this, my only Core Class will be ping pong. After this, my only General Ed will be ping pong.” It makes everything easier.

C) Last, and most worrying is Learning Theory (essentially a course in behaviorism (guys like Pavlov and Piaget)). This sounds fun and interesting and manageable, except that I do not have the three hundred dollars to spend on the textbooks. Oh well, time to start my next crappy job search.

That’s only half of my courses. The other three include Physiological Psych which I took to see if night classes are for me. I like having class when I am actually alert. But I don’t like spending three hours in the same damn room. It makes me want to go insane, which would be good practice for the other psych majors.

Penultimately is Orientation to a Psych Major, which I like because it’s mellow.

Lastly is Sexual Ethics, which I like because we talk about sex.

And that’s the rundown. I wish I could elaborate but I’ve got to study. And get a job. And cure cancer. And prevent the apocalypse. You know, the usual.

The Planning Committee for THE PRICE IS RIGHT

“Soon the proletariat will rise up against our regime.”

“This is true, does anyone have any ideas?”

“We can train Paris to divert their attention.”

“No. They’ll never fall for her parlor tricks.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“…”

“I’ve got one! We can produce a television show where we hand out our products to the illiterate. It will quell the masses much like the lottery and broadcast sports. Plus, we can use the program for advertising.”

“That is a good start, but we should try to think outside the box. Right now we are on the edge of the box. Let’s take that idea and give it 105 percent.”

“How about we force the insignificants to guess at our arbitrary pricing? That way we trick the masses into valuing meaningless items while we laugh at their vapid, consumerist culture.”

“That is perversely malicious. Good job! I’ll call Barker.”

A Series of Unrelated Observations

The water from the pump is as yellow as the grass surrounding me. The chicken in the rotisserie hiccups as gas escapes its succulent, lifeless corpse. Life is a collection of unrelated observations. It may appear to have thematic significance, however, that is simply the result of our attempts to attach meaning to meaningless information.

I had a dream last night in which I suffered a case of mistaken identity. The traveling mime troupe explains that it is I who has mistaken my identity. One of the silent performers turns out to be Justin, and I am a nameless stand-in. I apologize for any inconvenience and sit down, attempting to remember my correct identity. Eventually I give up and create a new one, but it turns out that the new identity is also taken by a mime.

Confused, I glance at the world surrounding me and observe that I am in a warehouse as large as a major metropolitan mall. It is crammed with a mixture of gray tubes and stairs, all angles, asymmetry, and alliteration. There is a community on the floor that I am sitting on that is substantial enough to sustain a mime troupe. Also, a village of upside-down people dwells directly under the ceiling, in direct violation of gravitational laws. The hot chick from work resides up there. The mime beside me says that everyone is happier up there, but I don’t believe him. His skewed perception identifies smiles when in fact all they do is frown.

I find myself at Wal-mart in the wee hours of the morning often this week. The consumerism distracts my insomnia. I stare at the daunting aisle of orange juices. Several fruit fusions are available, as well as tangy original. The tangy original is tangier than the original I remember and the fusions are interspecies anomalies that call themselves orange juice. There is also a reduced sugar variety. I grow nostalgic for the mid-nineties. What ever happened to the sugar-fortified Sunny-D I remember from my childhood? I settle on mango.

Repetition

I talk to more people than I’ve ever spoken to in my entire life these days. From four to ten-thirty I talk to the Vanvalkinburg’s, the Montezuma’s, the Farnkoff’s, the Delarosa’s, the Bones’, and every Johnson family found within the continental United States. I plead, implore, and beg in a precisely inflected tone of voice which insures maximum sales. I tell them of our great new offer available to only the most select, valued customers that we sell to everyone, everywhere, at all times.

“Well, sir, the reason for my call today to thank you for being a valued customer and therefore let you know that you can get a $25 cash rebate just for trying out our late-night pornography programming that your children will watch while you sleep. With this special new deal, sir, your six-year olds will be taught how to masturbate by the television, so you won’t have to have uncomfortable conversations with them when puberty strikes and wet dreams commence. Also, sir, the $25 rebate will cover the first two months, but you are going to forget to cancel the service when this trial period is over since these channels are identical to the 250 channels you already have. They’ll get lost in the mountain of trash and smut that you already receive, sir, only for the low cost of a hundred dollars a month more than cable.”

Surrounding me are 169 other employees speaking the same words as I am. While there are multiple bodies, only two other people are found in this place. It’s the same two people repeated over and over in varying genders and ethnicities. They may look distinct or sound atypical, yet their personality mirrors most others if not all. All can be designated as either a temp or a lifer. Except me, it seems. I fall somewhere in between the common categories. I plan to get out in three to five.

Several women are in the habit of dancing on the weekends when they make a sale. I assume this is the motivation as a white one down the aisle starts to thrust her pelvis. Her beer gut bounces merrily in the air-conditioned breeze. The effect is not unlike the effect of a mural made out of dung or prose composed completely of sentence fragments. There is an internal awareness that if I had feelings or a sense of discrimination, I would be disgusted. Yet I do not, so I am mostly captivated by my easily found compliance.

Soon thereafter, our system crashes. With newfound free time, the boy in the mini-cubicle next to me begins to list mediocre garage band names he has been generating this afternoon. He is of the goth/emo rocker variety. As he names thousands of reasons why such and such band name won’t do because it is too similar to such and such established band, I realize that he has had very minimal customization. I have talked to hundreds of the same model in my short life-span. He is not unlike an action figure that is in the same condition as it was in the box, twenty years ago. I smile at my realization and visualize everyone in the room on the shelf in Wal-mart’s toy department. Goth/emo rocker boy misinterprets this as a sign that I was listening to him and continues on with the list of creative conformity. I don’t correct him because my nominal sense of politeness tells me not to spoil his fun. He asks me to be in his band. I tell him a flat “no” but this is interpreted as “please continue the monologue.” Eventually, I am released from the one-way conversation as the system restarts. The store manager leaves the computer room to hover the aisles, an apparition with gardener’s eyes, searching for weeds. I try to look busy.

I realize three hours after the fact that the high school kid two seats over was fired. The official reason for his termination was a low sales rate, but everyone knows it was because he is a city kid with a history of vandalism and a habit of talking trash. I didn’t notice his departure till the end of the night when his fellow city kid/best friend served exposition to everyone. The two of them looked so similar that everyone assumed the other one was still in his seat.

I clock out and I drive home. I drive back and I clock in. I rinse, lather, and repeat the same way repetitively. I say the same words to the same people in different bodies. I say the same answers to the same questions to the same customer found in fort-eight states. The people around me engage in small talk that unremarkably matches the small-talk others are saying at the same time as I sit accompanied by my thoughts. I think that if there was a creator, I assume she/he tried to mix things up, but he/she only had two die to make individuals out of, so everyone ended up as something between two and twelve.

I clock out and I drive home. I drive back and as I walk to my half-cubicle, I pass by another me. He has the same brown hair, same blue eyes, same allergic reaction to wasp stings, same bounce in his steps, and same tilt in his dick. He has the same sense of anomie found in the knowledge of human mass-production. We stare at each other for a few milliseconds and become aware of the awkward moment.

Then we shrug and go opposite directions.

I enter the call center, clock in, and say what I’ve already said several thousand times. “Well, Mr. Johnson, the reason for my call today to thank you for being a valued customer and therefore let you know…”