What's Poppin'?

The grumbling tween rose from bed
only to find a supple and moist white head
perched atop his brow he ran his fingers over the outer crust
he fondles the chunky formation with a questionable lust
not often does an abscess of this magnitude squish its way into vision
this necessitates excretion with precision
with fortitude and concentration he squeezes the boil
the puss oozes, the excrement dripping out with little toil
as he evicts the last residual dribble
he spots some left over debris, and decides to take a nibble

Alright, well first off, I felt the need to gag profusely just by writing this monstrosity of a poem. I attempted to picture the most vile subject I could think of that still withholds the title of "school appropriate" and popping a fat zit immediately came to mind. In writing about this taboo, and rightfully so, topic I attempted to use completely over descriptive diction and imagery to convey my sense of total and utter discomfort and/or slight nausea. Before writing, or even knowing my subject matter, I brainstormed a list of the most grotesque and phonically unsettling words I could imagine. Then after analyzing and reducing my list to the top ten most vile pieces of diction, I meticulously crafted each adverb, adjective, and noun into the most gut-wrenching imagery you pubescent angst one could imagine. In depicting popping a pimple, which alone makes me feel a slight shift in my seat and vehemently describing every moment of it I can effectively make appetites vanish. For instance, just listen to this word: "pus", yeah, ew, so logically a whole poem concerning this must singe one's comfort zone into a menial pile of ashen hopelessness, and therein lies my poem's beauty.

You Watch My Back, I'll Watch Yours....Mine...Ours?

Alright dude, first off, lose the Abercrombie, the epitome of perturbing awkwardness with pseudo-fashionable clothing rests in your every stride. Let me simplify that, you look like a try-hard. Maybe if you ditch the Abercombie tee, the American Eagle button down, with a popped collar, WITH A POPPED COLLAR, what goes through your head!? I am at loss for words now, cant even finish my thought, the fact that you assume, with any level of continuity that a pink button down would be okay ON TOP OF a pink tee that reads "A & F" in cursive infuriates me...er uhm...us. Whatever, I...uh...we? Alright, this irks me, I will just stick with singular pronouns from here on out. Anyways, the purpose of writing this does not come with bashing your dress game, although I still feel it stands as one of the main reasons. But, I digress, you see young grasshopper, you have much to learn, and in my infinite wisdom , I shall enlighten your feeble mind. Well, first off, I would like to inform you NOT to give that valentine to Kristin, you know, the blonde gal that sits two rows in forward, who always has a capri sun at lunch. Yeah well she will take the chocolate and throw your love note in the trash, but chin up, she gets chicken pox two weeks later, karma has your back, bro. On to more important matters, well actually, this may sound weird, but I thought that maybe you could give me so advice. See, I remember explicitly sitting in Mr. Faranacci's 6th grade class and pondering what I would look like, where I would live, who I would befriend, and what I might think of myself as a teenager, a big, bad, teenager. And, honestly, me, I do not quite know how grand and enticing the ever-thrilling existence of a teen really stacks up. Quite frankly, the things I would love to go back to a day when after my school schedules consisted of catching up on my Club Penguin account and seducing the ladies on AIM, after a quick snack of course. Now after school consists of homework, college applications, government applications for college, college scholarships, college, college college, and mom yelling at me about college. Sure, most of that has passed now, and second semester senior year has its perks but you get the idea. Point in hand, stressing about which pair of crocs you should wear to school (Crocs, oh my god, you totally wear crocs, I forgot about that, you need help child) as opposed to fretting about meeting deadlines that could ultimately decide your future for the rest of your life seems quite more amiable. Not to mention, you can still rock out to "Kidz Bop" without eliciting judgement, not that I still...I mean...uh...oh, and I guess one more quick piece of advice, stop caring so much about what people think of you. Do not quit the flute because that little urchin behind you said it was "a girl instrument". Do not deny the fact that you played Rooster Hannigan in "Annie" for the 5th grade play because you overheard someone say doing drama club "is gay", you barely even knew what that meant in 6th grade, kid. Do not take down the transformers poster you had in your locker because the kid next to yours took down his posters. Man up bud, take control of your life, live it how you want it, because if you make the same mistakes I did, and quit doing the stuff you thought was fun because other people did not think it had the same "cool" factor as their new bmx bike then you'll lose what makes you, you, even if you're individuality culminates in your stupid, god awful crocs. But all in all, rather than giving you advice, and preaching to you as if I know everything about the inter-workings of life, I guess I want to know something from you. Honestly, if you look upon my life, how I live now, who I am, well, would you be proud of me? Until next time, dude.



Seriously, crocs?

What Could Be Worse Than Second Hand Smoke?

Her eyes met mine with an otherworldly glare, as if my eyebrows had just spontaneously combusted into a shower of ethereal sparks. Or at least basic sparks, I mean, a spark is a spark, as long as I am getting across the point that she looked quite flustered. Oh, right, I should explain, ever heard of second hand smoke? Sure...(“everybody has, the fact that I have to explain this to you exemplifies your ignorance”)..., what, no I did not hear anything. Anyways, when you ingest something you would rather not come in contact with, one can classify it as “second hand”. Well, when people imagine birth defects they think of an extra toe. Or a genetic disorder, a dwarf, or possibly even someone who licks windows on public transportation. But I have yet to find another with as unique a feature as mine, or at least one as invariably unsettling. Everyone has those thoughts they dare not say whilst having a conversation with an adversary whom they may not particularly like, or possibly the quick mental jab at the irksome enemy as they brush by in the hall. Yes, we all have these thoughts, and thank goodness they remain thoughts because, I mean, speaking them would surely lead to a fierce confrontation to say the least. Now, imagine how awful that would...(”It surprises me you can even read”)...okay, enough beating around the bush, think second hand smoke threatens the safety of people? Try having second hand thoughts. Mmhm, every thought I have,  I unwillingly mumble on the spot...(“as if your pathetic excuse for common sense could not have figured that out already”)...I did not mean that, I swear. Nothing personal really, the combination of being a cynical pessimist  and the inability to keep my thoughts to myself has led to some awkward situations before, much like right now. Allow me to use the example I started in the beginning, the time I met Oprah at a book signing. I approached her desk...(“why I would waste my breath telling you this story baffles me”).

The illustrious calling of Cat photography

I know what goes through one's mind when they hear I have fourteen cats, sure, they immediately assume I live in a derelict trailer neck deep in kitty litter, and they may even conclude that I register as legally insane and/or solemn and lonely. But, allow me to diffuse those ludicrous opinions, my trailer has a built in hot tub, the litter boxes only overflow twice a day, and obviously I can not register as insane since I technically do not have legal citizenship in the United States (long story). However, I do have a reputable business with a diversified clientele and am contesting for a spot on the exclusive Forbe's fortune 500 list. Okay, so maybe I just lied to your face. But, hey, that's business. By now one must ponder how exactly I turned my fourteen cats into a lucrative business, and for that answer one must consult the monolith of Instagram. Yes, Instagram, I take pictures of cats, and put them on Instagram, but these do not compare with the sheepish, poorly captioned "lolcats" as one may presume. No, these works of art boast exquisite lighting, arduous timing, chiseled poses, and each cat must possess the proper "qualities" if you will. Whilst most cat pictures that litter the internet and the deep realms of Instagram consist of shaky, low quality abominations taken with an iPhone, my technology stands at the forefront of feline photo capturing technology. I sport a "Nikon X-2000 Jingler" yes, the jingler, a cat toy that dangles from the lens harnessing the feline's perfect attention. Not only does my technology cost exponentially more than my luxurious crib but it captures every last flea resting upon the supple snout of each cat and kitten. Each photo requires meticulous preparation and grooming, each cat must receive exactly five strokes with an ivory brush, diamond encrusted brush on each side of its body. Followed by a fluffing period of 4 and a half minutes using a ten-speed cool breeze hair dryer equipped with the built in scent of Japanese orchids. Finally, I set up the lighting, two Hawaiian imported bamboo tiki torches, to set the mood, and a military grade searchlight, because the best way to bring out a cat's eyes comes with the illumination of a 760 terrawatt bulb. Finally, I put on a cat suit of my own, a skin tight spandex jumpsuit with genetically engineered fur on the exterior so I can be one with my feline models. Who finds interest in these stupid cat pictures? Ah, what a moronic question. I spend 13 hours a day among my companions, watching them bathe in Mediterranean imported catnip, gallop over and throughout their hand-crafted furnishings, and tussle among one another over hypoallergenic, Gucci cat toys.  Then I capture all of this through the tantalizing visual medium of Instagram, put a sepia filter on, and send them away to receive from all of my humble followers. And the question still arises, who finds interest?! Blasphemy, my 460,000 (I just lied to your face once again) followers will quickly answer that feeble question for whatever peasant finds it necessary to ask. How do I profit from uploading free pictures to Instagram? Ha, these questions just keep getting more menial. Like, seriously? How do I profit?! Ha...haha...what a stupid...yeah..uhm, I do not. I work at a Denny's.