Are You There Gene Wilder? It's Me, Sidewinder.

It has been roughly eight months since anyone has written anything in this thing, and it is making my soul die a little on the inside. Additionally, in the entire year of 2010, we had only posted one freaking entry. We basically fail at bogging.

However, I refuse to let this blog perish completely. I guess you could say it is on life support, while it gets fed through tubes and nurses give it sponge baths, all the while getting no visits from family members. All they care about is the inheritance. It is a goddam miracle that none of them have pulled the plug yet. I will tell you what; kids these days are nothing but a bunch of parasitic, greedy little bastards. Guess who is not getting any money for Christmas? Those fuckers! If I had my way, I would tear their anus—

I realize I got too involved with the metaphor and have strayed away from my original topic, whatever that may be…nothing beats winging it? Am I right or am I right? Come on, it is me! Of course, I am right!

About an hour ago, I was planning on retiring for the night. But before I did, I made a point to listen to my iPod for a little while. I proceeded to listen to Mel Brooks’ “Springtime for Hitler” from the movie The Producers about five times in a row. I could not stop thinking about how Mel Brooks is arguably one of the most brilliant men in the history of forever (or the World, Part I). It started making me think of how I will just never be that cool. I could try everyday for the rest of my life and I would not hold a candle to that man. Guess who will never make movies with Gene Wilder? This girl.

So here I sit, typing away at my computer, in my blue, monkey pajamas and pink-rimmed glasses (which I have not worn since 6^th grade, by the way. Also, I might be crazy, but I think they make me look like a 1970s serial killer. They always seem to have dorky, thin-rimmed glasses and an awful over comb. I am a teenage girl with thick, luscious hair so obviously I do not fit the over comb part of the description, but the glasses are enough to create the image. I was wearing them simply because I was too lazy to put my contacts in, but not to lazy to blog about how much Mel Brooks kicks my ass.) I have been thinking.

Eighteen days and six hours ago, I graduated from high school. It was exhilarating, because I not so secretly wanted to beat everyone with a pillowcase filled with bars of soap. And now I am going to college in sixty-six days from now, and guess what I am going to do for the rest of my life?

I do not know yet. It is anyone’s guess at this point, considering I am enrolling under General Studies.

But eighteen days and six hours ago, when my graduating class through all their silly maroon hats in the air, my father came up to me. And he said, “Sidewinder, I have been thinking about your future the entire ceremony, and I think you should become a screenwriter.” Obviously, he did not actually say Sidewinder, but I did not want to write my actual name, hence having a penname in the first place. Anyways, I felt like I was going to cry, or piss my pants, from happiness, because becoming a screenwriter is my dream ambition. I asked him about it a few months before that, and he said it would be an incredibly hard job to get, so I ruled it out. I am the exact opposite of competitive. I am so unrealistically, uncompetitive that it is a major error in my natural, survival instincts.

But when I was thinking a few moments ago about how magnificent Mel Brooks is and how I will never make a movie with Gene Wilder, I realized something. Their careers have made them almost immortal. It will be many, many, many years after they die, before the world forgets they existed, and even then, the evidence of their life will still be here. No one gets the luxury except for the artists of the world. I know this will make me seem self-absorbed, but I want random strangers to remember that I was around and that I did a bunch of cool shit. I feel like I have arrived at a juncture in my life, and I am dwelling on two options.

Option 1. I go to school for five to six years, and become a pharmacist. I move to Minnesota and open up an old-fashioned, soda fountain pharmacy with my sister. I would work hard, and make an approximate metric shit ton of money and live very, very comfortably.

Option 2. I go to school and study film and perfect my writing. I would dabble in many styles of writing, and even write a few novels. I would become a screenwriter, and write comedies. I could become successful, and live a luxurious life and move to where ever the hell I want to. Or, I would suck at it and not be successful at all. I would not sell a piece of my writing, no one would no who I am, and I would be selling my plasma for the rest of my life.

I wish a genie could appear and read me the future. I wish they could tell me which one I would be better at, and which one would give me the most satisfaction. Does one go for the safe option, which promises lots of money and a life where one does not have to worry about eat ramen noodles for the rest of eternity? I’m getting rather sick of them already, and I’m only eighteen years old. I certainly don’t want to spend an eternity with them as part of my palette. Or does one put the metaphorical ass on the line, and follow their wildest dreams? I would be passionate about it, but would I be successful? Failure is pretty strenuous on even the strongest of self-esteems.

Growing up sucks, and making decisions blows. I am already as about as indecisive as they come, so it is like a double order of awfulness. And whatever option I choose, I am still not going to be as cool as Mel Brooks and I will never make a movie with Gene Wilder. That is the definition of unfair.

Yours ‘till the chocolate chips,

Sidewinder

We Are International Business Men.

Dear Black Mamba,

‘Twas the Tuesday night of my spring break vacation when I sat in my room; my mind was at a quandary. I was asking myself, “How can I waste my time tonight?” Then suddenly, a solution to my dilemma came at me, with a force so strong, I almost launched out of my fucking seat!

The best way to do waste your time is to not waste it at all.

How’s that, one may ask. Was the answer to my problems playing guitar in preparations for our future of sex, drugs, and sweet, sweet rock n’ roll? Writing meaningful sonnets dedicated to my affection for the Master and Commander of my broken heart (meaning Bob Bryar)? Perhaps the answer was to play Trivial Pursuit, while dressed as Judy Garland from Wizard of the Oz, as I sang popular show tunes of the 1950s? I’m afraid none of these options would suffice. They were simply child’s play in comparison to what I had in store for the rest my evening.

“Look: our forefathers died for the pursuit of happiness! Not the “sit-around-and wait” of happiness! Now if you want, you can go to the same bar, drink the same beer, talk to the same people every day, or, you can lick the Liberty Bell! You can grab life by the crack and lick the crap out of it!”

-NPH as Barney on HIMYM

It was legend—wait for it—dary!

Yes. I spent two hours watching a few of my favorite episodes from my How I Met Your Mother DVDs. I was not completely satisfied by just watching them; I had to throw all logic joylessly to the wind, and allow my brain to indulge in the entire How I Met Your Mother experience.

So I cracked open a Mountain Dew--so cold that it nearly burned my throat as it cascaded down my esophagus, traveling to it’s proper destination in the tummy of Yours Truly. It was so refreshing that it managed to do the unfeasible, and quench my unquenchable thirst. I know we agreed to quit that shit for the sake of either of us ever being physically appealing ever again, but tonight was different. I popped the DVD in, and within a matter of mere seconds, that jolly tune ringed throughout my living room. Soon, the actors were on the screen and Bob Saget’s voice was narrating the scenario they were in, and the jokes were coming at an endless stream and I was laughing! I was laughing my ass off! My stomach was starting to ache, because of it! And my eyes began to well up! It was just what the doctor ordered. And even though I watch this show every Monday night, tonight was special. It gave me an odd sort of comfort, but at the same time it was mixed with an almost painful nostalgic feeling. As I was trying to locate the source of my sentimental longing, there was a huge--

POW!

[As in the noise, not the acronym for prisoners of war]

It hit me. There I was: sitting in a room at nighttime; drinking Mountain Dew; laughing my fucking ass off; during a school break; watching the greatest show ever! Sound familiar? I was literally almost relieving this year’s fall break, with one exception. What is the ingredient missing in this recipe, one may ask them self?

I’ll tell you what it is: my best fucking friend wasn’t there! I grew extremely upset. I had flashbacks of when you, Bowl Cut, and I would go out in the street at very unreasonable hours, and you’d smoke your cancer-causing-agents, and I’d try to reenact Ted’s “Rain Dance”, and Bowl Cut would kind of just stand there, doing whatever it is that he does. And we’d all be quoting our favorite lines, saying such things as “What’s it to you, Giant Turtle?” and “Slow and Steady wins the race.” Then we’d run back in the house, eat macaroni and cheese, continuing to drink mass amounts of Dew—completely oblivious to the certainty that all of that would come back to us in ass fat—and just spend hours laughing until we’d bleed.

I found myself filled with guilt and shame. Like, kind of when you watch The Boondocks Saints, and then later that day you and you’re hands decided to make a pit stop at Pleasure Town’s Self Service Gas Station. But then once your done, you have to go to get a glass of water, and your family’s watching TV and you can’t even look them in the eyes, because of how ashamed you are…I’m guessing…

Back to the point…

I realize how this just makes me sound lame, and how it would definitely help someone prove how pathetic and sad I am. And I know if my parents knew that watching TV was my idea of a good time, I get lectured on how there are much more productive, memorable activities to do at this age. But fuck that!

I know this is kind of a roundabout way of saying this, but the point I am trying to make is that, right now, I miss you so much its retarded. That's basically the entire reasoning behind this post... well, that and to waste time.

We're Going To Philly!

Sidewinder

P.S. Oi! Prick! I called you back, and you definitely didn't answer. Way to suck my balls, you fucking asshole.

Who here knows how to set a mood?

Madcap with These Old Feelings does!
Well gents here goes nothing.
I started my photo album today because I demanded taking pictures in a photo booth at the mall. On that page I flattened a flower that was in the vase on my kitchen counter. While looking for heavy things to flatten it down I stumbled upon my Sophomore yearbook.
Let me tell you there's nothing that can make you remember good times like a good signing in a yearbook. I got to reading all the comments. Ya know, from the people that sign awkwardly and just write something cliche like "See you next year..." or "Have a good summer", from the people who are trying desperately hard to be your friend and write things like "OMG so I'm so glad I met you this year, really. Let's hang out over summer! Keep in touch! Text me! My number is 602-plz-call", then there's writing that are at least a page long of all tiny hand writing from your best friends. The ones where all the sentences start with "Dude do you remember that time when..." or "I can't believe when you..."

And that's when it really hit me.
Fuck the people that couldn't easily write me a novel of our adventures. The only people that can pull that shit off are real friends, the kind that can look at you and have conversation without opening their mouths, the kind that have the parents that just expect you to be at their house, the kind that you can dance in front of just as comfortably as if you were alone. THAT is real goddamn friendship people. Fuck the party friends that only know the drunk you. Fuck the people that you have to ask a month in advance to hang out with. Fuck the people that don't even want to be your friend. That shit doesn't matter. And I'm gonna remember that from now on. I'm gonna make things the way they always should've been. Me, my best friend, our dream, and some crazy shit inbetween.

God it feels good to say that.
Well that's all I've got.

Peace out home boy...that's what I always say.
-B.M.

Captain's Log.

DECEMBER 24TH, 2009

3: 47 P.M. My mom didn’t seem to appreciate the humor in the kill list on my wall. I don’t think I’ll ever understand people.

3:51 P.M. The parents are wrapping my gifts, leaving me stuck in this god-forsaken room, with the taste of spinach-crab dip lingering in my mouth. My phone is broken and Myspace is stupid. You’re all by yourself on this one, chief.

3:54 P.M. My room isn’t god forsaken. I was joking. In fact, it’s nearly impossible to look at one of my walls without getting aroused.

3:55 P.M. I am now looking at my wall. I can’t stop. Assume we are in a hypothetical scenario where I belonged to male gender: my penis would most certainly not be limp.

3:59 P.M. I kind of have to go to the bathroom.

4:00 P.M. Pardon my French, but Vanilla Coke rocks my shit.

4:02 P.M. Holy shit, this is boring. Internet gets old really fast.

4:03 P.M. I’m going to read some Dearly Devoted Dexter.

4:11 P.M. The atmosphere of my room is rather gloomy for reading. The lighting is just never right. It’s mildly frustrating. Regardless: Off to read another chapter!

4:17 P.M. Mother just left to Block Buster. She’s renting Inglorious Bastards. Well, ah rumpa pum pum.

4:24 P.M. Demented, but just what the doctor ordered.

4:31 P.M. Whoever taught dogs how to push open doors was a real asshole.

4:33 P.M. The next time I find myself in an awkward situation, where I’m required to fake human emotion and empathy in order to comfort a poor, helpless, distraught, whimpering victim…I’m just going to pat them on the back, say “there, there”, and hope that’s enough to shut them up.

4:38 P.M. Father informed me that I am now free to leave my room—a glorious moment.

4:39 P.M. Sidewinder out.

I Think Death is Least Funny When it Happens to a Child.

"I can't relate to 99% of humanity."

Oh Steve... you always know what to do; you've stolen my heart, Mr. Buscemi.

Pardon me for straying off my original topic, nevertheless: I'm not homicidal yet, but I'm getting there. You may want to alert the proper authorities.

Hugs, kisses, and broken fingers,

Sidewinder

This Anti-drug poster...

just makes me wish I was high.

I'm in a group with all the people in my class that couldn't even care less what my name is or what my opinions are so why am I out here?
I really shouldn't be.
I fucking hate being forced to work in groups when I could do this myself in five minutes.
Instead i have to listen to these jackasses and their ridiculous suggestions.
Fuck these kids.

p.s. two days before Thanksgiving. Not excited.
The only point of that holiday is to see if you can gain more weight from the dinner than you did last year and the year before.

Frankly I'm about to shove my shoe up this one kids ass. He needs to stop talking before I do something awful in front of all these people.

I just got appraoched by "the black man".
This makes me hate myself.
I wish I didn't just see almost the entire ass of the large black chick in my class.
This day is just going down hill more n more by the second.

God I wish I could still get away with ditching. I'm highly against the idea of playing jeopardy next period. Fuck that game. It's ugly and I don't want it anymore.

Remember when games in school were actually fun?
Now I just want to get my work and get through it without anybody bothering me.
Is that too much to ask?

Well guys....fuck this.

kbai
xoxo
B.M.

It's A Cockamouse And It's The Size Of A Potato.

“Since you been gone, I can breath for the first time…” That’s going to be stuck in my head all day. Hello, Mr. Snooze button! Shall I hit thee thrice? Nay, perhaps another day. Muffins are awesome. Oh my god, I missed you…wait never mind. To straighten or not to straighten? I’ll go both ways. What is that Calculus book doing there? Oh my god, that dogs retarded. Jacket season! I would be so upset if I gave my dad a stroke, but god do I love ghosts. British accents are the best. You do the work; I have no fucking idea what’s going on. Private lessons? For me? You shouldn’t have. I swear to God, you’re like his doppelganger. It is kind of a disruption to my learning. It’s called a razor; use it. I’d hit that. Maybe if I looked super pissed, he’d avoid me. Mission accomplished. I don’t understand 3.5! It makes no sense! You definitely don’t match today! That is unacceptable terminology for a penis! Taco! I can think of several reasons why this whole situation is ironic, and frankly it makes me sick. Hello Mr. Math Teacher, I don’t mean to give you the wrong idea, but every time I see you I kind of want to rip off my clothes. Did that come out wrong? What I was trying to say is that I’d really like to have sex with you. Everyone thinks you’re pretty intelligent; you’re really not. She looks like she should go to Europe. Happy Birthday! Oh my God, cupcakes! Woo! You’re not a bad ass if you dye your hair with temporary colored spray, asshole. I got my locker combo down so good! I feel like such a big kid at this moment. Thank god, she doesn’t have her book. Reagan! Viva la Reagan! The Compromise of 1850 took place in 1850. That was definitely not one of my more proud moments. You're kinda cute. Oh god, what are you going to make us do? I hate the Jonas Brothers! I love Sponge Bob! May I recommend that you stow your balls securely in an overhead compartments; it’s going to be a bumpy ride. Spoiler alert: she keeps a mighty tight leash. Wait…it’s more fun to watch the forest burn down than to stop it when it poses no threat. I’m so glad that I didn’t get stuck with retards. Grand Theft Auto: Civil War style? I hate giving out my number to people. That’s a weird area code. Chuck is cool, but Clint dominates all. Why do I even bother talking? Thank you for ignoring me, bitch. Expensive t-shirts! Back scratching orgy? I won’t even ask. You did what in where? That band isn’t even that good. Patty cake? Don’t mind if I do! Stop ignoring me! Car ride! It isn’t necessary for you all to talk to me like I’m a person. I got the message a long time ago. It will never happen. I wouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot pole. Look at me getting into this car. This song blows. I think I'm going to run! Multi-tasker of the year award: reading, running, and listening to music. High five. You’re friend sounds amazing, Mr. Asshole. My legs hurt. Shut up. Hey guys. Time to reward myself. I know all of these cans contain the same amount of liquid, but I like being picky sometimes. Mountain Dew is so good. I do declare that this is so delightfully chilly that it nearly burns the throat. Take a bow, Mr. Most Refreshing Beverage Ever. Homework? More like play now work later! Fail the test. I don’t give a fuck! I would do that guy. I would do him so much and so hard…he’s so amazing…wait, better keep the thoughts rated PG around the family. I’m sure the major personality clashes won’t affect you at all…you know so little. He is going to be so mad. Shit! I spelt rowdy wrong. Rowdy? Seriously, how did I not get that wrong? That’s like spelling orange like basjfkt. That may definitely cost me. Do I seem upset? I am really not. To be completely honest, I’ve always liked you best. Back hurts. Blog! Blog! Blogggg!

And that, my friends, is the daily mind process of a genius.

Good-bye,

Sidewinder