It seems that everybody now has a pair of chucks, some slim jeans (worn out), an array of shirts with fruity colors and patterns, and a brightly colored zip-up racing jacket sporting a fat number in big block characters. Some guys have disheveled hair that appears as if it hasn't been washed in weeks. For Christ's sake, I saw one guy the other day in tight pants. It's queer. It's all a tragic revival of a blend between hippie apparel and fashion from "That 70's Show," which by the way is a criminal malfeasance in the world of television. But we shan't delve into that forbidden territory of digression.
Faggots.
At this point of time, I'm going to pivot the topic of my rhapsody to obnoxious white girls that dress like whores. There's a whole society of these god-awful girls who constantly pride themselves on the perceived beauty of their friendship with one another as well as that of their faces. Here I will provide a case study outlining the daily routine of the average preppy white girl. The day often begins at Starbucks, where the specimen often meets with a fellow bastion of promiscuity and enjoys a $5 frap with a large order of trivial schmoose. They then migrate to school in their Mercedes or BMWs and aggregate with others of their type, amassing in the hallways to discuss shopping or last night's hot tub gossip session. When the bell rings, they disperse into their various class schedules, occasionally massing into flocks of 4 to 10 persons into the AP English and the AP History classes, and aggrandize their distasteful antics much to the horrendous annoyance of those around them. Such antics include inside jokes which induce incessant giggling, discussion of various straps and strings, and petty intolerances. This is of course all done while vested in horribly promiscuous attire. Their sense of social decency is effectually lost in the visual treacheries of 6-inch skirts and tops that render more skin than what is natural. Over years they have formed a security system in which one alerts the other with an accusative rolling of eyes when the attention of some lad has wandered to the crevices of their sinfully exposed bodies. When the threat is acknowledged, there is a feigned panic in which she crosses her legs or pulls up her shirt, but internally she celebrates a superficial victory of egotism. After school is over, she prances over to a track meet or some other athletic shenanigan, after which she returns home to her computer and signs on to AIM or flits around with Myspace. Then comes the eruption of emotion. One of her friends (or she herself) experiences an emotional break down, and then, in tears, calls all up her society of egotistic sustenance for the assurance that she is a princess and one of the prettiest girls ever, both inside and outside. The weekday thus ends. Weekends are subject to screw loose outtings to the park, hot tup, or mall with the "flock".
Faggots.
Friday was the homecoming assembly. There were several disconcertingly fat cheer leaders and the turbulent jiggle of their unruly parts negated the excitement that would have otherwise been incurred by some of the half-decent ones. Afterward, I went with Ray down to the am/pm and we got some 16 oz. Monster energy drinks and some Jolt caffeine gum. As to the question of "why", I have no legitimate answer. Anyway, we downed the Monsters and each had 6 pieces of the Jolt. Of course, being incredibly small, I was direly affected and was near death within a short period of time.
Today was the PSAT. I'm not going to discuss the test material beyond these several sentences because I would be running a dire risk of whoring this wonderful blog to the sinful redundancies of asian people in their xangas after taking a particularly important test: "omgz! PSAT so hard fuk!" Actually, even if you were to correctify the English in that chunk of grammatical felony, I wouldn't even have said anything along those lines. Do you ever see that? After a difficult test, all people do is gripe about how hard it was, how the teacher is homosexual, and they finally achieve a spiritual epiphany that school and capitalism don't matter.
Anyway, get this.
Hi. =)
My test proctor was none other than Colin Mochrie of "Who's Line is it Anyway?". Or at least someone who looked exactly like him. Only the back of his neck, canopied under a thick blanket of unkempt white hair, appeared as if it had not been shaven in 10,000 years. That was actually quite disgusting. But I was otherwise fascinated.
The main character is Jake Barnes, whose balls were cut off. To cope with the loss, he moves off to Europe. France. (By the way, living in France is the only real symbolic connection to impotency)
Bonjour.
Prostituting himself to French society, Jake tries to "fill the void" with excessive drinking (Note picture above), aimless drifting, impotent sinfulness, hintfully homosexual admiration of other male characters, and profligate jollification with random girls - of course not that kind of jollification.
Today, Mr. Carman divided us into groups of 6. Wouldn't you know it. My group was assigned the "male imagery" category. Some kind of phallic spirit possessed Paul within minutes. He entered a nervous state of pointing randomly into the book and giggling incessantly. The mention of a couple hard-boiled eggs brought poor Paul half to tears.
You know what I don't understand? Authors and their obsession with penis. I mean can't you cocks find something a tad more appealing than penis? Aside from being the most valued possession in any straight man's life, there's nothing much more complicated and symbolic to a penis. It's a very simple object, really. Anyway, I took the liberty of looking through one of those analytical summaries online and it took a couple minutes to find a reference to phallic symbols in the book. This particular fragment is from Cliffnotes:
"Note the phallic references that make brutal fun of Jake's condition. At the start of the chapter, he and Brett travel "up . . . then levelled [sic] out" and finally "went smoothly down," immediately after which Jake tries to kiss Brett and she recoils. A few pages later, they sit in the cab "like two strangers" while passing by a pool of live trout (a phallic fish), which is closed and dark. "I've never let you down, have I?" Brett inquires of Jake later. Even the novel's title and the biblical passage to which it alludes participate in the book's black humor: You may not "rise," the title taunts Jake, but at least the sun does."
Regarding a trout as a phallic fish troubled me a bit. I looked up "trout" on google images to see if there were any "resemblances." Unable to find any immediately discernible connections, I looked up "trout penis". This horrifying image appeared on my screen:
resemblance: The ruffle of water at the base, the body, then the well-defined head. A very nice erect fish. Then I noticed the strange object portruding from the tip.
"What the hell is that?" I wondered. "A tongue?"
I realized that it was a hook. That actually disturbed me a bit. Now, I am troubled as to whether or not the artist of this image had these intentions. As you can see, I've diverged hopelessly from my initial objective of discussing the unwarrantedly excessive use of phallic symbols in literature, to suggestive depictions of trout. Well anyway the length of this post has also extended well beyond the "bored" line.
...
I said, "When that time comes, don't come to me to help them."
"I won't ask you to help. You don't have to help," he said.
"Good because I won't. I want them to know how it feels."
He never yelled once.
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