Dog Talk and Other Trivial Things In Which I Find Myself Participating

Small Talk. Just the phrase gives me anxiety. The blatant waste of time, intelligence, and self dignity just to feel more comfortable near the person you're stuck with in the elevator, neighboring bathroom stall, on line at the drug store, etc. Perhaps you've experienced the bountiful joy of working in retail or hosting at a restaurant where you are paid to spend six hours engaging in and striking up small talk.

Some of my favorites:

Dog Talk--So you have a dog. I don't, but I'm aware of dogs. I know enough to get by in the conversation. Because actually, this isn't really a conversation at all. You are talking at me about your rhodesian-pug-poo's latest romp through the neighbor's trash. Not cute, not funny, this conversation is officially utterly boring. Even though I've, for some reason, felt the need to bring up my childhood dog and continue marinating in the ennui of this conversation. Ed did this, Ed did that, Ed's the best. "Who's Ed?" I ask...oh, it's your dog, again, you're talking about your dog. Please let me go. (Also applies to people who revert to baby talk when speaking of or at their cat, hamster, or parrot, ARR!)

The Weather--Wait. I'm not blind! I can SEE! For the love of God, the world is clear! So approaching me with, 'beautiful day out yeah?' is almost grounds for a fist-fight. Perhaps I were blind. Perhaps I am colorblind and the sky always looks gray. I could be a manic-depressive who dwells in storms and lightning strikes. Thus making this 'beautiful day,' ugly to me or the same as every other day. Do you need clarification? Are you unsure if the day's beautiful? Is it sort of but not really? Are you longing for some sort of common human bond based on the weather outside? Well, to get out of this, I have to say yes, despite what I think because apparently you've failed to recognize the alternatives. Oh, it's supposed to rain tomorrow? What are you, some kind of Weather Channel Robot? Did you memorize the 7-day forecast so you can talk confidently to random people? Am I supposed to go, "Oh really? That's too bad," Is it bad? Is it? It's the weather and it changes and there's nothing you can do about it. Quit acting like you created this glorious day for all of us, you bastard! Try a pick up game of baseball for a more productive sense of camaraderie with your fellow man.

I really like that! Thanks. Although, I say this too sometimes. I say it when I really don't like something as well. Because it is socially unacceptable to say 'Good GOD! What the fuck are you wearing?!' I'll smile and say 'Wow, I really like your pants,' because I have to say something about them, I just can't keep quiet on the matter. But suppose you really do like that hat, scarf, balaclava, fake tooth. Your smug smile after announcing it shows that perhaps that was your charitable act of the day. At home, you will, before drifting off to a saintly sleep, congratulate yourself on being so selfless, so nice to that clerk at the new age store. You're just great. Keep it up. Oh, and then there's the people who make a whole big to-do about the thing. You like that! You have something just like that! Your grandmother gave it to you right before she rocked back too hard in her rocking chair and feel out her 3rd story bay window! Your grandmother was crazy! She was also a drunk! Maybe you're a drunk too! Maybe you need help! Maybe you should have stopped talking after "Here's your change, have a good day."

Politics. Ok, now wait. Small talk is supposed to be self-explanatory. It's talk about small, insignificant things. Who said you could talk politics to me while waiting for the bus? Why would you think I care? Please don't show me your Obama tattoo. Did you just tell me a statistic? Are you quoting things? Now wait. Wait just a minute. What do you do again? You work at TCBY? The fro-yo store that went out of business three years ago? You're high on PCP? Ok Mr-I-read-half-a-Wikipedia-article-on-Obama-and-now-I'm-more-educated-than-you. Just because you know about the same amount as our politicians doesn't exactly make you one. Let me off of your crazy-train of political misunderstandings. This is a bus-stop, after all. (Also applies to issues of religion, race, sexual orientation, abortion, or anything that you could get you potentially killed, or at the very least stabbed with the refill of a mechanical pencil, at any given intersection in Santa Ana.

Where are you from? Sensing an accent are we? Picking up a little telepathy of snow and hailstorms? Alaska maybe? The Arctic? BOSTON! Ah, you were close. Well, you have a fourth cousin who lives in Boston. Surely this random person knows him. What's his name again? Something McDonald. McDonald! Know anyone with the last name McDonald? Oh, well you're worthless to me. Unless I can remember anyone I've ever met being from Boston. First and last names would be a great help. Scottie? Was there a Scottie? SCOTTIE DOUGLAS! You just yelled that at the poor woman, but who cares! She could know someone you know! Wouldn't that be INSANE?! No, she doesn't know him. Who is this stupid bitch and why doesn't she know anyone from Boston? Wait, wait! You went there once. Yes, yes, you were three and a half and your mother got you frozen yogurt...if only you could remember the street? That frozen yogurt place by that statue? Kind of by the highway? There was a school nearby and dogs...she, naturally doesn't know (this woman is a moron). She starts guessing....no, no, wait a minute. That sounds right! That must be the frozen yogurt place! And if not, you feel better making some sort of connection with this poor woman who will say anything to get you to stop badgering her. Her finger is poised in her coat pocket ready to dial 9. Dude, you're a psycho; Boston isn't an Amish village with a pop. of 48.

Did you See American Idol Last Night? No. Actually, I'm a junkie and I sold my television some four months ago for dope. Or I live in poverty. Or I'm not a complete moron. Or I don't care what judge was drunk and who's an asshole and why you think it's so amazing that YOU have the power to CHOOSE America's next CELEBRITY! Newsflash; buy an mp3 of a song you like. It is ultimately the same thing, without the voluntary loss of your brain cells or the staggeringly expensive phone bill with all of those text update on what dumb-fuck-pinstripe-beret-wearing-girl-voice-loser is doing backstage RIGHT NOW! Or at least, don't drag me into it. I try hard enough to avoid that show.

Wait, I now have to urge to gauge out my eyeballs with a computer key (which seems both difficult and enticing). How about talking about something interesting? Have nothing interesting to say? Well then how about keeping your mouth shut instead of contributing to the intelligent decline of humanity.

Awkward Memoirs Make Great Gifts!

I signed on here to post something about horrible Christmas songs and I was warmed to see someone had beat me to it. There should be, I believe, a world-wide Christmas music burning, along with; the drowning of carolers; the strangling of Salvation Army bell-ringer (I know that sounds horrible, but your stupid bell does not make me more charitable); and the snowball-pelting of old women wearing embroidered Santa Claus sweaters on December 6.

But alas, I'd rather not get hot and bothered about the ridiculousness of Christmas traditions. Instead, I've decided to delve into the frightening world of memoirs. I work at a bookstore and our biography section is quite popular. Perusing the shelves today for some man who "wanted a biography about someone from history" (very specific), I was surprised to find the talentless protagonists of these vain homages to self. Here's a list of some 'riveting' memoirs lining the shelves:

Alec Baldwin: A Promise to Ourselves; A Journey through Fatherhood and Divorce.
Ok. Now I'm assuming this 'promise' is not sobriety. What it is, quite fankly, I care not to know. Tips on fatherhood and divorce by Alec Baldwin....I'm sorry, I can't even comment seriously. Please do not give this book to any one with active reproductive organs.

Life with my Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone.
Who knew Madonna even had a brother? Who knew anyone would care?

Split: A Memoir of Divorce by Suzanne Finnamore.
Be sure to check out her next book; Memoirs of Fights with My Bastard Husband and Other Such Unenjoyable Parts of My Life. Can't wait!

Thin is the New Happy by Valerie Frankel
FINALLY. A positive book for women, can't wait.

Artie Lange: Too fat to fish by Artie Lange
Ok, so the Howard Stern show has that funny, unbridled misogynistic charm. Why? Uh, because of Howard Stern. Not that his lackies don't compliment the hilarious sexual harrassment of those witless, deranged girls fresh off the surgery table. But does this warrant a book? Do you like the Howard Stern show so much you want to read 'Artie's' memoir? MadTV had its moments, and so did...uh, what were those great movies he was in again? Don't forget the inscription on the back cover, "I'll explain this homo bullshit in Book Two," Homophobic and misogynistic--a bargain!

Maureen McCormick: Here's The Story; Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice.
What.

Accidentally on Purpose: A One-Night Stand, my Unplanned Parenthood, and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made by Mary F. Pols
Mistake, eh? It's going to be hard to turn that around when she's fourteen. Save the royalties for therapy and ketamine, she'll need plenty of both.

Lynne Spears: Through the Storm
They ditched the title Lynne Spears: Through My Daughter's Wallet, I've Successfully Bribed Someone Into Publishing This 'Book.'

sTori Telling by Tori Spelling
I just sold one, I swear. And to a customer who asked about Tori Spelling's "new book. " Only book. Rest assured; there is only one.

Well Enough Alone: A Cultural History of My Hypochondria by Jennifer Traig.
Doesn't sound irritating at all. Destroyed by the blatant exasperation of her friends and family, she turns to the public to ask, "Do you think I have...?" A must read for sure.

Undiscovered by Debra Winger
Remember Debra Winger?! Wait, me either. Apparently (from the blurb on the inside flap)she is an "Oscar-caliber" performer who wasn't exactly the 'cool-kid' in the acting world. The flap continues, "As this beguiling book reveals, Winger is that rare star who dared to resist the all-consuming industry that is Hollywood becoming her entire reason for being." Despite the horrendous use of grammar in that sentence, it seems that, in the end, Debra Winger would (ironically) publish a tell-all called "Undiscovered" in a last-ditch effort to...um...be discovered. Yawn.


There are so many more, but as the list goes on, so does my dispair for society and not to mention, the trees that could've been used for much more productive things (toilet paper? tissues? those litter-enducing flier hand-outs at music festival exits?)

Deck The Halls With My Disapproval

I know Christmas isn’t for another twenty days but I just can’t wait to listen to those good old traditional Christmas jingles I've been hearing for over twenty years now, so do you think we could all start playing them right now? In fact, I think we should all play Christmas songs as soon as Thanksgiving is over because I never know what to listen to repeatedly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. So... Is this what most people are thinking? No, seriously, I don’t understand why the Christmas music has already begun. It’s annoying enough to have to listen to these ridiculous songs that don’t make sense on the day of, but why does America start playing Christmas music so early? I know they bring back those sweet childhood memories of your mom screaming at your dad about where the tree should go and you’re dad telling her to shut the fuck up before they got that divorce, but these songs are really annoying. I mean, if someone wrote one of these songs today I think the record producer might slap them across the face just for making them listen to it. First we've got this reindeer named Rudolph, who’s got this huge shiny-ass red nose and everyone hates him and makes fun of him for it. And you know what? Santa doesn’t really seem to give a shit. We all know that he knows everything that goes on at the North Pole, so why doesn’t he stop this torment earlier? It’s probably because he’s making fun of Rudolph along with the other reindeer. Yeah, so everyone hates on Rudolph until he’s actually needed because no one can see on that foggy Christmas Eve. And they all try to act like nothing ever happened and Rudolph gladly accepts Santa’s request and guides the sleigh. Can you say pushover? What sort of a message is this for kids? If I were Rudolph I’d be pretty pissed off. I wouldn’t want to drive that sleigh. I’d tell Santa to go buy a fucking flashlight. And what’s the deal with Santa? He sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake? This is pretty fucking creepy, is he a stalker or something? Does he use his army of midget elves to spy on everyone in their homes? I don’t know how I feel about knowing that some old fat dude can see me every second of the day. Should I get some sort of harassment suit or restraining order?

And then there’s the twelve days of Christmas song. Not only do you have to keep repeating the song over and over in case you weren’t annoyed the first eleven times, but have you ever actually thought about these gifts? Seriously, these are actually the worst presents ever. You’ve got a partridge, two turtledoves, three French hens, four calling birds. What’s with all the birds? Do you think you could switch up the gifts, I’ve got all this bird shit on my carpet and these birds are going crazy in my tiny apartment? But no, there just aren't enough birds apparently. Next you get six geese a laying. So now I have to pick up all these eggs along with the bird droppings? Do I look like a fucking farmer to you? Apparently so because now I get seven swans a swimming. Swimming where? In my tiny bathtub? I think not. And as soon as you get used to all the damn birds, eight maids milking cows waltz in. I’m sorry, I don’t need any more milk, I got some at the grocery store and this isn't a dairy farm. But no one is listening to you because immediately nine ladies dance into your house uninvited at this point with about thirty dudes banging drums and piping (who pipes now-a-days?) and the police are knocking on your door because of all the noise complaints. They probably think you’re hosting some sort of illegal cockfighting tournament in your apartment, but instead they see all these birds and weird ladies dancing to horrible banging and they decide not to ask any questions and leave because they probably want to forget they ever saw this ridiculous Christmas spectacle that has forced itself into your apartment through your stereo. Can our generation please start some sort of new Christmas tradition? Or can we at least replace the old songs with new ones? I mean how many times do you want to have to sing "all I want for Christmas are my two front teeth?" I've had mine for about fifteen years now and I'm not a redneck or a meth addict so I think I'll be keeping them for quite a while. This song really only applies to a small group of children.

The Awkward Poetry Corner

Once upon a time I bought a bottle of Jack
And when I opened it a tiny man jumped out
He said his name was Gary
And he had been held prisoner in this very bottle
By and evil old hag
Who cast a spell on him in a land where wishes are worthwhile
He told me I had set him free
And he would grant me one wish
So I told him I wanted a new bottle
But he said he couldn’t do that
So I left him and walked back to the liquor store
Cursing the Brothers Grimm for creating fairy tales

Another Awkward Co Op Experience

Jonpaul is the house pervert. He is a small pudgy man who looks somewhat like an anemic mouse. He basically ignores all the men who live here and talks to all the girls like children. But as a girl you can tell that while he’s talking to you like a child he’s looking at you like he’s wondering what color your nipples are. He wore a mask at the last party our house had and took pictures of girls dancing all night. I forgot to mention that he’s about 40 years old and he has a really annoying child that he brings over the house all the time and it’s really awkward because you’re trying to drink your beer and say those inappropriate things that 20 year olds say and there’s this little girl in a tinker bell dress using all the house’s TV space to save episodes of Blues Clues and asking you how you hold your top on when there’s no straps on it. This is a house for people in their 20’s; it is a sanctuary for those who do not plan on having children right now and most likely feel really uncomfortable around them.

Our house is having this meeting; we do it every two weeks where we vote on silly things and bring up issues like who doesn’t flush the toilet or close the lid on the sugar. The bulimic girl just butted in when someone commented on the bathroom downstairs needing to be flushed. She didn’t seem to realize we were all talking about her. It’s disgusting when you go down there and find pasta in the toilet and cereal in the trash bin all releasing that barf aroma. It’s not how I like to start my mornings.

I peer across the room. Jon Paul is looking around the room like a predator. He stalks all the girls with the slits that are his eyes as he shovels spoonfuls of what looks like baby food or apple-sauce into his creepy face with baby hands. Yes, he has very tiny hands, similar in size and color to that of a baby’s. Some gay dude is going on about getting a subscription to entertainment weekly. I can’t understand what he’s saying because when someone talks with a gay accent I lose focus. There’s something about that high-pitched jabber that refuses to enter my ears. I’m not a homophobe. I just have trouble distinguishing the words over the fast paced banter. My roommate from India is sitting across from me. I secretly resent her because she constantly eats Indian food in our room making the room smell permanently like fart. When I’m alone in my room I always fear some hot guy is going to knock on my door and when I open it and they get a whiff of the room they will think I’ve been farting in their all day.

Jon Paul seductively shoots his hand into the air to show how strongly he agrees with some stupid issue I wasn’t paying attention to. He eyes me; I look away. He thinks we’re playing a game of eye fuck tag. I think I want to stand up in the middle of the meeting and call him a fucking creeper. Alas, this game will continue, but only in his mind.

The food steward just announced that they messed up the ordering of our food yet again. Everyone gets on her case. It’s a little vicious. The bulimic girl is ripping her a new asshole. Maybe there’d be enough food if you stopped eating it all and throwing it up. I won’t say that out loud but I’m sure that’s what the whole house is thinking. I look around the room. Everyone looks bored as shit. I look over all the strange and peculiar people that live here. There’s Santiago. He goes OCD on all the house chores, spending double the time. He never talks but sort or walks in robotic strides with his head down. He always has this backpack on that is so large I believe it holds the secrets to the universe. He carries the world on his back to and from wherever he goes; no one knows, but then again no one asks. He keeps to himself but he’s usually around. Then there’s Pat. I think he has Aspergers or some mild form of Autism. Once when my friend John tried to smoke weed in the basement, Pat attacked him. John said, “What the fuck, why would you do that?!” and Pat replied “because I hate myself”. He’s incredibly awkward, but in that way where even awkward people like myself feel uncomfortable around him. He’s definitely not from this planet. And it’s not in that, “oh you’re from this place and you’re into these hobbies and I just don’t get it, we’re so different” kinda way. It’s “whoa, I have no idea what you’re thinking right now your eyes are blanks” sorta way. Wow, the bulimic girls is still yelling at the food stewards. She’s so fucking angry about the food. You can almost tell she has an eating disorder because nobody cares this much about the meals. I really don’t give a shit about this. I’m only here because the house is angry that my stupid friend Jeff keeps eating here for free and they want to talk about it at this meeting. Jeff decided not to show up at the last minute so I have to speak on his behalf even though I’m not the one who always invites him over. The house president is making this an issue the house will have to vote on. She creeps me out because she’s super religious and looks exactly like me. People for a while didn’t even know we were two different people, like it was some weird doppelganger shit where half the time we seemed like a responsible Christian house president and then the other half of the time we were an awkward freak show. People probably thought we were severely bipolar or something. We’re supposed to talk about making a mural somewhere in the house. The house decides they like the idea of a Dr. Seuss mural above the kitchen. Great, now I can throw up when I stumble into the kitchen all hung over and have to look at some gay nursery picture. I mean we just discussed how annoying this guy’s kid is and now we’re turning our kitchen into a sanctuary for children. It’s such a Co Opy idea. Look at us, we’re funny and quirky, creative and we think outside the box. Well the Co Op is a box in its own way. It’s predictable. It’s members are of a few general types of hippies and nerds and we do annoying group activities. That’s a box. A group of 8 including myself protest the decision and call a recount. We lose. There’s going to be yet another lame symbol of cooperation to look at every morning when I’m most bitter about the world.

Finally we’ve reached the last topic of discussion. Jonpaul is asked to leave, indicating this is some issue that involves him and as a rule you can’t be in the room when the “council” is discussing you. After he has left, all the girls begin to talk about how he is a pervert and makes everyone uncomfortable. Most of the guys don’t like him because he’s a creepy asshole so as a house we vote that he can’t come back to live here next year. The house president tells him when he returns into the room. He seems to take it pretty well. Something in his face reminds me that he’s human and I actually feel bad that we all did this to him as a group. I don’t know why because he is such an annoying pervert, but it’s not like he was a bad person. I guess the world is a cruel place sometimes.

This News Really Shouldn't Be Breaking

Do you know that annoying electronic band Justice who uses burning crosses as a form of identification? This really awkward friend of mine who's obsessed with conspiracy theories mentioned that they're totally Daft Punk in disguise. They tossed the motorcycle costumes and donned trendy outfits in their new project; to infiltrate the hipster mainstream scene and pass off as 20-year-olds in their 30's. I looked up pictures of both groups on the Internet and they really are the same people. Why hasn't anyone else noticed this obvious connection? Daft Punk is popular as fuck, you'd think some die hard fan would have spoiled this "secret" already. That is, if it actually is a "secret". I mean, is it really a "secret" or is it a conspiracy? It's a bit ridiculous how obvious this "secret" is when you look at the pictures. There are articles from notable magazines that discuss how the "new band" Justice has replaced Daft Punk, and Wikipedia mentions no relationship between the two bands. Is everyone really this blind in an age were people's pictures and information are way too easily accessible for comfort? I mean, I know they've been wearing motorcycle gear for the past few years so nobody knows how they've aged, but it's definitely Daft Punk plus about eight years. It must be some sort of French conspiracy, it's the only way I can make sense of this information slipping under the radar.

Breaking News, shitting in a CO OP is really fucking awkward

Yes, it is 1:37 AM and I am sitting in the lounge of Truth, this Cooperative living house I reside in. It's kinda like applied socialism so you'd expect us all to be hippies and everything should just be chill, dude. Well, it's not. I haven't "gone to the bathroom" in about a week now. Communal living means communal restrooms and I know that most of the guys that live here have never heard a girl take a shit and I'm not about to be the one to give them that sick dose of reality. So I'm sitting here trying to decide which of the two private bathrooms to use. There's the one that exists right out in the entrance hallway, but this, my friend, is it's main flaw. For, when I make my grand exit everyone will be able to tell that I just shat, which defeats the purpose if you are trying to poop ninja-style. Then there's the bathroom in the basement. I would have already used this bathroom but there is this bulimic girl in our house who sort of unoffically claimed it. Every time you walk down there you can find last nights leftovers, or maybe some regurgitated cereal in the trash bin. Either way, it makes me feel like I'm shitting in the bathroom of a dingy, disgusting pub for alcoholics.

It doesn't matter, I can hold on for one more day. But seriously, home is where you can sit down to take a shit with out being judged. And the people that live here do a lot of that. There's also this really awkward Co-Op bathroom culture which I refuse to be a part of. I noticed it when I went to pee and happened across a fellow shitter in the middle of his business. I know this because the bathroom smelled and the person in the stall next to me became completely silent. It seems that if you are going to go "number 2" you hold off if someone else comes into the bathroom, even if you are in the middle of it. You wait for them to leave and then you continue. The consideration on the part of the pooper is returned by their stall-mate who will leave and not try to find out who was shitting next to them. Therefore everyone can poop in anonymity. Well, I refuse to be a part of this because I know that if this situation happened to me I would end up with that nosy kid who would wait outside to see who the pooper was, just out of sheer curiousity. When they discover my secret identity our relationship will be changed forever. It will be weeks before we could even make eye contact. Therefore I will continue to wait until tomorrow when I can use a public restroom in a place where nobody knows me.

Awkward Existential Crisis

I wish I could scream and break everything in the the material world. I’m sick of having to placate this internal, spiritual part of me with material things. I’m so frustrated and defeated but what is kicking a wall going to do? Or breaking a computer? These are two separate entities we’re talking about. The material and spiritual world are two different things but we deal with one through the other. I feel empty so I break a lamp, but what is that really doing for my spirit? I wish I could slip across to the other side and deal with these feelings that I know have nothing to do with all the things around me. I know because nothing around me satisfies that hunger. I’m so fucking famished. But there’s no food. At least, not the kind that would fill me for more than an hour or two. I need to see things on the other side, I want to step across. I just need to find the signs. I don’t want to become a drone. I don’t want to become addicted to Time, becuase I’m so very terrified of it. It’s chasing me around and I can’t grab it, touch it, see it, feel it, I just know it’s there, stalking me. And I feel so helpless, because it doesn’t want to get me. It has no emotions, it’s just going to consume me. So I do crazy things to try and forget that time is there, with its empty arms stretched out, sucking the life out of me, but also putting some back in, but slowly sucking more out than it puts back, until I reach that day when it will take me away and lay me down, and fill me. Will I feel whole? I hope so. Let’s face it, Time is going to be the best fuck of my life. It will leave me breathless.

Start Mixing Your Fake Blood; It's Coming...

Ok, so Halloween's right around the corner. Pumpkins are for sale, costumes are being sold, Halloween II is all rented out at Blockbuster. So why is Halloween so awkward?

1.) Screaming at the top of your lungs when the electric pumpkin says 'ahahaha!' is, well embarrassing if you aren't under the age of three. Especially if it sounds like you may be getting attacked. Or if you're a girl who can scream at an adult decible now and hasn't realized it. If your scream scares other people more than the thing you're screaming at, you might be a candidate. Beware.

2.) Costumes are especially limited if you are eighteen and over. No longer acceptable: fairies, ghosts, M&Ms, princesses. You could always settle on the staggeringly cliche costumes of being a witch if you're a female and something resembling Tarzan if you're a man. Otherwise, the more elaborate the better. However, let's say one goes overboard--overboard includes any sewing you are doing, a costume that costs more than your monthly health insurance bill, or anything with decadent body paint. If you tend to choose costumes like these, beware, it is a tad bit awkward that you are so excited for a holiday geared towards little kids that you're willing to compete with them despite the fact that you're thirty and well, it isn't much of a competition with anything when there's that big of an age gap. Chill out and have a beer, all that face paint'll smear anyway after your eighth turn at the beer bong.

3.) You're really going to go Trick or Treating? It's great motivation to imagine all the candy you could get now that you're twenty. You have all sorts of new schemes to get certain houses to give you double the snickers bars, but to actually go through with it? Hmm. There's nothing more awkward than opening your door for the hundredth time to tell the little snot nosed kids that your lights off for a reason and finding a fat man with a beer belly, shoddily covered with a dirty sheet moaning 'ooooooooo'. At this age, you will never be a ghost, you have dressed up, regardless fo your intention, as a creep. You know CVS sells candy really cheap during Halloween? Save everyone the pity they'll surely have for you and buy a big 'ol bag of mini chocolates. You can still wear the cape if you want, in the privacy of your own home (please).

4.) Scaring someone to the point of restraining order may signal a more severe deep seeded mental affliction. I had the pleasure of going to Knott's Scary Farm this past week and despite the embarrassment I now feel for how scared I actually was, it was generally fun. However, there were a few times when the fun turned into early signs of an ensuing panic attack. Whenever the process of holy-shit-did-he-just-say-that-I-forgot-my-Mace comes into your head, you've been scared beyond an appropriate amount. The 'Scaries' who walk around the amusement park take their job a little too seriously. Not satisfied with a meager scream and a laugh, there were Goblins who came up to your ear saying 'Aren't I pretty enough for you?' and 'Do you want to die?' and the surprisingly frightening, 'Bitch, I'm going to kill you,' This is the kind of scary that ends with chalk outlines and police-tape. If you get the urge to scare others in this way, mayabe it's for the best that you sit this year out and have a little one-on-one with the Therapist.

5.) Carving pumpkins. There's a strange book out right now called Extreme Pumpkins. The title is fitting. Some guy has carved pumpkins into intricate designs. There's the radioactive pumpkin, equipped with broken glow sticks, the crime-scene pumpkin sporting an exit wound to the side of its gourd and even a pumpkin destroyer who has been menacingly propped up with sticks to give the impression that this pumpkin will fuck your pumpkins up. While my coworkers asked in awe, "How does he do that?!" the more appropriate question may be "But why?" Not only do the pumpkins look impossible to replicate, but the book is basically a how-to guide so you can make your own. If you have this much time to spend on carving pumpkins that will get smashed, rot, and go out of style in exactly three weeks, maybe you should start that novel you're always telling everyone you'll write. At least then you'll have something to show for those two weeks than some pumpkin pulp and cuts from the carver.

Coming Soon: Awkward, Mockward: Halloween Edition. Equipped with costumes and traditional (and some not so traditional) Halloween festivities. Awk-on.

A Poem About Babies

Oh God, no, please no
don't ask me to hold the baby
I don't want your baby
you're all watching me
you want to see if I'll succeed
with this baby test drive
why don't you ask Uncle Victor to hold the baby?
Yeah, that fat dude without a shirt on
eating that burger and drinking that can of beer
God, I want to be that guy
no one ever asks him to hold the baby
damn family reunions