Thursday, April 29, 2010

The sweet smell of rejection

One thing I’m beginning to hate about the real world, well one of the main things, is the “rejection letter”. Those of you who’ve never seen one of these (and for that you deserve a cunt/dick punch for being fuckin perfect) it’s a letter letting you know you didn’t get the job you applied for. One particular rejection letter that sent me off the edge reads:
Dear William,
Thank you for applying for the 2010-11 West Virginia University sports communications graduate assistantship. We have offered the position to another candidate and they have accepted.
This year’s candidate pool was tremendous and we thank you for making our decision extremely difficult.
We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Now, I don’t understand the point of these fuckin letters..What do they honestly think, Im that dense? I didn’t expect it to read “William, where the hell have you been? We hired you over a month ago, and expected you to be slaving away at your desk already”. Its an email, fuckstick, send one and not some cheesy piece of stationary to let me know I didn’t get a job I never interviewed for. I’d rather not get any notice then have a bunch of letters from colleges that go along the same lines as this one. I’m half tempted to send this douchenozzle a letter that says
Dear (Dickbag)
I’m thankful you have learned how to use the copy and paste tool in Microsoft word. I realize how hard it can be to type up one letter and change the name at the top, and sign your name; believe me I did it with my cover letter and It was not only painstaking, but a waste of my fuckin time. So thank you, for being able to change the name at the top of the stationary. Now apologize to the fuckin trees you killed so that you could write me an obvious form letter to tell me I didn’t get a job I never so much as received notice that I was, in fact, included in your search. Haven’t you read the Lorax! The trees are going to revolt and wither and die, all cause you are to impersonal to send me a damn email. You inconsiderate prick.
Signed,
The motherfuckin tree that’s gonna fall on your house and family and kill your dog, Lassie cause you killed my friend..Eye for an eye mutha fucka!

Now if I wasn’t in constant fear of the FBI bashing down my door (damn you paranoia) I would send this letter. But the fact of the matter is my asshole is an exit and not an entrance (sorry Bubba and ur massive crank) and would rather not meet the authorities (again). I’m sure he expects me to be blown away with that “thank you for making our job extremely difficult” bullshit. I’m about to make your life a whole lot more difficult if I knew how to send computer viruses (damn you Hollywood for making it look so easy; well and for me being so damn impressionable) Any school that hires Bob Huggins and Rich Rodrieguez can keep their fuckin job, I’m not interested..have you ever heard of guilty by association? Fuck that..why am I surprised I got this letter again?

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Caffiene sucksg

bold statement I know..but sympathize with me, if you can..Im still fucking awake at 445am because I took a 5 hour energy at 10pm...a) I hate my life right now, b) i will still hate my life tomorrow...sweet deal, i love the win-win situations I put myself in. So I just wanna go off, say everything on my mind.. I'm drunk, which means every racist thing I spew out would be completely justified (right?) or every misogynistic (try spelling that fuckin word drunk) statement I make will be left alone..But then again I'd need an actual thought..All I can think about is hideous fat bitches and slamming my head thru mirrors to go to sleep..Does forever sleep count? eh..not worth all that..So we started the night at billiards, which is actually my neighbor on the block (no seriously, its next door)...Not only does the bartender choose jameson as the shots were taking, but a girl I went on a date with and never called back (she was a 1, and I wanted it, just too fuckin lazy...the story of my life) was there with a fatty..I understand ladies, its hard to get past me, but come'on...a fatty? sadly its true..one of my buddies said she gave me a look that said "I'm with this dude, only cause I can't be with you"...Now I smell bullshit, tho my buddy said this before I gave him the back story, so who knows..I'm consistently an idiot...went to the one bar we always go to, and believe me the same results..went to seminary and bought shots for a girl who just turned 21 and her friend who had braces..yeah, I swear she wasnt 17 (I keep trying to tell myself this)..I mean a mouth full of chrome..I was tempted to sing Paul Wall's song..And met two 40 plus year old women who, one was a white sox fan and the other was a red sox fan (fuck my life) I talked so much shit I talked myself outta seeing these girls after the bar closed..I have standards, and bitches who "like baseball" but suck picking their "favorite team" (aka whatever all the guys like!) deserve to get clowned until I relent. I'm drunk and jaded guess how this story ends up....

Friday, April 23, 2010

The brain is a wonderful thing to waste

I’ve come to the conclusion that the more I learn in this world, the less I remember. I’d say this was unfortunate, but without spell check I wouldn’t know how to spell “unfortunate”, so I’m moving on, sans my emotional reaction. (no homo) I really feel like my brain operates as a rolodex; unlike the normal brain, which attempts to keep pertinent information mixed in with useless trivia facts, the operators of the rolodex in my head said “fuck it, this shit blows..throw it out!” So don’t attempt to engage me on anything “scholarly”..it ain’t happenin’ (apparently im a southerner now too) Sure I can give you a bullshit reaction to any political argument (usually punctuated with a “I vote democratic” for full effect), but if you truly try to engage me on said topic (which, judging by my oh-so large viewership I can only imagine you want to) I will probably flop around more than a fish outta water. Gee, paw can we go down to this here waterin’ hole and find us some snails to poke at?...What just happened? I think I blacked out..Damn you brain operators, you’re doing this to me on purpose! Where was I? (Note to self: talking to the voices in my head does in fact make me look crazy) See I have the unique ability to be able to remember absolutely useless sports trivia, and even pop culture references that, while can be cool to impress people with (on the occasion), most times I come off sounding like rainman. That’s the only explanation I can have for when I string together an articulate sentence that has to do with said useless trivia facts and I get these looks like “wow, he can talk”, as if their head is going to explode from my vast knowledge of uselessness. Yes, dickbags, I have a brain, and I do (occasionally) use it. The same reaction comes from people when they see me reading a book. “William, you are actually reading a book! Does it have pictures in it?”, “Do you need help with the big words?”, and “you’re finished! Good job!(that’s what she said)” Well that was when I was in the children’s section of the gburg public library…don’t judge me. You wanna know who scored the winning run in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? Ray Knight. You wanna know who scored to tie it up? Kevin Mitchell . You wanna know who scored before that? Gary Carter. The only walk off home run to win a world series? Bill Mazeroski. Ralph Branca threw the pitch to Bobby Thomson in the shot heard round the world. Wanna know who’s been seen out with Gerald Butler? Jennifer Aniston. You wanna know who the president is in Poland? GOTYERASS there ain’t one! whooow the south will risssseeee again. Maybe I should just move south. They’ll be impressed by these useless facts I spew out, fuck I’ll be mayor or senator in no time. “This boy here, he can read! And Write!” You see, I’m convinced that the more I learn, the more that gets left behind. Sorta like that episode of Married with Children when Al attempts to teach Kelly useless trivia facts to win a game show- the more she learns, the more her brain has to throw out to make room for the newest information. (obscure pop culture reference: check) I also just compared myself to Kelly Bundy…I need a concussion immediately…

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The art of not paying attention

I’m beginning to feel as though not-paying attention is a skill. Let me rephrase that, constructively not-paying attention (if there's such a way) while in a meeting with 8 of your “co-workers” (I use the term loosely) is a skill. Every Wednesday I have the insufferable pleasure (akin to the feeling of a catheter) of attending a meeting where we discuss the finer points of public relations. I’ve long thought “maybe I can gauge my arties with my numb fingernails and get outta this” but then realize they would probably only continue the meeting, speculating as to who was going to write my obituary. And none of those fucks are writing my obituary. That’s saved for the library of congress (if ya catch my drift). One such meeting, I showed up noticeably sick. Now, I didn’t know I was sick; I merely thought I was having a moment of weakness. (side note: the males in my family believe that sickness equals weakness, pain equals weakness, and weakness in both cases cripples confidence) So as I’m struggling to so much as pick my head off the desk, I begin to search keywords that keep coming into my head. At one point, as I’m wedged between two of my “co-workers” (again, with that word) and I’m searching Depression and side effects/tale tall signs. Pretty sure that was the last time anyone ever sat next to me at one of these meetings. And by pretty sure, I think most of them are shocked they haven’t found me hanging in the storage closet yet. More so, the skill is not caring what people think of you as you scroll the blogs of choice and give little effort except for my (insert- glowing, wonderful, beautiful) presence. A skill that I have not only mastered, I'm a sensei. Now back to today’s meeting. I say my piece as to what I can remember is happening in the Athletics department, appease the writers (see: people picked on by jocks) by making a joke about the particularly difficult year we’ve been having in the win-loss columns (“an aversion to winning”) and while suppressing the urge to scream out "NERDS!!!", I bury my head in the glorious world wide web.
2:02- Check Deadspin
2:03- Check Espn.com
2:03.33- check deadspin (maybe they updated it)
2:04- Check Fantasy Baseball team
2:06- Ponder what my starting outfield should be (Jason Heyward you are all that is man!)
2:08- Check Google News
2:09- Check Facebook
2:11-Check Espn (come’on breaking news!)
2:13- No such luck, I read about Big Ben
2:15- I lift my head up for air when I hear someone rumor the meeting being adjourned. Bitch was lying
2:16- Repeat cycle
Now this meeting went until 2:37. (this is how you know I was bored) I checked deadspin and espn a combined 12 times, that I can remember. I swear that when browsing the internet my brain completely turns to mush. All I can do is sit like an autonomous droid and click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat..click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat…click on link, type in new address, scroll down, repeat. Shit, I’m doing it again…The entire group continues to drone on and on, sounding something like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Except I wish the words were really that incoherent. My problem becomes that I can still make out the words, I just don’t have a fuckin clue as to what they’re saying or talking about (note to self: this happens when you nevvver pay attention) Instead they just sound like people worrying to fucking much about mundane details that don’t have a worldly effect. Not that I have room to talk. I’ve literally became so consumed by my desire to talk nothing but sports that I’m either a) a misdiagnosed Asperger’s suffer, b) that damn locked in, c) really hate human interaction. And we all know sports talk has no worldly effect, and thus I find my place at this meeting, a massive jock in a world I know nothing about (public relations), hoping that the meeting will end and I can go back to the comfort of my own, secluded, world.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Lets see if I know how to do this....

Kermit Washington knocks Rudy T. the fuck out

In case, you too didn’t spend your childhood absorbing as much sports television as possible in the basement while the other kids were out playing (who really needs a social life?) I have found a clip that may highlight one of the greatest moments in pro basketball history; actually it’s a close second to this. But oh so close. Just look at the form on Kermit Washington. Christ, he decapitates him. Has a perfect shift in his weight, he’s like a heavyweight boxer. Rudy T., who went on to be the neurotic coach of the *NBA Champion Houston Rockets, ended up in a coma after this punch. In case you were wondering, I’m not much for this posting clips and rambling on and on about what is in them or not, just watch the damn clip and quit being an internet snob. Its youtube for fucks sake. Whew, I feel better, rage subsiding……

*Championship came when M.J. was suspended for gambling- or as David Stern called it “playing baseball”

Day 586 in Undergrad Purgatory

I’ve decided to keep sauntering(as you can see, Ive been reading the thesaurus) on with this blog. Not that I think people are actually reading it, more so just to continue having a one person dialogue with myself. Always healthy. (and no the least bit crazy) So I will continue to subject the internet to my every thought and whim. That’s what you get internet, you dirty, dirty whore.

Newsworthy in my life (sadfully)

I finished 3866 in the masters best ball challenge on Espn. I have now completed step one by admitting “I have a problem”. I’m to the point of my fantasy sports life, that I not only entered, but did well in the masters best ball challenge. I mean, I know probably 10 (giving myself a lotta credit here) golfers. I saw they were giving out 3k for this particular challenge and the competitor in me tore into it. I quickly silenced the part of my brain that kept repeating “no wonder youre single William” (silly sub conscious) and went to work on picking the four best golfers to further cement my status as a sports nerd. (not that there was ever doubt) I literally pick four guys that I have heard of (one being Tiger, Tiger Woods y’all) and went to work. I finished in the 96.6 percentile of this particular challenge, in contrast I finished in the 75th percentile of my graduating class in college..wonder if I can put this on my resume. {At a job interview, not to distant future} So William, it says here that you have been the sports info director at Knox for 2 years?
Me: yes ma’am, two whole years
Interviewer: blah, blah interview question blah. So I also see you finished 3866 in the masters best ball challenge.
William: yes ma’am, quite proud of that accomplishment. (not that ive ever had a female A.D interview me, but hey this is my fantasy)
Interviewer: Get out of my office
William: Did I get the job?
Interviewer: Get out
William: So no?
(If this in fact reminds you of a scene in Step Brothers…you win a big slice of “fuck you”..i gave dream sequence a try, and apparently im as bad at that as I am fantasy hockey (ba-da-bum!) And I also have the comedic abilities of a less Hispanic George Lopez.)

And after this particular dream sequence, I’m further convinced I may be interested in smh. So ladies out there in the internet world, hint hint…

Where was I? Oh yeah off on a tangent about how truly awesome I am at everything sports related. Howwww ever could I forget…In reality I just needed to tell/brag to someone..It helps with my recovery process. Now if only I could apply this vast knowledge to the real world, I could get to work on that cure for cancer (or just get to grad school)

Monday, April 19, 2010

My impersonation of Tucker Max- WB edition

Well, its time to put the trip in writing. So I take off at 7:20, 30 minutes after I was in fact supposed to leave. (Amtrak you government run cocksuckers) eh, at this point Im in never-never land (not the one run by Michael Jackson) and pondering which girl on the train is most do-able (a scale of 1 to 0 as my measuring stick) when I notice a girl yapping loudly behind me to apparently the cop who is sitting next to her. And by yapping I mean I doubt she stopped running her mouth about her fuckin friends that I knew this ‘fun vampire’ was 32, has been to Flunk Day (bitch) and dating a 25 year old who is clearly going to dump her old ass in a matter of days and fucks. (fucks of course coming before the days) As my luck has it, the battery in my 40 dollar mp3 player is already dying, so in order to preserve some for the ride home I take off the headphones. The rage is building. I am about green and a thousand pounds when I get off the train, with the constant day dream of smashing this broad’s yapping mouth into the window having played through out that brutal 40 minute ride without the comfort of my music. Get to Grant’s apartment, which is huge and puts the house I rent to shame. Not that life is a contest (yet), but I already begin to feel out of place. Grant’s friends are a kid who looks like The Situation and a Puerto Rican Marine; I feel a little better. I get some 'fuck it' in my system; I can’t feel anymore. If I could in fact feel, I would’ve felt like Alan in the Hangover; I hum to myself, the three best friends…The bars are the bars, I tend to bounce into everyone, knocking into both chicks and dudes. I am huge. Oh, and I wore sandals (with my customary unkept nails, Im classy) with shorts (plaids) and a v-neck tee. Its all of maybe 40 degrees. I have finally gained tool status.

The day starts for me at 7:15am. Too anxious to sleep, I’ve seen the highlights of yesterday’s games for the third time. (I slept with the tv on and watched the highlights another 4 times at least) The thoughts of how great this day could potentially be have filled my head, as I cram all 240 pounds of my massive frame onto a small couch. An hour and a half of trying not to wake anyone up and be that dude (or a 12 year old on Christmas eve) I finally go to wake up Grant at around 8:30ish. He reluctantly gets out of bed, only to lay on the couch and watch the highlights with me (my 6thish time mind you) before we go get booze and mcdonalds breakfast at 915am. (after all, no day of drinking is complete without mcd bfast twice) Booze is bought, and at 9:45am the first Busch Light is cracked. After half a b-town bomber and three busch lights for me (everyone else may get down one) we head for the train around 1030pm. Did I forget to mention I got a pump in, in there make shift gym/office/smoke den. Yep, I’m a meathead. I cram my pockets with three extra beers, on top of the bag of beers Grant has in hand, which we all drink on the metra train into town. I’m probably at least 7 beers deep when we get to Chicago, at the very least. I’m feeling good. We get to the ticket place 12:15, which with the game starting at 12:05 I’d normally be pissed. However, Lady Luck, Karma and God all got together and decided to reward me (for what I will never know) and The Situation gets us up to the rooftop in the right field of Wrigley where its all you can eat and all you can drink. After shoveling down a plate of the driest chicken breasts (PROTEIN!) I have a keg poured blue moon in hand. The cubs are losing, which is also code to get even more fucked up. I pound my way through five total blue moons (cant beat free) and am feeling good. I wave bye to two girls I went to college with, who happened to be sitting in the adjacent (that’s next to-take that seventh grade geometry teacher!) and we begin to make our way out. It’s the fifth (ish?) inning and were on our way to seats that are 5 rows behind the cubs bullpen. And by on the way, I mean I make it down the three flights of stairs at the rooftops and literally puke up anything and everything I had in my system. Puke and rally at 2pm. I am heralded as the ultimate partier (by a random dude who originally thought I was a jackass before he realized it’s my buddies b’day) which is a huge distinction for a frat brah like me. I am on cloud nine.

We get into wrigley, and Grant’s buddy The Situation is in fact as money as I probably told him (which after that much beer I’d say was four times at least) we are literally four to five rows back. (seeing as I was oh 10 beers deep at this point, I say four or five because that was my visual of it) Eight inning, cubs are down 4-0. Ramierez and Soriano both rope balls (haha) the left field line, zipping past our seats. The score is 4-3. With two runners on and 2 outs in the ninth Kosuke Fuck-u-do-me gives one of those swings a half retarded special class kid gave back in little league. He literally twists his body swinging at a pitch that hits the dirt to end the game. I’m pissed, but not surprised. Carlos Marmol, the closer who was left at the alter by the cubs, happens to throw the ball he was warming up with into the crowd. I’m a hawk, and after some bad no catches (drunks) I snag the ball off the ground and deposit it in my pocket. Mine bitches. I shoot that look and growl at the hands and people around me, while all three buddies are impressed that I did so with no fanfare or celebration. In reality, I was being protective of my baseball. We leave for what is the first of many bars. Mulligans (I believe) to play some darts with a couple of Knoxies. We head to sluggers too, which is a haze. We end the night at a bar that has a dance floor which brought only this Denis Leary quote to mind. “Straight men don’t dance, remember birthdays or marry chicks with hearing aids” However, my group has never heard this quote. That is my only thinking when they start busting out the moves on the dance floor. Grant is balls deep in a thigh high fastball (I use baseball analogies like its my job) who has already given him the signs as to what she’ll be throwing next. She wants cock, and his will work wonders. I leave him and am stuck, latching onto Johnny (Puerto Rican marine) who has already let me know that a)he’s banged skins once already and b) he wants to again, without a phone. Sweet. I’m attempting not to freak out that so many men are dancing like it’s Saturday Night Fever that I keep drinking. A little, has to be Italian woman keeps trying to get me to dance. Cant do it, I say. Doesn’t work. She has a wedding ring. Mmm…I try to muster up the dance moves, only to realize I am not nearly drunk enough, and still am holding myself accountable for my awful dancing (fucking self-esteem issues). I return to the bar, and the night gets hazy. I end up looking at my phone at 11pm, and saying to no one in particular “we got alotta night left!” I fist pump. It is the last real clear memory I have.

I end up texting whoever I can, nobody's coming to wrigleyville. Mother fucker. I get drunker. I hear I was kicked outta the bar for attempting to steal bud lights (scummy) and I take a picture of a pitch dark Wrigley field at 2am. I’m sure I was jacked about this at the time. 4:43am- I come to, outside of the train station. This can’t possibly be just luck. I have two weird scratch marks on both thighs and reak of a days worth of drinking and have no idea where in particular I am. I can’t help but think I am still dreaming. In fact It reminds me of a dream I had, only this is real and damn im in a world of pain. All day drinking just aint my thing, I guess (I’ll never be a functioning alcoholic!). I scrubily ask the lady working the desk how I can get to Claredon Hills, and she says get on the train and ride. I oblige. At the next station, this time its 5:02, I ask a well intoxicated black man how to get to the metra. He lets me know I should get off at Jackson. Thank you random drunk black man. A group of coked out posers enter the same train, tho I cant even look up to acknowledge them. Still too out of it. I get to the Jackson area, and Im freezing. Still in my shorts, cubs shirt and cubs sandals, its all of 30something degrees out with no sun. IF I were a bum I’d die, I have no discovered. There goes that potential life plan (sigh). I get to the service desk, and pathetically ask a black man and black woman who work at the station how to catch the metra to Claredon Hills.
Black man: The metra?
Me: yes to claredon hills
Black woman: Where?
Me: (still slurring my speech and in a daze) Claredon hills, my buddy lives there.
Black woman: Where were you at?
Me: The cubs game
Black man. THAT WAS TWELVE HOURS AGO!
Me (looking as much the part of a scrub as possible): uhhh, yeah…..
They point me in the right direction, alerting me that I will need to get to Union Station. That its only a few blocks up and out of where I am, in fact three total blocks. Its still cold and I still feel like dog shit, but I stagger my way into Union Station, fitting right in with the bums who normally populate a train station at 545 in the morning. It gets worse. I realize the metra doesn’t begin to run until 830, which means I will have to manage for a solid 2 plus hours. I’d get mad if I could, or if I was at all surprised my luck had clearly run dry. I wait..I try to sleep on a hard wooden bench but the damn breeze and my fuckin summer wear aren’t doing it. I walk to mcdonalds where I order what looks good. I take two bites and pound the orange juice I ordered. My head was clearly bigger than my stomach. My mission of starting and ending the day with mcd is complete and my medal is no where to be found, so I rest my eyes. Less than 15 minutes later I am awoken by “cant sleep here sir, get up and get some air”. Fuck my life. I get up while realizing my stomach feels like death. So I head to the bathroom only to shit thru a screen door and puke almost in unison. While my mouth is still full of puke I hear someone slam on the door of the stall “sir you cant sleep in here!” Like what the fuck? Who the fuck would wanna sleep on the stall of a Union station bathroom? Sure I would love a venereal disease sir, this is a perfect spot to sleep. I muster up enough where withal to tell this jerkoff that I am in fact not sleeping and to get the hell away from me. I finish leaving everything I have consumed in the past 12 hours in the union station toilet (including both my pride and dignity) and pass out on a bench at 645. I am awaken at 738 to be told, that once again, there is no sleeping in union station. Im just thankful I can buy my metra ticket. Which I, in fact do, and at 8 oclock I find myself boarding the metra. I am giddy to not be told that I cant sleep, so I close my eyes. I am awoken when the train lunges forward, and again when a bomb detonates in my stomach. Motion sickness/hangover are in full effect, and thank god a pretty girl who I’ve been eye fucking all morning is there to witness it. I first attempt to hold it in. “Come on William, you pussy shove it back down (no homo)” I keep telling myself, until finally it spews out a little and on to my hand. I give in, and lean over the trash can at the end of the metra. I am again, that guy. (This time im an inconsiderate party animal who pukes in public places) Just a little baby puke and my stomach feels better. I sit, having lost my dignity hours ago, without much embarrassment as to my current state. I shoot the pretty girl a “hey, don’t stare at me, party!!” look and she gets the deal. I get off at Claredon Hills. Finally, dry land. Its 9:00 and my luck continues to be dried and out of commission. I call Grant every 15 minutes from 9 to 11, with no answer. I remember him and his roommate telling me its “.7 miles” from there house to the train station, so I get the idea that I will just attempt to walk .7 miles in every direction and I will surely find there apt. I realize now how truly stupid this plan was. After 2 hours of walking in endless directions and seeing places I try to convince myself I’ve seen before, I kick out around “Blackhawk drive”. Seeing as I remembered making an off hand, random comment about how its “Blackhawk drive” we were driving on two nights before, I am certain it will lead me there. No dice. I find a 711 to hydrate myself at and realize my luck has changed ever so slightly. They have Gatorade on tap. Oh sweet nector of the gods, I buy the largest cup (I’m a man, yes I am) and settle down on the curb to drink it in all of its deliciousness. It’s no more than 47 degrees (approximately) and I continue to wander. I call my bro, who helps me navigate to Grants apt using mapquest. Thank you, Bradley. 2 hours later and roughly 4 miles (when I finally called B it was 1045 and I was 1.56 miles from Grants) I get into Grants apt and shower. I feel like the scene in King of New York where Frank White showers after he’s released from prison. (I also realize you have to be a Biggie Smalls fan to have ever considered watching this movie) Glorious. Its 1230 when Grant and his boys come home, and I must look like dog shit. We all share stories, and return to wonderland before the train ride. I’m glad I survived the night. Grant drops me off and I get my ticket. The old, stern looking Amtrak attendant lets me know I must take the tunnel down to where I need to be picked up. I ignore him foolishly, and stand outside. I make eye contact with a chick with a big ass and a soft “fuck me crazy” look on her face. Boner. I’m in a zone. I board the train with her. My first thought is, “man these seats don’t look like Amtrak seats”. The train lurches forward, and I continue zoning in on the thick girl with a work of art for an ass. The conductor interrupts my day dreaming to let me know that I am in fact on the wrong train, and someone will be along to help me out. I let the ticket taker know this, that I am on the wrong train and what should I do he responds “you better get off the train!” Which I oblige, and make further eye contact with the beauty on the metra. Oh so close, I give her a look and she smirks, most likely at my stupidity. I tuck my tail in between my legs and wait at the Lisle train station for a train back to Naperville, so that I can once again board a train for Galesburg. I let the Amtrak attendant know that I am in fact an idiot (my exact words), and that I missed my train. If this stern old man could even smile, he would’ve, I am confident. Lady Luck/Karma/God give me a break, and hang one for me; I will only have to wait another 15 minutes for the train. Oh joy. All I had planned to do was curl up and die (figuratively, but soon to be literally at this point) on the train, which I have now been awake/blacked out for 32 consecutive hours. Ugh..I find out we have assigned seats on the train, and I get slotted next to my #2 girl. (Side note: I’ve spent so long watching, viewing, obsessing over sports that I must rank girls by looks in every social situation) Shes cute but uninterested. I think of making small talk but I pass out, all to happy to finally (and legally) close my eyes. 510 rolls around and I awake. Almost home. 6oclock hits and we arrive. The train conductor makes an off-hand comment about how much the town we are entering sucks (a synopsis of her words, not exacts) and I know it is Galesburg. I have never been so happy to be back in all of my life. 20 minutes it takes me to stagger home, I quickly derobe, send some texts and lay in bed. 1:38am hits, and I am starving. I realize I just passed out for 7 hours, I devour two handfuls of left over stale popcorn, and return to my slumber. I awake at 8:32, some 14 plus hours of sleep and am ready for Monday. I think I am…