Tomorrow I am waking up at around 4:30am to fly to New York! I am very excited. I've only wormed my way into the Big Green Apple a couple times-- perhaps two or three. I'm going out there to check out Pratt Institute; after visiting Whittier I see the importance of visiting the campus and checking out the facilities. Whittier was great; once I assess Pratt I'll have to make a mountain-shaking decision.
Seriously, there will be mountains hardcore dancing... EVERYWHERE.
You know what sucks about having your room facing the backyard which is covered in fertilizer and moistened by sprinklers everyday? The fact that your room is facing the backyard which is covered in fertilizer and moistened by sprinklers everyday. I keep getting wafts of poo in my nose and it is unpleasant, to say the least.
Well, hey, I was browsing through some old Word documents, and there was an "original prose/poetry" I wrote up when I joined Speech and Debate my freshman-- I'm sorry, this is ridiculous. I'm trying to type and my next door neighbors are blasting Benassi's "Satisfaction." I guess that's not as bad as the random 'house' electronica crap they usually have pounding against my walls. To my knowledge, only guys live there... and when a group of guys spends time indoors blasting techno all night, you KNOW what's up. Oh my bob. Another song started, and it literally sounds like a beluga whale recording set to a fast bass. This is stupid. One day I am going to have an insane blowout at my pad and I will blast my neighbors to kingdom come with Tally Hall. That's no lie. Party at my house, people. We need to fight this.
Anyway, as I was saying: --year, and it has its moments. I don't have much to say so I figured I'd stick it up here. This is like historical work, fossilized and preserved for 4 years.
Speech And Debate OPP: The Gym
"I go to the YMCA every week, to work out, and use the fitness machines, and pretend I’m actually making an attempt to lose weight. I, being the jaded, voodoo-doll owning teenager that I am, have made several observations of the people I see there. People just like you and me. Sort of. The gym is like a jungle—a jungle gym, if you’ll pardon the pun. It has a large variety of classifications and species.
One of them, and the most common, being the middle-aged, hairy, hunch-backed old man. You feel a sort of pity for them, while they muster up all their God-given strength to lift a 10-pound barbell. They wear polyester shorts, a t-shirt they got free at a Home Depot convention, and pull their golden-toe socks up to their knees. Now, you never see these guys sweat, most likely because there’s not much fluid left in their crusty old bodies. Instead, they let out small whimpering noises, buckling from the strain of the weights. Sometimes, they bring their walkman. Yeah, walkman. And they sing along to whatever song might happen to be playing on the tape. …Yeah, tape. Except there really isn’t anything playing on that tape. These old men can’t hear anything! So they mumble random words and bob their heads, trying to pass off for a guy with some sort of taste in music.
Another type of person you might often see is the sweaty, buff narcissist. Their ages usually range from 30 to 40, but they try to act like they’re a young 20. These narcissists take pride in having disgusting, bulging muscles. They let off inhuman amounts of sweat, right up there with body odor. The buff narcissist tries to impress anyone who cares; more specifically, no one. That’s why they resort to showing off by muttering self-encouraging things under their breath, like, “Oh yeah baby, you can do it,” and “Come on old buddy, give ‘em what you got.” They flex and pump on their seated leg press in a loud, obnoxious way, unaware that they are using the machine wrong. Everyone else in the gym glances over in an embarrassed manner, then turns back to the t.v. set mounted on the wall.
The next type of person is the person who always chooses to go on the machine right next to you. There’s nobody in the gym but you two, with about twelve treadmills lined up in a row, and he decides to take the one right next to yours. And you think to yourself, “What the heck is with this guy?” He’s huffing and puffing, right down your neck, practically. The awkwardness of the situation will then be doubled once you both give each other the inevitable glance-over. Sooner or later, you’ll both look at the same time. In this situation, you and your opposite have one of three options: A, give a small, unfamiliar smile, and then wait to see who will turn away first, B, snap your head straight forward in a sharp pivot, as if to pretend you were never looking in the first place, or C, jump back and run like hell for the door. If the person has a chain link tattoo, eye patch, pistol, or really bad breath, C is your most reliable bet.
At every gym you go to, there’ll always be ‘the clique.’ No matter if you go to 24 Hour Fitness, the YMCA, Average Joe’s, wherever, there’s going to be a group of fitness nerds who want you off their turf. Being a part of this group is a highly exclusive privilege, or, at least, to the people in it. The characters in the clique are a variety of male and female, ages twenty or higher, ranging from five to ten persons total. They are often seen having health-related conversations by the drinking fountain, almost as if to protect it from any outsiders or ‘newbies’ at the gym. To the untrained eye, these people seem friendly and willing to extend a helping hand. Wrong. If you so much as ask them where the towels are, they’ll sneer and give you the contemptuous ‘stink eye.’ What you have to understand is that nobody in these cliques has a life outside of the gym. They were all unpopular in high school, so this is like the dreamy teenage life they never lived. In a way, the gym is just like a high school, filled with its very own inner circles and stereotypes. Of course, it’s basically just having p.e. each period, and not to mention the perk of being able to cut class without any punishment. Well, except for becoming fat, that is."
And then I don't think I ever came up with an ending. Or maybe that ending would suffice. Reading this is funny to me not because it's essentially a written attempt at stand-up comedy, but because it's such a vivid example of the evolution of my humor over the years, or lack thereof. First off, it was stupid and even pretentious at some points. I would say about 90% is still my general genre (funny having those two words right next to each other) of humor, but still very different. My freshman humor was a little more cliche and sitcom-y. To say I have made a drastic move away from this would not be entirely correct, but my humor has become a little drier, subtler, and in some cases just flat-out low brow. But I try to keep it classy low brow. Try. I didn't use swear words until my junior year, and didn't ever really say "shit" or drop the f-bomb until this year. I would like to dedicate my sailor-mouth friends who have taught me that there ARE certain types of jokes that are only funny if you add swear words. It's "edgy" in some respect. Ultimately, I'm a fan of family-oriented humor (Team Gaffigan) and my creed is that old Facebook group, "Cursing is how people show off their lack of creativity."
Man, I could go for a sandwich right about now. Or some internet vegetation. I hear that's good for you.
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