He doesn’t comment on my blog.
I feel neglected.
I’m putting an over/under of four days on how long it takes him to see this, feel sorry for me, and make a pity comment. Any takers?
Of course, knowing TR, he’ll purposely not comment just to further damage my self esteem.
Alright, so a friend of mine just asked me to tell her my favorite story. It inspired a blog. Enjoy.
So check this out.
When I was in high school, my buddies and I went to every single football game. Home, away, didn’t matter how far it was…we were there.
Our senior year, we were predicted to do pretty well. Everyone figured we had a decent shot to make it to the state finals because had had probably ten returning all state players that should’ve gotten us there.
Well, we lost homecoming to Cassville by three points. They ended up going pretty far in state…but that’s beside the point.
My buddies and I were pretty upset about this, so we decided to blow off some steam, we could go blow some shit up. So we got some dry ice, a few two liters, and drove back to Sean’s neighborhood, which was generally the site of our mayhem.
We had been making dry ice bombs for quite some time…but on this night, we decided to make many more and on a much larger scale.
We made several and threw them. They all blew up but one. Then we put one in a portapotty. It blew up and got shit all over the place, which was pretty neat.
Well, we were all standing around trying to figure out what we could blow up next as a cop drove by. This was around midnight or later, so we figured we were in trouble.
We had no idea how much trouble we were really going to be in.
Remember that one bomb that didn’t blow up?
It blew up right as the cop was driving over it.
So we all took off running in different directions. Luckily, we had gotten into quite a bit of trouble in Sean’s neighborhood before, so we all knew it like the back of our hands.
And as teenage boys, we knew our hands pretty well, if you know what I mean.
In any event, we all took off running, knowing that we’d all eventually meet up at Matty’s house. He lived two houses behind Sean, and had a garage off in the woods in which we could hide out.
I wound up hiding in a bush. It was like one of those big tall bushes that people put beside their front door to attract people or something.
Well, it kept catching on my shirt, so I ripped my shirt off and tossed it out of the bush. Luckily, I was still painted up from the game (in black and red paint) so that helped me be “invisible” in the dark. A cop walked by me several times in the bush. All the while, I’m holding several two liter bottles and a bag full of dry ice.
After a while, the cop went somewhere else to look for everyone else, so I ditched the supplies and took off to Matty’s house where I met up with everyone but one of the guys we were with.
We took off back into the woods. They all hopped a fence…I didn’t have as much luck. I tried to hop it, but I don’t jump very high. I missed completely and landed flat on my ass.
To top it off, my ankle/sock were caught on the fence. I had to rip them away from the fence quickly because there was another cop hot on our trail. That tore a big chunk out of my ankle, from which I still have a scar to this day.
So we get back to the garage, get in, and start hiding when all of our phones start ringing.
It’s Matt, the one guy who hadn’t met up with us, yet.
Apparently, he didn’t know to meet back at Matty’s, and had run several blocks away.
He wanted us to go get him.
We told him he was on his own.
So after about an hour or so, one of the guys went out to check things out, only to come back and report that there were four cop cars (two Carl Junction cruisers and two Sheriff cars) parked in front of Sean’s house and that he had seen at least six cops patrolling the area on foot.
We were severely screwed.
At this point, one of the cops walks onto Matty’s property, up to his front door, and starts pounding on the door. We thought we were busted for sure.
Luckily, Matty’s parents didn’t wake up, so he didn’t find us.
Eventually, Sean’s brother called us. He came home during all of this and was immediately questioned by the cops.
He said they asked him where “his brother and his little buddies” were. He said he didn’t know, but he knew we were in trouble. So he offered to get us all out of it.
We made him go get Matt first, which he did. Then he came back and loaded us all into his car…which was difficult considering there were about eight of us, and he drove an RSX at the time.
He ended up getting us all home safe, and nothing ever came of it. Though we know the cops ran all of our tags AND found the credit card receipt we had bought the dry ice with AND my shirt which said “Mills” in big letters on the back.
Fortunately, they didn’t ever do anything to us. We laid low for a few days after that, though. Until we got ballsy and decided to make bombs again.
All my buddies said I was crying that night. I wasn’t. But even if I was, it was because it looked like someone had taken a bite out of my ankle. They say I was crying about going to jail and how my parents would kill me. Little did I know, I would later go to jail for something even more stupid than dry ice bombs, and my mom would pick me up as if it were no big deal.
I have hundreds of stories like this, and I love to tell them. Feel free to ask me to tell you a story.
Does anyone know what that means?
I mean, honestly. I’ve had this conversation several times. Rather, I’ve heard about this conversation several times.
I’m not trying to toot my own horn (beep beep), but apparently it’s the cool thing to do for young women to sit around and talk about “Who’s Hot and Who’s Not” as if all their conversations are some sort of article from Seventeen, Vogue, or Cosmopolitan.
Now, while I truly enjoy these conversations (at least when they’re about me), I don’t really understand what they mean.
“Nathan’s ‘kinda’ cute.”
What is “kinda”?
I remember when I was a child, either you were cute or your weren’t. Apparently there is not a grading scale. I just want to know where “kinda” fits in. Does that make me a seven? Maybe an eight?
Or does it just mean, simply, “I’d probably think he’s much cuter if he’d drop a couple hundred pounds.” Then some other girl goes, “Yeah! Free Willy!”
See what I did there? Stole that from Tommy Boy. Kinda.
Man, am I clever!
In any event, there is a reason I’ve chosen to focus on the phenomenon. I’m dying to start a band. Maybe Mr. JewRall will see this and put me in contact with some of his musician buddies. Being in a band DOES have it’s benefits, I suppose. Besides the girls, that is.
No, I don’t play any instruments (unless you count the two chords I can play on guitar), but I can sing. Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got some pipes. Unfortunately for me, boy bands aren’t cool anymore. So I’ve got to come up with a different band to start. I’m thinking my band would have a sound like Valencia. Here is their music video for their single, “The Space Between”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoLBe_wyvBw
I can do that! Exactly like that guy! And he’s just “kinda” cute, too!
All I’m saying is, if this guy can be the frontman of a pretty good pop punk band, then so can I.
How about some support, here?
Update: check out the new header image. Just designed that in Photoshop.
I signed up for this blog because, frankly, it’s an assignment for my newswriting class. I expected it to be essentially no frills and fairly unexciting.
My, how wrong I was. I nearly chucked my monitor onto the floor when I realized that simply signing up gets a generic first post published for a user. “Hello world!” says the title. Boo.
I’d much rather some in and make my own first post, thus the reason for editing the generic lead off post. I need more flavor than that. I’m far too awesome for blandness.
Now that I’m over my initial disappoint, I suppose it’s off to find TR’s blog…and maybe everybody else’s in my class, too.
PS: I need a sweet sign off. You know, like Walter Cronkite. Any suggestions?
PSS: Expect me to post all kinds of weird stuff. Like my thoughts on pro wrestling.
…Don’t make that face. You’re gonna love it.
