I should start off with a recent dream I had. No, not THAT one. And not the one where I finally find the beautiful Harvard girl. Illusive, as Yoda might say, she is. It went a little like this: I’m sitting in my fantasy English class (which already demonstrates a level of sadness permeating even my dream-life) when all of a sudden we are given a new assignment. Someone has to read Middlemarch. That someone is me. The book must be read in a single day. I remember waking up with something halfway between a literager (trademark!) and absolute dread.
I’m pretty sure part of the dream even involved me blogging about the dream. There’s no way it was that self-referential, but I have that creepy deja vu-esque sensation that it is.
Strange conversation I walked by:
“Right… and you have these nanobot red blood cells.”
I noticed a lot of people dressed up here on Halloween as police officers. But if you’re a girl, you don’t dress up as a real policer officer. Instead, you dress up like the “police officers” that pull you over in adult films and then “punish you.” I have to say, men and lesbian-ladies-who-love-porn, is this really anyone’s fantasy? Don’t people want to avoid an arrest and maybe just meet someone nice and intellectually stimulating? No? That’s fair. It certainly would be strange though if we inverted the porn-cop costume with the atire of your average police officer. Then, on Halloween, people would wear their “Fat-cop” costume or their “Well-Dressed and Official Publicity Session Lieutenant” outfit. The result would include what are essentially Arrested Development-style Hot-cops or tons of Lt. Dangle patrolling the mean streets of America, and on Halloween a bunch of people looking either
- Menacing and ready to give you a speeding ticket or
- Strangely well put together.
But girls don’t seem to dress up in business attire for Halloween. If I had a nickel for every time I heard, “I’m hot Hillary Clinton tonight,” I’d probably have to give a few nickels back for all the times I’ve heard, “I’m just sort of slutty-looking.” At the very least, police departments would save a lot of money on cotton and polyester. Hot pants are infinitely more economical to produce.
Music you should listen to: Morning Teleportation. Trust me, you haven’t heard of it, but it’s great.
Whenever I visit CVS, I go upstairs to look at office supplies. There’s something about staplers. They get me. This means every time I go, I’m tempted to buy one of those really top-notch Swingline staplers that you can swing around and staple shit with absolute efficiency and something akin to power. One strange thing about the Harvard Square CVS is that the pharmacy is located right at the top of the stairs. This invariably means that when I’m searching out a foxy new stapler, I see a bunch of people searching out some foxy new prescriptions. And there’s something that my level of society hasn’t quite worked out yet about seeing someone you know waiting in line for a prescription so that the experience can’t help but feel “awkward.” Medication is a lot like fornication or crapping in that we all know it’s happening but most people refuse to admit that the standing figure in front of them is capable or willing to do either of those things. Imagine a life without pooping. Now come back to reality. So when I see girls that I know at CVS waiting for what could honestly just be 24-hour photo development (it’s right where the Pharmacy is in some bizarre photography/medicative deal) but is probably birth control or ADD medication, there’s a strange moment where the person in front of me transforms beyond the idealized prototype of an individual that I think everyone to be into something quite other. When I see you standing there, I think, “Oh, this person is getting some action.” And I also append, “And probably more than me,” because my inexplicable and egotistic insistence that “I only date models” has really complicated romance at Harvard much further than it should be and to a nearly impossible level. This is not only due to a cross-application of the above discussion of the beautiful Harvard girl, but also because artificially limiting yourself like this ends up meaning you like women who quite like to pretend you don’t even exist. And here I thought I was the only one thinking nobody else exists. The Matrix.
Why did Kanye choose the West?
I get a lot of email spam. It makes things doubly hard because often I want to know about certain events that are happening. The problem is that when every third email entering my inbox is about “Patrick’s Pumpkin Hunt!!1!,” I have a hard time convincing myself of the importance of any other messages and that they don’t represent another “Farmer’s Lewis’s Amish bakery sale in the farthest away building on campus”. Because as many “Hear former President Clinton speak to an audience of six people in which you are the sole focus of everyone’s attention!” messages come, so many more are just shouting about midgetnards and the 86th health survey about whether or not my feet are comfortable on Harvard’s pathways. Someone’s job should really be to ensure that spam is filtered more effectively based on my interests. Google?
Things that make me laugh: Fat people on bicycles.
Also, fuck you, Palm Pre.
Goodnight, I’m Brad, even though I’m really just a world trying to open up to yours.
