What kind of sicko freaks are out there?

Nevermind, don't answer that question.

After visiting Bryan, I called Roman to see if he was doing Undie Run. On a whim, I decided to go too, and of course I dragged some of the apartmentmates along.

I'd say that it was definitely more festive in years past, but, thankfully, less of a (as Roman calls) cockfest. I swear to you, that is the last time I use that word again.

Maybe it's because it's grown in popularity (yes, that's proper grammar - 'it is' and 'it has') but it was definitely more crowded than I remember. So crowded that it turned out to be less of a run than a walk. Well, maybe a trot. Yes, the Undie Trot. That could be the name of the next dance craze. Yes kids, get down and do the Undie Trot.

Anyhoo, all was well until we hit the end of the route... at which point the front pack immediately turned around. Do you have any idea how scary it is watching a herd of college students (mostly guys) stampeding toward you? Needless to say, I turned around well before I got trampled underfoot. But then... the weirdest shit started happening. Amidst the ruckus and chaos that ensued, I got lost from Roman on the return toward the start. So making my way around the crowd, two girls stop me to ask for a picture. I thought: "dammit, I kinda have to find Roman," but what the hell. I'm about to get their camera to take a picture of the two, but no, they hand off the camera to another guy, with one of them to my left and the other to my right, it turned out that they wanted a picture with me. Considering that it's, well, me, that comes as a bit of a shock, but again, what the hell. It's probably plastered all over Facebook at this very moment. That's not the weirdest part though. I pass this one guy, who looks a bit older than the rest of us. By the end, everyone's laughing, chatting with friends and taking pictures (of themselves, for the most part), but he's standing there alone with his camera.

Leering.

At me.

I can't begin to imagine why, out of a crowd of hundreds, he chooses me. Especially amongst such an expansive crowd, there are definitely more festive - and might I add, attractive - people to take pictures of.

|rant| So there are participants and there are the observers, sure, and we're all out to have a good time. Though it sucks that the people watching from the side aren't joining in - c'mon, going to undie run just to watch? lame - but even so, at least they are there to cheer on friends. This guy: big glasses, big backpack (Asian, if it helps the mental image), and generally kinda dorky - not to be mean, but it's rather atypical of the college fratboys and girls who go to a thing like this. Anyway, he's standing alone, in the middle of the sidewalk, watching people as if looking for a specific target. He spots me, and immediately I notice his camera lens pointed at me. Not at the general landscape, because as soon as I move to get out of the way of his shot, the lens traces my every movement. Weaving through a small crowd, I thought I'd lost him, until I emerged from the other side only to find his camera still following me. I wonder why he was so damned adamant about getting my picture, because, unfortunately, I had to cross his path twice more before the end of the night, and both times the same thing happened. |end rant|

I feel violated.

"I'd like to have a boyfriend like you."

I've heard that on more than one occasion, and don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the kind words. Yet something about that sentence bugs me almost to the point of amusement, and I'm not sure why. Well, I think I do, at least. Please tell me I'm wrong.

It's that there has got to be some shrieking subtext behind that sentence. As if the inner monologue was saying, "I'd like to have a boyfriend/girlfriend like you, BUT..."

But what? Let's play fill in the blank. But not to worry, I'll make it multiple choice so that it will be easy. Just like those LS midterms (grrr).

So here we go. In order to answer the question, please read through i-xvi, and choose a letter between a and p that best completes the following sentence:

"I'd like to have a boyfriend/girlfriend like you, but...":

i) You smell like feet.
ii) You sound like you've swallowed a frog.
iii) I'm not allowed to date until I'm married.
iv) You have troll's hair.
v) You're too short.
vi) You're too tall.
vii) You're too nice.
viii) You're not nice enough.
ix) Your eyebrows look kinda funny.
x) You've got big feet.
xi) You're too ugly.
xii) You dress funny.
xiii) I bent my Wookie.
xiv) Uh, were you just first-basin' it with that piece of loose-leaf?!
xv) My hair is tired.
xvi) Oh no! You shanked my jengaship!

a) I only
b) II, VII and XI
c) IV only
d) VI and XII
e) VIII, XIV and XVI
f) III, V, IX, XII and XV
g) I and VII
h) VIII, IX and XIII
i) VI, VIII and XIV
j) I, II, III, IV and V
k) VI, VII, VIII and X but not IX
l) VIX VIII XIV
m) IXVIIXVIXVIXIVX
n) XI only
o) All of the above
p) None of the above

In the midst of everyone studying for finals, I'm walking through the stacks of Powell library, and then onward through the reading room where everyone is hunkered down with their books. Most heads are still deeply engaged in the math, history, poli sci, what have you; but a few look up. And giggle. I can't help but feel a little silly myself, though I can't figure out why. To those couple of girls snickering, I turn toward them and flash a quick smile, and continue on my way.

Maybe it was that I had ten laptops with me. Maybe it was that I was making quite a bit of noise as I passed by. Or maybe it was the little red wagon that I was wheeling around.

Squeak squeak, squeak squeak, the wheels joyously chime, as I drag the wagon behind me. I have a picture in my head of the other workers joyriding this thing around the empty halls of the library. You know, if it weren't finals week. Just as I grab the keys to unlock the door, the lettering seems to jump out at you. The words "Radio Flyer" in script font and "Town and country" in bold illuminates in white on top of the cherry red boards.

Play along for a moment, and revert back to the 4th grade. You're dragging along your Radio Flyer, and you stop in front of another kid. You've never seen him in school before, but that's because he doesn't go to school. He's got on a tattered flannel shirt, with a hole just under the shoulder. It's a little too big for him, and he has a few of the buttons done on the bottom; it's much too warm on a sunny Saturday afternoon in Nebraska. No shoes either, just dirty brown feet. His overalls complete the ensemble. Busily chewing on a piece of straw, he pretends not to notice you; he just keeps on painting his fence, but you can tell that every once in a while, he steals a quick glance at you, eyes your wagon, then goes back to painting.
You're kinda curious. This boy seems pretty darn care-free, white-washin' dem fences. Mustering up enough courage to approach him, you ask:
“Hello, old chap, you got to work, huh?”
“What do you call work?” he responds.
“Why, ain’t that work?”
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain’t. All I know it suits Tom Sawyer.”
You're a little blown away by his flippant response. “Oh, come now, you don’t mean to let on that you like it?”
The brush continues to move.
“Like it? Well, I don’t see why I oughtn’t to like it. Does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”
Now you are definitely intrigued. Maybe it's more fun than the stupid little wagon after all. You say to him:
“Say, let me whitewash a little.”
He's got a glint in his eyes, but you can't see the gears in his mind churning. He looks back about to say something, but stops, then turns toward you with a smile.
"Nah, I reckon you wouldn't like it."
Now you're adamant about getting a turn at the fence. "Aww, c'mon. I'll let you play with my red wagon."
His feigned reluctance finally melts.
"Ohhhh..... alright, but only for a little while."
And suddenly you're stuck painting a fence. Or studying for finals. For the rest of your friggin life.


By the way... If you hadn't notice already, most of those lines were copied (or modified) without the expressed and written consent of the author. Cuz he's been dead for 95 years.

Maybe this is just my way of coping with the stress.

People who can sing are hot.

That is all.

"Also, robotic patients were able to have sexual intercourse again in about 11 months..."
-"Cutting Edge" by Jennifer Barrett, Newsweek Dec 12, 2005

Whoah, really the wrong part of the article for my eyes to have fallen on when flipping ot a random page. Read the entire article (in its proper context, might I add) here:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/10350474/site/newsweek/

Also, while we're on the subject of sex, here's your chemistry lesson of the day: sexidentate molecules (yes, say it out loud) like EDTA are good for lead and heavy metal poisoning, but don't ever take it on a daily basis. Because you get sick and die. How sexy is that?