So today I guiltily snuck past 4,000 views.. I say guiltily because since 3,000 views I’ve only posted like 4 times.  I’m working on fixing that, but I’ve been busy moving and moping and other important stuff like that.

Speaking of which, I’ll never set foot in Parker 428 again.   What a tremendously strange feeling that is.  Despite the fact that it was a black hole of despair, I killed a lot of Nazi Zombies and wrote a lot of blog posts in there. Actually now that I think about it, this is the first blog post written in the post-Parker Era, I have no idea what I’m going to write about now.  Those obscenity-yelling, door-slamming, un-potty trained morons of the 4th floor were so often my inspiration…

It really is a weird feeling though, because that dorm room eventually became my reality, while my parents house was like a time machine, exactly how it was when I was in high school.  Going to school in the town I grew up in makes reality hard to place.  The setting is only vaguely familiar, disconnected from the town I grew up in, but people from my pre-college life frequently make appearances.  I see people I know from the past here and there, but they’re out of the context in which I remember them, like when you encounter familiar faces in a dream.  Dreams aren’t populated with strangers, what makes a dream a dream is familiar faces in places they don’t belong.  When I used to leave home every Sunday night to drive back to the dorms it was like I was leaving my past and entering my strange reality someplace in between past and future. Now that reality is in boxed up in the past, and I’m left wondering if it all really was just a dream.


Being the socially awkward person that I am, dressing rooms terrify me.  For one they’re always in the women’s section, so to find them you have to look like a freak, creeping around in the women’s underwear section.  When you actually find the dressing rooms in between the bloomers and the Justin Beiber-crotched teen panties, you have to figure out which dressing rooms ones are the women’s and which one’s are the men’s, lest you barge in on women in states of undress or unflattering jeans.  Figuring this out usually involves asking the snarky teenage girl who works there.  I say snarky because they always treat you in this condescending manner, like you’re going to make the clothes dirty by touching them, and it’s a long trip back to the incinerator after you’ve soiled them.  That being said, some of that snark is well placed, because another scary thing about the dressing room is the complete trust you place in the hands of the person who tried the clothes on before you.  I just have to hope that their particular species of lice isn’t too aggressive, or that they at least applied deodorant to their sweaty balls before they tried it on. Adding to the stress of the whole thing is the knowledge that if you forgo the dressing room and just buy it and it looks like crap on you or is the wrong size, you’re stuck with it forever, because returns are twice as scary.

Yesterday I just sat around at home and watched kung fu and boxing movies.  Never a good idea to startle me after a day like that, because I was hardcore in the mood to punch something and get punched just to feel alive.

Just f.y.i. I’ve never been punched before, I bet it would hurt a lot worse than it looks in the movies.

I start working in the President (of OSU)’s office tomorrow morning, hopefully I don’t screw up, and hopefully he doesn’t read my blog.

In memoriam Parker 428,


P.S. I’ve got a couple more blog posts in the works, so hopefully I’ll start posting with regularity again! No promises though, because blogging is hard.