January 31, 2005

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! A Man After Midnight

I have gotten sucked into Harold's web once more. I should be sleeping in my crappy single bed, electric blanket on a respectable 4, but I'm in the MSC, doing pre-calculus homework. I'm taking pre-calculus for two reasons: 1. I would like to apply to medical school, and Calculus is required of all applicants and 2. Because I made a bet with myself in high school that I could matriculate without any knowledge of Algebra. I won the bet, but lost the war.

I am incredibly stupid sometimes.

He has me by the balls, because he knows that I am not one to take shared history lightly. Harold and I went to Middle School] together. He was one of the few people who would deign to socialize with me; I owe him for his constant defense of me in those fragile years.

I love him like a brother. Except I'm not constantly hitting on my brother. You can't blame a boy for trying.

I worry about him and his self-destructive tendancies. His adhedonia, his recklessness. He is a gorgeous mess. But arn't we all? I look at him sometimes and am overwhelmed by everything he could be. All those people that we know that could one day change the structure of the universe. Along with that comes the other version of them, the messy, sticky part threatening to roll over them, and galvanize their failure.

It all comes back to Tori Amos, and Under The Pink. She sang: "They say you were something in those formative years" and I just felt like crying. Some might find that childish, but it animates more of us than you'd think, that drive to never have our potential be referred to in the past tense.

I have to get back to that now, because every second I'm not preparing is lost. I have a head start with my ridiculous memory (exactly what they said, the context in which they said it, cross-referenced in relation to a myriad of dimensions) and my ability to bull-shit, but my kind is extinct by now, unless we have some stamina.

I'll win this war.

POINT/COUNTERPOINT:
Tyler Evans, Grade 3, Mrs. Baker's Class, Shady Grove Elementary
and
Vichizzle McNizzle, Pimp Daddy

The War on Drugs

Vichizzle: So what we gots hur to-day?! The War on Drugs? Ah-right, Vichizzle be bitin. First of all, let me hash this shit out fo ya (pun intended, y'all). So the United Fuckin State's gubment decides a long time ago dat all drugz iz bad, ya dig? All cep fo alcohol and tobacco, mind ya (well they did try try and fail mizerably wit Prohibition an shit wit alcohol). Anahways, evurthin buts them, yo weed, yo cocaine, heroine, all dat shit's bad, bad, bad. But peoples ignorin they laws and smokin they weed and snortin they cocaine anyways, so the gubment declares a fuckin war on drugs. So they be goin round, fucking drug sniffin dogz, checkin out trucks an shit comin ovah the bodah from Mexico, and fuckin settin fire to entire fuckin weed fields. See they be usin army helicopters an shit sometimes so dat's how it be a war I guess. Yeah, they be spendin hundreds a millions of our tax dollars on this endeavor to keep our country safe from the evils of drugs -- cep fo nicotine and alcohol.

Ah-right, now lets me axe you a question. What the fuck we need a WAR on drugs fo?! Or why the hell they callin it a war? Shit. They needs to spend that muthafuckin money on somethin more worthy like fixin the damn roads or subsidizin pimp schools! Werd! Yeah, I could teach at one o' them, be all like Professor McNizzle, Pimp Engineerin, pass on all my worthy pimpin knowledges that I have gatherfied throut my creer. Like the proper way to bitch slap the hos and get the bitches to fuckin behave. Or how to gets the look down, fuckin wearin the right bling bling an shit. You should see the way Vichizz be decked out, muthafuckas. Er I could tech 'em the economicals of the in-dust-tree, what each kinda hos be worth, how much to charge an shit, supply and demand and al that utha fancy college shit. All them knowledges be lost in the ether when I passes on, which could be next week if that Tyrone muthafucka busts a cap in my ass like he threatenin fo fuckin his sistah. The bitcho gets around, lemme tell ya, and Vichizz thinks ol big brutha don't know nuthin bout it.

But anyways, the gubment can makes more jack by leagalizin the drugz than by spendin all our monies fuckin settin fields of mary jane ablaze. The gubment could tax the fuck outta that shit and...

Naw, wait a minute. That'd suck. Make it all too expensive and Vichizz ain't got dat kinda monies. Neverminds.

Anyway, I asked him what drugs were good, that they can't be all bad. He said that only drugs doctors prescribe are good, like the oxeecontin and vikingdon and those other pills mommy takes when she's sad which is a lot. I asked daddy where the bad drugs came from. He said they were from the Damhippies. The Damhippies were long haired commies and fags that lived out of vans down by the river way back last century. They did lots of drugs and sinned a lot and they were even making babies before they got married. These Damhippies must be really bad people because only bad people do that. And all bad people, like Muslims, my daddy says, you have to fight against. So that's why they fight a war on drugs.

I asked daddy what all the bad drugs were called. He said there was marrywanna, coke (not the soda), herowin, crack, smack, and meth. One of daddy's cousins once blowed up his house making meth and he died. I guess that's why drugs are bad, they can blow your house up sometimes and your brains. I seen the commercial with the eggs on the frying pan and if that's what drugs do to your brain I will not do them. My daddy says if I stay away from Damhippies, fags, and Muslims, that it will not be a problem. So that's what I will do.

11/24/04 == 12/20/04 == 12/21/04 == 12/30/04 == 01/31/05 == 02/10/05 == 02/14/05 == 05/18/05 == 07/25/05 == 09/01/05 == 10/24/05 == 12/22/05 == 07/20/06 == 10/31/06 == 02/07/07 == 07/13/07 == 12/18/07

I went two five minute rounds with him. Now, if you've never boxed a round, imagine sprinting as hard as you can, and then pump adreneline through every vein of your body because you're sprinting away from someone that if they catch you, they're gonna knock your ass down. Thats boxing, it's simply that taxing (I'm well aware that it doesn't really look it, it looks like two guys stepping around eachother at a fairly metered pace)

Concentrating on the second round, I had his rhythm down. First, a ducking jab to my stomache. When I retreated, he would attack with wild hooks. This in mind, I began to hold my ground and sidestep a bit to jab him in the eye. His face began to puff, and I could see I had given him a black eye (or he would have one soon enough.) Naturally however, this frustrated him thoroughly. We had a conversation about that later, that to really be good, you must keep your composure when you take a hit. At any rate, after about four entanglements with me, him not producing anything but more frustration, he lost it. I nailed him once, and he charged me hard. Lesson learned: if you figure out how to counter someone's rhythm you need to immediately begin figuring out a new way to counter, as they have just as long to counter yours. Before I could sufficiently get my guard back up, he was throwing wild hooks. I tried to hold my ground and set myself up for a jab to counter, but failed to bob my head. Then came the solid hit.

It was odd, how time slowed down on that hit. I saw what was happening before it happened, but I was too cocerned with what his power right was doing. Had he hit me with that, I would have gone down for the proverbial count. He connected, the cleanest, hardest hit I've ever had. My head turned to the left very quickly, guided by my jaw my head snapped to the left. Immediately my head snapped back to its original position. I'll never forget the sound that my own upper spine made. Like something out of a movie, I heard every vertebrate snap within the span of less than a tenth of a second. It sounded similar to velcro. I was reeling, but I managed to throw a cross left (I was boxing southpaw) and grabbed him right on the bridge of the nose. This backed him off real quick, and we each complimented eachother's hits. Mine definately suprised him, and his was the hardest hit I had ever taken.

We stood there staring at each other for about a minute, tried to put up for one more scrim, and then gave up. Amazingly, my jaw didn't really ache. My head hurt, but my jaw refused to ache. We rejoined the other two boxers on the side of the field (there are some concrete steps that we hung out on) and they began reviewing our fight for us. Apparently it was the most technical they had ever seen a pair box (well, aside from TV.) They complimented my immediate improvement of my retreating situation, and I accepted it. I knew I had done well. Then they started talking about how well Andrew had done, but my mind had wandered. I found myself staring at the ground wondering when I was going to puke. True story. I wasn't too frightened at this point, because I was sitting right near one of their other friend's vomit-piles from the night before, so apparently it would have been socially acceptable. But then my eyes started to darken. It felt suddenly that I had a thin veil of black lace pulled over my eyes. This frightened me. I knew it was the one hit (even if it hadn't affected me immediately.)

A note about me (however gruesome:) I inherited this from my good ol'Dad. When I get upset, my intestines act up. I dunno what it is, but they like to rebel on me. Easiest way to get me to need to shit, is upset me. I hate it, I really do. Naturally I had to find a bathroom pretty quick. Not only would it serve to relieve me, but it would be a much more civilized place to puke. I got up and began to saunter towards the dorms (Whichever one is next door to Villa Del Puente.) They asked where I was going, (as they knew that I needed to puke, and was wondering why I didn't in the bushes) which is when I told them about the hangover. I think they were impressed. I found two random guys coming away from the dorm, and I asked them to let me in. As soon as one turned around to walk me back to the dorm, the lace grew thicker. I was about three breaths away from absolutely passing out. Somehow I felt my way to the bathroom, and everything got better. It was really pretty anti-climactic. Don't get me wrong I'm very glad it was, but for the purpose of this story it sort of sucks.

Immediately feeling better I ran back to our makeshift ring, and commented how that was my last bout for the day, and I would never box with a hangover again. They absolutely understood. Everyone has been there, thats the nice thing about a sport like boxing: if you beat the shit out of someone they still get your respect because you know damn well that you'll be there next week.