Don't Go In There!

Lately my friends and I have been really into scaring ourselves by watching scary movies and such.  Yes, I'm well aware that Halloween was quite a while ago, but sometimes it takes me longer to get with societies trends than other people. I WILL NOT BE SUBJECT TO THE MAN, MAN.

*ahem*

Like a good group of friends, we obviously do that thing that most people do when they watch a scary movie: point out each and every flaw that every character makes.

Don't go in that room you dingus!

I would've left 10 hours ago.

Just stab them in the head! Jugular--go for the jugular!

Of course, these flaws are what make scary movies scary.  All that uncertainty of what is going to happen next because some bimbo got into a situation that usually leads to their demise or the demise of a lot of minorities.  We get to have fun screaming and holding each other because of these flaws and then pretending like we're OK walking to our cars after the movie is over.

Not to mention the fact that every person in a scary movie is surprisingly bad at every physical task; kind of like infomercial people.

 Oh no!  I need to get into my car! *throws keys ten feet away*

I wonder where the light switch is... *falls down flight of stairs*

I think I'll make a sandwich. *stabs self in the eye*

...you get what I mean.

So this got me thinking about my life and how easy it would be to for my life to become a scary movie.  I put on the rose colored glasses of death and stepped out the metaphorical front door.

Waking up in the morning and I would be quite the idiot to step on the floor around my bed since there is OBVIOUSLY a murderer hiding underneath there (or at least someone since that has happened before).  I tell myself in my head to jump at least five feet and make a run for the bathroom, only to be stopped by the shower curtain.

If this were a scary movie, when I begin taking my shower, I'm definitely going to be wrapped up in that shower curtain after a psycho stabs me 1 or 9 times.  Wait, what was that creaking?  I should have known that there was some kind of ghost living inside my water heater that would eventually get sick of sitting quietly.

Surviving the shower, I build the suspense since absolutely nothing has happened yet.  I make it to my classes on time and have a completely uneventful day unless you count the fact that I could have been drowned in a public bathroom, crushed by a bookshelf, or attacked by a flock of seagulls.

"I really wish you would stop watching
me pee."

"Just stay in your house!" You might scream as I decide to take an evening stroll, the music changing to a more ominous tune as I put on my shoes.  You jump as my cat suddenly runs across the screen and an orchestra of strings screeches while I fall onto the floor and give a small chuckle.  You even tell yourself how stupid you're being thinking that anything is wrong; but then you remember the genre you're watching. Shit.

Will it be the butler, the ghost, the ominous monster under the bed, or the local psychopath that conveniently escaped from the insane asylum only days ago? You'll probably just pick all of the above--just to be safe.

I step out on the sidewalk and have to narrowly avoid a car that zooms by.  "Damn lawbreaking hooligans..." I mutter under my breath as I continue my walk.  NO.  You know that I should stay inside and you always wonder why it isn't so obvious to me as well.  

"You guys seriously gotta stop changing the
locks."

I continue down the road and every crack is a death trap, every sudden noise will certainly be my last.  Slowly, you start to see the fear creep across my face and then you know that things are about to get serious.  "Was that shadow in the corner?!"  "I swear I heard breathing!"  I begin to run and end up tripping, ripping my pants along a fence.  You scream for me to get up and start to cover your face with your fingers (while you peek out intermittently).  This is the end, you know it, you tell yourself you've always known it and that you saw this coming.

I scream. You scream. We all scream.

Standing over me with a knife is a dark figure that we cannot see until they step into the light: My cat.

"But why!?" I yell to be heard over the obnoxiously loud screeching of the devilish orchestra

"BECAUSE YOLO!" He screams and the knife descends.

--and I wake up, in my bed in the middle of the night with a cold sweat dripping down my brow.

"WHAT?!" escapes your mouth (along with some expletives).  At this point you're beyond angry and confused for this being a dream the whole time.  There are just so many things you wanted to have happen and now you just don't know what to do.  You then convince yourself you were never scared and you knew this was going to be awful from the beginning.

But the story continues...

I walk into the bathroom for a drink of water and open the medicine cabinet.  But when I close the door again, my face turns into shock as the cat is standing behind me with the knife.

Cut to black.

You all slightly jump in your seats as it ends and you tell everyone how scared you aren't.

"Ugh, that was SO dumb! I can't believe you talked me into watching that." or "The original was way better, man."

Yet, when you walk to your car you can't help but keep one eye on the neighborhood cat the whole time.  You're being silly, you tell yourself. But at the same time, you keep your car key ready to go in the lock, just in case.

The Five *Flawless* Steps to Becoming Paula Deen

One of the great things that I've experienced growing up in American Culture is that wonderful dream that gets instilled into almost each and every child:

You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up.

Ignoring the economy, college diplomas, finances, and common physical law, I found exactly what I want to be when I grow up.

Paula Deen.

This means that if I can be anything I want, then you can too.  So here are my Five *Flawless* Steps to Becoming Paula Deen.

"Quick! I hear a meal that needs our help!"

Step 1. Get on that accent y'all!

If any of you weren't aware, our friend Paula hails from Georgia where the accent is as thick as the butter.  So in order to prepare our transformation into Paula-hood we need to take on an accent of our own.  For those of you who can afford it, I would suggest going to the Paula School of Accent located in Brooklyn.  But for the rest of us common folk who can't afford such fancy pants education, you can follow my southern drawl techniques.

If you're like me, you have access to the internet and thus, the glorious YouTube. On this "YouTube," find each and every video that stars our inspiration and watch them on repeat. You may start seeing visions and having intense dreams, but this only leads us into our next step...

2. Pop some butter in the oven!

One cannot simply hope to transform into the vision of Paula Deen without making food.  Some of you are probably on that "Well I made cereal for breakfast phase," but I think we need to reach out side of our comfort zones.  There you go, keep reaching...keep going...ahh. There, you did it.  You have reached over the edge and fallen into the metaphorical butter lake.

Now you can cook like Paula.  You made cereal for breakfast? SLAB ON THAT BUTTER.

Dang, my water is soooo dull.  BUTTER.

I just don't know how I'm going to make this bake sale succes--STICK SOME BUTTER IN IT YOUR IGNORANT GOOD FOR NOTHING.

3. Gain some sort of cult following

How else would we become a demigod without having a small following?  I'm not saying that you need to have a cooking show on the food network, just something similar...

Start a gang of "hoodlums" who graffiti the town in butter.  Become that guy who wears the Crocs who shares his infinite wisdom with everyone and anyone who passes.  Start a knitting club for cats.

If you build it, they will come...and follow you religiously while also giving you protection and an assortment of fine needle-point pillows.

4. Get your hurr did

If you've followed step 2 at all, you by now have that wonderful southern drawl that attracts all the cats in the hood. Or maybe you should stop being so ignorant. Gosh, so rude.

Little known fact: Paula also
hosts the show, "Paula Pimps"

your neighborhood and you can decipher that hurr is southern.

Here, we begin our physical transformation.  First establish an array of bright colored, button-up blouses and mom jeans. Next, you need to either attain a wig (I hear sheep hair is very in right now) or grow out them luscious locks y'all (yAHll, meaning: all y'all over there, get some buttah!) and go get your hurr did.  By now, we know her face by heart with all the pictures we've pasted onto our walls.  The silvery wisp of hair that flips our in every which way, the wide smile for chewing up fried chicken, and the eyes that penetrate your very soul.  Doesn't it just give you shivers of joy?

5. Sacrifice a small goat

Everyone knows that in order to attain this level of serenity, you must sacrifice a small goat.  I suggest doing it in your front yard in the evening. I mean, who wants to be that guy who sacrifices a goat in the middle of the day, am I right?  Before this, you should also probably check with the fire department and make sure that you don't need any goat burning permits in your area.  Because what ruins a good goat burning? Permits.


So there you have it. Five flawless steps to becoming Paula Deen. Always remember that if you work hard enough, you can achieve all your dreams.  All of them. Yes, even that one (you disgusting individual).

Stop Touching Me: Butt really, stop

Part 1

This is the internet, so I can assume that to a lot of you out there, many forms of contact is just terrifying. What I'd like to address is the idea of strangers touching you.

For some reason, the universe decided recently that it wants me to feel as uncomfortable as possible.  To do this, it made sure that a great majority of people have been touching me recently.  No, not inappropriately, just touching me.

In a restaurant hallway, I mistakenly moved into the path of a man picking up his take-out order and he place his hand on my shoulder and moved me out of the way.  This was accompanied by a, "Woah, bud." due to the fact that it looked like I purposefully jumped in front of him to impede his path.  Because, you know, I do that.

Last week I attended an LDS church meeting.  It happens that this is a place where all manner of people feel obligated to hold onto your shoulder like a dolphin holds onto a trainer as it forces them under the water.

An old man shakes your hand for just too long.

That woman hugs you but just keeps continuing the conversation.

I'm sorry I don't want to join your gym.  Holding onto my shoulder and looking me in the eyes with a steely glint is not going to change that.

These people.  These ones right here: You hurt me.

She wants you to stop too.

You people that I might know a little or don't know at all, you hurt me on the inside.  In my mind, I have not taken down that Berlin wall that makes it OK for you to physically touch me.  I'm sure you can see it when my eye twitches and then I fall onto the ground writhing in a pool of my own vomit.  Haven't you realized by now that there are boundaries?

It would be like me coming into your house and drinking the milk from the carton.  "But I thought we were this close?" I'd say as the milk dribbled from my chin onto my shirt. "WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE AT 3AM!" They'd say.  And then you get a restraining order followed by a custody battle over the milk.  Ugh, this is what you get for me just trying to be comfortable with you touchers.

I know a lot of you are thinking that I'm being irrational and that physical contact in this manner is supposed to be inviting.  Yes, inviting me to never call you again.  In my head, there is a fine definition between who can touch me and who cannot:

People who can: Close friends, family, Ryan Gosling

People who shouldn't: Everyone else.

But no, all you people think that it will be OK to force me out of my comfort zone and into full on scale assault with your sweaty palms.  Where have those been anyway?  Because I SURE AS HELL DON'T KNOW. Maybe you should be more considerate and stop spreading all your contaminents onto my flesh.

Why is this OK? For some reason, the world keeps allowing you people to go unrestrained from person to person making all of us cringe.  Maybe you heard that this will make someone think you're personable.  Well, it makes me think that you're personally institutional.  I would much rather you express your greetings through spoken word, an edible arrangement, or a box of puppies.  Scratch that, can the edible arrangement be made out of pizza?

Just picture this: you pick up a slimy, slimy cat.  You like it, because it's a cat, but you can only hold on for so long because it's slimy.  That feeling is how I feel when your greasy stubs touch me.  I can only hold out for so long before my heart palpitations come back.

So before you touch someone, think about how they might feel on the inside.  Mostly, just stop touching me, because on the inside, I'm crying.  Laying on the floor, and sobbing.

Insomniatic Insignificance

Quick Thoughts before I start:
Sometimes I write the titles of a post after the fact if I feel there is no specific theme or if I really have no divine intervention as to what I will actually call it.  Now I'm going over and over in my head as to why the hell I made an alliteration.  For some reason, I compulsively think that that is a rookie thing to do.  "Oh, you used an alliteration, well that's just silly you stupid novice."  Kind of like wearing tortoise-framed glasses during a hipster craze; you will be accused of being a hipster or accused of aspiring to be one.  No matter what you do, you can't win.  ...I'm not changing the title now.

Recently I've found myself having a hard time getting to sleep.  Some of this may be due to the fact that House of Cards is like crack and I can't stop watching it, but it's basically because like most of the human population, sometimes I just can't get to sleep.

I try and do the whole bed check-list to make sure that I'm in optimal comfort for sleeping: Are the covers just right for what I need? Yes.  Is my pillow folded the right way so that I don't start feeling my own heartbeat in my ear? Yes.  Are my contacts out? *touches eyeball* ...no...ow.

Yet sleep eludes me more than the ability to not burn just one pancake (Teach me your secrets Barefoot Contessa)!

Here's a picture of a ferret in a beret
because I thought it added diversity.

So I sit in the dark staring at the ceiling that I can't see and my mind starts to wander.  I already know that I have an overactive imagination, but I'm convinced at this point in everyone's life is when they become slightly neurotic.  Something about trying to will your mind into submission only makes it angrier, like holding down a very angry ferret that's out for blood.

Oh no...what if I never get to sky dive before I die?  Wait, do I even want to sky dive?  You know, that's probably how I'm going to go, skydiving.  Broken chute, flat Ryan.  On my grave they'll put "Finally, the perfect pancake."  

I guess it is better than dying from auto-erotic asphyxiation though, that would just be embarrassing.

Sometimes I wonder if it is better than college though.  You know what I should do?  Drop out and become a vagabond!  There it is, life experience out the wazoo and completely free!  I bet that I would meet some interesting people--probably someone that has killed a man!  The type of person that just felt like it.  Bearded, hard, gruff; just like the road they travel on.  Although, roads aren't bearded.  But those lizards from Jurassic Park are.

 I'd much rather die from a freaky lizard with a gland problem than from a mugger though.  This far in my life, I probably should have been mugged so far, right?  I mean, I probably missed out on some whole life lesson because no one ever approached me demanding my wallet.  I worked downtown for 3 years without one incident, one!  Then again, all I really would have been able to give them would be a subway card and an outdated phone which they'd probably beat me to death with due to the fact they feel so bad for me.  "Better to be dead" They'd say, "than to have this piece of shit on you." as they walked away, my body growing colder than tomato in a flash freezer.  

Then here comes my final words.  I always wish them to be some thing dramatic and cool like," At least I still had the farm" or "He'll get his just rewards...you'll see!" as I raise my fist to the sky with indignation and I collapse into someone's arms as the rain falls down my cheeks.  More than likely, I'll say something stupid like, "Ow." or "Delete my browsing history..." at which point I'll just fall into a ditch and wet myself.  

Probably preferable to dying at home though. I sleep a lot when I'm not at school so they'll just assume I'm recharging.  By the time they realize I'm gone (after I attempted at putting one too many almonds in my mouth JUST TO SEE IF I COULD), the cat will have already gnawed my arm off like a Thanksgiving turkey.  A very bony Thanksgiving turkey, but a turkey nonetheless. 

The funeral, oh what will the funeral consist of?  If anyone follows my personal wishes, then there will be no viewing since I find those worse than a room full of clowns.  In fact, let's just make it a room full of food with a couple pictures of me.  You can play classical music in the background while people sob over my demise.  "But he should have known people can't fit that many almonds in their mouths!" they'd say as I sit in whatever afterlife I end up in as I bury my face into a cloud or cupcake or kitten or something out of shame.

And I'm sitting there as my clock blinks over and over, continually saying, "It's 3 in the morning, dummy.  Stop your thinking, you're not dead yet."

It's right, I'm not.  Note to self: just one almond at a time

Concerts and Why I'm Hiding For A Week

I'm really sorry that if you approach me this week and touch me in any way, I'll seize up and die.  Actually no, you know what? I have no need to apologize to you internet, I have all rights not to be touched by all of you since I'm recovering from over-exposure to people.

This past weekend, I had the really joyous opportunity of attending the Ellie Goulding concert in the big SLC.  This was first concert I had been to in awhile and I was pretty excited to see one of the songs on my iPod actually sing in front of me.  Sing to me sweet iPod lady, sing.  Well, I kind of forgot about that whole thing about concerts where you have to attend with other people.  Other people all around you.  Standing up.  In a space that doesn't seem like it should hold that many people.  (Here's my favorite Ellie song if you don't know who she is.)

People, people, people.

Don't get me wrong; I am all for bobbing to the music, singing along, and getting into the groove of the whole affair, I just don't particularly enjoy the entire crowd around me.  I guess you could say that this enforces the old curmudgeon-y man aspect about me, but I can't hear you because I don't have my hearing aids in yet.

I guess I'll just explain the two large crowds that really irk me in crowd situations like this.

1. The Couple:
I always wondered how these people ended up at places like this in the middle of a very loud, very jumpy concert.  I see them bobbing slowly in front of me, but then they're doing the vertical spoon thing and waltzing in front of me.  In my head, I imagine that these two people only ended up here by accident. "I thought you said that the waltz class was here tonight at 9." she would say to him, perplexed at the amount of people in the room. "You know, I bet they moved it to Tuesday again! That Charlotte never tells me the right day!" As he slaps his knee with a smile in his face, "I'll tell you what babe, let's just stay here and practice since we're already here." "Oh, what a great idea!" she says as he wraps his arms around her mid-section and off they go.

"1, 2, 3, pose damnit!

This must have been the thought of the couple right in front of me seeing as how he was slowly dancing his butt into my crotch for a good 45 minutes. I'm not saying he did this intentionally, but every time I moved back to avoid his swaying, he would just back up along with me until we were touching again.  Some part of me wanted to wrap my arms around both of them and whisper in his ear,"I think I'll lead now..." as I hum along to the songs without breaking eye contact.  The other part of me wanted to tap him on the shoulder and ask him to stop molesting me with his butt.  The real life part of me just stood there and let it happen.

This isn't Dancing With The Stars, people and your literal "swaying to the beat of your own drum" crap really bums me out when I'm jumping and screaming behind you.

2. The Unnecessary Shover/Balls High
You know, I get it.  You wanna go out, have a good time, have no regrets, all that YOLO or whatever.  But look here son, please stop running into me on purpose.  Yes you, the kid behind me that just decided to shove some 14 year old into my back for fun.  Do you know who you're not making it fun for?  Everyone around you.  See those small fires in their eyes?  It's because of you.  Pushing someone half your size doesn't make you fun, it makes you an asshole.  I may be already touching you, but that doesn't mean we can't be civil about this.

Also, in the same vein of touching people, please stop it when you're really high.  You can keep saying how "into" the music you are, but when you consistently rub your head into my back, I know you're a little more than high on life.  Actually, I'd much prefer you just go be high a few feet away from me because other people might not mind as much, like the ones with really red eyes.  Thank you for moving eventually though and rubbing your head on my friend's back, I could tell it was much appreciated.

So in the end, I really did enjoy the concert leaving with some ringing ears and my voice a little bit more gone (yes, I sing really loud when the artist points the mic to the crowd. I WILL ENJOY MYSELF).  It was an added bonus that she sounded as good live as she did recorded.


Although, after about 10 unintentional butt touches on multiple strangers' parts, I made a run to the bar.

"I'll have a vodka rocks with lime, please."

"We don't have limes."

"Lemon?"

"We don't have any of those."

"...just the rocks, please."

Just give me some time.

Conversations With Myself: The Barefoot Contessa

I had always tried to start my workout with a quick 5-10 minute warm-up run on a treadmill and this day was no different.  With only a couple of weeks before the new year, most of the machines were empty due to the fact that no one had to be reminded of their resolutions from the year prior so I had many choices.  All along the ceiling opposite the treadmills, there hung televisions that spanned the length of the gym, each tuned to a different channel so as to distract gym goers for the actual reason they were there.

If one really wanted, they could enroll in a gym membership and attend for the purpose of stealing cable television for a fraction of the cost.  I guess they could lift a weight if they felt so inclined as well.

Oh, the choices.  If I had been feeling very slow, I could have tuned into the USA network and watched Law & Order reruns (since this and its spin-offs seemed to be the only shows ever playing).  If I decided to catch up on news, I had CNN and MSNBC with their scrolling underbars telling me of the man that just decided to sell his Lamborghini to a horse.  Then there were the many stations playing reruns of sitcoms: How I Met Your Mother, The Big Bang Theory, Seinfeld, and Fox News.

When the circumstances were right though, as they were this day with the gym as empty as it was, I always had a first choice above all the rest: The Food Network.

I had always found it funny and ironic that I could be running on a treadmill, beads of sweat falling down my nose, as I stared at people making chocolate mousse cakes and steaks wrapped bacon wrapped in a cow.  There was always constant entertainment and new recipes that I always told myself that "I would try that sometime..." which we all knew would not happen until some tragic night at 3 in the morning when the crafty bug took hold of me.  Arms covered in batter, flour on my nose, I would become some sort of Martha Stewart vampire that could not rest until my thirst had been quenched...with cake.

Due to the time I usually arrived at the gym, one show in particular was on air.  My dear friend and cooking mentor Ina Gartner, who hosts the show, The Barefoot Contessa.

If you don't know who she is, go here

The show usually begins with the same premise: Ina is at home wondering what to cook for the dinner party she's going to have later with her friends and husband (Jeffrey) and then she decides to tell us all about it.  Within five minutes, you've become part of this woman's life, literally invited into her kitchen and talk with her while she makes you food!  Like all good chefs, Ina often goes out into her garden and picks her own herbs while she talks to you about how each respective plant is going to "Spice up the party!" or "make this a real season-ing greetings." (Oh, Ina, you jokester you)

Wouldn't that be the life? I think to myself as I hear the pat-pat-pat of my feet as the belts on the treadmill whir again and again.  All I'd ever have to do would be to invite strangers into my home and the ingredients for the specific recipe I need would be in the fridge!

But then I start to think more about my barefooted friend.  What if...what if none of this was real.  I know you may be thinking to yourself, "Ryan, of course this isn't real, no one can just pull a 3-tier cake out of the oven and call it good."  I'm quite aware of the magic of the show, but I was beginning to worry for Ina.

All those people she called friends are probably just actors.  Each paid to pretend to love all of her home-cooking as they praise her through their clenched teeth, only waiting for their big break of playing a dead body on Law & Order.  

Surely, even Jeff wasn't real!  How many husbands are only seen at dinner and the other 23 hours of the day vanish into thin air?  Magician husbands?  Gay husbands?  No, through my powers of deduction, Jeff was yet another actor paid to entertain this woman.

How must it be to wake up every day knowing that a new stranger would come over?  I began to think that after awhile, our Ina must simply try and roll with the punches.  Each and every day, she would psych herself up for her "new friends" to arrive.  Whisking our her electric mixer and ceramic pots, she convinces and ultimately believes that these people are her friends;even dear Jeff is her own husband.  "What?" she must say to herself, "I know he loves me even if I only see him 5 hours a week.  It's only because he travels around the world working and he only gets time in home for dinner every day."

The night would be when the darkness would descend on our cooking heroine.  After the pans had been scrubbed, and the forks put back in their proper places, does she begin to feel the slight loneliness in her heart, fluffier than her pancakes.  I can see her now, enticing the camera crew with sweet goodies to stay for just one more hour until they finally pack their van and drive away.

At this point, I decided that the only parts of her house that also existed were her kitchen and her patio.  I see Ina open the fridge and pull out a few pillows, then open the oven in which resides a puffy blue sleeping bag and inflatable mattress.  She pulls a small air compressor out of the microwave, as she always does, and brushes her teeth in the sink while she waits for her bed to finish filling.

She soon spits out the foam, the gentle whir of the air compressor in the background, as she steps toward her patio door.  Ina slides the glass doors and steps out onto the lawn, admiring her herb garden for one last time today.  Barefoot under the stars...then the sprinklers come on and she's forced to run back inside.

"They'll be back tomorrow...the ingredients will be in the fridge and Jeff will come to dinner tomorrow..." she says to herself as she rocks herself to sleep on the dark, walnut-stained, floors.

Oh dear Ina, I would drink a cup of coffee and eat a scone after the cameras departed.  We would sit and laugh about the magic oven where food magically became completed.  She would tell me about her time at the White House and how her life hadn't been full until she started cooking.  Then we'd make muffins while I told her all my woes about trying to achieve the perfect pancake.

Tap-tap-tap...

I turn down the speed on the treadmill until I come to a slow trot, my shirt sticking to my chest with a small Rorschach-like design of sweat in the middle.  A few more taps of my feet and the belts come to a stop as I decide I'm warmed up enough to begin my work-out.

Would you look at that, Ina's good friend Susan is in the morgue on Law & Order.  Good for her.

My New Years Resolutions

With a new semester starting tomorrow, I thought that I'd write up a few of my resolutions for the year to help improve myself.  I mean, I'm looking for the straight A student and Dean's list kind of improvement.  So improved that they'll put me on some kind of list of improved people.  People such as: dead Hitler, Britney Spears, Paula Dean's ankles, Kristen Stew...nevermind.

So here we go kids, Ryan's list of New Years Resolutions:

1. Dress for Success:
Ugh, I can't believe we even put effort into this anymore.  You know, just like the saying of "I'm going to have to make my bed again, so why make it now?", I decided that getting ready isn't worth it.  Kind of like, "I'm just going to have to eat again, why do it now?" Showering? Nah.  Am I really going to ever impress these professors? Probably not.  So why pretend like hygiene is any priority for me? I am starting the movement of grunge! If we all look like shit, no one will!

2. Drink More Fluids:
I was thinking about how I mainstream it is to walk to school in a straight line, so I decided to switch things up a bit.  I mean, aren't all those motivational speakers telling us to swim against the current? Well, I'm going to walk against the current...in curvy lines.  I heard/read once that alcohol every day keeps the heard strong. People, if a doctor is saying this, IT. MUST. BE. TRUE. Taking notes will become a breeze since I'll just have the ink impressed upon my face from passing out on my papers in class.  Talk about applying the knowledge (literally).

3. Get More Sleep:
Here's another doctor related resolution. According to all the doctors in the world ever, humans need sleep. If we don't sleep, we die. You missed a couple days sleep? Say hello to a coffin my friend.  So to delay my eventual death, I decided to take this to the next level.  15 hours a night.  Aren't I supposed to be going to class?  Well how am I supposed to be going to class if death is looming over me every second of the day?!  My school has given me a death sentence so I'm giving them the finger.  HI-BER-NA-TION.

4. Help the Environment:
Apparently the world is running out of everything that will keep us alive so I decided to stick it to the man and use less.  Less dish washing, less clothes washing, less showering, less eating.  How do you think I'd feel if I was the one who turned on the faucet and used the last cup of water in the world?  Pretty shitty.  So I'm not going to take that chance to be the scapegoat for waste.

5. Be More Observant:
One flaw I'd like to work on this year would be observing more about the world around me.  See that girls at Wal-Mart in the hideous sweatpants and crocs? Who else would go and point out to her outfit choices (that obviously make her a lesser being) if I wasn't going to be more observant?  You think that guy looks like a douchebag? Well, now he is.  Because I observed it.  I think that getting to know people is so 2000 and observing from afar is much safer.

6. Be More Vocal:
You know, I've always wanted to try and speak up more and participate more in class.  All the professors say that those who participate usually get better grades so I will be that one.  I will be the kid talking on the phone in the library next to you and shouting in class the right answer.  Oh, that wasn't the right answer?  I think I'm going to argue with you because now I'm participating. I just want to get the most out of this university guys since if I paid for it, I can treat these people however I'd like to.

7. Get In Shape:
The wheel was invented with one purpose: to make it easier to transport from point A to point B quicker.  Using that logic, I can assume that if people were rounder, they can from point A to point B faster than they could before.  Here's to eating whole cakes! Twinkies! (RIP), Chocolate Milk! Fudge! My heart is only beating harder than before because it loves me so much.  That small pain in my arm? Oh, that's just my veins reminding me that I'm doing a good job.  I mean, if lifting weights hurts your arms, this is the same thing.

8. Experience New Things/Places:
Travel is supposed to be one of those things that opens your worldview and expands the cool parts in your brain area. Who am I to deny the BRAIN AREA?! I decided the quickest way to travel somewhere new would be experiencing something new: Arson.  What other activity is artistic, free, and exciting all at the same time? After my art burns to the ground, I'll get a free trip, free, to a small room with at an all-inclusive facility! The great thing about this is that if I'd like to extend my stay, I just have to keep having new experiences and BAM, right back in and maybe to an even bigger facility.

9. Teach A Man to Fish:
You know that saying, "Catch a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Teach and a man to fish and he'll eat for life?"  Well I'm going to teach a man to fish all right, fish at your local grocery store.  We all know that fish are the Thelma's of the animal world so I think our local grocer would applaud us relieving them of any and all fish.  You know, those shelves look really full, I think I'll teach a man to fill his large coat with that too.  Nope, put the boiled pigs feet back, I didn't teach you that.

10. Be More Accepting:
Sometimes I have a really hard time with change so I thought I'd nip this one in the butt.  You'd like to write a paper for me? Well, I told myself I'd be more accepting.  Where's your iPod you say? Well, I accepted it from you since I knew you'd be so kind as to offer it anyways.  No, I've already accepted it so please go accept one from someone else.

11. Get Tazered

So there's my quick list of New Years Resolutions to help improve my life. If you'd like, please pull from this and my infinite knowledge to help improve your life as well! Even add some of your own! Because if collaboration has taught us anything, it gets shit done (just ask your mom).