Freewriting on a Lazy Saturday (Or “This is What the Internet was Made For”)

Surely, the world is still capable of creating original ideas. Or perhaps now. not. There is nothing new beneath the sun, just the same turkey with gradually different dressing. I don’t feel so bad about being uncreative, unimaginative.

This song has already played. I’ve stayed for an entire loop of the music here. Likely for two cycles. I’m leaving now.

Just kidding. I’m too comfortable.

Good God, I’m bored. Must. Find. Something. To. Do.

When a person says “I’m bored,” you know they’re doing something wrong in life.

Too much anxiety. This is why I’m writing nothing. There’s just too much anxiety. It needs to be got out somehow. No matter how therapeutic writing may be, however, it’s not nearly enough. So much anxiety, stress, frustration. Just looking up quotes both inspiration and depressing to put on the blog. Nothin’. Inspiring me to be depressed. I had one of the most vivid and insightful dreams the other night.

Might be interesting to chart the days when I go on manic writing sprees.


It’s a Saturday. There’s no need to put any effort into anything. Legitimate post coming this Monday, I promise. Happy Easter, folks. And if you don’t do anything for Easter, high five, let’s watch Breaking Bad on Netflix together.

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Scrap Paper Poetry #8: Rime of the Alumni Caller

Scrap Paper Poetry #8 | Stressing Out College

Hello! my name is – do you have the time
to listen to a caller’s rhyme?

Night after night, machine after machine,
a voicemail greeting most obscene,
rejection here, a hang up there,
suppressed frustrations everywhere.

“Match that gift-” the managers cry,
while we ask alumni to buy, buy, buy
the security of students future, present, and past
to ensure our beloved school will last-

Oh please! Don’t go! I’ve just begun!
And there goes yet another one.
With every single angry click,
I follow the clock, each sluggish tick.
The second hand is my dearest friend,
the one who leads to me each shift’s end.

Hello! my name is – do you have the time
to listen to a caller’s rhyme?


Dedicated to my fellow call center workers, especially those at university telefunds. A half-assed poem is all the condolence I can offer. Whatever pays the bills.

The Adventures of the Five Page Paper (or Damn It, I’ve Lost the Thesis)

All right, five pages. Five pages due tonight. That’s not bad. That’s freshman high school English stuff. Easy peazy, lemon squeezy. Last paper for this ethics class. Last. Paper. Then you’re home free (after two more exams, but not gonna’ think about that right now). Ok, here we go.

Assigment: Your goal is to identify the text’s central claims, the author’s major arguments that support these claims, and the evidence that supports these arguments. Think carefully about the purposes of the text and about the context and background knowledge that it presupposes.

Yeah, this shouldn’t be too hard. Easy text. Pretty obvious claims. Of course licensing parents is a no-no. There are so many moral violations – this is going to be a piece of cake to write about. Ok, here we go.

[Times New Roman, 12 pt font]

[Format name, class, prof name, date]

[Right click -> Paragraph -> Double-space]

Cracking my knuckles. Ok, here we go.

Oh a text message. Hahaha, gotta reply to this… “LOL yeah. Ron Swanson’s teh best :-)”

Ok, here we go.

“In this essay, I will analyze the claims of the paper.”

Hm, skip the intro. Save the intro for last. Screw writing an outline; I’m just going to go straight into the body (that’s what she said…?) All right, identify the claims, identify the claims… La-di-da-dah…  Facebook… Oh, George Takei (or George Takei’s Facebook mod), you cheeky funny bastard. Pandora… Johnny Cash station. Yeah, Johnny’s my home boy. Ok, here we go.

“In support of his assertion that parent licensing programs are necessary to protect children, LaFollete cites studies and researched statistics as well as referring to self-made observations.”

Whew, that’s an amazing sentence. Time to reward myself with a few Cracked.com articles.

After several quick fixes

… What am I writing about again?

Scan through prompt with half-shut eyes and half-open mouth.

Ok, I got this, I got this. Claims, analyze, identify…

Two hours of YouTube, a sandwich, and two and a half paragraphs later…

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...

KILL ME NOW.

Good luck to all fellow students on exams! What’s your essay-writing process? Got any procrastination tips? (And by “procrastination tips” I mean “ways to put off doing my essay for even longer.”)

Catapulting Plates At A Wall (Relax, It’s Doctor’s Orders)

Fantasies make the world go ’round. And they keep me from murdering everyone.

I have a recurring fantasy where I’m in a pristine room with walls and floor of a blindingly white lack of color. (No, that’s not the whole fantasy. I don’t have a cleaning fetish. Just stay with me for a bit.) However, while untouched, the room is not empty. I look around, sedate. There are plates, vases, bowls, pots, large panes of intricate stained glass, flower mosaic lampshades, even a low-hanging chandelier. The light doesn’t glint and dance. Nothing moves. On the far side is a pyramid of crystal wine glasses surrounded by a village of painted porcelain figurines -all on top of a Windex-scented table top. Again, it’s made of glass. This ain’t the Antique Road Show.

It’s therapy time. Get out the Louisville Slugger.

Angry Stress Man

“Stress? What stress? I’m just constipated.”

This is what the intellectuals with aspirations of super villainy call “Destructotherapy,”  or by those who dream up names for their Indie rock band, it is know as “Smash Therapy.”  Clearly, it’s therapy that involves smashing things. The rationale behind it is that the exercise of breaking stuff provides an outlet for pent up energy, primarily anger. You’re allowed to vent all the malaise that you’ve been civilly keeping locked up. Pop that lid and let it all out. But you can’t do this just anywhere. We don’t live in a delicate, dainty world. You can even argue that our world is already broken in itself, but that’s another topic entirely. However, have you noticed how anal we are as a society about breaking our belongings? All this… stuff? Comedic genius George Carlin quips about our material obsession:

“That’s the whole meaning of life, isn’t it? Trying to find a place for your stuff… If you didn’t have so much Goddamned stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time. That’s all a house is – it’s a pile of stuff with a cover on it.”

You want to break stuff, but you don’t want to break your stuff. And you don’t want to break your friend’s or neighbor’s stuff (unless, of course, you actually do want to.) This is America, folks, the land of the almighty dollar. You can look up a place like the Anger Room, where you can reserve smashing rooms for 5 minutes (“I need a Break!”), 15 minutes (“Lash Out”), or 25 minutes (“Total Demolition”).

Letting loose, embracing your power, unleashing your inner animal. The surge of adrenaline can make you feel alive.

However, while I agree that uncorking that bursting bottle of frustration bubbly can be relieving and emotionally healthy – destruction therapy should be done with caution. I’m not just talking about wearing safety goggles and being careful about not bashing your own head in. The main point is this: everything in moderation. The mental dangers of this kind of “therapy” is that the exercise, the sudden popping of all that anger, might trigger a waterfall. The little Dutch boy’s finger is no longer enough. Now, instead of the hate eating you from the inside, you are being flooded by it, crushed by it. And in your sudden chaotic “freedom,” you thrash and splash and fight for air.

You don’t have to resign to your anger, but learn to accept it and realize that the stress isn’t all that bad. Life is rife with emotional outlets. And while the white room filled with fragile oh-so-breakable items is still a fantasy of mine, I know not to go too crazy. Or else I’ll end up in another white room with nothing but meds to keep me company.

Read on about smash therapy and anger with these links:

Bonus: And since we mentioned Carlin earlier, let’s blow off a little steam with a bit of laugh therapy with the comedic legend. (Warning: Some Foul Carlin Language)