Union Jack Attack

Today we found a thousand-year-old tree, and when I walked up to have a closer look and admire it John was pissing on it.
"It's a mark of respect!" quoth he.
What if the tree pissed on you, John.  What if the tree pissed on you.

The Big Book of British Smiles

I flew to London today. On the flight from UT to Boston I sat next to a short, portly man with a rich mustache who sported a camo backpack and heavy work boots and didn't put down his Tom Clancy novel the entire flight.  I listened to Julian Casablancas, Brandon Flowers and Passion Pit for eight hours.  I ate some Skittles (thanks Lydia) and then I ate the portly man next to me. Still didn't put down his book so I ate that too. I'm too poor to afford in-flight "goodies" and the complimentary thimble of peanuts wasn't exactly doing the trick. hopefully none of you have to endure a hungry pissed off Chris, because then the situation starts to look like this:

The appartment I'm living in is drenched in the fetid stench of pineapple.

"Oh, the Temptations!"

Nighttime kicks daytime's ass.  It picks daytime up by the collar and throws him down a bar counter, shattering glass and spilling booze on all the drunken customers.  Then it grabs a bottle and breaks it in half, and I drew this metaphor out too long.
I forced myself into bed tonight at eleven after a vicious round of mario kart with Amy, and woke up ten minutes later without an ounce of sleep on me.  The past few nights have been particularly sleepless.  After a while the minutes just start to pile up on the floor, and I have to stretch my legs.  I recommend y'all step outside at 3:30 a.m., take a solitary walk around the block (just not everyone at once, see, that defeats the purpose) and tell me that nighttime doesn't kick daytime's ass.

It's a kind of quiet you never see anywhere else.  When you only have yourself to talk to, the quiet comes in good colors and in bad ones too.  Easy to scrutinize yourself.  Hate to say it, but I've probably had more conversations with myself than I have with anyone else. Everyone in the world should have the chance to be an insomniac for a week, I think a few obnoxious things would be absent from the day.

Empty House

I think I've never wanted anything more in my life than to be genuinely, unabashedly in love.  I think it ought to be the paramount priority in everyone's lives.  There's quite a bit of shite involved with the enterprise, but there's not a person alive that could convince me that it's not worth it.

anyways, I'm skipping town for England next month to become a writer and an adult.  I'll be dead in the heart of Zoobiedom with thirty-odd art majors and an english major here and there.  I've made myself a promise to explore every inch of London that I can fit into four months, because I may not be going back for several decades.

Going back to London, for me, is kind of like going to visit a poetic uncle who has no reigns on his alcoholism.  Sometimes he's fun, sometimes he's outlandish, sometimes in a drunken babble he lets slip something that makes you reconsider what direction you ought to be taking in life.  London is indescribably awesome, and yet sometimes it can be a complete nightmare.  I'm hoping to catch a little of both while I'm there, because without a bout of hard times, you couldn't recognize good times if they punched you in the mouth.

Everybody, find someone to love already, you insufferable time wasters.

Dayum

I met a troupe of racecar drivers today at the Silver Sage, the dusty grocery dead set in the middle of Vernon.  Slickest vehicles I've ever seen.  The drivers, however, looked like they came straight out of the cast of Waking Ned Divine. 

No, no pictures of the movie. Go look for yourself, you lazy gorillas. 

In the Silver Sage, there's a tiny corner marked "produce".  "Produce" consists of a couple of moldy-looking bananas and a package of fruit snacks.  Damn good burgers though, no doubt.  If any of you stay-at-homes venture this far out into nowhereness, get the Cowboy Special.  Trust me, you won't have to eat again for six months.  You can buy hand-made scorpion hot sauce holders for your table, and specially marked "Vernon, Utah" baseball caps for your head or wherever you prefer to wear them.  You can buy cotton candy in a can.  Cheri, the flamboyant cashier, will tease you relentlessly for being a "city kid", and tell hilariously dumb jokes as you wait for your food.  I may be falling for her.  I could settle down here, nestled among the sagebrush and scorn for outsiders, and slowly get dustier and dustier.  With God as my witness, if I stayed out here until I was eighty, my loved ones wouldn't have to strain their backs digging a hole to put me in, I'd already be six feet under. 

Oh, and guess who hasn't showered for a week. 

Jesse, just look at them grass.

Last night I tried desperately to remember what it was like to be a five year old, and the more I thought about it the more I realized that part of me is gone entirely.  I could try to find some semblance of my childhood persona, but for the most part he's gone.  I tried to retrace my steps and find some familiar landmark that I could latch onto, but there was some gray lump in my life (presumably in high school) when all the days started to fold together into some kind of road block.  I can still appreciate childlike joy, I can play in the mud and eat cookie dough when my mum's back is turned, but I can no longer empathize with my past self, and it's a little sad.  I haven't found this to be a sobering fact at all, however, and rather have used this disconnection as motivation to be twice as adventurous and innocent in the quest for discovery and wisdom. (paradox alert) 

When I was five I cried when I ate all the candy so no one else could have some, I loved to climb trees and eat dirt, I essentially dug my fingers into every aspect of my life that I could touch, and I plan to retain some of those childhood aspects of my identity into adult life, or I'll die trying.  here's my favorite music video.

The Mighty Wasp. (Greenjacket ch. 1)

today was a life and death experience.  Niels and myself were cornered in the cabin by an angry, muscular wasp.

we panicked at first, and opened and closed all the doors several times (which is quite a feat because the sliding door is broken and takes the strength of an ox or thirty Chris Hemsworths to open) in an effort to "entice" the wasp to the sunny weather outside.  We even tried coaxing it verbally, like reasoning with it; "C'mon, Mr. Wasp! The weather is grand, it's stuffy in here, it smells like dust!" On and on.  If anything, we more convinced ourselves that our living conditions are sub par to say the least.  Once it relaxed and sat on the windshield, we had also calmed down slightly to the point where we could look at the situation logically.

"What if I played loud music at it?" the first idea of mine; Niels was still in some sort of stupor, barely holding himself in consciousness.  So I took the matter into my own hands and grabbed the crappy speakers we've been using, chose the song "I Worship Only What You Bleed" by the Black Dahlia Murder, and held the speakers next to the wasp menacingly.  just so you can have an idea, here's a clip of the song:

after that failed and the wasp gave each of us a dumbstruck look, I put the speakers down with a new determination, a fire in my eyes, if you will.  I picked "Habanera" by Bizet for the soundtrack, and circled around the wasp with a long-necked lamp that I found in the back room.  By this time Niels had gotten grips of himself and was encouraging me like I was some kind of gladiator.

"Come on, kill it!"
"Here, take out the lightbulb and I'll trap it in the end of the lamp and hold it there forever."
"Alright, good idea."

This obviously didn't work, and it flew around the room erratically like a drunken boxer.  Niels and I, each holding one of his Birkenstocks and poised in the 'ready' position, (knees slightly bent, elbows at the sides, eyes unflinching on your target) were startled slightly, but still ready.

The wasp finally settled on a picture of Jesus I drew that we hang up on a nail in the ceiling for Sundays,  and Niels and I resolved to both swat air at it with our Birkenstocks in unison.  This also failed and I lunged forward in complete desperation and struck the paper wildly.  It flew towards the door, but was all "Psych, this is MY house now!" and veered around and flew straight towards us angrily.  I assessed the situation, and decided to run towards it, dodging its trajectory and out the door.  Niels just cowered behind a cabinet with his Birkenstock over his head.  The wasp decided to search for sweeter blood, I suppose, and explored the rest of the cabin.  It settled on another window, and I dashed inside and grabbed my trusty lamp, brandishing it in front of me like Glamdring,

and began to poke at The Wasp uneasily.  Just as 'Habanera' struck those four famous forte notes, I struck the wasp, injuring its wing! It crawled, not necessarily defeated, up into the side of the window, most likely to plan a counter attack, but I wouldn't have any of that.  I opened the window with one hand, it crashed downward, and I stabbed at the wasp hidden in the side of the window with all my strength.  it dodged, and flew, cursing, out the window.  I shut the window again behind it and gave an enormous bellow of victory.  Niels and I high-fived, of course, and God shed a prideful tear.  We left the cabin, beaming, for the main house to eat our dinner of pita pockets, with a tale to tell future generations and a newfound strength in ourselves.

Any wasps that are reading this:  DON'T FLY INTO OUR CABIN.