Horror Film Characters Are Fucks

Really, what the fuck is wrong with people in horror films? No, no, other than everything?

I'll give it to movies. They really know how to hold one's attention--at least in spurts--for a solid 2 hours. However, in the genre of horror, much is left to be desired. Namely, everything. But to be more specific, intelligence. I'm not going to waste your time with some overly analytical synopsis of any movies in the genre, nor am I going to analyze the genre itself. I'm just going to say something that would all save us a lot of time, money, labor, and frustration. There is one way for all problems in horror films to be solved.

Here it is...

Stop being retarded you horror film character fucks. When a dude is creeping on you from the minute you move into your new, turn of the century, most likely dilapidated house, leave. Yeah. Just get out, man. You wouldn't hang around very long ifyou thought a convicted rapist was roaming your house, so why would you be content with going about your daily routine with random shit popping out at you every time you open a shower curtain or close a medicine cabinet. The fucking thing's probably a murderer or a rapist itself, only this time it has supernatural powers. And it had to do something super-fucked up to become a trapped soul in the first place. Probably some crazy shit, too, like rape a cat while plotting a jewel heist, the money from which would fund a plane-ticket, a suitcase, toiletries, a roll of duct-tape, a knife, and a small bottle of lube as part of a master plan to rape all of the Republican congresswomen. Yeah, a fucking beastiality obsessed psycho rapist-murderer with supernatural powers formerly bent on raping members of Congress. And no, not Roofies. Supernatural powers. Like, it can pin you down with energy fields and skullfuck you with ectoplasm. Sounds fun, right? Like something you want to spend your Sunday afternoon reading a nice Mitch Albom novel around? Fuck no. Get the fuck out of the house, stop wasting my money, and eat shit. Oh, and how the fuck do all of these creepy ass houses and shit stay intact and livable? Aren't there agencies that shut that shit down after a while? Like, don't neighbors smell something weird when a house's walls are literally stuffed Stove-Top style with corpses? And wouldn't neighbors also say something when the big, gimpy dude who always rode to school on a bus that was a little bit shorter than the others kids' starts wearing skin masks around while performing rain-dances with a chainsaw? Fuck yes they would. And that's why horror films blow. They are stupid, impossible, and just a cyclical series of dramatic orchestra crescendos and quick movements. And, have you ever seen the "ectoplasm" in A Haunting in Connecticut? Nope. Doesn't happen. I think all that ectoplasm talk was just to make Stoners like me laugh when they talked about how sticky it was, how it came out of some dudes throat, and how it got all up in some bitches eyes and nose. That's why horror films suck; they can't be taken seriously. Period.

I mean, I'm just sayin',
Pelton

Ectoplasm:

A skullfucking from beyond.

Drugs and Money

"Dolla...Dolla...Bills, Ya'll."

Before you feed me some typical, sentence interrupting response in the vein of "You're a wigger" or "You're penis is way to small for you to be acting like you're black" or "I'm a pretentious whore who has way too much self-confidence given my looks and reputation," let me get a few more words in. There are three things you should know about me:

One: I like drugs.

Two: I like money.

Three: I don't care what you think, asshole.

Since you've come to my blog to have your ovaries rocked by funny stories, intriguing analyses of the human condition, and my stalwart air of course yet cushiony machismo and overt sexuality, I figured I'd say "blow me" for once and write about something else that's as awesome as I.

"'Drugs and Money?' Are you going to talk about how you're a pharmacy major and pharmacists make lots of money and handle lots of drugs?! *giggle-snort*"

No. No, I'm not. Though it is true, and I do indeed have a hefty appreciation and affinity for green of all varieties, textures, and weights, I thought I'd write about something else fucking awesome, the HBO series "Eastbound & Down." In case you've never been able to experience the woundrous spectacle that is "Eastbound & Down," let me give you a little taste of what the deal is. Danny McBride plays a former--and once dominant-- MLB pitcher named Kenny Powers, who, after his career goes off the deep end, is forced to return to his home town and take a job teaching Phys. Ed. at his former middle school. Here, he is forced to encounter his ex-girl friend, April Buchannon, and her happy-go-lucky fiance, Principal Terrence Cutler.

Now, instead of giving you some bullshit review about how the show is raunchy, yet retains its dignity in its simplicity and heart, I'm just gonna lay some quotes down on your ass.

"I don’t mean to break up the fun here, but I just saw two boys raping a
sixth grader…Just kidding."

"I’m the man with the ball. I’m the man who can throw it faster than fuck. So that is why I’m better than everyone else in the world. Kiss my ass and suck my dick, everyone."

"Listen here, you beautiful bitch. I'm about to fuck you up with some truth."

"I got the fame, the money, the jewels, the cash, the Denali, gettin' drunk on the reg', good times on the reg', yachts on the reg', sex on the reg'...”

"[Visa] Gold might get you tickets to the Jonas Brothers; [Visa] Black will get all three of them sucking your dick!"

"If at first you don’t succeed, then maybe you just suck."

"The fastest way to a woman’s heart is through her bra."

"This is a real job. It aint like teachin kids, I can’t just get fucked up"

[to Principal Cutler when he tellsKenny he's a triathlete]: "I play a real sport for real men, not trying to be the best at fucking exercising."

"I’m gonna buttfuck this party.

"I've got an arm like a cannon, a cock like a python, and the mind of a scientist."

"How about I finger you with my penis?"

"Fundamentals are just a crutch for the talentless."

"You're fucking out!"

Ok. I'm tired of writing quotes. Just watch the fucking show.

I mean, I'm just sayin',
Pelton

Just have a seat, Mohammed_187921. Just...have a seat.

Well. My blog has finally reached 200 hits. Thank You to all those who took time out of their day to give my little corner of cyberspace some TLC. She greatly appreciates it.

Anyway, my computer recently broke. Nothing would come on the screen and would only display some jank-ass checkerboard image when hooked up to an external monitor. Awesome. I've fully realized in my ownership of my Dell Inspiron 1420 that Tech support done via phone is a coy mistress. Though seemingly the more expedited way of troubleshooting computer, talking to an Indian/Middle-Eastern native can prove to be very tricky when it comes to trying to understand what they are saying. Because of this, I opted to use Dell's Online Chat. Worst mistake I ever made.

When I logged on to Dell's Online Chat, I was greeted by "Mohammed_187921" as he called himself. He seemed nice and very interested in me and my problems. Mohammed_187921 also seemed very thankful that he met me at that juncture in his life and definitely wasted no time in trying to make me feel comfortable in talking to him:

2:11:05 PM Mohammed_187921
Thank you for contacting Dell Hardware Support. My name is Mohammed and my rep ID number is 187921 . How may I help you today?

2:12:02 PM Jordan Pelton.
Yeah
2:12:08 PM Jordan Pelton
my laptop screen comes up black
2:12:15 PM Jordan Pelton
ive restarted numerous times
2:12:28 PM Jordan Pelton
and have tried a variety of troubleshooting measures
2:12:55 PM Jordan Pelton
i actually was just disconnected from another rep online

2:13:06 PM Mohammed_187921
Okay.
2:14:11 PM Mohammed_187921
Please allow me 2-3 minutes while I check with the previous case log and help you accordingly.
2:16:47 PM Mohammed_187921
Thank you for staying connected.

And, in fact, I was very impressed. He also began to take a keen interest in my personal affairs which made me feel that much more at ease. For a man I had just met, I really felt I had known Mohammed_187921 my entire life:

2:17:32 PM Mohammed_187921
Jordan, what happened when you connected the external screen to the Inspiron 1420?

2:17:37 PM Jordan Pelton
nothing
2:17:47 PM Jordan Pelton
it came up on the monitor i used
2:18:04 PM Jordan Pelton
1: Auto Detect (analog input)
2:18:23 PM Jordan Pelton
Cannot display (something)

2:18:37 PM Mohammed_187921
So, the monitor that you connected, you were able to see the display - correct?

He really made me feel like I was someone special. I was so at ease and felt like I needed to let him know how special he was to me, too:

2:20:46 PM Jordan Pelton
thank you

I really felt like I could trust Mohammed_187921. He knew this. He soon got me to start experimenting:

2:20:08 PM Mohammed_187921
You will have to connect an external monitor and then press + to stream the video on the external screen. Make sure that the external screen is connected properly.

2:20:31 PM Jordan Pelton
let me try

2:20:43 PM Mohammed_187921
Sure.

2:24:57 PM Jordan Pelton
okay
2:25:01 PM Jordan Pelton
an image came up
2:25:07 PM Jordan Pelton
but it was horribly distorted

The only thing that was really distorted was my mental state. But that wasn't enough. Mohammed_187921 wanted to make sure he had me wrapped around his finger before he took things to the next level:

2:33:26 PM Mohammed_187921
We will now run a test on the system.

2:33:33 PM Jordan Pelton
cool

2:33:36 PM Mohammed_187921
Please shut the laptop down.
2:33:41 PM Mohammed_187921
:)

2:33:48 PM Jordan Pelton
done

I should have known something was wrong. I knew I should'nt have started talking to him. But he just made me feel so amazing, that he really cared. And maybe he did. But not about me, only about himself. Bastard. I started to think something was amiss when he started sending me emoticons. I really wanted to get out, but something about him--perhaps his charisma, or his will--just kept me connected to him. I began to question him:

2:35:20 PM Jordan Pelton
should i do that?

2:35:37 PM Mohammed_187921
No issues, I will stay connected while you run the test on the system.

But it wasn't me running the test. Just him. He then took things to the next level is asking me personal information:

2:42:56 PM Mohammed_187921
In the mean while, may I know the name of the person on whose name the system is registered?
2:46:57 PM Mohammed_187921
May I have the shipping address please?
2:47:58 PM Mohammed_187921
May I have the contact numbers as well - please?

Now the red flares of sexual predatorism went off. I tried to back away:

2:48:28 PM Jordan Pelton
i have no idea

However, Mohammed_187921 used his own rescources:

2:50:27 PM Mohammed_187921
Michael pelton is the person on whose name the system is registered

I panicked.

2:52:40 PM Mohammed_187921
:)

And with that, the conversation between Mohammed_187921 and I came to a close. I think he got worried that I was getting so inquisitve toward the end of our time together, and rightly so. Still, I wake up every morning, scared. Scared that Mohammed_187921 will be there, standing over me, stealing my innocence once again.

My computer got fixed though. Sweet Deal.

I mean, I'm just sayin',
Pelton

Ummm...anyone got a soapbox?

Here at The University, students spend countless hours and sleepless nights pondering answers and seeking explanations to their burning questions and concerns about the school. Luckily, the administration has coordinated a heroic effort to help these students rest at ease: "The Coffeehouse with President." Once a quarter, the much hyped, campus-wide event draws about 17 people who toss out some of the most heated topics with which any university has ever dealt ("Why is Professor Johns getting three alumni magazines? That's ridiculous!"), all while those in attendance dine upon pseudo-handcrafted baked goods, store bought lemonade, and stale coffee. Yum. President does his best to answer these questions as long-windedly as possible and, if it's not in his area of expertise, he hands it off to another member of the administration who does an equally good job answering a Yes-or-No question in about 15 minutes. Apparently, I'm not the only one who knows that the longer you take to explain something, the more people will believe what you just said.

I went to my second one of these gatherings last night with Jeff, a fellow fraternity member. Jeff is known for his ability to find loop-holes in anything and everything. He's the kind of guy that stirs the pot not because he doesn't want the soup to scald, but because it can and should be stirred. He doesn't like soup though, so that analogy was poor. My bad. Anyway, Jeff and I always sit in amazement as the members of the administration dance around questions that actually mean something, might affect people's college lives, or have answers said people would not want to hear. Tonight, a random kid asked if President had anything to say about Greek life. Infamously in the Greek community at the University, his response always boils down to the phrase "I'm not anti-Greek." Speaking from experience, he's sure as hell isn't pro-Greek either. Sure enough, President went on a tangent about how the purpose of the Greek community has changed from when he was in school (The Greek Community is pointless), we are known as booze house (we give the campus a bad name), and, even so, he is not "anti-Greek (hmmm, never heard that before)."

One thing struck me though, and that was when he said, in response to claims that Greeks are treated unfairly especially when it comes to alcohol, "Greeks can't have a different standard." This set me on fire. However, by the time I was about to challenge his statement, the only people left were those balls deep in President and just think he's an ethical, cute old man who is an avid jogger. Aww.

I, however, see through his shit. If I did have a question tonight, it would have gone something like this:

"Yeah, I have a question. Dr. President, you mentioned earlier that Greeks 'can't have a different standard.' That is horse shit. You know we do, and, in fact, it is that we are held--unfairly--to a higher, nonsensical standard."

Here, he would somehow try to qualify what he said, and try to spin the standard to be a good thing, or something we should relish in or be proud of. That's when I chime back:

"But, you know that is completely false. You even said that the alcohol problem lies in the fact the underagers are served alcohol in our house, which coincidentally is an untrue statement. Even if it wasn't, you wouldn't know because that's not what you, your administration, and rules are about. They are all about living some impossible, perfectly moral fantasy you have built in your head, the only place that idea could ever exist. Every time we at Sigma Pi were "caught partying," a term I use loosely, it was for under three cases of beer (not hard alcohol). Even if we were serving underagers, which we were not, you, again, wouldn't know, because the uebermensch security officers your administration hired don't check I.D.'s; they just see some beer and assume there is a party.

You don't think that's true, that your officers and administrators don't use and exhibit the discretion and professionalism you try to act like they do in their jobs? That's funny, because last Halloween, one empty--yes, empty--beer can was found on our drinking fountain right next to our trash can. Furthermore, the can was claimed by an alumnus, who obviously does not go to the school. However, security wrote a report, and we were put on social probation, the same punishment one would receive for throwing a 50 case party with 200 people. Back to your idea that we 'can't be held to a different standard.' We are. We got caught with that beer can, and the entire fraternity which has existed for over 95 years was put in jeopardy. However, if that can was found in the dorms, nothing happens. Surely, the residents of the hall don't get punished, and definitely not the R.A.'s. If anyone does get punished, it is an individual. Fraternity house: everyone. Dorm: someone. If that isn't a double standard, I don't know what is."

Then I'd sit down. What his response would be, I do not know. It'd probably be long-winded and end with me being escorted off campus by police. Who knows, maybe someday I'll get some balls and ask.

I mean, I'm just sayin',
Pelton

Hi, my name is Jordan and I like to party.

Have you ever gone to a party and stopped trying to find a piece of tail or man meat for your 'late-night roll in the hay' as the kids say these days just to watch people--what they are wearing, whom they are with, and what they are doing? No? Well you should. If you can't, Acid helps. Regardless of whether you have or not, I think you can comprehend what I'm about to say and take me serious for a couple minutes.

In my time here at The University, I have experienced many things. As you would expect at any institution of higher learning, alcohol plays an important part in these activities and adventures, many times with surprising results. I rarely take time, however, to "stop and smell the roses," if I may, at these alcohol fueled events. But, this past weekend, I finally forced myself to take that step back and just 'people watch' for a couple hours. In the process I noticed some very...strange...occurences and recurrences that I thought I'd share with all of you. I arrived to this party around 10 o'clock with a can-do attitude and and 12-pack of PBR. I was set. At this time I was sporting my flat bill New-Era which covered my shaven head, both of which nicely accented my cheaply "blinged out" earlobes. Now that you've taken a moment to change panties, you are prepared to hear me out.

Since I wanted to start my night with a figurative bang (and end it with a literal one), I pounded a couple PBRs and immediately headed to the dance floor, or the 'orgy pit' as I so lovingly refer to it. On the real, have you ever watched a dance floor? Like, seriously, what....the...fuck..? It literally is a gang bang with more clothing and less discretion, which, coincidentally, is why I like it. Next time you're around one, just observe. You'll see a couple recurring characters pop up every time. First, sluts In case you aren't familiar with the slut, I will give you a quick indoctrination.

S.L.U.T.S. is an acronym crafted by French philosopher, sociologist, and theologian Claude Secsonie in an attempt to describe some unconventional "ladies of the night" to which he devoted years of study. He realized that these curious creatures could not simply be bought as other prostitutes but, in order to fornicate, one must take a slightly--a word I cannot emphasize enough--augmented approach. That meaning, they would not take cash directly, but would only take that cash in the form of meals, gifts, and expensive clothing the potential suitor wore. Basically, sluts. are whores that feel bad receiving a paycheck. Similarly to whores, however, sluts enjoy not-so-kosher methods of intercourse. I mean, you can't be surprised taking into consideration what sluts stands for: "She who Loves it Up The Shitter." Nope, not surprised at all. Secsonie also documented that when the slut was in the presence of Hollister polos, designer jeans, and overly applied cologne, something magical happened: she no longer needed reimbursement for sexual favors at all; she'd please her suitor just for saying the right things. "The right things?" you may ask. Secsonie found the right thing could involved a variety of topics, but the dialogue he found to be most effective involved treating the drunken slut as less than human, fitting if one were to study the flow of energy on the sexual food chain:
As you can see, the slut is firmly between the average human and quadrupedal animals. He deducted from empirical study of the sexual food chain that if one were to treat the slut as less than human, yet more human that the average farm animal, intercourse was almost a guarantee. Secsonie compared this to how one would treat to a well-trained dog: you obviously aren't going to rub it's nose in it own feces, but there's always a possibility, especially when it shits on your bed. In his later years, Secsonie looked back on his studies and concluded that sluts were integral to society in that they not only allowed the average male to have intercourse, but stimulated the economy by encouraging males to purchase copious amounts of hair gel, contraceptives, and overpriced clothing. Claude Secsonie died due to complications of Syphilis in 1934, age 38.

The next thing you'll notice at parties are the males who court these fellatio foundries. If getting laid was a competition, one can find a hierarchy in sexual triumphs depending on the approach the males take. From my experience and observation, less is always more, especially in attitude. The less respect you give, the more you'll get back. The less you care, the more you'll be cared about. The less you converse, the more you get talked to. The less attention you give the more you'll receive. It's all very simple. Say you were to approach the dance floor with a mission of poaching the almighty Poontang. As of late, I've employed some serious "less is more" ideology in every aspect of my game. My favorite opener goes something like this:

"Yo, [random friend]. You see this bitch? She fuckin' wants it."

One might assume it would end with a slap to the face and some blue balls, however, form my experience, it is the total opposite. Rather than exiting the scene, the slut becomes intrigued, most likely because she subconsciously assumes she isn't cared about. So, in an attempt to win over the male, she uses her natural assets to intrigue the male. Once she wins the approval, however, she will soon lose interest and move on, unless of course she was previously on a mission to have sex with the approacher, which is always a possibility, although quite rare. Thus, a male must continue not to show much interest and approval to the female. If the facade is kept, and the interactions are unpredictable, sexual contact is an astute possibility.

As a sum of the two aforementioned types of people always present at any party, one can deduct many things. The real idea is that no matter what the situation a party will break down as follows:

1.) Males, who want to have sex with all women.

2.) Females, who want to have sex with someone specific.

3.) Booze, which makes it all possible...and better.

Now, it is the male's goal to find the girl who would willing to partake, and if she is not avidly willing (a common occurrence), he will used tactics similar to the aforementioned. The females goal will involve find the one male to sexually interact with, and, if that turns to an impossibility, she will turn to other males.

What I'm saying is that it all boils down to sexual relations. It's a 50-50 split when it comes to parties. You may very well disagree with everything I just explained, but I challenge you to step back at the next party you're at and simply observe. You might just be surprised.

I mean, I'm just sayin',
Pelton

A Most Sincere Ablogogy

Sorry, guys. That last post I wrote was bullshit. There's no room for that emo nonsense in today's interweb. So, I thought I'd offer an apology by creating a normal post for you all to laugh at. But, since I'm lazy, I'm not writing shit; instead, I'll just pull out an old gem I wrote as a note on facebook. Enjoy. Oh, and I thought the Pinup Girls were a nice touch, too.

"M. Night Shyamalan Should Jump off a Cliff."

I've always been a big fan of the American cinema. Every once in a while, some assclown toolbag of a director/production company/writer comes along a drops a steaming pile of shit all over the screen and its loyal connoisseurs. Continuing this defecate analogy, if bad movies are considered bowel movements, the continually rancid pieces of filth Indian-American writer/director M. Night Shyamalan excretes can easily be considered Hollywood's post-Mexican meal shits. You know that real runny, diarrhea-y mess you get after a night of binging on hot wings and Natural Light that burns so bad you have to wipe the minute it hits the bowl? I think the medical community refers to that as “The Happening.” Fucking cock. The man gets fat checks for pieces of shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if his next “work” was 90 minutes of him trying to figure out how to fuck his own ass.

I digress.

Pointblank, M. Night Shyamalan should be aborted. Furthermore, I feel like he should abort himself, and hopefully, if he does have testicles, with a razor blade. No, not a cut across the street, nor down the road, but across the jugular. He’s yet to prove his manhood, and I figure right before he kills himself is the perfect time. Nothing screams, “I am a cockswallower and I’m sorry for stealing a collective $50 and 6 hours of your life that could have been used on beer, porn, and cheap hookers” better than a self-decapitation. Either that or head butting the sidewalk, something I wanted to do as early as 5 minutes into “The Happening.” But my personal pain isn’t what’s important. This is about Shyamalan. The idea that “The Happening” was a symbolic allegory on mistreating the environment and an exaggerated warning on the earth no longer being suitable for life or our sustenance was the thought up by hemp wearing pussies. This is the same person that believes in astrology and thinks their ankle-length skirt and huge rack will distract you from the huge gaps in their teeth and unshaven armpits. In reality, it was just Shyamalan brainstorming for an hour and a half on how to kill himself like a real American hero. I hope he grows a pair and does it. Eat shit M. Night. You are a fucking asshole. I want my goddamned money back.

Making 2.0 the new 4.0,
Jordan Pelton

[Untitled]

So, my days here at ONU have been, for lack of a better term, interesting. From the first day I got on this campus to start the fabled "new chapter" in my life, it has been a booze fueled festival full of fun, friendship, and brotherhood. It's also been a time of disappointment, anger, and frustration, especially in this, my second year. Surely, the stresses of school and being in a position of responsibility in a fraternity have taken their tole on my psyche and ego, but that is nothing I haven't gotten used to. However, at the very root of things, the very core, the times that I have hated at this school have been caused by women.

Last year, I had very little to no run-ins with females of any variety. Needless too say, my year purely consisted of partying, studying, and enjoying my status as a drunk, freshman idiot. It was awesome. But this year, from the day I moved into the house a month before classes started, I have been plagued. I'm not going to go into specifics of any instances; instead, I'll just make an exhaustive list of what I've learned about the opposite sex:

1. All women are the same.

One hell of a list, I know. But, I believe it. It doesn't matter how much you think a girl is "different" or "special." They thrive of dishonesty (even when they say that is the most import thing to them in any relationship), deception (they go out of their way to make things convenient for them), and misleading people (I don't know why. Maybe its fun or something, I haven't tried it). I think it would be a good time to implement quote instilled rather recently from on of my brothers and friends: "Love is the misconception that one woman differs from another." Yeah, suck on that for a while. I hear it tastes pretty emo. Continuing on, I'd like to make a list of revelations I've had about myself in all of this:

1. I am an idiot. This is what it is. I have some horrible habits like convincing myself I like people more than I do and getting too interested in people that show any interest in me. I feel its really sad, and seemingly desperate which I don't think I am, but maybe.

2. I need to start listening to my friends. If this list was a ranking of importance, this should be number one. These guys I know here and back home are some of the best, most sincere people one could ever meet. In other words, I'd trust my life to these people without hesitation. In my past experiences--the ones that are leading me to write this post-- they have given me the following pieces of advice: "She sounds like a whore; you don't want nothing to do with that," "You definitely deserve better," and "This isn't going to go anywhere you want it to or think it will." They've given many more, but those are the one's that have stuck. In all instances, they've been right. This segues quite nicely into my next point.

3. Apparently, I don't learn from my mistakes. There have been at least 2 instances to which I'm referring in these posts, and the pieces of advice above happened on both occasions. I don't know what my problem is, but I always want to give whatever girl the benefit of the doubt, ignore my friends, and try to make things work/happen/succeed. They don't. They really never do. The fact it's happened twice leads me to believe its more than me being unlucky. It's got to be something more.

4. I can't trust myself. The fact I keeping disregarding the advice of friends and can never seem to learn from my mistakes leads me to conclude I should have no faith in my personal discretion. I'm also horrible at reading people, apparently. Shitty.

5. Trying to be a good person does not pay off. Nice guys really do finish last, at least in this day and age. Not much else I can say about that. Evidence is really irrefutable.

6. Getting shit on is as much a pastime for me as baseball is for America. Enough said.

7. Did I mention I'm an idiot? I think I did.

That's all I got on that. This post was really just me venting and not much more. Perhaps it has some slight entertainment value somewhere, or, maybe, it will give you all a little insight into my life. Where do I go from here? Who knows. Probably just try as hard I can to take my friends advice. The thing I'm most keen on right now is not trying to make things happen, but just to let them happen.

Yeah, that's sound good...

Making 2.0 the new 4.0,
Jordan Pelton

O!, Chem.

So I'm currently sitting in the University Drug Information center to fill time that used to be filled by Organic Chemistry. As it turns out, Organic Chemistry isn't easy; I was failing miserably from the first quiz on, and didn't even bother to look at the second exam which mostly constituted me drawing random lines and answering every question with "Add HCl and Phosphorus tribromide." For those of you who wouldn't know, answers as such equals that exam spitting a mad lougie of failure right into my face. So, even though I have yet to withdraw from the class in technicality, I have done so in spirit which I feel more than justifies my lack of attendance. Word.

One thing I've noticed about the Drug Information center at the U. is how very little information about drugs it actually has. I mean, I have been looking in here for over a year and a quarter now, and I have yet to find and consistent dealers of anything. I'm starting to find out, a little more every day, that maybe pharmacy isn't really about drugs, but more about helping people in the name of promoting autonomy and well-being in the most philosophical of senses. For shame.

Still fat cash though.

Making 2.0 the new 4.0,
Pelton

Metrosexual Chocolate

For those of you who don't know, I live in a fraternity house. In particular, Sigma Pi. Of course, some of the people who come over bill our house as "dirty," "filthy," or "reminiscent of the Saw movie series." Firstly, it's not as bad as it looks. Second, if it's so bad, why don't you clean it, you lazy, hating assholes. Third, go fuck yourself.

Anyway, if you've ever come over, you'll know that only the common areas can even be mistaken as dirty; individual rooms, however, are very clean and homey. When I moved in late this past summer, I did so hastily and did little to rearrange and personalize my new abode. Basically, I just moved my shit in on top of the last guy's room. Up until now, this hasn't bothered me much, and seemed to be a pretty decent set-up. Then, I realized that a "rebirth" of the Pelton was neccesary. You see, in the earlier part of this year, I had my fair share of run-ins with whores, sluts, and a variety of other creatures of collegiate myth. Granted, the times I had could be mistaken as good, but in a large sense, this guy got fucked over...hard, especially since I'm told that a large part of the freshman class currently thinks I'm a "walking STD."

Shitty.

So, I descided late last quarter it would be a solid idea to start anew, thus deciding to fix my image and try a go round on not dating complete whores for once. The transformation, or "tranny" as I call it, would most definitely not be easy, and most likely hilarious, so I figure I'd start writing about this process. The first part of this quarter, I did little to fix my reputation. On the same token, I did little to hurt it either. I figured I would lie low for a while and hope I was forgotten about. As it turns out, I'm much to sexy for that to even start to happen. It was time for something drastic, so I did what any person dissapointed with their reputation would do: become a stark metrosexual. Yes, that's right. I've become a gay man without a propensity for balls in my face. I got a new futon, painted my room a deep red color called "fleur de lie," got a coffee table, and hung black-and-white artwork at dominant eye level to make the room seem bigger.

The best part, however, is that my room no longer smells like promiscuity.

Making 2.0 the new 4.0,
Jordan Pelton