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RandumbKid111
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Name: Stephen
Country: Mongolia
Metro: Ulaanbaatar
Birthday: 5/18/1989
Gender: Male
Interests: stuff that explodes or burns effectively, Weird Al, music, sometimes a book is interesting, shiny stuff, coloring (preferably with free crayons), stuff that smells good (like peaches, or girls), video/computer games, armadillos, sewing machines, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Dragon Ball Z, historical conquests and video games based off of them, and girls
Expertise: exploding and burning stuff, scottish accents, music (somewhat), telling stories (very little-what), breaking/fixing stuff, and keeping the audience happy. I'm also pretty handy with a written word.
Occupation: Do Stuff. Make Pizza.
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  RandumbKid111
Member Since:
2/2/2004
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| I'm not ready for a commitmentI keep thinking that it's about time I get something done with this lady friend of mine, but I know it's not time. It's weird how completely superficial, trivial things, things that I'm not even sure are anything more than my own skewed perception of something completely awesome, will completely shake your confidence in things.
I thought I was ready to get into some kind of serious relationship, and the simple realization that I'm an idiot has completely changed my ideas on that. For now, I'm going to keep things casual, for everyone's sake. I'm going to try to stop acting like I'm too interested in certain individuals while avoiding making them feel unimportant, and trying to make everything a genuinely good experience for the both of us. It's a delicate balance. But I think I can do it.
I've got my whole life to finalize these things, because I'm just a financially-irresponsible idiot teenager still living at home. I'm going to take it easy and let things go.
Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed
That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed
I ain't ready for the altar but I do agree there's times
When a woman sure can be a friend of mine
Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise
And I just can't live without you; can't you see it in my eyes?
I been one poor correspondent, and I been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind
Will you meet me in the middle, will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?
Well I tried to fake it, I don't mind sayin', I just can't make it | | |
| The Pregnant ManI know it's way late to be addressing this subject, but I figured any day is a good day to start writing useless entries on Xanga again.
There's been this "pregnant man" in the news lately (or like 2 weeks ago), and he went on Oprah or something, and I dunno what else. Everyone seemed so fascinated with it. "What?! Men can have babies?!?!"1?>2/11?" No, of course men can't have babies. This "man" is a woman. Let's examine the criteria:
"He" does not have a Y chromosome. Not one, in his whole body.
The fetus in question is growing inside this "man"'s uterus. Beyond the fact that there is a uterus within his body (which is quite a tell-tale sign), he must have not yet kicked his menstrual cycle since the sex change surgery, as without thickened uterine walls, the egg would neither be able to attach nor grow in said uterus.
Look at a picture of "him." He looks more feminine than half the women I know.
All that makes him a "man" is a dual mastectomy and a prosthesis, plus artificially raised levels of testosterone and whatever else from self-injections. I don't know anything about what goes into the sex change surgery, but I'd imagine this guy can just lift up his plastic dong and push the baby out vaginally when the time comes.
Whoa, a mammalian life form with two X chromosomes, a uterus, and a menstrual cycle that produces pregnancy hormones is actually capable of carrying out a baby during its gestation period? No freakin' way!
Derek: "Books"? What's a book?
Jen: It's like an instruction manual, except it's for fun.
Derek: What? That sucks!
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| I'm waaayy out of practice with this thingI've just made two attempts at writing a short little thing about something that happened today. I cancelled both of them, and have decided to abandon the topic altogether, for the time being. For some reason, I have found myself periodically unable to properly express myself linguistically as of late. I've decided to stay away from Tetrahydrocannibanol for an indefinite period of time, and am really hoping that any effect it has on my ability to express myself will fade as the remainder of it is slowly metabolized out of my system.
I'm gonna have to start reading more books and throwing more thoughts down on here again. Otherwise, I'll never make it as an intelligent person.
How do you do what you do to me,
I wish i knew,
If i knew how you do it to me, I'd do it to you,
How do you do what you do to me,
I'm feelin' blue,
Wish I knew how you do it to me but I haven't a clue
You give me a feeling in my heart,
Like an arrow passing through it,
Spose that you think you're very smart,
But won't you tell me how do you do it
How do you do what you do to me,
If I only knew,
Then perhaps you'd fall for me like I fell for you
You give me a feeling in my heart,
Like an arrow passing through it,
Spose that you think you're very smart,
But won't you tell me how do you do it
How do you do what you do to me,
If I only knew,
Then perhaps you'd fall for me like I fell for you,
When I do it to you
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| TendonitisI'm one of those people who's not only right-handed, but completely directed by the motions of the right side of my body. I snowboard right foot forward, I kick soccer balls way harder and more accurately with my right foot, I throw with my right hand and have coordination. Because of my increased comfort with using the right side of my body for things, my right arm has, over the years, become quite a bit stronger than my left, because of the fact that I use it to pick up and hold up things, throw things, pull things, push things, launch things, pick the guitar strings, and get my back up off the wall. These seemingly effortless random daily tasks cumulatively give my arm quite the exercise routine, and help me to maintain my right-handed health. My left arm, meanwhile, has nowhere near the strength and coordination of my right, and is therefore often neglected in favor of its more capable peer, being left in the shadows to slowly atrophy away. Two days ago, I said "Enough!"
I flexed my left arm, and scoffed at the pitiful, almost unnoticeable change in the appearance of my upper arm. My left bicep, shamed and scarred by my continued favoritism for his much more talented brother, quickly retreated to its hovel in the depths of my soft tissue to cry. But I wouldn't let him get off that easy. Not this time.
"Come back out here, you turd," I said. He cowered. "You've been a part of this team for 18 years now, and you're the only member not pulling his own weight. I've let you dwell alone with your failures, turning my attention to more productive team members. But now, this is changing. You, as you are, are unacceptable. This body has a standard of awe-inspiring musculature that is met by all my arms, except for you. You're a lazy maggot. You're coming with me!"
I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and flung him down the hall. I entered a room at its end, and sat Mr. Biceps Brachium down. I put him to work. One dumbell, over and over. After 50 repetitions, he started to whimper.
"What's the matter? Can't handle a little exercise? Feeling sorry for yourself? 'Poor me, I'm so weak cuz I never do anything. I won't ever be able to catch up to the other muscles.' Well, you're going to. Right now."
I made him keep going. 100 repetitions. 200. Maybe more. I stopped counting, I just kept pushing him, over and over and over, not allowing him to slow down or let up until he had no strength left in him.
"You did good today, kid. Now wash up, grab some lunch, and come on back down here. We have more work to do."
He grabbed a protein shake, downed 3 bags of beef jerky, and ate a whole bucket of cashews. Perfect. He returned to the room, and once again worked to exhaustion. And again. I broke his resistance, I killed his self-pity, I made a soldier out of him. It was a good day's work.
The next morning, he was at work in the kitchen. Though he was tired from the previous day's exercises, I knew that he could do more. I reserved for him special tasks that would push him to be as strong as the competition, if not stronger. Though it threw off the fluidity of things, he did make quite a bit of progress towards true ability and coordination. I was proud of what he was becoming.
Now, though, I have tendinitis in my left elbow. Figures.
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| Jamba Juice, Video Games, and Other Stuff I've Been up to LatelyI've been spending a lot of time (or money, rather, as the employees are pretty quick) at Jamba Juice as of late; so much so that I feel confident that I can give solid suggestions to anyone with me who doesn't know what to order. One of the employees there also has an obvious huge crush on me, and/or she's just nice. And happens to know my name. That's awkward. There are hundreds of people every day who come in to my workplace whose names I pretend not to know because I have a feeling that if I've never actually addressed them in conversation, I have no business knowing who they are just because they were in the same class as me sometime in the last 7 years. Of course, that could be insulting if someone knows I know who they are and then I accidentally send the message that they're not memorable (or that I'm dense and oblivious, which is fine for people to think, unless they're hot girls whom I would rather not have believe that I'm dense and oblivious). Another thing that I would feel is a legitimizer for me acting like I've talked to them before, whether I have or not, is if we're friends on Facebook. But then sometimes I don't friend request people on Facebook until the day after I feign ignorance of their identity (tactful, I know), which could indicate that they are, in fact, not memorable, but doesn't necessarily confirm it, as that is not the only reason for which I am not Facebook friends with some of my most distant semi-acquaintances. Try reading that sentence in one breath. Anyway, basically what I'm saying is that Megan Gaard came in after a football game the other day and I pretended I didn't know what was going on, because I don't know how to act around women.
If you can't follow the humor in that paragraph... you're not part of my intended audience, I guess? But please, feel free to read on. You just won't laugh very much, probably.
Speaking of work, I've been there a lot, lately. I feel like I'm earning more respect from some of my managers by whom I had been feeling a little undervalued. I guess there's something about having graduated high school and not having left my part-time (now full-time) job at a pizza joint to go to college that makes me more-or-less god-like (or, at the very least, exactly like Pat Mulvehill) in everyone else's eyes. It's nice.
While not being at work, I've spent a lot of time sleeping, exercising, and looking for cool things to do. One safety net I have for being bored is to play video games. I downloaded a Nintendo-emulator-type program on my computer (except that it's completely legal because the games aren't duplicated, but are transferred from one media to another preserving the original copy of the game that was legally purchased blablabla whatever read about it at www.consoleclassix.com) that lets me play Nintendo NES (like the one before the super nintendo) games on my computer. After countless hours playing the Mario games, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Pacman, and many other classically excellent games, I stumbled upon the perfect video game: Sid Meier's Pirates. It came out in 1991 for the NES. Who knew that all this time people have been developing new platforms, making like 16 Final Fantasies, Street Fighters, Soul Caliburs, Mario Parties, etc, etc, etc. and it's been RIGHT THERE under our noses for over 16 years! This game is amazing!
You start out as a pirate in the Caribbean in the 15th century or so(where else? really). The game immediately hits you with historical accuracy: there are a bunch of port cities on islands all around you, and all are colonies of one of the four great european empires: the British, the French, the Spanish, and the Dutch. And who are you? Well, you get to pick which country you're privateering for! And guess what? You can betray them, too. You start off with a ship full of food, supplies, and about 16 cannons or so, manned by a crew of 30. You sail across the open sea and can encounter other countries' marine vessels and wage upon them, seizing plunder, food, supplies, sugar, and more cannons (assuming there is enough cargo space), as well as having the option of taking on the vessel and the remainder of its decimated crew as part of your pirate fleet. In each town, you can talk to the governor in an attempt to receive a Letter de Marque from his country, which legitimizes you in the eyes of those colonists' citizens and merchants; visit taverns to brag to the bartender, recruit sailors, and talk to crazy people who will sell you treasure maps for a couple hundred gold coins; and go buy stuff from merchants. I think the end goal might be to find the hidden treasure that the crazy people in the taverns keep giving you pieces of a map to, but I'm not sure, really. The part that makes this game so kick-ass though is that you can swordfight the captains of other ships, have naval battles using cannon, storm forts defending cities both on land and by sea, all with 8-bit sound and graphics! This game looks hilariously crappy, sounds hilariously crappy, and has completely unparalelled gameplay. What results is a game that is both hilarious because of how something so genius was shoved into such a crappy format, and amazing because of how complex, in-depth, and strategic the gameplay really is. Sid Meier really took the NES system to its full potential with this game, and nothing has yet matched it, except the Pokemon Gameboy series.
More later. Chipotle now.
Daily Quote:
Me: There you go. Have a nice night!
Customer: Thank you so much!
Nate: Dude, did you hear that? She said "thank you so much!" That means she likes you, man. Don't let her leave! Look, she's leaving! Go after her, man! That's your life right there walkin out the door, and you're not doing anything about it? She's probably rich, dude. Look at that car she's getting into! She could be your sugar momma. Seriously dude what are you waiting for? Ok, she's gone. You suck.
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