Sophomore Blog.

"I may be shy and not reply to your scathing review, but I'd rather subsist on venom than abstain with you. Oh, I'll be fine, sever this for all time, laugh it off when this ends. You can just go get high with all of your dumb friends."

Tonight was oil on the levy. I attended a football game with my good pal Nick. I opened my front door and he said, "Hello Mr. Wilson" and pretended to execute me via stomach shot. I found this hilarious. We arrived at the game, paid our dues, observed the excessive security they have nowadays (necessary, considering drugs, alcohol, fights, and teenage terrorism) and waltzed on over to the hordes of screaming children. And then the Elementary school kids. That was a stab at Freshmen, yes it was. We uncovered an underground sophomore marijuana ring and sought to exploit it in humorous ways. One of the ways was by yelling in a young woman's face that she was being manipulated by the boys, which she was. She didn't take kindly to that. I'm fainting slightly. I was just listening to "The Air" by Modest Mouse, which you should never listen to on an empty stomach. I touched Sophomores, which I often do. We joked about taking out the control room supervisor with piano wire to visit my good TV Studio friend Ian Straka. We put our hoods on and acted shady like modern mobsters or Breaking Bad-esque assassins. I am fainting again. We joked about cooking meth as well. Luckily, one of them caught the reference and they didn't take us too seriously. I was hyper as anything and spouting out drug lingo like it was my job. How I wanted to bust these chilluns. I say to them, "Yo Guys, I could be working for the local law enforcement and you would have no idea." They said nothing. I said this because a young, handsome fellow who likes to hug me was saying that he wanted no part in a party at this other sophie's house unless there was weed or alcohol. HA! Methacton. I saw Braden. I saw Ben. I saw Nikki. I saw some gone girl laying on shorts. I saw some Tony child I used to know. No, I didn't date him. He was from Barkley. Is this what Gotye has taught you? He was nice. Somehow they stopped hearing me. They tuned me out. They wanted my abandoned home, which I called a local meth lab (in Season 5 of Breaking Bad, they cooked meth in large middle-class home that were being fogged for bugs by a pest control company). I hope people realize I'm joking because Nick legit got Seniors to believe he was in the meth business today.  Oh, Hi. *smooch*. Oh, Hi. *smooch*. Oh, Hi. *smooch*. "Who's been bloody smoochin'?"

Anyhow, I ran over and raided the Moldy Palace with my new business partners and Sankt Nikolaus. We turned lights off and let Braden and the other two come look for us. And yes, they kissed and they kissed until their lips split. I heard them. I turned off the lights and left the room, and five seconds later I heard breathing. I mean, people normally breathe. But I could hear this from the other room. Why am I typing this? Sometimes, you gotta take full measures. "No more half measures, Walter". I had them in the palm of my hand. I gave them an inch and they took a kilometer.

Eventually we regrouped after I took to the floor in pain at the sight of another kiss on the bleeding lips of America's floodlight flagrantly flaming footholds of flirtatious fallacious flight. What? Haha. We went back, and Sir Pollack was planting one on the girl who feels comfortable in man laps. We saw this from the dark street, them underneath the outside school lights. It was insane. This kid, never thought he had it in him. I also never thought he'd be such a GOD-DANG fool and a rude little munchkin talking crap to his superior, elder and friend. Goodnight, sweet prince. You put some lump of female before a man, he calls you "gay" and walks off down the road. That's alright. It's Friday. I'm used to it. Now, don't go in my house or I'll paint it red for the new owners with your young bloods. I don't care how friggin' antsy you're getting in your pantsies. This ain't some Hotel. In fact, in means a lot to me. 16 years. What've you got? Do I have to walk you children home or make accommodations? I ought to smack every dang one of ya. Right upside the greasy, bumpy head. It's because they try. You know what happens? You boil down a month of getting to know people from the grade under you and trying to improve relations with everyone on a basis of acquaintanceship? You get me and you against the bleeding world. Maybe. Just maybe, you're one of them jawns that don't betray. God-fearing. All ya'll others can take the fences you press against squeeze your oily skin through it like them Play-Doh tubes. Then you'll be like slimy carrot sticks, and I don't eat vegetables. Keep to your own, that's the moral of the story. Or go older, because God knows St. Luke and St. Nicholas have skipped a maturation year or something. Maybe we'll sprinkle days of acting like womanizers who make out with brand news throughout the year to keep ourselves grounded. Sometimes My Little Pony is really their little pony and not your's. "You'll bleed to feed the demon in me if you don't change your evil ways and end this peacefully."

You can recycle plastic. You can't recycle friends. God, that was stupid. And that's all I got for the night, I'm exhausted. It's this, YGS #39, teethbrushing, then straight to the sack o' sheets. I hope someday I'll know a girl who doesn't make me generalize all women as "evil". IF THEY EVEN EXIST. And don't none o' ya'll old men come up to me and say, "You'll find the right one eventually." SHOVE OFF AND GO ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS, OLD MAN.