Conspiracy of One: It’s Sunny in Victorville

My mother thinks I make a great chauffeur; she also thinks I’m stupid to a certain degree. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know I’m very capable of calling bullshit on certain matters.

I finished summer school, and it’s one week before I resume my scholastic endeavors. As much of a bitch as summer school was, 22 units will be a relief. Also, the fact that I get my own cave shortly is a blessing. Why do you ask? What about your spacious room? What about all the amenities that come free of charge, such as decent food and storage of all clothes? And a loving mother?

Well, when your mother takes a sharp left turn at Bitch Ave., you must run.

Guaranteed, she flipped out on me last week and wouldn’t let up. It was bad enough that she was trying to force me to drive to my uncle’s place, or be homeless. Needless to say, she threw me out. Under no circumstances should anyone be subjected to any pressure because they just may be smarter than the parents. I walked around Hawthorne with nothing for four hours late Friday night/early Saturday morning, ran into some seedy people, got mugged, and let’s just say, it’s very unpleasant. I was allowed to come back home later, and was woken up so I could still be forced to drive with less than four hours of sleep. She tried to make smalltalk, something I can’t stand. When you piss a person off, then force them to do something against their will (or better judgment), an apology is necessary. I could give two shits over what happened at work; I want a damn apology. I took a wrong turn on the freeway (because I obviously have never been to our destination), and she started “asking God for peace to get her through this.” Things like this make me shocked I haven’t gone atheist, but I digress. I promise there will be a full-on separation of church and state if I have my way; extremists on either side of the aisle will be subsequently extinguished.

I did enjoy a few things from the trip. I saw a cousin I haven’t seen in years, and told him his ass better go to college. There’s nothing more fun than being a pain in the ass while being absolutely correct.

My uncle has a nice house. Too bad he moved inland, because it’s hella hot there. I don’t believe in NorCal vernacular, but there’s no other way to describe it. I could definitely use his house as a blueprint for my estate in ten years, but it will be by the heart of the South Bay, or further south. I’m spoiled when it comes to weather, and I don’t intend to be humble.

Now, back to why my mother and I can’t stay in the same house. One thinks that being a parent is equivalent to being God while referencing him at every point. I find Bible thumpers hilarious, but rank up there with Islamic extremists…well, any extremist from any religion. It’s why I try to keep an open mind at all times, because hell, I don’t want to offend anyone unless I specifically choose to be offensive. Being ignorant and offensive is a cardinal sin in my book. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

My mother was not done embarrassing me, despite I’m trying my best to get thoughts out my head of interring her in a nursing home. Lo and behold, she jokes about the story with my uncle and everyone in attendance. I’m exceedingly pissed off, she’s exceedingly dubious of her insensitivity, and everyone else is in shock. I excused myself from the room, spoke to my uncle about the whole story of having my name slandered for no reason, and went to bed. I later heard that he tore into my mother who may/may not have understood she was clearly in the wrong. She’s sort of coming around, but I’m not quite in a forgiving mood…as if I’ve ever been. That’s why I don’t mind going into debt moving into a room half the size of home.

I’m told to think about if the proverbial shoe was on the other foot; she sure as hell didn’t. I will work harder and swifter to make sure I don’t have to come back home, because being threatened with eviction everytime there is a contrary thought is uncool. After hearing her thoughts on how she can improve my life earlier this summer, I’ll be damned if I don’t prove her wrong. Comparing one’s self to others is only effective when self imperfection isn’t ignored. Sure, her other friends are more strict, but their kids are also epic failures. I, on the other hand, reside on the other end of the spectrum. Hell, you tell a guy to be different, but a bit of hair bleach makes you queasy? If you can’t understand my logic when I use it in simple terms, then well, we can’t coexist. Sure, you’re ahead of me now, but the tide will change.

And I can guarantee you that I will remember the bad times, as well as the good. What’s that you say? What kind of person discloses their plans before they execute them?

The kind that knows he can’t…or won’t be stopped. Tell ’em where the play’s going before the snap, yet there is nothing that can be done about it. For fuck’s sake, I wish people would just admit she is, and can be wrong. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Máire Brennan “Come Josephine In My Flying Machine”

Conspiracy of One: Servant’s Desire

I just concluded watching Bob Saget’s roast. If I’m to believe everything I heard, he’s one of the sickest human beings on the planet. At the same time, he told everyone to fuck themselves at the end of his show. Only a ballsy individual would dare say that to his adoring public, but Saget’s that kind of guy. I am that kind of guy. I can’t wait to be lauded only to rip everyone a new asshole. In the same vein, I want people to be confused of my intentions; am I serious or not? For the record, let’s pretend I’m not.

My last week of summer school is here, granting a slight vacation to my weary psyche. And hell if I’m not weary. Weary enough to temporarily defect to the Filipino culture. I returned to the club from last week for the parting of my rival. It started off slow, but of course, my chutzpah returned to me and shit hit the fan. I taught a few people how to dance, made a few crude jokes, and piloted a group that fucked over the old Filipino establishment. I don’t know what the hell they called themselves doing, but watch the younger kids to figure out how to Mambo No. 5. Also, do not pervert the Caribbean Cowboy. One last note, if you try to have one of your generation-specific dances, rest assured, we’ll up the ante. Your BPM is no match for our frenetic style of play.

Somehow, I’m reminded that in the fall, I’m by myself…literally. I operated slightly right-of-center when line dancing. This time around, the center console belongs to me. Should it really? Odds are, I’ll yell at everyone for not using proper spelling, grammar, syntax…and not having fun while dancing. More or less, I’ll have to assume the mantle and rule with an iron sleeved hand. I’ll also have to get over the fact Leo Sayer has an extremely high pitch for a male singer. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Leo Sayer “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing”

Conspiracy of One: Embrace Cold Calculation

Now, trying to maintain a flagrant personality is a stiff task. I’ve had a couple recent run-ins with folks that I’d normally dispatch without blinking an eyelash. During this time, I looked at my dealings and realized I’ve gone…soft. Not super-soft, mind you, because my soft is still harder than everyone else’s soft. An example would be me using a recently deceased acquaintance’s last name as a variant of “fuck”; I use it as any part of speech when necessary. Jordan’s coworker gets offended, but I flat out told her that I could give a swerving Swiggum about her opinion. ZING! Yes, that hurts, but I’m quite sure my demise will be construed the same way to someone else, and for that, I am grateful.

Another acquaintance I didn’t care for left a message on my profile telling me to vote for her baby. I toyed with checking the links, but my increasingly negative conscience (ahem, Jordan) basically challenged me to delete it. A few seconds later, it was gone. I love that she proved my prediction, but it doesn’t make me dislike her any less. Two cheers for me.

Which brings me to another topic…another person I don’t particularly care about. I never made good on my choice to completely cut Jared off once he moved away. I thought I did a good job, but checking my vast records left me with a few simple mistakes. Mistakes that I just corrected. If I can attribute to my newfound heelish tendencies to the Joker, then maybe I should not see The Dark Knight for the third time.

But if I don’t, my Joker impersonation won’t improve. And that my friends, is no laughing matter. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – The Churchills “Everybody Gets What They Deserve”

Conspiracy of One: The Longest Day, Sponsored by Jordan McIntyre™

I wake up this morning feeling like a used tampon. Considering what I think a used a tampon should feel like, this is not particularly a great state of affairs for me. I had gone almost two days without sleep, so when I finally rest, it feels strange and foreign. These strange events that seem to consume my soul enable me to spin yarns and reminisce about weeks of triumph and years of turmoil.

But this is about two days of clusterfuck for the man who has everything.

Thursday, I had class. Class ran late. An acquaintance had a going away shindig at a dance club, so I attended after my session on the classroom. It took me an hour to get in the club, and once I got in, I barely danced. A girl I strongly considered was there, and I barely spoke two words to her. This is great, damn it: a situation where I could not dominate because my will would not allow it. Every now and again, it’s good for me to be broken down to human levels; it makes my ascent to godhood that much more thrilling. I still wear fragments of the straight edge mark as a reminder of my failure. Or so I thought after heading the wrong way on the I-5 freeway towards San Diego. Once I get back to Hawthorne, I can sleep and plot, so I may be god when school starts again. Two in the morning, and I’m done, except for something I said I’d do, which I’d never agree to if I was sane…

Jordan had orientation at UCLA in three hours. I tried to get some sleep, but I elected against it. I ignored my alarm, thinking I could potentially get out of going. Unfortunately, he called me shortly thereafter, which basically would make me look like a bitch if I did not go. So, I took a hurried washing, and left for Los Angeles. Met him at his house, and he drove us to Westwood.

For the longest fucking orientation I’ve had the (dis)pleasure of sitting through.

UCLA is a big campus with buildings named after many people that I’ve studied. By comparison, Long Beach also has its own zip code, but it doesn’t have 100 NCAA titles. Westwood/UCLA are synonymous; the area is nice, clean, and reeks of money. In Long Beach, you have a pretty good idea where CSULB stops and Long Beach begins, because you start clutching your wallet. It left me feeling a bit jaded about my current schooling, because few schools have that sort of magnitude. However, the situation is decidedly not me, which I realized after a short reality check when seeing the Adidas apparel. Yes, I’m a Nike man, and a dearth of Nike is a turnoff. But I’m thrilled for Jordan, but pissed because his business lengthened my trials by a good twelve hours. The campus is sparse, and we could barely read the damn map. The jersey I decided to wear supportingly was burning me; wool/flannel does not bode well for hot sunny days. I sat through all of his meetings, which was funny, since I didn’t exactly have a voice in the matters as I was not a True Bruin. However, I’m sure the people I met will remember me when I commandeer Jordan’s room/identity in a month. As a matter of fact, they should buy me food because I enrolled them in their classes. How the hell can you be accepted to UCLA and not know how to use their system? Pathetic. More importantly, why was I proficient using their system? The world may never know…

After the ungodly amount of time there (class registration was at 8PM), we decided to slum it around Westwood. However, like the rest of our day earlier, we got lost. I decided to entertain us by yelling out random slurs and catcalls out the window. When I’m not driving, I could turn it loose. A good thirty minutes after leaving the school, we finally made it back to Westwood and proceeded to look for a Chipotle. Didn’t find one, so we settled for In-N-Out. By the time we made it there, we were in a daze: tired, broken, and bruised. More importantly, we survived. He’s officially a Bruin, and I’m officially a dick. Not too much has changed. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Onyx “Last Dayz”