It's morphin' time

Or, more appropriately, time to shat out another ill-conceived blog for the three or four people who may stray across this dark, cobwebbed corner of the internet over a six-month period of time.

I'd definitely say that a hot, blonde German chick is at the top of the "Things I Want By Christmas" list.  Not to be confused with "Things I Want" by Christmas, an entirely different exploration of human depravity.
Also, and this came as a surprise to me as well, my productivity has entirely come to a halt.  That's right, boys and girls, I have managed to accomplish nothing beneficial in the span of the last week-and-a-half.

I was planning on writing something good here today.  I think I'll get to it . . . later.

Last Sunday, somebody decided it would be a good idea to load up and head for the Tulare County Fair.  I wasn't sure if I was quite prepared for what would lie in store, but I agreed anyway and ate a gram of bubble hash, for the drive. 
We arrived at the fairgrounds early in the afternoon and, after giving the pig-woman at the horse betting stands my $7, were admitted past the gates.  The shock of seeing so many heshers in one place was almost unbearable, but I trudged through, anyway.  There were rumors of live music at the different stages littered throughout, and I started searching desperately, if only to escape the steady accordian riffs of the Mariachi/Rock group assembled to the south.  The PAs were blasting the "bump-a-bomp" at an unbearably slow pace that seemed to dictate the movements of the crowds.
I was in desperate need of respite, so I hunkered down for a bit in a patch of shade near the Cal Fire exhibit with a corndog and a cigarette.  From my vantage point, I could make out the shapes of the swine in the open warehouse across the way.  Upon further investigation, I realized there were scores of them, along with goats, cows, and other barnyard sorts.  So I walked along, making faces and shouting at the sots milling about these barnyard creatures.
There was a destruction derby later that night, and I felt like watching some carnage.  After making my way through the huge crowd and paying too much for beer, I sat in the stands and let the steady hum of the engines and the constant vehicular collisions calm my nerves.  A Duster had somehow become straddled on the concrete embankment, and the other cars seemed to be avoiding it, for better or ill.  A forklift was eventually called to remove the damaged car from the tracks, so the other drivers may continue their bedlam unabated.
I made my exit just before the final few minutes of the hodgepodge of steel and rubber concluded.  I needed to get a jump on traffic . . . my nerves were shot and I wasn't sure how I'd hold up to being stuck behind rows of lifted trucks on my way back home.

The next morning, I awoke, suprisedly, to discover that my entire body was covered in hives, and my head felt like an army of large samoan men took turns beating on my temples.  It was difficult to move at first, because of the itching, but I donned a pair of jeans and a jacket and ate a handful of Benadryl before my drive to Fresno for class.  Ten in the morning to six-thirty at night, and I still went to all of them.  Even made a special trip to the pub to work on a French project and watch Monday Night Football.  The irritation had all but subsided, for the most part, and stuck to problem areas on my arms and legs.  I drove back home and, upon putting head to pillow, lost track of consciousness for twelve hours.
The next few days, I was absolutely worthless.  I didn't stray from my bed much, except for a few hours on Wednesday to present a lesson on subjunctive verbs for an upper-division French class.  I finally went to the doctor on Thursday and, after explaining the rate at which I self-medicate, she told me to stop immediately while she put me on some sort of steroid.  The Doc went into a deep lecture on the things one might see on this particular drug and, if I was taken off-guard by this sort of thing, to remind myself that these visions were just a part of the drug.  I duly explained to her the regular intake of psilocybin and other disorienting chemicals, and reassured her that I was used to this sort of thing.  She was surprisingly calm for a Navy doctor, and was completely confident in my abilities as a drug user to handle this thing responsibly.

The one major side effect of this, besides eliminating most severe allergic reactions within the course of a week-and-a-half, is a feeling of restlessness.  Instead of squandering this advantage on tossing in my bed, I spent eight hours (from midnight on) correcting several pages of my own, apparently incompetent French with a fine-tooth comb.  As soon as I finished the last of the grammatical and tense usage errors, it was promptly e-mailed, along with an elaborate note detailing how I spent the last week and what I would be doing for the next twelve hours (besides class).  And now I sit here, nursing a Pacifico, recounting my week, and there's a strange satisfactory smirk creeping across my face.  Sitting in front of a keyboard for hours and hours can steal most people's souls and has reduced many men to shrivelled hunks of flesh, rocking back and forth with sullen eyes and a glimmer of lost hope.  But not me; fuck no, I'm a professional.  I do this all the time.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got football to coach tomorrow and some serious drinking to do this weekend.

Da svedanya,
BSG

At least I have the decency to take that sort of thing out on myself

School's starting back up.  Next Monday, to be exact.  I'm surprised the fuckers haven't booted me outright.  No worries, they'll try to catch me on something, I'm sure.  Lucky me, I get the pleasure of retaking one (of, like, six) class that I fucked (read: past tense).  So, it's shit I already know, I just have to attend the final this time.  Funny, the things a prof'll fail you over.

Life, on the other hand, has taken a sharp 90 from the swan dive it had managed.  Not quite a full turnaround, but getting there.  My car has also seemed to be on the plane of things that aren't fucking up right now, too, which is nice.  One less thing I have to bitch about.

No more of this life bullshit to get in the way.  Work is steady and I have a whole nother semester to look forward to attending fewer than half of the parties the average college student should be.  I hate to say, but living in a perpetual party state burns one out on loud noises and crowded venues.  I don't get off drinking like a fish around a bunch of random strangers anymore.  Not that I dislike drinking, but I fucking despise random strangers.

So, I guess the score would be:
Brendon: 1
Humanity: 0

Fuck it, works for me.
Vaya con Dios,
Il Duce

I can show you what it's like 'til you're bleeding.

I've been listening to a great deal more metal recently.  Not the Metallica shit, either.  No . . . shred, death metal . . . Pantera, Slayer, that sort of business.  I have been getting my fair share of the tried and true in there-- don't be alarmed in any sense that I might be turning into a head-banging thrash kid-- no, I'm still the same anarchist you all know and love, just with a respect for other fascinating sorts of music.
I'm not sure what that has to do with the Danzig lyrics in the headliner, but they seemed fitting at the time.
I've been dealing with several issues for the past few months, none serious and none that there were no solutions to.  All but one have been thoroughly dealt with at this point in time.
And now, at the most inopportune time, an opportunity presents itself, and the only question is one of morality . . . what's the proper way to handle this.  This one might need some outside input.

I can handle this.