All Hallow's Eve Report, 2010!

The eve has come and passed us already, dear humans—how did you choose to revere the glorious dead? On Friday the 29th, I dressed as the Marquis de Sade, observed gender interactions, and choked a few people with a whip; it was delightful. On the night of the 31st, however, I chose to honor the corpses by applying ghoulish (and greasy) make-up to my face and filling a bowl with a huge volume of sugary goodies for trick-or-treaters.

SPOILER: This will become my supper.

You see, this was my first year living in a house—not a dorm, not an apartment, but a real damned house (albeit a dark, decrepit, creepy-creeper house). I had always been under the impression that a real damned house in a neighborhood (dogs poop in my yard and everything!) meant unyielding hordes of trick-or treaters, and there are few things that I love more than terrifying younglings as I throw cavities at their greedy face holes. Also, cable television is superior during this season; however, I do not have cable at the moment, but alas!—dvds exist! After sliding in The Abominable Dr. Phibes, I sat giddily in my chair, waiting for the swarms of bag-toting tots to arrive.

Pictured: a happy Mister Half Face

Two hours, a sunset, one awesome mustache and several bizarre deaths later, I still sat with an almost untouched (I needed movie noms) bowl of candy in my lap. During this time, I had eaten three Snickers fun bites and survived a surprise nosebleed. I had also accidentally rubbed much of the grease stain off of my face. I sat, looking like an auto-mechanic/crack whore mutant (still scary, right?!), and pondered where the trick-or-treaters could have gone. I’ve seen them out and about on non-Halloween days, screaming their stupid heads off and riding their bikes right behind my car as I’m shifting into reverse. Now where were they? Conspiring? To do what? What?! TELL ME.

Pictured: an uhappy, paranoid Mister Half Face

My holiday message to the little conspiring anti-trick-or-treating shit heads: Happy fucking Halloween. I hope a ghoul eats your dog and throws it back up on you, then urinates inside of your gaming consoles. Jerks. 

Guest Blog!: The Importance of Punctuation (Fernando H. Stevens)

I have been regretfully awful in updating my blog recently. There are no excuses for such negligence. Academics and slumber have robbed you all of the sunshine that is Mr. HalfFace. I have been writing so much about Romanticism/Gender Studies that I might commit she-icide (yes, I just made a funny, HA oh fuck).

That being said, a very wise man from a far away land has been generous enough to contribute his time to regale a delightful tale of woe and eventual madness:

"Hi. My name is Fernando H. Stevens. Generally, my ranting is limited to tales of customer inanity at the Dominion of Movies that I maintain. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to rant about things unrelated to the film industry because to not do so would horribly try my sanity.

I maintain an account on a certain Book of Faces that may be known throughout the internet. I am incredibly choosy in who I consider to be a friend, unlike those extravert superhumans who, apparently, are capable of maintaining over 600 meaningful relationships. So, for the most part, my Book of Faces' The Feed is comparatively empty.

Every so often, though, the Book of Faces tries impressing upon me other humans I do not know. It does this by throwing their status updates and comments into my The Feed and simultaneously affixing their name and profile picture thumbnail into the “Peeps Y'all Maybe Up In” section of the screen. By and large, this causes no issues for me. I ignore them, they ignore me, and life goes on.

Sometimes, though, these individuals produce something so vile, so tainted, so utterly and thoroughly wrong that I find myself glaring blankly at my monitor, slack-jawed and wondering how a human could possibly function in modern society with the cognitive faculties (or, more accurately, lack thereof) evidenced by the...the clusterfuck that is the online offering in question.

“yeah people are stupid lover. At least it was your last day. I'll see you tomorrow lover.”

Let us parse this...construction in a thorough and grammatical manner. First sentence, fixed for capitalization: “Yeah people are stupid lover.” It is obvious the thought being expressed here is that yeah people (perhaps a neologism for “yes men”) are stupid lover, some sort of British English collective noun that takes a plural verb. “Stupid lover” must be akin to “group of people who love things that are stupid.” So, in other words, kissasses are lovers of the inane. Clarity!

Next: “At least it was your last day.” No issues here. This sentence seems quite straightforward and, miraculously, lacks in any errors of grammar, spelling, or punctuation. Gold star.

Finally: “I'll see you tomorrow lover.” The “I'll see” section is a fine subject-verb construct, but what is this “you tomorrow lover” business? It seems to be an indirect object followed by a direct object. The individual sees the tomorrow lover, who is also doing...something...to you. Seeing you? Watching? Waiting?

Pictured: a You Tomorrow Lover
[yoo tuh-mawr-oh luhv-er]
1) An unshakable being that is conjured from lack of punctuation

2) It loves you. Tomorrow.

3) The thing staring at you from the bathroom.

4) LOOK AT THE FLOWERS. Take your goddamn pills.

Actually, I feel much better about this update after undertaking this lingual exercise. And, in hindsight, the writer is only trying to make a sociological statement, and providing a warning. A warning of the lurking tomorrow lovers. Raising awareness of these creatures can only be a public good."

If you wish to read more of this wise man's words (DO IT FOOL), consult:

\http://fernandostevens.blogspot.com/

Writing Center Sundays, ep.2: The Conjunction Beast

Another Exciting Sunday at the Writing Center!

I have been level drained.

I SHALL SLAY THEE, CONJUNCTION BEAST!

Con-junc-tion Beast
[kuhn-juhngk-shuhn beest]
--noun
1)    A creature of undocumented origin: known to leave despair and breathless chains of words in its wake; fabled to materialize immediately preceding the mysterious suicides of writing tutors and other people of letters.
2)     and and and so so and but and and so and but but so and and and and so but 
3)     It's right behind you.

The Truth About Passing Lanes

When driving to The Parents' House from College Place, much of my journey is comprised of fields, trees, and long, long stretches of highway. It truly makes for a wonderful (but BORING MY GOD BORING) ride. Of course, such travels are not without certain low points.

Without fail, my passing lane experiences follow the same formula with every trip. When I finally hit a stretch of highway that includes a passing lane, there are no cars to pass. Never. There's...there's nothing. Nobody. It is as if I have suddenly entered a time warp that spit me out into a post-apocalyptic world in which all of the cars have turned into sparklers or hamburger buns or some such. It feels very much like this:

Note the tumbleweeds. 

I have no reason to floor the gas pedal (but fuck it, I do it anyway), nor do I get to feel the smug satisfaction of passing some slow loser. That's because the slow losers are waiting for me at the very goddamn end of the passing lane.

When there are no passing lanes for at least twenty miles, that's when a huge white van appears out of a Satan hole and throws the cruise control on 40. Miles. Per. Hour. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

I CAN'T GO THIRTY-EIGHT I GOT PLACES TO BE FOOL

Yes, I could simply pass using the other lane-- it does not have to be a lane that is first and foremost designated as a PASSING lane. I know this. I understand this. I accept it. Here's the thing about me, folks; if I can't see at least 3.47 miles (super eyes, I have them) ahead into the other lane so as to avoid oncoming traffic and thus calm the looming threat of death, it's not happening. I'm not doing it. Now consider that these are country roads that I speak of; these are winding, hilly roads (the movies have not lied) that defeat my super eyes (because I do not have X-ray eyes for tax reasons) and do not let me attain the comfort and confidence required in the simple task of passing someone via the opposite lane. 

So then I must sit in my chair and clutch my steering wheel tighter and tighter as every tedious minute passes. I must stare at the white van (or whatever the hell) and will it to explode, thus assuring a migrane. I must savagely scream in rhythm to whatever little jingle is blaring over the radio at the time-- and I must do all of this for at least ten minutes (hey, ten minutes is a long time to be this wretchedly angry), all on account of passive surrender. Shit.

tl;dr: Passing lanes should be everywhere, I am a craven, white vans should be fed to giants.

My Tribute To Polyphasic Sleep Cycles

I've recently been enjoying the somewhat involuntary practice of a polyphasic sleep cycle. I have only been sleeping for 2 two-hour periods every day. My insomnia dictates this; I never planned on such a schedule, but my brain fell into this pattern because...zombie babies. Yes. Zombie babies. On the weekends and holidays, it is quite lovely, as I have much free time to make silly drawings, write silly things, and yell at squirrels and old people-- all whilst well rested. During the business week, however, it feels much like this:

This is supposed to be surreal. Shit.

Oh Drat, Insomnia.

Peanut Butter and Marble Rye,
take me from this still and sleepless place.

Creaky Legs (Oh God, What Have I Done?)

    
     I've never been what one could call "athletic." Throughout my life, I have deftly avoided sports and all sports related activities. It has occurred to me, however, that our days are numbered before the impending zombie/vampire/nuclear mutant/Owen Wilson clone apocalypse strikes, and it would be wise to get my body into some kind of decent physical condition so that I can effectively flee the murderous hoards. In my current state of fitness, I can indeed run if there is something to run from for as long as my creaking legs and tar-weighted lungs will allow-- about three minutes. That is why I've decided to take up the cherished past time of jogging/sprinting for no good reason at all. This is the account of my first morning:

What the hell is this? Read on to find out!

First Ten Minutes: Stretching!
My bosom is filled with the premature self-satisfaction that accompanies such a healthy addition to one's schedule. I scrape together the remnants of memories from high school gym classes and perform several basic stretching motions. With each poorly executed exercise, I am bored by the count of ten, but I persevere! I make it to twenty! Usually!


Jogging: First Two Minutes!
My heart is already thudding at an accelerated rate; it is confused, considering the many previous years of minimal performance. Only in the presence of squirrels, Twilight fans, and tremendous amounts of caffeine did the body that it dwells inside of require more than a few half-hearted (HA oh fuck) beats every hour. Now it is suddenly being forced to push blood through the veins that it feeds at a torrential rate, but soon the confusion falls away, and the heart and body become exhilarated! Fitness! Nothing can stop me! Nothing! Exclamation point!


Four Minutes!
Determination drives my spirit onward. My legs are tingling with a strange warm energy. The monotonous echoing of BOMPBOMPBOMPBOMP pounds in my ears, throat and fingertips-- MAGIC! I feel young and alive; it is as if my heart no longer resides only within my ribcage, but has spread to every last centimeter of my bod-- wait, has it only been...


Five & 1/2 Minutes!
The rejuvenation that I felt only seconds earlier now seems to resemble the sensation that probably accompanies the onset of death. The rhythmic puffing sounds from my lungs have degraded into a quiet, uneven wheezing. My legs are still holding out reasonably well, but I find myself suddenly and immensely concerned that my heart and lungs may explode simultaneously and fuse into a strange tar monster that will storm the streets. For the safety of the city, I pause for a quick break.


Break!
I glance at my reflection in a darkened window and find myself confronted by a perplexing sight. Without my knowledge, it seems that my carotid artery has become inhabited by a foreign life form that is desperately trying to hammer its way out of the side of my neck. Perhaps zombies are not what will trouble us, but instead body-invading aliens that require a decorative esophagus to correct their Chi. Then a horrifying thought comes to mind: perhaps the tar-fusion-monster has already happened; oh, god, what have I done?


Running! Again!
After a brief (and slightly worrisome) rest, I'm at it again, a bit more refreshed and all the more determined. Unfortunately, the ten second pause in which I contemplated my potential role in the downfall of Man allowed my legs sufficient time to realize that they object to this ridiculous new addition to their schedule, and would rather be propped up on a footstool supporting a book or toasty, toasty laptop. My calves protest first; sharp, stiff sensations tear up from my ankles to my knees, soon followed by a dull but un-ignorable ache in my thighs. Oh, god, what...what have I done?


Eight...Minutes...Running...In...Still...
I'm all the worse for the wear. In my failing condition, my only fuel is stubbornness and pride. My legs are tremendously stiff and flailing around like poorly constructed windmill wings. Stop to stretch? NO! Not an option! Must finish! Now! Faster! Run FASTER! BATTLE CRY! GRAAAAAAWWWW!!


Nine...Nine Minutes?
OH GOD GET THIS THING OUT OF MY NECK WHY


Ten Minutes.
I'm sitting on the front stoop of my residence smoking a cigarette, weighing the odds of standing up and showering or just living out the rest of my life on these cement stairs. It won't be long, anyway.


Thirteen Minutes.
My legs have cracked off and I'm dragging myself around my stupid apartment to find the wood glue. You may be asking, "why wood glue?" Because it's the only fucking glue I have, I can't remember where I put it, and I need legs if I plan to do this again. God dammit.

Found the wood glue.

Twenty Minutes.
The creature erupted from my neck, made sweet love to the hot water handle of my bathroom sink, and then swiftly made off into the dewy morning air. Oh god. What have I done?

You wouldn't believe the sounds that it made.