You're a towel!

A couple of years ago, I became fortunate enough to stumble across a particular towel in my linen closet. It was blue, big enough to make a skirt of absorption in which I could roam the house under the guise of actually being clothed, and best of all, it was absorbent.

I’ve found that in life, about 98% of towels made are not absorbent; they merely sop up the water from your skin and become a slosh of fibers and hard water from the shower. But this one, it’s different. I can dry every inch of every crevice of my wet and naked body without having to switch to another towel.

Now, I’m afraid that my beloved blue angel is no more. Mom convinced me to send Towlie to the great washing machine in the sky. It was time, though – he was tattered and torn so much that you would think Ive been using him to dry my pet porcupine.

In the meantime, I’ve switched to another towel. And while this one is much larger (I can envelop myself like a human burrito), it lacks the principle quality of absorption that I’ve taken for granted during the last two years of my high school career. This upsets me, so I think I will protest the absence of an acceptable drying device in my home by not showering for a while. Then, maybe someone with whom I reside will notice the wretched stench and toss a suitable towel my way.

And no, I do not have a pet porcupine.

The Lowlight of my Day

I was never permitted to go to the big peoples’ doctor. I would always be sitting there, in a room full of little snot-nosed children whining to their mothers, waiting for my overly friendly pediatrician to call me in so that he could tell me how bad my acne was getting.

So today, I walked in because I had to get some paperwork filled out before I could go to college. I was the only person who could grow facial hair in the entire room. None of the secretaries could do it (I hope), none of the mothers who had to take the day off from work to bring their little bundles of joy in for medical care could do it (I hope), and none of the kids in the waiting room could do it, either.

So, while I was waiting for my appointment to get scheduled, I took a seat to check out the reading material. And you know what I hate?

Every doctor’s office in the known universe has a copy of Highlights Magazine. And every copy of Highlights Magazine has that sweet hidden picture puzzle where you have to find a baseball, canoe, and umbrella in a seemingly normal landscape. But the thing that gets me is that in every copy of this magazine in every doctor’s office across America, some stupid kid went and found them all for you. There you are, sitting there ready to play paper detective, and that fat kid with the mumps went and stole your glory.

Go spit, fat kid with the mumps. I’m sick of you.

The Caste System of Adolescence

Before I begin, you should know that this entire tirade is not a manifestation of my extreme bitterness toward, well, everything. In fact, things are on an upswing and this is just a collection of thoughts that only a small demographic of society will agree with. I’m certainly aware of this fact.

But, without further adieu, I give you the Peterson Male/Female Mutual Attraction Theory, authored on 28 October 2005:

At the point of conception, the male is placed at a certain disadvantage. Granted, the female obligations of childbirth and menstruation are definite points in the negative column for that particular group, males are given the arduous task of finding a mate.

The reasoning for this disadvantage is ultimately a manifestation of the competing standards for each respective group: females are generally attracted to physically attractive males, while men will generally do anything you put in front of them.

It should be noted that the female “standards” being investigated are those of a purely physical nature due to the fact that the years of life prime for reproduction are those during which females are fickle, maniacal creatures who show more discretion than is necessary while finding someone with whom to mate. (Read: High school girls are heartless, soulless individuals.) In contrast, male “standards” being investigated rely upon physical attraction in addition to such intangible qualities as sincerity, ability to hold conversation, and the like.

Now then, on to the thick of it. Let’s say, for example, that there are three levels of physical attractiveness: low, moderate, and high. Most men are starved for affection and will gladly mate with any female who is at least moderately attractive. It is not uncommon, either, for a man to be attracted to a female of low attractiveness. Shortcomings in these categories can be adequately balanced by other qualities that remain unseen by the female eye.

That being said, the female is an entirely different specimen. Females who are at the prime of their reproductive lives are, by their very nature, closed-minded and callous individuals who rely solely upon looks, and therefore, the only males who have a chance of mating with females are those who are highly attractive. Any other males stand little to no chance, because they cannot compensate for the lack of physical attraction with such qualities as good nature, niceness, or anything similar due to the teenage female’s inability to observe and appreciate such behavior.

Therefore, females hold a distinct advantage in that they have a large base from which to draw possible mates. That is, any given female is likely to be accepted by far more males than would males attempting to be accepted by females.

Consider the following matrix of attraction, where males are on the horizontal axis, females are on the vertical axis, L represents a low level of attractiveness, M represents a moderate level of attractiveness, and H represents a high level of attractiveness. Willingness to participate in a romantic relationship is be denoted by ? for males seeking females and by ? for females seeking males. Only mutual willingness should be considered as potential for a successful relationship, and these are highlighted yellow.

If one uses the same matrix and the same parameters for that matrix, however, it would appear differently in an ideal world, wherein nonphysical characteristics were nonexistent (that is, in a world wherein the men suddenly sprouted vaginas and became superficial jerks). Furthermore, if the variable of living beyond one’s means were eliminated by way of those members of each group mating with members of the opposite sex in that same group, the possible relationships would form a gradient across the scale, possibly incorporating far more individuals into relationships than in the prior model. Observe the ideal matrix:

As you can see, the variance between these two groups is alarming. But as it is, the first model is the true model of the inter-gender social framework. Because this is the sad, sad, reality of life, males born anywhere short of the high class of attractiveness are presented with a harsh difficulty: they must rise above the standards and locate that rare female with whom there will be mutual attraction.

I realize that with this theory, as there are with all other theories, the existence of certain anomalies is inevitable. Sure, there may be an occasional female who takes into account such items as intelligence and personality. And sure, there are many guys who are so into themselves that they judge solely upon looks. You have to understand that I write this as an outlyer on the male spectrum that is trying to find some insight into why things are the way they are.

Edit:
Now then, now that I’ve been privy to the extreme disgust of every girl I know, I’d like to point out that this entire thought process was as much a theory as it was a joke. Added hyperbole to make a point was employed, and there should be no offense taken as these thoughts do not reflect upon the actions of the majority of my comrades. I wouldn’t be friends with people if they were all mirror images of the soulless individuals portrayed here. This much is obvious.

I’m genuinely sorry for any bad feelings I may have caused. Really. Go ahead, comment away and make me look like the fool I am.

Can't live with 'em

Because I’m on the yearbook staff at school, I had the pleasure yesterday of observing teenage girls in their natural habitat at a time during which they are particularly vulnerable: school picture distribution day.

It’s funny how every girl responds in exactly the same oh-my-god-my-pictures-are-so-horrible-but-I-think-yours-are-so-pretty-oh-no-mine-suck manner. I’ll be sure to add this one to the list of peculiar girlisms that is already longer than _War and Peace_.

Chippy, Chippy

Having accepted my fate as a lonely little man for the rest of eternity, I decided last year to scope out chicks with whom I have no chance and watch them from afar. And don’t think that this was some sort of intricate system of hiding out in trash cans outside of girls’ houses and lowering myself into their bedrooms with rock climbing equipment – it’s just normal public girl watching, and the last time I checked, that’s pretty legal.

Anyhow, last year there was this girl at school who I only referred to as Chippy, half because I didn’t know her real name and half because she looked like a chipmunk. Of course, I’m no strange guy with a chipmunk fetish or anything; she was a genuinely hot human chipmunk girl. Anyhow, I digress. She was far less than 5 feet tall and walked around in her nose ring and hanging off of this intensely awkward looking boy who had a giant red bush atop his head, which was just scraping the 7 foot barrier. They were an interesting couple to watch, to say the least.

After a while, though, I realized that Chippy and I were just incompatible. I mean, if I ever brought a girl with a nose ring home to my dad, he’d have a cow. Heck, he’d have a whole herd. It just wouldn’t be pretty.

However, this year, I’ve noticed that Chippy no longer goes around with the Red-Headed Wonder. Maybe it’s because her legs were so much shorter than his that she couldn’t keep up and he’s long gone by now. Or maybe it’s because the mechanics of any sort of physical contact were largely inefficient and, therefore, she is in the market for someone more vertically challenged than Red. Or maybe it’s just because he went to college and left her behind. Either way, she’s roaming the campus unhitched.

Thus, my mind has begun to wander again. And while I am fully aware that she and I are most likely very incompatible, I can’t help but wonder what our babies would look like. And while I don’t ever plan on saying anything to her, I’m curious as to whether a conversation with her would be slightly interesting. And while I know that I really would rather not pursue any sort of relationship with her, I continually ask myself if her mother would like me.

Uh oh, I think this qualifies my life as the saddest existence ever known to man.

Straighten up and fly right

Yesterday at lunch, I had a revelation that I decided to share with all of my classmates as they entered and exited through the left side of the double doors leading into the cafeteria. I yelled at the top of my pathetic little lungs at them, but I don’t think they noticed. So, I’ll fume about it here, which is the only place many people pay attention to my unceasing quips and clever insight.

Okay, people. It’s not hard. You drive on the right side. At a four way stop, the car to the right goes first. 90 percent of you are right-handed (or so says “Wikipedia”:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Right-handed). Your computer mouse is a right-handed device. The right side has become so well embedded into the framework of our society that it is the default direction for most common actions. Therefore, wouldn’t it make a boat load of sense to use the right side of double doors whenever you’re in a situation wherein you’ve got to make passage into a building?

Honestly, there is nothing that makes people look more stupid than a giant traffic jam around the entrance to a building that festers for a few minutes before someone realizes that the right door hasn’t been opened yet. It’s like a bunch of sheep being herded into the slaughterhouse with a mass of cattle making a break for it through the same door at the same time.

Here’s a novel thought. Why doesn’t everybody just follow primordial traffic laws when they’re walking? You know: walk on the right side, don’t speed, don’t go so slow that the people who have places to be pummel you, and, for the love of God, go through double doors on the right side.

Life with Loopy

The belt is a great invention. It can hold up pants, whip disobedient children, and, if you’re a real handyman in a desperate situation, it can even act as a replacement belt in car engines.

But, as with any seemingly benign thing in the world, with the belt comes a certain degree of risk. The risk is not a particularly catastrophic hazard, but since I’m one of the most socially paranoid people I know (and trust me when I say that I know a lot of people), it can harbor some significant psychological perils.

Of course, I’m talking about the rare happenstance when you miss a belt loop. Sure, if you catch it right away as you’re slipping into your old faded Levis, it’s easily remediable. But if the snafu manages to slip you by and you walk out into public with a pair of inadequately accessorized trousers, you’re bound to be noticed. And when that happens, my friend, what is a boy to do?

Knowing that you missed a belt loop following notification from an outlandishly critical public is just about the most vulnerable feeling in the world. How do you handle it? You could excuse yourself and find a corner in which to reassess your attire, but there’s always that interim period wherein you are completely aware of your shoddy dress, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Then again, you could always just unbuckle then and there and repair the misdoings of earlier in the day, but that has the potential of being ill-received, as the majority of the world does share my standard of etiquette (or lack thereof).

Alas, there is no easy answer. However, if I ever unbuckle my belt near you, please don’t take it the wrong way. I don’t know any better.

Step on it

I think it’s cute when microwavable products have an extra step on the tail end of their preparation directions that reads, “Enjoy.”

And here I was planning to painfully stomach the ravioli that I voluntarily made for my own satisfaction in a manner that resembles a whiny baby mouthing unhappily the pink medicine that is being forced upon him by his mother. Shucks.

Breaking Fast

In the past few weeks, my mother has, much to the urging of my brother, brought back from Publix the various cereals of our childhood.

First, it was Golden Grahams. A cereal that is easily manageable, the flakes had just the proper amount of golden and not too much graham, making for a sustained box lifetime of approximately 23 hours.

Then, she brought home Life. This variation, however, was new: Honey Graham Life. While it sounded appetizing, it came off a bit strong at first taste. I think that this could have been an honest mistake on the part of the honey adder on the production line, I can still assure you that no, Mikey doesn’t like this one.

Last week was my favorite because Mom brought home Smacks. I’ve always been a fan of Honey Smacks. Not just for their sweet taste, but the added perk of flavored residual milk at the bottom of the bowl. Something about that little frog’s cereal is inexplicably wonderful. Plus, it comes in a giant box, allowing many indulgences.

This week, Mom brought us Kix. You know: “Kid Tested, Mother Approved.” I’ve been testing them for a while now and while they certainly are not in contention for the award of best cereal, they hold their own in the whole grain division, barely nudging out Cheerios from the race. They are essentially carbon copies of Cheerios, but Kix have a slight manageability advantage in that due to their largely spherical shape, they float in the milk and one does not have to go fishing for his cereal after a given time of submersion.

That’s been the cereal roster for the last few weeks. This week, I think I’ll lobby for Honeycomb. Or Cookie Crisp. Or Cocoa Puffs. Or Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Or Cap’n Crunch.

Oh God, I can’t decide. It’s times like this I wish I had more than one stomach, like a cow.

The Great Flip

I think that since those ancient folks separated time into fixed passages known as days, weeks and months, the intrinsic human mind has managed to separate other reified entities against the ever-present intangible backdrop of the passage of time.

Take, for example, our mental plus and delta chart of the events of the present: our proverbial tally marks seem to clump up in a sole column as any specific and predefined amount of time passes us by. Likewise, when the sun ducks underneath the horizon or when we’re forced to flip up a page in our calendars, so too do we flip up the pages of the mind and of the heart. After the Great Flip, we are faced with so much environmental newness that in order to be distracted by the follies of the present that are seared into meticulousness, we shift position until it is just different enough to invoke new feelings yet just similar enough to sneak its way into our boxes.

It happens to everyone all the time, but each individual’s schedule is different because if everyone were to make the Great Flip at the same time, the world would suck even more than Dr. Y tells us we say it does. I flipped when the clock struck 12:00AM Monday morning. I can only hope that the interim until my next flip is exceedingly short lived; I am so not used to this that I had to take the nail out of the wall to make the change because its head was too big for my largely unperturbed perforation.

I guess what I’m trying to say with this long, drawn out narrative is that this week sucks, but come Monday, it’ll be alright.