They Thought I Was Dumb

The education system is failing, but I don’t want to point fingers in this post.  Rather, I’d like to discuss the large jump I’ve taken in my timeline ever since I was basically declared mentally challenged in the 2nd grade.

I was really slow in my earlier years, failing to grasp even the simplest concepts on pace with my classmates.  Because of this, I was always behind on assignments and could never enjoy recess time.  I was locked up inside the classroom instead of employing my energy on the playground with the others.  However, my teachers never made any effort to help me understand what I didn’t understand.  They left me there to struggle with the material each and every day.  You can feel embarrassed even as a second grader, and I knew exactly what that felt like because I felt like the dumbest kid in America, doomed to dig ditches until my everlasting dirt nap.

My teachers were so frustrated with my lack of progress that they told my parents that they thought I had a learning disability/disorder.  Nothing was ever done about this because my parents acknowledged my potential.  This may sound cliche, but they believed in me.  They felt it was unnecessary to have some PhD character determine that I was academically incompetent.  I was never held back and thankfully continued on track with the rest of my peers.

I’m now almost 22 years-old and on the verge of graduating from college.  I’ve maintained a 3.9 G.P.A. and will soon be applying to graduate schools for clinical and social psychology.  I’ve gotten into conducting research with a faculty member who sees the potential in me as my parents did and still do.  I’m not trying to gloat about scholastic achievement; I’m just proud for what I’ve been able to accomplish ever since my 2nd grade teachers gave up on me and instead thought of me as an academically disabled individual.

I didn’t suddenly become a genius because I’m not.  The cliche moral of this story is that I worked hard and persevered through the negativity that was hindering the learning process.  I studied and asked for help when I needed it.  When I had my own questions, I went in search of the answer either with assistance or by myself.  Learning is not only an individual process; through my experience I’ve discovered that it is more so a collective process where teachers, parents, and peers assist in your learning.  Be engaged with learning and your quest for knowledge.

Even if I don’t get into graduate school, I will still walk into my elementary school with my bachelor’s degree and proudly show it to my second grade teachers who thought I wouldn’t amount to anything because I struggled with simple concepts.  Their clear frustration in my slow pace only encouraged me to go above and beyond their and my own expectations.

Please don’t let anybody hinder you from achieving your goals.  It’s up to you to overcome their perceptions, but not to prove them wrong, just to prove to yourself that you can do it.  You needn’t to impress anybody, only yourself knowing that you’ve worked hard.

I’m Probably The Most Awkward Person In The World

Awkwardness is an attribute that many nerds like myself have readily equipped at a moment’s notice.  Even though this is a social phenomenon, that doesn’t stop your body from joining in on the fun.  Why not assist that awkward compliment you just awarded to that innocent stranger with a gang of juicy pimples that jut from every corner of your face?  The crevice that births such awkward language shapes itself into a crooked smile that exposes a popcorn kernel shielding your pearly whites.  Despite what many people have said, I don’t personally believe that awkwardness makes a person appear “cuter” or “more attractive”.  Rather, it succeeds in making you look like a serial killer who’s hesitating to make a move and go in for the kill.

I think my awkwardness stems from many personal experiences I’ve had the pleasure of being acquainted with throughout my 21 young years of life.  School is a haven where teachers and your peers intentionally torture you.  It’s downright bullying in some situations, but most of my experiences come from class presentations where everyone can collectively take a gander at your awkward performance.  You know how those go: You stumble a few words, your zipper is open so your nether region can take a breather, you’re suddenly a Parkinson’s victim, etc.  Many awkward class presentations have conditioned me into how I behave even in conversations with one other person.

I’ve gotten better over the years, but my awkwardness is kind of a foundation for who I really am.  People like to laugh at my misfortunes from time to time because they can be just as awkward as I am.  I just need to get some training before I do something really weird, like screaming “Mom!” during a future sexual endeavor.  Many of my friends can attest to the severity of my awkwardness, but I assume they still love me anyway.  Not all people love it though; Yesterday at the pub I got into trouble for standing outside of the women’s bathroom waiting for my friends to come out so we could leave.  The lovely girl who walked in while I awkwardly stationed myself right outside thought I was peaking into the women’s room like some prepubescent boy trying to figure out how females urinate.  She was cute, but that ship has sailed just by the act of standing there.  Like I said, awkwardness can sometimes have serial killer-ish or creepy implications.  I’ve learned from this experience to not stand anywhere near a door with a plastic curvy female figure as a sign that signals I shouldn’t be there.

Yeah, I’m probably the most awkward person in the world.

Fly Away

This is dedicated to my late grandfather. He died last week and the family and I attended his funeral today. I can only hope that I’ll grow up to be at least half the man he was.

Fly away to the welcoming trumpets
Of the Heavens. The world has lost weight
And gracefully released a gentle soul to its skies.
Suffer no longer. The disease has won; it erased
Your memory and has claimed your life.
It had never touched your soul though.
Your love was too strong for it to grasp.
You’ve been greatly awarded with a peaceful passing.
Your journey on Earth has ended, but a new one has begun,
Reunited with those who have passed before you,
And soon enough we will rejoice.

Tears

Look beyond the glass walls of her body

And you’ll see the torment suffocating her heart.

Her beauty has been painted with scars,

A new source of painful memory.

Your hauntingly dark eyes stare deep into hers,

Watch as her tears melt the color of her eyes.

Her tears trickle down the rest of her body,

Melting whatever color composed her beauty,

Leaving her entirely grey and damaged.

Nothing but streaks and scars remain from

The violence you’ve imposed.

Your hand has silenced her long enough,

For her scars mean survival,

And you’re trapped in this world,

Lonely and fading.

Dear College, You’re A Whore

Dear College,

We’re three years into this relationship and you’ve demonstrated your distinct ability to out-whore the most professional Vegas whores. I’ve never come across something so horny and greedy as you are; what a shame that you’re the only legal form of prostitution available in the United States. Your version of goods and services has been sucking everybody dry ever since your conception. You told me that you would guarantee present and future satisfaction in exchange for my money and effort. I thought this was fair enough until I realized you were whoring around with other students on an international level. How much money do you need and why do you need so many people to go in and out of you? Your prostitution empire has grown so large that its impact has surpassed the empires of Spartan kings, saturated with pleasure-seekers.

I always thought we had something special when I chose you out of all the other University whores at my disposal. Your campus was beautiful and full of promise where I can discover my talents as a human being who is floating around in society. It gave me a chance to do what I really love and dispose of what I don’t love. I gave you my blood, sweat, and tears just to satisfy you because I saw you as something more than a whore: I saw you as somebody I’d really love to be with. We became acquainted because I thought we were truly in love. My heart was destroyed when I caught your diseased body bathing in stacks of the population’s hard earned cash. Why do you need all of this money, to improve your image and open up new services? Whatever, whores are quite creative and don’t need stolen cash to operate their brains.

Why not try to love me as I once loved you for a change? My love speaks louder than my money you’ve infected to benefit yourself. This isn’t a dark alleyway between a bar and some strip club, why don’t we express our love elsewhere and without alcohol? I’m glad that you’re willing to teach me something, but what’s with all of the alcohol? Does it improve your image when the population has their spiritual beer goggles on? Are people only willing to enter you as long as they can get plastered at free will?

Eminem was right when he said, “Well I do know one thing though, bitches they come they go.” I’m looking forward to our four years being over, however I’m not happy that I have to then take my business to your whore of a mother, graduate school. Your family business always seems to be doing well, but I’ve come to a realization. I don’t necessarily need your goods and services just to be successful in this world. Just because you’ve installed gobs of information and skills into my brain, doesn’t mean that I’m actually going to amount to anything. I actually have to come 90% of the way and then you can come the remaining 10%. It’s my responsibility to apply myself and not just rely on you for present and future success like so many people do.

Sincerely,

Evan

Get Me Off This Plane

I’ve landed after braving through security mishaps and suspicious eyes aimed my direction because I forgot to take my belt off. Never has a flight been so claustrophobic. I’m permanently damned to occupy the middle seat between two brain dead tax payers whose love handles spill over onto the arms of my chair.

One of my seat mates was some businessman with one jagged fang, a dangerous, yellow stained dagger that wanted to puncture my epidermis. The guy on the other side read for 5 minutes before slipping into a slumber that exposed his giant cave of a mouth for all passengers to explore.

The flight attendant was equipped with a poor selection of expensive drinks. I needed something heavy to sleep the entire flight, but they had no Jack Daniels for my serving of coke. To the pass the time, I pretended the ice cubes floating in my cool refreshment were continents in danger of an apocalyptic event. I was this apocalypse, more specifically a space dinosaur that eventually drank the entire ocean that supported these continents, and then I ate them.

You can tell I just want to get to my destination. I’m pretty sure I’ve scared some passengers along the way.

My Displeasure With Airports

I am utterly grateful for being able to travel by air on that contraption with wings that do not flap.  Obviously, inconveniences slither about from the cockpit all the way to the portable bathrooms during any given flight.  My concern is not about the flying part because there’s something majestic about ogling at the clouds.  If anything, souls who have left the ground we stand on for the Heavens know much more about inconveniences than anybody else.  Airplanes constantly jam their cockpits into these poor souls’ paradise on a daily basis, handicapping any hope the dead may have had about completing a normal day without interruption.  No, no, no.  My issue lies within the airport itself where I’ll be spending a better part of my day today.

After you’ve picked up your tickets, the fun may not begin for another few hours as terrorists have dictated every airport’s security policies within the past 12 years.  Perpetually rude employees are hired to ensure going through security is the most miserable experience possible.  I applaud them for keeping the public safe from a potential disaster that the media is eager to exploit, I really do.  However, there’s absolutely no reason to be an unpleasant person to a total group of strangers.  No airport-goer should ever feel so uneasy that they think they’ll be accused of attempting terrorism with a plastic comb they purchased from Walmart.  I’d shit my own airplane if somebody was successful at hijacking an airplane with the teeth of a comb.  Airport security does not make me feel safe; it makes me worried that I’ll be labeled a terrorist who tried to hijack the plane with a jar of Play-Doh.

Once security is conquered, it is the airport’s pleasure to seat you in the boarding area with people you’ll likely never see again.  The people retreat to boring old magazines that you’d find at your dentist’s waiting room to pass the time until their flight.  They mind their own business silently, assuming to avoid having their words being twisted into some terrorist jargon just so the government can butt in and pretend they’ve stopped crime .  Other casts of characters includes air-headed beauties interested in simultaneously getting their cherries popped while their ears are popping at high altitudes.  However, airport security prevails again as my arsenal of knee-slappers and pick-up lines are severely limited.  Thanks to Al-Qaeda, I am strictly forbidden from telling the girl, “That ass is da bomb.”

I’ve hinted that I enjoy riding planes, but the riding the plane part will have its day in court.  Pt. 2 of this post will cover this experience tomorrow once I land in Indianapolis.  Enjoy your stay on the surface of Earth, folks.

4 Reasons Why I’m Awkward In Public Places

1. My awkward dance moves.

Science will tell you that your awkward moves on the dance floor signal to onlooking ladies that you aren’t a compelling sex partner. Once I guzzle down a few beers to accumulate appropriate confidence, I’ll hobble my way to the center of the dance floor and bust a move. My signature (and only) move is pelvic thrusting, which pollutes the air with an awkwardness that cannot be ignored by the party’s other guests. Naturally, the music dies down and the eyes of all party-goers synchronize together to create one big spotlight that stares me down.  My inferior genes are duly noted by the other guests so they won’t manufacture some loser fetus inside of her uterus, forever shaming the existing and forthcoming members of the family tree.

2. I drink the wrong beer.

My doomed generation favors alcohol that can be paid for with a collection of loose change from your couch. Busch Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and an assortment of other cheap hippie beers have attacked my fully functional organs time and time again in exchange for saving my bank account. Instead, I’ve adopted a beer snob persona and spend the extra couple of bucks for a six pack of Guinness or available seasonal brews.  I’ve let other girls have a taste of my Guinness, and we’ll just say the luck of the Irish was not on my side.  Apparently, their cheap drink selection must be a representation of how easy it is to drop her panties.  I’ve learned that my selection will not have panties collecting dust on the floor any time soon.

3. I’m boring to talk to.

Verbal communication is extremely important since not all words can be expressed with our sexual organs. Parties are a breeding ground for random conversations where anybody with a halfway functional brain will succeed. Excited to work my sharp tongue, I pelvic thrust my way to a couple of ladies ready to engage in a mastery of the English language. “So, uh, hi.” The ladies seemingly evaporate as they are nowhere to be found once I opened my chatter box. After hours of searching, the girls are presumably dead because nobody is willing to answer my desperate “Missing” posters for these unmistakable beauties.

4. My confidence level is sub par.

Socially awkward characters, such as myself, do not have the same level of confidence as the greasy frat brothers that frequent the bar.  Our boners must create some alternate reality or fantasy world to flourish in.  My confidence has strengthened over the years, but not to the point where I’ll stick my tool in anything that moves.  I’m not yearning for an STD landmine down south; I can get a burning feeling from the shower if need be.

Rest Her Bones On Me

I thank God every day for this gift, this blessing.

Her flesh is obscured by the skin that imprisons

Such a beautiful character, preserved in everlasting darkness

That will never see daylight.  Her elegant soul travels

Through each kiss to unite with mine within my own realm.

This is a love story that will not wake the dead,

For our souls will not intervene with such a loud world.

This is a love story that takes place within our own bodies,

A silent love that only we can understand.

When it is our time to pass, I pray that He rests her bones on mine.

This may be our final resting place, but our souls will permeate

Through the cracks of the physical Earth and journey elsewhere.

This is a love story that will never end just because our hearts stopped,

Our souls have been acquainted through each kiss we shared.

Hand in hand, we will continue without that crippling pulse.

Our hearts were the center of our universe, but our ghosts have taken over.

We will not haunt, only continue what we’ve always had.

 

Forgive Me…

Forgive me, followers and others who have been yearning for new reading material to engage with on the toilet (or elsewhere).  I haven’t written any new material in months, but I’d like to announce my return as I’ve discovered a sudden surge in motivation and creativity.  Writing is something that I love to do and yet I’ve been selfish to not share it with any of you.

As much as I love life in itself, life sure does get in the way of the things I love.  I’m sure many of you can agree with me on that notion.  College certainly gets in the way as my tuition money and brain dead professors have the audacity and authority to shape how I spend my time.  Now that it’s summer time, writing is going to be one of my major focuses.  I’ve been wanting to write all kinds of things lately such as poetry, short stories, humorous pieces (I’m assuming I have a sense of humor that rips a chuckle or two out of my audience), simple observations and complaints, etc.  I now have the time to do all of these, so I’m definitely looking forward to sharing my writing with all of you and, of course, reading your material.

I really hope people have figured out by now that you can’t just put material on this site and expect to have legions of people following them.  If you don’t have the time or patience to read other peoples’ work, then you might as well drop the idea of writing your own material altogether.  But anyway, I hope you all enjoy my new material and I look forward to being further engaged with the followers I do have and the ones that I don’t have.

Keep writing, my friends.

– Evan