'Scuse me sir, would you like some ass? No? Ok. Hey! What about you? Care to try some freshly-picked ass? All right, but I'll hold you to that. You! Kind madam! Would you like to partake of this ass? All you have to do is stick your face into that crevice there, and--no, no. Keep your tongue in your mouth. It's meant to be a stimulation of your olfactory glands. All right, now breathe out, and once you're quite done, plunge your face into the opening and inhale as fast as possible. I swear, it's like cocaine but less illegal!

So, how was it? Madam? Ahem.. ma'am? Holy shit... she's overdosed! Someone call 911! Holy shit! She kept her face in between the cheeks for too long! Oh my God! Oh my fucking God! Someone take out their fucking phone and call NINE FUCKING ONE FUCKING ONE! Don't look at me like that, kid! There's a woman passed out on the street here. Shit. I'll need to give her ass-coated face mouth-to-mouth; her lips are blue.

Oh God, the aroma! Shit! I've gotta keep my head. Holy God! All right, try not to focus on the taste. Will somebody call the fucking ambulance! Oh God, it's so good. Oh fuck, I've gotta stop, I've got to get her breathing. Shit. Ok, one. Two. Three. Four. What the HELL am I doing? Is this even helping? Oh God, now her face is turning blue. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. I need a doctor! I need a fucking doctor right now! Someone please help! This woman inhaled too much ass!

---

In other news, Berkeley gave me the proverbial closed fist with the thumb protruding between the fore and middle fingers, wiggling suggestively. Oh well. I don't feel too let down, but it would have been nice to get acceptance. There is some good news, though. My mom took care to call the financial aid departments at Trinity and Emerson and found out that I'm getting financial aid award letters of some sort from both schools. Let's hope it's something substantive! ...'bout as much chance of that happening as ass becoming the new ware of street hawkers, but you never know; I'm sure that simit in Turkey had its day when it was new and uncertain. Make way for ass: the new simit. For those of you that don't know, simit is a sort sesame bagelly thing that is frequently sold on the streets of Turkey for about three cents. These days, there is also a new, mini-simit variety with about four times the fat, but four times the flavor.

Ok, I'd been loath to post as much before, but here it goes. On the 25th, before an Academic Challenge practice that never really happened, I went to check my application status at the University of Texas, only to find--much to my extreme disillusionment--that I had been declined. I didn't understand; I was a student with excellent SAT/ACT scores, a GPA almost in the top 10% in my class (top 10% grants automatic admission to the University, for you non-Texans), and my essay could not have been -that- bad. I struggled to find an explanation for this: maybe they had only declined my application to the School of Communications, or maybe they didn't accept me at all because my essays arrived late or something... or maybe I didn't make the cut. The message on the website was cryptic enough to leave every bloody possibility that the universe could throw at me open. I could tell you that I definitely lost a lot of self-confidence, though. If UT wouldn't take me for whatever reason, what chance is there that someone else would? I mean, honestly, UT is a very good school, but they're not as selective as the others I applied to. What would I do? Would I even be able to get into the Honors Program at Texas Tech, my backup just in case nothing panned out, if I tried?

I choked back tears that night in bed as these thoughts finally came to bear upon me and I had nothing to do to distract me from them. What would happen to me? Would I turn into some fearsome failure? Would I be forced to pursue the career of a freelance writer, left to develop only through my own teaching? Would I turn into my cousin who milled around for years before he finally started attending community college? I was surprised that I was able to choke those tears back. I whipped my mind out of the gutter then, forcing myself to turn the thoughts away; they would do me no good. Everything will come together in a few days, I told myself.

Over the next few days, I kept myself under strict control and managed to evade most of the distress caused by UT's rejection. Distraction, distraction, distraction. To the point where I didn't do anything with my research paper except blog about its fast-approaching due date. I received a bit of a confidence booster from Trinity College during this time. The school has four special programs which it allows qualified students to apply for alongside admission to the college. I already received invitations to apply to two of them, when I got another from the Interarts Program, which allows artists of all sorts to constructively pursue their art for their first two years at Trinity through special courses and such. It served as a sort of reminder that Trinity College at least thought I was sort of cool.

Today I missed school with a lovely little headache and was given leave to sleep through the day (which I did gleefully). I didn't think much about college after I woke up, instead reading up on news and watching some ESPN. Then my dad came home a little over an hour ago with the simple word "Posta!" (Mail!). I went downstairs with a timid sort fo eagerness. I could not let myself be too excited, but this might be something good. Oh please let it be something good.

The first thing my dad hands me is this thin envelope as he says questioningly, "El Paso?" "Yani, this is for you, be." And I shove back the envelope clearly reading "Mr. Ali Ozkan." He grins and sorts through the mail, eventually setting aside five envelopes.

I forced myself not to look at any of them, and begin by opening the smallest one. What do you know? It was from the University of Texas. The contents of the emaciated envelope provided good news, though: they had rejected me, sure, but they rejected me because the application came in late. Waves of relief rippled through my body as my eyes scanned those words. I explained to my dad that this was actually a good sign, and quickly put UT's letter down, grabbing up the next one. An envelope of some thickness sent to me by Colgate University that bore news telling me that I had been tossed on to their waiting list. Believe it or not, this illicited a pleasant sigh from me--I was expecting outright rejection from an envelope whose contents were only three pieces of paper. Unfortuantely, being put on that waiting list has the same practical implications as rejection not only because Colgate rarely accepts students from their waiting list, but also because I would have to wait past the matriculation deadline of all the other schools I liked before I could find out if I'd be accepted at all. So then I picked out the final remaining normal-sized envelope, already discarding the notion of going to Colgate from my mind. This one that I'd just picked up arrived from Hartford, Connecticut and Trinity College, packed quite thick, and bursting with the good news that I had been accepted! Finally! A college wants me! I read the letter carefully to see if there was any hint of financial aid, but they said that that would be coming separately. My dad was quite glad, too, and he chimed in his words of support. That left me with two big envelopes! O joy! The first one I turned over was from... Trinity again? Before thoughts of financial aid could start running through my head, my dad delightfully pointed out the words "Interdisciplinary Sciences Program" on the return address (my father is an engineer, and would like nothing better than for me to decide I loved science and follow in his footsteps). The fourth special program at Trinity, the one I expected to never qualify for, sent me an invitation to apply to them. Well that's a letdown; before I'd turned it over, I was hoping that it was an acceptance letter from another college. Oh well. One more left and... ::Drumroll:: Emerson! Emerson sent me a large envelope! Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! My first choice college! A large envelope! Wait! ...It could just be a cruel trick. Ah, but it wasn't! After I opened the envelope and got past all of the colorful things inside, I found a piece of paper that told me I had been accepted! O rapture! Of course, it all died down a bit after a couple of seconds, and with the realization that I would not be going there at all if I got no aid. Like Trinity, they told me that they would send me aid information later.

But I feel much better now. I'm not a complete and total fuckass, as I had feared when UT gave me the one-finger salute. I still await aid decisions from Trinity and Emerson, along with decisions about actual admission from Berkeley, New York University, and George Washington University. That's all there is for now. Remember that for updates on these and other top stories, stay tuned in to Hasta la Byebye!

Woke up after having a strange dream this morning. Sadly enough, it's been a couple of hours so things have gotten hazy, but I do remember that it was one of the most generally vivid dreams that I've ever had. It starts out with a movie I'm watching, and there's the sound of a grandmother comforting a young child saying "Don't worry dear, father will be gone soon," while some strange black object--perhaps a bat--flew in wide arcs around this mansion situated on the edge of a cliff. Don't worry now, the bat was definitely not the father; it was just some freaky thing that the father was responsible for. Then there are scenes where many weird things happen. The only one of those weird things that I remember was that two identical horses were lifted as though by some invisible crane from the bottom of the cliff. They were majestic beasts, much larger than normal horses and with flowing silver manes.

Suddenly I was in the movie and in a completely different scene; some dark room with spider webs in the corners and such, and an ominously half-open door letting in a little bit of light. The door opened and a mist-like creature floated out, oozing with malevolence. I knew that I'd seen this creature's kind before, and it was my duty to kill it. Unfortunately, it became completely invisible a second after it entered the room, so I was doing strange manuevers; spinning around and thrusting my sword about--for I had a sword, of course--until he suddenly appeared before me, and a chopped him on the inner shoulder, sending him crashing into the ground. Once he hit the floor, he turned into a more tangible being and lay there dead. Then some other things happened which I cannot remember, but I eventually found myself in a sort of bedroom-suite.

Another one of these creatures was there, and I had to destroy him too. This one was doing a good bit of evil cackling, and evaded me and my sword as he disappeared and reappeared time and time again. We were in one of the bedrooms the whole time; the other was filled with some sort of fog, and I REALLY did not want to have to go in there to fight. Well, the creature seemed to realize that too, and he led me in there, where I suddenly felt a profound fear and began to swing about wildly, knowing with every hack that he would appear behind me and swiftly kill me. Somehow we ended up on opposite ends of the room when the thing suddenly asked me, "Did you find the fake body in the basement?" A ghastly chill ran down my spine; I hadn't gone back down to the basement since I killed this fellow's comrade! A sinking feeling also gripped my stomach, as I realized that I had killed two of these creatures before, once in the basement and once long before that, but that this one was probably both of them. I knew then that there was no chance for me to kill him, but I had to try anyway. By then, however, the room had been completely cleared of its stifling fog, and I could clearly see the solid version of the creature cowering next to a dresser. I immediately made a charge at him, raised my sword, and brought a killing blow down on his head. My blade hadn't gone halfway through his ethereal body before with lightning quickness he pulled out some sort of sledgehammer with a much-shortened handle and crushed my chin. I was killed immediately, and I turned into a sort of spirit-like thing, watching my body from a few feet above. My chin had a massive bruise on it and my eyes were frozen open, but they were not my eyes in this world, nor my face. This guy had long blonde hair and a short beard all over his face, but he was definitely me. There was no sign of the evil mist creature. And then I woke up, still feeling considerable horror from the line about the fake body (a line which I considered changing to "false" on this blog cause it would sound cooler and more realistic, but the thing definitely said fake).

But other than dreams, I finished the last of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch and milk this morning (no, I don't mix them; I eat my cereal dry with milk on the side if anywhere). I hope that one of the parental units goes out and gets some more.

Oh, and I'm writing a short story that's quite fascinating. Very little written so far, but the concept behind it would be great if I can make it work. Let's just say it involves me, goats, and a hospital, not to mention a first-person narrative form. It's totally going to kick ass if I can make it work.

Also downloaded an MMORPG called Lineage 2 for Beta-testing. I figure that I might as well give it a shot since everyone else is, and that I might as well do it while it's free. Unfortunately, it's giving me a really hard time, and it's interfering with my life at a time when I have about a gagillion things that need doing. That ass.

Anyways, that's it for now. Hasta la byebye, folk.

Hello there friends and fuckasses, welcome to another oddly-placed installment of Hasta la Byebye, the show that the critics are raving about, the show that gets approximately 50% of its total hits from three viewers. Tonight I'm going to speak with myself about the ongoing struggles of life as a Turk, but first some good news.

On the entertainment front, it appears likely that Eric and I will receive commissions as cheerleaders for the highly touted annual Powderpuff Football Game. Through clever use of a forged signature (poorly done, and done only when circumstances like time-dependent returning of forms prevail), I was able to turn mine in alongside Eric's to an anonymous kid in our assistant principal's office, who we trusted with thirty dollars and our forms. Should we prove to be acceptable candidates, Eric and I will then push to allow a Mary-Kate and Ashley theme to dominate our cheering since we received critical acclaim for our previous stint as the hot twins on Twin Day 2003. New clothing will likely have to be purchased, but all will be well, and the cheering at the game will be far superior to that of any other game in the past or any that will happen in the future.

In computers, the recently begun War on Numbers is showing no signs of abating. On Thursday, Eric and I journeyed down to Best Buy and picked up some CDs (I got Zeppelin, Bowie, Foo, and Darkness; Eric got a bunch of people I'd never heard of before). While there, I also perused the video games as I am liable to do whenever I go. Suddenly, a game called SuperPower caught my eye. I immediately yoinked that puppy off the shelf and read over the box. The game is certainly very unique, allowing you to play any of 140 countries (there are just under 200 recognized by the UN--this includes the Holy See, Seychelles, Mauritius, Liechtenstein, Kyrgyzstan, Brunei, Swaziland, and a bunch of others that you've heard rarely if at all; the point is that those 140 countries are more than enough) which all interact with each other and try to get their business taken care of. The entire game is filled with information collected by the CIA, and is excruciatingly detailed, especially when it comes to military units. SuperPower also has an AI that is part hard-programming, and part unformed, meaning that that part adapts to the consequences of its own actions, the actions of other countries, and the player's actions. Absolutely fascinating stuff this is, but very slow to play, hence the War on Numbers. Eric said he may have read something about this being the "worst game ever", and I would agree that if one didn't have much of an interest in this kind of stuff, the game would be absolutely ridiculous. I myself have an interest, if not an immensely powerful one, so this game can be quite fun, even if the AI is STILL telling me that I need more cereals and meat despite the fact that I have surpluses of both.

The world of school is doing a good job of breathing down my neck these days. The upcoming week is filled with the potential for serious maiming unto the point of death, mostly because of Decathlon and government. In Decathlon, I have a research paper about dolphins, whales, their intelligence, and their behaviors due on Monday, with a five to seven minute presentation about it on Wednesday. In government, it's going to be Congress-related junk that requires a poster on Tuesday, and a research paper (likely to be harder than Decathlon's) due on Friday. Emerging from the week alive would be nice.

The political issue is also beginning to grow quite grim, as John Kerry revealed his economic plan. Why would I be so adverse to the economic plan of the candidate I support? Because I find myself agreeing with his critics that this scheme sounds awfully gimmicky. The plan calls for 10,000,000 new jobs to be created in the United States within the first four years of Kerry's presidency, among other things. In the booming years of Clinton, I believe the number is about 23,000,000 jobs created over eight years. Those years were booming; atypical. Combine this with the fact that companies are outsourcing jobs and will continue to outsource many jobs despite Kerry's efforts, and this number is going to be very difficult to reach. Consider also that the unemployment rate is 5.6% right now. I can't remember what the current natural unemployment rate is, but I'm pretty sure it is around 5 to 5.5%, probably not less than 4.5%, and definitely not 4%. And regardless of those numbers and the closeness to the natural rate, the fact is that the nation currently has 8.2 million unemployed persons according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, so unless the labor force increases considerably, the unemployment situation can get really weird. All I can say is that I sincerely hope that John Kerry's economic advisors know something big that I don't know, because otherwise I am going to feel bad for a while.

And well, though that's not all the news for today, we are restricted to a time limit, so that's all you're going to get. This is Turkman, hasta la byebye.

Ahoy muchachos! Continuing the new tradition of four day intervals between each entry, welcome to Hasta la Byebye! I have under twenty-five minutes to say many many things, so I shall be brief.

First (and most importantly), my birthday was yesterday! ^.^ The family (including my Ferzan Teyze--means Aunt Ferzan for you non-Turks) and I headed down to this place called Pico's that Eric's mom recommended. Quite excellent Mex-Mex food if I may say so myself. I kept things simple and got some chicken enchiladas with ranchero sauce, while my dad and aunt had burritos, mom some seafood enchiladas, and my sisters shared some steak fajitas. There were some frustrating moments--namely when Asena refused to eat her share of the fajitas because the steak was too spicy, then made mom order her a burger which she ended up not eating, but otherwise it was cool... I even got some free birthday flan (:. And before I forget, I'd like to take this moment to shout out to Sirum, Tarani, and Rakuro (who combined come to this blog about three times a year... unless there's some sort of scandal ::Cough::) who all have birthdays over the next week. Late March birthdays r0x0r.

Now on to more profane matters. School has resumed once again, ending what was a pretty damn cool Spring Break. The band and I have come to a new name: The New Distraction (John and I still prefer Cantay's Escapade into Art School, but Eric's too damn whiny). Ferzan Teyze's plane leaves at 1:25 today; salutations to her. Visited UT's campus on the Saturday before we returned, saw interesting people, but felt fear: the atmosphere didn't quite seem like what I'd want from college. And now I have to worry what these other schools that I haven't visited are like... Oh well, it'll probably be fine. Especially if I get a full-ride from somewhere.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'll continue suffering from what I'm currently terming writer's drain (like writer's block but different--anything I say sucks because for one reason or another the elusive zone is evading me). Hasta la byebye, chillens.

Promised myself I'd make this one short, so... offIgotoAustinI'llbebackSundaysodon'tyoufolksbeworryin'noneinfactI'llprobably
doabito'thebloggingwhileI'mtheresopeaceoutandhastalabyebye!

*Edited once just so that the bloody thing wouldn't mess up the whole page.

Man. Physical exertion is awesome. Just today I went over to Noor's house with Eric and we played ping pong like insano shiznockas. At first, I was dominant, beating both Eric de la Sux0ridad and Noor de menor Sux0ridad--though Noor made me work really hard: 22-20. Then things went downhill. I beat Eric again, but then Noor beat me 22-20; now at this point, I was thinking that I was in for a good series of games, but no. Needless to say, I went on a seven game losing streak against Eric (the longest ever within our rivalry since the early days when he came over to my house and the Turkish power beat him in nine straight [I remember it was nine because I was joking about how my world would open a portal into his on the tenth one and rip his world into shreds--just like the legend of Mortal Kombat]). And the worst part of that losing streak was that I had one dollar riding on the last three games of it, and suddenly I found myself three Sacagaweas in the hole. But then, a miracle happened! In a double-or-nothing match, I destroyed him (well, I didn't quite -destroy- him--especially considering that he held me to single digits twice in that streak--, but I did beat him). And then in another one dollar match, I beat him again. Long ago, Noor had given up the idea of playing again, owing to his extreme tiredness, which is somewhat confusing because he moves way less than both Eric and I do, but he had had oral surgery a day or two ago, so that might have been a contributing factor. Then came the really really ugly. Double or nothing, I lost, it was even. One dollar, I lost, in the hole a buck. Double or nothing, I lost, now two bucks. Double or nothing, I lost, now four. Double or nothing, I lost, now eight. Double or nothing, I lost, now sixteen. I asked for another double or nothing right here, but Eric was reluctant to accept; even moreso than he had been before (I was surprised I managed to get him to go at all when I was out eight dollars). But, he decided that he would do one-and-a-half or half, a watered-down version of double or nothing which would leave me out eight dollars if I won, or twenty-four dollars if I lost. Now, I'd almost won the previous match after a killer comeback (was down like 11-4, then climbed back to lead 20-18 before getting whomped 22-20) so I was confident in my ability to win and get myself out of the red a bit more. I lost 21-14. Yup. Twenty-four buckareenis. Oh well; this is nothing compared to the $108 I lost playing poker in my last summer in Arizona (and I paid my debt back too, thank you very much). I gave Eric a twenty as we were leaving, but I don't intend to pay the remaining four dollars; hell, I plan to get my twenty back. Cause I'm gonna whoop him at his own house. Double or nothing in a best of five series. You up for it, kid?

Will you hug me please? I'm just feeling so lonely right now, and if there's one thing I want more than anything else this moment, I want you to hug me. I don't care who you are, though quite frankly I would prefer if you were female and smaller than me, as that has an added sense of security to it for one reason or another. In some respects I'm perfectly fine and really couldn't ask for anything better, but the price for those respects is their complements, the glaring holes that are staring incessantly at me. Sometimes they're dimmer and harder to see; especially when there's something good, but those times when my shields drop and my structural integrity gets pounded, causing me pain akin to sticking taffy on a cavity, those times remind me that they're always there.

No life is ever perfect. That notion's been dispelled for a good long while on this blog. And every life can be made better; it just goes to follow since no one can reach asymptotal perfection. But right now I feel especially like I could use the collective assistance of everyone for just a moment. It's not much; you just have to be willing to embrace one hundred fifty pounds of pure Turk. It may seem difficult, but we're really a lot more cuddly than we suggest.

Sure, I already feel a bit better by asking for hugs, but I still could really use them. Peace out, folk; hasta la byebye.

A special note for the entry below: In the postscript, I meant to say "...feeling offended that their medium was not brought into..."

I long desperately to draw, or rather to be able to draw. To pick up a ridiculously short pencil and take it to paper and create perfectly shaded, perfectly expressed art. I was thinking about this just now while pondering the classic question that runs "if you could wish for anything in the world, what would it be?" In all honesty, it's extremely unlikely that I'd be able to jump to drawing, or jump to it immediately, anyway. After all, there are all sorts of great things that can be done with an unlimited wish, but in the end I'd probably conclude as I'm doing now that anything that I wished for that would effect other people would likely cause more harm than I could ever imagine.

But how it would be to draw! To say "I have fifty minutes in this study hall. Just enough time to create something beautiful" and do it instead of writing about how I wish I could. The satisfaction that I could take from looking at one of my masterpieces after I was finished, not really thinking about it, but merely knowing that it is right.

On a more mundane note, I'd also be able to do simple things like draw those characters of mine that I roleplay. Endless drawings, innumerable poses, and imagine what new ideas it would spur! Imagine how much better I would know, understand and play my characters if I were able to define them on a concrete medium, if I could free them from the confines of my mind where they frequently change. Picture Iolan the goat with his back mostly to us, his shortsword in his left hand parrying a thrust by a sparring partner while the longsword in his right lays back in preparation for a feint. Picture his face turned to the side so that you can see his smirk, picture that knowing smirk that is partially derived from his feral cousins. Can you picture that? I can't picture it the same way from one moment to the next; and I doubt that anyone else can peer into my mind and see it either. The communication that is possible through drawing--even drawing meant for such a simple purpose as to capture a figment of your imagination--is immense, but it's something I cannot tap into.

Even the act of drawing would be beneficial to the soul. Much as writing can free a person, I'm certain that drawing something can as well. And while I'm glad that I have at least some marginal ability to write, it's not enough to provide me with relief. The fire that burns in my chest is abated only partially, and it goes away with a sickening smoke when I try to do things like use words to describe something when a picture would be best--when I try to tell someone just how Corzara looks old but has regained a youthful air; or that his mate isn't as buxom as her written description would indicate, but that it's merely something that catches the eye immediately; or that Canti's color patterns aren't the sort of tawny-brown swirl that you're thinking of, but rather a different one--all of it fails, but it can be expressed with a pencil and unlined paper.

For you folks that read this and can draw, take this moment to appreciate and revel in that fact. Salutations, and hasta la byebye.

P.S.: And for any musicians feeling offended that they weren't brought into my desires, make sure not to forget that I'm in a band (and we now have a name: The Hypodermic Needles).

"Excuse me sir, but I believe this is your hat."

The addressee had his back turned to Gary, holder of the hat. From what Gary could see, the owner was an inch or two over six feet, an ounce or two over two hundred pounds, and a year or two over a half-century. He was wearing a dark gray trenchcoat that seemed just a smidgen too small and didn't impede the view of the lower parts of two faded pant legs and two old gray shoes that were well past their prime. His hair was also gray, nearly the same tone as his trenchcoat. Once the owner turned around to face Gary, he could see that even this man's skin had a sort of gray tinge to it, almost as though it were made of unfired clay. His face was utterly colorless; tired gray eyes--the sort that can't be called blue or even pale blue no matter how hard you try--and dead gray lips, cheeks, even his teeth were probably gray. This man may have been a mannequin for all Gary knew, but for the fact that he seemed to be saying something. "That's not my hat."

His teeth were indeed gray. It took Gary a moment to compute what this man had just said to him because of the distraction, and after a moment he felt significantly pissed off. What does he mean this isn't his hat? After having to look at this lifeless blob of nothing for an eternity, it is all for naught? The blandness that this fellow exuded from his form was nearly unbearable--his voice sounded gray. As though all of this weren't bad enough, the man's dead face was now staring at him as though he were some sort of crackpot, even while he destroys all life about him with his every breath, wilting innocent plants and harming the very souls of all passersby. On top of it all, this man's primary adjective, gray, is Gary's name with the middle two letters reversed; it was like a direct affront on his nature especially. And now this sick bastard has the audacity to look like he's being interrupted and offended! That he's the one suffering!

That's enough. Gary couldn't take anymore. And he did humanity a service by reddening the gray man's face a little bit, punching kicking and biting like he never knew he could.

Gary is now serving time for second degree murder. Twenty-five to life. I'm starting a petition to have his sentence commuted to two years' probation for grossly vandalizing public property (he used the library they were standing outside of as a wrestler would use his tag-team partner). Gary is a hero to all of us, a symbol of the American Dream, and an fine example for all to follow.

You may use the comments box below to sign the petition, which reads:

It is my belief that Gary committed no crime of murder and I solemnly request that we free Gary, much as Willy before him was freed, and that we give him a parade to honor the valiant actions that he took on behalf of all of us. Oh, and hasta la byebye. Can't forget that.

You know what's awesome? Someone came to this very page off of a search for "maddox wannabe" on Google.

You know what else? It's a beautiful day outside. The sort that makes you feel better even if you're inside.

And another thing? Corzara's getting married on Monday and Iolan's back in Ansteorra as of a couple minutes ago.

Thank you, good night, and hasta la byebye.

I hate urinals. You pull out your special friend and urinate on what is essentially a specialized wall that is made to accept your waste and like it. Now I'll admit that I don't really like the prospect of standing in between a couple of fellows while performing a vital bodily function and having to worry about just how much of Little Cantay can be seen, but it's not quite that that I hate. At least not on a conscious level.

Even when I'm alone I have to struggle mightily to squeeze out a drop. Maybe it's the fact that urinals don't have little barriers on all sides to protect you from view, or maybe it's that you have to keep your pants pretty much up while you do it because of that fact. Honestly, I don't know entirely what it is.

I bring this up because today I had an episode where I had to go so bad that my kidneys began to ache (really bad, I know--I like to hold it sometimes). Once I'd finally relieved myself (using a normal toilet, thank you), my mind managed to drift back to an experience I had in San Antonio.

It was Saturday after all the tests had been taken and we were at the Super Quiz Relay, which is essentially a continuation of the test in the final event, but it's done in public view and your teammates are cheering you in between questions. We did very poorly in that (like the 3rd or 4th worst team out of 40--yet we still got 6th place; we're just really good at everything else, I guess...) but I was able to restrain myself until it was over and we took a break to let the judges tabulate the results. It was then that I went to the bathroom with about one thousand other people.

Once I managed to get there, I was very distressed to find that the bathroom was tiny: there were a total of two stalls and four urinal ports. As though this weren't bad enough, this place had the type of urinal that is reminiscent of a container you'd hang on your windowsill and grow flowers in. There were two of those in the bathroom, and it was clear that they were both meant to be shared. I immediately tried the stalls when I got in, but I had no luck. Oh well--I'd hate to deprive someone of a stall if they needed it to defecate, anyways. I sidled up to the one open spot at the urinal line, standing in between two men, apparently coaches, conversing about what they were doing in their schools besides Decathlon. While they were talking, I was trying desperately to get going; I was afraid that this would happen, but I convinced myself that my extreme physical need to evacuate my bladder would be enough to get myself going, and once I started, things would get better. Unfortunately, I couldn't get anything to happen. You females may think that we guys are worried about our penis sizes when we use public urinals, but what is truly important is the amount of urine you can clear out and how fast. According to the Urinal Maleness Test, I hadn't even been conceived yet. Suddenly a miracle happened! By holding my breath and contorting myself into a very strange position, I was able to get a little trickle going. I increased the flow by the sheer force of my will, but it was still only a pitifully thin and clear rivulet, and I was very quickly running out of breath (I still had to hold it). Once eternity had passed and I was about halfway through, it was necessary for me to take a breath or risk collapsing into the metal flowerbucket. Whoever has gotten to this point deserves congratulations and a cookie--this is not one of my cleaner entries. As I had feared, it was with inhalation that everything ended. I was relieved though; I'd managed to save my kidneys from imploding upon themselves once again, and I would be good for a decent while before I would feel like using the bathroom again. Still, it was a very torturous experience, and I'm extremely grateful that I didn't know any of those people--you lose a little bit of your manhood in a male's eyes if you can't get it going at a urinal.

Anyways, that's why urinals suck. A lot. Hasta la byebye, folk.

Howdy little munchkins, and welcome to another Study Hall Edition of Hasta la Byebye, the reality show where you decide nothing through any meaningful action of your own, but rather by some obscure detail that the writer notices!

Let us get started! The last episode showed the follies of not doing one's homework. We're going to check in now on Cantay to see what he is doing now--he has got two assignments for English that he ought to be working on.

"Hello Cantay."

"What the hell? Who are you?"

"I am Turkman, the host of the hit reality show Hasta la Byebye."

"What?"

"Do not worry about any of that now, Cantay. What are you doing there, anyway?"

"Writing a blog--do you mind?"

"Yes, sorry. What about your English?"

"My homework?"

"That is it."

"I haven't done it."

"But Cantay, have you not learned your lesson?"

"No, Turkman, I haven't. Or rather I should say that I have, but I choose not to keep from repeating my mistake."

"But why?"

"Even though they are worthy assignments, Turkman, they're just a little too difficult for me--difficult to bring myself to do, that is."

"But they are quiz grades, Cantay."

"So they are. Right now I'm still working on getting everything in order as you may have noticed."

"But this has been happening all year..."

"Call it senioritis then, Turkman. Honestly I do feel quite horrible about not having done any of my work, but at this point it's too late to do anything. Any effort by me to complete either assignment right now would be cursory at best and would not do the assignment justice. There are fewer things I hate than turning in something that is far below subpar, and I will not do it unless I absolutely must."

"So to maintain your principles, you will not even start either assignment?"

"That is correct, Turkman. I might bring myself to do part of one of them--the part that requires the finding of various words and such, but it's extremely unlikely that I'd turn it in even if I did it."

"What do you see for yourself in the future?"

"In the very near future, I see considerable pain. I may or may not talk to Mrs. Miles about all of this, but I can't ask for any favors."

"Things have been rough..."

"Things indeed have been rough--how do you know this?"

"The show, remember? It has been airing for a very long time now."

"How comforting. I feel like Truman."

"It only takes place during study hall, though."

"So you catch me drooling all the time?"

"All the time."

"But back to what you were saying, things indeed have been rough. Mrs. Carswell is on personal leave, and Mrs. Miles now has to take over all of her classes. She has enough problems already. Besides this, I'm not the sort to ask for an extension on something unless I think I have a valid reason. I don't. I can only hope that things don't get shot to hell."

"Indeed. Well Cantay, I won't keep you any longer."

"Thanks, Turkman."

That is our show, ladies and gentlemen! Hasta la byebye!

Ah. The Foo Fighters are quite marvelous. But let me tell you who isn't. Mike. That bastard is finally getting his due here, and now I have a direct link to his blog so that you all can flame him, cause he's a dumbass. Clearly a Maddox-wannabe that can't quite cut it--I mean, I make a better Maddox for Christ's sake.

On another note, I rock at ping pong.

On yet another note, I'm also an excellent hardcore screamer, and our band is perhaps one of the most talented groups of folk I've ever heard. Let me give you a small sample of some of the creative genius found when the three of us are put together:

She was eager to fuck
I was eager to listen.
Her wrist on the legal paper
Her wrist twisted and glistened.

Hot, yes? That's what I thought. There was also a large amount of screaming after this part consisting mostly of me wailing about Janey getting dragged away and raped in Florida. We're awesome.

Now I've got some English homework I'd better take care of. Hasta la byebye, hijitos. No olviden lavarse los dientes porque mi casa huele cuando ustedes respiran en ella. Tampoco no olviden saltar la cuerda. Por que? Porque lo dije, puto! Andale, andale!

"My marching soldier WILL NOT DIE!!!" --One of the many great quotes from Eric on Wednesday night--the first night we were hanging out in the hotel. Understand that this was said after we'd been talking about females and such things before we fell asleep. Yes, it does mean what you think it means. Many little spinoffs have come from it courtesy of Eric, Noor and me, the best of which being "Johnny'd better not come marching home" which I think was one of Noor's. That's just a bit o' stuff that I thought I would like to share with you guys. Because it's funny. And because I kept saying "I am SO putting this on my blog!"

I was reminded of these quotes by reading John's blog. I'll let him take that how he will. ::Evil laughter::

Right now I'm in the nerdy Computer Science Club with John. We decided a week or so ago that we would create a hardcore band with our 1337 musical skillz, and today is going to be our first practice--John (rhythm guitar), me (vocals), and maybe Eric (more guitar) and Nick (John's friend--keyboard/piano) will be in attendance. And right now John is sitting at the computer next to me and staring at my screen. The bastard knows nothing of blogging etiquette. By the way, if you play drums/bass and are not a jackass and live in Katy (believe it or not, anywhere between 40-60%--depending on the sample--of my readers are not Katyians! Boo yah!), then come into contact with me about joining our band. John's already sort of written a song for the rhythm guitar and he thinks it just might fit the lyrics I posted on my blog before I left for San Antonio, so we're almost original! Sorta! I wonder how much John's going to try to make this an actual hardcore band...

Ah, it is quite a nice feeling not to have to worry about Decathlon anymore. Honestly, I am quite saddened at the fact that we're not going to nationals, but in order for us to have really been in the running for first place, we would have had to work even harder, pissed even yellower, and died even deader. Did that make any sense? No. I figure that if I make a blog or two every now and again of exceptionally poor quality, then you guys will be more appreciative of the times when I give you golden script. In all honesty though, things would have been much different if we were even more insane about this, and chances are it would hurt a whole lot more.

Now John's talking about his brother. Who wore spandex. And ran around as the Trojan Man (you know, the one from the condom commercials) and then sent him pictures. Not only describe it, he described it with alacrity. I don't really have a problem with that, but dammit, this is the guy who refused to dress up as Ashley on Twin Day when Eric was looking for a partner. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather be remembered for being that fine piece of peach-colored skin called Ashley Olsen than being Trojan Man, bringer of safe, though unsatisfying sex (FYI, I'm just taking that from SNL--though I honestly don't see how sex with condoms could be as satisfying as sex without... rubber...).

One more random subject before I log off. Let's see...

English class sucks. Why? More work than all my other classes combined! Even including government (which is waayyyyyy harder than economics--what? Actual homework?). It's very difficult for a Decathlete to properly balance school and Decathlon unless he's an A student (because if they don't do homework, they implode, so it's sort of necessary). This is especially true in English, where we're on a new book or series of poems or whatever every bloody week. Right now we're working on Kafka's "The Metamorphosis" and Flaubert's "Madame Bovary" (sounds like the former will be good, and the latter will be Jane Eyre). If I read both, I'll be very very impressed. Oh, and before I run, I've got two or three outstanding quiz grades--no, they're not good; they're assignments that I never turned in. Mrs. Miles is being ridiculously generous and giving me until tomorrow to turn them in, and I hope I bring myself to do them so that I don't start failing.

Hasta la byebye. I hope you all die. Cry cry cry. Why why why?

POETRY!

::Steps up to the podium and unrolls a long scroll::

I now hate Ben. Now Ben, I almost didn't hate you before, but now, to be quite honest, all of you Asians suck. You especially, however--mostly because of your humor. Everything thinks you're so ridiculously funny, Ben, but in reality, you're just a dope who can barely articulate his thoughts. Besides all of this, you have a dead tooth sticking right out at me; as though I didn't want to punch you in the face before, now I feel that I have to to put that tooth out of its misery. Chew a fart, kid.

::Clears throat::

And on that happy occassion, some poetry! And guess what the coolest part is... it goes to music that's playing in my head! W00t!

I'm just a poor musician
And I hardly earn my keep.
A fly against the wall
An extra-ordinary creep.

A menace to society, a bit of instability.
A fungal plague upon all I see.
A single insufferable
Piece of sickening sweet.
That's me.

Walk up to your flat one morning
Find you messing with some fellow.
I cannot comprehend,
But why not? You're all mellow

I do not mean to intrude upon ya,
In fact I bid thee well;
I just wanted to ask you simply
"What the fucking hell?"
What I mean to say quite simply
Is that you are not too friendly, nor
Are you someone soft and cuddly.
You're someone I abhor.

Don't you dare start cryin' darlin'
I hate to see a female cry.
Don't you start your ceaseless whining
Of it I'm sick--I do not lie.

I just don't see your logic, baby
You're the lady having your fun.
I have lost in this game of cheaters
Reasons to weep are numbering none.
I had flowers fresh cut for you this morning
Why are you so angry at me?
I don't see where this trail's going--
The fault, good madam, lies on you and he.

Catch you on the flipside, sugar
Or flour or salt--whatever you are
It's time to part our two dread paths now
I hope you catch hepatitis.

And folks, if you read the entry below, feel free to skip right past the bombasticity markers right to the end. That's the meat of it.

Hey folks. I feel obligated to write, so I'm gonna write. My dear friend Eric showed me a couple of links to a couple of xangas that lambasted the idea of marriage among homosexuals. Having been absolutely silent on the point up till now, I figure I'll start talking--maybe save face for adolescents (that's right, it was bad enough that I'm considered saving face).

[BOMBASTICITY]

Now folks, I'm not religious at all. Many philosophers tend to divide people based on religion into three groups: theists, atheists, and agnostics; theists being the fellows that believe in a supreme being/power, atheists being the fellows that don't, and agnostics being the fellows that have no idea what the hell is going on and refuse to side with either team. I'm a member of that last school of thought; a holder of dubious spirituality, and certainly not a person that is qualified to express the general views of my own group, let alone the other two (since when were those views agreed upon, anyway?). However, as one with nearly eighteen years of experience under my belt and the ability to not sound like a complete jackass when such is my intent, I think that what I say is at least defensible.

In the days when Christianity was a much younger religion, the definition of sodomy was interpreted as any time other than when a heterosexual married couple engaged in intercourse with the man in the superior missionary position and the woman in the inferior. Now, it's quite clear that there are more ways for a man and a woman to have sex than just one, and this particular exercise would probably become monotonous after a while, but everything else was sin. Today, I doubt that you will find more than very very few who would claim that variety in sex is a bad thing. These days the Christian definition of sodomy has been narrowed to such things as beastiality, incest, homosexuality, and many other such things. We've certainly progressed, haven't we?

As Eric so brilliantly mentioned in a comment on one of the xangas, there are some other nice changes that have been made since the days when Christianity was just a baby--namely equal rights for women. No man today that wished to retain his testicles in whole pieces would ever question the equal rights of women to work or to go to school or to perform traditionally masculine tasks, and though there are of course still limitations (as with everything), you have to admit that the rights of females have come a long way in the US. Ever since we were aware of their existence, blacks were also treated as subservients, and Hispanics have also received their share of hate. Would anyone say these people have less right to basic civil rights than the average white male? Not anyone who matters.

Why am I talking about this stuff? One word: change. It is a fundamental part of human growth, as evidenced in the progression of civilization. I'm not advocating rapid change in order to foster quicker growth by saying this, but to deny that key changes in societies of the world have made for the development of the world we live in today is absolute folly. To some degree, political parties and affiliations on the political spectrum can be said to show how much change one is willing to tolerate or precipitate--often why Republicans and right-wingers are viewed as traditionalists and Democrats and left-wingers as explosive.

On the issue of gay marriage, America as a whole seems to be sitting somewhere towards the right, with a decent majority not in favor of allowing it. As a resident of Texas, I can safely say that the attitude towards that issue (and just about every other one) is significantly further to the right than average in this state. It is quite clear that the residents here would be extremely uncomfortable with gay marriage as would be the case in a great many other states, and if those states wish to make gay marriage illegal, that is their prerogative. However, there are also states and counties where the right for homosexuals to marry is supported by the majority. Now, as many of us know, President Bush has recently thrown his support behind a proposed amendment to the Constitution which almost certainly will not pass, but essentially defines marriage once and for all as a union between a man and a woman. Such an amendment would unnecessarily quash the rights of the majorities that live within certain states or counties; the only people affected, after all, (as many people have said already) are the two people being bound together in marriage and perhaps the people around whom they live.

Now I'd like to explore the only amendment that has been passed to restrict the social freedoms of a particular group. Yes, the 18th Amendment, which prohibited the sale, production or distribution of liquor. I wonder what happened to that one... that's right! It got repealed!

I'm not going to start saying that all of the lovely things that happened during the Era of No Drinking (hello, Mr. Capone) would happen as a result of the proposed amendment, but rather that it is foolish to let a social issue that has not caused rampant hysteria (except with assistance from the media) be the basis for even a proposition of an amendment to the Constitution. There are still counties and localities today that have prohibited alcohol consumption and that's all right for them. I don't particularly see why the same cannot be so with gay marriage.

...Damn, that took a LONG time to say. Sorry about that, folks.

[/BOMBASTICITY]

And now for my personal opinion:

I don't give a flying fuck. Let people do what they'll do. Just don't start making laws preventing it on a national level.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and good night.

And sorry I took so long.

Oh, and as an additional note, Hua, you suck. I'm not kidding. I hate you. All those times you were there in the back of the car, just annoying me with your Asianness. Half the time I wasn't sure if you weren't going to impale me with your hair you insensitive prick. I have no idea why I've always asked you to join me in roleplaying; you clearly would have no talent at all for it. I'd appreciate it if you and the other half-billion of you jackasses that want to make a movie with Star Wars special effects would go and jump off the edge of the universe. Kthx. Suck it.

(How was that?)

Ah, now I feel compelled to respond to David, who responded to my old hateblog. For those of you who are too lazy to figure out which link at the right is David, you can find him at the other side of this underlined monstrosity. I would have kept it to a comment on his site, but it's a xanga, so commenting is restricted to xanga members (and I refuse to whore myself out to any other pseudoblog service save for LiveJournal... which was a mistake).

So I shall keep it short: You're not irresistably cute, Connie (just kidding... muahahahaha). And David, you're one nasty SOB. But rock on, my Asian amigos.

Now that that matter has been taken care of, I would like to point out that to my left (your right) there is a new addition to the sidebar of links! Yes! Turkboy (Zagnafein Silverleaf for the Ansteorrans) has moved himself over to blogger and now has a link (which is real, yes) to turkboy.blogspot.com. I encourage all of you to read his stuff and comment; his livejournal was quite new and this blog is even newer... and he's Turkish! So if I hear you guys give him any gaff, you may consider yourselves all pwnz0red.

And since I'm blogging anyway, I figure I'll talk a bit more. La Fogota (not El Fogato, Mister "I can't spell and have no vocabulary and suck") -- One beef, one chicken, and one cheese enchilada. The cheese enchilada was absolutely superb and the beef was not very far behind. The chicken was covered in a strange green sauce that lilted a little too much to the sweet side for my tastes, though Eric scarfed down three of them and still had room for Empanadas with mango ice cream, which we shared. Check this place out if you're ever there.

And I'm spent. Sorry folks. Feeling lethargic. Maybe I'll try roleplaying a little. Yeah... I'll try that. Hasta la byebye.

Hey folks. I'm back. Been back for a while. Long story short, we got 6th place and I still hate Genny. ::Makes a face:: And I hate saying I hate folk--when I'm serious anyway (shout out to the folks I don't actually hate! Holla!). I'll be talking more later, but right now I'm feeling kinda lethargic, so I'll keep off that. Hasta la byebye, shiznocks.