Before I go to bed, I thought I should share a little soundbite I heard on Austin’s radio station 93.7:
“I recently read some study that… uhh… said guys… uhh… tend to gain more weight in their first year of… uhh… college than… uhh.. their female classmates. Uhhhhhh… But guys, uhh, don’t worry, ’cause… uhh… only women look bad fat.”
Check out the hot new track by Professor Rhymington!
It’s called “21 Holla” and it is dedicated to Alex as today is his 21st birthday and to Heather as tomorrow is hers!
Enjoy!
At Alex’s request, I have written a new song. I recorded the acoustic guitar, bass, and vocals. I spent maybe 25-30 minutes total. That’s all I’d planned on doing, but Colin decided to add drums, electric guitar, strings, organ, or whatever or instruments you hear.
I woke up this morning to an anxiety-induced stomach ache. Summer is officially over.
I was dreading going to school today. That’s sad, really. There should be an element of excitement involved. However, I have been growing increasingly apathetic toward school, what with my inability to get into any classes in my major. No. That’s not right. Apathetic is too medium sounding. I’ve been growing increasingly pissy toward school? That just makes me sound like a bitch. Umm… Hmm… Whatever. You get the idea. I haven’t liked it so much lately.
Anyway, where was I? Oh right, I had a stomach ache and I didn’t want to go to school. I miserably got out of bed to end the hammering of the alarm and then walked into my bathroom. I went through my daily routine hoping that my stomach ache would pass. It didn’t. I packed myself a lunch, popped the second disc of Pink Floyd’s The Wall into my CD player, and walked out the door. As I rode the bus to campus, I only imagined the day getting worse as time went by.
But then I stepped off the bus. “Comfortably Numb,” one of the prettiest songs ever, came on just as I did so. The skies were cloudy, leaving the temperature very cool. My stomach ache began to fade. The fountain was running, and I realized I’d missed this place. The tower looked lovely, the trees looked lovely, the construction workers didn’t look too lovely, but the girls certainly made up for that.
At one point I witnessed a short haired blonde girl get off her bike and then begin to stretch. First way up to the sky… and then all the way down to her feet. I couldn’t look directly at her. She was like the sun and my eyes might’ve been burned.
I had a while until my class actually started, so when I got to the building, I sat down inside to wait. That’s when the stomach ache started creeping back. Soon “The Trial” started playing into my ears and the heavy repeating guitar riff accompanied by the chanting at the end of the song only increased the anxiety I was feeling. The short reprieve I was given on my walk was over.
Class began and as we went through the syllabus and activities of the day, my stomach ache built itself up until it became a sharp, stabbing pain. I was worried I might have to run out of the class or else… uhh… “make” in my pants. But I made it until the end of class and used the bathroom in the building. Which for me is no small feat.
I don’t want to end this with pooping. But nothing else really happened.
I drank a Bacardi Silver Peach tonight. That’s the best I can do. It’s either poop or alcohol.
Go to my Myspace to listen to the new song that Colin Laflin and I wrote and recorded. It’s called Suicide Summer. Enjoy!
I was given a white rose today. It was an advertisement for some White Rose Society Holocaust Memorial service.
But I like to think it’s because I’m so pretty.
This was on the way to my government class. I’d seen several people carrying white roses and wondered what the special occasion was. The first group I saw carrying white roses was a group of four very tall black gentlemen. Naturally, I assumed it must be some special basketball thing. How PC of me. Soon, however, that assumption was crushed when I saw a short Asian girl carrying a white rose. Is it worse for me to assume that four tall black men are basketball players, or that an Asian girl has never so much as touched a basketball? I don’t know.
Further along the sidewalk, I discovered the source of the roses. There were two young male college students handing them out at an intersection in mid-campus. I wasn’t sure if I should take one. Is it okay for a young man to walk around carrying a rose? I don’t know. The two people in front of me passed on the opportunity to get a free flower. I must have felt bad for the young men (or maybe I panicked in the moment and would have grabbed anything that they were holding out towards me), but I ended up taking one. If four black guys, who are obviously much cooler than I am, had no problems carrying the roses, than maybe it would make me seem cooler, right?
The rest of the day I was frozen with fear. What would people think about a young man holding a flower who had no plans to give said flower to a young woman for whom he has romantic feelings? Surely nothing good. It’s not a fear of being seen as a homosexual, because I honestly couldn’t care whether or not people think I am gay. But being seen as a man who loves flowers? My reputation would be dragged through the mud. Beautiful, fragrant mud.
The Black Psychic Network must have heard my previous pseudo-racist thoughts and passed on this information along the Black Grapevine so that I may receive punishment for my crimes. This evening I received that punishment.
The telephone rang. I hopped off my chair, pranced out of my room, picked up the phone, twirled it once in the air for good measure, and answered.
“Hello?”
“Sup, Mike?” answered the strange voice.
“Oh, no, this is Shayne–”
“Where Mike at?!” he interrupted.
“Uhh, I don’t know… On campus or something.”
“WHAT?!”
“I DON’T KNOW… ON CAMPUS OR SOMETHING.”
Somewhere in the background I hear laughing.
“I’m talkin’ about BLACK Mike, you stupid ass bitch!!!”
More laughing. After a pause for me to gather my thoughts (and to stop myself from responding with equal eloquence), I say, “Wow… well, this is really hilarious, but you must have the wrong number.”
Once again displaying his verbal prowess, he exclaimed, “Don’t give me that white boy bullshit!”
Though he was long gone, I stood there for a moment with the phone still to my ear to soak it all in. I probably deserved it, karmically. So, if you’re out there, Black Mike’s friend and the four black gentlemen that I assumed played basketball, I apologize. I take back my white boy bullshit, and I promise you will never receive it from me again.
Err, I’m gonna have to retract that promise. I don’t think that’s one I can keep.
Today in my “Rhetoric of Compilation” class we were doing a standard introduction thing. You know, name, where you’re from, major, and two interesting things about yourself. I of course said “I’m Shayne Lechelt, I’m from Arlington, RTF major, I play piano, bass, guitar, and other instruments.” The teacher asked me what I thought was the best album of the year. I said, “well, that would have to be Album of the Year by The Good Life.” I don’t know if that’s really the best album of the year, but it’s what came to mind at the phrase “album of the year” so I said it. She said, “Good answer.”
So other people were going along doing their introductions saying they were into sports or teaching or whatever the hell people like to do. I honestly had not been paying much attention by this point. Then it gets to one girl. She answers the first few questions. I don’t remember what her answers were, nor do I remember what the first interesting thing about her was. But I do know this. I know that the second most interesting thing about her is that she likes things with stars on them.
Yeah.