I Found God At a Greyhound Station... I Think

Back when I was in Fort Campbell, I used to take the Greyhound back home when I was on leave. On one of these trips, an amusing thing happened, that's appropriate for Easter time. Why? Because, if you ask my friends Mike and Jade, we witnessed a miracle of bizarre proportions. At least, we think.

We were in the Nashville Greyhound station, me, Jade, Mike, and his girlfriend, Lace. Mike is a mechanic, professional on the job, but has a bizarre side (blue hair, to this day), Lace was prissy and obnoxious. Jade was a recovering drug addict who used music to keep her motivated from using again, and one of the sweetest people I've met (she now works at a rehab center and has been clean for almost ten years). And, then you have me. Is this any wonder why it's going to be weird?

We had an hour wait for our bus that turned into a five hour wait. An hour in, Mike points to a man wearing a white robe, sandles, and long brown hair with full facial hair. Mike points this poor man out to us, and Jade starts laughing. "Dude," he said to me. "I think that may be Jesus." Too bad there weren't any escalators and a guy dressed as Freakazoid. You can imagine how this may go on. Trust me, if you were me, you'd be shocked.

So, there we were, in a bus station with a guy dressed as the Messiah. Two kids started playing with the guns from the House of the Dead 2 arcade cabinet, screaming racial slurs. Our Bus Station Savior did nothing to intervene, but there mother did. We had decided that he wasn't actually Jesus. An hour later, he falls a sleep watching Dazed and Confused, a movie whose title described us pretty damn well at that moment. Why would Jesus be watching a movie about stoners?

An hour later, Mike points out that he isn't breathing seemingly. Our dialogue went like this:

Mike: I think Jesus is dead.

Me: Uh, should someone check.

Jade: I'm not touching him. If he isn't Jesus, he might have something.

Lace: Ewww... Like lice.

Me: We can't just leave him here.

Mike: Maybe he died for our sins? *silence amongst us* Okay, that was terrible. Maybe he's just a sleep.

Jade: I hope so.

A little while later, and a few bus announcements later, our bus is finally called to await boarding. Mike and I turn and point out that "Jesus" had just then snapped back up, looking around like a confused Alzheimer's patient. It was now only a matter of time before we could look back at this an laugh. There's no way that anyone of us would ever find out if he was really Jesus, but at least we could laugh about it. As it was, it was a funny story.

For Mike, that's never good enough. Jade and I stared at Jesus as he started gaining lucidity. Lace was just filing her nails (I'm still amazed that she had any left at this point). Mike, on the other hand, realizing what he had just witnessed, raised his hands to the heavens, and rang out in a loud booming voice, "HE HAS RISEN!!!" The whole bus station went silent. Lace stopped filing her nails. Jade and I laughed. Jesus looked around confused. Obviously not liking the attention Mike, still with his arms raised, brought on us, Lace says, "If you get us kicked off of the bus, you're paying for the rest of the trip!"

Luckily, we didn't get kicked off the bus. But, we never did figure out why that guy was wearing the robe and sandles. Maybe, just maybe, he was part of a cult. Maybe he was really Jesus. I'm thinking, more than likely that he was just a crazed stoner. Either way, we saw something that no one else can brag about: The story of Easter re-enacted in a bus station in Tennessee. That, or a stoner that fell asleep while dressed as the Lord.

"Ever Notice That the Initials For 'Valentine's Day' is 'VD'" is not a Good Phrase to Start That Day

I should've known that this week would be be terrible, probably the minute Patty said that very phrase. Let's recap the events that particularly screwed up my day:

1: My editor calls me after class to meet for lunch. At lunch, he tells me that I have to help our new reviewer review a game that we all thought came out the next day. This meant that I had to reserve it that day. The kicker: It doesn't come out until next week.

2: Not knowing that, I drive to the mall. I notice that my car is smoking. I thought, I just had the damn radiator fixed. Right then, I hear an explosion. One of the radiator hoses exploded, covering the under hood in coolant. I try to limp back to school, but the car stops. Long story short, my Dad picked me up, drops me off at school, and now my car is totaled. My $500 car, that I've been told is worth "$2500" in its condition now has a $4000 fix. Today, I had it towed to a junk yard for $150. Luckily, soon, I'll have a van.

3: During our critique, my sculpture told the whole class that wasn't "disciplined enough" to be an artist because my giant, plaster sculpture didn't look like my clay model that fell apart three times. Appropriately, my sculpture is a gesture of "face palming."

Those are the big three, and I want to move along here. As a lot of you know, I suffer from Depression, and a lot of things hit me more than most people. One of the biggies is that I'm single. It's irrational, I know, but I always fear of dying alone, and never having someone that I can care about. One day, I was ranting with Patty and Bink about Valentine's day. What I said, without thinking, was that I was going to "Spike my hair, dye it pink and get piercings just to rebel against it and being kicked out of the Army." Bink points at Patty, who is now on my arm, looking at me with big brown eyes, and quietly, holding back tears, says, "You'd do this for me?"

Later, talking to Bink, she mentions something that reminded me of what a friend of mine told me earlier in my life. She grabbed me by the arm and said: "Remember our first Valentine's Day together when we had started dating four years ago?" (We're not together right now, obviously.) "You remember what you bought me? An opera. A $60, to CD opera-- and my favorite one with my favorite opera singer, even! Sure, you've known me for almost 20 years, but we had just started dating, and you did that. You're going to find some one, and you're going to treat them like gold."

Eerily, I mentioned this to Jim yesterday, after he gave me a ride from school and went to Fridays for dinner. We both remembered that a friend of ours from Middle/High school told me the same thing. The amusing thing is, he was about 6'3, and Bink is 4'10". Moral of the story, listen to giants and tiny Asian women?

I guess. All I know is that my neck and knee are murdering me from pushing that damn car, and I'm looking forward to sleeping in on Friday.

Another Serious Note

I have had a few people ask me why my planned webcomic, "Muzzle," is going to take a more serious tone when it returns. To be completely honest, it's simply because of the most basic thing I could ever think to answer: it's hard to write pure comedy. It's actually why I took a break from it in the first place. But, there's a bit more to the story than that.

Right around the time I started writing it again, a few things happened in my life. I was living above a family that would purposefully start fights with anyone around them, which included blasting their TV all hours of the day and night, and blaming another neighbor. One neighbor fought back against that allegation, and suddenly moved, leaving no address, and his cat. They were getting more and more volatile towards me as the neighbors next door to me decided that, no joke, they wanted to have extremely loud sex every night. I found out later that the reason they were doing that is because they wanted others to hear them, and, at one point, hinted that they wanted another guy to join in with them. Imagine this, they got kicked out faster than the people below me. The people who moved in after that, though, were worse in that sense. That, and the fact that I was going up to my apartment, and they had a guy standing look out while a conversation was going on about something. As they left, he looked at me, said "You didn't hear anything," and scowled like he was going to kill me. This was a week before I started to move into where I'm at now.

On top of that, before that weird thing happened, something major happened in my life, and more so in Binkie's. It was something so catastrophic that I'm surprised she's been as happy as she is lately, despite being afraid at certain times. She was raped. I cannot express the shock and anger I felt when I saw her the day after. One side of her face was bruised and swollen, a broken finger, three cracked ribs, two cracked teeth, hairline fracture above the left eye... the list goes on. Needless to say, I was shocked by her reaction to it. Shortly after it had happened, Lewis Lovhaug, aka, Linkara, reviewed a "Superman" comic that pretty much involved both Superman and Big Barda being raped by each other upon the command of a mind controlling villain. The argument the ensued was that rape should never be used as a story device, or retconned into a story, just for the sake of it happening. Further more, it's never done respectfully, i.e. a woman is always the victim (except when Alan Moore's involved), it's always about sex (which it isn't, it's about anger and control), and that it's always brutal (not always bloody violence, but it does happen). Added to what just happened to her, Binkie turned to me, and calmly said, "I want my story told."

This wasn't an easy choice for her, but it wasn't out of context for her, either. Before she was raped, Binkie was a counselor for victims of both rape and child abuse. She had seen the different types of damage that had been done. But, while her story did involve the shock of everything that had happened, it wasn't about the rape, which is why I never show it in the comic. It's about something deeper. As bloody, broken, and violated as she felt, she knew that with the help of her friends, family, and whatever else would help, she'd recover. At least, what she could. She's still scarred from it, both physically and emotionally. I'm not afraid to admit that she slept in my recliner more than a few times after it had happened because she was afraid of being alone in her house. As long as I've known her, you better believe that when she wants me to do something, not just for her, but to show anyone who might read it that has been hurt that they can recover, I'm going to damn well do it. And, I'm thankful that she has that much faith in me as to know that I'd try to handle it with as much grace as possible.

There started my downward spiral to now. My Grandmother had a stroke, I had just gone through a bad break up, my Grandfather got sick, money woes... all of this, and I had to take an Army Medical Evaluation. Last month, I went through a very bad break up, and my Grandmother passed away. On top of that, I had to readjust my school schedule so I wouldn't lose my mind. Recently, stress has been piling so much that I nearly passed out on several occasions. Thankfully, we had a Winter Storm, which gave me a much needed break. Unfortunately, the radiator in my car is now toast. Just when it couldn't get any worse, it did.

I'll get back to yesterday in a minute. Today, out of the blue, Jenna, Patty, Binkie, and I decided to go on an adventure. We ended up in a pet shop, watching the world's most spastic gerbil, when I noticed my phone rang. I checked my voice mail to find out that my Mom called. I called her back and found out that my Grandfather died. He went peacefully, but it was still a massive shock to my system. I still don't know how to take it. Needless to say, since I had my Reserve Drill this weekend, I called my squad leader, and let him know what just happened. He understood, and before I said I wasn't going to be there, he told me that he'd let the higher NCO's know that I was not going. Add to that what happened yesterday.

Yesterday, I got a letter in the mail from the Army Medical Staff. Thinking that it's another survey, I open it. My jaw dropped as I read it: I was being discharged due to a permanent profile for Depression. I read this, and laughed. I've been suffering Depression for a long time, possibly since the Eighth Grade. The Army had to have known this for seven years. I have six months before my eight year contract is up, and now, they want me out because of a condition that anyone could see. This reeks of something being severely screwed up in the system. But, that's not the worst of it. No, not even close.

The worst of it is that I was on my homestretch with the Army. I was non-deployable, in a Reserve Unit that was relatively close to home, and I had only months before I was out. Despite not liking it, I was still proud of my service in the military. Hell, I have a knee injury that was made worse from the Army, which is the least of anything I've heard of. I've had at least one friend die in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I know one who was damn near killed by an IED. They were all proud of what they did. The thanks I get for my sacrifice of time in active, and in the Reserves, "Oh, you're Depressed. Therefore, despite not being suicidal, you're useless to us." This is my reply:

Are you fucking kidding me?

Right now, I'm trying to get in contact with the VA Clinic near me. I also have to fill out a form that basically says that I understand I'm being kicked out, and that I can't do anything about it. But, I served through seven years of my life, one of them in a warzone, and came out perfectly fine, save for my Depression. The fact that I defended the people I care about, and people I don't even know, meant the world to me, and it still does. But, instead of letting me finish up my last few months with dignity, the Army decides that I'm not fit for duty, despite all I went through for them. This has got to be a sick joke.

So, yeah, "Muzzle's" going to be more serious. But when things like this happen, you can't help but to laugh.

The God of Baseball

When I was a kid, all of those years ago, after church, my parents would take me and my brothers to get donuts, and they usually got the news paper, as well. This was well before the internet was a household item, but not before Al Gore started working on it, I'm sure (and, yes, I know he never actually claimed he made the internet). Aside from reading the comics... okay, "Garfield" and maybe "The Far Side," I remember the striking image on the front page: a baseball with a face and a hat. Somedays, it'd smile, others, it'd frown. Other days it just looked at the reader with no expression. Not understanding what was going on, I dubbed the strange entity the most logical thing my six year-old brain could think of: The God of Baseball.

This continued for years, that I believed that somehow, someone made a religion around a baseball with a face. I didn't even ask why his hat had a "C" on it, possibly thinking that the poor ball-headed bastard was illiterate. I think I even had some friends convinced of what it was, despite a few people smacking me up side the head and telling me that it was the Reds mascot. Not the least of them, but the tiniest, was Binkie. Even at six years old, she seemed to be one step ahead of me. What's even worse is that I have no idea just how she knew! She didn't even like sports, outside of ice skating and dancing. Yet, she knew that it was the Reds mascot.

Shortly after my family moved, they stopped getting the newspaper, and the God of Baseball seemed to have vanished. It was possibly just that I didn't notice him anymore, but as the years went buy, I stopped thinking of him as often. It didn't even register to me when I went to some Reds games with Jim, that the mascot was "The God of Baseball." I didn't even know his name (which is Mr. Red), yet it didn't matter. I came back with a mini Reds helmet full of ice cream, a Reds baseball cap, I got a Reds shirt for Christmas one year, and won a Reds Coffee mug, that no one but me uses to this day as an unwritten rule. Yes, I'm a Reds fan, but I still have to admit; Bronson Arroyo cannot pitch to save his life. Yet, he's actually a talented musician.

So, what was it today that made me think of the God of Baseball? Sculpture class. We're working on what's called an "additive problem." Basically, it's a plaster sculpture with a paper armature. I just happened to find a news paper with a familiar face: The God of Baseball. And he was not pleased. Somehow, the Astros have disgraced him, hell, the Diamondbacks did, too. Oh, but not the Pittsburgh Pirates. Somehow, the God of Baseball smote them with his Bat of Glory®, banishing them back to Pennsylvania.

The logical thing one would've done was laugh at the nostalgic factor of one's own naivety. As you all may know, I am not the most logical person in the world. After all, we live in a time where there's a religion based on a sci-fi writer's belief that we forgot we're actually immortal, and that we need to relive traumatic memories. Why not believe that someone actually worships an anthropomorphic ball. I ripped out one on the sad faces, got my tasty burrito dinner, and met up with Binkie. As a looked at my short friend, upset about an oncoming storm, I held the piece of paper to her, and calmly said: "The God of Baseball is not pleased."

Thankfully, she now has a sense of humor. She laughed before whacking me upside the head.

Retroactive Continuity circa 1984

Anyone who knows me, knows how much I hate when people can't keep track of the story in any given medium. I seriously went on a tangent in my review of God of War III due to the fact that the writers of that game, after three games, forgot that the first person who aids you in the quest to kill Ares was Zeus. Instead, they flat out said that Zeus never helped you kill Ares due to the fact that he feared Kratos would kill him. Needless to say, Zeus is a moron and pisses Kratos off, thus causing Kratos to go on a quest to kill him. If Zeus, being the Head of the Olympian Gods, had never pissed Kratos off, he'd have nothing to be afraid of in the first place.

Then again, I'm analyzing a game where the main character dies every fucking game, yet manages to escape hell simply by walking out the front door. After the first time, you'd think Hades would eventually put up security measures, leading up to standing at the door himself. Considering the size of Hades, he'd only have to hold out his hand on Kratos's head to hold him back. Should Kratos actually be able to kill him, there's still Charon, Cerberus, and the river Styx. Again, I'm analyzing a game where the way to kill an ancient Greek God is by rescuing another god's daughter, who happens to be a robot. Yeah... God of War III has a lot of issues.

As much shit as I give that game though, I got to give it credit: it retconned three games in one blow. Four, if you count itself. Dead Space 2 on the other hand, retconned its own story, in half an hour. See, throughout the game, it mentions that the McGuffin, the "Marker," is man-made. All of a sudden, this line of dialogue happens:

Isaac: Why are these people after me?

Daina: The Marker is very potent alien technology.

Keep in mind that in this game, there has been no mention before of alien technology being part of the story (save for the Marker that was on Earth, that isn't the problem causing one). Also keep in mind that the Marker in question was man-made on Earth, and, according to the first game, from Earth material. So explain to me...

If it's made on Earth, by Earth people, by Earth minerals to resemble an object that isn't even technology... how in the flying monkey's hell is it alien technology?! It's a fucking sculpture that has a virus in it, and is made by humans! And I know this because it's been said in the first game, and ten times in this one.

So, all this talk of retconning has got me thinking: what could I retcon from my life? I'm not talking about crappy things, I'm talking about things that don't normally hold any bearing on my life. I don't want to accidentally make a deal with the devil that involves saving my aunt in exchange for my marriage to a sexy redheaded actress. Or, maybe sexy brunette gamer-girl or sexy blonde Mensa president. Whoever.

I could always retcon learning the entirety of "The Jabberwocky" in the fifth grade. Then, I'd never have my catch phrase of "Callous Callais!" Of course, I never used it anyway, for fear of moving to San Francisco....

Maybe I should retcon playing Silent Hill. Then, I'd never have my favorite horror series, and Silent Hill 2 to hate.

Let's make this seem even more inconsequential. I should've never played tag in the first grade, started drawing, worked at Gabriel Bros for six months, and asked the smart kid about his "paper video games." Inconsequential enough, right? Sure, I mean, they're things we take for granted anyway, and are probably meaningless.

Except, if I never played tag in the first grade, I'd never met the person I've known for all of my life, who I trust with my life. Bink's the one of the few people that can accept me for all my weirdness, even going so far as supporting it. Can't do that.

If I never started drawing, I'd never have what I want to do with my life. Art has been my guiding light, and I can't help but feel that I have that talent for a reason. Can't lose that.

Gabriel Bros? I'd never met Patty, the rambling psychotic who can somehow make even the most distraught person laugh. Can't retcon that.

The paper games? I retcon that, I'd lose an entire group of the best friends anyone could ever have. I wouldn't have the people that support me when no one else is around. Who knows where I'd end up.

Those are examples of what would happen if the "little" events never happened in my life. I can't even imagine what would happen if I flat out did away with the major events of my life. The results would be catastrophic. Or worse. This isn't a game or a comic where all it does is become a plot hole.

Either way, in reality or fiction, retconning is a bad idea.

All The Single Ladies... Seriously, Put Your Hands Up! Please?

Today marks an unusual event in my life. I noticed that every time I point out that a woman is cute, I find out that she has a boyfriend. This isn't generalized thinking caused by my depression, nor is it self-defeatist (well, purely self-defeatist); this is disturbingly true. The trick being, I'm not getting any younger, and being a 26 year-old freshman in college, it's not like I'm meeting women my own age, especially single ones.

In fact, being a 26 year-old freshman and noticing an attractive woman that is a fellow freshman makes me feel more than a little dirty. I don't know how certain people do this. Then again, I feel dirty when I notice that a woman my own age is attractive. In fact, I think that's where part of my problem stems from. I love noticing the beauty that women have, but I can't say it, because I'm worried of how it'd be taken.

See, one of the things the Army drills into our heads is how to treat the women we're working with as equals. Of course, this is a good idea for several reasons, not the least being respect. It's hard to respect anyone when someone keeps walking up to them and saying how "cute" they are. Ironically, outside of work, most of the active duty people I worked with tend to be tools. Several times, I'd be home in my barracks room, and my room mates friend would come in, slap me on the back, and shout, "Hey, let's get some pussy!" Of course, me being the shy one back then, and also being the respectful nice guy, I'd say, "No." What I really meant was, "Do this again, and I will punch you so hard that the only lay you'll be getting is 'laid-up' in a hospital bed."

The Reserves is mostly a different monster. Yes, the asshole who only wants to get laid is present, but mostly, the guys are a pretty good group. The females, though... Let's not get into that. Let's just say that I will never date a female Reservist. But, the respect is still taught. Unfortunately, with me, this sticks to civilian life. I honestly fear that if I pay anyone a complement, I'm going to be sued for sexual harassment. I know how stupid this sounds, but I have reasons for this. I was threatened with a slander lawsuit by a person who said everything about themselves openly. On their blog as well.

Oddly enough, the Army is also to blame about me starting college so late in the first place. But, I can't blame the Army for my not being able to speak to women. No, I attribute that to the first time I asked a girl to a dance in the eighth grade, and it came out: "Wool you go dantce wilth meeeeeeee." If you can't tell how that ended, I didn't go to the dance, and she thought I was a babbling fool until high school. Despite having a girlfriend in high school that was attractive (seriously, people were asking what she saw in me... then again, she cheated on me... twice... with a guy who can only be described as "the troll under the bridge"), I was still single for prom. Ironically, my senior year is the the one year I had the balls to tell the girl I had a huge crush on for that past two years how I felt. This was in front of all of her friends, who all thought I was a loser. After that moment, they didn't think that... yet, I ended up back with the girl who cheated on me. Huh.

What it comes down to is that it's hard for guys like me to talk to women, not because we're too nice, but because of the biggest reason: the media has polluted people into thinking that nice guys don't exist. Go on Yahoo! and look up relationship advice. A lot of what you'll find is how men are jackwagons who want to get laid. This has created the stigma that there are no nice guys, and that women are either looking for the bad boys, or that all the good men are taken or gay, meaning they "have to settle for a guy who only wants sex." My reply to this?

Bullshit. Pure bullshit.

I refuse to believe that women are so stupid as to give up their search for a nice guy and settle for a cheesedick in an expensive suit with a bad pick-up line. I know better than that, because I keep failing in finding a woman because they usually find a nice guy that isn't me. Sure, I can be a good guy, but I'm willing to accept that I may not be the type someone's looking for. It also doesn't help that I can't seem to talk to women due to the fact that I can't talk to them without fearing that I'm going to have to talk to a lawyer as well. It's not like I'm Johnny Bravo. Maybe, I mean what I say?

I know that that question may come off as rough. I don't mean it to be, either, because I know that there are women who are smart enough to find good guys. What I am upset about is the fact that the media paints men as horny ass-baskets, and that women are stupid enough to date them. Hell, it gets worse. There's a movie coming out, perhaps you've heard of it? No Strings Attached. It's about a man who sleeps with a woman, just for sex. He falls in love with her, but she just wants sex, causing her to be upset that he's being romantic. It switches the roles, but still manages to make both genders look like asses. Yet, the very same day I heard about this movie, Yahoo! had an article saying that men are more romantic. I believe this to be true, but more or less because of necessity of both types. Men who want sex fake the romantic parts where as the men who want a true, loving relationship are more thankful for what they have, and remember the romance more.

I'm very sad to say that I'm getting jaded by this. All of my adult life, I've been in between comfort levels with women. Usually, when I do work up the nerve to ask a woman out, it ends up as a bad relationship, or I get passed up for someone else, worse or better. As old as I am, I'm starting to see that maybe I won't find a mature relationship, but at least it isn't all my fault. I've tried my damnedest, and I can say that.

And if worst comes to worst, I can blame the media.

Why I Hate Driving In Ohio, Unless I Have My Trusty Sackboy

It has been an interesting week, to say the least. I had Monday off of school, which gave me some much needed time to recover from the weekend. As some of you know from my gaming blog (under the Window Keeper), my Grandmother died this weekend, and I've been taking it kind of weirdly and rough. What most of you don't know, I went out with my friends that Saturday, for Jim's birthday. Due to the stress of everything, my anxiety levels were fluctuating wildly, so I decided not eat anything at T.G.I. Friday's. Instead, I order a mojito.

This was a bad idea.

I never ordered a drink from Friday's bar, or any bar, before. I have had mojitos from the six pack wine coolers they sell in the stores. Needless to say, I'm not used to the alcohol content in an actual mojito. Halfway through, I couldn't drink anymore because I was lucid enough to know that I was getting drunk. Getting drunk at a friend's birthday celebration is bad enough. Add to that the death in my family, and it's even worse. There's just one other thing, too. You know the horror project I'm working on, I Am Nothing. Well, I was designing a monster for that, which probably creeped out the waiter and the waitresses that were passing by, not to mention, possibly traumatizing a little kid. Then again, he was busy trying shove a straw in his ear, so I'm probably safe from that.

After getting back to the hub-house for Jim's birthday, I tried to sober up before having a Smithwick's. After about two hours, I had one... and relapsed. Thankfully, I didn't drive, and Jim gave me a ride home. Nothing's more embarrassing than riding in the back of your friend's car, in the fetal position, depressed, grieving, and drunk. Oh wait, something is: When that's followed by lying on your bed for five minutes (I hope), trying to get up to shower, then falling back on the bed again. I slept in that Sunday, thinking this: "Never again... Never again."

So, Tuesday rolls around. I have to get to the mall to pick up Little BIG Planet 2 to review for work (and fun). With my two friends, Binkie and Patty, and, for some reason, my stuffed Sackboy in tow, I leave to go to the mall. Since I live in Ohio, I've noticed an interesting phenomena: despite the fact that it happens at least 30 days in the winter, people still don't know how to drive in the snow. As soon as the white shit hits the ground, people forget the basic things, such as turn signals when changing lanes, or that the green arrow means you can turn. As irate as I was getting, I was strangely happy, because I knew that an army of Sackpeople would be at my disposal soon enough, and I will name them all, like I named my first one in the game (Mr. Pinkerton). As I reached the intersection to get to the mall, I said, "Soon, the Sackboys will be in my hands." I turn to see Binkie in the passenger seat, holding Sackboy (with his perpetual grin) in the air, one armed raised in victory, and her face mimicking the stuffed doll's.

I was thinking, I just caught my normally serious, short, Asian friend playing with a doll. My life is complete. This was quickly diminished by the sudden realization that it was my doll, so, to cover up my comment, I laughed. We turn into the mall, meet our forth person in our group, Jenna, and enter through the food court.

Unlike the other mall patrons, we're there often enough that the Asian cuisine people know not to bother us with free samples of there MSG-laden foods. This took years of practice, and at least one instant of catching one of the workers cussing out a customer, but it paid off. I imagined, if anyone cared, they'd see a guy in a brown leather flight jacket and a knee brace, a 4'10" Asian girl, a psychotic, pierced up, pink-haired babbling fool, and the seemingly "too-good-for-this-group-in-her-designer-suit" girl enter the mall like a slow-motion 1970's Mod Squad type group. "There goes Charlie and his angels. Huh... why is that one humping the seat while screaming at the salt to give them some privacy?"

We enter the game store, caught in a line. One guy is being interviewed by the manager (in a hoodie, no less), while the other store clerk is hitting on a soccer mom. Those are words I never imagined I'd have to type, imagine how the image looked. Captain Hoodie leaves, and I go up to pick up my reserved copy of LBP2. What normally goes smoothly went like this:

Me: I'm here to pick up my reserved copy of Little BIG Planet 2.

Manager: (Goes to get the game, then comes back.) Is that all?

Me: Yes, it is.

Manager: (Types something on the computer for three minutes.) Anything you want to reserve?

Me: Not today.

Manager: (Visibly upset by this, types in more things for three more minutes) Do you have your rewards card?

Me: Yes, right here. (Hand it to him)

Manager: (Scans the card, types more things in for five minutes.) Oh, crap, I did that wrong. (Types in more things for five minutes). The total is $64.04.

Me: (I pay)

Manager: (Types in even more things for two minutes. At this point I started wonder if he was updating his blog or Twitter). Codes on the receipt, have a good day.

I walk out, and the other clerk is still hitting on the soccer mom. Before heading back home, I decide to walk around the mall. I ended up in the movie/music store, staring at an acoustic guitar that was priced at $100, but on sale for $80. Despite it bringing me over my personal budget (by about $20), I decided to pick it up. See, my Mom has two guitars, one of which is acoustic, and I used to sneak in trying to play them when I was a kid. I always loved music, and I've always wanted to learn guitar, so why not? It's not video gaming, and I'm sure both Mom and Grandma would be happy to see me try something like this.

Apparently, I was right, because I ended up getting a discount on top of the sale. It went from $80 down to $67. The only thing wrong is that the strings seem to be cheap, but all things considered, when it's almost in tune, it sounds pretty good.

Tossing up my time between gaming and tuning my guitar, I still had to go to school. I come back, eat, sleep, and go to school all day yesterday. The ride back is what locked in my hatred of driving in Ohio. To go from home to school and back, I take a main road. The problem with main roads when no one knows how to drive is that you either end up driving like a dumbass yourself, or you go so slow to avoid the idiots trying to kill you that you never get back. Thankfully, I will never be as dumb as the guy who cut me off that day. In order to not hit him, I had to switch quickly to the next lane. As I went around him, the sight I saw will forever be burned into my brain.

He had one hand on his cell phone, held up to his head. And he was steering his car with his mouth. At first, I was in awe of both the sight, and the fact that somehow, this jackwagon managed to control his van with his mouth. Of course, my brain, not wanting to go unheard, forced it's way through my mouth to scream the first thing it thought of: "How's that taste, asshole!"

As I reached the last main intersection to my apartment, curiosity over took me. I was stopped at a red light, and I wasn't going to go anywhere for a while. I leaned forward, and placed my mouth on the steering wheel. What I didn't think of was that the last owner (who was one of my design teachers) used to smoke, and his daughter, who drove the car, used to smoke as well. Add to that, the pure sanitary conditions in the first place of placing your mouth on a steering wheel. I immediately recoiled at the taste of plastic and nicotine. As I got home, I took my bags out, and apologized to my '83 Cougar.

The moral of the story, if your car is older than you, don't make out with it. Unless there's a speed camera there. At least then you can give the police a laugh.