Friday, June 25, 2010

Dating and Laundry

Today, I woke up, and I have not seen a single person since waking up (which was about 9 hours ago).  No roommates.  No one out the window.  Nothing.  I'm not sure if the apocalypse came and went and my room was somehow saved from the destruction, or if this is a national game of hide and seek and I didn't get the memo.  It's kind of eerie, but I also like it.

I actually do get a little paranoid when I think everyone knows something that I don't.  Like when I have a girlfriend and I feel like I can't trust her and my friends avoid the subject.  Turns out there's always reason for me to not trust her, so I don't know why I bother asking.


Dating

Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm going to talk about dating for a while and give girls tips on what to do to communicate to a guy that they are interested without ever leaving their comfort zone.  After all, it should be the guy's job to do all of the work and risk humiliating rejection.  Girls are along for the ride and should make guys earn them.  Totally passive.  That's the name of the game.

First, we have the beginning stages.  In the beginning stages, you see a man that you like.  From a distance, you try and pick up on any clues as to what his personality is like; the way he dresses, how he laughs, who is he surrounded by, etc.  Once you feel you have a fair estimate of what the man is like, you ignore him.  You pretend like he's not even there, except that you glance at him every once in a while.  Hopefully you'll make eye contact so that you can look away quickly and make him feel kind of awkward for making eye contact.  See - the trick is to communicate how you feel by trying to cover up how you feel.  Girls do it in the movies all the time and it works perfectly.  They ignore a guy until he walks up and then the movie skips to the love-making.  They don't smile at him or turn towards him to talk to him or anything.  It goes straight from ignoring to love-making.  Trust me, the less they know about how you feel, the better.  Never, under any circumstances, let your body language let him know that you want his attention.

This can go on for weeks or even months if you're good.  You know you're doing well when they have a tough time remembering your name.  That's a good sign - it means they're going to try and remember your name for the rest of the day, which means they're thinking about you for the rest of the day.

Remember to only glance at them - nothing longer than 1 second.  Any longer than that, and they might think that you're interested and they'll be tempted to walk over and maybe talk to you.  You don't want that.  That's creepy.

If, on the off-chance they do decide to talk to you.  Make them feel foolish.  Be shy and only answer their questions with one word.  If an actual conversation does happen, talk about other guys.  Say things like "any relationship I've been in, the guy always falls in love with me and then I have to break up with him."  Or, "It takes me a really long time to decide if I like a guy.  I dated this one guy for like 6 months but I was never really sure if I liked him or not."  You want to throw him off balance.  Make him scared that you'll just never really be all that "in" to him and that it'll require an insane amount of time for him to figure that out.  He'll have desires to be the one that conquers your emotions.

Try and actually flirt with other people just to get the message across that you are interested in the person that you keep glancing at across the room (for 1 second at a time).  Despite what you may think, it's working.  He's totally into you - watching you flirt with other dudes.  He doesn't think that you're crazy or anything like that.  He's looking for any sign of even mild interest so that he can loosely judge what would happen if he were to get up and maybe ask you out.  See, guys like the unknown - especially with girls.  We love not knowing what's going to happen next and we're all totally comfortable with asking out any girl without any hints from her.

Then the love-making happens.

See?  Isn't that easy?  Foolproof.  Nothing but logic.




Laundry


Here's a list of things that I enjoy more than doing laundry:

1.  Staring at the wall
2.  Going to a party where I don't know anyone.
3.  Pounding nails through the more sensitive parts of my body.
4.  Having no internet.
5.  Going outside.
6.  Crashing my car.
7.  Getting mugged at gunpoint.
8.  Not having enough space on my hard drive to finish a 3 hour download.
9.  Analyzing and talking about every aspect of an artsy-fartsy movie.  Especially when the discussion is longer than the movie itself.
10.  People that think it's cool to hate things because other people like them.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Meet My Sister

So last night, it was close to midnight and I was swimming in the river with some friends. When we were all around the fire that we built next to the water, I noticed I had a message. This post is dedicated to that message.

Meet Rachel. She's my little sister and she's 20.

video

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Mario Is My Bestest Friend!

Pre-update:  I'm not sure why the font on this is so much smaller than the other posts.  The internet is a fickle beast sometimes.


I like video games.  I'll go ahead and admit that now.  I don't play very many because it's kind of an expensive habit (originally spelt hobbit.  Thanks again, Mr. Spellcheck).  I'm amazed at how advanced games have become.  "As if 14 pressure-sensitive buttons and two analogs on a controller weren't enough, we're now making it so that when you press different combinations of buttons, your character does super-secret but more awesomer things!"  I'm glad to see that game designers value pizazz, but I miss the good old days.

Super Mario Bros.




Spellcheck says that "Bros" is not a word and not a valid abbreviation of the word "brothers" but Nintendo disagrees.  Frankly, I'm going to prioritize Nintendo over Webster on this one, just out of childish loyalty and principle.  It's also saying "Nintendo" isn't a word, even though it's synonymous with the word "babysitter" and in some cases, "parent."  Webster, however, is not picked up by spellcheck.  That's a monopoly lawsuit just waiting to happen.

My first time playing Nintendo, I was almost 4.  Super Mario Brothers had been out for a few years, but our family had just gotten a Nintendo.  I don't remember my feelings surrounding the whole ordeal, but I imagine I was amazed and perplexed at how the whole thing functioned.  

See, this was before we had a TV that had a remote control.  If you wanted to change the channel, you got up off your ass and physically changed the damn channel.  It made being a couch potato nearly impossible.  A man can't form a proper ass-print if he has to get up and change the channel every time he's bored.  To add insult to injury, the first time my dad brought home the TV that I'm currently talking about, my older brother broke the knob off, which meant that in order to change the channel, my dad had to take a tiny pair of tweezers, stick them in the hole that the knob had left and turn the little prong.  Large men look ridiculous doing little things.  At that point, you might as well give up on TV and read, since it would be a million times easier and more passive than watching that particular TV.

So back to the Nintendo story.  The concept of a remote was foreign to me mainly because that was my role.  I was the remote.  Anytime someone wanted a channel changed, they would call upon my expertise in precise channel changing.  I was a pro and I took pride in my work.  So when I saw Mario jumping around the screen while my older brother was holding some power stick while my sister shouted words of encouragement (at my brother or the TV, I'll never know), everything I knew and loved shifted.

Eventually, I communicated that I wanted a turn playing the Magical Toaster.  My siblings showed me how to put in the plastic toast, close the garage door and press the button to make it start.  They went through the options for me since I couldn't read.  Then it happened!  Mario appeared on the screen!  I immediately knew that we were going to be lifelong friends.  We looked at each other with a sort of understanding - as if he were saying, "In the future, girls will dump you because of me." And at the time, girls had cooties (not picked up by spellcheck), so I greatly appreciated his offer and vowed to help him on his quest to rescue (and get with) the princess.  Looking back on my life, I see myself as self-sacrificial; giving up my relationship with Michelle (and Emily, and Megan, and Jamie, and Moriah, and Sara, and Katie, and Anne, and that one girl...) so that Mario could sustain his with Peach.  It was one or the other.  We couldn't both be satisfied.  I'm a good friend and am always willing to pass-up for a bro.  Especially a Super Mario Bro.

My 3-year-old self was ecstatic for the opportunity to help out Mario.  The music started - my heart rate picked up.  I brushed my light red hair out of my face and gazed around the room to all that were present as if to say, "one small step for man..."  This was my moment.  I looked at the controller in my hands - the shiny red buttons and the arrow pointers.  Power.  I lightly placed the controller on the ground, looked at my new lifelong friend, took a deep breath and blurted, "GO MAN!!  GO!!! GO THAT WAY MAN!!  GO!!!" while frantically hopping up and down and gesturing to the right.

Mario didn't move.  He sat there.  He betrayed the unfounded trust that I had placed in him and just sat there.  He made me look like a fool.  My siblings laughed and mocked me.  I was determined to get through to Mario; to let him know the importance walking to the right.  Mario didn't respond to my shoutings of "go man go."  For about a minute and a half, he stood there while I plead fervently with all my little heart that he would sense the urgency in taking a stroll.  Then... he died of old age.  He flew straight up in the air, fell down, and then he was gone.  This traumatized me.  Imagine the mental image I had in my head when my parents explained to me later that year that Grampa had died.

My older brother, sensing my frustration, decided to help.  He thrust the controller back in my hand and said, "Use this, stupid."  "Stupid" was a word invented by my older brother.  It was a term of endearment.  It was like him saying he loved me.  It was like him saying, "Pre-sorry for everything I'm going to do to you over the next 20 years."  

I stared at the controller - the power stick.  I was perplexed.  The game started again, Mario appeared on the screen.  I went through the same process.  I placed the controller on the ground, hopped up and down and shouted "GO MAN, GO!!"  Amidst my seizurous fits of hopping, I must have landed on the controller.  Mario jumped.  Mario Jumped!  MARIO JUMPED!!  It wasn't much, but it was progress!  He could see what I was doing and wanted to mimic me!  Ok.  This was something I could work with.

I sprinted off to the right like a bullet train fired out of a giant cannon, then crept back to see if Mario had done the same.  He hadn't.  He stood there like a bullet train that just didn't give a @#!$.  I threw myself on the floor, overcome by frustration and tears, desperately praying that Mario would obey me.  Mario jumped again!  I rolled over to look, and he started walking!  My prayers had been answered!  For a moment, I looked at the Nintendo and wondered to myself, "God?"  (Review the 1st of the 10 Commandments for further humor.)

The story continues like that.  My naive 3-year-old self trying to get Mario to do what I wanted, but me failing to make the connection between the controller and Mario.  The story ultimately has a happy ending, if you consider twenty years of time to finally beat a video game after sequestering myself in my room for several days a happy ending.  Kind of one of those "lose the battle, win the war, now go outside" scenarios.  Little did I know that I was hooked.  I would eventually become a master of Mario.  

Now I play Mario with 3 other people and we get in each other's way and then yell at each other when we all die.  I heckle people over their skill on controlling Mario.  No one understands him like I do.  No one went through the excruciating ordeal of gaining his trust.  

Update:  After reading this over, I just have one thing to say:  Despite the vision that you get of me after reading this, I promise I'm not fat.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

1st Real Post!

I'm nervous. Seriously. I'm about to start an imaginary conversation with just about the most ultimate imaginary friend of all time - The Internet. I'll spend hours hanging out with Internet. He tells me about things that I like such as video games and music. He's so knowledgeable (originally spelt knswledgable until spellcheck yelled at me) about everything. He'll tell me about things I don't care about, such as what females think the size of certain parts of my body should be, or that Miley Cirus is turning into a dirty whore. You know, important things. Things that really help me get through the day.

Let's talk about Facebook for a second. Really, what this site is, is jackass repellent. When I say "jackass repellent" I don't mean "repellent from jackasses" (but I understand how you could misinterpret it that way). I mean "repellent from being called a jackass." I have people that I once called "friend." I guess they once called me "friend" too, because the internet says so. However, somewhere along the line, we stopped being "friends", but were too proud to admit it. That's where Facebook comes in. It's like a backwards race to see who will unfriend the other person first. The first to unfriend is labeled a "jackass." Now our relationship is reduced to me halfheartedly clicking the word "Like" when they post something that I don't really care about, such as the cute trick their dog just did, and them occasionally posting the word "lol" when I get around to posting one of my thoughts. The internet would become a very dark and disturbing place if Facebook learned how to sense adverbs and apply them to how you do something. I'm picturing something like "Hugo accidently clicked 'Like' on your stupid status update because he actually meant to click 'Like' on his friend's drunken photo from the night before that his friend thought would be a good idea to post for the world - and future employers - to see." Yeah... that would suck. It's funny how I'm stressed about that happening when these people aren't even my friends anymore. Oh, the lengths I go to avoid being called a jackass.

Enough about imaginary friends, though. Let's talk about real friends. I'll start with my roommates.

I currently live in an apartment above an ice cream store. I have 3 other roommates (Nate, Jeff, Aaron) and one that will be moving in when he decides to stop living in his parents' house (JJ). We are all distinctly different from each other.

NATE

We'll start with Nate. Nate is the one that owns the ice cream shop downstairs. I don't know if he actually owns it, but he says he does. I'm pretty sure his parents own it. He's 21, about 5'10", a little pudgy, red hair, and one of the most boisterous and flamboyant people I've ever met. Many people think that he's gay (he really fits the template) but he adamantly (originally spelt adamately) says that he isn't (and I promise he isn't at all.  It's just funny to tease him about it). I often tell him that he's as feminine as you can get without setting off my gaydar (which is properly calibrated after growing up in San Francisco).  He does have quite the fanclub up on campus, though.  Females, mostly.

He's an opera singer - a soprano (yep. Male and soprano) and he shows it off often. I'll often hear him downstairs in his shop singing at full volume when he thinks no one can hear him. It's hard not to hear him. The guy that owns the Italian restaurant next door complains about him all the time. That's some singing power when you can sing through a wall, through about 3 feet of space, and through another wall and piss off an italian. I don't care if opera is or isn't your thing, that's skill right there.

When Nate's at home, he is in his underwear. Always. We're not talking about boxers that legitimately cover things up. I'm talking about whitie-tighties plus some short leg-sleeves (I don't know what to call them). On a scale of "1" to "naked", he's floating at about an 8 or a 9. I'm a big advocate for nakie time, but not constantly. Not in front of other dudes. Not when I'm trying to eat dinner, or have a date over or anything like that.

Nate gets very dramatic about small problems, and I can tell when he's upset and how upset he is based on the volume of his ambient activities. Did he set the bowl on the table, or did he dramatically pound it as if to say "HOW DARE YOU GET IN THE WAY OF MY BOWL, TABLE!!" Did he open the drawer, or did he rip it open as if he were trying to catch the dish and the spoon doing the nasty? Did he shut the door, or did he try to throw it across the apartment? Did he turn on the AC, or did he punch it? Did he take a shower, or did he... dramatically take a shower? I use these tools to determine what kind of mood Nate is in.

Once I feel I have an accurate estimate for the amount of dramatic that Nate is that day, I begin to play my games. I'll see how many new responsibilities I can stack on before I send him into tears. "Nate, the water pressure seems low, can you fix it?" -he'll being breathing dramatically- "Nate, my window fell out of its place and broke." -I can physically see his heartbeat pick up- "Nate, your singing sometimes sucks." I see how far it will go before he dramatically snaps and begins his whirlwind of red-hot, flamboyant emotion. I haven't actually seen him cry, but I often notice that his light is on until 4 or 5am. I like to imagine that he's huddled in a corner in the fetal position, rocking back and forth and quietly singing the female part of opera songs to himself while sitting in his underwear.

Jeff

Then there's Jeff. Jeff is 22, and about 5'7". Jeff went bald when he was about 17 years old, and is silently miffed about it. He is hands-down the most cautious person I've ever met in my entire life. Making a mistake to him is like knowingly nuking a colony of baby penguins. We were roommates a few years ago and just recently decided to live together again. He moved in in May. When he moved in, he had the goal to buy 1 CD every month (a way of him giving back to artists and producers that he likes. A strange goal in today's iTunes driven world, but you're starting to get an image of what he's like).

Jeff researched which CD he was going to buy. I don't mean researched like looked at a list and chose one from an artist that he likes or anything like that. I mean he sat down and read about each individual member of a band, how they all met, what their motivation was for writing songs, why they chose certain songs to be in the album, etc. He borrowed all of JJ's CDs and listened to them (but only 30 seconds of each song to avoid copyright infringement AND so that he wouldn't ruin a potential purchase for himself). I'd say he listened to at least 30 CDs. He would come into my room and talk about his decisions. For a while, Neon Bible by Arcade Fire was at the top of his list, but he was afraid that it was too sacrilegious for him (I'm still not sure why). I don't remember who won the $14.99 decision. The point is he's so cautions that by the time he decided to buy a CD, it was June and time for him to start the whole process over again. I tried to explain to him that if his time is worth $10 an hour, that he spent the equivalent of $1000 on a $14.99 decision. I don't think he understood the implications.

That pretty much explains Jeff. He talks himself out of liking girls for the most petty and dumb reasons I can imagine. Some examples (that sound exaggerated but really aren't) include, "the freckle on her left cheek is 3 degrees off from ideal." "She wore a green shirt the other day and I don't like green." "She wears DC shoes and I'm really more of a Vans guy."

Jeff is the whitest guy I know. He is very careful at pronouncing each and every sound in a word - especially his Rs. Not a bad thing in and of itself, it's just funny to see him talk to the southerners around here and see the difference in styles of communication.

Aaron

Aaron is the newest addition to the group. He moved in like two weeks ago. There is a lot of mystery surrounding him. He works (manages?) the local Hardee's (aka Carl's Jr.). Supposedly he has already been married and divorced and he's 25. He hasn't talked about it with me at all, but other people say that he's talked to them about it. I'll remain undecided on the subject until he says something directly.

Aaron is a dude. That's probably the best way to describe him. He rides a skateboard everywhere, talks like he lives on a California beach and is obsessed with "chicks". He will check out any girl - tall, short, fat, skinny, old, toddler, it doesn't matter. He will legitimately check them out and almost always come up with the conclusion that they are "cute and cool." I don't know how he does it, but he manages it every time.

He spends all of his free time on Facebook, adding random people as friends and then chatting with them while looking at their pictures. I'm pretty sure he doesn't know most of them in real life.

The real thing that I find so amusing about Aaron is his social skills. One-on-one, he knows how to interact. When you get him in a group, his "good idea" and "bad idea" filters combine and cancel each other out so that he's just left with an "idea" filter. If it's an "idea" he says it. If it's not an "idea" then he doesn't say it. He doesn't seem to understand that people have histories with each other. For example, someone made a joke about a rhino and it was funny because Nate was in a play called Rhinoceros that he hated being in. Aaron was not around for the play and didn't understand the joke, but still laughed with the group as if he did, and then interrupted the laughter by saying (in his California surfer-dude voice), "Haha, yeah Nate! What are your thoughts on hippos?" And then continued laughing harder than before while everyone stopped and just stared at him. It was like a scene straight out of The Office. Magical.




Now don't misunderstand. I sit here and make fun of my friends, but everything I've said here, I've said to them. There are no secrets and no feelings will be hurt if they ever find this. I make fun of them, but I'm glad they're my friends. I'm especially glad that they're all distinctly unique from each other to where I feel like I'm in a movie when I interact with them.

Introduction

Let's get a few basics out of the way before I really start this.

My Motivation

1. I often find myself sitting in a room full of people with thoughts that leave me semi-giddy, but I don't share them because I feel like they're too valuable to be wasted on a room full of people that probably won't appreciate the gem of an idea that I currently hold in my head. The problem with this is that no one gets to hear some of my most precious and hilarious thoughts.

2. I keep a journal, which is actually called "Conversations With Imaginary People" (yes, I named my journal. Shut up) which is pretty much that. I talk to no one in particular. My journal posts are directed at someone, but there's obviously no one there unless you count my computer (aptly named "My Computer"). I'm gonna go ahead and admit that I feel a little crazy when I knowingly have conversations with people that don't actually exist.

3. I don't back up my journal on anything, which leaves me paranoid about when my computer finally fizzles out and what will happen to all of my precious imaginary conversations.

I was stressing about these problems while standing in my less-than-ideal shower today and the thought came to me, "The internet is the solution to all problems!" I sat and mulled over that deep and thought-provoking idea that seemed to come out of nowhere and then I realized what my mind was trying to tell me. Start a blog! That solves all of my problems! Instead of being scared of sharing my thoughts with the wrong people, I'll just share them with EVERYONE! Makes total sense! I'm scared of appearing crazy to myself, so I'll talk to EVERYONE! I don't back up my data, so I'll post it on the internet and it can be someone else's hardrive's problem!

I fully understand that my problems aren't really solved, but it feels like they are.

About Me

The name this blog is under is Hugo Sanchez. That's not my name. That's not even remotely close to my name. I just feel like I need some super awesome internet alias so that I can talk about people and the people won't think that I'm talking about them because it's under the name of someone that they don't recognize. They'll never suspect me, even though their stories happen to be identical to the ones that I plan on posting about. My plan is failproof. I foresee only good things in my immediate future.

I'm 24. I'm 6' tall. I'm about 220 lbs. In my opinion, I'm kind of a good-looking guy. I exercise fairly regularly (probably average about 3-4 nights a week) and I have a fair amount of muscle covered by a layer or two of fat. I have very short brown hair and I've been recently told by various members of the female gender that I look really really good with scruff and that I look strikingly like Leiv Schreiber. I grew up in San Francisco California and am now a college student in a tiny town in Virginia and I will never ever graduate mainly because I don't know how. Something about talking to some people and making a plan. I dunno. I skipped that day of orientation. The point is that I get a full Pel grant (or however you're supposed to spell it) as well as a pretty good scholarship from the university, so I'm going to school for a very small amount of money. I'm a politics major and an english minor. I plan on being a lawyer (which only recently has started to sound like a bad idea).


Why Am I the Way That I Am?

That's a very good question, Mr. Internet. I'm glad you asked it. I realized towards the end of high school that I really like myself. Like... a LOT! I must be a really cool person because I really like hanging out with me. I realized at the end of high school that I like myself so much, that it was fun for me to spend unhealthy amounts of time alone in my room doing nothing. I used to be a pretty sociable guy. I was on the football team, I was in the theater program, I was part of the comedy group doing standup comedy and stuff like that. One day I thought to myself, "no." And that was it. I'm not completely against social interaction. I enjoy it sometimes. But when given a choice between doing nothing or something, I often prioritize nothing over something. Some people ask me if I have social anxiety disorder. No. I feel fine venturing out into public places. No anxiety attached. I just generally don't enjoy it. I'm not clinically depressed (but I am clinically other things). 


Update: After reading the above paragraph over, it sounds like I absolutely hate outside interaction, which isn't true. I'll hang out with friends and all that, but I'm always happy when I get to be in my room.

I have a pretty serious case of insomnia which I've had various doctors try to solve. My current doctor has decided that it's best for me to oversleep than to undersleep, so he has me take enough sleep medication to sedate a hippo. I kind of like it.

So anyway. That's a basic introduction of me. It's entirely possible that no one will ever really read this, and that's fine. I won't say that I don't want this blog to become a big deal on the internet or anything like that, because that actually sounds really cool. The point is, if you read this at all, leave a comment or something and let me know that you did. It doesn't have to be anything beyond "I read this." I don't know if this blogger website leaves my email information or whatever, but I'll do it myself. HugoCWIP@gmail.com.

I promise things will be a lot more entertaining in the future. Today is just me testing the water.